Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mid Episode 2 Divergence, The Scene in the stairwell, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual exploration, Light Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Slice of Life, Medium Fast Burn, Getting to Know Each Other, Relaxing, Snowed-in in Montreal, Shane's Apartment, Forced Proximity, Kinda, Self-enforced forced proximity, hiding away, Falling In Love, Aftercare, Sharing Feelings, Winter, Shane's Diet Discussion, Developing Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, The Long Game Spoilers

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-01 Updated: 2026-03-02 Words: 70,750 Chapters: 19/?

Hideaway

Summary

“How can Montreal be snowed in?” Ilya asks. “They are not ready for winter?”

“It’s Montreal, man,” Marleau snickers, like that's an explanation.

Ilya’s phone buzzes.

Jane- 9:44 a.m.- Look on the bright side. If you’re stuck another day, you can come back here.

________

After Ilya leaves Shane’s apartment for the first time, he knows he’s on thin ice and at risk of falling into more serious feelings. He’s ready to put distance back between them.

A Montreal blizzard has other ideas.

Notes

Unnecessary to Read Authors Note

A few things:

I regret to say I have not read Heated Rivalry yet. I did give it a skim, though. I’ve seen a few of Rachel Reid’s shorts as well, which gave some more context.

After that, I decided I would be strictly writing from the timeline and context of the show. Also, from the framework of the show characters, their speech and vibes. The book characters felt a bit different, and I cannot emulate them. Meaning, this fic won’t be book compliant, probably not even close. Any compliance is strictly (though welcomely) coincidental!

This also means I’m taking some liberties with their inner feelings and dialogues- where they’re at, where they think they’re at, etc. This is a vibes based fic.

Second, I don’t watch hockey. I really know nothing more than ‘puck goes into net.’ Sometimes there’s a fight. I did look through an old Bruins schedule from 2013 just to see what kind of timeline I could work with, and that was mildly helpful. It’s fic, so I’m not set in it being completely accurate, just vaguely plausible.

One of my favorite scenes (aside from the end of ep 5 and all of ep 6) is from earlier in ep. 2. After the guys get finished in Shane’s apartment, the scene in the stairwell is so… cozy to me. In a sad, bittersweet way. Because Shane’s feeling feelings he can’t reconcile with, but wants to squeeze out every last moment he can with Ilya before he goes, even as they still poke and prod at each other. They're emotionally naked in this scene. It's the epitome of yearning imo.

I decided to just start from there, in Fall of 2013. I chose November. This is a canon divergence, which sets the course of everything to follow off it’s tracks.

Chapter 1: Unprecedented

One

Fall of 2013

Ilya stoops at the bottom step of the stairs to do up the laces of his boots. They’re the sturdy sort that don’t slip or slide in the snow. Shane wants to know why Ilya had decided to wear them tonight, when there’s no snow to speak of. That, in itself, is a bit unusual.

November in Montreal. They must have a high of 10°C today, though it's much lower now that the sun is long down. The entrance to the stairwell is icy cold, an unheated column of the building where they can have as much privacy as they want.

Ilya’s coat is warm where Shane holds it against himself, to his chest and draped between his legs.

“Obviously, we won’t see each other during the Olympics. Right?” Shane asks, just to have something to say, just so he can get Ilya talking again. He wants to hear him, have his voice soothe him through these last vestiges of calm.

His afterglow is still heavy on him, a sated feeling deep in his body. But nervous energy is already trying to worm its way to the forefront again. He wants to stave it off, savor each moment he can, interacting with the one person who knows him— in this one particular way, at least. Who's now seen him at his most vulnerable. 

He’d almost thought things would be different, lying in bed after getting himself fucked for the first time. Ilya had held him, stayed inside for a bit after the fact, hands massaging his haunches, kissing his skin absently.

Shane had thought this might be new ground for them. He hadn't been sure how to feel about it.

When Ilya had gone to shower, Shane had lain there and gone back over the memory of what they’d just done. From hesitancy to bliss, and Ilya in his ear the entire way, soothing him through it.

Not much had been said, but the pathway between them had felt wide open.

Ilya treats him distantly as they talk on the stairs, now. That doesn’t faze Shane at all, though. He’s come to expect it. As they converse about the Olympics and their families, Shane pressing and Ilya evading, Shane can see the walls coming back up behind the other's gaze.

"I've been dreaming of it my whole life."

“Dreaming of what? Bronze metal?” Ilya snarks at him, and Shane bites down on a grin.

“You fuckin’ wish.”

And then Ilya closes in, foot up a step higher, leaning over him. Shane feels like they're right back in bed for a split second. “Remember when I made you come hands-free?”

Shane’s pulse stutters in his throat. He can smell Ilya’s detergent, his cologne. His skin. Shane huffs a laugh. “Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”

He barely hears the other murmur to him as he leans in, such a good trick, and Shane stares at his mouth as he points out that Ilya’s cab is likely waiting for him out there.

And then his mind quiets, stills.

A parting kiss, slow and syrupy sweet, and for seemingly no other reason than just to kiss.

“Bye.”

Shane watches him go. The door squeals open, and Ilya takes a cursory glance around as he steps out. As the door shuts, a cold gust blows what looks to be a few stray snowflakes into the stairwell. They land on the concrete floor and sit for a few long seconds before slowly melting into dark spots.

Shane lets his eyes shut, wraps his arms over his chest to keep warm the parts of him that had been covered by Ilya’s coat.

Ilya must’ve known it would snow. Maybe he’d guessed. Shane hadn’t even looked at the weather report that morning.

As a rule, Shane tries not to ruminate on the impossible things he wants. Things he wishes.

He knows what this is. Rush of emotions after an intense round of sex. He’s read about it. That doesn’t stop him from feeling it full force. And even though it’s only hormones, dopamine and oxytocin, and whatever other cocktail of neurotransmitters is sparking together in his brain, it doesn’t stop him from wanting.

Wanting Ilya to come back. Come back so they can do it all over again. Come back so they can lie together in Shane’s bed, after the fact.

He sits in the cold stairwell and lets himself want, just for a bit longer.

*

Ilya sits in the darkened cab and stares at his text chain with Shane. He scrolls upward, past the text with the apartment address to Shane's lame attempts at sexting. He feels fond.

Then he pockets his phone and stares outward at the snow beginning to come down in flurries. A thin line of it has begun to accumulate against the curb.

He thinks about how Shane had looked in the low light of his room, head pressed against his pillow, and Ilya over him, covering him, pulling all those sweet sounds from his mouth. Later on, Shane propped against the same pillow and waiting for him to be done showering. It had been a delightful sight, and also something he never wished to see again. A scene only crafted to make him think about things he can't have. 

A kiss to Ilya's lips, to his forehead, and Ilya knew he had to go.

He hadn’t expected Shane to follow him down the stairs.

Hadn’t expected the other to start conversing with him. Though, maybe he should have by now.

They’d told him, when he first came to join the North American leagues, that Shane Hollander was laser-focused and unsociable.

That had gone against Ilya’s first impression of the other, though, Shane seeking him out in a back alley to shake his hand and tell him not to smoke. To tell him that he liked watching Ilya play, or that’s how Ilya had heard it, anyway, how he chose to remember it. He'd already known who Shane was, too, and though he'd never say it, he liked watching the other play just as much.

He hadn't heard him speak until that moment, though.

His unassuming candor and upturned corners of his lips had caught Ilya by surprise. His freckled cheeks... Maybe that was when Ilya knew. Had an inkling of the danger he might be in.

Staring at his cute little ass as he’d turned to go, Ilya couldn’t help but get one last word in. Ever the tease. Ilya should’ve known it’d get too far out of hand right from that moment.

It nearly had tonight.

He’d wanted to stay, overwhelmed with what they'd done, what Shane had let him do. That’s exactly when he knew he should leave.

He still feels it, though. His pulse flutters just at the memory.

When he arrives at the hotel, he slips through a side door with a swipe of his keycard. Elevator up to the second floor, and then to his and Marleau’s room. The light is off, and Marleau is slumped on his side, in the bed closest to the window.

Ilya removes his coat and boots, but doesn't bother removing anything else. Eases down onto the bed to stretch out. He knows he won’t be getting much sleep, anyway. He props his arms behind his head.

Marleau turns over, and Ilya can see the whites of his eyes in the dark. “You go see your Montreal sweetie?” He’s teasing, but Ilya scoffs harshly.

“Was at club.”

“Sure you were.” Marleau rolls onto his back. “You don’t come back till later when you’re clubbing. ‘Sides, you were texting her before the game. Wet your wick, huh?”

These English turns of phrase become more ridiculous by the day.

Ilya doesn’t answer, only throws an arm over his eyes and tries to shut his mind off. All he sees when he does, though, is a picture of Shane below him, head nestled in a pillow, flushed and freckled and dewy.

It’ll be a long fucking night.

“Is… it snowing?” Marleau asks sleepily into the quiet room.

*

The next morning, everything is dampened in a thick blanket of white.

Ilya sits in the airport with the rest of his team at a gate destined for Dallas and looks out at the tarmac being scraped by multiple plows racing back and forth in long stretches. The snow isn’t the biggest issue. The early morning had turned bitingly cold, and it's clear that the tarmac is icing up faster than they can clear it. The plows and trucks slide on their U-turns.

The wind has only picked up since the daylight broke. Flurries of frozen snow flick against the airport windows in sweeping gusts.

Ilya’s phone buzzes in his hand.

Jane - 9:42 a.m.- Did your plane leave already?

Lily - 9:42 a.m.- Delayed. For over an hour.

Shane doesn’t immediately respond, and Ilya looks at Marleau a seat away. The other meets his gaze with raised brows and blows a long breath out through puffed cheeks.

“Not lookin’ good," he mutters.

“How can Montreal be snowed in?” Ilya asks, the r's rolling off his tongue with extra flair for his aggravation. “They are not ready for winter?”

“It’s Montreal, man,” Marleau snickers, like that's an explanation.

Ilya doesn’t know what that means. He’s played in North America for four years now, and he’s never seen it such a mess out there. Then again, maybe he’s just never had the pleasure of being caught up in a Canadian blizzard.

Still nothing compared to a bad winter in Moscow.

His phone buzzes.

Jane- 9:44 a.m.- Look on the bright side. If you’re stuck another day, you can come back here.

Shane doesn’t mean it that way, Ilya’s sure. It’s only another invitation to fuck, not a sleepover.

Despite all of his instincts to shy away from such a topic of conversation after feeling all he felt the night before... Ilya grins down at the phone and taps a message back before he can help it.

Lily - 9:44 a.m.- Better for you if it is not delayed.

Jane - 9:45 a.m.- Why?

Lily - 9:45 a.m.- Should I tell you everything I would do? To you?

“Jesus,” Marleau huffs. “You already making plans for tonight? They haven’t even called it yet.”

“Shut up,” Ilya says. He pushes his phone into his pocket, not waiting for Shane’s reply. He feels he ought to save some face, at least now when he’s feeling so exposed. Which is ridiculous. Marleau wouldn’t even know what any of his expressions really mean, who they're aimed toward. And it's not a crime to be excited to see a girl.

They sit and continue to watch the snow plows begin to fail more miserably at their jobs when, fifteen minutes later, an airline representative stands on a fold-down seat to get all of their attention.

“The flight to Dallas has been called off,” he announces. This is met by a series of groans all around. “Actually, all outbound and inbound flights have been canceled or diverted. We’re very sorry. The storm is predicted to carry on for a while. It’s very unexpected.” The man wipes at his brow, and Ilya grins at his nervousness, addressing a gate full of mostly Bostonian hockey players. “It’s possible we may resume operations by tonight.”

Their coach steps in at that point to put the poor fellow out of his nervous misery. “Keep your cell phones on.” He gives a few of them pointed looks. “I want you all within a ten-minute walk of this gate.”

He looks at Marleau, who gives a halfhearted shrug.

Ilya can’t help himself and pulls his phone back out. There’s a message waiting for him.

Jane - 9:47 a.m.- Yes.

Ilya takes a slow breath. Flash of Shane’s pretty bottom lip in his head. Now is not the time to be turned on, focus.

Lily - 10:02 a.m.- The flight is canceled. Maybe another tonight. Grounded here.

Jane - 10:03 a.m.- Shit really?

Three dots bounce below that message for a long moment. Ilya waits, slipping his necklace into his mouth for something to do, a nervous habit.

Jane - 10:04 a.m.- This is weird weather. It came on so suddenly.

*

Ilya meanders through the airport with Marleau and a handful of other guys for the first few hours. They get a meal, and then a drink. Ilya lounges across a bench seat he finds around the corner from their gate and holds his phone over his head to watch clips of the game they’d played against Montreal the night before.

He sends one of them to Shane, a pass he’d stolen right out from under the other’s nose.

Jane - 12:34 p.m.- Very impressive.

Ilya can practically see Shane’s entirely unimpressed face. He grins to himself, taps out a message.

Lily - 12:35 p.m.- What are you doing?

Jane - 12:35 p.m.- Watching a movie.

Lily - 12:35 p.m.- What movie?

Jane - 12:35 p.m.- Princess Bride.

Lily - 12:35 p.m.- Kids movie. Lame.

Jane - 12:36 p.m.- Asshole. It’s good. And it’s what’s on. You’ve seen it?

Lily - 12:36 p.m.- Yes. Both actors are hot.

Jane - 12:36 p.m.- Degenerate.

Lily - 12:37 p.m.- Oh big word. Describe him to me.

Jane - 12:37 p.m.- Who?

Lily - 12:37 p.m.- The man actor. Tell me what you like about him.

Jane - 12:38 p.m.- Not the girl?

Lily - 12:38 p.m.- No. The man.

*

Ilya is bored out of his mind, and bothering Shane only does so much to help him relax.

In fact, maybe Shane’s making it worse. Ilya is beginning to realize that he’s pent up. Which is ridiculous, considering what he’d gotten up to with Shane the night before. A night like that was sure to satiate any man for a few days, at least.

All he can think about is Shane, though, and the prospect, no matter how thin, of getting a repeat of the night before.

*

4:30 p.m. rolls around, and there is still no sign of the storm letting up. The last vestiges of sunlight show that the tarmac is still being plowed, trying to keep up with the work.

It’s an unprecedented level of snow, the news station in the corner tells them all. Ilya doesn’t know what 'unprecedented' means, but he imagines that it means that there’s a shit-ton of snow on the ground that no one knows what to do with.

By 6:00 pm, the coach gathers them all up at the gate again. This time, he’s the one to stand on a chair.

“The snow isn’t letting up. And you all need proper sleep.” He looks around at their weary faces, and Ilya can tell that he isn’t sure what tomorrow will hold, either. “We’ve booked at two hotels nearby, whatever they had left, nothing fancy. Split off accordingly. Keep your cells on. We’ll contact you in the morning to let you know if there’s a flight out.”

“Cutting it close, aren’t we?” Connors mutters somewhere down the line of seats. Ilya feels for them all. No one wants to fly into Dallas and play a game on the same day, even if they get lucky with a non-stop flight in the early morning. They'll still have slept like shit the night before, muscles aching from spending the day at the airport.

He’s buzzing next to Marleau as they walk back out of the airport through a private exit. The other looks at him warily, eyes shifting from him to the phone in his hand. Ilya makes sure it is turned away from him so that he cannot see any incoming texts.

Lily - 6:20 p.m.- You were serious about invitation? No flights tonight.

“Let me guess,” Marleau says when they’re standing apart from the rest of the team. Snow is getting into the tops of Ilya’s boots, soaking into his socks, but he doesn’t care a bit right now. “You’ve got accommodations set up.”

“You will cover for me,” Ilya tells more than he asks, brows raised.

“I will?”

“I cover for you,” Ilya reminds him. Marleau rolls his eyes but nods. He folds his arms over his chest to block the cold.

“Shit. Just— keep your phone handy. Wherever this chick lives, it’d better be nearby.”

“Is fine,” Ilya says, then smirks. “See you later tonight.”

Ilya pulls his phone. Three dots hover beneath his text to Shane, the other typing back.

Earlier in the day, he hadn’t been sure going back to Shane’s would be a good idea. But now that he’s waiting with bated breath for the other’s reply, anything less than an invitation would be intolerable. He’s been thinking about Shane’s freckles, and he’d very much like to see them again before he leaves Montreal.

Jane - 6:22 p.m.- Shit really?

Jane - 6:22 p.m.- If you want to come back here, you can, I guess.

Ilya scowls at the phone.

Lily - 6:23 p.m.- Guess? You don’t want?

Lily - 6:23 p.m.- You wanted earlier. Quite a bit.

Ilya is only mildly annoyed. He thinks he knows by now when Shane is playing coy. Still, he wants to be sure. He doesn't know if he could handle showing up and realizing Shane doesn’t actually want to see him so soon. More than just his pride would be wounded.

Jane - 6:24 p.m.- Alright yes. I want you to. Jesus.

Lily - 6:24 p.m.- ?

Jane - 6:24 p.m.- Please.

Despite his empty promises to himself of reestablishing that careful boundary between Shane and him, the idea of seeing the other again makes his groin twinge… and his chest squeeze. But lust can do that too, can’t it?

Ilya sits with his overnight bag over his lap in the back of a taxi.

He’s on his own, separate from Marleau or any of his other teammates. When they get to the first stoplight on the road out, he gives the taxi directions to Shane’s apartment block, and they break away from the long line of cars leaving the airport. His taxi is one of dozens here, and their coach will never even notice him slipping away.

Lily - 6:36 p.m.- On my way.

Chapter 2: The Significance of a Pizza

Chapter Summary

You’re starting to care too much about Rozanov’s comfort, he thinks to himself.

Chapter Notes

Hello hello.

It continues.

Two

On occasion, Shane can be a fitful sleeper.

After he climbs the stairs back to his apartment, he closes himself inside. The place feels so empty now that he's alone again, like a hollow cave. He shuts himself into the bathroom off his room. A hot shower washes all the dried salt from his skin, leaving him hazy and pliant. He holds onto that feeling as he goes to bed.

Then he sleeps like the dead.

He wakes later than he normally does, sore in some places, achy in others, but he savors all of it, stretching languidly in his bed. Still loose.

Out his window, the sky is pale grey. He can't see the tall buildings just a few miles away. Everything is blotted out by densely falling snow being blown around by the wind.

First snow for Montreal— it's about time.

He realizes he's... not happy. Not bubbly or outgoing. But calm. He feels quieted. There's still a lingering dis-ease from the last moments in the stairwell, when he lets himself think about it. But those are easy to smudge out with breakfast and turning on the news.

That's when he first begins to understand the full scope of what's happening out in Montreal on this freezing Friday morning.

The city had not expected so much snow so early in the season. Already, two feet have accumulated overnight. Now, it's coming down 20 centimeters in a single hour. The news cycles through clips of cars sliding around in slow, lazy spins in the middle of city intersections. A bus rear-ends a waste truck. No one is injured— so far— but it's clear that the citizens aren't quite ready for the snow, either. Come evening, when people return home from work, many will be installing their all-terrain or snow tires.

The plows have been deployed, but their journey is unending, scraping back and forth through the streets, only to return an hour later for another layer, thickening by the minute. The temperature had plummeted in the early morning. Now, things are beginning to ice up.

Shane sips warm water from a mug and checks his texts.

There’s nothing from “Lily”, but Hayden has updated the team group chat that school has been canceled, and that he’s miserable at home.

Another from their coach contains a more serious message. Their practice has also been called off for the day. The game on Sunday is iffy, but they’ll try their damnedest to get a practice in before then, and hopefully this storm calls it quits before the weekend is up. They could be playing to a half-empty arena.

Shane mutes the television and listens to the lack of city noise. There are no honking horns, no sounds of machinery whirring. No traveling highway ambiance, or yelling builders, or screaming couples with kids, or planes taking off overhead.

Planes.

Shane presses his lips together and checks his text chain with Ilya once more. Neither of them has said a thing to the other since last night, and Shane would be obliged to keep it that way. It’s how they do things. Or at least, he thinks it is.

They've met up three times so far, and after each time, Shane doesn't hear from Ilya for at least a couple of weeks. Even though Shane wants to text the other, he doesn't. That seems to be the boundary Ilya has set up, the line drawn in the sand.

He wants to say a great many things to Ilya about the night before. How it’d made him feel, even though he can’t really parse those things out for himself. He’d been overwhelmed and ecstatic. Thankful more than anything. To Ilya.

Shane isn’t very experienced with sex, not by a long shot. But even he can think of countless ways that your first time with a man could go wrong. None of them had happened last night, though. Any fumble was handled with a soft, teasing chuckle, and Ilya meeting his gaze, talking him through it.

Maybe that fact in itself, the care taken by Ilya, is what’s bothering him the most.

‘Bother’ isn’t quite the word, either.

He decides to break the silence.

Jane - 9:42 am- Did your plane leave already?

*

From the first moment Shane suggests that Ilya come back to his apartment, should the flight be canceled, Shane begins pacing aimlessly from room to room.

There's no logic to it.

His apartment doesn’t get messy. He tidies it himself and, every once in a while, has it deep cleaned. There are no dirty dishes in his sink, no throw pillows on the floor. No messes on the kitchen table or crumbs on the countertops. No clutter surrounding the bathroom sink.

He still looks for things, though. Wanders upstairs to rearrange the pillows on his bed, re-stacks the books on his coffee table in the living room. He’s looking through his fridge before he realizes what he’s doing— nervously preparing for Ilya’s return.

Which the other hasn’t even agreed to, yet.

There’s no need to do any of what he’s doing. Ilya doesn't give two shits about what Shane's apartment actually looks like, even if he likes giving his unsolicited opinions about it. Ilya is there for sex, the same as Shane.

Instead of compulsively tidying, he makes himself sit down on his sectional with his reading glasses and a book.

*

The snow does not stop. In fact, it only begins to fall faster.

Shane reads an article on his phone about the Boston Raiders being held up in the airport with no flights scheduled in or out of Montreal for the rest of the night. There are half-blurred photos taken by fans who are also stranded at the airport. He finds one of Ilya lying across a bench on his back, legs propped up on the wall and crossed at the ankle. He holds his phone above him, face bored. Cool as ever, even with the next day's game in Dallas at risk.

The meteorologist on the news predicts that this storm has only just begun, and that if anyone is thinking about making travel plans over the weekend, they ought to forget about them.

Ilya texts him.

Lily - 6:20 pm- You were serious about invitation? No flights tonight.

Shane had been serious. The prospect of seeing Ilya again so soon has his body feeling like a live wire. He gets up and paces around the back of his sectional, weighing the pros and cons of hosting again. He already knows what he wants to do.

He can’t be so eager about it. He has to show some kind of restraint lest Rozanov get the idea that Shane is happy to see him.

He plays coy.

And then Ilya, the bastard, makes him say exactly what he wants.

Shane is beginning to think that the other can see right through him. That, he doesn’t like.

Lily - 6:36 pm- On my way.

Shane stands in the darkened living room of his apartment, still as a stone. His mind races on what to do.

Ilya has spent the entire day at the airport. He might want a shower before they get up to anything. Shane wanders to the bathroom and sets a towel out on the counter, folded into neat, grey squares. He checks that his body wash is still mostly full.

Back in the kitchen, he wonders if Ilya has eaten.

You’re starting to care too much about Rozanov’s comfort.

Still. Ilya ought to be well fed if they want to fuck. Right? That’s logical. Shane’s only looking out for himself, really. There’s no one else he can get this from, so it makes sense to optimize their time together.

Ilya won’t like any of the food that Shane has in his fridge. Even Shane finds it boring, some of the time. No, he ought to put in an order for something.

But is eating together a step too far?

No, it’s just fuel for fucking.

He pulls out his phone to see what’s nearby.

*

The taxi drives slowly and carefully through the streets. Ilya almost feels bad for asking the driver to take him a few blocks more from the hotels to Shane’s apartment. The thought of seeing the other again lessens his guilt, though.

Not many other cars are on the street, and no one is out walking. The taxi drops him off a block away, and Ilya tips the driver thrice over his rate. He pulls his coat up around his neck and zips it to the top. Hood up around his face. His overnight duffel is slung heavily over a shoulder.

If anyone were out, which they aren’t, Ilya doubts that they would recognize him through the windblown snow and layers of warm clothes.

He turns down the alleyway before the complex and pulls his phone out.

Lily - 7:14 pm- here

The D1 stairwell door opens, this time just a crack. Shane’s dark eye looks out at him from beneath a hood. No words are spoken as he holds the door open for Ilya.

Once they’re both shut away inside, though, Ilya gets a look at him and frowns.

“You are all wet.”

Shane pushes his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and shrugs. The tops of his shoulders are darkened with moisture. It clings nicely to his strong, muscly frame. The top of his hood is soaked through, too.

“Had to take a little walk outside.”

“You walk outside in this?” Ilya scoffs, pinching a bit of the fabric of the hoodie and giving a short tug. “You have death wish?”

“Shut up,” Shane sighs, averting his scowl up the stairs. “It was just across the street.”

Ilya looks over his face. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are flushed pink, and his eyes are a tinge glassy. He looks like he got very cold, and not long ago.

“Foolish,” Ilya comments. Before Shane can get irked with him, he pushes him gently back into the wall at the bottom of the steps. Shane’s eyes drop to his mouth on cue, and Ilya kisses him.

He's slow about it, and it feels familiar, like they are picking up right where they left off.

Shane looks different from the last time Ilya had shown up at this back alley.

Instead of being pissed and perturbed by, well, everything about Ilya, he looks more akin to how he had when Ilya had departed. His face is mostly lax, only the corners of his eyes lifted in a barely noticeable smile. Small things with Shane Hollander. Easily missed, but Ilya is beginning to learn them.

Kissing is easier this time. Not nerve-wracking and thrilling like a hookup after months apart. No, he’d only kissed Shane a night ago.

And now he gets to do it again. What luxury he can find in small pockets of this city.

Shane kisses him back with a hand rubbing up his neck. When they part, his doe eyes are incrementally wider, looking over Ilya’s face with mild curiosity. “C’mon,” he says, and turns to head up the stairs.

Ilya thinks of racing him up for a second time, but then catches sight of his backside.

Without the adrenaline of a recent game to spur him into competitiveness, Ilya hangs back to admire Shane’s broad shoulders and tapered waist beneath a thick, soft hoodie. Perky little rump beneath black sweats. He looks at that a touch longer, how it moves going up the steps.

Shane notices his lack of sport, because he pauses to look over his shoulder, clear suspicion written on his face.

Ilya shrugs nonchalantly. “Just enjoying view.”

“Shut up,” Shane mutters, but Ilya can see the flush spread further on his cheeks as he turns away. Shane takes the steps two at a time, and well, Ilya can’t let him get too far without him, can he?

Shane’s apartment looks the same as before, dimmed amber lamps and the city skyline out the large windows. This time, the fireplace under the television has been lit. A line of flame licks up behind glass. “Setting the mood, hm?” Ilya asks, turning to look at him.

Shane doesn't jump his bones right away as Ilya had expected, had hoped. Instead, he pads to the kitchen, and Ilya follows behind him silently, setting his overnight bag and coat down behind the long, low sofa.

On the counter is a closed cardboard pizza box. Ilya stops short when he sees it. It looks utterly out of place in Shane's neat and meticulous space. Shane pads to his fridge and pulls a liter bottle of cola out.

“Just,” Shane starts, eyes flickering across his countertop, refusing to meet Ilya's. “Thought you might be hungry. Didn't know if you ate today.”

“They have restaurants at airport,” Ilya says dumbly.

“Right…”

“This is why you are all wet?”

Shane nods mutely. Ilya wonders why he wouldn’t have someone deliver it to his apartment for him, but then, of course, Shane wouldn’t. Not when he has two working legs of his own.

Ilya still thinks he ought to have put on a coat. He opens up the box to find a pizza covered in mostly meat. A few mushrooms and black olives are sparsely sprinkled about. He looks at Shane blankly. “You ordered pizza?”

“Yeah?”

“You eat?”

“Wha— no,” Shane ducks his head. “It’s not part of my diet. I just…” he shakes his head. “You don’t have to eat it. I—“

Ilya slowly but pointedly takes a seat on one of Shane’s barstools. He tugs the long sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and pulls the pizza box closer. Picks up a slice. When he glances back up, Shane looks a touch calmer, face relaxed again. That same small smile tugging at the corners of his eyes. The other sets a glass on the counter next to him and fills it with cola.

“I just drink from bottle, yes?” Ilya asks.

“Gross.”

Ilya’s brow furrows. “You plan to have some?”

Shane falters, scoffing and setting the bottle down. “That’s… fair, I guess.”

The pizza is still hot, steam rising up into his face as he eats. It feels good on his still-cold nose. Ilya hadn’t known he was hungry before he arrived, but he puts away four slices before he begins to feel even a little full.

Shane sits on a barstool next to him, turned the opposite way and leaning back on the counter with his elbows. The television is on, a film playing that Ilya hasn’t seen before. He turns to look at it every once in a while, but mostly opts to watch Shane from his peripheral.

It’s not lost on him, the significance of a pizza.

It might not mean anything to your average hockey player. Pizza is about the most commodified meal in all of North America, especially a pizza from a chain, like the one Shane picked up. There are shops on every other corner, especially in a big city like Montreal.

Shane isn’t just an average hockey player, though. He does not eat pizza. And there is no one to feed other than Illy tonight. No team meeting, no team party.

Only Ilya.

And Shane bought him a pizza.

“You’re not eating?” Ilya asks.

“No.”

“Not hungry? At all?”

“Uh…” Shane flushes, turning his face away to look out the big living room windows. “I ate earlier. I’m good.” When he looks back, Ilya raises a brow, wanting more information. “I took a shower... before you came.”

He says it with a lowered brow, and Ilya catches on that this is significant. He knows why, at least.

“I see,” he says, nodding. Playing coy. “And what does that mean?”

Shane scowls. “What do you think it means?”

“Could mean anything.”

Shane’s throat bobs; his gaze is hard on Ilya’s. Ilya wants him to say it, though.

“Means I’m washed up. And…”

“And?”

“And I want you to… You know.”

Ilya takes pity on him. He did buy him a pizza, after all. “Yes... I know,” he replies, smirking.

He pushes the pizza box away, finally, and stands up. “I will shower. Been sitting in airport all day.” He gives Shane a long look up and down. “Wait in bed, yes?”

“Yes— er, okay.”

He’s very cute when he’s nervous. Ilya would never tell him that, though.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading.

I realized I wasn't really sure what I was doing with this fic, or why I was writing it in the first place. It's essentially just a story about them falling in love in a slightly different way.

I guess it's just a way of coping while waiting for season 2, whenever that may be. I love the original story. The long term yearn.

A note about comments: I'm a person who tries to respond to every comment if I can, because someone took the time to make one. It may just be a heart to show I read it, but please know they are all read and appreciated, even if it's just a flurry of excited emojis. I like knowing that people were effected by my stories.

Chapter 3: Trust

Chapter Summary

“Pretty,” Ilya huffs at such a lovely sight before him— but isn’t everything about Shane Hollander? These days, Ilya thinks so.

Chapter Notes

Smut/18+ Chapter. Ye have been advised.

Technically, it is skip-able. You can just assume that they have had sex come the next chapter.

It occurred to me that I'm writing them both as "Shane" and "Ilya", (as opposed to Hollander and Rozanov) no matter what POV I'm in. This is probably a departure from the book, but it's what felt right. It became more apparent to me writing the smut, but I'm not about to change it. To me, they're Shane and Ilya. Is this an issue??

In my head, the first night in Shane's apartment is a turning point for their internal feelings about one another, no matter if they show it or not. Looking into the lore more, that seems to be true at least for Ilya to some degree. And when it comes to the show, which has had quite a few emotional departures from the book timeline anyway... I feel fine taking this artistic liberty!

They still call each other by their last names to each other's faces, at least.

For now.

Three

Predictably, Shane has set a towel out in the bathroom for him.

Ilya enjoys the steam from the shower and scrubs himself down with the other’s expensive body wash, more thoroughly than he might on any normal night.

When he’s stepped out, he scrubs the towel through his hair, which begins curling back up immediately. He wipes fog from the mirror and checks the tired lines beneath his eyes. In any other situation, he’d be tapping out and going to sleep after the day he's had. Knowing that Shane is in bed waiting for him, though…

He leaves the towel hanging over a towel rack to air out for later, and pads back into the bedroom, bare-assed and half-hard.

Shane lies, lower half beneath his comforter, still seemingly embarrassed to be stripped down. Even in his own bed, in his own room, in front of a man who’s already fucked him once.

His reservedness has always been what drew Ilya in the most. Had him coming back time and time again to their text chain to pester him, poke and prod, and try to see through the thick veil of aloofness

Ilya stands in the bathroom doorway until the other notices him. When he does, Ilya can see the apprehension on his face.

“Don’t look so scared, Hollander. I have not even touched you yet.”

Shane presses his lips into a thin line, pulls his knees up to his chest, still covered. His eyes trace down Ilya’s body, and Ilya relishes the feeling of being looked at and wanted.

“I’m not scared,” Shane mumbles. "We've already..."

Ilya holds in a sarcastic laugh and trods across the carpet. He climbs up the end of the bed on his hands and knees, not willing to draw this out any longer. He's spent all day wanting Shane Hollander, and against all odds, and the Raiders' steadfast schedule, here he is.

He stops just in front of Shane’s knees. “Alright. What is it you want, then?”

“What I want?” Shane scoffs, averting his eyes.

“Yes? You wanted something specific, no?”

Shane looks more nervous than even the night before. Ilya can’t fathom why.

He places a hand on Shane's knee, an ill attempt at comfort. It draws Shane's attention to his face, at least. “Look, Hollander. I have already seen you. All of you. Why with this face?” he asks, reaching out to press his index finger into the thin corner of Shane’s mouth. Shane ducks his head away quickly. Ilya puts on a tone of indifference. “I could blow you… fuck you...”

Shane rolls his lips in between his teeth, staring at Ilya with pinched contemplation. He looks embarrassed, averting his eyes past Ilya to the ceiling.

Ilya watches him, then shifts to be in his direct line of sight again, unwilling to let him look away. "What is it? Hm?”

“Would you… with your mouth again?”

“Would I what?”

Shane scoffs. “Don’t make me say it, asshole.”

“Ah, asshole. Should have just said that.”

Shane blinks, face faltering. 

“It is so hard to ask?” Ilya murmurs quietly.

"Well, yeah. It's... It's..."

They will never get anywhere like this.

Ilya sighs and takes hold of the comforter. He meets Shane's eye, brows raising incrementally in a question. Shane nods once, letting go of the bedcovers.

Shane, through shuddering breath, lies back against his stack of pillows. Ilya eases the comforter down from Shane's knees, and there his cock is lying against his stomach. Ilya stares for a moment, admiring the slight curve and its pink head glistening. He's overcome again by how lucky he is to witness such a thing.

He knows for a fact that there isn’t another man alive who’s ever seen something as pretty as this. Probably not many women, either, going by how boring Shane’s personal life looks from the outside.

Ilya swallows thickly and moves without thinking, pressing himself between Shane’s legs. They part for him automatically, knees bracketing and squeezing on either side of his torso. Shane's face finally breaks into a small smile as Ilya lies out across him to kiss him many, many times on the mouth.

He works his way down from there, over his pecs and nipples, down his sternum. Shane's skin is perfect the whole way down, pleasant smelling like his body wash, soft and flushed. Ilya kisses over a few small scars he's accumulated over his hockey career. Down his faint treasure trail to his cock.

It jumps under Ilya's warm breath. He blows Shane for a few long moments, dick sliding halfway unto his mouth lazily before a hand brushes the hair from his forehead and reminds him what Shane really wants.

He gets his hands behind Shane's knees, pushing them up and back. His weight is more familiar now, and Ilya knows how to maneuver him and hold him there.

He doesn’t remember doing this with Sasha. He’s also never let anyone do it to him. He’d never thought he’d want to do it either, until he’d seen Shane Hollander in the showers.

He's imagined it frequently, ever since then.

The real thing is leagues better than anything he could think up on his own.

Shane breathes hot and heavy, murmuring incoherently as Ilya presses his mouth to his hole.

Ilya is lost, only focusing on what he feels, which is warmth and softness and muscle giving way to his tongue. Mind subdued to focus on this one task that makes Shane fall apart.

The trust Shane gives him is almost more intoxicating than anything they could do physically. Each time the other loosens, even a fraction, it feels like a victory well earned. For the time that Shane allows him into his bed, Ilya knows that he’s being trusted with something delicate. Breakable. He likes how powerful it makes him feel, but there’s something that lies beneath even that. An emotion he can’t look head-on, lest he start panicking about it.

Ilya doesn't keep track of the time, but Shane’s panting eventually becomes more breathy, vocal, and Ilya feels a hand beating lightly on his shoulder. “Roz—Rozanov—”

He comes up breathing deep, saliva down his chin. He stares at Shane with half-lidded eyes, mouth slack. “Coming already, Hollander?”

Shane grimaces at him, brows drawn up in the middle with effort to control himself. “Fuck me— please, fuck—“

Ilya doesn’t have to be told twice. He realizes how desperate Shane is by the way he flops over onto his belly without any coaxing from Ilya.

Ilya reaches for Shane’s bedside drawer, retrieving the perforated strip of condoms Shane had brought out last night. He bets Shane hadn’t known he would be using them again so soon. Maybe he’s even proud of himself for having them on hand now. Ilya catches a glimpse of something truly exciting rolling around in the back of the drawer and makes a mental note to revisit it at a later time.

Maybe in a well-timed text.

For now, he focuses on Shane, who props his ass up in the air, head nestled into a pillow.

“Pretty,” Ilya huffs at such a lovely sight before him— but isn’t everything about Shane Hollander? These days, Ilya thinks so.

Shane had still been a touch loose from the night before, but Ilya had made sure to kiss and lick away any remaining tension from him. The other still gasps when Ilya pushes in, slow and steady. Shane turns his head to the side to pant, and Ilya watches the side of his face for any sign of discomfort.

When he’s most of the way in, gritting his teeth against the melting heat and snugness, Ilya pauses. He breathes once, twice, then asks, “Is okay?”

“Fuck,” Shane groans, knees shifting. That makes Ilya hiss in pleasure. “Definitely okay.” Shane's breathing heaves, and Ilya watches the way his ribs expand outward with the effort. He’d never thought he’d get to look at another man this physically impressive in this context. Had never considered it until he laid eyes on Shane Hollander and clocked him as anything other than straight.

What luck.

Ilya pulls out slow, presses back in even slower, all the way to the hilt.

Shane lets out a shuddering moan. “You feel bigger. Good,” he gasps, and Ilya groans in return. Whether it’s true or not, it feels like Shane is saying it for his benefit.

He makes sure that Shane continues to feel it, every inch coming and going, with smooth, languid strokes of his hips. It’s not the careful start of the night before, but it’s not the rough and raunchy that Ilya had half expected, either.

It’s something else. Shane’s mouth slack and gasping against the pillow he grips beneath him. Ilya finds himself leaning down, wanting to get closer so he can watch the way Shane’s eyes squeeze shut, the way his freckled cheeks rise with the movement. His lips are flushed the same shade as his cockhead— speaking of.

Ilya slips a hand beneath the other, patting around until he finds the wet head of it. He squeezes his fist down in a full stroke. Shane's hips jerk toward the bed, his legs giving way a bit more with each of Ilya's thrusts.

Shane groans anew with the added pressure, but when Ilya begins to pick up speed, he reaches beneath himself to bat Ilya’s hand away.

Ilya's brow furrows. “You don’t want?”

A near imperceptible shake of Shane’s head, and Ilya retracts his hand. He braces it on the bed next to the other's shoulder and continues to watch his face, curiosity renewed.

“Is better without?” he asks, continuing his unhurried but strong thrusts.

He’s not an idiot. He’s watched plenty of porn, and he’s read plenty of forums about doing anal with men. He's fucked them before, too. But he’s never felt it for himself. It’s fascinating. And Shane is fascinating in his own boring way, already.

“Yeah,” Shane says shortly between pants. “Better.”

“More intense?” Ilya asks.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane huffs, turning his face into the pillow. His hips drop even lower, until they’re resting against the bed.

Ilya figures that maybe he’s exhausted from the night before. Playing a game and then being propped on his knees for a long period of time…

Ilya follows him down, bracketing his knees on either side of Shane’s thighs.

This position angles his thrusts straight down. Shane lets him know just how intense that feels by his sudden growing volume.

“Fuck, Rozanov—“ he cuts himself off, gasping into the pillow. Ilya wishes he could hear him better, all of the cut-off words and grunts, wasted into fabric. He parses out the next word, though. “There.”

Ilya grins to himself and begins driving into the place inside Shane that has him practically mewling. “Da,” Ilya begins muttering before he can help it. He’s already lying mostly on top of the other, and he presses his lips to Shane’s ear, hips snapping against him and beginning to lose their even rhythm. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

Shane nods shortly. Ilya wishes he could see his doe eyes that tell him when he's doing something right. He’ll settle for the wordless sighs, for now. When Shane begins to arch into the bed, ass pressing back up into Ilya’s thrusts insistently, Ilya knows that it comes down to these last few moments.

Shane’s hand slides to one side, fisting into his top cover. Without thinking, Ilya slides his own hand over it, slipping their fingers together. He holds it down onto the bed, squeezing. Pounding into Shane, he rucks the other’s hips against the bed with each meeting. The sound of it is all-consuming— that, and Shane’s unhindered cries into the pillow as he comes with continuous shudders.

Ilya's hips thrust erratically, and he finishes with gritted teeth, staring at the side of Shane’s face.

He feels as if he's floating above his body, looking down at the two of them lying there. He curls himself in closer to Shane, touching him in all the places he can reach as he comes down. He never stops focusing on dark lashes and freckles and beaded sweat on Shane's temple.

The strength is leeched from his thighs and abdomen by his orgasm. He presses his face between the other's shoulders to breathe.

When they’ve both come back to themselves, Ilya feels at once like sleeping.

Shane turns slightly beneath him to look back at him over his shoulder. He doesn’t say a word, but Ilya knows what it is he wants on instinct.

It’s a very bad thing that he does it. There will be terrible repercussions down the line for him, maybe even both of them.

He kisses him.

Deep and unhurried, full of tenderness that's washed over him. He cups the side of Shane's face and kisses. His heart lurches painfully in his chest, and everything Ilya had tried to avoid the night before, with Shane’s gentle kisses to his face, comes knocking at the door again. Nearly bursting through the cracks in Ilya's walls.

He shudders against Shane’s mouth. Shane slowly eases over all the way, Ilya slipping from him. Shane doesn’t even flinch at the feeling. Both of his hands find Ilya’s face and hold it there to kiss him back.

Ilya had felt in control before.

Now, he feels just the opposite. Terrified. The kind of feeling that would make him flee.

Shane breaks their kiss and lets his eyes drift down the bed. He’s lying in his own cum, Ilya realizes. He must hate it.

“I’m…” Shane swallows. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Okay,” Ilya nods dumbly. When he rolls off of Shane, he realizes just how exhausted his body is. He, after all, played a game and fucked the night before, too.

Shane gets up, and Ilya can see the wet spots beginning to dry on his back. He doesn't have the energy to make a joke about it, though.

Then Shane turns to him, face more open than Ilya can remember. “You can rest a while, if you want.”

Ilya considers it.

He’s worn out.

“Just for a little while,” Shane clarifies with a shrug. “I mean, what’s the point of going back out in it right now? You’d probably get stranded, anyway.” He smirks, first mark of confidence since before they'd fucked. "Freeze and die."

"And then who would fuck you?" Ilya says tiredly.

Shane makes a good point. Or maybe Ilya is just as weak as everyone back home always tells him he is. He’s giving in to something he knows he ought not to. But doesn’t have the energy to care.

“Just for a bit,” he agrees.

He drags a pillow— the one Shane had gripped when he’d come— closer. Tucks his head into it and curls on his side. Enjoys the feeling of the luxurious fabric that an interior designer had probably picked out for Shane.

The other watches him with an unreadable expression and then turns to duck into his bathroom.

Ilya listens to the sound of the shower spray and thinks to himself that he ought to get up and leave. Right now.

Don’t let this draw out any further than it's gone.

You will regret it, says a voice in his head. You will make a mess of this.

His eyes slip shut.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading.

I'm not sure that my smut is very "sexy". I try to make it more... Contemplative? lol. This is just what I find more interesting to write.

Unsurprisingly, this story is slowly expanding as I write it. I foolishly had in my head that it would be 7, maybe eight chapters. But at the rate it's going, it'll be a bit more. I was expecting it this time, at least. I know my writing.

Fare thee well.

Chapter 4: Change of Mind

Chapter Summary

Where would he rather be— well, it's a ridiculous question.

Chapter Notes

You guys should know I turn on winter storm sounds and turn down the aircon in order to immerse myself in this story.

Four

Shane opts to sleep on the sofa after he gets out of the shower.

He comes back to his room to find Ilya passed out cold, breathing deep and heavy, comforter pulled half over himself.

Shane’s never seen the other asleep before. It’s such an unusual and foreign sight that he stands in the bathroom doorway to stare for a moment. Ilya's mouth is slightly parted, face entirely relaxed.

It's no secret that Ilya Rozanov is hot. Anyone with eyes can see it, and it's talked about regularly amongst hockey fans and laypeople alike. Shane doubts that anyone has ever witnessed him like this, though. Muscles relaxed in a way that betrays Ilya's true youth.

Shane retrieves a fresh set of clothes and passes silently out into the hall, where he changes.

He can’t very well climb into bed next to Ilya. There’s cum still drying on the remaining strip of bed. Besides, he’s not sure that Ilya would appreciate waking up to the sight of him later on, not with their usual routine of parting ways after they’re done with each other.

He eases down the steps to his living room where he sets up on the sofa.

He doesn’t sleep well outside of his bedroom.

He always sleeps in his bed. Never even takes a nap on the slippery leather of his sectional. Still, he makes do. Curls up on his side in sweats and a hoodie and wraps himself in the throw blanket his mother had gifted him when he’d first moved into the apartment. He’s not had much use for it up until this moment.

He keeps waking with the odd impulse to go back up to his room and slide into bed next to the other. The thought of pressing up to Ilya's warm body is so enticing that he dreams about it a few times as he soothes himself back to sleep.

He chalks this up to how cold it is outside.

Perhaps deep down, he knows what he's really thinking about. The sex this time had been better than the first night.

Shane puts that down mostly to the fact that he'd known better what to expect this time. Hadn’t been as nervous. Had prepared better in his shower.

It’d be unfair to say that Ilya hadn’t played a role, too.

Shane's never felt something as intense as that, pressed down into the bed, Ilya’s weight on top of him, driving relentlessly into him. Nowhere to go and nothing to do but squirm and feel it.

It's easily the hottest thing Shane's ever experienced.

And it's left him feeling emotionally raw, too. Ilya's phantom fingertips are still brushing against his hair and temple, forehead pressed into his back, lips kissing his spine.

Shane could live in that kind of moment forever.

He wonders how it’d been for Ilya. He knows the other has had more experience. With a man back in Russia. But have there been more? Was it good because Ilya has had so much experience?

Shane flops over. He doesn’t know why it matters either way.

Sleep is fitful, and Shane gets no rest. Finally, he gives up when the sky begins to slowly lighten.

He sits cross-legged in the corner section of his sofa and turns on the television, setting the volume just loud enough to hear. He sips on another mug of warm water.

When the news station begins showing more clips of Montreal weather-related accidents over the night, Ilya comes padding down the steps from the bedroom, no shoes on his feet, and, presumably, no clothes on beneath Shane’s comforter, which he’s wrapped around his shoulders.

When he gets to the bottom of the steps, he stares at Shane with something reminiscent of shellshock.

Shane doesn’t know whether to say good morning or not. Ilya doesn’t give him the chance.

“What time is it?” he questions, voice sounding toneless and strange. He squints, even though the sun isn’t even close to being all the way up yet.

“Sometime after five.”

“You did not wake me.”

Normally, Ilya is in his public persona— sleek and confident, a bit sly. When he’s not doing that, he’s seducing Shane with haughty looks and banter.

He looks so open now, Shane isn't sure where to look.

Ilya shuffles closer to the end of the sofa. Shane thinks of asking him to pick the comforter ends off the ground, but then again, he’s going to have to wash the rest of his bedding anyway.

Ilya looks down, blinking owlishly. Rubs sleep from his eyes. Asks, “You slept here?”

“Yup.” Shane turns his gaze back on the television, keeping his bafflement to himself. He can feel the other’s gaze boring into the side of his head. Ilya swallows, his throat clicking. “There’s coffee,” Shane says, jerking his chin back toward the kitchen.

"You should not have let me sleep," Ilya says strangely, and Shane finally scoffs.

"Looked like you could use it."

"Yes, well..." Ilya's mouth presses into a line. He finally leaves the comforter behind on the arm of the sofa. Shane sees that he’s back in his underwear, at least.

There comes the sound of Ilya picking up the porcelain mug Shane had set out for him. The pouring of coffee. A little grunt Ilya makes after a hot sip.

When he returns, he does not sit. Instead, he stands there with a hand propped on his hip, staring at the news. Then, he crouches down to riffle through his overnight, until he finds his phone. Shane would've thought he'd keep it stashed on his person. Apparently not. When they're hooking up, at least. 

He returns, still in his underwear, phone clutched in one hand. He sits down on the other end of the sofa and presumably looks through his messages. His face is perturbed.

Shane stays quiet, but Ilya glances up and catches him watching.

“Marleau messaged me,” Ilya explains. “I told him I would be back, and I was not.”

“Oh. Was he worried?”

“Not about me,” Ilya smiles wryly. “About himself. We are on curfew.”

“Not sure that’ll matter much longer,” Shane mutters, looking out the window at the snow flurries.

Ilya’s phone buzzes again. When he reads the incoming message, he sighs harshly through his nose. “The Dallas game has been canceled. Rescheduled, maybe. Later in the season.”

“Okay,” Shane nods. He'd expected that.

The Raiders can’t fly back to Boston any more than they can fly to Texas. If they aren't leaving until a later date, maybe he and Ilya can see each other again before he leaves. Maybe he'd want to hang around a bit longer this morning, too.

“What are you drinking?” Ilya asks, leaning over to look down into Shane's mug.

Shane holds the mug closer to his chest, but there's no hiding it. “Uh. Warm water.”

Ilya stares at him as if he might still be dreaming. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and opens them again. “Warm water?”

“It’s supposed to be good for you,” Shane starts. He knows how it sounds, but he’d been enjoying it up until this point. “Just— with the cold, and the snow—” Ilya’s laughing at him already, though, and Shane resists rolling his eyes. “Shut the hell up.”

“At least put some tea in it, Hollander.”

The corner of Shane’s lip quivers, despite his agitation.

Ilya stares down at his phone, tapping a message, presumably to Marleau.

Shane wonders how the night before had made Ilya feel, but doesn't dare ask. He can’t think of anything less sexy in this moment.

Ilya makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “I will go.”

Shane bites down on a frown. “Back to your hotel?”

“To restaurant. A few of us are meeting there for breakfast.”

“You’re gonna try to get a cab?”

“Is only few blocks walk. Will be fine.”

“You’re gonna walk?” If Ilya is bothered by his questions, he doesn’t show it; he only stares down at his phone and waves his hand at Shane dismissively.

“Is nothing. Montreal is not Moscow.”

“Bullshit,” Shane scoffs, but Ilya only scoffs and sits back, eyes still glued to his phone. “You called me stupid for walking in this kind of weather.”

“You were. In hoodie and sweatpants? Foolish. I have proper coat and boots. Will be fine.” His English gets choppier the more irritated he gets.

Shane chews on his lip. “The Raiders' next game is Friday. You aren't flying out until, what, Wednesday? Thursday?"

“Yes. If all is good, we fly to Detroit.”

Shane stares at a spot on the wall below the television screen. “That's… Four or five days.”

Ilya looks at him then, a brow rising incrementally on his face. “Yes?”

Shane can’t look at him for fear of betraying some of the vulnerability he feels this morning, betraying that he doesn't want him to go— not yet.

“Hollander, we can fuck again if you want.” Ilya sounds like he’s grinning now. “But not for long. I need to get back, yes?”

Shane shrugs. “I guess. If you wanna be at a hotel.”

Ilya sets his cup on the coffee table. “You think I can stay here?”

The way he says it makes an embarrassed flush rise on Shane’s cheeks. “They think you’re with a girl anyway, don’t they?” He feels stupid for wanting something— this. Would Ilya stay if Shane were a girl? He’s sure it wouldn’t matter nearly as much if he were.

Ilya watches him silently.

“It doesn’t matter,” Shane says with a wave of his hand. “Was a dumb suggestion.” He'd only implied it, anyway.

“Yes,” Ilya shrugs. “Is not very smart.”

Shane scowls out his window at the pale flurries of snow outside. His nice feelings from before have been all but extinguished. Afterglow fading fast.

“Is not smart because… we are not like that, are we.” Ilya says it so matter-of-factly, like he’s talking about the weather. “And is too… risky. Too much hassle.” Shane’s cheeks feel warmer with each reason Ilya lists off. “And is not good idea to… play house. You know?”

Shane flinches back like he's been punched.

When Ilya says it like that, it makes a touch more sense. “Yeah, you’re right." Why does it still sting so badly, though?

“Don't be mad. Is not like I am your boy—”

“That’s not what I’m getting at,” Shane says, true irritation ringing through. He stands, taking his mug and heading for the kitchen. “Just drop it. It was a stupid idea. I get it. And I agree.“ He busies himself heating a new pot of water.

Ilya watches him with an arm thrown over the back of the sofa, and Shane pointedly avoids his gaze, even when Ilya clears his throat.

“What?” Shane asks, voice stiff.

“Do you want to…” Ilya trails off, apparently waiting for an answer.

Shane knows what he’s asking. If he wants to fuck again.

In truth, he wishes he did. He knows that they won't see each other again until the Olympics. Now is probably the last time they can eke out some kind of pleasure from each other.

The problem is, he couldn’t be further from wanting sex if he tried. A sour feeling has replaced all of the warmth he’d felt before.

It’s stupid, he thinks, because he shouldn’t have expected anything different, and he hadn’t wanted anything different, either.

Ilya’s right. They're not an item, and they don't want to be an item. Ilya doesn’t like him, and he doesn’t like Ilya, not outside of the bedroom.

And right now, Shane really doesn’t like him. For reasons left unthought about.

“No,” Ilya says, reading as much on his face. “I will shower, then.”

He stands and heads for the stairs once more. Shane scowls at his muscular back as he goes, the way his thighs and round ass flex and shift as he takes each step, and hates how much he still wants him.

When his water is done heating, he adds green tea to it.

*

When Ilya gets out of the shower, Shane has disappeared from the living room. The television is still on, but has been muted.

He stands in the living room listening and thinks that he can hear the other in a separate room, one Ilya hasn’t been inside before. The door is closed, but he can hear the muffled clanking of weights being set down.

Ilya knows when he’s being sent on the walk of shame. He gathers his things as quickly as he can. Slips his coat on and then is out the door.

He knows the way to the back stairwell by now. It greets him in yellow-lit silence.

His lone footsteps echo up to the tall ceiling as he takes them slowly. When he stands at the bottom of the steps, he pauses to make sure his boots are done up right. Before, he'd thought it quaint that Shane had followed him down with no reason. Had sat and taken Ilya's coat without question when he'd handed it to him. It hadn't felt so important at the time, but now Ilya is sorely missing the sendoff.

The stairwell is dingy and lifeless without Shane's candid chatter to fill it up. And colder than anything.

Ilya scoffs and tries to shake himself out of the weird stupor it's fallen into.

Why would he want to stay at Shane Hollander’s boring apartment anyway? Where there is no music or beer of boisterous gloating, and where Shane drinks warm water out of mugs— because of course he does.

Stepping out into the snowy, windy day feels dreadful, though. Ilya lets himself wish, just for a moment, that he hadn't been in such a hurry to leave.

*

Exercise is a good distraction from all of the feelings that’ve come up. 

Shane goes through his weights and then switches to the ergometer rower, and then, for good measure, gets on his stationary cycle.

When he's good and sweaty and sore and exhausted, he finally steps off and out into his living room. He stands in the doorway of his home gym and listens intently. He's not sure how much time has passed, and he doesn't care for the moment. 

There is no movement in the apartment. No sound of the shower running or cabinets bumping. Ilya's mostly empty coffee cup sits on the table.

He wanders up to his bedroom to find that Ilya has left his towel hanging up to dry in the bathroom again. It's courteous in its own right. The bathroom shows no other sign he was there except for a few water droplets left on the glass shower door.

He's not sure why he let the morning get to him. Why Ilya refusing to even consider the idea of staying at Shane's for more than a few hours had gotten under his skin. In part, he supposes it's because there is the sneaking suspicion that Ilya thinks he's better than this. Better than staying at Shane's boring apartment. Those things are almost a given, though, so why would they matter?

The other reason he might have been upset is something he refuses to think about. He tucks it away as quickly as it comes up.

He eats a quick lunch in line with his macros, and then decides to shower and spend the rest of the day laid out on his sofa.

In a last-minute decision, he retrieves his dildo from the back of his bedside drawer.

He wishes he'd been more in control of his emotions earlier on, had set them aside in order to get one more experience out of Ilya before he left.

The shower spray is immediately hot, which he’s thankful for. He takes time soaping himself up, and then takes even more time cleaning himself below the belt.

He fucks himself slowly at first, letting his eyes shut and the hot water spray down on him. He tries to imagine a man behind him, holding onto his hips, plastering himself along his back in place of the hot water.

None of it comes easily to mind, though. And when he finally starts hitting his prostate at a decent rhythm, his abdomen shuddering, all he can imagine is that it's Ilya behind him. Ilya huffing in his ear, Ilya’s hands squeezing his waist, Ilya’s hand pressing into the middle of his back.

He hates that it’s always him that he sees in his fantasies, but if that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes. He ought to cut himself some slack. If he could sleep with anyone else without jeopardizing his whole life and career, he would, wouldn't he? It's only natural that Ilya is the first and only man to come to mind.

He hears his phone ringing in his bedroom and falters.

It goes on for a full cycle, and he thinks it’s probably Hayden, or his mother, or maybe the coach with more news about their practice schedule in light of the storm.

When it finally goes silent, he continues on, trying to fall back into the rhythm he had before. He spreads his legs a bit wider, leans a bit heavier against the shower wall due to his exhaustion, tries to find a stroke that hits the right spot, but still goes deep enough to feel. It’s strenuous work, and his legs are weak from his impromptu workout.

He curses more than once, trying desperately to reach his orgasm.

His phone begins ringing again.

"Fuck," he mutters, pausing to listen. It rings three times and then stops. Before Shane can blink, it begins anew. That gives him pause.

What if it's more than one person calling?

He thinks.

What if something's happened? With one of his teammates? His family?

What if someone found out that he and Ilya—

He drops the dildo into the bottom of the shower and gives himself one last hurried rinse.

How would anyone know? It's not possible, he tries to reassure himself. 

He wraps a towel around his waist and heads for his bedroom, where the phone begins ringing yet again.

*

Ilya steps into a gastropub and diner combo, one of the few businesses tucked into Montreal's streets that's still open. A man outside uses a scraper to remove the snow from the front window.

He spots a third of his team almost immediately. Seven big men wedged into one corner of the diner, all in various states of disarray. Marleau is at the end and raises a hand to Ilya when he catches sight of him.

The diner is full of mismatched people. Some look like they've been out all night or are nursing a hangover. Others look as if they've just popped in for a morning coffee before they head off to a corporate job.

Everyone, though, looks like they are taking refuge from the weather.

"There he is," Marleau announces as Ilya strides up. "You've never stayed out the whole night with this chick."

Ilya smiles wryly as he tosses his overnight bag over the back of a chair and slumps down next to his friend. He wishes Marleau would pipe down while they're in public, and in front of the rest of the team, no less. Most of the others know about his on-and-off again history with "Jane," but he'd rather not call it to mind right now.

Not when memories of the night before are still so fresh.

“Must be gettin’ serious, huh?” Marleau nudges him in the side.

Ilya snorts for show and ducks his head. “Is not serious even a little.”

Marleau raises a big, boisterous brow.

“Is only… she has big appetite." This sounds impressive on some front, doesn't it? "And have you seen the weather?”

Marleau chuckles.

Ilya thinks of Shane pressed into the bed below him, panting and gasping, and knows that it’s he himself who has the appetite. He’s starving for more. Even, and especially now, surrounded by his hungover teammates who reek of sweat and hotel bar. Ilya wishes that he'd hung around a little while with Shane. Shane and his quiet, boring apartment...

Why had Ilya been in such a hurry to get here?

There is much talk amongst them about the unexpected weather and the missed game in Dallas. A bit more about the game two nights ago against Montreal, and how they'd nearly had it.

Ilya drinks a bad cup of coffee, and it only serves to remind him of Shane’s white porcelain mug that he’d left on the coffee table. Coffee that was much better than this mud, that Shane had made and hadn't even drunk himself.

The conversation among the team turns to plans for the rest of the week. Their flight scheduled for early Thursday morning.

“We’re gonna have to practice at some point this week,” one of them says, and a few others pipe up in agreement. “You think Montreal will let us into their arena?”

That drums up a few chuckles, and even more jokes.

“Tight-asses probably won’t even let us near the block.”

Ilya doesn't feel much like bantering this morning.

He stares out the front window at the snow beginning to accumulate against the glass again. Wind blows through the overhang of the building, whistling. Ilya frowns, counting how many cars pass by the window over the next minute. Less and less come.

Marleau grabs his attention. “So, you going back after this?”

Ilya’s gaze drifts out the window again. “To hotel? Yes.”

“No, man. To her place,” Marleau smirks like this is a given. “Hell, if I had a girl who could stand to see me regularly, I’d be staying at hers every night I got the chance.” Marleau shrugs on his coat.

Ilya looks around and realizes that the rest of them are gathering their things, preparing to leave.

“We’re off until Wednesday night," Marleau points out.

Ilya stares down into his shitty cup of coffee. Frowns.

He follows the rest of the team as they wander out onto the sidewalk.

Connors pipes up, turning the collar of his coat up against the wind. “Does the weather seem... worse to you guys?” He has to speak loudly over the sound of the wind that's picked up considerably since Ilya arrived.

“Hotel’s just a few blocks that way. We're probably hitting the bar early.” Marleau points down the road. He looks at Ilya skeptically. “You coming with?”

Ilya stares at him, then turns to look in the opposite direction.

The snow is indeed picking up again. It blows hardening flakes of ice against his cheeks. There are already a few inches stacked against the sides of the buildings.

He could go back to the hotel with his team. Wait there until the storm lets up again. Watch some television, listen to Marleau tell stories about his summers in the States. Get drunk at the bar with the others. Watch one of them vomit into the corner.

And keep thinking about last night.

The snow makes him anxious, like a timer is ticking down. There is a decision to make, and he has a feeling that no matter where he goes, he's going to be stuck with that decision for at least the next twenty-four hours.

Where would he rather be— well, it's a ridiculous question.

Stuck in a hotel bar with a bunch of stale-smelling men, who, granted, he's friends with. Maybe there will be a pretty woman holed up there, too— one that would make a lot more sense for him to spend time with while they're stuck.

None of that seems to compare, though, to the idea of Shane Hollander, with freckles and blushing honeyed skin, who smells like salt and musk and expensive body wash and whatever cologne he uses, in his clean, quiet apartment in the sky.

What the hell.

Ilya had been welcomed, and maybe he'd jumped the gun leaving the offer behind. He also knows he insulted Shane. Playing house. He hadn't meant to be offensive, but he'd known as soon as he saw the look on Shane's face that he had been. 

“I will…” Ilya starts, grimacing. He looks at Marleau, who raises a brow. “I will go to her house, I think.”

Marleau chuckles, smacking Ilya on the shoulder a few times in what's meant to be a friendly pat. “Can’t blame you.”

Ilya starts the walk back, turning the corner and pulling his phone out. He sends a hurried text.

Lily - 10:47 a.m. - Are you still home?

Shane does not text him back.

Ilya wonders if he’s still mad, or if he’s simply engrossed in something else— a workout, a shower, a nap. He doesn’t know what the other gets up to on his off days. He surely can't have gone out in this, though.

Ilya turns down the street of Shane’s complex and decides that he'll just have to push his luck a little bit more.

When he arrives, Shane has still not texted him back. He trudges down the side alley to the D1 door and tries pulling on it. It, predictably, does not budge. He pulls out his phone again, and this time, he calls Shane.

There's no answer, so he calls again. He wonders if he is being purposely ignored, so he keeps calling. Shane wouldn't ignore him forever— he's not like that. The cold flakes blowing against his neck and ears give him the courage to keep trying.

After three tries, he thinks that the other will not answer.

Then, Shane comes on the line, breathing heavily. “What?” he demands, voice hard and angry.

Ilya grins, despite himself. “Come open the door.”

“What?”

“I am at the back door. Freezing my balls off. Come open,” Ilya says.

Shane makes a sound of disbelief on the other end and then hangs up.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter felt all over the place, but I got 'er done.

Back to the building tension, now. The tension... within the building, one might say.

Fare thee well.

Chapter 5: First Steps

Chapter Summary

“I may have made a… mistake.”

Chapter Notes

howdy.

another 18+/nsfw chapter.

Five

Shane curses the whole trip down the stairwell.

It's even colder today than it was the night before. And he's irritated.

Rushing through the end of his shower and forgoing an orgasm, picking up his phone in a panic. Whose number should he see disgracing his caller ID?

No, he's not irritated, he's angry.

He ought to send Ilya packing. There’s nothing he could possibly need except a quick fuck, and as much as Shane might privately want to indulge in that too, he’s trying to have some dignity.

Still, he goes.

Because, after all, there’s still an unprecedented snowstorm raging outside. By the sound of the wind howling out in the outer passage, it’s picking back up, too. How logical would it be to let the only man who can feasibly fuck him freeze to death in his back alley?

He’d thrown on some clothes after that and taken his sweet time, at least.

When he opens the back door, Ilya pushes inside immediately. His arms are wrapped around his chest, hands tucked tightly into his pits. He takes a shuddering breath as Shane lets the door close.

“Could you have taken longer?” His light eyes are glassy, and his pale cheeks have turned a rosy red. The tip of his nose is reddest of all.

“Thought you had a decent coat,” Shane says sarcastically, but only means it halfway. He feels a touch guilty for leaving the other out there so long, now that he sees the state of him.

“It seems the storm is not over. Is getting bad again.”

“Okay?” Shane wants to know what the hell the other is doing back after just a few hours. If he only wants sex, Shane doubts he’ll have the fortitude to turn him down. He feels weak to his body’s wants, most of the time.

“I… ah…” Ilya starts, trailing off.

He almost looks… embarrassed.

Shane steps back, folding his arms over his chest and letting his shoulders thud into the wall. He leans there, staring skeptically at Ilya, and waits.

“I may have made a… mistake.”

“A mistake,” Shane repeats.

“Little mistake.”

Shane scoffs. “What was the mistake?”

“Not… considering your offer.”

“You just wanna fuck.”

“Of course,” Ilya says, eyes glancing down at Shane’s body quickly. He takes a step closer. “Don’t you?”

Have some self-respect, Shane tells himself. He can’t deny it, though; of course, he wants that.

“That is not all, though,” Ilya continues, sighing through his nose. He averts his eyes to the stairs next to them, eyes dragging up them to the door leading to the second-floor hall. “I did not mean to be….”

Shane waits a long moment for Ilya to find the words. When he doesn’t, Shane supplies them. “An asshole?”

“Yes, but…” Ilya snaps his fingers lightly a couple of times, the words not coming to him. “But different.”

“A dick?”

Ilya smiles coyly. “It will come to me. But I am… sorry.”

Shane stares at him blankly. “Come again?

“You heard me,” Ilya says disdainfully.

“Yeah, but…” Shane breaks, a smirk forming on his mouth. “I’m the one sheltering you from a storm. I wanna hear it again.”

Ilya closes in on him, hands coming up to break Shane’s arms apart so he can press their chests together. He looks at Shane in that way that makes Shane’s knees weak; down his nose, like Ilya is the one in control. Like he already knows what’s going to happen, and Shane need not worry about the details.

Shane’s throat clicks.

“I did not mean to be an asshole,” Ilya says slowly, picking his words carefully. “And… I would rather be at your home than at hotel. If we are going to be stuck, anyway.”

It’s more words than Shane had expected to hear.

“And is not just to fuck,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Coffee is better, also.”

“My coffee.” Shane turns to duck out from between Ilya and the wall, but Ilya braces a hand to his chest to hold him there. The chill of the wall hits him between the shoulders, but Shane doesn’t mind one bit.

Ilya takes hold of his chin and kisses him firmly, and any resolve Shane had had left melts away on the spot.

As if by magic, that slow seep of afterglow seems to return to him. Hesitant revisiting of the warmer feelings he’d sat in that morning. His chest lurches, and Shane puts a cap on them quickly before they can take him over again. They obviously will only lead to sore feelings later on.

He breaks the kiss, turning to head up the stairs. “C’mon.”

Ilya follows him silently back to the apartment. He even manages to keep his hands to himself.

Once the door is shut, the sound of Shane's dryer rumbles further back in the apartment. His bedding ought to be nearly dry, and he makes a mental note of retrieving it right when it's finished so it doesn't wrinkle.

Ilya throws down his bag and begins shedding his coat and boots. Shane toes his own shoes off and wanders into the kitchen.

“I was about to make an early lunch,” he lies. “All I have right now is…” he opens up his fridge to take a look. “Leftover brown rice…. Salmon…”

“I am alright."

“I saved your pizza.” Each piece is wrapped up tightly in cling film to preserve it. He’d done it originally to keep it for Ilya, when there'd been a chance of him staying, but then had figured he’d give it to Hayden at the next practice. “I can heat it back up in the—“

“I am not hungry for food, Hollander,” Ilya says, hint of exasperation in his voice. He's much closer now, and an arm slips around Shane’s waist. He can feel Ilya’s body through the back of his hoodie, warmed from his coat.

Shane lets the fridge door go, and it eases closed. Ilya’s mouth finds the side of his neck, pressing a kiss there.

Shane's nearly ashamed of the way his lashes flutter, of the intense relief that fills him. He'd imagined a man at his back just a while ago, and now here he is in the flesh. He lets himself press back against Ilya, and the other takes his weight as if it's natural.

"You smell good," Ilya comments, voice muffled against his skin. "You took another shower, hm?"

Shane sighs through his nose, nodding.

"After your angry workout?"

"Fuck you," Shane huffs. He'd only been angry because of Ilya, after all.

“A little dramatic, yes?” Ilya begins walking him away from the fridge with two arms wrapped around his waist securely. One of them sits low on his belly, and it makes Shane want to grind forward. Ilya's other hand keeps Shane's ass tucked securely in the cradle of Ilya's hips. Shane can feel the way the other's cock begins to harden through his jeans.

“Was just a workout,” Shane breathes. “Nothing to do with you.”

“Mhm,” Ilya kisses him on the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Overreaction.”

“Don’t press your luck, Rozanov.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, walking him up to his dining table. Shane stares down at it in confusion. Ilya takes both of his hands, directing them to press down on the solid wooden top.

Shane gets the idea, then, and leans carefully over it at an angle, propped on his hands. He looks to his right, out into the greying white of the storm. His heart flutters at the idea of doing it right here.

Maybe Ilya can read his mind. "Relax," he says huskily in his ear. "Even if your windows were not reflective... the snow is so dense, no one could see you even if you were pressed up to the glass."

Shane flushes at the thought of that. It's a terrifying idea, and also immediately arousing.

Maybe Ilya can't read his mind, but he can read Shane's face like a book. He cranes his head around to look him in the eye. A devilish grin spreads across his face. "Ah. This excites you."

Shane ducks his head. "Fuck off."

"You want people to see?"

"No," Shane says, before he can help it. It only spurs Ilya on.

"What do you think they would say?"

That thought isn't very sexy. Shane turns around to say as much, but Ilya's hand turns him right back around.

"Not what I meant."

"What the hell did you mean, then?" Shane mutters.

"Anyone would think you are pretty sight."

Extremely flattering, but Shane isn't about to tell him that.

"Taking cock."

"Alright," Shane says, making a show of getting up. Ilya chuckles and pushes him back down gently enough that Shane doesn't feel the need to resist.

"I will not tease you," Ilya tells him, hand petting down his shoulders and sides, over his ribs. Then he leans closer, voice hushed. “Stay,” he says against Shane's ear, and Shane’s eyes fall closed, goosebumps raising on his arms.

Ilya’s warmth leaves his back, and Shane waits.

Fingers slip inside the waistband of his sweats, giving them a tug. They slip easily over his ass, and Ilya makes a sighing sound.

“I guess your elastic clothes have some use, yes?”

“Shut up. I’m at home, asshole, of course I’m wearing sweatpants.“ He nearly turns around, but Ilya stops him with a hand to the shoulder.

“Stay, Hollander.”

Shane turns back, mouth gone dry. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice small. He doesn’t need to, though. He can already see where this is going.

“Apology, like you asked for,” Ilya tells him, but it sounds as if this apology will be no skin off his back. “You want?”

Shane shivers, looking around his pale-lit apartment. They’ve never done it like this before, in the daylight. His apartment is cast in cool blue tones, the whites starker, the shadows indigo. He’s used to the cover of night, warm amber lamps giving just enough light to not completely miss the mark.

He’s nervous, but so turned on that his dick is at full mast already.

“Yes,” he says, voice shakier than he’d meant.

“Mm?”

“Yeah.”

Ilya hooks his fingers into Shane's boxer briefs and drags them down as well, settling them just under the curve of his ass.

Shane feels a bit like he’s going to pass out.

“You’re shaking,” Ilya comments, hands kneading his ass. “Keep your knees bent, yes? Bloodflow—”

“I’m fine,” Shane says, and it’s true, mostly. He’s terribly turned on, but he’s never done this before.

“Is alright,” Ilya says, voice painfully soft. “You still want?” Shane bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from feeling that softness too deeply in his chest.

“Yes,” Shane says, letting his eyes shut. If he doesn’t look around the apartment, he’ll be able to focus on the pleasure instead of the idea of someone walking in with a clear view of his ass. No one can or would come in unannounced, anyway.

He lowers himself onto his elbows to better balance, legs naturally parting a bit. Ilya groans suddenly, his thumbs spreading him apart, and Shane feels his face flush from ear to neck.

“Hollander…”

Shane hears the sound of him swallowing. That’s new. The reverence feels sincere at least, and it does a bit to ease some of the embarrassment from Shane.

He feels a few kisses peppered along the creases of his thighs, and then Ilya’s face presses between his cheeks. The breath leaves Shane’s lungs.

“Oh, fuck,” he huffs, head dropping to rest against his forearms. He feels Ilya’s nose brush along him, his tongue poke out to lick a stripe up his center. Ilya hums to himself before he pulls away suddenly.

“You're loose.”

Shane keeps his head tucked down against his arms.

“What were you doing when I called, hm?” Ilya rubs the pad of a finger over his hole, and Shane can feel how pliable the muscle has become. “Touching yourself?”

“Fuck you,” Shane groans, squeezing his eyes closed.

“I am not the one already open,” Ilya says, like he’s smiling. He presses his mouth back to Shane, lips parting, and Shane can't help but gasp.

He leans heavily on his elbows, chest heaving. The moans begin to come whether he wants them to or not. He tries to stifle them into his arms, but this just seems to spur Ilya on more. A brush of teeth comes against his sensitive skin, feather light.

After a few floating moments of that, Ilya nips him on the cheek, and Shane's hand smacks down hard on the table. "Fucking hell, Rozanov," he huffs, and isn't sure if he's angry or about to come.

A finger is slipped into him, testing the give, and another joins it almost immediately. Shane realizes that the continuous low hum he's hearing is Ilya himself, leaning heavily against his leg. "Fuck, Hollander. Where is—“

Shane makes to stand up. “Bedroom."

“Ah—“ Ilya starts, shooting to his feet. He holds Shane down on the table with a hand to the middle of his back. “Don’t move, remember?”

Shane nods shortly, trembles from head to foot. He turns his head to the side and rests it on his fabric-covered arm, watching as Ilya comes into view, making the walk to the stairs. He takes his time, Shane notices. He knows it's only to tease him, like he'd just said he wouldn't do. 

Shane clenches down on nothing, hoping he’s not too loose to make the other feel good.

He takes a quick stock of himself. His heated face and his ass exposed to the cool air. His sweats still around his thighs. He shimmies them down until they fall on their own, steps one leg out of them, but then Ilya returns, pausing in the first landing to watch him.

He watches Shane thoughtfully, lube and condom in hand. He pops the cap of the bottle and pours a bit across his fingers. Some of it drips down onto the floor, and the mess of it somehow turns Shane on even more.

Shane pants once, Ilya's eyes tracking his parting mouth. That's interesting. So, Shane lets his jaw drop further open and moans long and soft. Ilya's face shifts, some of his tight control giving way.

Shane thrills at that.

“Rozanov, please,” he says before he can think, his voice needy and almost wistful. He’d be embarrassed by how desperate he sounds... if the words didn’t make the remaining restraint drop away from Ilya’s face. It leaves behind unabashed want.

Shane did that.

Perhaps he's got a little more power than he thought.

Ilya takes the last steps two at a time and strides the rest of the room quickly until he's right up behind him again. Shane hears the sound of his fly and the rustle of clothes, and then his cock bumps against his ass. Shane clenches and then relaxes, eyes shutting.

The condom wrapper crinkles, and then Ilya presses up close behind him, hands rubbing Shane up and down his sides in an almost soothing gesture.

“What do you need, hm?” Ilya hushes against the back of his ear. Shane’s never felt like he’s going to come out of his own skin more than he does now. He shifts, rubs his ass in gentle sways back against Ilya’s hips.

Never has he had the confidence to entice the other back so blatantly, but right now, it feels as natural as breathing.

“This,” he says, feeling Ilya’s cock shift against him. He feels drunk. “Please, need it—“

Ilya's hands settle onto his hips, gripping him firmly. "Okay," he mutters thickly. "Okay."

Shane wishes he had something to hold onto— bedsheets, a pillow. He settles on folding his arms together and pressing his face into them.

The head of Ilya’s cock meets no resistance as he pushes in halfway. Shane groans at the stretch that doesn't even smart this time. Ilya pants between his shoulders, pulls out, pushes back in fully until his hips press into Shane's ass.

“That’s good, Hollander,” Ilya mutters into his ear. His hands slide from Shane’s waist to his shoulders, rubbing in large, soothing circles. Shane rolls his hips, lets his legs part a bit further, and settles against the table edge.

When Ilya starts to thrust, it's only slow for the first minute before he begins to pick up the pace.

It’s good, Shane finds out, being fucked in this position. It doesn’t hit him straight on, but because of that, it gives him plenty of time to pay attention to the nerves tingling all over his body. The feeling of each inch of Ilya's cock, how his hips bounce off of Shane as he begins picking up speed.

Shane grins into his arms, almost giddy with how easy this feels now, how much he loves it.

Ilya seems to notice.

“Is good?” he pants, voice soft.

Shane's voice comes out nearly a giggle, to his dismay. “It’s good."

Ilya doesn’t falter in his pace even a beat, but he pushes back up to stand, humming under his breath. Shane can tell he's thinking something over, and then Ilya says, “Not good enough.”

What could that mean? It certainly feels good enough, nerves tingling, and Ilya’s body over him, warm along his back. He could live in this kind of feeling for a long time, content and happy.

“What do you mean?”

“You are not making any sound."

Shane scoffs, glancing up over his shoulder. “Yeah, I am.”

“Not as much. Or as loud.”

Shane nearly starts laughing. Ilya Rozanov, complaining about the man he has bent over a table, was not what he expected their encounter to be.

“It feels good, Rozanov,” Shane reasons. "Really good."

Ilya reaches down and grasps Shane by the back of his hoodie, dragging him back up to nearly standing, hands spread on the table.

On Ilya's next thrust in, the angle has changed considerably.

“Ah—“ Shane cuts off, eyes falling shut as that spot is brushed over.

“Good,” Ilya mutters, a hand on Shane’s shoulder, holding him to that position. The other settles onto his hip as he picks up his careful thrusting again.

Shane lets his back arch, stomach dipping down toward the table as

Ilya builds the pace.

The smacking of their skin becomes louder and more consistent. Shane, too, is louder, no matter how much he tries not to be. He's self-conscious, out here in the open floor plan of his apartment. He tries to press his lips together with his teeth.

“Let me hear, Hollander. What is point of privacy if you will not be loud, hm?”

Shane thinks of pointing out that he still has neighbors, but the soundproofing of such an expensive building is top-notch. He begins huffing a bit louder.

Ilya’s hand squeezes encouragingly on his waist.

"Yes, good."

He curses in Russian, pistoning his hips a few times, and that makes Shane gasp and groan in a sudden outburst. Ilya chuckles behind him, and the hands on Shane pull him to stand taller, until his back meets Ilya's chest. He can feel Ilya's jeans scraping the skin of his ass, his t-shirt and Shane's hoodie catching and twisting against each other. Their state of partial undress makes him feel somehow more exposed than if they were entirely naked.

Ilya's arm encircles his shoulders from the front, splaying across his collarbone. The other one slides down Shane's cheek, turning his head to one side. Ilya comes into view in his peripheral.

"You're so good, Hollander," Ilya huffs against his cheek.

Shane's chest twists, the praise going straight to his cock. One of his hands squirms below to try to grasp himself.

He feels the urge to turn his head further, and can't stop himself from doing so. He catches sight of Ilya's face and is taken aback by how wrecked the other looks, brows drawn up, lids lowered. There's sweat on his brow, and Shane is reminded of how long they've been going on like this.

Shane's mouth parts, and Ilya meets him there, lips pressing to his, messy and open and hot.

Shane is embarrassed that that's the thing to make him come. Over everything else— the sounds of their skin hitting together, the flawless way Ilya fucks him, his own hand squeezing around his cockhead— the thing that makes his brain shut off is Ilya's hot mouth, and looking him in the eye. Knowing someone is here with him, getting off on him getting off.

His orgasm is full of bliss, but a touch of shame as well. For the way he looks at Ilya and wishes to see something more than a rival, a colleague, a shaky friendship with great benefits.

Ilya grabs the side of his face to hold him firm as his hips strike quickly against him, and then he goes still, panting into Shane's mouth with shuddering groans.

Shane watches his face carefully, energy fast draining from them both.

Ilya rests his forehead against Shane's temple. The way his hand pets down Shane's opposite cheek, across his neck, makes it hard for Shane to hold onto his guilt.

He cranes his neck once more and kisses Ilya on the lips, soft and chaste this time. He kisses again, the corner of his mouth, and feels fuzzy warmth seeping back into his bones.

“You are very pretty, Hollander,” Ilya says syrupy slow, meeting his eye.

"Shut the fuck up."

“Is good thing,” Ilya says, lips finding Shane’s ear and nuzzling it. He grunts through his teeth, hips grinding in a last few small circles that make Shane tremble.

When he pulls out, Shane clenches down.

Ilya takes a weak step back, leaning heavily onto an arm propped on Shane’s breakfast bar counter. When Shane straightens, he suddenly feels chilled and exposed. He bends down to pick his sweats off the ground and pull them back onto his other ankle and up his hips.

When he turns, Ilya’s staring at him, mouth slightly parted as he pants.

Shane’s never had to face him in the daylight directly after the fact. Usually, they can lie apart, or more usually than that, Ilya simply leaves.

“I remember the word,” Ilya says suddenly, and Shane blinks.

“Word?”

“The word I was thinking of. In the stairwell.”

Shane thinks back on the conversation, but it feels far away now.

Ilya pronounces it carefully. “Disrespect.”

Shane blinks. “Disrespect?”

“I did not mean to be... disrespectful. Earlier. To you.”

Shane feels a new flush start at his ears. “You never care about being disrespectful,” he points out. Some might argue that Ilya Rozanov has made a whole career out of being disrespectful.

“Well, only this one time, then.” Ilya shrugs, padding around the breakfast bar to the sink to wash his hands off.

Shane stares at the muscles in his shoulders rolling as he suds his hands together. He feels a little lightheaded, he realizes. He suddenly wishes he were lying down under a big blanket.

Ilya returns, his jeans done up as if they'd never fucked at all. He surprises Shane again with a hand to his lower back.

"You clean up first, yes?" he suggests, voice bereft of all command or control. He seems quite tired, himself.

"You're the one who's all sweaty," Shane points out.

Ilya considers him for another moment longer and then nods slowly. "Alright."

Shane follows him up the stairs, a few paces back. When Ilya goes into the ensuite, Shane begins retrieving his bedding from the dryer in the hall laundry closet and carries it in a big, still-warm pile to his room. As he begins sorting through, looking for his fitted sheet and pillow cases, he hears the knob in the shower twist on.

A warm sort of comfort threatens to consume him. The idea of Ilya taking a shower, and then getting out, probably to putter off to the kitchen to reheat some of his leftover pizza while a storm rages on outside...

Ilya makes a sound in the bathroom.

Memory comes flooding back to Shane. Mortification doesn't even have a moment to settle in before Ilya's head pokes around the cracked bathroom door, a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

"Hollander, you must come see what I found in your shower."

Chapter End Notes

- We have not one, but two uses of the word pretty in description of Shane Hollander in this chapter. I will tone it down next time. But there are not many other descriptors as apt as that for him.

- I can't write smut like this for every chapter, so we're gonna need to get into some more plot heavy scenes, with touches of spice along the way. This was a good start to their snow-in though. And definitely what would've happened.

- If there are ever any continuity errors, please kindly point them out. This chapter in particular went through a lot of technical changes-- like positions, what clothing was on when, etc. I read and reread and try to make sure to keep everything fluid, but sometimes I miss a detail here and there! I only use a grammar/proofreading software at the very end, so all other edits are going by eye.

- I'm not actually sure if the books ever state Shane and Ilya's body hair grooming preferences. In the show, we can see that Ilya has some amount of hair on his stomach (and in the dickpic lol) For now, I'm being a bit vague with Shane's situation. I personally prefer writing all people with some amount of body hair, so that's how I'm imagining it, but that's just me. Maybe Shane just keeps things trimmed and tidy? It's a mute point anyway.

- I'm thinking I may change the description slightly for this fic to an excerpt from this chapter. So if you see that, I did give a fair warning.

- Thank you for reading! I didn't realize how fun it would be to write for a fandom in it's peak days. Very rewarding and exciting and electric. And there's still more show to look forward to someday too🥰 what a time to be alive.

farewell for now.

Chapter 6: Forcasting

Chapter Summary

Ilya's phone buzzes again, drawing both their attention. Ilya looks back at Shane, bottom lip poked out teasingly. He leans in closer, chin bumping his shoulder. “You are not even a little curious?”

Chapter Notes

how about those Golden Globes outfits. they looked fantastic!

Six

“I am finished, Hollander,” Ilya says when he steps out of the shower.

No reply comes.

Ilya towels off the water from his body, his skin turned pink in splotches from the overly-hot water he’d luxuriated in. He scrubs through his hair and then steps into the doorway of the bathroom to look out.

His eyes land automatically on the drawer that Shane had stuffed his prized dildo back into. Ilya had gotten a good look at it before he had, pleased with what he’d seen. A girthy seven inches, purple marbled silicone with a flared base and wide head. Realistic, aside from the fantastic color. Bend to it that he’s sure Shane picked out specifically to be able to use on himself.

Shane had rushed into the ensuite to retrieve it without a word, Ilya watching with amusement. He’d heard Shane’s bedside drawer open and close loudly.

“Is alright, Hollander,” he’d called out the door. “I like that it looks like me.” Sure, not exactly like him, but he liked that Shane had a full-sized toy on hand. It reminded him that Shane wasn't just the focused, goody-two-shoes that the media sometimes portrayed him as.

Shane had closed the bathroom door himself, rather loudly.

Ilya had grinned through the whole first half of his shower. He’d nearly had to get himself off thinking about Shane using the thing on himself, but those thoughts had faded some once he’d begun to soap up his hair.

Now, in the doorway, his eyes drag to Shane, who looks to have lain down on his freshly made bed and rolled onto his side, facing his outer window.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, maybe softer than he needs to.

Shane doesn’t stir.

Carefully, he pads around the bottom of the bed, craning his neck to take a closer look.

Shane’s eyes are closed. Ilya lets himself stare for a very long moment.

Shane Hollander’s face is simply the cutest thing that one could ask for. Prettier than many women, more handsome than most men by far. A thick fan of dark lashes against his cheeks, and freckles abound. The lovely slope of his nose down to two plush lips that are turned upward at the corners. Ilya’s stomach twists.

He turns, picking up the change of clothes Shane had set out for him on the end of the bed. He quickly slips into the sweats and T-shirt. The shirt pulls around his chest just a bit, but it smells strongly of Shane. Ilya brings it to his nose to breathe deeply.

He looks back at the other once more and swallows. “Shane?” he says, softest of all. Just to try it out.

Shane still doesn’t stir.

Ilya mouths the word over and over to himself as he pads back down to the living room. He loves the way the name sounds. Loves it so much that his chest aches, and not in a good way. He curses in Russian, pressing a hand to the base of his throat. His pulse flutters beneath his fingers, and he lets out a haggard breath.

Mind racing for a way out, he wanders to the windows. Looks out. Can barely see the street through the snow coming down. Can’t see the buildings down the road at all. Looks upward, squints against the white storm raging on, accentuated by deep pits of dark cloud.

If it were afternoon, he imagines that the room would let in lovely warm sunlight.

Instead, it’s murky and blue.

His pulse still pounds, his mind still races.

Shouldn’t be here. Should leave, his mind offers as a solution to his swelling panic. Too dangerous, too risky, too, too, too. Hollander is too much.

Ilya wants too much, which is the real problem. Being around Shane for longer than a hookup had been a terrible idea.

What were you thinking?

Ilya sits down on the sofa, knee bouncing. He thinks of turning on the television, but that’d be getting too comfortable.

His mind turns over what might happen if someone knew he was here. What would happen if word got out to the press? What would happen to him, with his family and—

Worse than that, what’s happening to him right now? The thought of Shane Hollander just in the next room, of facing him when he wakes up, has sent him into a tailspin.

He'd been foolish to come back here; he’d not thought things through, had only been thinking with his dick, and his stupid, stupid heart. His heart that wants too many things it can’t—

“Rozanov?” Shane’s voice breaks through the sudden storm in Ilya’s mind.

Ilya looks up, finds Shane standing at the bottom of the stairs, hood still up, his eyes bleary from sleep. Ilya’s chest shudders violently. Fear and want in one sweep. He'd been too distracted to hear his approach. 

“What’s wrong?” Shane asks, little frown on his mouth.

“Nothing.”

Shane stares at him. "Liar," he says flatly. He doesn't press Ilya, though, to Ilya's great relief. Instead, he walks past the coffee table to the window. “I wonder how many people are stuck out there right now?” he murmurs, looking out. “Haven’t seen it storm like this in a few years.”

Ilya swallows. He’s thankful for Shane’s sudden interruption of his mental spiral. It had threatened to swallow him up, send him walking out into the snow to try to find his way back to the hotel on his own.

Ilya thinks of something normal to say. “It snowed like this in Moscow the last winter I spent there.”

“Yeah?” Shane asks, looking back at him over his shoulder, genuine interest on his face.

Ilya breathes in slowly, remembering that cold winter. “Very terrible. Many people lost power. Some deaths on the roads.”

Shane presses his lips together, nodding grimly. “Do you like winters here better?”

His dark eyes are touched with sweetness when he searches Ilya's face. Ilya is reminded of every time before. Eyes meeting on the rink or at a press event. After each shared game behind closed doors. Sparkling in the dark.

“Mm. Very much so."

Shane smiles softly, turning to look out the window once more. “I’m fixing food. Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Yes,” Ilya says, realizing it’s true. He probably should’ve eaten sooner than this. Maybe he could think better if he had. "I thought you wanted to take a shower, though." 

"Later."

Ilya feels his stomach settle back into place as Shane pads past him for the kitchen.

*

“You could have little pizza, could you not?”

Shane looks away from the microwave where his salmon spins around in a slow circle as it heats. Ilya sits at the breakfast bar once more, a cold slice of pizza in front of him. He's already scarfed down the first in the time it took Shane to plate his own food.

Shane had offered to heat them up, but the other had declined.

A hockey game plays quietly on the television in the background— Florida up by two points against Los Angeles. Neither of them has been paying very much attention to it. Which secretly pleases Shane.

He thinks about Ilya’s question.

“I could physically eat pizza, sure.”

Ilya makes a face at him. Shane smirks back.

“It’s not part of my diet. Right now.”

“What would it do to you if you did, though?” Ilya asks, taking a large bite and chewing it, eyes never leaving Shane’s face.

Shane nibbles on the inside of his lip. “It would put off my daily macros. Too much fat, carbs, no protein.”

“There is meat,” Ilya points out.

“Processed and cured meat.”

Ilya tilts his head just so, a brow quirking up. Shane gives a little shrug, feeling a bit bare in front of him. “It would probably just give me a stomachache. Maybe not even that. But… following it every day is important. The days stack into weeks, into months, and that’s how I stay on track—“

“I understand, Hollander,” Ilya says, only slightly irritated. He sighs through his nose. “Is only... diet seems so boring to do all of the time.”

“I don’t follow it as closely in the summer.”

“Yes, but… You cannot celebrate your wins during the season.”

“I find other ways to celebrate,” Shane says, and hears his own innuendo as soon as he says it. Ilya’s mouth quirks up, and Shane mirrors it.

They only just fucked over the kitchen table a few hours ago, but Shane already feels a hint of arousal returning. He knows it’s being in Ilya’s presence that has him rearing to go. He wonders, abstractly, how long it would take being around Ilya consistently for his intense, near-constant physical attraction to wane.

The microwave dings, and Shane turns to retrieve his food.

He brings it around the bar counter and sits down a seat away from Ilya out of habit. The other looks down the length of the counter at his food. Shane can feel when his gaze shifts to his face, but instead of looking back, he begins eating.

A hand passes into view, Ilya reaching for his fork. He takes it from Shane, scoops his own bite of salmon and rice up, and eats it. Shane stares at his throat as he chews, a line of moles up onto his cheek.

Ilya smirks down at him, the melancholy broken. “Like what you see?”

Shane reaches up, feeling a bit braver. He runs his fingers over the first mole, up to the second. Lands on the one on his cheek that moves as Ilya chews. When Shane meets his eye, Ilya looks surprisingly bashful. Shane feels that swell of control return.

Sometimes, it’s easy to think that Ilya is the one holding the power. Shane forgets that he, too, has an effect on the other, possibly just as strong.

“How do you like it?” Shane asks, nodding his head at the fork.

Ilya recovers. Shrugs. “Is fine.”

*

Marly - 6:52 pm - Hope you enjoy shacking up while the rest of us sleep in the slums.

Ilya stares down at the message, thinking over each word. He knows what slums are, and the hotels that the team is staying at are decidedly not slummy. They are simply not the over-the-top luxury that their status normally affords them in Montreal.

“Hollander.”

“Hm?” Shane grunts, eyes glazed over. He sits flicking through stations on the television. Ilya doesn’t know why he doesn’t just settle on a film of some sort while they wait for the next hockey game to start.

“What is ‘shacking up’?”

Shane drops the remote on his thigh, scrambles to catch it, and sends it flying off to the floor. He turns a confused look on Ilya, obviously flustered.

“What?”

“Marleau says we are shacking up. What is meaning?”

Shane swallows, looking past him hesitantly. Ilya suppresses a smirk. He still doesn’t know what it means, but he’s beginning to get the idea.

“Just, like…” Shane shrugs. “Like, staying together. Romantically or, I guess, sexually. In our case.”

Ilya’s smile wanes. “Of course.”

“For a little while. Like, not permanent.”

“Alright,” Ilya nods.

Roz - 6:54 pm - fuck off.

Ilya sets his phone on the coffee table and heads for the downstairs guest bathroom. It’s not as opulent as Shane’s ensuite, but it’s still nicer than most.

When he returns, he sees Shane sitting there from afar, legs curled up on the sofa beneath him. He looks soft and inviting, and Ilya’s appetite for such a thing begins to grow.

He sits down closer than he did last time.

“Your phone,” Shane says, pointing. “Buzzed.”

“Mm,” Ilya glances at it. “You did not check it?”

“No?” Shane frowns at him.

The thing is that Ilya believes him. There are many things Shane Hollander is and is not, but one thing that Ilya believes most know about him is that he is quietly upstanding. Not one nasty thing about him has come out since he rose to stardom in the league.

Ilya had almost hoped for something juicy— a secret, an ex, something he'd said in high school. Maybe he only hoped for such a thing so he’d feel better about the secrets they kept between them. But so far, Shane Hollander seemed to be exactly as he presented himself to be.

Aside from being more sexually adventurous than meets the eye, of course. Ilya is privy to a tad more information about him than most, and he likes that.

In recent months, he’d started to worry that he’d see an exposé on a secret lover that Shane kept out of the spotlight. Some nice girl-next-door that he'd been sweethearts with in high school, or whatever other classic western romance motif would befit Shane Hollander.

Looking at him now, in his clean, lonely apartment in the sky, curled up on the end of a couch with his hood up, Ilya can’t imagine anything more laughable than a secret relationship with a girl, no less.

No secret relationships other than himself, then.

Which they are not. In a relationship, that is.

Ilya's phone buzzes again, drawing both their attention. Ilya looks back at Shane, bottom lip poked out teasingly. He leans in closer, chin bumping his shoulder. “You are not even a little curious?”

“It’s not my phone,” Shane says with a shrug. His eyes drag back to the television. “Not my business.”

“So boring.”

Shane surprises him by turning to kiss him quickly on the mouth. It’s a good kiss, too. Hot and insistent. Then he breaks away, sitting back against the sofa again, a knee curled to his chest. There’s the hint of a flush on his cheeks, but he looks pleased with himself. “Was that boring?”

Ilya blinks, his lips tingling.

He chases after Shane’s mouth, crowding over him to kiss him again. “No, it was not,” Ilya smirks as he pushes Shane into the corner and kisses him. He can feel the other grin against his mouth, and this is Ilya's favorite thing of all. Knowing how much Shane likes this, too. Sometimes, Ilya can even pretend that Shane likes him. Really likes him.

Ilya drags his lips down to the place just beneath Shane’s jaw that always makes the other shiver and moan. Shane’s head falls back, and Ilya thinks that they’re going to fall into it again. The hockey game won’t matter, the storm won’t matter, nothing will matter except where they— how they fit together, and Ilya can't wait—

A ding sounds in Shane’s pocket. He groans. Carefully, he untangles himself from Ilya to pull his phone from his sweatpants. “It’s my mom,” he mumbles.

“So what?” Ilya murmurs, nuzzling back under Shane’s jaw to try to reattach his mouth to the other side.

“She’s just checking in. With the snow and everything.” Shane whines as Ilya begins sucking on his skin in earnest. “Just— wait a minute, okay?” he says, twisting to one side to open the message.

Ilya sighs and reaches for his own phone on the coffee table. He sits back, leans into Shane’s side this time in order to keep the electricity intact between them, and opens his messages.

Marly - 7:02 pm - you could at least send me a pic of her. how am I supposed to be jealous if I don’t even know who this chick is?

Marly - 7:06 pm - you’re doing it right now, aren't you? swear you must be in love with her by now.

Ilya scowls at the messages. He begins tapping a reply out before he glances to his right and sees Shane’s dark eyes watching his fingers. Ilya nearly panics, but covers it up with a smirk.

“So, you are nosy, Hollander.”

“You practically opened it in front of my face.”

He has a point, Ilya can agree. They are slumped up against each other, which feels nice considering how chilly it is. Shane’s open floor plan doesn’t heat itself as well as small rooms might.

“What are you saying to your mother?” Ilya asks, feeling curious.

“Nothing interesting.”

“Come on. I show you text from Marly.”

Shane sighs and holds up his phone for Ilya to read.

Mom - 7:08 pm - U r staying home aren’t you? Do you have everything you need? I can send groceries.

Shane - 7:08 pm - Yes, all good. Blankets, food. You and Dad okay?

Mom - 7:08 pm - You should be drinking hot tea. Practice tomorrow before the game right? Bone broth I gave you a few days ago, too.

“She’s in town for a sponsorship meeting,” Shane explains blandly. “She’s a little… overbearing.”

Ilya nods lightly, staring at the small, round picture of Yuna Hollander above Shane’s text chain. She’s a pretty woman with long hair. He’s seen her in passing a few times, but seeing the long chain of messages between her and her son reminds Ilya that Shane has a whole life outside of this apartment. Family, friends, teammates.

“She cares for you. Is good,” Ilya murmurs, returning his gaze to his own phone.

“Do… do you talk with your parents?” Shane asks casually.

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “My father calls sometimes. My brother, too.”

“Oh.” Shane’s throat clicks. He places a hand on Ilya’s wrist, giving it a short tug. “What does Marleau say?”

Ilya presses his mouth into a thin line and shows him. He tries to watch the other’s expression from his peripheral, gauge how he reacts to what he reads.

“They know about ‘Jane’?” Shane asks.

“I did not tell them,” Ilya starts.

Shane nods. “Some of my teammates know about Lily, too.”

Ilya swallows, staring at his text chain with Marleau. "You know... it would be bad for anyone to know. About us."

Shane scoffs. "Of course. Obviously."

"I know it would be bad for you, too. But, for me..."

“Your family wouldn’t be cool with it,” Shane concludes.

Ilya stares at him. “Yes. And that's only the start.” Shane watches him curiously, and he looks like he's about to start asking more questions. Ilya sighs flamboyantly, looking back at his phone. “I would not send him a picture, even if you were girl.”

Shane ducks his head, little smile returned to his mouth. “No? How come?”

Because you’re mine, and no one else can see. Because I would have dated you for real by now, he thinks ashamedly.

Shane is not his. And Ilya likes his life of casual hookups. He does.

He just also likes this.

Ilya - 7:10 pm - not in your dreams would I send picture. Goodnight Marly.

Ilya puts his phone away, and instead of answering Shane, he gives him that salacious look he's perfected over the years.

Shane's face morphs from curious to half-lidded, soft and lustful. His eyes travel around Ilya's face. “You were doing something a minute ago that I liked.”

Ilya’s chest swells with something akin to pride.

He kisses Shane on the mouth, slowly working his way down his throat again, attaching to that place that has Shane humming wantonly, a hand pressed to Ilya’s chest, the other lacing in the back of his hair.

Ilya loses himself to the sweet undertow of his mind, where he could do this with Shane for hours, just listening to his sighs.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading
_________________

This is the closest to "filler" I hope I get! I guess it is also slice of life, and this would constitute that??

Anyway, more "events" to come.

Some thoughts: In the books, the emotions between Ilya and Shane take so much longer to develop, which is great for a book I think!

However, I'm glad I clarified that I've based this fic strictly on the show. In the show, it always felt like they had fallen for each other very early on, and just danced around the issue for years. I've heard Hudson and Connor say that they played their characters as having those hidden feelings much earlier on, too. I felt even on the rooftop that Shane wanted to ask Ilya if this was something more.

It makes me feel a bit better about my characterization in this fic, is all I'm saying.

Also I changed the fic description excerpt. Is it better? Worse? idk. time will tell.

Anywho. Sayonara for now

Chapter 7: Strange Times

Chapter Summary

Ilya’s heart twists. Where Shane Hollander normally looks sturdy and strong in his skates and gear, he looks delicate and breakable, splayed on his sofa.

Chapter Notes

18+/nsfw Chapter

Seven

Sun down, fireplace lit. A muted European arthouse film plays on the television, nighttime scenes unobtrusive to the atmosphere. The room is warm-toned and dark, and Ilya feels like he's fallen into the loveliest dream.

Shane moans sweetly in front of him as Ilya takes him all the way down to the root, as he's done countless times over the last half-hour, slow and steady, sucking as he pulls off.

“Roz...anov…” Shane sighs, a hand petting through Ilya’s hair, fingers tangling with his curls.

Ilya has him wedged into the corner of the sofa, Shane’s sweatpants stripped off and flung over the back long ago, his hoodie bunched up under his arms so Ilya can fondle his pecs and nipples. His knees are propped over Ilya’s shoulders, soft inner thighs framing Ilya’s face. Ilya uses a hand to push one against his cheek, nuzzling the skin with his jaw. Shane whines, probably at the feeling of Ilya’s stubble scraping against him.

Everything he’s done with Shane has been leagues better than it has been with anyone else.

Shane looks better, smells better, tastes better, sounds better. Maybe Ilya only thinks that because he’s getting too caught up in the illusion of it. The fantasy that exists only in his head, that they might be something else for the time that they're holed up here.

Maybe the absences in between their games are making him more fond of Shane than he ought to be. If they spent a year apart, maybe they’d lose their taste for each other. They have just enough meetings throughout the year to keep one another on the hook.

At least, he hopes Shane thinks about him too, all the rest of the time they are apart.

Ilya texts him to make sure he doesn’t forget about him. Maybe it’s a mean thing to hope for, Shane waiting for him, when he himself sleeps with women throughout the year. Shane doesn't seem to have the same luxury, even though Ilya is sure he could pull women. If he wanted to.

Ilya is afraid of being forgotten. And Shane’s the first and only man to ever treat him like he might be worth remembering. Even if it is only for his dick.

“Rozanov,” Shane huffs, a bit more urgently.

“Hm?”

Ilya pulls off, an arm hooking around Shane’s thigh to lazily stroke his cock. He pushes up closer to Shane’s face. Shane’s thighs slide slick against his neck and push back against his chest as he does. Without thinking, as if he knows exactly what Ilya wants, he takes Ilya’s face in both hands and kisses him.

They share breath, and Ilya asks, “You want my cock, my mouth— what?”

“I can’t,” Shane mumbles against his mouth, breath puffing out between each word. “Wish you could fuck me, but— ah—“ he gasps as Ilya’s fist twists on the upstroke. “M’too sore,” he whines, eyes cracking open to look at Ilya. Firelight reflects in his deep, dark pupils.

“Is no problem,” Ilya assures him, shimmying back down to lick eagerly at the head of his cock. In fact, he’d been on his way to sucking the other to completion before Shane had interrupted him.

“Want— Want—“ Shane huffs, a hand pushing between their bodies, past his own cock. It presses into the front of Ilya’s shirt, but can reach no further. “Wanna touch you, too.”

Ilya hums defiantly, pushing Shane’s hand away and sucking his dick back into his mouth. He holds onto the other’s wrist, pinning it to his hip.

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane gasps above him as Ilya begins bobbing his head quickly, working the other back up to where he’d been before. Even as Shane’s hand tightens in his hair, pulling and pushing and tugging gently, Ilya keeps his mouth on him.

Ilya puts his free hand to his lips, collecting some of the built-up saliva there, and drags it down under, brushing past Shane’s balls until he comes to his furled entrance. It’s heated and still slightly swollen from earlier in the day. Ilya uses his spit to rub his thumb back and forth over it gently.

Shane rips his arm out of Ilya’s grasp and smacks his hand over his own mouth to hold in a ragged moan that tears through him. If Ilya’s mouth were free, he’d demand that Shane let him hear.

As it is, though, Shane’s coming.

His cockhead twitching in the back of his throat is all the warning Ilya gets. He begins swallowing, eyes falling shut to focus on not choking on it.

By the time Shane’s sucked dry, Ilya’s thumb has grown tacky against his hole, and he pulls his fingers away. He pulls off and looks up at the other, knows his face looks messy and wet.

Shane doesn’t seem to mind one bit, staring down at him. A fat tear rolls from the outer corner of one of his bleary eyes, mouth slack as he pants. Ilya uses his free hand to wipe the tear away, and Shane turns his head to kiss his fingertips.

Ilya’s heart twists. Where Shane Hollander normally looks sturdy and strong in his skates and gear, he looks delicate and breakable, splayed on his sofa.

Ilya stretches his jaw out, wincing at the smarting little pain in one hinge. “Was so good you cry?” he asks.

Shane only mouths the words fuck you, and never stops panting.

Ilya drags himself up to sit on his knees and begins jerking himself, staring at Shane’s face, flushed and damp and starry-eyed.

Shane reaches a hand out for him, and Ilya pushes it away gently. He shuffles closer until Shane’s legs are splayed across his thighs and stares down at his body as he works himself over. Shane is pretty as a picture, face wrecked and body sweaty and flushed, head cradled in the angle where the sofa arm meets the back cushions.

Ilya comes just like that, looking down at him, and wishes he could keep this image plastered against the backs of his eyelids. He’d never want for anything to get off to ever again.

His come splatters across Shane’s stomach. Shane’s eyes drag down to it, blinking lazily at it.

“Wait,” Ilya says, once he's recovered, standing on wobbling legs. He goes to Shane’s kitchen, runs the water until it comes out hot. Soaks a thick wad of paper towels and comes back to clean the other up.

He can be a gentleman when he knows he should be.

Shane watches his face as he does, and Ilya can’t bear to look back at him, too afraid of what he’ll see when he does. Worse than a harsh, distant expression would be anything remotely close to fond. He isn’t sure he would survive such a thing without spilling his guts.

Shane makes a small sound as Ilya drags the paper towels over his asshole, legs parting a bit.

Ilya stills.

“Feels nice,” Shane murmurs, eyes blinking languidly.

Ilya finishes the job with his teeth latched down on the inside of his mouth until it hurts too much to think about anything else. He tosses the wad and returns once more, settling down on the cushion next to Shane.

Shane rights himself, easing to sit upright. Ilya can tell he’s a bit tender, but he looks extremely pleased, otherwise.

“I am tired,” Ilya tells him quietly.

“Right,” Shane nods, rubbing a hand over his face to collect himself. “Um… do you want…”

“I can sleep here,” Ilya says, patting the leather sofa.

Shane watches the side of his face for a long moment, then nods. “Alright. Yeah.” He stands, and Ilya gets to see his bare ass poking out from beneath his hoodie. That’s a nice consolation prize for being good about this, he thinks.

Shane collects his pants. Then, he goes to a closer in the front hall, stepping around and digging through some things. He returns with a large, thick blanket. Ilya feels a bit ill as he takes it from him.

“Uh...” Shane starts, folding his arms over his chest. “Might be going out for a morning practice tomorrow. Weather depending.”

Ilya nods mutely.

He wants to treat him distantly. It’s what he’s used to, what works to keep his underlying emotions at bay.

But Shane looks so timid standing there looking down at him, almost expectantly. Ilya remembers how beautiful he’d looked lying beneath him just a few minutes ago.

It pains him to, but he stands, dropping the blanket onto the sofa, unable to part on such bittersweet terms.

Shane looks nervous as Ilya steps up into his personal space, but doesn’t back away, his eyes flicking quickly between Ilya’s.

Ilya fits a hand just under Shane’s jaw to look over his face. “I am not making you breakfast, if it is what you’re asking,” Ilya says flatly.

Shane’s nervousness breaks, grin spreading out as he swats Ilya’s hand away. “I’m not asking that— you asshole.”

Ilya smiles softly back, leans closer. Kisses him gently.

Shane makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, a hand flying up. His fingers brush over Ilya’s jaw, petting along its roughness as he kisses back, devoid of any of the heat that had been there earlier. Now, it’s all softness.

Ilya pulls away first, heart in his throat. “Goodnight,” he says.

Shane doesn’t look so sad, at least, turning to head up to his room.

Before Ilya can return to his makeshift bed, Shane appears halfway down the steps again, something clutched in his hands. "Catch," he says flatly before chucking the thing at Ilya.

On instinct, Ilya thrusts his arms out to catch it. It's soft and plush and familiar. One of Shane's many pillows.

Shane doesn't say a word after the fact. 

Ilya lies down beneath his blanket and realizes how utterly fucked he is. He knows now that it had truly been a mistake to come here, to stay here. He’d been indulgent, living in the moment, and those things always came back to bite him in the ass. It's why he tries not to let anything matter too much to him.

He lies for hours, trying to calm his panic. The pillow smells like Shane.

*

Shane wakes to the sound of Ilya’s quiet voice filtering up from downstairs.

It's morning. He must've slept clear through the night, and he's not surprised, with how much sex he'd had the day before.

He gets up slowly, body aching in a few select places, and peeks down the stairs toward the living room. He can see Ilya’s shadow there, gesturing animatedly from where he sits on the sofa. He speaks in quiet, aggressive Russian. Shane can’t understand most of it, except for the occasional word that sounds like “papa”. He wonders if it means father, as he suspects.

When Ilya finally hangs up with an aggravated sigh, Shane can’t help but head down to see him. He wants to know Ilya’s face when it’s truly upset.

Ilya’s brows are drawn together, the corners of his eyes hard. His mouth is set in a prominent glower, staring at nothing across the room. Eyes glazed, miles away.

Shane dislikes the look immediately.

He’s sat leaning onto one of his knees, his blanket and pillow forgotten behind him.

Shane steps off the last step, casual as he can manage, and Ilya looks sharply up at him. Scrutinizing. “Were you listening?”

Shane shrugs. “Does it matter?”

Ilya rubs a hand roughly over his face, and the gesture takes some of his rage away. “I guess it does not.”

“Everything okay?” Shane ventures.

“Of course. Is fine,” Ilya says with a dismissive wave of his hand, looking out the far window.

Shane wants to know what he was saying on the phone; of course he does. But it’s not his business, and they don’t know each other well enough for him to be prying. He has to remind himself of that, sometimes.

They’ve sucked each other’s dicks, Ilya’s tongue has been up his asshole, been inside him, but still, they cannot talk about anything beneath the surface level of their lives.

Trying not to be disappointed about that, Shane heads for the kitchen to make food.

He wordlessly puts on coffee.

Somewhere in the middle of cooking eggs— eight instead of four, along with two extra slices of brown bread in the toaster— he receives word on his phone that a practice has been moved to an arena closer to the middle of the city. The roads to Montreal's main arena are still being worked on, according to city officials.

The snow has slowed some overnight, but it never stopped. Shane dreads going out into it.

He sets out the butter because he knows Ilya will want it. When the eggs start sizzling, Ilya wanders into the kitchen. He slouches onto the counter beside Shane, keeping a neat distance between them, and stares at the eggs with a blank look for a long time.

The coffee pot bubbles, a comforting sound to Shane. He’d heard it every day growing up, his father’s morning pot like a daily ritual on school days and weekend hockey days alike.

Ilya looks from the eggs to Shane, slowly. He’s calmed down since his phone call.

“They are all for you?” he asks, pointing a finger at the eggs in the pan.

Shane’s lip quivers upward. “No.”

They eat side by side at the breakfast bar, though Ilya scoots his stool a half foot further away than it originally was to give them elbow room. He has a cup of black coffee as well, and works his way through it quickly.

“Is your practice happening?” Ilya asks. “Is still snowing.”

Shane wonders if and when it’ll ever stop. “As far as I know.” He shrugs.

“And your game with Toronto, tonight?”

“As long as the weather holds like it is. I’m sure Toronto took the train in early this morning.” It’s not ideal, and the crowds won't be what they normally are. But as long as the Montreal players' cars can make it down to the arena, the show will go on. The network television executives demand it.

“There are not many people out, still. The news,” Ilya points to the television. “Says that buses are stranded. Metro is still running, but could stall any time.”

Shane chews, looking at him sideways. “You worried about me?”

“Of course not,” Ilya says easily. “Just wondering what will happen if half of team gets stranded on side of road.”

“Well, we’re not going to the main arena right now,” Shane says carefully, keeping his eyes on his plate. “It’s been moved to one nearby. Closer to most of the players' homes.”

Ilya nods shortly, a few loose curls bobbing on his head. “Is good.”

The uninhibited part of Shane’s mind, scant as it is, wants to ask Ilya to come with him. Wants him to sit in the stands and watch him practice. It reminds him of something girls would do in high school, sit and watch their boyfriends play on the ice.

Of course, he can’t ask such a thing. It would be breaking news to see the two of them in a car together, much less show up at the arena. It’s a childish idea, now that he thinks about it.

He supposes he should just be pleased that Ilya would still rather be holed up here instead of at a hotel. “I guess you’ll have the run of the place while I’m gone."

Ilya nods, brows raising in criticism. “Yes, well, I am not idiot who goes out in snowstorm.”

Shane licks his lips. “Rozanov, it’s fine. This happens pretty regularly. Montreal gets, like, over two meters of snow a year.”

“Yes, and then they ground planes over it,” Ilya scoffs, like the whole of the city is to blame for the weather.

“Hey— the planes are up and running again,” Shane points out. “I mean, mostly.” It’s been touch-and-go at the airport, some flights coming in, some going out, many delayed or canceled as they try to catch up with what the weather is doing. Anyone trying to get to a nearby city is better off taking a train.

“Look, it’ll probably blow over by tonight's game, anyway. Storms rarely last more than a couple days, even in Canada.”

“Let’s hope,” Ilya says, voice hard. He sounds agitated again.

After Shane has gotten dressed, he retrieves his bag from the hall closet, and when he comes back out, Ilya is sat up on the sofa again, phone in his hand. He only glances up at Shane briefly.

Shane hesitates in the foyer hall as he slips his boots on, doing up each lace precisely. Ilya says nothing to him as he does. The television clicks on.

“See you later,” Shane offers. Ilya grunts from the other room, and Shane supposes that that’s all he’s going to get out of him at this point.

Who knew? Maybe he'd decide he doesn't want to stay after all, and the place would be vacated by the time Shane returns.

He takes the building elevator to the garage, where his SUV is housed. Makes sure that Four Wheel Drive is enabled before he heads out onto the main road.

He doesn’t have to fight for a space on the lane with how few other cars are out. The speed limit is cast to the wayside as they all creep past each other at a snail's pace. Shane squints through the snowfall at the streetlights down the way.

By the time he makes it to the last intersection before the arena parking lot, his tires are so packed with snow that he comes to a sliding stop halfway into the cross-lane. Lucky for him, no one else is there.

*

Ilya mutes the television after Shane leaves.

He feels like a pouting child, but he can’t help feeling irate. It seems foolish for Shane to be going out with the weather as it is, even if everyone stupid enough to be out on the roads is moving slowly.

The Metro’s game tonight with Toronto will probably have barely any crowd attending, either. Being televised is the only incentive to keep it on schedule. If they were playing any team other than Toronto or Ottawa, the game would merely be canceled due to a lack of an opposing team being able to get into the city.

He curses to himself in Russian.

Then, his phone rings. He rips it from his pocket, expecting to see Alexei’s name again. The other had called him that morning to ask for another paycheck, which Ilya doesn't believe he deserves anymore. He'd also called to complain about their father, who he says has been speaking about Ilya as if he were still in Russia.

He's been doing this for a while. It's beginning to get worse.

It's disconcerting, and Ilya almost wishes Alexei would not tell him about it. Especially since he cannot do anything to help from where he is, except send money and hope that it ends up in the hands of a doctor who can do something more.

It's not Alexei calling. Instead, it’s Marleau.

“Allo,” Ilya says without thinking, but Marleau doesn’t mind. He’s come to learn what that means.

“Rozzy, you’re awake. Good.”

“Of course,” Ilya scoffs.

“Small group of us are heading out. Wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Heading where?” Ilya asks, put-upon boredom in his voice. He looks around Shane’s apartment, planning where to start snooping first. He knows the other wouldn’t leave anything too important or personal within reach of him downstairs, so he feels obliged to start looking around.

“To the Metro’s practice arena. Most of them are going in today, if you can believe it,” Marleau barks a laugh.

Attention caught, Ilya sits up straighter. “They are?” he asks, feigning ignorance. “How foolish.”

“Yeah, well… guess they’re as driven as us.”

“Not as good, though.”

“Not a chance,” Marleau agrees, and sounds like he’s smirking. “So, you in? Connors has a friend who told him the details. It starts in a little while. They probably won’t turn us away from sitting in. Strange times, and all.”

Ilya’s mind ticks over the options. He doesn’t want to be out in this weather, but more than that, he does want to watch Shane on the ice. It’d be great fun, heckling him from the stands.

“You coming? Or, let me guess, you want to stay in bed with your sweetie?” Marleau asks, and doesn’t sound nearly as mocking as he could.

“I can be ready in ten,” Ilya says. “I will send you location.”

When they’ve hung up, Ilya makes a mad dash to get dressed and collect his essentials.

He sneaks down Shane’s apartment corridor to the back stairs, taking them two at a time. It's risky, going back out without a key or a plan to get back in should he need to. He supposes that if worse came to worst, he could rough it back at the hotel with the others.

He curses when the outside air hits his face, somehow even colder than before. He nearly slips on the concrete slab outside the door, but his tread catches.

He makes his way down the alley in the opposite direction, coming out on a different road and trudging down it through the blowing snow for nearly a block. He finally deems himself far enough from Shane’s apartment to send his location to Marleau, who tells him their car will be around in a few minutes.

Those few minutes are icy hell for Ilya. His lashes hold ice crystals, and his fingers are aching by the time he climbs into the back with five other men, all greeting him with whoops and hollers.

“What, you didn’t want us to see where she lives?” Marleau asks teasingly. They are in a business district, with no apartments up or down the road for blocks.

“Cannot be too careful. Even in this weather. Paparazzi, or fans...” Ilya says, more truthful than he means to be.

"She must be special if you're being that careful," Marleau comments.

"She is," Ilya says without thinking.

He sits with that as the car creeps down the road in the direction of the practice arena, and decides that it's true, and that it's too late to pretend like it's not.

Chapter End Notes

Smutty chapter again, but we got some plot in there, too.

I've not written this much for a new fic in a while. I can't believe how easy it's been to write. I'll take it for as long as it comes to me. I finished my outline, and that always makes things easier.

Cheers

Chapter 8: More Alike

Chapter Summary

“Have you seen what’s sitting in the stands?”

The few of them still left in the locker rooms go quiet, waiting to hear what the tall man has to say. “No?” one of them offers.

“Boston’s starting line came to watch,” Boiziau says, his face stretched into disbelief.

Chapter Notes

Eight

“The kids are loving this snow,” Hayden mutters from a few lockers down.

Shane drags his attention away from the slight soreness in his hips. He's been testing them, shifting from foot to foot. He ought to get a massage after tonight's game to work out the knots. “Yeah?”

“Jackie and me… Not so much.”

Shane smiles. There's a low murmur around the locker room. For once, the main focus is not the game against Toronto later on in the evening. Instead, the theme is the weather, and whether or not they'll have anyone in the stands to cheer them on.

A handful of players themselves can't make it to practice this morning, due to engine trouble, lack of proper tires, or rural road closures into the city from their outer homes.

The ones who have shown up— Boiziau, Drapeau, Berkes, and a handful of others— have mostly filtered out into the arena by now to warm up.

"So what about you?" Hayden asks as they're adjusting their padding. This morning's practice will be short and sweet. Game-day practices always are.

"What about me?" Shane asks.

"You enjoying the quiet? Up in your little apartment?"

"Little apartment, is it?" Shane smirks. He already knows where the conversation is heading.

"Was just thinking, it's probably pretty lonely on off days. Especially when it's cold and snowing outside. They say winter is cuffing season, right? Jackie started calling it that last year."

"I'm not lonely," Shane says, a well-worn line in the locker room.

For once, he means it.

"So... what? You just cuddle with yourself at night?"

"Why do you care who I cuddle with?" Shane asks. "You want me to invite you around?" He shuts his locker door, phone sealed up inside. He hasn't heard from Ilya, and isn't going to be the first one to text him. He half expects the other to have fled by the time he gets back, and he's not about to give him any unintentional nudges.

The idea of coming home to Ilya on his sofa is a welcoming thought.

"You're a young man in his prime," Hayden says, like that's an answer.

Shane is gearing up to deflect this newest onslaught of personal prying when J.J. Boiziau comes barreling back into the locker room, brows up his hairline in dismay.

“Have you seen what’s sitting in the stands?”

The few of them still left in the locker rooms go quiet, waiting to hear what the tall man has to say. “No?” one of them offers.

“Boston’s starting line came to watch,” Boiziau says, his face stretched into disbelief.

“What, their whole starting line? And they just let them in?” Hayden asks skeptically.

“Most of their starting line. And their goalie. Theriault isn't here. Hard to turn them away when they drove in through this." Boiziau says, waving his hand around to indicate the snow outside.

“Bullshit,” Hayden barks, face turning stormy. “What are they even still doing in Montreal? Didn’t they have a game last night? Dallas?”

“You not been keeping up with the news, Hay?” Shane asks. “They and everyone else missed their flight on Friday.”

Hayden huffs, shoulders slumping. “Guess I missed the memo, what with three kids and a wife to take care of.”

Shane scoffs. “We both know Jackie's the one taking care of the kids. And you.”

Hayden finally sighs in defeat. “Yeah." He still doesn't look happy, though. "You ought to send them packing."

"What are they gonna do, Hayden? We're not running through any plays this morning. It's just a warm-up and activation. Working out kinks. Besides, we're not playing them again this season. They probably want to use the ice after us."

"Can't believe what I'm hearing," Hayden grumbles.

"We oughta call a truce today."

Boston's starting line would consist of Marleau, Hammersmith, and a few others. Ilya won't be there, because he's back at Shane's apartment. It's a disappointing thought.

Shane glides out into center ice with Hayden, running tight circles around each other. Hayden jerks his chin toward the stands. "Look. Rozanov, front and center."

Shane's skates come to a halting V, and Hayden nearly runs into him.

"What the fuck, man?" Hayden mutters, dodging out of the way.

There in the stands, sitting between Marleau and Hammersmith, is Ilya. Slouched back in his stadium fold-down, hands pushed into his coat pockets. He looks like the Cheshire Cat as he watches Shane with a smirk.

"What's the problem?" Hayden asks.

"Nothing."

They pass a puck between them, and Shane thinks he feels Ilya's eyes on him the entire time. When they transition into quick laps, Shane sees Ilya leaning into Marleau, saying something into the other's ear, his eye on Shane.

A flare of... something ignites in Shane's chest. It's not jealousy, because Marleau seems like the exact opposite of Ilya's type. But he doesn't like seeing the other share something obviously about him with someone else.

Without further consideration, Shane flips the puck onto the end of his stick and sends it hurling across the arena. It connects with the glass in an ear-shattering smack that reverberates throughout the near-empty arena, no bodies to soak up the sound.

Hammersmith and Marleau jump, but Ilya's head snaps to look at him in a way that nearly makes Shane flush from head to toe. Instead of anger, Ilya looks like a wildcat, lips parted and curved upward in a thrilled, predatory expression, white teeth poking out from his lips. His eyes are bright and clear, and so intensely focused on Shane that if there were no glass between them, Shane would be worried about the other pouncing on him then and there.

Ilya nudges Marleau in the side and says something else. The two of them chuckle.

"Quite feisty, Hollander," Ilya calls on their next pass.

“Smug bastard,” Hayden comments as he and Shane work the puck in wider arcs between each other. “You think they’re here to cause trouble?”

“Nah,” Shane says. “Let's give ‘em something to pay attention to.”

"What's gotten into you, huh? You never lash out." Hayden doesn't look unhappy about it, though. In fact, he's grinning.

Shane would find it impossible to explain. It's only that, with Ilya watching him, it feels as if anything is possible. He feels like he could beat Toronto on his own, one against six, many rounds over.

Shane could never tell anyone just how much he wants Ilya Rozanov’s attention on him. Not even Ilya himself.

*

Practice goes as planned, short and sweet. They finish doing rounds, puck work, make sure that their muscles are activated and warmed, in case they need to work anything out before the game. One or two practice plays at the end, but Shane can tell that everyone wants to get to lunch.

The Boston members are surprisingly docile throughout the entire hour, only piping up with a few whistles or jeers.

Shane loves hockey like he loves breathing. Even when it's hard, and sweaty, and bloody. Even when his thighs burn like it’s his first time on the ice, lungs cold. He’s not sure what he would do without all of it there for him. His touchstone.

By the time most of the team is stepping off the ice to head for steaming showers, Shane is still skating circles around Hayden as the other cools down. He's not lost steam even once.

“Jesus, man. You’re the energize bunny today. What the hell’s up with you?” Hayden demands.

“Just feelin’ good,” Shane says with a shrug. He takes a peripheral glance at the five Raiders sitting in the stands. A few of them rise, stretching their spines. Shane wonders if they came to use the ice or simply to observe.

Ilya watches him as he skates past once, twice. The next time Shane passes, Ilya has come down the stairs to lean against the glass.

“He’s watching you,” Hayden mutters. “Skeevy fucker.”

Shane frowns down at his skates, instinct to pipe up and correct Hayden suddenly so strong that he has to bite his lips together. Ilya can be a fucker. But he's not skeevy.

On the next pass around, Ilya tilts his chin up at an angle, meeting Shane’s eye. “Hollander,” he says, loud enough that it echoes across the arena.

Shane comes to a shushing stop in front of the glass. He can feel a storm radiating off of Hayden from being in front of the Boston captain, but Shane realizes he himself feels nothing but eager. A racehorse trembling behind the starting gate.

“What do you want?” Shane asks, barely able to contain a grin.

Ilya shrugs his shoulders. “To play.”

Shane shifts from skate to skate, shuffling a half step closer. “Play?”

“Impromptu practice,” Ilya says.

"Impromptu. Impressive."

“You don’t mind if we skate, do you?” Ilya motions over his shoulder at two men— Marleau and goalie Eklund— who linger nearby. “We will not get to practice much between now and Thursday game.”

“Tough shit,” Hayden mutters. Shane can feel that Hayden wants him to turn him down immediately.

“What do we care if you use the ice?” Shane asks blandly.

Marleau pipes up from behind. “How about a little friendly three-on-three?”

Shane tilts his head thoughtfully, holding Ilya’s gaze. “You think Theriault’s gonna go along with that? When there’s a game tonight?”

“Does he have to know?” Ilya asks, brow quirking, making a show of swinging his head back and forth to look. He raises his arms in a wide splay. “I do not see him around. Is not illegal.”

Shane feels his mouth quirk upward, even as he hears Hayden muttering behind him, “Shane, this is bullshit. He’s just trying to fuck with—“

“Hay,” Shane says placatingly. Hayden stops talking when he sees the relaxed look on Shane’s face. “Why would they want to sabotage us?”

“Would not be very sportsmanlike,” Ilya says, keeping the delicate smirk on his face. He leans heavily against the glass, and if Shane did not know the true intent behind his gaze, he would mistake it for extreme competitiveness. Like everyone else seems to be.

“We don’t play against each other again for the rest of the season, anyway,” Shane says. “You have skates?”

“Brought it all,” Marleau says gruffly from behind. He’s looking at Shane with the same distrust as Hayden does Ilya. He seems eager to get on the ice, though.

“See you out here in ten,” Shane says. "We should see if Drapeau is still around."

Ilya’s teeth flash, and he chuckles lowly. “Hollander breaking the rules, eh? What strange times.” The way he rolls the r makes Shane's stomach twinge with arousal.

“Must be the weather,” Shane replies.

“Jesus Christ,” Hayden mutters, turning in a circle on his skates, holding his stick behind his neck. “This is a bad idea.”

*

Only seven minutes later, Ilya and Marleau stand on opposite sides of the red line from Shane and Hayden. Eklund and Drapeau, the two members on either team who can actually stand to be around each other— and even grab a quiet beer on occasion— stand at opposite goals, relaxed as anything.

They’re under the strict agreement that hitting and checking be kept to a bare minimum.

It’s a risk, Shane knows.

He’d never be compromising the evening’s game under any other circumstances, but he’d been unable to resist the chance to play against Ilya Rozanov without a crowd or refs around.

“Terrible idea,” Hayden mutters. Hayden would never admit to it, but even he looks excited to be playing a few rounds against Boston’s best members.

The arena is entirely empty save for the six of them— seven, counting Connors, who stands between them all, looking more skeptical than anyone to be participating in unauthorized fraternization with their bitter rivals. Hammersmith had departed at the same time as Montreal.

Despite it all, Shane’s never felt more comfortable facing off against someone. Ilya can’t seem to keep the grin off his face as they crouch toward each other.

"Such a bad boy, Hollander."

The tone and implication make Shane's cheeks flush.

The puck drops, and then they're off, Shane taking it away and stretching out wide around the two Boston players, Hayden coming up the other side.

Eklund is grinning as he blocks the initial shot. That only gets Shane's blood pumping faster.

They go on like that, one puck drop after the other.

Things begin to loosen up. Soon, it no longer feels like a competition played for goals. Instead, it reminds Shane of winters nearly a decade ago, out on the first frozen lake of the season with the neighborhood boys. Boys who would treat him distantly in any other circumstance throughout the year. But with helmets on their heads and sticks in their hands, Shane had suddenly been welcomed into a team— more than that, he’d been a prized member of it.

Now, he’s surrounded by the best of the best. He's never felt like he belonged anywhere more.

The sound of the puck connecting with the stick, the skates gliding on the ice.

“Marleau, you’re too big for your own good,” Hayden heckles, slightly breathless, but even Shane can tell he’s having fun.

“You talk too much for your own good, Pike,” Marleau mutters back.

“You guys are just trying to tire us out,” Hayden huffs. “Make us lose tonight’s game.”

“It’s Toronto,” Marleau laughs. “A pack of dogs with sticks could beat them!”

While the two of them begin to jeer each other, Shane and Ilya chase the puck into the far corner, where it's flung on a bad pass by Hayden. Eklund watches idly from the goal as they race down the ice.

Shane can see the hit coming a mile away.

He’s wedged himself too close to the glass to try and shimmy the puck away from the siding in order to send it back down the ice before Ilya can catch up to him.

But Ilya’s strong and fast, only meters behind him at any given point.

If it were a real game, it would be easy for Ilya to slam him right into the wall. Shoulder him out of the way with his momentum.

Shane braces for it on instinct, trying to go lax but stiffening up in anticipation regardless.

He suddenly realizes that this had been a stupid idea. He’ll get bruised up before their real game tonight, maybe even pull something, and all because he’d wanted to be on the ice with Ilya Rozanov— Ilya, who is his professional enemy, who likes to win above all else—

The sharp crack of something colliding with the boards ricochets throughout the arena. Shane shies away from it, pressing himself flat into the walls, but the hit never comes. He whips his head around quickly to look. Ilya’s arms are outstretched, in front of Shane and behind him, caging him in, having caught himself on either side before their bodies collided.

Shane can see the wince on the other’s face at the jamming of his elbows, but he recovers quickly, pushing off the wall and shaking his arms out. A barely audible hiss leaves his lips.

“Shane?” Hayden calls, the sound of his skates ripping down the ice. “Goddamnit, Rozanov—

“All good,” Shane calls quickly, holding up a hand high in the air to show the OK.

Hayden stops short, watching as the two of them push off the walls. Marleau lingers behind Hayden, watching with similar interest. Shane carries the puck away from the wall with no real urgency. Ilya skates beside him.

“Alright?” Shane mutters to Ilya.

“Of course.”

“Too close for comfort, fellas,” Drapeau calls from the other end. He looks just about done, and Shane nods.

He can see just how winded Ilya actually is. “Let’s call it a day,” he says, loud enough for all of them to hear. “Thanks,” he says quietly, only to Ilya.

“How would the league like me if I injured their second-best hockey player in a forbidden practice game?” Ilya says with a self-satisfied grin.

Shane passes the puck to him, and Ilya takes it easily.

“If the fans could see us now,” Hayden mutters as he makes his way around to Drapeau.

“Don’t worry. We still hate each other's guts,” Ilya calls blandly, and then passes the puck back to Shane in a slow glide.

They skate like that for another minute, and Shane suddenly wishes they were alone. He'd like to pass the puck with him and speak about things they can't say with others around. Wants to ask Ilya if he'd learned to skate on a frozen lake in Russia, or if he'd been taken to arenas to be trained. Had his parents encouraged him to skate, or had he been a rebel? There's so much that Shane suddenly wants to know.

Why does it feel so difficult to ask about when they're alone in the apartment, but here, it all wants to come spilling out?

He decides that if he’s going to reserve any energy for tonight, he ought to get off the ice.

“Good game,” Marleau says begrudgingly.

Ilya and Eklund meet Marleau on their side of the rink, Connors popping up from his seat in the stands. Shane gives one short glance over his shoulder at Ilya and catches the other turning away.

In the showers, Hayden can't stop talking about it.

“That was some Twilight Zone shit, wasn’t it?” They stand a few shower spouts apart, Drapeau down the way listening.

Shane chuckles. “You mean Rozanov and Marleau playing nice?”

“Yeah, for starters!” Hayden hisses, like someone else might hear them, like it's a dirty secret that they played a non-competitive game with the Boston Raiders. “They were a little too chummy, weren’t they? I don’t trust it.”

Shane continues to grin as he lets the hot water ease away some of his muscle soreness. “Well, Hay, believe it or not... I think they might like skating and hockey just as much as we do.”

Hayden scoffs loudly. “You think they’re gonna come to the game tonight?”

“I’m sure the entire team is gonna come to the game tonight,” Shane points out. “Wouldn’t you go see them play?”

"Fair point," Hayden mutters. Then, just loud enough to be heard over the spray, he says, “He didn’t take you out when he could’ve.”

Shane blinks down at his feet, spray running over the back of his head. “No, he didn’t.”

He’d known Ilya wouldn’t, though, hadn't he? The other could’ve bumped into him, and for how fast they'd been going, Shane wouldn’t have blamed him. But Ilya had gone to extra lengths to avoid even that much contact.

Hearing Hayden’s quiet shock about the moment makes Shane feel a bit guilty. He lets everyone else assume Ilya Rozanov's maliciousness, because it protects what he and Ilya share in secret. Their rivalry is real and true, but everyone else thinks he hates Ilya to his core. He lets them think it.

They don’t know that he doesn’t hate him at all.

“He’s…” Shane hesitates. Hadn’t known where he was going with that sentence before he'd started it. “He’s an asshole. But he’s not vicious.”

“Huh?”

“He has respect for the game. It wouldn't be satisfying to win because of an injury.” He supposes that he and Ilya are the same in that way. It feels good to have that much in common.

“That’s about all he has respect for,” Hayden chuckles. “He probably just didn’t want the league on his back. They’d suspend him or worse for hurting you outside a game.”

“Right,” Shane says. They don’t know that he knows that Ilya would never intentionally hurt him. Not outside of an official game, and maybe not even during one.

“But Jesus, if any fans saw us playing like that, there would be anarchy in the streets!”

“That’s why we're not gonna tell anyone about it," Drapeau pipes up.

*

They all leave at similar times.

Hayden gives Drapeau a ride, and Shane gets into his SUV.

The weather doesn’t seem to have changed, except that the wind seems to be blowing extra hard. Shane wonders what he has time to do before the game tonight. Get home, make some lunch, put a heating pad on his hips.

He sees the four Boston players piling into a black SUV on the opposite side of the lot. Sees Marleau’s familiar giant form hunching down to climb into the back. Ilya is the last, and he only gives a quick glance across the lot at Shane's vehicle before following the other in. The back door slides closed.

Shane tries to stuff down disappointment.

They’re lucky to have gotten away with what they did at all today. The rivalry has been upheld— most of the way, anyway. If a handful of players have seen something amiss, well, they're a handful of discrete, trustworthy players. Players who have more to lose than gain by spreading word that a three-on-three game took place the day of a blizzard.

He wonders if he ought to say something nasty about Ilya in the locker rooms tonight, to uphold the bitter rivalry between them. The thought of doing that leaves a sour taste in his mouth, though. He wonders what sort of shit Ilya is saying to his team about him right now.

His phone buzzes.

Lily - 11:34 am - Going to lunch.

Despite it all, Shane grins.

There are other questions on his mind. He wants to know if Ilya is going back to the hotel with his team after the game tonight, finally sick of being around Shane for such a prolonged time. He can't very well ask without showing his hand, though.

And what is his hand?

Even he's not sure, at this point.

He makes his way home before he responds. The roads are similarly empty, only the most desperate braving the snow-covered pavement. Shane’s lane has been recently plowed, at least. The traffic lights all work.

Taps his fingers against his thighs as he takes the elevator back up from the garage to his apartment. Shuffles inside and takes off his snow boots. Doesn’t take off his coat before making his way into the living room. He looks around wildly, eyes landing on Ilya’s overnight bag still there, open, clothes half falling out.

Like he'd hoped to see.

Relief fills his chest.

He’d be ashamed by how happy it makes him, but he doesn’t have the time. He pulls his phone out, taps a quick message.

Jane - 12:02 pm - Are the Raiders watching us decimate Toronto tonight?

Lily - 12:03 pm - Would not miss it.

Chapter End Notes

More terrifying than writing smut, is writing hockey and action scenes. I feel like they're just corny the way I write them. But, we're moving the plot along. The show must go on!

In my research, I found out that this impromptu practice game would just... not happen. Not this close to an official game, and not in season. Sometimes players from opposing teams get together in the summers to train, but they don't like to risk injury or giving away plays/strategies around games.

However... I think we can bend some rules here due to the extenuating circumstances of the... weather.

One thing I did read in The Long Game was about Ilya shooting a puck at the glass behind Shane to startle him, so that idea was born from that scene!

I'm sorry if you happen to be from Toronto. I just needed a nearby Canadian city it was feasible to take a train from. And it couldn't be Ottawa!

Cheers, and until next time.

Chapter 9: Proud

Chapter Summary

Ilya would never admit it, but it’s fascinating to watch Shane Hollander navigate the same career he’s chosen, and in such a different way. Shane does not demand attention, and yet, Ilya can't help but give it to him.

Chapter Notes

One change has been made to previous chapters.

I foolishly forgot that Shane's apartment has stairs!! What's worse is that this is something I knew-- very well. The stair kissing glimpses we see in that one montage are some of my favorites. I studied Shane's apartment from ep 2 to get a feel, and looked right at them for a long time!

But for some reason in my head, I was equating the stairs as being at a different apartment... but WHAT apartment? There's only the one!

Anyway, once I realized it, it was one thing I had to go back and rectify. It only took a little while, and a few lines changed here and there. The stairs have been returned to their rightful place.

Anyway, in case you noticed that, yes, you're correct, that's not how I was originally writing it. But now I can't think of it any other way. Hopefully it will not be too distracting a change!

On with the show.

Nine

Alexei - 12:36 pm - You did not send the money you said you would.

*

Alexei - 3:08 pm - Answer your phone asshole.

*

Jane - 6:02 pm - Heard you’re sitting up in VIP tonight.

Lily - 6:02 pm - Is not great view for seeing your assets.

Jane - 6:03 pm - That’s too bad.

Lily - 6:03 pm - Will I see them later?

Jane - 6:03 pm - No.

Lily - 6:04 pm - Maybe I will sit closer then.

*

Montreal smokes Toronto.

Ilya watches the entire thing from the club seats of the Montreal Metros Arena.

Most of the Boston Raiders are happy to sit up in the luxury suites behind polished, tempered glass. Private rooms full of loungers and beer by the pitcher. Ilya would rather be close to the rink to see the players and the puck with his own eyes. And Shane.

Bradley Hammersmith joins him. Eklund and another player sit a few rows back.

Aside from one or two team executives sitting in rows even further up, the club seats are mostly empty.

The entire rest of the arena is at less than half capacity tonight. Only the most voracious fans have come to support Montreal, decked out in blue sweaters with the Metros’ emblem stitched to the chests, warm hats tugged down on their heads. Many of them vie for Shane’s attention whenever he skates by during the warmup. Shane nods curtly with respect, but never betrays any of the other emotions that Ilya knows he must feel.

Ilya is normally one to play to the crowd in his own warmups. Winking at the women, smacking the glass, making faces at children. He does it all.

Shane, on the other hand, does not give anything away. Always reserved, always humble. Underselling himself, and then overdelivering.

Ilya would never admit it, but it’s fascinating to watch Shane Hollander navigate the same career he’s chosen, and in such a different way. Shane does not demand attention, and yet, Ilya can't help but give it to him.

Hammersmith slumps down in the seat next to him. He passes Ilya a tall, cold beer in a plastic cup, which he gratefully takes.

Ilya frowns at the lack of food. “No poutine?” It's one of his favorite things about visiting north of the American border. He’s not been able to find a poutine in Boston quite as good as the Montreal Stadium fare.

“Only got two people working concessions,” Hammersmith mutters. Not enough staff are able to make it in. “We can get dinner later on,” Hammersmith points out. Ilya chews on his lip, watching the back of the sweater that reads Hollander skate down the ice in the opposite direction.

Ilya isn’t sure that he'll feel like getting dinner with the rest of his team.

Shane doesn’t look their way even once. Ilya had expected it. Still, his instinct to call out something crass to get a reaction out of the other is strong. He restrains himself, not wanting to draw the ire of the Metros fans who have braved the weather to be here. They’d gotten one or two stray boos on their way to the club seats. Maybe that’s why the rest of the Raiders had opted for the luxury suite.

“So… it true you and Marly played a few rounds with Hollander and Pike after I left?” Hammersmith murmurs when the players begin lining up on the red line.

“Eklund was there too,” Ilya says boredly. “And Drapeau.”

“And everything was a-ok?” He sounds incredulous.

Ilya can’t tell why Hammersmith is asking. He continues to play it nonchalantly. “Not quite. Was a few rounds to keep in shape, that is all.”

“Would’ve paid good money,” Hammersmith chuckles wryly. He nurses his beer slowly. “Should’ve stayed. I could use a run around the ice, myself.”

“Maybe we will get to practice yet."

After another bout of silence between them, Ilya thinks that’s that. But then Hammersmith clears his throat in that way that older players do when they’re about to pull the life-experience card on the younger bucks. Ilya sets his jaw, preparing to settle in for a talk.

“You know I don’t give a shit, right?”

Not what he'd expected. Ilya stills, eyes on the back of Shane’s helmet as he skates an arc in the furthest corner, turning back.

His head swims. His breath comes short. What does he mean?

“What?” Ilya asks.

Hammersmith shrugs nonchalantly. “About the rivalry shit.” He clarifies. Ilya swallows. Breathes. Hammersmith goes on. “If you wanna get chummy with players on other teams… Maybe I’m just too old to care about that shit anymore. Even if it is Montreal.”

Of course. What else would he be talking about?

Ilya focuses on his breath to calm his quaking chest. In, out, in, and then, “Well, you are ancient.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hammersmith says without any real feeling. “All I’m saying is, Marly and you playing against them for fun… not a big deal. To me.”

“Eklund was there too,” Ilya says faintly. But no one ever seems to treat the goalies quite the same as the starting line. He looks at Hammersmith sideways, taking in the relaxed, bored look on his face. He seems to mean what he says.

“We are not friends. Or friendly.” Ilya resists clearing his throat. “But… was not unfriendly game.”

“Okay,” Hammersmith says with a single, jerking nod of his head. He stares out at the two teams as they begin rallying.

Ilya can't help but add, “Don’t mention it to others." His words come out a bit clunkier than he’d like due to his nervousness. It probably betrays how conflicted he feels about the topic, but he can’t not ask it of Hammersmith.

Hammersmith turns a look on him, thick brow quirking in recognition. “Sure, Captain. And anyway, they’re not all old and wise, like me. They’re still under the illusion that it’s life or death.”

Ilya swallows. Nods.

The tension seems to break from the air as the teams get into position. Ilya feels a bit lighter after the fact. Like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and someone had given him a pass, had let him sneak something by without giving him much hassle.

And then Shane and Toronto’s center crouch face-to-face. Ilya goes still as he watches.

Shane’s face. His perfectly focused dark eyes drop from his opponent’s down to his stick blade. His honey-smooth skin, speckled cheeks, a high shine of oil to them. Ilya knows exactly how that skin feels under his hands, knows what it feels like against his lips and tongue. He can practically see the energy rolling off of Shane’s shoulders. He’s a big man, but the self-assured way he positions himself makes him look like a cat coiled to spring.

The ref's hand unclasps from the puck. In slow motion, it falls toward the ice.

The seconds turn very long, and Ilya thinks now. As if on cue, Shane’s blade lashes out, stealing it out of the air, and then he streaks off.

Ilya grins before he can help it. He presses a hand to his mouth and coughs to cover it up. Takes a long sip of beer.

He and Shane may be competing against each other in every way. But Ilya has never not loved to watch him play. Never not loved seeing the power of Shane’s muscles push him down the ice, fast as a whip— the fastest on his team by a mile.

Maybe— and he hates to admit it— faster than Ilya himself.

Strong, fast, and so powerful, each muscle trained for years to excel at this one task. In command of the game and his team. A calculating mind that can order the players around him in an instant, find a clear path through.

Ilya wants him.

And Shane will drop right to his knees for him, if he asks.

Worse— or better— Ilya would do just the same. In an instant.

He's filled with sudden desire, so strong that it nearly makes him dizzy.

He tucks his coat over his lap. Looks at Hammersmith sideways just to see if the other is watching the ice. The man’s eye tracks the game, gaze on Shane simply for the fact that he has the puck and no one else can touch him.

Ilya shouldn’t feel proud. There’s nothing out on that ice that is his.

“Hollander is a beast,” Hammersmith murmurs.

Ilya is proud, regardless.

Shane comes in from a wide arc on the outside, swooping in toward the middle. He smacks the puck, sending it flying over Toronto’s goalie’s shoulder, and makes the goal as easy as breathing.

Ilya grins.

The crowd cheers, and before he can say anything to Hammersmith, Marleau sits down on his other side, beer and a vending machine bag of chips in hand.

“Too comfortable in your glass box?” Ilya asks with a little smirk.

“Too loud and obnoxious, if you can believe it,” Marleau mutters. “If they had one of those fake Hollanders, they’d set it on fire and dance circles around it.”

Ilya can imagine.

“They don’t hate Toronto more?”

“I think it’s hatred all around, tonight.” Marleau slouches back next to him, popping open the bag of chips and holding it out for him to take from.

When Shane scores his next goal in the second period, Ilya slowly shifts to the edge of his seat to watch.

“You don’t think…” Marleau says from next to him, equal parts disdainful and impressed.

“Could happen. He’s done it against better teams than Toronto,” Hammersmith chuckles, speaking of Shane.

Later, Ilya covertly watches the other sitting on the bench during the second intermission. Marleau and Hammersmith talk over his hunched shoulders.

“His shoulder's gonna be black and blue. Field got him in that last minute,” Marleau comments.

Hammersmith shrugs. “Nothin’ he can’t shake off. I’ll bet he gets the hat trick.”

“No way,” Marleau says with a scoff, but all three of them know it’s only hollow contention. Ilya can tell by Shane’s face, sweaty but bright-eyed and hungry, that he’s going to be vying for that last goal to win him the night.

There comes a series of shrill, electronic sounds throughout the arena. Ilya feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out, along with Marleau and Hammersmith, and sees a weather alert flash across his phone screen. It’s not the first they’ve gotten over the last few days, but it is the most imminent.

It recommends that people stay indoors and shelter for the night as soon as possible. A handful of the crowd begins to collect their things, but the most adamant stay, beers in hand, not easily dissuaded by the weather.

“Do we wanna stay, fellas?” Marleau asks them both.

Ilya frowns at the bench where Hollander and his teammates talk, readjusting gear and rubbing out their calves.

“I’m ready,” Hammersmith says. “No point in watching. Montreal is wiping the floor with them.”

Ilya isn’t sure what to do. If he were playing it safe, he’d go with them back to the hotel, get a meal. Maybe wait a while until Shane gets home, and then take a cab back over.

That feels so far away, though. Such a long time to wait.

And Ilya doesn’t want to wait.

“I will stay,” he murmurs, turning his eyes down to his lap.

He wishes he could blame his impatience and impulsiveness on the beer, but he’s only had two. It takes a lot more than that to touch his psyche these days.

“Stay?” Marleau asks, mildly surprised. “Thought you’d be eager to get back to your—“

“I will get ride, after,” Ilya says, not wanting Marleau to bring up his secret lover in front of Hammersmith so blatantly. “Is no problem. I’d like a bit more alcohol,” he reasons.

His teammates study him for a moment and finally nod. “Whatever you say, man,” Marleau says, voice stilted. He stands, a hand coming down on Ilya’s shoulder once, and then the two of them depart.

Ilya turns to watch them go, along with Eklund. The rest of his team filters out of the luxury suite above.

He feels like he’s on display, but he hopes that the team’s belief in his and Shane’s bitter rivalry holds up his lie better. It would make sense for him to study the other, wouldn't it?

He can feel his cheeks burning. A rare occurrence, and it feels shameful. He keeps his eyes on Shane's helmet, dark eyes skating over the ice as he drinks from a water bottle.

Ilya takes another long glug of his beer and holds the side of it to his face, trying to cool his cheeks down.

*

Shane is buzzing when he comes off the ice.

He’d scored a goal in the last period. Three in one night, a hat trick that’ll be in the game write-ups in tomorrow's paper. He hopes Ilya had seen, had stuck around long enough. The Boston Raiders had already filed out by the end of the game, probably not thinking it worth it to stay and get caught up with the crowd trying to leave.

“You’re a beauty, Hollander,” Boiziau says, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “We ought to celebrate!”

“You’re out of your mind, Boiziau,” Hayden gripes, coming up behind them. “Didn’t you hear the overhead about the weather advisory? No club is keeping its doors open tonight.”

“The plows are running, and there are still bars. It’s Montreal. In the winter!”

“It’s still technically fall,” Shane says absently, mind on other things. Specifically, whether Ilya is going to meet him back at his apartment tonight or not.

God, he hopes so. His things are still there, after all.

Shane had felt on fire tonight. He wants to see Ilya’s face, try to eke out his feelings about the game he'd watched. Secretly, deep down, he wants to hear Ilya say that he did well. Played well, destroyed the opposition, deserves a reward—

“I’m heading home after this,” he says.

Boiziau gives him a playful shove of annoyance, but none of them badger him about being antisocial, as they have in the past.

He does something he never does— skips his shower.

He feels filthy slipping back into his jeans and T-shirt, hoodie, and coat. But he feels the overwhelming desire to get home as fast as he can, be there in case Ilya is waiting for him to—

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he’s making his way out of the back hallway of the locker room.

When he pulls it out, he sees a message from Ilya.

Lily - 11:34 pm - Come to last corridor east before you leave.

Heart in his throat, Shane looks all around to make sure he’s alone. He hurries down the long hallway in the back of the stadium, searching for the corridor Ilya is talking about. He’s never been this far out of the way of the building, aside from when renovations had been done years ago, and they’d been given a new tour.

A hand reaches out to snatch him, and Shane holds in a yelp. Ilya pulls him into a shadowy nook with a smirk.

“Goddamnit, Rozanov,” Shane hisses, heart rate spiking as Ilya pushes him back against the wall. “What the hell are you doing back here?”

“Waiting, obviously,” Ilya says. Shane can smell a hint of beer on him, but he looks clear-eyed, otherwise. “Did not want you to leave without me.”

“You’re not getting a ride back with your team?”

“They have left already.” Ilya looks down between them, tries to take a step closer.

Shane holds a hand out to brace against his chest.

“There could be security cameras back here.”

Ilya looks around. "I checked. There is not,” he murmurs.

He takes a cautionary step back anyway, looking him up and down. Shane presses his lips together, unsure of what to say.

“You did well,” Ilya murmurs. “A hat trick. Very impressive.”

“You don’t look all that impressed.”

“Maybe not. I could show you how impressed I am. When we get back to apartment.” He says the last part very quietly, but the grin he gives Shane makes him flush from head to toe.

“You’re staying tonight?” Shane asks before he can help it. He sounds embarrassingly hopeful to his own ears. He hopes Ilya can't see it in his face through the shadows.

A brief flicker of something flashes through Ilya’s eyes. Something Shane knows he wasn’t meant to see. Maybe it’s beer that'd allowed him the brief glimpse of it. Either way, Ilya recovers, folding his arms over his chest.

“I will stay again. If you want.”

If Shane wants. Of course he wants.

He has a mind to be offended that Ilya would only stay because Shane asks him to.

Then again... wouldn't Ilya staying because Shane asks him to be a step in the right direction? The direction of what, his mind supplies. Maybe a better understanding of each other. At the very least.

Ilya must misread his expression. “You do not want?” He looks unsure, lost. Shane almost reaches for his face before he remembers the possibility of being seen, however small.

“I do,” Shane says instead. “I want... very much.”

Ilya’s face breaks into a smile more open and honest than Shane’s ever seen. It's beautiful.

Shane returns it, heart fluttering in his throat.

He gives the sleeve of his coat a little tug. “C’mon, asshole. Keep your head down.”

Chapter End Notes

There are some details I'm unsure of, like if Shane is actually the fastest skater on his team, and that sort of thing, and I'm unsure if the book mentions this at all too. Please excuse any inaccuracies, if you notice them!

Also, I don't know if Brad Hammersmith's personality is fleshed out in any other books, so I'm just winging it with him. My apologies if he happens to be mischaracterized, but his name only appears a few times in HR and not at all in The Long Game.

Thank you for reading! Adiós

Chapter 10: Hit Wires

Chapter Summary

“It’s the whole block," Shane comments.

Chapter Notes

Hello.

Smutty-ish/18+ Chapter.

Ten - Ice

The two of them stick to the outskirts of the building, working their way down the side of it that is little used but for smoking staff and trash disposal. Not so many people are in the back lot, but the ones who are do not hang around like they might on a normal game night.

Players and staff alike are in a hurry to get out of the frigid, blowing wind and get home to their warm houses and families.

Ilya thinks that Shane is more nervous than he ought to be.

They hover around the corner of the building, waiting for the Toronto bus to carry their team back to the hotel they're booked in. When it finally pulls out of the parking lot, Ilya grunts in irritation.

"Hollander, coast is clear?"

"Just a minute," Shane murmurs.

Ilya has pulled both his hoodie and coat hood up over his head. "Blyat," Ilya spits, turning his face away from the specks of ice that blow into his face with a sudden gust. "All this fucking ice," he hisses, nudging against Shane's back to block some of it.

"Quiet," Shane huffs, and then suddenly he's moving. "C'mon!"

Ilya's boots slip a few times on some of the slickest patches of exposed ice. He makes his way around the side of Shane’s black SUV and hurriedly climbs into the passenger seat, relieved to be out of the direct wind.

He's halfway buckled in before he sees Shane staring at him incredulously.

“What?”

“You don’t think maybe someone might notice you sitting in the front seat of my car?”

Ilya falters, looking around them. No one is in the parking lot— for the moment, at least—and there’s a thick layer of frosty snow blanketed across Shane's front window. The side windows are not any better.

“I don’t think anyone will notice your boring car at all,” Ilya comments, unable to help getting a dig at him.

Shane glares at him. “You’ll thank this car when we get home in one piece.”

Ilya watches him as he digs through the seat pockets and finds an ice scraper. Shane starts the car and then jerks his thumb pointedly toward the backseat. Then he climbs out to begin scraping the windows.

Ilya sits numbly in the seat on the passenger side and mouths the word over and over to himself: home.

Every time Marleau brings up going "home" for the summer, Ilya's mind conjures up images of Moscow streets. Familiar restaurants, broken asphalt in the back alleys, colorful church steeples. His father's estate, and its green grounds, cold interiors.

Ilya had put a downpayment on a large house on Beacon Street, where he spends weekends and downtime. It's the first thing he'd bought with his first big MLH paycheck, and it's even nearly paid off. It has begun to feel more like home, if Ilya had to put a name to it.

Nowhere has felt much like home since... well.

Shane gets back in the car, and the closing of the door jars Ilya from his thoughts. He realizes maybe a touch of alcohol in his system is loosening his mind too much to be comfortable. He's at risk of spiraling down a dark hole of memory.

"So," Shane grumbles. Ilya is glad for the distraction. "What sort of car do you drive, then?" He throws the stick into reverse and then turns around to look out the back window, despite the backup camera being enabled.

Ilya takes a moment to look at him, his lashes damp and clumped with a few ice crystals. It's very pretty, but he has a feeling Shane wouldn't take so kindly to being told so.

“Mercedes," Ilya murmurs. "I had McLaren, but was too… eh, for me.” Impractical, he means to say, for Boston streets, but then he’d be sounding too much like Shane Hollander, and they can’t have that. “I think I will buy Porsche next.”

“Great. So you’re a car guy,” Shane says flatly as they pull out onto the main road.

Ilya bites down on a grin, watching the other’s face as he scans the road ahead, then both mirrors, and back to the road. He's a careful driver. A trait Ilya can appreciate in weather like this. “A bit, yes. What, you don’t like them?”

“Cars are cool,” Shane says. “I’m just a… hockey guy. I guess.”

Ilya studies the shape of his ear. It’s lovely, as are all of Shane’s features that he’s taken the time to study— not that Ilya’s keeping a tally.

Ilya gives an exaggerated sigh. “I am hockey guy, too. But also car guy… party guy… club guy. Womanizer.”

Shane’s jaw tenses. “Not sure you want to be called a womanizer.”

“Maybe is not right word,” Ilya says.

“No, it is.”

Ilya can tell that he’s hit a nerve. He’d used to enjoy pressing Shane’s buttons when things had been light and fleeting between them.

Now, it doesn’t feel so nice. He switches gears. “There must be other things you like, too, Hollander. It cannot be hockey all the time.”

Shane takes his time answering, his head turning as he scans the road continuously. They come to the next stoplight, only one other car turning slowly against the wind in the opposite direction.

“I guess I like… yoga,” Shane starts. “Books. I don’t mind camping. Sitting by a lake.”

Ilya watches as the other gives a short glance over his shoulder at him.

“All boring things, right?” Shane adds drolly.

Ilya chews on the inside of his cheek.

Sure, his first inclination is to say that. But now he can see that he’s put Shane on edge. And he’d been so eager and flirtatious just a few moments ago in the stadium, sneaking around the back halls with Ilya. He wants that Shane back.

“So you are quiet guy. Is not worst thing to be, ” Ilya says, shrugging like it doesn’t matter either way.

Shane meets his eye in the rearview, flicker of confusion on his face. “Guess that’s one word for it…”

Ilya begins to wonder if he's said too much. Goddamn beer.

“You are fun in bedroom where it counts,” Ilya says, reaching up to touch his ear, playing with the shell of it between two fingers. He can see in the rearview mirror how a blush rises to Shane’s cheeks. “And nobody can deny, one of best hockey players.”

“One of the best?”

“Not better than me.”

“Of course not,” Shane replies facetiously.

“The best tonight, though,” Ilya says, drawing the other’s attention back to his win. “No comparison. Fastest. Strongest.” He grins. “Sexiest.”

Shane chuckles quietly and shrugs away from Ilya’s playful fingers. “What, no one else in the league caught your eye, then?”

Ilya sits back in his seat, hands dropping into his lap. “Men are different. The league… many of them could be sexy, yes, but… their personalities.” Ilya waves his hand exaggeratedly. “Eh.”

“So, I’m special?” Shane asks teasingly.

Of course you are, Ilya thinks, meeting his dark eyes in the mirror once more. The quietest, prettiest, kindest, most boring man in the entire league. At least, that Ilya has met so far. “Unlike the rest.”

“Sounds special to me.”

“Zero fun, though,” Ilya mutters. But Shane’s smiling again, and that’s what he’d wanted.

*

“Is ice storm,” Ilya comments as they’re pulling into the underground garage of Shane’s building.

“Yeah.”

Ilya doesn’t like ice storms even more than he doesn’t like snowstorms. Underground, at least, there is no ice or snow stuck to the ground. He has to admit that none of his fancy cars in Boston could’ve fared against the frozen Montreal roads nearly as well as Shane's understated SUV.

Shane is a careful driver, as well.

They sit inside the car after Shane parks, listening and watching for movement in the rest of the garage.

No one else seems to be around, and so they make a hasty exit, bypassing the elevator and heading for the stairs.

In the stairwell, Ilya can’t wait another moment to at least kiss him.

Shane seems to be on the same page, because as soon as the door closes behind them, he's the one to push Ilya up against the wall at the bottom of the steps.

The kiss is hurried and sloppy. Ilya can taste salt on Shane's lips. He groans into it, wrapping an arm around Shane's neck to haul him closer, pressing their bodies against each other. It's unsatisfactory, due to all of their winter layers padding against friction.

Shane's hands twist in the back of Ilya's curls and tug gently. His tongue slips past Ilya's lips, prodding. Ilya's mind slowly begins to focus only on the man in front of him. Cheeks and stubble brushing together, warm, damp heat between their faces from their breath. Shane's long lashes brush his cheek as the other turns his head to switch sides, and Ilya's chest thrills.

It's dangerous.

Ilya likes dangerous things, most of the time. Now, he's beginning to consider the consequences more. Of losing this thing.

"Shouldn't—" he says in a breath between them. "Apartment."

Finally, they pull themselves away from the wall. Ilya's legs feel weak as they go up the steps. Shane is right next to him, leaning into him instead of trying to surpass him. Ilya can’t believe how feverish he's become in such a short time. Shane's cheeks are flushed pink.

The walk from the stairwell down the hallway to Shane's front door is a buzz of static in Ilya's mind, only thinking about how fast they can get the door open.

Once it's shut behind them, Ilya only gets one boot unlaced before Shane pushes him back into the wall. One shoulder brushes into a rack of hung coats, and Ilya's hand fists into one of them as he watches Shane drop to his knees in front of him.

"Shit, Hollander..." Ilya says with awe.

Shane’s eyes are glazed over as his fingers fumble for Ilya’s jean button. The zip comes down after that, and then Shane presses his face between the parted fabric and breathes in.

Ilya chokes off a strangled sound, his balls suddenly aching, dick jumping to attention.

Shane nuzzles against his growing erection with his nose and mouth, eyes opening to look up at him, half-lucid. "Want it," he mumbles.

Ilya has to look away, take a shuddering breath. Before he knows it, Shane has worked his cock out through the fly and takes it halfway into his mouth. His tongue laves over the head as he pulls off. Ilya reaches down to pull him up.

"Shower," he says stiffly, giving Shane a pat on the butt towards his stairs. "Will join in a minute."

He wants to give Shane time to clean up as he'd like to, but he also feels the need to take a minute for himself.

The overwhelming arousal had taken him by surprise, and he'd felt as if he could come at any moment. Shane's doe eyes looking up at him, eager and starving.

Ilya is dizzy.

It's not the first time they've done this, but it feels so much more intense. Feels like they are locked in on each other in a way that they haven't been before. Ilya wants to...

He shakily takes his coat off, then finishes unlacing his boots. Slips in his socks before removing them as well. He goes to the kitchen, splashes his face with water from the sink.

He can hear the shower upstairs, very faintly. He knows that Shane will be cleaning himself up, probably stretching himself out. Ilya would love to watch it, but he's feeling a dose of unease alongside his arousal.

Instead, he walks gingerly up the stairs to the bedroom to sit on Shane's made bed, listening to the other bump around.

He opens Shane's side drawer, feeling around until he finds the bottle of lube. Sees that it's on the low side. He grins, despite his trepidation.

Shane's dildo sits in the back corner, and he thinks about bringing it out, but he doesn't want to embarrass Shane right now. He wants to keep the spark of focus between them burning bright.

He sits, listening, and palming himself through his jeans, trying not to get too carried away with touching himself.

“Rozanov,” Shane murmurs, and Ilya’s on his feet in a second, shedding clothes like he’s on fire as he steps into the bathroom.

*

He's got Shane up against the heated wall of his big, luxurious shower. Shane's hands and face are pressed up to the tile, his back a tight arch away from Ilya as the other's hips work against his at a steady pace.

They'd soon turned the spray down after they'd started, to preserve lube, and after the first condom hadn't wanted to stay on with the continuous water flow. It still trickles down in warm droplets over Shane's shoulders, his skin illuminated and beautiful. Ilya had been captivated by it before he'd noticed the reflection of them in Shane's bathroom mirror.

That had really been something.

"You should see yourself, Hollander," Ilya had said, leaning down over his bent body to speak in his ear. That, in turn, had made Shane groan louder, the angle changing.

Ilya had described to him in great detail what he could see. Shane's beautiful, muscular body slumped against the wall, hips working back in tandem with Ilya's, showing just how much he loved what Ilya was doing to him.

If Ilya weren't afraid of what it'd mean, he'd have told Shane all of the other little details he'd begun to grow fond of. The silvery stretchmarks running in rivulets over his hips and ass and sides of his thighs. The raised scar on his shoulder that he likes to run his hand over. The valley of his spine up his muscular back that Ilya kisses up and down as his hips rut against Shane's ass.

"Rozanov," Shane huffs, and Ilya listens intently. "Please, harder. I'm almost—"

"Yes, okay," Ilya huffs, feels in that moment he would do anything Shane asks, when he's asking so desperately.

He fits his hands to Shane's hips and begins pulling him back into each thrust, the sound of their skin slapping together rising above the trickle of water, the wind howling outside—

The room is plunged into sudden darkness.

"Fuck," Shane yelps, straightening back into Ilya. Ilya steadies him with his hands to his hips, his cock slipping free. They look around, eyes wide in the pitch-black bathroom.

The darkness is accompanied by the sound of a low whir spiraling down to nothing.

"Ah," Ilya says flatly, recognizing the sound. "Power is out."

"Shit," Shane curses, shutting the water off the rest of the way. They stand there together, Shane's back to Ilya's front, looking out the cracked door of the bathroom, where the faint light from the city beyond still trickles into Shane's bedroom.

"Guess the shower's over," Shane mutters, feeling around for the shower door handle. When he finds it, Ilya reaches out for the other's bicep and uses it to guide himself.

"Here," Shane says faintly, passing Ilya one of the towels he'd set out. "Wonder how long it's gonna be like this..."

Ilya dries himself and follows Shane into the bedroom, where the other stands at the window in his towel. He feels around the end of Shane's bed for the pair of sweats— also left out by Shane— and a t-shirt. He joins the other at the window, looking down.

“It’s not just the building. It’s the whole block," Shane comments.

The entire road below is white, but more than that, Ilya can see the ice buildup on the rooftops opposite them. It sticks to Shane’s windows as well, the corners white and pebbled with it, like the glass beginning to boil with bubbles. As the wind howls, it blows a gust of it up against them in specks.

“Is good building?” Ilya asks.

Shane gives a defeated shrug. “Sure. But that won’t matter. You can’t fight a storm like that,” he motions outside. “Just ride with it till the end.”

“You sound like surfer,” Ilya comments.

The other turns to him. He imagines that if he could see Shane’s face clearly, the other would be staring at him in bewilderment. “How many surfers have you met?”

“None. But I have seen some American films,” Ilya replies.

The air by the window is markedly chillier than in the rest of the room. Even double or triple-pained glass won't keep the heat in forever on a window that big. The building is made to give breathtaking views of the city, which means it’s mostly made of windows.

Further off, there is another visible block of the city that's gone dark.

Ilya thinks of that cold winter in Moscow.

Power outages, cars stranded on the sides of the road. His father hadn’t cared much for the public, never had. Ilya did, though. It had been a disheartening winter. He'd been glad to spend his next one traveling around North America, distracting himself from all the pain in the world with hockey.

Down below, can see the Montreal streets covered in snow, but he can also see plows already running. On the next street over, there are flashing red and blue lights. People are working around the clock. He takes a breath, tries to still the anxiety in his mind.

“Rozanov?” Shane asks, and Ilya feels him step closer to his side.

“Nothing,” Ilya answers the unspoken question. “Can we…”

Shane’s hand finds his arm, and he pulls him toward the bed. The bed with too many pillows and thick, soft blankets atop it. “We can keep going, if you want.”

Of course, Ilya wants. He’s never not wanting Shane these days. He thinks he could want him day or night, halfway across the world.

At first, Shane lies on his stomach, propping his ass in the air. It's easy for Ilya to go back to fucking him at a moderate pace. He marvels at how easy it can be between them.

By the end, though, they've migrated to their sides. He holds Shane against him as they look out the window at the city beyond, most of it still glowing. "Fuck," Ilya sighs against his ear, hips curling up against him rapidly.

Shane's hands grip onto Ilya's hand, where it holds his thigh up, the other clasping at his forearm, where it holds him around the chest. Ilya likes that. He's taken notice of Shane's hands searching him out, holding on whenever they can. It makes him feel important, in some way. Like Shane needs it to be him, there, holding him and fucking him.

"There, there," Shane chants softly as Ilya's hips work quickly, stroking up and aiming for where he thinks Shane needs it.

The sex feels softer like this, in the dark and on their sides, but no less intense. Ilya grinds into him and comes, and wishes at once that there wasn't a condom there separating them.

He buries his face in the back of Shane's neck as he reaches around to jerk him off, fist flying up and down his cock. He grinds into him until Shane is keening, and then he goes stiff in his arms, hips jerking shortly. Ilya collects his release in his hand, makes sure to get it all so Shane doesn't have to think about his bedsheets this time around.

Ilya feels a bittersweetness about the moment, wishing that he were looking at Shane's face to see it happen. He kisses him gently on the neck and then detangles himself.

He sits on the edge of the bed, removing the condom and tying it off. He pads back into the bathroom to rinse his hands and find a washcloth. Then he returns without a word to clean Shane up. Shane turns on his stomach to let him, sighing as Ilya gingerly wipes the lube from the crack of his ass.

They sit there in the silence for a long moment, Ilya feeling a bit numb. Then he stands, collecting his discarded sweatpants. He takes a step toward the door.

“Rozanov,” Shane says, voice quiet. The bedsheets rustle as he turns over.

“Hm?”

“Where are you going?”

Ilya looks back at the bedroom doorway. “Downstairs.”

“Why?”

Ilya hesitates. He doesn’t know why, only that that’s what they do, isn’t it? They fuck, then create distance so that things don’t get…

“Just stay here,” Shane says. The blankets rustle, and Ilya can see in the dark the way Shane holds back the top cover for him. “It’ll get colder if the power doesn’t come back on. And I don’t have any spare blankets to give you.”

Ilya swallows. “Is not true.”

“No. It’s not," Shane sighs.

He pats the bed anyway. Ilya is helpless against his desire to join him.

“Only because you will get cold,” Ilya mutters, sitting back down on the bed and swinging his legs up.

“Yeah. This bed does get cold,” Shane murmurs sleepily. Ilya eases down on his back and stares at the ceiling.

Shane's mattress is firmer than his own, but holds him securely. The blankets are heavy, much heavier than anything he’s ever bought for himself. They ground him in, make him feel a bit like he’s being hugged.

Sleep comes on fast, but before it takes him entirely, he feels Shane’s hand, just a little touch of fingertips against his bicep. Goosebumps rise along his arms, and he lies there still as a stone as Shane’s fingers slide along his bicep, curling in around his arm to rest.

“Fingers are cold,” Ilya mumbles after a moment.

Shane doesn’t reply.

Chapter End Notes

My headcannon is that as soon as Shane got some of that sweet hockey money, he got a nice "practical car" because driving in the snowy city sucks, and he's a safe boy.

Hopefully you're safe with the north American ice storm stuff going on! I'm in the south now, but I remember how harsh winters were at the best of times. It sounds pretty bad. That goes for the rest of the world who may be experiencing bad winter events!

Thanks very much for reading. Until next time.

Chapter 11: Glass Wall

Chapter Summary

He wishes he could tell everyone— his teammates, their fans, the press— that Ilya Rozanov is nothing like he appears.

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the longer wait. Many things have happened. Hope you are well, reader!

Eleven

Shane's face is pressed into Ilya's ribs.

The wind blows, howling at an inhuman octave.

Shane's face is pressed into Ilya's ribs, and he’s lying across Ilya’s arm. Which is asleep.

Ilya himself can’t seem to get back to sleep at all, though.

Ice tapping against the window like grains of fine sand had woken him up. He'd felt Shane there immediately, heard his soft breath huffing against his skin. The backs of the fingers on one of his hands are there too, just beneath his chin.

Somewhere further in the city, a siren wails in yo-yoing ovals. The sirens in Canada sound like the ones in Boston, which both sound different from Moscow; a slightly different tone and slightly different pitch.

For his first three years with Boston, it seemed like every detail, every slight difference, was a reminder that Ilya was a foreigner to this continent.

More recently, he’s begun to grow used to it all. Begun to expect the differences that’d used to make him feel off-kilter. Now, they excite him. Now, he has friends on his team. He has Svetlana to visit in the States. He has Shane in Montreal. As much as he can have Shane, at least.

Now, these differences make him feel curious, rather than homesick.

It’s cold in the bedroom. Much colder than it had been before. He tries to crane his head to see Shane’s alarm clock, but if he moves any further, the other will be jostled. He’ll probably wake up. Move away.

Can't risk that.

Shane mutters against his skin. Ilya strains to listen, watching the lit edge of the other's cheek and his dark lashes, fluttering as his eye turns beneath its lid.

“—ya,” Shane mutters.

Ilya stares, not daring to hope.

Regretfully, that's all Shane has to say. He does curl in, turning his face inward toward the mattress beneath Ilya's back. Despite being covered up, he shrinks in on himself with a shiver.

Anyone would be a monster, wouldn't they, to not wrap an arm around his shoulder?

Ilya carefully wriggles his arm free, wincing at the pins and needles that bloom under his skin as he tucks it around Shane's shoulder. Shane’s nose wedges between two ribs so hard it tickles. Ilya squirms.

This is nearly perfect.

That thought settles over him quietly, and for once, it doesn't scare the shit out of him.

He knows that this is what Shane wants, too. Had known it by the way the other had followed him down the steps like a puppy, that first night after they'd fucked. Had known it meant that Shane was the sort that liked to cuddle and linger and speak quietly in the afterglow.

Ilya supposes that, deep down, that's his natural inclination too. Only that he doesn’t indulge it. Either because of curfew or an early flight. Sometimes he comes to his senses after being with someone, realizes that he'd only been horny, and that he doesn't actually want to linger and talk with someone if they have a particularly vapid personality.

He never wants to be alone when he's finished fucking Shane, though. He'd like to lie there and watch the other come back down. He'd do it for hours if he could.

Shane murmurs something else unintelligible, and his palm slides up to press into Ilya's side.

"Hush," Ilya murmurs quietly, hand sliding up the other's back to pet through his hair. There is another word on the end of his tongue that makes him nauseous when he thinks of saying it aloud. Still, he wants to.

Shane certainly feels like sunshine. But he is not Ilya's to call so.

*

Shane opens his eyes, and there’s Ilya’s broad back just a foot away. He stares at the splash of moles and freckles up the other's pale skin. An uncountable number of them, and he’d like to put his mouth on every one. The blankets are only half-pulled up Ilya’s body.

Shane is cold. It’s like a refrigerator in the room. He imagines that the rest of the apartment is no better. He thinks of his gas fireplace, wonders if it’ll still work without power. Gas runs separately, doesn’t it? He’s never had to think about this in his adult life. Then again, this is the biggest storm in the last ten years.

Back to looking at Ilya’s shoulders. They’re very inviting, and he knows how warm the other runs. Carefully, he wriggles closer. Yes, he can feel the body heat radiating off the other, even from a few inches away.

When he’s close enough, he gently presses his face between Ilya’s shoulders, letting his eyes shut. It feels so nice, and Ilya smells so good; he could go right back to sleep. Stay in bed all day.

Ilya shifts.

“Your nose is like ice cube.”

Shane blinks. Wonders if he can feign being asleep, still.

“You are awake. Can feel your eyelashes.”

Shane sits up abruptly, face flushed. He thinks of denials he could throw out, but then notices that Ilya is on his phone.

“Why are you awake this early?” Shane asks, rubbing an eye with his fingers.

Ilya turns to look at him over his shoulder. His under eyes are shadowed deeply. He looks to have been awake for a while.

“I am writing email to my publicist.”

“Oh.” Shane settles back down with his shoulder to Ilya’s back. No use in feigning not wanting to touch. Could anyone blame him, with how cold it is? “What about?”

“About what I just wrote my accountant.”

Shane stares at his smooth ceiling, waiting. When Ilya doesn’t elaborate, he huffs. “What did you write your accountant?”

Ilya takes longer than normal to answer. First, he rolls onto his back, putting them shoulder to shoulder. His chest heaves with a sigh, and then, “I could not sleep. Too much thinking. I..." He sounds sheepish, and Shane looks at him sideways. He indeed looks embarrassed, mouth set into a hard line. "I asked my agent to make a donation.”

“A donation?”

“For... disaster relief. Snow removal. And the electrical workers.”

Ilya says this all very blandly, without feeling. He waves his hand at the window.

One look at his face, though, tells Shane that it means a great deal more to him than he’s letting on. His expression is solemn, the bridge of his nose so lovely, the corners of his eyes stiff.

Shane had thought Ilya shallow, flippant, vain, the first time they’d met. The first time those eyes had looked down his nose at him.

That's on him, he realizes. He hadn't known as much, back then, seventeen and in his last year of high school. He hadn't seen as much of the world, hadn't met all the people he would come to meet. Didn't understand life.

He still doesn't, but at least he knows he doesn't, now.

Ilya Rozanov is a complicated person. That had become apparent from the first night they'd hooked up, Ilya looking at him in the low light with a fire that had ignited previously unknown desire inside Shane. With humor and quiet understanding. He'd made it good and fun for Shane.

So many sides to Ilya, and Shane is still seeing new ones every day.

“That’s really good of you, Rozanov,” he murmurs.

Ilya glances at him, face twisted in a grimace. “Yes, well. Do not tell anybody.”

*

By 7 am, Ilya’s name is at the top of the trending page on most social media websites.

Shane is padding back across the cold floors from using the bathroom when he sees Ilya’s sour face staring hard at his phone.

“What’s the matter?”

Ilya says nothing, but turns his phone around for Shane to look at the article he has pulled up. Shane only gets a glance at the headline before Ilya scrolls to a news clip and presses play with his thumb. A pretty Canadian news anchor bundled in a trendy coat sits behind a news desk.

“Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Raiders, the team who has been stranded in Montreal since Thursday, has made an unlikely show of goodwill to the city of Montreal—“

Ilya takes his phone back. "We are not stranded." He curses in Russian. "Is no reason to fly out until—" He flicks angrily through his phone, pulls up his messages before he begins typing. Shane can see a vein popping out on his forehead. “I asked not to mention my name,” Ilya mutters, pressing send and then tossing the phone down onto the bed between them.

“Everyone’s gonna know you care, now.”

“I did not want—“ Ilya cuts himself off.

Shane is surprised by how upset he actually seems. He watches Ilya look forelornly out the window at the grey sky, jaw tense as he grits his teeth.

Shane opens Twitter on his own phone. There, he sees Ilya’s name at the top of the trending topics. There are multiple news outlets that have posted a blurb about it, some reporting 30 thousand and others reporting 50. It's a good chunk of their yearly earnings if Ilya is making close to what Shane does.

The comments under the articles are a mixed bag. Some are complementary, claiming that they knew Ilya Rozanov wasn't that much of an asshole. Others claim that it isn't enough money. Why wouldn't a pro hockey player donate at least a million?

The worst comments claim that Ilya Rozanov would only do something like this out of pride and deceitfulness. They bring up every nasty rumor that's ever been spread about him. This Slavic cocksucker is up to something, one reads.

Shane grows so weary that he closes the app and rests his phone on his chest with a frown. He suddenly regrets the nature of their professional relationship. He likes competing against Ilya and likes trying to be the best at what he does. He likes to stare the other down across the red line, and likes knocking into each other with intent on the ice. He likes holding a victory over him, won fair and square.

He does not like what comes along with it, though.

He wishes he could tell everyone— his teammates, their fans, the press— that Ilya Rozanov is nothing like he appears. He can't tell the press that they're friends. It would upend everything they've built.

He feels a bit like he's trapped behind a thick wall of glass.

Ilya is strong and loud and cocky. But it still must bother him a bit, too.

Is there anything he can do?

"I have an idea," Shane says suddenly. Ilya only grunts to acknowledge that he's heard, keeping his eyes on the window. "What if I matched your donation?”

Ilya looks at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Like— if I gave the same amount. And told everyone that I appreciated what you did.”

“What will that do?” Ilya scoffs and waves his hand. Then he hesitates. “It would be strange, would it not?”

“Why?” Shane’s frown deepens. “I do appreciate it.”

As Ilya observes him, Shane feels that pull in his gut. He's surprised by its lack of physicalness, by how it feels tied to Ilya as a person. How it's stirred by imagining Ilya, up in the early hours, strewing over the state of the world outside the apartment. Worried for others.

“I thought it was attractive, actually,” Shane says, his voice shaking a bit as he pulls his legs up beneath himself. He shuffles to the other side of the bed, swinging a leg over Ilya’s thighs.

Ilya stares at him, expression wide and blank. He looks him up and down, hands tentatively coming to settle on his hips. They slide around, a finger dipping up under the leg of his briefs.

“It would be… uncharacteristic,” Ilya says carefully. "For you to talk about me outside of interview."

Uncharacteristic. “Where’d you learn that word?” Shane teases.

Ilya bucks upward in retaliation, throwing him off balance. Shane falls forward, nearly busting his chin into Ilya’s nose, but Ilya only laughs at him, pushing him back up with hands to his waist.

“Don’t mind,” Shane says once they’ve recovered. "It's for a good cause."

*

By 9 am, they've gotten each other off with lazy handjobs, and Shane's name has joined Ilya's on the news headlines.

“The most uplifting story in sports today has just gotten an update. Shane Hollander, captain of Montreal's very own Metros, has made a statement about Ilya Rozanov’s generous donation to the city. In a written message, he says: ‘I’m happy to share a human moment with Ilya Rozanov. I will be matching his donation to the city, in hopes that we can ease the burden of the storm on Montreal's citizens.’ This coming just an hour after Rozanov made his own substantial donation—”

Ilya lies with his temple tucked up against Shane’s shoulder, watching the clip play out on Shane’s phone. “Very diplomatic,” he says, accent thick with his lazy tongue.

“Well… My publicist helped me write the statement. But… yeah,” Shane says with a shrug. Then he adds as an afterthought, “Couldn’t let you take all the glory. In my own city.”

“Yes, is only reason,” Ilya says, turning to press his lips to Shane’s shoulder.

Shane shivers, loving that Ilya will continue to kiss his body even after they’ve gotten off. He isn’t sure what it means, but he wants it to keep happening.

A hand braces on his chin, and Shane's heart jumps into his throat just as Ilya kisses him on the mouth.

It’s one of their more chaste kisses. Maybe there’s not a thing special about it, other than the context in which it's been given.

Which means a whole lot to Shane.

“What was that for?” He tries to keep the shake out of his voice.

“Nothing,” Ilya says, head thunking back against his shoulder. “Others will talk now, you know.”

“I know.” Shane gives a half-hearted shrug. “It’ll be hard for anyone to put a bad spin on this, though, won’t it?”

The corner of Ilya’s lip quirks up.

*

Shane doesn’t know when the two of them fell back asleep, but his head jerks up at the sound of a text notification. He picks up the phone that had fallen across his belly and squints at the bright light of it.

Hayden - 9:36 am - What the fuck

Shane - 9:36 am - Good morning to you too.

Hayden - 9:37 am - You enjoy throwing money around?

Shane - 9:38 am - You could make a donation too.

Hayden - 9:38 am - I am. Half the team is.

In a moment, another text follows the last.

Hayden - 9:39 am - Did you and Rozanov come up with this together or something?

Shane can practically hear the suspicion in Hayden’s voice.

Shane - 9:40 am - No. I heard about it through my agent. Decided it would be good to join in.

Hayden - 9:40 am - Who would have expected it from that asshole right?

Shane looks away from his phone at Ilya. He lies on his side, facing Shane this time, knees curled inward. His face is soft and relaxed, so young-looking, hair mussed on top. He smells like sex and sleep, and Shane wants to press his face to his chest and breathe it in.

Shane - 9:41 am - Maybe he’s a better man than anyone gives him credit for.

Hayden - 9:42 am - Careful. People might think you’re friends.

Shane chews on his bottom lip, staring at the message. That wouldn't be so bad, would it, after everything? He wonders if Hayden has any idea how close to the mark he is.

*

Ilya sits slouched in the corner of the sofa as he taps around on his phone. Shane fiddles with the fireplace.

Ilya makes a sound in the back of his throat. "Email," he announces, and Shane listens. “Montreal is allowing us to practice in their rink."

“That’s nice of them." Shane doesn’t bother to hide the smile on his face. He'd known from the email he'd read from the Montreal managers before they'd come downstairs that that'd be the case.

“Did you have something to do with it?” Ilya asks.

“No, actually. The higher-ups thought it’d be a good look. Considering half our teams are donating to Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa…”

“Is funny...” Ilya comments. “From outside view, it looks as if we are all... What is word? Philanthropist?” He says it thickly accented, but Shane still parses out what he means.

Shane bites down on a chuckle. “Yes. But really, we’re all trying to outdo each other?”

“It would seem.”

When Shane looks at him, Ilya is picking at the skin around a finger. Stormy look on his face.

“Not us, though,” Shane says quietly. Ilya looks back at him. “You did it because you wanted to help. You were the first."

Ilya looks reservedly at him, pressing his lips together. “Mm. And you?”

“Because it was a good thing to do. And I wanted to support your good habits.”

Shane expects him to needle him back, but instead, he gets that look on his face, soft and open and relaxed. Like there’s something hanging between them. Shane wishes he could reach out and take it, stoke it to life so he can get a clear look at it. For once. Figure out exactly what Ilya is thinking when he looks at him like that.

*

Shane only just lights the pilot light when Ilya's phone rings in his hand. The other curses quietly, looking at the screen. He brings it to his ear. “Da,” he says roughly. This close, Shane can hear Marleau’s voice crackling on the other end.

“You up?”

“Sadly,” Ilya mutters.

“Get your ass down to the Metros' arena. Pronto,” Marleau says, voice exhilarated.

Ilya groans aloud and slouches into the sofa, pulling the throw from the back where it’s folded neatly and covering himself up. "How can you say this? It is still snowing."

And it is. Even though it's nothing like it had been the night before, the power is still down in multiple blocks across Montreal.

“You got no right to be complaining,” Marleau laughs. “It’s thanks to you that we get to have a practice in the full size today.”

“Ah. Me and my generous heart,” Ilya says regretfully, eyes meeting Shane’s and flicking between them. His pupils are blown and dark against his sea foam eyes. Shane loves it when they're focused on him.

“Can you believe that shit?” Marleau goes on, voice tinny. “Hollander ain't as humble as he likes to seem. He just had to get in on it, too. Stole your thunder.”

Shane frowns at that.

"He asked me for permission," Ilya says easily. "Besides. Got everyone else to pitch in."

"He called you?" Marleau asks.

"Our agents."

Shane is thankful that Ilya is so good at lying.

“Will be down to arena in a while,” Ilya says, voice tightening. His eyes drag away from Shane to look out the window.

“Not too long. We’ve got shit to run through,” Marleau warns.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya grumbles and then hangs up.

Shane looks at the flame he'd just gotten going. Regrets that they can't spend the rest of the morning in front of it. He'd like to have tried cozying up on the couch. If Ilya would allow it. For how cold it is, maybe he would have.

The other had defended him, in some sense. "You didn't have to say that," Shane murmurs.

”I don't mind."

Shane stares at the fire behind the glass. There's a grate somewhere in a storage closet that he can replace one of the panels with. "They'll talk even more now."

"Is it bad if I do not care right now?” Ilya asks. Shane turns a grin into his shoulder to hide it, and his phone buzzes. He wishes that everyone would leave them alone today. He’d been looking forward to more time, just the two of them.

Hayden - 10:40 am - Carpooling to the arena to watch. You in?

Shane - 10:40 am - Watch what?

Hayden - 10:40 am - Don’t play dumb, you saw the email too. What other plans could you have today?

Shane grins down at his phone. He looks up to find Ilya watching him.

“The boys want to watch the Raiders practice.”

“Of course they do,” Ilya says deprecatingly. “They are hungry to be in the presence of good players.”

“Fuck off,” Shane scoffs. He reaches for the gas valve, shutting it off. At least he knows it works, still.

“You will make food?” Ilya asks with a small pout on his mouth.

“No power.”

“Is not gas stove, as well?”

Shane sighs. “Guess it’s eggs again.”

*

“They’re calling it a truce,” Hayden tells Shane when he climbs into the other’s SUV passenger seat. The rest of the car is filled with Metros' team members. He toes an empty sippy cup aside in the bottom of the foot well and buckles in.

“Who is?” he asks incredulously.

“Everyone.” Boiziau from the back seat. “Montreal Times, TSN. Even ESPN has a piece on their website.”

“How can they have a piece out? There’s nothing to report,” Shane scoffs, but he knows how it goes with publications. “Rozanov made a donation. So did I.”

“You said nice things about him,” someone further back supplies helpfully.

Shane lets his temple thunk against the cold car window. Murmurs, “Well, he did a nice thing.”

“After the rest of the Raiders started making donations, we had to jump in too,” Hayden says, but doesn’t look too perturbed. “I guess it’s all for the best. Our managers are getting calls for quotes. It’s good press, as far as press goes."

They start driving, Hayden's SUV standing up to the snowy roads as well as Shane's. The Metros arena is further away than the first practice rink. Normally, Shane would be more comfortable driving himself. Hayden is probably the only person he thinks would be as careful as he is.

He thinks that's the end of the conversation, and prepares to start thinking up ways for him and Ilya to get closer in the coming evening. Things to bring home for dinner, music he could play. He has a feeling Ilya will find all of his tastes boring, the way he finds everything about Shane boring.

Maybe there's something about him that will make Ilya think he's interesting, though. They just need to find it. Maybe then Ilya would want... Well.

Hayden's voice reaches him over the sound of the rest talking in the backseat. "I’m sure everyone’s wondering what’s gonna happen once the weather finally blows over and everything goes back to normal.”

Shane wonders that, too.

Chapter End Notes

Honestly I'm not sure how much they'd be making money wise at this point in their careers, vs how much they'd have in savings. I did a bit of research and could not get a conclusive answer for 2013, so I went bold with it, maybe not bold enough, but just roll with it for now.

___

There's still a part of me that wants to go back and "fix" the Hollander/Rozanov thing. Like, in the narration, based on their pov's, having Shane refer to Ilya as Rozanov, and vice versa (at least until they've grown sufficiently close.) I find myself writing it that way sometimes, and it's hard to know if the story would be better if I fixed it, or if it would ruin the flow I've already made so far.

No solid plans on it. But if you have feelings about it one way or the other, do let me know. I can't tell if it would make it better or worse.

Thanks for reading, regardless!

Chapter 12: Compartmentalized

Chapter Summary

“Are you okay?” Shane asks. “You looked… You know. Out on the ice.”

Chapter Notes

Hello hello.

I am still responding to comments from the last chapter, but I appreciate everyone's opinions on using their last names vs first names. I'm more comfortable keeping the fic as-is for now!

edit: ALSO. I want everyone to know that I play two things in the background writing that you may also like. One is a playlist of ost songs on repeat, and the other is a raging snowstorm ambience on youtube. You play these at the same time. Peak vibes. My ost songs are as follows:

Heartbeat II
Let's Make a Deal
Young and Restless I
Young and Restless II
Dark Glow
Heartbeat IV

I definitely don't use any of the happier tunes, because the vibes need to be kept in check. I need to be a little bit sad writing this because otherwise the yearning doesn't come through properly.

Twelve

“We’re going somewhere after this,” Marleau tells Ilya as they’re walking through the Metros' arena back entrance. “A place down the street. Called Longitude or something.”

“Stupid name,” Ilya scoffs.

Marleau laughs. “Well, it’s the only place open around here. It’s more of a bar than a club. But the team could use some bonding time, if you know what I mean.”

“You only want to get wasted,” Ilya says with a smirk.

“Course. Don’t you?”

Ilya thinks about that as they stroll into the away team’s locker rooms. “It has been a few weeks,” he admits. The last time they’d gone to party, they’d just beaten Florida.

In a bar in Miami, Ilya had found free drinks all around and multiple pretty women who’d wanted to take him home. He’d gone with a brunette in the end, taken her to a nice hotel he rented for a few hours, because he had the kind of money to do that, now.

It had been fun. Not as fun as it could’ve been.

“Maybe I will,” Ilya says, though he isn’t sure how honest he’s being. He likes to dance and lose himself, but Shane is also an enticing afterparty in himself.

*

The locker rooms at the Metros' arena don’t smell any better than the ones in Boston.

Ilya is half changed into his kit when his phone starts ringing. At first, he ignores it. Alexei has been calling him every midmorning for a week now. It’s not as if he doesn’t know what it’s about, either, because Alexei texts him after each missed call at least three times.

He wants the money Ilya told him he would send over. He hasn't yet, because the last time they'd been on a phone call, Alexei had been too fucked up to string a sentence together.

When Ilya finally takes a glance at the phone sitting up in the top of his chosen locker, he falters at the word “father” at the top of the screen in Russian. His father doesn’t call as often, and when he does, it’s usually not very important. Still, his instinct is to answer.

He glances around at the rest of his team, who are in good spirits as they get ready for a much-needed practice.

He takes his phone and heads around the corner for the bathrooms to get a bit of privacy.

He answers in Russian. “Father?”

“He replies at last. I thought you would ignore my call again.”

“I answer if I can,” Ilya says, grimacing.

“You are training? I have not heard from your coach in a while. I nearly called him.”

“Yes...” Ilya hesitates. He doesn't know why his father would be calling his coach. He hears the rest of the team in the next room heading for the ice. “There is a storm that delayed our game. Our next is on Thursday.”

His father laughs. “What storm? A bit of winter snow is nothing. If you cannot handle a bit of snow, you will have no hope of being drafted.”

Ilya stares at the tile floor, mind ticking over his father’s words. “Drafted?”

“The North American league you are so set on will look down on you. But your future rides on it,” his father carries on. Ilya’s stomach begins to sink. “You should bring your family prestige. Since you don't do anything other than play hockey. And hang around the park when the lake is frozen.”

Ilya swallows thickly, slumping a shoulder into the wall. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do. “Father, where are you now?”

“At home. Where else would I be?” He coughs harshly. “Bring home herring tonight, we are nearly out. Polina will be out late... and you know how she gets. I cannot ask her to...”

Ilya’s mouth has dried up. A breath escapes his nose harshly. “Yes, alright. I need to go. Practice is starting.”

His father has never been one to say goodbye, even when he wasn’t losing his mind.

Ilya hangs up and opens his texts. He starts a new one to Alexei, ignoring the other’s latest attempts at getting him to send money.

Ilya - 11:50 am - Where are you? You need to go check on our father. He is not well.

He thinks of adding something else to prove how serious he is.

Ilya- 11:50 am - I will find a doctor. But you need to stay with him. Something is wrong!

Alexei does not read his message that he can tell, and he does not respond right away.

Ilya knows that something is wrong with his father. Has known it for months. His father has never been a kind man, and sometimes, he can be downright cruel. He’d been a bit too unreasonable, though, in the months leading up to Ilya’s departure from Russia. Nearly ruining his shot at being drafted by Boston, berating him when he’d wanted Ilya to do well for the entire family back home. Things that had only felt bad at the time. Looking back, they feel like bad omens that Ilya had only been too blind to miss.

He’s not sure what he can do about it halfway around the world. All he can do is hope to God that Alexei can be competent enough to hold things down until the summer when Ilya can return.

His phone buzzes in his hand. He expects it to be Alexei, but instead, it's Shane.

Jane - 11:51 am - The rest of your team is out here doing speed runs. You not up to it? ;)

Ilya swallows. His mind is a storm, and he can think of a dozen things to reply with, some of them sarcastic, some of them flirtatious, some of them just cruel. He can’t bear to send any of them, though, so he instead chucks the phone into the top of his locker and slams the door closed.

He shakes his head as he walks to the arena, tries to put everything out of his head, leave it back in the locker room. Compartmentalize, he’d heard Marleau call it. He recognized it as something he'd already been practicing since he was twelve years old. A tactic for being good at hockey, but also for getting through life.

When he steps foot out on the ice, as hard as he tries not to, he sees a large group of the Metros team clustered in the stands near the ice to watch. They whistle when Ilya steps out like he's a showgirl on a stage. He'd normally play up to their taunts. Today, he doesn't much feel like it.

There in the second row, Shane sits, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, eyes skating over him neutrally.

He wishes the other weren’t here to distract him, for once.

*

Shane can tell from the moment Ilya skates out that there’s something wrong.

He looks like he’s made of wood, shoulders held tight in tension. He hadn’t looked that way when the two of them had said goodbye in the foyer.

Ilya had looked bright in the eye, excited to be going to skate. He’d given Shane a biting kiss before he’d left, and it’d made Shane nearly giggle with how playful it’d been.

Then Ilya had whisked out the door, heading for the back alley to meet his team a few blocks over. Shane had waited a few minutes before leaving and meeting his own out front of the building.

He’d thought of Ilya the whole way, at how nice it’d felt to wake up next to him, to eat breakfast, to get dressed. To know they were coming back to the same place when the day was done.

He realized, on the drive over, that he could easily get used to this sort of thing. Which was a dangerous thing to think about. Because this is the exact sort of thing he can’t have.

Still, he can daydream about it, can’t he? There’s no harm in it.

Now, Ilya looks a far cry from the loose, happy man who’d left his apartment. In fact, judging by the hard set of his jaw, he’s angry.

Shane wonders if his team has given him a harder time than they thought about the donations. Marleau hadn’t sounded upset on the phone. Shane had even thought he’d sounded secretly pleased with the turn of events, the chance to boost their public appeal.

“Looks like it’s gonna be a hard practice,” Hayden comments next to him, sucking on his teeth in anticipation.

“Yeah.”

To say Ilya looks aggressive would be an understatement.

He looks like a wild animal on the ice. His accuracy is spot on— it always is— but the way he plays against his own team members as they make up an opposition is something else.

“Jesus,” Boiziau mutters from the next row back. “You'd think he wants to kill them.”

At one point, Ilya runs into Hammersmith at the opposite end of the rink.

Hammersmith is bigger than him. Older, too, Shane thinks. When he easily shoulders Ilya out of the way, Ilya spits something in Russian that echoes over the sounds of the other players sparring. He turns on his teammate, stick raised and held tight across his chest, and says something.

Shane watches, throat tight with nerves, as Marleau descends down the ice to intervene.

Hammersmith seems to already be placating Ilya, though, a hand outstretched to press into his shoulder, holding him at bay as he says something unintelligible.

Second by second, Ilya seems to disarm himself, the blade of his stick clacking against the ice as he drops it in defeat.

Shane can see the tension on his shoulders, rolling as he tries to shake off the bad mood that’s taken hold of him.

“That’s Rozanov, for you,” Hayden says with a sigh. “Didn’t know he’d even get onto his own team, though.”

“Must be something wrong,” Shane says absently, only loud enough for Hayden to hear.

Hayden looks at him sideways, and Shane can feel it. “Okay... But, not sure what good practice is doing for him right now with that kind of mood.” He waves his hand at the ice. “You think they'll wanna spar afterward again?”

Shane is sure that Hayden would like a bit of time on the ice while they’re there, because he likes hockey nearly as much as Shane does. But...

“Maybe…” Shane says, though he doubts it. By the closed-off look on Ilya’s face, he can tell that there’s not much that the other will want to do after this at all. He doesn’t look all there. He wonders what Ilya’s truly bad moods entail.

*

A terrible practice. He's lucky he didn't get himself hurt with how reckless he'd been acting. And with such tension in his body, it'd be easy to pull something.

Ilya, freshly showered, is chucking his gear into his hockey bag when his phone begins ringing. He glances at it and then stops what he’s doing. He carries the phone to the bathrooms again.

“Why did you not answer earlier?” Ilya says roughly in Russian.

Alexei scoffs on the other end. “Why did you not send the money?”

“Because you are not there with him!” Ilya hisses, trying to keep his volume down. “He is confused again! More so this time.”

“He was fine when I left him,” Alexei says shortly. “He is only tired.”

“He’s not,” Ilya insists. “If you want money from me, pull your head from your ass and pay attention to him.”

He can picture the shock on Alexei’s face. Ilya is not typically one to throw verbal punches. He used to, when it came to his brother. But in his teen years, he’d found that staying quiet was what got him out of trouble— or allowed him to flee from home— the fastest. He can’t be silent now, though.

“You are not doing a good enough job,” Ilya spits, and then, before Alexei can retort, which he no doubt is preparing to do, Ilya hangs up.

His phone rings a moment later, but he only silences it. He sends a single text in response to the missed call.

Ilya - 2:12 pm - If you want money, you will go see to him right now. Call Polina if there is more trouble.

“Fuck,” he spits.

He feels the overwhelming need to escape, to run away from home, but there is no home to run from here. It’s only Montreal and snow and ice and—

He needs to get drunk. Very drunk. Needs to dance with a stranger. Lose his mind. That’s what he always does when—

His phone buzzes. He glares at it, expecting to see Alexei’s name. Instead, it’s Shane's.

Jane - 2:13 pm - Meet me in the back hallway?

His heart feels like it sits at the base of his throat, choking him as he makes his way into the back corridors of the stadium. It’s a well-built place. Ilya can’t even hear the wind and snow outside.

He finds Shane leaning against a line of old lockers that look like they haven’t been opened in a decade. When he smiles at Ilya, Ilya can see a tightness to it.

“Hey,” Shane says, voice light.

“Hi." It's the least Ilya can offer, with Shane looking at him like that. No matter how much Ilya wants to turn away, disgusted with himself and not wanting anyone else to see— especially not pretty, kind Shane Hollander.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks. “You looked… You know. Out on the ice.”

He avoids saying what Ilya knows he’s thinking. Looked rotten, mean, angry. Like a bad man.

Ilya shrugs, trying to play the emotions off. “Fine. Only a bit tired.”

Shane nods, hand lifting and then falling back to his side, an aborted attempt to reach out, Ilya guesses. He’d have loved to be touched, but it probably would’ve only made him feel guiltier, too. Best that Shane stays put.

“I was thinking,” Shane starts, apparently wanting to move on. “I could pick something up for dinner tonight. Not sure what’s going to happen with the power. It might be off, still. Is there… anything you prefer?”

Ilya feels stricken, his heart squeezing uncomfortably. He has the sudden urge to crawl into a hole and die. “I uh…” his voice comes out weak. He clears his throat. “My team wants to go to a bar. Lat… Latitude or something.”

“Longitude? I know it. It’s a lounge down the street.”

Ilya nods, averting his eyes. The longer he stares, the more at risk he is of falling into Shane and spilling over, and— he can’t have the other looking at him with pity. Because that’s what it’d be, pitiful and pathetic. And kind, kind Shane would treat him so nicely, and it would feel too good, and also terrible, and then Ilya would ruin it all— or he wouldn’t, and they would become friends in the public eye, and then his brother would know it all, know exactly what Ilya has been up to with his arch rival, and then stupidly tell their father in a coked up bender, their father who is losing his mind, and then Ilya would go back home and he might not ever leave again, depending on if his father could remember what he'd been told, and Ilya would never get to see Shane again or play hockey—

“Rozanov?” Shane asks.

“I am going to go with them,” Ilya says. “To lounge, I mean. I… need to get out.” He swallows. “I like going out, yes?”

“Yeah, I know,” Shane nods, folding his arms across his chest. “Sure. Um… you coming back to mine later tonight?”

Ilya stares at him, lips pressed together almost painfully. He can go to the lounge, get drunk, and forget about all this. Maybe then he’ll be back to normal, can come home and salvage what time they have left together. “Yes. Sure. My things are still there, anyway.” He adds that on to the end to lighten it, an old habit. He can see Shane’s face shift minutely.

“Okay. Uh… Was your team okay with what happened?”

Ilya blinks. “What happened?”

“With the donations?”

“Ah. Yes, they were fine,” Ilya shrugs. “They did not have much to say. They made their own.”

“So did mine,” Shane says, trying to smile. “I think Hayden might be onto me or something, though. You know…” he hesitates. Ilya tries not to freak out at the idea of Pike knowing about his personal business. The other seems like he might have a big mouth. “It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? If we didn’t have to be public rivals all the time? Fans don’t have to know, but… maybe our friends could.” Shane says, meeting Ilya’s eye.

His eyes are so big and brown. Ilya runs his tongue over his teeth to distract himself.

He wants so badly for what Shane says to be so. But he also fears that it would somehow ruin everything. The truth always seems to, in Ilya's world.

“Anyway,” Shane says quickly. “I’ll uh… pick something up, just in case you’re hungry when you get home tonight,” he says quietly.

“Okay.”

Ilya turns, feeling his heart squeeze and stretch, a thin feeling.

“Hey, Rozanov…” Shane reaches out, forefinger and thumb pinching Ilya’s coat sleeve.

Ilya pauses to look back at him, and Shane is right there, leaning into his space. He kisses Ilya on the corner of his mouth, just a short peck, but it makes Ilya’s nerves tingle across his shoulders and down his sides. He feels himself begin to flush, and he clears his throat.

“Careful on the roads,” Shane murmurs. The corners of his mouth quirk downward.

Sad. Ilya recognizes it through Shane’s straight face. In his eyes. He’s sad.

Ilya hates everything.

Shane’s the first to go, turning and heading for the corridor that will take him to the front of the building. He doesn’t look back, and even though that’s for the best, because he won’t be able to see Ilya’s face twisting in agony, Ilya still wishes he would.

A few minutes later, he sits in the back seat of their hired car next to Marleau, feeling numb down to the ends of each of his fingers and toes.

“Glad you’re comin’ with us, Roz, but…” Marleau’s mouth twists up. “What the hell happened? You were so happy when we picked you up. You miss your girl already?”

Ilya seethes, looking out his window.

The snow finally seems to be coming down at a manageable rate. He wonders if he can pull himself back from this. Things seemed so easy this morning, holed up in Shane’s apartment. Nothing else had existed. Today feels like some sort of unwelcome wake-up call, reality crashing back down on him.

“I am just tired,” Ilya says blandly. “I want to unwind.”

“Sure, but…” Marleau sighs heavily.

“But what?”

“Nothin’,” Marleau scoffs, sitting back in his seat.

Chapter End Notes

..... I'm sorry for putting you through angst, reader. I will make it up to you next chapter😐

Thank you for reading. Until next time🖤

Chapter 13: The Spiral

Chapter Summary

This doesn’t normally happen. He can’t remember the last time it hit him this wrong.

Chapter Notes

Hi😐

Thirteen

A block from Shane’s apartment, there is a Mediterranean restaurant sandwiched between his usual grocery market and a smoke shop.

He stands in line behind a little old man ordering takeout. He’s thankful that the snow has prevented most of the public from venturing out. In one corner sit two women, a mother and daughter, talking quietly over a plate of falafel. On the opposite side of the restaurant, one of the workers sits taking his break, a steaming cup in one hand, a book in the other.

Shane finds the interior cozy and comforting, rich reds and terra cotta. No music playing overhead, lights low and warm and easy on the senses.

The menu, he finds, is not strictly Mediterranean food, but a selection of dishes from the eastern side of the world. He lets himself relax and steps up to the counter when the elderly man is done ordering.

“Yes?” the woman behind the counter says with a thin smile. She looks to have put in a day's work already.

Ilya hadn’t told him what he wanted to eat. Shane rues that they’ve never talked about the food they like to eat. He’d only gotten lucky with pizza. Most guys like pizza. Ilya likes meat, Shane knows for certain.

He doesn’t know exactly what he orders, only that they are the top-selling dishes. She asks him if he wants a side of garlic pita, he says yes. There are vegetarian stuffed grape leaves, and he adds those, hoping there isn’t anything he can’t eat in them, because he’d like to have something special, for once.

No one else comes into the shop as he waits, and Shane pulls out his phone to look at his text chain with Ilya.

He wants to send something, but can’t think of anything he could say that wouldn’t come off too… needy? Attention seeking? He cringes inwardly. Isn’t that why Ilya had decided to go in the first place?

Shane shouldn’t be surprised. He knows how Ilya is, what the others’ reputation is like. Ilya loves to party nearly as much as he likes to win at hockey. There are countless photos of him online at clubs in other cities, dancing with women or throwing back shots at a bar. Things that Shane has never been inclined to do.

Someone like that is bound to get tired of Shane’s boring lifestyle after a while, aren’t they? Shane’s apartment isn’t very fun. Sterile and full of books and gym equipment, and has a game system he doesn’t use much. He doesn’t have people around very often.

Shane doesn’t dance, doesn’t even know how to. He’d not been asked to, growing up, and now that women do ask him to, on the rare occasion he goes out to celebrate with his team, he declines every time.

And that’s the only reason he declines, he’ll insist, if anyone ever asks him. Of course, he’d like to dance with a pretty woman, but he just has two left feet. Never mind that he’s a professional hockey player.

He would dance with a woman if he found the right one. He’s sure of it.

He taps out a message to Ilya, deletes it. Tries another, deletes it too.

Finally, he takes a picture of a stray menu on a nearby table.

Jane - 5:37 pm - Hope you like chicken shawarma.

Shane likes chicken, himself. He wishes it weren’t smack in the middle of the season so he could try some.

His order is finally ready, and so he closes his phone and tucks it away.

The takeout comes in a paper sack, and he folds the top down securely to try to keep it warm, and then steps out onto the snowy sidewalk. He starts the trudge toward his building. If Ilya texts him back, he can’t hear or feel it.

*

Normally, when Ilya drinks, it takes him out of his mind.

He can easily be persuaded onto the dance floor by any woman, whether he’s had one cocktail or five shots. He holds his liquor well, and it’s a point of pride in his relationship with his team. He is Russian, and he has a reputation to uphold, one he enjoys quite a bit.

Most of the time.

Now, he’s two beers and one cocktail in, looking for the next thing he’ll order on the fancy little table menu. The bar is busy, but when he sees an opening, he’ll head up.

A sullenness has settled over him, one which he blames mostly on the atmosphere inside Longitude.

It’s not quite a club, not quite a bar, not quite a lounge, but a disappointing mix of all three, and not enough of any to be fun. Music plays overhead, but none of the songs seem to hit the mark. Still, it’s packed. They’re lucky they’d gotten in as early as they had, because they’d started turning people away once it reached 6 o’clock.

“Must be the only place still open for blocks,” Marleau mutters next to him. “At least the drinks are good.”

By good, he means strong.

The Raiders’ team takes up an entire back corner. Alcohol has already been spilled on the table between them, hoppy beer and the last inch of Ilya’s sticky-sweet cocktail.

There are two new texts from Alexei— one that says that he is with their father, and that he seems fine, now. The next telling him that Polina had come home early. This is somewhat comforting, at least. It allows Ilya to fall further into drunkenness faster.

“Where have you been, Rozzy?” Connors pipes up across the table from him. “Marly won’t give us the details about your amore.”

“That’s cause there’s none to give,” Marleau pipes up. He’s had a few fewer drinks than normal, Ilya’s noticed. “He’s tight-lipped about her.”

“Tight-lipped,” Ilya repeats, testing the syllables out.

“Tight-assed,” someone pipes up, and the rest of the table erupts gleefully. Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Not gonna talk about it?” Connors asks.

“Not to you. Or to any of you dogs,” Ilya says, pointing around the table with a smirk.

“Come on,” Evans jeers from down the line. “Give us something, man. What does Ilya Rozanov like? You’re with a new woman every city we go to, does she know that?”

Ilya bristles. He tries to clear his thoughts, not wanting to snap at one of his team.

“Evans,” Hammersmith mutters, “Enough. He’s fuckin’ drunk, man.”

“I am not,” Ilya huffs. “She knows. It is… understanding between us.” It feels bad to say, though, in front of all of them. Even though it’s true, Shane’s not there to tell his side, and he never could be.

“Just one detail,” Evans whines, and Ilya rolls his eyes, more exaggeratedly this time.

“Is very pretty,” he says, and the table groans.

“We know that much.”

“Prettiest eyes,” Ilya says again, a little smirk playing on his mouth. No one will know, no one could possibly guess. “And cutest—“

“Enough,” Marleau huffs, a big, meaty hand smacking down on Ilya’s shoulders. “No more bothering him when he’s drunk. He’ll sober up and beat the rest of us blue on the ice.”

Ilya laughs to himself and finally notices how sloppy and unfiltered it sounds. “Music here is terrible,” he says, this time to Marleau. “I have not danced in weeks.”

“Yeah, well…” It’s Marleau’s turn to look put out. “There are plenty of girls here.”

“Yes…” Ilya looks around. The place is packed with all sorts. It’s not a typical night on the town, but plenty of women have come dressed up with their friends. Sequins and highlighter cheeks and hair curled in ringlets or straightened to a shine. An attractive crowd.

Marleau watches the side of his face, and Ilya is too perturbed by it to ask him why.

*

Shane steps into his apartment building, and there is no change in temperature. The security guard posted up in the lobby is bundled in a coat, and all but the emergency exit lights are still off.

Shane nods at him and heads for the stairs. It’s a long climb up to his floor, but he looks at it as a workout, taking them two at a time.

His apartment is dark when he steps inside. The only light comes from the opposite windows, where the city beyond shines through. He sighs deeply and toes his shoes off. Sets his groceries and takeout on the counter and walks to the window to look out.

Then he heads for his fireplace, using his phone as a light, and fiddles with the gas release. He lights it with a match, and the living room is filled with a warm glow, just bright enough to allow him to see.

From there, he begins digging through his storage closet for the backup power bank he’d been gifted the Christmas before. Every once in a while, he diligently gets it out to test its charge. Now, he sets it up on the counter and plugs his phone into it.

Unsure of what to do from there, he plates up a few of the stuffed grape leaves, which are thankfully cold, and plants himself on his sofa.

*

Before Ilya knows it, there’s a pretty woman in his arms. He dances with her as easily as breathing. And even though it’s nice, his mind still isn’t all there.

In fact, it’s mostly not there; instead wondering what’s going on outside on the snowy roads. The people who were turned away, did they come here specifically because they like this place? Did they come because they knew the Raiders were there? Had they made it home after they were turned away?

Had Shane?

He’s a careful driver, but Ilya hasn’t checked his phone in a long while. He’d lost track of time, but now it’s the number one burning question on his mind. He would’ve heard if famous hockey player Shane Hollander had gotten into a car accident by now, wouldn’t he?

Someone on the team would’ve already gotten word about it.

Foolish, he tells himself.

His mind isn’t very sound tonight.

The woman in front of him— smaller, brunette, fit— tries to turn in his arms, and Ilya knows she’s going to try to grind her ass back on him. He shifts a bit, keeps her facing him, unwilling to feel that sort of stimulation right now. He likes the ease of swaying, close but not too close.

His mind’s all full of Shane, anyway, and he has to rid it of that if he’s going to enjoy anything.

The woman’s ruby bottom lip pokes out, observing him thoughtfully. Then, she tries to kiss him.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he turns his head away. It’s only instinct. Her lips connect with his cheek, the sticky, slick feeling of her gloss planted there.

She stills in his arms.

“Ya’alright?” she asks, voice uneven.

Ilya’s brow furrows on his forehead. He feels the unusualness of the gesture, his face normally kept neutral even in the worst of times. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

“Da— yes,” he says, and the woman giggles, tossing her weight against his other arm, seemingly willing to let it go. He catches her, holds her upright, but he feels that he’s already been thrust off-kilter. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

She leans up to speak in his ear, her voice coming out more sultry than expected. “Kiss your mother with that mouth?” He feels her grin against his ear. “Didn’t she teach you any manners?”

Ilya falters. It feels as if a drain has opened up in the pit of his stomach. As they continue to dance, Ilya stops hearing the music and feeling the body in front of him.

His mother taught him plenty of manners, hadn’t she? How to talk to pretty girls, how to stay respectful about it, too. It’d seemed like she was teaching him the opposite of what his father tried to teach him. He liked listening to her because he trusted what she had to say. She was by far the kinder of his two parents.

She'd been younger than his father. His father had always seemed to hold that over her, too, which Ilya hadn’t understood at the time. Only when he’d gotten older had he begun to see what kind of man his father really was.

He’d barely been interested in girls or romance when his mother had sat him down and taught him about sex and love. She’d gotten to it just in time, it seemed. He’d gotten his first crush just a few weeks later. Right before… before… before…

Ilya shakes his head violently, abhorrent memories bubbling up from the depths of his mind. He stares past the woman in his arms at the wall behind the bar counter. It’s made up of mirrors and shelves, housing the most expensive bottles all the way to the ceiling. Ilya can see the back of the woman’s long hair tossing about over his own forearm.

He tries to focus on the feeling of her warmth against him.

It does not feel nearly as nice as it normally does.

It doesn’t feel very good at all, in fact.

He, unfortunately, is aware enough to realize why.

She’s beautiful, but her waist is too small, her shoulders too thin. She’s not the right height. Her eyes are not the right shade, and her cheeks are smoothed to perfection with makeup. She smells lovely, but nothing like cologne or sweat.

She’s very beautiful, and none of it’s her fault. No woman in the club would be who his body would like for them to be.

“Fuck,” he mutters harshly, and she pauses to look back up at him, face twisted up.

“What?”

“S-sorry,” Ilya shakes his head again, eyes shutting. “Not you.”

She doesn’t seem very into dancing anymore, and Ilya can’t blame her. He doesn’t much feel like it, either.

As he walks back to the table in the corner, his legs feel heavy and sluggish, just like his insides.

“Not lookin’ so hot, Rozzy,” Marleau comments as Ilya slumps down in the seat next to him.

Ilya opens his mouth, realizes that he’s not going to say anything intelligent, and shuts it again. He shakes his head.

Then he requests another drink.

This doesn’t normally happen. He can’t remember the last time it hit him this wrong. Surely it’d been when he was still young and living in Russia, Sasha stealing bottles from his father’s liquor cabinet to bring to their meetups, to take the edge of anxiety off.

Ilya’s usually so good at steering his drunken nights, now, molding them into what he wants them to be.

He doesn’t feel like he’s at the wheel this time, though.

His drink comes back with Connors, a straight shot of vodka that doesn’t taste like much of anything. Marleau watches him skeptically, like maybe he’s noticing for the first time that something is amiss.

Some time later, Ilya stares down at his hands in his lap. He brings one of them up and looks at his fingers. Reaches to his throat and finds the chain there, the cross attached to it. Feels the solid metal between his thumb and forefinger and rubs it like a worry stone.

He doesn’t feel very good.

There’s a pit in his chest, a little to the right. It aches and throbs and feels hollow.

He doesn’t feel good at all.

He fiddles with his phone, fingers so clumsy that it takes him three tries to put his password in. He pulls up his messages to Shane, but the light from the device is too bright, and he squints until he can lower it.

He thumbs to Shane’s newest message. He hadn’t heard the alarm chime. Shane has sent him a photo of a menu in a dim restaurant. Food that Ilya’s not very familiar with, written in a scrawling font that’s difficult for him to read.

Hope you like chicken shawarma, Shane's message says. Ilya mouths the words to himself. He likes reading the message, even though he doesn’t know what shawarma means. Seeing Shane’s alias there on the screen feels like he’s cradling a little Shane in his palms. A little flame of warmth.

It takes him much longer than it should to tap out a reply.

Lily - 8:12 pm - have not hadd

He sends it, notices his spelling mistake. Hopes Shane doesn’t mind. He swallows thickly, watching to see if Shane will read the message.

Shane had sent the text nearly three hours ago.

Ilya frowns, a little seed of guilt sprouting in his chest. Shane had gotten food for him. Very thoughtfully. And it had no doubt gone cold by now.

Was the power back on in Shane’s apartment? Was Shane there alone?

He shakes his head, pressing the heel of a palm painfully into his eye. Shane’s an adult. He’s fine, no matter if the power is back on or not. He lives alone, and so does Ilya.

Why would it matter if Ilya were there with him?

“Roz…” Marleau says.

Ilya jerks back, smacking his phone to his chest. He knows it looks guilty as hell, but it’s too late; he’s already done it.

Marleau’s brow furrows again. “You alright?”

No, he’s not.

The lounge is too warm. It smells like alcohol, and sweat, and old grease, and people.

Ilya feels sick.

“Just…” Ilya tries to find the English to explain, but there is none that comes to mind. There are a thousand things he wants to say in Russian, but his friend would not understand any of them.

I want to stop thinking. I want things to feel normal again. I want to dance and not feel guilty about it. I want to sleep with someone, because it’s a nice distraction.

I want my father to get better. I want my brother to be responsible. I want to stop worrying about them. I wish that they cared about me.

I want to play hockey with Shane. I wish I could take him to dinner and dance with him afterward. I want to hold his hand. I want my team to know we’re friends. I want them to see how boring and kind he is.

I want things to be okay, but they won't be.

I want to talk to Shane.

I wish I could talk to my mother.

I want to go home.

“I… feel sick,” Ilya says, and his voice cracks. His eyes well up, throbbing painfully in their sockets, and fuck, that’s the last thing he wants. He scrubs his hands over his face, but Marleau has already seen, judging by the shocked blankness on his face.

“Oh…” Marleau frowns, looking uncomfortable.

Ilya turns his face away, trying to get a hold of himself. He doesn’t want anyone to look at him like that. Doesn’t want anyone catching wind of his internal turmoil. To look at him and get uncomfortable. He’s the captain of their team. He cannot look like this in front of them, ever.

“Rozzy…” Marleau starts, one of his hands grasping over Ilya’s shoulder gently. “Can I do somethin’, man?”

“I…” Ilya huffs, trying to blink away the wetness from his eyes. “No.”

“What about…” Marleau sighs and then starts again. “Why don’t you go back to your girl's place, huh?”

“My girl...” Ilya repeats blandly. Right, Shane.

“Yeah. She makes you happy, right? Looks like you could use her, right now…”

Ilya feels flayed open in front of his friend’s observations. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to argue, though, so he only jerkily nods.

Ilya blinks, and then Marleau is standing. He pulls Ilya up by his shoulders. Ilya’s head spins as he’s righted, one of Marleau’s hands guiding him between the shoulder blades.

He lets himself be led through the lounge. There are eyes on him from all sides, women and even a few men. Hungry gazes, who either know him through hockey or are only now seeing him for the first time. He wishes they would all stop. It feels like he’s in a fishbowl, people poking at the glass. All he wants is to curl up in the dark. He wants his head to stop throbbing.

Everything is too bright and too loud. Ilya normally thrives off of this. Now, it feels like he’s stuck in hell. That’s a horrifying thought, too.

Marleau gets him onto the sidewalk, and the cold air does a bit to shock his mind back into the present. Marleau pulls out his phone and makes a call.

“What… you doing?” Ilya slurs. He barely recognizes the English coming out of his own mouth.

“Calling the car,” Marleau tells him, hand to his shoulder to keep him balanced. “Waiting here with you.”

“Okay.”

Time does not move the same, it seems.

Before he knows it, the car is in front of them, a black SUV. It makes Ilya nervous, reminds him of the car he climbed into to go to his mother's funeral. But it’s the same driver who’s been driving them around for days.

Marleau directs him into the back seat, where Ilya slumps down. The alcohol is catching up to him, he realizes. That's why this had all come on so fast.

Marleau leans into the passenger window. “Take him to… uh...” he looks at Ilya.

Ilya thinks of Shane’s address. He knows it by now, and he’s tempted to say it aloud, but his teeth bite his lips closed, still aware enough to keep a grasp on that information. That life-altering information.

Marleau looks a bit hurt, still, that Ilya will not tell him. Ilya feels like shit.

He gives the cross streets on the next road over, instead.

“Right,” Marleau grunts. “Call one of us if something happens?”

Ilya wonders what could possibly happen between here and there. He realizes that Marleau is talking to the driver. He shifts to do up his safety belt, and his hand fumbles for the buckle too many times. He’s more fucked up than he thought.

“Roz,” Marleau grabs his attention. “Alright?”

“Mm,” Ilya nods. He’s thankful to Marleau, in more ways than one. He suddenly feels guilty for concealing the truth from him. Terribly guilty.

It seems like that’s all he can feel.

The car begins moving, and Ilya sorts through his thoughts. They are slow and syrupy, and he feels a bit like he’s drowning. He slumps back into the seat, looking down at his phone. Pulls up Shane’s messages.

Shane has not replied.

Lily - 8:30 pm - I am sorry

Ilya writes without thinking, then cringes inwardly.

Jane - 8:31 pm - Why?

Lily - 8:31 pm - I feel sick

He says it because he does not know what else to say. But he wants to talk to Shane, wants him to answer.

His next message comes fast.

Jane - 8:32 pm - Did you drink too much?

Lily - 8:33 pm - yes

Shane does not say anything more after that. Ilya has the impulse to apologize again, and nearly does, but something about it would be too much. He doesn’t want to look weak in front of Shane.

He swallows and taps out another message, trying very hard to get all the letters right.

Lily - 8:38 pm - want to come home

He stares at it for a long second before he realizes what he’s said. How he’d said it, what it looks like. He’d only meant that he wanted to go back to Shane’s apartment.

His mind is too full of sludge. He wonders if there’s anything he could say to rectify it, retract it, make Shane see that it was only a slip of his drunken mind. A new text comes in with a little chime.

Jane - 8:39 pm - Then come home.

Ilya swallows thickly and pulls his hood up around his face as he stares down at the message, reading it again. His heart squeezes painfully, and he feels like he could cry if he let himself. If the driver looks at him through the rearview, Ilya does not notice.

Lily - 8:39 pm - okay

Chapter End Notes

I honest to god, hand to my heart I thought this chapter would get further along into the "comfort" part of hurt/comfort. But hey, we know where it's heading now? Sorta kinda?

I cried a little writing this chapter. Unexpectedly, just cried. Wiped my face, kept writing.

Ilya's relationship with his father is specifically heartbreaking to me. He still cares about his father, even though the man is awful to him (presumably) his entire life. Then, the man starts to lose his memory, and when Ilya is home, he helps take care of him. Even in his father's moments of confusion, he's still a dick. I presume it starts to get worse (when Ilya hands him a glass of water, his father looks so blank) and it's hard to hold such ire for someone who is actively confused and deteriorating. It's just fucking terrible and heartbreaking all the way around.

And all Ilya wants is for his father to "know him" beyond what Ilya can do for him. Wants his remaining parent to give a shit, but now he physically couldn't even if he wanted to. I could tear up about it right now. But it's nothing you haven't already felt from the show, reader🥲

_____________

In other news.

I don't know how a macrobiotic diet could sustain a professional athlete, given everything I've researched about it. I get that it's possible, but it would be so involved in order to meet the caloric requirements, protein requirements, the sticking to it on the road, the careful planning of every single thing... I mean, I guess if anyone could do it, Shane Hollander could, but... I'm not tackling the issues with it in this fic.

I do hope to have a few more conversations in this story about the strictness Shane keeps regarding his diet, because that's much easier to get my head around, but not the food itself. I just wouldn't even know how to approach it because the premise of the diet is already a little wonky to me.

Shane's Mediterranean restaurant is based off of a place nearby to me that I love. They call themselves Mediterranean cuisine, but they serve all sorts of dishes from many countries.

Chapter 14: Alright

Chapter Summary

“Is not fun to be drunk alone. I missed… here.” He swallows thickly, says quieter, “I wish you were not so nice to me. Makes it hard to... to..."

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay in chapter. I've been under the weather the latter part of the week! But we're back.

Fourteen

In the back of the SUV, Ilya sleeps.

Maybe dozes is more correct, for he still knows he’s in the back of a car on his way through Montreal. But when he shuts his eyes, images play in his mind that he’s not in control of. Instead of passing through the streets of a Canadian city, he imagines he’s in Moscow. A large, colorful Orthodox church comes into view on one side of the car.

Ilya hates this memory. He doesn’t revisit it often, but suddenly it’s here in vivid color, just like it had been on the actual day. He swallows around a lump in his throat, wishes he could ask the driver to keep going, don’t stop here, please, but he must. He must go here on this day. There will be no other chance.

He’s not small anymore, at least, and when he climbs out of the car, he looks at the ornate steps leading up the path with the eyes of an adult. His father is there in front of him, looking back, expression solemn and blank.

Inside, it's a beautiful church, with its hundred lit candles flickering and a crowd of people all dressed in black. Icons are painted along the upper balconies and the walls between the darkened stained glass. So dreary and stuffy, this place is at night.

Ilya thinks his mother’s panakhyda should have happened in the daytime, with sunshine coming through the windows. That’s how he wishes he could remember her memorial. That is not tradition, though.

Everyone is standing. There are no pews or seats, except the benches down the sides.

Alexei is next to him. He looks younger than Ilya remembers seeing him last, face all tearstained but solemn as a rock, just the same as their father. Ilya looks behind them, sees Grigori Rozanov there in his decorated police uniform. Ilya wonders what he could possibly be thinking. Is he glad to be rid of the wife he seemed so jealous of? Or resentful of her for leaving him alone to raise their children?

Ilya wonders why they’d ever gotten married at all. His anger at his father matches his sadness in equal measure.

He turns back, watches the priest saying his words with a practiced, melodic intonation that makes Ilya uneasy. How many times has the man said these same words? How many people has he held mourning for this week? His mother had loved the church, but Ilya hadn’t. He’d only liked visiting with her, seeing it through her eyes when he had to.

Ilya resents the entire event before it’s even come to an end. To petition his mother’s soul into heaven feels preposterous. Where else would she go? There was no one else who deserved it more than her.

He fumes in place.

A hand nudges his shoulder, and Ilya rounds on the person, unwilling to thank another well-wisher for coming on this terrible day. He hadn’t handled it well at twelve, and he isn’t handling it now at… at…

“Hi,” Shane says to him, voice soft, face even softer. He’s done up in a black suit, perfect mourning clothes. His brow is pinched as he looks at Ilya. Asks, “Are you alright?”

Shane doesn’t belong in this room.

Ilya doesn’t have time to be angry or shocked or even happy to see him. He falls into sadness so deep and black that it wrenches a sob from his belly. It overtakes him, doesn’t stop coming, and the entire church turns to look at him. Their attention only makes him sob louder.

Sir, someone says faintly.

Ilya’s eyes flutter open.

Cold car, woolen coat sleeves encasing his arms. He looks ahead to see the driver turned around in his seat, watching him with a guarded look.

“We’re here, sir,” he says, pointing out Ilya’s window.

Ilya looks out, sees that they’re sitting at the cross street behind Shane’s apartments. Between it and the next building stretches the familiar, narrow alleyway that Ilya has to go down. Every building on the block is darkened. Even the streetlights are out. It looks as sketchy as they come, and Ilya doesn’t blame the driver’s nervous look.

“Sir?”

Ilya’s face is damp. He presses his fingertips to his skin and realizes that he’d been crying. Quite a lot. He wonders for how long, and how loudly. He takes a shaking breath.

“Thanks…” he says, sitting up.

He feels like shit, body sore all over, stomach churning. He’d drunk far too much and eaten nothing.

He’s going to be sick.

“Are you… okay to walk?” the driver asks, looking hesitantly up and down the darkened road. Ilya fumbles with his seatbelt.

“Am okay,” Ilya says. His voice sounds so rough. He sounds the furthest thing from okay. The driver keeps watching him doubtfully. Ilya finds his phone and holds it up. “I will… call friend,” he promises as he pushes the back door open.

The cold hits him like a brick, eyes twinging against the wall of cold. He curses as he climbs out on wobbling legs. Squints at his screen, tries to put the password in. Fails. Tries again, fails again. He curses louder and holds the command button in. “Call… Jane,” he mutters, and hopes that his accent isn’t too thick to be understood. Everything has always been difficult, but now it feels ten times so.

The driver hesitates, idling behind him. Ilya shuts the door and waves him away. Finally, the car pulls off. Heads up the road, takes a left turn, presumably to head back for the bar.

Ilya takes a faltering step for the alley. It feels like he’s walking through quicksand for the effort it takes to do so. “Blyat,” he spits harshly.

He’s never drinking this much again.

Another step, and he remembers that he’d called Shane. He puts the phone to his ear and finds Shane already there on the other line.

“Rozanov? What the fuck— You there?”

“I am here,” Ilya gets out. He struggles greatly with the following sentence, sluggish brain stumbling through all the English he knows. “I am… at building. Can you come… get me?”

“Yeah, okay,” Shane starts, and he sounds a bit out of breath. “Are you okay?” He sounds concerned.

“No,” Ilya admits, brushing a hand roughly up his face through his hair. The cold does a bit to help him stay present, but getting through it and the snow build-up on the ground feels like a monumental task. “I am… fucked up.”

His stomach churns, and he remembers too late that he’s going to be sick.

He’s going to be sick right now.

“Shit,” he curses— in Russian or English, he doesn’t know— and tries to make it to the alleyway where he at least can’t be seen from every single building on the street. He makes it, though just barely, slipping down to his knees next to a green electrical box covered in a thick layer of frost. He leans against it as he heaves, hand with the phone falling away.

He hates throwing up.

It’s all liquid, and it reeks like bile and alcohol. Ilya shuts his eyes and tries to breathe through his nose, the cold air icing his lungs, giving him something to focus on. He feels snow beginning to slowly gather on the shoulders of his coat, though he can’t feel the cold through it just yet.

He heaves in one breath, then two, and determines that it’s safe to stand. He puts his weight against the electrical box and tries, but his legs don’t seem to want to cooperate with him. He groans miserably, head thunking against the metal with a hollow sound.

If he could only get up and get down the alleyway, he’d be alright. Shane would be there, and he’d know what to do. Shane knows all sorts of boring things; he’s sure that he will know how to make his world stop spinning.

He wishes Shane knew how to make his chest stop aching, how to make his memories of Moscow go away.

“Rozanov?” a voice calls down the alleyway. Ilya groans again, looking around the edge of the metal. A familiar figure comes trudging out of the dark.

Shane, Ilya thinks, relief bursting in his chest.

*

Shane finds himself alone at the back stairwell door. He looks around the darkened alleyway but sees no sign of Ilya. He realizes that he's going to have to venture out further to take a look.

He removes his coat and wedges it into the doorway to keep it propped open. "Shit," He curses, wrapping his arms around himself. His hoodie does very little to keep the cold at bay.

All night, he'd been expecting Ilya to call him to tell him he was going back to the hotel with his team after all, and that he'd be by the next day to pick up his things. It felt like the natural pull of things, tide coming in, tide going back out.

When he'd gotten Ilya's text, earlier than he'd thought, asking to come home... well, surprise had been an understatement. He'd spent every moment since wringing his hands, wondering what would happen when Ilya walked back through the door.

Home. Shane could feel the other through his few words. He knew just the feeling.

The call had given him a bit more insight into Ilya's state. Drunk with a capital D, and not in a fun way.

The snow continues to come down, but the wind has gone. He can hear the flakes patting against each other as they build up. It's very peaceful, and Shane might even enjoy going for a walk in it if he weren't freezing his balls off just from venturing a few feet in it.

The entire walk toward the next street, he doesn't see Ilya. He begins to worry that the other had gotten out at the wrong cross street altogether. With how drunk he'd been...

“Rozanov?” he tries. It's risky. No one is around, but all it would take is one person to recognize him, recognize the name he calls.

He's surprised to see movement on the ground. A curly head peaks out from around an electrical box, a hand waving sloppily.

“Here,” Ilya says, voice barely audible.

“Fuck,” Shane says, fearing the worst. He picks up the pace. “What happened?” he asks, looking down at Ilya hunched in the snow.

“Puke,” Ilya mutters, pointing helpfully at the mess before him.

Shane wrinkles his nose at the terrible color of it. It’s even melted through a bit. “Jesus. Okay,” he says, leaning down to put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “Can you stand?”

“Legs do not want,” Ilya says. His voice is all over the place. Shane can see the slight glaze in his eyes.

"Okay," Shane repeats, and begins to kick snow over the vomit. "C'mon." He turns to Ilya, getting a hand under each arm. The other is big, just as big as Shane, and possibly even broader in the chest, too. It takes all his strength and a smidge of Ilya's to get him upright. Ilya slumps over the electrical box, resting his head against his forearms with a groan.

“It’s cold,” Shane comments, rubbing his hands together. He means it as an explanation to his worry, and for why he’s in a hurry to get the other moving.

Ilya turns, looking at him through glassy eyes. “Oh really?”

Shane scoffs. “Wow. Still an asshole even when you’re hammered.”

Ilya stares at him for one long, silent moment. “Sorry,” he says thickly, hanging his head again. He even sounds like he really means it.

Shane frowns, coming closer, pulling the side of Ilya’s hood out to look. He finds the other’s face, up close, is covered in salt lines, red and blotchy. He falters, fingertips tracing under Ilya's eyes. His skin is still damp with recent tears, icy cold, nearly frozen.

Ilya looks at him, his gaze full of misery. Shane’s heart lurches.

“It’s okay,” Shane tells him without thinking, without even knowing why it wouldn’t be alright in the first place. They always bite at each other verbally. That’s part of what makes this thing with Ilya so addicting. “What happened?”

Ilya shakes his head. Shane cups the sides of his face with both hands and uses his thumbs to wipe the wetness away. Ilya won’t look him in the eye now.

“C’mon,” Shane says, reaching for him. Ilya pushes off the box and sways before Shane deposits himself under Ilya’s arm. He gets a hold around the other’s ribs, plastering their sides together, then begins leading them back down the alley. Ilya’s feet are clumsy, but Shane can tell he’s trying very hard to control them, gaze contorted in concentration.

“You… are not wearing coat,” Ilya comments slowly.

Shane clicks his tongue reproachfully. “And you’re drunk. Lucky I came out to find you. I guess we’re both idiots, hm?”

Ilya is quiet.

Shane had only meant to tease, but Ilya doesn’t seem to be in the headspace for banter. He looks even sadder.

“No, only me,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane's frown deepens. “Did you take anything?” he asks, and Ilya scoffs. It’s nearly cute for how exaggerated it is.

“I would not.”

“Okay,” Shane nods, keeping his voice light, hand squeezing Ilya’s ribs. “Just making sure.”

As they walk along, he can feel Ilya’s weight lean more heavily into him.

“I am sorry,” Ilya repeats, accent thicker.

“What? Why?”

“Just very sorry,” Ilya murmurs, mouth close to his ear. His breath is stale, but Shane can't bring himself to mind. “I am… fuck up.”

Shane falters. Up ahead, a thin strip of yellow light casts across the snowy alleyway, coming from the backup stairwell light. Nearly there.

“You’re not a fuck up,” Shane tells him, hand squeezing around his side reassuringly. He’s had to talk Hayden out of one or two bad nights of over-drinking over the years. He understands the basics, he thinks. Hopes. How different could Ilya's bad nights be?

“I am. Big, drunk, messy fuck up.” Ilya’s words blur together.

“Why are you saying this?” Shane readjusts Ilya’s arm over his shoulder, taking more of his weight to ease them along. The cold blows straight through his hoodie material, icing his chest. “You’re Ilya Rozanov. You have a million fans who adore you. You’re star captain, second best in the league,” Shane rattles on and tries once more to tease him at the end.

Ilya laughs humorlessly, head dropping. “Not even. I am… bad son. And bad friend. And… just bad.”

Shane swallows around a lump in his throat. “You’re not,” he murmurs.

Ilya only stares half-lidded at the ground as he tries to keep his feet walking in a straight line. Shane’s not even sure that he heard him over the sound of their boots compacting the snow beneath their weight.

He gets them through the stairwell door and is relieved when it shuts behind them. He leans Ilya against the wall while he shrugs into his coat, hissing at how cold the fabric has become. Soon, it begins to insulate his own heat to his skin. He warms his hands with his breath and watches Ilya.

The other has slumped into the wall, only just staying on his feet. His hands brace on the tops of his thighs, head hanging between his shoulders. His hands are beet red and white at the knuckles.

“Rozanov,” Shane starts, reaching for one of them. He clasps Ilya's palm between his own, and the other’s fingers are like ice cubes. He holds it to his lips and breathes warm air onto them. Reaches for the other hand and does the same.

Ilya looks up at him from under a furrowed brow, inexplicable emotion there. "Stop," Ilya murmurs miserably.

Shane can’t bear to see that look on his face, so he gently pulls Ilya to his side again. “C’mon. Sooner we get upstairs, the sooner we get warm.”

*

Shane considers it a minor miracle that Ilya is able to make the climb to the apartment at all.

Every few steps, the other grunts, a few more, and he moans low in his throat. At the bottom of the last flight, he shoves Shane away tactlessly and hunches in the corner, body wracked with dry heaves as he braces a hand against the wall.

Shane recovers and is back on him in a moment, pressing his hands to Ilya’s back, rubbing lightly through his coat at his shoulders, hoping that it does something to help and isn’t making it worse. “You’re alright, Rozanov,” he murmurs. "You're alright."

In the end, Ilya does not puke, but he needs help standing back up. Then, they brave the last flight.

The walk down the hall to Shane's front door is a cake walk.

Once inside the darkened apartment, Shane finally heaves a sigh of relief. The hardest part of the night ought to be over with. He goes about shedding his coat and boots. Ilya gets his own coat undone with some effort, and Shane takes it from him to hang up. Then, he immediately stoops to undo the laces on Ilya’s boots.

They’ve long since left any lingering traces of snow or salt on the stairs, for which Shane is thankful. He gets one boot unlaced and admires the quality of Ilya’s chosen shoes. He's always buying the nicest things to wear. Shane wonders if he's always had good taste, or if that had only developed after he'd started making money with the league. Ilya's boots are lined with fleece and are entirely waterproof. Any lingering melt rolls right off their tops.

A few droplets land on the tops of Shane’s hands, sliding between his knuckles. He frowns at how warm they are and finally looks upward to find their source.

Ilya's face is twisted up. Tears leak from his eyes.

Shane can only stare, fingers stilling on his laces. “What is it?” he asks faintly.

Ilya scrubs a hand over his face, embarrassed. “Sorry," he sniffs, his voice breaking strangely. “Don't need to... take care...” Of him, Shane finishes in his head, because Ilya can’t seem to get the rest of the sentence out. Ilya presses his long shirtsleeve to his eyes and keeps it there.

Shane focuses on his own breathing as he undoes Ilya’s laces and then stands to help the other step out of his boots. Ilya’s socked feet slip a bit on the wood, and Shane holds him chest to chest to steady him. Ilya turns his face away, curly hair falling from its typical pristine shape down onto his forehead. A small, upset sound escapes his lips.

“Rozanov,” Shane tries softly, righting him. “C’mon, just a few more steps to the sofa.”

They can deal with the tears once they’re sitting.

“No,” Ilya says, voice shot. He shakes his head. “I am… disgusting. Smell like… bar, and puke. I cannot.“

“It’s okay, Rozanov, I don’t mind.”

Ilya laughs humorlessly. “You do not mind? Your couch is expensive, yes?”

“You’re more lively, at least,” Shane murmurs, leading him.

“Will sit on floor,” Ilya protests, fighting Shane’s hold as they totter across the living room. Shane finally relents and steers them instead for the fire.

Ilya drops onto the area rug with less finesse than he might’ve if he were sober, but he seems determined to sit with his legs crossed.

Shane nudges the coffee table out of the way to make more space and then watches the back of Ilya’s head. The other hunches over himself.

"You're going to eat," Shane tells him, wandering for the kitchen.

Ilya murmurs something to himself that Shane doesn’t catch.

*

The fire is very warm. Shane sits shoulder to shoulder with Ilya on the rug, a plate of pita bread between them because he doesn’t keep crackers in his house. Ilya’s terrible mood seems to subside some as he stares at the patternless licking of the gas flame before them.

Sometimes he looks to his left, seemingly surprised every time to find Shane sitting there.

“Is good,” Ilya comments, holding up a torn piece of pita. “You eat some?”

“No,” Shane says automatically. It does smell delicious, but... his diet.

Ilya only looks sad at that. Shane feels a ping of something regretful inside his chest.

Ilya murmurs something in Russian, and Shane watches his plush lips move. “What was that?” Shane asks.

“Should not see me. Like this,” Ilya murmurs, keeping his eyes on the fire.

Shane shrugs. “It’ll just give me something to tease you about later.” It doesn’t feel quite like the right thing to say. Ilya doesn’t react one way or another. “Do you like the fire?” Shane tries.

“Mm,” Ilya nods. “Is warm.”

Shane thinks. “My parents had campfires every summer at their cabin,” Shane comments quietly. “I guess it was like tradition. We did it once a week, from June to August.”

Ilya looks at him, face more open. “You and parents… Brother, sister?”

“Only me,” Shane says, quietly.

He remembers the years he’d been aware of, when he was young. His mother and father talking about wanting Shane to have a little brother or sister. It’d never happened.

“You have a brother, don’t you?” Shane asks. He sees Ilya’s shoulders tense, face shifting. He regrets it immediately.

“Da,” Ilya nods. “In Russia.”

“Oh.” Shane looks for anything else to change the subject to. He can see something on the side of Ilya’s face, a mark pinker than the rest of his freckles or moles. “Hey,” he says, rubbing a thumb over it. “What’s this?” He laughs lightly, showing Ilya. It’s a bit waxy from the cold, but it looks like a red mauve lipstick. “You were kissing a girl? You had some fun at least, huh?”

It doesn’t feel nice to notice, not when he has such strong feelings about Ilya. But maybe it'll get the other's mind off his family.

Ilya watches him, eyes tired. “No.”

“...No?”

“Was not fun. Did not want,” Ilya says, voice sounding almost petulant. He looks at Shane with a desperate kind of look. “Did not want,” he repeats.

“Alright…” Shane nods.

“Is your fault.”

Shane can’t help but scoff. “What’s my fault?”

“I could not dance or kiss or… I did not want to be there anymore.”

Shane is quiet for a long moment, their shoulders burning through their shirts where they’re pressed together. “I’m sorry,” he finally says.

Ilya sighs. “Do not be. I should have come back to be boring with you, instead.”

“Rozanov…”

“Is not fun to be drunk alone. I missed… here.” He swallows thickly, says quieter, “I wish you were not so nice to me. Makes it hard to... to..."

Shane doesn’t know what to make of that, but Ilya’s soft tone makes him nervous about where the conversation is heading. “Rozanov,” he says again, a hand bracing on his forearm. “Maybe you should stop talking. You’re drunk.”

“Yes?”

Shane frowns. “I don’t want you to... say something you’ll regret tomorrow,” Shane adds softly, rubbing his thumb against Ilya’s wrist.

Ilya looks even sadder at those words, head dropping. “I wish to tell you many things…” Ilya starts.

Shane hesitates. “Rozanov…”

As much as he’d love to hear the things Ilya wants to tell him, he would feel like shit. It wouldn’t be in good conscience. Ilya may very well regret it come morning.

“Ilya,” Ilya says quietly, catching him off guard.

“What?”

“Not ‘Rozanov’. I…” Ilya presses a hand to his eyes, and Shane can hear the way his voice chokes him in the back of his throat.

It’s all Shane can do not to reach out and pull his hand away to look at his face. To cup his cheeks and kiss him to soothe the obvious pain from him.

“Call me… call me…” Ilya swallows thickly, and Shane finally recognizes what he wants.

“Ilya,” Shane says, reaching a hand out to brush over his jaw. “I’ll call you Ilya, then.” He hesitates, feeling like he’s standing on a precipice, and once he slips over the edge, there will be no going back. “Call me Shane, too?”

Ilya blinks at him, finally. “Is okay?”

Shane’s throat bobs with a click. “Yes.” He’d like very much to call each other their names. He’s wanted it for a long time, in fact.

Ilya tilts sideways, laying his head against Shane’s shoulder, even though he has to bend a bit to do so. Shane hears him sniff loudly, messily, and doesn’t mind a bit. He wraps a hand around his back, holding him there.

The fear he feels about it is only rivaled by the high-flying elation he also feels. He drags his hand up Ilya’s back to tangle with his soft curls, brushing them through gently. Ilya’s eyes begin to slip shut.

Shane feels a seed of something bloom in him, protectiveness, adoration, he couldn’t really put a name to it.

Ilya murmurs something in Russian, long and slow. Shane wishes he could understand. To make up for it, he cranes his head down to press his lips to Ilya's cheek against his most prominent mole. Holds there, feels the other relax into him further.

“It’ll be alright, Ilya," he murmurs, even though he isn't sure it will be, for either of them. He can pretend that it will be, though, alone here together. He holds onto the other tighter.

Chapter End Notes

I expected them to be a little further along and for them to have talked a bit more by now. They still could, actually, since they haven't definitively gone to bed lol.

I had like 90% of this chapter written and then fell on some bad physical times, if you will. I've been picking away at the last 10%, and I still think it's solid. But I left some room to expand in the beginning of next chapter!

The whole dream of the Russian memorial was a last minute addition. I just felt like exploring Ilya's memory of it, as I feel drunk-him would be being bombarded with sad memories on a bad night. I went down a little rabbit hole of Russian Orthodox practices, which was fun and interesting in its own right.

All that to say, hope it made up for some of the hurt lol. There's still pain to work through, but they're back together now, at least!

Cheers and thanks for reading!

Chapter 15: The Misunderstanding

Chapter Summary

Ilya runs his tongue along the insides of his teeth, watching the way Shane’s calculating eyes watch him. “Would be madness. Would you be okay with it?” Ilya asks mildly.

Chapter Notes

Thanks for your well wishes in the last chapter, they are much appreciated!

On to the chapter!

Fifteen

Shane hasn’t slept on the floor since he was at a classmate's sleepover in his youth.

After Ilya nods off on his shoulder, Shane eases him down until he’s lying across the rug, propping him on his side for fear of him vomiting in his sleep. The other hadn’t seemed drunk enough for that, but Shane is acutely afraid of letting himself rest without taking precautions.

He considers going to his room or climbing onto the sofa. But that would require him to act like he doesn’t want to be there with Ilya lying on the ground. He isn’t willing to put on such a show for himself tonight. Not when Ilya had worn some of his heart on his sleeve for him to see. Willingly or not was besides the point.

Shane retrieves a few sofa cushions and a large throw from the closet. At first, he sits cross-legged behind Ilya, watching the fire and wondering how much longer this blackout is going to last. He listens to the sound of Ilya’s breathing, ensuring that it’s even and deep.

Eventually, his eyes begin to burn with the effort to keep them open.

He gently eases down behind Ilya, covering them both up and wedging cushions beneath their heads. After a moment of thought, he gently nudges his arm beneath Ilya’s, securing it around the sculpted waist he can feel beneath his shirt. The other’s ribs expand and contract with each breath, and without meaning to, Shane matches his own to it. He lets his eyes close and shuffles forward, pressing his forehead to the back of Ilya’s neck.

Finally, he sleeps.

He thinks he hears Ilya say his name. More than once.

Each time, he opens his eyes, and the room is still dim with night. Ilya’s big shoulder is there to block out most of the firelight. “Yeah?” Shane murmurs, but Ilya is never actually awake to answer him, only shifting minutely against him. Shane continues to hold him.

Once, towards morning, he wakes and thinks he hears Ilya mutter the word mama. Shane wonders if it means what he thinks.

Ilya doesn’t talk about his mother. Shane is at least savvy enough to know that that means he shouldn’t ask about her. He’d be lying to say he didn’t want to know, though. He wants to know desperately, sometimes, about Ilya’s life back in Russia. Who is his father? His brother? Where do they live? Did he grow up in a big house, in an apartment, or in the country?

Would Ilya not talk about his mother if she were alive? Is she alive but estranged from him? If she were, would that make Ilya sad, or would he be glad for it?

If Ilya wanted to tell him, Shane would gladly listen.

He props up onto an elbow, craning his neck to see over Ilya’s hunched shoulder. Ilya’s face is held in a mask of stiff anxiety, the corners of his closed eyes tight and creased. There is a small wrinkle between his furrowed brows. His breath shakes out of his nose. Maybe it’s only the firelight making him think he sees it, but Shane could swear there’s moisture glistening in the corner of his eye. He looks like a grown man in the grimmest of senses. Aged by circumstances instead of by time simply passing.

Shane leans over him to kiss the side of his neck that he can reach, as light and gentle as he can manage.

“S’alright,” he murmurs. His voice cracks with tiredness.

He loops his arm back under Ilya’s, wrapping it across the other’s sternum and feeling his breath shudder in and out. He holds him fast against his chest, like he can somehow soothe the other’s worries by pulling them out through his ribs.

Shane’s mother had held him like this in his earliest school days. Helping him fall asleep on nights when he didn’t want to go to class the next day, for fear of facing loneliness or other boys commenting about how he looked. Everyone kept him at arm's length until he’d learned how to orient himself in the world without a rulebook.

Eventually, the tension melts out of Ilya’s body. The other shifts, leaning back into him, and when Shane looks at his face, it looks young once more.

They have accomplished many of the same achievements— more than most accomplish in their entire lives. They’re incredibly lucky for it, but Shane isn’t naive enough to think that Ilya hasn’t gone through something wholly different from himself.

As he presses his forehead back into Ilya’s hair, he breathes in his smell: musk, oil, sweat. All good things when they’re coming off Ilya. Shane couldn’t have imagined he’d be able to achieve this feeling in his life, no matter how much daydreaming he’d done as a lonely child. He hadn’t thought it was possible for him.

He pets a hand gently up and down the other’s stomach through his shirt. The repetitive movement of it lulls Shane back to sleep as well.

*

Two hours before sunup.

Somewhere down the block, an electrical worker stands on a bucket platform high up in the air. He fixes the last of the ice-damaged lines leading into a transformer. When he’s done, he lowers his bucket and signals to the crew below. One man speaks into a handheld radio to another man even further down the road.

Once everyone is safely on the ground, they stand and wait for power to be restored to the area and to see if their hard work has paid off.

*

Ilya’s back is toasty warm. There’s an arm wrapped around his middle that’s relaxed with sleep, but the pressure of it holding him to the ground is so nice that he lets himself doze back off for at least another thirty minutes before he rouses awake fully.

When he does, he recognizes Shane’s fireplace in front of them, flame dead. Probably an automatic shutoff. Shane would have that sort of precaution built in.

When he shifts, Ilya’s entire body aches. The ground is terribly hard beneath his hip. “Fuck,” he mutters, and eases onto his back. He jostles Shane awake in doing so.

“Ilya?” Shane’s head pops up to look down at him, dark eyes blinking and focusing.

Ilya’s heart clenches at the sound of his own name. Despite how hammered he’d been, he remembers what had happened the night before. Most of it, anyway. Half of it. He swallows guiltily.

“Mm…” he murmurs as he searches Shane’s face for signs of anything gone amiss. Had he said anything too out of line in the dim moments he can’t remember? Besides asking to call each other by their first names— something he never would’ve dreamed of doing if he were sober.

Shane looks him up and down. The hand across his belly shifts, and Ilya feels it slide upward until it appears out from under the throw. It rests across the middle of his chest. Despite his trepidation, it feels very nice. He couldn’t have said anything too nasty if Shane is looking at him like this.

“Do you feel okay?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods, though it isn’t quite true. His stomach is queasy, and his head is pounding. “Did I say anything terrible to you?”

“What?”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder up. “When I drink, sometimes. Sometimes goes badly. I am mean.”

“You weren’t mean.” He hesitates. “You were actually a big teddy bear.”

Ilya stares at him, mortified. “What?”

“I'm joking… You were sort of upset, though.”

Ilya remembers that much, at least. He’d had a terrible night of memories and guilt all muddled together in the swamp of his mind. It felt like he’d been wading through it for longer than a night. All he’d wanted to do was come home to Shane, and when he had…

“You were cute, too,” Shane says quietly. “I’ve never seen that side of you before.”

“Is not a side,” Ilya insists with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Is silly, emotional reaction to alcohol. That is all.”

Shane frowns at him. “I didn’t think it was silly.”

“Well… what do you know, you do not drink.”

“Fuck off, yes I do,” Shane says, some of his mild combativeness returning. “Not as much as you, apparently.”

“Yes, well… It will not happen again,” Ilya mutters. He can’t ever let it happen. Not when he’d been drunk by his own volition, vomiting and crying and god-knows what else. Shane would surely not find their time together worth it if Ilya put him through looking after him like that again.

Shane is many things, kind and practical. It makes it all the more embarrassing to fall apart in front of him.

He’d known that Shane wouldn’t let anything happen to him while he was indisposed. Maybe that's one of the reasons he wanted to come back. He feels a bit like he's taken advantage of some unspoken thing between them, though.

He should make it up to Shane, somehow.

He turns his face, looking at the dead fire. His eyes drift up to the television, and he notices the little LED standby light on the television is lit up. “Hey…” he says, pointing. Shane’s eyes follow his finger. “Is power back?”

The two of them jump up in a scramble after that, Ilya going for the remote control, Shane heading for the thermostat.

The television turns on, tuned into the same news station as it had been on when it had been turned off the last time.

“-- with a high of 1 degree. Tomorrow, Wednesday, the high remains at 1-- “

“Finally,” Ilya groans, tossing himself onto Shane’s sofa with an exaggerated groan. “Return of civilization.”

The heating system kicks on, and Shane scoffs, thunking down next to him just a foot away. “Yeah, we were really roughing it, the last twenty-four hours.”

“Snow is letting up,” Ilya says, pointing at the television, where a meteorologist points out the predicted snowfall for the rest of the week. It seems that the plows are finally catching up with the work laid out ahead of them, salt and sand being dispersed across the city roads, groups collecting volunteers to clear driveways and walk-paths for the elderly.

They wake up with the television on, and the apartment finally begins to heat.

“Maybe we should make another donation,” Shane murmurs. “Homeless shelters are probably at full capacity... Animals, the elderly..."

Ilya turns to watch the side of his face. Shane’s tired eyes are still crusted with sleep, skin puffy, hair a mused-up mess. He looks perturbed, arms folded over his chest. He looks very serious.

I like you very much, Ilya realizes quietly.

“Yes, maybe so,” Ilya nods. He's not sure where Montreal's deficiencies lie, but he's sure they exist. They exist everywhere, no matter how modern. There is always someone who will need help. “I suppose you want to make first move this time? Don’t want me to take the credit again?” He means it teasingly. He doesn’t actually care which one of them gets the credit for it.

“What if we made it together?”

“Together?”

Shane shrugs. “A joint donation.”

Ilya runs his tongue along the insides of his teeth, watching the way Shane’s calculating eyes watch him. “Would be madness. Would you be okay with it?” Ilya asks mildly.

Shane slides a half-foot closer, propping his arm up around the back of the sofa behind Ilya’s shoulders. “It’s stupid. Why do we have to be rivals all the time?”

Ilya swallows thickly. Because people might notice how I look at you if we aren’t. “I don’t know.”

“I mean… we don’t have to be best friends. But…” Shane hesitates. “I’d be… I dunno, sorta proud to make a donation with you. Officially. With both our names on it.”

“Mine first,” Ilya says, because he's in the habit of dispelling tension.

“Sure, whatever,” Shane says, because Shane’s never demanded attention.

“Is only about public opinion? You want us to look good?” Ilya asks, smirking.

“You know it’s not.”

“Yes. I know,” Ilya says, because he can’t disrespect Shane like that. It’s a step too far. He sees the care the other gives to himself and to everyone around him. How could anyone ever doubt that Shane Hollander cares for struggling people? “Yes, okay. Today, I will call publicist.”

“Me too,” Shane says, his mouth breaking into a lovely smile.

Honest-to-god butterflies burst in Ilya's belly. To have Shane look at him like that, it'd be hard not to agree to anything he said. No matter how scared he is of it. Scared of the shift in their relationship, scared of what his family will think. Scared that Shane will regret it too, because he's been just as worried as Ilya has about being found out.

He's surprised that the other would even suggest such a thing, but with how Shane looks at him, maybe he shouldn't be.

Before he can help it, Ilya takes Shane's chin in his hand, holding his face just so. Shane never pulls back from his hold. Ilya suspects that he likes it when Ilya takes physical control of him, and Ilya's grateful that he's trusted enough to do so.

Ilya brings their faces together, bumps their foreheads. Opens his mouth. Says, “I would kiss you, but your breath stinks.”

Shane wrenches away from him with a startled laugh. “My breath?” He sounds appalled, but a smile splits his face. “You’re the one who puked your guts out onto the sidewalk and ate garlic pita!”

Ilya’s head thunks onto the back of the sofa. “Ah, do not remind me. Never again,” he says, and means it. “We must brush our teeth. And then I will kiss you so hard you will not remember your name, or last night.”

They do brush their teeth, and Ilya does back Shane into the counter, and he does kiss him as hard as he can. His shame over the night before begins to fade, and his trepidation about their joint donation or the terrible future doesn’t seem nearly as pressing a matter.

All that matters is where Shane’s mouth yields to his, plush bottom lip dropping open as Ilya’s tongue licks in to meet Shane’s. This is all that should ever matter, he thinks, nearly feeling drunk again. He wishes he could do just this for the rest of eternity.

He could give up hockey and the league and fame and money and cars and even women, if he could just keep this. This person.

The thought used to scare him shitless. Now, it barely makes a dent.

*

They can’t have sex. Not just yet. Shane wants to shower.

Ilya needs to shower.

As Shane is testing the hot water, Ilya looks through his duffel bag and announces that he can’t find his phone.

The water begins to come out steamy, and Ilya comes up behind him.

“It’s not on you?” Shane asks.

“Not in my pants,” Ilya frowns, looking around with hands hitched on his hips. Shane thinks of making a joke about Ilya’s half-mast erection that is clearly visible through his jeans. But the prospect of a missing phone has always filled his stomach with dread, even when he wasn't a world-famous hockey player.

“It’s around here somewhere, right?” Shane’s voice wavers.

Ilya turns back to him, a brow raised. “Do not worry pretty head… I do not keep anything incriminating on it.”

“Not our messages?”

“Maybe last few. I delete every few days.” He notices Shane’s furrowed brow and smiles. “Nothing to worry about. I have lost it once or twice. Is password-protected. I just call, have it wiped. Will be fine.”

Shane nods, feeling minutely better. Not wanting to ruin the morning with his anxiety, he waves Ilya on. “Water's hot. You go clean up. I’ll find your phone.”

Ilya looks a bit surprised by the generosity. “Yes?”

“I don’t mind,” Shane says, and really, he’d like for Ilya to get washed up as fast as possible. So that Shane can get his mouth on his dick.

“Come join me before too long…” Ilya says, pale eyes flicking down Shane’s body appreciatively. “Would like to thank you for taking care of me.”

Shane’s blood begins draining south, and he mutters his way out of the bathroom before he starts stripping then and there.

He checks Ilya’s coat pockets and even inside his boots. Checks the kitchen counter, the coffee table, and the entire area rug. Then he checks under the rug, and under the couch, and when nothing turns up, he begins to think over the long trek they made the night before.

He looks upstairs at his open bedroom door, to his front door. He doesn’t see a reason to bother Ilya in the shower. He’ll only be out for a couple of minutes at the most. Ilya will just have to wait for him.

There is, unsurprisingly, nothing in the hallway. He checks each of the eight flights of stairs they’d climbed, though he thinks he would remember hearing a phone clatter out of Ilya’s pocket. It would’ve echoed the whole way down the hollow column.

Down, down he climbs until he reaches the bottom level. Nerves begin to bite at his insides as he slips out the side door. He’ll have to enter back around the front, which isn’t a big deal, but will take longer.

In the alley, he takes his time, scanning back and forth. There’s a fresh blanket of powdery snow on the ground, so he gets his own phone out and hopes that Ilya’s battery had had a decent charge in it when he’d dropped it.

The line rings, at least. He doesn’t hear it, so he keeps going, heading for the mouth of the alley where he’d found Ilya. There’s no sign of puke next to the electrical box anymore. Shane calls the phone again, and finally, he hears it. But it isn’t coming from the electrical box or the alleyway.

“Hollander?”

As Shane turns around, his mind files through his memories, attempting to place the voice that said his name. He’s sure he knows it. He doesn’t find the face to match it until it’s too late. When he does, his stomach drops into his feet.

"Marleau," Shane murmurs.

Marleau stands under the stoop of the building opposite his apartment complex. In his hand is Ilya’s phone, the screen lit up as it rings away. Jane’s name is plastered across the front of it, as it had no doubt been the first time Shane had tried calling it.

Shane stares at the phone. He clutches his own tightly in his palm.

Marleau looks a bit like he’s seeing a ghost, looking down the alley and then back at him.

“What are you doing here?” Marleau asks. He stands half a foot taller than Shane. His big snow boots give him an extra boost.

“Uh…” Shane stammers because he can't think. “It’s a long story.”

He can’t deny all knowledge. Marleau is holding Ilya’s phone, the phone Shane came looking for, in this exact spot. “I... ran into Rozanov last night. He thought he might’ve dropped that somewhere out here.” The phone stops ringing, the caller ID dropping into blackness.

Marleau watches him. Shane can tell that his lie isn’t landing one bit.

“Right… So, why isn’t he here looking for it?”

Shane swallows. “He… isn’t feeling well.”

Marleau blinks. “And why would he? He was plastered when I saw him last.” His voice is deathly even, no sign of friendliness to be found. He looks up and down the road once more. “I tried calling him this morning. A few times. He didn't answer.” Marleau’s mouth presses into a severe line. “I had our driver bring me where he dropped him last night.” Marleau’s eyes narrow on him. “And here you are.”

Shane knows he can’t talk his way out of this. Can’t think of a lie quickly enough. He’s not Ilya; he has to think things through longer, plan ahead, can’t just pull things out of his ass on the fly— he has to try, though.

“He called me last night,” Shane says, and even he can hear his voice tremble. “He was pretty drunk… He was nearby, asked if he could sleep it off on my sofa…” He swallows thickly. "We're actually friends." It's their next best move, he realizes. Fuck it if they get found out as friends, plenty of opposing players are. At least the league won't know they sleep together.

Marleau watches him, and Shane can see his mind ticking. Finally, he sighs. “I know I may look like a big, stupid lughead. But I'm not. And you’re a really bad liar, Hollander.”

Doesn’t Shane know it.

Marleau goes on, voice growing more intense. “Roz was going to his girl's place last night. His girl, who he texts at all hours, for years now. He came here.” He holds his arms out. “And here you are. Don’t lie to me anymore.” He holds the phone up. “You’ve called this phone twice, now, haven’t you? Came out looking for it?”

Shane swallows, feels like there’s no moisture left in his body to wet his tongue.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He feels like he’s dreaming, like he’s floating above his body, but in a bad way. Like his soul is trying to leave. Can Shane’s body operate without it, he wonders vaguely.

“Cut the shit,” Marleau says, voice sharp. “You’re Jane.”

“I’m not.”

Marleau holds Ilya’s phone to his mouth, thumb pressing the command button. Shane opens his mouth, but his voice catches. “Call Jane,” Marleau says monotonously.

Calling Jane, the phone repeats. Shane reaches out a weak hand. “Marleau,” he finally chokes out. “Stop.”

Marleau watches him guardedly, and in another moment, the phone in Shane’s hand begins ringing.

He might shake— if he weren’t petrified. If his body weren’t screaming at him to turn and flee. But where could he go that this revelation wouldn’t follow him? There’s nowhere on earth that’s safe. Not now that someone knows— now that Cliff Marleau of the Boston Raiders knows his and Ilya’s secret.

Marleau hangs up his phone, sighing through his nose. “Like I said.” He nods at Shane’s phone. It goes quiet a moment later. “Jane.”

Shane’s breath shakes in and out of his chest.

“So, what, you two are fucking or something?” Marleau asks suspiciously.

“No,” Shane says, but he doesn’t know how much Marleau already knows about Ilya’s and Jane’s relationship. Doesn’t know if he can play them off for friends or not. “No, just—"

“I wanna see him,” Marleau says, voice hard, full of anger.

Shane doesn’t know Marleau, other than from their meetings on the ice. He’s big and strong, and what he lacks in speed he makes up for in brutality.

There’s righteous betrayal in Marleau’s face. Shane doesn’t know what it all adds up to in the moment, but he knows that he doesn’t want that scornful look directed at Ilya. Not after such a rough night, not when it might mean the end of Ilya and Marleau’s friendship, possibly the end of Ilya’s place on his team in Boston. What if it means a physical fight?

“Hollander,” Marleau repeats with a threatening step toward him.

“No way.”

Marleau blinks at him. “The fuck?” he snaps, and suddenly his fist is twisted in the front of Shane’s coat, and they’re stumbling through the snow into the alley, until Marleau has him pinned back into the wall, the air between them electrified with the prospect of violence. “What do you mean, no? Why not? Where is he?”

Shane bristles. That same feeling blooms in his chest from the night before, the same fierceness he felt seeing Ilya in a near-helpless state. He shoves Marleau back, pretending he’s on the ice— it’s certainly cold enough. He squares his shoulders, glares.

“What are you gonna do to him, huh? Yell at him? Tell him he’s a traitor or something, over a stupid fucking rivalry?” Shane’s fists ball up at his sides, preparing for a fight. He hasn’t been in very many scraps on the ice, and not a single one off it, though there’d been a few close calls. “You gonna hurt him or something for this?” he hisses. He doesn’t want to believe the other capable of it, but with the rage on Marleau’s face, in every line of his body, Shane doesn’t know what to think. All he does know is that Marleau isn't getting through him.

Marleau’s posture breaks. He lets go of Shane’s coat abruptly and straightens, shoulders falling. He looks bewildered. “Hurt him?” He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “I’ve been worried about him all goddamn night! And now he’s not here, and his phone is just abandoned in the alley— our driver said this entire neighborhood was in a blackout last night. Roz was crying. And now you, of all people, won’t let me see him?” Marleau looks so affronted that it shocks Shane out of his defensiveness. “Goddamnit, Hollander, I wanna make sure he’s okay."

They stare at one another.

Maybe, in his own spiraling fear, Shane had mistook Marleau’s expression for anger instead of the fierce protectiveness it was.

Shane clears his throat. “You’re worried about him.”

Marleau gesticulates wildly. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ worried! You being a freak about this isn’t making me feel any better. I know we've never trusted each other, Hollander, but— ” Marleau clicks his tongue. “Fuck, you think I’d beat his ass for— for— what, being gay?”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits, because up until this moment, he hadn’t. Marleau looks at him like the idea is preposterous. “Shit,” Shane mutters.

“Is he alright?” Marleau stresses, staring at Shane like he’s stupid. Credit to Marleau, he feels pretty stupid.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Shane says, taking a deep breath. “We'd better get out of this alley before someone hears. C’mon.” He motions for Marleau to follow him.

“C’mon where?” Marleau demands, voice hard.

“To my apartment.”

Chapter End Notes

Based on the title, you thought it was gonna be a misunderstanding between Shane and Ilya, didn't you? I got your ass. We don't do (ridiculous) miscommunication here, folks. (They said, right after writing miscommunication between Shane and Marleau)

Marleau batman voice "Where is he!?"

I hope the hostility between Shane and Marleau makes sense. From an outsiders perspective, we can see and know all. But neither of them knows the other beyond a few passing words.

Shane is hard to read to any outsider, probably, and maybe he seems a bit weird to those who don't know him. Marleau seems big and brutish, and maybe even like a bigot to those who don't know him. At least that's my take. I think they'd be trying to suss each other out for a long time. Meanwhile, social butterfly Ilya can read them both like a book.

My headcanon for Shane is that he was a lonely child. I'm not sure if this is discussed in the books or not. He's autistic, so it's possible he had a hard time learning how to make close friends. It also makes sense to me that he would latch onto hockey and become amazing at it, and use that in his youth to make connections as well.

And that's all the notes I have.

Thanks for reading. We've made contact with this chapter. Ground control to Major Tom.

Until next chapter!

Extra Note: I should update readers about how I'm researching this story, in case anyone wonders! Originally, I was writing based off show facts only, and a handful of things I knew about from the books.

But every once in a while I see, in a comment under a video or post, a detail from the book that fits my needs, and I'll incorporate it. In the beginning, I was more focused on the show, but I'm willing to blend book elements in too, no problem. Like them deleting evidence off their phones- I read somewhere that that was in the book. Though I haven't verified if this is actually in the book for myself.

So if you see something familiar from the book, I am not Nostradamus! I simply heard it down the grapevine, or read it in the wiki, or, sometimes, I even go digging through the books to try to find details. I try to defer to the show first for the characters, and the text secondary if I want to make sure I'm not going completely against canon. Anyway, making that clear! Goodnight.

Feb. 13 Note: Cliff Marleau's name has been restored to it's proper place. No more "Chris's" here🙃 More on that next chapter.

Chapter 16: One of Many Reasons

Chapter Summary

Marleau stares at Ilya, and his face slowly morphs into understanding. “Holy shit. It really is… all of that. You’re sleeping together.”

Chapter Notes

I did not think I was going to get this out today. I've got a hard day coming up (taking myself to the doctor, which I hate.) But maybe I'll get a comfy new writing chair afterwards as a little treat.

Thank you to those who pointed out that I (unintentionally!) renamed Cliff to "Chris." I'd like to say it was autocorrect, but it was definitely not! My tags even said "Chris Marleau" which is not a character, but in my head... it just equated to "Cliff Marleau."

(I even saw the earliest comments just correctly referring to him as Cliff and my brain was like "Yeah, that's his name! And that's definitely what I've been referring to him as!" and I was not.) This is what I get for not reading the book to cerement his first name into my psyche.

My pride is wounded. I have done Chri- I mean Cliff Marleau an injustice. Hopefully it didn't pull too many readers out of the story! (my biggest worry.) I will simply never refer to his first name again. He is simply Marly/Marleau, as he has always been in my mind. Off to lick my wounds. Can you tell I'm embarrassed?

Also! I have thrown a quick playlist together of the HR OST songs I listen to while writing emotional scenes. In case you want to listen to it to read or write. Super basic, you could've made this yourself. Best listened to with a storm ambience, but that would require a laptop, probably.

On a more serious note, thank you as always for reading, and onto the chapter!

Sixteen

Ilya begins to lose patience in the shower.

He scrubs himself up with Shane’s bar soap, expecting the other to walk in any minute. When he does, he’ll want to clean himself up, and maybe he’ll even try to blow Ilya.

Ilya won’t let him. Instead, he’ll turn Shane around, pin him in the corner so he’s just out of the spray. And Ilya will be the one to drop to his knees. He’ll tease and play and suck Shane so good that the other never thinks about anyone else ever again.

Maybe that’s selfish of him.

Ilya will leave, come Thursday morning. He’ll board a plane with the rest of his teammates, and they’ll fly away from Montreal to the States. And the next time he sees Shane, it may very well be February.

And it will be in Russia, which means that Ilya will be doing everything he can to avoid being within twenty feet of Shane Hollander. He won't look at him, and he won't talk to him, and he certainly won't text him within his country's borders.

The thought of Russia needles into his brain, souring all the nice feelings he'd been holding onto from the morning. He wishes Shane would hurry up and come back so he can forget about it all again for a little while.

Shane does not come back, though.

Ilya stays under the spray long enough to start feeling guilty about using so much hot water. He finally steps out and takes one of the towels from the rack— his or Shane's, it does not matter to him. He looks at his reflection and rubs water from his hair. It begins to curl at the ends, and he uses his fingers to try to encourage them into an appealing shape. Hopefully, the shape will not matter for too long. Hopefully, Shane's fingers will tangle into them and tug and pull. Hopefully, soon.

He pokes his head out of the steamy bathroom to listen.

"Shane?" he calls, and is disquieted when the other doesn't answer.

It would be the perfect time to snoop, only that there's not much to snoop on about Shane Hollander. Ilya looks through the bathroom cupboard and finds a folded terrycloth robe. He pulls it out and gives it a shake. The smell of detergent reaches his nose.

It's not a very cozy material. Even his robes are boring, Ilya thinks as he slips it on over his shoulders. Why put on clothes if he's only going to strip right back out of them? The robe stretches a bit tight around his chest, but fits him perfectly otherwise. He looks at himself in the mirror and nearly snorts at how docile his reflection looks. Limp hair and sash tied around his middle. He looks like he’s about to read the morning paper in the black-and-white American films that constantly play on hotel televisions. They, in turn, remind him of some of the old Soviet films he'd grown up watching.

Best to keep his thoughts off Russia, though.

When he wanders downstairs, he finds that he is alone in the apartment. Shane’s coat and boots are gone, so the other no doubt left to check the stairs, maybe even the alleyway.

Ilya would call him to tell him to forget about it for now, but, well.

Instead, he turns the television on and prepares to wait.

He could touch himself, work himself back up to a reasonable erection. He might get too overzealous, though. How much fun would it be if they had to wait for him to recover?

He’s not sure he wants to wait for Shane to shower after all this. The other doesn’t have to prep so thoroughly every time, does he? Ilya isn’t some pearl-clutching stranger, after all. He can handle a little misadventure in the bedroom, especially if it’s with Shane. He doesn’t think he could ever find the other gross or repulsive, not after he’s had his mouth on every point of his body he can get it on, and loved it.

He’d rather jump right to it when Shane returns. Maybe he could convince him…

The door lock clicks open, and Ilya turns to look. He stretches an arm across the back of the sofa, trying to look appealing enough to get Shane to come sit with him.

“Did you get lost?” he questions sarcastically as Shane comes through the door. “I have waited long time.” He can probably tease a blush onto the other’s face before he even gets his boots unlaced.

Shane’s face is grim, though.

Ilya falters. A large shape joins Shane in the doorway. It reminds Ilya a bit of a church funeral, long shadows and dour expressions.

It’s Marleau.

Time comes to a halt, and Ilya doesn’t take a breath for far too long.

Then, he curses in Russian and jumps to his feet. "What—“ he starts, and then snaps his mouth closed, looking from Shane's reddened face to Marleau. His friend has got a stiff look on his already severe features. When he spots Ilya, he freezes as well.

“Roz.”

"Hollander," Ilya stresses carefully, eyes ticking over Shane’s face, searching for any clue, any context to what could possibly be going on. Surely this is a dream. He’d fallen asleep on Shane’s sofa waiting for him; that’s got to be it.

"He knows," Shane says quietly, and Marleau steps in behind him, the door shutting quietly.

“Roz,” Marleau repeats, brow furrowing up in confusion. Obviously. Because Ilya is only wearing a fucking bathrobe in Shane Hollander’s apartment. Because it's obvious that Ilya is quite comfortable here, that he'd been waiting for Shane to return so they could—

Marleau knows?

Knows what?

What is Marleau even doing here? Here, in Shane’s apartment, of all places. Their one safe haven away from all the eyes of the world. Shane’s apartment, where nobody else comes except Ilya. Where Ilya expected to be able to dream the rest of their impromptu break away without having to think about the past or the future or Russia or Boston.

“I will change,” Ilya says.

His limbs feel stiff as he walks. He has to brush past them both to reach the stairs.

He feels ridiculous in Shane’s robe now. Shame bubbles in his stomach. He’d been so happy just a few moments before, waiting for Shane to come back so they could be together… Ilya can’t even think about being with Shane now, with Marleau there. It’s as if his brain has cracked in half, one half in Shane’s world, the other flooding with cold, stark reality.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself as he gets changed into sweats and a long-sleeve shirt. Fuck fuck fuck. He can already feel this scar setting in deep into his psyche. And he doesn’t want to think about what still waits for him down below, how this day will turn out by the end. He very well could be sent packing before their next game.

The thought of it, of leaving Montreal, of leaving the States, leaving Shane, all because Marleau decided to get nosy, makes rage bloom in his belly.

When he returns, his friend is standing in the middle of Shane’s apartment, coat laid over the back of one of Shane’s dining chairs. He looks around with an appraising eye at Shane’s clean, neat living space. Ilya wonders what he sees. Does he see the cold interiors of a stranger's house, or can he see all the touches of Shane there like Ilya had the first night?

Shane has busied himself in his kitchen. The coffee pot bubbles behind him, and he stands in the awkward way he always does when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his face. He watches Ilya blankly. Ilya pities him and wishes he could stand next to him, hold his face, and massage his thumbs into the downturned corners of his mouth until they curl up again.

But he has to face Marleau.

At least Shane is still on his feet. Ilya thought he’d be beside himself for how nervous he'd been. Maybe this is how Shane reacts to pure fear.

Marleau’s eyes land on the rumpled throw still strewn across the area rug in front of the fireplace, along with a few of the couch cushions. It's plain to see that they've had a sleepover. It looks as incriminating as it possibly could. Didn't even get to have sex, Ilya thinks ruefully.

Marleau finally turns to Ilya, mouth hard. He reaches into his coat and pulls Ilya’s phone out, handing it over. Ilya takes it. It’s got 8% battery, two missed calls from Jane, and five from Marleau.

It’s not hard to figure out what’d happened in Shane’s absence. Shane is braced against the kitchen counter, fingers tapping in a nervous rhythm as he stares into the space between Ilya and Marleau.

It makes Ilya all the angrier. Their peace, ruined.

“I called you, Roz. A few times.”

Ilya’s voice is the perfect mask of nonchalance. “Misplaced my phone.”

“S'one way of putting it.” Marleau scowls. “When you wouldn’t pick up, I came down here.”

“Yes. And here you are. Found me," he says wryly,

Marleau is properly annoyed. He looks at Ilya irritably. “Don’t be like that. What the fuck’s going on?”

“Be like what? Sorry if I do not feel like explaining myself to you; you are not supposed to be here.” Maybe it’s a petulant thing to say, but Ilya feels a bit out of control.

Marleau blinks. It’s impossible to miss the hurt in his expression.

“Ilya—” Shane says quietly.

Marleau doesn't give either of them a chance to speak. “You were real fucked up last night, man. Never seen you look like that before. Of course, I came looking! You have any idea the crazy shit people do? I thought… Jesus, I thought you’d been mugged or picked up. Or that you’d just fallen ass-first into a snowbank and froze to death. It’s pretty shitty to make people worry like that.”

Whatever Ilya had been preparing to say suddenly can’t come past his lips.

Marleau looks Shane’s way. “Didn’t expect to find you with... Hollander of all people. Thought he'd done something to you, at first.”

Ilya nibbles on the inside of his cheek. The idea of Shane Hollander hurting anyone is quite laughable to him. But he supposes Shane appears differently to everyone who encounters him. “Yes, well. I am fine. Not dead. Sober. Fucking hungover. Now you know.”

“And what do I know, exactly?” Marleau asks, shoulders tense. “That you two are fucking or something? He’s Jane, right? The same Jane that gets you all worked up before games, that you sometimes text until three in the morning?”

Ilya keeps his mouth shut, puffs his chest, folds his arms. It's all the answer any of them needs. He can hear Shane's fingers tapping on the countertop, and then they stop abruptly. He turns to the coffee pot, pulling down two mugs from a rack and filling them. He seems to be running on autopilot, like a robot. Ilya wonders if he’s checked out of the conversation altogether.

Marleau stares at Ilya, and his face slowly morphs into understanding. “Holy shit. It really is… all of that. You’re sleeping together.”

“Da,” Ilya spits venomously.

Marleau looks at Shane. He must not have quite believed it before Ilya confirmed it. Ilya doesn’t need to look to know that Shane’s flushed from head to collarbone. Probably even broken a sweat across his temple.

Ilya doesn’t like the quiet. “Now what will you do?” he demands. Shane shifts back into action, setting the mugs down onto the bar top in front of him and Marleau. There's a tight look to his face. Ilya's heart pounds against his ribs.

Marleau scoffs. “What do you mean?”

“Will you go to Desjourneys now? The league? For fraternization?” Ilya just wants to know. He wanted to know the minute he saw Marleau’s face in Shane’s doorway what exactly the other would do now that he had inserted himself into their lives. Now that he’d found out the one thing Ilya had never wanted him to find out.

“Wow,” Marleau says. His anger has morphed into something more pained-looking. “You really don’t trust me after all, huh?”

Ilya freezes. How can he possibly articulate his thoughts to Marleau in English and in a timely manner? There are too many layers, too many complications. Too many risks. And too much guilt wrapped up with it all. “I do not trust anybody with this,” he says quietly.

“I’m not going to the league. You think I’d do that to you? Over some fucking?”

Ilya hesitates. Waves his hand dismissively. “I do not know what anyone will do to me, one moment to the next.” Except for maybe Sveta or Shane. Not once has Ilya ever had to guess what either will say or do. He motions at Shane. "Not when it concerns him. Boston hates him. I thought you hated him. It would be shit show.”

Marleau's mouth presses into a line. 

“He’s protecting both of us, Marleau,” Shane supplies quietly. He clutches a porcelain cup of his own between his palms, the string of a teabag dangling down one side of it. “Nobody knows.”

Marleau looks slowly from Shane to Ilya, hard face cracking. “Not anyone?”

“Of course not,” Ilya huffs. He motions between him and Shane. “We would be barred from playing, surely. But even if not forever…” He swallows. “I could not go home if it got to the press. But if I lost my work visa... I would have to.”

“Home?” Marleau asks, and even Shane is looking at him now.

“Back to Russia.”

Dawning on Marleau’s face, then. He finally picks up the mug that Shane set down for him. He looks less intimidating, the delicate little porcelain cup clutched between two giant palms. “Jesus Christ. That’s heavy shit, man.”

A smile finally cracks Ilya's mouth, one he can’t help. “Yes. The heaviest.”

Marleau takes a sip of coffee, and something in Ilya's chest begins to uncinch.

Marleau continues. “The donations... they have something to do with all this, too? You two trying to… soften the blowback if you get caught?”

“No,” Ilya frowns. “I don’t know.” He hadn't been thinking about his and Shane's reputation when he'd suggested the donations. It had been more of an afterthought. We will not get caught, he thinks, but Marleau has just proven him wrong today. His illusion of safety has been cracked through. 

"He made the donation on his own," Shane murmurs, drawing both their gazes. Shane immediately drops it, looking elsewhere, ever the awkward conversationalist.

Marleau looks intensely at Ilya. “Look… I know I'm not the nicest guy on the ice, Rozzy. But I thought I was doing good. Being better.”

“What?”

"You didn't trust me enough to tell me you're gay.”

For the years Ilya’s been with the Raiders, Marleau has turned into one of the more decent men in the league. He shit-talks with the best of them, but after his first year of being drafted, Ilya has never heard him make a disparaging remark about anyone for being different from him. It's more than he can say for the vast majority. The other tends to take after Hammersmith in that regard. Good-natured Hammersmith, who’d been Marleau's idol in high school.

“You are good, Marly,” Ilya says, finally stepping forward to pat a hand on his shoulder. Marleau looks him in the eye, then, and Ilya recognizes his friend. Ilya feels like a captain once more. "And I am not gay. I like women, still. I just…” He looks at Shane, whose eyes flit away skittishly. “Well.”

“Shit,” Marleau says, like the tension has been released from his body. “Didn't expect the day to go like this.” He sets down his empty cup, and Shane is there with the carafe to fill it back up. “And you, Hollander...” he says, like they're out on the ice. 

Shane’s eyes turn to Marleau, guarded. Ilya watches.

“I don't get your deal. Always thought you were sort of a weirdo. Gotta hand it to you, though. You were ready to go out swinging in that alley.”

Ilya blinks. “What?”

“I’ll explain later,” Shane mutters, but there’s a new light in his eye that Ilya recognizes from the ice. He very much likes seeing it here in his kitchen. 

Marleau chuckles. “He wasn’t letting me through for nothin’. He’s ballsy.”

“Ballsy Hollsy,” Ilya murmurs, and that draws a familiar, barking laugh from Marleau. The two of them grin at each other, and Ilya realizes that things might be alright after all. For today, at least.

“Yeah, well,” Shane cuts in, looking embarrassed by the nickname, and probably by Marleau’s assessment of his everything. “You looked like you were gonna kill someone.”

“He just looks like that,” Ilya says in mock defensiveness. “Is his unibrow.”

“At least I can grow hair.”

"Women prefer a shaved face," Ilya snarks. "Maybe you could keep one if you followed my lead."

It's his usual comeback, something they joke with each other about often. Marleau’s brute persona, complemented by Ilya’s playboy. But it has Shane ducking his head to take a long, uncomfortable sip of his tea. Ilya realizes too late that he ought to have caught his tongue before saying such a thing. He will have to explain what he and Marleau are like with each other once he and Shane are alone.

“S’good fucking coffee,” Marleau admits, looking down at his fresh cup.

“Yes. And he does not even drink it. One of many reasons I prefer to stay here," Ilya says.

“And this is where you’ve been all week?" Marleau raises a brow. "You two in love or something?” He sounds as if he’s only half joking.

“What—“ Shane starts, at the same time Ilya says “No,” both of them floundering to talk over one another.

Marleau looks between the two of them like they’ve grown an extra head each. “Jesus, alright.” He waves a hand and finishes off half his mug in one gulp. “Whatever. But you care about each other. You’re not exactly rivals who hate each other.”

Ilya’s first instinct is to deny that too, even that little bit of truth, too much to bear to the world— or his friend. He swallows down the urge, afraid that if he did, Shane might take it to heart. "No," he finally says. "We are not." 

After another moment of silence, Marleau sets his mug down on the counter.

“The others are going to start wondering where I am." He looks at Ilya closely. "Guess I shouldn't expect you back at the hotel?”

"No," Ilya says dumbly. “I have… things to do.”

Marleau blinks, then his eyes drift off to the ceiling. “Right… Everyone thinks you're with a girl, so... not much covering I need to do. But tomorrow night, curfew is being reinstated," he warns. "Flight early the next morning." He shakes his head. "Guess there's no point in saying how risky this is."

Ilya shakes his head. It's nothing they haven't already thought about.

Ilya follows him to the door, with promises to charge his phone and keep Marleau updated so that he can keep Desjourneys at bay. Their coach has already realized that Ilya has fucked off somewhere in the city. He’s only tolerating it because he himself has been lax with his time off, as well.

Ilya watches Marleau head for the back stairwell and then shuts the door quietly.

When he turns back around, Shane is there waiting just a few feet away, face hesitant. Ilya stares at him, licking his lips, before taking him in both arms and pulling him in.

Shane lets out a short sound just before their mouths meet, their breath mingling between their noses, coffee and tea, but Ilya doesn’t care. He feels high, probably on adrenaline, and his pulse pounds in his ears.

“Fuck,” Shane pants between their kisses. Ilya is walking him slowly backward, arms clutched around his waist. “That— was scary,” he sighs.

“Marleau is not so bad,” Ilya murmurs as he eases Shane down onto his back on the sofa. He climbs on top of him straight away, lying their bodies out along each other, finally touching from chest to toe, warm pressure through their clothes. Ilya sighs in delight.

“Did you know that, though?” Shane asks.

“No,” Ilya admits. “I was never sure what he might think. Or do.”

They kiss and kiss, and Ilya’s hips begin to work against his, hard dicks through two pairs of sweatpants. Ilya is lost in a haze as they makeout, all thoughts of Marleau and Boston and Russia finally falling away. Only Shane on his mind.

“Gonna make me come if we keep this up,” Shane pants.

“Maybe is what I want,” Ilya returns, hips working in continuous, grinding circles.

“We should talk— ah— about what happened.”

“Yes, probably. But later,” Ilya grunts, pressing his face into Shane’s throat, teeth opening up around his pulse to scrape and nibble. It draws out a high sound from Shane. “After I make you come. Then, we will kiss, and then I will fuck you again. For very long time. In many positions.” He says all of this into Shane’s skin, and Shane squirms beneath him, panting with each thrust.

Shane’s hips work back against his, thighs parted and heels digging into the cushions below for leverage. Ilya loves being able to go hard and fast with him, get as good as he gives. To have someone beneath him just as hungry for him as he is for them.

Shane comes, mouth stretched open in a silent cry, thighs trembling around Ilya’s hips, and Ilya follows soon after, chasing it with his mouth attached to Shane’s neck, breathing in his scent behind his ear.

When the two of them have lain sprawled together, still fully clothed, for another ten minutes, Shane pats Ilya’s back. “I’m showering before we do any of that.”

Ilya lifts his head to look glumly down at him. “You must?”

Shane gives him a smacking kiss on the mouth. “I must. If you want me to enjoy it.”

Ilya lifts himself, finally letting the other up. “Then you will tell me all about what happened in the alleyway while you do,” Ilya says, following him to the stairs. He feels a bit like a puppy, but his post-glow doesn't allow him to care.

Shane glances back at him, cheeks still flushed. “I will?”

“Yes.”

"And what will you tell me?" Shane asks, starting up the stairs.

It feels like a loaded question. One Ilya doesn't know the answer to. He takes a steadying breath, and decides, "Whatever you ask." 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading!

I must admit, there was a part of me that wanted to write the beginning scene as Ilya hearing Shane downstairs and coming out in nothing but a towel on his head to try to seduce him, only to come face to face with Marleau. But that felt way too 90s/00s romcom. It was a funny daydream, at least.

Marleau still isn't perfect, calling Shane a weirdo, etc. But he's a work in progress. I think he's gonna get there. He's got the makings of a formidable ally.

The Sochi Olympic surveillance thing was something I hadn't heard in-depth about until recently (I was younger and ignorant in 2014, I'm sorry.) I want to make more notes about this when it becomes more relevant to the plot, but I think Ilya would've been at least a little aware of the circumstances beforehand. Enough to be worried about it.

I think that's all my notes, for now.

If there are any more glaringly obvious mistakes, feel free to tell me🥲

Thank you for reading, adiós!

Chapter 17: The Final Nail

Chapter Summary

“Let’s forget about girls right now,” Ilya says lowly, reaching through to cup his cheek.

Chapter Notes

18+/NSFW Chapter. Ye have been advised.

Note: Still working on answering comments!

Seventeen

Marleau - 11:52 am - Charge your phone.

Ilya - 11:52 am - I did. Will not be leaving here until tomorrow night anyway.

Marleau - 11:53 am - I’ve still got questions.

Ilya - 11:53 am - I do too. for you.

Something else eases in Ilya’s chest at the sight of Marleau's message. He still has a hard time believing that someone else knows. That Marleau had come and gone, and that their friendship had not broken off. In fact, Ilya thinks that it might've even changed— for the better. The other knows him, just a little bit more now. Has found out this thing about him, and not been sent running.

He’d been terrified, before, at the thought of anyone knowing. Thought it would throw a wrench into the middle of this thing he has with Shane. Thought he’d never be able to even look at Shane again if someone else knew about it, for shame and fear and heartbreak.

So far, the opposite has happened.

*

Before anything, the two of them stand side by side in Shane’s bathroom, phones clutched in hand as they email their publicists and accountants.

They decide to increase their donations by ten thousand— a number that Ilya could scarcely comprehend five years ago boarding a plane from Moscow to Saskatoon.

He makes more than that in a month, now.

A little while later, Ilya sits on Shane’s bathroom floor, leaning up against the cabinets under the sink.

“And then what happened?” he draws the words out, staring at Shane’s form, muddled through the foggy shower door. His eyes are half-lidded, sleepy from the steam.

Shane huffs a little laugh, turned away from him as he washes his chest. “I had to come in through the front door. Then go all the way down the back stairwell again to get him. He looked even angrier. Bet he thought I was just gonna leave him out there in the alley.”

“You should have,” Ilya says, but doesn’t really mean it.

Shane had made Ilya stand in his bedroom while Shane flushed himself out in his little toilet room, separated from the rest of the bathroom by a wall. His cheeks had been a bit flushed by the time Ilya had come back in and seen him, and he'd quickly climbed into the shower. Ilya doesn’t know why he would be squeamish about a thing like this, when Ilya has seen every part of him many times now.

Shane is meticulous in everything he does, though, from what he eats to how he makes up his bed, to how he folds his socks, and to how he keeps himself clean. If Ilya had to guess, he’d say that Shane is trying to keep a grasp on how Ilya sees him. Ilya doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s too late for that. He’s imagined Shane doing just about anything and everything at this point.

When Shane had gotten into the shower, he’d shut the door all the way, to Ilya’s chagrin. Ilya knew better than to complain, so instead, he’d asked Shane to tell him the story of how he’d gone to look for his phone in the alley.

Many surprising minutes later, Ilya understands the full scope of what’d happened.

“He’s very protective,” Shane comments mildly.

Ilya snorts. “And he did not actually hit you?” Nonchalant as can be.

“No,” Shane confirms. “He was just being big and mean.”

“Hm. He is good at that.”

There’s not a lot he could’ve done, even if Marleau had physically attacked. It would’ve been a misunderstanding on all accounts. But Ilya still would’ve been compelled to do… something. He’s not sure what, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about it now. Lucky for all three of them, Marleau is better at holding his temper than he looks.

The smell of Shane’s fancy shampoo and conditioner is lovely. Ilya feels like he’s being wrapped in a cloud of his favorite smells. He watches as Shane slowly turns under the spray, running his fingers through his hair. His eyes are shut, and Ilya stares at the perfect angles of his face.

“Are you going to shave?” Shane asks out of the blue.

Ilya blinks. “Huh?”

One of Shane’s dark eyes opens to look at him. “You told Marleau that women like a clean-shaved face.”

Ilya’s jaw goes slack. “Yes…”

“I like it, too.” That dark eye is still on him, glinting. “You’ve never even asked me.”

Ilya pushes off the floor, wandering closer to the shower stall. He can see a bit more of the other, down in the steam. Shane is half hard. “Do not be jealous,” Ilya murmurs, leaning an arm into the thick glass so he can stare at all of him.

“I’m not,” Shane scoffs.

“I only mention women to Marleau because that is all his brain can comprehend.”

Shane does laugh at that, and Ilya grins in return.

One of Shane’s hands trails over his abdomen, fingertips light. They trace over his hip, back around behind him. The view from there goes hazy with steam, but Shane tips his head back into the spray, and Ilya watches his face morph from relaxed to tense. He’s fingering himself.

“Why can I not help you with that?” Ilya asks, jerking his chin at Shane’s hidden hand.

“Because. Making sure I’m good to go.”

“I cannot check for you?” Ilya asks. He’s already had his shower, but he’d gladly get wet again if it meant a bit more foreplay.

“No,” Shane scoffs. “Go shave.”

Ilya wanders away disappointedly. His electric razor charges on one corner of Shane’s bathroom counter, so he sets to quickly taking away what stubble has grown since the morning before, which isn’t a lot.

“Never seen a guy so eager to do the gross parts,” Shane mutters quietly, and Ilya meets his eye in the mirror.

“Oh, are there many others?” Ilya asks, half sarcastic and half serious.

Shane scowls at him. “What do you think?”

Ilya studies his expression and quickly determines that there are no others at all. It quiets something wild inside his chest, but he feels a bit sullen about it, too, for some reason. “There is no one else? Really?” he asks quietly.

“Of course not,” Shane says. “How could there be? It’s not like— like you with all your women. I don't go to clubs.”

“Plenty of women must throw themselves at you, club or not,” Ilya says, eyes on Shane’s through the bathroom mirror. “You do not sleep with any of them?” He can see the way Shane’s throat bobs, eyes flitting away to the back corner of the room. Ilya begins to get an inkling.

“I could,” Shane starts. “That’s not really something I do.”

“You do not like them?”

“I didn’t say that.” He sounds annoyed.

“Is fine to not like them.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

No, it's not, Ilya wants to argue.

He'd had to do a lot of thinking about it, once upon a time, when he was fourteen and realized that he liked his coach's son just as much as he liked some girls in his class. It was either okay or it wasn't. According to his father— and the rest of the adults he'd known— it wasn't. But by that time, he'd begun to question a lot of things, including his father.

This is obviously a touchy subject for Shane, too. Ilya considers that a day ago, he might’ve gotten pissy about it right back. Now, he’s riding the high from their confrontation with Marleau and the others’ better-than-expected reaction. He doesn’t want to ruin all of the good energy between them, regardless.

Ilya sets the razor down. Shane watches him closely as he approaches the shower once more. This time, Ilya cracks the door open, looking in. Shane stares, expression flat, hand behind him stilling. Ilya can see that his half-chub is more like one-quarter now, if that. He must really not like talking about women.

“Let’s forget about girls right now,” Ilya says lowly, reaching through to cup his cheek. His hand and forearm get soaked with water almost immediately, but that’s not a problem for right now. He rubs his thumb along Shane’s bottom lip until the other’s mouth goes slack. Ilya presses the pad against his gums and a blunted canine, velvety smooth on the inner side of his lip. It makes his stomach ache with want. “You want to ask me something?”

“What?” Shane says around his thumb. Ilya pulls it from his mouth slowly, dragging out the corner.

“You told me all about the alley. Anything you would like to know?”

Shane blinks.

“You said you could never go home if someone found out about us.”

Not this, Ilya thinks, regretting everything he’d said leading up to this moment. He’d thought Shane would switch topics to something sexy. He doesn’t want to think about this right now.

“Yes,” he murmurs in reply.

Shane stares at him, eyes wider, searching Ilya’s face. Ilya can tell there are probably one hundred and one questions he has. “Marleau found out. What if it happens again?” Shane hesitates, cheek rubbing against Ilya’s hand. Blatant concern laces his features. Ilya understands the underlying question that Shane has.

It’s the same question Ilya’s had at every one of their meetings. When he sees the stern look on Shane’s face across the red line.

Is this worth it? Their meetings? The secret? Worth it to their careers, worth the possible upending of their lives?

“No one else will find out,” Ilya murmurs.

“How do you know?”

Ilya chuckles. “Because nobody but Marleau would come looking for me.” He means it teasingly, a way to lighten the mood.

Shane catches his hand before he can pull it back. His face is twisted grim, and Ilya nearly asks what’s the matter before Shane pulls his palm to his lips, kissing it right in the center against his life line.

Ilya stares, mouth dry. Chills run across his shoulders, down each side of his back.

“Don’t say that,” Shane says stiffly.

Ilya feels lightheaded.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches his other hand into the shower, cups the other side of Shane’s face, pulls him close. Shane comes without an ounce of resistance, and they kiss.

It’s one long, slow, continuous press of lips, and the whole front of Ilya’s shirt gets soaked, even parts of his pants. He doesn’t feel it, with how Shane’s hands find the sides of his face, slide back to lace into his nape. It turns hard, nearly painful by the end, and Ilya feels a lump of emotion in the back of his throat.

When they part, he has to gasp for air. He realizes he’s been breathing in steam. “Fuck,” he mutters, looking at Shane’s fluttering eyes. When Ilya looks down, the other’s dick has risen back up. “Bedroom.”

Ilya leaves his soaked shirt over the towel rack. He strips his sweats off and hears the shower shut off abruptly. The glass door slides open as Ilya strips his underwear off.

He hears Shane’s labored breathing as he towels himself dry. Ilya goes to the window, pulls the blackout curtains open to let light come through the filter sheers, casting the room in gray sunlight. Then he climbs onto the bed, propping himself against Shane’s ridiculous stack of pillows, square in the middle.

His dick is already achingly hard, still riding the feeling of the kiss, harsh but so tender, the perfect combination to get him going. He wants to hold onto this feeling, somehow, bottle it and take a swig from it during all the worst moments of his life. He could get through anything with a kiss like that waiting for him.

Shane is close behind, not bothering with dressing and heading straight for the bed, climbing up on his knees, desire blowing his pupils wide so that his already dark eyes look black.

The sunlight coming through the sheers lights up all of the dark corners of the room, and Ilya delights in seeing every part of Shane illuminated. The only way he could look better would be at sunset, skin lit up in melting gold.

His shoulders glisten with moisture from his shower, his abdominals peeking from beneath his skin as he shifts. His cock bobs ruddy pink between his legs, nestled in dark hair trimmed neatly.

Ilya reaches for him, and they move together like they already know what the other will do, like it’s a dance they’ve rehearsed.

“Sit, sit,” Ilya pants, bringing Shane closer. The other swings a leg over his waist and sits face to face with him. He puts his weight back against Ilya’s dick, ass grinding down automatically. “Wait,” Ilya hisses, hands landing on Shane’s hips to still him.

“Why?” Shane pants, face twisted in want now instead of discomfort. Such a beautiful look, Shane should always look like this.

Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat. “I want to look at you for a minute.”

“Look at me?” Shane asks in disbelief.

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs, eyes drinking him in. The beige of his skin is glowy, even in harsh midday light coming through cold clouds. His hair is still damp, deeper black than when it’s dry. Every part of him is shapely from years of hockey and training. Rounded pecs curving into delts into biceps, Ilya runs his hands over each muscle, cataloguing the shapes of them beneath the other’s skin. Goosebumps rise on Shane’s arms in the wake of his hands.

“You are very pretty,” Ilya tells him, words coming carefully.

Shane can’t seem to help rolling his eyes. “You’ve said that before. Cut it out.”

“Why?” Ilya frowns, hands sliding back up to his chest to feel at his curved muscles. His thumbs drag over each pretty, brown nipple, down and back up, watching them pebble. “Is true.” Shane’s cock jumps against his belly, and Ilya’s eyes drag down to it. The head glistens. He grins. “Very pretty.”

“You’re fucking embarrassing,” Shane mutters.

Ilya takes him by the hips again and encourages him to grind, just a bit. It feels nice, and Ilya gets to see the muscles in his legs tense, his hips rotating in small circles. Shane tries to lean over him, but Ilya holds him in place, hand to his chest, asking him with careful pressure to stretch back. Shane obliges, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on it.

Ilya thinks of all the sculptures and paintings of the male form spread out across Europe, created in the distant past and based on some idealized human form, and realizes that none of them could compare to the person he has sitting atop him.

Shane averts his eyes upward toward the ceiling, face flushed from his freckles to the middle of his chest. Ilya realizes that maybe some of his reverence had been showing on his face.

“A picture would last longer,” Shane says, and Ilya squeezes his hips.

“I wish. I would look at it each night.”

Shane’s blush deepens, and Ilya is aware that it sounds almost romantic. He can’t be bothered to care, with how hard he is.

“I want to do it like this,” he tells Shane.

“This?” Shane's gaze darts back down to him, skates down Ilya’s torso, his hips slowing until they go still. “I’ve never… like this. On top.”

“Do you want to try?” Ilya asks. He could do whatever Shane wants in this moment and be happy. Even if the other only asked to have his ass eaten and nothing else, Ilya would happily oblige.

“Yeah, I want to,” Shane says finally. He leans over, reaching for his bedside drawer. His knees lock around Ilya’s hips to balance himself, and Ilya latches onto his waist with his hands, craning his neck to look over the small of his back at his ass, cute dimples topping each cheek. His hands drag down to squeeze, and Shane whines, fumbling through his drawer.

He comes back with a condom and lube. Ilya reaches for the foil packet, but Shane holds it out of his reach with a playful little smirk.

Ilya’s cock gives a little kick beneath him.

“I’ll do it,” Shane says. He shimmies back onto Ilya’s thighs, looking down at Ilya’s dick, lying against his belly. For once, Ilya is the one to feel like he’s on display. Shane gives his cock an appreciative stroke. He even ducks down quickly, swiping his tongue across the shiny head that peaks out of his foreskin. Ilya chokes off an embarrassingly shrill sound that tries to come out of his throat.

Then, Shane tears the condom open and takes Ilya’s cock in hand. He slides the foreskin back, eyes intently focused on his task as he slips the condom on. “Wish we didn’t have to use these,” he murmurs.

Ilya thinks he might pass out. The other watches him closely. “Yes,” he agrees, mouth full of cotton. “I wish that too.” He probably wouldn’t last long with nothing to buffer the feeling of Shane around him. But it would probably be heaven while it lasted.

After he slicks up his cock, Shane shuffles forward, breath coming out of his mouth raggedly. Ilya steadies him with one hand to the hip and uses the other, covered in excess slick, to reach around and feel at his entrance. Shane bites down on a protest, eyes hazing up as Ilya rubs a finger around the rim. The hot muscle flutters under his touch. He stares into Shane’s eyes, transfixed.

He slips a finger inside easily, and Shane gasps above him. “Il—“ he cuts himself off, biting his lips together. Ilya watches the way his tongue presses into the inside of his cheek, eyes hesitant. Ilya slips another finger in and meets no resistance.

Shane hunches down over him, searching out his mouth. Ilya meets him, an instant press of tongues together that makes his brain spark erratically.

“Need it,” Shane murmurs against him. “Please.”

The sudden urge to hurry takes both of them over. Ilya slips both fingers from Shane and holds his dick steady so that the other can focus on balancing. When the head bumps against his entrance, Shane whines in the back of his throat, and his thighs tremble. They let it catch again, and Shane holds himself there, hips gently moving back and forth, introducing the feeling.

Finally, he settles, eyes slipping closed as he lets himself down onto it.

Immediately, Ilya is reminded that this is the best thing. One of his favorite things. Shane’s eyes fluttering, and his body opening up to take him. The head slips past the rim, Shane openly moaning as he slides down one inch, two, then holds.

Ilya’s breath shakes out of him. He reaches up to pet a hand over the other’s cheek. “Alright?”

“Mhm,” Shane nods. He slides down another inch, breath gasping out of him. “S’just… really full feeling.”

“Is okay, though?”

“It’s great,” Shane says, eyes fluttering open to smirk at him. “Don’t worry.”

Ilya realizes he’s been petting the other’s cheek this entire time. He lets his hand instead drag down the front of him, over his clavicle, and lower to toy with one of his nipples, rolling it gently between two fingers.

Shane moans, one of his hands finding Ilya’s wrist to hold fast to it, not stopping him but grasping like Ilya is the only thing that can give him air. He continues his slow descent downward.

Once all of his weight settles onto Ilya’s hips, the two of them groan aloud, staring at one another’s faces, half shock, half pleasure.

“You’re so perfect,” Ilya tells him without thinking.

Shane laughs brokenly. Speaks like it's hard to breathe. “Shut up. You’re— only saying that— because your dick’s inside me.”

It’s not true, Ilya thinks. He’s thought that since the first time he laid eyes on Shane, seventeen and out back of a big Canadian ice rink, his first time in Saskatchewan. The biggest brown eyes seeking him out, fluttering lashes at him like they weren’t about to be at each other’s throats for five years.

He’s thought it every time Shane opens his mouth to say something quiet and boring and sincere. Not an ounce of arrogance to be found in his head, Ilya is sure.

But Ilya can’t very well tell him any of that without flaying his heart open for the other to see.

Instead, he laments about safer things. “Perfect legs, strong thighs.” They frame Ilya’s hips perfectly, shaking as Shane adjusts to his cock. “Perfect body. Face.”

Shane stares at him, brows furrowed, eyes staring right into his. He doesn’t say anything, and Ilya wonders if he’s overstepped with the face comment. Finally, Shane swallows, mouth wet when he opens it. “Well. Look at you.”

Shane’s hands do the talking for him, leaning forward to brace both hands against Ilya’s chest. They both hiss at the change in angle. Shane gropes at his pectorals, nails raking over nipples, down to Ilya’s abdominal muscles, more prominent than his own. “You look like a statue.”

“Rude,” Ilya murmurs.

“I meant it in a good way.” Shane breathes carefully, labored. “Like you’re made of marble.”

“Am I cold like it, too?”

Shane presses his hand over Ilya’s mouth gently with a hissed shut up. Ilya’s lips strain to smile beneath the pressure, and he gives a little buck upward with his hips.

Shane’s mouth falls open.

That’s what sets them going, Shane rising on his own, up, up, one inch, two, falling back down with gravity to reseat himself with a breathy sigh.

Ilya can only lie there and stare at him. For the longest time, he watches all of Shane’s muscles work in tandem. One hand braced on Ilya’s chest, the other flat against the headboard as he starts up a steady rhythm.

He stares down at Ilya, face open and wanting and vulnerable.

This moment must be the single best thing to ever happen to Ilya. He knows this for certain, but knows that he will think the same thing the next time they are like this. His hands find Shane’s hips, holding tight as he begins to bring Shane down after each rise, gravity and Ilya’s arm strength working together to make the meeting of their hips harder and faster.

Shane gasps over the wet slap of their skin. His head falls back, mouth open. Ilya begins to move too, the sides of his feet planting for leverage as he begins meeting Shane’s hips with his own.

“Ilya, please,” Shane gasps. “Need you—“ It makes all sorts of forbidden things spark in Ilya’s mind, running down his spine, into his balls, his dick.

“Da,” Ilya murmurs. “Is good?”

“So good, don’t—“ Shane gasps again as Ilya scoops his hips under on the upstroke, Shane's voice falling into a cry. Ilya repeats it, works it into each thrust so that Shane begins to babble wordlessly, voice ragged and cut off.

Ilya looks down between them, Shane’s perfect, pink cock bouncing between their stomachs, steadily drooling and leaving wet patches behind on both their skin. Ilya’s thick treasure trail glistens with it. Possibly the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, but it makes him inexplicably emotional, too. He wants to reach up and hold it, pull him off, but he knows the other doesn’t want that.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya mutters. You’re incredible.

“I’m gonna— gonna—“ Shane pants, voice helpless and climbing. He falls forward, hands bracing on Ilya’s shoulders as he rucks his hips erratically, all of his previous rhythm vanishing.

Yes, yes, Ilya thinks, take from me, use me.

“Ilya, Ilya—” Shane’s voice staccatos. His face is suddenly pressed into Ilya’s neck as his hips buck and writhe, body squeezing tight. Shane’s cock, trapped tight between their stomachs, kicks and spasms, followed by the feeling of hot stripes of come streaking up between them, immediately smeared into each other’s skin for how close they move against each other.

That’s all that’s needed to send Ilya over the edge. He grasps onto Shane’s hips and holds him tight as he pistons up into him, flooding the condom with a long groan that he hides in the side of Shane's head. He grips a hand against Shane's nape, holding him there.

Their chests slide together as they gulp down air.

As Ilya begins to slowly come back to himself, he can hear Shane muttering against the skin of his neck. “— ruined, you’ve ruined me—“

His voice is wrecked, and Ilya can’t tell if he sounds blissed out or upset. Ruined for anyone else. It’s probably even more true for Ilya, more than he could ever explain to Shane or anyone. No matter who he sleeps with, from here onward, he'll always think of Shane Hollander. He squeezes Shane tighter against him, the other gone slack.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane huffs against him. “No, you’re not.”

That’s true, too. Ilya isn’t sorry. Maybe he should be.

Shane tries to push up on wobbling arms, sitting back to look down at him. He searches Ilya’s face, unsure.

Ilya locks a hand around his wrist, chest trembling as he asks, pleads, “Don’t go.”

“What?”

“Stay?”

Shane’s face slowly melts, going soft. Ilya almost can’t bear to look at it, but he does, makes himself, lets it wash over him, even as his skin crawls with the threat of anxiety, telling him to run, run, run.

“Okay,” Shane mumbles, settling back down onto him, chest to chest.

He looks into Ilya's eyes with hazy contentment, and Ilya knows what he'll do next. He should stop him. He should, but he doesn't.

Shane kisses him on the mouth, deep and unhurried, and Ilya knows that that’s it, the final nail in the coffin he's built for himself, plank by plank. He'd laid the foundation for it the moment he called after Shane that cold day when they were seventeen, challenging him. Ilya clutches at Shane's face to kiss him back and never wants to let go again.

Chapter End Notes

Wow.

- We will never ever see live dicks in the show, and that is all well and good! However, I just read in The Long Game that Shane is circumcised, Ilya is uncut. This was fantastic news that I IMMEDIATELY uploaded into the HR-Lore-Bank in my head. Hopefully the show does not prove me wrong later on down the line.

- I realize I write some of my characters a little... grimy? (edit, and stop me if I'm overexplaining here: To further clarify "grimy", I mean in the way that they like body hair, don't mind mess, pick their nose, shit, vomit, get stomach aches, etc. I like a level of "imperfection" and "humanness" to them, as opposed to a sanitized book character, not that these guys were ever completely sanitized.) This is how I am, and how I like to see characters be.

Ilya's lack of disgust about the grittier aspects of Shane's body feels true to him in my head, so I write him that way. Whereas I think Shane would feel a bit more closed off about it all, find it difficult to let Ilya see him like that, vulnerable. Just an observation I made about my own characterization, I guess. I refuse to change!

- I constantly edit my latest chapters, so if you happen to notice bits and pieces change on rereads, no, you aren't misremembering! It's never anything plot or dialogue or theme altering, but usually just sentence flow, typos, grammar, etc. You see, I have to post when the editing is just "good enough" or else I'll NEVER post due to perfectionism. Writing hack.

- Thank you again for your well wishes. In case you wanted to know, I did NOT end up going to the doctor because I was in too much pain. I injured myself somehow (lifting something heavy? Exercising? idfk) and really fucked up my body for like a week and a half. Whew. That was a shitty time. But now, my pain is nearly all better! I feel a bit like I have a new lease on life rn, so that's nice. When they tell you you should start stretching in your early 20s, they really mean it🙃

- Concerning comments: You may have noticed, I reply to every comment. This was just good etiquette in the smaller fandoms I come from. You reply to comments, have convos, etc. If someone takes the time to make a comment, I try to take the time to reply, even if it's just an emoji, because I appreciate each one! This fic gets more and more comments each upload, and I intend to try my damnedest to keep up with them. May get behind sometimes, but we'll get there. I notice some big fics never reply to comments ever but I like to if I can! idk why I'm saying any of this, but just, thanks for liking this fic.🧡

Thank you for reading! Until next time.

Chapter 18: The Thing Wrong

Chapter Summary

Shane doesn't want to believe it, but he's not sure. “We didn’t do anything wrong, did we?”

Chapter Notes

Hello!

(all caught up!)

Content Warning: There is more discussion on Shane's diet and restrictive eating in this chapter.

Eighteen

There’s a certain contentment and peace that Ilya finds in knowing that he’s completely and utterly fucked.

Contentment because he knows that even if he could change the circumstances, he wouldn’t. He’d still choose to end up where he is now, should he have to do it all over again. Maybe he’d even end up here sooner.

In Shane Hollander’s bed, with Shane Hollander sprawled out on top of him, dozing quietly. Lying on a comfortable mattress, in a warm room, in a beautiful, clean, boring apartment. No sound but the quiet hum of the heating system. No one seeking them out but each other.

He imagines for a moment that this is his new life, just lying under Shane. It shouldn’t sound as wonderful as it does.

The buzz of his phone breaks the perfect silence. Ilya watches Shane’s face for any sign of disturbance. When he doesn’t see any, he reaches over, slow and careful, to retrieve his cell from the nightstand. He reads his new text over Shane’s muscular shoulder that rises and falls with each of Ilya’s breaths.

Marleau - 1:18 pm - The internet loves and hates you.

Ilya - 1:19 pm - Is nothing new.

Marleau - 1:19 pm - Desjourneys asked about you. I told him I had no idea where you fucked off to.

Then, before Ilya can think of something clever to say:

Marleau - 1:20 pm - They have this. Do you want it? For tomorrow?

Attached to Marleau’s text is a photograph of a flaky, raspberry pastry sitting pretty in a glass case in a patisserie. He must be out in Montreal with some of the other players.

Ilya - 1:21 pm - Yes. 2 of them. I will pay you back.

Which they both know is not true, but Ilya always says anyway. It’s a running joke between him and his team by now. Ilya finds himself grinning ear to ear without meaning to. His breath shushes out, blowing a bit of dark hair ruffled over Shane’s forehead.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs against his neck.

“Hm?”

“…Thought you were asleep.”

“You are too heavy to sleep under.”

Shane brushes his hand over Ilya’s curls, fingers digging in. Ilya drops his phone on the bed. “That was really good,” Shane murmurs, obviously referring to the wildly hot sex they’d had just a little while ago.

“Yes?”

“I liked it a lot.” Shane opens his mouth again, begins to say something, then shuts it.

“I did too,” Ilya replies, and then kisses him on the lips. There have been countless kisses in the time since they came down from their highs, before Shane had drifted off. Ilya has never liked kissing the way he does now with Shane. In fact, he loves it.

He picks up his phone, finds one more message.

Marleau - 1:25 pm - Does Hollander really follow that serial killer diet?

Shane’s reputation precedes him in the league. There is no shortage of rumors about him, and the odd pre-game rituals he may or may not follow. Ilya has found most of them to be untrue. His diet, though…

Ilya - 1:26 pm - What does this mean? Serial killer diet?

Marleau - 1:26 pm - Never mind. There’s a movie I have to show you later.

It puts Ilya’s mind at ease to be texting with Marleau so normally. There is someone else in the hundred-mile vicinity besides Shane who cares if he lives or dies, and they even know that he likes men, too. Someone who knows and is asking him if he wants a pastry from a bakery.

*

Shane might drift back off to sleep, or maybe he only gets caught up in a very nice daydream about lying with Ilya in a bed of soft grass under the summer sunshine. In his daydream, there’s no place where one of them begins or ends.

His phone dings on the nightstand, and he stirs awake. They both turn their heads to look at it, cheeks brushing. Shane blinks, watching the lit screen as it slowly fades to black again. He considers whether he ought to bother checking it or not. He very much likes having all of his limbs tangled with Ilya’s.

It dings again, and Shane’s pragmatism wins out. He stretches an arm over and picks up his phone. Has a look at the screen with bleary eyes. Sighs. “It’s my mom. And Hayden.”

“Ah,” Ilya nods, studying Shane’s face as he reads his mother’s message.

“She wants to bring by groceries before she leaves for Ottawa later today.”

“I could hide in shower,” Ilya suggests. Shane grins cheekily as he taps out a reply to her.

“Not necessary. I can do my own grocery shopping. It’s not even snowing right now.”

“What if it starts again?” Ilya asks, looking out the window at the slate colored daylight.

Shane shrugs. “I’m a pro athlete. I can take a walk in the snow, can’t I?”

He switches to Hayden’s message, which is decidedly less friendly.

Hayden - 1:52 pm - What the fuck is happening?

Shane frowns.

Shane - 1:54 pm - What do you mean?

He doesn’t get the chance to reply before his phone suddenly rings. The sound is shrill, and it makes both him and Ilya jump. Shane stares at Hayden’s name across the screen, wondering what sort of conversation he would be answering to. Hayden already knows he has his phone, so there’s no hiding from it.

He answers and holds the phone gingerly to his ear. Ilya stares at him in mild annoyance. “Hello?” he mumbles.

“What the fuck is going on with you, Hollander?”

Shane bites down on the inside of his cheek. “Jeez, last name, Hay? What did I do?” When Hayden doesn’t reply, a sinking feeling starts in his belly. “What are you talking about?”

“Just saw the headline. About your and Rozanov’s donation. Together. Do you like making us look bad?”

Shane wants to know how it could possibly make them look bad to be donating to disaster relief, but he has a feeling that if he said something like that, Hayden would be obliged to rip into him.

“It’s just some charity,” Shane says placatingly.

“Just charity. And what, you’re on casual terms with him, now? You should see what’s trending online.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shane starts. Ilya turns to look at him, and Shane gets distracted by his perfect mouth. “He suggested it—“ Ilya makes a face at him, and Shane can only shrug in response.

“So you’re just going along with whatever he suggests now?”

Before Shane can formulate a reply, someone on the other end pipes up from further off. “Is that Hollander?” There’s rustling on the other end of the phone, and then a new voice.

“Hollander, will you explain to the rest of us why you are making business moves with Rozanov without even talking to your team?” It’s J.J., voice harsh. “We have a vested interest in hating his ass. The first time… was tongue in cheek, yes? But again? What the fuck gives? Is this a regular thing for you, now?”

Shane can hear a few more voices agreeing with him. He feels a bit sick to his stomach.

“What, are you all together? Is this an intervention?” Shane asks sarcastically, hoping that the nonchalance will put them off the trail of just how uneasy he really feels.

“Just lunch,” J.J. tells him. “But we’d all love to hear your answer.”

Shane hesitates. Maybe he hadn’t really been thinking about the team, or Ilya’s team, or anyone else but Ilya. He hadn’t meant to exclude them. Now that he thinks about it, maybe they ought to have been the first thing he thought of.

“It was just last minute,” Shane says, rubbing a hand over his face. Ilya’s chin touches down gently against his shoulder, watching him closely with half-lidded eyes. Shane can’t tell if he’s trying to be seductive or if he’s only listening. Shane keeps his eyes on the wall ahead. “It was just something we thought of to—“

“We?” J.J. makes a sound of disbelief.

“Don’t get mixed up with that cocksucking dog, Hollander.” Someone else says. Maybe Comeau. “You know this. You hate him most of all. Or you did.”

Ilya blinks, staring at Shane’s phone with an expression Shane can’t read.

Shane feels like a deer caught in headlights. Under normal circumstances, he might agree, if only to not stand out amongst the rest of them. The path of least resistance. But Comeau’s words sit lodged all wrong behind his heart. Like he himself has been insulted.

The pressure of Ilya’s chin lifts from his shoulder. Shane’s voice croaks out, icy fear sliding through his veins, like he’s a rabbit that’s found its way into a fox den.

“He’s—“ Shane starts, clears his throat. He can feel Ilya watching the side of his face. “Doesn’t what he did count for anything with you guys?” All is silent for one beat, two.

A scoff comes on the other end.

“Not for much,” J.J. admits, and then a flurry of voices erupts. Shane can’t decipher if they’re in agreement or denial of what’s been said, but they all sound irritated.

The phone is wrestled back, and Hayden comes back in, sighing deeply. “Fucking hell. It’s a mixed bag, Shane. But you’re playing with fire. I don’t trust Rozanov, and you didn’t used to either.”

“I know,” Shane says hollowly. “But he’s done something good, right?”

“That’s fine,” Hayden says, voice careful like he’s talking to a child, and god Shane has always hated being talked to like that more than anything. “Donating is one thing. Partnering with him publicly is another. Aside from not trusting him as far as I can throw him… It’s confusing for the fans, too. They’re invested in our image, and part of our image is hating Boston and their captain, and fucking them up whenever we get the chance. The fans— and the board— are wondering if that’s changing. The top trending article is questioning if our captains will play as hard against each other if they’re ‘friends’.”

“That’s so fucking stupid,” Shane reasons. “There are plenty of friends who play hard against each other in the league.”

Hayden is quiet on the other end. They all are. Shane realizes what he’s just admitted to. He sucks in a harsh breath.

“So you’re his friend,” Hayden says quietly. “Fuck.”

“Hayden—“

“Fuck, whatever.“ Hayden cuts himself off. “I gotta go, man.”

“Hayden, it’s not like—“ He doesn’t know what to say to make the situation any better, mostly because it doesn’t make good sense to him in the first place. He understands the optics of public perception. But he doesn’t understand how his team could look at something good and turn it into something bad. Maybe there’s nothing he could say to soften this blow. “I still want to win against him more than anything. You know that, right?”

That’s always been true, and it’ll continue to be true until one or both of them decide to hang up their skates for good.

The comforting weight of Ilya’s hand slides up his shoulder, massaging into his trapezius muscle. Heavy deep pressure. Shane leans into it, biting down on his bottom lip.

Hayden sounds tired. “Just… sort your shit. We’re still your team, we come first, right? Or maybe we don’t, since you’re keeping us in the dark.”

It feels like a piece of himself is being chipped away with Hayden’s dismissal. That’s not fair, he wants to say. He's given so much to the team already. Isn’t it his own choice who he’s friends with? Maybe there’s money riding on his and Ilya’s rivalry, but shouldn’t his actual life come first? He wants to plead with Hayden, make him understand, but for him to really understand, Shane would have to tell him the entirety of it.

And he can’t.

“Wow.” Hayden sighs. “Is that picture fucking real, too? I didn’t think it was. Now… I don’t even fucking know anymore.”

Shane’s stomach drops. “What picture?”

“You need to keep up with the news, Hollander,” Hayden says harshly. “I gotta go.”

Before Shane can question him further, he hangs up.

Shane’s thumbs fly across his phone, mind in a panic.

“Shane,” Ilya says, but Shane can’t focus on him. “Is okay,” Ilya soothes.

“Ilya, what—” Shane mutters, fingers shaking as he tries to navigate to his social media apps. Twitter begins updating itself as he taps it, circular progress bar filling up at a snail's pace. Shane feels like he’s going to scream.

“Shane,” Ilya says, thrusting his own phone in front of his face. Shane looks. There is the top photograph under the Metros’ tag.

It’s not what he’d feared— not of him and Ilya. Nothing as incriminating as he’d imagined in his worst nightmares. “Is okay,” Ilya repeats, zooming in.

The photo is taken from up high in a building, looking down on a snowy street. On one edge of the sidewalk, Shane recognizes the block behind his building and two figures standing in an alleyway. It’s clear, at least to him, that it’s Marleau and himself, standing a few feet apart from each other. Shane’s hood is up, concealing part of his face. Even less of Marleau is shown, just the back of his dark head. He looks like he towers over Shane at this angle. They look to be in mid-conversation.

The photo must have been taken on an older phone from far away, because when Ilya zooms in on the faces, it’s too grainy and pixelated to make out any facial features. Clothes aside, it could really be anybody.

“Is nothing,” Ilya tells him, taking his phone back. “A fan took the photo from many stories up. Swears it’s you two, but they only got this picture before you went down the alley.”

Shane’s insides feel shaky.

“Most people do not believe it is you.”

“No?”

“No. Why would it be you? Why would you be talking to Cliff Marleau on the sidewalk?” Ilya laughs humorlessly. “There is no context. Of course is not you.” Ilya shrugs. “I will send this to Marleau, though.”

“Fuck.” Shane feels like he’s barely holding himself together, nerves all rattled. He’d felt on cloud nine just a while ago. And now suddenly, his relationship with his team feels like it's in jeopardy. “Hayden’s pissed.” The rest are, too, but Hayden's reaction feels the worst.

“Yes, well…” Ilya sighs, temple tucking down against Shane’s shoulder as he scrolls through his timeline. “He only needs time to cool off. A head as small as his gets hotter faster.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Do not think about him,” Ilya tells him.

Shane takes a deep breath, counts to three, lets it out, and counts to six. “That’s easy for you to say. Your teammate accepted you.”

Ilya is quiet for a moment. Shane thinks he will not answer. Then, “Yes. It is quite lucky, isn’t it.” Almost reverent.

Shane nods. He’s not sure how Hayden would react to finding out he and Ilya are sleeping together, but he knows that it would not go as gracefully as it had with Marleau. He has a feeling that it would cause a rift between them that would take a long time to mend. And then, maybe Hayden wouldn’t even care to try to mend it. He doesn’t even want to think about what it would do to his team's relationship with him. He can imagine Theriault sitting him down to tell him that he’s not a good fit for the Metros anymore. Sending him packing. He hasn’t even won them a cup yet, but he’s close, so close, Shane just needs his chance.

“You know…” Ilya starts, voice quiet and contemplative. “I thought it would be scarier for him to know. Marleau. One more loose end to look after.”

Shane swallows. “It’s not?”

“No.” Ilya shakes his head slowly. “Is more like… weight has been lifted. How you say… redistributed.”

“Impressive word.”

Ilya snorts. “Is true. I feel… better.” Shane watches the side of his face. “Is too hard to explain in English.”

“Oh.”

“Your team sounds nice…”

Shane turns his face into his pillow, rolling to press into Ilya’s arm. “They are, really. Just…”

“Just?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe the narrative matters more than the game to them.”

“Dramatic,” Ilya murmurs.

“Hey. They’re still my team.”

“They turn on their captain at the drop of a hat?” Ilya points out.

Shane doesn’t have a counterargument. He sighs, unsure if he ought to be bundling up to go out and find them and plead his case, or if he should forget about them for now and let them cool off.

“What’s Twitter saying?” Shane asks, hoping to get his mind off his team.

Ilya pulls his phone back out, a small grin to his face, like he’s reporting salacious news.

“About picture? Is mostly jokes. And very outlandish theories. There is nothing to it.” Ilya clears his throat. “For donation… is mostly good. Everyone is on their best behavior. A few reporters wonder if they could interview us together. Others wonder what board of governors thinks about us. If it was their idea, or ours.”

“I don’t want to think about the board, or the commissioner, or our coaches,” Shane says, his heart fluttering in his chest. He’s surprised that he hasn’t heard from Theriault all morning. Then again, maybe their coach had been the one to sic Hayden on him in the first place, knowing that that would get to him more than anything. Hayden surely couldn’t care as much as it had seemed, right? Shane doesn't want to believe it, but he's not sure. “We didn’t do anything wrong, did we?”

Ilya tosses his phone somewhere down the bed and turns to him, throwing an arm over his shoulder and pressing him into the pillow. “You think it is wrong to donate to city?”

“No?”

“Is wrong to be associated with me?”

“No.”

“Is nothing wrong with what we did. The thing wrong is your team.”

Chapter End Notes

- This chapter was very unexpected. I didn't know before writing that there would be the confrontation with Shane's team, or the diet discussion at the end. They both felt right to bring into the story at this time. I do not question the muse, after all.

- Honestly, I only know a little about J.J., and even less about Comeau. I know some people are sympathetic to J.J.'s reaction in Long Game, but I'm not making any calls in this chapter about him for now. My apologies if Comeau is out of character, I just could not find much about him one way or the other. If he's some sort of sweetheart, DO let me know lol.

- I also do not know how much or little the Montreal team hates Ilya in the book, or their reasoning besides being rival teams. It seems, in the show at least, that a lot of the rivalry is just for public show. Like, why is it THAT big of a deal in the locker room, too, just among the players? Is it a money thing or something? That's sort of the angle I've taken here. Rivalry=more investment by fans=more money to be made by the league. Do they just love hating each other, too? Anyway, your thoughts on this are welcome.

- I'm really against making Marleau too PC in the typical sense. (I mean, I don't want him to be terribly insensitive either, make no mistake!) But I do think he'd be a bit callous or ignorant about Shane's diet and other particulars, at least until he's gotten to know him better. I probably don't need to say this to readers and lovers of storytelling, but Marleau is meant to grow as a character.

- I didn't intend to touch as much as I did on Shane's diet in this chapter. Of course, I've never been on a macrobiotic diet. I do, however, have experience with restrictive eating, perfectionism, and all-or-nothing health regiments, and understand how one can become obsessive about them very quickly.

I also don't claim that this is exactly how book-Shane OR show-Shane operates. I know that's all up in the air, plot-wise, and we'll see if anything more happens on it in the show or next book. So, this fic features strictly my own creative-liberties that I'm taking to expand on Shane, in one of many ways it could be written about. For my Shane, it'll be restriction and compulsion, and all-or-nothing thinking that he's dealing with.

It also isn't intended to be in-depth or the "best case discussion" on either his or Ilya's part. If you have any strong thoughts either way, let me know.

_______

My notes sound a lot like disclaimers this chapter, don't they lol.

Thank you very much for reading. I'm still amazed by the reaction to this story, and I appreciate it more than I can say! Cheers

Chapter 19: Walls

Chapter Summary

God, he’s sick of lying.

Chapter Notes

Amendment Announcement In my overzealousness to get out a chapter at least once every four days, I overlooked something big: Shane Hollander would not be doing his own grocery shopping! I often forget how famous they are.

This is the only issue with writing from an outline and posting each chapter as it's written and edited. If I'd written one chapter ahead, this is probably something I would've caught and reworked before posting. No one has mentioned it yet, but now that I've thought of it, I cannot unsee it.

So I'm going to have to commit the fanfic sin of rewriting the last scene of Chapter 18. The corrected scene will be posted here at the beginning of this chapter, and deleted from the last chapter. If you skim the beginning of this chapter, the changes start when Ilya talks about wanting to feed Shane dessert.

If you began reading this fic after March 1, 2026, you will not notice any changes!

Thank you!

Nineteen

“I should probably go grocery shopping,” Shane mutters.

They sit next to each other at his breakfast bar once more.

Shane seems to be doing better now. Especially after Ilya had kissed him stupid for the following twenty minutes after his nonconstructive phone call with Hayden Pike. That was fun for Ilya, helpful for Shane. As soon as Shane’s dick had started to chub up against his leg, Ilya had leapt up from the bed and dragged him to the bathroom to clean themselves off, and then he’d whisked down the stairs, making Shane trail after him.

Ilya decides that he likes chicken shawarma wraps quite a bit.

Shane sits next to him, with no pretense of an extra seat of space between them. Their knees bump together under the counter.

Ilya doesn't blame the other for being sullen about his team. Neither of them has won a cup yet, but Ilya thinks that his team must be more loyal than Shane's seems to be. He couldn't believe what he'd heard on the call, all of the others turning criticism and speculation onto Shane. Shane, who cares so much about hockey, and sportsmanship, and winning. Who shapes his entire life around doing his best at the game, for himself and the men who follow him. How could they doubt? Do they not see the same Shane Hollander that Ilya sees?

When Ilya chances a look, he catches Shane looking at his wrap from the corner of his eye.

“Would you like a bite?” Ilya asks, holding it out.

“No.” Shane shakes his head and turns his eye back on his little green leafy wraps.

“I do not understand why you can’t try other things on your diet,” Ilya admits. “Is protein, vegetables, fat.” All good things, according to his nutrition coach.

“It’s… hard to explain,” Shane says.

“I am interested,” Ilya tells him, keeping his tone neutral. Shane seems to do better when he isn’t being pressed on something.

Shane shrugs, staring down at his grape leaves. “My nutritionist worked it out with me and… well, me. I’ve been on it for years. During the season, I mean. I don’t deviate from it, ever. If I stay on it, I always know I’m doing the very best I can.”

Ilya nods. He understands, to a certain degree. But even the most rigid athlete he’s ever met slacks about their diet on occasion.

“It was really easy when I started,” Shane goes on, voice quieter. His fork stabs into a leaf. “It was kind of a relief. To not have to think about what to eat. I don’t know. Sometimes I do want other things, you know?”

“What happens if you eat this, just today?” Ilya asks, holding up the end of his wrap. He tries his best not to sound patronizing. He does, sometimes, albeit unintentionally, and for that, he blames English.

Shane shrugs, keeping his eyes down. Ilya doesn’t like it very much. “Dunno. If I break… then what’s the point?”

“Break?” Ilya asks.

“My willpower.”

“Your willpower is fine, Hollander,” Ilya says, old habits slipping back. “I have never met anyone with more. Is only…”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya isn’t sure how to articulate how he feels. How unbalanced Shane seems when it comes to food. How he stiffens up, eats just to get through it. Won’t look at Ilya or his plate head-on. “Maybe I would just like to feed you dessert sometimes. Sexily.”

That makes Shane flush. When he looks back at Ilya, he’s got a shy grin on, and some of the discomfort in the air eases. Really, that’s all Ilya can ask for at a time like this. He has no place to say his real piece. He finishes off his wrap, filled with a glob of tahini, and takes both of their plates from the countertop to the sink.

“You will go to market?” he asks as he uses Shane’s scrub sponge to clean the dishes.

“My management team usually sends someone to pick them up, but…”

Ilya can tell where this is going. “You will not do that today?” He knows. Because there’s too much snow on the ground still, too much chaos as Montreal tries to catch up and reestablish itself under feet of accumulated snow.

“They’ve had a few slow days. Don’t want to ruin their time off,” Shane says with a shrug. “It’s not very far. I can put in the order myself and go pick it up. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” Ilya repeats to himself, lips shaping over the words as he follows Shane to the sofa. Shane pulls his phone out and slumps into the corner seat. Ilya thinks of things he’d like to eat. He shuffles up closer to the other as he watches Shane navigate through his messages to start a new one.

A notification pops up on Shane’s phone, and Ilya gets to read the name Hayden before Shane swipes it out of the way with irritation.

“Hayden is your good friend, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane nods, thumbs typing up items absently into the body of a message. After a minute, Shane huffs. “I’m not so close with that many guys on the team. But… he’s the one I know best. I have dinner with his family sometimes. He has two kids— twins.”

Ilya hums noncommittally. Truthfully, he doesn’t care so much about Hayden Pike's personal life. More so, he cares about Shane’s relationship with him. Shane had been hurt by the phone call. It no doubt bothered him that Pike seemed to feel a level of betrayal at Shane’s friendliness with Ilya.

Ilya can understand, to a degree. On one hand, he’s sure more than a few guys on his own team would take issue knowing he and Shane were so close. They hadn’t called him up to complain about a joint press release, though. Perhaps the Metros were more insecure than they liked to let on.

Shane clears his throat. “I… don’t think I’m quite the captain they wanted.”

Ilya feels his face twist in confusion. “Do they not follow your lead?”

“They do. But…” Shane lets his hand fall to the sofa, phone going with it. He looks at Ilya, brows drawn together. He’s thinking hard. Ilya waits, propping an elbow up onto the back of the sofa. “I’m not…” He waves his hand at Ilya. “Charismatic. My whole life, people liked that I could play hockey. I was really good at it. But outside that, I don’t know. It’s like there’s a… wall. Between them and me. My team.”

Not only them, Ilya thinks. He knows Shane’s reputation in the league and online. Cordial, polite, Canadian golden boy, but undoubtedly reserved. A face that does not often betray what he’s thinking. One might even consider him cold if they did not know how deeply he thought about everything.

Shane stares ahead at his darkened fireplace. “And that was okay, but… I thought when I became captain that maybe the wall would come down. So far, it hasn’t. People are nice, but…”

They don’t know you, Ilya thinks, gazing at the side of Shane’s face.

Shane turns an embarrassed smile on him. “Sometimes, I feel like I haven’t grown up at all.” He laughs. “Isn’t that stupid?”

Ilya doesn’t answer in words. He leans in and presses his lips to Shane’s jaw, just under his cheek. He feels the other’s lashes flutter briefly, and when he pulls back, Shane can’t seem to keep the true smile off his face.

“Maybe is a bit silly. You are very grown.” Ilya sets a palm on the back of his neck, rubbing soothingly down into the collar of his shirt. “You are their best captain in a long time. Never have they gotten so far in playoffs before. They must know this, yes?” And if they don’t, Ilya knows that they’ll see it someday. Maybe someday soon. He points at Shane’s phone to break the tension. “Order me another bottle of Coke, will you?”

Shane’s face eases as he types out the rest of his order. Ilya busies himself cataloguing each little freckle on his cheek.

A bit of waiting later, and Ilya has tried no less than three times to get into Shane’s pants. Each time he’s met with pleased chuckles, and Shane fending him off half-heartedly, distracting him with his mouth or something on the news. Ilya eventually gives up, and then Shane gets word that his order is waiting for him.

Ilya trails after him to his front door, leaning his shoulder up against a wall to watch him slip on his coat and boots.

“How far is market?” Ilya asks curiously.

“Just down the street. It’s a high-end convenience store under some office buildings— they have organic produce—”

“Ahh,” Ilya says, lifting his brows like this is very impressive.

Shane rolls his eyes and crouches to do up his laces. “You stay here.”

“Of course,” Ilya spreads his arms to each side. “Where else would I go?”

“I don’t know,” Shane mutters.

When he stands back up, Ilya is there to greet him, taking his chin in one hand. He loves the way Shane melts into the touch. They kiss, a chaste brush of lips, and Ilya is terribly aware of how domestic it feels. “Pick up more lube and condoms,” he tells him teasingly. A nervous bubble of laughter nearly bursts through Shane’s lips as he shrugs out of Ilya’s hold.

“They’re in the order,” he says awkwardly, which he didn’t have to admit in the first place. Ilya finds it endearing that he had. “Don’t go wandering around,” Shane warns halfheartedly. “One possible Raider sighting on the block is nothing.”

“But two would draw a crowd,” Ilya says, watching Shane open the door. “Yes, yes.”

Safe trip, he thinks. When the door shuts, he admonishes himself for not saying it out loud. He throws the door back open, and Shane is halfway down the hall toward the elevator, turning to look at him in bewilderment. Ilya feels self-conscious suddenly, and he tries to think of something good.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” he says flatly. Shane tucks his face into his shoulder to hide his pleased grin. He throws a small wave back as he turns to go.

Ilya feels giddy as he shuts the door. He’d nailed it. Now, to watch television and wait for Shane to come back.

Just like the dog they say you are, he thinks to himself wryly. For once, he doesn’t mind the comparison. He sprawls out on the sofa and turns on the Montreal weather report, hoping against hope that somehow, there will be another blizzard en route to Montreal.

There is not.

*

Hayden taps out a message on his phone.

Are you actually meeting with him or—

He erases it, scowling at how needy it sounds. Hayden hates to be nosy, and he even makes it a point not to be, no matter what his teammates say otherwise. But he’s watched Shane cling tight to his personal privacy for years and never pried, and this is where it’s gotten them. He tries again.

Sorry about earlier. I didn’t know everyone would dogpile on—

He erases it.

Then he puts his phone away without sending anything, resting his chin in his palm.

He feels a little silly for not having put it together sooner.

Brunch with the guys had started out tongue-in-cheek years ago. Over time, though, they’ve found a few places around Montreal with good food and enough table space to seat seven to twelve of them, whoever can spare the time, with some semblance of privacy. Once every few weeks, if they’re in town, they meet up.

Hayden had arrived this morning in good spirits. Shane hadn’t been there, which wasn’t so unusual. Sometimes he wouldn’t come if the place didn’t have anything he could eat— and sometimes he would, just to socialize. A high-end greasy spoon— which is the only thing Hayden can think of to describe Carlos— isn’t likely to have anything “macrobiotic”.

Then J.J. had shown him the newest headline and joint statement put out by Shane and Rozanov, or, more likely, by their publicists, for how chic it had sounded.

It’d felt a bit like a punch to the face.

Maybe punch was too strong a word.

A slap. A small one. Small slaps still stung, though, didn’t they?

He ought to have called Shane on his own time. But then Comeau had pulled up the supposed picture of Cliff Marleau and Shane Hollander, and Hayden had been into his second Bloody Mary, and—

Even an hour later, sobering up from his buzz, the conversation is still bouncing around inside Hayden’s head, along with the minutes after he’d hung up, the ping-ponging shit talk from Comeau and Drapeau, fueled by a few midday cocktails and a few other teammates. They’d garnered a few agreements as well as some pushback, nearly taking their distaste for both Rozanov and Shane’s association with him too far.

Hayden pulls his phone back out and stares at the blinking text cursor. Frowns.

Shane and Rozanov are friends. Of course. The first sign ought to have been Shane’s peppy attitude at their last practice. Energy for miles, uncharacteristically sending a puck at the glass. The wild look in his eye, skating circles around Rozanov. He’d been smiling. Not nearly as ruffled by his rival's presence as he should have been. Hayden just thought he was being the bigger man. Golden-boy Hollander.

Friends.

Shane’s never mentioned it even once to Hayden. Maybe that’s the real seed of his irritation. The squirming little feeling in his stomach that he doesn’t know Shane Hollander as well as he would’ve liked. As well as he’s been trying to.

Shane doesn’t make it easy, most of the time. He’s… well. Shane is Shane. Master of hockey, and a pretty decent captain— better than their last, for sure. But outside of hockey, he’s stingy with his personal details, and quiet, and that doesn’t always go over well when you’re trying to make friends with a group of men who like to lay others flat out on the ice for fun and talk afterward in the locker room about the women they fuck each night they have off. When you’re supposed to rally them together into a team.

Hayden is nothing if not persistent, or so Jackie tells him. Shane is a tough nut to crack, but he thought they’d made some good progress over the last year.

And now you’ve set that back three steps, you idiot, he thinks to himself, putting the phone away again.

It’s only that he thought they were close enough that Shane would’ve mentioned having friends on other teams. Especially if one of those friends was Ilya-fucking-Rozanov, notorious asshole, captain of Montreal’s biggest rival. A man who Hayden takes great pleasure in shit-talking on and off the ice— and in front of Shane, no less.

Hayden rests his head on his arms, willing the last of the vodka to wear off. He ought to order a few slices of toast.

Sometimes it seems like Jackie understands Shane better than he does. She explains this to Hayden by the fact that she had a quiet little brother growing up. Maybe he ought to talk to her more about this. He’d call her, but then she’d know he had been drinking mid-day cocktails. He's not even tipsy anymore, but she'd know.

Half the team has trickled out of Carlos’s when Bowens sidles up to him, taking the seat J.J. had been sitting in before his departure.

“Comeau’s something else, huh?”

“You’re telling me,” Hayden sighs.

“I don’t like it. Seems like he’s out for blood. Some of the others were egging him on. You think he’s gonna stir shit up with Theriault?”

Hayden looks at his phone again. “He wouldn’t dare, right? Shane’s our captain. And our friend.”

“He’s your friend. J.J.’s. Berkes’. To most of us, he’s a teammate first. A captain.” Bowens sighs, like this weighs heavily on him, too. “Tell you one thing, though. Comeau’s causing ripples on purpose.”

Hayden’s a bad friend.

“Not with me,” Hayden says grudgingly. “Fuck.”

Bowens leaves, and Hayden sits staring at his text chain with Shane.

He wants to confront Shane, but first, he’ll have to apologize. Nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times over with his wife. If he can admit to Jackie when he’s been an ass, doing it with Shane ought to be a piece of cake.

*

Shane sits in his car around the side alley of the grocery store, waiting for the back door to open up. He stares down at his most recent message from Hayden.

Hayden - 2:32 pm - Lunch is over. Do you have a minute?

He’s been walking a tightrope with his team for the few years he’s been their captain. They’re a nice bunch, especially at the beginning. Shane still gets the feeling that he’s trying to prove himself to them, though. That they’re all still waiting to see if he’s worth his salary and worth investing their time and energy into taking seriously. Shane thinks they’ve won enough games with each other to warrant some amount of mutual respect.

Hayden’s dismissal stings the most, though.

Half of him wants to blow Hayden off, put his focus on Ilya, waiting for him back home. To see where the day will take them, and fall into it mindlessly. He’d opened up a bit, back in the apartment, and Ilya hadn’t even made fun of him. It’s good progress. Shane wants very much to ask him some big, important questions. But he isn't sure if it'll ruin the time they have left together.

A new message pops up as he’s about to put his phone away.

Hayden - 3:10 pm - Are you home?

A sharp rap of knuckles on his window startles him. It’s one of the workers, a bored-looking kid smacking gum. When Shane rolls down his window, the kid doesn’t look any less bored, and if he does recognize him, he doesn’t seem to care. “You’re picking up the order?” the kid asks monotonously.

Shane nods. As the kid turns to leave, Shane catches him. “I needed to add an extra thing,” he says, and passes him the cash tip he’d prepared, a wad of bills that the kid stares at wide-eyed and blank.

“Uh, alright. Sure. What is it?” The kid asks, demeanor significantly brightened.

When the kid heads back inside, Shane returns to his messages, gnawing on the inside of his lip as he thinks of what to say. In the middle of tapping out a reply message, the phone begins ringing in his hand.

“Hello?” he answers.

It’s the doorman at his building. “Mr. Hollander? You’re not answering your intercom, but you have company in the lobby. Hayden Pike. He’s on your approved guest list. Would you like me to send him up anyway?”

“No,” Shane says, louder than necessary

A long pause on the other end. “You, uh, want me to send him away?”

Shane rubs his fingers into his eyes, thinking. “No, just— tell him I’ll be there soon. Ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” the doorman agrees.

For the next two minutes and fifty-three seconds, Shane sweats in the front seat of his SUV. The kid finally comes back, a last straggling plastic bag in hand. Shane thanks him, tips him a second time, far too much money in all, and leaves.

His mind is blank on the journey back. He parks in the underground. Carries all the bags in two fists to the elevator. He ought to take them up to the apartment; he has cold things, but his intense need to know why Hayden is there— and to keep him far away from his front door— overshadows everything else.

The apartment's ground floor is lavish, like a fine hotel. Shane doesn’t need to go there very often anymore. It’s overflowing with large potted plants, hanging chandeliers, and many spaces for visitors to lounge. Shane carries his two fistfuls of groceries into the middle of the room and scans.

Hayden sits not far away, staring at his phone. When he sees Shane, he stands abruptly. Shane can see that he’s not… happy to see him, exactly, but there’s a peculiar look on his face.

“Hey…” Hayden says, looking Shane up and down.

Shane stares at him dumbly. He feels part angry and part remorseful, and can’t decide what the correct thing to feel is, given the circumstances.

“Caught you at a bad time?” Hayden asks.

“No.” Shane sets the bags down on the floor next to the lounge sofa. A few of them dump onto their sides. Shane ignores them, rubbing his hands against his jeans to bring feeling back into his fingers. “Um. What are you doing here?” he asks.

Hayden clears his throat. “Just— visiting. Didn’t know you’d be out.”

“Last-minute trip.” The tension is thick and awkward between them. “How are, um, Jackie and the twins? You guys weren’t in a blackout, too, were you?”

Hayden blinks. Then, his shoulders fall, and the air whooshes out from between his lips like he’s been holding his breath for a long time. “Goddamnit, Shane.”

“What?”

“You make it so fucking hard to stay mad at you.”

A slow smile starts on Shane’s mouth. “You’re not any better.”

Hayden hitches a hand onto his hip. “Look, the call was—

“Bullshit?”

Hayden has the decency to look embarrassed. “Partially. It was… unexpected.”

“You’re the one who made it.”

“Look, I’m trying to apologize here,” Hayden says. “I was out with some of the guys, and they were already worked up. It was just blowing off some steam, but then… Well, you know how it is with guys. Sometimes they take it too far.”

Shane shifts between his feet. He does know. It’s why he finds it hard to navigate his position. He wants to be a part of the team, but sometimes the locker room talk dwindles into a level of vulgarity that Shane can’t really follow. Sometimes anger overflows from the game and causes scuffles amongst them. Still…

“I’m not trying to go against the team.”

Hayden drops back into his seat in a slump. Shane takes the one across from him, hands sitting awkwardly on his knees. “I know,” Hayden says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just thought I’d finally gotten a grasp on you. You’re kind of predictable, but then you seem to keep on surprising me.” He says this like it’s a bad thing. “Look— Comeau and some of the others were saying some shitty things. About Rozanov. And you. But… I don’t want to just blow you off. And I’m not taking sides with any of them.”

“This is an apology?” Shane asks, biting down a coy smile.

“I… I’m sorry.” He says it like it pains him. “But… I’m a little worried that Comeau and his big mouth are going to make it onto Theriault’s radar.

Shane’s face falls flat. “Theriault doesn’t have a say in what I do with my personal time and money.”

“Not officially… But you know how it is. If they say you’re harming the reputation of the team…” Hayden shrugs. “I mean, I don’t agree, by the way.”

“Really?” Shane asks, leaning back skeptically. “Because you sounded pretty with them on the phone, earlier.”

Hayden meets his eye sheepishly. “I am a little angry. Or… confused. Weirded out. I don’t get it. You and Ilya Rozanov hate each other, but suddenly you’re friends? It came out of nowhere. I’ve never heard of you two talking outside of a game. You might’ve thought to tell me something like that.”

Shane’s gut twinges in guilt as he thinks about the breadth of what Hayden still doesn’t know. He wishes that he could spill his guts to him. He doesn’t know Hayden to be a homophobe, and he probably wouldn’t cut Shane off entirely. The idea of it getting back to the others, though… that thought is unthinkable. Not something he can ever risk.

Marleau had found out on his own volition. They’d had to tell him. He can’t very well do the same with Hayden when he has no inkling in the first place, no matter how much he wishes he could share this thing about himself with someone, anyone.

Afraid that Hayden will be able to read all of his thoughts on his face, Shane tries for a joke. “So you’re jealous?”

“Fuck no. Not of that Russian bastard,” Hayden scoffs, predictably. “We’ve watched you and Rozanov be at each other’s throats for years. Our teams try to murder each other every time we’re on the ice together. I guess… it kind of makes us all feel like fools.”

“Even you?”

Hayden’s mouth turns down in a scowl. “I feel dumb for different reasons.”

“You could’ve said all this on the phone.”

“I was around,” Hayden says, waving his hand. Then he goes quiet, looking at Shane expectantly.

Shane steels himself. Tries to say only true things, but not in their entirety. "We... came to an unexpected agreement," Shane starts. "He's different from what you might think."

"That's for sure. He's not exactly known for being nice. He shit-talks at every press conference."

Shane's fingers fidget together. "It's mostly an act. He cares a lot more than he lets on." He's so much more than that, too, Shane wants to gush. He's kind and thoughtful. Perceptive in a way that sometimes scares Shane. A fantastic lover. The opposite of selfish. Who cries sometimes when he's drunk, who moved to a new country on his own, who repeats English words and phrases to himself silently, committing them to memory. Who likes to kiss and tease and make Shane blush like it's a sport in itself.

"I'll have to take your word for it," Hayden says, like the idea of Ilya Rozanov being nice is uncomfortable to him. "He's not my friend. Look, let’s put this shit behind us, for now. You wanna kick back, watch a movie or game or…”

Shane does, actually. Hayden doesn’t come over that often, but Shane would like for him to. Unfortunately, it’s the exact wrong moment for him to ask. “I can’t, today. How about Friday, day after we play Minnesota?”

Hayden frowns. “Not tomorrow after practice?”

“Uh… no,” Shane swallows, mind racing to think up a lie. Fuck, he needs to ask Ilya how he does it so easily. “I’m uh… I have to put these away. And I’m trying a new home workout.”

Hayden’s eyes trace over the plastic grocery bags as Shane gathers them back into his fists. “You need some help with those?”

“No.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Really, I’m good,” Shane says, straightening up.

A new suspicion returns to Hayden’s face. He looks from the bags to Shane, scrutinizing. “You don’t drink Coke,” he says, pointing at the very obvious 2-liter bottle in one bag.

Shane hadn’t thought of that. The suspicion on Hayden’s face gives way to a devious smile.

“No way.”

“What?”

“You have someone over, don’t you?”

“No. The Coke is for my dad.”

“Your dad’s not in Montreal right now. Oh, this makes up for everything,” Hayden says, which Shane doesn’t know if he ought to take offense to or not. Hayden claps a hand on his shoulder, and Shane shrugs under the added weight. “Atta boy, Hollander.”

“Hay…” Shane starts. He tries to do the math, figure out if it’s worth Hayden believing this lie or not.

God, he’s sick of lying.

Hayden continues, a manic grin on his face. “If it gets serious, you gotta let me meet her. Jackie too. She’s been asking about you.”

“It’s not serious— it’s not anything,” Shane insists. “I gotta go.”

“Right, right,” Hayden lets him go, a knowing grin on his mouth.

Shane feels guilty as he stands in the elevator and watches Hayden mosey out the front door of the building, with no clue of who is waiting for Shane in his apartment. No clue what Shane gets up to behind closed doors.

Part of him feels better for having— mostly— reconciled with one person. Maybe he can work on J.J. and the others at practice the next day. He’s sure that this isn’t the last he’s heard about Ilya. It’s not a big deal, though. They can work through this.

As much as he feels better, Shane has suddenly been made aware of the wall again. Now, he’s noticed it between him and Hayden. He’s sure it’s always been there, but he’s never noticed it so blatantly before.

Thinking about practice tomorrow, he suddenly feels strikingly like he once did in school. Dreading the walk into the building, dreading looking at all of his peers, and having to try to connect to them.

By the time the elevator reaches his floor, he realizes how lonely it feels.

He trudges to his apartment, the thought of seeing Ilya again the only thing that seems like it could make him feel better.

The apartment is deadly quiet, though.

He stands in his foyer, listening to the silence, the lack of television noise or movement. He takes a few steps to the kitchen, looking around. His stomach sinks an inch.

After setting everything on the counter, he looks around the living room and sees a lack of any of Ilya’s belongings. The blanket is folded onto the back of the couch, the throw pillows replaced. The coffee table is back in its rightful place.

For all intents and purposes, it looks as if Ilya has vacated the apartment entirely.

Shane’s chest and throat tighten up. Suddenly, it's hard to breathe. An inexplicable, terrible feeling spreads through his chest. It feels like a bucket of ice water has been tipped over his head.

He stands there in front of his dining table. He feels ridiculous. His voice sounds all wrong as he asks loudly, “Ilya?”

After a long moment, there is a small thump from upstairs, echoing as if it’d come from his bathroom. Shane’s heart lurches.

Ilya appears at the top of the stairs, wide blue eyes peering down in apprehension.

“Fuck,” Shane says. He feels like he could double over, in pain or relief. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding,” Ilya tells him, bare feet thumping down the stairs. He’s wearing a pair of loose gym shorts and a T-shirt. “Voice from intercom,” Ilya explains, pointing at the little speaker box by the door. “Said Pike came to see you. I thought he might come up even if you were not home. So I hid in your shower.”

Shane swallows thickly, and even though he’s relieved to see the other still here, the sudden sorrow that’d overcome him refuses to dissipate. He takes a breath that sounds ragged to his own ears.

Ilya frowns. “What is wrong? What is this face?” he asks, stepping off the stairs.

Shane’s jaw tightens as Ilya comes to him. His teeth grind together as he tries to contain the bursting feeling at the base of his throat.

“Shane?” Ilya asks, a hand reaching for him. As it touches his shoulder, Shane’s face twists, and he looks away.

“I met Hayden in the lobby,” he says, his voice cracking.

Ilya’s brow quirks. “Was he terrible?”

“No. He apologized… It was good. I had to lie to him to get him to go.”

Ilya stares at him in the way he does when he’s on the ice, looking at an opposing team, trying to work out all of their angles and strategies. Reading him. Shane bites down on his lip so hard that it sends shooting sparks of pain through his face.

“And I thought you… Left.” He looks at his pristine living room. Ilya must have tidied it in a rush, thinking that Hayden might show up at any moment. He did too good a job.

“Shane… you are crying,” Ilya says quietly.

“No, I’m not,” Shane huffs. Ilya’s hand gently touches his face, turning it back toward him, and Shane must admit that Ilya looks more blurry than before. “I’m not.” His face is dry.

Ilya’s warm palm cups the side of his face. A thumb ghosts across his cheek. “Okay,” he says solemnly. “So you’re not. Come here.”

Ilya takes up his entire field of vision, a hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Shane presses his face into the other’s throat and collar and breathes. Pain spreads outward from his heart, and Shane’s hands scramble clumsily for the back of Ilya’s shirt, holding on tightly.

“Is okay,” Ilya murmurs, arms encircling him. They’re the same size, but Shane feels very small in that moment, Ilya holding onto him like he's holding him together.

“Don’t do that shit, okay?” Shane asks, voice rough.

“What shit?” Ilya asks placatingly.

“Don’t just… leave suddenly. Without saying anything.” It would hurt too much, he thinks, ashamed.

After everything— the days they’ve spent together, the ease that they’ve fallen into— stacked on top of the turmoil Shane feels about his team, Shane can’t think of anything worse than suddenly finding himself alone in his apartment. It’d be like being left high and dry after the first time he’d made Ilya come with his mouth. Ilya had only teased it once, but Shane had felt the badness of it down to his core.

Somehow, being left now, Ilya cutting him off without a word, would be infinitely worse. He doesn’t dare to name the reason why.

Shane’s hands turn to fists, probably stretching Ilya’s shirt out of shape. Ilya doesn’t seem to care. “Don’t," Shane repeats.

“Okay,” Ilya murmurs, a hand rubbing his shoulder. “I will not.”

Shane is tempted to ask him to promise, but he can’t think of anything more needy or humiliating, so he stays quiet.

When he pulls back, Ilya’s neck glistens wet, and Shane wipes it hastily with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Ilya's hands return to his cheeks, both thumbs swiping beneath his eyes as the other looks at him appraisingly.

“There. Not crying. No tears,” Ilya says, holding his face in his hands.

Shane has never felt more like an open book. Like there is no wall.

“Should we watch a movie, or play a game? Or something more interesting?” Ilya grins slyly at him.

Shane nods, clearing his throat. “I got you something, actually,” he says, turning and heading for the kitchen. He can feel Ilya close behind him, which makes him feel warm all over. For a little while more, he can pretend that tomorrow will not come. He finds the last, straggling grocery bag amongst the rest and hands it over. “It… might be a little melty by now, though.”

Chapter End Notes

If there's one thing writing a bigger fic with eyes on it is teaching me, it's how to bite the bullet and not squirm when I need to make a technical change mid-way through. My pride has been wounded a few times through this process, but hopefully that's doing something beneficial for me in the long run?

For the first time, I genuinely have no idea how this chapter will be received. I'm kinda nervous. Hayden's a weird character for me to write, but I wanted to do a bit from his pov. Maybe this will go over well, or maybe readers will think it's a big old bore. Either way, I feel like I understand him a bit better, or at least, my version of him! Hopefully this isn't too weird of a chapter. My brain feels miles off, and I've had a lot of weird "dissonance" trying to figure out if this update is decent or not. I'm a chronic over-thinker, in case you didn't pick up on that from my tomes of author's notes.

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About other players: I've been doing my best to cross reference the timeline with all the characters. This is tough when the show has deviated from the book so much. I keep having to remind myself to be loose with it and refer to the show first.

I was reviewing the show timeline and noticed that Shane was drafted to Montreal in 2009, but only in 2011 does Hayden ask him to come to his house for dinner. Do I have that right??? huh.

I've read more analysis that implies Hayden is less close in the show to Shane (this early on) than in the books, so I feel a little more validated about my personal take on his character so far. Sorry to ye book-Hayden lovers for my treatment of him, if he feels ooc! He's had his moments, but there's hope for him yet. I did enjoy writing from him, though.

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I've started reading Role Model, and I'm actually enjoying myself. I've found it difficult to get into HR or Long Game simply because I know the show so well, and love what the actors have brought to the table for the characters. But I figured I would need to get a clue about The Centaurs eventually, and heard Role Model was a good one, so decided to give it a shot.

It's been much easier to get into, not comparing any characters (besides Ilya) to a show counterpart. It rids the brain of friction! Anyway, would recommend, so far.

That's a lot of long-winded notes. If you read these, you have my respect lol

Thank you as always, more soon. Fare thee well.