Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, Jackie Pike, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

2012-2013 NHL Lockout, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Idiots in Love, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Marriage of Convenience, or rather, engagement of convenience, Inspired by The Proposal (2009), Not Actually Unrequited Love, Banter, Happy Ending, They share one braincell and it was not in the house that day, Team Dynamics, Anal Sex, First Time, POV Shane Hollander, Coming Out, Fake/Pretend Relationship, While they're also sleeping together, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Jackie Pike, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of a 'convenient' solution

Collections:

Fulfill A Crave-ing

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-01 Completed: 2026-01-27 Words: 42,749 Chapters: 11/11

(and i want these words to) make things right

Summary

“Why are you here?”

“You see,” Rozanov drawls, “twenty-two years ago, my parents decide they fuck and –”

“Ugh. Shut up.” Shane scowls. “No, I mean – why here?” why now? 

The smirk slides off Rozanov’s face. “They want –” he swallows, bringing one arm up to drape over his eyes. “The team I play for. During lockout. They… disagree about rest of season. Tell me I stay.”

“But they can’t do that!”

Rozanov gives him a sardonic smirk.

---

When Rozanov’s Russian team doesn’t want to let him return to the MLH after the 2012-13 lockout, Shane finds himself pulled into a harebrained scheme to make sure his rival is safe – and it might just work. Now he only has to navigate a secret pretend relationship while also facing the condensed MLH season. But needs must, right?

Notes

This is another prompt fill for the very cool Fulfill a Crave-ing Collection – I hope it is what you imagined!

This was written 100% with human imagination and patience; no AI has been used in this work.

Hugest of shoutouts to mio, who helped me brainstorm a setup for this – it’s not quite like The Proposal, but hopefully it’ll be just as fun.

Title respectfully borrowed from thnks fr th mmrs because titles are hard

Edit: a lovely commenter pointed out that I never actually explain what exactly a Lockout is, so I added a bit of explanation to the fic. The gist of it is that there’s an agreement (the Collective Bargaining Agreement, CBA) between players and owners that governs the league, and it ran out prior to the 2012-13 season. This resulted in about half the season being cancelled until a new agreement could be reached, and to keep sharp, players scattered to other leagues like the Kontinental Hockey League (KHL, mainly Russian teams). I incidentally discovered hockey during said lockout, so I have a very soft spot for the setting ^^

Chapter 1

“What the hell?” Shane blinks blearily at his bedside clock as he clutches his phone like a lifeline. 1:47am. What the hell, indeed.

“Hollander.” Just one word, but there’s a note to Rozanov’s voice that jolts Shane into ice cold clarity. The last vestiges of sleepiness from getting woken a mere two hours after falling asleep, still jet lagged, disappear.

“What’s – why are you calling me?”

A sigh on the other end of the line, and then, “You home?”

“What?”

“You are home?”

“Er – yeah. Arrived yesterday.”

“Good,” Rozanov says, more exhale than word. “You – can you – can you pick me up?” He says it all in a rush, hesitates, and then tacks on, “Please?”

“Can I… pick you up?” Shane repeats stupidly. What?

“I’m – airport,” Rozanov says, which doesn’t actually explain anything. “And – don’t know. I don’t know. What – what I do.” The final part is so quiet the phone barely picks it up, but Shane is already halfway out of bed. There’s a teetering moment where he’s sure he’s about to concuss himself on his wall as he fights against his duvet, but then he’s free, the wooden floor cool against his bare feet.

“Montréal airport?” he asks.

Rozanov scoffs. If it’s ever so slightly shaky, neither of them remark upon it. “No, Mexico city. Yes, of course Montreal.”

“Jeez,” Shane says, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he struggles into a pair of jeans. “Fine, I’ll – I’ll be there.”

“You will?” Rozanov repeats, a little like he expected Shane to say no. Why did he even call, if he didn’t believe Shane would say yes?

“Give me – half an hour.” That should be a safe estimate at this time of the night. “Don’t – don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?” Rozanov asks softly, and then, before Shane can say anything, adds even more softly, “thanks.”

Rozanov is leaning against the side of the airport kiss and fly area when Shane pulls up, huddled into his coat and with a hat pulled low into his face. His curls are peeking out still; if he’s trying to throw anyone off as to who he is, he probably should have hidden them too. Or maybe Shane is just too attuned to him – or Rozanov isn’t that worried about anyone recognising him out in the dark at 2:27 am in fucking Montreal. If anything, he should be in Boston.

Shane puts the car in park but doesn’t kill the engine. It’s minus degrees outside, and he’s not supposed to park here. But again – 2:27 am.

He rolls down his window. “Rozanov.”

“Hollander,” Rozanov replies, with his heavy accent. No one says his name quite like him. “Thank you.”

Shane waves him off and then jerks his head towards the trunk. “Need help with loading your stuff?”

“I have nothing,” Rozanov says, which is clearly a lie because there is a carry-on at his feet, but he picks it up without further comment, puts it in the trunk, and then climbs into the car.

Rozanov is pale in the shimmer of light from the airport building, the bags under his eyes large and dark. There’s a tilt to his mouth that Shane hasn’t seen in – maybe ever; not that he makes a habit of studying Rozanov. He doesn’t. If he did, he would remember him as vibrant, an in-your-face menace; alive and intense. Now, he looks washed out. Empty. A little like a ghost. Shane bites his lip, unsure how to proceed.

“Are you… are you okay?”

Rozanov huffs and closes his eyes. “Do I have choice?”

And what do you say to that?

After an eternity, Rozanov sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “So you came back yesterday?”

There’s things Shane should probably say. Ask. He doesn’t know what they are. Instead, he nods. “Yeah. Started packing up as soon as Toews reached out a couple days back. You?” He gives Rozanov one more glance before he puts the car into drive and checks over his shoulder so he can pull out of his brief parking spot. They’d all scattered when it became clear this season wasn’t going to happen as usual, that the team owners wouldn’t meet the players’s demands and would rather cancel a hefty number of games than give in. It’s been a little over four months of frustrating negotions, even from Switzerland where Shane had played during that time; he can’t imagine it’s been so much better elsewhere.

“Immediately when they said CBA is happening. You were eager to come home? All done with European hockey?”

Shane’s answer is an explosive exhale, eyes still fixed on the road.

Next to him, Rozanov laughs. “Yeah,” he says, and almost sounds normal. “Yeah, me too.”

“Nice place.” Rozanov gives the space an appraising look as he shucks his shoes. His eyes linger on the large windows, the tastefully arranged cushions on the couch. “My bag – where…?”

“Uh…”

“You have… guest room?”

Right. “Yeah,” Shane says with a wry smile. “But unless you enjoy sleeping on a weight bench, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Rozanov stares at him for a second before he starts cackling. “Really, Hollander?”

Shane shrugs. “Where else was I supposed to put it?” His performance bonuses and salary so far have been sizeable, but he’s had different priorities – like a walk-in shower, and the open-plan kitchen, and the stairs up to the loft, and putting a good chunk of it towards a nice new car for his parents. He knows who got him to where he is, and truly, it’s the least he could do.

“So… I sleep… on couch?”

Shane looks from the couch to Rozanov, still smiling, but looking… lost. Alone. And they aren’t friends, but they aren’t just rivals either. So… “The couch sucks for sleeping.” He pulls a face, his heart rate picking up, even though what he’s about to suggest makes the most sense. “But – my bed. It’s… it’s wide enough for two?” Hell, they’ve sucked each others’ dicks; what’s a little bed sharing between… rivals with benefits anyway?

Rozanov’s smile widens. It looks a little unhinged. “Oooh, you take me in from street only to lure me in your bed?”

“You invited yourself,” Shane points out mildly. He shrugs, because it’s no skin off his back. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. (If his heart rate disagrees, well. That’s neither here nor there.) “But you can try the couch, if you’d rather.”

“Nah,” Rozanov says almost before Shane has finished his offer. “Is fine. Uh… what door? So I change?”

“Upstairs.” Shane points at the stairs up to the loft bedroom. “And bathroom’s through here. I’ll just… make coffee?”

“I think we sleep,” Rozanov counters. “Flight is only so resting.”

Shane blinks and then pivots a little. “Uh, then – water? Or, er, food?”

“Water is fine.” Rozanov hesitates with foot on the lowest step, looking back at Shane. “And – thank you. I –” He sucks his lips into his mouth. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Shane replies on autopilot. A moment later, Rozanov disappears upstairs. Well. Nothing for it.

Shane makes his way into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses and filling them with water from his fancy new fridge. There’s a few stale crackers from his own journey back, so he grabs those and puts everything on the couch table. It looks… odd. Respectable. Like an adult’s living room.

His mum would be so proud of him for remembering to be a proper host. Well. If one ignores the fact that he doesn’t have his guest room ready. Or that it’s Ilya fucking Rozanov he’s hosting.

Christ. What even is going on?

“Why are you here?”

“You see,” Rozanov drawls, “twenty-two years ago, my parents decided they fuck and –”

“Ugh. Shut up.” Shane scowls. It makes Rozanov’s smirk widen, though he does fall obligingly silent. He looks like the douche he is on Shane’s couch, changed into sweatpants and a worn Raiders zipper hoodie, his hat still jammed on his the mess of curls on his head. Maybe Shane should give him a brush, for his next birthday. “No, I mean – why here?” why now?

The smirk slides off Rozanov’s face, replaced by a much more genuine – much smaller – expression that makes Shane’s chest tighten. For long moments, he’s as quiet as he was in the car. Then, his head drops back against the couch, exposing his long throat. It bobs as he swallows. “They wanted –” he swallows again, bringing one arm up to drape over his eyes. “The team I played for. During lockout. They… disagreed about rest of season. Told me I stay.”

“But they can’t do that!”

Rozanov gives him a sardonic smirk.

Oh. It feels odd, that the team – a Russian team, Shane believes; he’d watched a few KHL games these past few months – mainly to get his mind of the MLH games he could be playing, of course, and not for any other reason. In any case, he’d seen the 81 – Rozanov jersey, had seen his name on screen whenever he’d scored. “And now?”

“Now I am on run.”

Despite himself, Shane finds himself crossing the distance in two steps, sinking down in front of Rozanov. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s stuck behind the opposing team’s net, forced to watch them break away with the puck. No – he’s in the box in the dying seconds of a game, stuck behind glass as the other team scores, the crowd jeering in his ears.

His hands flex on Rozanov’s knees, and he has to say something – anything.

“Is – is there anything you – that we… can do right now?”

Rozanov sucks his lips into his mouth and then shakes his head.

“So just – living your childhood dream of being a spy for now?” Shane asks after a long moment. His voice falls short of teasing, but Rozanov takes the offer still, smiles. It’s barely even a smirk.

“Something like, yes.”

They stay like that for a handful of breaths, before Shane levers himself up. The adrenaline of being woken by repeated calls on his cellphone has worn off, and he’s suddenly starkly reminded that he’s slept maybe two hours so far. “C’mon, Mr. Secret Agent.” He jerks his head towards the stairs to the bedroom. “Even a spy needs his rest.”

It’s horribly cheesy, but Rozanov merely snorts as he levers himself up and follows Shane up the stairs. He doesn’t even crack a joke about making it into Shane’s bed, doesn’t offer sex. Underneath the bone-deep tiredness, Shane’s chest feels carved open.

When Rozanov curls into him under the blankets, the feeling only intensifies.

Shane wakes to the sun in his eyes and the soft rustle of blankets next to him. For a moment, he’s blessedly confused, until the events of the last night settle in again.

Right. Rozanov.

Shane gives himself a handful of seconds to look at Rozanov and the way his hair is an untamed mess, the soft curve of his mouth where it’s fallen open. He looks different like this. Younger. Softer?

Which is ridiculous, and so Shane shakes himself and slips from bed. On the other side, Rozanov stirs, blinking his eyes open sleepily.

Shane drops his gaze before he is caught staring and roots around for a sweatshirt to pull on. “I’ll – go make breakfast.”

“Good morning to you, too, Hollander,” Rozanov says and cocks one elbow behind his bed. He looks – he looks like he does after they’ve hooked up. Shane is suddenly, starkly reminded of how long it’s been since he’s gotten off with someone else (Rozanov, after their last game against each other last season. The lockout has more downsides than he likes to admit to himself).

“Morning,” he replies, two beats too late. “Er, I’ll – go. You know where, uh, to find me.”

“Yes, I know where kitchen is. I will be right there.” Rozanov smiles, and that’s Shane’s cue to finally actually turn and leave.

Rozanov shows up just as Shane pours egg whites into the pan.

“Ooh, omelettes – you have bellpepper?”

“Gross,” Shane says before he can catch himself. “No, just egg whites and spinach.”

“Booooring,” Rozanov singsongs, but he doesn’t complain when Shane brings over the two omelettes.

For a couple of minutes, there’s the silence of hockey players demolishing their food.

“So. How exactly did you…” Shane starts when they’ve both cleared their plates, grasping for a word he can’t settle on.

“Sleep?” Rozanov fills in, smirk back on his lips. Asshole. “Very well, Mr Hollander, thank you for invite and… thought?”

“Hospitality and concern,” Shane corrects absentmindedly before rolling his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, just –”

“Oh, so you care not how I sleep? How cold; I take back what I said about – aah!” He breaks off when Shane kicks him underneath the table.

“Sorry, I just – how did you – did they actually try to keep you?”

Rozanov’s smirk changes, and not for the better. Shane immediately wishes his previous expression was back, but it’s too late. “Sorry, eh?” Rozanov murmurs to a point next to Shane’s hip. “Bloody Canadians.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Rozanov.”

“Hollander.” Rozanov meets his gaze evenly until he finally sighs and averts his eyes. “Fine. They told me I stay for whole season because contract has mistake, doesn’t release me when lockout ends.”

Shane feels his eyes widen. “What? Does it – does it actually do that? Is that even possible?”

“Am I lawyer?” A muscle in Rozanov’s jaw jumps. “I don’t know. My agent… is not helpful. Russian. Wants me playing for… them. Marry nice girl, settle down in Russia.”

“But –” There’s a swooping sensation in Shane’s stomach, like the one time he was on a roller coaster on a school trip and realised just how far it would go. “But – they can’t – there has to be a way out, right?” Otherwise Rozanov wouldn’t be here. Or would he? He’d said he’s on the run, earlier. Fuck.

“There is. They cannot keep me if I have ‘prior engagement’. So. I said that I already have someone. Someone special.”

Oh. Shane swallows. “Who?” he finally asks, unsure whether he actually wants to know the answer.

“None of your business.”

“Oh.”

“No,” Rozanov says, leaning forward. Shane can’t quite make himself meet his eyes, suddenly. “I said, none of your business. There is no one, Hollander. You must know. But they don’t know, so they threaten. I took my bag and left. Next flight to North America, and. Voilà.”

The next flight to North America. Which just so happens to have taken him to Montreal. What a coincidence. Shane swallows again. “Voilà,” he repeats drily. Silence stretches for several breaths, before the question breaks free. “Was it a ploy?”

“What? Hollander, you are not making sense, was what ploy?”

“That your next flight just so happens to take you here?”

Rozanov is still frowning. “And what is ploy there?”

“That they think… I’m. That I’m your… special someone.” He feels vaguely nauseous, saying it like that, when Rozanov looks like he has no idea what Shane is talking about.

“Oooh.” Rozanov laughs. His eyes look odd, like they’d rather cry. “I might have other person in Montreal.”

Shane snorts.

Rozanov tilts his head. “Yes, yes. And yet I call you. No, flight actually take me to Toronto, but is cheaper to go to Montreal, and who would pick me up in Toronto? Orr?”

“Didn’t Orr try to dislocate your jaw last time you played?”

“Exactly.” Rozanov pauses, and brings his finger to his lips, tapping the bottom one as he regards Shane. “But… is not so bad idea.”

“What?” Shane asks. “Orr?”

Rozanov snorts dismissively. “No. Making them think is you.”

“So… you want to marry me?” Shane’s heart is beating up to his gums again, an odd buzzing in his ears.

Rozanov blinks. “I think date, but… You are right again. Don’t let it go in head, but maybe you are right twice in one day. Marriage would be safer. Can’t marry Amalia – that is nice girl they have in mind – when I am married already…”

“Rozanov –”

Rozanov cuts him off with a laugh and a shake of his head. “Oh, Hollander. I joke, I joke. I… will figure something out. In mad time, we should do something else.”

“I’m – not having sex with you right now.”

This gets another laugh out of Rozanov, making heat shoot into Shane’s cheeks. “Oooh, is someone horny? Here I am, think we play ‘Laich, or maybe go to guest room, but I mean…”

“No, Rozanov.”

Rozanov gasps. “Tell me you have ‘Laich. Tell me you are not so boring.”

“Of course I have the current MLH game.” Who does Rozanov think Shane is? “Just – fine. Let’s play a round and then –” Shane sucks his bottom lip into his mouth before shaking himself. It’s just Rozanov. Just another player. There is nothing weird about working out side by side. They’ve done it before. (He suddenly remembers what it led to, which is exactly what he’s worried about.)

“Yes?” Rozanov prompts.

“And then work out. I have meals in the freezer, since I assume you’ll be mooching off me?”

Rozanov gasps theatrically. “I would never.”

Shane laughs and goes to plug in the second controller.

If he looses a round or two more than he usual does when they finally play – well. It’s distracting, isn’t it, having Rozanov with his fucked up situation on his couch, and an obvious if not ideal solution right in front of them.

Hayden Pike (just now):
we still on 4 tonite?

“Shit,” Shane curses softly, staring at the message from Hayd while his right hand absentmindedly drums against his collar bone. Right. He’d entirely forgotten about that.

“Bad news?” Rozanov asks, unexpectedly close. Shane almost drops his phone and curses again. “Oooh, I scare you?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane says on autopilot.

“Aww, I thought we move past the basic last-names, Shaney-boy.”

Shane stares at him for a long second. “What the fuck is wrong with you.” He doesn’t bother making it a question. “But, you see, Rozanov” – he gives the man in question an pointed look – “I’d planned on catching up with Hayd this evening. Go over the roster. Get everything in order for the start of the season.” His fingers rub over the spot he can still feel the heavy weight of the C that’s freshly sewn onto his jerseys.

“Oh. You want me out?”

“Er –” It’s not quite what Shane had been thinking about.

“I can – scram.” Rozanov’s nostrils flare on the word, like it’s not quite familiar. God, who’s been teaching him English? “Not bother you. Find hotel.”

“No,” Shane says before he can think about it properly. “I mean – you don’t have to. It’s only for a few days at most anyway, right?” Training camp will start in Boston just the same as in Montreal, once everyone has had a chance to make it back to their home cities. “So – no use in… in getting a hotel room when – I mean. You don’t have to stay, you can of course –”

“Hollander,” Rozanov cuts in and then pulls a face. “No, that – feel so… distant. Can I call you Hollsy?”

Shane doesn’t even have the energy to be bothered by the sudden change in topic. “The guys have been calling me Holler.”

Rozanov pulls another face. “I like Hollsy better,” he declares, and then adds, “and if you have me, I stay. You are right – with season close, no sense in me moving again. Conserve energy.” He winks. “Any rec for restaurant with mealplan-approved food?”

Shane frowns briefly before things click. “Oh – we were planning on just having meal service meals tonight. You’re welcome to one, too.”

Rozanov is very still for a moment. “You spoil me.” He smiles, though, which means this is a yes. Which means – Christ, Shane is going to have dinner with Hayd and Rozanov. What was he thinking? Before he can spiral, Rozanov adds, “Next you actually offer me weight room.”

And, well – jet lag or no, they both have a season coming up, abridged as it may be. At least that’s the immediate future sorted.

Hayden Pike (1:18pm):
we still on 4 tonite?

Me (just now):
yes.

His fingers hover over the keys for long moments, before he drops his phone on the sideboard leading to the weight room. Hayd can learn of the most recent headache in Shane’s life when he gets here. And maybe, just maybe, Hayd will be able to dissuade Shane’s brain from the idea he’s been stewing over ever since Rozanov mentioned the possibility of marrying over breakfast.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

I am back! I now also actually have something of a plan… and if all goes accordingly, the next chapter might bump the rating up ^^ fair warning.

I did some cursory research into becoming a Canadian citizen so I will take some of that into account and handwave stuff that doesn’t fit. So – don’t take this fic as legal advice ;)

Other than that: enjoy!

“Okay, time to buckle up.”

“What?” Rozanov squints at him. “What is this English?”

“Uh – time to… sit down and face – I mean.” Wow. Shane has never felt as bad at English as right now, sitting across from Ilya Rozanov over the remnants of their – meal plan approved, of course – post-workout protein snacks, trying to avoid more colourful English.

With a snort, Rozanov cracks up. “I joke, I joke! I have been in North America two years now, I know what this means.”

Shane sends him a withering glare and gets up without another word.

“Hollander –”

“I’m getting my laptop,” Shane says crisply. “And a notebook.” Only as he’s walking away does it occur to him that Rozanov has apparently already given up on calling him Hollsy as he’d threatened. Shane knows better than to point it out; after all, he’s rather in favour of not getting another stupid hockey nickname (not when Rozanov’s accent curls so beautifully around his last name).

They reconvene on the couch.

“Okay, what do you need laptop-and-notebook for?”

“Notes. And also – research.”

“Oooh, are you looking into competition for next season? Can I look?” Rozanov leans forward eagerly, an obnoxious grin on his face.

It’s probably what Shane should be doing. He sighs. “Into your options, asshole.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Shane roughly flips through the notebook until he finds an empty page among the stats and plays he usually jots down in it.

“Okay. Okay. So” – Shane writes Premise on the top of the page and underlines it twice – “first off; you played over in the KHL for the start of this season.” He jots down the corresponding bullet point, and then adds Team claims contract persists after lockout ends.

“Torpedo Nizhny Novgorod,” Rozanov says.

“Torpedo – come again?”

With an impatient sigh, Rozanov grabs notebook and adds the name himself. Shane stares at it – at Rozanov’s handwriting, spiky and yet still mostly legible – and, yeah. There is no way he could have spelled that, just from hearing it once.

Rozanov keeps writing:

• Tell me I Rozanov to stay in KHL or unnamed consequences
• Imply either get married or family suffers¹
• Grab passport and run against team wishes
• ???

¹ Sergei² maybe blab?
² Russian Coach son

“You can’t just write question mark question mark question mark,” Shane says.

“What else do I write?”

“Well, that’s what we have to figure out. What the consequences are.”

Rozanov grimaces, though he doesn’t fight when Shane takes the notebook back.

“Sergei – that’s the… the one you…”

“The guy I fuck.” Rozanov meets his eyes, pale grey-blue boring into what feels like the depths of Shane’s soul. Not for the first time, Shane is glad for the fact that his skin hides the heat creeping into his face rather well.

“Yeah, him.” Shane clears his throat and looks at what they’ve written out so far. “So. They threatened you with outing?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. First question then. If they do that, then what?”

“I can never return to Russia.” Rozanov averts his gaze and brings his thumb to his mouth like he wants to chew the nail before he drops his hand again. “And… if people believe… The league will be upset.”

Shane snorts. That’s an understatement and a half, and they both know it. There’s a reason, after all, why there are no out MLH players. “If,” he points out, but dutifully jots the two points down. “Should we… I mean, you…”

“Spit it out, Hollander.”

“You Can Play.” Shane looks up at Rozanov, and he’s not always the best at reading people, but the look of disgust is hard to misinterpret.

“And tell them –”

“And have an ally.”

Rozanov is quiet for long moments. “And you think they help? Enough help that risk is worth it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Then why are there no out players yet?”

“The initiative is like, a year old,” Shane points out, refusing to rise to the bait, “and half of that there was no MLH hockey because of the fucking lockout.”

Rozanov deflates.

“And if they want to out you – hey, wouldn’t you rather do it on your own terms?”

“I am bisexual,”

Shane still jots it down, with a question mark behind it, because it is an option. He stares at their list so far. “Okay. Reasons for returning to Russia?”

Silence hangs between them for several breaths, heavy in a way Shane can’t quite parse.

“Your family?”

Rozanov snorts, but before Shane can ask a follow-up question, he nods. “I guess.”

“Other reasons for returning?”

“The Olympics.”

Shit.

Shane jots it down, but that’s a headache that they’ll have to deal with later.

“And internal passport.”

“Internal passport?”

“Yes, for like. Citizens. External you get from embassy, but… I don’t know. If… if I cannot go to Russia, if they will give me passport at embassy.”

Well, shit.

“Uh, how long… how long is your passport valid for? How long until you need to get a new one?”

Rozanov sighs. “I am not an idiot, Hollander; I understand. I got new passport before draft, so, I don’t know. Seven years?”

“Well, that gives us some time,” Shane says and writes it down. It’s only then that he realises he’s said us, like there will be an us that far in the future. Rozanov doesn’t call him on it.

For long seconds, they stare at the list. “So. I need other passport. Soon.”

“In a couple of years.” How does one even get another passport?

Shane is reaching for his laptop to find out exactly that when his phone rings. His mom. “I, uh, need to take this.” He gives Rozanov a smile that’s hopefully apologetic.

“Fine. I call – friend. Do not tell her.”

Shane rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify it with any other response as he answers. “Hi, Mom…”

Shane has been in his fill of silences, but few have been as deafening as this.

Finally, Hayden sighs. “So, let me get this straight. Rozanov woke you up at 2am to get picked up from the airport, allegedly because he fled his Russian team to get back to the MLH, and you – just got into your car and did so?”

Shane shrugs helplessly. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Tell him to get a cab to the nearest hotel?”

Oh.

“And – why did he have your number in the first place? You aren’t – aren’t friends, are you?”

Surely, there’s innocuous explanations for this. “Uh…”

“Shane?”

“Er…”

“Are you friends?”

“Uhm, I mean –”

“Oh god,” Hayden says, with the brittle voice of slow-dawning horror. “Oh god. Please tell me you are – just friends.”

“I think friends is quite, uh, exaggeration,” Rozanov adds from the stairs. The stairs to Ilya’s bedroom. Where he’d been making a call, but still.

Hayden looks from Rozanov to Shane and back to Rozanov before letting his head thunk onto the top of the table. “Jesus, this – this is a nightmare. My personal, absolute, utter nightmare.”

Shane can’t help but flinch. When he looks over, there’s a complicated expression on Rozanov’s face. He opens his mouth, though Shane frantically shaking his head makes him swallow whatever he was about to say. Nothing helpful, that’s for sure.

“You’re – not even gay!”

“Uh,” Shane says intelligently. He’s still looking at Rozanov – Rozanov, whose tongue has been in his mouth, whose mouth has been on his cock, who’s seen nearly all there is to Shane. Not that Hayden needs to know that.

Rozanov meets his gaze evenly, and maybe he’s waiting for something from Shane, but Shane has no idea what. They just keep looking at each other. Then, Rozanov shakes himself with another quick glance at Hayden. “I think I – go back upstairs. Say when you are done.”

He’s turned before Shane can say anything. A few quick, clattering steps, and Shane is alone again with Hayden and the deafening silence.

“Shane?”

“… For what it’s worth, this is not how I wanted you to find out.”

Hayden remains motionless for an excruciating minute or so before he rights himself. His face is hard, like he’s had to take Shane’s position on the face-off dot. “Okay. So you’re gay, and apparently gay for Rozanov –”

“I’m not –” He falls silent at the unimpressed look Hayden gives him. His face itches with heat, and he doesn’t even know what’s causing it. Maybe all of this.

“– and for some godforsaken reason Rozanov came to you for help with – his situation.”

“… yeah.”

“Christ. Only you, Holler.”

The nickname, little as Shane likes it, relaxes something inside him.

“I think this calls for some food. And alcohol.”

“Food I can do, but…”

“Only you, Holler,” Hayden repeats. He starts smiling, though, even though it still doesn’t look quite right. With one last glance at Hayden, Shane grabs three portions of salmon with steamed veggies and potatoes from the freezer before he texts Rozanov to get his ass back downstairs.

All in all, this could have gone worse.

“Rozanov.”

Shane holds his breath as Hayden – his best friend – regards Rozanov over the dinner table. When he realises how silly that is, he exhales as softly as he can and goes to pull the food from the oven. It’s not even a little bit charred, which feels like the sort of win he should just take today.

“Pike,” Rozanov says after too a long a pause. Relief rushes through Shane, sudden and harsh. He isn’t sure what he expected. What’s your name again? maybe. It would be just Rozanov’s style of assholery. “I see you know my name.”

“Hard not to.” Before Rozanov can actually rile him up, Hayden adds, “Shane told me what’s going on.”

Rozanov’s eyes flick to Shane, just for a fraction of a second; short enough that Shane would have missed it had he not turned around from the oven at that exact moment.

“That your club was trying to keep you in Russia,” Shane clarifies.

Rozanov slouches back in his seat. “Yes, everyone want piece of this.”

Hayden snorts and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, no idea why. They all pretend not to hear it.

Dinner is a stilted affair, but no cutlery or food goes flying, so… again. It could have gone worse.

“I talk to Markov,” Rozanov says apropos of nothing once he’s pushing the final few peas around on his plate. He seems disinclined to eat them, which shouldn’t be a surprise considering he also smokes. Shane grits his teeth so he doesn’t comment on it. “My agent, he is from Russia. He… they tell me I go back. Play full season now or – compromise, stay now and then go back after.” For good, he doesn’t add, but it sounds clear enough to Shane nonetheless.

“No,” Shane says, at the same time as Hayden asks, “What? But – aren’t you under contract here?”

Rozanov looks up. The smile on his face is all teeth and zero mirth, his eyes hard. “Entry-level contract. It ends after this season.”

“But – they can’t – it’s Hollander vs. Rozanov, and like –” Hayden exhales “– you’re an asshole; full offence –”

“Noted.”

“– but you can’t – it wouldn’t be right.”

“This,” Rozanov says after a moment of stunned silence, “may be nicest thing you ever tell me, Pike.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“No worry.”

“What did you say?” Shane asks before those two can start bickering properly.

“Same I tell him when I leave.” Now, Rozanov throws him a glance that Shane can’t read. “That I am with – partner.”

Hayden makes a pained sound. “So, let me get this straight:” – Rozanov snorts – “you… strongly… implied to your Russian team that you fled Russia because Shane is your… One True Love?”

Rozanov thinks for a moment. “Well, they don’t know is Hollander.”

“Oh, so they’re supposed to believe you’re dating some random person in Montreal?”

“If they think it’s me,” Shane hears himself say, “that… that would burn quite a few bridges.” Forget that coach’s son spilling the beans about whatever Rozanov did with him years ago; this would be pretending they’re in an active, gay relationship. Shane has to swallow against the sudden bout of nausea.

“Shane –”

“If bridges burn,” Rozanov says with that same toothy, razor-sharp grin, “they cannot make me come back.”

What about your family? Shane wants to ask, What about Sochi?

When he glances at Hayden, his jaw is set. “Shane. I need to talk to you for a second. Alone.”

Rozanov raises his hands innocently and then pulls his phone from his pocket while Shane nods towards the weight room.

They make their way there in silence.

“You can’t – you can’t honestly entertain this… this nonsense,” Hayden hisses once the door has fallen shut behind him.

“I can’t just – let them chain him back there. And… it would probably help him get the Canadian passport, right, and then he’d be… safe.”

Hayden looks at him for a long second. “Jeez, Shane.” He exhales. “Your bleeding, Canadian, too-big heart.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same for Jackie,” Shane says, a second before his brain catches up to what he’s just said. Fuck.

“Shane –”

“I mean – not that – it’s not, not like that, but –”

“Isn’t it?” Hayden asks quietly. There’s another expression on his face that Shane can’t parse. “Fuck, Shane, you’ve kept this quiet for – I don’t even know how long. A season? Two?”

Shane drops his gaze.

“Longer? Jeez. You’ve – to me it sure looks like you’ve been protecting him for however long this has been going on, little as I can wrap my brain around it. Fuck, apparently, you were the person he came to, you picked him up in the middle of the fucking night for some reason; you’re seriously considering letting his old club think you two are dating, even though – it could destroy you, destroy you both, over here, too. So. Gross as I might find it that this is Rozanov we’re talking about, tell me it’s truly nothing like me ‘n Jackie.”

“It wouldn’t destroy us.” Shane’s voice sounds distant to himself through the roaring in his ears. “They couldn’t – we’re too big, for them to drop us, just like that.” They have to be. “Not that – fuck, if I do this, I sure as hell hope we’d keep it under wraps, but like. I… I can’t abandon him.”

“Shane…”

He braces himself for Hayden’s questions – why Shane can’t abandon Rozanov; why he’s willing to risk his career for his rival; why he’s even entertaining any of this.

In the end, Hayden just exhales again. “You know I’ll have your back. Whatever you decide, I’ll be there right with you.” Then, he grimaces, though his eyes sparkle. “As long as it’s not in the bedroom.”

“Hayden!” Shane exclaims, but he’s laughing even as his cheeks and ears start burning, and that’s the end of it. For now.

Hayden throws him a grin before he sobers again. “C’mon, let’s kick Rozanov back to wherever he was hiding out before and talk about our prospects.”

“Hollander!”

“Wha–” Shane nearly tumbles off the couch he hadn’t meant to fall asleep on, saved only by Rozanov’s quick reflexes. His hand is shockingly hot on Shane’s shoulder.

“Oh, did I wake you?”

Shane grumbles as he rights himself and brushes his hair out of his face. He’s tired, the bone-deep tiredness that comes from having been six hours ahead just two days ago and having spent part of the last night awake, but he still shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch. He wasn’t kidding when he said it wasn’t very well-suited to visitors.

“Do I carry you to bed?”

“No, no, I’m up, I’m good.”

Rozanov snorts but holds out his hand to pull Shane to his feet. He herds him up the stairs, two steps behind like he’s worried Shane might keel over any moment, though when Shane glances behind himself, Rozanov smirks and says, “Nice ass, you know?”

Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he can’t deny the warmth spreading through him, so different from the heat that usually defines their encounters – both on and off the ice. Indeed, they’ve been together for almost twenty-four hours and have neither argued nor had sex. That has to be a new record for them

“I look into… into citizenship for Canada,” Rozanov murmurs once they’re side-by-side in Shane’s bed.

Shane turns onto his side so he can see Rozanov’s face, cast into sharp relief from the bedside lamp Shane has yet to turn off. “Already?”

Rozanov snorts. “Is my life we are talking about,” he points out, and, yeah. Shane shouldn’t be surprised, put like that. “Anyway… I need permanent resident thing, and… there is something about work-based entry, but… I am not sure hockey count as skilled labour?”

“I don’t know,” Shane says when it becomes clear Rozanov is waiting for an answer from him.

“Mr. Perfect, for once stumped for an answer… But – safest option seems… marrying.”

So they are back to that option.

“Do… do you have someone in mind?” Shane hears himself ask.

“Has to be someone I trust,” Rozanov says. He turns so he’s looking at Shane with his piercing grey-blue eyes, a meaningful expression on his face. And then he just keeps looking, like he’s already said everything there is to say.

It takes Shane a second to follow, not because he’s slow but because this – because he cannot believe Rozanov is actually suggesting this for real. “This” – he has to clear his throat “– is a bad idea.”

“You always say that about us.”

“Because it’s true.”

“And yet, we fuck. Is good, yes? Why should this not be good, too?”

It is. “I can’t believe there’s no one else you could –”

“Who?” Rozanov fixes him with his clear grey gaze, rooting Shane to the spot.

“There are so many – so many women –”

“One Night Stands! Hookups, Hollander. You know the concept, right? And – is pathetic, I know, but this” – he gestures between the – “is longest – thing I have going on! God. God. Dammit! Why – gah. I – Hollander, believe me, I… I am not asking easy. I don’t want to ask this!”

“You aren’t asking anything.” Something inside Shane twists even though Rozanov is right, even though he doesn’t even want Rozanov, doesn’t want Rozanov to want him, doesn’t have anything with him aside from physical release whenever they’re in the same location. And yet… “Rozanov – are you… asking me to marry you?”

Rozanov actually sits up at that, the duvet slipping down into his lap. He’s wearing a shirt, an old one of Shane’s with a worn collar that exposes his collarbones and the smooth skin on his upper chest, and it makes him look so soft it makes Shane want to scream, makes him wish Rozanov had gone to bed shirtless. The expression on his face doesn’t help, wide-eyed and his lips parted a little, until he clicks his mouth shut and swallows. “I think I am.”

Shane rises onto his knees, driven by that need he knows too well in Rozanov’s vicinity, that urgency that’s led to him nearly puking after a battle on stationary bikes, to ill-advised hookups in hotel rooms, to a fierce fight for the top spot in the League. He finds Rozanov’s eyes in the dim light, wets his lips. “That’s a lousy proposal,” he says and leans close, as close as he can without overbalancing. “Ilya Rozanov – will you marry me?”

Rozanov seems to freeze, only his eyes darkening imperceptibly. “You asshole,” he finally says, a moment before he launches himself at Shane, toppling him back into the bed and straddling Shane’s waist, “Who the fuck else would I marry?” He dives in to kiss Shane, all teeth and tongue, one hand sliding under Shane’s head. Shane’s hands end up in Rozanov’s hair, gripping the soft curls he knows so well (too well) as Rozanov does his best to devour Shane.

“I take it that’s a yes?” Shane asks when Rozanov finally lets up.

“No, Hollander, is a you’re stupid. Of course is yes.”

And maybe Shane should back off. Maybe he should leave Rozanov to his own devices. But none of that matters, because all he can think is, fuck, maybe this stupid idea will actually work. He starts laughing, then, into the space between them, helpless and uncertain why exactly he’s doing it.

Rozanov stares at him for a breath, two, and then his face splits into a grin and he starts laughing, too, until he crashes down on top of Shane, all two hundred or so pounds of him. It does nothing to curb Shane’s laughter, and neither does Rozanov raising his head to say, “very romantic, great proposal.”

Shane schools his face into the most serious mask he can. “Well, it worked on you.”

Rozanov stops laughing properly, but the expression lingers in his eyes somehow, maybe in the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. We all sometimes have poor taste.” And because he’s a cheater who cheats to keep the last word, he leans in to kiss Shane again.

If the kiss is just a little too soft, a little too lingering, neither of them says anything.

Chapter 3

Rozanov presses another kiss to Shane’s lips and then props himself up on his elbows, face unreadable above Shane. His eyes are shadowed, and Shane has to avert his gaze because something is stealing the air right from his lungs, something that goes beyond Rozanov’s weight on his chest.

Granted, that probably isn’t helping. “Christ, you’re heavy,” Shane says. His voice stays steady despite the clammy feel of his palms.

Rozanov laughs and lets himself sprawl onto Shane again, making himself as heavy as he can. Shane lets the breath rush from his lungs and shifts like he’s trying to get away, and –

Oh.

Rozanov has been slightly chubbed ever since he collapsed on top of Shane, but suddenly his cock is brushing against Shane’s. Even half-hard and through several layers of clothes, the contact is electric.

Shane’s heart stutters and then restarts in over-drive, pumping liquid flame through his veins.

“Roz–”

“Hollander,” Rozanov gasps, and then his hands are back in Shane’s hair and his lips on Shane’s, hungry and so lewd as he licks into Shane’s mouth. Shane moans and tugs on Rozanov’s hair; not to pull him away but to feel the whole-body shudder that elicits. “Fuck.”

They’re both fully hard now, rutting against each other like teenagers, and it’s good but not enough, not nearly enough to slow the wildfire consuming Shane alive.

“Fuck,” Rozanov mutters again. He pulls back enough that Shane can see his infinitely dark eyes, his spit-slicked lips, the flush on his cheek. It’s a damned good luck.

“Fuck,” Shane agrees, and uses his well-hones muscles to flip them so Rozanov is on his back.

He looks good like that, spread out on Shane’s bed sheets. His hair is mussed and he looks wrecked, and Shane almost knocks their teeth out in his haste to stop looking at him like that.

The world dissolves into the slick slide of lips, the burn of stubble, the tantalising brush of their clothed cocks; so close to great and yet falling maddeningly short.

Rozanov seems to have the same thought and shimmies out of his own pants without dislodging Shane. He shugst tug Shane’s pants down, too, just enough to free his cock, and, yeah; that’s better, so much better and yet not quite enough, except Shane can’t detach himself from Rozanov’s stupid mouth for long enough to do anything except move against him until the fire inside him grows and grows and grows and finally spills over as Shane comes between their bodies.

Rozanov makes a sound, high in his throat, at the first spurt of come, teeth nipping Shane’s bottom lip, and it doesn’t take more than a handful of thrusts until he shudders beneath Shane, adding to the mess between them.

Shane’s arms give out, and he doesn’t even manage to avoid the gross, cooling spunk on Rozanov’s stomach.

“Now who is heavy one?” Rozanov asks, still a little breathless.

“Fuck you,” Shane mumbles, but he can’t quite get his body to cooperate and leave.

Rozanov laughs. “No, no. Fuck you. You promise me next time, remember? And you never put on.”

The words send an frisson of electricity through Shane. “Put out,” he corrects. “And maybe you need to work on your game.”

Underneath him, Rozanov laughs. The sounds rumbles through Shane, and it’s … it’s comforting, weirdly enough. Too weird, really. Maybe it’s With a groan, he unsticks himself from Rozanov and pads into the bathroom, a near-impossible ten steps away. Rozanov, gross asshole that he is, simply watches him leave.

Shane cleans himself up, and because he’s not a gross asshole himself, returns with a damp wash cloth for Rozanov. When he unceremoniously drops it onto Rozanov’s abdomen, the man squeals theatrically.

“Murdered! Half-asleep! In – well, I guess in your bed.”

“Damn right,” Shane says as he slides back under the covers on his side, and very determinedly does not think about how odd it is that there is a his side, that they’re actually falling asleep in the same bed for the first time since they’ve known each other.

They’re sitting at breakfast the next morning when Rozanov’s phone starts vibrating, stops, starts vibrating again.

Shane sighs. “Just answer it.” It’s the first thing he’s said since they both sat down at the table, preceded only by a stilted Good morning when he woke up plastered to Rozanov’s back, and then an equally stilted Omelettes and coffee? once Rozanov had joined him in the kitchen. Rozanov had answered both of those things with a single grunt, so Shane is probably still winning at small talk. It’s a victory that’s gotten him through the very awkward morning after.

Rozanov looks at him, then at the phone, and then finally accepts the call.

Roz! a tinny voice exclaims, loud enough that Shane can hear it across the table.

“Marl.” Rozanov’s voice is raspy, deep, and should not send shivers through Shane. Certainly not when he’s saying someone else’s – Marleau’s – name. At least Rozanov isn’t paying him any attention, dragging his fork through the remainder of his eggs.

Where are you, man? No one’s heard from you in days!

Rozanov exhales and finds Shane’s eyes, just holding his gaze. “Is complicated,” he finally says. “Situation with… Russian club.”

Marleau’s reply is quieter now, too quiet for Shane to hear.

“No, no, I am okay. … Yes, is fine. Really. No, I do not need them beat up.” Rozanov laughs, his shoulders relaxing as he sinks into the conversation with Marleau.

Shane watches him for a too-long moment before he quietly gets up and starts clearing the table, careful to stay below what Rozanov’s phone will pick up on.

Rozanov shoots him a look Shane can’t read and then slips out of the room, towards the workout room. Damn. There goes his plan for the morning. “I will be there, Marl, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Rozanov is saying just as the door falls shut behind him.

It takes Shane a moment to unclench his jaw, but he manages, grabs Rozanov’s abandoned food to throw out, and puts everything into the dishwasher.

Well. A run in the cold is probably better to clear his head than on the treadmill anyway, right?

“Hello sunshine boy!” Wiz sweeps Shane up in a hug the moment he steps into the locker room of the practice rink. He’s an inch shorter than Shane and ten years older, but it doesn’t keep him from lifting Shane off his feet and twirling him around. He sets him down with a huff. “God, you’ve gotten heavy.”

“It’s the new weight of responsibility,” Hayden says sagely from the door that leads out towards the actual rink.

“That’s right! Coach told me yesterday when I ran into him here – congrats, man! Guess it’s time you actually loosen up a little, join the fun, make us all bond.”

Shane takes a hasty step back before Wiz can pick him up in exaggerated celebration again. “That’s what we have you and Hayden for.”

Wiz is one half of their top d pair, together with J.J., and he’s probably the closest thing to an older brother Shane has ever had. In fact, Wiz and his wife Rosalind had hosted him for the first half of his rookie season, until Shane could justify getting his own condo (the condo he left Ilya at to get some ice time with his two alternate captains). Between Wiz and Hayden, Shane’s job really is mostly to make sure the rest of the team doesn’t stay up to party all night.

Wiz laughs. “Yeah, but you’re Captain now. You gotta, man.”

Shane snorts a little and scrubs a hand through his hair. “They should’ve given you the C, Pikey. Or you, Wiz.”

“Nah, I’m glad it’s you.” Hayden gives him a shit-eating grin. “Anyway, I’ll be on the ice once you two old men are done talking.”

Wiz shakes his head as he takes off his street clothes. “They’re not giving the C to a veteran they might trade at any moment,” he says, and he sounds shockingly okay with that prospect. Shane exhales, and doesn’t think about what it would mean to lose Wiz – the player who hosted him back in his rookie year, who’s always quick to joke, who keeps a level head when Shane feels like fraying apart. They won’t, and they’ll show everyone how well they work, and then they can’t trade Wiz.

(That’s not how any of that works, of course, but sometimes, believing hard enough makes things true, and so Shane might as well believe it.)

“You’re brooding again,” Wiz says as stuffs his feet into his skates. “Lace up, Captain Perfect, and hit the ice.”

“Don’t call me that,” Shane says half-heartedly. The best way for it to stick, he knows, is to make a fuss.

“But it fits you so well!” Wiz says and then books it with a wobbling half-job towards the ice.

Shane sighs again, tightens his own laces, and then follows.

“It’s so good to be back,” Wiz says where he’s lying on his back on the ice, staring at the rafters. They’ve spent an hour doing stick-handling, passing, and 2-on-1 drills while talking about the upcoming season and how they’ll approach the shortened training camp to make the most of it.

Usually, they’d be doing it at Shane’s condo, but with Rozanov still squatting there and both Hayden and Wiz having several small children each, he’d been glad for the excuse of some ice time to keep them out of his home.

“It really is. How was Berlin?” Wiz had escaped to the DEL during the lockout, and Shane hasn’t actually had a chance to talk to him since returning, since, well. Rozanov. God. He hopes everything back at the condo is okay.

“Wet,” Wiz says, cutting Shane’s spiral short before it can begin. “I genuinely missed the bloody damned cold here.”

Hayden smirks as he stops besides Wiz, spraying him with ice shavings. “You’re just old and nostalgic.”

“So old and nostalgic I’m even missing you. Which – how’ve you been doing? I haven’t seen either of you since I got back, and I don’t believe you came in after me.”

Shane and Hayden trade a glance. “Same old, same old,” Hayden finally says, “and if I ever think about having more children, please remind me that twins are a possibility.”

“That bad?” Wiz asks with a laugh.

Hayden sighs. “They’re teething. Both of them. And waking each other up as soon as we have one of them down.”

“Oof.” Wiz gives him a commiserating smile. “Yeah, that was a pretty tough time. You’re doing the frozen bite rings already?” When Hayden nods miserably, Wiz pats his the part of him he can reach from his position – Hayden’s calf – and cranes his head at Shane. “And you, Hollsy? I expected I’d have to pry you from the ice.”

“Eh.” Shane shrugs while carefully not looking at Hayden. Ordinarily, that probably would be true. But he can’t exactly take Rozanov to the rink here; maybe if they weren’t who they are – hyped up rivals on feuding teams – it would barely raise eyebrows, but he doesn’t want to take the risk. Not when they want to keep a low profile. “I’ve been pacing myself. The season will be intense, so better to rest and bulk up while we can, you know?”

“Christ, really treating us to the media answer, huh? We’re all here to play the best we can, I don’t pay attention to anything else, eh?”

Next to them, Hayden snorts.

“It’s the truth!” Shane protests, “What do you want to hear – I’ve been eating, sleeping, doing my weights; you know I’m boring.”

“Only you,” Hayden says with a shake of his head, and Shane hears what he isn’t saying out loud: Only you would call yourself boring while hiding Ilya Rozanov in your bedroom.

The thought makes heat shoot into his cheeks, and so he pushes off to collect the scattered pucks from the ice before Wiz can clock it.

The worst part? Hanging out with Rozanov truly has been relaxing. And Shane has absolutely no idea what to do with that realisation.

It’s not that having Rozanov around is boring. No; that’s truly the last thing one can accuse the Russian of being. But it’s chill in a way Shane had never expected from their heated encounters in various hotel rooms and Rozanov’s Boston condo, filled with shared meals and quiet coexistence and a terrifyingly natural routine: Shane wakes first and slips out from Rozanov’s arms in the morning to prepare egg white omelettes with spinach or bell pepper, which is what Shane’s meal service had dropped off. They eat together, and then lounge around until it’s time for a run (Shane takes the treadmill while Rozanov had been on bike exactly once, which results in Shane puking and Rozanov unable to get up for half an hour or even make fun of Shane for it, after which Shane decides it’s safer for both of them and the upcoming season if he warms up after Rozanov. Rozanov never once mentions it) and a shower (together, for the most part, because the shower is large enough for two).

The afternoons pass in a haze of video games, sex, and workouts, interspersed with protein shakes and meal-service meals that Shane only has to pop into the oven when it’s time to eat.

It’s easy.

It’s absolutely terrifying.

Shane resolves to think about it once he has time for it – so probably after the season is over. He’s perfectly fine with that.

Shane wakes to the ghost of a touch on his chest and Rozanov propped up next to him, staring unseeingly at Shane.

“Good Morning,” Shane rasps, because it seems like the thing to say.

Rozanov blinks rapidly as his eyes focus on Shane. “Morning.” He is quiet for a second. “You are marrying me for at least next five years, you understand?”

“No, I’ll back out,” Shane says drily as he tries to get his brain up to speed. “Obviously, Rozanov.”

“I read website,” Rozanov, like it’s an explanation. Maybe it’s a side-effect of the early hour that Shane has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “And it cannot be relationship just for – citizenship.”

“Well, what are they gonna do? Check?”

Rozanov cracks a smile. “Maybe they – question us. Hire detective, like Holmes, follow us around and snoop.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “They won’t.” He rubs the jut of his own hip bone as he thinks. “But – it’s not just for citizenship.” He meets Rozanov’s gaze. “It’s not. It’s also to – to keep you from that – that stupid clause.”

Rozanov smiles and touches the corner of Shane’s mouth, just briefly. There’s no reason for it, Shane thinks, and it startles him out of whatever else he was going to say. “That is not what they mean. Has to look like – like… love.”

“Oh.”

The motion makes Rozanov’s finger slip between Shane’s lips, and they were talking, about serious things, except Shane can’t help but swirl his tongue around the tip of Rozanov’s index finger, close his lips and suck just a little.

Rozanov’s eyes darken.

“You are worst,” Rozanov breathes, and Shane smirks around the digit in his mouth even before Rozanov moves because that? That was an admission of defeat.

“So we pretend to be in relationship that is also secret?” Shane asks once they’re both at the table with their omelettes. Privately, he thinks it’s not that different from what they’ve been doing, except that they’re not really pretending it’s anything other than hookups whenever they happen to be in the same city. They’re certainly keeping it a secret. “What do couples even… Do, to make them look like couples?

Rozanov smirks. “They fuck.”

“To be honest, I’ve known Jackie and Hayden to be a couple without having seen them have sex.” The mere suggestion is enough to make him grimace, and so does Rozanov a moment later. “Yeah. But – fucking is a good point.” Shane chances a glance at Rozanov, trying to figure out how to say what just occurred to him. In the end, he thinks fuck it and takes the direct approach. “You’ll can’t sleep around while... while we’re doing that. I know that’s – that it’s a lot to ask, but if we’re doing this, if we – if we pretend to be in a committed relationship but then rumours get out and the immigration people hear –”

“Immigration people, yes?” Rozanov smirks. “Sound like jealousy to me…”

“I’m not jealous, Rozanov.” Shane glares at him. “So yes, the, like, immigration officers.”

“Are you telling me no sex at all, or do you want me all to yourself?” He leers.

Shane kicks at him under the table. “Asshole. I’m assuming we’ll be seeing each other when we’re in the same place anyway.”

“So certain…”

Christ, why does he have to make everything so damned difficult? “We already do,” Shane points out, even though it makes his gut squirm to acknowledge their habits so openly. “And now – now you are my fiancé.” For some reason, that softens Rozanov’s smirk. It does not at all help Shane’s churning gut.

“I am,” Rozanov agrees. “And we do not even have ring.”

Shit.

Shane is already scrambling for his laptop. “You’re right – even though engagement rings are really more of a – a girl thing, I think, but still, the thought –”

Rozanov stops him with a hand on his forearm. “No, Hollander. I joke. We can pick rings after season, when we get married.”

When we get married. Christ. Shane swallows and sits back down.

“Maybe no ring, but… we need pictures together,” Rozanov says after another moment, suddenly very serious. “Get one framed for bedside table.”

Shane feels himself flush. “On my bedside table?!”

“Hollander, no one will see, unless you bring someone over. And if I’m not getting laid, you are not, too.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Shane argues, but Rozanov gives him a quelling look so Shane pivots. “Why do you have such a detailed plan?”

“Have time to think this morning,” Rozanov says shortly. Shane squints at his face. Has he slept at all? If there was a chance Rozanov would answer honestly, he’d ask, but as it stands, he just swallows his question down.

“So. We take selfie together while here. Also, clothes; I take back some of yours to my place, bring some of mine next time we play.”

“Would we have a framed selfie? I mean… wouldn’t we take a pre-existing picture?”

“Pre-existing,” Rozanov mocks because he’s an asshole. “Like what, draft picture?”

Shane kicks him again. ”From that ad.”

“Oooooh.” Rozanov is looking at him delightedly. “Oooooh. I will bring picture.”

Oh dear. It’s not like anyone will see it, Rozanov’s right there, but – oh. “Do you think they’ll ask people around us? Like. Whether we’re just pretending?”

“Pike already knows about me,” Rozanov says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “but we have to swear him to secret, and… your parents? They support you, yes?”

Shane looks at him with wide eyes. “Uh…”

“Okay, we cross that bridge when we get to; we at least have Pike, little use he is.”

Hayden isn’t useless, Shane almost says. He swallows it down at the last second. That is not a fight he really wants to pick right then, even though he probably should. “He’s my friend. But… is there anyone on your side who should know?”

“We can’t tell more people! No one can suspect, it has to look real and –”

“No, I know, but, if… if we were in love. You’d… is there no one you’d tell? Who’d vouch that yes, we’re… y’know. Together?”

“Oh.” Rozanov is silent for long seconds, nibbling on the side of his thumb. Should he ask a follow-up question? Does Rozanov really not have anyone? “Svetlana,” Rozanov finally answers. He does not mention his parents. “Yes, she is the one; I introduce you next time you are in Boston.”

“We’ll clear it once the schedule’s official.”

Rozanov scrunches up his face. “When is that?”

“I don’t know; what I’ve been hearing from the MLHPA it should be finalised the next couple of days. Once camp starts, certainly.”

“Fine. We talk then. Will be alright.”

“It’s not my life on the line.”

“Is not,” Rozanov agrees, “only you now share my life, no?”

At least on paper, he’ll soon be right. “Fuck, what have I done?” Shane asks, turning his face to the ceiling so Rozanov can’t see the mess of feelings bubbling up inside Shane’s chest as he says that.

“Played good hockey. Well. Second-best in league.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“Never. We are engaged now.”

“Fuck, what have I done?” Shane repeats.

Rozanov laughs and gets up to crowd into Shane’s space, and just for a moment, Shane can let himself actually belief that this was not, in fact, an absolutely terrible idea.

“We are engaged now,” Shane says once they’re stepping out of the shower after Rozanov has wrung another excellent orgasm out of him. He has no idea how he does it.

“Very, uh, observant.”

“No, I mean – isn’t it… odd that we called each other by our last names?”

“Aww, are you romantic, Shane?”

Shane grimaces on instinct. It’s – definitely odd, hearing Rozanov say his first name. Ilya. God, that’s even weirder. “Forget it,” he mutters.

“We are hockey players,” Roz– Ilya points out, like Shane has forgotten.

“I know.”

“We call everyone by last name.”

“Yeah.”

“So should call husband by first name, yes? Good thinking.”

“I’m not your husband yet.”

Rozanov, balancing on one leg as he pulls on his socks, points at him with a triumphant expression. “Yet! But like this we are at altar and you call me Rozanov. We better practice now, Shane.”

Yes, still weird.

And a small part of Shane already misses the way Ilya says Hollander. Damn.

“I booked my flight,” Ilya says that evening. “I am leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh.” It’s not the smartest reply. But what else can Shane say? Their respective training camps start up the day after tomorrow, so it’s more of a surprise that Ilya has stayed this long in the first place.

For a long moment, they both look at each other. Then, Ilya is out of his chair, pushing Shane backwards until there’s enough space for Ilya to climb into his lap, cupping Shane’s face in his hands and tilting it up.

“Season is short. Won’t have to miss me for long.”

“I won’t miss you,” Shane protests, shoving at Ilya. He’s gentle, though, because there’s no glory in winning because he’s concussed his rival before the season has even begun.

“Yes, yes, you say that now, but when I see you, is all, Oooh, Ilya, please suck me –”

Shane tugs him down to kiss him, effectively cutting off the silly stream of words coming out of Ilya’s mouth. “Fine,” he relents, feeling daring, “I will miss your mouth. Finally something you have real talent with.”

Ilya gasps theatrically, his eyes sparkling, and presses a hand to his chest. “You evil man! Betrayal! Jail for Shane Hollander for being worst!”

Shane can’t help but laugh, just a little, even as Ilya kisses him again. It strikes him then, with Ilya in his lap and a shortened season looming just ahead of them that yeah, Ilya was right – he will miss him. And not just for his talented mouth.

But, well. That’s probably expected, considering how much time they’ve spent together. The season will pick up, and this will wane, and things will go back to normal. And really – mainly, this means that the next five or so years of being married – married! – to Ilya Rozanov probably won’t be all-around terrible. Right?

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Did I just publish the wrong chapter on accident? Absolutely not (I did)
This should be the right one now!

As you can maybe tell from my mentioned blunder, I do have a small buffer built up (chapters 5 & 6 are more or less done), so new chapters should come every four days (until I'm all done writing this, which. Yeah I have no estimates for that 🙈 I figured it would be 15k overall – which we’re reaching with this chapter – or 20k at most (which chapter 6 smashes). I guess it’ll be done when it’s done…)

Warning for a minor panic attack in this chapter (click for spoilery details)

Near the end of this chapter, there is a minor panic attack akin to what we see in the show. If this is a problem for you, skip from

Shane’s hand clenches on his cutlery as he breathes through a wave of something.

as Shane panics over what it will mean should this thing between him and Ilya implode now that Ilya has made friends with the Pikes

“So, all alone again?” Hayden asks he lets Shane into the flat he shares with Jackie. There’s an infant cradled against his chest, dressed in a red onesie. It’s probably Jade, knowing Hayden.

“Dropped him off at Ottawa International yesterday.” Shane pushes his shoes together so they’re properly lined up and follows Hayden deeper into the flat. He greets Jackie with a half-hug, careful not to squish the infant she’s carrying, and then smiles as Jackie immediately hands her daughter over to him. “This is Ruby, right?” The little girl is wearing a green onesie.

“You can tell them apart?” Hayden asks, aghast.

“I just figured, knowing you, the one wearing red would be Jade.”

Jackie giggles. “You’re absolutely right.”

“And you’re surprisingly coherent for a young mother of twins.”

“Don’t let it fool you. I’ve reached the stage of sleep deprivation where everything is hilarious.”

“You should let me –”

“No,” she cuts Hayden off. “You’ll have enough on your plate, and your mom will be here in a couple of hours. We’ll be fine.” To Shane, she adds, “Hopefully.”

He snorts in amusement at her tone, and then bounces the gurgling infant the way she’s taught him. He’d never known quite what to do with kids, but Jackie hadn’t been there for that – had handed Jade over the first time Shane had come to visit her in the hospital, and then told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him as an honorary uncle for her kids. He still isn’t entirely sure how he’s feeling about that (that’s a lie. The thought is large and warm and only a little terrifying when he remembers that she wants him to be the godfather to their next child).

By now, holding either of the twins has become routine. Calming, in a way. It’s hard to remember his own problems when there’s unfocused blue-grey eyes blinking up at him, a fragile but so trusting head resting on his chest.

He’s so absorbed in the peaceful bubble of holding Ruby that he only becomes aware of the camera when the fake shutter sound plays. Both he and Ruby look over, right into Jackie’s phone camera.

“For your boy,” Jackie says with a wink.

Shane feels himself flush. He’d given the okay to Hayden to share the fact that Shane was in – well, was engaged to Rozanov with Jackie after he and Roz– after he and Ilya had talked it over and decided it was better like this than Hayden accidentally letting something slip. Whether Hayden had also told her that the engagement was mostly for permanent resident fraud reasons, Shane isn’t entirely sure. He’ll need to figure that out at some point.

“I’ll forward it to him.” It’s also easier to lie if he’s looking at an infant.

Jackie snorts. “Oh, no need, no need – I got his number off of Scott.”

“Hunter? You have Hunter’s number?” Hayden asks at the same time as Shane blurts out, “Why does Hunter have Rozanov’s number?” Both infants make unhappy sounds at the sudden volume, so Shane and Hayden spend the next minute or so making soothing noises. It’s pretty funny, even with Jackie still totally filming them.

“He’s a popular guy,” she finally says when she slips her phone away again. “A little shit on the ice, but quite a few people think quite highly of him. More than I’d expected.” She gives Shane a pointed look, and then shrugs in Hayden’s direction. “And yeah, it was easier getting Hunter’s number from Allie than trying to get a hold of Danielle to get Rozanov’s number directly – Mike’s played with Boston during Rozanov’s rookie season, remember?”

Right, yeah. Now Shane does remember.

“Anyway, boys – now that I have both hands free, it shouldn’t be more than half an hour to lunch, and then you’ll be at the arena at… four?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. They’re being eased into training camp, or maybe Coach just wanted a chance to review the preliminary schedule that came out with the finally ratified CBA. Possibly they also wanted to give their prospects and other stragglers a chance to actually make it to Montreal. Either way, there’s only a light skate and some team socialising planned for this afternoon before the real gruelling grind starts up tomorrow.

“Your boy make it back alright to Boston?” Jackie asks as they’re finally digging into the wholegrain pasta with chicken and broccoli.

Shane makes an affirmative noise around his mouthful of food, glad his skin is probably hiding the heat shooting into his cheeks again. His boy. It’s an innocuous question, and on paper considerably better than Hayden’s relentless comments about the macrobiotic diet even three years after Shane ditched it, but in practice, it’s pretty unbearable.

It doesn’t help that Shane hasn’t actually spoken to Ilya, aside from giving a thumbs-up to Ilya’s Home, sweet home ))) that had arrived late the last night. But well, at least he can honestly say that Ilya made it back in one piece.

“When will you see him next?”

February 6th. “Uh…” Shane stares at his noodles like he has to think, until he realises that it’s quite normal for him to know when he and his fiancé (fiancé!) are meeting up again. “Three weeks. Home game. The 6th.”

Jackie’s eyes light up. “Do I get to meet him? I could understand why you were hesitant right now, but –”

“Uh–” When Shane glances at Hayden, his friend looks up from coaxing a spoonful of some sort of baby food into his daughter’s mouth to shrug. You’re on your own, man.

“I’ll check with him. The schedule doesn’t have a lot of downtime.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.” Jackie looks like she wants to say something else, but then she smiles, “You know, that’s exactly why Hayden’s mom is coming up – mine offered, too, but we figured it would be better to have them trade off at some point, and this was the better slot for Carrie. It was bad enough when we thought we’d have to weather a normal season with one baby; having two in this madness…”

Shane makes a sympathetic noise, and that’s all Jackie needs to keep up a steady stream of chatter. Her offer – well, demand – is still ringing in his ears as he tries to imagine it – this table, except it’s not just Shane opposite Jackie and Hayden but Ilya too, sitting next to Shane. Making faces at the babies – he seems like the type of guy to melt in the face of a small child, and –

With some effort, Shane focuses his attention back to the food in front of him. In his pocket, his phone is still vibrating from time to time. He’s been too scared to open it here, unwilling to see what Ilya has to say about the pictures Jackie had gleefully texted him earlier. Unwilling to see a chat thread without new messages, maybe.

At least the Pikes make it easy for him to keep him from obsessing.

The season is exactly as brutal as they’d imagined. There’s no other word for it. 48 games crammed into 14 weeks means an average of one game every other day; two day breaks a rare luxury that is set off by more back-to-back games than he’s played since Juniors. And then, at least, they’d had considerably more weekdays off than this season.

Ilya texts him after their home opener against Toronto. It’s an innocuous text – see that? I score for you ))) – but Shane can’t bring himself to answer it. He hasn’t seen the goal, in any case; too frustrated by a painful, avoidable 2-1 loss that stings more in the face of Boston’s 3-1 win over the Admirals. He deletes the text before anyone can find a message saying I score for you the night of a Boston game.

Shane and the Metros win against the Miami Cougars two days later, for which Ilya texts him Congrats!!! Shane hadn’t texted him after the Raiders had gotten two points against the Winnipeg Thrashers, even though he’d watched the shootout and Ilya’s pretty fake-out against the Thrashers’ goalie to help his team to victory. He doesn’t answer now, either.

Every time he opens his messages and sees that chat hover near the top he’s reminded again of what they did – that they’re fiancés now, that they’re linked, that he agreed to this insane plan to marry Rozanov.

They win 4-1 over Washington, and he returns to the dressing room to a message waiting for him.

Lily (today, 10:15pm):
MTL w 4 goals and 0 for me ((((
did you hurt your pretty hands and so you never score or text?

Me (today, 10:35pm):
Even if I scored, it wouldn’t be for you.

Lily (today, 10:35pm):
omg he is alive!!
****
how does it feel to be 2nd best metro behind hayden pike?

Just for that, Shane scores two goals in their next game against New Jersey, including the overtime winner, and dedicates none of them to Rozanov.

Lily (today, 4:38pm):
we get into mtl around 4pm
and guess who has curfew exemption ))))

Lily (today, 5:14pm):
and practice is probably optional

Me (today, 11:12pm): Call me if you have a moment.

Shane’s phone rings almost as soon as he’s hit send.

“Is everything okay?” Rozanov’s voice is tinny against the background noise of shouting and laughter, though it quiets rapidly like Rozanov is moving away. Ilya. Shit. Will Shane ever get used to that?

“Are you – are you partying?”

“Team bonding,” Ilya says dismissively. “But – what happened?”

“Nothing,” Shane says, rather perplexed. “Why? What did you think happened?”

Ilya exhales, and then laughs. It sounds a little off, but then again, they’re calling across country-borders. “You tell me to call you. I think – well. Something bad.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

They are both quiet for a long, expensive moment.

“If not because… something bad, then why you call? Oh! Booty call? I have to admit, babe, this is not quite the best moment.” There’s a leer in Ilya’s voice that makes flush, or maybe that’s the nickname. Fuck.

“I didn’t call you to have phone sex, Ilya.”

“You break my heart,” Ilya says flatly.

Shane rolls his eyes, even though it’s invisible on the phone. “You said – the next game. You’re getting in the day before?”

“Yes. And have curfew exemption.”

“So you said.” Shane exhales. “Look – Jackie wants to meet you. For dinner. At their place.”

“She does? At their place? Does this mean – I get to see Uncle Shane? Live?”

Shane doesn’t even think about it: he ends the call.

A moment later, his phone rings again. He lets it go to voicemail once, but when Ilya calls again, he answers. “Fuck off,” he tells the laughing Russian he is willing to attach himself to. God. What is wrong with him?

“I want to meet Jackie and her amazing children.”

“But I don’t want you to,” Shane says plainly, which only makes Ilya laugh harder. “Also, Hayden will be there, too.”

“Yes, yes, I suffer Pike for this. Gladly. It will be amazing!”

Shane sighs. “I’m going to die.”

Shane is definitely going to die.

He makes it to the Pikes’ half an hour ahead of the agreed time, which isn’t that unusual for him. Ilya has just texted that he’s on his way from the airport, which means he’ll be on time.

They’d decided to arrive separately – both because Shane doesn’t trust their ability to actually make it to the Pike’s place on time (or at all) if they see each other beforehand, and because it seems less conspicuous like that (though it’ll be suspicious as fuck if anyone should notice Ilya Rozanov visiting Hayden even so).

By the time Shane gets there, he’s come up with half a dozen ways this will go tits over ass tonight, starting from Ilya going to the wrong house to Hayden and Ilya picking a fistfight over dessert.

Jackie takes one look at him and hands him one of the twins, barely remembering to hug him in welcome. “Go take a seat on the couch.”

“But I should –”

“You should stop freaking out.” She makes a shooing motion in the direction of the living room. “We have everything handled, and you’re the most help of us if you’re keeping our hands clear.”

Shane would argue, but it’s very hard to with an infant chewing on the lace of his hoodie – which he’s been chewing on on the way here himself, which, kinda gross – and gurgling happily.

“We won’t bite your boy.”

“He’s not my boy,” Shane protests before he can catch himself. Jackie gives him an unimpressed look, so he adds, truthfully, “And it’s not you I’m worried about.”

“I hate to break it to you, but he’s your boy for the foreseeable future,” Jackie says unsympathetically. Shane grimaces because, well. She has a point. If the thought makes him feel sort of funny… Well. “And I can hold my own.”

For the first time since Jackie demanded to meet Ilya, Shane actually considers having Ilya Rozanov and Jackie Pike in the same room. Fuck. “Maybe I am a little worried about you,” he relents.

Jackie laughs as she rounds the kitchen island.

“Hey man.” Hayden is sitting on the floor, the other twin on the baby blanket in the play area there. When he smiles at Shane, it only looks a little forced. “Awesome – tag, you’re it.” He actually touches Shane’s calf, and then laughs.

“You didn’t have to host, especially with two children.”

“Nonsense!” Jackie yells from where she’s doing something at the oven, “And with parental help, it’s actually been decent. Don’t let Hayd fool you.”

“I’m not complaining! And it’s not the children!”

Shane groans as he lowers himself on the floor. They’re not even three weeks into the season, and he feels like he’s already played months. Which he has, granted, but it’s not been MLH hockey. In any case – he gets Hayden, because he, too, feels like an old man.

“Yeah,” Hayden says, claps Shane on the shoulder as he rises, and joins his wife in the kitchen.

Which is how Shane finds himself with one child in his lap and another drooling on the hem of his pants when the doorbell finally rings.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Jackie says, drying her hands and already halfway to the door, “I got it.”

“Jacks –” Hayden starts, and then abandons whatever he was doing in the kitchen to follow her to the entryway. Shane has a brief moment where his mind is filled with smoke and the relentless beep of the fire alarm, except – that had been once, three years ago during their rookie season. They’ve both learned a lot about kitchen appliances since.

In the entryway, the door opens, and then there’s a cacophony of voices followed by laughter – Jackie’s higher voice mixing with Ilya’s angular vowels and clipped consonants and interspersed with Hayden’s familiar cadence, all of it too low for Shane to make out specifics. His heart reacts like Coach has sent him over the boards during Overtime, which is silly but nothing Shane can do anything about. He looks at the twin lying on the floor next to him – no telling them apart today, with both of them dressed in Metros onesies like anyone could forget for which team Hayden and Shane play – but while he’s gotten skilled at handling one infant, he isn’t quite comfortable with two and getting up from the floor. The twins have him well and truly trapped. Shit.

After a minute or so, Hayden reappears, looking deeply disturbed. “He brought gifts,” he whispers, staring at the bottle of vodka in his hands. Shane has no clue about any of that, so he’s unable to tell if it’s the cheapest kind or something expensive; knowing Ilya, it could be either. Hayden isn’t scowling, though, which makes Shane bet it’s something expensive. Or exotic. Which is probably the same thing, with alcohol.

“He can be nice,” Shane says weakly after a beat too long.

Hayden gives him a pointed look, even though it’s the truth. Ilya can be nice, and Hayden should know – after all, the situation at the condo before training camp didn’t escalate, now did it?

“Uh, can you –” Shane nods at the children.

This makes Hayden smile, though it still doesn’t look quite as usual. “You realise you can get up and move like two steps away? Jade won’t spontaneously learn to walk, she’s not even six months!”

Oh.

With one last, lingering look at the infant on the floor – Jade, apparently – Shane shifts his grip on Ruby and rises to his feet in what has become a practised motion by now.

“That,” Ilya says from the doorway, nearly giving Shane a heart attack, “is seriously sweetest thing I have ever seen.” To Shane’s horror, he sounds genuine, not even shit-eating, like maybe even Ilya Rozanov can’t quite summon the appropriate mockery in the face of so much concentrated adorableness as the Pike twins.

“Hi,” Shane says a little dumbly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Hayden mime retching, which is seriously uncalled for. It’s not like Shane has ever had a primer on how to greet his rival with benefits whom he proposed to, while also holding a small child.

“Hi yourself.” Ilya comes over, a look on his face that makes Shane’s heart flutter. “And hello, little beauty.” He smiles down at Ruby.

It takes all of Shane’s focus to keep his breathing even in the face of that. Fuck. Fuck. He should have known Ilya and babies was a dangerous combination.

“This is Ruby.” Shane has to clear his voice twice. “And the baby still trying to grab the hem of my pants is her sister Jade.”

Ilya drops to the floor with a speed that makes Shane fear for his knees. “Hellllooo,” he singsongs, before glancing over his shoulder at Hayden in the kitchen. “Can I –”

“As long as you don’t drop her,” Hayden allows grudgingly after a moment.

Ilya grins and scoops the second twin up. “I would never,” he says, holding the baby like he was born for it. Shane has to bite his lip and hold his breath for a moment, because he’s not sure what noise would otherwise come out of his throat. Nothing dignified, that’s for sure. “These children, they are far too pretty for you.”

“Eff off, Rozanov,” Hayden says half-heatedly.

Ilya just grins wider in response and bounces Ruby a little. His expression softens when he looks down at her, and Shane has to avert his eyes and take a few measured breaths before he does something embarrassing. Whether that would be popping a boner in his friends’ living room or striding over to kiss Ilya, he isn’t entirely sure – which is terrifying in its own right.

“Where’d Jackie go?” Shane asks to distract himself from these thoughts.

“I’m here,” Jackie says from the doorway to the entryway, “because your fiancé is a madman.”

“Me?” Ilya says faux-innocently.

“Yes, you.” There’s something in Jackie’s hands – a camera, Shane realises after a moment, one of the retro ones. A Polaroid? “Hayden, what’s the salmon doing?”

“I’m just putting it in the pan.”

It is indeed a Polaroid, as Shane learns when Jackie tells them to smile and takes a picture. As soon as that’s printed, she points the camera squarely at Ilya – for two pictures – before subjecting Shane to the same treatment. “So I can keep one,” she says with a wink as she places the developing pictures down.

Shane wanders over, but there’s not much to see yet; the image is coming in slowly.

“And the other one?”

Jackie gives him her look that tells him he’s missing something obvious. “For you.” Idiot remains unsaid but still very much audible.

“Thank you so much,” Jackie says when she finally puts the camera down for dinner. She must have used up half the roll already, Shane figures; on the other end of the table, neat rows of pictures taken by her and Ilya lie in various states of definition: Hayden in the kitchen, grinning at the camera; Shane with one twin on each of his thighs; Ilya on his stomach on top of the baby blanket, Ruby on his back; Jackie waltzing through the living room with Jade on her arms; Hayden, dipping Jackie with the softest smile on his face while Jackie is grinning widely; and finally a selfie of Jackie and Ilya where they’re both pulling faces, him sticking out his tongue and her mouth and eyes in exaggerated os of surprise. There are a few more that Shane can’t place yet, the contents little more than outlines and vague blobs.

They can’t show anyone most of those pictures – not when there’s clearly Ilya mingling with a Metros family in so many – but Shane doesn’t even want to, wants to keep all of them to himself and never let them go.

“Is nothing,” Ilya says, pulling Shane’s thoughts back to the present. The smile he gives Jackie is clearly pleased, though, which makes something warm spread through Shane’s chest. Maybe, his nightmares were unfounded after all.

“No! It was – such a thoughtful gift, really! Especially since we’ve never even met!”

Hayden grimaces as he dishes out the food – salmon on wholegrain rice with spinach and steamed broccoli; healthy and nutritionist-approved – but he doesn’t glare at Ilya when he hands over his plate, which is probably all Shane can ask for.

Ilya tilts his head. “I see pictures you send me of Shane earlier, and think, this woman has to have camera.”

Jackie laughs. “Maybe. Though I don’t think I’ll be needing a hobby while I have these two menaces around.” She nods towards the stroller where the twins are sleeping peacefully, worn out from Ilya and Shane entertaining them.

“Need to document. They are so precious, you need so many pictures. And maybe I want to see that they are good when we are not there.”

Shane’s hand clenches on his cutlery as he breathes through a wave of something. The food turns to dust in his mouth. Ilya – Ilya is acting like he’s part of this family that Shane made for himself, away from home. He likes most of his teammates, of course, but Hayden and, first by extension and then on her own merits, Jackie hold a special place in his heart. They are his, and for Ilya to act like he can just – like he’s already inextricably linked –

“Absolutely. We should make a group chat!” Jackie is grinning, oblivious to Shane’s sudden sweaty palms.

Ilya nods along enthusiastically, right up until he looks at Shane. Then, the mirth melts from his face, replaced by something else. Something that Shane might be able to parse ordinarily but has no idea how to read right now. “Shane?”

He’s dimly aware of Jackie turning to Hayden, talking about seething inane. It’s hard to tell through the rushing in his ears. With some difficulty, Shane swallows the mouthful of food, breathing carefully so it doesn’t reappear immediately.

“Hey. Hey, Shane.” Underneath the table, Ilya hooks his ankle around Shane’s. His hand comes to rest on Shane’s thigh, a heavy, reassuring weight. Shane tries to focus on that, but his thoughts are still on a breakaway towards the forefront of his mind, a rush of When he leaves– and the twins will be heartbroken and will I survive the holes he leaves? That last one is almost too bright to look at, so he doesn’t, tries to wrench his attention to the words he can hear but not parse.

Suddenly, Ilya’s hand his gone and his voice is even further away. When he reappears, he pushes Shane into a more upright position and then there’s a heavy weight in his arms. He adjusts his grip on instinct, burying his face in the wisp of dark hair and breathing in the clean scent of baby skin. Oh. Breath by breath, his panic recedes and the static in his ears fades until he becomes aware of his surroundings again.

The others are talking – league standings, Shane realises after a moment – and not paying him any attention, even though he’s sure he’s worried them. In his arms, one of the twins snuffles. He grips her a little more securely and lets her weight centre him. Ilya is gesturing next to him as he complains about the Admirals start to the season, left arm animated… because his right is still on Shane’s thigh. Oh.

“Better?” Ilya asks quietly when Hayden gets up to fetch more drinks. Jackie glances at them, smiles, and then fusses over the other twin.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Hayden reappears with beers for everyone and ginger ale for Shane, which he eyes for a moment and then snatches Ilya’s beer. Ilya chuckles, but doesn’t otherwise protest. It’s only for a swallow, anyway; beer still tastes shitty, but Shane needs the bitterness, the tangy flavour as another reminder that there’s more than the whirlwind inside his head.

“Got stuck in my own head.”

“We noticed,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t sound upset. Doesn’t sound mocking either. “But is better now?”

“Yeah.” Because Ilya is here, and he’ll be here for the foreseeable future, as Jackie pointed out, and that’ll be more than enough time for Shane to come up with a rescue plan for when this all, inevitably, goes to shit.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

What’s that? A final chapter count? I am not quite done yet with writing, but I have tentatively settled on 10 chapters. It might increase to 11, but I’m hoping that I will be able to wrap it all up this weekend, and that’ll only happen if it stays at 10 :D Depends on how the final scenes shake out (considering this was never meant to get this long).

Since there’s too many ideas swirling in my mind and I’ll be on a business trip next week, pray that it stays at 10 chapters 😂

Thank you all for the lovely response to the last chapter; I’ve read each and every one

“Was good evening, yes?” Ilya says once Shane has pulled out of the Pikes’ driveway. It’s dark outside; dark enough that no one should have seen the two of them get into the same car. At least, that’s what Shane tells himself.

“If we ignore my horrifying lapse in decorum…”

“Your what? Shane, you make no sense; is that even English?”

Despite himself, Shane smiles. “My stupid little freak-out.”

Ilya clicks his tongue, then flicks Shane’s upper arm. Shane hisses. “Is not stupid. Season is a lot, and you always worry too much. No one at that table is surprised, except maybe babies.”

“They have names.”

“Yeah, and I don’t know who let Hayden Pike name children, but that is not point.” Ilya is looking at him, Shane knows, but he studiously keeps his eyes on the road. “Do you need to put thoughts in the light to see they are unnecessary?”

Shane snorts. “I’m good.” He’s over it now, anyway, and rehashing it would only drag Ilya down with him. “You’re right; they’re unnecessary. No need to give them more space than earlier.”

Ilya gasps theatrically. “Alert press! Shane Hollander, admitting I am right!”

“If I wasn’t driving, I’d be hitting you right now.”

“Skill issue.”

Without taking looking away from the road, Shane boxes Ilya’s upper arm. From the yelp, he appears to have hit the nerve there spot on. Victory.

“Abuse! I am being tortured!” Ilya cries out.

Shane flicks an unimpressed look at him, though he can feel the corners of his mouth twitch. “Oh, but if you hit me…”

Ilya squawks, and it’s silly and nearly nonsensical, but it breaks the tension that had reappeared in the car quite nicely.

It’s not far from Hayden’s place to Shane’s – one of the perks of Shane’s condo – and so Shane is pulling into his spot in the underground parking garage while they’re still bantering. It’s only in the elevator that Ilya falls quiet, gaze dropping to his hands. No, not his hands, Shane realises when he chances a glance over. He’s flipping through the Polaroids Jackie had sent him home with. They’d finished off the packet of film after dinner and then started on the second one Ilya had included in his gift to Jackie, and the evidence of time they spent together that evening settles oddly in Shane’s chest. It’s the first actual, like. Proof, in a way, that they exist in the same space.

“It really was a thoughtful gift,” Shane says as he unlocks his front door. Ilya follows him inside.

He’s still looking at the pictures as he toes off his shoes. “I did not think she use it like this. Think it is for – her girls.” He shuffles to a picture Shane hadn’t noticed being taken until it had been too late: Shane is sitting on the couch, talking to Hayden, with Ilya leaning back against his shins, one of the twins in his lap. Shane’s chest seizes, relaxing only when Ilya flips to a picture he’d taken of the four Pikes and Shane. “They are important to you,” he says and – it’s true. It’s true, and Shane has no idea what to say in response to that.

He doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he hovers near Ilya, useless and unsure of how to get them back to their normal back-and-forth.

“Fuck,” Ilya finally murmurs, nearly too quiet for Shane to hear. He puts the pictures down on top of the shoe cabinet and then turns. Their eyes lock. There’s an intensity to Ilya’s gaze that roots Shane in his spot, that makes goosebumps rise on his arms. For a moment, the evening hangs between them like a bauble of finely spun glass.

“Ilya,” Shane says, and that’s all it takes for that bauble to shatter into a sudden, white-hot need. Ilya crosses the distance between them with two quick steps, crowding Shane into the nearest wall as he claims Shane’s lips. He kisses like a man possessed, full of teeth and tongue and a desperation that echoes through Shane’s veins. He’s been starving for weeks and has the promise of a feast, has been through a desert and finally seen the oasis; he wants to wrap himself in Ilya and never let him go.

His hands find their way into Ilya’s curls, tugging just a little to get Ilya to tilt his head. Ilya gasps, pulling Shane impossibly closer. It brings their rapidly hardening cocks together, a delicious bit of friction that makes Shane hunger for more.

“Ilya,” Shane gets out, slightly strangled, when Ilya moves from Shane’s lips to his jaw, his mouth hot against Shane’s skin.

“Hm?”

Shane moans, tilting his head back to give Ilya better access, and tries to wrangle his brain cells back into working order. It’s rather a failure.

“What is, Hollander?”

His last name in that voice – gravelly, angular, Ilya – makes Shane moan again. “Fuck.”

Ilya chuckles against Shane’s jugular. “Yes, we can.”

“Then, bed.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, and then keeps nibbling at Shane’s jugular anyway.

“Bed, Ilya,” Shane repeats – begs, really, but it’s not his fault that Ilya’s teeth scrape over the sensitive skin of his throat just so in that moment.

Ilya chuckles against his skin before he straightens out, kissing Shane again. It’s a slower kiss, deeper – and even more lethal to Shane’s general state of coherence. Fuck.

He plants a hand on Ilya’s chest and shoves, hard enough that Ilya actually takes a step back. His eyes are dark on Shane’s, lips red from kissing and the end-of-day stubble on Shane’s skin. He looks indecent. Shane digs his canine into the inside of his lip and takes a deep breath.

“Hm?”

“Unless you want me to come right here, we really should make it to bed.”

“You are too … full sentences.” Ilya smirks at him. “We need to change that.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

“Oh, I will succeed.” Ilya winks, and then grabs Shane’s wrist and drags him further into the flat.

It takes them a while to make it to the bed proper – Shane gets distracted by Ilya’s ass right in front of his nose and has to touch it, which leads to a semi-comfortable but really hot make-out session with Ilya towering over Shane, and then Shane has to kiss Ilya again at the top of the stairs, and then they try to combine the final metres to the bed with shedding their clothes, which is not a very successful endeavour, but then they’re in their boxers in Shane’s bedroom and –

“I want you to fuck me,” Shane manages, all in one breath. It’s suddenly very important that Ilya does – paramount even. “I think – yeah.”

To his credit, Ilya doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. Instead, he smiles, slow and full of promise. “Will be good. I will make sure.” He takes another step back, until his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he drops backwards onto it. He pulls Shane down on top of himself, and it’s all Shane can do to catch himself on his arms, bracketing Ilya in.

“Hi,” he says, a little stupidly.

Ilya grins at him, but instead of answering, he reels Shane in so he can kiss him again. It’s better, like this; skin on skin without any layers of clothing separating them except their boxers – which they really should have taken off – and horizontal, except they’re still half hanging off the bed, but really, you can’t always have everything you want.

Though they can have that.

“Up,” Shane demands, propping himself up on his elbows again.

For a moment, he thinks Ilya will be obstinate, but then Ilya shimmies his way further into the bed. His cock drags along Shane’s abdomen and his chest, and it’s so easy to slide off the bed just a little so that his face is right in front of the sizeable bulge in Ilya’s boxer briefs. He nuzzles into the fabric, inhaling the typical musk mixed with tangy precome before giving the fabric an experimental lick. It’s dry and rather unpleasant, but more than worth it for the way Ilya moans above him. Shane does it again, mouthing at the hard length through its cover.

“Hollander,” Ilya gasps, his hands slipping into Shane’s hair and pulling away. “Hollander – Shane; if – if I fuck you, you need to stop.”

Shane raises his head to look up at Ilya, past the treasure trail and the vast expanse of Ilya’s chest and the flush spreading from his throat down towards his dark, pert nipples. Shane wants to devour him.

“Stop and come here. Give me lube, condom –”

“Bedside drawer.” He doesn’t wait for Ilya to move, grabbing the supplies himself before he can lose his nerve. He wants Ilya to fuck him. Wants to stop thinking about the future, about the way Ilya looked with a baby cradled in his arms. Fuck. The mere thought fans the flames racing through his veins.

In the time it takes Shane to grab the lube and condom from the drawer, Ilya has shucked his boxer briefs and is now kneeling on the bed, legs spread slightly so his cock is proudly on display. Shane has seen it more than a dozen times, has had it in his mouth and his hand and rubbing against his body, and yet it looks intimidatingly large, like that.

“On your stomach,” Ilya tells him. His voice is assured but not mean, demanding in a way that makes Shane obey without question. He crawls into bed, the sheets cool and smooth under his hands and knees while his heart pounds in his ears. Christ. He’s really letting Ilya Rozanov fuck him. What? Does touching your ass make you gay? Ilya’s voice from one and a half years ago echoes in his head, ‘Cause you know what else makes you gay is sucking my dick. And yeah, he’s sucked Ilya’s dick more than one since then.

Ilya takes his time, which is horrible and exhilarating in equal measure. Shane’s senses feel heightened to everything he can’t see directly: the way the comforter rustles as Ilya kicks it away, the snick of the bottle cap, the heat from Ilya’s legs as he gets into position behind Shane.

Shane, who is still wearing his own boxer briefs.

He waits, with bated breath, for Ilya to tell him to take them off, or for him to pull them off Shane directly, or –

“You are so tense,” Ilya murmurs as his hands land on Shane’s back. It’s such a simple touch, but it makes Shane’s arms give out nonetheless, sends him chest-first into the mattress. He exhales, ragged, and then shivers as Ilya drags his hands down Shane’s back. It’s a strong, comfortable – confident touch, and so is the way Ilya slides his hands up Shane’s back again. He does just that, long, sweeping, expansive motions on Shane’s back until Shane’s breathing hitches for a different reason, until his blood sings with every slide, every hint of nails on his skin. “So pretty for me, so strong,” Ilya is saying; nonsensical things, meaningless praise that brings his low, beautiful voice close to Shane’s ear and then close to his ass, and he wants, he wants –

“Ilya,” Shane chokes out, “I need –”

“Shhh,” Ilya shushes him, but he lengthens his next sweep to tuck his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s boxer briefs and pull them down, just past the swell of Shane’s ass. “You are so beautiful.”

Shane whines, wiggling his ass to get the annoying underwear all the way off. Ilya chuckles behind him but takes pity on him, freeing his cock and pulling Shane’s underwear off. A gasp escapes Shane at the brush of Ilya’s fingers on his aching cock, followed by a shock of cool air.

A soft touch at his lower back is the only warning Shane gets before Ilya’s fingers, slick and body-warm with lube, come to rest against his hole. He hisses, his body uncertain whether to push into the touch or pull away. “You tell me if it is uncomfortable.”

“Yes,” Shane says, none-too-pleased, “Your fingers or dick won’t be the first thing I’m putting up my – aaah.”

Ilya chuckles and repeats the motion, just circling Shane’s hole before dipping the tip of his finger in, doing it again and again before sliding it in to the first knuckle. “You are so eager for me,” Ilya says quietly, darkly, “so desperate for a dick in your ass.”

Shane wants to give a suitable reply, but Ilya takes that moment to push a second finger in, and it doesn’t quite burn but the stretch is definitely palpable. And yeah – Shane has done this to himself, has a dildo shoved into the back of his drawer that he’s well acquainted with. But – it’s different like this. Different to lie there, hands fisted in the mattress cover while someone else – while Ilya Rozanov – has two and then three fingers buried in his ass, murmuring filthy praise as he gets Shane ready for him. When Shane does this to himself, it’s means to an end, slicking himself up so he can get the dildo in. This… this is pleasure in its own right – it’s not Shane in control here but Ilya, Ilya who has him at his mercy and yet reacts to the smallest sounds Shane makes as he teases Shane’s rim, gives his prostate the faintest brush every once in a while, makes Shane need more.

It’s overwhelming.

The loss of Ilya’s fingers is almost painful in a deep, visceral way, and he’s keyed up enough that the crinkle of the condom, the knowledge of what’s to come next, is barely a blip in his mind. Okay, it’s a little more than a blip, but it’s definitely drowned out by his arousal, by the bone-deep need to be impossibly closer to Ilya.

“Ready?”

“Fuck, yes, c’mon, fuck me, just put it –” The final word dies in Shane’s throat at the blunt press of Ilya’s cock against his hole. He exhales with purpose, pushing backwards as he does so, and then Ilya is swearing and digging his fingers into Shane’s hips as he breaches Shane.

Shane clenches his teeth against the embarrassing noise he can feel rising in his throat, his fingers scrabbling at the mattress. God. It’s a lot. Ilya is big, and Shane can feel every inch of girth as Ilya slowly sinks deeper.

“Fuck, Hollander –” Ilya’s voice is wrecked, and it’s Shane’s doing; Shane who’s made him sound seconds from losing it just from this. It’s a wonderfully heady feeling, layering on top of the bodily sensations. “I will not last long.”

“Then fuck me,” Shane demands, which makes Ilya chuckle again before he finally, finally starts moving.

And – it’s nothing like fucking himself with the toy. Ilya’s cock is hard, yes, but there’s a flexibility to it that’s impossible with the dildo, and he establishes a rhythm that lights up Shane’s entire body, fills him was sparks from his centre out to the tips of his fingers. Sounds keep falling from Shane’s lips, little ah ah ahs that he has no chance of stopping, because his world has narrowed down to Ilya’s fingers on his skin and Ilya’s cock up his ass and the way it feels every thrust.

Ilya swears again as his rhythm stutters a little. He reaches around Shane, finding his heavy cock hanging between his legs and wrapping his hand around it. He doesn’t jerk Shane off – can’t, maybe, not with the way he sounds barely coherent behind Shane – but every thrust drives Shane’s cock into the tight circle of Ilya’s fist, and he wants to scream, wants to claw out of his skin and marinate in this feeling, because it’s so much, so fucking much in the best way. “I’m going –” Ilya breaks off with a gasp, thrusts going erratic, and then his lips are on Shane’s shoulder blade as he pants his orgasm into Shane’s skin.

“Ilya,” Shane whimpers – whimpers! – because he doesn’t seem capable of anything else.

“Fuck,” Ilya swears, and then his hips are moving again, tiny motions that rub his still mostly hard cock against Shane’s rim while he starts jerking Shane off properly. And Shane – Shane has been on the edge for what feels like hours, certainly since Ilya started kissing him in the entryway, and so it doesn’t take long at all until his toes start curling, the heat building deep in his core burning every brighter. “Come on, Shane, come for me,” Ilya tells him in his rough, accented English, and that’s the spark that makes pleasure explode through Shane’s body.

He keens as he’s coming, his cock pulsing in Ilya’s hand with enough force that stripes of his own come hit his chest.

Ilya collapses on top of him, sending both of them crashing into the mattress. Right on top of the wet spot, of course. Shane makes a dismayed sound, which makes Ilya laugh. The sound rumbles through Shane’s chest, and it’s a testament to how fucked out he is that it only sends a zap of worry through him and doesn’t make him panic. He probably will panic about this – when he can actually find a moment to do so. Maybe he’ll better avoid dinners with Hayden, Jackie, and Ilya in the foreseeable future.

“Get off me,” Shane mumbles when the feeling of wet cloth against his stomach becomes near unbearable.

“Well, you get me off,” Ilya jokes, but he does lever himself up – albeit with a groan worthy of an Oscar or something – and then pull out of Shane. It’s an odd sensation, unpleasant even though Ilya is clearly careful, and then – then Shane is empty, lying in a pool of his own come. Oh god.

He rolls off the bed in one motion, hissing when his ass twinges again. It’s not as painful as he’d maybe expected – certainly not so bad that he’ll likely still feel it tomorrow for the game – but it’s… odd. Yeah.

“Shane,” Ilya says, and now it’s him who sounds dismayed. “What about cuddles?”

And they shouldn’t – they’re still just hooking up, and yeah, getting married for the next couple of years, but they don’t… oh, who is Shane kidding? They absolutely have cuddled in the past. He sighs, trying to cling to the last vestiges of blissed-out pleasure the orgasm had afforded him. “I’ll be right back.”

They really should put new sheets on the bed, too, but that seems like more effort than it’s worth right then. For now, it has to be enough to get cleaned up.

Shane wakes up to his face smooshed into Ilya’s upper arm and Ilya’s breath fanning over his temple. For a moment, he lies very, very still.

It’s not the first time they’re waking up next to each other, and it’s only been a little over three weeks since the last – and first – time, but it still stops him short.

Ilya groans into his hair and then shifts so he can pull Shane into his naked, muscular chest. “You are thinking too loud, Hollander.”

“Oh, are we back to last names already?” Shane has to clear his throat twice before he can get the sentence out.

Ilya snorts. “You do not complain last night.”

Heat shoots into Shane’s face immediately, and it’s quite convenient, really, that he’s already hiding it against Ilya’s chest.

“That’s different,” Shane mutters, uncomfortable with admitting even that much for reasons he can’t quite put into words.

“Different? Oooh, because it is sex thing?”

In lieu of anything better to do, Shane bites Ilya’s chest in response.

It punches a small gasp out of Ilya. “Oh! Is definitely a sex thing.”

Against Shane’s hip, Ilya’s cock is also cluing in that it’s definitely a sex thing. Shane rolls his eyes against Ilya’s chest, but it’s not like he isn’t growing hard, and they really should make the most of their morning together, right?

After they’ve sucked each other off, brushed their teeth, and taken a shower, Shane makes them omelettes, and very carefully does not call them their usual omelettes even in the privacy of his own head.

“Oh,” Ilya says over the final forkful of egg, “I bring – stuff.”

“We’ve already had sex,” Shane points out. “And I had lube and condoms covered.”

Ilya laughs, delighted, which makes Shane flush with something warm. “Yes, you did. No, I mean I have brought shirts. And picture, only Jackie has me beat. I will be right back.”

Before Shane can say anything, Ilya is out of his chair. Shane sighs and clears away their plates – just like he had during Ilya’s impromptu first stay – and waits for Ilya to make his way back from the bedroom.

Ilya reappears with his backpack slung over his shoulder and the Polaroid pictures in his hand.

“Look.” He pulls a stack of clothing from his backpack – two Boston Raiders shirts that Shane can’t help but grimace at, two Dynamo Moscow ones, as well as a Boston hoodie.

Shane finds himself lingering on the Russian shirts for long moments. They look well-worn, the print half flaked-off and the collars fraying. “You’re probably happy to get rid of these, huh?”

Ilya is quiet for long enough that Shane looks up at him. One corner of his mouth is half tilted up, but he doesn’t look happy. Finally, he shrugs. “Is just clothes.”

It’s not, Shane wants to argue, but he doesn’t know what else it would be. It is indeed clothes – Ilya’s clothes.

“And I also bring this.” Ilya pulls something square out of his backpack: a framed copy of a still from the first ever ad they shot together. As Shane studies the picture, he realises it’s not just a still – it’s a shot that didn’t make the final version, because they’re both laughing in it, freer than Shane can remember ever being during a photo or video shoot.

It’s a surprisingly good picture. Makes them look like friends, certainly. He has to swallow past the clog in his throat.

“And if we do this” – Ilya tucks one of the Polaroids Jackie took, of Ilya sprawled on the floor with one of the twins on his chest and the other on her stomach next to him, into the frame from the outside – “tadaa, picture of your fiancé.”

“How did you get this?” Shane asks, reaching for the frame. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ilya look at him.

“Jackie gave them to me.”

“No, I mean – the… the one from the, y’know, ad.”

“Oh. Emailed them. They send me quite a few.”

Shane doesn’t know why he’d never had the same idea – or if his mother had and just never shown him. Except… why would she have asked for them? It had been well established even then that Ilya and Shane hated each other.

“Well, uh. Thanks.”

Ilya flashes him a smile. “We must not get suspicion, right?”

Right. “Yeah.”

Shane looks at the two pictures for another moment, a heavy, suffocating feeling in his chest, before he clears his throat. “Okay. Do you want first pick for the pictures?”

Ilya’s eyes light up. “Absolutely! Oh, Sveta is going to love them. She is big fan of yours, because she has no taste,” he adds conspiratorially.

With some effort, Shane makes himself look at Ilya, giving him what he hopes is a meaningful look. “Doesn’t that also imply that you have no taste?”

“Oh, but I take puck to head as teen,” Ilya says glibly, grinning, “it is expected of me to have not all brain cells in my head. Also, I know you are second best player, behind me. Sveta, however – she is amazing and smart woman. She should know better.”

Shane can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Second best? I’ll show you, Rozanov.”

“Oh, will you?”

“We’ll beat you, tonight.”

“I will believe when I see,” Ilya says, and then pushes the picture out of the way so he can haul Shane in and kiss him again.

Chapter End Notes

Was this supposed to lead to a 3k sex scene? No. Am I complaining the boys had a mind of their own? Also no. I hope you had fun reading!

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

No, no no no, I never said ten chapters. Is lie; liar told you that. I said eleven chapters…

In other news – this fic is now fully written, though I will need to give it another edit pass. At roughly 42k words, I’ve decided to split it into eleven chapters, and will be posting them every other day (approximately; I do have some RL obligations coming up that might make posting a little wonky next week).

Thank you for the lovely reception to the last chapter, I will be answering soon!

Shane makes it all the way through his game-day massage and follow-up with the trainers for a hamstring that’s been bothering him mildly before Hayden pounces on him.

“You got a minute?” Hayden asks it just a little too casually, which immediately puts Shane on edge.

“Captain’s matters?”

Hayden visibly gears up to deny it, until he clocks the interested look Brinks is shooting them. “You really want to make them all curious, huh? Careful, or we’ll discuss just how early the next curfew will be.” That gets the desired chuckles as the other guys present get back to their own preparations.

Shane follows Hayden into one of the now-empty trainer’s rooms. For a long, long minute, silence stretches between them. Finally, Hayden sighs. “Okay. Listen, I –”

“It’s alright,” Shane cuts him off before Hayden can dredge up feelings this close to playing Boston. To playing Ilya. Who’s out on the ice with his team right now, getting the early practice while the home team sticks to their usual rhythm. “Thank you for hosting – uh, us yesterday. Genuinely. I know it was Jackie’s idea, but… I think it was good. Helpful.”

Hayden takes his time with answering. “It wasn’t just her idea,” he finally admits, which throws Shane. It’s no secret, after all, that Hayden has never liked Ilya and that he’d been less than enthused about opening his home to him. “I also wanted to see…” he trails off, the sentence hanging between them.

“What?” Shane prompts when Hayden doesn’t go on.

Hayden shakes his head. “Just – it was very… educational.” A wry grin, which means Shane is missing something. “Just – I was worried I’d become noticeably complicit in a very obvious scam. With the – y’know.” With the immigration office, Shane supplies in his own head. He nods, curious to see where Hayden is going with this. “But… don’t tell him, but I can see a little bit why you’d do that.” Now, Hayden grins. “Still doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on him.”

Shane still doesn’t quite understand what Hayden is getting at, but he can recognise an end to the conversation when it’s as obvious – and delivered by Hayden – as this. “We’d be having words if it meant that. We’ll be giving it our best.”

“Then let’s go – we have a Boston team to beat tonight.”

They do not manage to beat the Raiders.

Shane gets the lone goal for Montreal, off of a pass from Hayden, which of course means he’s tagged for post-game media. He says all the right things (like, We did our best but sometimes the other team is better, and Boston’s always a tough opponent and it’s always fun to see who comes out on top, and it could have gone either way, we just have to convert the chances we generate and We’re definitely going to do our best to move on and focus on the next game and not let this drag us down), and he’s barely had a chance to shower before they’re bundled off onto the bus so they can fly out to Buffalo for their second game in this back-to-back.

Ilya texts him, a wordless 😘 that Shane sees as they disembark, and he doesn’t really want to reply or smile, though he almost loses his fight against the latter.

He’s definitely not smiling the next evening when they lose again. It’s a messy game with too many sloppy mistakes by both teams that sees them going into OT tied at 4, and they hold out all the way to the Shootout before Buffalo takes the second point. (Of course it’s frustrating, Shane tells the reporters crowded around his stall, we had a lot of chances, a lot going right for us, and unfortunately we just gave up too many good chances to Buffalo, so we’ll definitely have to tighten up our defence going forward. To another, Yeah, we’ll definitely be trying to rest and recharge and get our head in the game against Toronto, absolutely).

And then Toronto – Toronto! – shuts them out 6-0, and Shane is tapped for media again. (You never want to lose three in a row, he says, and, It’s a tough season for all of us, but that’s no excuse to let Štras hang out to dry, so we’ll definitely be focusing on our defensive plays, and We just have to show up and have a few less unlucky bounces, that’s always tough to stomach.) He never reads what the media writes, but he’s doubly careful to avoid them now, because Montreal loves its hockey and hates little as much as its hockey team losing off of stupid mistakes. It made for a frustrating-at-times rookie season, but it also means that when things go right, it’s electric to ride the high of the crowd. They just have to make things go right again.

Coach gives them a day off to reset, which Shane spends in his home gym and then at Hayden’s, playing MLH on Hayden’s xBox against him and J.J. and J.J’s rookie, Lenny. Shane loses abysmally, as usual, though he has a twin in his lap, which is a decidedly better excuse than usual for why he’s sucking.

“You picked this handicap,” J.J. points out unsympathetically, grinning at Shane’s predicament.

Lenny snorts. He’s been fairly quiet, as rookies go – not that Shane is one to judge – but he seems to thaw slowly, as long as he thinks no one is paying him any attention. Shane can relate, and so he keeps his attention on J.J.

“You’re just jealous the twins always start crying when they see you.”

“Oooh,” Hayden makes from the other side of the couch, pausing his setup of the next game to look over, “You’ve taken to chirping.” To J.J., he repeats, “He’s taken to chirping!”

“He’s growing up,” J.J. says with a hand clasped theatrically to his chest, and Shane once again wonders why he’s friends with these idiots.

He shakes his head. “I think I’ll embrace my handicap and watch you two be obliterated by our rookie.”

Lenny ducks his head, but he’s grinning. “That’s because they’re old,” he stage-whispers, like he’s not a mere year younger than Shane and Hayden.

The others laugh, and Shane leans back against the couch with Ruby – at least he thinks it’s Ruby – comfortably nestled in his arms. Part of him still longs for the calm and quiet of his condo, and maybe last year that’s how he’d have spent his day off. But he’s Captain now, and the season is tough enough as it is on a rookie, so the last he can do is make Lenny feel welcome. After all, a well-bonded team leads to victories, and they can really use all the bonding they can right now. (If it also neatly takes Shane’s mind off accented English and piercing blue eyes – well. That’s just a bonus.)

Their next two games are on the road, both of them in Florida, and they leave with four points; both Tampa Bay and the Miami Cougars take a point each, but they’re not division rivals and so a win is a win. Especially after losing three in a row.

When Shane gets back, there’s a postcard waiting for him.

Greetings from Buffalo!, it proclaims in thick letters over a scenic view. He frowns at it for a moment, before flipping it around. Oh. The spidery handwriting isn’t quite familiar, but the tone certainly is: Unbelievable that I find city more boring than you, but well, is Buffalo ;) — xoxo

Shane chuckles into the quiet of his home, and then on impulse tucks it into the frame of his entryway mirror. To his delight, it actually stays put. He snaps a picture of it and sends it to Ilya without further comment.

Me (today, 2:48am):
[Picture attached: a picture Shane’s entryway mirror with the postcard tucked into its frame. Shane is visible in it too, still wearing his game day suit and a toque, looking tired]

Lily (today, 8:27am):
))))))
You arrive home safe?

Me (today, 11:12am):
Yes. Coach took mercy on us and made practice a late one.

Lily (today, 11:13am):
Mercy would be no practice at all.

Me (today, 11:13am):
Oh, it was optional. ;)

Lily (today, 11:15am):
Overachiever 😜

Me (today 11:15am):
When did you last miss an optional practice?

Lily (today, 11:15am):
you really have to ask?
sex so good? 😏

Shane rolls his eyes, fingers hovering over the keys as he tries to come up with a suitable reply.

Behind him, J.J. whistles. “Don’t tell me this is Boston girl you’re texting?”

“No, I don’t –” Hayden starts, but J.J. interrupts him: “C’mon, man, we all know what Holler looks like when he’s texting his girl – what’s her name, Lea?”

“Lily,” Hayden corrects automatically.

“It’s nobody,” Shane says before either of them can talk any more about his supposed hook-ups. Thankfully, his complexion hides the heat creeping into his face quite nicely, but he still knows it’s time to accept defeat and put his phone away. Leaving Ilya on read is probably funnier, anyway.

“Don’t bullshit me, oh Captain, my Captain.” J.J. looks around, eyes landing on Wiz. “Wiz, back me up, man – that was totally his Boston girl expression, wasn’t it?”

“I do not have a – a ‘Boston girl expression’,” Shane protests, because he doesn’t. “I don’t even have a Boston girl!”

“Hate to break it to you,” Brinks, one of their second-line defenders, cuts in, “but you really do. Anyone who claims otherwise simply hasn’t been on the team long enough for us to play in Boston. Right?” Brinks looks around at the rest of the guys who showed up to this morning’s practice, looking for support. “Piker, we’re right, aren’t we?”

Hayden starts, like he’d been totally elsewhere during this ribbing. He looks from Shane to the rest of the guys and then back to Shane, though his gaze doesn’t stay for long. “Leave me out of it,” he says weakly, which even Shane can tell is a little odd for him.

“Eyy, Piker – aren’t you supposed to know him best?”

“Do I look like a mind reader?” Hayden replies, and that’s more like him – and also more than enough to shift the ribbing away from Shane and onto safer waters.

Shane is tying his shoes when something occurs to him. “Hayd – wait up a moment,” he calls, because Hayden is, as so often, two steps ahead of him while getting out of their gear post-practice.

Hayden rolls his eyes. “Don’t I always?” But he does idle at his stall, and falls into step with Shane on the way to where the catered post-practice lunch is waiting for them. “What’s up?”

“I just – I meant it. There is no Lily. I’m not – I’m not cheating on, like, anyone.” God, that’s excruciating to say. But it also seems important, somehow, for Hayden to know. Yeah, this is why Shane usually just prefers to keep stuff like this under wraps entirely.

Hayden is silent for long enough that Shane worries he’s said something wrong after all. “I know,” he finally says. “And – it’s none of my business, of course, but – there was a Lily, wasn’t there?” Before Shane can protest, he adds, “Or at least – a Boston… person. Because –” He casts a furtive glance around them, lowering his voice even further as he adds, “it’s him, isn’t it?”

Shane fully stops. Oh. And – maybe he should have seen it coming, but somehow… somehow he’d forgotten, that of course Hayden knows he’s been texting the same person for years. Brinks had been right: the whole team – at least, everyone who’d been there last season, and certainly everyone who’d already been there during their rookie season – knows. And Shane had told him that this thing with Ilya had been going on for a while. So really, it shouldn’t be a surprise that Hayden has put two and two together.

Somehow, it still is.

“Christ,” Hayden says with a chuckle that only sounds a little wobbly when it becomes clear Shane won’t deny it. “I never – just.” He shakes his head, but when Shane glances over at him, Hayden is smiling just a little. “Only you, Shane. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Lily.”

Shane casts another glance over his shoulder, but they’re well and truly alone right then. “It was his idea,” he finally admits.

Hayden laughs, still shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you also have a code name. Christ, you totally do, don’t you? What is it, Holly?”

Which… actually would have made sense, now that Shane is thinking about it. “Jane,” he admits, before he can consciously decide to tell the truth.

Hayden looks at him for a very long moment. There’s something in his gaze – something searching maybe? – that makes Shane want to squirm. With some effort, he holds his ground. “You’re so fucking weird,” Hayden tells him, and Shane has no doubt that’s a plural you.

Shane shrugs. “It was just – it was never something serious.”

“Hm,” Hayden says noncommittally, and, yeah.

Nothing serious – except that it’s arguably been going on since they first played against each other. Nothing serious – except Ilya came to him when the need arose. Nothing serious – except Shane asked Ilya to marry him.

Even if it’s just for immigration purposes or to get him out of his fucked-up KHL contract, he isn’t entirely sure how much more serious it can get, without, like, children involved. Shane swallows.

“Let’s get food,” he finally says, and he isn’t entirely sure what it means that Hayden doesn’t even comment on the blatant change of topic.

Their two wins turn into three turn into four, and the points just keep coming. There’s an odd mixture of elation and bone-deep tiredness in the room, which reflects on their celebrations after they net their fifth straight win, this time against the Admirals.

“Anyone coming out tonight?” Ras – Tomi Rasmussen, their Finnish third-line right winger – asks as he’s straightening his tie after their game. Shane nearly does a double-take until his brain catches up with him: with his accent more pronounced than usual, Ras sounded like Ilya for just a moment. Christ. Shane needs more sleep.

“Sure,” Brinks agrees, more lacklustre than excited. Privately, Shane thinks they should all just go to bed. He can’t be the only one feeling worn thin already, and most of these guys are older than him.

Like he can read his mind, Hayden snorts. “I’m out – I might have one beer at the hotel bar and then it’s calling the missus and bed.”

“You’re twenty-two!” Brinks cries, “You’re supposed to be fun!”

Hayden scoffs. “I have two infants at home, dude. I swear, they make you age like a decade.”

“I’ll join you for a beer,” Shane says, even though he doesn’t really feel like it. But they have won five in a row, and a good Captain shows up for his team after that. “I’ll even cover the first round.”

That nets him an immediate chorus of hoots and cheers, and suddenly the rest of the guys are very quick in finishing up their post-game routines.

In the end, Shane stays for two rounds: one with Hayden, and then another to give his friend and roommate enough time to call Jackie in peace, before he also makes his way upstairs.

“Good game, Cap. You definitely deserve that letter,” Wiz tells him when he passes him by to leave, and Shane doesn’t really feel like he’s done anything to deserve the praise, but he still smiles and bumps his shoulder into Wiz’s.

Maybe he is doing something right. It’s hard to tell, with the shortened season, but then again, they’re still holding their own. So yeah. He probably is doing something right.

Still, he finds himself staring at the phone in his hand as he’s riding the elevator upstairs, at the question he’s typed into his chat with Lily. Ilya should be at home, he’s pretty sure; they have a rare three day break between games, and he’s sure that the team is using that to rest up at home.

It’s that thought which makes him finally hit send.

Me (today, 12:37am):
What makes a good Captain?

Lily (today, 12:38am):
do we ha reverse rows??
*habe
*hae
*have
this is question from me 4 u!!!!

Me (today, 12:45am):
Remember you’re engaged before you do something stupid, okay?

The second check-mark turns blue while Shane is still looking, but no reply comes. In the end, Shane puts his phone away and manages to fall asleep without obsessing over it too much. Just a normal amount, really. After all, it’s Ilya’s career on the line and not his own if they fuck their pretense up, so what does he even care if Ilya’s out partying it up right now?

Me (today, 12:45am):
Remember you’re engaged before you do something stupid, okay?

Lily (today, 1:00am):
never do I stupid things
even if my bed is very lonely (((((
[picture attached: Ilya is lying on his bed, the covers carefully mussed up on one half of his king-size bed so one of his legs and his crotch is under the covers. The second leg is stretched out on the mattress, showing that he’s probably naked in bed, pouting at the full-body mirror on his wall, which his phone camera is pointed at. His room is otherwise empty, the opened doors to what is probably an en-suite bathroom and the hallway both dark and deserted.]

 

Lily (today, 8:15am):
[replying to What makes a Good Captain?] I think this is tricky question
every Captain is Captain in his own way
Foo is different Captain from Hunter is different Captain from Tanner
because they all have different teams
and good captain is what his team needs

Lily (today, 8:20am):
but they all have one thing together
they care about game, about team, about people
this is most important
captain must care

Lily (today, 8:43am):
say Foo
he is German, yes?
so sometimes he is very serious and especially about team breakfast 🙄
but he is also very direct and tells you what he is serious about like team breakfast or not calling him Kapitan Fur-man (he tells you his name is KAPITAAN FUHRMANN
*)
and knows how to drink beer
always very funny DD
we know he has our back. we know we can go to hi and say hey, I have problem
*him
he will work on shoot with you, or take you out for food when you are new and know no good spots
so is all about team, yes?

Lily (today, 8:58am):
don’t know if this makers sense
*makes
but there is no single answer

“Jesus Christ, Shane,” Hayden groans, pulling his pillow over his head, “Who the fuck is texting you at like. 8-something in the fucking morning?”

Shane stumbles out of the bathroom, trying to tuck the end of his towel in so it doesn’t fall as he searches for where he buried his phone last night. Apparently, it wasn’t deep enough to keep the new message vibration from disturbing Hayden.

Hayden peers out from his blanket-and-pillow cocoon. “Fuck, don’t tell me you’ve already been for a run?”

“It’s already nine,” Shane points out. “I’m amazed you’re complaining about my phone when you didn’t even hear me leave.”

Hayden groans theatrically, though Shane stops listening as he unlocks his phone and looks at his messages. Lily (26), his messaging app tells him.

Heart beating embarrassingly fast, Shane taps into the chat. He doesn’t know what he expected. No matter what, though, it could not compare to reality. Ilya didn’t take anyone home last night – wasn’t even out that long, if the time stamp of the picture is anything to go by. And what a picture it is. Shane stares at the selfie – is a mirror picture a selfie? – of Ilya for long seconds before muscle memory kicks in. He long-presses the message to bring up the delete option and – stops.

They’re pretending to date. They’re engaged. It would probably be odd if anyone were to look and found zero pictures they’d sent to each other in their message history. He clicks the menu away and tries to breathe through the wave of daring sweeping through him. Then, he looks at the rest of the messages, and promptly dials Ilya’s number.

Predictably, it goes to voicemail. Right. Ilya is probably at the rink now, out on the ice for morning practice.

Shane looks at the messages again.

Thanks. ♥️, he finally types, and can’t shake the feeling that it’s utterly inadequate.

There’s another postcard waiting for Shane when he gets back home from their trip to New York, this time from Winnipeg.

Clearly you are my good luck, Ilya has scrawled on it, because I did not write card in Buffalo again for rematch and we lose. So here is greetings from even more boring city of Winnipeg, icy ass-end of Canada! It will bring us victory!

Shane grins despite himself and tucks the card into the mirror below the Buffalo one. Maybe he should see about getting some magnets on their next trip, something silly to put these up on his fridge. It seems like the sort of thing that would make Ilya laugh, at least.

Then again, it’s not like they have ample opportunity to shop while on the road. How Ilya found the time to procure – and send! – postcards is beyond him; he certainly doesn’t know where he’d fit it in his routine.

And yet, the postcards keep coming: from Tampa (City is famous for LIGHTNING!! And yet they name team SPIRITS. I agree with Marl, they have stupid ideas), and then Miami (I have two full days and still only find terrible cards, so you get most terrible I saw), and then New York (How are Gladiators even older than Admirals?? Scott Hunter is already 10000000 years old but Shawn Pollin could be his grandfather???). That should be the end of it, because the Raiders are on a three game homestead until they’re hosting the Metros. Except when Shane checks his mail on the way to the rink the day before they’re playing in Boston, he finds another card.

From Boston.

He laughs to himself as he snaps a picture.

I thought it was for road games only, he types, attaches the picture, and hits send.

He doesn’t expect a reply – the Raiders are hosting Tampa that day, so Ilya is probably already at the rink too. To his surprise, the check-marks turn blue almost immediately.

We only win in OT against Cens, Ilya replies, so we need the luck.

His status changes to typing… and then back to online and back to typing… again before another message comes. And maybe I worry you forget me before game.

You used to have more confidence, Shane replies, which for some reason has Ilya sending him back 😊😘❤️.

He can’t claim to understand, but it still leaves him with a smile all the way to the rink and through their practice.

Chapter End Notes

All games and boxscores (of the regular season) are borrowed from the 2012-13 NHL season because I got too stressed out over trying to come up with fake hockey scores

If you’re reading this in one sitting, remember to get up and get something to drink! 💛 Stay hydrated, my friends!

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Everyone ready for the ao3 downtime?

In the meantime, here's the long-awaited meeting with Svetlana! 💛

Also CW for a team name that's racist – keeping in line with the actual NHL, the Chicago team is referenced as Illinois Indians. I obviously do not endorse this name.

They lose to Pittsburgh in overtime. It still means they take home one point, which is better than none, but it’s definitely not how they wanted to start this back-to-back. Especially since it seamlessly leads into a five game road trip that ends with another back-to-back, this time in Florida. Christ. Shane is tired just thinking about it.

Consequently, he also doesn’t feel like texting Ilya.

Ilya has no such compunctions.

Lily (yesterday, 11:15pm):
curfew exemption? 👀

Me (yesterday, 11:47pm):
I wasn't aware you needed a curfew exemption while at home.

Lily (yesterday, 11:47pm):
😂😂😂😂😂
very funny
when you get in?
maybe we celebrate? 😏

Me (yesterday, 11:50pm):
We're just getting to the airport. 
I don't think we'll be in Boston until 2am.

Me (yesterday, 11:53pm):
And I didn't get a curfew exemption. 
So you're free to go out and celebrate.

Lily (yesterday, 11:54pm):
😭😭
but is more fun if u are there

Me (yesterday, 11:55pm):
You realise I would not be going out with you anyway? It's the day before a game.

Lily (yesterday, 11:58pm):
i see how it is
u want me to go out alone so u have easier time beating me
tststs

Me (today, 12:05am):
...

Lily (today, 12:06am):
fine
then i sleep in cold, empty bed ((((
but tmrw? u have practise?

Me (today, 12:10am):
We have skate planned until noon. I'm free until my pre-game nap.

Lily (today, 12:12am):
u can nap with me 😊
and lunch w me. sveta is coming too
since u wanted to meet
when we could be having sex

Shane looks at those messages – the joking invitation to nap with Ilya, the probably-not-joking invitation to lunch, the reminder that they could also be having sex instead of meeting each other’s best friends if they weren’t pretending to be married – and tries to figure out what to reply all the way to his seat on the charter plane.

I’ll see you tomorrow, he finally types out. Neutral. To the point. Then, he turns on flight mode and puts in his headphones and closes his eyes. At least the flight to Boston is a short one – a little under one and a half hours – and then it’s another half hour or so until they’ll be in their hotel rooms. And then, finally, blessed – solitary – sleep.

Shane smiles, and settles in for the flight.

Shane knows, objectively, that Svetlana is a very attractive woman. He’s seen her before, he thinks, in photographs with Ilya that he absolutely did not google; she’s dark-skinned and slender, a head shorter than him and Ilya, with gorgeous curls she’s left untamed and a grin that’s absolutely infectious as she greets him. He’s spent enough time around teenage boys and barely-more-mature adult teammates to identify the signs, even if J.J. and the others are always quick to make fun of Shane’s respectful gaze. (Why that’s something to ridicule, Shane will always refuse to understand.)

She accosts him the moment he’s stepped through the door to Ilya’s condo. She’s grinning, and when she pulls him into a half-hug, it somehow isn’t awkward despite the fact that they don’t actually know each other. It does not escape Shane that she’s wearing a Boston Raiders sweater that’s so large on her it has to be an original.

“Shane! Hi! I’m Svetlana; it is so nice to finally properly meet you – I still cannot believe that Ilyusha managed to snag you – don’t get me wrong, I love him, but those two goals you snagged last night? I wish I’d seen them live! Nearly a hat-trick, if not for that absolutely bullshit off-side call…” She shakes her head, like the ref could see her disapproval. To be fair, it really was a bullshit call, and did nothing to improve Shane’s mood. It would have meant the win for them, is the thing, instead of losing the game in OT. Still, the onslaught of words is a lot to take in.

From deeper into the flat, Ilya calls, “Sveta! Are you terrorising my fiancé?”

Svetlana laughs and steps back as she replies – in Russian, which… means that Ilya wanted Shane to understand what he was calling him. At least it gives Shane a chance to take off his jacket and toque and shoes, which he lines up neatly next to Ilya’s haphazard pile. It’s easier than trying to puzzle out what it does to him to hear Ilya refer to him as his fiancé in front of someone who does not know the entire truth.

“No, seriously,” Svetlana says as she pulls him deeper into the flat, making her way with a self-assurance that makes Shane all the more aware that he’s never been in this space, even though he and Ilya have been hooking up for close to three years by now, “I can’t claim I’ve heard a lot about ‘Jane’, because Ilyusha is a govnyuk who hates me and hasn’t actually shared anything with me, but… I have eyes,” she adds conspiratorially. “He is whipped.”

“Sveta!” Ilya exclaims again, spatula theatrically clasped to his chest and eyes and mouth wide in dismay. “Slander!”

Svetlana laughs and swings herself up on one of the bar stools across the kitchen aisle from Ilya in what looks like a well-practised motion. “It’s not! It’s the truth! For god’s sake, this can’t be news to him – you’re getting married, Ilyusha, married!” She sounds delighted by it, and a little disbelieving. “You ditched me and all your wiley little ways for him, he’s gotta be aware you’re whipped!”

Ilya lets his eyes widen and knees buckle, throwing his head back as he sinks to the floor in slow motion like he’s been shot. It makes Svetlana laugh even harder, which is very fortunate – because this is about the time that Shane realises he does not get Ilya Rozanov in the slightest.

Svetlana is amazing, and Ilya is friends with her – they are comfortable together in a way that makes Shane’s chest hurt – and she’s gorgeous, and female, and clearly knows her hockey. Shane doesn’t know her well enough to comfortably call her perfect, but he certainly knows Ilya well enough that from this glimpse, he’s pretty certain she’d be perfect for him, or at least pretty darn close to it.

Why the fuck would Ilya not marry her?

The thought alone makes nausea well up inside Shane; he’s never been a fan of thinking other people’s sex lives, and what Ilya gets up to alone is no exception to that.

Shane swallows, and then manages in a pretty normal tone of voice – “Uh, sorry to interrupt, but – where can I wash my hands real quick?”

“Oh!” Ilya, who’s back on his feet by then, drops the spatula in the pan and points at Svetlana. “Sveta! You are in charge of pancakes – don’t let them burn, they do that easy because they are rich in protein or something; we are right back.”

Svetlana snorts. “Don’t take too long, lover boys – but yeah, I guess I can’t keep you from saying hello.” She winks.

“I really did want to wash my hands,” Shane says lowly as he follows Ilya out of the open kitchen-and-living room. It’s all decorated in muted, tasteful greys, which feels cosy and nice without tipping into depressing, and clearly big enough to host a team. If it wasn’t for Fuhrmann, Shane is pretty sure Ilya would already have been offered the C.

“I know, baby,” Ilya says. The endearment rolls of his tongue naturally, but it lodges itself in Shane’s brain and makes something heavy well up inside him, something that’s been lying in wait ever since Ilya ushered him out of the kitchen without a second glance for Svetlana. “But I want to say hello to you without nosy friend around.”

He stops Shane and looks at him, his eyes grey in the light and uncomfortably serious. Shane drops his own gaze.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Why wouldn’t he be? “Feeling the season right now.”

Ilya laughs and leans in, slotting their lips together while he’s still smiling. Shane can’t help but smile into the kiss, too, and it’s objectively bad but still so damned good to kiss Ilya without the urgency of impending sex. It takes them a moment, but they both get their expressions under control, and then it’s a great kiss, slow and deep without leading anywhere further.

After an interminable moment, Ilya pulls back. His gaze is so soft Shane wants to wrap himself up in it and never leave. “Hi,” Ilya says.

“Hi.”

Ilya grins and presses another kiss to his lip. “Why not come over and do that immediately?”

Shane pulls a face before he can catch himself. “With an audience?”

Ilya chuckles and kisses him again. “She knows me,” he says, like Shandy isn’t very much aware of that. “Probably she is dying that I take you out here. I think had a liiiiittle bit of a crush on you. Unresistable Canadian.”

Shane rolls his eyes, because if anyone, it would be Ilya Svetlana would have a crush on, and he doesn’t need Ilya to flatter him. Or try to convince him of a threesome. Should he shut that idea down right now…? No, better to pretend he’s never clocked that part of Ilya’s ploy. “Irresistable,” he corrects Ilya’s word choice. “And I gues… it’s just odd that… that someone knows.”

“Now you know how I feel with Pike. Anyway. I go and make sure Sveta is not burning down kitchen; you go and wash hands through here, and then we have lunch. Is healthy, protein pancakes with green stuff! We will see if it tastes good, I am not convinced.”

Shane smiles. “Eating healthy won’t kill you. It might make you score tonight though.”

“Is other protein I prefer.” Ilya waggles his eyebrows, which means it’s a sex thing, even if it’s a terrible sex thing.

“Go,” Shane says drily.

It’s not until he’s drying off his hands that it occurs him that the banter with Ilya eased that strange tension in his chest.

Hanging out with Ilya and Svetlana is… odd. Shane has a reputation, he knows, for not being the most social of guys, and he gets it. He is slow to warm to people, doesn’t always follow small-talk well, and never quite knows what he should be saying, which often results in him not saying much at all.

None of that is a problem with Svetlana. He doesn’t know if it’s because Ilya is there as a buffer, or if it’s something about Svetlana herself, but there is barely any of the awkwardness he’s so used to.

Or maybe it’s because he can keep his foot hooked around Ilya’s ankle throughout the meal – which is perfectly tasty, no matter what Ilya may complain (“I’d say I didn’t know you could cook like this,” Svetlana backs him up when Shane voices the thought, “except I watched you swear and bailed you out. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.” She winks at Shane, and Shane can’t help but smile back.) – and steal little touches that make his heart lurch in a not-bad way. Svetlana watches on and smiles, sometimes without Shane being able to tell what she is smiling about, and they talk about other teams in the Northeast Division and the playoff chances in the West (“I think Illinois is someone to watch,” Svetlana says, holding her water glass like it’s a cocktail. They’re all on non-alcoholic drinks for the meal; Ilya and Shane drinking Gatorade to refuel and Svetlana sticking to plain water. “I have a good feeling about them.” “She is psychic,” Ilya fake-whispers to Shane, “so if the Indians don’t take Cup I don’t know.” Form his yelp, Svetlana kicks him underneath the table, but she doesn’t actually contradict him).

It’s easy. Right up until Ilya’s phone rings, he swears, and gives them an apologetic look. “Is Boonsy. Rookie. He is scared of Foo but not me so I need to take this.”

“Go be responsible,” Svetlana tells him, “Shane and I will be able to amuse each other.”

Shane gulps audibly, which makes the other two laugh. And then Ilya is gone, disappearing to some other room that Shane hasn’t seen yet as he greets, “Boonsy! Who is dying today?”

“And he tries to pretend he doesn’t fucking care,” Svetlana murmurs, as much to herself as to Shane.

Shane snorts. “I’m surprised it’s not more obvious.” If anyone can relate, it has to be Svetlana.

“Oh, not everyone has a front row seat to his softest parts like you do. He is a good actor, as long as no one asks him to lie about – or to, it seems – you.”

Shane ducks his head, unsure what to say to that.

Svetlana doesn’t appear to expect an answer. “You are jealous,” she says.

Shane frowns and shakes his head. “I – why would I be? I’m not. There’s no reason.”

Svetlana laughs in a way that Shane thinks means she doesn’t believe him. “There really isn’t. I’ve known Ilyusha for a long time, and ever since Jane entered the picture, I knew he held a special place in Ilya’s heart. And – now that I’ve met you, I’m really not surprised.”

“I’m not –”

The corners of her mouth twitch. “Don’t bullshit me,” she says simply. “You don’t need to spare my feelings – Ilyusha is a dear friend; maybe my dearest, and I would go through hell for him. But I will not be heartbroken that he’s finally admitted that you’re it for him. Do not hurt him, okay?”

The truth – that he isn’t it for Ilya except in the sense that he’s Ilya’s way to get out of the obligations his Russian club claims he still has, that they haven’t been something for however long Ilya told her they’ve been – sits heavy on Shane’s tongue. But it’s not his secret to spill. Svetlana is not his confidante.

He makes himself meet her eyes. “I’ll do my best. Unless it’s game-related.”

Svetlana gives a startled, delighted laugh. “Oh, you really are a match for him. I know you wouldn’t let this impede your play on the ice – you’ve both gotten too far for that. I’m aware. But – I don’t have to tell you that, but… humour me. Because he’s still my Ilyusha, and I promised myself I’d protect himself after – when puberty hit. And… he may act all tough and in charge and like an asshole, but – it’s an act.”

“I know,” Shane says, even though he suddenly feels like he maybe knows half of that.

“He’s soft. So – don’t… no, let me try this again. Be a place where he can be soft. Which I think… you already are. But yeah. Pay attention to him, okay? And rest assured that I will look after him while he’s in Boston.”

Whatever shows on Shane’s face makes her smile again and lean closer, rubbing his shoulder in comfort. “No, not like that – he has made it very clear that he’s a kept man, and having seen you two, I definitely do not want to come between that.” She winks, which makes Shane drop his gaze again. “So, yeah. You didn’t ask for my blessing, but you’re getting it anyway, Shane.” She pauses for a moment, and then tacks on, “I’m glad that he’s found you. Gladder still that he’s admitted that there’s something worth holding onto. With how he is… I was prepared to watch him torture himself for years. Three isn’t so bad, really. And I bet you aren’t actually any better. So really – this is a miracle.”

It’s a lie, Shane wants to tell her, because it is, and he doesn’t know what she’s seeing – doesn’t know what signs she’s misinterpreting, or if she’s just overestimating how well she knows Ilya, because – because yeah, they’ve been hooking up since their rookie year. But it’s been just that: hooking up. Nothing special.

Except that having had Ilya around like… like a partner, even just for these short few days before the start of the season and whatever stolen hours they can get in this season… it’s shown Shane what it could be. What they could have. If Ilya wasn’t Ilya: a womaniser, a horribly charming little shit, an unattainable rival player.

“For what it’s worth,” he finally says when he trusts his voice again – both to be steady and not say anything that isn’t his to share, “I also didn’t expect this. But… despite everything else, I… I am very glad to have him.”

“Oh Shane,” Svetlana says, her gaze almost unbearably soft, and Shane feels splayed open and like the worst liar and strangely light, at having shared this tiny bit that is his to share. That he can’t share with Ilya, because it would lead to questions he can’t answer, problems he doesn’t have solutions for.

Shane shrugs, though he is saved from having to say anything else but the familiar tread of Ilya’s steps as he returns.

“He cannot find his lucky sock! And that is why he calls me! Over socks! Rookies.”

“Well, they could always ask you to host one, you know?”

Ilya gives Svetlana a shocked look that turns wounded. It seems like a lot of their relationship – at least with an audience – is making fun of each other. Shane never would have expected it to feel so comfortable. “Me? But I am only baby myself!”

“That’s not how I would describe it,” Shane finds himself saying, his cheeks flushing a moment later when Ilya turns wide, surprised eyes onto him.

“Did you just make sex joke? Sveta, alert press – Shane Hollander just made a sex joke!”

And he would never ordinarily say that, but something about the situation makes Shane add, as deadpan as he knows, “I guess you rubbed off on me.”

Ilya actually cackles, almost hyena-like, as though he’s forgotten how to be a normal person in the face of Shane behaving like that.

Svetlana gives him a look and then smiles at Shane. “I think this is my cue to take my leave. Ilyusha – I’ll see you tomorrow. Shane, it was lovely meeting you, and I hope I’ll see you soon, and – please do not kill each other on the ice tonight. I’ll be watching. Bye!”

It’s almost comical, how she packs it all into one quick breath, waving instead of hugging either of them. She winks, waggles her eyebrows, and then ducks out of living room.

“Uh, it was also very nice meeting you, I hope you’ll enjoy the game!” Shane calls after her, a beat to late. Her laughter is the only response, followed by the thud of the door.

“Welll,” Ilya drawls and reels Shane in. His hands are hot even through the fabric of Shane’s t-shirt, but instead of kissing Shane, he leans in to boop their noses together. Shane smiles despite himself. “What do I do with Shane Hollander all to myself now? Unless – she did not scare you away while I was busy with rookie?”

Shane smiles and tilts his head so he can sneak a chaste kiss from Ilya. “I’m not sure she could scare me away.”

“Well, she could tell you about – uh, actually. There is couch very close, and bed not that far. Do you want tour of the place?”

“Very smooth change of topic,” Shane says and steals another kiss. This one lingers, and, yeah. Bed actually sounds pretty great. “Just – let me briefly text Hayden that I, uh, won’t be taking my nap in our room.”

Ilya pulls back so he can give Shane a very pointed look. “We are in Boston. Pike know about us. You really think he cannot count two and two?”

Oh. Ilya may have a point. Shane feels his cheeks heat again. “I really do need to nap.”

“But you sleep better after blow job.”

And – well. How is Shane supposed to say no to that?

Chapter End Notes

Hugest of thanks to tumblr user tteukbyeol for their help with the Russian endearment. What does it mean? From the linked post:

говнюк (govnyuk) [gɐvnʲuk] — the closest translation i can think of in english is ‘shithead’. this is my personal favorite, and although this might just be my personality, i find this word to be the easiest one to turn playful/fond. i use it on friends when they’re being…a little naughty, let’s say. lands even better with the collocation ‘ах ты’. i would probably pick this one for svetlana.

Go check out their blog for a few fascinating insights into Russian language!

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

I managed to accrue a delay of 137 minutes because of switch repairs yesterday on my way home from my business trip, forgot to take my ADHD meds this morning, and promptly locked myself out of my flat (so had to run around to grab the spare keys from my friends). So you’re getting this chapter once again before I had a chance to reply to your lovely comments 🙈

Anyway, I hope your past 24h have been better than mine… (and if not, maybe this chapter will cheer you up provide a distraction 💛)

“I’m not sure you want to leave the room like this,” Hayden says, so carefully neutral that it stops Shane in his tracks immediately. He looks down at himself and – oh. Boston Raiders Hockey, his shirt proclaims. It’s not even subtle. Hayden is definitely right, and Shane really has no excuse except that maybe, he’s just a little bit tired. If a little bit tired even covers it at the tail-end of a five game roadtrip.

“Shit.”

“Just wear yesterday’s shirt,” Hayden says, his eyes already back on his phone.

Shane runs his hand through his hair. “That’s also Wednesday’s shirt,” he admits, “and Monday’s, I’m pretty sure.”

“Nobody’s gonna care, Shane.”

Shane deliberates for a moment, but Hayden is right: people will care much less if Shane’s shirt smells a little sweaty during his late-night walk than if it advertises the Raiders, even down here in Florida. Tampa is still a hockey city.

“Or just take your dress shirt.”

“No, we still have two games to go. I cannot show up with a dirty dress shirt for that.”

Hayden snorts, a wordless your own fault.

“I just packed the wrong shirt!”

“I’m sure it was an accident,” Hayden murmurs, so quietly that Shane isn’t entirely sure it was meant for him.

“It was!”

Hayden snorts again, paying Shane no further mind as he swaps the shirt out for the old one.

It’s a dismissal, which means Shane has to swallow his protests down that he isn’t lying. It was an accident. He knows he can’t go walking around in a Raiders shirt. Can’t even wear it in the privacy of their room. Ostensibly, he and Hayden are the only ones with keys; from years of living with hockey players, he knows how easily such a card is… borrowed. Has done it himself, once or twice, just because nobody would expect him to facilitate the typical room pranks, and in the right mood, the ensuing chaos can be entertaining. Not that anyone other than J.J. and Hayden knows.

“I’ll be back in a bit.” He gives Hayden one last look, grabs his zipper hoodie – it’s his own, he checks – and slips out the door.

So, yeah. Rooms are not sacrosanct, so why would he take Ilya’s shirt on purpose? But the season is short, and there’s barely room to breathe, and he has a laundry service but he’s still somehow run out of black shirts, and so he must have grabbed the wrong one when leaving.

None of that would have sounded believable out loud, so despite the words rattling behind his teeth, he swallows them down and hopes his walk will clear his head.

The weather is nice enough; the Tampa night already unseasonably warm for early March, if you ask Shane, but being outside in the sweat jacket is rather comfortable.

There is a park just down the street from their hotel, across the arena, and Shane’s feet take him there without conscious thought. It’s right on the water, and for a minute or two he just stands there and looks over to the buildings on the other side. It would be better if it was dark, like the cottage his parents have up in Quebec, but it’s good enough to stand there and just breathe.

On a whim, he pulls his phone from his pocket and shoots off a text. Do you ever feel like you can barely breathe this season?

The reply comes near instantaneously: is hockey season. A minute passes, and then a second text comes: sometimes i am glad i dont have time to think.

Shane looks at the message, tries to figure out what to reply. His fingers hover over the keys, but all he can think of is Ilya’s voice, shaping those words. He can hear them in his mind, like Ilya was standing next to him. The fact that he isn’t – that he is over a thousand miles up north – feels like a cross-check into the boards: unexpected and painful, enough to drive the air from Shane’s lungs.

Before he can rethink it, he hits Call.

Ilya answers almost immediately. “Jane!”

Oh. This was a mistake.

“I shouldn’t have called,” Shane says, quietly enough that whoever is there with Ilya can’t make out that it’s not a girl’s voice.

Ilya laughs. “Give me second,” he says. His next words are muffled, like he has cupped his hand over the microphone. “I am right back, boys, don’t destroy flat – Spinner, take over my controller and make me proud, yes? Good boy.”

There is some indistinct chatter, and then the shuffle of Ilya moving, followed by the thud of a door. “Now I am here,” Ilya says, softer than he’d been before. “Sorry, I have team over. Rare day off, last stragglers are still here, you know?”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Shane says, and then, before Ilya can reply, he adds, “Do you call all your teammates good boy?”

It’s a blatant change of topic, but Ilya laughs regardless. “Only good ones. Or naughty Canadians.”

“You’re terrible,” Shane says, but even he can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes,” Ilya says smugly, before he sobers. “What is? Something happen?”

“No. I don’t know. Just. Are you alright? That message…” He doesn’t know how to describe the mess in his chest. The message sparked it, sparked this phone call, but he cannot put a word to it.

On the other end, Ilya sighs. Shane braces himself for whatever it is that has Ilya so troubled, but in the end, all Ilya says, “I am just being silly. Is good season, we have good team, is just… lots.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, they are both silent. Shane tongues the inside of his lip, eyes still riveted on the banks. “Have you – have you heard from the KHL?”

Ilya snorts. “You think I would not tell you?”

Shane has no idea whether Ilya would tell him. Probably not, in truth, but before he can figure out a delicate way to say that, Ilya huffs again.

“No. Nothing. I think they… wait. Or maybe they forget about me.”

As if anyone could forget about Ilya. Shane decides to let it slide. “And your agent? Have you thought about switching to a new one?”

“I sign contract with Markov.” That’s a no, Shane is pretty sure.

“You – Ilya, your contract’s up this season, you – is he at least still negotiating your extension? Is he getting you what you’re worth? Christ; what’s the state of your sponsorships? Brand deals?”

“You are not my manager, Hollander,” Ilya says, short and clipped.

“No, but clearly someone has to think about this! If you’re not doing it, someone –”

“Fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya hisses, and then hangs up.

Shane stares at his phone in confusion for a moment. That… is not how this was supposed to go. He hits redial. His call is immediately declined. He dials again. Declines. Again. Declined. Again. Declined. Again –

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ilya still sounds incensed, which is rather unhelpful.

“I’m just trying to help!”

“You are not. Leave me alone, Hollander.”

Hollander. The repeated use of his last name – not flirtatiously, not with the promise of sex – hits Shane then, hard enough that he barely feels the pang of Ilya hanging up on him again.

He redials one last time. Listens to the dial tones. Listens to the ringing. It keeps ringing, right up until the message for Ilya’s mailbox plays: Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.

Shane hangs up without leaving a message and stuffs his phone into his pocket. He stares out at the water, unseeing and numb. All he wants is to call Ilya back and ask him where exactly this went off the rails. Except Ilya doesn’t want to talk to him.

The darkness that had been so calming, so freeing earlier presses in, trapping Shane alone with his helpless thoughts. Fuck. There’s no use staying out here, and so he makes his way back to the hotel with his head ducked and his hands in his pockets.

Hayden takes one look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Your walk didn’t help?”

“Ugh.”

“Woah, sorry for asking.”

It would be so easy to snap at Hayden, too. So easy, and yet utterly unhelpful. “I’ll go take a shower.”

“Maybe wash those storm clouds away, huh?”

Shane doesn’t dignify that with a response, not even the slam of the bathroom door. It’s not Hayden’s fault, after all, that Ilya is an asshole.

They take both games in Florida in regulation and then have a five day stretch with only one game, which feels like unprecedented luxury.

Wiz stops them as they’re disembarking the plane in the wee hours of the morning on Monday in Montreal. The doors are open already, showing glimpses of grey sky and familiar, cold temperatures, which is absolutely what March should feel like. “What a great trip, guys – eight out of ten possible points is what we like to see, and you heard Coach: we’ve all earned a day of rest, and then I expect to see y’all at my place tomorrow for meal-plan approved burgers and really healthy fries, okay?”

There’s tired, muted cheers in the plane aisle, which is really all you can expect after an eight day, five game road trip, even if they’ve won all but one game. All Shane wants – and most of the guys, too, he’d wager – is his own bed, and a full night’s sleep therein. But Wiz had announced this before the road trip, and his wife’s cooking is worth sacrificing part of his day off, and Shane has the C. He’ll be there, even if he’d much rather hide in his flat all day.

They file out of the plane and make their way across the tarmac to the private arrivals and customs area with well-worn routine. The only thing left to do is check in with every player as they say their goodbyes – fist bumps, words of praise, and small encouragements as applicable – and then he’s finally free.

He checks his phone on the way to his car, but it’s still silent. Two wins – with two very pretty goals from Shane, if he says so himself – and yet still no new messages from Ilya.

Shane has the sinking feeling that maybe, he’s actually messed up.

By the time Wiz’s barbecue rolls around, it’s been four days without a message from Ilya.

Objectively, that’s not even that long – they’ve gone months without texting each other in their rookie season; even last season, the weeks between their match-ups had been entirely silent. But they hadn’t been engaged then.

Shane doesn’t understand it. He’d meant to help – their entry level contracts are up at the end of this season, and while it might make sense for Ilya to wait for the playoffs to drive up the value of his extension, there is no doubt Boston views him as the centre piece of their rebuild. Even with a mediocre agent, he should be getting what he’s worth, and he’s Ilya Rozanov; most excellent agents would be besides themselves to know he’s on the market for a new one.

And yet Ilya seems content to stick his head in the sand and do nothing.

It’s not only that Shane doesn’t understand it, it’s that it hurts him, to have Ilya waste his potential like that. Maybe that’s his mom talking – okay, it’s most definitely his mom talking – but this is one of the most important moments of Ilya’s career in terms of financial and quality of life negotiations for the next seven or eight years. And Ilya doesn’t seem to care.

It makes Shane tab out of the chat marked Lily every time he thinks he’ll just reach out first. It’s not like he was wrong. Ilya was just… being childish, really, and so it’s up to him to make amends. (Shane doesn’t understand why the thought feels so hollow, either.)

“Who pissed in your cereal, oh Captain, my Captain?” Marns, their right winger on the second line, asks Shane in lieu of a greeting when he steps through Wiz’s front door. Still, he pulls Shane into a one-armed hug, slapping his back and knocking his temple against Shane’s in a gentle echo of their pre-game ritual.

“Feeling the long season,” Shane replies, which is true enough.

Marns slings his arm around Shane’s shoulders and messes up his hair with his other hand. The thing about getting the C at the tender age of 20 that nobody tells you about is that people often don’t take you quite that seriously off the ice, as Shane has had to learn. “I didn’t realise you felt such human emotions, Cap.”

“Don’t antagonise our Hockeybot 4000,” Arny – Sean Arnold, sometimes nicknamed Terminator – admonishes from the doorway, two bottles of beer in his hand. Shane moves his lips in what he hopes is a smile. It must work, or at least Arny cracks up as he opens one bottle on the other. He’s still laughing as he disappears into the kitchen, only to return shortly after with a second open bottle. “Sorry, Cap, please don’t use your death glare to kill me.”

“Ha ha,” Shane says as he ducks out from Marns’s arm – right into Arny’s. Arny is a good enforcer, really; tall and strong, with a few missing teeth and a crooked nose he’d gotten broken once too often. That also means he knows how to block someone’s path.

“Here, to lighten up.” He passes the second bottle to Shane, and only then frees up the way to Wiz’s backyard.

Jesus.

That will be one long-ass afternoon, won’t it?

Me (March 8, 9:18pm):
Do you ever feel like you can barely breathe this season?

Lily (March 8, 9:18pm):
is hockey season
sometimes i am glad i dont have time to think

Me (today, 5:35pm):
Good luck tonight.

“You’re drinking.”

“Way to state the obvious.” Shane drops his head against the back of Wiz’s couch, looking up at the host. He’s being a shitty Captain, he knows, what with everyone milling around Wiz’s house while Shane has holed up in the upstairs den, trying – and failing – not to check his phone every other minute. Still no new texts.

“Too much socialising?” Despite the question, Wiz drops down onto the cushions next to Shane, far enough away they’re not touching, but close enough that it’s not awkward. Shane almost wishes they were in their gear, ahead of a game; at least then, he’d get the headbumps, the taps of sticks and gloves on his body. Something physical. Something to keep him from floating away.

His fingers clench on the bottle, though the glass is near skin-warm by now.

“Hm?” Wiz asks when Shane doesn’t reply.

Shane blinks. He shrugs.

Wiz studies him for a long moment. “You look tired.”

Shane gives Wiz a dry look, which makes his friend laugh.

“Yeah, okay. Fair. But this… this is more. You don’t have to stay if you’re uncomfortable.”

Itchy embarrassment slinks its way up Shane’s cheeks. He hasn’t had someone try to give him an out from a social situation since halfway through his rookie season, when he’d realised that Hayden was both an excellent shield and a way to recharge his battery on the fly, so to speak. “I’m not.” It would be easier if Hayden was here, but Jackie hadn’t been feeling good, so he bowed out short-notice to stay with her. “Just – was texting someone.”

“Oh. Girl trouble?”

Shane can’t help but laugh. “No.” It sounds like a lie even to his own ears. His fingernail slips under the label on the bottle, peeling the damp paper away.

“Aw, shit man,” Wiz says, full of genuine sympathy. It shows on his face, too, when Shane glances over, which is far from the mockery Shane had been braced for.

He shrugs. “I still shouldn’t be hiding up here.” Not when his phone has been silent all afternoon.

“Take all the time you need.” Wiz knocks his shoulder into Shane’s. “I’ll make your excuses downstairs, if you wanna –”

“No need.” Shane drains his bottle and then stands, pleased when the world remains steady. It’s only his second bottle of the afternoon, but considering he doesn’t drink at all, usually, it’s still a relief to find himself mostly unaffected. “Doesn’t do me any good to be up here and mope.”

“Now that’s true,” Wiz says as he rises, too. “And, hey – if there’s anything you wanna talk about – anything at all – you know you can always come to me, right?”

“You’re a good A,” Shane says, because it’s the most genuine thing he can come up with except for, hell no, you certainly don’t want to hear this.

Wiz chuckles. “I’m not doing this because I have the A. I’m doing this because you’re my friend.”

Shane looks at him. At the laugh lines around his eyes that are just coming in, the five o’clock stubble, the easy smile. “You’re a good friend,” he amends, and Wiz smiles in that way that crinkles said laugh lines and makes him look like a mischievous school boy. Wiz really is a good friend; it’s just Shane who’s bad at this, at keeping in touch with others outside of team functions and the rink.

“I’m glad for it. And now c’mon, before it’s too late – I don’t think people will stay long today.”

“I think we all long for our own beds.”

“Yeah, and none of you will have to clean your house before you can conk out.”

Shane rolls his eyes, because their third line is decent and a little co-dependent and will probably stay to help Wiz tidy up as usual. “How terrible, almost as if you’d picked this.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have done anything for the team spirit?” Wiz asks as he ushers Shane back down the stairs.

“Your words, not mine.”

Wiz laughs, and gently shoves Shane in the direction of Lenny, who looks twice as tired as Shane feels. “Go entertain our rookie, and then you can go to bed like the old men you two are.”

“We aren’t old,” Lenny protests, and then promptly yawns which jumps over to Shane. Wiz gives them a meaningful look, and then turns away just a tad too slow to hide his own answering yawn.

Yeah. They’re all pretty beat, and Shane wouldn’t be surprised if this winds down before the games start tonight. Which would be just as well – he doesn’t think he has the wherewithal to watch Ilya play tonight. Not when his phone remains stubbornly silent in his pocket.

North Gems

[Jackie has added Lily, Hayden, Me]

[Lily has changed the group name to Northern Gems]

Lily (February 6, 8:42pm):
is good name like this yes?
because Ruby and Jade?

Jackie Pike (February 6, 8:44pm):
😂😂
Your visit has certainly worn them out.
[picture attached: Ruby and Jade swaddled in blankets, their faces obscured]

Lily (February 6, 8:45pm):
thank you for having us! was very nice even if it is Pike
[😂 reacted by Jackie]

 

Jackie Pike (February 9, 12:12pm):
Should we buy their first skates??
[picture album: A set of pictures of Ruby and Jade, all bundled up in snow gear that makes them look like tiny orbs; their cheeks are pink but the infants are smiling.]

Lily (February 9, 12:13pm):
omg!!!!
🥰🥰🥰🥰
they are adorable
i sponsor first set yes?

Hayden Pike (February 9, 12:14pm):
... I'm warning you 😐
[❤️ reacted by Lily]

Me (February 9, 2:17pm):
Pretty sure that honour should be mine.

Lily (February 9, 2:18pm):
'honor'
*honour
so canadian of you my phone just refuse 😂

Me (February 9, 2:29pm):
You should just give up, you're definitely outnumbered in here.

Hayden Pike (February 9, 2:33pm):
[picture attached: a close-up of fridge magnets spelling 'honour' in what is clearly the Pike's kitchen]

Lily (February 9, 2:35pm):
omg is that best you can do 😂😂
as usual 😂😂😂😂
shouldnt u prepare for game so maybe you arent same on ice?

Hayden Pike (February 9, 2:36pm):
Fuck you
[❤️ reacted by Lily]

[Hayden has left the chat]

Jackie Pike (February 9, 2:37pm):
And we'd been doing so well...

[Jackie has added Hayden]

Jackie Pike (February 9, 2:40pm):
Behave, both of you
Or do you want to make me sad?

Lily (February 9, 2:45pm):
I am so sorry Lady Jackie

Me (February 9, 5:18pm):
I think I need to apologise. For both of them.
[❤️ reacted by Jackie]
[😐 reacted by Hayden]
[😘 reacted by Lily]

 

Jackie Pike (March 1, 3:16pm):
Omg I'm sorry I went so quiet here! it was a busy few weeks but OMG
[this message has been deleted]
YOU MADMAN
[picture attached: two pairs of infant-sized crocheted socks, made to look like skates with laces and crocheted blades]
[picture attached: a picture of Ruby and Jade in the double-stroller, the crocheted skate socks on their feet]

Lily (March 1, 3:19pm):
😊😊

Jackie Pike (March 1, 3:20pm):
A shit I wasn't meant to use your name
Should I edit?

Lily (March 1, 3:20pm):
my friend sveta made them
she tried to teach me croche but she said i should stick with hockey 😂😂
[replying to Should I edit?] nah i get rid of telling messages
we both do

Me (March 1, 3:24pm):
You should probably, too.
[👍 reacted by Jackie, Hayden]

Jackie Pike (March 1, 3:25pm):
Anyway THANK YOU SO MUCH
These are SO COOL ❤️❤️❤️
Wish I could come on the next trip...
[❤️ reacted by Lily]

Hayden Pike (March 1, 3:27pm):
Sveta already seems cooler than you...
[❤️ reacted by Lily]

[Hayden has left the chat]

[Jackie has added Hayden]

 

Jackie Pike (March 17, 9:15am):
We were using our commercial breaks wisely last night 😊😊
[picture attached: Jackie with one twin in each arm, watching the game. The twins and Jackie are all wearing Montreal gear, but the TV shows Ilya in the middle of a celly, the banner at the top proclaiming a Boston goal from Ilya with an assist from Marleau.]

Lily (March 17, 9:16am):
only break?? 😭😭😭

Jackie Pike (March 17, 9:17am):
I'd say we caught the important bits 😅
Congrats, btw
[❤️ reacted by Lily]

Me (March 8, 9:18pm):
Do you ever feel like you can barely breathe this season?

Lily (March 8, 9:18pm):
is hockey season
sometimes i am glad i dont have time to think

 

Me (March 12, 5:35pm):
Good luck tonight.

 

Me (today, 1:27pm):
Are you still mad?

Lily (today, 1:41pm):
never in my live have i been mad
no
wait
this is lie
i am mad skilled
mad talented
is that not how you say?
mad pretty))

Me (today, 1:45pm):
Do you mean mad handsome?

Lily (today, 1:47pm):
that to
*too

 

Me (today, 6:17pm):
Good luck tonight.
[❤️ reacted by Lily]

 

Me (today, 8:12pm):
I'm sorry for coming on too strong during the call. I wanted to help, not make you mad. Call me if you want to.

 

Me (today, 10:23pm):
Oof. That was a tough one, but a beautiful goal.
The offer to call still stands.

Shane’s phone stays stubbornly quiet until long after the Raiders’ game ends, a tight 2-1 loss against Pittsburgh. In a way, it’s no surprise that when his phone finally dings, it’s only a text. i am not good company, Ilya writes. That should not be a surprise either. It’s never fun to lose the first game of a road trip, and the Raiders are probably flying on to Winnipeg tonight to have the next day to practice. It’s four games in six days, so it might well be their only day to take the ice, even if it’s just for a brief session.

A second message arrives while Shane is still puzzling over what to reply: if you mention agent again i will end engagement.

It seems counterproductive to Shane, really, when Ilya’s agent seems to be part of the overall issue, when the engagement is the solution they’ve come up with. He has to be kidding. But Shane is not willing to test Ilya. Not on this. Not when Ilya’s career is already up in the air at the moment.

He sighs.

Me (today, 12:14am):
I didn’t expect the marital trouble to start this early.

Lily (today, 12:14am):
😂😂😂
have u met me??

Me (today, 12:16am):
Unfortunately, I have.

Lily (today, 12:17am):
😂😂😂
thank u for making me laugh tonight 😘

Me (today, 12:19am):
Anytime.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

This is now a series?! Yes! I have a handful of drabbles incoming for this series, which I will be posting for smubbles, an all-fandom, no-rules-just-fun event that runs every couple of months. Check it out if it sounds like something you’d enjoy!

And now, without further ado – the next chapter.

“So,” Hayden says into a lull in their conversation about lines and team chemistry and what they’ll need tomorrow evening to avoid being shut out again, like they had been tonight. Around them, the engines of the plane drone on at a volume that turns most conversations on the plane private. Not that there’s a lot of energy on the plane tonight; the mood is subdued, both because the game was tight with neither team getting many chances only to end with a 1-0 loss that stings, and because the season is wearing on all of them. None of them will ever complain about a normal season quite the same way, after this.

Shane closes the game tape the coaching staff had set them up with and looks at Hayden. He could keep pretending to watch, but he’s too tired, and there’s no escaping Hayden when he uses that tone of voice anyway. “Hm?”

“You realise that both the staff and the team know about your Boston girl.”

Shane grimaces. “I do not have a Boston girl.”

Hayden rolls his eyes. I know, Shane imagines him saying, or maybe well, you have Boston someone. “I’m just saying. They’d probably give you an exemption if you asked.”

Shane rears back. “Didn’t we just talk about that? Tonight was bad enough, I can’t just ditch –”

“You wouldn’t be ditching us.” Hayden twists around so they’re properly face-to-face in the plush chairs of the charter aircraft. His stare is so intense that Shane can only hold it for a moment before he drops his eyes to the smudged surface of the tablet in front of them. “Shouldn’t you be in top form for tomorrow night? And taking the exemption tonight will make sure you are.” When Shane glances at Hayden, he only barely looks like he’s bitten into a lemon to be saying that.

“I didn’t expect you to advocate for that.”

Hayden drops back into his seat properly. The sudden absence of his direct attention feels both light and strangely empty. “Why? Did you expect me to be… an asshole about this?”

Shane sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, unsure what to say. Unsure what he did expect. Finally, he shrugs. “Shouldn’t the team come first?”

“Shane,” Hayden starts. His hand lands on Shane’s thigh, a grounding weight. “I’m your friend. Your best friend. I… maybe I don’t say it often enough, but I’d be lost without you. And I’m so fucking glad you trusted me with this. I might not have understood right away, but – I’m not blind. And I know you. So does Jackie. And she’d agree with me – you should go see… y’know tonight. Ask for the exemption for both nights, use the two nights to just be. God knows you don’t relax enough during a normal season, much less this insanity.” Hayden runs the hand not on Shane’s thigh over his face, his snort barely audible over the surrounding noise. “Fuck me, if you’d told me last season I’d tell you to do this, I would have asked for a concussion check. But – you deserve a night off, Shane.”

The message from Ilya that had arrived while they’d still been on the tarmac burns in his pocket: come by tonite?

“I’m Captain. I can’t just take a night off.”

“Why not?”

“I have a duty to the team. Have to show up, especially after a night like this.”

“As if you taking the exemption in Boston won’t do far more for team bonding than anything you could do in person,” Hayden points out, like the asshole he is. He even rounds it off with a wink.

Shane gives him a look that says enough.

Hayden sighs again. “Take the exemption.”

Surrounded by their tired teammates, the hum of the engines, the distant lights of civilisation beneath them, Shane can’t come up with a reason to refuse again, except more hollow stubbornness. He may not be the best at recognising it, but when he does, he can accept defeat. Sometimes.

Hayden finally lets go of Shane’s thigh to busy himself with his own phone. The loss of contact unmoors Shane even more, so he sighs and fishes for his phone in his pocket.

Won’t you already be asleep?, he texts Ilya.

The reply comes less than a minute later, just an eight-digit string of numbers, followed by is for front door. And then: doorman knows you come & will let u up. Shane stares at the message, heart beating to his throat. It’s no different to last time, where the security for Ilya’s building also had only waved him through, the elevator to Ilya’s floor already called. His visit hadn’t leaked then, either. But it’s different without Svetlana as an alibi there. Different to be arriving in the middle of the night.

He swallows. Stares at the message for another moment. Closes out of the app. He has to consciously relax his jaw when he becomes aware of how tight the muscles feel.

Shane pokes Hayden in the shoulder. “Let’s just go over the footage Lex sent us.” He slips his phone back into his pocket and wakes his iPad.

Hayden follows suit and leans in close so they can both see. “Do you have that turnover in the second? We should really look at that.”

They settle in and get down to business, to make the most of what’s left of the two-hour flight from Pittsburgh to Boston. And when Shane hangs back as they all deplane to catch a quick word with the coaching staff, Hayden only smiles and doesn’t call attention to it.

Ilya’s condo is silent when Shane lets himself inside with the provided code. He takes off his shoes, hangs up his coat and suit jacket, and then quietly makes his way to Ilya’s bedroom.

It feels odd to be here in the middle of the night, even though Ilya left on one of the decorative lamps, which illuminates Shane’s path softly. His bedroom door is ajar, and so it’s easy to noiselessly slip into the room. It’s fully dark, the fancy blinds shut tightly.

For a moment, Shane keeps the door open so he can study Ilya’s profile. His face is washed out in the dim light from the hallway, casting his features into sharp relief: the dips of his eye sockets, his sharp cheekbones, the riotous curls. The dark mole on his cheek stands out like paint on canvas, even as Shane’s eyes drift down to Ilya’s mouth, slack in sleep. He looks peaceful like this, younger than he does when he’s awake, far younger than when they’re on the ice facing off against each.

Still, Shane misses the smirk that Ilya wears so easily when he’s awake.

Shane undresses quickly and silently with what little light spills through the cracked door, placing his folded clothes on Ilya’s dresser, and then climbs into bed on the free side. Ilya rolls over before he has fully settled under the covers.

“Shane?” His voice is rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs, letting himself be pulled into Ilya’s arms. It’s warm under the covers, a comfortable contrast to the chilly room of Ilya’s bedroom. Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s throat, to the soft skin above his clavicle, and then lets his lips rest there for a moment. “I’m here now; go back to sleep.”

Ilya’s warm sound of agreement rumbles through him, and it’s far easier to close his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep than if he were alone in his hotel room.

Between Shane’s late arrival, their respective morning skates, and the usual game day preparations, there’s barely any time. Still, they make the most of it: sleepy handjobs before they have to get up for breakfast, a lazy make-out session ahead of their joint pre-game nap, and then frantic blowjobs in Ilya’s large walk-in shower with water pressure to rival the most expensive spas Shane has been to. His hand prints are still visible on the glass walls as they’re shaving side-by-side, and all of it makes Shane’s gut squirm in what is probably not a bad way, though Shane isn’t sure, and also doesn’t know who he could ask.

He should know, probably.

“I’d say good luck,” Shane says as he’s waiting for his taxi, so he can at least pretend to have taken his nap in his room and avoid another bout of ribbing, “but I don’t think it’ll help you.”

Ilya squawks and presses Shane against the wall besides the door, mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from Shane’s. “Is you who need luck.” Ilya presses a kiss to his lips. “Too bad you play us tonight.”

“You wish.”

For a moment they just look at each other. There should be words, maybe, or kisses. Instead they stand close and breathe together, right there in the entryway of Ilya’s flat, hours from facing off against each other.

In his pocket, Shane’s phone vibrates. “I should go,” he says, and makes no move to break out of Ilya’s hold.

“Yes,” Ilya says, and makes no move to let Shane go.

Shane leans in to kiss him again, slow and lingering. Ilya cups his chin and kisses him back just as thoroughly, until Shane’s phone vibrates again. Yeah, his taxi is here.

“See you later?”

“Maybe,” Shane says, like they don’t both know that he won’t be able to stay away. “I’ll have to leave early to get back to the hotel.”

“Boo.” Ilya kisses him again, and then finally steps back so Shane can get to the door. Shane misses the contact immediately.

“So, uh. See you on the ice?”

“See you tonight,” Ilya agrees, and then practically shoves Shane out the door before his cab leaves without him.

“So, Captain,” Brinks says as he drops into the seat next to Shane on the way home, “didn’t expect you to rub your luck into our faces, of all people.”

Shane looks over at the seat Hayden had occupied until a couple of minutes ago. He already misses his friend. “You got two assists last night; I’m not sure you’re one to talk about luck.” It had been a high scoring game, sending them into overtime and then the shootout tied at five goals apiece, before the Metros had finally bagged the win.

“Ts.” Brinks waves him off. “Don’t think we didn’t notice you slipping away from that bar pretty early last night. Or missing team breakfast.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed the ribbing,” Shane says drily. It would have been hard not to, considering it’s pretty much all anyone’s said to him that morning.

“So, yeah. Making us jealous? That you have your Boston girl?”

“I don’t. Have a Boston girl, I mean.”

Brinks just laughs. “One of these days, you’ll admit to what everyone knows.”

“Also, aren’t we literally on our way home where you’ll have several days with… Jessica?” Shane is proud of himself that he remembers Brinks’s girl’s name; he makes a point of knowing these things about his teammates, but Brinks has a rather higher turnover than many of the older players.

“Nah,” Brinks says, even though they very much are on their way home. “Jess and me broke up before the roadtrip.” He doesn’t sound too heartbroken about it.

Shane blinks at him, unsure what his point is. “Sorry to hear that.” He pats Brinks’s shoulder, only a little awkwardly.

Brinks waves him off. “Anyway. Is Boston girl travelling with the team next week? Because she really should stop by and say hi; we’d love to meet her.”

For a long, tired moment, Shane imagines Ilya waiting with the other WAGs at the home team exit, sticking out like a sore thumb but letting Shane sweep him into an embrace and a kiss anyway. The mere thought is ridiculous. “There is no Boston girl.”

A sigh like a hurricane tears out of Brinks. “So you’ll be coming out with us after the game?” He gives Shane a challenging look that Shane meets head on.

“My parents will be in town,” he says mildly. “I think my mom wanted to go over sponsorships with me.”

“After the game?” Brinks gives him an incredulous look. “Man, I knew she was scary, but cruel?”

“Watch yourself.” Shane’s voice is still mild, but he tilts his head in the way that makes him look just a little scary, Hayden had told him. In truth, his parents would probably not mind if he ditched them, but then they’d probably want to see him before the game, and, well. He has other plans then, is all.

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, message received, you won’t be coming out with us.”

“I’m surprised you’re planning this far ahead.” They still have over a week until their final game of the season against the Raiders, and usually, this sort of plan doesn’t happen until the night of.

“Well, if we’d wanted to take your girl with us, we might’ve had to make reservations.”

“I don’t have a girl,” Shane repeats, like a broken record.

Like a similarly broken record, Brinks laughs and waves him off, and then finally, blessedly takes out his iPad and headphones to immerse himself in tape.

The season races on at break-neck speed, which means Shane doesn’t manage to catch a full Raiders game live in the lead-up to their final match of the season. He does, however, religiously watch the highlights, which don’t exactly put him at ease.

While the Raiders take three of the four games between hosting the Metros and travelling to Montreal, the games are tight, low-scoring affairs for the most part. It’s not only on Ilya – the Raiders shine more through solid defence and exceptional goal-tending from Kian Oregan, which keep the floundering offence from impacting the Raiders’ off season dreams, to quote one particularly unimpressed think piece – but Ilya in particular is notably absent on the ice. His contributions are a lone assist in four games, which is a career-low for him, and even with two shutouts from Oregan, his plus-minus suffers.

All of which is to say that Shane is worried well before Ilya stumbles through his front door and more or less collapses into Shane’s arms.

“Hey,” Shane says quietly, squeezing Ilya as tightly as he can with little regard for the large bruise blooming on his left side where a Philly player had checked him into the boards, hard, a couple of nights ago.

Ilya exhales, clinging to Shane for a moment before righting himself. He steps back, shrugs out of his coat and toes off his shoes haphazardly, and then throws himself into Shane’s arms again.

Shane swallows past the thing clawing up his throat. “What happened? Hey, Ilya – talk to me.”

In his arms, Ilya shakes his head. “Can’t.”

“Okay,” Shane says, even though it’s not. What has happened? Ilya had been just as tight-lipped over text, brushing Shane’s questions off there, too. Should he have asked with more insistence? He doesn’t know, feels helplessly out of his depth. But, well. It won’t do either of them any good to be standing here, next to the door, when there’s a perfectly serviceable couch only a few steps away.

Ilya is quiet and malleable as Shane steers them further into the flat, easily letting himself be pressed into the couch. Shane climbs into his lap without hesitation, hoping that being caged in will help with whatever state Ilya is in.

Either way, Ilya wraps his arms around Shane immediately and rests his forehead against Shane’s sternum. For several breaths, they stay like that. It gives Shane enough time to wrangle his whirling thoughts and the cold worry in his chest into compliance.

“Is your family alright?” he finally asks. He doesn’t think it’s the team; that would have yielded quite different headlines.

Ilya snorts derisively. “When are they ever.” He huffs again, but before Shane can ask any follow-up questions, he sighs. “Is not them. Or Sveta. She sends love, say she is only rooting for me because I know where she lives.”

Shane slides his fingers into Ilya’s hair, cupping Ilya’s head closer to him. The curls are soft on his skin, almost clinging with every movement. Like Ilya’s hair wants to keep him close just like the man himself. Shane hides his smile in those same curls.

“No, is… is agent.”

Oh. Shane racks his brain, but he hasn’t read any headlines about that, either. So, it’s probably neither that Ilya has changed agents, nor that something has happened to his agent. Which might just be a shame.

Ilya sighs again. “I get e-mail. Management reached out to him, because… because he didn’t.”

Shit.

“And he tell me… well. He wants more money to… to… to make contract with Raiders.”

“Negotiate,” Shane supplies softly, “Negotiate the contract.” It’s the only thing he can say while he’s still grappling with the implications.

“Yeah. Tell me he has great contract neguh– er, made with KHL. No marriage, no… no punishment for playing here. Full amnesty for past transgressions. He even give me phrase in English. Just…” Ilya trails off, his hold on Shane tightening.

“Shit,” Shane murmurs.

“Yes. Yes, is very shit.” Ilya laughs, but it sounds weak. A little wet, around the edges, though when Shane tugs at Ilya’s curls to get him to tilt his head back, his eyes are dry.

It takes some not-so-comfortable crouching, but Shane still leans down and captures Ilya’s lips with his own. It’s a soft kiss, lips-on-lips; a silent I’m sorry, or maybe an I’m here, or just a distraction, because god knows Ilya could use one right now. Ilya’s lips drop open, though Shane resists the temptation to deepen the kiss. This isn’t about sex. It’s about the here and now, and while Ilya’s hands come up to cup Shane’s head, he doesn’t escalate, either.

When Shane pulls back, his lips are tingling, and Ilya’s pupils are blown-wide.

“I am glad you are here,” Ilya murmurs. “Sorry I… you tell me, a couple of weeks ago. I did not listen. And now… fuck.”

Shane tilts his head in lieu of saying anything. What would he say? I told you so? Ilya already said that, and they both know it, so there’s no point, really. “Did you sign anything new?” he asks instead.

Ilya shakes his head. “I wanted to talk to you about it before… before I do anything.”

The words make something warm surge through Shane’s chest, and he can’t help but kiss Ilya again. Somehow, he still manages to keep it short and sweet. “We’ll figure this out. You have me all evening today, and then tomorrow. Well. Except morning skate, and pre-game, of course.”

Ilya chuckles, rubbing his thumb over Shane’s jaw. “Yes, obvious. And after – you are going out with parents?”

Right. That had been the plan. “I can bow out,” he offers.

Ilya shakes his head again. “No, no. Go out with parents. Be good son. I will survive. Go out with team, yes?”

Shane smiles. “Sounds like a plan,” he agrees, even though he would much rather keep Ilya all to himself. He sighs, resting his head against Ilya’s.

“How long have you kept Markov waiting?”

“Two days,” Ilya says. “He tried calling, I avoid. Only answer calls from sexy Canadians.”

“And desperate rookies.”

“And desperate rookies. Recently, he could not find stick. Which he left at arena and could not remember! Sometimes I worry for him!” Ilya chuckles, though he sobers quickly. “Maybe we lie down?”

It’s an excellent idea, and so with a little manoeuvring, they manage to get themselves horizontal. For once, Shane is on his back with Ilya half on top of him, as best as they can manage on the couch. By mutual if unspoken agreement, they’d deemed the bed too far away to be worth it.

Usually, their positions are reversed, but Shane can easily see why Ilya likes this so much. There’s something calming, really, to have Ilya’s weight press him into the couch, to have his head on Shane’s chest. Maybe it will get too heavy in a bit, but Shane doubts it; doubts he could ever tire of Ilya slotted against him like he fits.

He wraps his arms more tightly around Ilya and tangles their legs, and just lies there.

Just as he thinks Ilya’s already fallen asleep, Ilya shifts a little. “I know him since I am little,” Ilya whispers into the hollow of Shane’s throat. “I never think – I still…” He trails off. There’s half a dozen ways in Shane’s mind that sentence could have ended – I still hoped he would care for me, or I still thought he would honour the contract, or I thought it was a misunderstanding.

Shane hugs him more tightly, burying his nose in Ilya’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya shrugs. “I am tired.”

“If we sleep now, we’ll fuck our sleep schedule.” He means it as a joke, because clearly, Ilya is talking about the entirety of it, but Ilya rubs his nose against Shane’s throat and hums.

“We sleep now and I fuck you later. Sounds like better plan to me.”

“You’re terrible,” Shane says and hides his smile in Ilya’s curls.

“Terrible smart,” Ilya corrects, and then snuggles closer.

And Shane doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but Ilya is warm and heavy and there, and without quite meaning to, he drifts off into dreamless sleep.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

I’m sick, so please have this chapter early 💛 the final chapter will go up tomorrow or the day after, depending on how badly this lays me out :/

Thank you once more for the beautiful responses to the last chapter – I am slowly making my way through with replying, but please know I appreciate every single one and may have been squeeing IRL about them 🙈

Shane wakes to his chest aching, his mouth horribly dry, and something insistently tickling his nose. For half a second, he wonders if he somehow got a mouthful of blanket, but a bleary blink reveals curls. Familiar curls. Ah. They fell asleep on the couch with Ilya still mostly on top of him. That definitely accounts for things. Fuck – hopefully, he didn’t drool into Ilya’s hair; that would be rather awkward.

Shane shifts slightly, unable to stop himself from brushing his lips against Ilya’s temple. It’s cosy, like this, and the urge to just close his eyes again is near overwhelming for a breath. But the ache in his chest is rapidly moving from noticeable to actively painful, and the bruise on his side doesn’t help, either, and so he rests his lips against Ilya’s temple again – not a kiss but almost – and scrapes together every once of willpower he has. With some effort, Shane wiggles free, trying not to jostle Ilya too much – and promptly fails as he catches sight of his mother, seated in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table. It’s entirely possible he yelps.

The shock sends him backwards, and he only just manages to brace himself on the couch instead of crushing Ilya with his ass. His mother. In his flat. Where he was all tangled up with another man – his biggest rival in the league – until moments ago.

“Shane?” Ilya mumbles, still sleepy and with his voice scratchy. Shane can tell the exact moment Ilya wakes fully and clocks what’s going on, because there’s a small gasp behind him, and then Ilya is scrambling to his feet, straightening out his clothes frantically. He’s still in the dress pants and buttoned shirt the dress code dictates for travel days, so really, that part at least could have been worse.

It’s the smallest of mercies in the face of Yuna Hollander sitting across from them, a slight smile on her lips and a set of tiny squares in her hands.

Oh.

Shit.

Shane had never actually gotten around to collecting the Polaroids, had he?

“Mom,” Shane says weakly, and then doesn’t know what else to say.

“Shane.” Yuna puts down the pictures and then gets up, too. She’s a head shorter than Shane, but she seems larger than life now. Terrifying, even though she’s still smiling. Her eyes look sad, though. “And… Mr. Rozanov.”

“Mrs. Hollander.”

Yuna looks like she wants to say something to him, but then she looks back at Shane. “I owe you an apology,” she says. “We came in early, and I wanted to surprise you, but – that was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come over unannounced.”

And Shane – his eyes well up, despite himself. “Mom,” he says again, and then she’s rounding the table and pulling him into her arms. “I’m sorry,” he says, because what else can he say? He didn’t tell her about this – has kept this from her for years, this thing with Ilya, which was fine when it had been only physical stuff, but – but they’re engaged now, and he hadn’t even considered that he should be telling his mom, that she’s also his manager and should be aware of this because god, if this had come out before now, if this had leaked – it would have affected his sponsorships, and god, how could he have forgotten about that? Vaguely, he is aware of Ilya moving next to him, and then he’s gone. It doesn’t matter, in that moment. “I’m so sorry, I –”

“Shh,” Yuna says into his shoulder. She used to cradle him against her chest, her face tucked into his hair. And he knows it’s been years since then, but it hits him now, when it’s her cheek on his shoulder and his nose tucked against her hair. “Shane, love, don’t apologise.”

“Mom, I – I think I’m gay,” Shane gets out, because in for a penny, in for a pound. “And – and I know this isn’t in the plans, but –”

“Shane, honey, no. No. Please, that is not what matters here. This isn’t something you need to apologise for.” She squeezes him, hard enough that he hisses. Napping on the couch hasn’t done his bruise any good, but it does pull him back into the moment. His mother relaxes her hold immediately, though she doesn’t let him go. “Just – is this something we should be discussing here?” Her voice is gentle, calm, but intent.

Shane pulls back to squint at her. “What?”

She looks over his shoulder towards his kitchen. Shane cranes his neck, and – oh. Right. That’s where Ilya has escaped to. Now, he looks like a deer in headlights where he’s frozen with a bottle of ginger ale in his hands.

“I’m just saying…” Yuna trails off meaningfully.

“Uh,” Ilya says intelligently when he realises that both Shane and his mother are looking at him. “I am aware Shane likes men,” he finally says, which is correct but also so hilarious in that moment that Shane can’t help but chuckle. It gets worse, turning from a chuckle into giggling into laughter, and he isn’t entirely sure why he’s laughing but he is. After a beat, Ilya also starts smiling, then grinning, and then he’s laughing, too, and there’s something so absurd about Ilya standing in his kitchen after Shane’s mom walked in on them that the thought keeps setting him off every time he looks at Ilya.

They hadn’t even been having sex.

Yuna looks from him to Ilya and then back at Shane. She sighs. “I feel like there’s quite a bit I’m missing. But, Shane” – she takes his hands, squeezing until he looks at her. She looks like she always does when there’s something important, and Shane calms almost on instinct – “you never have to apologise for being gay. I’m just sorry you didn’t feel like you could share this with me. With us. And I am so sorry I took that choice away from you.”

“You’re forgiven,” Shane chokes out, because that’s what you do when you don’t hold something against someone, and he can’t hold this against his mother.

“Thank you.” Yuna pulls him into another embrace, and he lets himself be held for just a moment. “Now. Call me horribly curious but – any chance you could catch me up on everything I’ve missed in your life?”

She probably means, like, the Polaroid pictures on the table. The fact that Ilya fucking Rozanov is in Shane’s apartment, pouring soft drinks in his kitchen. The fact that this is clearly something that’s been going on for a while, which Shane hasn’t shared with her.

The thought still leaves a horribly cloying taste behind. He’s never lied to his parents about something this big for this long.

Except they aren’t just anything. They’re engaged. Because of a harebrained scheme.

“Mom, can I – I need to talk to –”

“Oh,” Yuna says before Shane can fully formulate his request. Her careful smile is back on her face, and she’s just trying to be supportive, Shane is pretty sure, but he still feels like an ass. “Yeah, uh – I should go wash my hands anyway.”

“We won’t need long,” Shane promises, gaze already drifting to Ilya. Ilya, who is still in the kitchen, braced on the counter. His face is white.

“Of course.” Yuna rises to her toes and presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek. “I love you, you know? No matter what. I will always love you.”

“Love you, too,” Shane mumbles. He’s been lying to her, still hasn’t come clean; how can he accept her love now?

With one last look, Yuna leaves in the direction of the guest bathroom. A moment later, the door falls shut and the water turns on: Yuna’s promise not to listen in.

It takes six steps to make his way to Ilya’s side. “Are you okay?”

“I should ask you that,” Ilya replies, which isn’t an answer. “I am sorry, Hollander.”

“Last names again?”

Ilya cracks a smile. “Last thing I want is make things hard for you, too.”

“You didn’t. I just – I don’t know if I can lie to her. About this. Not if… she won’t believe me. That I’d do this, even for –” love, he should say, except the word won’t come to his lips. “– for anyone.”

Ilya stares at him for long seconds. “Will she tell?” he finally asks. His voice is neutral, his face terrifyingly empty. “About fake. About lies?”

“I don’t know,” Shane says honestly. “I – I want to believe she wouldn’t. She shouldn’t. But… I can’t promise. But – no matter what, I can promise you we won’t leave you hanging. She would never, but even if, she would help me. We won’t let you down.”

Ilya’s eyes flutter close and his throat bobs as he swallows. The sound is eerily loud in the silent kitchen. “Okay,” he says after what feels like an eternity, in the voice he’d use to sign off on the end of his career. “We tell her.”

“Thank you,” Shane says, and – their lie is about to be exposed, at least to Yuna. And yeah, Hayden knows, and Jackie knows a bit, but it still feels… final. Like the point of no return. And nothing has changed, not yet, and yet Shane feels the few inches between them like a dead man’s zone he can’t cross. He can’t even take Ilya’s hands. “Let’s face the music.”

Ilya smiles, a horrible, small, broken smile. “Okay.” He grabs the three glasses with practised motions – how often has he carried rounds of drinks for his teammates like this? For his friends? – and leads the way. “Is safe to come out, Mrs. Hollander,” he calls. His voice betrays nothing of the previous few minutes, and his face is smooth, too. Only his eyes are heavy when he glances at Shane; other than that, he looks like the perfect Russian super star.

Shane hates it.

The emotion roils up inside him like tar, surprising in its intensity and prominence. It’s ugly and dark and gross, and he swallows. Swallows again. His fingers itch, but he can’t just grab Ilya and shake him, can’t pin him against the nearest wall and kiss him to make this mask shatter. He shouldn’t be looking like this, but he is, and Shane’s other is seconds from rejoining them.

And Ilya is avoiding his gaze.

Well, this is going to be just fun.

Shane has never brought a girlfriend home when he was a teen, but he imagines that this is what it would have felt like: his mother back in the armchair across from the couch, which Shane is sharing with Ilya. It’s the most awkward couch-sharing they’ve ever done with a foot of space an insurmountable expanse between them, and where Shane has one ankle crossed over the other knee, Ilya is sitting ramrod straight. Only one knee is bouncing intermittently, like he keeps losing track of keeping it still. He’s just far enough away that Shane can’t just reach over – not that he should with his mother still watching them. Even if she’s wearing her supportive smile.

“So,” Yuna says when the silence stretches, “how long has this been going on?”

Shane looks over at Ilya, only to find him already looking back. He has his hand raised to his mouth, thumb resting against his bottom lip. It’s distracting to watch him brush it back and forth, so Shane looks back at his mother. “Rookie season,” he admits.

“No,” Ilya cuts in. “Summer before.”

“Ilya –”

“What? Is truth!”

Shane grimaces.

“The summer before? You mean – oh! The ad?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, voice as sharp as his smile.

Shane sighs. “But – that’s not – we’re engaged.” The moment the words leave his lips, Shane cringes. His mother doesn’t fare much better; she visibly hangs onto control of her facial expression by a thread as she looks from Shane to Ilya and back at her son.

Ilya’s thumb is back against his lips, only now there’s flashes of white as his teeth nip at the skin. Yeah. Not Shane’s smoothest moment.

“You are – engaged,” Yuna repeats slowly. One of her eyebrows is raised in perfect poise.

“Yeah, but – they didn’t want to let him go, and we figured, you know, if we get married –”

“Shane,” Yuna interrupts him gently. “I think you’re skipping a step or two there. Back up, and please clue me in from the start.”

And Shane does. It all pours out of him: the contract cluster-fuck with Ilya’s KHL team, the threats, picking Ilya up from the airport, the brainstorming, the solution they’ve come up with. The little steps they’ve taken with introductions to their respective best friends and the postcards and Polaroids. The renewed threats that mean they have to do something, and soon at that.

Ilya keeps biting the side of his thumb while Shane talks, losing his too-straight posture in increments until he’s curled into himself. The few times Shane glances over at him, he looks ridiculously small for a six-foot hokey player.

To her credit, Yuna lets Shane talk without interrupting her. When he finally falls silent, gasping like he’s just been bag skated, she sighs.

“That sounds like quite the ordeal, Mr. Rozanov.”

“Ilya, please,” Ilya says.

“Okay, Ilya. Call me Yuna, please.”

Ilya smiles a tight smile and nods before looking at Shane. “‘Quite the ordeal’?”

“Unpleasant experience,” Shane supplies automatically. It feels telling, to do so in front of his mother, even though it’s nothing weird.

“Is one way to say.”

They both snort.

“Yeah…” Yuna looks at them for a moment, her index finger tapping against her bottom lip. Finally, she shakes her head and huffs. “I love you, Shane, and I know you – both of you – can be very smart, but this was very nearly very dumb.”

Heat shoots into Shane’s face. “Mom –”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t commendable, or that you didn’t put a lot of thought into it, but – why didn’t you think of going to a lawyer? Your agent?”

“My agent is Russian,” Ilya points out, “and… he has… been unhelpful. I do not think he is right person here.”

“And by unhelpful, Ilya means that his agent is extorting him.”

“Shane has an agent,” Yuna says mildly. “And I know a lawyer or two. So, Ilya – my suggestion would be to explore that avenue. Get your team on board, too, for the permanent residency and citizenship down the line – no immigration fraud required.”

Shane drops his gaze at the meaningful stress his mother puts on the word. Ilya, on the other hand, leans forward. The expression on his face when Shane raises his eyes again is hungry.

“There is way?” he asks.

“You aren’t the first non-North American player looking for permanent residency. It’s not uncommon; I’m more surprised they didn’t offer it to you right away.”

Ilya rubs his cheek, looking thoughtful. “Maybe they go through agent,” he admits. It’s all Shane can do to remain where he is instead of throwing himself at Ilya to wrap him up and never let him go again. “And… I do not know what he kept from me. Maybe more than I thought.”

“That is entirely possible.”

“And now?” Shane asks. He knows the expression on his mom’s face, for all that it’s odd to have it directed at someone other than him.

“I don’t want to overstep,” Yuna says, which is a lie. She absolutely wants to overstep, “but my recommendation would be to follow up on this asap. I can make inquiries today – if you have your contract to hand, Ilya, I can take a look today at that as well, if you’d like. Both the one with your agent as well as the one with the KHL. Then the next step is getting a new agent, because you should really already be negotiating for your extension. And then… talk to your team when you have time. The sooner the better, but it really shouldn’t be a big deal to get you started on the path to permanent citizenship.”

“Oh,” Shane says. It sounds so easy, when his mother puts it like this.

“Oh,” Ilya says. From him, the word sounds – like a prayer, maybe; like salvation.

“We’ll get this fixed, Ilya,” Yuna promises.

“Of course you will.” Ilya smiles, and now it doesn’t look small or broken. It’s a big smile, radiant, and Shane can’t look at it and can’t look away. “You are Mama Hollander; is there anything you cannot do?”

Yuna’s answering smile is far sadder than it should be. “I wish there wasn’t. But I will certainly do anything within my power.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says. “I – thank you.”

“You are very welcome. I am just sorry you felt like you had to take this on on your own.”

I raised you better than this, Shane imagines her saying. She doesn’t; would never, in real life. But still. She did raise him better.

And then Yuna adds, “I never meant to make Shane feel like he couldn’t come to me with any of that.”

“Mom, I already said –”

“Honey, you took on all this stress by yourself. And still played some of the best hockey of your career, while also Captaining your team – I am proud of you, but I am also sorry that you took it on by yourself.”

Shane can’t quite meet her eyes. It gets easier when she rises from the armchair and crosses over to him to pull him into another hug. “Hayden helped, for all of that,” he tells her hair, and then, because it’s true, he adds, “And so did Ilya.”

“And I am so glad for that.” Yuna releases him and steps back, looking at him with an expression on her face that makes him feel very warm inside. “I’m glad you found each other.” She looks at Ilya, holding out her hand. Ilya shoots back to his feet and shakes it. There is a moment of hesitation, and then Yuna opens her arms and Ilya falls into them, hugging her like his life depends on it, like she’s his salvation.

Shane swallows. She is, after all.

“Well,” Yuna says when they part again. “I don’t want to bother you boys any longer in any case. It was lovely meeting you, Ilya, though I – Shane, can you forward my e-mail to Ilya? And send me his contact, too, and I’ll let you know once I know anything. Are you flying out right after the game?”

Ilya nods. “Players want home.” He looks at Shane, just for a moment, before refocusing on Yuna. “But I have digital copies of my contracts, I send them to you now.”

“Okay. We’ll make this work. I promise you this.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Shane says, and it is echoed by Ilya a moment later.

Yuna smiles. “I’m more than happy to help. Without either of you risking your careers any more than necessary.”

And, yeah. That is a very good reminder how unnecessarily reckless their initial plan had been.

Dinner is a stilted affair, just between the two of them. Ilya keeps reaching for his phone, like the hour between him sending Yuna copies of his contracts and now would have been enough for her to work a miracle – which, knowing Yuna, isn’t as unlikely as it might sound at first – and Shane isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself or with them now that there’s no real reason for their domesticity.

And even now, the promise of sleeping together knocks around Shane’s brain. They’d been doing this well before they ever played at being more, but it feels as unattainable as it had in that shower three years ago. He isn’t entirely sure how to instigate, not when Ilya is looking like he’s hundreds of miles away as he’s mechanically shovelling food into his mouth. There’s no quips, not asshole comments; just Ilya, quiet and still and efficient in a way he’s seldom been around Shane.

It’s wrong.

It may just be their new normal.

With a heavy heart, Shane cleans up their plates and then moves to the couch, where Ilya joins him after a minute. The TV is already on ESPN when Shane switches it on, and so they settle in to watch the Admirals wipe the Carolina Rockets, and Ilya only makes a single halfhearted comment about Scott Hunter’s age because he is glued to his phone otherwise.

It’s only when they’re under the covers in the dark of Shane’s bedroom that it all comes apart. Ilya is lying stock still next to Shane, but there’s a hitch to his breath that punctuates Shane’s lungs and makes his heart constrict. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching cross the desert of linen between them. “Hey.”

Ilya makes a sound when Shane’s hand connects with his shoulder, a strangled noise in his throat, but he doesn’t shrug him off.

“Hey,” Shane says again, soothing because he doesn’t know what else to be, and when he pulls on Ilya’s arm, Ilya comes easily. It’s only then, with Ilya’s face mashed into Shane’s chest, that Shane realises Ilya is crying. Shit. But Ilya doesn’t say anything or make any noise, really, beyond the occasional hitch of his breath, and so Shane holds him and tries to ignore how this feels like an ending to something he shouldn’t be wanting in the first place.

“Let’s gooooo! Anyone who’s not tagging along is boooooring!” Smitty yells over the din of the locker room following their win over the Raiders. It wasn’t a slam dunk, but it was a tight, clean game that ended with the Metros taking the season series, which is more than enough reason to celebrate, according to the rest of the team.

“You coming with us?” Brinks asks, and it’s performative more than because he actually thinks he’ll get a changed answer, Shane knows.

“Actually, yes.”

This stops Brinks short. His eyes widen comically, and he clasps a theatrical hand to his chest. “What? Didn’t you have a date?”

Yes, but my mother has a new project to straighten out, Shane doesn’t say. Instead, he rolls his eyes. “Something came up for my mom, and so my dad and I hung out before the game.”

When Brinks’s eyes widen even further, Shane glares at him. “Drop it.” He’s in no mood to listen to his Boston girl; not when Ilya had been co-opted by Yuna all day today to talk to this lawyer and that player representative. He should be glad for the speed his mother is moving at, but he’s out of sorts because this wasn’t how the day was supposed to go and Shane, maybe unsurprisingly, is not a fan of his routine being disrupted.

Hanging out with his dad without talking about emotions or stupid plans had been nice, of course. But it wasn’t what he’d planned on doing, and it’s still bleeding into his mood even after the win.

“Woah, never mind, Captain Holy.”

Shane glares at him again, which just makes Brinks grin.

“Yeah, no, you definitely need to come out and loosen up a little.”

Shane sighs and finishes the knot on his tie. He isn’t entirely that it’ll work like that for him. Still, he can’t deny he needs the distraction from everything that’s happened the past two days. Needs to forget the fact that just like that, he and Ilya have no reason to pretend they are together.

And maybe, by all rights, Shane should be glad for it. Should be grateful that the burden of rescuing Ilya doesn’t rest on his shoulders anymore.

All he can feel, though, is an aching emptiness in his life – in his heart, maybe – where Ilya burrowed his way in over the past weeks.

A night out with his team won’t fix that, but it might just soothe the hollow in his chest a little bit regardless.

Chapter End Notes

Huge thanks to Anoke for helping me wrangle the beginning of this chapter 💛

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

The world keeps moving, even as Shane tries to find his footing after waking from what feels like a dream. He’s going through the motions, most days; avoiding Hayden without quite meaning to, and trying to fill the void inside him with hockey.

For once, it doesn’t quite work.

They lose to Washington three days later, then obliterate the Buffalo Buffalo, only to get obliterated in turn by the Guardians. Then Philadelphia embarrasses them in front of their home crowd 7-3, and it carries over into their game in Pittsburgh where the Jaggers score four times before the Metros get a single point on the board. They lose by two, and Shane goes back to avoiding all coverage of Metros hockey.

It’s not all on Shane. It would be easy to blame himself, but he’s still putting up numbers, still scoring, though he’s definitely playing sloppier than he had at the beginning of the season. But Štras pulls his groin and is put on injured reserve, and J.J. has been struggling with elbow problems for weeks now, and Wiz keeps seeing the trainers for his foot… the list goes on and on. At the end of the day, the other teams are just scoring more. And for maybe the first time in his life, Shane finds it hard to care. It makes him double down twice as hard, because if he doesn’t care, then what is he doing?

It’s literally his job to care. He’s the Captain, and good Captains care. They don’t let the mood in the room turn sour, they don’t get too obsessed with their personal issues, they do not let their teams down.

And yet, Shane is doing all those things, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

Me (April 5, 5:15pm):
[contact attached: Yuna Hollander]

Lily (April 6, 4:48pm):
your mother is scary
miracle but very scary

Me (April 7, 12:17am):
Shes the best  2
*<3

Lily (April 7, 12:21am):
omg dont tell me ur drunk 👀
))))
pls text once u r home safe ❤️

 

Lily (April 9, 7:15pm):
starting line is poor excuse for no text (((

 

Lily (April 19, 2:32pm):
how hav i seen ur mother more than u
watch or i become fave child
21 yr headstart is easy to beat )))

 

Lily (April 20, 11:13am):
you are freezing me out
we should talk

Lily (April 20, 1:56pm):
please?

Me (April 20, 2:16pm):
I'm just trying to focus on hockey.
If it isn't something urgent related to me, can this wait until after the season is over?

Lily (April 20, 2:20pm):
ok
is not about you
i tried to be polite 
but no complain from you about this ok

Me (April 20, 2:34pm):
You don't need to ask my permission.
[👍 reacted by Lily]

“What the fuck,” Shane says out loud when he gets off the ice after their practice two days after an embarrassing 5-1 loss at home to Washington. He doesn’t even want to check the news, but there are a worrying number of new messages from all sorts of players – Scott Hunter, he sees when he opens his messaging app, and a host of guys he’s played with on Team Canada or back in Juniors.

His hands are shaking as he pulls up ESPN, mind racing with dozens of possible ways things could have gone tits over ass – that he’s been outed, that something has happened to his parents and he’ll have to find out via the news, that his thing engagement to Ilya has come to light.

It’s the top headline. An End to the Hollander-Rozanov Rivalry, or an Impending Explosion? the featured article blares, and Shane hears the blood rush in his ears as he stares at it. Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

And then he actually reads the blurb: Boston Raiders’ Ilya Rozanov signs with Agent Farah Jalali, who represents Rozanov’s on-ice rival Shane Hollander among other big names, ahead of Restricted Free Agency. The deal reportedly comes after strained relationships between Rozanov and his previous agent Vladislav Markov over Rozanov’s lockout contract with the KHL’s Torpedo Nizhny Novgorod. Sources suggest Yuna Hollander may have been involved in the signing. Implications from this news remain to be seen.

Shane sinks into his stall, still in full gear, and clicks through to the article. His head is spinning, but he manages to take in the gist – his mother and his agent met with Ilya three days ago, a day before Ilya messaged him asking to talk. Shit. Dimly, he remembers a call from his mother he hadn’t felt like taking, too aware that he was letting his sponsors down. In hindsight, maybe he should have at least listened to the voice mail.

Christ. But at least Ilya was right – nothing that concerns Shane directly has been leaked. The article is vague about details; all they really say is that there was beef with the club Ilya played for during the lockout, and now he has a new agent. Who just so happens to also be Shane’s agent. There is an official statement from Ilya, but it’s professional and sleek in a way that suggests either Farah or Yuna were the ones to draft it:

I’d like to thank Vladislav Markov for his help in getting me established in the MLH. Due to diverging priorities, I have decided to sign with a player agent more closely aligned with my long-term goals. Mrs. Jalali brings years of experience and an extensive network of contacts, which I am grateful to be able to utilise in the future. I trust her expertise while I will be focusing on the approaching playoffs.

He skims the rest of the article, but there’s no further information. Neither Yuna nor Ilya has remarked upon Yuna’s involvement, aside from the statement’s mention of extensive network of contacts.

So. How the fuck do they want to play that?

Shane walks out of the locker room in a trance, hiding in the nearest empty physio room. He isn’t entirely sure if anyone tries to stop him; if they do, he doesn’t register it.

His mother answers after a single ring.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, in lieu of a greeting. He doesn’t mean to, but the question breaks out of him.

Yuna is quiet for a moment. “You didn’t check your voice message.” It’s a statement, not a question. Shane doesn’t answer. “Or talk to Ilya, I take it?”

Fuck. Shane swallows, what little righteous anger he had coursing through him shrivelling into something small and ugly. “I asked if… if it had something to do with me. He said no. I didn’t want more distractions from the season.” Not when they’re already skidding, which an auspicious sign this close to the playoffs. They’re still first in their division, but if they can’t turn their momentum around, their post-season may be very short indeed.

“And this shouldn’t be,” Yuna says calmly. “It’s quiet right now, so of course this makes a splash. But this isn’t so unusual, players share agents all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“And, going forward, this should help you two, too.” There is no us, Shane wants to protest, but his mother is already going on: “There may be joint advertising opportunities, training camps – reasons to see each other outside of games. You can phase the bitter rivalry into something a little more mellow. More friendly.”

“Oh.”

“I love you, Shane. And I promise you, none if this was to fuck with you.”

“I know, mom.” If there’s one thing he knows it’s that Yuna puts him above almost everything else. He’s well aware that she’s shaped her life around his from the moment it became clear he had the potential to go far, and he’ll never be able to repay her for that. He is also aware that she doesn’t want him to repay her. But even so, the least he can do is not be an ass around this. “They’re gonna ask me about this. Probably already looking for me, we just got off the ice for practice and I’m sure they’ll tap me for media before we’re flying out later.”

“New Jersey, right?” His mom asks, like she doesn’t have his schedule memorised.

“Yeah. How… how do you want me to handle this?”

“Be as honest as you want. But we figured we’d suggest a mutual friend has put me and Ilya in touch, because I’m well-connected and am an immigrant myself.”

“Wow,” Shane says drily, his mind whirling again, “now I’m just a mutual friend.”

“We can’t very well say, Ilya’s lover, who’s my son, hm?”

Heat shoots into Shane’s face. “We’re not –”

“It’s none of my business,” Yuna interrupts, her voice kind. “But – maybe consider talking to him about this, Shane. It’s his life and career we’re talking about.”

Shane thinks about Ilya’s attempts to reach out and swallows. “I – I can’t. Not… we have less than a week until the season ends, and – I have to focus on the playoffs.”

“Of course. But after that – talk to him, okay?”

“I will,” Shane says, and is surprised by how much he means it.

Of course it’s one of the main things people want to talk to him about.

“No, I haven’t talked to him since our last game,” Shane tells the reporters truthfully, and then adds with a small smile, “If you can call chirping on the ice talking.” Everyone laughs, which is still a rush in itself; it’s only been fairly recently that he’s figured out how to lighten the mood in these scrums like this.

And: “That’s what my mother does – she sees a situation that she can do something about, where she can help, and gets on it. It is what she’s used to help me get to where I am, and I am happy that she gets to do that more. I think she’d make a good agent herself – but don’t tell her that, or I’ll have to look for a new manager.” Another bout of laughter.

And: “No, there are no hard feelings. We’re all just here to play, and I’m glad Rozanov gets the representation he needs to keep doing that. It wouldn’t be the same to play in this league without him – isn’t that what you keep telling me?” More chuckles. “Of course it was a shock when I learned it; my mom tried to reach out to give me a heads-up but I thought she wanted to talk about the fact we’d lost four out of five games, so it’s my own fault there. But it’s not a distraction. We’re all just feeling the pace of the season, and we’ve had a few injuries, so of course that’s the thing I’m focusing on right now. And of course I wish Rozanov luck with his negotiations, that’s just a fact of the game.”

It feels – good, to talk about it this way. Surprisingly so. To have the questions be about them but with a path forward, with people actually seeing a way for Shane and Ilya to be more than just one-dimensional on-ice rivals in the the future.

There isn’t much time to think, not with their team struggling and the playoffs looming so close. But maybe he doesn’t actually need to. Or maybe he’s been doing the thinking in the back of his mind, because he wakes up the day they’re playing their second-to-last game of the season in Winnipeg and looks at the ceiling and suddenly knows a few things:

He still misses Ilya. Fiercely. They haven’t even texted since the article has come out, but Ilya feels closer than ever before. Ilya signed with his agent. Ilya is in contact with his mom. Ilya’s closest friend absolutely believed them that they’re about to get married. Hayden has been looking at Shane though he has yet to corner him, and if it wasn’t for the twins’ teething issues and the impending playoffs, Jackie absolutely would have staged an intervention already. Everyone who knows them seems convinced there’s something there. And Ilya is still in the group chat with the Pikes, still reacting to Jackie’s pictures and engaging with this corner of Shane’s life.

It has to mean something.

He pulls out his phone. You should come to Montreal this off-season, he fires off before he can think about it. We could train together. Or just hang out.

The incoming call pops up within moments.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hollander – are you serious?”

“I thought we were on a first name basis,” Shane points out, and then becomes aware of Hayden’s look of amused disbelief.

Ilya? his friend mouths. Shane glares in response.

“I don’t want to assume,” Ilya says softly.

Shane is torn for a moment, but – well. Hayden is Hayden, and he will probably let Shane live down this embarrassment. “Assume away.”

Ilya laughs, breathless and a little wobbly.

Before Ilya can say anything else that requires some too-revealing answer, Shane says, “Hey, I’m – I’m still in my room, so – give me a minute and I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Aww, no front show for Pike?”

“No,” Shane says shortly, and then hangs up because Ilya deserves it.

Hayden is definitely laughing at him. “So I take it you’re on your way to fix things?”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Shane lies, which just makes Hayden grin properly. He decides to ignore that and actually get dressed so he can go and call Ilya back.

“Sure,” he says. “Well. Have fun. And – I’m proud of you, Shane.”

Shane feels himself flush. “You’re not my dad.”

“No, but I’m your best friend, and I think you needed to hear it.”

Struggling into his team hoodie gives Shane an excellent excuse to avoid Hayden’s gaze. “Uhm. Thanks?”

“Yeah. Now go so I can tell Jackie the joyous news.”

“You’re the worst, I really don’t know why you’re my best friend.”

“Because you love me,” Hayden says, and he’s still smiling but it’s no longer joking.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “I do. Thanks.”

Hayden grins at him, and then makes a shooing motion, and Shane takes that as his cue to leave.

He finds one of the conference rooms the team books for strategy and planning, sits down so he can see the door, and hits the call button.

Ilya answers immediately.

“Hey,” Shane says again.

“Hey,” Ilya replies. For a moment, they’re both quiet. Both steeling themselves for what shouldn’t be this scary but is?

Heart beating to his throat, Shane takes a deep breath. “I was serious,” he says. “To answer your earlier question. I think… I’d like to see you.”

“Is dangerous,” Ilya says, but it’s not a no.

“Not as dangerous as… before. Players signed with the same agent train together all the time.”

“So do players at different agents.”

Yeah, but they aren’t us.

“Your mother invite me, too,” Ilya says, a sudden non-sequitur. Shane squints at the ceiling. The tiles are uniform except for small marks, and he wonders how they got there.

“Where?”

“Ottawa.”

“Oh?”

“Say I should come to dinner. I tell her… I am not sure. Because I have not talked to her son.”

Shane smiles. “I think her son can be stubborn,” he says. It’s easier like that, to talk like this is someone else. What a stupid little thing. “But I don’t think he’d mind.”

“You are sure this is wise? Be in your parents house, have sex in your childhood room?”

Shane laughs, giddy with sudden relief. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“I know you,” Ilya says, and maybe he means it jokingly, but it comes out soft. Genuine. Because yeah, he does know Shane.

Shane sobers, too.

“I’m having a cottage built,” he tells Ilya. “Not far from my parents’, and it’s not quite done yet, but it should be during the off-season. And… my parents will be going to their cottage, so. We could… we could stay there, for a couple of days. Go to Montreal to train. Did you already sign with my off-season trainer, too?”

Ilya laughs. “Not everything is about you.” His voice is gentle, so the words don’t really sting. “I have own personal trainer. But he is back in Russia, so maybe not best right now.”

“You should sign with mine,” Shane says impulsively.

“That is very generous. But we are different players, on ice, so I need different trainer. But I will see what I can do. Are you going to Toronto camp? I hear good things about guy who runs it.”

“The one Parrey and Fowler swear by? Hayden’s considering it this year, for a couple of weeks, and he’s been wanting me to come, too.”

“Marly, too,” Ilya says. “So…”

“Let’s start with Montreal,” Shane suggests. “And then dinner with my parents. To figure out what we’ll do until that camp. We don’t have to decide anything yet.”

“True, have to win cup first.”

“Ilya!” Shane exclaims. “You – you can’t jinx both of us like that!”

Ilya just laughs, and they drift off into easier talk about their division rivals and which match ups will go which way in the post-season.

They don’t talk about their own teams, the injuries plaguing the line-ups, the losses they’ve racked up in the final quarter of the season. But it’s still nice, and Shane feels settled in a way he hasn’t in quite a while when they finally hang up to attend to their pre-game routines.

And it’s still not all on Shane, but maybe, it’s still had an impact, because Montreal wins their final two games of the season.

They have two days off before the playoffs start, and Shane spends them looking through the pictures he has taken of the lake from where his cottage is being built.

There is one with the sun going down, reflecting like liquid fire off the tranquil surface, and he picks that. His mother is kind enough to run to the store to get it printed – this close to the playoffs, venturing out in public is a nightmare – and Shane scrawls a simple sentence on the back (Can’t wait to be here with you :)) before he adds Ilya’s address and the post stamp his mother also procures.

It’s not a traditional postcard, but Shane is elated enough at having had the idea in the first place that he doesn’t even second-guess himself.

Three days later, he gets a picture of his postcard from Ilya, with a very simple caption: 🥰🥰🥰

i will be there, Ilya adds a minute later, and Shane can only heart the message because he has a hockey game to focus on instead of grinning stupidly at his phone.

The Metros are knocked out in the first round, by the Centaurs, of all teams. Ottawa barely even made the playoffs, but that doesn’t matter: they play better than the injury battered Metros, and so they advance while the Metros clear out their stalls and head home to lick their wounds.

The Raiders get further, making it all the way to the Conference Finals before their season is ended by Pittsburgh. Shane and his parents watch every one of the games, and it’s still odd to sit on the couch and cheer for Ilya rather than against him.

“At least we knock out dinosaur,” Ilya says morosely on the phone while he’s ostensibly packing his stuff to come up to Montreal. Shane isn’t entirely sure how much actual packing is going on, in all honestly.

“Yeah, how heroic, beating a team whose Captain hasn’t managed to last longer than half a season before he falls off.”

“Fuck you,” Ilya says, “at least we make Conference Final.”

“Next year,” Shane finds himself saying, “You just watch, next year we’ll show you.”

Ilya laughs. “Oh, will you? I will not hold breath.”

“Haha.”

They lapse into silence. On Ilya’s side, there’s actual moving around, so maybe he is indeed adding stuff to his suitcase. Shane bites down on the reminder that they will be working out together. Maybe they’ll even get on the ice with Hayden and a few other players returned to the Montreal area to the off-season; they should get enough guys together to avoid suspicion for why Ilya is there. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Do you know by now when you’ll be coming in?” Ilya will be taking his car, unwilling to part with it, or possibly to avoid anyone seeing him fly into Shane’s city.

“I leave early. Say goodbye to Sveta tonight – she threaten to come visit, but she is in Russia for part of summer – and then hit road tomorrow morning. So… noon?”

“Don’t rush.” Shane rolls the next words around in his mouth for a moment before saying them. “I’d rather have you show up in the afternoon than get into an accident.”

Ilya says something in Russian that sounds horrendously soft, though that may be Shane’s imagination talking. “I am careful. Drive safe. See you tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“So am I,” Ilya says, and then hangs up to load his equipment into his car.

Almost true to his word, Ilya shows up shortly after noon – he’d texted Shane at 7am that he was leaving, and must have made pretty good time all things considered, that the drive took him barely longer than the ideal five hours.

They leave his gear in the car, though Shane helps him carry in the suitcase, and then they’re in Shane’s apartment, for the first time in over two months. For a breath, they just look at each other, and then Ilya is moving and so is Shane, and they meet in the middle with an urgency that sweeps over Shane all at once.

They shed their clothing as they go, kissing on the stairs and in the hallway and against the doorjamb to Shane’s door, and it’s a miracle they make it to the bed before the last of Shane’s composure leaves the building. It’s not elegant or drawn out. They knock against each other, can barely stop touching and kissing long enough to get off their underwear, and in the end it doesn’t take much more than that, frantic kisses and desperate touches and their hard cocks sliding against each other to make them come.

The cooling come between them is gross, but Shane still can’t get himself to prod Ilya up or even say anything, because that would mean letting go of Ilya, and he – he can’t. It’s a good thing they have several days together before his parents expect the two of them at the cottage.

“I missed you.” Shane kisses Ilya’s jaw, breathing against the weight of Ilya on his chest. Ilya props himself up on his elbows so he can peer down at Shane before leaning in so he can kiss him again, slow and deep. Heat starts curling low in Shane’s gut; it won’t take long for round two, he’s pretty sure.

“I can tell,” Ilya says when he pulls back. “You didn’t…?”

“Sleep with anyone else?” Shane feels his mouth twist. “No.”

“Me either,” Ilya admits, and it’s so quiet it takes Shane a moment to understand.

“Really?”

Ilya tilts his head in a gesture that would have been a shrug if he wasn’t still braced above Shane. “I am engaged, am I not? Am… what do you say, not a cheater?”

“Faithful,” Shane supplies faintly. There’s a question in Ilya’s words, he’s pretty sure. A question he hadn’t allowed himself to ponder. “I wouldn’t have held it against you.” He’s glad he doesn’t have to find out if he’s telling the truth. “Since, y’know. We don’t have to get married now.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, and then rolls off Shane. Shane tries not to feel bereft at the loss and fails miserably, though Ilya doesn’t go far. He grabs a handful of tissues from the box on Shane’s night stand and mops up the gross mess on their stomachs, before slotting himself against Shane’s side again. His lips are soft and warm when he presses a kiss to the junction of Shane’s shoulder and his neck.

“You would have married me,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s skin. “To keep me safe.”

Shane makes a noncommittal sound, though his arm tightens around Ilya. Undoubtedly, Ilya is able to hear the way his heart is pounding in his chest.

“Should we talk about that?”

“Your first instinct was to run to me,” Shane counters. It’s neither agreement nor denial, but something else. A secret third thing, Hayden would say.

“Yes.” Ilya brushes his lips against Shane’s skin, not to suck or lick but just to feel him, it seems. Shane shivers.

“I liked what we have.” Shane’s heart beats even faster, and he’s glad he can’t look at Ilya, that he can keep his eyes on the familiar ceiling of his bedroom. It’s safe. “Even if it was fake.”

Unfortunately, Ilya disagrees, because he props himself up on his elbow. His fingers dance over Shane’s chest, while his gaze his heavy on Shane. When Shane’s eyes meet his for a moment, Ilya smiles.

“Proposal was fake,” Ilya tells him. “But rest… wasn’t. I like you. Sveta likes you. Jackie likes me. Babies like me. Pike… well, is Pike.”

“He likes you, too, I’m pretty sure,” Shane admits. He has to clear his throat. “And so do I.”

“Really?”

Shane smiles. “Is this news to you?”

“Maybe.” Ilya pauses a moment. “Okay, no, is not. How can you not like this?” He smirks at Shane, but there’s something vulnerable underneath. Shane doesn’t think he would have seen it this time a year ago. He can’t not see it right now.

“Hey.” He shifts so he can face Ilya properly, pulling him for another kiss. “I really do like you. I… missed you like crazy.”

“I was right there,” Ilya says, even though they both know it wouldn’t have worked.

“I just… I never thought… it was always Hollander vs Rozanov, you know?”

“I know,” Ilya says drily. Shane smiles.

“But… you sneaky bastard, you and my mom turned it into something that might become Hollander and Rozanov.”

“She is very amazing woman. I never… she just does this. Makes a miracle happen.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, even though he regrets bringing up his mother while in bed with his… lover? Boyfriend? Partner?

“Maybe I should not be surprised,” Ilya muses, his fingers still tapping a rhythm into Shane’s chest. “After all, she raised you, yes?”

“Oh,” Shane says, and then he can’t help himself. He has to kiss Ilya again. They both smile into the kiss, which makes it tricky but no less good, because this is Ilya, in his bed. Ilya, who is already well on his way to sneaking into Shane’s family; clearly has won Shane’s mom over and will probably charm Shane’s dad within minutes of meeting him properly.

And it’s not all solved yet. They’re still playing on rival teams, and their rivalry is still a hot topic in the league, but – suddenly, Shane actually believes that it won’t always stay that way. And in the meantime, he and Ilya can go hang out at Shane’s parents’ cottage, and with the Pikes here in Montreal, and then go to camp together, and maybe help the narrative about the two of them along.

He doesn’t know where this is going. It might not go anywhere. But somehow, it doesn’t seem out of the question that some day, they’ll do all of this again, just for real this time.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov, Shane thinks to himself, and it’s way too fast and also something they’ve already considered, but it fills him with excitement to move to a future. A future together with Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Chapter End Notes

Credit for the idea of Shane sending a postcard to Ilya goes to the lovely GammilyIsMe, who also pointed out that I could just add another scene even though I’d ostensibly already written the end of the fic 😂 sometimes simple solutions are surprisingly hard to see. If you were wondering why the characters in the fic behave the way they did 😂😂

They also made this wonderful meme which cracked me up last night:

 

Thank you to everyone who read along – whether you’ve left a comment, a kudos, a bookmark, or just lurked. It’s meant a lot to me, and I’ve squeed and kicked my feet and been blown away 💛

There will be a few (smaller) works in this series, at least as the plan stands right now, because I am cooking a few other fics on the side – a kinda-Crack-treated-seriously SocMed fic (where we will see how motivated I will be wrt formatting), my tribute to the sick!Ilya & Hollanders-trope, and a Shane-gets-traded fic. All of these are already very much spiralling out of control, so no promises, but I have a couple of drabbles for this 'verse that will come with the next iteration of the smubbles event (come join if you like drabbles and fun! No rules, the only goal is to create!) that will run for the Olympics, and other than that, I will have to balance RL (business trips) against the fannish brainrot. But this (hopefully ;) ) won’t be the last you’ve heard of me 💛

Works inspired by this one

i only think in the form of crunching numbers by xianvar