Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Rose Landry, Original Female Character(s) (Minor), New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike's Children, Original Male Character(s) (minor)

Additional Tags:

AU, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Student Ilya Rozanov, Part-time Waiter Ilya Rozanov, POV Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Date, Fluff, Smut, References to Depression, New York Admirals (Game Changers), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Pride Parades, Dom/sub Undertones, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Implied/Referenced Assault, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Office Worker Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Mr. [Insert Here]

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-11 Completed: 2026-07-11 Words: 138,037 Chapters: 31/31

Mr. [Insert Here] (means I love you)

Summary

Shane Hollander is the (lonely) golden boy of hockey, trying to decide what's best for his future.
Ilya Rozanov is a (lonely) grad student and part-time waiter, having left the hockey world due to injury and Russia for his own sanity.

They meet in New York, and fall in love.

Notes

HR has taken a hold of me like no fandom has done for a very long time, if ever.
I wrote this in a frenzy over about 3 weeks. No beta. I edited as I posted but please still expect inconsistencies, errors and too many commas.

It's probably too sweet and saccharine, but these boys deserve the world.

as always with fic, none of these characters are mine, and I thank Rachel Reid (and everyone else involved in the books and TV version of HR/Game Changers universe) every day for what she (and they) have brought into the world

Chapter 1: Mr. Paramedic

Even in May, the cold of late-night New York bites – albeit not as harshly as Russia's – and Ilya’s ill-dressed for the weather; the sharp wind cuts through his black work shirt and nicest but still worn trousers. It’s late, just past midnight, and he’s regretting most of the night's choices as he’s shoved against a dank alley wall, and barely ducks the second fist aimed at his face. His face smarts from the first he'd not been able to avoid, he can feel the blood welling at the corner of his mouth, but pushes the pain back and tries to focus on escaping the immediate danger.

His assailant curses as he drunkenly smashes his knuckles into the wall, grazing Ilya's ear, and Ilya takes the chance to push past him and make a break for the dim light of the alley exit. He feels a hand grab his shirt so pushes a little harder, hears a rip of fabric and he's free, stumbling out onto the pavement, only to immediately collide with what feels like another wall, albeit a little warmer than solid brick.

"Whoa," gentle hands catch his elbows, help him regain his balance. "You okay?"

He steadies himself on his feet and looks at his saviour. Dark brown eyes catch his before dropping away, a frown cuts across a brow as the man takes in the state of Ilya's face, and Ilya can't see too well in the dim streetlights but he's sure those are freckles smattered across a slightly crooked nose and tanned skin. The man appears to also be in his early twenties, but is dressed in a well-cut suit nicer than anything Ilya currently owns, outlining a muscled figure and Ilya's brain spins - he's pretty sure he's seen this man before, but where and when he can't place.

Angry cursing comes from the alley and before Ilya can work out what to do the man has taken his hand and is pulling him down the street in a light jog, around the corner and out of sight. Ilya follows blindly, knuckles stinging in the other man's grip - he'd managed to get in one or two return jabs earlier - but comes to a dead stop when five minutes later they reach another alley and the man starts to head down it. It's a little better lit than the one he'd just been in, but he's not willing to go any further without something to reassure him.

"You will murder me?" It comes out a dark, flat statement rather than the question he'd intended.

"What? No!" Freckles replies, and that's not a New York accent - Canadian, maybe? "I've got an apartment up there," he points to the building on their left. "I can clean that cut for you, and we can, uh, call the police, maybe?" he adds, suddenly uncertain.

"No police," Ilya shakes his head, but pushes past the stranger so he can lead the way into the alley, at least.

"But-," Freckles protests as he follows, "surely that guy- he hurt you. The police should know."

Ilya sighs, wonders how he's ended up following such a naïve person, is a little amazed there is room for such naivete in New York. "I do not know that man," he says flatly. "Not his name, not where he lives. Just that he's a homophobic piece of shit, and he hurt his hand more than my face." He stops outside what appears to be the back entrance to the apartment building, wonders why they'd not gone in through the front, but steps through when the man inputs the code and the little lock beeps and glows green.

Freckles doesn't seem to have a comeback for that, and they walk up the stairs in silence, side-by-side. Ilya follows him into a fifth-floor apartment, and maybe the location on the Upper West Side, or how well the suit fits should’ve been a clue, but realises that Freckles is wealthy. The open-plan living-dining-kitchen spans practically half of the building, with furniture so simply designed it has to be obscenely expensive. 

There's lots of things Ilya wants to ask, but he holds them behind his teeth and stares out of the window, down at the quiet city streets below. He can see in the reflection as Freckles disappears down the hall, to return thirty seconds later having traded his blazer for what looks like a very well stocked first aid kit.

"Mr. Paramedic," he murmurs, turns as Freckles neatly unpacks gauze and disinfectant onto the dining table.

"Shane," Freckles corrects almost absently, and gestures for Ilya to come closer. He does, curiosity burning more than anything, and although Shane pulls out a chair for him he leans on the edge of the table instead, not willing to sit just yet.

Shane evaluates him for a second, eyes flicking to his and away again quickly, but nods as he lifts a bottle of disinfectant and a cotton pad. "May I?"

Ilya tilts his head, lets the stranger inspect his lip. This close, away from the dank smells of the first alley, he gets a whiff of vanilla and smoke, has to hold himself back from pressing his nose into Shane's neck and breathing in deeper for more.

He hisses a little as a hand dabs at the cut, automatically swats it away, and then winces when brown eyes lock onto his split knuckles. The hand - thick fingers with callouses that are familiar to Ilya in a way that he's too fuzzy to pin down right now - takes his before he can whip it out of reach, and the frown deepens.

"Stay still," Shane says, almost disapprovingly, and Ilya obeys, holding his hand steady while disinfectant is delicately pressed into the cuts and Shane wraps soft gauze around his knuckles until the wound disappears under layers of white.

The safety and warmth of the apartment finally seems to seep into Ilya's bones and exhaustion hits him suddenly. He lets his weight rest a little more on the table, watches as Shane packs up the first aid kit as neatly as he'd unpacked it, almost soothing in his precise, exact movements.

"Do you need to call anyone?" Shane asks, and Ilya shakes his head, throat suddenly tight. He's been in New York for just over a year now, and has yet to make a single close friend, has been too busy just trying to survive to focus on anything else. Svetlana is in Boston and he can't see her regularly for good, if sad, reasons, and suddenly misses his friend with a viciousness that cramps his gut.

"Phone is dead, anyway," he adds roughly. Shane nods, and steps away for a second to dig out a variety of charging cables. Ilya hands his phone over and watches as Shane plugs it in on the kitchen counter, the screen lighting up briefly with the red lightning-battery symbol as it begins to charge again.

"Do you have somewhere you can go?" Shane asks, and Ilya closes his eyes. He does - his shitty box apartment with the leak and broken AC and loud next-door neighbours - but it's the other side of the city and he's not sure he’s got the wherewithal to get the subway and then walk the thirty minutes back in his current state, and he can’t afford a taxi.

But what choice does he have? He's about to say yes, of course, when "okay, you can stay here then. I've got a spare room, it's not much but," Shane shrugs.

Ilya stares at him, knows he must look dumbfounded, but Shane is busy moving over to the kitchen and pouring two glasses of water.

"You do not know me," Ilya reminds him as a glass is held out in offering, as well as an unopened packet of painkillers, from which Ilya takes two.

Shane shrugs. "You don't know me either," he replies, and Ilya's brain suddenly clicks into gear as if solely to be its usual contrary self, and he does. There's nothing here that would indicate that Shane Hollander, one of if not the greatest hockey talent of his generation, lives in this apartment, but Ilya knows his face from recent billboards, from some stupid drinks campaign where he's walking around in a white wet t-shirt on TV looking ridiculously hot. He knows his stature - albeit a slightly younger, softer version of him - from studying it god knows how often in his late teens, this up-and-coming prodigy who'd have been Ilya's real competition if everything hadn't gone to absolute shit the way it had. He even knows the callouses on his fingers, had had the same himself from hours of daily hockey practise, before.

"Shane Hollander," Ilya says, and Shane - Hollander, Ilya corrects himself, Shane is too intimate, too familiar, too tempting - flinches back, eyes widening. "I know you. It took me a minute," he adds, when Hollander’s eyes stare into the floor, shoulders tightening up around his ears, "But hockey's golden boy-god is pretty famous."

"You know hockey?" Hollander asks, almost too quietly so Ilya has to strain to hear.

"I played," he said simply, "In Russia. You were big deal even there, even back then. And before this season, with two back-to-back cups for Montreal? I'm not sure there is hockey fan out there that does not know you."

"Right," Hollander's voice is low, almost disappointed.

"But I do not play, anymore," Ilya adds. "And I will not tell that I met you."

Hollander's eyes snap to his again, holding on for a beat longer than he had before. And Ilya sees the change come over him, sees something in his eyes that has his brain snapping to attention.

"Why don't you play?" he asks hesitantly.

Ilya closes his eyes again, focuses on the cold glass in his hand to push back the memories. "That is long story," he says. "Not for now." Not for ever, since Ilya will never see this man again after tonight. "I should go."

"Wait-," Hollander's hand lifts as if to press against his shoulder, but he pulls it back with a flush and Ilya stills. "I meant it- you can stay here, if you need to."

Ilya stares at him hard for a long minute. "Why?"

"Why?" Hollander echoes, and the question brings Ilya to a screeching halt at the edge of his patience. This whole scenario feels too soft, too gentle for who he is right now, for the life he's lived the last few years, and he can't let himself fall into the kindness any further, needs to make Shane understand that too.

"You do not know me," he reminds the hockey player, tone clipped and sharp. "I am a stranger who you have found in an alley being beaten up for flirting with a man, who you have brought home - not even your home, since if I remember correct you do not live in New York - like some lost cat. I am not the type of man a hockey player like you should be around, so why offer to let me stay?"

Hollander's gaze is intense where it lingers on Ilya's mouth and chin, and after a beat he shrugs with a rueful quirk of the lips.

"No-one should be beaten up for flirting," he says. "And what type of man are you, then, that I shouldn't be hanging around?"

Ilya runs a hand through his hair - too long, now, but Sveta has not come to New York for a while and he's not found a hairdresser he can afford and doesn't want to do it himself - and holds back a frustrated noise and doesn't answer.

"Have you ever intentionally hurt someone? Who didn't deserve it?" Hollander adds the clarifier with a glance at Ilya's bandaged knuckles.

Ilya shakes his head, wants to storm out and leave but can't quite make his feet move.

"Then what have you done wrong, or that's bad enough to make you the 'wrong type' of man?" he presses.

"Hockey is not exactly an inclusive sport," Ilya points out, folding his arms across his stomach. "I am not hiding that I am a bisexual man."

Hollander nods, "I know it isn't," he agrees unexpectedly. "If anyone knows that, it's me. But that doesn't mean that queer players don't exist. Just because they aren't public doesn't mean they aren't there. Doesn't mean that hockey players can't hang out with anyone who isn't straight."

"You say this like you know," Ilya says tiredly.

"Maybe I do," Hollander replies neutrally, offering plausible deniability. Ilya can't stop himself from studying Hollander's face, and through the exhaustion still weighing on him realisation worms through his brain. It's probably more wishful thinking than anything, he tries to convince himself, and rubs a hand across his face to hide whatever his expression is doing.

"You're tired," Hollander says softly, when Ilya can't figure out what to say. "You are welcome to stay, I mean it. But if you really do have to go, please let me call you a cab or something. It's late."

"I cannot afford," Ilya says flatly.

"Then let me pay," Hollander replies, too earnestly. "But you caught at least one fist to the face, and while I'm reasonably certain you don't have a concussion, protocol would have someone checking on you regularly. If you don't have anyone to check on you tonight, I'd feel better if you'd stay here so I can make sure you're okay."

Ilya swears quietly in Russian, wishes he was even a bit stronger to reject this offered kindness. "Fine," he agrees, hands dropping to his sides.

Hollander almost grows in height, relief and something like happiness (Ilya must be really tired, if he's imagining that) lighting up his face. "Okay," he agrees, and Ilya follows him down the corridor to what he's told is the spare bedroom.

"I'm two doors down," he says, "the bathroom is just across the hall. One sec," he disappears as Ilya sways on his feet, looking around the tastefully bland room with the king-sized bed he wants to collapse into. "Towels," Hollander says before he can fall face-forward onto the bedspread. "Feel free to shower, and there's a spare toothbrush on the side in the bathroom. There's a spare t-shirt and some shorts, too, if you want them," he adds. "Sorry I don't have much else with me."

Ilya takes the offered fabrics on autopilot.

"I'm going to bed," Hollander says, when Ilya can't muster up the energy for words. "This is way past my usual bedtime. I'll be up early, but I'll try not to wake you. If you need anything, just knock."

"I might," Ilya nods, and forces out a "thank you" as he's left alone in the room, the door shutting behind him with a quiet "goodnight".

Ilya knows he should shower. He's been up since five a.m. for work, where he's been waiting on tables at a diner for minimum wage - the main perk of which was a free meal once a shift, often his only meal for the day as rent and bills sucked up all of his spare cash.

He's taking as many shifts as he can to pay his way through school - he'd partially qualified in Russia in a Masters Degree in Business Management, but needs to complete this course to make it valid in North America, and he's only got this final semester of two classes to go before he can graduate officially. He’s finally been picking up occasional bar shifts when he can, including tonight, to help with cash flow, but it had made for an extra long day and he's not sure if he’ll be able to keep this up until he’s finished his exams, looming just three weeks away.

Just over a year ago, Svetlana had helped him get his student visa to come over to the U.S., with the plan to finish his degree and find work. He’s only got a few weeks left, knows he’s at risk once he finishes his exams. He needs to start finding employment that will sponsor a proper work visa so he can stay, but hasn't had the energy to think about it properly, too busy trying to just hold the basics of a life together.

And these thoughts are not helping, so he strips down to his underwear and lets himself crawl between the covers. The lamp by the bed is still on but before he can even think of lifting a hand to press the switch, sleep has taken him under.

Chapter 2: Mr. Hockey-Robot

Ilya wakes to bright sunshine directly across a pillow that's plusher than anything he's slept on in years. He rolls over, hisses when his split lip tugs and his knuckles reiterate the pain loudly. He's slept well, possibly better than he has in months, and it's so tempting to just bury his head back in the pillows and return to oblivion.

He can't hear anything or anyone else in the apartment and gets up with great reluctance. His stomach growls loudly and he slaps a hand to it, cracks the door open and darts across the hallway into the open bathroom, shuts and locks the door behind him.

He relieves his bladder, stares for a long minute at the huge glass walk-in shower. He gives into the temptation of it, figures he might as well while he's here, so strips off his underwear and the gauze around his hand and treats himself to a hot shower. The toiletries are good quality, and to his surprise there's both shampoo and conditioner as well as body wash; he hadn't expected much more than a 3-in-1 from a young male athlete. He tries not to linger too long, as he realises he has no idea what time it is and he's got a shift this afternoon at the diner which is at least half an hour walk across town. But he’s barely felt this relaxed for a very long time, the hot water pounding over his shoulders a luxury his own shower could only dream of producing, and it’s not until his stomach growls again that he’s able to convince himself to step out.

He's left the towels and clothes in the bedroom, and stares at himself in the full-length mirror for a second when he can't see any spares in the bathroom. It’s been a long while since he’s had a full view like this and he's lost a fair amount of weight. He'd always prided himself on being in good shape and while there's still some muscle under taut skin, it's ropier than it used to be, his cheekbones and jaw much sharper than before, wild riot of too-long curls around his face only emphasising the contrast. He’s got a bruise blooming from the edge of his mouth down to his jaw, but somehow has missed out on a black eye. The scars on his knee stand out, pale and shiny against the shower-heated pink of his skin, and he looks away.

He cleans his teeth in the hopes the delay will help him air-dry enough to not drip all over the floor, and then has to make a break for it - darting back across the hallway and entering his room as he hears a "hello?" from down the corridor. He towels off quickly, tugs on his trousers again but seeing the large tear in his own shirt pulls on the plain black t-shirt Hollander had provided.

"You okay?" A soft knock on the door.

Ilya opens it, sees Hollander standing on the other side in sweatpants and a plain workout t-shirt, and eyes linger on his lip and then travel down to his hand, which Ilya lifts to offer a better view. The skin is still scab-red and raw, but looks better than it had last night.

"What time is it?" 

"Twelve," Hollander replies and Ilya calculates - he's maybe got another forty minutes until he has to leave, which is both a blessing and a curse. "I made lunch, nothing exciting, but enough for two, if you're hungry?"

Ilya's about to decline when his stomach betrays him with another angry-sounding growl. Hollander seems to take that as acceptance, as he nods and leads the way into the kitchen. Ilya follows reluctantly, but what else is he to do?  

Hollander sets down coffee and Ilya declines milk and sugar, sipping as he sits where Hollander gestures, and before he knows it there's a plate with salmon, broccoli and brown rice in front of him. He raises slightly-judgemental eyebrows to get a shrug back.

"It's the offseason, but I try to eat consistently as much as I can."

And Ilya shouldn't turn down free food, so he digs in. It's surprisingly good, although a little bland, but the salmon at least is cooked well and he can't remember the last time he'd had fresh vegetables prepared so cleanly. Before he knows it, his plate is empty and Hollander's watching him with still half his own meal on his plate.

"Do you want more?" the athlete asks. "I've got, like, bananas, or things to make a smoothie or something?"

Ilya shakes his head; he could eat more but he's not sure he should, stomach full enough, and he doesn’t want to owe the man any more than he already does. 

"Did you sleep okay?"

"Yes," Ilya knows he's being short, knows he's being rude, but this has been a weird twelve hours and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand to sit here like this. He's trying to push away the unwanted thoughts that this could've been him in another life, with the fancy apartment and while he doesn't think he's so naïve as to take in veritable strangers he doesn't know what he would've been like if life had worked out for him the way he'd dreamed just four years ago.

But that life is gone, he reminds himself. Long gone, and there's nothing he can do about it now but keep going.

He waits until Hollander has cleared his plate, and then clears his throat. "I should go."

Hollander stills, watching Ilya as if he's some kind of skittish animal.

"Don't forget your phone," he says eventually, gesturing to where it sits on the side, unmoved from last night. Ilya takes it, checks the single text that's come through which is some kind of spam mail, and it’s a stark reminder that he's got no-one to care now, if he doesn't come home, if he were to disappear. Sveta would work it out if he doesn't do their fortnightly check-in, and his bosses would maybe call to check, but he's easily replaceable and they’ve got their own priorities. His school might check when his next monthly payment doesn't clear, but again he’s one student in a giant university, so he's not high up on anyone’s 'to-check-on' list bar Sveta’s.

"Thank you for the bed, and for the food," Ilya says stiffly, as Hollander clears both of their plates away. "I appreciate it."

Hollander nods, and there's something equally lonely about the way he's paused standing over the sink that has something tugging at Ilya's heartstrings.

"I'm glad you're okay, and that I could help. If- if you ever need anything else, I might be here a while, so you can come back and I'd be happy to help, or even just to go for coffee, or something."

Ilya frowns, "You are not going back to Montreal? Or wherever you go for your summers?"

Hollander's shoulders drop in a sigh through the thin t-shirt as he turns around. "No," he says. "No, I'm in New York for at least a month or so. Maybe longer."

And Ilya's not really following hockey much anymore - who has the time? - but even he knows this is something new, something out of routine, for the generational player. "You are being traded?" he asks carelessly, knowing Hollander likely can't tell him anyway.

But, to his surprise, Hollander holds out a hand, tipping it from side-to-side in a so-so motion. "Maybe. Depends on what could keep me in New York."

And the look that comes with that is so bold that Ilya almost loses his breath. He'd not expected this bit of fire, this almost flirtation, to be on Hollander's face, that he almost laughs.

"Careful," he warns, unable to not push, given this surprise opening, "You could give a stranger ideas, speaking like that."

Hollander shrugs, carefully carelessly, but seems emboldened by the non-rejection. "I'm trying new things."

"Like New York," Ilya says, rolling his mouth around the words, the building tension and potential between them suddenly a lot clearer.

"Like New York," Hollander agrees. "And speaking to strangers. And, maybe, getting his number?"

Ilya can see what that costs Hollander, his eyes dropping to the floor, the awkward nervous shuffle of feet. "I do not think you want this," Ilya shakes his head, "You have your pick of the… sea?"

"Pick of the litter," Hollander corrects. "I think you're thinking 'plenty more fish in the sea'."

Ilya nods, "Yes," he agrees. "So, pick of the litter. Not this," he gestures at himself, the dirty trousers, the t-shirt that hangs awkwardly off his skinny frame.

Hollander tilts his head. "I don't want the pick of the litter," he says. "And I don't know that I do want you, not yet," he adds, and then winces as if he realises how that sounds. "But I find you attractive, and while I'm in New York I would like to see you again. If you want."

"Very bold," Ilya allows. "Very different from what the news say about you, Mr. Hockey Robot."

Hollander winces a little. "Well, the press might take a different tune post-summer, depending," he says cryptically. "And maybe I just want this summer to be me. Not Mr. Hockey Robot, just Shane."

Ilya knows he should just leave and not look back, that this is a bad idea. Even if he says yes, even if they did start something, dating, or whatever, as soon as 'just-Shane' realises how little Ilya has to offer, how much he needs in return, it would all end badly.

But what else does Ilya have? He misses the old, confident, sexy version of himself, and if this something he can feel with Shane Hollander could help him bring that back, even slightly, that might be a tiny win for himself.

And it’s been a long time since someone has been interested in him past a quick bathroom fuck, and Shane must want something more than that to risk being so open. It’s piqued Ilya’s curiosity, and that’s always been his downfall.

"Okay, 'just-Shane'," he finds himself saying before he's consciously made the decision to. "You have phone? Give."

The phone is placed in his outstretched hand, empty contact waiting for him, and he fills in his details.

"Ilya," Hollander reads his name, "It's nice to meet you."

And that's so ridiculous Ilya can't stop his laugh. The man had had him in his home, had tended his wounds and let him sleep and fed him and hadn't even known his name. Hollander's face breaks into a returning smile that cuts off Ilya's breath - like pure sunshine coming out after a long week of grey. He wants to bask in it, laze around in the warmth like a cat, let it soak into his skin until he’s sunburnt tomato-red.

"I need to go," he says, knowing he's cutting it fine. "Or I will be late for work."

"Where do you work?" Hollander asks, and Ilya wonders briefly if he should make something up, something impressive.

"A diner," he tells the truth. Hollander hasn't judged him (openly) so far, and he should know what he's getting into, if this doesn’t put him off. "As a server. But I go to school, too," Hollander's brows draw together slightly. "And I bartend, on occasion," Ilya finishes. "Like last night."

"You have time for all that?"

Ilya shrugs, "I have to. Cannot afford rent, otherwise. New York is expensive city, you know."

Shane's mouth twists into an unhappy little moue, and Ilya breezes right past it. "Well, it was nice to meet you, just-Shane."

"Let me call you a car," Shane blurts. "You said you'll be late? They're usually here within five minutes, it'll get you to work much faster."

Ilya frowns, more at the temptation that that brings up in him than at the offer. Shane's already tapping at his phone, but looks up in question before pressing the final button. Ilya nods, curious despite himself, and there's a flicker of relief as Shane finishes the request.

He gets a response almost immediately, and tells Ilya they'll take him wherever he wants to go when they arrive in five minutes.

"What if I want to go to Vegas?" Ilya asks, half-teasing.

Shane huffs a laugh, shrugs, "They'd probably take you to Vegas," he says. "I could afford that, if you wanted to."

And that's touching something Ilya doesn't want to think about. A short car ride to the diner is something he'll allow himself this once, but he won't think about the sheer gap between the two of them and how Hollander could probably buy everything in Ilya's possession a million times over and have more to spare.

They stand in the kitchen for another couple of minutes watching each other, neither apparently willing to make the next move, a comfortable tension simmering in the air between them.

But Shane gets a two minute warning too quickly, and Ilya can't help himself. He steps closer, sees Shane go still, eyes tracking Ilya's hand as he lifts it to the square line of his jaw, lets his fingertips brush down the edge softly. There's barely any stubble there, he must have shaven this morning - or maybe he's not the type to grow much hair, anyway - but he can feel Shane's eyes on his face as he watches his own hand cradle Shane’s jaw, press his thumb into the softness of his chin.

He wants to kiss him, wants to see what the other man will do, but the cut on his lip will make it awkward and he’s not having their first kiss marred by something so stupid. If he’s going to have the miraculous opportunity to seduce the Shane Hollander, he’s fucking doing it right, and that means waiting, for now.

"Thank you," Ilya says, Shane's eyes meeting his briefly before dropping back down to his mouth. "I will not tell any one about this, but I will not forget."

He feels more than sees Shane sway lightly into him as he drops his hand and steps away, regretting it almost immediately.

"What's your last name?" Shane asks, as Ilya shoves his feet into his shoes.

"Rozanov," Ilya flashes him a grin as he opens the front door. "See you around, just-Shane."

His shift isn't as hectic as some have been, and Ilya returns home at 11pm to flop onto the mattress, the rickety bed frame creaking underneath him. He's been better fed today, between Shane's lunch and the free diner meal, and his stomach is silent for once as he digs out his last packet of cigarettes. He's only got two left, so tucks the packet back into the bedside drawer, saving them for more of an emergency, and finds his phone to put it on charge instead; finds texts waiting.

18:43 | From: Shane

Hello, Ilya.
This is Shane.
It was nice to meet you today.
Well, yesterday, I suppose, really, but.
Sorry, that was silly. Ignore that. Please.
Would you want to go for coffee anytime soon?
I know you're busy with work and school, but I can be pretty flexible, so please let me know when works for you.

Ilya almost snorts - such a polite, Canadian boy. 

23:39 | To: Shane

Hi Shane
Yes
Sunday a.m.?

He sticks his phone on the side, not expecting a reply this late. Shane, he thinks, is the type to be in bed by 10pm, having read a nice (boring) book for half an hour and drinking something equally as boring like chamomile tea. Not that Ilya is much different, though more by necessity than choice, given his lack of friends and funds.

But he feels better than usual today, and he knows it's because he's been able to rest more - both the long lie-in and the car ride back across New York. He does a few of his exercises, and they seem to come easier. He wonders if it's the food in him, or everything else that has pushed a bit of light through the usual exhaustion of his days.

And he's always got through it, day by day, reminding himself this is only temporary. He needs to study to work to get a permanent visa, and once he's had that he'll be free from the risk of being sent home and all that would come with it.

He hadn't expected this check into the boards that threatens to derail him from his exhausting but necessary routine. He closes his eyes, imagines the soft linens of Shane's guest bed, and lets it carry him off into sleep.

His alarm wakes him at 5 a.m. the next morning, ready for an early shift at the diner before his class. He gets three options for his commute: a thirty minute walk plus twelve minute subway ride; a two-hour walk; or an hour run. He rarely does the last, the energy it requires isn't something he has often but but he’s feeling good enough today to attempt it. His knee is feeling loose, he's not had any issues with it despite his constant low-grade worry, and his shoulders are relaxed. He packs his things and puts on his better trainers - the ones where the grip hasn't worn down entirely smooth - and Shane's t-shirt (more breathable than most of his, and he's hoping the athlete has enough he won't want this one back), and starts a slow jog down the street. His knee doesn't bother him more than usual, so he picks up the pace and weaves down the pavements, still quiet and empty at this time of day.

He arrives at the diner and accepts a plate of eggs and toast, wheedles a sausage out of Dolly, the cook and GM, and downs a glass of water before changing and starting his shift proper. Dolly’s tsked disapprovingly at his cut lip and then spotted the state of his hands, so makes him wrap his knuckles again with gauze she keeps in the back, since Ilya doesn't own nor can he really be bothered to pay for his own first aid kit at home.

He clocks off at 12, nabs one last piece of toast for lunch and hops on the bus down to the college.

He checks his phone; smothers the smile at the waiting text.

06:11 | From: Shane

Sunday morning works for me.
Would 10am work for you? Is that too late?
Where would be best to meet? I can get anywhere, really, so I'm happy to go wherever you recommend.

12:24 | To: Shane

10 is good
by central park?
straw+berry do good coffee or other drinks
weather looks good, could go for walk?

Class is quiet, as usual; he's only got maybe another fifteen classmates but many of them don't bother coming to the Friday seminar sessions, so there's only about six of them in the room when the instructor comes through.

It's a good class though, he knows most of the content required, he just needs to be able to translate it into English properly. There are a few things that they do differently over here too, so he makes sure to take careful notes but he's not made many mistakes yet. 

There's one guy, Cliff, who's spoken to Ilya a few times and helped him with some of the more technical language. He’s a Boston native, so also a bit of a transplant, but here to support his sister while she lives out her dreams of becoming an actress in the big city, and is filling in his spare time by doing something that interests him. Why that's business management Ilya's never asked, but he nods in greeting as Cliff drops in the seat next to him with a quiet grunt, five minutes after class starts.

"You okay?" Cliff asks quietly, leaning over and glancing pointedly at Ilya's wrapped knuckles.

His hands flex reflexively, and he nods. "Yes. Just drunk dickheads being dickheads."

Cliff nods and leans back, willing to leave it there, and Ilya appreciates the silent vote of confidence. 

Class passes quickly, and Ilya checks his phone as he leaves the classroom.

13:41 | From: Shane

That sounds great!
I’ll see you on Sunday at 10am, at straw+berry then.
Looking forward to it :)

14:03 | To: Shane

ok
See you then
))

He’s got another bar shift that night, and it doesn’t make sense to go all the way home when he’d just have to head back this way, so finds a quiet space in the library to study for the three hours he has before his shift. 

He changes into his only spare black shirt in the college bathrooms, and bites the bullet and looks at his bank balances to see if he can afford another one. And he thinks maybe, if he can find a thrift store or something where there might be one for cheap. He’ll keep an eye out over the next few days, and reassess depending. It’ll be tight, but tighter if he loses this job for being in the wrong uniform.

Friday night passes without further fanfare; he doesn’t flirt with anyone tonight, not in the mood, and he’s not sure anyone would be interested with his split lip anyway - though it’s looking much better already, there’s still an unattractive shade of yellow-green bruising smeared across the surrounding skin.

Ilya gets home about four a.m. and sleeps through until eleven, when his alarm goes off and he drags himself up for an eight-hour Saturday shift at the diner, which turns into almost twelve when his relief doesn't show up.

He spends his breaks feeling a little bit guilty for googling Shane Hollander, but he’s curious about what brings the man to New York. Although Montreal had started the season off strong again, but once Hollander had been injured their performance had suffered. There are many articles about dynamics changing on the ice, about rumoured locker room problems, and Ilya knows that Shane’s sexuality must have played a part somehow. But how bad must it be for the man who’d essentially had an entire legacy franchise rebuilt around him to think about leaving, for Montreal to even consider allowing that?

He looks up the hockey league in quick snatched breaks, catches up. The New York Admirals had a good playoff run, but were knocked out of the second playoff round by San Jose last week. They’ve been playing well, when their captain Scott Hunter gets his shit together, but that’s currently so unpredictable as to be entirely useless. He’s also ancient, thinks Ilya, so it makes sense that they’d be courting Shane as he approaches his peak, setting up a replacement for a good medium-term run.

Dolly is kind to him and stays to clean the kitchen as he mops the floor and they close together, so he’s able to collapse in bed before 1 a.m.. He’s suddenly very glad Shane didn’t want to meet any earlier than ten, and before he can panic about what to wear, sleep is dragging him away.

Chapter 3: Mr. Fashionable

The sun is glaring across New York when Ilya surfaces on Sunday, his phone buzzing softly in reminder. He’s got two hours until he has to meet Shane, which means an hour before he has to leave his apartment for the walk and subway over towards Central Park.

He drags himself into his shitty shower, washes his hair and slicks it back - it really is way too long, but he’s not going to risk taking the scissors to it himself. The last time he’d tried that had been a nightmare, and he’d rather have to find the money to buy a hair tie than look that stupid all over again. He shaves the stubble gracing his jaw, rubs a bit of moisturiser into the skin and tries not to notice how low the level in his jar is.

He finds a clean pair of jeans and one of his few t-shirts without any holes. It’s baggier than it used to be and he ignores again how much weight he’s lost, tucks it into his jeans instead to make the oversized-ness look more intentional. His nicer running shoes go on his feet, wallet, phone and keys in his pockets and leaves without a jacket.

It’s a gorgeous day, and Ilya lets himself fade into the noise and smells and sights of New York as he walks through it. He likes the city, how he could easily get absorbed into it without ever getting truly lost. Likes that neighbourhoods in general did seem to look after one another, if you were there long enough, but people would otherwise leave you alone. Likes the variety of people, of accents, of languages, so that he never feels too alien, too out of place. He’s glad he’s here, of all the places he could have ended up, and lets himself bask in the introspection for once rather than the little voice calling him silly for thinking such things.

A subway ride and short walk later, Shane’s already waiting for him when he arrives, standing outside straw+berry in a baseball cap and a denim jacket over jeans which shouldn’t have worked but did. He’s glancing at his phone, and doesn’t look uncomfortable, but there’s definitely something a little unsure about the way he’s standing. But he straightens when he notices Ilya crossing the street, relief entering his expression and Ilya wonders if Shane had been worried that he wouldn’t turn up.

“Hi,” Shane speaks first as Ilya reaches him.

“Hello,” Ilya replies, a little cautious. Shane’s clearly sort of comfortable with his sexuality, at least so far as he can insinuate and implicate when they’re on their own, but Ilya doesn’t know how that translates to a public space.

“How are you?”

The banality, the politeness of it makes Ilya want to smile, but he replies just as politely. “Good. You?”

“Yeah, good thanks. Should we?” Shane gestures to the door and Ilya nods, pulls it open and holds it.

“After you,” he purrs. Shane ducks his head and the tiniest hint of pink graces the back of his neck as he steps inside the store, which Ilya files away for future reference.

It’s relatively quiet inside; there’s a man perched by the front window sipping a smoothie, a group of three friends sat down the side, another person a couple of tables behind them studiously reading a book.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” The brunette at the counter is handsome, but Ilya clocks the way he keeps glancing over to the man by the window, looking absurdly guilty for doing so each time.

“A peanut-banana smoothie, please,” Shane requests, studiously avoiding the stupid names next to each of the lines. Blue Moon over Brooklyn - Ilya holds back a derisive snort.

“Black coffee, please,” he adds when the barista turns to him, glad it’s not overly extortionate for a place like this; he can afford a $3 coffee.

“Together or separate?”

“Together,” Shane replies before Ilya can say the latter, and Ilya watches as he hands over more cash than the total, waving off the change for a generous tip.

“Hollander?” a voice asks, and Shane glances at Ilya in ill-concealed panic before turning to the man from the window seat, now standing a metre or so away.

“Hunter,” Shane greets, painfully neutral. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Ilya watches, keeps himself still and hopefully unnoticed as the two hockey players speak. “How’re you liking New York? The apartment okay?”

“Yeah, yes, thanks,” Shane nods. “I’m liking it so far, I think. Looking forward to seeing what the rink is like, next.”

“Sounds about right. The GM and Coach have set up a tour and all that?”

“Yes, on Wednesday.”

“Cool, I’ll try and make sure I’m around too, give you a proper insider's view. For now though I’ll leave you be. Didn’t mean to interrupt - but thought it’d be ruder not to say hi.”

The barista calls their drinks, and Ilya steps forward to collect both of them with a tight smile, and turns to stride out of the coffee shop without acknowledging Hunter, who’d stepped up to the counter. Ilya glances back as the door shuts and, ah, that makes sense, he thinks, glancing at Shane. Scott Hunter was on the older end of hockey guys to not yet be married, and there’d been limited gossip in the rags about him sleeping around with women - and what would be a more inclusive team for Shane than one with a queer captain?

“Thanks for coffee,” Ilya says, handing over Shane’s smoothie as they step into the sun, crossing the road without verbal agreement and heading for the park.

“Thanks for, uh,” Shane clearly can’t find a nice way to say 'being quiet and unnoticed in there'.

Ilya waves him off. “I am not interested in meeting ancient hockey relic Hunter,” he says, and there’s a startled beat, before a surprised laugh comes out of Shane’s chest that has Ilya holding back a satisfied grin.

The park is relatively busy, with locals and tourists alike out and enjoying the sunshine. Ilya and Shane pass through unnoticed in the crowd, and Ilya notices Shane relax with every few minutes that he’s left unbothered by the masses.

“That bad in Montreal, huh?” Ilya asks, as Shane smiles politely in greeting to a little old lady who passes them both. “The fans?”

“It’s not, uh, bad,” Shane says, “I just- even if they know who I am here, they clearly don’t really give a shit.”

Ilya barks a laugh. “Benefits of New York,” he agrees. “You are really thinking of moving?”

Shane sighs, sips his smoothie. “I- maybe. Do you think I should?”

“I do not know you well enough to have any say,” Ilya says pragmatically, even as he wishes that he did, that he could crack open that polite shell and see what makes a man this dedicated to his sport tick.

“We could change that,” Shane suggests, cutting right to the heart of Ilya’s newest, deepest desire. “If you wanted.”

Ilya shrugs, sidesteps the offer before he grabs it with both hands like a greedy dragon. “I do not know New York well enough to say. I have only been here a year or so.”

“Longer than me,” Shane points out. “What made you come here?”

Ilya glances at him, sips his coffee, debates whether or not to tell him. “I could not stay in Russia,” he summarises. “New York seemed as good a place as any.”

Shane clearly wants to ask more questions, but is distracted as a kid comes tearing past him. He leans out the way, a little too far and trips, falling sideways into Ilya who wraps one arm around his waist to catch him.

“Sorry,” Shane’s head turns towards his, lips close enough to kiss and Ilya’s so fucking tempted but in a show of heroic restraint ensures Shane is steady enough on his feet and lets go.

“Is okay,” Ilya nods, heart thumping a little too heavily, but they start walking again, veering off slightly closer to the edges of the path to hopefully avoid more speeding children.

“So, Hunter,” Ilya drawls before Shane can pick up his line of questioning. “Is one of the reasons you are thinking New York? He’s out, in the league?”

Shane blinks. “What- how?”

Ilya smirks in satisfaction at being proven right. “He spends far too long with heart eyes at the barista.”

“The barista?”

“At straw+berry,” Ilya explains slowly. “They are at least fucking, if not in a relationship.”

“Really?” Shane cranes his head back quickly, as if he could see for himself, although the shop is long out of view.

Ilya smirks a little, and watches Shane’s eyes drop to his mouth and then immediately to the ground, pink gracing his cheeks again.

“Really,” Ilya nods, tossing his cup in the bin as he swallows the final dregs, Shane doing the same not long after. 

Shane tells him that Scott’s not out to the wider league, but had got in touch when the rumours about Shane had flown out of Montreal once he’d told his own teammates. They’d spoken more over the season, even gone for a beer after a game in New York at a gay bar in the village with some of his teammates who’d been so unbothered by it all that it had made Shane think about what he wanted from his own team - and found them sorely lacking. And Ilya is furious on Shane’s behalf that his team have treated him so shittily, but glad that even an old man like Hunter reached out to offer a safe place for Shane to move to.

They walk together a little longer, and it gets a little less crowded as they go deeper into the park, further from the exits.

“I’m sorry,” Shane blurts after five minutes of silence between them. “I’m not good at this.”

Ilya frowns, and takes Shane’s hand to tug him down a less well-maintained side path.

“Oh, you’ll murder me now?” Shane asks as Ilya lets go when they’re alone, hidden on all sides by trees and foliage.

“No,” Ilya sighs exasperatedly. “Tell me what you mean. What are you not good at?”

“This,” Shane gestures between the two of them, “The whole... dating thing.”

“... Dating... thing?”

“Fuck, exactly,” Shane takes his cap off, tugs at his hair, looking a little distressed. Ilya steps forward, places a hand on an impressive shoulder and Shane stills under his touch.

“I think you are fine at this whole dating thing,” Ilya says plainly, and is relieved to see Shane relax an iota. “Why do you think you are not?”

“I mean, today, I didn’t even introduce you in the coffee shop-”

“I did not want to be introduced,” Ilya counter-argues, “Next.”

“I keep asking the wrong thing. Like why you came here, and-.”

“They are not wrong questions,” Ilya interrupts again. “They have-,” he searches for the right word, gives up, “sad answers. I do not want to ruin such a nice day with tragic... back-tale?”

“Backstory.”

Ilya nods. “That. Next.”

“We just, we’re not even talking?” Shane sounds bewildered. “I thought, on dates, that’s- that people talked?”

Ilya sighs, takes a closer step forward and gets to see soft brown eyes for a long second before Shane looks away.

“I am sorry,” he says, and Shane’s gaze returns to his again in surprise. “I did not mean to make you worry. But I thought it was nice, yes? Walking through the park, unbothered by people, giving you chance to relax in public. I do not need to speak to enjoy time with you, but if you want to talk then we can talk as much as you like.

“And I am sorry I made you feel like you could not ask questions,” he continues, glancing down at his hands, at healing knuckles. “I do not have many happy stories, right now. I am not used to sharing. I had therapy for a few months, but I could not afford in the US, so it has been a while since I have had to speak about myself in a way that matters, and I am… rust?”

Shane’s face is softer than Ilya’s seen it yet and it makes him feel weirdly vulnerable, but he thinks he’s got his point across.

“Rusty,” Shane corrects softly. “Thank you.”

“So, I am not good at this ‘dating thing’ either,” Ilya warns. “You can call me out, when I avoid questions. I will tell you if they are sad answers, too sad for then. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane nods, and Ilya gives in, lets his hand lift, trace along Shane’s jaw; wonders how many more times it will take until he’s memorised the lines of it, the soft whispers of stubble. Wonders if he’ll ever have enough.

“I know this is fast, and intense but, will you,” Shane asks softly, his hand rising to hold Ilya’s against his jaw when he stills. “Will you tell me, too, if I do something wrong? I- I’m also speaking to a therapist, but I don’t generally deal well with change, with new routines, and this whole thing is a lot for me, to be honest. But I think I’d feel better if I knew you would tell me if I fuck up, or if you need something that I'm not picking up on.”

“I can do that,” Ilya agrees. “We can try to be honest with each other.”

“That sounds good,” Shane turns his head, presses a soft kiss to Ilya’s fingertips. Ilya watches intently, does his best to engrave the image into his eyelids so he’ll see it every time he blinks, the softest tilt of Shane’s head, the smallest parting of his lips as he holds them to Ilya’s fingers.

He leans in, pulls his hand away and, as Shane chases forward with the tiniest sound of disagreement, replaces his fingertips with his lips.

Shane’s mouth is as soft and plush under his own as he’d only let himself imagine in his dreams. They both linger for a long moment, barely brushing their lips back and forth as they learn the shape of each other, and Ilya’s about to press forward when there’s a sharp squeal and a shout of “Charlie, no!” in the trees nearby and they spring apart.

Shane’s blushing and Ilya would be too, if Russian’s blushed. He wants to step back in, say fuck the world, press himself up against Shane and take everything he has to offer and then everything else, too. 

“We should go,” Ilya tilts his head towards the way they’d come. “I have work tonight, and the day is wasting.”

Shane nods, readjusts his cap and follows, brushes their fingers together briefly before they step out onto the more public path. 

“Tell me about you and hockey,” Ilya demands. “Why did you start playing?”

And Shane talks, and talks, and talks, as they continue walking. They loop through the park, aim for an exit when it gets too crowded and end up in the backstreets, taking random lefts and rights while never getting too far away from their original meeting point. Shane tells him about growing up in Ottawa, about getting his first skates at the age of three, about being able to skate practically before he could walk. About his parents, encouraging but never overly-pushy for the most part. About doing well enough at school, but knowing hockey was it for him, knowing he’d throw everything at it to get where he was. Being drafted by Montreal, making friends on the team - Hayden and J.J. come up the most in subsequent stories - winning the cup in his third year there, his second as captain, and doing it again the following year. He’d come out to his team after their second cup win, and Shane’s enthusiasm wanes a little as he mentions the latest season, how his colleague’s attitudes had changed towards him until he was carrying what felt like the entire team and it had been something of a relief when a bad check left him with a fractured collarbone and on Injury Reserve from the thirty-second game onwards, at which point Montreal had crashed and burned, not even making it to the playoffs.

Ilya absorbs the information, asks questions, talks about hockey theory and what tactics and knowledge he remembers from almost making it to the draft himself. Shane’s clearly happy to have someone to talk about the sport with, even if some of Ilya’s knowledge is outdated; but Ilya’s becoming determined to learn again, to start checking the most recent updates when the season comes around again. He makes outraged noises when Shane mentions how shittily his teammates had treated him, and Shane seems pleased at Ilya’s passionate defence of him.

Ilya tells him a little about himself, in return. He mentions Svetlana, how they’d grown up together and she’d helped him resettle in the US, but that they don’t see each other often given her busy job and the distance between Boston and New York. He talks a little about school, about his classes and tutors, a little about the diner and his favourite colleagues.

Shane listens back just as attentively, asks questions about how he’d found moving here, about how he’d adapted, what classes he was taking and how he liked them.

“Would you tell me why you didn’t go to the draft?” Shane asks eventually. “I googled you, and saw a few of your tapes. You were really good, but I couldn’t find anything about why you stopped.”

“It is sad,” Ilya warns, “The details. But it was an injury,” he summarises the heartbreak and pain, the shock and horror into a single little sentence. “My knee. I had several surgeries in Moscow, but by the time it was healed enough, it was too late.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane’s eyes are a little glassy, like he’s holding back tears on Ilya’s behalf.

“Ah, who knows,” Ilya teases, tries to lighten the mood, “Maybe I come first in the draft our year, without it. Kept beating you our entire hockey lives, Ilya Rozanov number one, Shane Hollander just a runner-up.”

“Asshole,” Shane hip-checks him lightly, but is laughing. “Your videos were good, but not that good. I think you’d’ve been chasing after me for it all, always in second place.”

Ilya laughs, hip-checks Shane back, and then sees the sign for a thrift store just ahead.

“Do you mind?” he asks Shane, gesturing. “I need a new work shirt, after Wednesday.”

“Sure,” Shane nods, and follows Ilya inside. He browses the racks of men’s shirts but can’t find anything that would suit, and even has a peek through the women’s just in case, but even though there’s a couple of black shirts, neither would fit him. There’s some other nice shirts, a gorgeous vintage print that he’d have bought without a thought back in Russia, but he reluctantly leaves them on the hangers and tells himself when he gets a full-time job he’ll save a whole pot of money for a new wardrobe.

“Is it just a black shirt you need?” Shane asks. “I’ve got a few spare, if you want to borrow one.”

Ilya’s sorely tempted, but “yours must all be designer,” he points out, “and tailored. You dress well, Mr. Fashionable.”

Shane glances down at himself and blushes. “This, ah, this is all Rose,” he admits. “Rose Landry?” He asks, as if Ilya doesn’t know who one of the most famous actresses of the time is, hadn’t stared at the papped photos of her and Shane out together on his google spree with an unwarranted degree of jealousy. “We met my first year after being drafted, and became really good friends, until she told me she couldn’t be seen with me in public looking like I was only ever going back and forth to the gym,” he laughs. “So we got a stylist for a bit, pulled together a new wardrobe.”

“They did a good job, then,” Ilya compliments. “Does not mean your shirts will fit me.”

“I mean, they might be a bit loose on you, but honestly, I barely wear them. I don’t really like the black-on-black, I always feel a bit… funereal.”

“Funereal?” Ilya sounds out the unknown word.

“Yeah, like I’m going to a funeral, or a wake, or something?” Shane explains. “Most of my jackets and outerwear are black, so I try to wear lighter shirts. Keep it classic.”

“Boring,” Ilya teases, rolling his eyes. “But, if you’re sure, then I would appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Shane nods. “Of course. Do you- today? We can go back via my apartment? I think I’ve got one there you can have.”

Ilya checks his phone, it’s going on two (and how has four hours gone so quickly?) so he’s still got another hour before he needs to go.

“Sure. Maybe we go now?”

“Yeah. We could grab lunch, maybe, and eat it at mine?” Shane suggests. “I’m kind of hungry.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Food, shirt, and then I should go.”

So decided, Shane takes them past a Japanese place he’d found and liked on the way back to his apartment and he pays for a platter of sushi and other bits and pieces.

“In spirit of honesty, I do not like that you pay for everything,” Ilya says as they leave the restaurant.

Shane almost trips, hand tightening around the plastic bag he holds. “I mean, I want to?”

Ilya nods. “And I appreciate the… feeling?”

“Sentiment.”

Ilya memorises the word. “I do appreciate it,” he repeats, trying to make sure Shane understands. “But I am a proud man,” he admits. “I do not want to rely on you so much that it feels like charity.”

“It wouldn’t be charity,” Shane argues. “I have money, more than I know what to do with, really. And I donate, and all that, but the number still grows, so. It would be nice,” he adds, quieter, “to spend it on something, someone that I want to.”

Ilya sighs, “I understand,” he admits. “But can you understand that I want this to be an equal partnership, if we continue? I do not want to feel like you are my sugar daddy, that does not work for me. There is good competition in a relationship, I think, good to push each other on, to grow. And then there is this, where I cannot make myself equal, not immediately.”

He’s pleased when Shane really seems to think about it for a long moment.

“Okay,” he accepts. “You can tell me when it gets too much?”

Ilya nods in agreement, and follows Shane again up the back stairs to his apartment. They sit, a little too close, ankles pressing together under the table, tentatively at first but then more firmly as neither pull away. Ilya cleans up their lunch as Shane hunts through his closet and emerges with a black shirt from Armani. Ilya’s not had such nice clothing for a long time and while it hangs a little loose, it fits Ilya’s frame otherwise okay and the fabric feels luxurious against his skin. He mostly enjoys the way Shane’s eyes trace his chest and arms as he slides the shirt off his bare torso and folds it to carry home.

Ilya steps forward, and Shane lets him, taking tiny steps back with Ilya’s forward press until his back is to the wall and there’s nowhere left to go. Ilya almost preens as Shane swallows, gaze fixed on his mouth; wants to press in, devour him, strip him bare and fuck him right against the wall.

“Have you slept with men before?” Ilya asks lowly, hand cradling Shane’s face, thumb tracing along his lower lip.

“No,” Shane admits, and Ilya isn’t proud of the way his ears roar, blood starts to pound, demand to be the first surges through his chest. “You have?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, presses his thumb into the dip of Shane’s lower lip until it breaches his mouth, teeth scrape lightly as he pushes the pad down on Shane’s tongue. “In Russia, as a teen, with my coach’s son. And then here, but only ever one-night-stands. I have not had anything real. No relationships, no dating. Nothing like this.”

He groans quietly as Shane’s lips seals around the base of his thumb and soft suction tugs in wet heat. He presses down a little harder, curls his fingers under Shane’s chin until he stops, lips parting to breathe in shakily; removes his thumb, paints the wetness along Shane's thick bottom lip so it glistens in the lingering afternoon light.

“Is that what you want? A fuck?” Ilya asks quietly, and something in Shane’s eyes goes liquid and dark and Ilya has to take a long, slow breath.

“I want,” Shane pauses, swallows, “I want whatever you will give me.”

“Fuck,” Ilya presses his mouth to Shane’s in desperate demand, the surrender Shane offers only making him want more, more, more.

He presses in close, can feel Shane’s erection pressing into his hip, his own tight against his jeans. How can he go to work now, knowing how good this feels?

Tongues press, explore, soft gasps break the rhythm of heavy breathing; Shane’s hands slide up Ilya’s back to clutch at his shoulder blades, nails digging in lightly, and Ilya’s own hands take advantage, one sliding under Shane’s shirt to trace the lines of his abs, the other holding his face and tilting it to the optimal angle for deeper, wetter kisses.

“Ilya,” Shane gasps, turns his head for a second to breathe and Ilya steps away while it’s still possible, while he’s still got a functional brain cell.

“Ilya,” Shane whispers again, a little pleading, hands fluttering restlessly as they fall to his side.

“I have to go to work,” Ilya explains, knows he’s cutting it fine if he’s not late already. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Shane huffs, closes his eyes, breathes long and slow, and nods when he reopens them, watches as Ilya shrugs on his t-shirt. 

“Maybe not entirely,” Ilya agrees, “But, to make up for this,” he’s helpless to resist leaning in for one last kiss, “next time, you can choose whether my hand or my mouth gets you off first.” He winks, slaps Shane’s cheek lightly and presses a quick kiss to his mouth, slack under his as he processes the offer, and steps back with a grin as Shane’s brain reboots. “Text me.”

He stuffs his feet in his shoes and slips out as Shane watches, still leaning against the wall. Ilya has to adjust himself in the hallway, forces himself not to think about next time else he won’t make it into work at all.

Chapter 4: Mr. Eager Beaver

Chapter Notes

explicit rating is relevant from this chapter onwards

Ilya wakes earlier than usual on Monday, though it’s still after 9am. He’d worked until 2am, got home around 3, but has more energy than he’d expected.

06:34 | From: Shane

Good morning :)

Ilya smiles at the text, knows he’s being a little sappy as he sends back the same. He allows himself ten minutes to laze in bed, doomscrolls for a minute, does a bit more googling of hockey news but there’s little given it’s the offseason.

He gets up when his stomach growls, paws through his kitchen and finds some eggs that are still good and scrambles them up. He’s not got many groceries left, and with a week to go until payday isn’t sure he’s got the spare cash for much more. He’s got a diner shift almost every day but today and Friday this week, so at least he’ll have one meal most days.

09:43 | From: Shane

What does your week look like?
I would like to see you again, if you’re free.

Ilya replies, offers up some of his free time (Tuesday night, Wednesday afternoon, Friday afternoon), but keeps some to make sure he’s got time to study as his exams are in two weeks.

10:00 | From: Shane

Would you want to come over tomorrow night?
We could get takeout and hang out?

Ilya can’t help a grin.

10:04 | To: Shane

Mr. Eager Beaver
okay, tomorrow
I finish class at 5pm, maybe take thirty minutes to get to you
send address )

Ilya notices Shane doesn’t dispute the ‘eager’ comment and feels his heart thud behind his ribs. He’s met this man all of twice, and can’t quite believe that Shane even feels a fraction of what Ilya currently does for him, but the evidence is pointing in a positive direction.

Shane sends his address, and Ilya declines the offer of a car - it had been helpful last time when he was on a deadline, but this feels a step too far into indulgence. He gets up, goes through the motions of the day; attends class, does a short shift at the diner before returning home for his stretches and then bed. 

Tuesday passes mostly in a reversal of the same, a diner shift in the morning and class after lunch. 

“Got any plans today?” Cliff asks offhandedly as they pack up their books.

“Yes,” Ilya replies. “Going to a friend’s.”

“Ah, sure,” Cliff nods, and Ilya frowns. 

“Did you need something?”

“Ah, not really,” Cliff shakes his head, slings his backpack onto his shoulder. “Was just wondering if you’d want to study together, or something. Not entirely sure I’m ready for the final in a couple of weeks.”

“I cannot today, but maybe after class on Friday?” he offers.

“That’d be great, if you’re sure?”

Ilya nods, and Cliff smiles at him broadly. They part ways, and Ilya walks the ten blocks up to Shane’s apartment. If only he lived around here, he thinks a little wistfully. He doesn’t mind the subway, and at least his workplaces are all close together around here, as well as school, but it would be nice not to have to spend so much time or money on public transit. Not that even with those savings he’d be able to afford even the shittiest of apartments around here, he concedes.

The door opens almost as soon as Ilya texts Shane, and he’s a little surprised but immediately turned on by the buzzing energy emanating from the other man. He ducks inside, and Shane swallows as Ilya backs him up against the stairwell wall, the fire door shutting with a loud smack behind him.

“Hello, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, watches Shane watch his mouth move and wonders, hopes, that this oral fixation transfers to sex too.

“Hi,” Shane breathes back. Ilya leans in, holds back a smirk as Shane sways into him and Ilya pulls away at the last second, starts to take the stairs two at a time.

He hears a muttered “asshole” and knows Shane hears his returning laugh, as the hockey player catches up quickly and then they’re racing up the stairs, side-by-side, both grinning wildly at the silly competition.

Ilya drops his backpack by the front door, toes off his shoes as Shane presses him up against it, kisses him a little hesitantly. Ilya’s having none of that, presses back into him and is pleased when Shane makes a little happy noise and kisses him harder. His lip is still a tiny bit sore, but the whisper of pain makes the whole thing a little hotter, and he bites at Shane’s lip to offer the same sensation.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, breaking off and turning them both so that Shane’s now pinned against the door. “You want this? Now? You do not want to wait, watch your boring TV, eat dinner first?”

Shane breathes heavily, his hands gripping at Ilya’s waist and lower back. “Do you?” he returns.

“I want to take you apart,” Ilya promises, and sees the way something in Shane eases, wonders how far he can take him. “But you have not done this before, and I do not want to push too far. Do not want you to regret.”

Shane’s hands soften, stroke a little, as if petting a cat. Ilya doesn’t hate it.

“I want this,” Shane murmurs. “I- this is my first time with a man, but I’ve thought about it, a lot. But you feel it too, right? This- between us? It’s not just me?”

“I do,” Ilya acknowledges seriously, sees the relief in Shane, and then grins, “how much is 'a lot'?”

Shane blushes and smacks a hand against his arm. “Fuck off.”

“I think you would rather I fuck you,” Ilya denies, and kisses him again. “Come.”

Ilya takes Shane’s hand, leads him through the apartment, hesitates in front of the guest bedroom but Shane pushes him gently two doors down to his own. 

The bedroom is neat, everything in its place, navy blue bedspread turned down like a hotel.

“You have enough pillows?” Ilya can’t help but ask, staring at the ridiculous number on the bed.

“Fuck off,” Shane replies, almost reflexively. “I, uh, hired a designer when I leased this place and they just set it up like this.”

Ilya grins, turns to see Shane standing by the other edge of the bed, watching Ilya.

“You’re clean?” Ilya asks. “Tested?”

Shane nods. “Every year with work. I’ve not had sex with anyone since the last test, so.”

“I had test three months ago,” Ilya says, having had a quick blow-job in the bathroom at a bar while working and booked an appointment immediately. One of the good things about his college was the attached student clinic, which offered free STD tests to any of their registered students. “Was clean, and used condoms the one time since.”

Shane nods, and then stands there, hands restless by his side as if he’s not sure what to do with them.

“Come here,” he says, and Shane is saying, “No, you come here,” in relief, even as his feet start to cross the distance between them. Feeling generous, Ilya meets him in the middle, presses his hands to Shane’s face to hold him as he controls the kiss, holds Shane back when he tries to deepen it too fast, too soon.

“On your knees,” he murmurs, pulling away, and the heady rush of pleasure and satisfaction is almost dangerous in its intensity as Shane does what he asks without question. He slides a hand into Shane’s hair, watches as the hockey player leans forward, presses his cheek against the bulge at Ilya’s zipper, turns to place a soft kiss on denim.

“Fuck,” Ilya tugs at his button, pulls Shane up to push him back towards the bed. “Strip.”

Shane does as asked, and Ilya’s so fucking charmed as he neatly folds his clothes, places them carefully on the floor in contrast to Ilya tossing them immediately out the way.

“Lie down,” Ilya gestures to the bed with his chin and Shane backs up onto the bed, shifts so he’s stretched out, elbows under his shoulders to lift his torso so he can watch Ilya, standing at the foot of the bed so he can just admire the ripples of thick muscle as Shane moves.

“Did you think about it?” Ilya asks, as he sees a hint of self-consciousness enter Shane’s expression.

“About what?”

“Sunday. My parting offer. What did you choose, to make you come first?”

“Oh,” Shane’s face blushes so prettily, freckles standing out as pink tints his nose and cheeks. “I- uh, your mouth?”

“Is a question?”

“Your mouth,” Shane repeats more firmly. “Please.”

“So polite,” Ilya teases, but joins Shane on the bed. The mattress and duvet are soft enough that his scars don't protest the pressure, and he lowers himself so his chest is between Shane’s thighs, parts them gently to make space. Shane’s eyes dart across his face, his chest, his shoulders, seemingly unable to decide where to look first.

“Has anyone ever?” Ilya asks, and Shane’s erection twitches near his face, as if Ilya’s mere presence so close is enough to get him off.

“I mean- women, yeah,” Shane breathes. “But not- never a man.”

“And you have never?” Shane shakes his head, and Ilya’s enough of a possessive bastard that a thrill races up his spine. “Then let me show you how to do this,” Ilya murmurs, and presses a hot kiss to the length of him. 

Shane gasps, head dropping back before he lifts it again, brown eyes practically burning with intensity as he watches. A hand tentatively reaches down as Ilya wraps his own around Shane, and he pauses to guide it into his hair.

“You can pull,” Ilya offers. “Tell me if there is something you do not like.”

Shane nods, breathing short and shallow, and Ilya wraps his mouth around his erection, sinks down as low as he can, pauses for a second to adjust, to let old muscle memory take over as he starts to move. He slides a hand up, palms at a thick pec, brushes a nipple back and forth as Shane arches into his touch.

Shane’s gasps echo in his ears, fingers tugging at his hair tell him when he’s done something that’s particularly good so he repeats those intermittently, spare hand caressing Shane’s balls and rolling them gently back and forth until Shane’s grunting, abs flexing impressively as he curls up towards Ilya.

“Ilya, I can’t-” and Ilya doubles up on his efforts, sinks down further and swallows deep until Shane’s coming with a shocked little noise.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps, and Ilya gives him a minute, presses a gentle kiss to his inner thigh. “Come here?”

Ilya moves up the bed, accepts Shane’s kiss, something hot in the way he licks into his mouth as if chasing the taste of himself. He lets Shane guide him onto his back, watches as he moves down the bed, a little less certain but clearly determined to return the favour.

Ilya cups the back of his head, gently guides Shane into a rhythm that works for the both of them. It’s a little sloppy, a little messy, but as Shane eases into it, gets familiar with the movements and more confident Ilya knows he’s not got long. Shane tries to take too much and gags, Ilya pulls him back, redirects even as he can tell Shane’s not going to let that lie for long. And the thought of eager Shane, practising often until he can just take all of Ilya is too much and he’s coming into Shane’s mouth. He thumbs a bead of escaped come from the corner of Shane's lips, and his cock twitches when Shane sucks it off hungrily. 

He tugs Shane up to lie on his side, his head down to his shoulder, slides a hand down Shane’s upper arm. He gets a soft kiss pressed to his pec, sees a soft, content smile on Shane’s face as he closes his eyes and relaxes, leaning more of his weight onto Ilya.

They lie there together for a long few minutes, until Ilya’s stomach betrays him as always and breaks the silence. He’s not eaten since his pre-diner shift breakfast, and Shane looks up, leans in to press a soft kiss to Ilya’s mouth.

“What do you want to eat?”

Ilya shrugs. “I do not mind. What do you usually do for takeout?”

Shane shrugs back. “I’ve got a few leaflets, one sec.” He gets up, disappears from the bedroom without bothering with clothes, and returns a minute later with a few pieces of paper.

“Chinese, Italian, Korean?” Shane climbs back onto the bed, utterly unselfconscious, and Ilya’s too busy taking in his impressive physique to think about what he wants to eat, when he wants to bend Shane over and eat him out instead.

Shane catches his eye, notices his expression and blushes, but waves the leaflets in between them. “Seriously, you’re hungry. I don’t want to be a bad host.”

“A bad host?” Ilya asks incredulously. “When you suck my dick like that? Do not sell yourself short, Shane.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs, looking not-so-secretly pleased. “Korean, then? I could go for a bibimbap or something.”

“Sure,” Ilya agrees, post-coital glow making him willing to agree to whatever Shane wants. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Shane nods, digs his phone out and places the order, then lets Ilya grab his hand and tug him back onto the bed, collapsing on his side, part on the bed, part on Ilya. One hand comes to rest on Ilya’s chest, traces the line of his chain, his mother’s cross.

“Are you religious?” Shane asks quietly, adjusting the cross so it lies perfectly between Ilya’s collarbones.

“No,” Ilya closes his eyes, tells himself not to be a coward. “It was my mother’s. Is all I have left of her.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane’s eyes hold his as he leans in and presses a kiss to the closest spot he can reach. “Were you close?”

“Yes, though I was young when she died. I was twelve,” he expounds, when Shane’s face does the thing Ilya’s worked out means he’s holding back questions.

“How did she-,” Shane cuts himself off, almost flushes at his own question.

“Another time, okay?” Ilya pleads, and Shane presses another gentle kiss to his chest, so tender Ilya feels tears prick at the back of his eyes.

He slides an arm under Shane’s neck, tugs him a little bit closer, presses lips to his forehead, indulges in the softness for a long moment.

“I should shower,” he says, “Before food. Want to join?”

Shane leads the way into his en-suite and they stand at opposite sides of the shower, Shane clearly a little out of his depth again. But Ilya sees the way Shane’s eyes trace up and down his body, lingering on his ass. He turns slightly, wraps a hand around his cock and tugs himself to hardness, sees Shane’s erection grow without similar interference.

Shane swallows hard as his eyes track the movement of Ilya’s hand, and a quick, pleading glance at his face is all Ilya needs to step forwards, reach from his own cock to Shane’s and start jacking him off.

Shane wraps his own fingers around Ilya, leans in for a kiss and Ilya groans as he breaks away, presses his forehead to Shane’s so he can look down and see both their arms moving in tandem.

“Whoever comes first,” he suggests with a grin, “has to answer the door for food.”

“You’re on,” Shane agrees immediately, his pace picking up, answering smile tugging at his lips.

Ilya keeps his speed the same, but twists his wrist slightly on the downstroke, noting how Shane bites his lip, shivers slightly when he thumbs at the head on the upstroke; repeats these over and over until Shane’s gasps echo across the shower room as he comes, immediately washed away as Ilya follows not long after.

Shane mock-grumbles at losing but is good-natured about it, shutting off the water once they’re both clean again and handing Ilya a spare towel.

The doorbell chimes as they tug on clothes, Ilya borrowing a pair of sweatpants but forgoing a shirt; he enjoys the way Shane watches him too much to deny himself. He wanders into the kitchen as Shane thanks the delivery person for the food, and sets out glasses of water and cutlery for them both.

The bibimbap is good; Ilya doesn’t eat Korean food often as there’s no cheap places near him, but this is one of the best he thinks he’s ever had, and Shane looks pleased when he says so. They talk a little as they eat, mostly about Ilya’s education, and he admits he chose business after the injury because it seemed like one of the things that would give him the most options for getting out, and he could always still stay tangentially related to hockey if he wanted to look at working for a team, or something.

“You miss it?” Shane asks softly, and Ilya sighs.

“Yes, and no. I was good at hockey, and only hockey, for a long time. When the injury took that from me… it was not good. I was not good. But after… the therapy, it was hard, but I think it made me think about what I really wanted. I liked hockey, but I liked being good at hockey more. Not like you,” he adds, seeing Shane’s bewilderment at the idea. “If I cut you, will your blood fall in shape of pucks? Do your tears form little hockey sticks?”

“Fuck off,” Shane half-laughs.

“Is not a bad thing to be so passionate. It has made you very strong.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighs, pokes at a lone grain of rice on the side of his bowl. “I don’t know where I’d be, who I’d be, without hockey,” he agrees. “But this year… I don’t know. I gave everything to Montreal, I carried those guys to two back-to-back cups. I thought my team really were like my family. But when I came out to them… it was like they didn’t even recognise me, like I was a whole different person.”

“They do not deserve you,” Ilya states firmly, and Shane huffs.

“That’s what Rose said.” Shane shrugs, sets down his spoon, sips his water. “Was it hard, leaving Russia?”

“It was not a choice,” Ilya says slowly. “It was a… necessary thing. Again, yes and no. I am sad that I will never see my mother’s resting place again, that I left everything else of her behind. But at least in New York, I am unlikely to end up in jail or worse if I have sex with you.”

Shane blinks. “I knew it was bad in Russia, but that bad?”

Ilya stares at his hands, breathes through the instinctive urge to snap and run away. “My father is police. My brother is police. They do not approve, will never approve. My brother could have stopped my injury, but he did not. So yes, that bad. For me, anyway.”

“Ilya,” Shane’s hand covers his. “I’m so sorry.”

“Like I said,” Ilya keeps his eyes trained down. “Tragic backstory.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we ran into each other, last week.”

“What were you doing there anyway?” Ilya asks. “Was late for you, no?”

Shane shrugs. “I’ve been talking with a couple new sponsors based out here, and we had a shoot and the wrap party that night. It was a bit stuffy, so I was walking back for fresh air when I ran into you.”

“Who now?” Ilya mock-groans. “The wet t-shirt soda advert not enough for you?”

Shane flushes. “You’ve seen that?”

“Yes, so has most of North America,” Ilya points out.

Shane’s blush deepens, and Ilya loves the way it highlights a few freckles on the bridge of his nose. He wants to press a kiss to each and every single one of them, wants to count them every day so he can tell if new ones come in with more sun exposure, wants to give them all a name and whisper hello to all of them each morning.

And that’s getting almost creepy, so he ends that train of thought.

“Go on then,” he waves a hand. “Who next? Under Armour?” Shane flushes, but shakes his head, and Ilya feels delight that he’s still willing to play along. “Nike? Ah, I remember, you have Reebok, so no other sportswear?” A nod. 

“You do not often wear jewellery, so I guess not Omega or Bvlgari or similar…” Another nod. “Fashion?” Another nod. “Ralph Lauren?” a shake, no. “... Calvin Klein?” A final nod, and Ilya groans, tipping his head back.

“You will kill me. Shane. You are too hot to be letting the world see you in their underwear.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs. “It’s just an ad.”

“A very sexy ad, no doubt,” Ilya waggles his eyebrows. “You know how sexy you are, yes?”

Shane’s face closes off a little, more uncertain. “I mean, I know you find me attractive, and that’s all I really care about right now.”

Ilya steps out of his chair, Shane watching with wide eyes as he drops onto his lap, straddles his thighs.

“You are too nice,” he says flatly, pressing his palms to Shane’s cheeks. “Brands would not want you if you were not handsome enough to sell their things. No matter how good you are at hockey,” he adds, when he can see Shane gearing up for an argument. “There are many hockey fans, yes, but there are many, many more people in the world who do not know or care about it. The brands see you, think ah, even if they not know hockey, they see hot man, they buy our products, and they sell more. Easy.”

“And you’d know?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods decisively. “Of course. I am very smart, you know.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” Shane says sincerely, and knocks Ilya for a loop for a second. He’s spent most of his life giving off an unserious, unstudious vibe, and for Shane to see through it so easily is a rare gift.

He kisses Shane rather than dwell on his feelings, sinks into the way Shane opens up for him so willingly, giving almost too much of himself away so early on in this thing between them. He lets Ilya lead, follows wherever he goes and Ilya’s not sure he’ll ever be the same.

“I should go,” Ilya sighs reluctantly when they part, the clock above the stove blinking 21:25. “I have to be up early for work.”

“I- are you sure? You could- you’d be welcome to stay.”

Ilya kisses him again, the gentlest of rejections. He’d stay here forever if Shane would let him, but can’t afford to travel down that road right here and now, knows he’s already letting himself have too much too soon. 

“Not today,” he declines. “Next time, maybe.”

Chapter 5: Mr. Librarian

Next time comes around much quicker than Ilya’d anticipated. He’d said goodbye to Shane, kissed him long and slow until he was practically liquid in his chair. He’d texted when he’d got home safely, as Shane had requested, and promised to let him know what times might work next week to meet up again once he’d confirmed his work shifts.

But Wednesday afternoon he’s finishing up his second hour of his eight-hour shift when his phone buzzes insistently in his pocket. It’s almost dead in the diner, just one table in his section he’s just served, so he asks Jenna to keep an eye on them as he steps into the back hallway to answer.

“Shane? Are you okay?”

“... Ilya. Sorry,” Shane’s voice is a little hoarse. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not a bad time,” Ilya soothes, “But I do not have very long.”

“Right, yes, of course. I just- you’re working?”

“Until ten p.m.”

“Right,” Shane falls quiet.

“What’s wrong?” Ilya realises he’s holding his phone so hard his knuckles are turning white, purposefully relaxes his grip.

“I- I was just hoping I could see you?” Shane whispers down the line and Ilya has to strain to hear him over the background noises of the diner. “I’m sorry, I should’ve known you’d be at work.”

“Is okay,” Ilya promises. “The diner is quiet right now, and I am due to take break in maybe half an hour? If you could come here I can probably sit with you, for a little bit?”

“You’re sure that’s okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. Dolly won’t mind, not if he asks nicely, and as long as he doesn’t slack on looking after his tables he might be able to linger at the table with Shane for a while. “I will text you address.”

“Okay, yeah. I- thanks, Ilya.”

“See you soon.”

Ilya hangs up and sends the diner’s address to Shane and checks with Dolly before putting one of the little reserved signs on the smaller booth in the back, glad he’s got the rear half of the diner today.

His head spins every time the door opens for the next twenty minutes, until finally it’s the face he’s waiting to see. 

Shane looks tired and a little unhappy, shoulders hunched, hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets. Ilya hurries over, taps Jenna lightly on the shoulder when she starts to guide him towards one of her tables, and is relieved when Shane lights up as he sees him. Jenna grins knowingly, takes the family of four that trail into the diner after Shane instead as Ilya leads the hockey player to his booth.

“Can I get you a drink?” Ilya asks, as Shane slides down the bench.

“You’ll join me, after?”

“Yes, I need to tell Dolly I will take my break now, but should be okay. You do not mind if I eat?”

“No, of course not,” Shane shakes his head. “I- actually, I’ve not had lunch. If- is there anything you recommend?”

“For you? Omelette is pretty good, healthy.”

Shane accepts the suggestion and Ilya goes to put in their orders, tells Dolly he’s starting his break at the same time.

He slides into the booth opposite Shane with coffee and water from them both, and traps one of Shane’s feet between both of his in lieu of a kiss hello. He gets a shy smile for that, and some of the tension in Shane’s face seems to ease.

“I’m sorry to barge in on your work like this,” Shane says. “I know this job is important to you.”

Ilya holds back the ‘not as important as you’ because it should be too soon to be true but it’s not. “Is okay,” he says instead. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I-,” Shane runs a hand through his hair, “Yeah. I’m just so- I’m so fucking angry,” he admits, and sounds lost at the strength of it. He seems to deflate, suddenly. “I went to the Admiral’s facility, today, to see what it’s like.”

“It was no good?” Ilya asks tentatively, worries, suddenly, that Shane’s going to say he’s made a huge mistake, that he’s heading back for Montreal on the first flight out.

“No, it was pretty much perfect,” Shane slumps. “Hunter was there, with a couple of the team. And like, we didn’t talk about the- the potential trade, or the reason for it - but they made it pretty fucking clear that my sexuality won’t be an issue. They’re not desperate to have me on board, but pretty keen, and they’ve clearly thought about how I’d fit in and where I’d play without trying to pin it all on my shoulders and I- I just gave so much of myself to Montreal, that it’s just pissed me off again that this is what it should have been like, and it wasn’t.”

“They failed you,” Ilya murmurs softly, “Montreal. I am sorry.”

Shane sighs again, and Ilya pushes his ankle harder into Shane’s, hopes the pressure offers some comfort.

“I’ve decided,” Shane says, meeting Ilya’s eyes. “I’m going to accept their offer. I’m going to stay in New York, for a couple of seasons, at least.”

“Even though you will lose being captain?”

“Yeah,” Shane nods. “Hunter seems like a good Captain, so far, and honestly I don’t think I’m always the best at it. I’m good at the hockey side of it, of course, but I know I can be a bit awkward when it comes to the motivational speeches, or the social organising, or anything.”

“Their loss. I like your awkward. Is very cute.”

Shane brightens a little and when the bell dings Ilya goes to collect their food, an egg-white omelette with veggies and a salad for Shane, a thick cheesesteak sandwich for Ilya with a paper wrapper so he can take half home for lunch tomorrow.

“I- I don’t want to hide, either, from the team,” Shane says slowly as he takes tiny bites of his omelette, as if he can make time stretch out the longer he takes to eat. “And I know we’ve, fuck, we’ve barely known each other a week, and this is insane, but. What would your stance be on being out, if I was?”

Ilya blinks, sandwich halfway in his mouth, and takes the chance to think as he chews.

“You would want to introduce me? In public?”

“I don’t think public, not to start,” Shane shakes his head. “I’m still not sure I want to take that leap. It’s bad enough being one of the very few half-Asian guys in the league, I’m not sure I could cope being the first openly gay player too.” He keeps his voice low, glances around the diner but it’s still quiet, and Jenna’s doing Ilya a solid and taking most of the newcomers for her section. He’ll make sure she gets a bigger split of tips later, to make up for it.

“But I’m not going to leave Montreal just to go back in the closet,” Shane says stubbornly, as if Ilya’s going to argue with him. “As far as I can tell the guys know about Hunter but there’s no details on a potential significant other.

“But why should I have to hide any of my partners, just because I’m gay? Why can’t I celebrate a win like the guys do with their wives or girlfriends? Because it could ‘detract from the game?’” Shane snorts derisively. “Fuck that.”

“Partners, plural?” Ilya grins around a chip, tries to redirect slightly because this righteous version of Shane is doing things to his dick that should not be happening in his workplace.

“Well, I-,” Shane flushes, stabs at his omelette. “It’s not even been a week, really.”

“But there is something,” Ilya pushes. “Between us. You said so.”

“Yeah, I did. And you agreed, but. I don’t even know if you’re out to friends here, and your family in Russia you said aren’t supportive so I didn’t know if you’d want to be in a relationship, let alone the rest of it?”

“Shane,” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “What in last week has suggested to you that I would bother with this if I was not interested in more?”

A petulant shrug lifts Shane’s shoulders, “I mean, the sex was pretty good?”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees smugly. “And will only get better. But I am your first, and we already know I am not always the most… open. I should tell you,” Ilya stares at his sandwich for a long second, before looking up at Shane again, tracing the freckles across his left cheek for courage, “I have depression. I manage,” he adds hastily, before Shane can say anything, “I have not had a bad episode since coming to U.S. But is still here, inside.” He taps a finger to his chest. “I would not… blame, I would not blame you, if you wanted someone… easier.”

“Ilya,” Shane’s hand covers his, squeezes lightly, and Ilya’s throat tightens. “Thank you for telling me. That doesn’t change my opinion of you, at all. It’s not like I come easy either, with the whole hockey thing.”

“Eh, I think you come pretty easy,” Ilya smirks as Shane slaps at his hand, laughs, tension cracking between them.

“So, not right now, but if this keeps going well, then- yes, to being introduced to the team?”

Ilya nods. “Okay.”

“And we’re exclusive?”

“Lovers.” Ilya nods.

“Ew, no, that’s a gross word,” Shane takes his hand back despite Ilya’s weak grab for it.

“Fine. Boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” Shane echoes.

“I mean, is early days but, yes? I think so. Probably.”

“Okay,” and sunshine pours out of Shane’s face as he smiles, “boyfriends.”

They return to talk of the Admirals, and Shane tells Ilya a little more about the facility, raves about the gym equipment and the amount of ice-time he’d be allowed, but all too soon Ilya’s break comes to an end. The clock is ticking closer to four, so the diner is filling up with kids coming out of schools, tourists who’ve gotten lost or missed out on lunch reservations, and Ilya can’t really justify sitting with Shane anymore.

“Would you come over, tonight?” Shane asks, as Ilya starts to collect their plates. “I can sort a car to get you back to your apartment and then wherever you need to go tomorrow, if that’s a problem otherwise.”

Ilya shouldn’t have looked at Shane, at the underlying want barely hidden under hesitancy.

“Okay,” he gives in instantly. “It will be late, though.”

“That’s fine,” Shane nods, “I’ll text you the code for the back door.”

“Okay.” Ilya waves off Shane’s request for the bill, and is partly-surprised, mostly-pleased when Shane doesn’t argue. Shane leaves looking a little lighter, spine a little straighter, and Ilya throws himself back into his shift with the knowledge that Shane came to him.

He lets himself into Shane’s apartment that night, toes his shoes off by the door. Shane’s lounging lengthways on the sofa, side lamps offering enough dim light that he can read whatever book he’s reading, and Ilya freezes as brown eyes meet his from behind lenses.

“You wear glasses?” he asks dumbly, and Shane flushes, takes them off as he pushes himself into a more upright sitting position.

“Ah, just for reading,” he admits.

“No,” Ilya shakes his head as Shane goes to put them down with his book. “Back on, please.” He taps his own cheekbone, and is inordinately pleased when the glasses slide back onto his nose.

“You really like them?” Shane asks, as Ilya comes closer and swings a leg over Shane’s hips, sits over his thighs on the couch.

“Mm, Mr. Librarian, they are very sexy,” he promises, and kisses him to prove it. “But then you are very sexy.”

Shane smiles up at him, leans in for another kiss. It remains soft, a little chaste, comforting rather than growing heated.

“Bed?” Shane asks when they eventually break away, Ilya tracing the lower rim of the glasses with his thumb. “What time do you have to get up to go, tomorrow?”

“If I can borrow clean clothes,” Ilya says, “I can stay later, go straight to class. Would need to go around ten?”

Shane’s eyes light up and he’s nodding before Ilya finishes his sentence. “You can borrow whatever you want.”

Ilya smiles, and offers another kiss before getting off the sofa, holds out a hand to help tug Shane to his feet. Before he can let go, Shane’s twining their fingers together and leading the way down the hall to his bedroom.

“I’m- I was thinking, hoping, you might sleep in here tonight?” Shane asks, “Just sleep.”

Ilya leans in to press their shoulders together. “Yes, okay. Can I shower first?”

“Yeah, of course. There’s a spare towel and toothbrush in the ensuite.”

Ilya nods, presses a kiss to Shane’s shoulder. “I will not be long.”

He makes good on his promise, washes perfunctorily and brushes his teeth; then joins Shane under the covers. Shane’s already half-asleep, but hums contentedly as Ilya slides in behind him, wraps an arm around his waist.

And it’s been a long time since Ilya’s shared a bed with another person, feels a little strange, but undeniably good. The detergent Shane uses is faint but smells nice, the sheets are soft against his skin, and both positives are eclipsed by the warmth and solidity of Shane in his arms, the soft sound of his breathing in the dark. 

“G’night.”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

Ilya wakes on Thursday still wrapped around Shane. The clock says it’s just gone seven a.m., and Ilya cracks his eyes open as he feels Shane twist a little to look back at him.

A soft smile graces his face as he turns and sinks back down again, presses a kiss to Ilya’s bicep, currently acting as Shane’s pillow. “Good morning.”

“G’morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm,” Ilya murmurs in the affirmative, leans forward an inch to press a kiss to the slope of Shane’s shoulder. “You have a very nice bed.”

“Just a nice bed?”

“Well, your ass is pretty good too, but,” Ilya laughs when Shane flips over in mock outrage, pushes Ilya back with a firm hand to his shoulder. His laughter dries up when Shane moves to straddle him, sits across his hips, hands sliding down his shoulders to brace against his chest. Remnants of sleep vaporise under the way Shane looks at him, heat flooding through Ilya’s veins.

“I want to fuck you,” the words escape before Ilya can hold them back, and is rewarded by Shane’s fingers gripping his chest tighter.

“I want that too,” Shane agrees, and Ilya reaches down, grips Shane’s hips, runs his thumbs up and down the sharp V there. Ilya slides one hand around, runs it over a muscled ass cheek, presses fingertips cautiously towards the crack of his ass through his underwear, a little further when Shane pushes ever so slightly back into him.

“Have you played here before?”

Shane flushes a little. “Yeah. I have- uh, I have a dildo.”

The words settle in Ilya and he knows his eyes are going wide, brain racing with the thoughts of what Shane does alone with a toy. “What colour? Is big?” 

“Fuck off,” Shane slaps a hand down and Ilya groans as it catches the edge of a nipple, sends heat coarsing through him. He bucks up, twists them both so Shane lands under him, wedges himself between thick thighs. Shane’s arms slide up around his shoulders, fingers slide into his hair as Ilya stares down at him, feels Shane’s erection pressing against his own. He rolls his hips experimentally, watches Shane’s eyes flutter, lips part in a gasp.

“I would like to see, one day,” Ilya murmurs. “Want to watch you fuck yourself.”

He catches Shane’s gasp with his mouth, kisses him as he rolls their hips together again, falling into a rhythm that has Shane digging crescents into his spine with his fingernails, legs wrapping around Ilya’s hips for a better angle, better friction.

“Fuck,” Shane comes before either of them had expected him to, and Ilya follows him over the edge not long after. He pulls back, mouths soft kisses down Shane’s jaw as he lies panting underneath him.

“Ew,” Shane mutters as he shifts and come-soaked underwear catches. Ilya can’t help a snort-laugh, but pulls back and leads them both into the shower.

Clean again and in fresh clothes, Ilya makes coffee while Shane scrambles eggs and toasts bagels.

After they finish eating, Shane presses a foot to Ilya’s beneath the table before he starts to move. 

“Thank you, for staying last night,” Shane’s voice is serious, hands flexing on the table. “I know I’m maybe moving too fast, being too intense about this, please let me finish,” he adds when Ilya opens his mouth to deny.

“Look, I know that we’ve only known each other for barely a week, and you should know that this is all so far out of character for me as to practically be insane. But the last few months in Montreal, and some very harsh but fair conversations with friends and my therapist, have really made me think about what I want.

“And what I want is to not wait anymore. I always thought I’d maybe come out after I retired and my number hangs in Montreal’s rafters, but that’s not going to happen. And ever since I was the only Asian kid at my hockey practises when I was a kid I’ve felt like I need to prove myself, and that pressure only grew when I was drafted and Montreal rebuilt themselves around me. 

“But I have proved myself - I don’t care if this sounds arrogant but I know I am one of the best hockey players of this generation, my name is going in the books the same as Gretzky or Lemieux - and I’ve done that as a gay man, out or not. And it’s just so fucking lonely,” his voice breaks a little, and Ilya reaches over the table to take his hand, lace their fingers together and squeeze.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore. And I don’t feel alone, when I’m with you. From that first fucking second where you bumped into me, there’s just something in my head that tells me that what I want is you, and I don’t want to ignore that voice anymore.

“And I know that is a lot to put on you, and I’ll be okay if you say no, that this isn’t what you want,” Shane finishes off, quietly. “I have friends, I’ve got my therapist and parents.”

“You have me,” Ilya cuts in softly. “Shane. I- I was also very lonely, here. I had to leave everything behind, and while I have Svetlana, she is in Boston and I can not see her very often. I have worked hard this last year, with job and studies and I am close to the end which scares me. I do not know what I will do if I can not find a new job which will offer a visa, and I have not wanted to put down… plants?”

“Roots,” Shane offers quietly.

“Roots,” Ilya nods in thanks. “If I will have to leave. And I do not want to leave, I cannot go back to Russia, but I have learnt sometimes there are no other options.

“But when I am with you… I also do not feel alone. We are going very deep, very fast, but I think I would go wherever you go, if you ask.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes the word, and pushes around the table, straddles Ilya’s lap and envelopes him in a hug. They both linger there for a long minute, until Shane leans back, kisses Ilya softly.

“I want you to fuck me,” Shane whispers. “But I’ve not got any condoms, and I think, uh, I’d want to use them, at least to start. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Whatever you are comfortable with.”

Shane kisses him again, relief evident, and Ilya pulls him close, strokes a hand up his back.

“I am still hungry,” he announces, and confusion flickers across Shane’s brow but he nods, starts to stand up. “Not for food,” Ilya shakes his head, and Shane flushes as Ilya tugs him back onto his lap. “Gimme kiss.”

The quick peck quickly dissolves into something hot and messy. Their t-shirts end up on the floor, and only when Shane’s hips start to shift in search of friction does Ilya pull back, gesture for him to stand up and shuck off his shorts and underwear.

“Turn around.” Ilya demands, and Shane hesitates but does. “Bend over.”

“Here?” Shane glances back, scandalised, but bends down, grips the edge of the table.

“Here,” Ilya confirms, shuffles his chair forward so his head is close enough to press a kiss to Shane’s ass. He grazes one muscular cheek with his teeth and absorbs the gasp, bites a little harder and drinks in the groan.

His fingers slide up Shane’s thighs, parts his cheeks so Ilya’s got a perfect view of Shane’s asshole, twitching as he blows cool air on it.

“Fuck, Ilya. Please…”

“Please what?”

“I don’t know, just do something.”

And who is Ilya to deny this perfect man in front of him? He leans in closer, licks a long stripe from taint to tailbone and adjusts as Shane’s arms bend and he collapses chest-to-table, legs shift a little wider to allow Ilya better access. He wraps one arm around a hip, slides a hand up Shane’s side as if to offer support, and does it again. Shane tastes clean from their shower earlier, if a little more musky, a little more Shane, and Ilya presses in, keeps going as Shane curses and pants softly into the tabletop.

“No,” Ilya bats away Shane’s hand as it reaches down to his erection, liquid beading insistently at the tip, dripping onto the floor. “Hands on table.”

“Ilya,” Shane gasps, but does as told. That rush floods through Ilya again and he presses his face back into Shane’s ass in reward, licks and sucks and risks a press inwards of tongue, glad Shane’s mostly resting against the table as his knees buckle at the last. He works in a finger, gently presses deeper, uses his spit as makeshift lube and is extra careful until he can hook it just right, press down, searching, and ah, there, “Ilya! Fuck,” Shane is coming all over the floor, legs twitching slightly as he comes down from the high.

Ilya pushes down his own shorts, stands behind Shane’s prone form, holds him down with a hand between his shoulder blades, his other hand tugging himself off in short, sharp strokes until white splashes across his ass, up his lower spine, fulfilling some primal possessive instinct.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers, and Ilya helps him ease upright, smooths a hand up his ribs until he’s steady on his feet.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane laughs a little, presses his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder. “I’ve just- I’ve never.”

“I know,” Ilya grins, smug. “Making you come untouched is a good trick, no?”

“You’re so full of yourself,” Shane says fondly, and leans in for a kiss. “It’d be infuriating on anyone else.”

He leaves Shane freshly showered and looking quietly fucked-out, but after two morning orgasms Ilya’s pretty sure his facial expression is pretty similar, and he turns up to class more relaxed than he’s been in months. Cliff almost does a double-take when he sees him, but offers a grin as Ilya slides into the seat next to him.

Ilya confirms he’s still good to study together after their class tomorrow, accepts the coffee shop suggestion that’s on campus and offers student discounts. Class passes quickly, the focus turning onto exam preparation and planning.

The diner is nice and quiet again that afternoon, and Dolly’s extra lenient as Ilya borrows a bar stool and continues studying. He’s reasonably confident he’ll pass, but wants to do as well as he can - an extra letter grade might be the line between a visa-sponsored job and returning to Russia.

Jenna’s his co-worker again this shift, and quizzes him on a few bits and pieces when it’s extra-quiet, smiling brightly when he answers things correctly.

He gets the train home feeling exhausted again, but today it doesn’t seem to be digging into his bones as deeply, more an extra-heavy blanket he’s carrying around on his shoulders. He collapses in bed, remembers to send a quick good night text in response to Shane’s, and sleeps deeply.

Chapter 6: Mr. Front Cover

Another good morning text from Shane, an early morning shift and his two-hour seminar later and Ilya follows Cliff out to the cafe. They find a small table tucked in the back corner and crack out their textbooks, the mock example questions their teacher had given them, running through their answers and supplementing information or offering advice to each other.

“Wanna grab a beer after this?” Cliff offers, and Ilya hesitates. “My treat,” Cliff adds, and the temptation grows. He’d not made many other friends, had been hesitant as he’d told Shane to put down roots, but there’s been so much development this last week that he wants to take everything else and run with it too.

“Yes,” Ilya accepts, a little stiffly. “Sounds good.”

“Cool,” Cliff nods, “There’s a pub like a block over? Do pretty good fries, if you’re hungry, and have a decent beer selection.”

Ilya agrees, and they study for another hour until they’ve run out of questions and Cliff seems to have the answers to what was worrying him before. They pack up together and amble over to the bar. Cliff seems to be entirely unbothered about anything happening around him, a casual gait to his step that echoes his unaffected expression, and Ilya finds himself curious about why his fellow student has chosen now of all times to chat to him.

“You seem cool,” Cliff shrugs when Ilya asks him that, having bought them both a beer and fries for the table. “But you’re always so quick to leave the classroom, I didn’t want to bug you. Thought you hated being there, or something, so wouldn’t want to chat to anyone that’d remind you of it.”

“That is not-”

“Nah, I know,” Cliff interrupts, waving a lazy hand. “My own preconceived notions. I assumed,” he explains, when Ilya struggles with the phrase. “I shouldn't've, and I’m sorry. But we’re almost at the end, now, so figured I’d ask anyway.”

Ilya nods, grateful Cliff had been willing. “What is your plan, for after?” he asks, sipping at his beer.

“I’ve got a couple interviews,” Cliff admits. “Just basic project management stuff. Not sure entirely what I want to do, you know? Capitalist corporations give me the ick, but what else can you do in this economy?”

Ilya huffs a laugh, and clinks his pint glass to Cliff’s in solidarity. “I do not know,” he admits when Cliff returns the question. “I need to find a job that will also sponsor work visa, which is difficult.”

“Yeah, man, I can see that,” Cliff nods. “I’ll keep an eye out, ask around, if you want?”

Ilya accepts, and they change the topic. Ilya finds out Cliff’s a hockey fan, supports the Boston Bruins, and delights in mentioning that his best friend Svetlana’s dad had used to be their goalie way back in the day. He avoids mentioning Shane, apart from agreeing that he’s got more talent in his little finger than most of the league put together, and admits he’s yet to start following this year’s draft properly given he’s been so busy. Cliff gives him the rundown, and before they leave they agree to meet again even post-exams for another beer to talk hockey and post-draft bets, exchanging numbers so they can plan once classes are over.

Ilya makes his departure in time for his bar shift; which is a nightmare as he has two hen parties and a post-college sports match of some sort all in the same short shift. He collapses in his bed when he eventually gets to it, noting the five hour difference from Shane’s goodnight text to his own, and hopes he gets something of a lie-in tomorrow morning at least, even if it won’t be half as good as what he’d had yesterday in Shane’s bed.

Ilya wakes on Saturday to a good morning text from Shane, as well as another asking when he’d be free next to meet. He’s also got a text from his bar manager that his shift tonight has been cancelled due to too many people ‘accidentally’ scheduled, which is great for him meeting Shane, less great for his bank balance. This is the fourth week in a row where he’s had at least one of these shifts cancelled on him last-minute, and even though he’s been signing up for more to mitigate the loss of funds the uncertainty is driving him a bit crazy.

He replies to Shane, offers up tonight, and when he doesn’t get an immediate response spends some time on his creaky old laptop, checking his finances and updating his CV for job applications. He shortlists a few, starts a rough cover letter that he can adapt to each job, and works out he’s got maybe $50 spare this month, even with the cancelled shift tonight. 

It’s almost lunch when Shane replies to him, says he’s heading back from the rink and will be home in an hour or so. Ilya offers to meet him there, gets a thumbs up and a link to a takeout place Shane plans on stopping by on the way home, with an offer to pick up something for Ilya too. Ilya accepts another of whatever Shane is having, and packs an overnight bag. He doesn’t have a shift tomorrow at the diner, had just planned on studying for most of the day and picking up groceries, so can stretch out his morning assuming Shane wants him to stay overnight.

He stops by the chemist on the way to the subway, picks up condoms and lube, splurges on the nicer brands. He lets himself in the backdoor to Shane’s apartment building, only to trip over something knee-height and furry, landing on his ass.

“Max, no!” a female voice shouts from up the stairs, and Ilya manages to grab onto the collar before the dog bolts out of the closing door.

“Shit, I’m sorry, are you okay?” the woman asks as she runs down the stairs. Ilya barely hears her, too busy with a dog panting in his face, licking his cheek, paws dancing on his chest and stomach.

“Ah, hello little one,” he croons, reverting automatically to his native Russian. “Who’s a handsome dog? Is it you? Yes, I think so,” he agrees as the dog tilts its head further into the scratches Ilya’s providing behind a floppy ear. “Can you sit?” he asks in English and the dog sits; Ilya rewards it with another ear scratch.

“Hi,” the woman steps into Ilya’s line of view and he looks up, a little sheepishly at not having answered her before.

“Hello. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. Are you alright?” she leans forward, clips a lead onto Max’s collar.

“Yes, fine,” he smiles reassuringly at her and laughs when Max jumps forward, licks into his mouth. “Is Max a boy or girl?”

“Oh, she’s a girl. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before, do you live here?”

“I am just visiting,” Ilya replies. “My friend is on fifth floor.”

“Right,” she nods. “I’m Amy, by the way. I- Max really likes you,” she sounds bewildered, as Ilya tells her to sit again when she starts to vibrate, rewarding her with soft praise and pets when she does.

“I like her,” Ilya grins, “She is very pretty.”

“Do you work with dogs?”

“Me? No,” Ilya shakes his head.

“Of course not, sorry.” Amy tugs on the leash, and Max trots over to sit at her feet, glancing constantly at the door as if disappointed she’s not already out on her walk.

“Why you ask?”

“Oh, um, I’m looking for a dogsitter, actually. She was mine and my girlfriend’s dog, or I mean, my ex-girlfriend’s dog, and I got to keep her when we broke up, but now my work has gone absolutely fucking insane and scheduled me for nights three times a week, and it’s not fair to Max to be leaving her at home as long as I do, but finding someone who’s willing to just drop in on her during my late shifts is just almost impossible right now and I’ve tried two sitters and she hated them both but she seems to like you- and you don’t need to be listening to me ramble like this,” Amy trails off, rubs a hand down her face. “Sorry.”

“No need for sorrys,” Ilya denies, and finally pushes himself to his feet. “You need qualified sitter?” He knows there are qualifications for these things, can’t afford to get them himself right now but being paid to hang out with a dog would be like a dream come true.

“At this point, I’d take anyone she likes who can make my hours.”

“I might be able to help, but I would need details of hours and things.”

Amy nods enthusiastically. “No, sure, of course. Can I get your number? I can text you, and you can think about it. If you can’t, if you know anyone else, like honestly, I’m at my wits end.”

“Sure,” Ilya offers, and inputs his number into her phone. “Bye, Max.” He waves at the dog, who pants at him before bolting for the door as soon as Amy opens it. He offers her a wave goodbye, then takes the steps two at a time up to Shane’s apartment.

“Hey,” Shane smiles brightly at him as he opens the door. Delicious smells waft out behind him and Ilya’s stomach growls hungrily - he’d had a banana for breakfast, but hadn’t managed to get more groceries yet so what constituted his pantry was otherwise woefully bare.

“I have just kissed a dog,” Ilya warns him as Shane leans in. “I think you would want me to wash my face.”

“What?” Shane leans back, bewildered. “A dog?”

“Yes, she was very cute, very pretty,” Ilya breezes into the apartment, heads for the bathroom. “A very gentle lady. Her name is Max, she lives with Amy… somewhere in this building.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve met Max. She didn’t like me much, though,” Shane sounds disgruntled, and Ilya delights that he might actually be getting competitive over a dog’s affections.

“Is because I am most handsome,” Ilya says, rinsing the soap from his face and accepting the towel from Shane. “She knows good thing when she sees it.”

Shane laughs as intended, but then his eyes turn dark, skims Ilya from head to toe. “She’s not the only one.”

Ilya has to kiss him for that, presses him up against the doorframe. Shane softens under his mouth, hands circling Ilya’s waist, pulling him closer.

“Food,” Shane breaks away to breathe. “I’m starving.”

“Cannot have you starve,” Ilya agrees seriously, and just because he can he takes Shane’s hand as they walk down the corridor. Shane smiles brightly at him, squeezes his hand, only lets go once they’ve sat and need both hands for cutlery, replacing the contact by pressing their feet together instead.

Conversation flows easily, Shane talks about the ongoing contract negotiations with the Admirals, but seems confident that they’ll be signed in the upcoming week. Ilya mentions his study session and beer with Cliff, admitting it’s nice to have another person also in the same position as him who’s willing to talk about it and share resources. They clean up and migrate to the sofa, and Ilya grins as he spots the newest NHL game on the coffee table.

“Mr. Front Cover,” he purrs, lifting it to show Shane himself. Shane laughs, kicks Ilya’s thigh from where he’s sitting against the arm, feet in his direction.

“You want to play?” Shane asks half-heartedly, and Ilya pretends to think about it for a minute.

“Maybe later,” he says when Shane’s eyes darken with ill-concealed impatience. “I can think of a better way to spend our afternoon.”

“And what’s that?” Shane’s chin lifts a little in challenge.

“I think,” Ilya purrs, turning to climb onto the sofa on all fours, caging Shane in against the armrest. “That I bought condoms and lube, and I have been thinking about fucking you for two days now.”

“You have?” Part-challenge, part-disbelief tinges Shane’s question.

“Mm, I have,” Ilya agrees, mouth brushing Shane’s with the words.

“Me too,” Shane confesses, and kisses him.

It turns deep and slow, Shane groaning as Ilya sucks on his tongue, bites at his lip.

“Come on,” Ilya pulls back, tugs Shane with him by his t-shirt. “I want you in bed our first time.”

Shane follows wordlessly as Ilya grabs the condoms and lube from his bag, lets Ilya strip him bare as he toes the bedroom door shut behind them, climbs onto the bed at Ilya’s wordless urging. Ilya strips too, notices Shane’s eyes fall to his knee briefly, brows furrowing slightly at the scarring, but he remains quiet, lets Ilya take in his fill.

“Show me,” Ilya murmurs, standing at the edge of the bed. “How you do this when you’re alone.”

Shane flushes, but scoots back a little further, brushes a hand over his own chest and gasps slightly when he catches a nipple. He spreads his legs, drifts a hand down, lifts one knee for better access as fingertips press gently around his hole, head falling back heavily into the pillows. Ilya leans in, cracks open the lube and drizzles some gently on Shane’s fingers, groans as one then presses tentatively, eases inside slowly.

“Feels good?” Ilya asks, eyes flicking back and forth between Shane’s hand and his face, lips parted in silent gasps. “You like me watching? Fuck, Shane, you’re so pretty.”

“Not pretty,” Shane shakes his head, and Ilya turns his head to bite his inner thigh.

“Very pretty,” he disagrees.

He slides a hand over to cover Shane’s, groans when his finger slides in alongside Shane’s, as the hockey player moans and his hips twitch as if unsure whether to push down or pull away.

“Beautiful,” Ilya whispers, presses a row of kisses down Shane’s thigh. “Can you take another?”

“I want- yours,” Shane pleads, and Ilya nods, presses another finger in alongside his and Shane’s, both their moans filling the room.

They stay like that for a few minutes, Ilya wanting to make sure Shane is open enough to take him without any pain. He crooks his fingers, finds the good spot until Shane’s leg twitches, stomach tightens and he stops before he can come.

“Fuck,” Shane whines. “I-”

“I know,” Ilya offers sympathetically. “But I want you to come around my cock.”

“Then hurry up and fuck me,” Shane returns, and Ilya can’t help but smile at the hint of irritation in his voice.

“Okay.” 

Shane sags into the bed as if Ilya’s taken the wind from his sails. Ilya adds a little more lube before their fingers retreat, and adds a little to his cock over the condom as well for good measure.

And Shane’s leg hooks over his shoulder, open and almost bent in half as Ilya lines himself up, watches Shane’s face intently as he gently pushes in. Pleasure flickers over his face in waves, hands coming to clutch at Ilya’s back, digs in and holds on as Ilya starts up a slow, slick rhythm.

“More,” Shane pleads, and Ilya gives him more, hips moving faster and harder until there’s a soft moan coming from Shane at every glide in. Shane’s other leg wraps around Ilya’s hip, heel digging into the back of his thigh as he thrusts. There’s something holy about Shane like this, head pressed back into the pillow, gasps and quiet curses falling from his mouth, the slick sheen of sweat making his face and chest glow. Ilya would worship him forever.

Ilya slides one hand between them, wraps around Shane’s cock and the athlete is coming, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry, eyes squeezed tightly closed.

“Look at me,” Ilya demands, and it only takes brown eyes meeting his, freckles vibrant with the pink heat of a good fuck for him to be coming into the condom, hips slowing to a stop until he eases out gently, lowers Shane’s leg carefully to the mattress.

“So good,” he murmurs softly, disposes of the condom, strokes Shane’s hair back. His own is damp and sticking to his forehead uncomfortably, so he pushes it back as best he can and lies down next to Shane. Shane rolls onto his side, worms over so his head is on Ilya’s shoulder and Ilya slides an arm under his neck to hold him close.

“Okay?” he asks, when Shane remains quiet.

He gets a nod and a soft ‘yes’ and strokes a hand up and down Shane’s spine, presses a kiss to his temple. He could lie here all day, he thinks, could lie here like this for the rest of his life and die happy. 

But, eventually Shane murmurs in discontent as the come on his belly dries, flaky and itchy, and Ilya shepherds him into the shower. Shane stands under the spray, lets Ilya wash him, worship him with soapy hands and, once the suds have washed away, with his mouth around his cock until he’s coming again, leaning against the shower wall and fingers failing to grip wet tile.

“I want,” Shane breathes as Ilya climbs to his feet, half-hard. His knee hurts a little from the hard floor, but the pleasure as Shane’s hand wraps around him pushes the pain to the background. Shane drops to his knees, stares up at Ilya as he drags a hand through wet hair, lets Shane steer the rhythm until his moan echoes around the shower’s glass walls as Shane swallows around him.

Ilya’s tugging on clean sweats and the t-shirt he’d brought with him when Shane makes a little noise, rifling through this own wardrobe.

“I forgot,” he says, turning to Ilya with what looks like his black shirt on a hanger, crisply pressed in a way it hadn’t been since it was brand new. “Your shirt got caught in the pile of stuff I took to the dry cleaners last week, and they repaired it and sent it back.”

Ilya takes it as Shane holds it out, and there’s the faintest line of stitches down the sleeve join where it had ripped, but barely noticeable in the light.

“I can pay,” he says, and Shane shakes his head.

“It was only a couple extra dollars, I think,” he says. “Unless you really want to, they email the receipt so I can check,” he adds when Ilya frowns down at the fabric in his hands. “But honestly, no big deal.”

“...Okay,” he relents. “If you are sure.”

Shane nods, leans in to kiss him and Ilya folds his shirt neatly next to his bag.

They retreat to the sofa, after, and play video games, getting ridiculously competitive until it devolves into shoving the other over to try and gain an advantage. Ilya finally finds himself under Shane, controllers somewhere on the floor as he grins wildly down at him.

Ilya knows the grin is replicated on his own face, albeit a bit more breathless as he stares at the beautiful man above him. He’s not sure he deserves this, feels like he should have had to work harder for it, done more to get this time with him. But he’ll keep trying until Shane tells him to stop, or until Ilya dies. 

“What?” Shane asks, eyes flitting over the expression on Ilya’s face.

“You look happy,” Ilya admits, and Shane’s smile softens, his hand cradles Ilya’s face, brushes along his jaw.

“I am happy,” and there’s something a little wondrous, a little disbelieving in his voice and Ilya wants to find anyone who’s caused the latter in Shane and return the hurt a hundred times over. 

The atmosphere turns softer, and they stick on a movie which has Shane’s friend Rose in it, since he’d promised her he’d watch but hasn’t got around to it yet.

“I don’t think she gets kidnapped in this one,” Shane explains, “but she gets kidnapped in a lot of her movies, so I could be wrong.”

Ilya laughs, and divides his attention between Shane and the film the entire time it’s playing. He finds it more interesting to watch Shane’s reactions; the tiny flicker of a smirk at a joke, the way his eyebrows draw together in the middle at an emotional scene, the little scrunch of his nose at an inaccurate detail. He texts Rose a couple of times at the more ridiculous plot points, but she must be busy as no reply comes.

And as the credits start to roll, Ilya asks the question that has been burning in the back of his brain since he’d first seen the paparazzi photos of Shane and Rose, that have flashed up behind his eyes every time she’d been on screen in the film, with Shane looking so happy.

“So, you have dated many women? You and Rose were in relationship, yes?”

Shane blinks, “I, uh, no. I mean, I’ve dated a couple of women, including Rose, but it- Rose pretty much helped me come to terms with the fact that I’m, like, fully gay.”

Ilya nods, tries not to feel a little relieved. And then he regrets ever asking the question, when he gets a “what about you? Have you dated lots of… people?”

“I, ah, I like both,” Ilya replies, glancing at Shane to see the tiny crease of worry between his eyebrows. “Women and men. But I have never dated a man. Was too risky, in Russia. And then, here, no one made me curious enough, until you.”

Shane nods, breathes out slowly, the worried scrunch still between his eyes.

“And now,” Ilya adds slowly, “I find I am not interested in other people. Just a handsome hockey player with beautiful freckles.”

It takes a second, but the worried frown disappears, a faint blush replaces it, the freckles glowing softly. 

Shane nods as if to close off the conversation there.

“I bought the stuff to make pasta,” Shane says as the credits end and the TV goes silent in the background.

“You cook? No private chef?” Ilya teases, glad for the change of topic, and Shane swats at him.

“I do, partly, in the season. It’s easier that way to make sure I’m hitting all my macros. But I don’t mind cooking. My mom and I used to make a lot of Japanese food when I was a kid, but I’ve not found an Asian supermarket in this neighbourhood yet and she’s not going to ship anything until I find a permanent apartment.”

“This is not permanent?” Ilya frowns.

“I mean, it wasn’t supposed to be. When I came to New York I really wasn’t sure if I’d stay, but I just needed to get away from Montreal, for a bit. So the lease on this is a rolling monthly. I think I like it, though,” he admits, glancing around. “It’s not too far from the rink, and I like that it’s only a few blocks over from the park. I’ve always lived more in the suburbs, I like my space and privacy, so I thought if I did sign here then I’d do the same. But I think the city is growing on me. I mean, not just the city,” Shane adds, glancing at him. “If I moved further out it would make seeing you harder.”

“I mean, my current situation is temporary,” Ilya reminds him. “I have to pass my exams, and then I have 60 days to find work and change visa. So it could all be different in three months.”

Shane frowns, traces a hand up Ilya’s arm. “That’s not very long.”

“I know,” Ilya sighs, tilts his head back into the sofa cushions. “I am working on it. I have a few jobs I will apply for this week, who will sponsor visas.”

Shane nods, but is clearly far away thinking of something else. Ilya doesn’t press, knows that he’s on borrowed time and doesn’t want to push either of them to rash decisions. 

“But Amy is looking for a dogsitter for Max,” he adds, remembering earlier. “I do not know the hours, but if enough I could stop bartending, maybe. It would still be temporary until I get a work visa, but…”

“You could always stay here, too, then,” Shane jumps on the idea. “I’d like that.”

Ilya’s chest twists and releases a little looser, and he catches Shane’s hand as it trails back down to his wrist, brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Me too.”

They make the pasta together, and it’s so easy, moving around Shane’s space, chatting about their favourite foods and Ilya describes the Russian food he misses from home, while Shane mentions what he misses most during the hockey season that he’s not able to work into his diet.

They put on another film that Ilya pays no attention to at all, his head in Shane’s lap and Shane’s fingers gently combing through his hair and offering little scalp scratches, revelling quietly in the intimacy. 

Eventually they retire to bed, and Ilya wraps himself around Shane, falls asleep with his face tucked between his shoulder and his nape, Shane’s hand holding his wrist over his chest.

Chapter 7: Mr. Admiral

Ilya wakes to his phone buzzing and groans, rolls over to grasp for it. The bed is empty, and he finds a little note atop his phone - gone to gym, back by 8:30 - and Ilya can’t help the sappy smile as he traces the neat, blocky handwriting. It’s just gone 8:15 when Ilya answers the video call.

“That is not your bed,” Sveta sounds unimpressed in their native Russian as she frowns at him through the camera.

“Don’t judge,” he groans back in the same language. “I will tell you about him.”

“Him?” she tilts her head. “You never tell me about your ‘him’s.”

“You would like Shane,” he explains, “Unlike the others. But what did you want? You don’t usually call in the morning.”

She pauses, but allows the subject change. “I am coming to New York next month,” she states. “For Pride. Will you have the day off?”

“I’ll probably have a shift in the morning,” as is Ilya’s norm on a Saturday. Very few of his colleagues like to open after a late Friday night, and even though Ilya’s often working late himself he likes the quiet of it, the way he gets to see New York wake and start the weekend. “But I’ll hold off on any bar shifts that night.” It would be a little bit of a financial loss, given Pride is likely to be ripe for tips, but he’s done worse for Sveta, would do whatever she asked of him no matter how much it might hurt him. Not that she’d ever even think of trying to hurt him, which is partly why he loves her so.

“Will your Shane mind if you spend it with me?”

“He would not,” Ilya denies. “But you could meet him? I am not sure he will want to be ‘out’ out during the day, but we could get drinks or dinner or something in the evening, after the parade?”

Her eyebrows twitch up a millimetre, practically a declaration of shock. 

“I would like that,” she agrees, a little cautiously but Ilya will take it. They discuss logistics, she looks up trains and decides to come up the Thursday night before and stay through Monday morning. He doesn’t bother offering up his own apartment, wouldn’t dare subject her to that, and she books a hotel not too far from Shane’s instead.

He gets out of bed as she searches for hotels and carries his phone through to the kitchen in nothing but his boxers, props it up against the toaster while he makes coffee.

Svetlana’s in the middle of a rant about a dickhead of a colleague at work and Ilya’s making sympathetic noises knowing she just needs to vent, when she suddenly goes quiet, and Ilya hears the front door shut across the room.

“Sorry,” Shane whispers.

Ilya shakes his head. “No, sorry. One second.”

“No,” Sveta says in Russian when he turns to her to hang up. “Introduce me.”

“Sveta.”

“Ilya.”

He huffs, but beckons Shane over who makes his way hesitantly across the room. He’s a little sweaty but smells weirdly good, and Ilya has to stop himself sniffing at his shoulder as he leans in close so he can also see the phone screen.

“Coffee?” Ilya offers, putting the inevitable off for a second longer.

“Hello,” Sveta interrupts instead. Ilya presses his own mug into Shane’s hand anyway. “You are Shane?”

“Yes, hi,” Shane nods automatically. “It’s nice to meet you…”

“Svetlana,” Ilya supplies. “My best friend.”

“In Boston?” and Ilya nods.

“You’ve told him about me?” Sveta asks in Russian, and Ilya knows she’s recognised him by the glint in her eye but is so grateful that she’s not bringing up Shane’s career in front of him that he could kiss her.

“Yes, I told Shane about you,” Ilya replies in English. “Don’t be rude.”

“That’s okay,” Shane’s relaxed a little, sipping what was Ilya’s coffee. “He’s only told me good things.”

Svetla laughs. “He’s a liar, then.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya groans in Russian.

“Now who’s being rude?” she says smugly.

Shane glances up at Ilya, who shakes his head. “She is a mean woman,” he pouts exaggeratedly, and smiles when they both laugh.

“A mean woman who is coming all the way to New York to see you,” Sveta points out, and Ilya notices how Shane immediately focuses on the words.

“That’s so nice. When will you be here?”

“The Pride Parade is the last Saturday in June,” Sveta says, and outlines her plan to come up for a long weekend. “Maybe we can all meet,” she adds at the end.

“I’d like that,” Shane agrees. “My friend Rose said she might be coming for the Parade, too. She tries to go every year, but missed it last year so I think is going to try and make up for it. We could all go for dinner or something?”

Agreements all round, vague promises to make plans, and Shane excuses himself with a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder to go shower.

“Shane Hollander?” Sveta hisses as he disappears down the corridor. “Ilya.”

Ilya shrugs and smiles a little ruefully. “I ran into him, literally, and he brought me home like some injured cat. How could I say no?”

Her face softens, “How long?”

“Not long,” Ilya prevaricates. “A couple of weeks, a little more.”

“Why is he in New York? He usually goes to his cottage in Ottawa for the summer.”

“Of course you know that,” Ilya sighs. “There is… talk. Confidential, of course. Of a trade.”

Her eyes narrow, but she nods, lips in a tight line and moves on. “I look forward to meeting him.”

Ilya agrees, although he’s pretty sure she’s going to do something to embarrass him terribly when she gets here. “I also look forward to cutting your hair,” she adds, and he agrees with a desperate please.

They sign off not long later, after Ilya makes himself a second attempt at coffee and he hears the muffled sound of the shower starting up.

He finds eggs and fresh vegetables in the fridge and sets about preparing omelettes for them for breakfast. He gets a grateful kiss as Shane joins him, freshly washed and dressed, and another cup of coffee as Shane makes more.

“Svetlana seems nice,” Shane broaches as Ilya plates up the food, slides a plate over to him on the breakfast bar.

“She is,” Ilya agrees. “She is the best person I know.”

“Does she know about me?”

“She does now,” Ilya nods.

“I meant-.”

“Yes, I know. I had not told her but she is a big hockey fan, maybe even more than me. She recognised you. She will not say anything.”

Shane processes and tension eases from his shoulders as he seems to accept that.

“You said you met as kids?”

Ilya nods. “Her father was goalie for Boston, but when he returned to Russia he turned to politics, where he met my father. They became friends, so Sveta and I were brought together many times as children.”

“It’s nice then, that she’s in the U.S. with you, even if Boston is a bit far.”

Ilya nods, pokes at his own omelette for a second before deciding to be brave. “She was the one who helped me escape Russia. It was… not good, and I was… close… to doing something bad, something I would not come back from.

“But she helped me get my student visa in secret, and booked my travel and found a temporary apartment for a month so I could find my own. And checked on me every step of the way, until I was here, and… free.”

Shane’s hands have stilled, eyes intent on Ilya as if he could dive into the depths of his admission just with his gaze alone. “I’m glad you have her, then,” is all he says, even if Ilya can tell he wants to push and ask more.

“I am not ready to tell you, about Russia, not yet,” Ilya admits, “But I think I will be, soon.”

“You don’t ever have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Ilya promises, presses a foot to Shane’s under the table. “I think… maybe when I have a job and work visa, when I know Russia is behind me for good, I will feel more safe. More able to talk about it.”

Shane nods in understanding and his foot presses back against Ilya’s in comfort. 

They finish eating, and the weather is so nice that they decide to go for a walk for the hour or so they have before Ilya will need to leave for his shift. They drift towards the park, and Ilya’s surprised but pleased when Shane’s hand tentatively brushes his in question. He laces their fingers together, smiles exchanged across shoulders, as they enjoy the late Spring sunshine.

They part a couple of blocks from the diner, Shane clearly bracing himself before leaning in to kiss Ilya goodbye. But when he gets no outward stares, the hive of New York buzzing past him without a glance, he relaxes, smiles a little more brightly at Ilya as he lifts a hand in goodbye. 

Ilya rides the high of the last twenty-four hours through his shift, and even Dolly’s looking at him a little suspiciously as he clocks out still with a grin on his face. But he’s in a relationship, his best friend is coming to see him, and he’s determined to ignore the looming pressure of the job hunt above him for this evening, at least.

After class on Monday morning he and Cliff make a detour to the Student Services Centre, which helps them both review their CVs and cover letters. The centre gets a few jobs directly from employers, so they pull out a few that sound relevant to apply for as well.

Ilya returns to the diner, where Jenna catches him frowning down at his CV, and kindly sits with it on her break and makes a few suggestions as well. The shift runs late, an unexpected late night wave of customers, but they tip better than Ilya had expected so he won’t complain.

He gets a text during his shift from Amy, outlining what she’s looking for in a potential dog sitter. The hours are mostly regular at five hours three nights a week, even if some of the evenings shift back-and-forth from week to week. The hourly rate is more than Ilya had expected, on par with a bartending shift when the tips are good, but he wants to double-check with Shane that he could stay at his that often, given the shifts are from seven through one a.m.. He thinks he could maybe give up his bartending shifts anyway - he’d love to hang out with Max and get paid to do it; but equally if he doesn’t get a work visa he doesn’t want to be leaving Amy in the lurch so soon. 

He keeps thinking about it as he returns to his apartment, finds the leaky tap is now more of a steady drip so pings off an email to his landlord, not that he expects a reply. He updates his CV with the edits from today and submits a couple of job applications, and falls asleep to the soft rhythm of the water plinking into the sink.

Shane invites him over again on Tuesday night, after his morning shift and afternoon class. It’s raining heavily, so he catches the bus from campus over to Shane’s apartment, and knocks on his door just after 5p.m.

Shane answers the door with a soft smile, and Ilya steps past him, drops his bag on the floor. He turns around as Shane closes the door behind them, and immediately finds Shane pushing into Ilya’s space with a rough kiss. Ilya lets the momentum carry him backwards, pulling Shane by the waist with him until they’re both resting against the wall, barely breaking apart enough to breathe.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans as Shane drops his head to bite at his neck, pulling back only so he can tug Ilya’s shirt over his head. They stumble their way over to the sofa, Shane losing his own t-shirt along the way and Ilya kicking off his trousers and underwear. He’s pushed down on his back, Shane stripping his remaining clothes off before straddling him. They both moan as cocks rub against one another, and Ilya drags Shane down with a hand on the back of his neck, holding him there so he can kiss him, fucking into his mouth with his tongue as he’ll fuck into him as soon as he’s prepped him.

But he realises he won’t even need to do that, practically choking on Shane’s whine as his hand roams back and down, finds flared plastic wedged between his ass cheeks.

“Fuck, Shane,” he groans as the hockey player presses back into his hands. “What-”

“I wanted,” Shane pants, “I just wanted you, as soon as I could have you, so.” He reaches under the cushion, produces a string of condoms and Ilya can't stop a laugh.

"Wow. You think you have enough?"

"Fuck off," Shane blushes, and Ilya kisses him, soothes him. It turns hot, heavy, and Ilya's loses himself in it, all brain capacity being directed to the sheer need overshadowing every other thought.

It’s not helped by a soft “let me?” and he nods, watches and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip hard to stop himself from coming as hesitant hands roll the condom down him carefully.

He eases the plug out, knows Shane will care so places it carefully on the coffee table, before sliding three fingers in to make sure he’s open enough. There’s a little pressure, but Shane nods frantically as Ilya twists and removes his fingers, sits back carefully so Ilya can angle his dick to the right spot so that as Shane sinks down he slides in smoothly.

Ilya’s fingers dig into Shane’s hips as he pauses at the bottom, and he can hear his heart pounding behind his ribs as he tries not to come right there, the hot, tight heat of Shane around him overwhelming. Shane braces one hand on Ilya’s chest, the other on the back of the sofa, as he lifts an inch and then sinks back down slower than Ilya’s ever done anything in his life.

But Shane’s face is fierce with concentration, and Ilya can only watch in awe as Shane adjusts, finds a rhythm he likes and rocks into it. Powerful thigh muscles flex and contract with no signs of getting tired as he pushes himself up and down, practically using Ilya to get himself off.

Ilya finally gets with the program, and his knee won’t like the awkward angle so he uses that leg as a soft stabilising force instead, bending his other knee and using his right thigh to press up into Shane sharply as he sinks down.

A shout escapes Shane at the movement and brown eyes meet his. Ilya can’t tell if the surprise is at the change in rhythm, or a new spike of pleasure Shane’s not had before, so he does it again. Blunt nails dig into his chest as Shane breathes heavily, falls downwards a little more sharply to meet Ilya’s thrusts until the slap of flesh echoes in the room and Shane’s leaning forward more for better leverage to press backwards, his other hand on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya reaches up, strokes one thumb down Shane’s throat in a delicate counterpoint to the sharpness of his thrusts, his other hand reaching back and down, presses against the edges of Shane’s hole where he can feel himself moving in and out.

That seems to set Shane off, coming across Ilya’s chest and his own wrists still resting there, and Ilya finally lets the spark of orgasm in his gut ignite, red-hot pleasure suffusing his entire being until he’s pretty sure he’s just ashes on the sofa.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane sighs, gently parting them before laying himself across Ilya’s chest, apparently not even fussed with the sticky come now spreading to his own skin.

Ilya can only hum, pets Shane’s hair gently, strokes the sweat-damp strands back from his forehead.

“I-” Shane stiffens against him and Ilya frowns. “That was okay, right? It wasn’t too much?”

“Shane,” Ilya waits until Shane looks at him. “It was perfect. You could never be too much, not for me. I will tell you when I do not like something, but we can do this again whenever you want.”

Shane hides his face in Ilya’s chest, but his shoulders lose their tension again.

“Thanks,” he mumbles into Ilya’s skin, and they lie there for another couple of minutes until even Ilya’s getting a bit uncomfortable with the sweat and come drying tacky between them.

“Shower,” he encourages, and Shane nods. He helps Ilya from the sofa, and they wash each other slowly, delicately, taking their time under the warm spray.

Ilya stops in the bedroom as they exit to dress, as he spies the new addition hanging this side of the wardrobe door. A red hockey jersey, with Hollander written above the number 24.

“Ah, we signed yesterday,” Shane says when he sees Ilya staring. “As of this morning, I’m officially a New York Admiral. They’re announcing it tomorrow.”

“And you didn’t say anything?” Ilya cries with false-outrage. “We should be celebrating!”

Shane flushes. “I sort of thought what we just did could count.”

Ilya’s speechless for a second, but then smiles. “I’m not sure if that works if one person doesn’t know they’re part of celebration,” he teases, stepping in close until Shane’s body heat radiates into him. “We might need to do it again.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs, pushes at Ilya’s shoulder, but doesn’t protest when he captures the hand and uses it to pull Shane forward so he can kiss him.

“Congratulations, Mr. Admiral,” Ilya murmurs into his mouth. “May the gayest team win all the cups.”

“We don’t know if we’re the gayest,” Shane protests, pulling back. “There’s got to be more queer players out there.”

Ilya shrugs. “My sentiment stands,” he says, and kisses Shane again. “Does anyone from your old team know?”

“Just Hayden and J.J.,” Shane sighs, turns away to pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt. “Neither are really happy, though they sort of get it. They tried, last season, but-”

“But it is still not enough,” Ilya nods. “Two friends do not outweigh the rest of a team, especially not if management is shit.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, defeated. “Hayden says he’s going to try and come here to hang out though, before pre-season. It’ll be nice to see him. I mean, I'm probably going to have to go back to Montreal at some point anyway, for the house and everything, but it'd be nice to have him here."

"I'm sure," Ilya agrees. "He is the one with million kids?"

"Not quite a million," Shane laughs. "But close."

They clean and reset the sofa and retreat to the kitchen as they talk about how Shane's routine will likely change. It's still the off-season, so training isn't yet in full swing, but he's been asked to do a few things for social media to introduce himself to the NYA fans so will be going into the stadium a couple of days over the next few weeks to get that sorted. He's met most of the coaches and everything already, but they also want more detailed meetings about nutrition and training plans and so on. Shane's mom is also expecting he'll have a few interview requests once the news drops officially, so he's likely to be kept busy with it all.

But he's going to stay in this apartment, for now, and will go back to Montreal sometime in the next few weeks to sort his home out there, and to work out what to put in storage and what to have shipped over here, or to his cottage in Ottawa.

"Would you come with me?" he asks tentatively. "To Montreal?"

Ilya sighs, "I am not sure I can," he admits. "It would have to be after exams, but then it will depend on work and interviews and things."

"I can wait," Shane shrugs, "I'm not in a hurry, really. I just- I don't want to go back there alone."

"Your parents would not come?"

"I mean they live in Montreal, so they would, yeah. But... I don't know. They don't know how bad it got, really. My mom was pretty upset when I said I wanted to leave - I mean, they've been her team for as long as I can remember. She's come around a bit, I think, since I told her everything, but."

Ilya nods. "They were good? About you being gay?"

"Yeah, yeah they were," Shane says softly. "Though mom's already thinking about talking to my sponsors about potential Pride-themed campaigns, which feels like... nice, but a lot, given I'm still not sure I'll come out publicly yet."

Ilya nods in understanding. 

"Anyway," Shane changes the subject, "Your exams are next week now, right? Are you feeling ready?"

Ilya nods, talks about the three exams he's got, two on Monday and one on Wednesday. He feels ready, he thinks, has practised and done well on a few mock papers. He mentions a couple of the job applications he's put through too. No responses yet, but it's not been long. 

"Oh, I had something on that actually," Shane crosses the room to pick up his laptop. "I don't know if this would work for you, but the Admirals do this internal referral programme for roles just before they go public with them. I mentioned I knew someone looking for back-office type work and they've sent me a couple that are coming up. I think they're both in the support space for the women's team, but they said they sponsor work visas when I checked."

"You asked for me?" Ilya stares at Shane, who doesn't look back, too busy logging in and loading up his browser.

"Yeah, of course," Shane brushes it off like it's no big deal, but Ilya feels something akin to love swell in his chest. He knows Shane can be anxious around new people, so to think he went out of his way to ask just for him... he leans in and presses a kiss to Shane's shoulder since he's still intent on his screen, not sure how else to express his gratitude.

Shane loads up two job descriptions, and tells him if he likes either he'll just need to send him his CV, and Shane then can forward it to the right people. "There's a rewards programme or something too," he adds offhandedly. "Like we both get bonuses if you get the job, and then again if you pass probation? I can't quite remember, but sounded like a good thing. They’ve put me on the mailing list too for these, so if any more come out I’ll see them and can send them on to you.” 

Ilya presses his lips together and dutifully scans both the descriptions. One is a little too far above him, Deputy Head of a department and he's not got enough of the experience points they're asking for. But the other looks close to the sort of thing he could envisage for himself; an operational support role in the women's team back office, working on operational strategy and publicity and growth. There might be some travel with the team, though mostly he'll be based in New York, and while the salary isn't amazing it would be enough of a bump up from what he's currently pulling together that he thinks he could even move apartments to somewhere slightly better.

He sends Shane his CV from his phone, and watches as Shane immediately forwards it to the recruitment manager with a too-kind note. Once sent, he minimises the browser to reveal another document underneath. It looks like some kind of business outline, bare bones for the minute, but with ‘charitable foundation’ the key subtitle.

"What is this?"

"Ah," Shane flushes a little. "It's just an idea I had last year about setting up a charity. Hockey related, of course. I was thinking it could host hockey camps and things for kids over the summer, mostly aimed at families who can't afford it otherwise, and have any profits and donations go towards maybe like LGBTQ+ campaigns and inclusive organisations, like You Can Play.

"And I know it's insane now, but I thought maybe if I could get it off the ground then you could work for the foundation and we could sort the visa and everything, but of course it's going to take way longer than a couple of months to set up, so..." Shane's blush deepens. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Ilya shakes his head, "That you even thought of it... thank you," Ilya kisses Shane, and Shane pulls him close, deepens it until they're both panting, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

"It's selfish of me," Shane whispers into his mouth. "To want to have you so close, at work and wherever I can get you."

And Ilya has to kiss him again, wants Shane to be as selfish as he wants with him and tells him so. He twists, lifts Shane so he's sat on the counter, legs parted to let Ilya's hips fit between them. They make out slowly, lazily, Shane's legs wrapping around Ilya's hips and holding him close so he couldn't pull away even if he wanted to.

They stop before dinner as Ilya’s stomach rumbles, and they pull together a basic stir fry. Briefly returning to the topic of employment, Ilya mentions the text from Amy, and without prompting Shane offers again to let Ilya stay at his those nights, so he texts her back to say he'd be interested and could work the hours, if she wanted to try a test run or something first. 

He's still got the worry in the depths of his gut that none of this will be enough, that he won't find a permanent job and will be forced to return to Russia or do something drastic, but he's doing his best to choose to believe that things will work out. Even if his brain hates him much of the time, he's an adaptable, resilient person, and he - and Sveta, and maybe even Shane, now - will make sure he's okay in the end.

Chapter 8: Mr. Generational Talent

Chapter Notes

this chapter mentions Irina, so please note updated tags for implied/references to suicide.

Ilya’s free on Wednesday morning, but says goodbye to Shane early so he can hide out in the library to study a little more for his exams and applies to two more jobs. His shift at the diner is a busy one, and Dolly thanks him as he stays a little later to help her clean up when the dishwasher turns up an hour after they were due.

He gets a text from Amy, asking if he’d like to have a trial run with Max. He replies yes, but that he’s got exams next week, so they agree on Monday night once he’s got two of the three out of the way.

He’s not got a bar shift this week, wanted to keep his evenings free for study, so returns home. The tap is still dripping but no response yet from the landlord, so he places a ragged old towel in the sink to at least muffle the noise.

With no bar work he has the entirety of Thursday off, and he can’t remember the last time that had happened for him. Shane has been pulled into a variety of meetings at the Admirals’ facility, and texts him during his breaks while Ilya finds a quiet secluded spot at his local library and uses the time to keep studying.

And it’s stupid, but he misses Shane already. He’s glad for a little time on his own, to be able to decompress a little and focus as he needs to if he’s going to get through next week, but he’s not had more than forty-eight hours away from the hockey prodigy since they’d met and it suddenly feels weird that they won’t see each other until after his class on Friday.

Shane texts him as he’s packing up in the library to say he’s leaving the rink and Ilya uses the opportunity to call him.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya promises. “I just… wanted to talk to you. How was your day?”

And Ilya can hear Shane’s smile through the phone as he talks through his day in more detail, about meeting the social media manager who has promised he won’t need to do anything more than he already does, though if he can re-post some of the things on his Instagram (the only platform Shane can be bothered with, even if he barely uses it), they’d appreciate it. He’s got new recommendations for private chefs in New York who’ll be able to cater to his needs, so is going to reach out over the next week or so and start properly settling into life and setting up for the season.

And finally he talks about the inundation of press and messages he’s had since the news officially dropped yesterday about his trade. Ilya had seen a fair bit while taking breaks to doomscroll on his phone; Montreal fans a mix of devastated and betrayed, New York fans ecstatic if confused. 

“I’ve got a call with my mom and agent later,” Shane admits alongside the fact that there are already over a hundred unread emails asking for details in his inbox, let alone the texts and personal messages from his friends and colleagues. “To go through it all. We’re going to put out a statement, I think, it’s just clearing the Admiral’s press team, and hopefully that’ll be the bulk of it.”

“What about Montreal? Have any of them reached out?”

“No,” Shane sighs. “Well, Hayden and J.J. did but they knew already. I was removed from the group chat this morning, but I know there’s another one anyway that I’m not in because they thought I was boring, so I don’t know what they’re saying about me there.”

“Anyone who can suck dick as well as you can cannot be boring,” Ilya drawls, and hears Shane’s choked little laugh as intended. “They are sad little men, with less hockey talent than you have in your little finger, and you will beat them in four if they even make it to playoffs.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Shane warns. “Some of them are talented. Just the whole atmosphere of the team and management and everything else feeds like… the worst aspects of hockey? The insults and the toxic masculinity and everything. And I don’t know, doesn’t push them to be as good as they maybe could be.”

“They also had you,” Ilya points out. “No need to try so hard when Mr. Generational Talent is doing all the work.”

A huff of laughter, and a soft, almost sad little noise. “I don’t regret it, at all,” Shane says. “I’m so happy to be out of there. But I’ll miss Hayden and his kids and J.J.. Hayden thought about asking for a trade, too, but he’s got a no-trade clause until next year, and then with the kids and everything he’s not got a lot of options without uprooting their entire lives.”

“Hm, I can’t imagine many other cities would have room for his millions of children either,” Ilya says dryly, and grins when Shane laughs again. 

“Hunter’s added me to the new group chat already, though,” he sounds relieved. “They’ve all been really welcoming. A lot of the guys are away for the summer, but they’re talking about having a welcoming dinner or drinks or something when they’re all back in a month or so. I’m not sure if partners are welcome, but…”

“I would go, if they are, and you asked,” Ilya answers the unasked question, and hears Shane exhale lowly.

“Thank you.”

Shane says goodbye shortly after, to prepare for the call with his mom, and Ilya returns home via the supermarket. He’s put most of his spare cash aside for Pride, though assuming he passes all of his exams his last school payment will be paid off in a month, and he’ll have almost half of his budget back, so he might be able to swing a little more.

But he cooks himself a basic dinner, and with his brain swimming from too much English today, goes to bed early, wishing Shane a goodnight by text.

He wakes on Friday to both a goodnight and good morning text from Shane, returns the latter as he hops on the subway to the diner.

He opens Instagram and finds that Shane’s posted the statement he’d mentioned last night, underneath a photo of his new red Admiral’s jersey, now hanging with a view from his window over the New York streets.

[ I am excited to be starting a new chapter of my career with the New York Admirals. I will miss Montreal, and I am proud to have contributed to their two back-to-back Cups in the last 3 years as their Captain. I especially want to express my deepest thanks to all of the fans who have supported me since I was drafted there four years ago and seen me grow into the hockey player I am today. But at my core I believe in always pushing to be better, so I’m looking forward to the new challenges provided by a new team, a new atmosphere and a new season. Go NYA! ]

He likes it, and sends Shane a screenshot with a little heart, getting a little heart reaction in return.

6:02 | From: Shane

I think I set the cat among the pigeons a bit with that statement…

6:03 | To: Shane

No, was perfect 💅
Did the gays proud 🌈

He gets a laughing react followed by a heart, and grins down at his phone stupidly. 

His shift is quiet, bar one table, a group of four still drunk from the night before. Ilya lets their shitty impressions of his accent wash over him, guides them gently out the door when they’ve finally had enough, and accepts the chocolate chip pancakes Dolly slides over the bar to him in reward. 

Class is busier that afternoon than usual, some of the slackers starting to panic about the exam next week, and Ilya and Cliff spend their time at the back of the room prepping while the tutor goes through last-minute questions she’d answered two weeks ago for the Friday regulars.

Ilya wishes Cliff luck in studying over the weekend as they pack up, and decides to take the bus, every minute saved a minute he can be spending with Shane. He lets himself into Shane’s apartment building and knocks, and practically tackles the other man as he opens the door.

Shane relaxes under his hands immediately as Ilya kicks the door shut, and they don’t stop kissing except to strip as they beeline for the bedroom, a trail of clothes behind them.

“Hands and knees,” Ilya commands when they reach the bed, and Shane sends him a heated look as he obeys. Ilya strokes a hand lovingly down his spine, squeezes one ass cheek lightly and feels his cock twitch as Shane groans and presses back into the pressure.

“How many times do you think you can come in a row?” Ilya asks conversationally as he kneels on the bed behind Shane, both hands smoothing over his ass, squeezing firm flesh again.

Shane glances back at Ilya, and as always he’s so charmed by the way he thinks through every question Ilya asks him as if it’s life or death, even when slightly bewildered, like now.

“I mean, we’ve done twice, with a break? I don’t- I don’t know,” he gets in tentative answer, and shakes his head teasingly.

“I think more,” he disagrees, “but okay, two now then. The first because I did not know we were celebrating on Tuesday, and I need to make it up to you. And the second,” he moves on quickly when Shane looks like he might argue, “because you have been so good, dealing with all this press and the questions you hate because they are about you, and not about your hockey. Both because you deserve them.”

Ilya leans down, presses a long, slow lick to Shane’s ass while he’s still processing Ilya’s words, and drinks in the quiet gasp, the twitch of his hips like a drowning man.

“Ilya,” he gasps, and Ilya hums from where he’s pressing his tongue into the tight furl of him, noting the slightest shiver down Shane’s spine. Ilya pauses when Shane stutters, squeezes his eyes shut for a second longer than usual. He moves so he can meet Shane’s gaze when his eyes open again, and after a second Shane nods, presses back into him in consent.

“Good,” Ilya praises softly, and returns to licking him out, loosening him up with his tongue as his hands grip his ass, stroke up his sides, studiously avoiding his erection. Shane moans softly but relaxes into it, toes curling and uncurling behind him.

“Hands over head, grab headboard or edge of mattress if you need,” Ilya demands, pulling back as Shane sinks down onto his chest, hands free now they’re no longer propping him up.

Shane whines, but his hands slide under the pillows, his impressive lats flexing rhythmically as he shifts. Ilya returns to kissing him open, licking in deeper millimetre by millimetre until Shane’s coming untouched around Ilya’s tongue, shout muffled in the pillows.

Ilya eases back but replaces his tongue with one finger gently pressing in, watches carefully for any sign of overstimulation or discomfort as he keeps easing him open. Shane remains collapsed in the pillows, chest heaving with his breaths, soft little noises reverberating from his throat, muffled by the way he’s pressing his face into one bicep.

Ilya goes slower than he has yet, using extra lube and keeping up a soft stream of praise for Shane, for how beautiful he looks like this, how well he behaves and how much Ilya loves to watch him come. At some point Shane closes his eyes again and Ilya realises he’s slipped into Russian, Shane’s head tilting as if to hear him better even if he doesn’t understand.

When Shane’s open enough, Ilya gets a hoarse “please” when he slides his fingers out. He gently encourages Shane onto his back, laces a hand with his while the other gently lifts his hips so Ilya can press in. Shane arches upwards, tears sliding onto the pillows as his hand grips Ilya’s hard enough that he feels the bones shift.

And Ilya tortures himself as much as he does Shane, keeps the glacially slow pace. He tells Shane he’s doing so well, will come twice so prettily for him, and maybe next time he scores a hattrick he can ask and Ilya will reward him with an orgasm for every goal, and that gets him a soft little wanting whimper and pleading nod. Ilya picks up the pace, leans forward to bite down on Shane’s lip, shifts his angle ever so slightly until he finds the right one, reaches down to wrap a hand around his dick and Shane’s coming a second time in short succession with a silent scream, plush lips parted around nothing as he gasps for air and Ilya follows.

Ilya cleans them both up, wets a washcloth with warm water and gently wipes down Shane, who’s still laying in bed, his sleepy, fucked-out expression filling Ilya with warmth and not a little pride.

“Okay?” he whispers, gathering Shane into his arms and stroking down his back.

He gets a nod and hum of agreement as Shane shifts even closer, one arm sliding over Ilya’s chest and up to absent-mindedly trace the line of his collarbone. His breath slows gradually, occasional soft kisses exchanged as they shift positions for comfort.

“If I scored four goals, would you make me come four times?” Shane eventually breaks the silence.

Ilya grins, “if you wanted that, then yes,” he promises. “But they would have to be from official games. If we start including practise matches then I am not sure either of us would survive.”

“True,” Shane grins and leans up to kiss him again, rests his head and presses a smile into Ilya’s shoulder. “Good incentive to smash my own scoring record then.”

“Greedy,” Ilya hums in approval. “If you do, I’ll give you a special reward after the season. Same if you win the cup.”

“What reward?”

“We’ll work something out,” Ilya promises. “You will enjoy.”

“I know,” Shane agrees easily. “I enjoy everything I do with you.”

Ilya smiles back, helplessly fondly pleased, and they lie there for a few more minutes, Ilya not even minding being in the wet spot. Eventually they drift too close to sleep, so Ilya forces them to get up so they can at least eat dinner before going back to bed.

A shower and sheet change later, Ilya cooks for Shane, roasts salmon with vegetables, brown rice on the side, and enjoys the feel of Shane’s eyes following him around the kitchen. It’s domestic, and rapidly becoming one of Ilya’s favourite parts of spending time with Shane - sex notwithstanding.

Ilya studies a little more after dinner, Shane washing up and then retreating to the sofa with a book and those nerdy little glasses that Ilya keeps glancing up at every time he needs a little break. When he knows he’s getting too distracted to be any good at studying tonight he gets up, Shane immediately looking over at him. Ilya waves him off, makes him a cup of tea (he’d been right, before, so delightfully boring with chamomile before bed) and inserts himself between Shane and the back of the sofa, rests his head on Shane’s chest. He’s a little worried that this might be too much, that Shane might want his space so he’s hesitant about it, but Shane just shifts slightly to make just enough room, to prop his book up using Ilya’s shoulder instead and press a kiss to his forehead and Ilya relaxes, safe and warm and welcome.

Ilya should’ve known that the relative happiness of the last few days wouldn’t last, as he wakes up on Saturday to an email from his landlord. He initially hopes that it’s a reply about the leak, but instead it’s to tell him that the rent will be going up by $200 a month starting from next month, as in next week. He can either accept the new rent, or vacate the property within the next two weeks without penalty.

“Fuck.” He can hear the shower going, assumes Shane’s been up for a while, gone to the gym and back, and is tempted briefly to go and join him under the spray before his eyes are drawn back to the shitty words on his phone screen.

He’s not sure how long he drifts, trying to come up with contingency plans. His school fees will taper off over the next month, which will free up enough funds to cover the increase without a problem from July, but where he’s going to find the extra $200 for June he doesn’t know. He’s maxed out other than the $50 in his savings account, but there’s no way his landlord would take an IOU for whatever he can’t scrounge up.

“What’s wrong?” Shane stops in the doorway as he sees Ilya sitting on the edge of the bed, blankly staring at the now-dark phone screen.

“I- nothing,” Ilya shakes his head. “Is fine.”

Shane sighs, and comes to sit next to him, not touching but the shower-warmed heat of him radiates into Ilya’s shoulder. “You said I could push,” he reminds him quietly and Ilya has to swallow down the instinctive snappy retort.

Instead he sighs, tells Shane about the rent increase. “I cannot afford this month. And I will not take money from you.”

“It could be a loan,” Shane suggests softly. “You can pay me back in a couple of months when you get a job.” And that’s tempting enough that Ilya seriously considers it.

“Or,” Shane adds, “Or you could just… move in here? We’ve moved so fast anyway, what’s this on top?”

And Ilya wants to immediately say yes, to take everything Shane’s offering with his greedy little hands. But he forces himself to think about it for a second, about what would make him feel less like he’s taking advantage and taking more than what Shane might want to give.

“I would pay rent. Same amount as I pay now. This is non-negotiable.”

“Only if the rent includes utilities, and groceries,” Shane negotiates anyway. “You know what a professional player’s diet is like, so that’s only fair given how much food and specifics I’ll need.”

Ilya sighs, turns it over in his head. Is this too much? Is Shane offering too much? Shane can afford it, sure, but is Ilya being too greedy anyway?

“Please,” Shane adds quietly. “We can set up the spare room so you have an office space too, if you get a job that has you work from home or something. But when the season starts I’ll be off on roadies and travelling, so it’d be nice to know you’d be here, whenever I was home.”

And hadn’t Ilya asked Shane to be as selfish as he wanted with Ilya? Why would Ilya say no, when he wants the exact same thing?

“Okay,” he accepts.

“Okay?” Shane echoes, and then grins brighter than Ilya thinks he’s seen him so far. “Okay. So, we can go get your stuff whenever then. I can book us a car, or do you think we’d need a van or something; how much stuff do you have?”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts, grabs his hand from where he’s stood up and started pacing as he plans. “Shane, I do not have much. I can manage on subway. Will be fine.”

Ilya heads out soon after for his shift at the diner, but not before Shane’s managed to persuade him that they should get a car to go and pick up his things anyway, by kissing him so filthily Ilya had been too turned on to argue properly.

The diner is busy but not overwhelming, and Ilya makes lists in his head of everything he can remember that he owns and wants to bring to Shane’s in between taking orders and serving his tables. By the time the car Shane’s ordered pulls up at the end of his shift, Shane in the backseat waiting, he thinks he’s got plans for most of the contents of his apartment, what he’ll keep or donate or dispose of.

“You did not have to come,” Ilya reminds Shane after a thirty-five-minute drive to the run-down neighbourhood where he lives. The driver is clearly not keen to park for long nearby, so he says he’ll loop around and come back for them if they can text him whenever they’re done.

Shane ignores him, follows him up the dingy staircase and through the battered front door. Ilya prays this isn’t the thing that makes Shane realise who he’s with, what kind of person Ilya is, to regret it all and change his mind. 

“I told you I did not have much,” Ilya points out, as they both stand in the middle of the single room. The tap in the corner is still dripping, and Ilya feels a sense of embarrassment as Shane sees how he’s been living for the last year.

It’s not as bad as it could have been, and everything is neat and tidy, but seeing it through fresh eyes it’s definitely pretty run down and worn. The afternoon sun has heated up the apartment but the AC is faulty, so Ilya cracks a window for a bit of fresh air.

He pulls his suitcase out from underneath the bed, and Shane starts folding his clothes neatly and packing them away while Ilya tackles the bathroom. Shane brought some reusable shopping bags with them, and Ilya’s bathroom amenities and towels fit in one, his mismatched set of kitchen crockery and his limited remaining groceries in another. 

He scrubs everything clean while he’s there, wants no excuse for the landlord to keep his deposit if he can help it, though he knows he’s unlikely to get it back anyway. 

Shane’s finished with his clothes and shoes, and is neatly packing his laptop and the other things tucked away in his dresser into a final bag.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Shane says disapprovingly, holding the almost-empty cigarette packet up between them.

Ilya rolls his eyes, “I barely do, anymore,” he replies, but takes the packet before Shane can throw them away, tucks them in his pocket. “I will not in your apartment.”

“Our apartment,” Shane corrects quietly, and Ilya swallows hard, turns back to wiping down the inside of the fridge before his smile can give away how giddy the words make him.

He’s finished wiping down the rest of the counter kitchen when he hears the creak of the bed, turns to see Shane sitting on the edge of the now-bare mattress, a small piece of paper in his fingers.

“Your mom?” he asks softly, and Ilya realises which photograph Shane’s holding.

“Yes,” he agrees, sitting so his hip touches Shane’s, wanting the contact for this.

“She was beautiful.”

“She was,” Ilya agrees, fingers flexing on his knees. “This is the only photo I have of her.”

“She looks so happy,” Shane’s voice is hushed, and Ilya swallows as his vision goes blurry.

“She was not always happy,” his voice is thick, throat tight with emotion. “She was like me, I think. She had depression. She was taking pills to help, but one day... she swallowed whole bottle. I found her. My fath- they said it was accident, but.”

“Ilya, I’m so sorry,” Shane turns, moves so he’s straddling Ilya’s lap, can wrap him up in a tight hug. Ilya feels a tear escape and presses it into Shane’s chest, exhale shuddering out of his chest.

“I do not want you to think she was weak.”

“I don’t,” Shane promises.

“She was not. She was so funny, but so sad. So sad, and my father was so hard on her, and-,” Ilya’s voice breaks, and he presses his face into Shane’s chest, lets the soothing rhythm of his breathing and a hand stroking through his hair settle him until he can speak again.

“She would have loved you,” Ilya tells Shane after a few minutes of absorbing as much of the comfort as he could, pulling back to see worried brown eyes watching him, one hand gently brushing away the remaining tear-tracks on his cheeks. And it’s too soon, but Ilya thinks ‘like I love you’ and knows it to be true.

“What’s her name?”

“Irina.” Just saying the name makes Ilya smile a little, the happier memories surfacing. She has one more person who knows a little about her, now, and her memory will live on in Shane. Shane smiles back softly, both hands cradling Ilya’s face as he leans in for the softest of kisses.

“I wish I could have met her.”

“Me too,” he agrees, and gets another delicate kiss, a hand gently combing through his hair.

They finish packing pretty quickly after that, and once Ilya’s content that he’s left whatever came with the apartment and has everything else to take with him, he replies to the landlord to say he’ll be leaving the apartment, and requests information on how to hand back his keys.

Shane texts the driver while he types, and helps Ilya carry his one suitcase and four other bags down the stairs. They load them up into the car and return to Shane’s apartment with hands clasped across the middle backseat.

While Ilya was at work, Shane had moved his clothing from half of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, dug out or bought new hangers so all of Ilya’s clothes can be put away immediately. It’s a small section in comparison to the apparently limited wardrobe Shane has here, but there’s something in seeing their clothes hanging together that has Ilya’s stomach soaring with contentment.

His kitchen stuff he’ll donate since he won’t need it here, but he sets out his own toiletries in the ensuite at Shane’s encouragement, and Shane clears a shelf on the bookcase in the living room he can use for his textbooks and things for now. Shane has more things he knows he’ll want to bring over from Montreal, so he suggests waiting and then they can buy another bookcase or something if need be, as well as waiting to see if Ilya will need a desk or anything if he gets a work-from-home job, but the dining table will work in the interim.

And before he knows it all of his things have been put away, integrated with Shane’s in their now shared apartment. It makes him ridiculously happy to see their toothbrushes in the same little glass, and tackles Shane around the waist onto the bed, laughing as they roll around, kissing and wrestling for the upper hand.

“You can’t treat your flatmate like this!” Shane laughs as Ilya pins him, hands holding his wrists to the bedspread as he stares down at him, flushed and grinning on the bed.

“Maybe not, but I think I know how my boyfriend likes to be treated,” Ilya replies, and sees the flash of surprise suffused with joy flash across Shane’s face before he leans down to kiss all the thoughts out of his head.

They fuck slowly; on their sides with Ilya tucked up behind Shane, biting gently across his chest with his thrusts until Shane’s arching forward, groaning Ilya’s name as he comes. They lie together a while longer, the afternoon sun slowly arcing across the bed and their skin until Ilya’s stomach makes itself known, and they reluctantly relocate to the shower.

They order pizza, in celebration of Ilya moving in, and fuck again before bed, face-to-face and clinging on almost too tightly to move properly with want for each other, with joy at this next step they’re taking closer together.

Chapter 9: Mr. Chef

Ilya’s traded shifts on Sunday, so he’s up extra early for opening instead of his usual afternoon. Shane’s up anyway, and walks with Ilya down to the diner before heading back home via a run in central park, leaving him with a kiss at the edge of the block.

He returns home (and does a secret internal double-take when he realises he’s already, immediately thinking of the apartment as home) to find Shane making lunch. They eat together, and Shane heads into the bedroom to call his parents as Ilya dives into his last-minute studying for his exams tomorrow.

He’s still feeling reasonably confident, even this close. He knows what he’s doing, even if he’s just a little worried that tomorrow his English will go to shit and he’ll lose marks for it. But he re-reads some of his own mock exams, goes over the notes he’s made on his common errors, reminds himself he’ll have the spellcheck software in the exam, and that he’s doing all he can.

Shane comes out an hour or so later, running a hand through his hair and looking a little exasperated but pleased.

“My parents would like to meet you,” he starts, when Ilya pushes a chair out for him to sit, happy to take a break to talk. “They’re going to their cottage for a break for at least a couple of weeks, but they’ve said they’d like to do dinner or something, either if you do come to Montreal with me, or they’d come to New York, maybe before pre-season training kicks off properly.”

Ilya nods, ignores the flutter of nerves. “Tell me about them. Yuna and David, yes?” He’s heard Shane talking about them before, he thinks, but can’t quite remember when. “Yuna is not Canadian name.”

“No, she’s Japanese,” Shane nods. “But she was born in Canada; my grandparents moved over after the war. She’s strong, a little intimidating, and pretty much as obsessed with hockey as I am.”

“Ah, so this obsession is… genetic.”

“Genetic,” Shane echoes, a smile blooming across his face as he laughs. “Yeah, maybe.”

“What about your dad? He is also hockey mad?”

“He likes it, sure,” Shane leans back in his chair, relaxing. “But he’s less intense about it. He works for the Treasury Board of Canada. Reads the New Yorker, likes puzzles. Much more laid back.”

“So that’s where you get your boring from,” Ilya teases, and notes the flicker of something in Shane’s face. “I like your boring,” he reassures him, and whatever it was vanishes.

“Mom asked if I can send a photo in the meantime,” Shane adds. “And I realised we don’t have any of us yet.”

“We can fix,” Ilya pushes his chair back and pats his lap. “Come. You have phone?”

Shane blushes and perches sideways on Ilya’s lap a little cautiously, like he hasn’t straddled him many times already. Ilya wraps an arm around his waist, stabilising him as he leans back slightly, lifts his phone so they’re both displaying on the screen, cheek-to-cheek.

Ilya smiles brightly at the camera as Shane takes a couple of snaps, and turns to press a quick kiss to his cheek when he goes for a couple more. Shane smiles, drops his arm and they look at the few he’s taken together.

They look good, Ilya thinks, contrasting with a serious close-lipped smile from Shane, a wider, looser grin from Ilya. His hair is a mess, though, he laments, all wild around his head. He should probably look at getting a hair tie, and Sveta arriving can’t come soon enough.

Shane sends the photo to Ilya and to his mom. Ilya saves them, makes the one where they’re both smiling his background with Shane’s permission. He doesn’t want to risk outing Shane in a way he’s not ready for, even if he doubts anyone will be looking at his phone too closely.

“Oh, and hey, speaking of photos,” Shane gets up, rifles through a paper bag on the side. “I saw this as I passed a store,” he holds out a photo frame. “I thought- for your mom’s photo? We could put it on the bookcase, if you wanted?”

Ilya loses his breath, can only nod silently and fetch the photograph from where he’d stored it safely between the pages of one of his textbooks on the shelf. He watches in silence as Shane takes the back off the frame and gently lays the photo face-down against the glass, then reassembles it and places it in pride of place on one of the mid-level shelves.

Ilya stares for a long minute at the picture of his mama, now smiling out at the room, his heart aching in his chest as he realises she’ll be here as long as he is. He hugs Shane tightly, whispers soft thanks into his hoody, wishing there were enough words to be able to explain what this means to him.

Once they peel apart, Shane spends an hour or so at the table quizzing Ilya, offers him a kiss for every answer he can confidently provide correctly, before it gets too distracting so he goes off to plan his own next few weeks and moving things from Montreal, looking up moving companies and so on.

Ilya blows Shane long and slow in the shower that evening, bringing him close to the edge but not letting him tip over for one long moment, sees the heat flare in Shane’s eyes as he holds him still and starts making plans in the back of his mind to use that in the future. He shakes his head when Shane goes to drop to his knees to repay the favour, presses him face first into the tiles instead and presses in and out of the gap made by thick thighs, getting himself off with the friction and soft grunts as his cockhead nudges Shane’s balls with every other thrust.

He goes to bed with a fucked-quiet brain, feels Shane wrap around him and sinks back into his chest, soft breaths against his nape lulling him into sleep. 

Monday starts too early, but Shane brings Ilya coffee in bed to wake him with plenty of time to make it down to the venue the university has rented for the exams. He gets a long, soft good-luck kiss and holds the sensation to his chest as he hops on the bus.

He nods at Cliff when he sees him standing outside the hall, and they exchange ‘good luck’s as they have their IDs checked and are pointed to their desks. The first exam goes as well as it could have, and Ilya’s feeling buoyed and confident as he and Cliff grab an early lunch together before their second exam this afternoon.

The second isn’t quite as smooth-sailing as the first, with a tricky question Ilya’s not entirely sure he interpreted correctly. But he’s offered his reasoning, explained his own understanding to what he thinks it was asking, and hopes even if it’s wrong he’ll get enough points to pass. 

Cliff suggests a drink once they’re done, and Ilya nods, texts Shane to let him know that the exams went okay and he’s going for a quick drink with a friend to celebrate. He gets back a heart emoji and a see you later, so follows Cliff to the pub they’d been to before.

He gets the drinks this time, and they chat through the exams, talk about the prep for the final exam on Wednesday. It’s easy, relaxed, and they chat for an hour or so until Cliff’s sister appears to take him to dinner.

She breezes in to greet them and drop her bags with her brother before disappearing towards the bathroom.

“She wants to know if you’re single,” Cliff waggles his phone as a text from his sister comes through from where she’s out of sight. 

“Ah, I am not,” Ilya says, jokingly devastated. “But tell her thank you, and if I were, I would take her on the best date of her life.”

Cliff grins as he types. “What’s your partner like?” he asks, and Ilya notes the gender-neutral wording with relief.

“He is… anxious, but kind,” Ilya sums up. “He has high-pressure career, has recently moved from a bad job and while his new one is better, is all very new and he is out to only some of his colleagues, so it can be hard for him.”

“And for you, though?” Cliff asks, brows drawing together as he looks at Ilya, who shrugs back.

“I knew when I said yes to him,” he dismisses the concern. “He has plan to come out. We will make it work.”

“Well, if you ever want more friends he can be out to,” Cliff offers. “I can keep a secret.”

“Thank you,” Ilya’s touched, and clinks his glass to Cliff’s in a little cheers. “I will discuss with him, and let you know.”

“Sure thing,” Cliff smiles easily as his sister joins them, a little flushed from embarrassment but Ilya flirts harmlessly and she bounds back easily. 

They finish their beers and Cliff disappears off for dinner with his sister, and Ilya walks back to the apartment. He drops his bag off and gives Shane a quick kiss before heading down to the third floor, where Amy’s apartment sits.

It’s smaller than Shane’s, maybe about half the floor rather than the whole thing, and Max barks happily and prances at his feet as he stands in the entryway. Amy looks pleased as he offers her praise and pets, but only when she’s good, enforces good behaviour.

Amy takes him through Max’s evening routine, shows him where to find food and toys and her lead and a little raincoat for if it’s raining very heavily. Max follows them around, glued to their heels, and starts tippy-tapping when the lead comes out.

Ilya holds the lead as they walk, Amy showing them their usual routine to the park and back. Max is generally a good girl, barely pulls unless there’s a particularly interesting scent on a fire hydrant or a lamppost. 

Amy talks about how she got Max with her ex, how they’d enrolled her in puppy classes and training courses and has her go to daycare once a week for the socialisation. And Ilya talks about how he’d always wanted a dog, but could not when he was younger and can’t afford it now he’s in New York.

He likes Amy, she seems practical and maybe a little anxious, like Shane, and she clearly adores Max. But she seems to like Ilya, and trusts him enough that she heads back to the apartment slightly early to let him walk Max on his own for a few more minutes. Max whines after her owner, but accepts the diversion eventually and is still just as good when it’s just the two of them.

“There’s a few dog friendly bars and things,” Amy offers a little binder she’d put together when Ilya returns. It has a list of the bars she mentions, as well as the key vet and insurance information for in an emergency. “I only ask that if you take her anywhere but the apartment and her usual walking route you text me and let me know.”

Ilya nods. “Would it be okay if she came up to fifth floor sometimes? I have actually moved in with my friend, and he would not mind.”

“Shane, right? On the fifth floor? He’s new, but seems nice enough. Some kind of athlete, I think?”

“Yes, he is hockey player,” Ilya answers. “Recently moved to New York to play for team here. He’s very good.”

Amy smiles. “Sure. I’ve seen him a few times in the lobby and things, and he seems nice enough.”

“I will send regular updates,” Ilya promises. “Lots of photos, unless you do not want?”

“No, that would be great,” Amy accepts instantly. “I didn’t want to be that overbearing dog-parent, but honestly send as many photos and updates as you like.”

“I will take good care of her,” Ilya adds seriously, crouching down to stroke Max’s head, rub her ears gently. “I promise.”

“I know,” Amy agrees. “Okay, so you’re good to come on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday this week, then? I’ll text you if there are any changes, but I’m usually told at least a couple of weeks in advance, so there shouldn’t be anything this week.”

“Sure,” Ilya nods, and accepts the spare key Amy hands him. 

He says goodbye to Max, promises they’ll have a great time on Wednesday, and trots back upstairs to find Shane making dinner for the both of them.

“Ah, Mr. Chef, you are very good to me,” Ilya declares, wrapping his arms around Shane from behind and pressing a kiss to his nape. “Smells good.”

Shane smiles, turns for a quick kiss before returning to stir the vegetables he’s frying.

Ilya remains plastered to his back until dinner is ready, and he sets out the cutlery and drinks while Shane plates up. They sit, pressing their feet together as usual, and eat as Ilya talks about the exams, about Max and their walk. Shane listens, clearly happy for Ilya, says of course he wouldn’t mind if Max came to hang out with them on occasion.

And Shane mentions how he’d run into Scott Hunter on his run in central park this morning, and they’d gone for coffee at straw+berry. The barista had been someone different from before, though, so Scott hadn’t wanted to linger, and they’d gone for a brief cooldown walk instead. 

“He’s also thinking of going to Pride,” Shane mentions. “Bennett, the Admirals’ goalie, is dating the bartender at this gay bar - the Kingfisher - so they’re all going for drinks there after the parade. Scott said I - and anyone with me - would be welcome to come along.”

“So Bennett makes queer person number three,” Ilya waggles his eyebrows. “You sure you are not gayest team?” Shane laughs, and Ilya wiggles his feet against Shane’s under the table. “That would be good. I would like to meet your teammates, even if they are dinosaurs.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but the smile underneath is real. “I’m not a hundred percent sure the bartender is a man, he didn’t say. Bennett was married to a woman, though they did get divorced last year. Anyway,” he shakes his head. “For Pride, Rose said she is coming. She’s not booked a hotel yet so I said I’d check with you if you don’t mind if she crashes in the spare room?”

“Of course,” Ilya nods. “Will be nice to meet her.”

“She’s looking forward to meeting you too,” Shane smiles, looks pleased at the thought of these two social groups colliding. Ilya’s mostly sure he’ll like Rose, but he knows how much she means to Shane, how much she’s supported him the last few years, and is hoping that he’ll get her seal of approval, too.

They finish eating and Ilya cleans up since Shane had cooked. They have a lazy evening, play a few video games before retiring to bed, and if Ilya is extra thorough in his prep, in whispering filthy epithets worshipping Shane in bed as he fucks into him, slipping into Russian on occasion, then that’s between him and him alone.

Tuesday and Wednesday pass much the same as the previous two days. Shane goes into the Admirals facility for a few bits and pieces, leaving Ilya alone to study for his final exam. He brings back Vietnamese for a late lunch, dumplings and noodles and spring rolls. They go for a post-food walk to give Ilya some fresh air and a longer break, Ilya talking through the key points he needs to know for his exam as they stroll.

The exam goes well on Wednesday morning, and Ilya finds Cliff and grins brightly at him as they exit into the sunny afternoon, finally free.

“Well,” Cliff says. “See you at graduation?”

“Before then. We’ll meet for drinks. We can celebrate once we’re both employed, yes? Would be nice to stay in touch.”

“Sounds good,” Cliff’s smile is tinged with relief. “Keep me updated on the job search, man. If there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Same here,” Ilya returns.

He returns home via returning his apartment keys to his landlord - who’d finally emailed him back and said he’d do a runthrough and this was the only time he’d make. To his surprise, Ilya would get back 80% of his deposit - although he’s pretty sure the 20% deduction he could probably argue with he’s not willing to risk the hassle and he’s financially secure enough now that he thinks it is an okay amount to lose for being able to get out so quickly.

He closes Shane’s front door behind him and turns to almost faceplant on the floor, as Shane leans topless on the arm of the sofa facing the entrance, a bottle of good Russian vodka held loosely in his fist and Ilya wonders what kind of research he’d done to find that brand - he’s not even seen it in any of the more upscale liquor stores he’s passed by so it’s not an easy find.

“I know you have to walk Max later, so we can’t drink this now,” he says in greeting, lifting the bottle. “But congratulations on finishing your exams.”

Ilya steps forward, lifts his hands to Shane’s face and holds him where he wants him as he kisses him deeply, licking his way inside until Shane’s leaning into him, vodka bottle cool against Ilya’s back as arms loop around his shoulders. 

Ilya takes the bottle, sets it down on the nearest stable surface and leads Shane through to the bedroom by his hand.

“You have plans?” he asks, as Shane turns to him, watches, waiting.

Shane shakes his head. “You worked really hard to study, and so I figured you could… do whatever you wanted, as a reward.”

And those words set off a bombardment of images and wants that Ilya’s kept otherwise locked tightly away. 

“Fuck, Shane… take off your clothes.” Ilya peels his own clothes off as Shane removes his sweatpants and underwear, puts them neatly folded on the dresser, looking resplendent as always standing in front of him, cock slowly hardening under Ilya’s gaze.

“On your knees, come here.” Ilya watches, chest tight as Shane drops down and knee-walks over, mouthes over the head of his cock, eyes lifting to meet Ilya’s gaze.

“More,” Ilya breathes, and Shane takes more in, sinks further down. And he looks so fucking blissful like that, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than on his knees with Ilya’s dick in his mouth. He cups a gentle hand around the back of Shane’s neck, holds him still as he pushes back and forth, a thin line of spit connecting the head of his cock to Shane’s lips as he pulls out in a sight Ilya wishes he could commit to film. He presses back in, and Shane presses forward, takes him deeper, swallows around him and Ilya fists his hand, tugs him back by the hair with a shout, the heat and pressure of it almost too much.

“Was that not good?” Shane asks, anxiety entering his eyes.

“Was too much, too good,” Ilya answers, and the anxiety is replaced by calculation and he knows he’s in trouble going forward. There’s nowhere he’d rather be.

“On the bed,” he encourages. “I want you to ride me until we both come.”

Ilya lies down, grabs the lube from the bedside table, and Shane starts to straddle him until Ilya shakes his head. “No. Other way.”

And Ilya loves how every time he suggests something new Shane flushes as he processes, before trusting Ilya enough to do it anyway. His knees rest either side of Ilya’s waist, and Ilya tugs his hips back until he can lift his head and lick into him. Shane groans as Ilya devotes himself to his task, easing a finger in and then two. His rhythm falters when Shane’s chest lowers and he’s at the right place to mouthe at Ilya’s cock, sloppy and uncoordinated but so fucking good Ilya’s head spins.

“Up,” he eventually groans once three fingers are comfortably inside Shane. Shane crawls forward, and Ilya holds him by the hips before he can turn. He sits up, scoots back to lean against the headboard, encourages Shane to do the same until he’s braced and open above Ilya’s cock. He rolls a condom on before he gently eases his grip on Shane’s hips and tells him to “sit.”

And he can feel the rumble through Shane’s back against his chest as he sinks down on his dick, head falling back to rest on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya mouths at his neck, runs one hand soothingly over one thigh and the other up his chest, holds him close.

“Can you move like this?”

Shane thinks about it for a second but nods, and quads shift as he lifts part-way and then sinks back down again. It’s more of a slow grind than anything, Ilya barely leaving Shane as gravity does its work to hold him down.

One of Shane’s hands grips Ilya’s thigh, uses it for a little more leverage to push up, the other reaching back to grab a fistful of Ilya’s hair and hold him close. “Please.”

Ilya lowers a hand, wraps it around Shane’s leaking cock. “So wet for me,” he whispers, and gets a whimper back. “I think we should do this in front of mirror next time, so you can see how pretty you are sitting on my cock.”

“Ilya,” a tear leaks from Shane’s eye, falls to his shoulder as he turns his head.

“My gorgeous, generous king, moy korol,” Ilya rasps in Russian, moves his hand faster, twists his wrist lightly. “So fucking good to me. Come on, come for me.”

Shane shudders as he comes, head resting heavy on Ilya’s shoulder as he pants up at the ceiling, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. The rhythmic clenching around Ilya’s cock triggers his own orgasm, hands gripping Shane tightly as he tenses, relaxes, rests his chin on Shane’s shoulder as they both come down.

Ilya carefully helps Shane ease up, his legs trembling lightly with exertion. He lies him down, fetches a washcloth and cleans him up gently, pressing soft kisses to every bit of cleaned skin as he goes.

The fucked-out smile remains as Ilya tosses the washcloth in the laundry basket, and curls around Shane, pressing lingering kisses to his shoulderblades.

Shane hums, leans back into him, reaches back to take Ilya’s wrist and pull his arm around him, brings the sheet over with the other hand to cover them both. “Nap? Thirty minutes?”

“Sleep well,” Ilya murmurs, and lies there, listening to Shane’s breathing even out as he sinks into sleep. 

His phone buzzes and he reaches for it with a silent groan, to see a Happy Birthday text from Sveta. He blinks, had been so wrapped up in everything else happening that it hadn’t even registered that it had been today. He can’t help the disbelieving smile in the afternoon sun, holds back the snort of laughter. He texts her back ‘thank you’, ignores her ‘you forgot, didn’t you’ response, and thinks there’s nothing else he’d rather do to celebrate today than what he and Shane have just done.

He presses his forehead into Shane’s back, breathes deeply, and lets himself process where he’s managed to get to, as he starts the next year of his life.

He’s still got so far to go, he knows, but he’s reasonably sure he’ll have graduated with a decent grade. He’s got about ten job applications processing, with a similar amount ready to be applied for, and while there’s a couple in there that he’d want more than the others, and though none of them are even guaranteed, he’s doing his best to persuade himself that at least one of them will come through.

He’s got Sveta, and Shane, who’d both help him try and stay in the US if he needed it. Fuck, Shane even thought about setting up a charity just so he could make sure Ilya would be employed.

His brain latches onto the charity idea as well. He’s had some thoughts about how it could work, how he could help with the planning, and hopefully now he’s done with school he’ll have the time to try and pull some of the information together so he can share it with Shane. He’s not sure Shane will want to move forward with it all right now, given the new team and the new pressures he’ll face, but at least Ilya will have offered something helpful, something concrete, to his partner.

And to think that this time three weeks ago he had never even had the faintest idea that he’d run into Shane Hollander in New York, let alone end up dating him and in his bed. Ilya wraps the knowledge around him like a blanket, and lets himself drift.

Thirty five minutes later he nudges Shane awake, knowing he’ll be annoyed if he sleeps any longer and messes up his night’s sleep routine. They shower, eat and stick an old hockey game on to whittle away the hour before Ilya has to go and check in on Max.

And Ilya watches Shane as he gets absorbed into the game, eyes rapidly tracking the puck across the screen as he tsks and shakes his head at a bad play, at a missed opportunity. He shares his knowledge of the players with Ilya; who was a bit faster, a bit rougher, had the worst chirps that really got under your skin. 

Ilya thinks he could listen to Shane talk about hockey forever, but he eventually has to go and check in on Max. She greets him with an excited whine, butt wiggling and tail whipping at his legs as she dances around him. He laughs, sits on the floor in the entry way and scratches his hands down her back as he croons soft nothings at her.

He takes a photo as she sits nicely in front of him and sends it to Amy, letting her know he’s here and Max seems happy to see him. 

And he spends the next six hours feeding, walking, playing and relaxing with Max. He takes more photos of her than he has of anything else combined in the last six months, sends the best ones to Amy and a couple more to Shane. Eventually he puts Max to bed, and leaves the apartment silently, slides into bed where Shane is already asleep. Ilya rinses off in the guest shower so as not to wake him, then slides between the covers as carefully as he can. He freezes when Shane shifts, but he only rolls over and presses his face into Ilya’s shoulder, a sleepy contented murmur rumbling through his chest. Ilya closes his eyes, smiles, and lets sleep take him.

Chapter 10: Mr. I-Like-My-Privacy

Chapter Notes

We’re almost 1/3 of the way through! Thanks to everyone who has read/bookmarked/subscribed/commented so far 💕

The next week passes in a blur of shifting routines. It’s weird for Ilya to no longer have to go to classes, to no longer have to take the subway or return to his shitty apartment and be able to walk to work for every shift instead. He’s let the bar manager know he’s not looking for more shifts right now, and enjoys his new nights with Max.

He brings her up to Shane’s apartment the Friday night after her food and walks, and she curls up on his lap on the sofa as they watch a film. Shane’s finally opened the vodka, and Ilya indulges in a single glass, not wanting for more than this; his boyfriend, a dog to cuddle and lowered stress levels compared to just a week ago.

He’s put in a few more job applications, and gets back eight rejections, but three invites to interview, including for the Admirals back-office role Shane had referred him for.

The first interview on Monday is for a local hospitality firm and is nothing but chaos. He turns up five minutes early, hair neatly tied back with a hair tie Shane had dug out for him, to find that the interviewer is running almost an hour late. He waits anyway, declines a coffee from the harried receptionist to his obvious relief, and eventually is called in. The interviewer flirts with him more than anything, barely asks him questions about his qualifications and he’s careful in hiding his dislike of the vibe until he leaves and shudders as he recounts the unprofessionalism to Shane.

The second interview, for a law firm, goes better on Wednesday, but there’s more focus on his Russian than he’d like. He tells them he’s not a certified translator or interpreter, and wouldn’t be willing to travel to Russia which dampens their enthusiasm somewhat, but the interviewer seems to recover quickly and the rest passes in a bland blur.

He meets Cliff for coffee in the park, laments the struggles and commiserates as Cliff admits he’s not had much more luck. They both have more interviews lined up, though, so practise some of the key questions for each they expect to come up, until they’re sick of it and retreat to the pub for a beer instead.

Living with Shane is close to perfection, though. Shane is neat, and Ilya finds out pretty quickly he likes everything in its own little spot when Shane starts to stress about Ilya returning the mayo to the wrong shelf in the fridge. They both apologise, Ilya for not realising, Shane for knowing it’s not a big deal but sometimes his brain just won’t let it go. Ilya promises to be a little more careful; Shane promises to tell him when he’s put something back wrong accidentally so he knows which things bother him more and can avoid placing them wrong in future.

But otherwise Ilya’s used to keeping things neat and tidy - living in a single box room didn’t leave much room for untidiness if he were to ever be able to find something - so he’s glad that that’s taught him some good habits that are translating here too.

He starts joining Shane in the building gym too, now Shane’s providing enough food for the both of them that Ilya can eat like he’s working out again. He’s not half as strong as he used to be, as Shane is, but he feels so much better for his workouts and for eating more, since Shane is clearly working on fattening him up.

He learns that there’s nothing sexier than Shane Hollander with a plan, the way his brain dissects every single step and prioritises and adjusts as new information comes to light. He also learns that Shane stresses a lot when things don’t go quite the way he’d expected - even simple things, like the mayo in the fridge -  or when he’s expecting them not to go the way he wants. He’s good when he can control every variable, but put him outside his comfort zone and he starts trying to control everything else around him to compensate. Ilya learns when to allow it, when to gently push back, and when to give Shane the space he needs to come to the realisation on his own. 

And Shane learns that Ilya’s not the best at being open with his emotions, especially when he’s tired. He learns the difference between Ilya when he’s a little sad-tired and so needs a gentle push to talk it out, and Ilya when he’s just exhausted from too much English and a long day, and just needs a quiet cuddle and sleep.

And the sex only keeps getting better. Shane gets more comfortable in asking for what he wants, in letting Ilya push him a little further past what he’s experienced before. 

Ilya challenges him one night, after a leisurely fuck on the dining room table, that they wouldn’t be able to fuck on every surface in the apartment. Shane, even knowing Ilya’s just riling him up, takes him up on it with determination. They’ve been taking it in turns to point out a surface that looks like it might just hold their weight and fucking on or up against it. Ilya reckons it’ll take another few weeks to complete every surface, but he’s looking forward to it more than he can say.

The diner is his one unchanged constant, and is somewhat comforting in that it’s the same as it ever was. His shifts keep him busy, keep him oriented as he keeps searching for jobs, keeps sending through applications, preps as much as he can so that if he does get a job offer his visa change application and everything will go as smoothly as it possibly can. 

And the Friday the week after his exams he wakes up with his stomach churning, not sure he wants to look at his phone for his results, which should have been emailed to him in the early hours of the morning.

Shane’s still in bed, hand firm on Ilya’s chest, lips soft where they’re pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Ilya meets his eyes, gets an encouraging nod, and accepts his phone from Shane.

The email waits, and the words don’t register for a long second until he latches onto the ‘Congratulations’ and ‘distinction’.

He’s not ashamed when his eyes well up with tears, and he offers Shane his phone when the words don’t come.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs softly, and then he’s got two-hundred pounds of hockey player on top of him, kissing him like his life depends on it. “You did so well. So fucking well, of course you did.”

Shane rewards him by riding him slow, taking his time until sweat is dripping from his nose onto Ilya’s chest and he can’t take it anymore, rolling them both over to pin Shane down and snap his hips sharp and fast into him until they’re both coming together.

He updates his CV for the next few applications he sends out, texts Svetlana a screenshot of the email he gets to say he’s officially got his Masters degree to get dancing emojis back and a promise to celebrate when she arrives in three weeks for Pride.

Shane keeps himself busy, with life admin and his own work visa now he’s officially employed by a US organisation and resident here for all intents and purposes, though it is much easier for him as a Canadian. The Admirals offer him ice time which he takes up, and while it’s always badly timed so it’s when Ilya’s at work and can’t go watch, the way he comes home loose and relaxed for having been on the ice makes the sex extra-good, so he’s not going to complain. 

And Ilya heads to the rink himself in mid-late June for his interview with them. He’s had a couple more earlier in the week, one he’s hopeful for and another he doubts he’s what they’re looking for. He’s not had anything back from the interviews the previous week, but isn’t holding his breath for either of those either.

He’s prepared extra-well for this interview, though. He wants to make sure that Shane hasn’t hurt his reputation any by referring him, and also the Admirals have been some of the best in clear communication and regular check-ins so far which bodes well for the workplace in general. He gets a call the day before to confirm he’s still happy to come, that he doesn’t need any adjustments for the interview, and a promise that someone will be waiting in the lobby of the rink to greet him.

He and Shane have spent a few nights watching the women’s games, and Ilya’s pretty much a fan for life now. While the women are just as serious when playing as the men, there’s something a little more joyous, a little less mean-spirited at times as they chirp or chat to the opposition, and Ilya loves it. He can now name every player, including his favourite (second-line centre, Henries - she was particularly hilarious during one of the games she was mic’d up and Ilya somehow just knows they’d be friends if they ever met). He knows this isn’t needed for the job, or the interview really, but he wants to know who it is that he’d be supporting if he were to be hired, and he just really does love hockey.

The interview isn’t the best he’s had, but he doesn’t think he’s fucked up terribly either. He’s met by one interviewer - Sally, from HR - at the front door, who’s friendly but professional as she checks his ID and brings him up to a quiet meeting room, where another interviewer - Charlie, future manager of whoever is successful - waits. They do the basic introductions, shake hands. He declines coffee but accepts a glass of water, and he’s relieved when they’re very clear from the start that they don’t know who referred him, or any of the other candidates, so are basing their judgements entirely off interview performance.

He shares his transcript with them, freshly requested from college, and they update his record to show he’s completed his Masters. They ask him a little about his studies, about what he liked the most, where he’d like to apply that knowledge in this role or his future career, where he wants to develop more and grow. He answers honestly, talks about his history as a player and how he’d had a lot of support, and now he can’t play anymore being able to pay that forward in a role like this that uses his studies as well is where he’d like to start his career from, if he could. He gets a few follow up questions, mostly about whether he’d plan to stay around long-term and he says definitely, that he wants to remain in the US, loves New York, has loved watching the women’s team play too and doesn’t have any plans to leave, so long as he can keep a legal work visa going.

He’s told they’ll email him with their answer by the end of next week, as their final couple of interviews are spread across the next couple of days and then they’ll have to call references and evaluate. He thanks them sincerely, and leaves knowing he’s done his best.

And so the following week also goes; shifts at the diner, job applications and interviews, a few more rejections. He meets up with Cliff on Tuesday before work to update each other - Cliff’s made it through to the second round interview of a project management role that sounds interesting and he’s hopeful for. His sister has also joined the cast of a broadway show, so she’s contributing more which has some of the stress lines fading from Cliff’s face.

But Ilya can feel his own stress increase with every rejection email. Shane is supportive, offers help with his CV and cover letters which Ilya takes, but at the same time is still worried that none of this will be enough.

But it builds and builds under his skin, a veritable ache until he almost snaps at Shane on Thursday afternoon when he tells him it’ll be okay, and quickly retreats in silence to the fifth floor and his time with Max before he can say something he’ll regret. And sitting on the floor with Max, he murmurs his worries into her fur and releases some of the anxiety, lets the sheer joy of her remind him to enjoy the present a little more. 

He texts an apology to Shane, gets a heart and reassurances back and a long, slow blowjob when he wakes in the morning so he knows he’s forgiven. They go for a long walk on Friday morning, leave Ilya’s phone behind purposefully so he’s not on edge checking it every five minutes for the email from the Admirals, and spend half an hour drinking coffee sitting outside the dog park so Ilya can watch them, absolutely delighted.

“You’d want a dog, then, in future,” Shane confirms, when Ilya points out a little sausage dog barking at a big fluffy malamute who’s being rude to another dog - maybe the Dachshund’s friend?

“At least one,” Ilya agrees distractedly, watching as the malamute turns to hide behind its owner’s legs, peering woefully at the Dachshund.

“We’ll need a big garden, then,” Shane muses, and Ilya freezes, turns to stare at him. “Somewhere they can play properly. The apartment’s nice, and maybe good temporarily - like Max clearly is fine - but I don’t know, a dog should have a patch of grass or something to call its own, don’t you think?”

Shane falters at the look on Ilya’s face. “Obviously, that’s for in a couple of years, at least,” Shane adds. “I still don’t know whether this with the Admirals will work out for me, and what I’ll do if it doesn’t. But it’s a nice plan for the future, right?”

“You really think that far ahead?” Ilya asks.

“I mean, yeah, about this I do,” Shane nods. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume you-”

“No,” Ilya cuts him off, takes his hand and squeezes tightly. “No, I love it. Yes, a big garden, I want that too. And the Admirals will work out for you, you will see. We can take this season, maybe one more, and then look for somewhere upstate or something, with more green. You will be missing the rural quiet by then, anyway, Mr. I-like-my-privacy.”

And Shane’s quirk of the lips tells him he’s not wrong, and that Shane’s pleased with how well Ilya knows him, even so quickly. 

The email is waiting for him when they get home, and he sits on the sofa, asks Shane to read it first, heart in his throat as he waits, head in hands.

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, and he can’t tell if it’s good or bad as Shane pushes his hands away and straddles him on the sofa. Is this comfort for rejection, or comfort for joy? His head is lifted up gently by Shane’s fingers under his chin, he sees Shane’s lips curled into the softest of smiles. “You did it. They’ve offered you the job.”

It takes a long moment to compute, and Ilya’s eyes drop down to where Shane’s offering him his phone, screen still lit up with the email:

Dear Mr. Rozanov,

Thank you very much for your time last week. We were very impressed with your application and passion for the role, and would love to offer you the job, conditional to processing a successful work visa application…

He stares at the words, reads them over and over again as if they’ll change the next time he scans them, until the screen goes dark. He looks up at Shane, heart pounding in his throat, suddenly feeling a million times lighter, and knows his grin must look insane.

“Fuck, Shane,” his voice breaks, and Shane shushes him gently, presses a kiss to his mouth that doesn’t stay gentle for long.

Energy surges through him and Ilya stands, lifting Shane with his arms under his ass. Shane yelps, tightening his legs around Ilya’s hips as he carries him down to the bedroom. Shane grins, distracts Ilya by biting at his ear until he drops him on the bed, stares down with him with heated blood coursing through his veins.

Shane takes the condom from Ilya’s fingers before he can open it, places it on the side table.

“I want- would you?”

“Yes,” Ilya interrupts, fire burning through his chest until he’s worried he’ll spontaneously combust.

It’s quick, a little rough, as if all of Ilya’s anxieties are flooding out of him. It’s not one-hundred percent certain, he knows, still has to get through all the paperwork, but it’s a lot more certain than he’d been less than twelve hours ago. It feels even better without a condom, the wet heat of Shane even more overwhelming than usual. Shane’s eager as he presses up into Ilya’s thrusts, claws down his back until the red welts sting even hours later, bites hard on his shoulder as he comes until he’s definitely going to have a bruise in the shape of his teeth for a day or two.

They collapse on the bed, both breathing heavily, and Ilya knows he’s still smiling but to think he’d have all this? He’s not sure it’s quite sunk in, doesn’t know when or even if it will.

After cleaning up, and spending maybe too long watching as his come drips out of Shane - the other man shuddering with a “that feels weird” but immediately shaking his head when Ilya says they can go back to using condoms if he doesn’t like it - they nap. Ilya almost wants to go another round, but tucks himself around Shane instead, luxuriates in the heat of him.

Once they’ve resurfaced, Ilya goes back to read the email again, and frowns when it’s suggesting they aim for a start date at the beginning of August, so he’s got a month or so before pre-season kicks off to get up to speed.

“Is usually at least three months for visa,” he explains when Shane asks him what’s wrong.

“They can expedite it,” Shane explains. “They did for me, so I assume they’ll do it for most of their non-American employees. It’s not much in the grand scheme of fees, and they get the answer in like a maximum of fifteen days.”

Ilya nods, and replies with an acceptance email, attaches all of the information they’ve requested, glad he’d pulled it together previously in preparation. He gets a quick reply back, thanking him for his own quick response, and promises to keep him in the loop or to let him know as soon as possible if they need anything else.

“We should go out to celebrate,” Shane suggests. “Dinner, drinks? Let me treat you.”

Amy isn’t working tonight, so Ilya doesn’t have to go see Max. He’d have liked to celebrate with her, even if she’d have no idea that’s what it was, but he can wait until he sees her tomorrow instead.

“I’d like that,” Ilya agrees. “Where do you want to go?”

Shane shrugs. “I mean, it’s your night, so wherever you want.”

Ilya smiles, kisses him. “I will google.”

Shane nods. “If you want ideas, I think the guys in the Admirals chat had a thread going for one of their anniversaries a week or so ago, and there were a few recommendations there. I don’t know how fancy they’d be, though.”

“Sure,” Ilya nods, “If any sound good to you we can add them to shortlist.”

They sit on opposite ends of the sofa, feet touching in the middle as they look up places, and although several are fully booked given the last-minute plans, find a high-end place that looks nice enough for the celebratory mood, has good options for Shane, and excellent reviews. Shane makes a reservation online for 8pm, and they decide to go out and wander around the neighbourhood for a while beforehand, maybe find a bar to have a drink prior.

They both shower and dress, taking a little more care than usual. Ilya finds his interview slacks, his nicest pair, and a satin shirt in a deep green that he maybe should’ve sold with most of his other high-end clothing, but had kept for if ever Sveta came and they went out. He slicks his hair back, loosens a curl or two around his face, and watches via the mirror as Shane pulls on navy slacks and a well-fitting white shirt, rolls the sleeves up until Ilya’s practically salivating at the sight of his forearms.

Shane adjusts Ilya’s cross so that it sits perfectly in the middle of the gap where he’s left his top buttons undone, presses a kiss to his jaw, and leads him by the hand downstairs and into the car he’s booked.

Ilya watches Shane as the streetlight flickers across his face as they drive into the evening. Shane observes the streets outside, turns regularly to Ilya to smile when he sees him still watching and squeezes his hand lightly where they’re still connected across the middle seat.

The evening air is warm but not stuffy, and they wander for a while with a little over an hour until their reservation. They talk a little, but Shane is more comfortable in their silences now, so more often than not the soundtrack to this portion of their evening is the soft rap of shoes on pavement.

Ilya spots a little bar tucked next to a more popular pub and tugs Shane inside. It’s busy, but the tables are spaced apart enough that it doesn’t feel crowded. They’re led to a high table with two stools towards the back, lighting dim and intimate, and are left briefly with drinks menus.

Shane orders a ginger ale - he’ll have a drink with dinner, but as he doesn’t drink much his tolerance is low, especially if he’s not eaten - and Ilya takes a glass of their top-shelf vodka. They sit with their knees meeting under the table, lean in so close as they talk that they could practically hear the other whisper if need be. 

The vodka is smooth, albeit not quite as good as the bottle Shane had sourced for him - and Ilya really still needs to ask how and where he’d got it - and Ilya watches as Shane tries a sip, eyes darkening as he places his lips purposefully where Ilya had on his glass.

“It’s good,” he murmurs hoarsely, their fingers lingering as he hands the glass back.

Ilya hums in agreement, presses both his knees a little tighter around one of Shane’s, ignores the way the scars on the one feel a little tight under the pressure.

They linger, talking about what they could plan to do over the next six to eight weeks. Shane still wants to go back to Montreal, and Ilya thinks maybe, especially if it won’t affect his visa application. If the August start date goes ahead he can work at the diner for another six weeks, give Dolly extra notice before he quits. Then he could have a couple of weeks as a break, and they could spend a couple of days in Montreal, maybe meet Shane’s parents, relax somewhere, just the two of them. He knows that Shane will have to pay for Ilya’s travel, but he’s coming to accept that this is something he’ll just have to deal with. It really doesn’t seem like Shane would hold it against him, and so long as Ilya has something he can fall back on, as long as he doesn’t come to entirely rely on Shane for everything, he thinks he can swallow his pride.

Dinner is the closest thing to perfection Ilya thinks he’s experienced in memory. The restaurant has a similar intimate, cosy but uncrowded atmosphere to the bar, and Ilya sips another vodka neat while Shane enjoys a beer. The food is delicious, simple steak and veg for both of them, and they split a tiramisu between them when Ilya’s tempted but doesn’t want a whole portion to himself. The conversation is even better, their discussion about travelling to Montreal segueing into talks about travel and where they’d like to go in future. Shane mentions he’d like to go to Japan, see where his grandparents came from; Ilya wants to go to more of Europe, see all of the cheesy romantic getaway destinations now he has someone he can go with.

They agree to go somewhere next year, post-hockey-season, and once Ilya’s settled into his job. A great thing, he notes, is that now he’ll be working around the hockey season too, so their quieter work periods will align and it’ll be easy to do things like go on holiday together without having to worry about conflicting schedules.

But the best thing are the soft looks Shane sends him as they sit together, that Ilya can return. They haven’t yet been out, like this, on an official evening date. While they’ve gone for coffees and walks in central park, the majority of their time together has been spent in Shane’s apartment. 

And while that is very much the speed that they both want and have needed so far, there’s something extra nice in being out and on a date, trying what normal couples would do. Ilya could never do this in Russia, wouldn’t even dare to risk it, and his old life feels so far removed as he sits here with this that he wonders if it was all some dreamt-up nightmare. Even Shane seems more relaxed than usual, though Ilya’s aware he’s still a bit worried about being outed, so by silent agreement they don’t kiss or offer anything too explicitly relationship-coded while out surrounded by strangers, just in case.

But Ilya gets away with feeding Shane a spoonful of tiramisu, watches his eyes darken and feels his own throat go dry as lips wrap around the spoon and pull back in a way that is far too erotic for a public setting.

Shane pays without a word and the car is already waiting outside as they leave. It’s not too long back, fingers tracing along fingers in the dark of the backseat.

The sex this time is slow, dreamy, as if a deliberate counterpoint to the rushed, rough sex of earlier’s celebration. Ilya spends his time opening Shane with his fingers as they lie tangled on the bed, and presses into him from behind. This position, on their sides where Ilya can feel the entirety of Shane’s back against his chest, where he can flex long and slow, watch Shane shudder and gasp, kiss him sloppily as his head twists back in request, is quickly becoming one of his favourites.

He murmurs soft Russian praises, calls Shane his king, his favourite, his saviour, and none of them are a lie. King of Hockey, Ilya’s favourite person, the man who’s dragged him into a beam of joy that he’d never have truly thought he could have.

He whispers his thanks, tells him he loves him like a coward in a language Shane can’t understand, as Shane arches and comes; Ilya’s favourite sight in the world. He follows shortly after, holding Shane close as he pants into his shoulder. 

They clean up and return to bed, Ilya spooning Shane, going over the night again in his mind to engrave it in his memory. He knows he’ll treasure this forever, this nigh on perfect day, and like a dragon hoarding gold clutches the joy as he falls asleep to the rhythm of Shane’s soft breathing.

Chapter 11: Mr. Exhibitionist

The following week follows much as the previous, but without the stress coiling Ilya’s muscles tight. He gets a few more rejections but they flow right off him, and he declines the couple of interview offers that come with sincere apologies. He has a couple of updates from his to-be employers, including an email from the government to say his visa application is now in progress.

His diner shifts stay steady, and he hangs out with Max on Saturday, Tuesday and Wednesday. He’s double-checked with the Admirals that they don’t mind him having a second job that’s essentially just helping out a neighbour and had the all-clear from them, to his relief. They even mentioned that they’re a dog-friendly workplace, so if he ever needed to look after her during the day he’d be welcome to bring her into the office, which he tucks away as a positive if he and Shane get to the point of having a dog while they both still work there.

He meets with Cliff on Tuesday, and they have a beer to celebrate Ilya’s success. Cliff’s second-round interview went well on Monday, and he’s got a couple more lined up, so hopefully within the next couple of weeks he’ll have good news of his own.

Shane is whisked away on Wednesday and Thursday by GQ, who are doing a photo shoot and interview, one of only two that Shane’s agreed to since the trade announcement. The other is with Men’s Health, and they’re waiting until the beginning of the season so they can get in some time with his new team and incorporate insights into the Admirals. Ilya stays behind - he has a shift, for one, but it’s one thing to hint at cultural issues being the reason Shane left Montreal, another to be shoving a boyfriend in the picture for everyone to piece the underlying picture together. But they text constantly, and Ilya salivates over the pictures Shane forwards of him in various items of designer clothing, slowly dwindling piece-by-piece until he’s being pictured shirtless on the ice, leaning up against a zamboni and Ilya can feel his brain short-circuit.

He fucks Shane in front of the full-length bathroom mirror Thursday night, makes him watch himself as Ilya thrusts into him, as his face turns pink and glowy with pleasure. Reminds him that only Ilya gets to see him like this, only gets to make him like this, and he might be a little too possessive but Shane comes even harder than usual, slumping into the sink counter until Ilya can pull him upright. He does what he’d wanted to do the other day, and pushes his come gently back into Shane, thinks they need to find the plug and hold it in him, but holds that back for a future plan.

And then he does it all again when on Friday Shane gets the provisional photos from his shoot with Calvin Klein and Ilya loses his mind. This time up he fucks Shane up against the cool, mirrored glass of the bedroom window as if to prove to the entirety of New York that Shane is all his. He spends ten minutes kneeling behind Shane licking and sucking his come back out of his ass, Shane gasping in shock and arousal, and coming again around Ilya’s tongue, a tiny little shocked noise rippling across the glass.

Ilya doesn’t have a diner shift on Saturday, so they decide to be tourists for the day. Ilya’s never had the free time or spare cash to do the typical things, and Shane’s only ever been here for work, and hasn’t wanted to do them on his own since he’d moved.

So they take the ferry out past the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, stand on the edge of the boat and enjoy the wind whipping past them, cool under the glorious verge-of-summer sun. They attempt to take a selfie, and thank a woman in her early twenties who offers to take a photo of them and does a much better job. Back on solid ground, they walk down Wall Street to the 9/11 Memorial and observe together in silence for a long few minutes, subdued at the reminder of the tragedy.

They walk it off a little longer, find a New York pizza place for lunch and order a couple of giant slices each. 

They argue over going up either the Rockefeller Centre or the Empire State and end up playing rock-paper-scissors for it. Shane grins as he wins best out of three, and they line up with everyone else for the Empire State Building. Another young couple offers to take photos of them as they take a selfie at the top and Ilya returns the favour as they switch positions.

They debate Times Square and going to see a show, but the mid-late June sun is glowing and it seems a shame to hide indoors, so they walk back the long way through Central Park, collecting sushi from the place Shane had taken them to on their first date and eat it in the park, Ilya shooing away pigeons with increasing laughter.

Shane’s mom calls while they’re laughing on the bench, and even Ilya can hear the pleased shock in her ‘oh’ as Shane mentions they’re out, but he can call her back later? And she says no, to Ilya’s relief, that he can call whenever they’re up in the morning, but she wanted to check he’s good with the CK proofs before she gives final approval.

Shane promises to call her tomorrow, and signs off after another minute with a contented smile and a “my parents say hi” as he slides his phone back in his pocket. 

And Ilya suddenly has to kiss him, so tugs him into a little clearing away from the path and presses him up against a tree, dives into his mouth like he’s trying to swallow his tonsils. Shane goes limp against him, pulls him closer so he’s being held up by the tree trunk and the weight of Ilya pressing into him. 

“Fuck, not here,” Shane gasps, turning his head as Ilya slides a hand down to rub against where his erection is starting to press into his zipper, but there’s something half-hearted in it that has Ilya’s brain ticking over.

“Mm, I think here,” the look Shane gives him is initially a little scandalised, but eagerness and heat quickly outweigh it.

Ilya pauses for a second, but Shane doesn’t say anything further. Ilya’s not heard hide nor hair of anyone else for a good ten minutes, and the clearing he thinks is far enough away from any thoroughfares that no-one is likely to stumble upon them without them hearing.

He drops to his knees, shifts a twig poking into one knee uncomfortably, and mouths at Shane’s erection. The hockey player breathes out shakily, a soft curse on his lips, but strokes a hand through Ilya’s hair and lets him unbutton his jeans, pull him out carefully.

And Ilya’s not sure how much time they’ll have really, so swallows him down without preamble. Shane bites on the flesh of his own hand to muffle a shout and Ilya’s precise, almost strategic about his approach as he takes him deep, encourages Shane to fuck his face as he digs his fingers into his ass.

Barely two minutes later, Ilya’s swallowing as Shane comes, cleans him off with his tongue and tucks him quickly back into his jeans. He stands, offers Shane a neat smirk and gets a quick shove to the shoulders which turns quickly into a grab and pull as Shane kisses him hard.

“Fuck, anyone could have seen,” he whispers, clearly ruffled but almost guiltily, as if he feels like he should feel more awkward than he actually is.

“But they did not,” Ilya replies in his best ‘this is perfectly reasonable’ tone. “Come on, I still want to fuck you and we have maybe twenty minutes until we can be home.”

Shane follows Ilya out of the park and all the way home without further argument, and Ilya’s slightly worried that he’s maybe pushed him a little too far until Shane’s pushing him roughly into the apartment and dropping to his knees immediately, returning the favour until Ilya’s so close he’s about to cry out, and then pulling off with a satisfied wipe of his mouth.

“Fuck me, then,” he demands, eyes glowing as he challenges Ilya. And fuck, what a goddamn King; Ilya’s not sure he’s ever more turned on than when Shane demands his dues, his tithe. He manhandles Shane over to the sofa, bends him over the arm and reaches for the little lube bottle they now keep hidden between the cushions. 

He preps Shane quickly but thoroughly before pressing in slowly, teasing Shane lightly with just the head for a short while until the hockey player grunts with frustration and presses back into him for more. And then it’s quick, hard snaps until Shane’s coming again, Ilya reaching under to catch his come so it doesn’t stain the sofa (they’d learnt that the hard way, the first couple of times), before letting go himself.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps, face pressed into the sofa cushions as he laughs. “Why was that all so hot?”

“Because you like to be bad,” Ilya tells him smugly. “Secretly kinky Shane Hollander, Mr. Exhibitionist. Something makes you curious, you want to try it. You feel safe enough to try, you do. Is not always as complicated as your brain tells you.”

Shane seems to accept that, wincing slightly as he stands up straight and turns to Ilya. “You know that’s not what this is, right? This between us. I mean, at first yeah, you made me curious. But you really do make me feel so safe, like I can be myself with you, or try anything with you and you wouldn’t judge me for it. It’s not just curiosity, it hasn’t been for a while now.”

Ilya feels his entire chest just melt, and leans in to place a hand over Shane’s chest, where his heart thumps steadily under his hand.

“It is the same for me,” he agrees. “I trust you a lot, moy korol’.”

“You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?” Shane’s eyes gleam, and maybe Ilya shouldn’t have handed him a puzzle to solve just as they’re talking about how curious he is. 

He shrugs insouciantly, offers a grin. “That is for me to know.”

“Say it again?” 

And fuck, but Ilya can’t fucking deny him, can he. “Moy korol,” he repeats slowly, and watches as Shane mouths the words to himself, knows it’s only a matter of time. He resolves to add in new pet names, try and confuse him and throw him off the scent. 

Shane calls his mom as promised on Sunday morning, as Ilya cooks them breakfast. Ilya gets to wave hello via video before they sign off to eat, and promises they look forward to hanging out with them soon. 

Sunday they designate as a lazy day, but as Ilya stumbles over a second magazine featuring Shane in the bedroom, the first having been on the living room table, he pauses, realises what Shane’s trying to tell him without words. The semi-anticipatory glance he gets as he heads back to the sofa with his phone cements Shane’s intentions, and Ilya lets the knowledge sink into his blood as he holds back a smirk, watches as Shane frowns slightly, looks ever so slightly disappointed at the non-reaction.

He teases him throughout the afternoon, soft brushes of fingertips along shoulders as he walks past; lingering touches of hands as he passes him bottles of water or a book; a long, lingering look from across the room. Shane lets him, until the tension in the apartment is so thick by dinner time that Ilya thinks you’d need a chainsaw to cut through it.

To reward his patience, that night Ilya chooses the seats at the opposite end of the table to where they normally eat, so they’re closer to the windows. Shane clocks what this might mean as Ilya drags his chair closer with his foot, swings a leg over Shane’s lap so he can hand-feed him pieces of chicken and vegetables, kissing him in between each mouthful. He bends Shane over the table for dessert, eats him out until he’s nice and loose and then fucks Shane up against the window in the dark, watches in the reflection each time as Shane switches between watching them in the mirrored glass, and watching the cars passing by on the streets below. And the knowledge that Shane is getting off on this, loves knowing that Ilya would tell the whole world that Shane was his given the chance, loves being pinned to cold glass and made to come as if to prove how much he belongs to Ilya, has Ilya gasping into his shoulder as he comes too.

Finally, the week of Pride arrives and Ilya’s buzzing with excitement to see Sveta, to celebrate all of the good news he’s somehow gained over the last two weeks.

And then he gets a call on Monday from the Admirals HR, asking if he’d be free first thing tomorrow as a visa interview slot has opened up and been offered to him as part of the expedited process. He says yes immediately, of course he can be, and rearranges his shift at the diner to make sure. 

He tells Max that evening as he walks her that he’s nervous and doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow if it all comes crashing down around him, but she just pants at him. He exhales a laugh and agrees with her; he’s done all he can and there’s no use worrying now.

He’s still nervous the next morning, but Shane walks him to and waits outside the government building where the interview is being held. He’s lucky, he knows, that he’s not being made to return to Russia to take the interview in the Embassy there - most work applications should be done outside the U.S. before arrival, but there’s policies in place for cases like Ilya’s, where he remains post-studies. He fills in more paperwork, answers the immigration officer’s questions and is left to wait in a waiting room for twenty minutes, leg bouncing with stress. He stands when Sally, one of the people who’d been in his interview and who’s since been dealing with all of his visa and onboarding paperwork, arrives to sign a few things on behalf of his employer and next thing he knows his passport is being stamped, and they’re being given his official forms and papers telling him he can stay.

He’s a little overwhelmed, feels his throat go thick as he thanks the government employee who hands over all of the paperwork, and thanks Sally again they leave the building together.

“Thank you for being so prompt with all of your paperwork,” Sally smiles as they step down onto the street. “Without that I don’t think we’d have gotten here half as fast. But we’ll email you later as I’m afraid there’s a little more yet to fill in, for your health insurance and all that.

“But there’s no rush there, if you’re still content with the August start date?” He nods and she smiles again, offering a hand which he shakes. He thanks her and she congratulates him, heads for the subway back to her work as Ilya walks across the street to where Shane is practically vibrating as he hovers outside a coffee shop.

“All done,” Ilya smiles. “I am officially allowed to work here now.”

He laughs as Shane picks him up and spins him, the physical sensation akin to that in his chest as lightness fills him, relief so powerful he might just float away.

He works his diner shift floating on air, and is sorry when he pulls Dolly aside during his break and gives her his two weeks notice. She smiles at him maternally, leans in to place her hands on his cheeks and he bends down to make it easier for her.

“You’ve been an excellent server,” she tells him, “I hope the Admirals know how lucky they are, I did tell them when they called for a reference.”

Ilya grips her back tightly, this woman who’d taken one look at him at his initial interview, set up by the university to help foreign students find part-time work, and taken a chance on him, thick Russian accent and clumsy English be damned. 

“And if you want to work the full two weeks you’re welcome,” she adds, “But I’ve already started interviewing and there’s a few kids keen to start next week, if you want to finish these shifts and then go. You deserve a good break, after how hard you’ve worked, and I think your young man would want to spoil you, no? You should let him, he’s got the salary for it.”

Ilya flushes as she winks at him. But she doesn’t say what she doesn’t mean, so he accepts her offer and returns home to tell Shane his last shift is Thursday morning, and then he’s got him whenever he wants him for the next four weeks, except for the evenings with Max.

Shane tackles him in glee, the hockey player more relaxed than Ilya thinks he’s seen him so far, and his heart swells another size as it hits him again how much Shane cares for him, has worried for him and with him, the last couple of weeks.

He confesses his love as Shane drifts into a post-sex nap on the couch, splayed over Ilya’s chest after being fucked face-down into the couch cushions. He knows he’s still being a coward by not telling him in English, or when he’s fully awake, but wants to keep this secret to himself for a little longer. 

He looks after Max again that night - he’s been very lucky this week, in that Amy only needs him Monday and Tuesday as she’s also off for Pride - and works his penultimate shift at the diner on Wednesday night. He’s touched when a few of his fellow servers over the last year come in just before closing, and give him a card and $200 they’d all pulled together to say goodbye. He buys them a round of drinks with the cash, promises he’ll be back whenever he misses Dolly’s pancakes, and returns home and to bed where Shane’s already asleep but rolls over to press against him as Ilya slides under the covers.

Ilya returns to work on Thursday morning for opening, something bittersweet in it as he goes through the motions now ingrained in him after almost a full year of working there.

It’s a medium-busy shift, and Dolly makes him his favourite chocolate-chip pancakes during his break. He pours coffee, serves full plates and collects empty ones, smiles brightly at his customers. It’s a good last shift, and feels almost anticlimactic as he hangs up his apron at the end and says goodbye to Dolly for the last time as her employee.

He calls Shane as he makes his way over to Grand Central station, Sveta on the train and not too far away, and admits he’s a little sad to leave the diner. Shane promises they can go back whenever he wants, and Ilya feels better for having shared when they hang up.

Shane’s off to the airport himself to collect Rose, and they’ve both agreed they’ll spend the afternoon and evening separately catching up with their friends. Ilya’s promised to text him when he knows if he’s crashing at Sveta’s hotel as he normally does when she’s here, or if he’ll come home after their dinner together. 

He buys himself a coffee and Sveta an iced latte when she lets him know her train is pulling in, and meets her with a wild grin and a tight hug.

“Your hair,” she sighs, shakes her head as he sets her back on her feet, hands her her drink. “We will fix that now.”

He follows her to her hotel so she can dump her bags, and sits shirtless on the side of the bath as she wraps a towel around his shoulders, pulls out hairdressing scissors and finally deals with the unruly curls around his face. He remains quiet, having long since learnt she wants silence to focus whenever she’s cutting his hair, and instead soaks in her presence, tries to plan the order of everything he wants to tell her.

“Much better,” she says, framing his face with her hands as she finishes. He stands, looks at himself in the mirror and feels his face light up, Sveta smiling in self-satisfaction as she watches from behind him.

His hair is much shorter, the ends curling gently around the top of his ears rather than his jaw, and she’s put some kind of hair mask in that has reduced the frizziness, gentled the wildness a little. It looks more like him, and Ilya realises as well that his jaw isn’t as sharp, his cheekbones still prominent but cheeks not as hollow. He knew he’d been eating better the last three weeks or so, but hadn’t realised the difference it had made until now.

“You look better,” Sveta says, and Ilya hasn’t realised how much he’s missed speaking in his native Russian until he can do so now freely. “Not just the hair,” she adds, “You’re filling out again.”

She squeezes his upper arm and Ilya realises that that’s true, too. He’s been joining Shane whenever his boyfriend goes for a morning workout in the apartment gym and Ilya isn’t out at work. He’s seen some gains but hasn’t been tracking them too closely, but there’s definitely a little bit of growth that hadn’t been there before.

“Right,” Sveta checks herself out, nods in satisfaction. “Shopping, then food, maybe drinks tonight. I want to hear all about your boyfriend today, but I will hit you if you get too explicit about the sex.”

Ilya laughs, but lets her tuck her arm into his as they step out onto the New York streets, heading for the lower East Side as apparently that has some of the best thrift stores. Sveta listens attentively as Ilya tells her about Shane, about living with him, about how he’d supported him in getting this job and has dealt with his moods and stress. How they’ve argued over some of the small things, but are aligned on the bigger ones, are both in it for the long-haul.

He tells her about how he still sees some of the sadness in Shane when he talks about Montreal, about everything he’s left behind to start something better. But how the Admirals seem welcoming, that they might meet some of them on Saturday night if they go out. 

She leads him around various stores as they talk, finds herself the hottest little wine-coloured mini-dress that makes Ilya’s mouth go dry in reaction when she tries it on. He finds a few things he loves himself, uses the parting-gift-money from the diner to treat himself to a red floral shirt that is loose enough that if he bulks up a little more it should frame his shoulders and arms nicely.

And he protests, but not too hard, as Sveta buys him a vintage designer shirt he instantly covets, off-white silk with a leopard printed across and around the main body, insisting it’s a present to celebrate his new employment. He finds a nice pair of black work shoes that are reasonably priced, and knows he’ll have to work on saving up for a better work wardrobe, as he has limited suitable shirts and trousers right now. But the referral bonus was generous and should fund some of it when it comes, even as he plans to put half of it away to start saving properly.

They stumble across a little Russian restaurant as they head back to the hotel to drop their bags, Sveta now with practically an armful, and the host, a stern-looking grandmother, nods approvingly at them as they ask for a table in Russian and leads them to the back.

They continue talking over pelmeni and gorohoviy and golubtsi, stuffing themselves with homemade authentic food that Ilya hasn’t eaten for so long and hasn’t realised how much he’d missed. They thank the host profusely as they leave a tip, and get sent away with a packet of pryaniki cookies and an approving smile. 

Ilya carries Sveta’s bags back to the hotel as she talks about work, about the dickhead coworker who finally got his comeuppance when he finally said something foul in front of a high-profile client and Sveta had sold the car and taken the commission. 

It’s still early enough that they head back out again to find a bar, sipping vodka as Sveta’s eyes trail around the room. Ilya gives her a little space as she flirts with a man who comes over but that ends pretty quickly as she gets bored. They have one more drink, Sveta gives him one of her cigarettes as they take a break in the cooler air outside, play a round of pool when the pool table becomes free. Sveta bats off a couple more men who approach despite Ilya’s fuck-off glare, and texts Shane when Sveta demands he sleeps over so they can do a late breakfast.

He gets back a heart and a ‘it’s silly, but I miss you’. He replies, ‘not silly at all, can’t wait to see you tomorrow’, and pushes Sveta away with a laugh when she makes a mock-gagging noise reading the text over his shoulder.

“You look happy,” she sighs as they settle in bed, his arm under her neck and around her shoulders, keeping her close. “I’m so glad, Ilyusha.”

He smiles, tells her he is too, and sleeps deeply.

Chapter 12: Shanya

Ilya feels like bouncing off the walls the next day, knowing his best friend will get to meet his boyfriend. Sveta watches him with patient amusement as he dresses and styles his new haircut carefully, before dragging him out to brunch.

Rose has also taken Shane to a late, fancy lunch with a couple of her friends in Manhattan and Shane lets him know they’ll likely be back around 3pm. Ilya and Sveta wander around a bit longer, she drags him into another thrift store where she teases him as she spots a red Admirals jersey.

“Has Shane given you one yet?”

Ilya shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “Why would he?”

“It’s typical for WAGs, no? To wear their partner’s jersey to one of their games.”

And the realisation hits Ilya, that he is technically a WAG now. He beams at Sveta until she rolls her eyes and drags him into a sports store down the block, which has a long line of all of the Admiral jerseys, including the brand new one with ‘Hollander 24’ emblazoned on the back.

And they’re ridiculously expensive but Sveta pulls out a men's large and takes it to the counter with her credit card. “I do not want to know if he fucks you in it though,” she says as she takes the receipt and Ilya barks a laugh and makes no promises.

They head back to the apartment so Ilya can hide the jersey before Shane comes home. He gives Sveta the tour, to which she gives a nod of approval and a jealous look over the shower, and then they sit on the sofa with coffee. Ilya puts a women’s hockey game on in the background as they chat, starts practically vibrating when Shane texts him to tell him that he and Rose are about fifteen minutes away, pouting at Sveta when she kicks him to get him to stay still.

He pushes her back and it escalates until they’re tussling like children. Ilya freezes as he hears the front door open which gives Sveta the leverage to push him off the sofa with her foot. He lands on his back on the hardwood with an oof, craning his head back to grin brightly at Shane and the stunning blonde standing inside the doorway, watching them both bemusedly.

“Ilyusha,” Sveta snaps when he spends too long smiling at Shane from his position on the floor. 

He scrambles to his feet, and almost trips over himself when he sees the darkening of Shane’s eyes, the way he licks his lips, eyes locked on Ilya’s face. He’s not sure what he’s done to cause this reaction but it shutters briefly as Rose tugs him forward, further into the apartment.

“Hi Shane,” Ilya can’t stop the beaming grin. “And Rose, is nice to meet you. This is my friend, Svetlana.”

That triggers a round of introductions, and Ilya offers to make more coffee as they all relocate to the dining table so they’re not awkwardly craning around on the single L-shaped sofa.

Shane follows him over to the kitchen as Sveta and Rose pull out seats at the table, gathers mugs as Ilya sets up the coffee machine.

“You cut your hair,” Shane murmurs quietly as he passes Ilya one. 

“You do not like?”

“I didn’t say that,” Shane denies quickly. “It looks good. Too good,” he adds under his breath, but Ilya just about catches it and arousal surges in him.

He leans in closer as the first coffee starts dripping, and Shane pushes his face away when he goes for a kiss, glancing over at the women.

“Not with guests,” he reprimands. “I want to make a good impression, especially with Svetlana.”

Ilya’s grin softens, and redirects to kiss Shane’s jaw before he can pull away. “She already loves you,” he promises, “We have basically done nothing but talk about you since she arrived.”

Shane flushes, pleased. Ilya pushes further into his space, wraps an arm around his waist and squeezes gently, soaks in the contact after a night apart, and Shane sighs and leans into him.

Ilya glances over as he makes the second coffee, to see both Sveta and Rose watching them, soft smiles gracing both women’s faces. Shane flushes when he notices, but doesn’t pull away until the second mug is full and he carries them over to their guests.

Ilya waves him off and he sits with them as Ilya focuses on the final coffees for him and Shane, and it’s not long until he’s joining them, handing Shane his mug and letting their fingers linger as they brush together.

The chair next to Sveta and opposite Shane is empty so Ilya slides into it, reaches forward with a foot until Shane’s ankle is pressed against his, and picks up the thread of the conversation - something about a new film Rose will be starting the press tour for soon.

And the next couple of hours pass by in a blur of easy conversation. Rose talks about her work, about the recent film and a couple more projects she’s lined up for. She’s hilarious, generous with her anecdotes and gentle in her teasing of Shane. Sveta talks about her job selling luxury cars, recites some of the sillier stories of recent customers; Shane listens with fascination and asks plenty of questions which pleases her and Ilya smiles as she offers him a mini nod of approval when they catch each other’s eye.

Shane mentions the move to the Admirals, how he’s liking New York, how the new team seem welcoming, and Ilya follows with his happy new-job news, at which point everyone agrees they need to celebrate tonight.

Rose has booked them a good restaurant for dinner at seven, so around six they part to go and get ready. Sveta has bought her outfit with her, so takes the guest bathroom as Rose changes in the spare bedroom, and Ilya and Shane retreat to their bedroom.

And Ilya’s stunned but mostly turned on as Shane shuts the bedroom door sharply behind them and immediately manhandles him over to sit on the edge of the bed. He drops to his knees, unbuckles Ilya’s belt and takes him into his mouth without a word as Ilya can only stare in disbelieving, aroused silence. Ilya grows to full hardness rapidly as Shane just holds him there, warm and wet around his dick, at which point he starts to move. Ilya slides a hand through his hair and whispers soft praise as he takes him deeper, past the back of his throat and Ilya has to bite back his shout as he comes barely a minute later, hunched over Shane where he pants against Ilya’s still-denim-clad thigh.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya gasps, pulls him up by the collar for a kiss. “You will kill me.”

“You’re killing me,” Shane retorts, pushing a hand through Ilya’s hair pointedly. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Sorry,” Ilya grins, entirely unrepentant, and gets a snort and shake of the head in disbelief.

“No you’re not. Fuck. We need to get ready.” Shane gets up and heads into the bathroom, leaving Ilya still sat dazed on the bed.

But he’s not letting Shane have the last word, or let him be huffy about this no matter how teasingly, so follows him in, crowds him against the sink and slides a hand under his trousers, into his boxers where he rapidly returns to hardness. He presses his chest to Shane’s back, bites up his nape as he works him slowly, tenderly with one hand, unbuttons his slacks with his other for more room.

Shane stares at him through hooded eyes in the mirror, one hand on Ilya’s wrist as if to make sure he doesn’t stop, the other reaching up and back to tug at shortened curls. He comes with a shout Ilya muffles with two fingers pressed against his tongue, something hot and liquid in Shane’s eyes at the restraint. And fuck, Ilya’s already got so many ideas but this adds more to his list of fantasies. He doesn’t have time to delve into his imagination right now though, so washes his hands thoroughly and pulls on a fresh shirt and smarter slacks.

Shane’s in a silkier shirt than usual, one that moves with him to caress the soft lines of muscle and Ilya spends too long staring as he slows his steps down the hallway to get a better view.

Rose is already waiting in the living room, stunning in a silver dress that ends just above her knees, draped low to show off her back. Her heels dangle from one hand as she texts with the other, but looks up as Shane crosses the room to join her. Ilya stops at the edge of the hallway, Sveta coming up from behind to stand next to him in the red minidress she’d bought yesterday and leaning against his arm.

“You’ll do,” she compliments in Russian, and he returns it as Shane and Rose turn to look at them both, looking like a stunning couple standing next to each other. 

Shane’s booked a car, and the four of them turn a few heads as they enter the restaurant, most notably Rose given she’s the most famous of the group. They’re led to a private dining room, four placemats across a table that looks like it could seat eight, and are left to peruse the menus and chat.

And conversation continues to flow easily. Over the first couple of courses Rose talks about how she and Shane had met, had dated for all of two weeks before she’d figured out he just wasn’t into her, and had gently prised out his sexuality. Shane expounds, mentions that Rose was the first person he’d ever told, that the therapist she’d helped him find had been second, followed by his parents and then the team. That Rose had been his core support through it all, and although Ilya had felt a little irrational jealousy that they’d dated, it’s easily wiped away by how much Rose had been there for Shane over the years.

And through the third course and dessert Sveta talks about how she and Ilya had grown up together in Russia, offers embarrassing stories of him as a youth that have them all laughing. Rose asks about hockey, so Ilya talks about playing in the Russian league as a teen, mentions he’d been preparing for the year leading up to the draft before the injury.

He skips over his reason for relocating, squeezes Sveta’s hand back gently when she offers hers in brief comfort under the table, and talks about his initial culture shocks in the US instead, about picking his studies back up and restarting his life, brings up his most ridiculous stories to make his companions laugh.

After a final nightcap they drop Sveta off at her hotel and the car returns the three of them left back to Shane’s apartment. Rose kisses Shane’s cheek and then Ilya’s as she retires to her bedroom, tells them she’s bought earplugs so they don’t need to worry about being loud.

Ilya laughs loudly at the teasing as Shane turns bright red, and ushers him gently down to their bedroom, calls goodnight to Rose as she shuts her own door behind her.

They shower together, wash each other, intimate but not overly sexual. Ilya smiles at Shane through the mirror as they stand next to each other brushing their teeth, leans in to press his bare shoulder to Shane’s pyjama-t-shirt-clad one.

“Is good, no?” he asks as they climb into bed. “Rose, Sveta, us. Good group.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees fondly. “Yeah, it’s great. Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You call Svetlana Sveta, and she calls you… Ilyusha, is it?”

“Yes. Is like… nickname, very common in Russian. Shortening or adding to name, to show affection. After more time Sveta would probably let you use Sveta, too.”

“And Ilyusha, is that- could I?” Shane asks softly, eyes bright in the dim light of the room.

Ilya knows his smile is hopelessly happy, “Yes, if you like. Is quite… intimate? Maybe not right word, but is more common in private, when between partners.”

“Alright,” Shane nods, presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Is there- is there a nickname or something for Shane?”

And Ilya’s chest soars, heart tumbling in his chest. “Shanya, maybe,” he offers.

“Shanya,” Shane thinks about it, and then smiles. “I mean, only if you wanted.”

“Shanya,” Ilya repeats, leans in to kiss him. “I want.”

Shane kisses him again, before shifting so he’s more comfortable, head on Ilya’s arm as he tugs it under his neck. “Good night, Ilyusha.”

“Good night, Shanya.”

Chapter 13: Mr. Plain

Shane orders a full breakfast spread the next morning, bagels and croissants and the fancy coffees from around the corner, and Sveta ends up bringing it in as her arrival coincides with the delivery guy’s.

She’s dressed to slay in comfort, short shorts and a tight-fitting t-shirt with Protect the Dolls written boldly in the trans flag colours across her chest. She has to explain to Shane what that means when he asks, and he nods in sharp agreement when she does, something a little determined along the set of his jaw.

Rose emerges soon after, in tight jeans and a similar slogan t-shirt, ‘No pride for some of us without liberation for all of us - Martha P. Johnson’. Ilya nods solemnly at her and gets a high five.

Neither Ilya nor Shane own anything explicitly queer-coded the way the women do, but Ilya’s looking hot in the leopard-printed shirt that Sveta had bought him and jeans that are growing tight around his thighs again to show them off in the best way. Shane’s looking delectable if boring in jeans and a plain white t-shirt, but promises if he sees some merch he likes that’s not too ‘out there’ that he’ll jazz himself up a bit. Ilya laughs, teasingly calls him “Mr. Plain” and promises that he’ll find him something rainbow coloured as soon as feasibly possible.

They leave around half-ten, knowing it’s going to be manic but Rose has had a table saved for them at a little bar with a balcony overlooking part of the parade route, so they can sit and enjoy without being too trapped by the masses.

It’s not too far a walk but they end up forming a chain holding hands - Rose-Shane-Sveta-Ilya - as they weave their way through the crowded streets to the bar. Shane’s already looking a little overwhelmed when they arrive, but smiles reassuringly at Ilya when they’re shown to their table. Rose and Sveta sit closest to the balcony edge, Shane and Ilya next to them respectively, Shane tucked further into the corner just in case anyone recognises him. 

The sun is shining with a soft layer of cloud cover reducing the heat to a manageable level that looks to last all day and the atmosphere is jubilant. The balcony is relatively quiet, just two other tables further down which are full with people Ilya thinks are famous but doesn’t recognise enough to know their names. Rose spends some time talking to the owner, tells him that it’s everyone’s first NYC Pride except hers, and he grins wildly and brings shots to the table along with little flags they can wave as the parade passes them.

And Shane’s relaxed enough that he joins them in taking the shot, pressing his feet to Ilya’s under the table as they all clink their glasses together and cheer “to Pride!” first. Ilya orders a vodka soda, Sveta joining him as Shane returns to ginger ale and Rose accepts a cocktail she apparently inspired and is called the Landry.

“It’s not too early?” Shane asks, a little confused but non-judgemental.

“It’s Pride,” Rose replies with a carefree shrug and a grin. “Most of us start drinking as soon as we wake up, it’s part of the fun.”

The bar they’re at is towards the end of the Parade route, so they have some time to sit and chat, watch the streets fill up below them until they’re practically heaving. The bar owner, Shaz, returns to sit with them for a bit; he talks about how his partner volunteers with the It Gets Better non-profit so is marching with them. He seems delighted when Shane asks questions about the foundation and how it works, what it does and takes all of the information in his serious but thoughtful way.

But eventually the Parade marches through, a cacophony of music and chanting and laughter and sheer noise that precedes the people like a wave. Sveta and Rose make room for Ilya and Shane so they can see better over the railing, and they stand for a while, waving down at the performers and marchers. There are corporations, charities, public sector groups, community groups, drag queens, drag kings and so much more that Ilya’s head spins. He looks over, sees Shane feels the same and leans into him carefully, out of sight of anyone below.

“Is a lot, but good, yes?” Ilya shares, gesturing down below.

“It’s fucking amazing.”

Ilya watches Shane look delighted as he waves back to a couple of drag queens waving up at them from a float, stunning ballgowns and towering wigs and so much glitter. He’s suddenly so fiercely glad that Shane gets to experience this, after everything he’d gone through after coming out to his team. Glad that he gets to see that there’s joy and acceptance from a variety of corners, not just the few he’s had in his parents and Rose and Ilya, and now from the Admirals, to an extent.

He lets the gladness spread to himself, too. That he could be here, now, with a boyfriend he’s in love with, both their friends by their side, the short-term future secure for now… he couldn’t have dreamed this even four weeks ago. He pinches himself subtly, lets the pain remind him that this is not some figment of his wildest imagination.

The Parade lasts a couple of hours and they’re provided with snacks; fries and bread rolls alongside hummus and vegetable sticks that Rose mentions she’d asked for specifically so Shane would have something healthy to eat. The food soaks up the couple of additional drinks they all have; including Shane switching to alcohol with a Moscow Mule as Ilya promises he’ll like it.

“It was good, but I want to have a semi-clear head when we go meet Scott and his partner,” he explains unnecessarily when he declines a second. None of them would mind if he stayed entirely sober, but Ilya slows down as well, and promises he won’t embarrass Shane when his boyfriend notices, to get a soft smile and a kiss to his jaw.

“You couldn’t anyway. Well, you could,” Shane amends, as if to temper Ilya’s instinctive urge to take it as a challenge, “but I know you wouldn’t.”

They stay a while even once the Parade has passed them, to let the crowds disperse to a navigable level. Shane gets a text from Scott that he’s at the Kingfisher, has reserved a booth with space enough for the four of them if they still want to come along and that inspires them to make a move.

Rose seems to manage to acquire a variety of Pride-themed items as they walk through down to the next bar. She drapes a rainbow feather boa around Shane’s neck, who shakes his head but accepts it with a grin. Ilya gets a set of beads in the bisexual colours which he promises he’ll never take off. 

As they draw closer to the bar, Shane takes Ilya’s hand and entwines their fingers. Ilya squeezes reassuringly.

“If he is a dick we will go,” he promises lowly, leaning in so only Shane can hear him. “He will not be, though. You know this.”

“Yeah,” Shane nods, shimmies his shoulders lightly like he’s shaking off the stress. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Ilya demurs, and they both grin as Rose is called over by a group of fans across the street. They pause, watch while she takes a few photos with the group before ducking back out and jogging back across the road to them.

“Sorry about that,” she grins, not sorry at all. “Did you see the little Admiral, though, Shane?” She points to where a family of three, two dads and a daughter, maybe about six years old or so, are all wearing Admiral jerseys from what looks like the Pride collection. They’re also clearly watching the group, and one dad lifts a hand hesitantly as they realise they’ve been spotted back.

“Do you want?” Ilya asks, letting go of Shane’s hand with another gentle squeeze.

“I- come with me?” Shane pleads, and Ilya nods immediately and follows Shane as he starts to cross the road.

The family look disbelieving for a long second, but the little girl’s face lights up, brighter than anything on the Parade Ilya’s seen today, tugging at one of her dads’ hands in disbelief.

“Hi,” Shane lifts an awkward hand as they stop close enough to talk. “I- uh, did you want a photo?”

He gets a “is that okay?” from a dad and a “yes please!” from the girl simultaneously, and Ilya takes the phone from the other dad as Shane steps in close for a photograph. He lifts the girl with her permission, and she beams as he sets her on his hip, her parents either side of him with wide smiles on their face.

“I can’t believe you’re joining the Admirals,” one of the men says after Ilya lowers the phone and Shane lowers the child gently back onto her feet. “Like, we’re so excited, seriously. It’s all we’ve talked about the last couple of weeks.”

“Hah, well, I’m really excited to be joining,” Shane replies, shoulders loose even if his tone is a little awkward. “New York’s been really good to me so far, so I’m hoping I can repay the favour with some good hockey.”

“I’m sure you will,” the man nods enthusiastically. “We’ve got season tickets, so we’ll be cheering you on every home game.”

“Thanks,” Shane smiles sunnily and Ilya would almost be jealous of the way the men look struck dumb if he didn’t feel the exact same. “Happy Pride.”

“Happy Pride,” he gets in echo from all three, and he bumps his shoulder into Ilya’s as they turn to cross back across the street. 

“That was very nice of you, solnyshko,” Ilya murmurs.

“I forget, sometimes, that some of the fans could be, y’know, just like me. Like the main audience of hockey is still white men, I know, but who knows how many of them could be gay or bi or queer. It’s nice to be reminded, to know that there are fans out there that would like me for being me.”

“Anyone who doesn’t like you for you is stupid,” Ilya says loyally, and gets a laugh and a shake of the head but no rebuttal.

They arrive at the Kingfisher not long later, and it’s not quiet but neither is it as busy as some of the other bars they’ve passed; no patrons spilling out onto the street here.

Shane texts Scott to let him know they’ve arrived, and next thing they know the man himself is exiting the front door, smiling as he spots Shane.

“Hollander, good to see you,” he lifts a hand awkwardly, turning it into a wave rather than an offered handshake. 

“Hunter, thanks for inviting us. This is my friend Rose, my, uh, my boyfriend, Ilya, and his friend Svetlana.”

Scott’s eyes widen slightly as he meets Ilya’s gaze on introduction, but he covers it well with a wide grin and a round of handshakes. He leads the way into the bar, through the little paths the crowd appears to be working to keep open, through to the far left where there are several booths lining the wall. Sveta peels off for the bathroom, promises to join them shortly once she’s seen where they’re heading.

“This is Kip,” he introduces the man currently sitting at the table, saving it for them all. “My boyfriend.”

“Hey,” the man is handsome and familiar.

“Straw+berry man!” he grins as he pushes Shane into the corner of the booth, follows him closely. “Remember, Shane, the barista I told you Scott had heart-eyes for.”

“Yes, Ilya,” Shane sighs but can’t hide the little twitch of his lips. “Sorry about him,” he says to Kip, “Too much excitement today.”

Kip laughs, but he’s flushing as he looks at Scott who’s blushing himself. “No, I mean, I don’t think he’s wrong?” he replies, and Scott gives a tiny shake of the head in answer. “But it’s nice to meet you all. And I’m sorry, but I have to get this out the way, Miss Landry, I’m a huge fan.”

Rose smiles warmly at him. “Call me Rose, and no need to be sorry. Anyway, first round on me?”

“Let me get it,” Scott says, “I’m still up. What can I get for you all?”

They order, more vodka sodas for Ilya and Sveta, another Moscow Mule for Shane, a beer for Kip and Rose joins Scott at the bar anyway as she wants to look at their specialty cocktail menu, and offers to help him carry the drinks back.

“Scott was really nervous about inviting you,” Kip says confidentially, when it’s just him, Shane and Ilya left at the table. “I mean you know as well as him how shitty the league can be. I still don’t think he quite believes you’re joining the team.”

Shane shrugs. “I was nervous about coming,” he confides in return. “Hunter and the Admirals have been welcoming so far, but Montreal weren’t exactly great about it all, so it’s been a necessary but pretty risky change.”

“I mean, I’m very happy for the Admirals, I think we’ll do much better with you there. The team have been good to me and Scott, too, if that reassures you any. But I’m sorry you didn’t have much of a choice but to leave Montreal.”

“Thanks,” Shane smiles at the other man. “I mean, it’s worked out pretty well so far,” he adds, foot pressing against Ilya’s, glancing across at him to what Ilya’s sure is a ridiculously sappy expression on his face. “I’m looking forward to the season starting, though, getting back into it properly.”

“I’m sure,” Kip agrees.

“So,” Ilya jumps in as their conversation fades. “How did you and Hunter meet?”

Kip smiles, “Actually, at straw+berry,” he starts, and recounts the tale of Scott coming in for a smoothie, coming back again after one of his best games that season, and them starting to talk more as he turned into a regular.

Midway through, Scott returns with both Sveta and Rose in tow. Rose slides in next to Shane, Sveta next to Scott, who interjects a few times with additional or contradicting information about how they got together, but otherwise watches Kip with a sappy expression of his own.

Kip mentions he’s still studying for his own Masters degree and Ilya commiserates with him about school and how exhausting it is to work almost full time while still a student. They change the topic before they get too sucked into it, bringing the rest of the table back into something they can all relate to.

Shane gets the second round of drinks, joined by Sveta and Kip who help carry them back this time. Rose carries most of the conversation with Scott as the three of them are left alone, as he asks her about a recent film he’d seen her in, but admits that Kip is more of the movie connoisseur when she replies with some technical details back.

Ilya spots Sveta leading the group back with drinks, smirking like the cat who got the cream and feels a spike of worry about whatever's caused that expression. She slides into the booth with Kip at her heels, Shane sitting next to Rose at the other end of the opposite bench, and purrs “king?” in his ear.

“Fuck,” Ilya closes his eyes briefly. He never should have let the two of them together out of his sight. But then he shrugs, so what?

“I mean, it’s true,” he argues, ignoring Scott and Kip’s curious glances. “He is a fucking king, the way he plays and wins. Hockey’s fucking god-king, and I’ll remind him of that every day for the rest of his life if he’ll let me.”

Sveta continues to smirk, but she hands him his vodka glass with an approving pat. “As you should,” she agrees. “I’m pretty sure he likes it,” she adds in a low whisper, and Ilya glances over at Shane to see him watching the two of them, eyes molten and dark. 

Ilya sips his drink to hide his own want, feels loose enough from the good day and all the alcohol that if Shane would let him he’d take him into the back and suck his dick on the dirty bathroom floor. 

“I think we should go find a place we can dance,” Sveta announces not long after, as everyone’s coming to the end of their second drink.

“Yes!” Rose agrees, pointing sharply at Sveta. “I want to grind.”

Ilya knows he’ll follow wherever these two go if Shane wants to, and is only a little surprised when the suggestion gets a nod from the Canadian. “I could dance,” Shane agrees slowly.

Scott and Kip exchange a glance, but accept the extended invitation. They make a detour via the bar to say goodbye to the bartender, and briefly Shane gets to say hello to Eric Bennett, the Admirals’ goalie who’s dating said bartender and planning to sit on the end barstool so he can gaze at his boyfriend without being in the way for the rest of the evening.

There’s a plethora of clubs nearby and they find one that’s again not too busy but is full enough it’s easy enough to get lost in the crowd in. The dancefloor is full, but they split in two and Ilya dutifully goes to fetch Scott, Kip and Rose when Sveta finds a table big enough for the six of them and flirts with the two guys currently hogging it until they give it up easily.

Rose gets this round, requests Ilya help and Kip comes along as a volunteer. Kip disappears to the bathroom while they wait for their turn, a long queue suggesting it’ll be at least ten minutes, and Ilya freezes when Rose leans up on her tiptoes to press her mouth to his ear so he can hear her over the music.

“You’re really good for him, you know?” she says softly, her breath smelling almost fruity as she turns her head to make sure he can hear her. 

“I’m trying,” Ilya replies, this approval from Shane’s best friend something he had been hoping for but trying not to expect. “He deserves everything.”

“He does,” she agrees. He rests a careful hand on her waist when someone bumps into her from behind, steadying her as she sways into him. “But he’s so much happier now, with you, here. I really-, thank you, Ilya,” her eyes are serious as they bore into his, “thanks for making him happy.”

Ilya smiles softly, “he makes me happy too.”

He gets her a glass of water with her next drink, and thinks that once they’ve had their fill of dancing they should all go find somewhere for proper food to counteract some of the alcohol. Kip returns as Ilya’s shouting their order across the bar, but it doesn’t take as long to actually receive their drinks, and they’re heading back around the edges of the dance floor not long after.

Sveta and Rose knock back their drinks almost immediately and abandon them for the dancefloor together, disappearing into the mass of bodies with excitement. They’ve somehow lost a couple of stools while Ilya had been gone; Scott, Kip and Shane’s the only ones still remaining. Ilya inserts himself onto Shane’s lap, wraps an arm around his shoulders as Shane’s arm immediately goes around his waist.

Scott and Kip watch with wide eyes for a moment, and Ilya wonders whether it’s the openness, Shane or something else that has them so surprised.

He knows Shane’s reputation as the ‘polite Canadian boy’, so he guesses it’s got to be a bit of a shock that he’s suddenly here in a club, drinking with a man draped over his lap, and Ilya smiles into his glass at the thought of it. He wonders how else he might adjust Scott and Kip’s expectations of Shane.

“Come dance,” he murmurs, but Shane’s talking hockey with Scott and shakes his head.

“I’ll come over in a minute,” he promises when Ilya pouts, bites gently at his ear. “Go dance with Rose and Sveta.”

Ilya grips his chin with finger and thumb, leans in to press a quick kiss to his lips, ignoring their audience of two staring at them, and then gets up and heads into the dance floor with an extra little sway in his step.

The bass is heavy, the rhythm vibrating through his chest as he finds Sveta and Rose, dancing together in a little pocket across the dancefloor. They both grin brightly when they see him, pull him between them as they dance to the beat uninhibitedly. It’s hot and sweaty, and Sveta grins as the song switches, reaching forward to tug another one of his buttons undone.

He swats away her hand, but she laughs, turns her head to indicate he should look and he does; sees Shane across a little gap that’s formed between them and the other dancers, watching Ilya with heated eyes.

He lets his hips turn liquid and slow, Sveta’s hands on his waist as they grind together with the new, slow beat, Rose up against Ilya’s back. Fuck, but he’s missed dancing, missed this release of energy that’s like nothing else. He twists out of the middle, backs up towards Shane and watches as Rose and Sveta come together. People would pay a lot of money for that kind of show, Ilya thinks, but brushes the thought away as he reaches Shane, tucks one finger into a belt loop and pulls him forward.

Shane’s a little less coordinated, a little less rhythmic, but after a minute he lets Ilya’s hands on his hips guide him to the beat, face fierce with concentration under the strobe lights.

And once he’s got it, he loosens up, hands sliding up Ilya’s chest, one sneaking briefly under the open neck of his shirt to brush along his collarbone. Wrists rest on his shoulder as fingers lace behind his neck, as Ilya feels the blood rush to his dick as they grind together in a way that’s practically explicit even fully dressed.

“I want you to fuck me,” Shane whispers in his ear. “I want you to worship me, like I’m your king and you need nothing else.”

Ilya’s groan is almost subvocal as he grips Shane’s hips tighter and pulls him that little bit closer.

“That is not a hardship, is all true,” he promised. “Shanya, solnyshko, moy korol.”

His mouth lingers over Shane’s for a long, hot minute, but they don’t close that final millimetre, suddenly conscious that Shane is not out out and people have phones. He’s pretty sure they’d be fucked anyway, if photos of him dancing this intimately with Ilya were shared, or their shared kiss earlier, but it feels too much like tempting fate like this.

The bass changes again, and Ilya surfaces from Shane’s eyes to see Scott and Kip have joined them, the group now dancing in a little triangle with a pair at each corner. 

Sveta and Rose are dismissing the men who are approaching them at regular intervals, so Ilya - partly for his own sanity, partly to be a good friend - tugs Shane over into a little group of four.

And it’s hot and sweaty but they all manage another four or so songs before by silent consensus they start weaving their way to the exit.

It’s just gone eight p.m., and Ilya’s suddenly starving. His stomach is loud in the sudden quiet as they spill out of the club, and they all dissolve into laughter at the sound, propping each other up as they practically collapse into a fit of giggles.

“There’s a good ramen place that way?” Kip suggests, pointing down the block.

They find the ramen place busy, but it has a few empty tables outside and there’s still enough daylight and warmth so they pull together enough chairs for the six of them. The waiter looks harried, and Ilya knows what that feels like, so he collects everyone’s order so when the waiter makes it over to them it’s a simple quick recital.

Conversation is lively as they all talk about Pride, somehow not having spoken about it earlier. Scott and Kip admit they’d spent the day relaxing in Scott’s apartment, watching the parade on the TV, since Scott is even more nervous about being out and potentially recognised than Shane.

“I mean, I thought I was the only one for a long time,” he admits, and the group murmur sympathetically. “In environments like the one in hockey, that fucks with your head a fair bit, I think.”

The conversation continues and Ilya listens carefully, every anecdote Shane and Scott share making him more certain that Shane’s charity and providing inclusive hockey camps would be the perfect legacy for the both of them, a way to change things for the next generation - just like the girl from the family Shane took a photo with earlier. He resolves - when he’s more sober - to take a closer look at Shane’s current ideas, flesh them out a bit more. He’s still not sure anything will come of it anytime soon, but hearing the underlying pain in both Scott and Shane from their previous experiences has him wanting to do whatever he can to help make it better.

The ramen, when it comes, is insanely delicious. Ilya’s not sure if it’s because he’s tipsy or starving or it’s just that good, but everyone else falls quiet too as they dig in. 

Rose and Sveta are ready and eager to return to dancing once they’ve refueled. Shane, clearly anxious not to be the one to say no, agrees, but Ilya can see by the way his fingers tuck into his sleeves that he’s ready to go home.

So Ilya begs off, instead. Insinuates that he’s got plans for Shane, and everyone speaks loudly over him before he can get into the detail, and he grins as he closes his mouth. Scott and Kip make their excuses too, pay their bit of the bill before starting their walk home.

Shane orders a car for Shane and Ilya, before double-checking that Rose has the backdoor code so she can let herself in. Sveta steals the seat next to Ilya and leans in, and next thing he knows she’s putting her diamond earrings in his ears.

“I plan on finding someone to fuck,” she explains, “and these are my good diamonds. Do not lose them.”

Ilya promises to keep them safe, and turns to see Shane staring at him, lips parted in surprise and something almost suggestive.

Rose laughs in excitement and, looping her arm through Sveta’s, they abandon the men to head back to the club for a second round of dancing.

“We could’ve stayed, you know,” Shane murmurs softly, his eyes still fixed on Ilya’s ears. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Ilya shrugs. “You are tired, I am sweaty. You also wanted me to fuck you as you deserve, moy korol,” he adds, and Shane’s eyes flicker back and forth between his eyes and his ears, saying nothing.

“You like them?” Ilya asks, tilting his head so the diamonds can catch the limited light from the streetlamps.

“I didn’t know you had your ears pierced,” Shane gives a non-answer.

“Ah, when I was young and dumb. I had to sell my gold pair when I got here, for money for rent,” he explains. “And have not been able to afford since. I could not afford these, either,” he adds, gesturing at the diamonds. “But Sveta has always had good taste.”

“They suit you,” Shane’s eyes are dark. “Maybe you should be the king.”

Ilya smiles darkly, leans in and presses his hands to Shane’s knees, rubbing up his thighs just an inch or two. “I am no king,” he disputes. “But I would wear whatever, do whatever mine asked of me.”

“Are you?” Shane presses. “Mine?”

“Until I die,” Ilya answers truthfully, and feels more than hears Shane’s quick indrawn breath, the shaky slow exhale.

“Christ, Ilya.”

Shane gets a call from the car company, is told due to road closures they’re having to wait around the corner. Ilya neatens up the table, stacks a few of the empty bowls, and then follows Shane to where it waits idling at the curb.

The driver is congenial, tells them both Happy Pride and Ilya realises they’re still wearing the accessories Rose had found them earlier. Shane’s feather boa had started to irritate him in the bar so Ilya had tied it around his waist as a belt instead, and it’s now a little worse for wear with a few feathers missing. Ilya’s beads have wormed under his shirt, but since Sveta had tugged open more buttons they’re still clearly visible against his chest.

They return the sentiment, and sit with fingers touching across the middle seat between them. Ilya traces one finger up and down the back of Shane’s palm, as delicate as possible until Shane’s hand flips and catches it to still him. Ilya looks up, registers the heat in Shane’s eyes and swallows hard, exhales shakily and hopes they’re not too far from home.

Ilya leads the way into the apartment, stops when he realises Shane’s paused by the front door, is just watching him.

He turns, waits a second, and Shane steps in, clasps both hands on Ilya’s face and kisses him hard. Ilya catches his waist, pulls him close as the momentum takes them up against the wall, and lets all of the emotions he’s felt throughout the day flood out into the kiss.

“Ilya,” Shane pulls back when they’re both gasping for breath. “Ilya-” he shakes his head, as if shaking off a thought, “Bed, now.”

Ilya nods, takes Shane’s hand and pulls him through to the bedroom. They strip, Ilya’s clothes on the floor by the wardrobe, Shane’s neatly folded on the dresser, feather boa sitting colourfully on top.

Shane sits on the bed as Ilya goes to take out Sveta’s earrings so he can put them on the side but stops when he hears Shane’s intake of breath.

“Would she mind if you left them in?” Shane asks lowly, eyes burning as they watch Ilya’s fingers drop away from his ears slowly.

The grin curls up on Ilya’s face as he shakes his head. “We probably should not tell her,” he purrs, stepping forward, “but she would not mind.”

Decorated in just the diamonds and his mother’s cross, Ilya crosses the room, leans down to kiss Shane softly, stroke a hand through his hair and tug it gently back so he can kiss him better.

It stays soft, something warm and unspoken filling the room as Ilya opens Shane gently, mouthing at his thigh as his fingers press inside him. He’s gentle as he eases in, one of Shane’s hands cupping the side of his face, thumb brushing across the diamond in his ear, the other at his waist encouraging him closer. And the rhythm stays slow, soft, Ilya moving his hips in the ways he’s quickly learnt get Shane closest to the edge fastest, the soft sound of his gasps and moans the heated soundtrack.

Ilya murmurs soft words of praise, reminds Shane that he’s Ilya’s king, switches to Russian to remind him that he’d do anything for him, that he’s so proud of him, that Ilya can’t quite believe he gets such perfection entrusted to him. Feels nails score down his spine as he moves just right, and then Shane’s coming between them, Ilya following mere seconds later, pressing hot kisses down Shane’s throat.

They wash off the stickiness of sweat from the dancing and the sex in the shower before crawling under the sheets to sleep, exhaustion pulling them both under quickly.

Chapter 14: Mr. Flexible

Ilya’s only partially awake when Shane shifts in his arms. He cracks his eyes open, sees Shane settle back down wtih a small smile, feels him press a little closer into Ilya’s arms and Ilya's heart flutters.

“G’mornin’,” he murmurs, presses a soft kiss to the curve of his neck.

“Good morning,” Shane replies softly.

Silence returns as they cuddle together for a long minute.

“I love waking up like this,” Shane breathes into the quiet. “It always kills me a little when I have to leave to go to the gym or something.”

Ilya hums softly, grips Shane a little tighter. “You do not have to leave this morning,” he points out. “Not yet.”

Shane hums and places an arm over Ilya’s on his chest, holds him tightly back. Ilya closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of Shane, lets himself drift in the tranquility of their bed.

He eventually pulls himself out of it when he can practically hear the gears in Shane’s brain spinning. 

“I want to come out,” Shane says after Ilya squeezes him gently in silent question. He holds Ilya still, when he would have lifted his arm to look at him. “Not- not now. But after yesterday? Knowing there’s so much support and joy out there? I want that, for me. For us.”

Ilya presses a gentle kiss to his nape. “Then we make plan,” he agrees.

Shane nods, hair tickling the tip of Ilya’s nose. “I think I know how I want it to go,” and Ilya smiles, because of course he does. “There’s already so much talk about me right now signing with the Admirals, I don’t want to add more fuel to the fire. So I think we play this season, see how it goes. And either way, if it goes to shit or we make it through the playoffs, I come out whenever it ends.

“But until then, I don’t want to hide us. I don’t think we should be overly obvious in public or anything, but players have friends sit in their family seats all the time, so if you wanted to come to home games you could. And if anyone asks I’ll tell them we live together, but to be honest I don’t think they’d be that bold, not with me.

“But that’ll give me time to work with my agent, and my mom and we can check in with my sponsors and things. That would give the Admirals time to plan as well, since I don’t know if they’d be prepared for me to actually want to come out publicly as it stands.

“But is- is that okay with you? You might get caught up in a lot of it, and it could be pretty high-profile news I think, at least initially.”

“Shane,” Ilya props himself up, pulls at Shane’s shoulder so he rolls onto his back, looks up at him as Ilya hovers half-over him. “Moy korol’. Yes. Is okay with me. I cannot wait for day when I can say to whole world, ‘yes, I am Shane Hollander’s’.”

“Me neither,” Shane agrees, and Ilya kisses him softly, leans down to press his weight across Shane’s body, luxuriates in the feel of skin-on-skin.

He slides down, presses long, lingering kisses to every inch of Shane’s chest, bites at a nipple, soothes with his tongue. Traces his tongue along the lines of Shane’s abs which flex under his touch. He takes the covers back with him as he reaches Shane’s hip, nips at his hipbone, pulls back at Shane’s groan.

“Shh, moy lyubimyy, Rose may have come home,” he reminds him. “Here,” he reaches up, presses two fingers against Shane’s lips and holds back his own groan when he sucks them in, tongue laving at the pads of his fingertips and creases of his knuckles. 

Ilya returns to his task, presses his lips to the tip of Shane’s dick, already weeping softly, licks a long-flat stroke against the head. Shane’s moans are muffled by the fingers he’s still suckling on and Ilya’s head spins. He sinks down, a little more awkwardly than usual given his one arm is positioned to stretch higher than normal, but opens his throat and takes Shane all the way in with one smooth movement.

It doesn’t take long, Shane’s hands gripping Ilya’s wrist as he pants around split-slick fingers, until hot come pours down Ilya’s throat and he swallows it all. He’s on a tripwire himself, an errant breath away from coming, exhales slowly as he crawls back up Shane’s body and removes his fingers to kiss him instead.

Shane pants underneath him, expression blissfully hazy. Ilya sits back, knees either side of Shane’s thighs, wraps a hand around himself and strokes.

And Shane’s eyes are dark where he watches, as he breathes, “You said you were mine.”

“I did, I am.”

“I’m yours, too, Ilya. As long as you’ll have me.”

Forever, then, thinks Ilya, and a soft “Ilyusha” is enough to set off the tripwire and he comes all over Shane’s belly and chest, the sight almost enough to get him going all over again.

It’s a little after ten when they drag themselves out of bed, shower and dress.

The guest room door is closed, so Rose had made it back, but is likely still asleep so they’re quiet about making coffee and toast. Ilya’d had a text from Sveta in the early hours of the morning that she’d made it back to her hotel okay, and will let him know when she surfaces.

Shane lies on the sofa with Ilya draped over his chest; the TV on quietly in the background as Shane reads a book and Ilya dozes.

He’s exhausted, but this feels different to the tiredness of just a couple of weeks ago, even from post-night-out fatigue. He thinks he’s been so stressed, so uncertain the last year, doing everything he could to just remain functional, that to finally have that weight lifted, and then to have this relief and joy and freedom in his life is almost as exhausting in the way it’s such an absolute contradiction. 

Shane’s fingers are petting through his hair, occasionally stopping suddenly as if still not used to the new shorter length, and Ilya presses his ear to Shane's chest and lets the steady thump of his heartbeat comfort him into a half-sleep.

He rouses slightly when Shane’s chest vibrates as he speaks, processes a soft ‘sorry’ and a ‘don’t worry about it’ in response from Rose as she emerges for coffee. When nothing is directed his way he lets himself sink back into semi-consciousness. He rubs his cheek against Shane’s t-shirt in sleepy pleasure as a hand gently cradles his scalp, nails scratching gently, the rumble of Shane's chest as he picks up a conversation with Rose lulling him further back into sleep.

The arrival of Sveta in the early afternoon pulls him officially back to the land of the living, Shane gently encouraging him to sit up and providing him with more coffee as he yawns, uses the arm of the sofa to keep him somewhat upright and awake.

The women recount their night after they’d headed back to the club. They’d ended up partying at another gay bar, had kebabs at 2am with a group of drag queens, and eventually stumbled home close to 4am, Sveta with a cute non-binary person she’d collected at the gay bar in tow. They’d been very eager, she brags with a self-satisfied smirk, and accepts her earrings back when Ilya takes them out of his own ears.

Shane looks a little mournful at the loss, and Ilya knows he’s not got the kind of money to buy similar ones, but he thinks he could maybe find some cheap knock-offs. He adds that to the mental list of things he wants, slowly getting longer but he actually might have the money to tick some of them off his list soon.

None of them are particularly keen to leave the apartment, so Shane orders food for them all and they laze on the sofas and eat, a film on in the background that doesn’t require much brainpower to follow. 

And it’s a perfect afternoon, the four of them relaxing, conversation sporadic but comfortable.

Eventually Rose has to leave - she’s on a red-eye flight back to L.A. as she has work in the morning. She calls her own car as she packs her things, waves off Shane’s offer to accompany her. She says goodbye to Sveta first, who promises to stay in touch and maybe go visit in L.A. later on in the year if their schedules align. Ilya’s torn between being pleased that they’ve become friends, and slightly terrified at the things they could accomplish together.

She comes over to where Shane and Ilya are standing by the front door next, leans in to press a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, promises to see him soon. If she’s free she’s going to try and make Shane’s first home game with the Admirals, suggests they should go together and Ilya nods and agrees. 

Shane walks her down to the street, carries her bags despite her half-hearted protest. Ilya brings Sveta another coffee, sits on the sofa and lets her drape her legs over his lap. 

“She’s lovely, Rose,” Sveta says knowingly. “I’m glad you’re making new friends.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but knows his smile is a little disbelieving, a lot more fond.

She stays for dinner; Ilya cooks salmon and vegetables as he knows Shane will be starting to worry about his diet after almost two cheat days now. Shane offers him a knowing, grateful smile as he sets it down in front of them, and they chat a little more as they eat about Sveta’s plans once she’s home, about their plans for the next few weeks too. Shane mentions Montreal and Sveta’s eyes go sharp and intense, and seems pleased when Ilya says he should be able to go with him for support.

She leaves after dinner. Shane offers her the guest room, says he’s got spare sheets he can set up, but she declines, says she’d like a night to herself in the fancy hotel room she’s paid for. But she’ll see them in the morning for breakfast, has booked a little place on the way to Grand Central, and then they’re left alone again for the night.

They clean up, strip the guest bed and start the laundry cycle together, and it’s all so achingly domestic that Ilya’s chest hurts. 

“We’ll have to do this again,” Shane says, as they place fresh sheets on the bed. “Have Svetlana and Rose, and any other friends, over. It’s been really good.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees instantly. “Whenever you like.”

“I mean, this is your apartment too,” Shane reminds him. “Especially when I’m out on roadies and things. I like the idea of you being here, but not if you get lonely. You know you’re welcome to invite over any friends you like, right?”

And Ilya smiles, cradles Shane’s face in his palm and kisses him. “I know,” he agrees, even as he loves hearing it, the reminder, having it confirmed in Shane’s own words that he wouldn’t mind. “Maybe not too often though, yes? New York has many places to meet friends, but only one place I share with you like this.”

And Shane smiles back, pleased, as he nods. Ilya wants to tackle him down onto the freshly made guest bed, but knows Shane will be displeased if he ruins their hard work, so pulls him down into their bedroom and tackles him onto the bed there instead.

And their sex is always a joyous thing, but it’s not as always as obvious as it is this time, laughter interspersed with teasing touches and shared intimacy. It’s like the joy of the last few days has suffused them down to their very core, until they’re even smiling brightly as they come together, fingers twined together on the mattress.

The farewell breakfast with Sveta is as always a bittersweet thing. Ilya’s so glad she’s here, that she’d managed to get him here to New York, that they can still see each other relatively often. She’s one of the very few things he’s happy to have remind him of home, and it’s always a little sad when she leaves and takes that with her.

But she promises to come visit again in a few months, maybe for a game depending on how that all goes. She promises Shane that she’ll go to any Admirals games in Boston, and if he wants good dinner recommendations or to hang out with her while she’s there she’s happy to provide.

Ilya’s a little worried about what Sveta might teach Shane if they’re left to their own devices. Now Shane’s aware that Sveta will teach him Russian words if he asks, Ilya’s going to have to be much more careful about the language he uses, but equally is glad they’ve gotten on so well this weekend as to be making plans without him.

They walk her all the way to Grand Central, wave goodbye as she goes through the barriers towards the platforms.

“Excuse me?” a voice asks hesitantly, as Sveta disappears from sight. “Shane Hollander?” 

Ilya turns to see two women hovering near Shane, looking nervous.

“Hi,” Shane says back, polite smile on his face. “That’s me.”

“Ohmygod,” the blond woman on the left whispers, as the Asian woman on her right holds out a phone with a Montreal Voyageurs phone case on it and a sharpie, face both apprehensive and hopeful.

“Would you mind signing this?” 

Shane nods, takes the phone and sharpie, signs the back. “You guys here for Pride?” he asks casually, nodding towards the rainbow pins they both have on their jackets.

“Yeah,” the second woman nods. “I- I, um, we’ll miss you in Montreal,” she says.

Shane’s polite smile freezes, turns a little melancholy. “Yeah, I’ll miss Montreal too,” he hands the phone and sharpie back.

“I hope you get what you want from New York, though,” she continues. “It sucks for us, but we get having to do what’s best for you. You’ve been a huge role model for me, personally, so I really just wanted to say thanks.”

“... Thank you. Do you want a photo?”

The women smile and nod, and Ilya steps forward to take a photo of the three of them.

“Thanks,” the first woman smiles at him as she takes her phone back. “Sorry to have disturbed you both.”

Ilya and Shane both shake their heads in denial, and once the women have turned to leave they start the hour’s walk home. 

They spend the afternoon planning things to do over the next four weeks, before Ilya’s official start date. He doesn’t think he’s ever had such a long stretch of time off before (he’s not counting his dog sitting with Max, since it’s the most fun job he thinks he’ll ever have).

Shane doesn’t quite have the full four weeks, the Admirals are starting optional skates and training sessions the last week of July and Shane wants to go, so they need to front-load more of the important things to get done in the next three weeks.

Montreal is the big one, though Shane admits he doesn’t want to spend too long there; enough to see his parents, visit Hayden, maybe see J.J., and go through his house to make sure it’s all squared away. They agree to get this out of the way as soon as they can, release Montreal from their things to think about for good.

Ilya’s dogsitting for Max tonight, Tuesday and Thursday this week, and Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday next week, so they agree to leave this Friday morning and fly back Monday night, which gives them a good long weekend to get everything done on Shane’s list.

Ilya watches as Shane books their flights, reminds himself that the cost of the tickets are very little in the grand scheme of Shane’s wealth, and he’s going for emotional support so it’s not like he’s taking advantage. Shane takes his hand and presses a kiss to his wrist as if sensing his apprehension, and Ilya strokes a thumb across his cheekbone in thanks.

The post arrives as Shane continues with admin, and Ilya gets a thick packet which he opens to find his contract through from the Admirals and the other paperwork Sally had promised he’d get last week. The note asks him to complete the forms and bring them with him on his first day, but to let them know in advance if he has any questions or concerns.

He goes through it all, fills in where he needs to, signs on the dotted lines. The only thing he pauses at is the 'Disclosure - Conflict of Interest' form, which asks him to mention any relationships he has with any Admirals employee.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane nods when Ilya shows him, “I’ve got one of those too. I don’t think it’s a big deal, they knew we were at least friends when I referred you. I think it’s just one of those things they have to do for HR. I can do mine now though, if you want, we can go through it together?”

Ilya nods, and Shane prints out the one emailed to him so they can fill in their respective forms together, agreeing their relationship terms like ‘significant other’ from the variety of options given. Ilya signs to promise that he won’t provide Shane with any benefits different to or better than his colleagues in the workplace, and Shane signs to promise the same.

“I’m sure I could give you plenty of benefits at home, though,” Ilya leers, and Shane laughs even as his eyes turn heated and wanting.

“I have to call Hayden about this weekend,” Shane protests as Ilya leans in for a kiss. “And my mom,” he adds when the former doesn’t deter Ilya at all.

He sighs dramatically, flops back in his chair. “Fuck, Shane. Do not bring up your mother when I am trying to seduce you.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” Shane snarks back, and picks up his phone.

Ilya plucks it from his fingers, stands to hold it out of reach as he grabs for it. “That was mean,” Ilya pouts. “I only offer you exclusive benefits, and you treat me this way?”

Shane grins, catching on, and stands up to take a step closer. Ilya moves around the table to put it between them, tucks the phone into his pocket so he has his hands free if he needs them.

“What benefits are you offering, then?” Shane raises his eyebrows, steps to one side and Ilya goes the opposite way, keeping the same amount of distance between them.

“Hmm, a very good blowjob?”

“You give me one of those practically every day,” Shane shakes his head, mock disappointed. “Nothing else?”

“I could rim you until you come untouched.”

Shane’s head tilts, “Tempting, but again, nothing new.”

Well, if Shane wants something new, Ilya’s eyes narrow as he thinks up several scenarios, dismisses a few. “I could tie you up,” Ilya offers, “fuck you until you cry.”

Shane stumbles at that, where he’s inching his way around the table as if Ilya can’t see him the slower he moves.

“No?” Ilya taunts when there’s no reply.

“But we don’t have any-” Shane snaps his mouth shut, but the game’s won and they both know it.

Ilya’s smile is predatory as he watches Shane from across the table.

“Bedroom,” he commands, jerks his chin down the corridor. And Shane goes soft in a way that he only ever does when they’re in this mood, when the dynamic shifts just that little bit further.

He leads the way into the bedroom, constantly glancing back as if to check Ilya’s following.

“Strip. On the bed,” Ilya doesn’t stop to watch if Shane obeys, knows he will, as he diverts to the wardrobe and looks for the selection of ties that Shane has here with him.

He finds a pale silver one, turns to hold it up in question. Shane swallows from where he’s sat up against the headboard, fully naked, but returns the tiniest nod. 

Ilya wraps the tie around his knuckles a few times, reminiscent of how Shane had for him the first time they’d met, and prowls across the room. He strips quickly as he goes, his t-shirt and then jeans pushed to the floor, boxers tossed to one side. It’s as graceful as he can manage it with speed, but Shane doesn’t seem to mind, eyes dark as he watches.

He stands at the foot of the bed, watches Shane’s breath speed up slightly, his cheeks flush pink as Ilya takes in the entirety of that glorious athlete’s body spread out for him.

“You say stop, any time, we stop,” he says seriously, meeting Shane’s eyes. “Is important you know this. Tell me you understand, Shane.”

Shane nods, and Ilya shakes his head.

“No. With words.”

“I- I understand. I say stop, we stop.”

“Good,” Ilya nods, and places one knee on the bed slowly. “Do not move until I tell you.” He takes a hold of one of Shane’s ankles, pulls him down slowly, the bedspread ruffling underneath him until he’s flat on his back, head on the pillows. Then he crawls up over Shane’s prone form on all fours, trying not to touch as much as possible, watches as Shane twitches as if to try and get closer, hands move and then stop as if he’d been on the verge of reaching out.

He sits back on his heels, slides his hands down Shane’s arms to take his hands. He squeezes gently, gets a muffled squeeze back through the tie still around one hand, and gently guides his hands over his head.

He bends Shane’s arms gently, thinks of the best way to do this so that his shoulders won’t ache if Ilya takes his time. He places hands gently on elbows, so Shane’s head is framed prettily by thick biceps, and Ilya gives into temptation and grazes his teeth along one strong muscle, drinks in the soft gasp like a starving man.

He winds the tie gently around Shane’s forearms, makes sure there’s enough room he can flex without the fabric cutting into his skin, ties the ends together carefully so they won’t come loose but won’t take long to undo, after.

“Okay?” he asks, pulling back to look down at Shane. There’s something almost a little distant in his expression, but he dutifully tests the hold, flexes his arms, wiggles his shoulders, and when nothing appears to cause discomfort, he nods.

“Words,” Ilya admonishes gently.

“Yes, okay.”

“You look so pretty like this,” Ilya says conversationally, hands stroking down Shane’s chest. “In our bed, all tied up for me.”

“Ilyusha.”

Ilya smiles with anticipation, slides two fingers into Shane’s mouth, groans when he sucks on them almost thoughtlessly.  He replaces his hand with his mouth, trails spit-wet fingers down his chest, circles a nipple lightly. Shane’s aren’t as sensitive as Ilya’s, but he still shivers as the cool bedroom air drifts over newly-damp skin.

Ilya switches, presses his mouth where his fingers had been, tugs at the hardened nub with his teeth as his fingers go back in Shane’s mouth, and he repeats the process on the other side of his chest until Shane’s arching into his mouth, shoulders straining under the effort.

He digs out the lube, leaves the condom when Shane shakes his head, and trails his hands down the sharp lines of his abs, follows with his mouth. Shane’s hips twist a little, side to side, so Ilya pins them down with a soft warning ‘ah-ah-ah’. 

“Stay still for me, moy lyubimyy.” Shane stills with obvious effort, lips parted around nothing as he breathes heavily, chest heaving.

Ilya uses one hand to gently part Shane’s thighs, moves so he’s kneeling between them, his own knees parted wide so Shane’s thighs can drape over his, leaving his hips tilted up and open so Ilya’s hand can slide easily down to his hole.

“Fuck, Ilyusha,” Shane groans as Ilya presses lightly, not enough to breach but strokes across the soft skin there, presses down on the delicate skin between his hole and his balls, watches as more precum wets the skin at the tip of his cock.

Ilya can’t bend down to reach Shane’s cock with his mouth while kneeling like this, so he coats the fingers of one hand with lube, returns to play with his entrance, while the other traces feather-light up and down his erection.

“I said stay still,” Ilya pulls his hands back a centimetre each as Shane presses up into the fingers on his cock, and he whines but dutifully stills the roll of his hips.

“Better,” Ilya praises, and returns to gently touching him. One finger presses in, a second, and Shane turns his head, bites on his own bicep as he clearly does his best to remain still.

“Fuck,” he gasps, as Ilya presses down purposefully on his prostate. “Ilya, Ilyusha, I can’t.”

“You can,” Ilya promises, his own breathing growing heavier as he watches Shane struggle to be so good for him. “You’re doing so well, solnyshko. So good for me.”

Shane nods, throat working as he swallows air, hands flexing on his elbows as Ilya continues to work him open. A third finger slides in, and Ilya offers a slightly firmer touch to his cock as Shane opens beautifully under the pressure. Ilya tells him so, offers praise as he opens so nicely, so ready to take Ilya’s cock, will come so prettily so soon, and then again when Ilya demands it. 

“I can’t,” Shane repeats.

“You can, you’ve done it before,” Ilya reminds him. “You can do whatever you put your mind to, Shanya.”

Ilya sees the way tension coils through Shane’s arms, shoulders, abs; knows he’s close. He withdraws his fingers, ignores the way Shane’s whine sets him on fire, shifts so he can line himself up.

He presses in quickly, fucks gently into him a few times as at the same time he strokes Shane’s dick, rubs a thumb against the head roughly, and Shane’s coming around him, back arching, a shocked little gasp punched from his chest.

Ilya keeps himself still by sheer willpower, sweat dripping down his neck as he holds back his own orgasm by the skin of his teeth.

He waits, and waits, while Shane recovers, until his eyes open and meet Ilya’s in a hazy sort of pleasure. 

“Again,” Ilya promises, and watches as Shane sinks further into a headspace they’ve not really explored this far yet. He’s seen the edges of it, seen Shane flirt with it, float on it, but never sink quite this far. It’s stunning, the way he relaxes, gives himself over to Ilya and he feels almost drunk on the sheer trust implicit in it. 

“I-,” Shane loses the words, nods minutely.

Ilya strokes down his side, soothes him. “Arms okay?”

Shane flexes in answer, wiggles his shoulders, testing. “Yes,” he replies, and Ilya smiles in satisfaction at the verbal response.

“You’re keeping my cock so nice and warm,” Ilya murmurs softly, and Shane’s face goes a little slack, inhaling a shuddering breath past his lips as his hole seems to suddenly tense around Ilya, as if checking he’s actually still there.

Ilya bites back his own groan at the sensation, continues his praise, knows he’s slipping into Russian as the arousal in his blood reaches a fever pitch. Shane’s shoulders loosen, he sags into the bedspread a little more in surrender.

Ilya pulls back a centimetre, pushes back in, watches carefully for Shane’s reaction. He gets a subvocal groan, a half-hearted clamp of thighs around his hips, so does it again, a little more this time.

“Too much,” Shane gasps, thighs tensing further around Ilya’s hips.

“Mm, but I think you like it,” Ilya responds, pressing in and out once more, as slowly as he can manage, a comforting hand soothing up the side of his waist. A tear breaks free of the sheen in Shane’s eyes, trails down into his hairline. “But you know what to say if you want me to stop.”

He goes extra slow, gives Shane a second to think, to decide. When Shane blinks up at him, open and trusting, Ilya starts moving again, a little faster, a little sharper. He gets a soft litany of fucks, of Ilya and Ilyusha, keeps going as Shane’s voice starts to break, words dissolve into soft gasps and moans. More tears come, eyes rimmed red as he squeezes them shut, opens them to stare blindly at Ilya when he demands Shane look at him.

Shane’s hard again between them, ass clenching with every stroke, and he winds up tighter than Ilya thinks he’s ever been yet. He comes when Ilya leans down to kiss him possessively, bites down on his lip in a sharp sting, tension holding him stiff for a long second. Ilya freezes, his own orgasm hollowing him out with his hips flush to Shane’s ass, before collapsing down into a limp puddle on the mattress.

Ilya carefully pulls out and back, slides a hand down to adjust Shane’s legs so he’s flat on the mattress again. He reaches up, loosens the knot in the tie, pulls it free and folds it neatly on the side of the bed. His hands smooth up and down Shane’s biceps, ever so carefully adjusts them inch-by-inch. Watches for any hint of pain or discomfort as he brings them back down by his sides, rubs warmth back into slightly stiff muscles.

Shane lies there under Ilya’s gentle ministrations, humming lowly when something feels particularly good so Ilya can repeat it. He’s still floating slightly, Ilya thinks, as he leans in to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

Shane hums again, tucks his face into Ilya’s throat, presses his lips there in something that doesn’t quite manage to be a kiss. 

Ilya lies down on his side, pressed up against Shane, soothes him gently as he rolls over to bury his face in Ilya’s shoulder. He leans back, takes Shane with him until they’re both relaxed on the bed. Ilya trails a soft hand up and down Shane’s spine, other hand cradling his head to his shoulder, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

He keeps going until Shane raises his head, eyes still a little red from his tears. Ilya leans down, leans in to kiss away the salty residue under the corner of one eye.

“You did so well,” Ilya praises in a hushed whisper. “Moy Korol.”

“Ilya,” Shane’s forehead drops back down to his shoulder, lips press into his chest. “Fuck.”

His eyes are clearer when he lifts his head again, the tiniest satisfied smile curling his lips, rest of his face soft in happiness.

“Good?” Ilya checks.

“Good,” Shane confirms with a sigh. “Though I want a shower.”

Ilya huffs a little laugh, a tinge of relief lightening his own lingering pleasure. “I will go get it started,” he offers, “And you need to drink water. I will meet you in there.”

Shane nods, but before Ilya can get up he’s receiving a soft, chaste kiss, one hand pressing into his chest to hold him still.

Ilya’s as quick as he can be, as turns on the shower to let it get hot, diverts quickly to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and returns to the shower to find Shane under the spray, head tilted back into it as a mixture of water and come mingles by his feet, slowly circling towards the drain.

His eyes open to watch Ilya as he steps into the cubicle, hands Shane the open bottle of water, cold condensation beading immediately on the outside of the bottle in the heat of the steam.

“Drink.”

Shane keeps his eyes on Ilya’s as he obeys, necking half the bottle or so before handing it back.

“You too,” Shane encourages when Ilya goes to put the cap on, and he drinks the rest.

He steps forward, places his hands on Shane’s hips and kisses him gently. He reaches past him for the soap, lathers his hands and smoothes them down Shane’s shoulders.

“Ilya?”

“Hmm?”

“I- that was good for you too, right?”

Ilya meets Shane’s eyes, sees the faintest worry. “Why do you ask?”

“I just- I know my head goes a bit… floaty, sometimes, when you’re a bit more… uh, in charge, I guess? I mean, you are usually anyway, but. The way you make me feel… free, I guess, or like, able to just let go a bit… I worry that I don’t do the same, for you.”

Ilya presses forward, frames Shane’s face to kiss him. He can see how hard this is for Shane to talk about, how vulnerable he feels, and is as ever humbled by how much he trusts him, in bed and out.

“I do not always know the right words to describe it,” Ilya starts, “So please be patient. For me… seeing you give yourself to me, the way you do, that is the… same? No, not the same but uh- the equivalent, I think is better word. But not just that, it is… everything. I do not… float, as you do, as you say but- I do not want to, that is not something I would want, I am not… wired, that way?” Shane nods at the phrase, hands gripping Ilya’s wrists, thumbs stroking up and down.

“So, yes,” Ilya concludes, “it was very good for me. That you are free, and floaty with me, that you trust me with that piece of you is a gift I will always treasure.”

Shane’s eyes gleam a little but he nods, turns his face to kiss Ilya’s palm. They continue to shower in silence, wash each other with worshipful hands. 

“Is there anything… else, I can do?” Shane asks, “That you would want, from me, like that?”

Ilya knows his grin is a little too shark-like, “Ah, Shanya. I have a whole, very long list of things I would do to you,” he promises, and sees the way Shane flushes, turning an even deeper pink than the heat of the shower had produced. “We will get through them all, one day. Until we are old and you are not flexible enough anymore.”

Shane laughs, pushes Ilya as he switches off the water and hands them both a towel. “You know I do yoga regularly right? If anyone’s going to be inflexible in this relationship it’s you.”

Ilya pauses where he’s rubbing the towel through his hair. “Yoga? I need to see this, I am not sure I believe.”

Shane laughs again, shakes his head. “Fuck you.”

“Nooo,” Ilya whines, presses in close. “Shanya. I must see. Must know how bendy you are, for future fucks, yes? Need to know how far I can fold you in half, Mr. Flexible.”

Shane shoves him again, laughter setting Ilya off until they’re wheezing, almost supporting each other as they stagger into the bedroom.

“I’m fucking starving,” Shane admits as they pull on sweatpants, Shane pulls on a t-shirt.

“Mm, you worked very hard, lying there very still,” Ilya half-teases. “I think we have leftovers from the other night.”

He checks the fridge, pulls out a few bits and pieces, mostly leftover veggies and dips that Shane will eat. They graze on them as Ilya pan-fries chicken breasts and a few other vegetables that haven’t been used up yet, blends together a basic tomato sauce with tomatoes and peppers that are going a bit too soft to eat as-is.

Shane orders a few groceries while he cooks, schedules delivery for tomorrow. 

Once they eat, Ilya goes to put on a t-shirt and shoes so he can go walk and feed Max, and Shane finally calls Hayden and his parents to plan for this weekend. 

Ilya comes home to find Shane dozing on the sofa. His heart twinges when he gets a soft “didn’t feel right without you” when he asks why Shane’s not in bed yet, and thinks that maybe any future sex where Shane could get a bit ‘floaty’ should be done on nights where Ilya won’t be leaving the apartment for a while. 

He tucks him in bed, wraps him up tight in his arms, and crashes into sleep.

Chapter 15: Mr. Real Estate

The next couple of days pass by in a blur of life admin and preparation for Montreal.

Ilya emails the Admirals to tell them he’s had his onboarding paperwork and he has no questions so has signed it all and will bring the copies in on his first day. He gets a thank you back, with a welcome packet attached, outlining what to expect the weeks before he starts, what will happen on the first day and the following couple of weeks. There’s a lot to read through, so he spends most of Tuesday morning working through it, before heading out to meet Cliff for lunch.

Cliff has good news of his own; he’s got the Project Management job, and is starting in August as well. Ilya has to dogsit that evening else he’d take them for a beer to celebrate, so he promises a raincheck instead. 

He gets his sign-on referral bonus, with the caveat that if he doesn’t turn up for his first day and/or quits within the first four weeks he has to pay it back - not that he’s worried about that - so he spends Wednesday shopping for reasonable work clothes, having also been given a guideline about acceptable dress policy in his welcome pack. Shane joins him, lets Ilya buy him a soft pale-butter-yellow shirt that looks far too good on him; a colour Shane admits he’d have never thought of for himself.

He also spends a couple of hours trying to set up a new budget, now he’s expecting a steady paycheck. He wants to save more, and Shane offers a few ideas, but tells him Shane’s dad would be best to help him there, as he helped him set his own up initially. Ilya’s not sure, but thinks he could potentially see how David might react when they meet this weekend, but keeps that buried as a potential idea.

Shane’s ramping up his workouts and Ilya continues to join him in the gym, ends up starving afterwards and starts drinking the disgusting but sadly effective protein shakes Shane’s making in the mornings on top of breakfast.

Luckily the building’s gym is always empty, though the fact that anyone could walk in at any time has Shane stopping Ilya from coming onto him. They end up fucking in the shower afterwards instead more often than not - there’s something about a sweaty Shane, flushed red from a good workout, that’s like catnip to Ilya.

Ilya spends Wednesday night fucking the tension out of Shane, long and slow. He almost wishes he wasn’t dogsitting Max on Thursday, so Shane could be this relaxed on the early–morning flight to Montreal. But instead he's had a day to tense back up as they’re getting up too early on Friday morning, tugging on clothes and collecting pre-packed luggage, stumbling blearily down to the car waiting to take them to the airport.

The airport at least is quiet the way it can only be first or last thing, and being the Fourth of July there are fewer Americans travelling out of the city but more flooding in, so security this side is relatively quick. Shane’s parents are coming to collect them so they don’t have to worry about transport at the other end. They’ve also only got carry-on luggage, as they’re only there for three nights, so they won’t need to wait for baggage or anything either and can hopefully escape Montreal's airport quickly.

Ilya’s got all of his paperwork, has also let the Admirals HR team he’s leaving the country for the weekend so that if something goes wrong they can hopefully do something, not that he really expects that to happen. He feels almost bad that they’ve had to do so much for him before he’s even technically officially started, but Shane reminds him they had interviewed plenty of other people and they knew the paperwork and visa processes they were signing themselves up for when they chose Ilya over everyone else. The basic logic of it soothes Ilya, makes him equally determined to do a good job when he starts.

The flight is smooth, though he protests when he realises Shane’s booked them both in business class.

“I don’t fly in coach, there’s not enough room and too many people,” is Shane’s flat response, no room for argument, so Ilya gives up. He doesn’t really want to fly seated separately anyway, he admits to himself, and business class is nice.

They do have to separate through border checks though, as Ilya’s Russian passport has him go down a different lane than Shane’s Canadian one, and Shane has a pass for expedited security anyway given he travels so often for work. The border guard seems bored, but stamps Ilya right through when he says his return flight is on Monday, that he’s here with a friend for the weekend, and Shane’s waiting for him the other side of the gates.

Shane leads him through the arrivals side of the airport, and Ilya feels the nerves set in. He wants Shane’s parents to like him, to make a good first impression. He and Shane had talked about it a bit yesterday, Shane reassuring him that his parents would like him regardless, though his mom might be a little bit interrogatory in her approach to getting to know him.

Shane lifts a hand and Ilya sees his parents - recognisable from the photos in Shane's living room - both raise one in return. His mom is beautiful, with long dead-straight black hair hanging down past her shoulders. She immediately gives off a no-nonsense vibe, and Ilya can feel his own posture straighten a little in response.

His dad is a softer contrast, handsome with close-cropped light brown hair in soft waves, casual in a t-shirt and jeans. He’s got his arm around Yuna, but lets go as she steps forward to wrap Shane up in a hug.

“Hey, mom,” Shane wraps his arms around her shoulders, hugs her tightly. “Hey, dad. This is Ilya, my partner.”

“It’s so nice to meet you in person,” Yuna says, extricating herself from Shane. “Can I hug you, too?”

“I, uh, yes?” Ilya replies, a little bewildered but accepts the quick hug she bestows on him.

David offers a handshake which Ilya takes, feeling a little more on solid ground. “Good flight?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Shane answers for them. “No issues.”

“Good,” Yuna nods, as if she’d have raised hell if something had gone wrong. Ilya thinks she probably would’ve, in the nicest and politest of Canadian ways until everyone would be tripping over to apologise and right any and all wrongs for her.

They follow Shane’s parents out to where an SUV is parked in the short-stay car park. Shane loads both their bags in the boot and gestures Ilya into the seat behind the passenger seat.

Shane outlines their plans when Yuna asks for confirmation; they’ll go to the house today to set up for the movers and the estate agent coming tomorrow. Sunday they’re meeting up with Hayden; he’s promised Jacki he’d take the kids to the aquarium, so they’re tagging along as extra responsible adults. They don't have much else planned for the weekend; they might see if J.J. is around last-minute, or maybe go sight-seeing, though Shane’s not sure what the sentiments might be if he’s recognised by any fans. Monday they could only book onto an early afternoon flight, so they’ll probably just have a lie in and head for the airport before lunch.

Yuna and David nod with the various bits of information, confirming their own schedules and plans in return. David has to work today, but Yuna will come by Shane’s old house with lunch. They’ll both be out tonight, unfortunately, as they have pre-existing dinner plans with friends. But they’ll cook dinner tomorrow and Sunday, if they’re not out too late with Hayden’s family, and are happy to come over and help if Shane and Ilya need anything at the house tomorrow too.

They stop for coffee on the way to their house, and David offers a box of Timbits to Ilya. He takes one, admits he’s never tried Tim Hortons before, and gets a long list of other things he should try either this weekend or as and when he comes back to Canada.

They don’t linger long, though, when they reach Shane’s parents house. David tells them to leave their bags in the trunk, he’ll deal with them later, and throws a set of keys to Shane which unlock the other SUV on the driveway.

Shane waves goodbye to his parents so Ilya does the same, and climbs into the passenger seat.

“You are multimillionaire, yes?” he asks Shane as he starts the car.

“Yeah?”

“Then why do you drive such a boring car?”

“It’s not- It’s practical! Good in the snow,” Shane defends, and Ilya scoffs.

“Boring,” he repeats. 

“What would you buy then?” Shane asks, exasperated.

“If I was multimillionaire? Lamborghini,” Ilya answers immediately. “And an Audi R8 Spyder. Maybe Jaguar F-Type as well.”

Shane huffs a laugh. “I didn’t realise you had a car obsession.”

“Just with good cars,” Ilya argues. “This is not one of those.”

They argue good-naturedly as Shane drives a little further into the suburbs, finally pulling through an automatic gate to a stunning, two-floor home twenty minutes later.

“Mr. Real Estate,” Ilya teases, staring up at the building.

Shane shrugs. “I had this built with my signing bonus, and the Ottawa cottage the year after. I wanted somewhere that was mine, and was being maybe a bit too picky in my first year. But they gave me a shitload of money, and mom said it’d be a good investment, so.” He shrugs, like ‘what else was he to do?’ and Ilya has to hold back a hysterical laugh.

He lets them in, and Ilya can’t help but be a bit awestruck as he’s shown around.

And he realises this house does feel a bit like Shane, in a way. The rooms are clear in their purpose, everything in its place. The lines of it all are neat and tidy, with plenty of natural light softening the otherwise potential harshness of it. It’s cool and organised, without being sterile or cold. Subtle, a little boring, but still undeniably charming.

Shane’s brought his laptop with him, and sets it up on the kitchen counter as Ilya wanders around, being nosy as he explores this home Shane had built for himself.

Shane pulls up a spreadsheet, different columns in a table for ‘Keep - Ottawa’, ‘Keep - NY’ and ‘Leave/Discard’. He’s got a few things on there already, but they go room by room and itemise everything, Shane ensuring each thing is in the right column. 

They’ve only gotten through the kitchen and living room by the time Yuna arrives. She’s brought with her a variety of boxes for the smaller items Shane wants to pack and ship, particularly for anything going back with him to New York, and sticky notes in three colours so they can label everything for the movers.

She’s also bought trays of sushi, three steaming styrofoam bowls of miso soup, and a few other sides. They sit around the kitchen island to eat, Ilya trying to use chopsticks as gracefully as he can but worries he’s failing at it.

“So, Ilya,” Yuna says, “Tell me about you. Shane says you moved to New York last year, from Russia?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, sets down the piece of nigiri he’d been trying to pick up. “I came to New York to finish my Masters in Business Management.”

“You didn’t want to finish it at home?”

Ilya wonders if she knows she’s poking at a sore spot, but Shane’s apologetic glance suggests that he’s not told her, so he assumes not. “No, Russia was not… good to me, the last few years. I had played hockey, before,” he admits, “but an injury meant I could not play anymore, and I had… less support, after. So I tried university there, but leaving seemed like it would be better for me, career-wise and for me, personally. And the university in New York accepted most of my credits, so I did not have to pay for a full Masters degree, which was helpful.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” and Ilya can tell she means it. “And you met Shane…”

“A couple of months ago,” he says, with a glance at Shane who nods encouragingly. “We ran into each other, or- I ran into him, literally.”

“And you knew who he was?” she raises an eyebrow.

“Not right away. But I am still hockey fan, so did not take me too long to recognise him.”

“And you asked him out immediately, or?”

“Mom!” Shane protests, as Ilya flushes. He hadn’t thought she’d think he was a golddigger. “I asked Ilya out, if you must know.”

The shock that washes over her face reminds Ilya that this really hadn’t been the norm for Shane.

“Sorry, honey,” Yuna starts eating again, and Ilya manages to get his hands to work around the chopsticks better this attempt.

They continue eating, conversation turning to the Admirals, how Shane’s been supported by them so far. Ilya mentions that they’ve been really good with onboarding him as well, supportive despite the visa requirements, and that seems to settle something further in her. He wonders, not quite bitterly, if the proof of him having his own job helps to alleviate some of her worries. And then he feels a little guilty about being slightly resentful - hadn’t he initially been reluctant to say yes to Shane because he’d felt unequal about their financial statuses? As Shane’s mom she must be feeling similar but tenfold.

Once they’ve finished eating Shane continues to itemise the contents of his study and gym while Ilya starts packing up the kitchen things Shane wants to take. Yuna’s also provided sharpies and packing tape, so he neatly labels the boxes.

He can hear Yuna and Shane talking in the study, and feels a little guilty for hiding out in the kitchen, but not enough to join them.

By the time Yuna has to leave about four o’ clock, between the three of them they have everything itemised bar Shane’s bedroom, and all of the smaller things from downstairs that are going to either Ottawa or New York neatly packed in boxes stacked in the entrance hall.

She manages to ask Ilya a few more probing questions throughout the afternoon; mostly about his degree, his aspirations for the future, where he sees himself in five years time. He thinks he’s reassured her, including Shane in all of his answers to try and make sure she knows that he is thinking about this long-term.

She offers to stay for another twenty minutes to help with the bedroom, but Shane shoos her away gently. Ilya sees why when he’s opening the bedside cabinet and finds an anal plug and the dildo Shane had mentioned ages ago. 

He lifts them out with a grin and sees Shane blush. “Is purple,” Ilya says redundantly, recalling his question about what colour it was.

“Fuck off,” Shane groans. “This is why she had to leave,” he gestures towards the door. “Fucking hell.”

Ilya grins, steps in close and kisses him softly, rubs some of the tension from his shoulders. “She cares,” he reminds him softly. “You are lucky.”

Shane deflates, rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “I know,” he acknowledges. “I just… I’ve never brought anyone home before. And, like, there’s a difference between knowing they know I’m gay, and knowing they know I’m having sex.”

Ilya laughs gently, shakes his shoulders lightly. “Well, she is gone, so you do not have to worry now.”

A thought occurs to him as they finish itemising the last of Shane’s wardrobe, the final thing in the house.

“Does this mean we cannot have sex this weekend, if we are staying at your parents’?”

Shane stares at him. Ilya's not sure if it's horror at the thought of sex in his parents' house, or horror at the thought of no sex, but either way an automatic flicker of rejection follows before that's wiped away by resignation.

“Nonono,” Ilya whines over-dramatically, “I cannot go that long without you Shanya, not with you so close. You cannot be so mean.”

“Ilya! I can’t- I mean- it’s my parents’ house. I can’t fuck where I know they might hear.”

“But we can be quiet,” Ilya pleads, mostly teasing. He wouldn’t dare make Shane uncomfortable, but remembering the night in Central Park, he thinks Shane’s probably willing to have sex in more places than the hockey player is willing to admit to himself.

“No, Ilyusha,” Shane tries to be firm, but Ilya can hear the faintest wobble that suggests there’s room for argument later.

“Fine,” Ilya huffs. “You are done with this, yes?” he gestures to the room and Shane nods, glancing at his computer as if to check. “And we have lube, right?” he rummages through the one box he’d packed, now containing some of Shane’s boxers, socks, his sex toys wrapped up in t-shirts, and a half-empty bottle of lube also wrapped up in another t-shirt.

“Here?” Shane looks around. “But the bed-”

“Is already stripped, yes,” Ilya finishes, “I have fucked you against walls, on floors - take your pick. We can avoid the bed.”

Shane hesitates, but is clearly on board, the faintest flush rising to his cheeks as he looks around the room, evaluates all the options.

“Can even pick another room, pick more than one room, if you want,” Ilya adds casually, and sees the possibilities race through his boyfriend’s brain.

“I- let me go lock the front door,” he says, and disappears down the stairs before Ilya can compute.

Ilya sheds his clothes, leaves them scattered on the floor, picks up the bottle of lube and carries it to the top of the stairs, listens carefully.

“Shane?”

“In the study.”

Ilya trots down the stairs, careful not to slip with his bare feet on the hardwood, and finds Shane standing in the study doorway, eyes on the Montreal jersey hanging up on the opposite wall. It has a little blue sticky note, ‘To keep - Ottawa’, but Ilya had missed it on the wall so it’s not been packed away in the boxes yet.

“I was going to frame that one,” he says lowly. “I won the last cup in it. It’s been a year and I never did get around to it, then wasn’t sure I wanted to, with how shitty last year was. I’m not sure it deserves it, now.”

“Poor jersey,” Ilya murmurs softly. He steps up, places a hand on Shane’s lower back. “You still won two fucking cups in it, moy korol,” he reminds him. “Without you, the team would have been nothing, would have not even got close, like this year.”

“Yeah, but-” Shane trails off, as if he can’t even argue that.

“I think rather than a frame, the jersey deserves a better send off, don’t you?” Ilya purrs, an idea flowering in his head, heat pulsing in his fingers at the thought of it.

“What?” Shane turns to look at him, does a double-take when he notices the state of Ilya’s undress. “What the fuck?”

“Put it on,” Ilya gestures with his chin to the jersey. “Let me fuck you in it. Your last act in a Montreal jersey can be being fucked by a man - the very thing they shunned you for.”

“I-,” the idea trips something in Shane’s brain, and he thinks about it for a long minute. Ilya feels the grin creep up his face as contemplation turns to agreement turns to arousal.

Shane kisses him before Ilya even sees him turn, but he quickly gets with the program and it turns hot and messy, something extra erotic with Shane fully clothed and Ilya stark naked.

Ilya tugs at Shane’s t-shirt, pulls it over his head, tugs at the button of his jeans until gravity is pulling them to the floor.

Shane steps out of them, strips out of his socks and boxers as Ilya steps across the room, pulls the jersey off its hanger and holds it out to Shane. He gets a hot look from under lashes as he pulls it on, and Ilya swallows as it drapes down his frame, too loose without his protective gear underneath, just about covering his cock. It juts out, slightly, where his erection tents the fabric, and Ilya wraps a fist around himself a bit too harshly to remind himself to wait.

“Shane fucking Hollander, number twenty-four,” he growls, sets the lube on the desk nearby as he invades Shane’s space, kisses him intently.

Shane grabs at him, clutches his hair, his shoulders, his waist. Fingers dig into Ilya’s skin, and Ilya partly wishes he’d hold on harder, leave bruises that Ilya can press against for days until they’re gone, let the soft ache remind him that Shane wants him as badly as he does.

When Shane’s panting softly into his mouth, Ilya turns him, places his hands down on the desk as he bends over. He pushes the jersey up slowly, teasingly, lets the fabric brush against every inch of Shane’s skin until it’s bunched at his lower back and Ilya can press a sharp bite to one cheek.

“Fuck,” Shane jerks, but returns his hands to where they’d been, lets his head drop heavily. 

“Good, solnyshko,” Ilya praises, and bites him again. 

He picks up the lube, sets about opening Shane up perfunctorily, but whispers praise into his skin between bites and soothing licks and kisses.

“They didn’t deserve you,” Ilya whispers as he eventually pushes in, “They’ll regret losing you, when you beat them again and again, when you play even better with a team who appreciates you.”

Shane groans, pitch increasing as Ilya picks up the pace. Ilya wraps a hand around him, whispers more praise, reminds him how he’s a generational hockey player, the best of anyone today, a fucking hockey god-king, until he’s coming into Ilya’s hand, supporting himself now with elbows on the desk, forehead pressed to the edge of the wood.

Ilya’s careful not to let any drip on the carpet as he comes, swears heavily as he presses a hot kiss to the ‘A’ in the centre of Shane’s shoulderblades.

“Fuck,” Shane swears, and then swears again in displeasure. “We can’t fucking shower here, Ilya,” he points out crossly, and Ilya has to hold back a snort. “There’s no towels, and I’ve already asked for the water to be shut off. Christ, what the fuck were we thinking.”

Ilya sighs heavily, rests his chin on Shane’s shoulder as he thinks. Shane’s come is sticking to his fingers, and he knows as soon as he pulls out his own might drip onto the carpet which is going to be a nightmare to clean before tomorrow.

“Stay very still,” he suggests, and pulls out slowly. Come follows, which he catches in his already-covered fingers. “Forward,” he murmurs, and gently presses Shane’s back lower down until his ass is further in the air, hole closer to parallel to the ceiling.

He brings his covered hand up and tilts it, lets the sticky fluid drip from his fingers and over Shane’s opening, presses it back in with fascination, watches Shane’s mingle with his with a lick of heat curling through his gut. He licks up the rest, goes slow and careful until there’s no more leaking out so long as Shane stays very still. He crouches down a little further, ignores the creaking in his knee, and Shane’s eyes open to look at him from where he’s practically in the downward-facing dog position.

“Yoga is very useful in this instance, yes?” Ilya teases, as he licks the remnants off his fingers, watches Shane get hot and bothered again at the sight. “Stay here like this. I will be less than a minute.”

“What?”

Ilya dashes up the stairs, roots through the box and triumphantly pulls out what he wants. His dick is threatening to get hard again but he knows he’s already skating on thin ice, so gives himself a stern talking to as he jogs back down the stairs.

“Ilya-,” Shane goes silent when he sees what Ilya’s holding.

“Just until we get to your parents,” he says. “They are out until later tonight, yes? You can shower and they will never know.”

Shane closes his eyes as if he’s wishing for strength, but Ilya sees the way his dick twitches, hanging inside the little hammock-shape his jersey is making below his torso.

“Fucking- fine,” he relents. 

Ilya lubes up the plug to be extra safe, and gently eases it in. He catches a stray drop that’s pushed out as he pushes in, and licks it from his fingers, wonders whether he and Shane taste all that different, as he can’t really tell. 

Shane eases to standing slowly, face contorting as he gets used to the pressure of the plug in him.

“Fuck that feels weird,” he groans. “Like… fuller than normal.”

Ilya presses a finger to the base of the plug, taps lightly and watches as Shane practically leaps a metre away like a startled cat, face twitching as the movement does something to the plug in him.

“Fuck off,” he hisses, and Ilya can’t stop his laugh, lifting his hands in apology. Shane holds out for barely a second before he’s broken into laughter too, at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“Jesus,” he sighs, running a hand down his face. “Okay.”

Ilya helps him strip out of the jersey, shakes out his jeans where they’re neatly folded on the chair and hands them to him. It takes a few minutes but eventually Shane seems to have got used to the plug, and pulls his own socks on.

Ilya jogs upstairs to return the lube to the box and seals it well, making sure it has ‘To Keep - NYC’ written on the side. He tugs on his own clothes, double-checks they’ve not left anything behind, and heads back down the stairs to where Shane is closing down his laptop and packing up his backpack.

“You can drive, right?” Shane asks, as Ilya joins him back in the study.

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “But only have Russian licence and International Driver’s Permit. Paid extra for the three-year one, so IDP is still valid.”

“Do you mind driving back to my parents?”

“Of course not.”

Ilya accepts the keys, makes a show of adjusting the seat and rear-view mirror to satisfy Shane’s safety requirements even though he doesn’t say anything. Shane directs him back and Ilya drives much more cautiously than he would usually. It's been a while, and the last thing he wants is to be pulled over in a new foreign country and risk dealing with the police, especially not when he’s got a famous hockey player in the passenger seat with a plug in his ass.

They arrive back safely, and Ilya carries Shane’s bag into the house.

“I am going to shower,” Shane says as he heads straight up to the guest room. “You can sit,” he points at the bed, enunciating slowly to convey his mild displeasure as Ilya grins at him. There were plenty of photos lining the walls in the hallway, and he’s going to go and look at them as soon as Shane’s in the shower.

“I will be good,” he promises, sitting on the edge of the double bed, bouncing a little.

Shane sighs, but leans in to kiss him before pulling fresh underwear and a t-shirt out of his suitcase and heading for the bathroom.

Ilya gets up, wanders down the hallway. There are so many photos: of baby Shane, staring at the camera with wide eyes as he’s cradled in David’s arms; of child Shane, standing proudly in hockey skates with Yuna and David either side of him; of teenage Shane, holding a medal proudly aloft on the ice. Photos of Yuna and David together, and all three of them, sat in a giant hammock in front of a lake somewhere in summer; wrapped up warm in thick coats in front of a huge snow bank.

It’s so different to his own childhood that Ilya feels the ache pierce behind his ribs. He rubs a hand across his chest, presses his mother’s cross tightly between his fingers. What would it have been like, he wonders, if Irina hadn’t succumbed to her depression? Would Ilya end up doing the same, if he ever had children? Was it him, the burden of another child with an older man who didn’t trust her, that had tipped her over the edge?

He knows he’s starting to spiral, can feel the tears filling his throat. He turns sharply, rips his eyes away from the happy family photo in front of him, to see Shane standing by the bathroom door.

“Ilyusha?”

Ilya shakes his head sharply, looks away. “Is nothing.”

“No,” Shane steps forward, slides into his arms. “No, what’s wrong?”

Ilya shudders out a breath, presses his face into Shane’s t-shirt. “Just… childhood memories,” he confesses. “Mine was not as happy as your photos.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane’s hand cards gently through his hair.

“No, do not be,” Ilya squeezes him a little closer. “I love seeing how happy you are, how much you are loved. Is everything you deserve. Sometimes I am just… not jealous, but… I wish I had had that. I wish my father had not been so strict, so paranoid about my mother. But she is gone, now, and I like to believe she is happier, so.”

Shane gives him a soft kiss when he lifts his head and Ilya lets it linger, takes all the comfort he can from it.

“Come on,” he tugs him towards the bathroom. “You should shower, and then I’ll meet you downstairs? I think my mom’s left some pasta in the fridge for us.”

Ilya nods, lets Shane show him how to use the shower and hand him a towel. The hot water helps wash some of the sadness away, reminds him that he’s so very far from his childhood now that the little thirteen year-old he’d been, fresh from discovering his mother dead, would never have believed him.

Shane’s heating up the pasta already when he makes his way downstairs, able to smile a little more at the photos of Shane, gap-toothed and grinning. He notices, with a little sadness, how the smiles seem to dim over the years, the wide open grins of his youth fade into softer smiles, replaced with close-lipped professional grimaces. He wonders if David and Yuna have noticed, or if this is just how Shane’s changed as he’s grown up and Ilya’s reading too much into it.

But he thinks he’s seen flashes of those wide grins on Shane’s face: when Ilya had agreed to move in; when Ilya had been accepted for his job at the Admirals; at Pride, watching the parade, and the group laughing outside the club when Ilya’s stomach had interrupted them all.

They sit at the dining table to eat; the pasta is delicious, better than anything he thinks he’s made the last few months. Shane’s feet press against his in what’s become automatic for them, a soft comforting touch Ilya hopes they never stop.

He’s maybe a little quieter than usual as they watch a film on the sofa. Shane tugs Ilya against his chest, his weight resting against the solid muscle of the hockey player, pulse a gentle thump-thump under his ear. He closes his eyes, feels lips against his forehead as he listens to the film rather than watch it.

By the time the film ends, Yuna and David still haven’t returned. Shane ushers Ilya upstairs and they brush their teeth side-by-side in the guest bathroom. The bed is comfortable, though not quite as luxurious as Shane’s own, and he buries his face in Shane’s chest again as soon as they’re under the covers.

“Sleep well, Ilyusha.”

“Goodnight, Shanya.”

Chapter 16: Mr. Bilingual

Ilya wakes to the bed dipping by his hip, a warm hand on his shoulder and the smell of coffee.

“Ilyusha,” Shane whispers, and he cracks his eyes open to see Shane, already dressed, holding a steaming mug. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Ilya mumbles back, pushes himself up onto an elbow. “Is late?”

“Not that late,” Shane shakes his head. “You sort of woke up when I got up for a run, but weren't making much sense so I thought I’d let you sleep.”

“Mm, thank you,” Ilya takes the coffee as Shane holds out the mug. It’s good coffee, better than he usually makes at home. “You look very pretty today,” he adds, as he notes Shane’s wearing the yellow shirt he’d bought for him.

Shane blushes, mumbles a thank you, and moves on quickly. “My dad’s making pancakes, if you want to come down?”

Ilya nods, pushes back the covers as he wrestles himself into a seated position, carefully holding his coffee so as not to spill it on the bed. “Five minutes,” he promises.

He freezes when Shane’s hand gently strokes down his bare chest, across his stomach, heat in his eyes.

“Shanya,” he reproaches softly. “Do not start what you will not finish.”

Shane flushes as he pulls away, mutters that he’ll wait downstairs and leaves the bedroom.

Five minutes later, Ilya heads downstairs with an empty mug. He pads through the living room through to the kitchen, sees David standing over the stove while Yuna and Shane sit at the dining table.

“Good morning,” he offers as he steps into the room, and gets a chorus of the same in return. Shane gets up, takes his mug and gestures him into the chair next to his as he refills his coffee. Ilya thanks him as he takes the cup back with a soft smile, watches as he sits down again next to him.

“Did you sleep well?” Yuna asks.

“Yes, thank you,” Ilya nods. “You have a very welcoming home.”

Something in her expression softens as she thanks him. David sets a plate with two thick pancakes in front of her, a variety of toppings already set out in the middle of the table.

“How many would you like, Ilya?” he asks, hand on Yuna’s shoulder.

“I, ah-,” he glances at Shane.

“Four,” Shane answers for him, squeezes his knee. “Two for me, please dad.”

David nods, turns back to the stove as if this was all entirely normal. 

“So,” Yuna starts, and launches into a discussion about the plan for today. Shane responds evenly, and Ilya can see where he gets his ability to find a problem and dissect it, to plan so effectively as they bat back and forth information and ideas and dismissals with almost scary efficiency.

The movers and estate agent are coming before lunch, so they plan to go over after breakfast and then maybe go out for a late lunch. There’s a nice restaurant, Shane tells him, that’s his and his parents’ usual just a ten minute drive from the house, and it’s close-ish to a couple of the bigger tourist attractions, if they want to go afterwards.

Ilya gets given his stack of pancakes as they talk, and follows Yuna’s lead as he pours over maple syrup and adds fresh fruit, slices into the little tower when he’s done. They’re delicious, on par with Dolly’s.

“High praise,” Shane nods when Ilya offers the compliment to David. “Those pancakes I swear were Ilya’s favourite part of that job, he raved about them so often.”

Ilya shrugs, “Not untrue,” he agrees.

David looks pleased as he sets down plates for Shane and himself and joins them at the table. He and David eat quietly as Shane and Yuna continue to talk. Somehow despite talking the most, Yuna finishes first, and snaps her fingers with a thought, gets up to fetch her laptop.

“Honey,” David murmurs softly when she mentions she’s had the GQ proofs back. “Maybe after the boys have eaten?”

“Right, of course,” she nods, and her expression isn’t quite sheepish but she keeps her laptop closed on the table until they finish eating. Ilya accepts another round of coffee when she gets up to offer, apparently similar to Shane in being unable to sit still when there’s things to be doing.

“I see where you get it now,” Ilya murmurs to Shane. “Your focus.”

Shane rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Are you close to your parents, Ilya?” Yuna asks, and Shane closes his eyes for a long second as if in sympathy. Ilya thinks he maybe should’ve said explicitly that Shane could tell them prior, if only to save them this conversation, but it’s too late now.

“I was with my mother,” Ilya nods. “Mama’s boy, as they say. But she died when I was young.” Soft noises of sympathy echo from Shane’s parents. “My father… he was very strict, not very affectionate. He worked long hours too, for police.”

“And you don’t have any siblings?”

“... I have a brother, older,” Ilya sips his coffee, keeps his eyes on his plate. Shane’s foot presses into his and he takes the comfort, the courage from it. “But he is much like my father. We do not get along very well, and I have not spoken to him since I left Russia.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuna does look apologetic.

“No, is okay,” Ilya shakes his head. “I am happy here, now, in New York. Shane has contributed much to that, I think.”

“Ilya,” Shane takes his hand over the table, squeezes his fingers tightly. Ilya flushes as he notices Yuna and David staring at the point of contact, but doesn’t pull away. 

“That’s lovely to hear,” David murmurs, and gets an agreeing nod from Yuna. 

They steer away from the heaviness of the conversation as they finish eating. Ilya collects the empty plates, helps to clear away the table as Yuna draws Shane back into the GQ conversation, loads up her laptop.

David’s… careful, with Ilya, he thinks, as he’s gentle with his gestures towards the dishwasher, gives Ilya room as he loads the plates neatly into the racks as they clean up the breakfast plates together. He’s never really interacted with a father figure this calm, without some kind of angry storm brewing underneath the surface, and while he knows it’s not fair to David Ilya knows he’s a little tenser around the older man, feels worse that David has clearly noticed.

He gets a soft thank you and shakes his head, declines a fourth cup of coffee, knowing he’ll be too wired already as it is this morning.

Instead they watch as Yuna and Shane pore over the photos and draft article from GQ. Yuna moves away and disappears into the living room after a few minutes, followed shortly by David, and Shane pats her vacated seat with a glance at Ilya.

“You are trying to kill me?” Ilya murmurs flatly as he sees the picture of Shane, dressed in a tux with the shirt tucked in but entirely unbuttoned, bow tie draped untied around his neck.

“Well, I-,” Shane flushes, seems to realise the photos he’s asking Ilya to look through, while safe-for-work, aren’t exactly safe-for-Ilya. “We get to add preferences, for the photos,” he explains. “I thought you could add in your opinion.”

“Hmm,” Ilya scrolls through the photos, glances up to make sure Yuna and David have not returned. “I think none of them,” he teases. “You are too pretty in all of these, too undressed. I think they need to redo, need to put you in baggy jeans and hoodie, hide you properly.”

Shane cracks a laugh, tips into Ilya. “That’s not an option, I’m afraid,” he says, not sorry at all.

“Well, then,” Ilya sighs as if disappointed, and scrolls back through the photos, points out a couple that he likes more than the others. Shane looks more confident, more relaxed in those ones, he explains when asked why, and Shane looks back at the photos of himself, evaluating. He nods, as if he agrees.

Ilya catches Shane’s chin with a crooked finger, guides him into a quick kiss. “I think we will need to repeat the night of this shoot, soon,” he murmurs lowly, darkly, and watches Shane’s eyes darken with the memory, his mouth part on an inhale, leans in to kiss him quickly again.

“Oh,” David freezes in the doorway and Ilya flinches back as Shane jerks away, blushing. “Sorry. We’re getting ready to leave in ten, are you boys good with that?”

Shane nods, stands stiffly, jerking a little like a robot. “Sure. Ten, fine.”

Ilya follows him out of the room with a semi-apologetic look for David directed at his feet.

“Sorry,” Ilya apologises, as they step into the bedroom. “I will behave.”

Shane sighs, shuts the door behind them. “No, I’m sorry,” he says, and steps into Ilya’s arms to kiss him gently. “I don’t want you to change your behaviour or anything, to change who you are when we’re here, or hanging out with my parents. Tone it down, sure, but a little kiss or whatever like that we shouldn’t have to worry about hiding from them, not really.

“I mean,” he continues, pacing slightly to the bed and back in rapid, short steps, his voice speeding up with his movements, “We’re in this for the long haul, we’ve both said, so that means we’ll be hanging out with my parents regularly in the future. Birthdays, and Christmases and things. I’m not going to not kiss you every time, I don’t think I even could.”

Ilya catches Shane’s hand as he paces past him, pulls him to a stop with an arm around his waist. “Okay,” he soothes. “You are having panic attack, Shane, just breathe.”

Shane stops dead, closes his eyes and breathes, leans into Ilya’s arms.

“We’re okay,” Ilya reminds him. “They have not reacted badly, have been very good. Have not seen anything too bad. We are not here for long, will be home soon. Will be okay.”

“Home,” Shane closes his eyes, turns his head to press a kiss to Ilya’s jaw. “Yes. Okay. Thanks.”

Ilya kisses him again softly in comfort. “Come on, they are probably waiting.”

The rest of the morning passes quickly. They take one car to the house, and Ilya hangs out in the garden, sits on the deckchair in the sunshine for the hour it takes, wishes for a cigarette, as Shane and Yuna take control of the movers and Estate Agent, finalise details and sign contracts. 

He catches Shane’s eye and glances purposefully into the study as they leave and watches Shane turn away from him immediately, tips of his ears going red.

David drives them down to their favourite restaurant and they get a table for four easily. Yuna continues to drive much of the conversation, to Ilya’s relief, talks a little about some more sponsorship opportunities that are coming up for Shane, the Men’s Health article they’re still planning for early on in the season. 

They’ve just finished eating when a man approaches the table, dressed smartly in trousers and shirt. He greets them cordially in French, and Ilya watches, feels his heart beat warningly as Shane replies in fluent French. So fucking perfect, Ilya thinks fondly, captivated by the shape of Shane’s mouth forming around the foreign words. 

But he frowns when Shane’s tone turns clipped, shaking his head sharply in disagreement. Yuna’s also frowning, interjects with rapidfire French of her own, and Shane shakes his head again, this time at her, when she starts to stand. The man starts to shout, gesturing angrily, and the waitress quickly intervenes, puts herself physically between them and the man, and he snaps one last thing at Shane before tsking and marching back to his own table.

“You okay?” Ilya asks, leaning in close. Shane’s stiff, doesn’t soften the way he would normally, offers a sharp nod. Ilya can feel the weight of eyes around the restaurant on them, and leans back casually, as if just a friend checking in on a friend.

“We should go,” Shane says calmly, but Ilya can hear the underlying stress. The waitress produces the bill quickly and Shane swipes his card without even looking at it, accepts her worried apology.

Ilya gives them all extra space as the family stands, Yuna and David flanking Shane, Ilya bringing up the rear as they make their way out of the restaurant. A couple look as if they’re about to approach him, but a fierce glare from Yuna has them looking away instantly.

“A disgruntled fan,” David offers in explanation as they fall into a two-by-two formation on the way to the car, Shane arguing with Yuna too quietly to hear as she gestures in disapproval back at the restaurant. “We don’t normally get bothered when we’re out together, but the news… some of the fans haven’t taken it well. Montreal’s loved Shane for a long time.” David sighs, and Ilya can see the worry in his eyes as he looks at his son. “And they can be very passionate about their hockey. Shane’s dealt well with it the last few years, but I worry about what a toll it’s taken on him.

“But he says New York is much more relaxed,” David adds, glancing at Ilya in question.

“Yes, I think so,” Ilya confirms slowly. “Is not so hockey mad, or at least there are lots of other interests and sports and celebrities that are popular and available so that it is not so big. He has met fans, but nothing like that.”

David nods, a little relieved, and they return to silence as they reach the car.

The drive home is a little quiet, subdued, but no-one feels like staying out where more disgruntled fans might accost them. Ilya leaves his hand on the middle of the backseat in offer, and is relieved when five minutes into the drive Shane’s fingers find his and squeeze. He looks over but Shane is looking out of the window, the frown still pulling his eyebrows together. Ilya just holds on tightly until they arrive back at his parents, where he leads the way into the house, walking straight through to the garden as his parents watch in silence.

They pause in the living room as if unsure they should follow so Ilya takes the lead, steps out onto the back deck overlooking a small, well-tended garden and sits next to Shane on the steps.

He places his hand carefully between them in offering. Shane places his hand down with a sigh, their pinkies overlapping on the wood. But after another minute he moves, shuffles closer so Ilya can wrap an arm around his shoulders, pull him in close. Ilya presses a kiss to his temple, and they sit together in silence, looking out over the grass.

The tension slowly eases out of Shane’s shoulders, his head falling to rest on Ilya’s as the frown slowly fades.

“Thanks,” he murmurs on an exhale. “Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Ilya dismisses the apology. “He was rude.”

“He fucking was,” Shane agrees with a sharp huff of annoyed laughter. “Thanks for, uh, being supportive without being, like, openly affectionate.”

Ilya squeezes his shoulders gently. “I wished I could have done more,” he admits, “Held you, or punched him, but I know we are not there yet.”

“One day,” Shane murmurs, confident in the promise of it.

“One day,” Ilya agrees softly. “But I liked when you spoke French,” he adds lowly, lets some of the heat enter his words. “Mr. Bilingual. Very sexy.”

“It’s no more impressive than your English,” Shane dismisses, but the flush on his cheeks betray his pleasure.

“I might see if Hayden will change our plans, tomorrow,” Shane adds softly. “It’s bad when it’s in front of you and my parents, but if that happens again, in front of his kids? I don’t want that for them.”

“I will go get tea while you call him,” Ilya gently loosens his arm around Shane’s shoulder so he can stand. “What do you want?”

“Mom normally keeps lemon and ginger teabags for me, caffeine free,” Shane looks up at Ilya as he stands with a soft grunt. “Thanks.”

Ilya leans down to kiss the top of his head before heading back inside.

“He’s okay,” he tells Yuna and David as their heads snap over to look at him, clearly worried. “Is calling Hayden about tomorrow, does not want this to maybe happen in front of the children. I said I would make tea, he mentioned lemon and ginger?”

Yuna’s immediately in action, showing Ilya where they keep the clean mugs, the variety of teas. He takes a blueberry one for himself, thanks Yuna as she pours boiling water over the two teabags.

She holds the backdoor for him, seems to relax when she hears Shane laugh on the phone to Hayden, and Ilya sits carefully with both mugs in his hands. He passes Shane his tea, leans into him and just listens to the one-sided conversation in contentment. Shane’s voice is a little lighter, a little less stressed, as he chats to his friend.

He hands up after a while, thanks Ilya as he sips his tea.

“You okay if we go over to Hayden’s tomorrow, instead of the aquarium? His wife’s plans fell through too, so she’ll be there, but says she’s happy to make us lunch, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya nods. “I go wherever you go.”

Shane leans into him, the pressure a silent thank you.

“Were my parents alright?”

“Worried about you, but okay.”

“Just a couple more minutes,” Shane sighs.

“As long as you like,” Ilya returns. “We have all afternoon, all night.”

They eventually head back inside once their teas are both consumed and Shane’s need to check in on his parents gets too much to ignore. David and Yuna are still at the dining table, David working on a puzzle as Yuna types away at a laptop.

Shane and Ilya join them, Shane and Yuna in hushed conversation, mostly confirming the GQ photo preferences and a few minor edits Yuna wants made to the contents of the article. Ilya hesitates, but when David pushes a few puzzle pieces towards him in silent offering he gives in and starts helping.

He’s never really done puzzles before, but finds it oddly soothing. The tiny little joy of victory when he puts a piece where it belongs, building something, no matter how temporary, gives him tiny flashes of happiness in a way that he’s not really felt on such a small but uplifting scale before.

He feels Shane’s gaze on him at one point and looks up in question, puzzle piece held between finger and thumb. Shane shakes his head, a tiny quirk of a smile, and presses his foot to Ilya’s before he and Yuna head off somewhere else, leaving Ilya and David to continue with the puzzle.

Before he knows it, the thunk thunk thunk of a knife chopping things and the soft sizzle of frying food breaks into his trance, and he realises he and David have almost completed the puzzle.

“You’ve got another twenty minutes,” Yuna warns them from where she’s standing at the stove, Shane rifling through the fridge. “Then we’ll need the table back.”

They don’t quite finish in their allotted time, but Ilya is pleased that they’ve made good progress on the whole. He thinks he’ll maybe get a puzzle or two to do at home for the slow nights where he doesn’t want to think much and English gets hard.

Dinner is delicious, chicken parmesan with salad and Ilya compliments the food. Yuna mentions it’s one of Shane’s favourites, and he asks her to share the recipe so he can try and make it someday, pleasing both of them. 

“You cook?” she asks.

“I am not best,” he admits, “But Shane and I have been cooking together, and it’s been nice. Would like to do it more. And I know he will be busier, when season starts, so if I can help out more with household, whether cooking or cleaning or whatever, then I want to.”

He glances over, sees the way Shane’s looking at him and has to look back at his plate before the expression does things to him he definitely does not want at the dinner table in front of Shane’s parents.

Yuna and David talk about how they share household chores, the way it’s changed over the years, and Ilya takes it for the advice it is even if it’s not directly framed that way. 

And the rest of dinner is nice. Ilya finds himself relaxing a little more around Shane’s parents, and they seem to like him even if he does put his foot in his mouth a couple of times. Conversation stays away from any more of Ilya’s sore spots, and he gets to hear with delight about what Shane was like as a child.

Hockey obsessed, Yuna says. David mentions it was partly his fault, he’d played hockey for his university team and had tried to get Shane into it early, and succeeded past his wildest expectations.

Quiet, but kind, David adds, tells a story about Shane seeing a kid at hockey camp when he was maybe about nine or ten. The girl had been struggling, some of the other boys had been poking fun to her distress. But Shane, who’d been outskating a lot of these kids for years already, had come along and helped her until she’d been skating confidently on her own.

And Ilya knows he’s already so far gone for the man he knows today, but learning about what a precious fucking child he’d been only pulls him deeper into the quicksand of his affections, from which he never wants to be rescued.

They talk late into the evening, until Shane’s starting to flag and Ilya’s finding he’s slowing down to having processed so much English. They excuse themselves to bed, and take it in turns to shower. Shane’s already half-asleep when Ilya joins him, presses in close.

“I talked to my mom, about coming out publicly,” Shane mumbles into Ilya’s chest, and maybe he’s not quite as sleepy as he’d thought. “She’s gonna set up a plan, talk to some sponsors and things officially. You still okay with that?”

“Of course,” Ilya whispers back, heart thumping erratically. 

It slows, as Shane appears unbothered, eyes still closed and Ilya lets it go. Either it’s really not a big as deal as he thinks, or Shane’s too tired or doesn’t want to talk about it, and either way it’s not a conversation for now.

“This evening was nice,” he murmurs softly instead.

Shane murmurs an agreement, shifts so he’s more comfortable draped over Ilya’s chest, weight heavy and comforting on top of him. Ilya wraps an arm over his back, lets a hand rest on a sharp shoulderblade possessively as they both drift into sleep.

Chapter 17: Mr. Fully Gay

Sunday morning arrives with Shane still sprawled over Ilya’s chest.

Ilya smiles, lets his head sink back into the pillows, traces lazy loops across Shane’s upper back as his boyfriend slowly rouses to wakefulness.

“Whatimesit?”

“Ah, eight?” Ilya replies, picking up his phone to peer at the screen. 

Shane’s head falls back onto his chest with a hum. “Ten more minutes.”

Ilya smiles, keeps tracing his fingers across the gentle ripples of muscles under his fingers. “Okay. I like that you relax with me,” he murmurs quietly. “You work so hard, all the time, never resting, always thinking. That you let me see you like this, wanting ten more minutes? I would fight the world for it, Shanya.”

Shane hums in agreement. “I like relaxing with you,” he replies. “I would like to relax with you, more. Take you to the cottage, for a week, maybe two. We could be alone, together. It’d be so nice.”

“It would,” Ilya agrees. “Maybe next summer?”

“It’s a plan,” Shane nods, more a rub of his face against Ilya’s chest. “I think you’ll like the cottage. It’s my favourite place in the world, I can’t wait to share it with you.”

He sounds so fond that Ilya can’t speak for a second. He tightens his hold on Shane instead, hopes he gets the message.

The buzzing of a phone interrupts the quiet and Shane sighs in disappointment. “I think that’s me.”

Ilya reaches over, passes him the vibrating phone, and to his surprised delight rather than getting up Shane just settles back on his chest as he answers it.

“Hayd? What’s up bud?”

Ilya keeps tracing a finger up and around Shane’s upper back as he listens to his friend.

“Ugh, I’ll check, one sec,” Shane looks up at him. “Hayd’s neighbours are out and offered their pool for the day. The twins heard and are begging for a pool day. That okay with you? The weather’s meant to be good enough for it.”

“Yes, but I do not have shorts.”

Shane nods, tells Hayden they’re down, and hangs up shortly after with a promise to be there in a couple of hours.

“Time to get up?” Ilya asks, a little reluctantly.

Shane nods, presses a kiss to Ilya’s chest next to his cross, and gets up as if that doesn’t do something to Ilya, doesn’t tighten his chest on his next inhale. He rifles through the drawers, but can’t find any swim shorts for either of them.

“Most of my swim stuff is at the cottage, I think. We can just swing by the store on the way,” Shane says, tugging on his clothes instead while Ilya watches from the bed, missing the view of all that toned muscle as it disappears behind clothing.

Ilya nods, and finally persuades his legs to swing out of the bed so he can join Shane in getting dressed and heading downstairs.

Yuna and David are sitting in the kitchen; fresh coffee in the pot, a variety of cereals and breakfast things lined up on the side for them.

Ilya helps himself to a bowl of cereal, Shane makes one of his gross smoothies and makes Ilya eat a banana for some vitamins. A coffee later, having borrowed a couple of towels they’re making their way over to Hayden’s via a nearby store that sells basic swimwear.

And once the first errand is done, plain black pairs obtained for the both of them, Ilya tugs Shane over to the florist next door.

“What flowers does Jackie like?”

“How would I know?”

“You have been to their house before, no? Do you not take gift for host?”

“I mean… maybe I did the first time? I think I took a bottle of wine or something. But not since then.”

“It is my first time,” Ilya reminds him. “I want to make a good impression. Hayden is your best friend, yes? Other than Rose. He is important to you, so this is important to me.”

Shane softens a little. “Yeah. I don’t know what Jackie likes though, sorry.”

Ilya shakes his head teasingly, but steps into the store. There’s a variety of pre-made bouquets, from extravagantly huge ones of roses which are way above what Ilya can afford, to softer, more colourful ones that are a little more reasonable.

“What colour is their kitchen?” Ilya asks.

“Uh,” Shane’s clearly racking his brain but not coming up with much. “Maybe like a cream colour?”

“Cream? Not white?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes! The flowers must match. You are Mr. 'Fully Gay', you should know this.”

“Fuck,” Shane frowns. “Wait, I might have a photo.”

They spend too long scrolling through Shane’s phone until at last he finds a photo of Ruby and Emma sat at a dining table, a sliver of the kitchen visible through the doorway in the background, the cream of the cabinets just clear enough.

“Thank you,” Ilya nods and picks out a suitable bouquet, takes it to the young checkout clerk who’d been watching them from the other side of the store in amusement.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” she asks politely as she ties a neat ribbon around the stems and attaches a flower food sachet.

“Yes, thank you,” Ilya smiles at her, swipes his card. The flowers are maybe money he shouldn’t be spending, and he can feel the little niggle at the back of his head telling him he has to be more careful, but he reminds himself firmly he’ll have a salary starting soon, and this is important.

He holds the flowers carefully on his lap as Shane drives the final fifteen minutes to Hayden’s house. Ilya double-checks that he’s got the children’s names right - Ruby and Emma are the twins and the oldest at five years old, followed by Arthur who’s two. Jackie's pregnant again with their fourth child - apparently due to be their last - and is about five months into the pregnancy. Shane and Hayden have been friends ever since they joined the Voyageurs together and been put together as roommates on roadies.

“He was really good at figuring out what I needed,” Shane admits, “You know how much I need to have things tidy and in order and things, and Hayd figured it out without me having to spell it out. He was honestly the best roadie roommate I could’ve asked for.”

“I’m glad you had him, then,” Ilya says, as Shane pulls into a wide driveway. A shitty minivan is the other car on the driveway, and Ilya can’t help but judge, thinks if they ever have kids they won’t sink low enough to get a terrible car like that.

He tells Shane so, who gets the twitch in his eye he does when something has surprised him and he’s turning it over in his head.

“You want kids?”

Ilya shrugs. “I never thought about it much,” he half-lies. “I like kids, but they have not really been in my life plan with everything these past few years. I thought if I ever got to a place where I was safe and my partner wanted to, then I would. Do you not?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Shane replies slowly. “I just… thought it’d be too hard, with hockey, and the gay thing.”

“Is okay,” Ilya shrugs, “If you do not. And if you are not sure, we are still young, have time to think and talk about it.”

“Yeah,” Shane’s doing the thing that means he’s filing it away for future reflection, and Ilya’s deeply relieved in the secret depths of him that Shane’s not dismissed the option instantly out of hand.

Before they can say anything else, the front door to the house is opening and two young girls are standing in front of a man who must be Hayden, waving at them excitedly.

Shane waves back as they both climb out the car. Ilya holds onto the flowers while Shane collects their bags with the towels and new swim shorts, and follows just behind Shane up to the front door.

“Uncle Shane!” Both girls shout in chorus, and Ilya watches in fascination as Shane drops to his knees and envelopes them both in a hug.

“We missed you,” one of them says, wrapping her arms around his neck. The other one follows and Shane stands, picking them both up easily in a show of strength that has Ilya thinking about hockey news to distract him.

“I missed you too,” Shane replies affectionately. “Hey, Hayd.”

“Hey, Shane.”

Both the girls freeze in Shane’s arms as they notice Ilya standing behind him.

“Uncle Shane, who is that?”

“This is Ilya,” Shane replies, turning to smile at him. “He’s going to be hanging out with us today.”

“We’re going to the pool! Can you swim?” one of the girls narrows her eyes at him, and he attempts a charming smile.

“I have not for a long time, but I think so.” 

The other twin giggles, mumbles something to Shane that Ilya can’t quite hear.

“That’s because he’s from Russia,” Shane explains, and Ilya realises it must have been about his accent. “It’s very far away, but he lives with me now, in New York.”

And Hayden freezes at that, eyes narrowing at the two of them. Had Shane not told him?

“Babe, don’t keep them standing in the doorway. Come on in,” a woman’s voice calls from inside the house. Shane slides the girls to their feet as they wiggle at the interruption, and they run into the house.

“Is nice to meet you,” Ilya says, as Hayden remains where he is. “Thank you for letting me come.”

“Yeah, you too,” Hayden replies, clearly unenthusiastic and Ilya feels a spike of worry. “Well, come on in then.”

Ilya follows Shane inside, as Hayden leads the way to the back of the house and a wide, brightly lit kitchen.

“Shane,” a warm, feminine voice greets him. “It’s so good to see you. You’re looking great. And you must be Ilya,” she adds over Shane’s shoulder from where she’s hugging him, smiling in welcome at Ilya. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“And you,” Ilya replies with his best casually charming grin. “These are for you, to say thank you for letting me come.”

“Oh, they’re lovely, thank you,” her smile is blinding as she gestures him over and he offers her the flowers. “Babe, would you get the good vase out the cupboard, please?” and Hayden’s quick to do as asked.

They make small talk, as she trims the ends of the flowers and places them in water, about the weather and how the girls are so excited for the pool; that the neighbours often offer the use of their pool on nice days like this when they’re out. Hayden’s disappeared briefly to corral the girls into getting their gear together for walking over to the pool shortly, and Ilya can hear them all moving around with excited squeals and laughter.

It’s not long before they’re all ready, the girls charging downstairs with shouts. Hayden follows not long after, Arthur in his arms. Jackie takes the youngest with a smile and promises she’ll follow shortly, she’s just going to pull together a few drinks and things for them as they sit around the pool.

“Do you need help?” Ilya asks, aware that Shane and Hayden might want some time alone to talk, and he’s not sure what the vibe is he’s getting off the current Voyageur other than it’s not really positive. 

“That’s okay,” Jackie shakes her head. “I really won’t be long. You guys go, enjoy the pool.”

Thwarted, Ilya follows Shane in making a quick trip to the guest bathroom to change into their swim shorts. Once done they set off, the girls leading the charge as Hayden, Shane and Ilya follow.

“The video of yesterday’s making the rounds,” Hayden admits, and Shane sighs like this was not unexpected but equally disappointing.

“Of course it is.”

“I’m sorry, Shane. It’s shit, is what it is.”

“Swear jar,” Shane grins before it fades. “But yeah. I hadn’t realised anyone was filming.”

“They didn’t catch it all, I don’t think. Just where you said that being traded is a risk any hockey player takes, that all teams understand, and then he starts shouting and it ends when the waitress comes over.”

“And the comments?”

Hayden shrugs, his eyes fixed on his kids, now waiting impatiently by a gate at the back of the garden. “A mix. Quite a few people pointing out that it’s been four years, so it’s likely that if you had a ‘no trade’ clause it’s probably expired. Others saying there’s been no other rumours of contract negotiations, and that Montreal would be stupid to give you up - which, to be fair, they’re not wrong about - so you must have asked to be traded.

“Either way most people agree, online anyway, that accosting you like that was way out of line, so.”

They reach the gate and Hayden unlocks it - the bolt too high for the girls to reach - and they cheer, speeding through towards where Ilya can see a patio and bright blue glinting under the sun.

The pool is generously sized, with several loungers and a long, shaded table with benches surrounding three of the four sizes. Hayden sets down the big bag, unpacks towels and floats and little armbands he gives to the girls and they slide on as soon as they’ve torn off the dresses they’re wearing over their swimwear.

They both barrel towards the pool, totally fearless, and Ilya steps back a little as a wave of water erupts over the side as they leap in.

“We do this a lot,” Hayden says, almost defensively, as Ilya turns and sees him picking up their clothing.

“They are very confident,” he compliments. “Must be good swimmers?”

“They’ve had lessons since they were babies. Better than most adults, I’m sure.” The including you was implied, and Ilya tries not to let the subtly hostile energy get his back up. Shane’s oblivious, unpacking sunscreen from his own bag and applying it to his face before holding out the bottle to Ilya.

He takes it, if only to spare the lecture, and rubs some into his own face, strips off his t-shirt so he can cover his chest and stomach as well to give it time to sink in before he joins the kids in the pool.

“How’s the team?” Shane asks as he sits on the lounge chair next to Hayden’s, and they both watch the girls play.

“Fu- shit,” Hayden sighs, shoulders slumping. “No-one seems to be willing to acknowledge the elephant in the room, and the homophobic shit just keeps on coming. The comments they had after someone shared that video yesterday… I’d ask to be traded myself, if I could. At least I think it’s gonna be a short season, for us.”

Shane stays quiet, mouth settling in a troubled line. Ilya strokes a hand down his arm, presses his fingertips to his wrist in comfort. 

“Can you do my back?” Ilya asks quietly, not wanting to disturb but also keen to give the guys a chance to talk in private.

Shane nods absently, and strong, sure hands deftly cover his back with the sunscreen.

“Thank you, moy korol. Do you need?”

“Please,” Shane nods, and strips his own t-shirt off so Ilya can return the favour. 

Hayden watches the two of them, expression inscrutable. “How’re the Admirals?” he asks, as Ilya keeps his gaze trained pointedly on Shane’s shoulders as he rubs the sunscreen in.

“Really good, actually,” the relief in Shane’s voice would be obvious to anyone. “I’ve not met them all, yet, but Hunter, Vaughan and Jalo came to the arena for the tour with the GM, I’ve seen Bennett around, and I knew Huff already from the Olympics. But they’ve been really welcoming, haven’t said anything about the rumours but have all offered, like, quiet statements of support.”

“I’m happy for you, bud,” Hayden says, and he sounds like he means it, even if sadness tinges the statement. “I-”

“Daddy!” one of the girls calls from the pool. “Watch this!”

“I’m watching, Emma,” Hayden shouts back, and the girls both beam as they splash around.

“I will go,” Ilya gestures towards the pool. “Give you both chance to catch up, yes?”

Shane grabs his hand as he stands, pulls it towards him to place a kiss on his wrist. “Thank you.”

Ilya nods, turns his hand to squeeze Shane’s fingers gently, and walks across the two metres or so to the pool’s edge.

“Room for one more?” he asks the girls, and they cheer and yell for him to come in.

“Are you sure?” he asks, grinning, and gets a louder yes back.

“Okay,” he shrugs, takes one step back and then two quick ones forward, launching off his good knee to cannonball into the pool.

He surfaces to peals of laughter, throws his head back with a grin at the girls who have been pushed half a metre away by the wave he’d created. 

And this bit is easy, is fun. The girls don’t care who he is, have no expectations of him other than he shows them a good time, plays with them. He swims around them, pretends there’s a shark in the water and ‘fails’ to outswim them to the other end, splashes about pitifully until they take pity on him and drag him to the side with small hands.

Jackie’s appeared sometime as he’s making a fool out of himself, looking regal in a soft sundress, draping softly over her baby bump, and wide-brimmed hat, Arthur secured to her chest. He lifts a hand when she waves at him, smiles brightly at Shane - he can’t see his eyes for the sunglasses, but can feel the weight of his gaze on him - and avoids looking at Hayden in case the man still looks disapproving.

He plays with the girls for another fifteen, twenty minutes maybe, ‘racing’ back and forth across the pool, playing tag, until even they’re flagging a little. He lifts them out onto the side at their request, watches as they make their way over to their parents to give himself a minute’s rest, before floating down to the shallow end and walking up the steps and out the pool, shaking himself off as he walks around the edge to where everyone is sitting.

Shane hands him a towel as he stands next to him, still dripping, and sets out another on the chair so Ilya can sit down. Ilya thanks him quietly as he rubs his torso and hair dry roughly, and flops into the seat.

The girls are sitting on the other side of Hayden, who’s now holding Arthur, drinking from juice boxes with their own towels around their shoulders, looking content.

“Thanks for entertaining them,” Jackie says, rifling through a coolbox at her feet, and Ilya accepts a condensation-covered can of diet coke with a ‘thanks’ and cracks the top.

“So, how’s New York?” Jackie asks. “Or have you talked about that already?”

“New York is good,” Shane nods, “And no, it’s mostly been hockey before you got here,” he adds with a sheepish grin. “I actually really like the city. It’s hectic, but it feels… welcoming, I guess? Like you know me, I like my quiet and privacy, but I’m getting that more than I thought I would, more than enough, really.”

“Even though you’re living together?” Hayden asks, with a pointed glance at Ilya.

“I wouldn’t say even though,” Shane responds, “I mean, I’m the one that asked Ilya to move in, and he was nice enough to indulge me, so.”

That was not really at all how it happened, but Ilya’s aware that Shane’s clocked on to some of the animosity coming from Hayden and is trying to soothe it, so stays quiet.

“And you work for the Admirals, too, now Ilya?” Hayden asks icily.

“I start in August, but yes,” Ilya nods. “But I am just in admin, supporting the women’s team. Nothing like Shane.”

“Nothing just about it,” Shane interjects, “Without the admin and all the support teams, neither the men’s or women’s team would be able to do anything, so it’s an important job.”

Ilya swallows. He knew Shane had been proud of him, but had thought it was more to do with the actual success of getting a job than anything; rather than him thinking the job itself was important or useful, so it’s nice to be proven wrong.

“That’ll be nice, being able to commute together and things,” Jackie offers. “I didn’t realise you were living together already though?”

“I asked,” Shane repeats. “It’s been really nice, living together. I’m lucky Ilya said yes, he didn’t have to.”

Ilya presses a now-dry thigh against Shane’s in gratitude. “Has been learning curve, for both of us. But a good one, I think.”

Shane nods in agreement, and they answer a few more questions about New York - whether they’ve done any touristy things (yes, that lovely Saturday before Pride, and then Pride itself). Jackie and Hayden both look surprised when Shane says he’d had a great night out, and Ilya’s reminded again that he’s only known a new side of Shane, one that is different to what his friends and family expect of him. He hopes Shane won’t regret any of the changes that he’s apparently undergone, including being with Ilya, and tries to stifle the bead of worry and focus back in on the conversation.

By the time they’ve recounted their stories and Shane’s content he’s caught Hayden up on his life enough, it’s lunchtime and Jackie’s pulling out sandwiches and snacks from the cooler.

They end up moving to sit around the bigger table in the shade to eat, Ilya pleased and consternated in turns as the twins insert themselves between him and Shane. 

Ilya gets asked a variety of questions, like: how did he learn to swim? (the same as anyone else, he guesses, with swimming lessons as a child); does he really think there could be sharks living in the swimming pool? (probably not adult sharks, they need somewhere bigger, but maybe baby sharks); where does he live? (with Uncle Shane, in New York); why does he live there? (because he likes New York, but he likes Uncle Shane more). He’s aware that even as Shane, Jackie and Hayden chat amongst themselves at the other end of the table they’re listening in to his answers, Shane flushing with the last and offering a soft glance from behind his sunglasses, a tiny pleased grin shining brighter than the summer sunshine.

Chapter 18: Uncle Shane

Chapter Notes

TW: references in this chapter of assault, depression and suicide

Jackie makes the twins sit for a while after lunch so they don’t get stitch when they go back in the pool, despite their protests. To keep them occupied, he offers to teach them a couple of clapping games he vaguely remembers from his childhood, where in pairs they clap each other’s hands, both together then right then left, and repeat, trying to get faster and faster until one person fails.

He finds out that Emma is a little more competitive than Jade, but both are pretty easy going about winning or losing. It whiles away the twenty minutes Jackie had set for them, anyway, and they barrel back into the pool after with sheer glee. 

Shane and Hayden are talking intently when he looks up, Shane’s face tense the only way it gets when he’s unhappy. Ilya gets up and starts to make his way over when Jackie steps into his path, holds a hand out to stop him.

“Hayden’s being a bit of a dick,” she murmurs, a little apologetically. “He needs Shane to tell him to cool it. Give them a minute?”

Ilya nods, glances back over to see Shane talking, Hayden looking mulish but listening intently.

“Would you mind taking Arthur for a second?” Jackie asks, distracting Ilya again. “He’s getting too big for me to hold for so long, but we try not to let him run around the pool for safety.”

“Of course,” Ilya takes the child who stares up at him with wide eyes. “Hello, malysh,” he murmurs, not quite willing to explore the way his chest feels tight.

“What does that mean?” Jackie asks curiously. “Mal-eesh?”

“Malysh,” Ilya repeats slowly, stresses the second syllable, “Means little one. Often used in Russia for babies and small children. Is affectionate.”

Arthur smiles up at him and Ilya can feel the helpless smile tugging at his face in return. “Can he walk, yet? Sorry, I do not know much about how babies grow.”

Jackie smiles, “No worries. Yeah, he can walk and run in short bursts. Is okay with a football, too. Hayden’s talking about getting him some skates soon, see what he’s like with a stick and a puck,” she laughs, shakes her head fondly. “He can talk a bit, too. Usually only a couple of words at a time but he knows the basics, like mama and dada and yummy. He’s a little shy, though, so please don’t be offended if he doesn’t speak around you.”

“That’s okay,” Ilya shakes his head. “We’re alright, aren’t we malysh? We will be friends by the end of today, yes?”

Arthur smiles up at him as if in agreement, and Ilya stands and talks to Jackie for a bit longer with Arthur in his arms. She’s pretty funny, quietly practical and Ilya understands why a little when she mentions growing up with several brothers and one sister.

After a while Shane and Hayden stand and hug, whatever tension between them dissolving with the action. Ilya keeps his eyes on the pool, tries not to watch, but is relieved when Shane comes to stand next to him, smiles at Arthur in his arms.

“You’re so good with them,” he murmurs softly.

Ilya shrugs. “Kids are easy,” he replies, “Listen to them, take them seriously, have fun.”

“I’m not so good at the last bit,” Shane sounds downcast.

“You are,” Ilya disagrees. “Just your fun is different, but still they understand. They love you,” he points out. “Uncle Shane.”

Shane leans in to press a kiss to Ilya’s bare shoulder. “You’re getting pink,” he frowns. “Let me get the sunscreen.”

Ilya lets him spread a second layer of sunscreen on him, and returns Arthur to Hayden when he joins them both. 

The conversation for the rest of the afternoon is a little less barbed, or at least Hayden asks less pointed questions. Ilya tries to remain open, friendly, asks a few questions about the man in return, but mostly spends his time hanging around with the kids as they seem to be intent on and happy to be playing with him.

Eventually they pack up and retreat to the Pikes’ backyard, where Hayden sets up the grill and pulls out burgers and hotdogs and other typical fare. 

Ilya watches Arthur as he runs around the garden, safe in his own space again. The boy falls a couple of times, but despite a scrunched up face doesn’t quite dissolve into crying. He does retreat to his mother after the third fall, who scoops him up without losing a beat and kisses his palm gently better when he holds it out in request.

“I’m sorry,” Hayden says out of nowhere, as he drops onto the seat next to Ilya’s while waiting for the barbeque to heat up. “Shane chewed me out for being rude, and I’ll admit I was being a bit… antagonistic.”

Ilya says nothing, not sure where this is going. “I just… I care about him, man. Surely you can understand that? This thing with you felt like it came out of nowhere, and now he’s living with you, and helping you get a job and all that? I just… I was worried.”

“I understand,” Ilya concedes, stiffly. “I would feel same. But I am not… gold digger, or using Shane. He is important to me, I care about him too. But Shane is grown man, he knows what he wants, what he deserves. I am trying to give that to him.”

“Yeah, I see that now,” Hayden sighs again. “So, yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better, for him.”

“Thank you.”

He nods, and gets up as quickly as he’d sat down, heading back to the grill as if being around Ilya any longer would give him hives, and Ilya thinks baby steps.

Shane catches his eye from across the patio and Ilya nods reassuringly, sips his coke and forces himself to relax. Shane clearly likes it here, has lost more of the tension that had filtered into him at the confrontation yesterday. Emma and Ruby are dancing around him, making him lift them one by one and giggling as they’re raised into the air and twirled around. 

Ilya gets lost in the sight, warmth filling his chest, when he feels a tiny hand on his bad knee.

“Ow?” asks Arthur, and Ilya freezes.

“Ah, no ‘ow’, now,” Ilya tries to find a way to answer that a two-year old will understand. The scars are angry-looking today, the pale silver extra harsh against sun-pinkened skin as Ilya hadn’t bothered with sunscreen on his legs. “Is okay. No hurt,” he shakes his head, as if that will help.

And maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t, because Arthur leans in to press a kiss to his knee, says “all better”, although it sounds closer to ‘aww beh’ and then toddles off towards his father. Ilya sits, a lump in his throat he can’t quite swallow down, feels like it might choke him. He gets up, needs a second, heads inside to the bathroom and just stands at the sink, hands braced either side, breathing as deeply as he can.

“Ilyusha?” Shane’s voice is tentative from behind the door. “You okay?”

“Is open,” he replies hoarsely, and the door clicks open and shut again as Shane steps inside. “Sorry.” He meets Shane’s eyes, brimming with worry, through the mirror.

“No, don’t,” Shane shakes his head, steps forward to place a warm hand lightly in the middle of his back. “What happened? Did Hayden say something?”

“You did not see?” Ilya asks, and Shane’s frown is answer enough. “Was… sweet. Arthur, saw my knee,” he gestures uselessly, like Shane hasn’t seen his scars many times before, “gave kiss to make it better.”

Shane’s eyes soften impossibly, fingers loosely curling against Ilya’s back. 

“Was emotional,” Ilya adds unnecessarily. “I-.” He loses his words, turns to press his face into Shane’s shoulder. “Just a minute.”

“As long as you need,” Shane replies, arms folding gently around Ilya’s back and waist to hold him tight.

The hold helps, as Ilya breathes in the smell of Shane and sunscreen, absorbs some of his body warmth. The lump shrinks, until Ilya can breathe properly past it, swallow it back down.

He lifts his head, gets a kiss to his cheek. “Do you want to go?” Shane asks.

“No, moy lyubimyy. Is nice, yes? We should stay for food.”

“Okay,” Shane cups Ilya’s face gently. “But if you change your mind, at any point, just say, okay? You’re important to me, and I don’t want you pushing through something that makes you sad for my sake. Hayden will understand, or at least he’ll get over it.”

Ilya nods, leans in for a tender kiss. “Thank you. And thank you, for talking to Hayden. He apologised.”

“Good,” Shane nods, kisses him again. “God, this is nice, but I can’t wait until we’re home tomorrow,” he admits. “I miss our space.”

Ilya agrees, suddenly a little homesick as well for New York, and they leave the bathroom holding hands. Shane tugs him over to the bench seat at the table and tucks himself along Ilya’s side, keeping their fingers entwined, and they stay there as the Pikes coalesce around them; Ruby and Emma sitting opposite, Jackie at the end next to Ilya, Arthur with her in a high chair. Hayden brings over the grilled foods as he joins them, the rest of the spread already laid out.

Conversation is light as they eat, so Ilya doesn’t have to focus too hard. They’ve had to let go of each other’s hands, but Shane’s looped his ankle around Ilya’s under the bench instead, and keeps leaning into him at every opportunity.

Shane and Ilya help Hayden clear the table once done, Jackie entertaining the kids. They join them again, this time with bowls of cut fruit and little cups of mousse for dessert, and Ilya brushes a kiss against Shane’s shoulder in thanks when he hands him his own.

“Are you married?” one of the twins asks, and Ilya turns to look at her. “Mummy says people only kiss when they’re married, but does that count if it’s not a proper kiss?”

“I, ah-” Ilya looks to Shane for help as Jackie hides a laugh behind her hand.

“We’re not married, no,” Shane replies, squeezing Ilya’s thigh gently beneath the table. “But maybe one day.”

And Ilya’s not emotionally ready for that, not after earlier, still raw and stripped bare. He shoves a giant spoonful of mousse in his mouth to focus on eating, rather than how much he wants what Shane’s implying, the sheer joy that Shane might be thinking of it too.

The twins both nod, seemingly unbothered either way, and the conversation is swiftly diverted.

They stay for another half an hour or so, but the exhaustion caused by the emotional rollercoaster today has him falling quiet until even the twins are being gentle with him. He wishes he was a little better, could be a little brighter, but no matter how much he tries the energy just won’t come.

“Come on,” Shane murmurs, holding out a hand as he stands. “Time for us to go.”

Ilya nods and lets Shane lead the goodbyes. He accepts a hug from each of the twins, another from Jackie, and an awkward head nod from Hayden as he waves them goodbye from the front door.

“Can we-,” Ilya shakes his head as Shane starts the ignition, pauses to look at him. “Never mind.”

“No, what do you need?” Shane’s voice is soft, maybe gentler than Ilya’s ever heard it directed at him.

“I don’t- is there somewhere we can go, quiet? Just us? I don’t- I like your parents, but.”

“Of course,” Shane nods, backs out of the driveway. “There’s a spot overlooking the river, maybe a twenty, thirty minute drive away? I used to go there to think, sometimes, when it all got overwhelming.”

Ilya nods, and Shane drives in silence. Ilya keeps his eyes fixed on the road, the early summer evening sun washing the grass verges in a gentle golden light.

Eventually they pull into a little parking area on the side of the road, the only car there to Ilya’s relief. Shane climbs out of the car and Ilya follows, and he leads them through a little copse of trees to a hidden clearing, overlooking the river.

“This way,” Shane murmurs, and turns down another little path Ilya hadn’t noticed. The trees are a little more overgrown, but the dirt path is relatively well-maintained, and he follows Shane downwards until they come out to another clearing with a well-worn wooden bench.

Shane sits as Ilya does, a tentative few centimetres away as if he’s not sure whether his touch is welcome.

And Ilya aches that he’s made Shane feel that way, so he reaches out a hand, swallows when Shane instantly takes it, pulls it onto his lap so he can hold Ilya’s hand with both of his and squeeze gently.

“Thank you, solnyshko,” Ilya murmurs, watching the strong profile of his partner as he looks down at his hands holding Ilya’s, rather than the admittedly stunning view of the river below them.

“Of course,” Shane whispers back, turning to him. “Is this okay?”

“Is perfect,” Ilya reassures him. “You said you came here often?”

“Yeah,” Shane nods. “Especially after I was drafted. I had my parents, and sort of the team, but I don’t know, it all felt so tangled up in the pressure of it all. And I loved my house, but that was a product of hockey too, and sometimes I just needed to get away.

“My therapist recommended I get out, try and find some spaces that were separate from hockey, since I basically didn’t have anywhere that wasn’t tied to it in some way. I tried a bunch, new running routes, parks and things, and then one day I was driving back from dropping Rose off at the airport and I just saw that pull-in spot, and found this. I’ve never seen anyone else here, so it’s always been my hiding spot. I’ve never brought anyone else here.”

Ilya squeezes his hands gently, gets light pressure back.

“Thank you for sharing with me.”

“Of course,” Shane lifts his hand to his lips, presses a gentle kiss to knuckles.

“Was just before Prospect Cup, draft year,” Ilya starts before he’s even aware he’s going to go there, here and now. Shane listens intently, grips Ilya’s fingers a little tighter. “I was… attacked. Had been out at club, drinking, dancing, having good time.

“And as I left, group of men jumped me. I told you I had slept with a man before, my coach’s son?” Shane nods, lips in a thin white line, “Had gotten around to wrong people, including my- my brother’s friends.

“They did not intend to injure me so badly,” Ilya adds with a scoff. “Had only meant to scare me, teach me lesson. But one… one had had too much coke, was in rage. Found metal pipe; broke my jaw, four ribs and shattered my kneecap.”

“Ilya-” Shane falls silent when Ilya shakes his head, needing to get the rest of it out.

“Surgeons gave full replacement, said would be okay with time, was young, resilient. And fine, I thought, no draft this year, but next year, could come back stronger, be better. In meantime, took the months of recovery. Started university and playing again, had back up plan for KHL. My father always said American league was worse, anyway, was more supportive if I were to stay in Russia, though I did not want to.

“And then took bad check from homophobic teammate in practise. Knee slammed into boards wrong, separated. Two more surgeries, another six months later, and doctors said I should not play anymore. They could fix so I could live normally, with care. Have limits, like no kneeling for long on hard surfaces, have to avoid bad pressure, do exercises regularly. But the risk of hockey... if I took another bad hit, was only so many times they could fix, so.”

Ilya sighs shakily, can feel the wetness on his cheeks. Shane’s watching him, tears on his own face, lip trembling.

“My brother could not look at me. Father was disappointed, acted like I was not even there. He let me continue university, but said that I would still rehab knee, would still aim for KHL. But would not let me leave house, but for school and hospital. Could not see friends, not that many stayed.

“And it was bad. I was very depressed. I had physiotherapist who was sympathetic. They knew Sveta, and with her they faked longer sessions, so I could see therapist in secret. My father would not approve, if he knew. And she helped, but when future seemed to bleak anyway, was only so much she could do.

“And it got worse, and worse, until one time I could not get out of bed for whole week. Did not see point in anything, anymore,” Ilya confesses, closes his eyes to hide from Shane’s judgement. “Asked physio for pills, lied that I was in more pain. Was thinking of- of mama, of joining her.

“But they told Sveta, who called me. Said she would get me out, would get me to US, and she would come fetch me if I did not do what she told me. I had nothing left to lose, so I obeyed. And she did everything, to get me here. Sorted visa, registered me with school. Set up secret email accounts and phone so my father and his wife could not see what we were doing. Booked a train to Warsaw to get flight to U.S. and worked with Physio to help me escape after appointment.

“We did not know if anyone would work out what she had done, and she still speaks to her father, knows Russian people in Boston, so I could not go live with her there. So was New York instead, as university was there, and enough people I would hopefully be lost in crowd, if anyone did come to look for me.

“I do not know if they did. Do not know what happened after I left. But then I was in New York, alone, poor and sad but free. Spent a year working, studying, and then I met you.

“And it was all worth it,” Ilya finishes fiercely, “I would do it all again, for this, for you, to be here. This last month has been happiest I can ever remember.

“And this maybe too soon, but I- ya tebya lyublyu, Shanya, Shane, I love you.”

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasps, climbing over his lap, tugging him tightly into an embrace. Ilya presses his face into Shane’s shoulder, knows he’s soaking his t-shirt with tears but doesn’t care, especially not when he can feel the dampness seeping through his own. “I love you too. So much. And I am so sorry that happened to you. I can’t even- I’m so glad you’re still here. So glad you have Svetlana, that she was able to do everything she did.

“This month has been the happiest for me, too, with you,” Shane pulls back, frames Ilya’s face with his hands. “Thank you, so much, for telling me. I love you.”

Ilya’s being kissed before he can respond, deep but tender, the soft salt of their tears mingling across their tongues as Shane tangles them together as if he could merge them into one being.

He wraps his arms around Shane, holds him close, as they embrace each other for a short while longer. Eventually Shane shifts, grimaces a little at having knelt so awkwardly on the hard bench for so long, and sits next to Ilya, pulls his arm around his shoulders as they stare at the sun now starting to set over the river.

“Teach me how to say it in Russian?” Shane requests after another minute, tilting his head up to look at Ilya.

“Ya. Tebya. Lyublyu,” and Ilya finds himself tearing up again when Shane repeats it carefully, beaming when Ilya nods to show he got it right. He buries his face in Shane's hair, presses a kiss to his ear, doesn't know how he's managed to find himself so lucky but clings onto Shane as if he could keep this forever.

Shane shivers a little later, and Ilya realises they’re still in their swimwear, and the evening is definitely cooling down. They’ve also left their phones in the car, so he has no idea what time it is, but Yuna and David must be wondering where they are by now.

They head back to the car, and Shane replies to his parents' texts to say they are fine, will be home in twenty minutes, and don't need dinner since they’d had an early one at Hayden’s.

The drive home is quiet, and Ilya doesn’t want to lose physical contact so he stretches an arm across the streets, rests a hand around Shane’s nape, smooths a thumb up and down the soft skin there. They let themselves in, find Yuna and David curled up on one of the couches together watching a film. Shane waves off their hospitality, leads Ilya into the kitchen where he makes them both a lemon and ginger tea, spends the time it takes for the kettle to boil hugging Ilya tightly.

“We should join them,” Ilya murmurs, as Shane hands him his mug. “Is your last night with your parents, we should spend it with them.”

Shane’s eyes search his for a second as if to confirm Ilya means it but he nods and leads the way to sit on the end of the empty couch. Ilya stays seated for as long as it takes him to finish his tea, and then he slowly sinks until his head is on Shane’s lap, deft fingers gently scratching his scalp.

He hears Shane murmur something to Yuna and David, but is too exhausted to process, and trusts Shane will tell him if he needs to be part of the conversation. 

He drifts, safe and warm with Shane’s thigh under his ear, the murmur of the TV and low conversation in the background. He’d told Shane the worst thing that had happened to him, his darkest thoughts, and had not been rejected, had only been comforted and supported in a way he hadn’t ever expected.

He gets a blanket draped over his shoulders after a minute, and sinks further into the warmth, safe under the weight of it. He’s not sure he’s felt this sense of safety, of being welcome, in a very long time, and although it makes his chest hurt with lost memories of his mother, he offers up a soft wish that he gets to keep this; that his mother, if she’s watching, is happy for him.

Chapter 19: Mr. I-Can-Take-Whatever-You-Give

Ilya wakes up on Monday the only kind of exhausted you get after a good cry, wrung out and empty but somehow scrubbed clean. They’d retreated to bed not long after the film had ended last night, and Shane had even joined him in the shower as Ilya'd swayed on his feet, eyes bleary but wanting to rinse off any lingering chlorine from the pool.

He’s sprawled across Shane this morning, on his front with his head resting on his chest, hips between Shane’s parted thighs. Shane’s arms are possessive around his back, one hand tracing soft circles into his skin.

“Hey,” Shane murmurs softly, fingers pausing mid-swirl. “How are you feeling?”

Ilya takes stock, looks up at Shane, “Tired, but better. Thank you, for last night. I love you.” And Ilya knows it’s new but will he ever not feel the deep thrill he gets at being able to tell Shane that?

“I love you too.”

They smile sappily at each other until Ilya’s bladder makes itself known and he shifts in discomfort, sighs when it persists. “I will be right back.”

Shane’s sat up when he returns, checking his phone.

“Our flight’s all on time,” he murmurs. “We’ve got maybe an hour before we have to go. My dad’s got to go to work so my mom’s going to take us, if that’s alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on the soft lump of Shane’s calf under the duvet. “Are you okay?”

“I-,” Shane sighs, thinks. “Yeah. I think I’ll be happy to leave Montreal and this weekend behind though. Start, not fresh, but like- yeah, leave all this behind, as much as we can? Go back to New York together, start a new season for me, a new job for you, and we can just be together, and in love?” Shane eyes Ilya carefully at the last but his heart is already swelling with the thought.

“Yes, all of that, but mostly the last part,” he agrees, leans in to kiss Shane softly. To his surprise Shane leans in hard, tangles his hand in Ilya’s curls to press closer, tongue swiping across his lip, his teeth, pressing in for entry, atmosphere suddenly electric and wanting.

“Fuck, I can’t wait until we’re home,” Shane pants as he pulls back. “I never thought I wouldn’t be able to last three days without sex until this weekend.”

Ilya smiles in rueful agreement. “We will make up for it later today,” he promises lowly, and smiles when Shane whines under his breath, fingernails scraping across Ilya’s scalp.

At that, they get up, dress and pack. David and Yuna are waiting downstairs with coffee and breakfast, though David has to leave relatively quickly for work.

Yuna drives them to the airport, promises they’ll come to New York for Shane’s first game as an Admiral, and maybe spend a weekend there depending on the day and Shane and Ilya’s plans.

The airport is busy, and Shane gets more than a few glances but no-one stops them to ask for photos or to shout at him again. Ilya finds himself exhaling a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as he’s waved through the border with a cursory inspection of his passport and visa, and customs is smooth and the flight smoother. The car is already waiting once they land, and next thing he knows Ilya’s dropping his bag on the entrance floor as Shane loops his arms around his shoulders and kisses him.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he murmurs into his mouth, manipulating a willing Ilya over to the sofa as he tugs his t-shirt over his head. Ilya tosses his own to the side, watches with fondness as Shane collects it, folds it neatly and places both on the coffee table behind them. 

He pushes Ilya down to sit, straddles his lap, kisses him hard until Ilya’s groaning as he grips Shane’s hips too tightly and has to force himself to let go. He unbuttons Shane’s jeans, pushes his own sweatpants down past his hips, and gasps as Shane reaches down, presses his hips forward, wraps a hand around them both.

“You going to come for me, Ilyusha?” Shane murmurs into his mouth, teasing curve just visible under the gasps as precum slicks the way.

“Fucking make me, Shanya,” Ilya demands, and the curve lifts a little higher as Shane accepts the challenge.

It’s not long until they’re coming, both of them pent up after the last couple of days, white liquid dripping down Ilya’s abs as their breaths mingle, foreheads resting against once another.

“Fuck,” Ilya sighs softly, presses up to kiss Shane gently. “Come on, shower, and we can do that again.”

Shane laughs softly but gets up, offers a hand and leads the way down to the ensuite bathroom. Ilya presses Shane into the shower wall, jerks him off slowly under the hot water, refusing to let him touch back as he teases him with feather-light kisses down his jaw, fingers tiptoeing across his torso, hand too loose around his cock to get him going but tight enough to keep him hard for a long few minutes. He waits until Shane’s pleading softly under his breath, whispered ‘fuck’s and ‘Ilyusha’s and ‘please’s, before he tightens his grip and makes him come a second time, the taut arch of his neck too tempting to resist as he bites down softly. 

Shane drops to his knees, mouths at Ilya’s erection, takes him in as Ilya’s back protects him from the spray of the shower. And fuck, Ilya’s tried not to think too hard about Shane’s mouth for the last forty-eight hours but it’s like a fucking revelation all over again, every time somehow better than his memory of the last.

His knees feel weak as he comes, bracing one hand on the shower wall as Shane drinks him down, second orgasm almost punched out of him with its intensity.

He helps Shane up, almost giddy with pleasure and just the sheer joy of being alone and himself with Shane. He’d loved the insight he’d had into Shane’s life, his parents and friends and the home he’d carved for himself while in Montreal, but Shane had made it clear that he was moving on, that his new life in New York was what he was planning on, and Ilya was, to his delight, a key part of it.

The next couple of weeks pass in a kind of dazed bliss. 

Shane starts going into the rink a little more often, picks up additional ice-time wherever he can get it, is pulled into more of the social media posts and publicity to hype up the upcoming season. 

Ilya enjoys his evenings looking after Max; meets up with Cliff weekly, including for the rain-checked celebratory beer. He spends the time that Shane’s at the rink thinking about the charity proposal, fleshes out a few ideas, does some research. He mentions it to Cliff one night, who offers to help, and they spend an afternoon going over what he has so far, Cliff pointing out a few things Ilya’s missed, and adding a couple of new ideas. 

Shane and Ilya spend every spare second they have with each other, aware that once the season kicks in and Ilya starts work that they’re unlikely to have this much access to each other. It will be good, Ilya thinks, for the hockey season to start officially. Shane’s not outwardly worried about it, but Ilya can feel the underlying tension whenever the player starts thinking about playing with a new team.

Ilya gains more a little more weight, mostly muscle as they continue working out together, and Shane’s slowly getting just as bad as Ilya for a Pavlovian reaction as soon as they’re walking into the gym, knowing a good post-workout sex bout awaits.

Ilya calls Sveta one evening, tells her about the trip to Montreal and the conversation he’d had with Shane, telling him about everything that had happened in the run up to New York which had led to a mutual love confession. She tells him she’s proud of him, that she’s so glad Shane’s there for him, that she’ll be back to New York as soon as she can and they can celebrate together. 

Shane calls his agent and between them and Yuna start setting out the official steps they’ll need to take when he comes out post-season. The Admirals are looped in, and Shane has a couple of meetings with the senior leadership team and HR and the owners. He’s stressed going in, despite a long, thorough blowjob under the sheets just prior, but comes out relieved. It’s still terrifying, he admits, but the support the organisation is showing him is almost as mind-blowing as the second orgasm Ilya gives him in celebration, and he feels much better knowing he’s got that safety net of people who know and like him anyway and want to help.

And suddenly optional skates begin, and Shane comes home from the first with a pleased little smile, says it had been really good, that almost all of the team who are in New York turned up. The team all agreed to go out for dinner on Friday after an early afternoon optional skate, and while the dinner itself is teammates only, Scott has suggested they all go for a drink afterwards with partners welcome.

The Kingfisher is the chosen bar, to Ilya’s mild surprise, but Bennett and Hunter have both recently bought it out, and are happy to close it down for the evening for their private use.

“Do you want to come?” Shane asks Ilya, lying on top of him on the sofa. “I don’t think you have Max on Friday? I know you said ages ago you’d go, but there’s no pressure if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I will go,” Ilya nods, “If you still want me to.”

“I do. It’s nerve-wracking,” he admits, “But I said I’d ask my boyfriend in front of the team and no-one reacted badly, so I think it will be okay. I think Kip’s coming along, too, so you won’t be the only boyfriend, and Bennett’s boyfriend I assume will be at the bar.

“I think Hunter chose the Kingfisher too to, like, set the tone for the year? This way no-one can be blindsided, and if anyone reacts badly now we have time to plan, maybe.”

Ilya nods, kisses Shane’s temple. “Is a sensible move,” he agrees, “for a fossil.”

Shane laughs, “You’ve gotta stop calling him that.”

“But is true!” Ilya protests. “He is old.”

“He’s, what, thirty, thirty-one?”

“Exactly. Hockey grandpa,” Ilya interrupts before Shane can say early thirties are not old age.

He gets another laugh, a soft kiss. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell them you’re coming, then. It’ll be good.” Shane sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, Ilya can hear the soft vibration of nerves. 

He catches his face, guides him around for a gentle kiss in affirmation, slides a hand between them and Shane smiles and lets Ilya distract him with another orgasm or two.

The end of the week comes around and Ilya finds himself standing on the pavement outside the Kingfisher, watching through the window as a giant group of hockey players stands around inside with drinks. The atmosphere looks lively and welcoming, nothing but smiles. 

There’s a couple of WAGs already there - petite and beautiful women tucked under some of the men’s arms. He can’t see Shane, Hunter, or Kip, though, so he hesitates, doesn’t want to be the focus of all those people standing there on his own.

He texts Shane, lets him know he’s here, and twenty seconds later hears footsteps on the pavement heading towards him.

“Hey, Ilya,” Kip’s smiling at him as he approaches. “You okay?”

“Hi, Kip,” Ilya smiles back at him, a little relieved to see the other man. “Yes, you?”

Kip nods back, stops next to him. “Bit nerve-wracking, right?” he murmurs as he looks into the window as Ilya had been. “Have you met any of the team yet?”

“Just Hunter- Scott,” Ilya admits. “You?”

“Eric - Bennett - has been pretty good, and he’s dating Kyle,” Kip gestures to the bartender through the window. “He and Scott have gotten closer over the summer since they both came out. And Carter Vaughan’s probably Scott’s best friend on the team, so he’s been over a few times for dinner and stuff. He’s pretty nice, and Gloria - his girlfriend - is really lovely, though I've only met her the once so far.”

Ilya nods, absorbs the information. “They’re all pretty curious about you, though,” Kip admits and Ilya doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. “Like, from what Scott tells me there were insane celebrations when Shane’s trade was confirmed, so they’re really excited to have him. And when he announced he was bringing his boyfriend there was a lot of begging for details in the group chat. Scott says he’s not been the most forthcoming, but like, in a teasing way, I think? It’s hard to tell to be honest, he always seems so straight-laced.”

Ilya laughs, “He can be,” he agrees. “But is also secretly very funny.”

And at that, the door opens and Shane peers out, squinting into the dark until he clocks Ilya and Kip. His face lights up minutely, and Ilya feels his heart turn over again at the unconsciously provided evidence that Shane’s happy to see him.

“Ilya.” Shane holds the door open. “Hey, Kip, nice to see you again. How are you?”

“Good, thanks,” Kip steps past Shane into the bar. Ilya follows, feels Shane’s hand land on his lower back as he turns behind him and basks in the touch.

“Hunter’s just over at the back,” Shane tells them both, and they follow his lead and head for the back of the bar. Ilya can feels eyes on them, but the heat of Shane’s palm still on his back offers the reassurance he needs to smile brightly as he meets eyes briefly as they pass most of Shane’s teammates.

Hunter greets them with a smile, which brightens as Kip reaches his side. Shane introduces him to Bennett, who’s perched on a barstool smiling at the bartender, a stunning brunette probably closer to Ilya’s age than Bennett’s. He’s not going to judge though, clocks the affection between the two of them and thanks the bartender - Kyle - as he passes over drinks, Ilya his usual vodka soda as Shane sticks with ginger ale. 

“So you’re the mysterious Ilya,” Kyle leans against his side of the bar, curiosity evident as he offers a flirtatious grin. “How did a handsome man like you end up involved in the Admirals’ WAG scene?”

Ilya grins back. “Ah, Shane could not resist this,” he teases, offering a wave down his torso to invite his companions to check him out. He knows he looks good tonight, in a red floral shirt and jeans which are starting to tighten perfectly around his thickening thighs, and winks at Shane when he flushes, eyes travelling down him automatically. “And who am I to say no to handsome hockey player with beautiful freckles?”

Kyle laughs brightly, delighted with the response. “We will talk more later,” he promises, pointing a finger at Ilya who grins in agreement, before moving down the bar to serve a player who’s waiting patiently a few stools down.

Ilya beams as Shane offers him an exasperated glance, leans in to clink their glasses together. “Am only being friendly, moy korol,” he teases, and Shane huffs a laugh. Ilya leans in, presses his lips to Shane’s ear, “and you know is all true.”

He gets a gentle push, a heated look before Shane pulls back to a socially-acceptable distance and reignites the conversation with Scott, Kip and Bennett, who’ve been watching them with barely disguised fascination.

Kip asks about the dinner, and Scott says it had been good, that almost everyone has come to the bar so this is everyone on the roster bar three guys; one of their rookies who’d flown in from Russia just that morning, a defenceman who’d got married over the summer and had had a late honeymoon, and their back-up goalie, whose wife was pregnant and due any second so had begged off to support her.

And then, as a good captain, he says he should make the rounds, so leads Kip off to go speak to Carter Vaughan at a nearby table.

“You had a good day?” Ilya asks Shane as they stay behind. Bennett has disappeared too, giving them a brief moment to themselves.

“Yeah,” Shane smiles, leans into him briefly. “Really good, actually. Like, I know it’s only optional skates and we’re not exactly training seriously right now, but I think- I think I’d forgotten that hockey could be fun? I’ve always loved it, don’t get me wrong, but the last year in Montreal I’d been focused on my own plays, on just getting through it since my teammates, bar Hayd and J.J., were basically playing and practising as if I didn’t exist, unless they needed me to make a shot, or thought they could leave it to me.

“But these guys,” Shane gestures around the room, “are the opposite of that. It’s made me remember how much I like hockey as a game. And dinner was good, though I didn’t get to speak to everyone.”

Ilya knows his face is hopelessly enamoured as Shane’s face brightens with contentment and excitement.

“Should we say hello, then?”

The next couple of hours pass in a blur of new names and faces and introductions. Shane and Ilya make their way to the edge of the room, chat to Vaughan and his girlfriend Gloria. Kip had been right, she is insanely nice, and adds Ilya almost immediately to the group WAGs chat.

“We don’t actually talk all that much in it,” she admits. “Mostly the other girls just want to coordinate outfits when we’re all going to home games and post-game celebrations out, right now, or sometimes there’ll be commentary if anyone’s watching the away games and it’s particularly interesting.”

Vaughan and Gloria disappear to get drinks after a while, and before they can decide who to chat to next, Jalo and Huff, the latter with his wife Laura, are making their way over, greeting Shane with grins and slaps on the back, and curious smiles and handshakes for Ilya.

And that starts a rotation of players and accompanying WAGs, until Ilya’s pretty sure they’ve spoken to everyone in the bar. He and Shane hadn’t had to move, apparently popular enough, or enough of a source of curiosity, that pretty much everyone had made to pass by them at one point or another. 

There hadn’t been any intrusive questions about his and Shane’s relationship, though he’s well aware he’s been thoroughly evaluated by the other WAGs the entire night, and the players haven’t been much more subtle in it either. He thinks he’s made as good an impression as he can, has not tried to hide his affection too much but also has not dragged Shane out the back to molest him as he sort of wishes he could’ve.

Hunter calls for bar-wide attention just past ten, and thanks them all for coming, closing out the night. There’s no mass exodus, but it starts a slow trickle of people leaving, until he, Shane, Hunter, Kip, Bennett and Kyle remain.

“Well?” Kip asks, leaning on the table next to Ilya. “Good first round?”

“I think so. For you, too?”

“Yeah. No-one’s been hostile, no weird questions. Some curious looks, but I think you got the brunt of it. These guys know Scott better, most have played with him a while, but Shane’s Shane Hollander, and also new to them as a teammate so their curiosity is piqued.”

Kip’s not wrong. But Shane’s not been as anxious or as stiff as Ilya had thought he might be. He knows this is still new for his boyfriend, and is new for Ilya too - being in a relationship and sharing it with people. A little harder for Shane, given Montreal, but Ilya thinks he must really have gelled well with his teammates this last week, or the vibe must just be that good in the locker room, as well as here.

Before leaving, Ilya, Kip and Kyle set up a group chat between the three of them, so if they also go to any games they can plan together and support each other. Kyle mentions he streams the hockey games on the bar’s TVs when it’s on, so they’d be welcome to come over for away-games too.

And with that, the car Shane’s booked is waiting outside and Ilya waves goodbye to his fellow boyfriends-of-hockey-players and takes his hand as they leave the bar.

“Was that okay?” Shane asks him quietly as they’re driven through dim New York streets home.

“Was good,” Ilya nods. “Your teammates seem nice, if nosy. The WAGs were nice too, though a couple were obviously very jealous.”

Shane laughs in surprise. “Jealous?”

“Yes, naturally of me. But of course,” Ilya purrs, “I have attention of best hockey player on team. Probably best in North America.”

“Probably?” Shane raises an unimpressed eyebrow and Ilya grins.

“Could be someone better this season, no?” Ilya teases back, and can’t help but grin as Shane frowns at him, still unimpressed. “You said you would try to break your own goal record, yes? Will have to see if you can.”

“Fuck you, I’m going to do it,” Shane retorts stubbornly.

“Hmm,” Ilya can’t resist, “Maybe.”

And Ilya sees the instant that Shane clocks on to Ilya’s trying to rile him up, the split-second it takes for him to deliberate before giving in. 

“For the record,” Ilya adds, glancing at the driver and lowering his voice. “I hope you do. One orgasm per goal, no? Should be a good time, for both of us.”

Shane laughs again, shakes his head fondly, even as heat enters his expression as he glances at Ilya under his expression.

“You sure you’re up to the task?” he challenges.

“I think that is a question for you,” Ilya bats it back, “The more you score, the more you must take. Are you sure you can take it all, moy korol?”

“I can take whatever you dish out,” Shane’s chin juts out in conviction, and Ilya lets his grin turn heated and reflect all the filthy thoughts currently running through his brain.

“Careful, solnyshko,” he warns gently, “Do not want to scar the nice driver, no? Will get yourself in trouble, telling me things like that.”

Shane glances at the driver, who’s professionally ignoring them as he turns down the last block to home. “One day,” Shane breathes, leaning in close, “we’ll get a car with an opaque, soundproof divider. Go for a long drive. You can get me into all the trouble you want.”

“Fuck, Shanya,” Ilya clenches his hands so he doesn’t fist a hand in Shane’s shirt and drag him in for a kiss. “I will hold you to that.”

“Hold me to anything you like,” Shane provokes, as the car pulls to a stop and they both climb out.

They enter through the back service door, and Ilya reaches out, grabs Shane’s wrists and presses him against the wall, out of sight of anyone still on the street. Shane tests the hold lightly, but quickly sinks into it.

“Hm, could hold you here?” Ilya whispers, presses biting kisses to Shane’s jaw. He sees the way the semi-public setting gets to Shane, lets the thrill race through them both as he presses their hips together, grinds slowly. “But I think the stairs are too empty, too echo-y. Do not want our neighbours hearing you cry for me.” Shane’s head lolls, gives Ilya access to his neck so he can press long, wet kisses along the skin there.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, turning his own head into Ilya’s neck, soft kiss turning to pants as Ilya grinds their hips together again.

“Come,” Ilya pulls back before he can give into the temptation. “Upstairs. I want you in our home.”

Shane sways into Ilya, but obediently starts for the stairs. He stops, when Ilya waits where he is, watching him move, turns back with a frown.

“Go,” Ilya nods. “I want to watch you.”

And he’ll never get over the way Shane flushes when confronted with Ilya’s love of looking at him, and follows slowly as Shane heads up the stairs, enjoying being able to watch him without shame. Shane occasionally glances back, flushes again when he sees Ilya still watching him, turns around to continue until they’re on the fifth floor and he’s opening the door to their apartment.

“Take off your clothes,” Ilya demands as the door shuts behind him, already unbuttoning his own shirt to toss it aside, and revels in the headiness as Shane immediately does as asked.

“So,” he prowls towards Shane, who stands there like a deer in the headlights under Ilya’s predatory expression. “Mr. I-can-take-whatever-you-give, are you sure?”

Shane’s chin juts forward a little, eyes almost adamantine as he nods. Ilya keeps stepping forward, presses into Shane’s space until he has no choice to back up, eyes on Ilya’s mouth the entire time as he gives way.

Ilya pins him again to the wall of the entryway, holding Shane’s wrists down by his hips.

“Stay here,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s mouth, not quite letting the brush of their lips be enough to be a kiss. “Do not move.”

“What if I do?” Shane pushes, wrists pressing lightly back into Ilya’s hands and Ilya smiles, sharp and wicked.

“I do not think you want to,” he counters. “I think you want to be good for me. Want to take whatever it is I will give you, and I will not do that if you do not do as I tell you.”

Shane’s lips part, and the pressure on Ilya’s hands eases. “Yes?”

“... yes.”

“Then stay,” Ilya reiterates with a squeeze of Shane’s wrists, and walks down the corridor to the bedroom with the heavy weight of Shane’s gaze between his shoulderblades.

He’s only after lube, knows there’s some tucked in the couch cushions, and probably a bottle in the entryway drawers knowing them. But there’s something about making Shane wait where he can’t see Ilya, letting the anticipation and tension build. He wonders what Shane’s imagining, what he hopes will happen, and resolves to ask, later.

On a last minute whim, he pulls out the pale grey tie that’s now become their sex-tie, whenever he wants Shane to remain still. He might as well carry on now he’s started, he thinks as he runs the fabric between his fingers, and shoves it in his pocket.

“Good,” he commends Shane as he returns to see him exactly as he left him, mini-lube bottle also tucked in his other pocket out of sight. Shane’s hard, breathing low and shallow, eyes dark as they watch Ilya come closer.

He presses into Shane’s space, grips his jaw so he can move his head where he wants, tilting it so he can lean in and bite softly up and down his neck.

“Ah, no,” he pulls back as Shane’s hands land on his hips. “I have not given you permission to touch, yet. Back on wall, please.”

Palms flatten against the wall and Ilya presses in close again, kisses his neck in praise. He strokes his hands up and down Shane’s arms, his chest, slides thumbs up and down the sharp V of his hips. But he keeps his own hips tilted away, so the only points of contact are his lips and his hands, even as his erection presses almost painfully against his jeans.

“Ilya,” hands twitch, clench against the wall as a hand slides down and curls, feather light, around his erection.

“Hm?”

“I- I want-”

“You want whatever I give you, no?” Ilya asks, when Shane can’t quite finish his sentence. “You said you would take whatever I give you?”

“I-”

“I will give you what you want,” Ilya promises, “but you must be patient. You can do that, yes?”

Shane heaves in a breath, and nods.

“Yes. Yes,” he repeats when Ilya stays perfectly still. “I can do that.”

Ilya’s hand moves, fingers tracing the delicate veins as Shane’s erection twitches in his hand. Precum beads at the tip and Ilya presses one finger lightly into it, smooths it across the head. Lifts his finger, paints the remainder across Shane’s thick bottom lip and leans in to suck it off, bites down gently. He gets an involuntary jerk of Shane’s hips for that, and Shane forcibly stills himself, gasping.

“Good,” Ilya praises, returns his hand to a gentle stroke. He knows it’s not enough, can see the way Shane clenches his jaw to try and not to press into him for something further. “So good,” he praises again, kisses the tense line of his jaw.

“Do you think when you turn around you can keep your hands still, or do you need help?” he asks, pulls the tie out of his pocket.

Shane swallows, eyes fixed on the fabric. “... help,” he murmurs. 

“Hands, then,” Ilya holds his wrists in front of him for Shane to mimic what he wants of him, and loops the fabric around his wrists in a loose handcuff knot. “Test.” Shane pulls gently, and the tie shifts gently against skin but holds. “Turn around. Forearms on wall.”

Ilya steps back so Shane has the room to do as told. His forearms lean up against the wall, his head rests on his wrists, and Ilya admires the way the position makes his back arch invitingly.

He strokes a hand down his waist, feather light, and without warning lowers his hand down across one ass cheek in a short, smart smack that echoes through the room. Shane gasps, lifts onto his toes with the sting. Ilya’s hand stays on his skin, soothes gently with soft strokes and Shane pushes lightly back into the pressure.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” Shane nods against his wrists.

Ilya gently presses one foot between his ankles, nudges until he parts his legs to where Ilya wants them. He unbuttons his own jeans, the pressure almost unbearable, wetness seeping into the denim, and holds back a groan at the relief.

He pulls out the lube, slicks up his fingers, presses one in in a long, gentle slide to the base. Shane groans, pants against his arm as Ilya crooks it, finds his prostate and grazes it gently as he pulls back out, repeats the motion.

He gasps again as Ilya swats his free hand down on his other cheek, ass clenching tight around Ilya’s finger until he has to grit his own teeth to be able to think past the blood roaring in his veins, echoing with every pulse of his erection.

He goes torturously slowly, one finger and then two, three, for a long few minutes until the first tear falls from Shane’s eye to the floor.

“You are taking everything I give you so well,” Ilya praises softly, keeps up the soft stream of words as he holds three fingers inside him, still for another long few seconds. “Being so, so patient, Shanya.”

Shane just nods, apparently beyond words for the moment as he gasps into one forearm. Ilya twists his fingers, grazes his prostate again and Shane cries out, toes flexing against the hardwood as Ilya pulls hand back before he can tip over the edge.

“Wha-”

“You can take more,” Ilya murmurs in answer, letting his erection press up against Shane’s ass, ruts lightly against the thick curve of it. “You’ve been so patient, you can wait a little longer, Shanya.”

“Please, I need-”

“More, yes I know,” Ilya keeps his voice soft, soothes the sweat-slick skin of Shane’s back with a hand. “But I love seeing you like this, Shanya. All desperate and wanting and all mine.”

Ilya traces a line down the left of Shane’s spine with a finger, draws an ‘R’ next to it. “And no-one knows how pretty you are, like this,” he continues. “How your tears glitter like diamonds, your gasps sound like the sweetest of songs. No-one but me will ever know.”

He presses his fingers back into Shane, eases them back and forth as the other hand traces the “I.R.” into his back over and over again.

“Because you are mine, Shane. Mine to love, to cherish, to worship. Moy korol.”

“Yours,” Shane agrees, and Ilya can see how hard he’s trying not to move, to press back on his fingers. “Please, Ilyusha.”

He crooks his fingers once more, hears the start of a choked breath and stops, pulls back again.

“Fuck,” Shane half-wails, hands flexing against the wall. “Fuck, please.” 

“You said you could take whatever I give you,” Ilya reminds him softly. “You’re doing so, so well, moy lyubimyy. I am so pleased with you, so proud of you. Just a little more, you can do it.”

Shane pants, nods against his arms, tears dripping more rapidly down his face.

“So proud of you,” Ilya repeats, as he pushes his jeans and underwear down, lubes up his dick, groaning. He’s not sure he’ll make it inside Shane without coming.

He presses forward anyway, bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste copper, rests his cockhead against Shane’s hole and teases lightly, pressing forward until it catches and then easing back.

Shane’s legs tremble, back taut and almost vibrating, as Ilya continues like that for a long second. But he can’t help himself, presses in slowly, groans as the tension seems to pour suddenly out of Shane, his back sagging until Ilya has to clutch at his hips to help keep him upright.

It kills him but he holds still when he’s fully seated, whispers to Shane how well he’s taken him, looks so fucking pretty wrapped around his cock, will look even prettier when Ilya comes and can see his spend dripping back out of him, proof that he’s Ilya’s.

He presses a gentle hand to one ass cheek in question, gets a hitched breath and nod in return, and slaps him again, a little harder this time, admires the brief flash of red that comes from the pressure with a primal bolt of heat.

And to his surprise, that sets Shane off, his knees wobbling as come spurts up the wall with the force of it. Ilya groans, gives in, snaps his hips sharp and hard until the sound of his hips smacking into Shane surpasses that of Shane’s soft gasps, and it’s barely any time at all until he’s coming, leaning forward and propping his weight against Shane, glad the hockey player is strong enough to support the both of them even post-orgasm and shaky.

They both work to catch their breath, and Ilya helps Shane gently kneel on the floor as his legs give way as he tries to stand up straight. He crouches and cups one cheek, examines Shane. His boyfriend is floating slightly, and Ilya gently leans in to press a soft kiss to his knuckles as he unwraps the tie still around his wrist, rubs warm circles into the skin to ensure there’s no lingering discomfort.

Once he’s reasonably certain enough time has passed that Shane’s legs will work, he presses their palms together and encourages him to his feet.

“Ilyusha,” Shane sighs as he manages it, but sways and rests his chin on Ilya’s shoulder immediately.

“Come on,” Ilya encourages softly. “Shower, and bed.”

Shane is soft and docile as Ilya leads him into the shower, washes and dries him off carefully. He finds Shane’s favourite pyjamas, helps him into them and then tucks him into the covers.

“I am just going to clean up,” Ilya murmurs, “I will be five minutes.”

Shane nods, sinks into the pillows with a sigh as he closes his eyes.

Ilya hurries, collects their clothes and grabs a damp cloth to wipe down the wall and the floor. He exchanges his own towel, temporarily still wrapped around his waist, for underwear and slides under the covers with Shane, pulls him in close.

“I love you,” Shane murmurs into his shoulder as he settles across Ilya.

“I love you too,” Ilya replies softly in Russian, presses a kiss to his forehead, and follows him into sleep.

Chapter 20: Mr. Muscular

Ilya wakes on Saturday morning alone in bed. He stretches a hand across the sheets but they’re cool, so Shane’s been up for a little while at least.

Ilya finds him sitting at the dining table, murmuring softly on the phone. He sees Ilya and something like apprehension crosses his face and Ilya feels it like a gut punch. Fuck, where had he gone wrong? Something at the pub last night, or after? He’d thought they’d had a good night, but what had he missed?

He does his best to give Shane a modicum of privacy as he turns his back to him while he makes coffee. He thinks over everything last night, tries to figure out where he went wrong, but the low-grade panic is making it hard; the resulting tremors in his hands are strong enough that the coffee ripples across the surface when he picks it up. 

“Ilyusha?”

And maybe it’s not that bad, if Shane’s still using his diminutive.

“Can we talk?”

Or maybe it is.

Ilya closes his eyes briefly for strength, turns and takes the seat opposite Shane with his pulse thick in his throat. Shane watches him carefully, eyes flicking back and forth between Ilya’s eyes and his chin, but seems to be unable to continue the conversation.

“Talk?” Ilya prompts, too gruffly, he knows, and tries to sip his coffee again. He sees it as Shane clocks the way his hands are still shaking, as he frowns and leans forward, reaches over to gently press a hand to his.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… you know I love you, I love us, I love everything we do. Like last night…” Shane exhales shakily, sits back and Ilya sets his coffee down so he can offer a hand across the table, Shane's hand automatically finding its place there and soothing Ilya's nerves a little. “Last night was good, was great, like I wanted everything you gave me so much. So much it scares me.”

“...But?”

“I woke up and just felt… off? And I think- I mean, last night, once we were home we didn’t even kiss? And you didn’t let me touch you, like, at all. 

“Which is fine,” he adds hastily, “usually. I love the games we play, the challenges. But you said I- I had to take everything you gave me, and then it was sort of, of implied, that I’d be able to touch you? And I think I woke up this morning thinking like I didn’t get that, so maybe I wasn’t as good as you wanted me to be? I mean, you told me I was good and I know you wouldn’t lie to me about that, but maybe somewhere I’d done something wrong?

“And then I sort of started spiralling, and realised we didn’t kiss, and it’s nothing you did at all, like I loved everything else, but I don’t know, I felt weird enough about it that I didn’t want to wake you. So I called Mark - my therapist - and his advice was basically just to talk to you about it.

“Which I know I should’ve just done in the first place,” Shane sighs. “But I don’t know. I don’t think I’d have had the words until I talked it through with someone else first. And we don’t really talk much about- about what we do? And I don’t think we need to, most of the time? I think maybe just because I was so stressed about last night for the team dinner and drinks that it all just was a bit overwhelming.

“So. Yeah,” Shane trails off, eyes pinned to where they’re still holding hands on the table. “Sorry.”

“Do not be sorry,” Ilya squeezes his hand tightly, relief and shame filling him in equal measure. “Thank you, for telling me. I am sorry, that I did not realise. You were very good for me, Shanya. Perfect. I am sorry that while I told you that, I did not show you enough.”

“That’s okay,” Shane shakes his head. “I know, I’m just being a bit silly, really-”

“No,” Ilya cuts him off firmly. “Not silly at all. This is important, I am glad you could call your therapist, and tell me. It is scary, but you are brave. Very brave,” he repeats when Shane’s eyes meet his. “Thank you. We should maybe talk about this more, especially when we try something new, like last night.”

“I just, I really did love it,” Shane interjects softly, blush burning across his cheeks, fingers flexing around Ilya’s. “Fuck- just, all of it, I don’t want you to think I didn’t. I know we’ve flirted with not letting me come straight away before, but last night was- frustrating but fucking amazing. And the- the slaps,” his drops into a whisper. “Maybe not often, but sometimes.”

Ilya nods, files the information away. “I will be more careful, when we play like that in future,” he promises. “And you can always ask, Shanya. I know we play, and there is fun in me ordering you to be good for me, but if you need something, like to touch me, I would never deny you.”

“I know,” Shane agrees, and tension eases out of his shoulders as he smiles softly at Ilya. “So, if I said I needed to kiss you right now?”

“Then come here,” Ilya pushes his chair back, pats his lap and smiles as thick hockey thighs straddle him, Shane leaning down for a soft, intimate kiss.

“Thank you,” Ilya repeats as he pulls back, “For being brave and telling me. I… I want you to be able to tell me anything, Shanya. Good or bad. I want to be everything you deserve, everything you need, and I am trying my best but there are things that I miss. Like last night.”

Shane practically melts on top of him, forearms on Ilya’s shoulders as he strokes gently through his hair. “You are already what I deserve, and need,” he replies softly. “I want to tell you more, and I’m working on that, too. It might take time, for both of us, but we’ll get there, I know we will.”

Ilya nods, tilts his face up and gets another kiss in return.

“You have no plans this morning?” Ilya checks. “No gym?”

Shane shakes his head, “Nothing I can’t push.”

“Then let me make it up to you,” Ilya stands, grunts a little with the effort as he brings Shane with him. For all that Ilya’s been getting stronger, Shane’s been packing on muscle in the run-up to the season too. The hockey player loops his legs tightly around Ilya’s hips, as Ilya murmurs Mr. Muscular, takes some of his own weight, smiles against his cheek as Ilya carries him through to the bedroom.

He drops Shane on the bed, tugs off his shorts and toes his own sweatpants off as Shane removes his shirt.

And Shane touches him as much as he wants, takes his fill as Ilya hovers over him, kisses him and kisses him even as he gently preps him, sinks inside. It’s slow, careful, Shane’s hands clutching at Ilya’s back, nails digging in as he comes with a stunning gasp.

He relaxes after, smiles up at Ilya with a soft contented curl of the lips that Ilya has to kiss again. They lie together on the bed for a long few minutes, Shane tracing the lines of Ilya’s cross with the tip of his finger, until eventually the wet spot gets too gross and he gets up to shower while Ilya strips the bed before joining him.

They spend the rest of the day in soft domesticity. They leave briefly to go grocery shopping; although Shane has a new nutritionist through the Admirals setting up a regular meal service, he’s chosen for it not to cover most weekends and his breakfasts, so he still needs fresh vegetables and coffee.

Shane joins him that night too when Ilya goes down to see Max, walks with them around their usual loop to Central Park and back with Ilya’s hand in his. They chat, mostly about how Ilya’s feeling about starting work on Monday, how Shane’s looking forward to pre-season starting officially. The game schedule had been released a while ago, and Shane admits that he keeps automatically looking at Montreal’s logo still, so he’s hoping that actually playing in a couple of games for the Admirals will help it all feel a little more solid.

They curl up to watch a film, Max sprawled across both of them on the sofa, and Ilya returns her to her own apartment before returning to Shane and their bed.

Sunday passes much the same, a slow, ambling walk early in the morning before most of the rest of New York has risen. Shane treats Ilya to pre-first-day pancakes at his old diner, and Dolly smiles brightly at the two of them, adds an extra pancake onto Ilya’s stack and winks at him across the bar.

Ilya runs through his paperwork once more, has Shane check it but all is fine, and he packs a little backpack with the paperwork and other key things. He fucks Shane slowly, gently, on their sides in their bed, tension easing out of his shoulders with the release as well as Shane’s gentle reassurances the rest of the day.

And then Monday morning arrives and Ilya’s dressing in his nicest slacks and plain white shirt. He adds a blazer and tie - would rather be overdressed than under on his first day. Shane doesn’t have to be in until 11, had planned on working out at home first, so he kisses him goodbye, presses him up against the kitchen counter as he finishes his coffee, until Ilya has to stop them before his shirt gets too creased.

He kisses Shane a brief goodbye, and had planned on walking to try to work out some of the nerves bubbling up under his skin, but the rain is too heavy so he borrows one of Shane’s umbrellas as he heads for the subway instead.

Charlie, his new manager, is waiting for him in the lobby as he arrives five minutes early. She smiles at him, offers a handshake which he takes.

“Right,” she says, no nonsense from the get-go, and outlines the plan for today. She’ll show him to their office space first, introduce him to their immediate team. Given pre-season officially starts today there’s a wider meeting planned at 10am, which she’d like Ilya there for, if he’s comfortable with that? He won’t have to contribute, but if he’s happy to give a quick self-introduction that would be great, as colleagues from other teams will be there and he’ll likely be coordinating with a few of them throughout the year. Then HR need to go through his paperwork with him and will sort out a pass, before she’ll give him a tour of the arena and all of the other locations he’ll need to know about.

“The women’s team are off at the secondary rink, today,” she adds, “The boys get priority for the main one here. But they’ll be in tomorrow, so I’ll introduce you to them as well as soon as we can.”

Ilya nods to it all, and follows her like a baby duckling as she leads him through the facility and accompanying offices. She tells him not to worry if he forgets where anything is, so long as he can make it from the employee entrance to the office there’ll always be another person from the team around and happy to help until he gets used to it.

“It look me like six months,” she confides, “before I could remember where everything was, so don’t worry if it takes you a while.”

She also mentions he’ll get a tour of the secondary rink at some point, but they’re not there very often, and usually have local staff with them when they do go, so there’s no real rush on that front.

The office is open plan, and Charlie explains how the support teams for both the men’s and women’s team sit together to share insights and help each other. It hadn’t always been this way, she adds, but when the new CEO came in a couple of years ago she’d really focused on promoting the women’s team more and had been pretty successful with it, which is why they’ve been expanding the team, including with Ilya’s role.

He’s got a desk next to Charlie’s, as they’ll be working closest together, at the head of a table of six. Their other deskmates are also the support team for the women’s team: Shaz, who coordinates travel and hotels and her assistant Rex; Eddie, who coordinates the external stakeholders through the relevant teams, like press and outreach; and Liz, who does similar but for internal stakeholders, like medical and their social media team. 

They all greet him warmly, promise they won’t mind if he forgets their names, and welcome him to the team. He’s told that they planned on all getting lunch together, there’s a little food hall in the building next door and they’ve booked a meeting room to bring back takeout, if he’s happy with that?

He nods, and is shown around the rest of the office and the key team’s desks he’ll need to know; HR, Comms and so on. He gets more warm welcomes, echoed in the team meeting when Charlie briefly introduces him.

But the office is nice, his officemates more so, and there’s a sense of anticipation and excitement in the air as they all dive into their work. HR are smooth and professional, Sally leading him through his paperwork and nodding in satisfaction when all seems to be completed to her standards.

“We’ll get your pass sorted and have that to you by the end of lunch,” she promises as she files it all away neatly. “We just have a couple more items to check with you. The first is whether or not you want to disclose your relationship with Shane to your wider team?”

Ilya hesitates, glances between her and Charlie as if he can work out what they want him to do. Sally smiles at him, but it’s Charlie who speaks. “We honestly don’t mind either way, Ilya. You’re not directly supporting him, and we have the conflict of interest declaration from both of you, so we’re all covered on that front. But sometimes the players come by the office when we need something, and we wouldn’t want you or Shane to feel like you have to hide, or not interact in what we want to be a professional but supportive environment for you both.”

“I would like to,” Ilya says slowly, “but I would like to check with Shane, first, that he is also comfortable. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Charlie affirms. “There’s no rush on this at all. And we don’t need to make an announcement or anything, of course, but the team is quite a close-knit one, we share about our personal lives and partners and weekend plans and things, and we hope you’ll join us if you want to.

“But all employees have signed NDAs, as have you, to keep any confidential information about players that they’ve not made public themselves confidential - including relationship statuses. There will be strong repercussions if anyone were to break that, so we hope that reassures you that even if you both choose to share, it will not leave this building.”

Ilya nods and thanks them. Sally moves onto her next question about health insurance. Ilya had been honest on his medical forms; he had mentioned his knee, the history of depression. She assures him that both are covered, and particularly if he needs anything for the latter he only has to speak to one of them. They also have a therapist on staff, she explains, and although she’s mostly there to support the players, is available for all employees if needed. Again, all confidential, and the process to speak to her is outlined in the Employee Handbook which he has a copy of in his desk.

Ilya’s a little overwhelmed by it all, and lunch comes at a good time. He follows the team down to the foodhall next door, copies Eddie in getting a thick sandwich and coke, and they all sit in a little meeting room just down from the office, chatting and eating. The vibe is warm and welcoming, and Liz sits next to him, tells him she also felt insanely overwhelmed on her first day so if there’s anything she or the others can do just to say. They talk a little about their jobs, about what they do and how they think the next season will go, but there’ll be a team meeting every Tuesday and Thursday where they’ll go through all of the key things together. 

He learns a little about them, that Eddie prefers they/them pronouns, and is a New York native; Liz is from L.A. but moved over here to be with her husband, who’s a professor at NYU; Shaz is from New Jersey and moved to New York for university and never left; Rex is from Montreal, was working for the Montreal women’s team but left last year when upper management got weirdly toxic for reasons that were never shared with the staff (and Ilya has to told his tongue, at that). Charlie goes last, tells him that she’s from Georgia where hockey isn’t much of a thing - she fell in love with the game, though was never good enough to go pro, so thought that supporting a team as a way to stay close and involved was the next best thing.

Ilya shares too, mentions he’s from Russia, that he came over to study when things went pear-shaped with his own hockey career, and that he’s recently moved in with his boyfriend in the city.

Shaz takes over after lunch, as Charlie is requested by one of the marketing teams for a quick chat, and shows him around the arena. The tour takes a good hour, as she shows him the main arena itself, and Ilya pauses at the top of the stands as he sees the men emerge for an afternoon practice. He can see Shane, the big 24 on his back, as he skates around the edge of the ice fluidly. He can’t linger to watch, though, as Shaz leads the way out, down quickly to the locker rooms; a few of the other key spots like the Press Room and equipment room and so on before looping back up towards the offices.

“We’ve got the second practice facility as well,” she adds. “About thirty minutes out of the city. Unfortunately despite our protests some of the schedulers are pretty biased in the men’s favour, so the women end up at the other rink more than they should. It’s not fair - the women get paid less, too, so it’s even harder for them having to commute further out of the city and while we managed to get cars for them last year, some of them have second jobs so it cuts into their time. We think it should be an equal split, but we’ve not had much luck getting that through the facilities teams' thick skulls. 

“But anyway, rant over,” she says as they enter the office. “You’ll be told this a lot over the next couple of weeks, but it’s because we actually mean it - we don’t expect you to remember everything you learn over the next few days. It’s a lot to take in, and we’ve worked hard to set up the team so that you can just ask whatever questions you might have, no matter how basic you might think them. There’s no such thing as a silly question, yeah?”

Ilya nods, thanks her for the tour and the reassurance. He finds his name badge and lanyard on his desk, signs the little form to say he’s received it and drops it back at HR’s bank of desks.

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly; Charlie takes him through the computer systems he’ll need to know, points him to the guidance in the handbook where he might need it in future, outlines the plan for the next week or so, which is mostly just getting him up to speed. She’ll cover most of the work, but make sure he can see every step she takes so he can start taking over when he feels ready.

Ilya returns home absolutely exhausted, so much English and so many new people and processes and places that his head spins.

Shane’s not home yet so he collapses on the sofa, closes his eyes for a long minute and just lets his brain whir through it all.

He surfaces from his half-doze when the front door shuts and sees Shane’s legs come into view as he approaches.

“Hey,” Shane crouches next to him, and Ilya reaches out to tug his hand, shifting over on the sofa until Shane joins him, wraps himself around Ilya. “How was it?”

“Was good,” Ilya replies honestly. “A lot, but good. Team seems nice, manager seems nice. Got to see you, only for a second, on ice. But lots of English, lots of new things to remember. Very tiring.”

Shane hums softly, squeezes him close. “I’m glad it was good."

They lie together in silence for a bit until Ilya's stomach growls and Shane huffs a little laugh, pats his abs as if in comfort. "I was thinking I could make dinner? Something easy - salmon?”

“Please,” Ilya agrees, and hauls himself to his feet and moves over to the counter stools so he can watch Shane as he cooks.

“They asked if I want to- ugh, I forget the word. Not discuss. Tell? About relationship.”

“Disclose?” Shane offers, and Ilya nods in agreement.

“Yes. Said no-one would tell outside office, but that they did not want us to feel like we could not say, or speak if we run into each other.”

“I don’t mind if you tell your team,” Shane promises, glancing up at Ilya as he slices into broccoli. “Your manager already knows anyway, right? If your team seem nice and you want to tell them, then I’m happy with that.”

“Okay,” Ilya nods. “When next chance comes up, I will say.”

“Okay,” Shane nods back with a smile.

“How was your day?”

Ilya watches and listens as Shane talks about practice, about meeting the last couple of team members. The new rookie was clearly a little overwhelmed but keen, and Scott was taking him neatly under his wing. But the rink is good, Shane has mostly been using the second facility for his free-skates, so it’s nice to see what the one they’ll be playing on is like too.

And it’s nice, the way Shane’s relaxed as he talks about his teammates, about how they seemed to be clicking on the ice already; though none were quite as fast as him, Shane didn’t quite think he’d need to compensate too hard to start with.

Ilya watches him fondly, relieved that Shane doesn’t seem to need much input as he talks as he’s not sure he’s got much brain power left to contribute. Dinner helps, food imparting some additional energy, enough that Ilya can lift Shane onto the dining room table to blow him in thanks for cooking, but they don’t stay up much longer after that.

The rest of Ilya’s first week goes well.

He’s introduced to the women’s team on the second day, after their post-practice analysis session. Charlie steals five minutes of their time before they leave for his introduction and to outline the key things for this season and where Ilya and Charlie and the rest of the team will be supporting.

As the days go on he’s praised for picking things up quickly, falls into the routine of it all and makes copious notes so he can refer back to what he’s done well and where he’s found something doesn’t work as well. The team tends to eat together every day, a mix of bringing their own lunches in and dipping out quickly to grab something, and Ilya finds himself really liking all of his colleagues as he gets to know them more.

He gets to mention Shane as his boyfriend one lunch as talk turns to the new season, and naturally Hollander is a hot topic. He gets a couple of excited questions, mostly about how Shane feels about the Admirals so far, and is pleased he can be honest and say nothing but good things. 

But he doesn’t see Shane at work again until Friday morning, when he’s the last to exit a meeting with Charlie and Hunter is leading Shane and the new Russian rookie out of the office.

“Ilya,” Shane beams at him. “Hey.”

“Hi, Shane,” Ilya can’t help smiling back at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Just a couple of extra forms for HR.” Ilya wants to reach out, but can feel Charlie waiting patiently by his side, and introduces her instead.

“Lovely to meet you,” Shane says, stepping forward to offer his hand. “And this is Hunter, and Petrov,” he gestures to his coworkers, setting off a quick round of ‘hello’s and ‘nice to meet you’s.

He gets a nod in greeting from Scott, but the rookie’s gone pale as he stares at Ilya with wide eyes.

“Ilya? Rozanov? Ilya Rozanov? I thought- aren’t you dead?” he asks in Russian, and Ilya feels the blood rush from his face and chest turn cold.

“Ah, obviously not,” he manages to reply, but all eyes have turned to them, Shane, Charlie and Hunter all frowning in concern. “This is what they are saying?”

“Maybe we take this into the meeting room?” Charlie interrupts, glancing between them. “And is this something you need me for, Ilya?”

“I-” Ilya flounders, pulls out English from somewhere, “Um, maybe? He- um- people think I’m dead?”

“... Okay,” Charlie nods, and steers all four of the men back into the meeting room. “I’m not going to call HR right now, because clearly this is some weird sort of misunderstanding, and I think we need to talk it through before next steps,” she outlines in her best no-nonsense voice that Ilya’s quickly getting used to as she deals with people who don’t do exactly what she wants. It’s not been directed at him, yet, and while he’s been glad for that it cuts through the haze in his head as he sits.

Shane sits next to him, carefully reaches out to take a hand and Ilya clings a little too tightly as he stares at the rookie, who’s now avoiding his eyes as he takes the seat opposite, Scott at his side. Charlie sits at the head of the table, hands clasped on her lap.

“Right. So Petrov was under the understanding that you- you’re dead?” she asks.

“Yes,” Petrov says in a thick accent. “Was announced in Russia, this Spring. Ilya Rozanov is dead.”

“But he’s clearly not,” Scott blurts. “What the fuck?”

Ilya closes his eyes, hysteria welling in his chest. “I ran away,” he admits. “Is long story, but things were… not good. I came on student visa, without telling my family, and I always wondered if they had worked it out but I… I guess not?”

“I cannot translate as well as you,” Petrov tells him in Russian, “But they said you did as your mama,” Petrov murmurs softly and Ilya feels his breath catch, Shane’s hand squeeze his tighter in response. “That you gave up when you could not play again.”

“Fuck,” Ilya squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “My father? My brother?”

“Yes. They had no funeral, but I do not know now whether that is because they did not want to, or because they know you are alive and so they are lying and expect you to never return.”

Ilya nods again, swallows tightly, struggles to find any words. 

“Ilyusha?” Shane whispers softly, and Ilya ignores the way Petrov starts as if he’s had an electric shock when Ilya raises his hand to his mouth for a reassuring kiss.

“They were that bad?” Petrov continues.

“Yes,” Ilya replies, “If I had stayed much longer, maybe what they said would not have been a lie.”

Petrov’s eyes darken as a cloud of thunder passes across his face, and he nods sharply.

“Could someone loop us in?” Charlie asks gently, when they both fall silent.

“I-,” Ilya laughs involuntarily, the sound pulled from his stomach as he places his free hand over his eyes. “Sorry. My family has told everyone I am dead. Whether they know it to be a lie or not I do not know, but.”

“Will this be a problem?”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head, as Petrov echoes him.

“I am sorry,” Petrov says, a little stilted. “I was… surprised. I look up to Rozanov, when I was young. He was best, everyone knew he was going to draft, would be one of best hockey players in world. I wanted to do same. And then, news of injury. Was very… secret. No-one would say if he comes back, and he disappeared. Has been long time, now, I think many other not-hockey people would not remember.”

And what a small fucking world, Ilya thinks ruefully. He knows his father had pushed for his notoriety, his popularity in Russia when it was clear he was one of the best of his generation, but to have a new rookie recognise him after so long…

“I will not say anything,” Petrov continues, breaking Ilya’s line of thought. “I promise, Rozanov. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you,” Ilya replies softly. “I think we are fine,” he announces to the wider room. “I am sorry for any… concern this has caused.”

“Okay,” Charlie agrees cautiously. “I trust you to know what is best here. But if you - any of you - need anything further on this, come and talk to me, okay? Maybe just me, for now, since I don’t think we want this spreading around.”

“Okay,” Ilya and Petrov agree.

“Right,” she nods again, and stands. “Ilya, take your time. There’s nothing urgent I need your help with until after lunch, so if you want to take a longer lunch then please do. I’ll be at my desk, if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Ilya murmurs and she leaves.

“I think we’ll leave you to it,” Scott says, glancing between Shane and Ilya. “Come on, Petrov. Shane, I’ll let the coaches know you’ve just had to do… something. Come on down whenever you’re ready.”

Shane echoes his thanks, and the other two hockey players leave the room, shutting the door softly behind them.

“How are you doing?” Shane asks softly, as Ilya stares at the table, processes.

“Okay. Not good... Probably bad,” he admits. “I- dead?”

“I’m so sorry, Ilyusha.”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “Do not be sorry. In some ways, this is good, no? Father, brother are not going to look for me now, if they have told the world I am dead. I am more free, in a way I was not before.

“Fuck, but I should tell Sveta,” Ilya groans, rubs his free hand over his face to try and rub away the way his brain is lagging.

“Now?” Shane checks, already pulling out his phone.

“Yes, okay,” Ilya nods, and Shane puts the call on speaker between them as she answers almost immediately.

“Shane?”

“Hey, Svetlana,” Shane murmurs slowly. “You’re on speaker, with me and Ilya.”

“Ilyusha?” her voice is worried, sharp through the speaker.

“Sveta. I am okay. Do not worry. But- ah,” he tells her about the last fifteen minutes, the news that whoever still cared to know what happened to him probably thinks he’s dead.

“Fuck,” she swears lowly. “What even the fuck. No-one told me.” 

Shane holds his hand throughout the whole thing, as Sveta breathes out, says she’ll put out some discreet feelers, and promises she’ll call him again soon.

“What do you need?” Shane murmurs as she hangs up and he tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Do you want to go for a long lunch?”

“I- no,” Ilya shakes his head, the thought tempting but he knows it won’t really help. “Is still my first week, and I do not want this to affect how they see me, more than it has. I think I will go back to work. Unless you need?”

“Not as long as you’re okay,” Shane promises, “I finish at 4, so I’ll wait for you instead, maybe? We can go home together?”

“I would like that,” Ilya agrees, leans in to accept a gentle kiss. “Thank you.”

“I’ll keep my phone on me, though, so if you need anything.” They stand, tuck the chairs back under the table, and Ilya accepts the hug Shane offers, breathes in the soft smell of smoke and vanilla and lets it comfort him further.

“I will let you know,” Ilya promises. “But go, I’m sure your teammates are waiting. Maybe check Petrov is okay? Must be very weird for him.”

Shane huffs a laugh, “for us all,” he agrees. “But yeah. I’ll see you later.”

Shane heads down the corridor and Ilya returns to his desk. Charlie offers a genial smile when she sees him and he musters up a smile back, setting his shoulders.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters when no-one else appears to be listening.

“No, not your fault,” she denies. “As I said, let me know if you need anything, but otherwise we’ll put that behind us and just keep going. I’ve got a meeting later I’d like you to come along to, and ideally get your input on what we can do better going forward.”

She takes him through the papers for the meeting and he’s grateful for the return to focus on work, that Charlie seems to back up her words with actions as the incident isn’t mentioned again.

They have lunch out, treating themselves for a Friday and the end of Ilya’s first week, and the afternoon passes quickly with meetings and notes. 

He sees Shane arrive through the door of the office at 5pm, and starts packing up with a smile. Most of his team are doing the same and he waves goodbye, wishes them a good weekend, gets the same in return.

He brushes his fingers against Shane’s briefly as he reaches him, and is pleased when Shane takes his hand as they leave. It’s a nice enough evening that they agree to walk the hour or so home.

They talk about how their afternoons had been, post-impromptu-meeting. Ilya talks about Charlie’s non-reaction and the team celebrating the end of his first week with their lunch. 

Shane mentions that Petrov had approached Shane, promised him again that he wouldn’t say anything, and that he looks forward to playing with him over the season.

“He really does seem like a good guy,” Shane admits. “Though I know I’m not old but there’s something about him that makes me feel it. It’s gotta be scary for him, too, moving abroad on his own. I know he’s got a fair bit of support from the team, and Jalo’s hosting him while he finds his own apartment to make sure he’s settling well too, but.”

“Is scary,” Ilya agrees. “New country. Everything being in your second language, is often… exhausting, especially at the start.”

Shane squeezes his hand lightly. “And you did it all on your own,” he murmurs softly. “So strong, my Ilya.”

“Yours,” Ilya agrees.

Chapter 21: Mr. Slapshot

August passes by as Ilya and Shane adapt to a new routine.

Shane works longer hours than he has before, attending every optional skate and strategy meeting. The Men’s Health magazine shoot takes up one of his weekends, which Ilya uses to pick back up some of the charity set up planning he’s otherwise neglected recently.

Ilya gets used to his work slowly, is given more bits and pieces as he picks things up. He still has his evenings with Max, an often-needed stress release as he can tell her everything he’s worried about in Russian and she continues to enjoy his company without judgement. 

He also keeps his evenings with Cliff, and finds it a good stress relief as they both talk about learning the ropes of new jobs, as well as just being nice to hang out with a friend. Ilya keeps meaning to invite him over at some point to meet Shane, but as they lose some of their time together to work he finds he’s reluctant to give up any more, even for friends.

He and Shane often wait for each other so they can walk back home together when their schedules allow, usually once or twice a week. Ilya recounts at one point Shaz’s rant about the women/men split of the main arena, and a couple of weeks later Shane mentions that it had been rejigged, after he’d passed it on to Hunter who’d taken it to the GM. Ilya, seeing the pleased smiles on his teams’ faces, rewards Shane by blowing him as he fucks him with his dildo - boxes finally arrived from Montreal - and letting him come all over Ilya’s face.

Ilya gets to go to see a women’s team match - they all get free tickets if there are seats left on the night, which unfortunately is almost always for the women’s games. He can’t make all of them, as two of the three played at home are the nights he’s looking after Max, but he joins Shaz and Rex for the night he’s free. Although sitting on the other side of the ice is a little heart-wrenching, the atmosphere is lively and jovial enough to temper the memories a little, and Ilya vows to drag Shane to a women’s game at some point this season if their schedules work out.

Meanwhile Shane grows a mixture of more content with his team as they learn how to play together, and more excited for the official season. He particularly likes Petrov, who’s almost as fast on the wing as him, and together they’re putting forward a pretty formidable line. 

And Ilya finds himself liking Petrov, too. Ilya often waits for Shane in the stands when Shane has a later practice, able to watch the team scrimmage and try new plays together. Petrov spots him one Thursday afternoon, and waves him down as Shane and Scott discuss something with their coach across the ice, eyebrows furrowed and intent.

“Hey,” Ilya greets Petrov as he stops on the other side of the boards.

“Hi. I just- I wanted to apologise again for the other day. Shane told me it was your first week, too, and I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“No worries. If anything, it was good for me to know that there are few people in Russia who might still be looking for me,” Ilya promises. And then he asks, because he sees something of himself in the right-winger, and because Shane would want him to, “You’re settling in okay? Jalo a good roommate?”

“Yes, I like New York,” Petrov beams, “and it’s nice to be with another European - some of these Americans are so loud.”

Ilya laughs at that, can’t disagree. “Is why I am with a Canadian. Much politer, much quieter.”

“You are together, then? I did not want to assume, but.”

“No-one told you? Was in the group chat I think, no?”

“Ah, I’ve only just got my American phone to join that,” Petrov admits sheepishly. “There were references, but nothing explicitly stating whether you were or not, and I did not want to make it awkward by asking.”

“We are,” Ilya confirms. “Hunter and Bennett are also dating men, in case you didn’t know that either.”

“I knew about Hunter, and the suggestion was there too about Bennett.”

“That okay with you?”

Petrov flushes, glances around the ice as if to make sure no-one else was listening. “Yes. I am not homophobe. I am not gay, but-” he hesitates, and Ilya waits, gives him space, “I am also not… normal? I do- I do not think I like anyone, in that way.”

Ilya makes sure his face remains unsurprised and non-judgemental. “That’s okay. I am not aware of all the different sexualities and labels and everything myself, but I highly doubt you are the only one who feels that way. It’s also okay if you don’t know yet, or don’t want to put a label on it. You are old enough to know who you are, but young enough that there is time to figure it out, if you want to.”

Petrov nods, and Ilya pretends he hasn’t seen the sheen in his eyes as he looks out at the rink.

“You do not want to join us?” he asks, gesturing onto the ice. “Practice is over, you would be welcome.”

Ilya shakes his head. “I have not skated for a long time.”

“I’m sorry. You cannot at all anymore?”

Ilya sighs, “I can skate, but only like a child. Can not risk checks, or bad hits, or trips, or could be very bad for my knee. Means no hockey, really.”

“We could be gentle,” Petrov cajoles, and Ilya can’t help but laugh. Hockey players are not known for being gentle.

The sound of skates on ice approaching rapidly, and Ilya finds his hands covered on the board as Shane skids to a halt next to him. He pauses for a second, worry flitting across his face, before determination wipes it away and he leans in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Hey. Sorry, I’ll be another fifteen minutes? Just need to change.”

“No rush,” Ilya waves him off.

“You guys okay?” he glances between the two of them.

“Yes,” Ilya reassures.

“I invited Rozanov to skate with us,” Petrov adds, and Shane’s eyes are almost blinding in their sudden intensity.

“I assumed- with your knee?” Shane asks, and Ilya shrugs.

“I could still skate, if I was very careful. But I have not wanted to risk it - if I fall wrong on my knee, it could be very bad. And while I have health insurance now, has not always been so.”

Shane nods, looks a little disappointed if understanding. “But one day, maybe,” Ilya finds himself saying to take that look off his face, and Shane smiles fondly back at him.

He skates off, goes to change while Ilya waits. Petrov follows quickly after, but before he goes Ilya tells him to get his phone number off Shane, and if he has any questions, or gets tired of speaking English, Ilya’d be happy to help, and gets back a giant smile from the teenager.

“Petrov’s nice,” Ilya murmurs as they start their walk home. 

“He is,” Shane agrees. “I don’t want to say young because we’re only like five years older, but there’s something kind of… innocent, I guess, about him? I gave him your number, by the way, he said you offered.”

Ilya nods, “He apologised, for last week. And I know a little of what it is like, to move to a foreign country, although not as young or inexperienced. If I can make it easier for him, even a little, then I would like to.”

Shane’s hand tightens around his, and he picks up speed a bit. Ilya matches it, a little confused but willing.

“I want you,” Shane murmurs, “Fuck, Ilya. I just-”

He has to say no more, as Ilya grins and speeds up again until they’re jogging home as fast as Ilya’s loafers will let him.

He gets a call from Sveta in the last few days of August, as he’s walking Max one evening.

“You have time?” she asks, sounding serious when he answers the phone.

“Yes, but I am walking Max.”

“That’s fine. It’s about your whole ‘being dead’ thing.” Ilya feels the pit of vipers in his stomach rear up with a vengeance, he’d been trying to avoid any and all reminders that he’d have to deal with this eventually.

“Good news, you’re not legally dead,” Sveta starts. “Your father has tried, but no judge has been willing to be the one to confirm, especially with a lack of body. The fact that they can’t find your passport, and I have someone spending the little money left in your account every couple of months, means that they cannot definitively say that you are dead.”

Ilya breathes out slowly, “This is good?” he asks.

“I do not know what being legally dead would do to your visa status,” Sveta adds, and that’s a whole other fucking thing Ilya hadn’t considered. “So yes, I think good.

“Less good is your father is still trying. He hasn’t found a judge yet, but it may just be a matter of time. The other thing is… if Shane does come out, like he plans…” Sveta sighs, “You realise you will be in the news, too? Hollander is big hockey news, even in Russia, and it is likely that they will see the photos and realise that you are definitely not dead.”

“Fuck,” Ilya hisses, and apologises to Max when he jerks on her lead a little harshly as he goes to run a hand through his hair.

“They may then look to revoke your passport, if they think this is a big enough deal,” Sveta murmurs. 

“I am not famous enough anymore,” Ilya argues, but he knows there’s a kernel of possibility in her reasoning.

“I think you should still talk to an immigration lawyer,” Sveta advises reasonably. “I think while you have a work visa it will be fine, but you should be thinking about the future, Ilyusha.”

Ilya concedes, promises he’ll reach out to a lawyer as soon as he can, and that he’ll call her if he needs any help with anything. They catch up briefly, before signing off and Ilya finishes his walk with Max with low-grade anxiety buzzing through his veins.

It’s bad enough that Shane rouses when he slips into bed, tense and staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing. Ilya repeats the conversation with Sveta, the news and that he’ll need to find a decent lawyer. Shane’s immediately in crisis-mode, is making plans and even notes down a couple of things on his phone to look up in the morning, and by the time they’ve talked it all through it’s been forty minutes, they have a list of steps and things to do, and Ilya’s settled enough with the show of support that he can sleep.

Early September brings with it a meeting with an immigration lawyer, who assures them that as long as Ilya has a work visa he’ll likely be okay, and they can explore claiming for asylum or similar if the worst comes to pass. Shane also passes on the concerns about potential ramifications for Ilya when he comes out to the team setting out the plan for Shane’s coming out. The team promise to ensure that those outcomes are considered as well as they retune and refine with the new information.

In addition, Ilya sees a ramp up of work, making sure everything is set up for the women’s exhibition matches, and a corresponding increase in industriousness in Shane as he makes sure he’s ready for his own.

“I’m weirdly not as worried about it as I thought I would be,” Shane admits. It’s Monday morning, and their first match is an away game against New Jersey on Wednesday night. It’s only an hour away, so the team bus will be taking them there and back the same day, though he’ll be back late. “The team’s actually gelling really well. I think we’ve got a real shot against Jersey, even if it’s not home ice advantage.”

“And when you win, we can celebrate,” Ilya promises, biting gently at his neck.

“One orgasm per goal, right?” Shane re-confirms, grinning as Ilya wrestles him onto his back.

“One orgasm per goal,” Ilya agrees, and kisses him. “Though maybe a few more, for luck.”

A couple of days later, Shane’s celebrating his beautiful slapshot goal against New Jersey by riding Ilya’s dick, slick and slow as he digs his fingers into Ilya’s chest to brace himself, soft gasps and trembling thighs. 

“Fuck, Mr. Slapshot,” Ilya purrs. “Such a beautiful goal, almost as beautiful as you right now. Cannot wait for rest of season, for many, many more like this.”

Fingernails dig into his skin as Shane whimpers and Ilya hisses at the pleasurable sting, presses one foot into the mattress to fuck up into Shane a little harder, wraps his hand around his erection and thumbs at the head until he’s coming, Ilya helpless not to follow.

The pre-season continues in a similar vein, the Admirals doing relatively well as they try out new formations and test out new players. Shane plays in four of the six games, is out for the home game against New Jersey and the away against Philadelphia; he’s senior enough that he doesn’t need as much practise and coaching as many of the less experienced players, but he’s still getting used to this new style of play. As far as Ilya can tell, the team play as they act: much more inclusively than Montreal. Shane’s had to re-learn how to be able to expect his linemates to be where he needs them to be. It’s taken him a couple of weeks, but he thinks he’s getting there.

Ilya knows he’s lucky in the pre-season, as both New Jersey and Philadelphia are close enough that the team takes the bus there and back for a day trip. He’s not had to stay alone in their apartment at all, and hasn’t slept alone since moving in with Shane, so is dreading it slightly when Shane leaves for the overnight trip to Boston for their last pre-season game.

Luckily he has Max the same night, so at least he’ll have some company. Shane texts him most of the bus ride, too, but is rooming with Petrov - he and Hunter have agreed to take it in turns throughout the season to room with him or have their own solo room - so they can’t call after the match in private.

He takes Max for her walk, and they sit and watch the game together on TV. Shane plays well, though he’s not on the ice as often as he will be for official games, the rest of the team getting a chance to figure out what works and what doesn’t. They win with a comfortable 2-1, Shane with one goal, Hunter the other, and Ilya smiles in satisfaction as he thinks of the various options to reward Shane when he comes home.

But even though Ilya stays a little past his usual time with Max to try and tire himself out, the bed is too big without Shane. Ilya ends up hugging one of Shane’s pillows to his chest to even be able to fall into a restless sleep.

He wakes tired, dresses and reminds himself that Shane will be home tonight. His phone chimes with a message on his way to work, and the tinge of exhaustion is pushed away by the photo of Sveta, Shane and Petrov at breakfast together. 

08:48 | From: Sveta

Shane’s new Russian is very cute

08:49 | To: Sveta

Fuck you
Tell Shane he looks very pretty today

10:45 | From: Shane

On the bus home!
Really missed you last night, can’t wait to see you <3

10:51 | From: Sveta

Tell him yourself
You are welcome, btw
Also, he says he has not got you a jersey yet? What happened to yours?

And Ilya realises he’d almost entirely forgotten about the Admirals’ jersey Sveta had bought for him before Pride, almost three months ago now. They’d packed it in his big suitcase in the cupboard so Shane wouldn’t accidentally stumble upon it, but Ilya barely goes into the closet himself so it had slipped his mind with everything else that had happened since. 

He makes a note on the back of his hand to find it later, and throws himself into his work. The women’s team have had their first few matches, so there have been a few issues found in current processes that Ilya and Charlie are working to improve before the season ramps up in earnest.

He takes the subway home, knows Shane won’t be long as his bus is somewhere in Manhattan according to his latest text. He digs out the jersey, strips off his work shirt and pulls it over his head, and packs his suitcase away just as he hears the front door open.

“Ilyusha?” Shane calls, “Are you home yet?”

Ilya walks around the corner, soft smile on his face which blooms into a grin as Shane stops dead and stares at him.

“You like?” Ilya asks, turning around so Shane can see his name on his back.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes, and next thing he knows Ilya’s being practically tackled to the floor. “Fuck, what the fuck. When did you get this?” Shane murmurs between desperate kisses, the weight of him pinning Ilya to the floor. “Why is this so hot?”

Ilya grins, kisses Shane back hard, gets swept up in it and can feel Shane is too, as he grasps his chin firmly to hold him steady for more kisses.

“You like that I am yours,” Ilya reminds him. “And I am not, and will never be, ashamed or afraid to show it.”

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane staggers to his feet, hauls Ilya up. “Shit, wait a sec.”

Ilya frowns as Shane stumbles back over to where he’d dropped his bag. 

“It’s sort of on this topic, but I, um, I bought you something,” Shane says lowly as he digs through the front compartment. “Svetlana helped, but.”

“Is this why she text me ‘you are welcome’?” 

“Probably,” Shane turns around, a little velvet box in his hands and Ilya feels his heart stop.

“It’s not a ring,” Shane says suddenly, and Ilya wonders at the little swoop of disappointment in his gut, which soars upwards again when he adds softly, “not yet.”

“One day,” Ilya murmurs and Shane's eyes snap to his as he nods minutely, sheen glimmering under his lashes as he approaches Ilya slowly.

“I just- ever since Pride, and seeing Svetlana’s diamonds in your ears, well…” Shane shrugs, hands the box to Ilya almost sheepishly. “I’ve thought about it maybe way too often.

“And I know you don’t really like when money is a thing but it really isn’t to me, and I just- you’ve been so fucking patient with me and you’ve been working really hard and I see it, Ilyusha, I do, even as I’m not so good at telling you, not like you tell me.

“So I saw Svetlana wearing hers this morning and asked her where I could maybe get a similar pair,” and at that Ilya finally pushes up the lid, stares at the twinkle of diamonds glistening on black velvet, “and she took me straight to this jewellery store before we got on the bus and helped me pick these out.

“They’re not quite the same as hers,” Shane adds anxiously, as Ilya can only stare, “but I think you look nice in gold, and they match your mother’s cross that way. And they’re 24-carat, which I’ve been told is the best and you deserve the best, and also Svetlana might have laughed at the fact that it’s the same as my number, so.”

“I love them,” Ilya interrupts before Shane can spiral into further unnecessary explanation, before Ilya can lose any more breath at just how fucking thoughtful his boyfriend is. “Put them in for me?”

Shane blinks, lips parting as he looks at the delicate jewels in front of him. “I’ve never done that before.”

“No?” Ilya snorts a laugh, “that does not surprise me. But is easy, I will help if you need.”

Shane nods, and Ilya holds the box steady as he plucks one earring gently from the fabric, slides off the back. Ilya tilts his head sideways, so Shane has a better view and access, and hums lowly as he feels the metal press through the hole in his earlobe.

Shane’s hands are perfectly steady as his fingers affix the back, and Ilya tilts his head the other way as he repeats the process on the other side.

He realises they’ve both been holding their breath as Shane steps back and inhales sharply.

“Good?”

“Very,” Shane nods, eyes dark as they flit back and forth from ear-to-ear, and Ilya shakes his head lightly so that the diamonds can hopefully catch some of the dim lounge lighting and hears Shane gasp. 

“Bedroom, now. Please.”

Ilya grins at him, turns so Shane can see the jersey from the back again, the glitter of the diamond in his ears as he saunters down the hallway to the bedroom. “You want me to fuck you while I’m wearing your jersey, and your diamonds?” he offers, unbuttoning his trousers and letting gravity pull them down, kicking them to one side before toeing off his socks.

Shane seems to lose the ability to form words for a second, and nods eagerly instead, peeling his own clothes off to fold and place them on the dresser.

“I scored a goal,” he adds, as he stalks towards Ilya, now sitting back on the bed.

“I know, I was watching. Not a bad goal, but you missed the earlier opportunity against Smith. Very wasteful, number 24.”

Shane huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “Only you would criticise my hockey as we’re about to fuck.”

“Mm, probably not only me,” Ilya refutes, but pulls Shane towards him, over him until Ilya can roll over and press him down into the mattress. “But we will never know.”

Shane grins into his mouth as they kiss, loops a leg around his hips. “I could barely sleep last night, in my defence,” he breathes, one hand stroking his hands up Ilya’s back and tracing the ‘24’ printed on the jersey, the other cupping his ear and brushing over the stud in it. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, moy lyubimyy. Was not right without you, this bed.”

Shane softens, and Ilya uses the opportunity to slide a hand between them and wrap around him. Shane gasps, arches into him, heel digging into the back of one thigh. Ilya wastes no time opening him up, slick fingers pressing in until Shane’s pleading and Ilya replaces them with his cock.

“You played so well,” Ilya compliments softly as he thrusts gently, making sure Shane’s ready. “Will only get better this season. I will only be prouder to wear your jersey, moy korol, until I will never take it off. Let everybody know you are mine, and I am yours, forever.”

Shane nods wildly, bites at Ilya’s ear, licks over a diamond as he keeps pressing into him. “Yes, please, Ilyusha.”

Ilya shifts slightly, until he can tilt his hips, adjust Shane’s that extra centimetre so he hits his prostate just right and Shane’s coming, head thrown back into the pillows as he arches under Ilya. The sight sets Ilya off until he’s doing the same, pulling out to add to Shane’s mess, marking him as his even as the jersey marks him as Shane’s.

“Holy shit,” Shane sighs a few minutes later, as they both catch their breath. “I- do you think we’ll ever get less desperate for each other?”

“I fucking hope not,” Ilya says seriously, but it doesn’t take long until they’re both cracking up with laughter. It dissolves under soft kisses, Shane petting down the nylon of the fabric over Ilya’s abs as he watches him carefully.

“You really do like being mine?”

“Of course, Shanya. Would shout it from Empire State Building, if I could.”

Shane’s smile softens as he leans in for another kiss, and then grimaces at the feeling of come cooling on his stomach. “Okay, ew.”

Ilya tosses the jersey in the wash as he follows Shane into the shower, presses him up against the wall as he indulges in having him back in their apartment, in his arms.

He texts Sveta a thanks later that night, as they lie on the sofa after dinner, and gets a winky face back in return. 

“You really like them?” Shane asks softly as he traces one finger around the shell of his ear.

“Yes, Shane. They are beautiful.”

“I just- I wasn’t sure if you really wanted a pair? You didn’t seem to mind with Svetlana’s, but I haven’t seen you wear any since?”

“You think too much,” Ilya tells him, turns his head to kiss the corner of Shane’s wrist. “I did not wear any because they were… luxury I could not afford, and I have not gone shopping recently anywhere that sells earrings, not that I could even afford something like these, I’m sure. These would be too much, if they were from anyone but you. But I will treasure them always.”

Shane lifts his head to kiss Ilya’s forehead, reassured. Ilya holds him close, resolves to make the most of the time they have now before the season starts officially and Shane will be away a lot more often travelling for games. Shane seems to feel the same as he stays much closer in Ilya’s personal space over the next few days, indulging in whatever whims he has while they’re so close to Ilya’s delight, until finally the official season begins on the second Friday in October with a home match against Washington.

Chapter 22: Mr. Popular

Rose arrives mid-afternoon the day before the game, and meets Shane and Ilya at the rink once she’s checked into her hotel - Yuna and David already had dibs on Shane’s guestroom.

Ilya’s got only twenty minutes or so left at work when he hears the office go dead silent, as everyone turns to look at Rose standing in the entryway, accompanied by the receptionist as well as one of the arena’s security guards.

“Ah, there he is,” she waves over at Ilya, who smiles back and hurries over even as he feels the eyes of every single one of his colleagues follow him.

“Hi, Rose,” he accepts her hug. “I did not expect to see you yet? I thought you would go to Shane?”

“He’s still in practice,” she admits sheepishly. “They said no guests allowed today, so I asked if I’d be able to come see you instead - but I realise now I’m being rude and pulling you away from your work. I’m sorry.”

“No, is okay,” he shakes his head, glances back at the desk to see Charlie, Shaz and Eddie staring at him with wide eyes. Liz and Rex are off somewhere, so there’s a spare seat next to Shaz. “I- uh, if you do not mind waiting, I finish at five and I just have to finish one thing? You could sit with us, or I could see if there is a meeting room?”

“If you don’t mind me sitting with you,” she beams, “I’ve literally nothing else to do.”

Ilya nods, and Rose thanks the receptionist and security guard who watch with wide eyes as Ilya leads her back across the office.

“I, uh, hope is okay,” Ilya starts as he hovers behind his own desk. “This is my friend, Rose Landry. Is okay if she sits here, until I finish?”

“Of course,” Charlie nods, ever composed while Shaz and Eddie blink rapidly. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Landry.”

“Oh, Rose, please,” Rose sits in Liz’s chair as Ilya pulls it out for her. “I don’t mean to interrupt your work at all. I’m just here for the men’s match tomorrow, and so Ilya, Shane and I were planning on hanging out tonight and I arrived early and wasn’t sure what else to do with myself.”

Ilya introduces Rose to each of them, outlines briefly what they all do, before returning to the report he’s writing, trying to tune out the rest of the conversations so he can focus. He’s only got a little bit left to go, and the sooner he can finish the sooner he can hopefully drag Rose out of here. He’s aware that the other teams in the room are a little quieter than usual, listening in to the conversations, and hopes Rose doesn’t mind all the attention.

But he can hear as Rose asks Eddie insightful questions about the team’s PR and comms, and how it differs from the men’s strategy given the differing popularity levels between the two teams. That leads onto a discussion of women’s hockey, and how it’s changed in recent years - and Rose admitting that she’d never seen a women’s game herself, despite growing up around hockey. She gets an open invite to their games, promises she’ll try and make one, and Ilya’s volunteered to coordinate. 

One of the men’s PR team sidles their way over, says they’d heard Rose say she’s coming to the game tomorrow, and would she like a jersey? She smiles, says yes and yes, but only if it’s Shane’s. Oh, and would it be too much to ask for Ilya to have one too? They’ll be sitting together in the family seats, anyway.

“I already have,” Ilya shakes his head as he frowns at his screen, putting a pin in that conversation. “But thank you.”

Rose’s grin turns slyly delighted at the new information but turns back and corrects her request. The other man nods enthusiastically and goes to fetch one for her immediately.

Ilya finishes his last bit of the conclusion just before the jersey is delivered, and sends the report over to Charlie who thanks him and promises to take a look first thing on Monday.

With that, Ilya signs off for the day. Rose has been given two jerseys, one for the men’s team, another for the women’s. She delights Eddie as she offers to change into it and have a photo taken with them all for social media. She apologises to the men’s PR group, but promises she’ll take a photo with Shane directly tomorrow, so it doesn’t feel like a basic duplication of posts, and has them eating out of her hand immediately.

So Ilya finds himself standing next to Rose, Charlie on his left with Eddie and Shaz on her right, as one of the women from the next bank over takes a photo of the five of them, Rose now in a red women’s Admiral’s jersey.

“If you tag me in that I’ll re-share,” Rose promises. She gets several thanks back, and unfortunately the photo leads to a few selfie and autograph requests, and it’s close to 5:20 before they are able to leave the office.

“Sorry about that,” Rose apologises as Ilya leads her through the rink down to the corridor where he usually waits once Shane has finished practice. “I hope I didn’t overstep?”

“Not at all,” Ilya shakes his head. “Thank you for being patient with them all.”

She smiles back and waves her hand dismissively, “one of my favourite parts of the job. I like your earrings, by the way. Sveta took hers back, right? Are they new?”

Ilya side eyes her and intuitively knows Shane has mentioned it - had probably messaged Rose about them on the bus home from Boston when, knowing him, he’d started to second-guess the gift.

“They are,” he agrees blandly. “And they are very nice, yes? You have good taste.”

“I know,” she agrees with a bright grin. “So does Shane.”

Shane’s already waiting for them, and smiles brightly when he sees Rose, hugging her before greeting Ilya with a kiss on the cheek.

“Ilya’s got Max tonight, but Rose, did you want to go out anywhere in particular for dinner while you’re here, or?”

“I was hoping we could actually do takeout at yours?” Rose pleads. “It’s been a long day of travel and I really just want to chill and catch up with you in private.”

Ilya can see the flicker of relief in Shane at that - both for the quiet night, and the ability to eat without having to worry about his macros. He’s been a little stricter in the run-up to the season, and Ilya knows Shane knows what he’s doing, as do the variety of nutritionists and trainers no doubt involved in his diet, but he sometimes worries about the level of pressure Shane puts on himself to eat perfectly, and the stress that that can sometimes cause.

Ilya collects Max for her walk, giving Shane and Rose time to catch up for a bit, but joins them both with the dog afterwards. Rose dotes on Max, plays with her for a while until their dinner arrives. 

Shane ends up eating one of his pre-prepared meals that night, and picking at little bits of the rotisserie chicken and sides that Rose orders, having heard good things about the takeaway restaurant. They relax together, Shane and Ilya updating Rose on their happenings since Pride (Montreal, Ilya’s new job) and Rose sharing about the new film she’s working on (the director is a nightmare, but at least she’s not being kidnapped in this one).

And Ilya thinks this is just what Shane needs, as the stress slowly eases out of his shoulders over the course of the evening, smiling as Max begs for scraps of chicken, as they take a tiny step away from hockey and the game looming tomorrow. Shane catches his eye just as the thought crosses his mind, and the tiny rueful quirk of his lips tells Ilya he’s thinking the same thing. 

Rose leaves them both with more hugs and a promise to see Ilya at the game tomorrow, and Shane after it. 

Ilya returns Max to her apartment before he takes Shane to bed, fucks him slowly and carefully, every touch light as a feather until he’s practically shivering, arms tight around Ilya’s neck as he leans up for a kiss and comes.

The rink is buzzing the next day with preparation for the big game. Ilya’s a little glad he’s one step removed from it in the back office, as he sees the stadium staff start to filter in throughout the day; concession stands loading up with food and drinks, ticket checkers and box office staff opening early for any last-minute sales, security on full alert. 

Shane had left before him that morning with a gentle kiss, for early morning conditioning and then everything else in the game day routine; on-ice practises, more strength training, note and tape reviews, and a quick nap at home this afternoon.

Shane’s parents arrive just after lunchtime, so Shane can let them in prior to his nap. He and Ilya had done a quick once-over of the apartment last night, but so long as they don’t venture into some of the drawers and things in their bedroom there shouldn’t be anything incriminating or that they’d not want them to see. Ilya plans on staying in the rink this evening, rather than having to go home just to come straight back again for the 7pm start time, so he’ll meet Shane’s parents and Rose here, as the three of them are going for an early dinner beforehand.

He’s been warned by his colleagues that getting in and out on match-days can be insane, so he brings his own lunch. They eat together in their usual meeting room, talking more about the women’s game last night (at home, winning 3-2 against Pittsburgh in overtime) and how the next few games are likely to shake out.

Ilya’s particularly impressed by Charlie’s knowledge - he knew she’d wanted to go pro, but her level of hockey knowledge is truly impressive, and they bat back and forth a few ideas and opinions on the men’s season this year too, though it really is too early to tell at this point. 

But eventually the workday ends, and Ilya waves goodbye to his colleagues as he opens up his own laptop and looks over the Charity Proposal outline. He’s still working on it where he’s got a spare hour or two, like now, but progress has definitely slowed.

But not long after he starts, his phone buzzes.

17:11 | From: Kip

Hey Ilya. It's Kip.
Are you going to the game tonight?

Ilya responds in the affirmative, says he’ll be in the family seats with the Hollanders and Rose. He’s not sure if Hunter has anyone else who comes to his games - he has a vague recollection that the man had lost his parents young, but isn’t sure - so offers immediately to let Kip sit with him if he’s also attending.

He gets back a yes please, and a note that he’s bringing one of his best friends who’ll also be sitting with them.

Ilya works for another hour or so, texts Shane ‘good luck, not that you need it’ and gets back a heart in response, and then heads down to the stands in time to see Shane and the Admirals step onto the ice for their warm-ups.

Yuna, David and Rose have also just arrived, seated together; all three of them in Shane’s new Admiral’s jersey. Ilya feels a little bad he’s not wearing the same, but they’d found the come stain hadn’t washed out of his own. He’d suggested getting another one but Shane had replied that it might be easier for Shane to act normally if he’s not wearing it, especially since they plan to all meet up after the game. Ilya had grinned at that, promised to wear it at home for Shane’s enjoyment then, soon, and is now still in his work clothes for the game instead.

He nods in greeting as he passes Gloria and Laura, sat together a few rows in front of where he can see Shane’s parents, and gets smiles and waves back. He doesn’t linger, though, and heads straight up to where Yuna, David and Rose are sitting. They’ve saved him the aisle seat, but when he asks they’re happy to move down a couple seats to let Kip and his friend sit next to them when they arrive. They appear just as warm-ups end, Kip spotting him first and lifting a hand as they climb up the steps to their row.

Ilya introduces Kip to Shane’s parents, he remembers Rose from Pride, and they’re all introduced to Kip’s friend Elena. She sits on the aisle seat while Kip takes the one next to him, and he’s a little relieved that neither of them are in Hunter’s jersey.

“Ah, we’re keeping it on the down-low for now, same as you,” Kip admits lowly when Ilya mentions it. “Maybe as the season goes on? But we’ll see how it goes.”

Ilya nods in agreement, and is momentarily sad that this is how it has to go. He understands how heteronormative society can be, knows it’s unlikely that anyone would assume either Kip or he are Hunter’s or Shane’s boyfriends respectively based on a jersey they wear, but that there’s a potential for such backlash if someone were to guess correctly before they can control the narrative - Ilya’s exhausted just following the thought thread.

He knows the lawyers have recently been consulted, to ensure planned comms are all legally-approved and, and that any backup plans for an unexpected outing also have full backing. They’ve looped in another immigration lawyer as well for Ilya, who’s going through all the implications if Russia does decide that he’s still enough of a figure that they’d want to make an example of him. Shane’s had several meetings with them, and has several more yet in the diary, and while he comes out of them relieved at the support and the thorough plans they’re building, there’s the underlying frustration there that any of this is even necessary.

Ilya shakes the thoughts away, but the game starting the season reminds him that it will end at some point, and it’s pretty much certain things will change drastically when they do. 

And before he knows it, the players are being announced as they skate back onto the ice. Ilya knows he’s biased, but he’s also not wrong when the cheers stutter ever so slightly when Shane’s name is called, as if in disbelief that he’s actually playing, before almost doubling in volume as he skates onto the ice, one hand up in greeting.

Washington play well, but aren’t quite as quick as the Admirals, particularly when Shane is on the ice - he’s still the fastest player in the league, no matter what any punters might have to say about it. The Admirals’ get in a quick first-period goal at the 14th minute, a beautiful wrist-shot by Hunter assisted by Vaughan, and Ilya’s partially deafened by the cheers that echo around the stadium.

Yuna spends the entire first break dissecting every bit of play as Rose and David humour her and Ilya nods along. He disagrees with a couple of her takes, but isn’t going to tell her that when he’s still not entirely sure he’s in her good graces.

The second period feels a little faster, a little more like Washington have found their feet. They net the equaliser early on, but a penalty by one of their defencemen lead to a powerplay and a stunning blink-and-you’ve-missed-it shot from Shane. The roars are even louder, this time, a chant of ‘Hollander-Hollander-Hollander’ for the Admirals’ new centre, and Ilya smiles as he sees the way Shane’s celebrating with a beaming grin on the jumbotron.

Yuna, David and Rose are shown on the jumbotron at the second-period break, and they all wave gracefully as the stadium cheers in approval for all of them. Ilya leans slightly in towards Kip to avoid the edge of the camera, and gets drawn into a conversation with him and Elena who are both pleased with how the game’s going. Elena is sharp-witted and funny, a slight cutting-edge to her observations which Ilya appreciates, and he hopes he’ll get to see her at more games as the break ends with a new wave of cheers drowning out their conversation.

The third period is even faster, but as the seconds tick down neither side manage to score, though Petrov comes close with a slick pass from Shane. The tension mounts up across the stands until the final buzzer, when there’s an overwhelming roar of exultation at the final 2-1 score, the Admirals kicking off their season with a win.

Kip and Elena aren’t staying, but they’ll be meeting Scott and whoever else wants to join him at the Kingfisher later, so extend the invitation to Ilya. He’s not sure what Shane will want to do with his parents here, so says maybe, and if not they’ll try for next time instead. The pair wave goodbye and follow the masses out, as Ilya and the others stay behind.

Ilya texts Shane a quick good game and one for you while they wait, but it’s not too long until they’re approached by a staffer who offers to guide them down to the staff exit where Shane will join them, post-press. Ilya follows behind Shane’s parents, Rose on his left, as they wander through the bland back-corridors, his excitement to see Shane and to congratulate him tampered a little by the fact that he’ll need to keep it PG in front of his parents.

Shane’s chatting to Jalo and Vaughan as he waits for them, all three grinning in joy and relief at their win. He shakes his head when Vaughan slaps a hand down on his shoulder, gestures over at his parents in explanation and his teammates nod, greet the four of them approaching briefly before departing.

“Well done, honey,” Yuna steps in, hugs Shane tightly. “Your first game, and goal, as an Admiral! How did it feel?”

Shane laughs, rubs a hand through his hair, “Good, yeah. I mean, I couldn’t do it without the team, of course,” he adds, and then snaps his mouth shut with a rueful grin. “Sorry, still stuck in press-mode,” he adds, as Rose steps forward to kiss his cheek and hug him in hello. Ilya wants to do the same, but he knows that the journalists and press also exit down here, so can’t really risk it, and offers Shane a wistful smile instead.

“Did you guys want to go anywhere, after this?” Shane asks. “A few of the guys are heading to the bar to celebrate.”

“Did you want to, honey?” Yuna sounds surprised. “We thought we’d just head home, and we could all maybe do brunch tomorrow instead? Rose said her flight isn’t back until the afternoon, so there’s time.”

“That works,” Shane nods, and Ilya’s not sure if he’s imagining the slight hint of disappointment. “I’m a bit exhausted, so going home sounds good to me.”

So decided, they all climb in the waiting car; drop Rose off at her hotel on the way to taking the Hollanders and Ilya back home. They take the front entrance, for once, and the lift up to the apartment, and Ilya’s just pleased that Shane takes his hand once they’re behind the closed elevator doors and he can squeeze gently with everything unsaid.

Yuna and Shane dissect the game over cups of herbal tea, David and Ilya sat next to them listening in but rarely interjecting; or, at least until Shane disagrees on one of Yuna’s points and calls on Ilya to back him up. It was one of the things he’d not agreed on when she’d brought it up in the first break, so he agrees with Shane and offers his reasoning, hoping he’s not ruining her ability to like him.

But, to his surprise, if anything it seems to make her like him more, as she nods approvingly at his answer, thinks carefully about what they’re both saying before conceding.

Shane laments the feralness of the press, but the Admirals have set up a good system, he admits, and he won’t have to speak to them too often past the first couple of games, unless he scores or is particularly impressive. Ilya teases him that that will be every game then, to get a roll of the eyes and a shove but a pleased grin back.

It’s close to eleven when they finally run out of steam, and Yuna and David close themselves off in the guest room as Ilya and Shane head for bed. Ilya assumes that Shane will head straight to bed, having showered, so is surprised to find the hockey player joining him as he takes his own shower before bed.

He’s even more surprised when without a word Shane’s hands slide into his hair and pull him close for a rough kiss, demanding and desperate. Ilya is forceful in kissing back, grips Shane’s chin to tilt him to a better angle as the water drums down on his back.

“Ilya,” Shane gasps, presses his hips forward where he’s rapidly growing hard and Ilya rests a hand over his chest, feels the pounding of his heartbeat.

“Mm, yes, moy korol?” Ilya murmurs back, grinning as Shane pulls back until Ilya’s fingers around his chin hold him still. “What is it?”

“I scored a goal,” Shane says a little petulantly, as if he’s annoyed that Ilya isn’t jumping him straightaway.

“I know,” Ilya agrees affectionately. “And I had plans to give you your reward, but I cannot while your parents are here, no? I did not think you would like it, so I was going to wait until tomorrow, when I have you all alone for a while and we do not need to worry about noise.

“But you are that impatient?” Ilya leans in, bites at Shane’s thick lower lip, shushes him as the whine echoes off the walls. “You want your dues now?”

“I- yes,” Shane admits, voice turning hushed as if he’s only just remembered his parents are down the hall.

“Then on your knees,” Ilya demands fondly, watches with satisfaction as Shane does as asked and immediately slides down Ilya’s front, opens his mouth and lets Ilya feed him his cock.

Ilya murmurs quiet praise, shushing him gently when he offers even the slightest of moans, biting on his own lip when the pleasure gets too much and he’s gripping Shane’s shoulder tightly, the other braced on the shower wall as he comes down his throat.

He looks down to see Shane panting softly, erection hard and angry where it juts out and Ilya tugs him up, kisses him, licks the traces of come from behind his teeth. 

“You did so well today, moy korol,” he murmurs softly, as he tugs Shane’s body closer to his until his erection is poking into his hip. “Mr. Popular, everybody loves you; so many new fans, so many questions from the press.”

“Ilya,” Shane begs softly, cock rubbing against Ilya’s hip.

“Hm, I think that I want to keep my plans for you tomorrow,” Ilya murmurs, “So if you want to come tonight, you should get yourself off.”

Dark eyes meet his, liquid heat rising to the challenge. “I- like this?”

“Yes, moy korol. Rub yourself off against me.”

Ilya’s hand slides around to Shane’s ass, grips tightly, encourages the gentle flexing as he starts to thrust against Ilya’s hip, the consistent water of the shower smoothing the friction just enough. Ilya tuts as Shane drops one of his own hands down, knocks it away.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he shakes his head, “Just like this. You can play with your chest, if you want something else.”

One of Shane’s hands obediently rises to his chest, brushes at a nipple as his hips pick up the pace. Ilya stands as still as he can, watches intently as Shane gasps with the movements. He shifts his grip on his chin, presses two fingers into his mouth and down on his tongue until Shane’s groaning around them as quietly as he can make himself.

Shane’s rutting picks up speed, and Ilya’s hand on his ass slides a little further until his fingertips are sliding between cheeks, brushing his hole, and Shane whines as he comes with the touch, making a mess of Ilya’s hips and waist that’s quickly washed away.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane sighs as Ilya pulls his hand free of his mouth and rinses it off under the spray; rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Come,” Ilya encourages, shuts off the water once he’s checked they’re both clean enough. He wraps Shane up in his towel, presses a kiss to his jaw, before they finish their nighttime routine together.

He moisturises, and isn’t noticing how his previously almost-empty jar of moisturiser is now brand-new and full, before following Shane into the bedroom and sliding under the covers to pull his boyfriend into his arms.

“A good first game, then?” Ilya murmurs, asking what he’s wanted to in private since the final buzzer.

“Yeah,” Shane nods against his chest. “As good as it could’ve been, really. I know I keep saying it, but the guys on the team really do feel like a team, and one that’s welcoming me even as I’ve not been the most… teammate, of teammates - if that makes sense?”

“It does,” Ilya confirms. “You had terrible team, before, that made it feel like it was you against them when it should not have been, and while you know that, it will take time to unlearn.”

“Yeah… I kind of wish I’d been able to go to the Kingfisher, tonight,” Shane confesses into the dark. “I never used to go out with Montreal, they’d always pressure me to drink? And I didn’t like it, and it eventually just became easier to not go at all rather than to argue about what I was drinking all night. But the Admirals haven’t done that at all, yet, and I don’t think they would.”

“Next time, then,” Ilya soothes, “We can go together, if you like, and celebrate with your team.”

“... What if they don’t ask me again?”

“They will,” Ilya reassures him. “They know you had your parents here, tonight. Big first game with new team, is natural to want to celebrate with family, no? 

“And if not, I will yell at Hunter for you. Say you should be invited, and they are stupid for not realising that tonight was one-off, maybe, and should not dictate what you will always do after every game.”

Shane huffs a laugh, but presses a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder in thanks.

“My champion. Goodnight, Ilyusha.”

“Goodnight, Shanya.”

Chapter 23: Mr. Moneybags

Shane hosts brunch the next morning, ordering in a wide spread of breakfast foods to suit all of his guests.

Ilya packs away pancakes, mourns aloud that they’re not as good as David’s to get a quietly pleased grin, as Shane downs an omelette and one of his disgusting smoothies - he’d hit the gym early this morning, returning before Ilya had even woken up. Rose and Yuna choose from a selection of mini-pastries which Ilya plans to polish off this weekend, if they don’t, and fresh fruit and yoghurts.

They sit around the dining table, Ilya’s left foot trapped underneath by Shane’s feet as they smile at each other. Hockey, naturally, dominates the conversation; although Yuna had had her fill of yesterday’s game last night, she and Shane spend a good twenty minutes dissecting some of the other games so far this first week of the season; a particularly good win for Boston at 6-1 over Buffalo, Calgary and Edmonton going to shoot-outs for Edmonton to eke out the win, Montreal beaten by Toronto 4-2.

Ilya tries and fails not to feel satisfaction at the last, particularly as Yuna mentions there’d been a lot of references in the commentary to a ‘loss of depth at centre’. Shane’s keeping his face neutral, but Ilya knows he feels a glimmer of satisfaction as well, alongside a tinge of regret. They’d been his team for better or worse since he’d started playing in the MLH, and even enjoying his new team didn’t quite wash away all of that history.

Yuna mentions the recent updates from sponsors and brands who she’s alerted to Shane’s coming-out plans; all of which are resoundingly positive. A few have mentioned Pride month collaborations, particularly if the Admirals do well this season, the cup final usually also falls in June. Shane doesn’t want to jinx it by thinking that they’ll still be in it that far ahead, but agrees that since he’s coming out regardless it would be a good idea to set something up prior that they can use when the time comes. 

And a couple more have reached out, Yuna adds, Rolex and Adidas - the latter who are rumoured to be in a deal for MLH uniform provision, so would be extra timely for a campaign now, and are particularly keen for Shane given his reputation. Shane agrees to think about it, shoots Ilya a look as he presses down on his foot hard with a grin, glancing at Rose who also is grinning knowingly at him.

Rose leaves just before twelve, due for an early-afternoon flight out to Atlanta where she’s currently shooting. David and Yuna leave reluctantly with her, their own flight not much after hers so it made sense for them to share a car.

And as soon as they’re gone, Ilya’s pressing Shane face-down on the bed, palms on the back of Shane’s hands as he holds him down to the mattress with his fingers between Shane’s. He makes the most of the flexibility afforded by Shane’s yoga practise as he parts his thighs wide to slide between them, and practically flattens himself as much as he can, the weight of his torso pinning Shane down as he praises him, worships him, whispers that if he had his way he’d never let him leave this bed. Shane’s erection is pressed deeper into the duvet with every thrust until he’s gasping his release into the pillow, bucking pitifully back up into Ilya’s hips.

Ilya collapses for a long second on top of Shane until he worries he’s crushing him in an uncomfortable position and pulls back, pressing soft kisses down the line of his spine until he can gently ease him over onto his back.

Shane hums lowly, a satisfied half-smile on his face as he rests one forearm on his forehead. Ilya presses his mouth to the pronounced tricep, slides a hand up his ribs. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Shane’s hand captures Ilya’s, holds it to his chest. “I’m pretty much always okay, when I’m with you.”

Ilya hides his smile in Shane’s skin, rests there for a long minute but, like clockwork, Shane shifts and mutters ‘ew’ at the dirty bedspread.

They toss the sheets in the wash, linger in the shower, and Ilya collects Max a little earlier today so they can take her on a longer evening walk.

He gets a text from Cliff, halfway into their walk, that just says ‘you free Tuesday night?’

Ilya thinks about it - Shane will be away, playing in Edmonton for the game and then will be staying over to play Calgary the following evening in a back-to-back before coming home for a couple of days. Shane takes Max’s lead for him while he replies - he’s dogsitting Max, but could meet anyway, depending? 

18:02 | From: Cliff

Was thinking of watching the NYA game - find a bar, if you wanna join?

“Would you mind if I invite Cliff to watch game at home on Tuesday?” Ilya asks Shane, staring at his phone. “He does not know who you are yet, so he would find out, but I would trust him with this.”

“Of course not,” Shane shakes his head. “If he’s your friend and you trust him then I want you to be able to tell him about us. And don’t forget it’s your apartment as much as it is mine.”

And that’s not true, really, thinks Ilya, but he appreciates the sentiment. He’s gotten much better with the whole financial-imbalance, since Shane has been so stubbornly insistent that it is not a big deal, Ilya’s still paying rent, and has been sharing the costs of smaller, every day things like takeouts or coffees.

But he appreciates the sentiment, so pings back the offer to get a ‘sounds good’ and finishes the brief exchange with a message that he’ll send through the address and things later.

“I’m surprised you haven’t told him yet, though,” Shane says. “You see him every week or so, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya admits. “I told him a while ago that you work in a high-profile job, that you are not out to all of your colleagues and it is difficult. I have thought about telling him but I wanted to introduce you at the same time, but have not wanted to give up any of my time with you because I am selfish. And he has not asked, so.”

Shane’s hand squeezes his tightly, secretly pleased by the admission.

The rest of the walk is quiet, both men not ready to talk about the three nights they’ll have apart this week. At least Ilya will have Max on Tuesday and Thursday, and he’ll have his work and commute, and now Cliff to watch the game - but he thinks about the lonely bed last time and wonders if it’ll be any better.

They return home, have dinner while watching tonight’s hockey: LA vs Winnipeg, a tight, fast-paced game that ends in Winnipeg just skating by with a victory goal in the last two minutes. 

As always, Ilya’s drawn to watching Shane more than the game - the tiny microexpressions that dance across his face as he tracks every movement of the puck, every check and pass and shot. Ilya can see the way his brain turns it all over, searches for weaknesses in his opponents, ideas on how to use what he sees - both against them, and for himself and his own team. It’s incredibly sexy, and Ilya would be pinning him to the couch at the start of the break if he was sure that Shane wouldn’t get distracted by the start of the next period, hockey trumping even a good bout of sex.

Though he’s sure he could make Shane come in less than twenty minutes. The thought is tempting, but Ilya thinks the risk that Shane could then be annoyed that the post-coital glow could fuck with his ability to analyse the rest of the game is too high, so decides against it.

Sunday and Monday fly by; Shane has morning training on Sunday but is done by 3pm, so they go for a long walk instead, making the most of the last chunk of time they’ll have together for a while. He and Shane commute into the office together on Monday morning since the team flight will be leaving late this afternoon, around when Ilya finishes work, so he won’t get to see him until he’s home again on Thursday.

“I’ll miss you,” Ilya murmurs, as they enter the rink and reach the corridor where they need to separate.

To his surprise, Shane looks around and when the surrounding spaces appear empty, tugs him into the corridor out of sight, presses him against the wall and kisses him thoroughly.

Ilya loses himself in it immediately, hands clutching at Shane’s waist as they kiss, not sure how long they go on for but lets go immediately when they’re interrupted by unsubtle coughing.

Shane goes bright red as he practically leaps back, lips kiss-swollen and tempting.

Ilya glances over to see Hunter and Vaughan grinning widely at them both.

“Fine!” Vaughan yells. “A hundred bucks in the Jar for that kiss, Hollzy.”

“Fuck,” Shane grumbles under his breath, but the tilt of his lips belies his disgruntlement. 

“Jar?” Ilya asks, curious despite himself.

“Ah, we had a player or two that were too sickeningly in love with their wives,” Vaughan explains delightedly, “To the point that some of us literally had to get headphones for travel time so we didn’t have to listen to it anymore. And when they were in person together… let’s just say I don’t think we heard them speak at all for how far tongues were down throats.

“So Hunter set up a jar and fine system, to pay for all our therapy - by which I mean post-season drinks. Any PDA by any team member caught in a hockey-related space incurs a fine, with a sliding scale corresponding to how egregious the display is.”

Ilya looks at Shane, who shrugs a shoulder and nods in reluctant confirmation. 

“Come on,” Hunter sighs, striding past them towards the locker rooms. “We’ll be late.”

“I’ll be right there,” Shane says, glancing back at Ilya as Vaughan follows their captain. “I’ll see you Wednesday,” he murmurs to Ilya.

“Hm, were you ever going to tell me about this jar?” Ilya asks with a grin, a finger catching in the material of Shane’s t-shirt to hold him there for a minute.

“I mean, no?” Shane rolls his eyes. “You’d take it as a challenge, as you’re doing now.”

“Ah, but Mr. Moneybags,” Ilya purrs, “You could afford it, no? Treat your team to a very good post-season night-out, would be a good excuse to help fund. This would be good bonding too, no? For us, as well as for team.”

Shane shakes his head in disbelief, but Ilya can see the amusement as he holds back a smile.

“I’m going,” he says firmly, taking Ilya’s hand and lifting it quickly to his lips with a glance down the corridor as if to make sure Vaughan isn’t still watching to fine him again. “Be good.”

“I am always good,” Ilya pouts back, but backs down the corridor the opposite way, and once Shane’s disappeared out of sight jogs up the stairs to the office, knowing he’s cutting it fine.

Cliff turns up half an hour before the first face-off on Tuesday. Ilya calms Max as she dances around the door to welcome the newcomer, any energy expended by their walk earlier long since regenerated. Ilya’s a little tired after a restless night’s sleep alone, but has had a good couple of days at work, Max always lifts his spirits a little and he’s looking forward to seeing Shane play, even if only on TV.

“Nice place,” Cliff compliments with a low whistle.

“Ah, is Shane’s,” Ilya explains as he shuts the front door. “But thanks. Drink? I have beer, coke, ginger ale?”

Cliff accepts a beer and spends a minute crouching and petting Max while Ilya fetches it from the fridge, the dog wiggling in delight at a new potential playmate. The TV is already on, pre-game commentary outlining the chances that Edmonton and the Admirals’ might have and how they’ve been performing in the last couple of games.

“And by Shane, you mean Shane fucking Hollander?” Cliff asks with a disbelieving grin, as Ilya settles on the sofa while Cliff looks over the framed pictures on the bookshelf. The collection has slowly been growing, with a photo of Shane and his parents now next to Irina’s, and the first selfie he and Shane had taken to send to his mother next to that. Ilya’s second favourite, after his mama’s photo, was one they’d taken at Pride, the four of them standing on the bar balcony with the Parade behind them, smiling brightly. Shane’s looking relaxed and gorgeous in the afternoon sun, Ilya’s fingers just brushing his at the bottom of the photo as he beams into the camera.

“Yes,” Ilya nods.

“Fuck man. You said he had a high-pressure career, but that’s next level. And you said he’s got plans to come out?”

Ilya nods again. “Not until after season, but. He moved to New York because Montreal was shitty after he told them, but does not plan to hide much longer.”

“Fuck Montreal, then,” and Ilya can’t stop his smile, lifts his beer in a little cheers and gets a tap of Cliff’s bottle back as he joins him on the sofa.

“So how did you meet?”

Ilya tells Cliff the tale of their first meeting, the sheer overwhelming kindness and stubbornness in Shane that had him entirely helpless to say no, while they wait for the game to start. Ilya puts the pizzas he’s bought in the oven, making the most of Shane being away to eat all of the junk food he misses, so they’ll be ready for the first break.

And Ilya had known Cliff would be chill about his relationship, but it’s one thing to know it theoretically and another for it to play out, and he finds himself grinning throughout most of the game.

Cliff’s a fun person to watch hockey with - a mixture of absorbed in the game and exclaiming over a particularly good play or shitty check, teasing Ilya when Shane scores a goal with seconds to go in the first period, and again midway through the second.

The pizzas don’t last long, and Cliff accepts a second beer just before the second period. Max has stopped begging for food now the pizzas are gone, and has curled up in the dog bed that Shane had bought for her once she’d started coming up regularly - though more often than not when Shane and Ilya are home together she’s found on one of their laps instead.

They dissect the plays together, cheer as Bennett blocks a particularly gnarly attempt on goal. The clock ticks down, and they boo when Edmonton score their first goal in the last five minutes, but fail to equalise, so the Admirals’ come away with their second win of the season at 2-1.

Cliff doesn’t linger much longer once the game is over, but agrees that they should do this again. Ilya mentions Kip’s standing invite to go and watch at the Kingfisher - he’d been invited this time, too; it’s a little too far to go with Max, but he’s thinking he might go tomorrow after work - so they can always try there sometime. He doesn’t mention Kip or Kyle’s relation to the team, isn’t sure they’d want him to, but will warn them if Cliff joins them.

Ilya walks with him down a couple of blocks towards the subway so Max can have one last quick walk before bed, and to try and tire himself out a little more as well in the hopes that he might sleep better tonight. 

But what helps the most is when Shane calls just after Ilya’s returned Max home. He’s rooming with Petrov, he explains, but just wanted to say goodnight so is hiding in the hotel stairwell so they can talk without anyone listening in.

Ilya knows his smile is ridiculously sappy and is a little glad Shane can’t see it as he compliments him on a good game, says he misses him too. They linger, the soft sound of their breathing the only noise for a long minute, before Shane sighs and says he’ll be fined if he’s out past curfew, and as he’s already had one fine this week he wants to avoid another.

Ilya laughs, murmurs a soft goodnight and I love you, gets the same in return before Shane hangs up. 

He sleeps a little better, though half-wakes a couple of times in search of Shane. He has a good morning text from his boyfriend, replies though doesn’t expect a response since he’s likely already in pre-game conditioning training.

Work is busy, which is a good distraction. Charlie updates him on the women’s game last night over lunch - luckily accepting that he’s going to prioritise any games where Shane is playing, but the women’s team are also doing well, with a 1-0 shutout against Tampa. 

After work, Ilya wanders down to the Kingfisher. Kip had texted him to say he’d be back there tonight to watch the Calgary game, and Ilya would be more than welcome to join him if he was free. With little else to do, no Max and not wanting to sit in the apartment by himself, it was an easy decision to make.

Kip hasn’t arrived yet, but Kyle waves him over at the bar and they chat briefly between customers. Kyle’s hilarious, flirts meaninglessly with anything that moves, but clearly won’t take any shit if anyone steps over the line in his bar. He directs Ilya to one of the booths in the back he reserves for Kip which has a good view of the TV over the bar for the match, and Ilya takes his beer and burger over while he waits for Kip.

The other man arrives just five minutes before puck-drop, apologising breathlessly as he collapses on the bench opposite Ilya. 

“Got distracted by my thesis advisor,” he explains, before disappearing briefly to the bar to get his own drink and order snacks. “How are you?”

They fall into conversation, chatting lightly as the game starts but quickly fall silent as they watch. It’s a rough game, Calgary are playing dirty with more than a few slashes and unnecessary checks. Ilya grimaces as Shane’s shoved into the boards for the third time in five minutes, and the camera briefly shows him scowling darkly at Calgary’s number 11 as he skates away.

The refs are decent, though, and call out the slashing, giving New York a decent chunk of time on the powerplay. A neat pass from Shane to Petrov leads to a tight little goal above the goalie’s left shoulder as they take the lead, and Kip and Ilya cheer, possibly a little too loudly, as they get a couple of glances from the other patrons.

Ilya admits he’s not sleeping well either when Kip yawns heavily during the second break. He gets a rueful smile in solidarity.

“Hey, can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer, and to be entirely honest, there’s also a bet riding on this, but I won’t share if you don’t want me to.”

“Sure,” Ilya shrugs, sips his beer.

“When did you and Shane get together? Was it before he moved here, or? Some guys are saying he moved here for you, others are saying you met afterwards, but then you’d not have been dating for all that long?”

Ilya smirks at the beer in his glass. “What do you think?”

“... I’m not sure. I lean towards you met after he moved, because from what Scott tells me Shane’s like him, in that he’s the type to leap in entirely when he’s decided something, but I don’t know you well enough to decide if you’re the same.”

“It was mix of both,” Ilya admits. “We met after Shane came to New York, but he had not decided yet if he would stay. Was giving himself a month to see if he liked city, liked team and rink.”

“So you weren’t part of why he came to New York, but were a factor in him staying?”

Ilya nods, and Kip turns that over in his head. “So you’ve only been dating, what, six months or so?”

“About that,” Ilya nods again. It’ll be six months next week, he thinks, and maybe he should do something to celebrate - people do that, right? Shane’s got an away game down in Tampa next Tuesday/Wednesday, but will be home on Thursday and Friday, so they could do something then.

“What about you and Hunter?” Ilya asks in return, as Kip seems to have no further questions. “You said how you met, but how long ago?”

Kip tells him; it was not much longer before Ilya and Shane, in March or so as the Admirals had clinched their place in the first round of playoffs but still had a few games to go. He talks about how they’d had a rough patch just before Shane had arrived in New York, as despite the rumours that Scott wasn’t alone, he could barely go out in public with Kip without panicking about being recognised and Kip, for all that he loved spending Scott, hadn’t been sure that that was going to go away anytime soon, and didn’t want it for his future.

“So Shane actually sort of saved our relationship?” Kip admits, “When he came over, and admitted he was gay and wasn’t planning on hiding forever, I think it really gave Scott the sort of confidence boost he needed, and we’ve been really good since.”

“He has plan to come out?” Ilya asks, curious. Obviously Shane does, and he knows the organisation knows that, but he’s not entirely sure if the team are full aware.

“No. Why? Does Shane?” Kip’s eyes widen in surprise when Ilya tilts his head in the affirmative. “Seriously?”

“Mm,” Ilya agrees. “Is a lot of work. Many lawyers, many talks with GM and sponsors and head office. Has yet to tell MHL, and I guess he has not told team officially yet. He will before he does,” Ilya adds, “will be lots of press, big news, so team will be affected. Shane will not want to surprise them.”

Kip nods. “God, that’s brave,” he admits. “How are you feeling about it?”

Ilya shrugs. “Is more for Shane, than for me. He has spent very long time hiding who he is - you can see more than anyone how hard it can be for hockey players who are not straight, and with Shane’s heritage too, has been extra hard, I think. But he is brave, and strong, and I will get to support him in open, which I cannot wait for.”

Kip’s eyes soften as he nods, and they both turn back to the TV as the puck drops for the start of the third period. It’s just as brutal as the previous two, and Ilya finds himself wincing as Shane’s slammed into the boards again by number 11. But Shane gets the puck away, wings it over to Petrov, and it loops around the rink via their defencemen and back until a sharp wrist-shot has it bouncing off one side of the goal into the net.

Bennett works harder than god during the last ten minutes, as Calgary fight their current 2-0 score with several ruthless attempts on goal, but the final buzzer sounds without a retaliatory goal, and Ilya smiles as he sees the Admirals’ celebrating on the ice together.

Ilya says goodbye to Kip and Kyle not long after the game ends, and decides to walk the 45 minutes home. He gets a call from Shane half an hour in, can hear the heavy bass of the club in the background as he tells him they’ve gone out to celebrate, isn’t sure how long they’ll be.

“Enjoy the celebrations, moy korol,” Ilya tells him down the phone. “We will celebrate your three goals together when you are home tomorrow.”

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane sighs softly into the phone. “I can’t wait.”

Ilya hears a ‘Hollzy!’ shouted down the phone and laughs, promises he’ll text Shane when he’s safe home and in bed, and to not party too hard before they hang up for the night.

Chapter 24: Mr. Impatient

Ilya wakes up to a ‘good morning’ text from Shane, and a ‘can’t wait to be home with you tonight’. He replies with the same as he dresses for work, knows he’s got a little anticipatory smile on his face as he hops on the subway to work to avoid the rain.

After a good day at work, he returns home to find Shane splayed out naked on the bed, a plug in his ass as he waits for Ilya. There’s a purple bruise blooming up across one hip, dark and angry, but Ilya’s a little impressed Shane’s not worse for wear after all the checking yesterday.

“You’re late,” Shane complains as Ilya steps into the bedroom, heat flooding him at the sight awaiting him on the bed.

“Shanya,” Ilya shakes his head, stops at the foot of the bed as he strips off his shirt. “I am not late. You are just impatient. How long have you been waiting, then?”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits. “Like ten minutes?”

Ilya tsks teasingly. “Mr. Impatient,” he grins as he unbuttons his trousers. “I am not as desperate as you, yet. I think you need to fix that.”

Shane’s pure liquid as he moves on the bed, groans as the plug shifts in him as he lifts onto all fours, before practically flowing down shoulders first so he can nuzzle into Ilya’s groin, mouth over the thin fabric of Ilya’s briefs. Ilya tugs them down, kicks them off as Shane takes him into his mouth, a fucking revelation as ever, as he sinks all the way down until his nose presses into Ilya’s pubic hair.

“Ah, Shanya,” Ilya sighs, runs a hand through his hair, kneads at one shoulder with his other hand. “We have much to make up for. Three goals, yes?”

Shane’s eyes meet his, tears collecting in the corners as he sinks that last millimetre further - he’s come so far, since that first blowjob where he choked attempting even going half this deep - and Ilya thumbs them from one eye. He gently pulls Shane back, reaches for the lube left helpfully on the edge of the bed, and backs Shane up and over until he’s lying on his back with his head on the pillows.

He tugs the plug out gently, tosses it to one side as he lubes up and presses in immediately, revelling in the ability to do so. Shane arches into him, digs one hand into the meat of Ilya’s ass as he encourages him in deeper. Ilya hums low, kisses him messily, takes his other hand and pins it to the mattress by his shoulder as he thrusts his hips a little harder.

It’s not long before Shane’s coming, clearly too worked up from waiting for Ilya to hold off much longer. Ilya pauses, bites the inside of his cheek while he waits for Shane to catch his breath.

“Again,” he demands, and Shane whimpers as Ilya starts thrusting again, tears dripping down to the pillow as the overstimulation has his erection rearing back up slowly. Ilya refuses to come before Shane has again, lets go of Shane’s hand to wrap it around his dick, tugging softly, thumbing at the head for a long minute until he’s coming a second time, lips parted in a silent cry as he digs his head back into the pillow, and Ilya finally lets his own orgasm crash over him.

He wonders if Shane can come a third time so soon; he’s pretty sure he can and is very tempted, but reminds himself he wants to wait until he’s got an official hat trick to test it. He eases out of Shane gently instead, soothes him with long, slow strokes along his side, avoiding the bruising, catches his own breath.

“Mm, hello,” Shane eventually murmurs, smiling into Ilya’s chest and it sets them both off with a round of laughter.

“Hello,” Ilya greets him back, kisses him gently, and they get up to wash and eat.

Shane asks about Ilya’s week over dinner, he talks about enjoying his evening with Cliff watching the game, that the fellow former student had promised to keep their relationship a secret; and then about visiting the Kingfisher yesterday and chatting with Kip.

Shane’s shirtless - admits the bruise is a little itchy as it heals and the feel of fabric against it just makes it worse - and Ilya’s eyes keep drifting to the long wide mark. Shane notices eventually and sighs, presses a hand to Ilya’s forearm in comfort.

“I’m fine. It’s the game, you know that.”

“I know,” Ilya agrees, “but it was like he had something against you, specifically.”

Shane sighs again, “He’d heard the rumours,” he admits, “is a - how did you phrase it when we first met - homophobic piece of shit? But his shitty play led to our goal, so he can stay mad about it.”

Ilya feels the anger dissipate a little under Shane’s nonchalance, but confesses he doesn’t think he’d be that unbothered by it.

Shane shrugs again, leans in to kiss Ilya’s shoulder as he clears their dinner plates. “It irritates me, don’t get me wrong. But also, the chirps and things don’t really bother me anymore, not the way they used to? Like when they call me gay or faggot, or that I ‘take it up the ass’ - like, I am, I do, they’re not wrong? But I am all that and still a better fucking hockey player than them, so whatever they say doesn’t matter.”

And Ilya can’t help but smile at that, at the calm confidence of Shane’s statement, turns to pin him against the kitchen counter and kiss him.

“Yes you fucking are, moy korol,” he agrees proudly.

He drags him over to the couch, slides a cushion under his knee so he can blow Shane long and slow as his hands dig into Ilya’s shoulders, grip the back of the couch, run through his hair. He comes when Ilya presses a gentle hand into the bruise spanning his hip, the lightest compliment of pain triggering his orgasm as he gasps in shock.

Ilya sleeps better that night, wrapped around Shane, extra content knowing that they have the weekend to be able to sleep and wake together.

Ilya’s back at work on Friday, as is Shane; he has two home games back-to-back tonight and tomorrow. Ilya has Max on Friday, so unfortunately can’t go in person, but will be able to go on Saturday. 

He watches from home instead, after Max’s walk, as the Admirals lose 2-1 to Boston. Shane’s moving a little slower than usual, Ilya expects from the bruising, but Hunter’s in good form, knocking in a late goal in the second period to equalise Boston’s goal early in the same period. It’s not quite enough as Boston come out charging in the beginning of the third to score again, and the Admirals can’t quite make it up in the following 18 minutes.

They’ve still played well, though, and Shane comes home as content as he can be with the loss. It’s still early in the season, and they’re only going to get more exhausted as it goes on, but they’re still tweaking those final plays and learning about each other’s play that he thinks that’ll more than make up for it.

Ilya goes alone to the Saturday game, but ends up sitting next to Gloria, who saves him a seat on the edge of the row when she sees him approaching. She re-introduces him to the other WAGs who are there - most of them, it seems, though he’s the only boyfriend today. Kip had said he feels like he’s coming down with something so is watching from home, and Kyle rarely attends the in-person games as apparently Bennett doesn’t mind either way and Kyle would honestly rather be at the bar.

They’re all friendly, though some of the vibes are a little superficial - particularly from the newer girlfriends. Laura is the longest-standing WAG, having been married to Huff for close to five years, and as a consequence is also the most knowledgeable about hockey, so she and Ilya end up chatting the most throughout the breaks on the game.

Dallas play pretty terribly, too slow to get the puck, too hesitant to keep possession, and Hunter puts a goal away in the first twelve minutes. Shane follows up with a second goal in the first minute of the second period, and Petrov takes advantage of the following confusion by netting a third almost immediately after. Dallas pick up the pace after that, their defenders’ brains apparently clicking into gear, but it’s too late and they don’t manage any goals, the stadium roaring with cheers as the final buzzer sounds. 

Ilya doesn’t follow the WAGs downstairs, knows there’ll likely be press around and doesn’t want to tempt fate, and instead texts Shane that he’ll meet him at the Kingfisher.

He walks over, so most of the team beat him there through the car service, and he finds Shane at the bar, ordering a ginger ale for him and a vodka neat for Ilya. The bar has been fully reserved for their win, and in safe company Ilya leans in, kisses Shane’s cheek in thanks as he nods a hello to Kyle.

The post-game celebration is jubilant, Shane taking part in the round of shots Vaughan orders as AC - Hunter had gone home to check in on Kip so he’s leading the charge of celebrations.

Ilya says hello to Petrov, a few of the other team members, but is mostly content to sit with Shane, follow him around as he chats to various teammates, a relaxedness in his shoulders from the good game and the ability to celebrate without the pressure Montreal used to put on him.

They eventually get a car home, once the party starts winding down and some of the single players head out to a club in search of something more, and Ilya rewards Shane as always for his goal before they collapse into sleep.

October makes way for November bleeds into December, as the Admirals go on to have a strong first couple of months of the regular season. Shane won’t admit it, but Ilya’s pretty sure they’re heading for the top of the divisional leaderboard and the playoffs.

Ilya celebrates their six-month anniversary in October with a somewhat cliche bouquet of flowers for Shane - which the hockey player admits he’d never had before, but loves - and the slowest, most luxurious fuck of their lives, wrapped up in each other until Ilya’s not sure where he ends and Shane begins.

Ilya slowly gets used to the nights Shane is away, and buys him a tripod so that their phone sex when they’re apart gives much better visuals than the shakiness of holding it by hand.

Shane gets his first hat trick on his tenth game in mid-November, and Ilya makes good on his promise, blows him, fucks him and then eats him out, fingers pressing down on his prostate until he comes three times in a short span. Shane loses his voice by the end, needs a full day to recover, but has Ilya do it all over again when he scores another hattrick four games later.

Ilya jokes he’s created a monster, but Shane’s on track to match his current shooting record, and only getting more determined to beat it. 

One game he comes home and mentions that Hunter had been fined $250 for coming into practise with a fucked-out expression, and several pink scorelines down his back from what looked like a very good fuck. Shane and Ilya had avoided more fines so far, had kept most of their PDA to post-home-game celebrations at the Kingfisher, where they were in a public enough setting that the rules didn’t apply. 

But Ilya’s not having their fine record beaten, so sucks several deep marks into Shane’s inner thighs before his next away game, promises he only has to squeeze his thighs together to feel the ache and remind him of Ilya and how much he loves him, wants him. He gets a text with a frowny face from Shane prior to the game, and a note that ‘they saw’ & ‘$200’.

He’s not sure if Hunter clocks on, but he bites a deep bruise into Shane’s hip one night after he mentions Hunter was fined again for talking too sappily about Kip ($50), and Shane shakes his head but can’t keep his grin contained when he gets fined another $150 for excessive marks in public.

It gets a little worse when Shane’s Men’s Health article is released, and Ilya can’t stop himself from sucking deep bruises along his hips and up his ribs, bites his ass to leave a perfect indent of his teeth. Shane’s clearly a fan of Ilya marking his territory if anything, as he taps new spots that Ilya’s not yet marked in invitation whenever they fuck, and the fines multiply until he owes well over $1500.

Ilya invites Cliff over regularly for away games, and they start adding in nights at the Kingfisher when Ilya doesn’t have Max, introducing him to Kip and Elena. They all get along like a house on fire, and Ilya and Kip start messaging more regularly, particularly on the longer roadies where they’ll meet up for a drink or two after work, if they’re both free and bored.

He sits with Kip the majority of home games, and Gloria and Laura join them more often than not as the season goes on. They’re on friendly terms with the rest of the WAGs, but the majority are still treating them like the newbies and so keep a little distance.

Ilya’s been saving up his spare cash, has bitten the bullet and set up a budget which - with Shane’s encouragement - he’d emailed to David, who replied with overall approval but some other ideas of what he could do better to make the most of it. It’s been helpful, and he’s feeling more secure in his finances than he thinks he ever has.

Shane’s talks with the Admirals, his mom and agent and the variety of lawyers now involved about his coming out are progressing nicely. Ilya’s been pulled into a few of the meetings, particularly where the immigration lawyer has been included, and they’ve got contingency plans upon contingency plans, mostly all organised by Yuna, which are all neatly typed up and saved and he checks for reassurance when the worry hits him on occasion.

They don’t yet include his most wistful-thinking of contingencies, which would be to marry Shane and ask if he would sponsor a spousal visa for Canada. He knows Shane plans on staying in the U.S. to play for the Admirals for at least a couple of years anyway, so it would do little if everything went wrong, but he also can’t deny that the fantasy of being married to his man is rapidly eclipsing all of his other hopes and dreams.

Sveta hangs out with Shane again when he goes down to Boston for a game, and Shane spends a couple of nights hanging out with Rose when they have a week-long stint on the West coast for 4 games with the teams over there. 

But finally, the game Ilya has both been dreading most while masochistically looking forward to the most arrives: Montreal. It’s the last game before the short Christmas break, away on a Thursday night.

Shane gets tenser as the game draws nearer, especially when two weeks before he’s scratched for a couple of games for a bad hit and flip, bruises down his entire spine making it hard for him to lift anything, let alone protect himself on the ice. Ilya tends to him gently, sits with him to watch his teammates play for the three games he’s out. The Admirals’ manage without him, albeit not as smoothly, coming away with two wins and one loss in the week he’s gone.

He gets back on the ice with sheer determination, and Ilya’s cock twitches in his trousers every time he sees that expression depicted on the TV or jumbotron. They storm to a 4-0 win against Columbus the night he’s back, two of the goals from Shane, and the commentators admit that they hadn’t thought Hollander could get any better than his Stanley Cup years, but is clearly on a mission to prove everyone else wrong about that.

Shane leaves the Wednesday for Montreal, after Ilya spends a long, slow night fucking him carefully, reminding him that he’s Ilya’s king, he’s hockey’s golden god, that no-one compares to him.

They’d spent the weekend prior shopping for Christmas presents, as Ilya had been invited to spend the Christmas break with the Hollanders, and since work is also off over the hockey break he was more than happy to accept.

Shane’s taken Ilya’s presents for Yuna and David for him. Ilya insisted on buying his own flight to Montreal since Shane would be flying up with the team before him, and insisted on getting both of their flights back to New York on boxing day. Without the restrictions of flying commercially, Shane could easily pack the nice Russian vodka Ilya had bought for David - he’d seen a couple of still-good-but-not-as-good bottles in the Hollander’s liquor cabinet when he’d gone, and Ilya had finally managed to pry out where Shane had bought the bottle for Ilya. He’s also taken the signed cookbook Ilya had gotten for Yuna, when Shane had mentioned she’d been raving about a restaurant Rose had taken her and David to while they were in New York for Shane’s first game.

He’s also kept it a secret from Shane, but part of the reason he was so insistent on getting his own flight is he’s taken Thursday and Friday off, and is on the midday flight up to Montreal on Thursday to watch the game in person. Yuna and David are picking him up at the airport and taking him for a late lunch before the game.

They seem pleased to see him, treat him to a local Canadian place where he gets to try poutine for the first time, and talk about how Shane’s been dealing with the anxiety of playing against his old team.

Ilya reassures them as best he can, and knows that the recent run of good games the Admirals’ have had, versus the admittedly poor showing from Montreal, who still don’t seem to have found their feet two months in, are motivating Shane to keep both streaks going.

It helps that Hayden and J.J. had both reached out prior to the game, and Ilya knows they went for a drink last night, reassuring Shane that while they know he’s their opponent on-ice, off-ice they’re still friends. Shane had called Ilya afterwards before Petrov had come back to his room, talked about the dinner and how he was glad that Hayden and J.J. seemed to understand how much better the Admirals’ were for him, that J.J. had also mentioned wanting to meet Ilya at some point.

Post-lunch, Yuna and David stop by their house so Ilya can drop off his suitcase, and then swing by the hotel where he knows the team is staying so he can meet Petrov in the lobby during what should be his nap time. Petrov had roomed with Shane last night, but when Ilya had mentioned he was thinking of coming to Montreal he had immediately worked with Hunter to change room assignments post-game, and hands Ilya his room key with a grin.

Hunter has put him on the guest list for the family seats, to keep the secrecy going, and has also warned him that this was going to cost Shane a lot in fines depending on how public his reaction is. Ilya had reassured Hunter with his cockiest grin that it wouldn’t be a problem, and had noted the Captain frowned, potentially clocking Ilya’s secret competition for fines this season. 

He leaves his overnight bag at the front desk, since Shane would see it immediately when he wakes up from his nap otherwise and ruin the surprise, and heads back out to where Yuna and David are waiting patiently. 

They make their way to the rink nice and early, Ilya insists on treating them to the overpriced snacks and drinks since they’d paid for his lunch. He’s in a red sweater he’d found that’s the Admirals’ jersey colours without being overly obvious, and it coordinates nicely with Yuna and David’s own jerseys. 

The stadium fills up, and Ilya’s not really surprised to see a number of Montreal Hollander jerseys, the 24 now looking odd on blue. He waves hello to Laura, who’s there with one of her kids who apparently are studying in Montreal, and a couple of the other WAGs who have made it, but there are fewer of them for the away game.

It’s loud, people pressed against the plexiglass as the players come out for their warm-ups. And before he knows it Yuna’s gripping his hand as the players are introduced, a wave of ‘boo’s for the Admirals, until Shane’s number is called and there’s a soft stutter, some cheers a soft undercurrent as the boos fade briefly before rising again.

Hunter takes the initial face off, and the first period passes by in a blur. Montreal are definitely struggling when the puck goes down the centre, the player they have to replace Shane just not nearly strong enough. But no-one manages to score, and Yuna apologises as she releases her death-grip on Ilya’s fingers as the first period buzzer sounds.

He shakes his head, offers his hand back and she smiles at him as she takes it, David watching fondly.

Montreal come out in the second period with a serious chip on their shoulder. Shane gets high-sticked and tripped, and spits blood onto the ice while the refs call for the Montreal right-winger to go to the penalty box. Shane gets seen by the medics while he sits on the bench, but Ilya can see the way he shakes his head, swills his mouth out with water and nods when his coach leans down with a hand on his shoulder. Grim determination lines his mouth, eyes narrowing as Montreal manage three shots on goal for the few minutes he’s out, and he’s leaping back over the boards like he has something extra to prove when the lines change.

Ilya’s heart is in his throat as Petrov manages a tight pass between three of Montreal’s players converging on him, and Shane takes off the ice as if he’s got a fucking jet pack strapped to his back. It’s like no-one sees him coming, as the puck slots neatly between the goalie’s skates and into the goal before anyone can even blink. The buzzer sounds, and Shane just nods, loops around the back of the net to slow himself down. There’s a murmur of pride and satisfaction at the lack of celebration for the goal against his former team, and Ilya knows the commentators will be gushing over how classy and professional Shane is. His blood heats, can’t wait to get the golden boy away from this rink and tear the professional veil off him until he’s begging Ilya for his dick.

Ilya can’t stop himself, and texts Shane a photo of the rink and a '1 for you tonight' during the second break.

He knows Shane’s seen it as Shane comes out for the third period searching the stands, and skids to a halt as he spots Ilya next to Yuna and David. Ilya sees the way he shakes his head, but his mouth stretches around his mouthguard in a grin as he takes the third-period opening face-off.

And Ilya’s even more turned on as Shane wins the face-off, and tears down the ice with the puck, a neat shot over to Jalo to Petrov and back to Shane as he nets his second goal of the game before Montreal appear to have caught up at all.

He still doesn’t overtly celebrate, but Ilya clocks the way Shane tilts his chin towards where he sits in the stands as if to say fucking look, that was for you, and has to exhale slowly before he can grow hard where he sits. This maybe wasn’t the best game to come to, he thinks, when his lover’s mother is sitting next to him holding his hand.

Montreal try, but don’t manage to make it up in the third period, despite targeting Shane with a single-minded vengeance whenever he’s on the ice. The game ends 2-0, and Montreal fans trickle out with disappointment as the few Admirals fans leave elated.

Ilya thanks Yuna and David for a lovely afternoon as they head home, and they say they’ll see him tomorrow when he and Shane come to stay for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, before heading home the day after. He walks back to the hotel, collects his bag and lets himself into Shane’s room. He knows he’ll still have a while to wait, so he texts Shane ‘1221’ - the hotel room number - with the hotel emoji, sticks the TV on and smiles as he sees the post-game press being replayed.

“Yeah, it was a good game,” Shane’s speaking in French, sweat still plastering his hair to his forehead as he’s leaning towards the mic, dressed in his undershirt but jersey and pads removed. “It’s my first ever game playing against a team who I used to play for, so that felt pretty weird, but, uh, the Admirals have been really fun to play with and I think we really showed up today, played well as a team, and I think that showed in the results.”

“And do you think you’ll be able to do the same at home in February?” the commentator asks.

“I mean, there’s a long time between now and February,” Shane says patiently, as Ilya rolls his eyes at the question, “You never really know what’s going to happen, so I don’t want to say for sure. But we’ll keep playing as a team, keep working hard in every game, no matter who or where we’re playing.”

“And do you have any plans for the break over the next couple of days?”

“Just spending it with my family,” Shane’s professional smile turns a little warmer, a little more real. “I’m looking forward to celebrating Christmas with the people who mean the most to me.”

Ilya feels his heart skip a beat. Shane’s growing pretty good at these vague statements that always somehow manage to include Ilya without being obvious. 

He gets a text - omw - and feels the anticipation build, wonders a little what mood Shane will be in. Turned on, he hopes, but will he be annoyed that he wasn’t told Ilya was coming, or happy with the surprise? 

He digs out lube from his bag - purchased at the airport, since they don’t own any bottles smaller than the allowed limits for flights - and waits with mounting impatience.

The door clicks and almost slams open as Shane barges into the room, scanning immediately for Ilya. He grins at him from where he’s lounging on the bed, shirtless for the fun of it, and laughs as Shane immediately dives over him, presses him into the mattress as he kisses him deeply.

“What the fuck,” Shane mutters between kisses. “Why- how the fuck? Ilyusha.”

“Hello, Shanya,” he murmurs back, hands smoothing up Shane’s sides, untucking his shirt from his suit trousers. “Good game. You taste like champagne.”

“Huff brought a bottle so we could celebrate if we won,” Shane admits. “They all really wanted to beat Montreal for me.”

“As they should,” Ily agrees, “and you did, very nicely.”

“That second goal was for you,” Shane places a hand on Ilya’s chest, holds him down as he sits back, hips over Ilya’s, watches him with dark eyes.

“I know,” Ilya accepts, and knows he sounds smug. “Was very sexy. Too sexy, for when I am sitting next to your mother.”

“Don’t bring my mom into this,” Shane chides, sounding mildly disgusted, and presses a hand down harder on Ilya’s chest as if to push him away for the thought. 

“Sorry,” Ilya grins, thumbs stroking up and down Shane’s hipbones, along soft skin over taut muscle. “I wanted to be there to support you,” he finally answers Shane’s first question. “Was hard for you, I know, playing against your old team. But you did so well, were very professional. Even Montreal fans could not complain, when you did not celebrate.”

Shane sighs softly, leans down to kiss Ilya just as gently. “You flew in today?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Will stay tonight, and we can go to your parents together tomorrow?”

A smile curves against Ilya’s mouth, and Shane nods as he kisses him again. “Fuck, I couldn’t believe it when you texted me. So good to me, my Ilya.”

“Moy korol,” Ilya murmurs back, “Would do anything for you, you know this.”

“I do,” Shane agrees. “Including, I hope, fulfilling your end of our bargain - I gave you two goals tonight.”

“Mm, so you come twice,” Ilya agrees. “I think since you were so good, I will hear your petition, if you have preference today.”

“I want you to eat me out,” Shane says immediately, “and then fuck the second one out of me, while I’m still wet and sloppy with your spit.”

“Fuck, Shanya,” Ilya groans, rolls them over and does his best to tug Shane’s buttons undone as fast as possible. “As you wish.”

They strip their remaining clothes rapidly, and Ilya lifts Shane’s legs until he’s bent in half, can lower his mouth to his hole as Shane stares at the ceiling, knees practically by his face as he holds himself open for Ilya. He licks and sucks, eases a finger in and then two until Shane’s coming all over himself, hole tightening around Ilya’s fingers until he thinks he might go mad with it.

He lowers Shane’s legs as he gasps for air, wraps them around his hips, and lubes himself up and eases in. Shane groans lowly as he does, but Ilya’s ears prick and he covers his mouth with his hand gently as there’s jovial cheers and laughter echoing from the corridor outside.

“Ssh, moy korol. Your teammates are back,” he murmurs, and feels Shane’s breath hitch under his hand. “Must be quiet, yes? I do not want them hearing how pretty you sound when you come for me, and I think you do not want the fine you will get if they do.”

Shane’s hand grabs his, adjusts it so he can suck two fingers into his mouth as if to gag himself with them and Ilya grunts darkly as his hips twitch involuntarily. Shane’s eyes meet his, glowing in the dim light of the hotel room. The soft slap of hips on hips is barely audible over the ruckus outside as Ilya slows his pace, the soft whine Shane gives vibrating softly through his fingertips. 

“Or maybe you would like it,” Ilya whispers, leaning further down to press his lips to Shane’s ear, bite at his earlobe. “Knowing they can hear you getting off, knowing that you are celebrating your win in the best way possible. Knowing that they know that you are being fucked so well you just can not stay quiet.”

Ilya picks up speed again, the outside sounds muffling slightly as hotel room doors open and close, until Shane’s coming around him a second time, legs twitching weakly around his hips as Ilya eases back, strips his cock until he’s adding to the mess on Shane’s torso.

He bends down, licks a straight line up the groove between Shane’s abs from his belly-button to chest, collects the come in his mouth. Shane groans as Ilya leans down to kiss him, offers him their combined release, takes it and passes it back and forth as they kiss, both swallowing whatever’s left when they break for air.

He does it again, lets it drip into Shane’s mouth this time and watches him swallow, feels his own cock twitch at the sight, has to stop before he starts getting hard again. 

They shower, take the second bed as they can’t be bothered to strip the first, and Ilya admits that Petrov’s sharing with Hunter when he glances around for the other player’s luggage. 

“You planned all of this?” Shane asks, looking almost disbelieving as Ilya tugs him down to his chest before he can get riled up.

“Yes. Hunter helped with seats, Petrov helped with hotel room, your parents picked me up from airport. Wanted it to be a surprise for you, but could not do it all alone.”

“I just- I knew everyone supported us, but it’s nice that they actively do this kind of thing to help too,” Shane admits, pressing his lips to the curve of Ilya’s chest. “And thank you, for coming. I don’t think I’ve said that yet.”

“You had not, but you are welcome,” Ilya grins down at him as he rolls his eyes, but they both settle in for sleep smiling.

Chapter 25: Mr. Celebrity

They wake up the next morning as someone raps on the hotel room door, shouting “team breakfast downstairs! If you’re getting on either the team plane or need a ride to the airport, you’ve got forty-five minutes to eat and be ready for the bus.”

Shane groans into Ilya’s shoulder as he jerks awake, but softens as he realises he’s wrapped around Ilya, pleased little smile curving his lips.

“Morning,” Ilya murmurs. “Breakfast? I can wait here.”

“You should come,” Shane disagrees. “Some of the WAGs come, too. I think Huff had Laura over last night, so she’ll probably be there.”

“Okay,” Ilya gives in, unable to say no to Shane as always. 

They dress, Shane insisting they strip the come-stained sheets as he sees the state of the other bed, and Ilya rolls his eyes but neatly rolls up the sheets and leaves them on the edge of the mattress for the cleaning staff.

Breakfast is lively, almost all of the guys already there and they cheer as Shane enters, a soft chant of MVP as he laughs, waves them off and hands Ilya a plate as he takes his own.

They sit next to Petrov and Hunter, Vaughan on Hunter’s other side. Ilya nods to Laura, who’s sat with Huff the next table over and she smiles back at him brightly.

“Good night?” Vaughan asks off-handedly, and Shane slaps a hand over Ilya’s mouth before he can get them fined.

“Yes, thanks,” Shane replies neutrally, and grimaces and wipes his hand on Ilya’s trousers as he licks his palm. “Did you guys stay out late?”

“Nah,” Vaughan shakes his head. “A couple of the guys went out, but most of us just hit the one bar, and then with the flight tonight and Christmas coming up wanted to chill so had a semi-early one.”

“What are you doing for American Christmas?” Ilya asks Petrov, as the other players launch into a discussion of just where was good for drinking in Montreal, anyway?

“Jalo has found a sauna?” Petrov sounds mildly bewildered, but is smiling with soft excitement, “It is tradition for Finns, apparently. We will mostly relax, I think, he has said he’s not fussed otherwise. And it is weird for me, to be celebrating now. My family were very keen on the Russian traditions, church on the 6th January, and so on.

“What about you? You are staying here, with Hollzy?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “With his parents. I’m nervous, but it’ll be good. We’re coming back on the 26th, for a couple of days to ourselves before the next game too.”

Petrov nods, agrees that it will be nice, and then they’re drawn into the conversation which has turned into the team taking it in turns to announce the best Secret Santa presents they could ever want, with a $50 limit. 

Ilya can’t say his as it’s not PG and Shane’s stepping on his foot in warning, so he says probably just a bottle of the best vodka he can get for the limit, to get ‘boo’ and ‘boring’ in return. Shane admits he’s had his eye on a specific hockey book for a while for his answer and gets an even louder raspberry from the team, but they’re all grinning fondly. 

There are a few other boring answers; pyjamas, good-quality socks; a few more answers of booze which helps Ilya feel validated. As Bennett’s the last person to answer, again with a book of poetry which he’d read for his English degree at Harvard, the entire team agrees that they’re all kind of boring, actually.

As the laughter echoes through the room their travel coordinator and coach stick their heads through the door, and announce that the bus will be leaving in ten minutes. A mass exodus follows, with most of the players saying goodbye to Shane and Ilya as the only two staying behind. 

“They call you Hollzy,” Ilya murmurs. He’d noticed before, but hadn’t found the right time to bring it up.

“Yeah,” Shane looks immeasurably pleased at the reminder. “I really like it. Montreal only ever called me Hollander or Captain. They tried Holly for a bit, in my last year, but it was clearly mocking - like calling me a girl's name was something derogatory - so I refused to answer to it, and they went back to Captain relatively quickly.

“Mm, it makes me so hot when you know your worth,” Ilya murmurs, pressing into Shane as they get up to leave as well. “Shane Hollzy Hollander.”

Shane laughs, accepts a quick kiss but no more as they head into the more public corridor. They collect their things, drop the keys off at the front desk and call a cab to take them to Shane’s parents. 

Yuna and David are waiting with more coffee and hugs, and they spend Christmas Eve relaxing. Ilya admires the tree, twinkling with lights and a variety of ornaments that they explain are partly from their various travels, and others that mostly David had inherited from his parents.

Yuna sticks on ‘Love, Actually’ when Ilya admits he’s never really seen any Christmas movies, that his family didn’t really celebrate like that (his father had once decried all ‘cheesy Western festive propaganda’ in a pro-Russian Christmas rant, but Ilya keeps that to himself). 

Ilya is outraged when Alan Rickman’s character buys the necklace for his assistant, gestures wildly at the TV. “But he has Emma Thompson! Why would you want anyone else? Stupid man.”

Shane watches him with bemusement, not half as invested but fascinated as he listens to Ilya rant. Ilya nods in approval as the little boy runs through the airport towards the end, although this is definitely fiction as he doubts anyone would be able to make it through the airport like that without a ticket.

Ilya tells Yuna he loves the film as it ends, as if she couldn’t tell from his passionate commentary, and she offers to share a long list of other classics - though not all would be romances. He accepts, promises to watch as many as he can while it still feels festive enough, and smiles when Shane sighs in mock-annoyance, but knows his boyfriend would indulge him if he asked.

They eat an early dinner together, go for a walk as it starts snowing outside, enjoy the various Christmas lights up on select houses in the neighbourhood. Ilya and Shane are wrapped up in hats, scarves and bulky coats so that even if anyone were to see them it would be a miracle if he was recognised, so they hold hands as they walk, constantly glancing over and smiling at each other.

They’re almost home when Ilya gives in to his thoughts, lets go of Shane’s hand, scoops up a ball of snow and launches it at the hockey player, cackling with glee as he ducks behind a tree before Shane can retaliate. Yuna and David are laughing as they sensibly head immediately out of the range of fire into the house. Ilya laughs as he dashes around Shane, tosses another snowball at his back, but regrets it slightly as three launch themselves at him in rapid succession, Shane using his brief break to smash together a few snowballs he can use as ammo.

They run around for a few more minutes, snowballs flying every which way, until Ilya slips on the ice and has to catch himself against the side of the decking before he lands on his bad knee with a curse. Shane tucks himself up under his arm immediately for support, chest heaving with the exertion and laughter, and they mutually agree to a tie and head up the steps into the house.

Yuna’s made eggnog while they messed about outside, and they strip out of their snow-damp outerwear and collapse on the sofa to drink it. Ilya admits he’s never had it before, but it’s delicious, especially with the added warmth of the rum. 

The evening passes in a soft haze of good food, good conversation and general cosiness. Ilya finds himself slumping into Shane, the twinkling lights of the tree almost hypnotic as he sinks into the welcoming company, chest fit to burst with the soft joy of it all.

Christmas Day arrives with a soft fresh blanket of snow, and Ilya spends a few minutes watching it fall outside the window as Shane continues to sleep in his arms. He presses his cross to his lips, knows his mama wouldn’t mind if he wishes her a Merry Christmas now, rather than in January. This is the best Christmas he can ever remember having even as it starts, the memories of the ones with her now too hazy to recall properly, and he mourns the loss a little even as he knows she would be happy for him.

He looks away from the window to see Shane watching him, gaze soft in understanding.

“You miss her,” his voice barely makes it into the room, soft and hushed in the delicate atmosphere.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But she would want me to be happy on a day like now, this I know. She would like you, and your family, and how good you have been to me. I wish you could have met her.”

“I wish I could have too,” Shane replies, shifting so his face is more on a level with Ilya’s. “Can you tell me something about her, anything you remember?”

“She loved music,” Ilya recalls, “I do not remember what kind, but I remember dancing with her, laughing in I think the kitchen. Memory is fuzzy, but is there.”

Shane smiles and Ilya leans in for a kiss, Shane meets him halfway.

“Merry Christmas, Ilyusha.”

“Merry Christmas, Shanya.”

They dress; Ilya in the soft red jumper he’d worn to the game, Shane in a truly hideous Christmas sweater that is barely outmatched by David’s when they go downstairs - he protests half-heartedly, but apparently it's ridiculously soft, his dad insists, and it’s one of the few things he asks of him so it’s easy to give in.

Ilya pours coffee while Shane helps Yuna serve breakfast, pastries and eggs. Shane indulges, has half of a pain-au-chocolat with his omelette, and Ilya finishes off the rest with another two pastries when Yuna keeps pushing the plate towards him in encouragement. 

They open presents after breakfast; Yuna and David love the cookbook and vodka respectively, and Ilya thanks them profusely for the stunning black cashmere sweater and 1000-piece puzzle that they give him, which includes a rollable puzzle board so he can put it away when not using it (admittedly the latter is more for Shane than anyone).

He gives Shane his present, waits anxiously as he opens the gold chain that he’d bought him. He knows Shane doesn’t wear much jewellery, but had seen it when shopping and had immediately imagined it around Shane’s neck, and the second present he’d bought was not safe to be opened in front of his parents. Shane’s smile is huge when he opens it, and hands it carefully to Ilya so he can secure it around his neck.

“Feels nice,” Shane murmurs as Ilya sets the chain carefully, running his fingers across the links. “Thank you.” He leans up for a brief kiss and Ilya smiles in relief.

Ilya opens his own present from Shane, and feels his breath catch at the pair of Bauer skates sitting in the box.

“I hope they fit okay,” Shane murmurs anxiously. “And, obviously, no pressure to use them at all, I can return them if you don’t like them, or have changed your mind, or-”

“Shane,” Ilya murmurs, cutting off his anxious rambling. “They are perfect. Thank you. We will have to find some time to go when we are home, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane nods, relief evident, and Ilya leans in to return the soft peck of thanks.

Shane gets new clothes and a couple of books from his parents, and has gotten them a new watch for David and new earrings for Yuna in return. 

Present exchange complete, they tidy up the wrapping paper and retreat to put the items away. Ilya follows Shane back up to his room, and finds himself backed up against the door and being kissed within an inch of his life.

“You really like it?” Ilya asks, running one finger over the chain links around Shane’s neck, hanging down just to end between his collarbones.

“I love it. Love that I’m wearing something you gave me. I can leave this on forever, and always be able to think of you.” Unlike the bruises, goes unsaid, though Ilya knows he loves those too. 

“I did have something else for you,” Ilya admits, “but it is at home - I do not think you would want to open it in front of your parents.”

Shane laughs, chest shaking against Ilya’s. “I’ve got something else for you, too, that’s also at home.”

Ilya grins, kisses Shane again, hand sliding across the nape of his neck and revelling in now-skin-warm gold metal against his fingertips.

“You really like the skates? I know I’m being a bit presumptuous, maybe-” and Ilya cuts him off with another kiss.

“Yes, Shanya. Do not worry. I meant what I said, we will have to find some time, maybe when your practise ends as my work does.”

They kiss a moment longer, but Shane pulls back before he can get too carried away, aware they’re still in his parents house.

They head back downstairs shortly after, and spend the afternoon and evening helping Yuna in the kitchen, eating the giant dinner she cooks for them, putting together a puzzle with David while A Muppets’ Christmas Carol plays in the background.

Ilya turns in for bed with Shane the most contented he thinks he’s felt in years. He wraps himself around his boyfriend, inhales the subtle vanilla-smoke of his aftershave, and thanks his mama once more as he drifts into sleep.

Yuna makes them eggs benedict the next morning, and they sit around and chat until they have to leave for the airport a little before lunch. She’s made them sandwiches and a little packed-lunch from the leftovers from yesterday, and Ilya suddenly has the image of her packing a young-Shane’s lunchbox with care, his heart swelling with his imagination.

He kisses her on the cheek in thanks as she and David drop them off at the airport, and gets a soft smile and a hand to his cheek back. He memorises the moment, heart full, and hugs David before taking his suitcase from Shane and watching as the Hollanders say goodbye to each other. 

The airport is quiet, and Ilya and Shane eat their leftovers in the quiet of the First Class Lounge. Shane’s watching a family perched on the benches just outside the lounge, a young boy raptly reading a book titled ‘Z is for Zamboni’ with a picture of a Zamboni on ice on the front. He’s got a little backpack with the Ottawa Centaurs logo on it in front of his feet, and his dad has an Ottawa Centaurs scarf draped around his neck.

“Go on,” Ilya encourages, digging a half-chewed biro out of his bag and holding it in front of Shane. “Mr. Celebrity. We have ten minutes until boarding, and you know you would make his day.”

Shane hesitates, but trades Ilya the rest of his sandwich for the pen and exits the lounge briefly. Ilya watches as the boy’s parents stare, wide-eyed, as Shane approaches them. They nod rapidly as he says something, and crouches in front of the boy who finally looks up from his book.

Ilya feels his chest ache as Shane holds out his hand and gently shares a handshake with the boy whose beaming smile is enough to light the entire airport. Ilya can only see his profile, so sees the curve of his smile as the boy excitedly shows him his Centaurs backpack, hands over his book so Shane can sign the inside cover.

They chat for a few minutes longer, Shane’s brow briefly furrowing, before he nods, waves goodbye and steps back towards the lounge. He stops by the entrance, speaks intently to the staff member there, who nods and calls someone on the radio.

“His grandma is sick,” Shane explains as he returns to Ilya’s side, but starts rooting around in his backpack rather than sitting down. “They’re on a last-minute flight to Vietnam, had to change here. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Ilya doesn’t even have time to respond before Shane’s rifling through his wallet and jogging back over to the staff member, who takes what looks like his credit card as another staff member approaches the family at Shane’s gesture towards them, ushers them over towards the first-class lounge as they stare, utterly bewildered.

Shane talks to them again as they approach, and they hand over their passports and boarding tickets, are issued new ones and Ilya feels his heart almost burst as he realises Shane must have upgraded them. 

The mom looks like she’s about to cry, shakes Shane’s hand forcefully instead. The boy hugs Shane’s legs and he rests a hand on his head, shakes his own head and says a few more words before the family is being shown over to a table in the corner of the lounge, and Shane is jogging back over as their gate finally announces they’re ready to board.

“That was a very nice thing you did,” Ilya murmurs, as he hands Shane his bag and sandwich.

“I just- I mean, it’s Christmas,” Shane shrugs. “And their family member is sick and I seriously still have more money than I know what to do with, so.” 

Shane looks back, sees the family watching them and waves briefly. They all lift a hand back before he turns to lead the way through the lounge to their gate. 

As they settle into their seats for the short flight home, Shane glances at Ilya in question and he realises he’s been staring at Shane for the last few minutes.

“You okay?”

“You were serious,” Ilya checks, “about the charity idea?”

Shane nods instantly, “I mean, I really want to do it. I just… I know I don’t realistically have the time to devote to what it would need right now, and while I could leave it to mom and whatever team she sets up, I think I want to be more involved in it, than just giving the idea to somebody else?

“So it might need to wait a couple of years,” Shane admits. “I’m hoping I can maybe work on it more in the offseason.”

“I have been working on it,” Ilya says, and this time Shane stares at him. “I saw the original idea, that one time, and I knew you were busy, with the Admirals and the move and a whole new routine. But I could not stop thinking about it, and what else is my degree good for?

“Yes, it helps with my job,” he adds before Shane can be pedantic about it, “but I could do more. So I have been thinking about it, and I put together some ideas, some plans. I asked Cliff, too, for help,” he confesses. “He has given me some good ideas. And it is not perfect, there are lots of questions that we would have for you before we could make even the first decisions. But if you want me to show you what we have done so far, then I will. And if you want me to stop, to do it yourself, then I will.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes, hand gripping his across the armrest. “Yes, please. I want you to show me. I thought you’d be too busy with your new job and everything, I didn’t think you’d have the energy to help, really. This is… thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Ilya says gruffly. “You might hate all of our ideas so far.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Shane’s smile is like pure sunlight, and Ilya has to look away, is glad when the air steward comes along to check all of their seatbelts are on and overhead lockers are closed and Shane pulls his hand back reluctantly.

The flight is smooth, and before they know it they’re landing in New York, bitter sleet drumming down on the streets and the car as they drive through it. 

Shane is quiet, the way he gets when he’s thinking things over, but seems to be content for the moment rather than spiralling into something negative. Ilya gets to hold his hand across the backseat so he’s happy, and walks up the backstairs with Shane until they’re closing the door behind them and they’re home.

They unpack, toss clothing into the laundry baskets. It’s warm in the apartment, so Ilya carefully removes and folds his new sweater, tugging on a loose tank top instead. Shane had ordered groceries and they’ve all been neatly put away by the new service he’s using, but he pulls out ginger ale and coke as he sits on the sofa, a wrapped present on his lap.

Ilya grins, digs out his own present from underneath his side of the bed and joins him. They exchange together on the count of three, and the sound of Ilya tearing the wrapping paper as fast as his fingers can catch against it is a rough counterpoint to the neat slices of Shane sliding his nail underneath the tape and carefully preserving the paper as he peels it off.

Ilya laughs as he finds two cockrings in the box, a plain silicone one and another that apparently has a vibrate setting with a little remote. Shane’s grinning, a lick of heat in his eyes, as he lifts the cuffs out of his box, designed to be attached to the edges of the bed so Ilya can spread him out and touch him at his leisure.

“Great minds,” Ilya purrs, “What do you want to try first?”

Shane takes him by the hand, leads him to the bedroom and makes quick work of affixing one cuff to his side of the bed, tossing Ilya the other to do the same. He plucks the vibrating cock ring out of his hand and places it in their drawer, goes to wash the other in the sink as Ilya vibrates himself in excitement. 

Ilya spends the next half an hour with Shane cuffed to the bed, cock ring on and keeping him going for much longer than he can usually last as Ilya teases him with his mouth for a while, opening him slowly, before he takes him deep into his throat, presses his fingers deep in him and against his prostate.

He comes with a shout, hips jerking and almost throwing Ilya upwards as he eases the ring off. Ilya uncuffs one hand and is dragged down by the nape of his neck and Shane kisses him messily as Ilya jerks himself off at the sight of him orgasm-flushed and panting.

Ilya unlocks the other cuff eventually, checks that Shane’s shoulders and wrists are fine, and they lie there for longer than usual before they eventually need to shower. 

They have another lazy evening, the weather outside too grim to justify a walk, though Shane gets in a quick yoga session alone in the gym before dinner. Ilya’s good and remains upstairs, knows he won’t be able to prevent himself from molesting Shane even in the semi-public gym if he sees him doing yoga, though he does hope that Shane will let him watch one day.

Instead he spends an hour tidying up the notes on the charity to share with Shane. They devote some time to it after dinner, Ilya indescribably nervous as he takes Shane through the steps they’ve taken so far, the key decisions that would now need to be made if he thinks this is the right direction. 

Shane’s mostly inscrutable as Ilya talks him through the documents and pages of notes, which doesn’t help Ilya’s nerves, and he fidgets in silence once he comes to the end of where they are so far.

“You really did all that, just because I mentioned it once?” Shane asks him eventually, eyes still on the screen.

“I know you do not start things you do not mean to finish. And I think it is a good idea,” Ilya admits. “I was lucky, with my childhood hockey. You were too. But there are lots of children who do not have the resources we did. Even Bennett, you said, has made it but it was a struggle as he grew up poor. So if there is something you want to do, as star MLH player, even a little thing, like for that boy today, then of course I will always support it.”

“God, Ilya,” Shane sighs, “I love you so fucking much. Yes to all of this. It’s perfect, it’s what I think I wanted without even knowing it, and I don’t know how you always do that, always know exactly what I need.”

“I am not sure how much time we will really have to work on it,” Ilya warns, “given the season is busy. But if the women’s team is knocked out I will have more brain space, maybe, and on the off-season we can work on it together more. It will take time, but I think in a year or so, we could maybe make this work.”

“I’d love that,” Shane nods vehemently. “Yes. I know it’s going to be insane once I come out, and probably half our bandwidth will be needed to deal with some of that, but what you’ve done so far is so amazing I think we’ll manage it.”

“We can fit it in as we go,” Ilya reassures him. “I will email you things now, so you can take closer look, maybe answer some of the questions so we can then work on next bits, and then repeat.”

Shane agrees, and Ilya’s swept into a passionate kiss, Shane gripping him tightly, almost bruisingly.

They stumble back to bed, and Ilya’s glad they hadn’t already changed the sheets yet as they just mess them up all over again.

Chapter 26: Moy Dorogoy

Chapter Notes

TW: this chapter is heavy on the references to depression

The new year begins, and although it starts off joyously for Ilya, with a home game for Shane on New Years Eve that ends in a resounding 4-1 win for the Admirals against San Jose, followed by the brilliant use of Shane’s vibrating cock ring in private celebration after a couple of drinks at the Kingfisher, Ilya finds a soft cloak of melancholy settling over him as they move into the depths of January.

He barely notices at first, attributes it to being a little tired with the return to work, the additional help he gives as Shaz is off sick with a nasty bout of flu for a week. He thinks he’s coming down with it himself, for a few days, but although the exhaustion builds the coughs and sniffles never quite set in.

Shane is back and forth between home and away games. The Admirals are on a winning streak, Shane getting more shots on goal until he’s ahead of his previous record, will easily out-beat himself if he keeps going at this pace. He’s joyous; fitting in better with the Admirals as the season continues at pace.

It’s a Thursday morning when Ilya realises something is probably wrong.

He’s woken alone after a restless night sleep, as Shane had been in Ottawa for an away game yesterday. He’ll be back briefly tonight, but is leaving again tomorrow for a game against Florida. Ilya can’t quite muster the energy to get out of bed, sleep clinging sticky and thick to his brain as he fumbles for the bedside light. He’s got to dogsit Max tonight, and when even that thought saps him of energy dread fills him as he realises that the exhaustion isn’t solely tiredness, but sadness dragging at his chest.

His fingers hit the light switch and he instinctively flinches back from the sudden brightness, but forces himself to keep his face facing towards it. It pushes back some of the gloom, the darkness outside even at close to eight in the morning.

It takes more than he wants to give to pull on clothing. He lingers over the soft cashmere sweater he had for Christmas, but feels like he doesn’t quite deserve it right now, so digs out an old one he’d had since Russia, now a little rough at the seams but probably still okay for work. He pours coffee into a thermos, takes a vitamin D tablet in the hopes that it might do something, and feels like crying as he takes the lift down to the front exit. The roar of the subway is too loud, flashing lights piercing his brain in a way he normally can convince himself is somewhat soothing, and he stumbles into the relative quiet of the arena with relief.

Charlie’s at her desk already when he arrives a little before nine, and Ilya doesn’t notice her frown as he mumbles a 'good morning' and turns his computer on.

Work had been harder than usual this week, but Ilya had naively hoped it had just been the exhaustion. But today, every word in English is taking more effort to translate in his brain, and he’s on his fourth coffee when he realises it’s doing nothing but making his hands shake and has to stop. Charlie has to repeat something three times before he fully understands, and he wants to go and hide in the bathrooms and attempt not to cry, but can’t muster the energy to do so.

He can’t face going outside, so waves off Eddie and Charlie when they invite him to go fetch lunch, sits and stares at the dim screen of his laptop instead. 

He almost cries when they bring him back a sandwich anyway, gently encourage him away from his desk and into their usual meeting room. Rex sits next to him and he lets the chatter wash over him, picks at his sandwich until he realises it’s suddenly all gone, and the aching in his gut that must have been hunger is temporarily subsided.

He feels like he blinks slow, and suddenly he’s alone in the room with Rex.

“My partner really struggles with depression,” she enunciates slowly, carefully, and Ilya closes his eyes. He had been candid at the start with everyone about his diagnosis in a moment of bravery, but almost wishes he hadn’t said anything now, self-loathing creeping upwards from his chest.

“I don’t know what it’s like myself,” she continues, still not looking at Ilya and he can almost pretend she’s talking to someone else. “I see how hard she tries to push past it. But sometimes she needs help. I try too, as her partner, and I will never stop, but I’m not qualified for some of what she needs.

“We want to support you, Ilya,” Rex looks at him then, and Ilya can feel his face crumple as the tears fill his eyes, vision going blurry. “We are here for you, if you need us, or want to talk to us. But I really want to encourage you to talk to Dr. G, okay?

“I know this is overstepping, but Charlie’s checked and she’s got a free slot at 1:30 today. I spoke to Dr. G a lot, last year, I really struggled with grief as I lost someone close to me unexpectedly. I found her really helpful, and she’s dealt a lot with players who struggle, or staff members who are going through something hard or dark. Even if they could cope with it on their own, even if it is temporary, just having that other person there to talk to can be really helpful, especially if they’re removed from everything else that makes up your life.

“So you don’t have to go, and we won’t force you, or even mention it as soon as we leave this room. But we wanted you to remember it’s an option, and one that we’ve all taken up at one time or another. And we can make the appointment too, if it’s too hard for you right now.”

Ilya swallows, can’t quite get the words past the lump in his throat, but he manages a sharp nod.

“Okay? I’ll call her?”

Ilya nods again, and Rex offers a hesitant hand out. He reaches over, squeezes her fingers in thanks, and loses the battle against his tears.

She sits with him in silence for a few minutes until the tears subside, the only sound in the room his soft sniffles. He wipes his cheeks with his sleeves, can’t quite make a smile for Rex but thinks she understands anyway as she leads him out of the room. He nips to the bathroom, washes his face, and by then it’s 1:00.

He’s grateful as no-one says anything when he returns to his desk, and they just murmur a ‘see you later’ as if he’s off to a regular meeting when he gets up at 1:25 to head to the next floor up where he knows Dr. G’s office is.

He’s never actually been told her full name, just that the majority of the staff call her Dr. G, so blinks in a double-take when he sees Dr. Galina Molchalina printed on the door. He knocks against the partially cracked door, gets a soft enter in an accent he recognises as sounding like his childhood home, and steps inside the room, shutting the door behind him.

Her office is open and inviting; she’s sitting behind a desk in one corner, the window on her right-hand side letting in some of the gloomy grey skies. A pair of sofas sit on the opposite side of the room, a little coffee table with magazines and fake plants between them.

“Ilya Rozanov?” she asks softly. She’s in her mid-forties, maybe, with dark blond hair tied back in a pony tail and a soft-looking navy sweater all he can see from behind the desk. 

“Yes,” he finds himself responding automatically in Russian at the fluent way she pronounces his name, and has to shake his head to switch back to English, “sorry, yes.”

“We can speak in Russian, if you’d prefer that right now,” she offers, having caught the slip. “Your accent - you are from Moscow?”

He nods, sits as she gestures to one of the plush armchairs in front of her desk. “Yes.”

“Me too. Before we start, I couldn’t help but notice that you were not the one who made this appointment. I want to check that you are here willingly, that you wanted to come?”

Ilya nods, clasps his hands on his lap and stares at his thumbs. “Yes.”

“And, I’m sorry, these are required questions,” she adds when Ilya glances up at her, “are you content for me to look at your employee file? I have access to the health files for everyone on staff,” she explains, “but I only ever look at them in the context of these sessions, and when I have explicit agreement from whoever I’m speaking to.”

“Yes.”

She nods, and Ilya picks at the edge of a hangnail on his thumb as she leaves room for him to say anything other than ‘yes’.

“I think I’m depressed,” he blurts, and freezes once it’s out there in the room. The doctor says nothing, merely watches him without judgement and it gives him the courage he needs to continue.

“I mean- I have a history of depression, it’s in my file,” and the whole thing suddenly flows out of him like the initial admission has burst some kind of dam in his chest; his team’s support the first chisel digging into a crack, this unexpected Russian-speaking therapist the hammer driving it through concrete. 

He talks about feeling a little more tired over the last couple of weeks, thinking it was just a seasonal illness or something, but that he couldn’t even get excited this morning about hanging out with Max tonight, and he knows he should be looking forward to Shane coming home but he’s actually maybe dreading it for the first time, dreading the possibility of looking at Shane’s face and not feeling the sheer joy he always does because of whatever is going on in his fucked-up brain.

Galina listens carefully, nods, asks gentle probing questions that pull more admissions out of the depths of what feels like Ilya’s soul. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been holding in until he could express it in his native tongue, and can release the thoughts to someone who wouldn’t take them as a reason to worry about him, to burden them with that weight.

He admits he’s not had a depressive episode since before he met Shane; and at that time he’d still been working two jobs and studying just to be able to afford to eat so the need to survive had won out over the desperate want to hide in bed for days.

He knows Shane knows about the depression, but knowing it and seeing it are two very different things, and he’s not sure what the hockey player might do, doesn’t want it to distract him from his game when things are going so well for the Admirals’ and that’s what Shane needs, what he deserves.

But what about what Ilya needs, what he deserves, is the soft question he gets back. 

That feels like it knocks him off his feet a bit; he’s not sure what the answer to that should be.

Galina encourages him to think about it, and gently lets him know it’s been forty-five minutes, and they’ve only got five minutes left in this appointment, and is there anything else he wants to bring up before they close?

He shakes his head, and she asks him if he’s ever taken any medication for his depression? He shakes his head again, admitting his previous therapist in Russia had suggested it but it was deemed that they might interfere with the meds Ilya had been taking for his knee, so he’d turned them down. He also hadn’t wanted to think about what his father would do if he found anti-depressants in Ilya’s possession. 

Galina suggests he should think about it, but given he’s not had an episode like this for a while they may not need them. She asks, instead, that he tries to keep a journal and fill it in every day with how his mood had been on a sliding scale of his choice. It might help him figure out if there are any triggers that set off an episode like this, or if it is just something in his brain chemistry, but either way there’s things they can look at, and more data will help.

She suggests they meet again, if he wants, and he finds himself nodding. She promises to email him some of her regular empty slots, and he can let her know when might work for him.

He leaves her office feeling like someone’s taken a jagged spoon and carved out a heavy, spiked weight from under his ribs; it’s sore and painful, but he feels a little hollower, a little lighter.

His team don’t say anything as he returns, but he manages a smile as they leave the office at the end of the day and wish him a good evening. He’s suddenly fiercely grateful for Rex, for his team, for being so willing to broach the topic of the appointment with him.

He walks home, changes into more comfortable clothes and immediately goes up to hang out with Max. The sheer joy of her as she prances around him, runs to fetch her toys to show him, has the hole in his chest smoothing over slightly, some of the jagged edges slowly healing over.

Ilya texts Sveta, asks her if she remembers the name of the Russian restaurant they’d gone to before Pride, and she calls him immediately, demands to know if he’s okay.

He admits that maybe not, he’s having a bad week. But he tells her about the session with Dr. G, that he’s trying and she soothes him, tells him of course he is, that she’s glad too he has such a good team, that she’s glad he’s been so open with them so far that they feel like they can be so open and offer to make appointments with therapists for him in return. She sends him the name of the restaurant once he promises to check in at least every forty-eight hours, even just with an emoji, and to let her know if he gets worse again.

Shane has texted him while he’s been on the phone, has let him know there’s been a bad crash ahead of them on the highway so they’re stuck in standstill traffic, and it’ll likely be past midnight by the time he gets home. Ilya texts him back not to worry, that he hopes everyone isn’t too restless on the bus, and he’ll be there whenever Shane gets back.

He takes Max on an extra long walk to the restaurant, picks up pelmeni and they even have medovik, so he takes a slice of the honey cake as well to go. He gets a soft pat on the hand as he takes the carrier bag from the host - the same woman as before - and walks back home.

He eats at Amy’s apartment, isn’t quite ready yet to be at home even with Max for comfort, and plays with the pup instead until even she’s flagging and happily flops into her basket at bedtime.

Ilya’s reluctant to leave, but the clock is glowing almost midnight and he knows he has to. He returns home, showers and crawls under the covers, but no matter what he does sleep refuses to come.

It’s close to 2am and Ilya’s resigned himself to just staring up at the ceiling in the dark when he hears the door crack open and Shane tiptoe into the room. The lump swells in his throat with a vengeance and he can’t get a hello past it, so just listens as Shane collects pyjamas, the ensuite light seeping out from under the door as he changes and cleans his teeth, a long quiet silent second as it dims again and Shane almost silently makes his way over to the bed.

He slides in next to Ilya, hand sliding over to rest on Ilya’s ribs and then pauses, as if he realises Ilya’s awake. “Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers.

“You did not,” Ilya admits quietly, and even he can hear the thickness in his own voice.

“I- you didn’t wait up for me, did you? You didn’t have to do that.”

Ilya could lie, say that of course he did, what, did Shane think he’d miss out on a single second with him if he had the choice? But he can’t, he can’t get any more words out, can only inahle shakily.

“Ilyusha?” Shane asks, and Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, hates that note of worry, that he’s caused it. When Ilya can’t reply, Shane shifts, murmurs, “I’m going to turn the light on, okay?” and Ilya keeps his eyes shut as his eyelids light up red. 

He gets a warm palm against his cheek, a thumb stroking down his jaw, as he feels Shane looking at him.

“Hey,” Shane murmurs, and Ilya cracks his eyes open to meet his, sees the way Shane’s face flickers, faintly, with concern. “What do you need? What can I do?”

Ilya presses a hand to his eyes, tries to hide as tears rapidly start to leak out, but Shane gently pulls it away, thumb gently brushing away the tears as they fall into his hairline. Shane shifts, presses his body against Ilya’s, lets his weight rest against him like some kind of weighted blanket, hand just constantly gently capturing his tears.

“Sorry,” Ilya manages.

“No, don’t be,” Shane strokes a hand gently through his hair, eyes intent on Ilya’s face.

“I do not know why I am sad,” Ilya confesses.

“That’s okay,” Shane’s voice is still soft, but the earnestness bleeds through. “How long have you been sad?”

Ilya doesn’t know if he should answer that, knows Shane will probably blame himself if he’s entirely truthful. But how could Shane have noticed before, when Ilya hadn't even been fully aware himself? He wouldn't subject Shane to anything that might induce a modicum of self-blame.

“Was bad, today,” he half-avoids instead. “I thought it was just… tiredness. Maybe flu, something. Did not want to bother you,” Ilya adds when Shane opens his mouth, “There was nothing you could do, from team bus. Was not good, but work helped. Team got me appointment with the therapist.”

“Dr. G?” Shane sounds surprised, but pleased. “She’s really nice. She introduced herself to me, when I was thinking of being traded, but, well, you know I’m good with Mark right now. Was your chat with her… good?”

“Yes. She is Russian, so let me speak in Russian. It helped, more than I thought.”

“I’m glad,” Shane whispers, leans down to press a kiss to his chin. “But you’re still sad.”

“Yes. I do not know when I will not be,” Ilya admits. He can't quite let out his darkest worry, that he isn’t sure when this fugue will go away, has the tiniest terrible thought that maybe it will never stop, and packs that up in a box in his head to hopefully never be let out.

“That’s okay,” Shane reassures him again. “I’m here, if that helps?”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya responds, throat tight at the thought that Shane might think he’s not helping, that he’s not welcome. “You always help.”

“Then I’ll be here as long as you need.”

“You have game tomorrow,” Ilya reminds him.

“I’ll ask to be scratched,” Shane shrugs as Ilya stares at him. “I took a bad check yesterday, my shoulders are killing me. They don’t need me down in Tampa anyway, and the thought of sitting on a plane right now after today spent on that bus is honestly the last thing I want. I can ask to skip travel and the game tomorrow, and pick it back up on Sunday when the team gets back.”

“Shane, you should not. Not for me.”

“Christ Ilya, of course for you,” Shane’s more forceful than usual and the protest dies on Ilya’s lips. “Even if the Admirals’ were having the shittest run, had lost the last ten games and I was their only hope, if you needed me I’d be wherever you are. You should know that. I love you. Safe to say by now that I love you more than hockey, if it came down to it.”

Another wave of tears breaks across Ilya’s temples, and he can feel his lower lip wobbling. Shane’s eyes soften, he leans in to kiss away a tear as it hovers at the corner of his eye.

“Can you call out of work, tomorrow? We can just hide out here, the two of us. Let me look after you, Ilyusha, please.”

“... Okay.” Ilya accepts, heart thudding behind his ribs, soft liquid love for Shane filling the hole that had been gouged out earlier, a soothing balm on the still-jagged edges.

“Okay,” Shane nods, presses a gentle kiss to Ilya’s mouth. “Do you think you can sleep? I can make us tea or something, and we can watch a film, if not?”

“I think I can sleep.”

Shane nods, and rolls onto his back, tugging at Ilya until he follows to splay across his chest, hips between Shane’s thighs as his arms wrap around his back, one hand a comforting weight at his nape. Shane switches the light off, and Ilya can hear Shane’s heartbeat, strong and steady and soothing under his ear. He closes his eyes, lets the rhythm drown out the lingering thoughts racing through his brain until they spin out far enough that he slips softly down into sleep.

He wakes as his alarm goes off and Shane groans as he slaps for it, hits the button to silence the noise.

Ilya’s still propped over Shane’s chest, and he tilts his head up as he feels the hockey player look down at him.

“Hey. How are you feeling?”

Ilya takes stock, breathes deeply. “Tired,” he admits. “Still sad.”

“Okay,” Shane nods, running a soft hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “We should call our managers and things, get that out of the way.”

“...Okay.”

Ilya gets up to pee while Shane calls his coach, apologises for the last minute request but tells him that his partner isn’t feeling well and his shoulders are killing him, so he wants to sit this away game out, if that’s alright? He gets a few probing questions, promises if his shoulders still hurt tomorrow then he’ll go in for another medical check-up at the rink, but is released from the roster. He lets the team know via their text chain as Ilya calls Charlie. She answers immediately, and tells Ilya she’ll put him down for sick leave, reminds him that mental health days are just as valid as physical ill-health recovery days, and she won’t let him waste his PTO for this. She tells him he’s glad he’s taking what he needs, that she hopes he has a good weekend, and if he still feels blue on Monday to let her know.

“The guys say they hope you feel better soon,” Shane says after Ilya wishes Charlie a good weekend too and hangs up, the weight of work temporarily lifting from his shoulders.

Ilya asks him to pass on his thanks, and follows Shane through to the living room as he holds his hand to guide him. Ilya makes them coffee, insists he has to do something so he doesn’t feel entirely useless when Shane goes to protest, but sits and lets Shane make pancakes for breakfast.

It’s soft, quiet, a gentle blanket of rain glittering in the dim morning light against the windows. Ilya sips his coffee, lets the quiet sounds of Shane cooking soothe the still-raw edges of him. Shane sits next to him at the dining table, presses their feet together as they eat.

He’s encouraged to go and shower while Shane washes up. He feels better for the hot water washing off some of the tension he’d woken up with and dresses in his comfiest sweats, comes into the bedroom to see Shane holding out one of his hoodies that Ilya secretly covets in offer. He slides it over his head, inhales the soft lingering scent of Shane in the fabric, leans in to kiss Shane softly in thanks.

Shane hops in the shower quickly himself as Ilya waits on the bed, not quite wanting to be even as far away as the living room and too tired to not to take everything that Shane is offering him.

He’s gently directed back to the couch, where Shane has set out blankets and water and pulls Ilya down onto his chest, wraps them both up in the soft fabrics. Ilya buries his head in Shane’s chest, nods in the affirmative when Shane asks if this is okay, and they lie there in silence for a long time, the gentle patter of the rain on the windows and their soft breathing the only background noise.

Shane starts reading a book when he gets a little restless, but lets Ilya stay in the circle of his arms. Ilya feels the exhaustion slowly ebb, something restorative in just being able to exist with his partner, nothing required of him. He naps for a while, and Shane’s gotten through a couple more chapters by the time he surfaces, roused by the soft grumble of Shane’s stomach under his ear.

“Sorry,” Shane apologises softly. They get up, Shane heats up one of his pre-prepared meals while Ilya makes himself a tuna melt, and by the time they’ve eaten the grey skies have parted and a soft, gentle sunshine glows across the floor.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Ilya suggests, aware that Shane’s not used to doing nothing all day. And while this cozy morning has been perfection incarnate, there’s something in him that’s craving fresh air.

Shane nods and they dress more appropriately for outside. Ilya keeps the hoody on, sees Shane’s tender smile as he notices, and accepts his boyfriend’s outstretched hand as he leads them downstairs and towards Central Park.

It’s quieter than usual, the grim morning weather driving off some people, damp benches and puddles preventing others from wanting to come outside. They’re undisturbed as they take a left where they usually turn right, follow paths they don’t often take in silent agreement.

The gentle exercise helps a little, as does the post-rain outside air; Ilya’s lungs feel freer, able to expand more fully as they continue beneath rows of trees, occasionally still dripping captured raindrops from leaves high above.

Shane settles a little as well, rolls his shoulders on occasion but he confirms they’re fine, or will be, when Ilya checks in on the soreness.

An hour or so in of silent in-sync steps, Ilya finds the courage to bring up his session with Galina yesterday; tells Shane that she suggested thinking about meds, has encouraged him to start a daily little mood-score journal. Shane listens, promises he’ll support Ilya whatever he chooses with the meds, and suggests they stop by a bookstore on the way home to find a notebook, if Ilya wants to try the journaling?

He nods, and they wander around the park a little longer first. Shane googles bookstores that are on the way back, finds a couple that look like they’d have something Ilya can use, so they step back onto the busier New York streets as they turn back towards home.

They’re lucky and the first bookstore has a little collection for Ilya to choose from. It’s quiet in there, almost empty as Shane tugs Ilya towards the back and the ‘Sports’ section. Ilya watches as he flicks through the variety of hockey books, but admits he’s read most of them and can’t find the other one he’s after, so Ilya pays for his own and they leave again.

Shane has them stop by the grocery store, picks up pizzas and shrugs unrepentantly while Ilya watches, says he’s happy to break his diet for tonight, that they deserve a treat. He asks Ilya to pick out whichever ice-cream flavour he wants, and Ilya chooses cookies & cream, dropping the tub into the basket when Shane holds it out.

It’s close to five o’clock when they get home, and Ilya settles back on the sofa wrapped up in blankets while Shane puts away the groceries. He texts Svetlana that he’s okay, that Shane is home with him for today and gets a heart back.

Shane pulls out the puzzle Ilya had received for Christmas in suggestion, and Ilya nods, slides onto the floor with the blankets still around his shoulders as Shane clears the coffee table to roll out the puzzle board over it, and cracks open the box.

He gets lost in the soothing nature of it, Shane helping in finding the corner and edge pieces while Ilya figures out where they go. Shane puts the game on in the background, lowers the volume as the hour in the lead-up is just commentary. Ilya tunes in briefly when they mention Shane’s absence, and winces when they replay the hit from the other night that had hurt his shoulders, a weird twist into the boards and his stick caught and tugged the wrong way.

Shane sits next to him with a coke for Ilya, a ginger ale for himself, and they lean against each other as they continue with the puzzle.

Shane puts the pizzas in as the game starts, so they’re ready for the first break, and they watch together as the Admirals play Tampa.

It’s not a bad game at all. Tampa are out one of their better left-wingers due to injury, and the Admirals take advantage of that as much as possible. Tampa swing a goal at the end of the first period, but it’s cancelled due to goaltender interference when the Admirals’ coach challenges the decision. Shane watches intently; he’s been replaced by Petrov at centre with Huff remaining on the line’s left-wing, one of the fourth-liners brought in for the right-wing, and the rookie steps up admirably well to the pressure. He doesn’t manage to score, but assists Huff to shoot one in neatly in the back left corner, to which Shane gives an unconscious nod of approval.

By the third period, Ilya’s eating the ice-cream directly from the tub with a spoon, Shane occasionally accepting a little bite, as they watch Tampa not quite able to make the goal up, though they give it their best shot, and the game ends 1-0 to the Admirals.

Shane texts his team congratulations after the buzzer ends, leans into Ilya as he half-listens to the post-game commentary and press. Once that’s over, it’s close to ten p.m. and sleepiness is crashing over Ilya like a wave.

Shane encourages him back into the shower, joins him as if he can’t bear to be apart from Ilya for more than a few seconds either, and they brush their teeth standing shoulder-to-shoulder before crawling into bed. Ilya doesn’t resist as Shane tugs him back into his arms, presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Was this, today, okay?” Shane asks softly. “I don’t- I know that a quiet day together isn’t going to magically fix everything, but you’d tell me if you start feeling worse, right?”

“Today was perfect,” Ilya replies, hands stroking gentle comfort into Shane’s side. “You take such good care of me, moy dorogoy.”

“Ya tebya lyublu, Ilyusha.”

“Ya tebya lyublu, Shanya.”

Chapter 27: Mr. Speedy

The fog of depression lifts incrementally, and slowly but surely Ilya re-emerges. He and Shane spend Saturday back in their usual routine - an early workout followed by a lazy morning where Ilya continues with his puzzle, Shane sending a photo of him concentrating intensely over the coffee table to his parents to their delight. They eat lunch and go for an afternoon walk, make love gently in the late afternoon sunlight and nap before Shane joins Ilya in walking Max in the evening.

Shane seems to be figuring out that while a short stint of coddling is welcome, what Ilya wants more than anything once he can think properly is to be treated normally. He’s still a little slow, not as witty or quick as his normal self, but Shane is immeasurably patient, still laughs at his jokes even if they are half a beat late.

Shane goes back to hockey on the Sunday, joins his teammates for practice and the Sunday night game in New York. Ilya stays at home, has Cliff come over for company and they relax with a beer each as they watch the Admirals lose in penalties, 3-2 to Columbus; Bennett out on injury reserve having taken a particularly hard puck to the knee and their backup goalie is good but not quite as quick.

Shane and Huff had made their goals, and Ilya rewards him that night with a thorough blowjob in the shower, the way his name echoes off the tiles in Shane’s voice ever a delight.

Ilya sets up appointments to see Dr. G once a fortnight, even as he continues to shake off the lingering sadness. He keeps his journal, adds little notes with things that make him particularly happy or sad on any particular day, and sometimes when he feels the tinge of melancholy likes to look back on them and remind him that there will always be better and worse days.

His team continue to support him, and though he’d been worried a little about how his blue couple of weeks had affected his performance, he passes his six-month probation with flying colours. The team take him out for drinks to celebrate, and Shane greets him stark naked when he gets home, glass of good vodka in hand that Ilya pours down his spine and licks off him as he fucks into him.

The midway point of the season arrives and with it the All-Stars Game during the last weekend of January. It’s being hosted in Vegas this year, and naturally with a record-making level of points halfway through the season, Shane had been one of the first players announced to be playing in early January, selected from the Admirals.

Ilya hesitates when asked if he’d come, but Amy promises she’ll manage care for Max for that weekend even if she’s working, and without another excuse or even really wanting to say no, Ilya gives in easily.

It’s a good weekend; he and Shane fly out on the Friday night for a night of rest before the Saturday matches, and Ilya enjoys the bright lights and insane noise of Vegas as they’re driven down the strip to their very fancy hotel. Their hotel room is just as insane, a bath on a pedestal in front of the bed of all places, and that evening Ilya makes a show of watching Shane wash himself before joining him to fuck him up against the side of the bath, careful that the water doesn’t wash away all of the lube.

He’s got a front-row seat on the opposite side of the rink to the benches for the skills competitions and the games. He can’t see a single WAG he recognises as he scans their seats, and is glad he and Shane decided against him sitting with them.

Shane’s said he’s not going to publicly out himself at the game, there’s not enough guarantee that someone won’t leak the news before he’s ready, but he’s going to act as they normally do at home in New York without any form of PDA, and let the usual heteronormative assumptions do the work for him. Most of the guys, he reasoned, have probably already heard the rumours, but given nothing has made its way into the public sphere as far as they know, he's nervous but reasonably sure no-one will out him here.

Shane wins Fastest Skater in the skills speed competition, and comes second in the accuracy shooting by a fraction of a second, grinning widely as he skates past Ilya and briefly catches his eye.

“Mr. Speedy,” Ilya mouths as he meets his eyes again from across the rink, and Shane’s grin widens an extra millimetre just for Ilya.

His team wins their games, emerges victorious with two goals from Shane contributing, and Ilya’s lit up with joy as he sees how much Shane’s relaxed with these players as they throw themselves on him in celebration as the final buzzer sounds.

The only dark spot is when they bump into Comeau, who’s been chosen from Montreal for whatever reason. They’re walking through the halls with a friendly Penguin, Desjardins - a centre from Ottawa who’d played with Shane in juniors before the draft, who’d also been on Shane’s team today - when they hear a muttered 'fag' under his breath as Comeau passes Shane. The Penguin turns, grabs Comeau’s arm and demands an apology, to which he gets a roll of the eyes and a scoff.

“He’s not wrong, though he could do with coming up with better insults,” Shane says mildly, and the tension immediately diffuses. He’d introduced Ilya to Desjardins as a friend, but wraps gentle fingers around his wrist. “This is my boyfriend, Ilya.”

Comeau gapes as Desjardins does a double take, and then grins so wide it looks like his cheeks might burst. “Fuck, Hollzy. I still think you deserve an apology,” he glares back at Comeau, who takes one last vicious look at Shane before turning on his heel and storming away.

“I won’t say anything,” Desjardins murmurs as they start walking again. “Though your trade makes much more sense, now. It’s nice to meet you officially, too,” he adds to Ilya, who returns the sentiment.

“You won’t have to keep it a secret for long,” Shane promises with thanks. “Either way, when I’m done with this season there’ll be more news about me that won’t be trade-related. I’m hoping it’ll sort of not be a big deal, but I know that’s very wishful thinking.”

Desjardins slaps him on the back, soft disbelief on his face. “Well, thanks for telling me. You ever need support from or in Pitts, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Dezzy,” he nods. “Good game today.”

“Same to you, eh.”

They ignore the optional post-game dinner as Ilya drags Shane up to their bedroom, eats him out until he’s gasping, fucks him again to reward him for his second goal, eats him out a second time to reward him for being so brave, for putting Comeau in his place. Shane collapses on the bed and they indulge in room service, lobster and steak and make the most of the ridiculously opulent hotel room while they have it.

The brief escape from reality vanishes as they return to New York and the second half of the season comes thick and fast. 

The Admirals start with a losing streak, three then four then five games in a row, three of the five while playing away, and Shane’s growing frustrated, the lengthening time he’s spending in the gym and at the rink growing into something almost unsustainable.

Ilya does his best to distract him, and it helps when the first weekend in February he has his shoot for Adidas. Yuna had secured their sponsorship just before Christmas, but it had taken them a while to work out a workable shooting schedule.

The entire commercial team signs NDAs, so Ilya gets to go along and watch as Shane’s dressed up in a variety of Pride-themed branded gear, all of which he gets to take home afterwards, and works out in the set-up gym as he gets sweaty and sprayed with water to make him look even sweatier, until Ilya’s practically salivating. Shane tells him to behave when he glares at one of the wardrobe guys who steps in too close to adjust his shirt, and Ilya shrugs peevishly but tries not to glare at anyone else.

He’s rewarded as Shane blows him in the private bathroom off his changing room before they leave, something about the semi-public place as always doing it for the hockey player as he grips Ilya’s ass with bruising fingers and takes him into his throat.

Ilya returns the favour when they’re at home, cuffs him to the bed and blows him long and slow, presses their vibrating cockring gently up against his taint until he’s almost desperate to get away from the intense pleasure and comes with a cry down Ilya’s throat.

Shane has a home game on Valentine’s Day, which just so happens to be a Saturday this year. The start time is earlier than usual at 4:30, Ilya assumes to allow fans to make the most of the restaurants surrounding the stadium for a romantic dinner.

He and Shane had agreed that they didn’t really want to bother with the holiday, were happy enough to just keep showing their affections as they do every day. But Ilya knows Shane deserves more and has made secret plans anyway; he’s worked closely again with Hunter and Petrov to keep Shane in the stadium after the game. He sits in the stands, wearing Shane’s jersey, his name and number hidden under one of Shane’s jackets as he watches the game.

When the stadium is empty a long few minutes after the final buzzer - a tight win for the Admirals with Hunter scoring in the first two minutes, but no subsequent goals from either side despite several close attempts - Ilya makes his way down the stands to the side of the rink. He’s sitting on the nearest seat to the gate, pulling on a compression sleeve over his knee - better safe than sorry - and lacing up the skates Shane had gifted him for Christmas as Petrov comes skating out onto the ice, promising Hunter and Shane are just a couple of minutes behind.

The Russian opens the gate for Ilya and hovers nearby but doesn’t offer a hand or any other support as he hesitantly steps out onto the surface, resting more of his weight on his good knee for the first metre or so.

He’d forgotten how good, how natural it feels, to glide so smoothly across the ice, the slightest movement of his hips and thighs helping him change direction. He pushes a little faster, loops around the edge of the rink, and can’t help but smile at Petrov as he joins him.

He’s not fast anymore, he knows that, but it’s like riding a bike, as he skates around the rink, nothing but the sound of his and Petrov’s skates slicing across the ice - until he hears soft voices echoing, one amused, the other barely hiding his annoyance.

“Hunter, seriously. You don’t need me for this, Ilya’s probably waiting-” Shane’s saying as he follows his Captain out.

“Yes, I know he’s waiting,” Hunter replies exasperatedly, and gestures at the ice. Ilya comes to a careful stop in the middle of the rink, and Petrov claps him gently on the shoulder as he brushes past, steps out where Shane is standing stock still, staring at Ilya.

“I said one day,” Ilya calls, his voice echoing up to the rafters, and that seems to break the spell as Shane’s stepping out onto the ice, speeding over to him until he skids to a stop a metre away.

“Ilyusha,” he breathes, looking down at the skates on his feet. “I- you-”

Ilya grins, “Happy Valentine’s Day, moy lyubimyy.” He holds out his hands, Shane’s fingers curling into his. He’s still in his uniform shorts, but has stripped his jersey and pads off so every dip and curve of his torso is practically caressed by the clingy material of his undershirt.

“Fuck, I love you,” Shane sighs and leans in for a kiss.

“That's a fine!” Hunter shouts from the boards, and laughs when Ilya and Shane lift their middle-fingers in response.

“Enough from the peanut gallery, I think,” Ilya calls back, and smiles when Hunter and Petrov disappear with a wave.

“We only have twenty minutes,” Ilya admits. “I could not bribe the Zamboni driver to wait any longer than that.”

Shane nods, “Your knee?”

“Is okay,” Ilya promises. “I will tell you if that changes. But be gentle with me, yes?” He grins wickedly at Shane and gets a fond shake of the head, but follows as Shane starts to skate backwards, pulling Ilya gently with him by their connected hands.

They loop around the rink a few times, switching from Shane backwards facing Ilya with both hands together, to skating side by side, fingers one just one hand interlaced by their sides.

Ilya feels something in his gut settle. He still misses playing hockey more than he can express, and he’d always wondered if he’d feel the sharp sting of regret if he ever made it back onto the ice. But it’s like his brain has made peace with everything that has happened, that he can find the old joy and relaxation as he glides around, only amplified further with Shane by his side.

Ilya knows Shane is skating slowly for him and grins as he gently pushes him forwards. “Lap me,” he challenges. “Make it quick, and I’ll make you come quick, later. Not that it will take much, I think.”

“Fuck you,” Shane replies almost automatically, but grins as he turns to face away from Ilya. He lets his gaze drop down to his ass, not well-outlined in his shorts, but good enough to see the power in it as he pushes himself forward, picks up speed.

Ilya counts under his breath, gets to fifteen before Shane’s speeding past him with a grin. He skids to a stop not far away and leans in for a kiss.

“Fifteen seconds or so,” Ilya tells him. “Your record is 13.012, yes? From this year’s All Stars? Not going to do better, just for me?”

“Fuck, I can’t believe you just know all my stats like that,” Shane admits, leaning in for another, longer kiss. “Also, fuck you. I’ve just played a game, I don’t have the energy I did back for that skills competition.”

Ilya concedes to his point with a teasing grin. They skate around a little longer, but Shane takes advantage and gently presses Ilya up against the boards, kisses him softly. 

Ilya taps his head back against the board and grins, “I think that is penalty for boarding, number 24. Usually such a clean, boring player, is very unlike you.”

“I’ll show you fucking boarding,” Shane growls, and presses Ilya harder up against the boards, grips his hips tightly with both fingers. “And fuck, is that my fucking jersey?”

Ilya laughs, nods, “Mm, thought I look good in red, like Valentine’s Day roses, no?”

His laughter gets muffled by another kiss and they drift across the ice as they let go of the boards, neither caring where they end up. Shane bumps into the side and they break apart, and he flushes bright red as he sees the Zamboni driver waiting at the edge of the rink, watching them with raised, slightly-judgemental eyebrows.

“If you’re done?” he asks, and Ilya can’t stop his snicker as he follows Shane off the ice, like two naughty school boys who’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

He tugs off his skates and slides his shoes on before following Shane down the corridor to the locker room. The room is empty, and Ilya sits in Shane’s cubby as he runs into the shower, refusing to let Ilya join him as he jokes he might.

They get a car home, and fuck like it’s the last time when they arrive, barely making it past the door before Ilya’s pinning Shane up against it like he’d been pinned against the boards earlier and rutting against him, finding the lube in the console by the door and opening him up, fucking him against the wood until they’re both collapsing in the entryway, spent.

And something after Valentine’s Day has the commentators describing the Admirals as ‘back in top form’. Ilya’s not sure if the rest of the team with partners or who are so inclined just managed to also have really good fucks over the commercialised holiday, or if it was something else, but Shane is pleased either way as they start coming home with more wins than losses. The hockey star is also slowly but steadily getting closer to his own goals record, encouraged on by the same number of orgasms Ilya still delights in giving him after each one, and the few extra still for luck.

Ilya gets a text in late February from Petrov, that just says ‘do you ever get homesick?’ in cyrillic.

He knows the team are on the bus, halfway through the six hour drive home from Pittsburgh, where they’d won 4-1. Shane had texted him to say he was taking a nap so he’d be awake enough to join Ilya for his walk with Max when he got home.

'come home with Shane', he replies, and texts Shane to tell him to make sure Petrov follows him back to theirs.

He leaves work and takes the subway to the Russian restaurant he’s been frequenting enough that the owner/host now recognises him. She triples his usual order at his request, adds borscht and a couple of other comfort foods, and includes instructions on how to re-heat them all when he tells her it might be a couple of hours or so until he can serve the food.

He gets back just as Shane and Petrov arrive, the latter looking bewildered over the exhaustion as he follows Shane into their apartment, dressed like the epitome of a Slavic fuckboy in nothing but black Adidas gear. Ilya would have dreamed of a wardrobe like that even just a year ago, but he’s slowly been co-opting Shane’s wardrobe, particularly with all of the free clothes he keeps getting from various sponsors, including the almost entirely new wardrobe from the shoot with Adidas a couple of weeks ago.

Ilya puts the food to one side, greets Shane with a kiss, and then they drag Petrov with them as they go to collect Max and take her on their usual walk. 

Petrov follows them quietly, looking a little sad with the slightest slump in his shoulders, but he throws the ball when they stop via the fenced off dog-run and Max drops it happily at his feet.

They get home and Petrov sits at the dining table when told, and accepts a coke as Ilya pulls a can out of the fridge in offering, Shane taking his usual ginger ale. Ilya reheats the food as instructed, portions out items he knows Shane can and is happy to eat as part of his diet, and leaves the rest on sharing plates so Petrov can help himself to whatever takes his fancy.

The young Russian stares as the variety of dishes are set in front of him, and Ilya nods in encouragement as he pauses, but then doesn’t hesitate to dig in.

“I do not get homesick in the way you do,” Ilya says finally, as the food seems to relax some of the tension in the rookie’s shoulders. “You know my family was not like yours.” Petrov had told him a little, previously, that his parents hadn’t understood hockey at all, but seeing how much he loved it had thrown themselves into funding the gear and the camps and the training for him. They’d been so proud when he’d been signed, even as they mourned his move to the U.S., but were looking forward to him going home for the summer, whenever that would be. “But I miss the food, and some of the things I grew up with, so I understand some of it.”

Petrov nods, “I miss my parents,” he admits quietly. “And I like my new apartment, but it is very quiet. Has been harder than I thought, to live alone.”

Ilya relays the information back to Shane when Petrov nods in permission. Shane says he knows a little of what that’s like, but Petrov’s always welcome to come over to theirs, and Jalo would always have him back for dinner, and he knows some of the rookies are going out to dinner and breaking their diets, and Petrov’s being good but he could give in, sometimes.

Petrov’s eyes shimmer a little at the various reminders of support, and he nods as he stuffs more dumplings in his mouth as if to muffle his soft little sniffle. 

They relax after dinner, and put last night’s other game on. Petrov sits on the floor, plays with Max as he glances up at the TV occasionally, listens when Shane points out a particularly clever play. Ilya knows he’s not old, has discussed this before with Shane, but there’s something soft and untried about the rookie that makes him feel old, has Ilya offering their spare room for the night.

Petrov starts to decline, saying he doesn’t want to be a burden, and Shane interrupts to tell him he’s not, that they wouldn’t offer if they didn’t mean it. They could work out together in the morning, and then head into the rink together, but obviously no pressure if Petrov does want to go home.

And their guest folds like a house of cards, accepts a spare pair of shorts and t-shirt to sleep in, is shown the guest bathroom and bedroom. 

Ilya and Shane retire to bed shortly after, discussing their days before they got home as they lie like parentheses in their bed, hands clasped gently between them. The distance slowly closes until Shane’s tucked up into Ilya’s arm, head on his shoulder as they drift into sleep. 

Petrov is clearly a little less sad the following day, and follows Shane around like an imprinted duckling for the next couple of weeks, to Ilya’s amusement. He ends up coming over once every couple of weeks or so, to eat and play video games and to help Ilya walk Max, and after a few visits he gets his own little drawer in the guest room for basic clothes and his own toothbrush kept in the guest bathroom too. 

Ilya’s mostly just glad he doesn’t insist on rooming with Shane every time they go on a roadie, as they have another four away-games over the next week, and they’re only getting better at the video sex from Shane’s hotel rooms when he's alone.

Ilya’s favourite is watching as Shane sits on the edge of a hotel bed and Ilya makes him touch himself as slowly as he can manage, counts the seconds it takes him before he comes. They’ve managed to get to 90 seconds, so far, and Ilya loves how quickly Shane gets off on performing for him, often can barely hold out much longer. He plans on hiding Shane’s dildo and lube in his bag next time his away game is close enough he’ll be getting the bus (he loves teasing Shane, but that’s for him, and not for a random TSA agent who might discover the goodies in Shane’s bag), and making him fuck himself with it, but so far he’s not quite had the opportunity. 

Chapter 28: Mr. Right-Hook

The last gift that February leaves them is the second game against Montreal, this time at home. And, because Ilya swears someone in the Admirals’ leadership is secretly a messy bitch, the Admirals have made tonight their Pride night. Although Shane’s dealing with a minor pull in his groin, he’s been icing it regularly and is determined to play as much as he can.

The Pride theme seems to ignite an extra fire into the Admirals, though Shane had said they’re apparently just as resolute this time around that they will win, for how shitty Montreal had been to Shane. Not that losing seems likely, given Montreal have been having an absolute shocker of a season, and are barely in contention for the wild card spot, let alone the playoffs. While no-one has come out and said it, it’s regularly commented that if they’d had more depth at centre (aka Hollander) and/or had gotten over whatever had caused the tension last year (aka their shitty attitudes towards Hollander) then they might not be playing so badly.

This is in sharp contrast to the Admirals, who even with 25 games to go are leading their division and are expected to be strong contenders for at least a wildcard spot, if not a playoff one. Every single commentator practically sings Hollander’s praises every time the Admirals are mentioned, and have often insinuated what a wildly terrible decision Montreal had made in trading him. Hunter’s also had a good season, is much more consistent than he was on the last, and there’s intense speculation around what’s brought him back to life, given he’s one of the older guys on the roster.

The game is on a Monday night, but Yuna and David fly down anyway for support. Ilya’s not been able to get the time off work as the women’s team have back-to-back matches on Monday and Tuesday with additional work he needs to do to make sure they both go smoothly. Instead, he meets the Hollanders in the stands before the game and thanks David as he hands him a coke and offers him some of the concession stand fries.

They catch up as the rest of the seats start to fill up, background noise rising in volume until they’re having to lean in closer just to be able to hear each other. Kip arrives, Elena next to him and they perch behind the Hollanders as the seats at their side are already occupied.

Ilya joins in as the crowd roars for the Admirals as they step onto the ice for the warm-ups. Every single member of the team comes out in their Pride jerseys, bright rainbow tape around their sticks. He watches Shane carefully, sees the way he smiles at someone behind the plexiglass, offers a little wave. He looks around, picks up the puck Hunter nudges over to him with a delicate tap of his stick, and tosses it gently over the glass, and the jumbotron captures the video as a young girl - the same one from Pride, Ilya realises with a swoop in his chest - grips the puck with a wide grin as she stares at Shane from her dad’s shoulders.

He taps his gloves lightly against the glass, nods to the girl’s dads again before returning to his warm-ups, looking untouchable on the ice like the fucking hockey god he is.

There are soft boos as Montreal appears, not a single one in their Pride jerseys except Pike and Boiziau, who look grim as they step out onto the ice behind their teammates. Shane skates over as they linger a couple of metres away from the rest of their own team, and gently tap gloves in a friendly greeting. They speak for a minute or two, before Shane’s called back to his team and he backs away with a flash of a reluctant grin.

The first period is a tough one to watch. Montreal are almost listless, tapping the puck back and forth between themselves as if all they’re trying to do is prevent the Admirals from gaining possession, without any actual motivation to try and score themselves. The Admirals are tense, not sure what the fuck is going on, and Ilya can see the second Shane decides fuck this at the seventeenth minute, nods at Petrov who slams the left-winger currently with the puck into the boards, knocks the puck across to Jalo with a resounding slap who pings it over to Shane. He swings around the outside, stick tapping neatly across the ice as Montreal finally lift their heads as if scenting blood in the water.

Two of the Montreal players converge onto Shane, slam him harder than necessary into the boards, but it’s too late as Shane’s knocked the puck back to Petrov, who whacks it so hard Ilya sees his stick snap as the puck tears neatly through the remaining enforcer's legs and into the goal.

The stadium roars in approval as the guys on the ice slam into Petrov in celebration. He waves the broken pieces of his stick as over his head the jumbotron replays the second it broke through to the goal, and makes his way to the bench as the first line hop back out for the resume in play.

The buzzer calls the end of the first period before much can happen, and the stadium hums with excitement and approval. 

Ilya twists as he, Kip and Elena catch up a bit, Yuna and David disappearing to use the bathroom while they can. He says he thinks they’ll make it to the Kingfisher tonight, especially if they win, and Kip grins, promises Kyle’s ready to kick everyone out as soon as the final buzzer goes.

Montreal come out to the second period as if they’ve got a bone to pick, but it’s almost dwarfed by the fire in the Admirals. Montreal can barely keep up, particularly when Shane is on the ice, skating rings around them to their frustration. It leads to a few dirty plays but Shane outskates the more blatant attempts at shitty checks. Hunter takes a few knocks himself, but Vaughan knocks a neat little goal in just before the buzzer.

But the third period is where it really kicks off. Comeau appears to have a thorn in his side by the name of Hollander, and shoves him from the back when he’s the other side of the rink from the puck, incurs a two-minute penalty. Shane tears down the ice on the power play and the goalie is watching him slip around the back of the goal even as the puck neatly finds the smallest gap by his foot and glides into the net. 

Montreal seem to realise they’re not coming back from the 3-0 score, and Ilya’s not surprised when the fight happens in the last six minutes.

He’s also not surprised that Comeau is the instigator. He is surprised that Shane drops his gloves and stick as Comeau does, beckons him close and slams a fist neatly into his jaw when Comeau takes the bait. Shane gets rocked back into the boards by another fist, spits out blood and Ilya thinks a tooth as he pushes himself off the boards and tackles Comeau hard to the ice, barely keeping himself standing.

The refs break it up before it can go any further, and Shane’s heaving with exertion as he nods, glides as if otherwise unaffected over to the penalty box and takes a seat. Comeau follows slowly, batting away a helping hand from Jalo who’d skated over to keep a close eye on the fight.

Ilya watches as the medics tend to Shane; someone’s collected his tooth from the ice and Yuna’s sighing in disapproval as she watches them drop it in saline solution so the team dentist can hopefully put it back. The five-minute penalty passes slowly, but neither team score until finally they’re in the last minute as Shane is released from the box.

Petrov greets him with a fist bump through gloves as he hops back onto the bench, is watching the ice with dark eyes as he listens to his coach, nods sharply.

With thirty seconds to go the Admirals call for a line change and Shane’s back on the ice to a screaming crowd. Ilya can’t even imagine what the commentators must be saying about him, can barely hold himself back from shouting in encouragement as Shane takes control of the puck.

Ilya feels his breath catch in his throat, his heart stop as a beautiful shot on goal gets blocked at the last millisecond. And then it stops again as barely a second later the net is lighting up with a goal, as Petrov taps the rebounded puck lightly over the goalie’s shoulder into the net.

The stadium practically rattles with the sound of the cheers as the buzzer sounds, the final score a tidy 4-0 for the Admirals. 

Yuna and David disappear downstairs to check on Shane as he’s escorted off quickly to the team’s dentist. 

He gets a text shortly after from Yuna, who tells him Shane’s fine, the tooth is back in, and he’s insisting he’s still good to go to the Kingfisher so they’ll meet Ilya there. So he follows Kip and Elena who’ve waited for him and they head straight for the bar.

The TV is still on when they get there, and Ilya’s surprised to see the Press have caught Shane anyway, Yuna and David hovering behind him as he stands in front of several microphones.

“Shane, this is one of the very few fights you’ve been involved in on the ice. Can you tell us why now, and against your former teammate?”

Shane clearly hesitates, and Ilya can almost see his brain whirring with all the options and consequences. “I believe it’s already been determined by the officials that Comeau was the instigator. As my record shows, I don’t like to fight, I think that hockey skills should be proven by the team’s ability to work together to put the puck in the back of the net. 

“But tonight, despite it being our Pride night, despite it being a night to celebrate our LGBTQIA+ fans and community, Comeau had some pretty disgusting things to say that I will not repeat here or ever. I took offense to those words, and in the heat of the moment reacted impulsively, but I don’t regret it.

“The MLH might see fit to fine me, or suspend me for a game, but I urge them to think of the standard that that would set. They talk a lot about inclusivity, but don’t appear to be doing a whole lot to tackle the types of language that directly contradict it on the ice, as I heard tonight and have heard almost every game I’ve ever played.”

The reporters fall silent, cameras flashing as Shane stares them all down defiantly. Ilya’s glad he didn’t stay, can barely stop himself from getting hard in his trousers right now with a tight pinch on his inner arm as he watches in the bar, isn’t sure what he’d do if he had access to Shane in person right now.

“Shane!” one last reporter shouts as Shane thanks them and starts to turn to leave. “Before you go, congratulations on your first Gordie Howe hat trick.”

Shane blinks, as if he hadn’t even realised, and then offers a quick flash of a grin in thanks as he turns to his parents and follows them down the corridor.

“Fuck, but if I didn’t love Scott so much I’d seriously have the biggest crush on Shane,” Kip admits next to him, and Ilya stares at him incredulously. Kip laughs at his expression. “I doubt he’d even look at me twice,” he consoles, as if the fact he’s thought about it makes it any better. “He’s so fucking in love with you it’s almost sickening.”

That does make it a little better, though, and Ilya preens, smug.

They order beers and chat with Kyle as he kicks out the final strangers and the hockey players start to trickle in. Scott makes a beeline over for Kip, wraps an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders as he greets Ilya with a smile.

“Your boy did good today,” he compliments.

“He always does good,” Ilya retorts primly, grinning at Scott’s sigh of exasperation.

“I try and say one nice thing,” he mutters to Kip, who laughs and hands him a beer.

The other players swing past for their own drinks, but there’s a bit of an anticipatory buzz until another twenty minutes later, the door swings open and Shane walks in to a riotous cheer.

He laughs as his teammates pile in, jostle him around with glee and celebration. His parents follow shortly after, smiling at the sight, and edge around the crowd to join Ilya at the bar. He gets them their requested drinks, a ginger ale for Shane, not sure if he’s allowed alcohol with whatever the dentist would have done with his tooth, and hands it over with a kiss when Shane breaks free of his teammates and weaves through them to the bar.

“Mr. Right-Hook,” Ilya murmurs as he glances at bandaged knuckles. “Very tidy punch.”

“Ugh,” Shane shakes his head. “I shouldn’t’ve done it really. But the shi- the stuff he was saying,” he corrects with a glance at Yuna, who’s listening in intently, “I couldn’t let it slide, not again.”

“Again?” Kip asks, before Yuna can.

“Yeah, he’s been saying the same old variations of slurs since I started playing with him. I’m not in the same locker room any more, I don’t have to listen to that, and to be honest he shouldn’t be spouting it either.”

“It’s a shame you weren’t mic’ed up,” Yuna murmurs, and Ilya knows the seed is planted in Shane. He doubts they’ll have the opportunity to play Montreal again this season, given the latter’s poor showing, but for future matches, or for others where Shane knows there are similarly loud-mouthed homophobic players, it’s not a bad idea.

The room goes quiet as the doors open again, and Pike and Boiziau stand in the doorway together, looking apprehensive.

“Get lost! No Montreal-ers!” someone shouts, and Shane cuts across them.

“Sorry, guys. I invited them, they’re cool, I promise.”

There’s some muttering, but Hunter reminds the wider room that the two players in the doorway were the only ones in Pride gear and that eases the hostility, has Pike and Boiziau stepping into the room. Shane goes to fetch them, guides them over to this side of the bar where they greet Ilya and the Hollanders politely. Hunter and Kip make themselves scarce, as Kyle slides over drinks for the two visitors and Shane props himself up on the bar stool next to Ilya’s, one hand on his thigh for support as Ilya blinks down at it, has to remind himself he’s in public and can’t get turned on by the proprietary touch.

Pike and Boiziau only hang around for half an hour or so, catching up with Shane as they sip their beers slowly. Ilya’s finally introduced properly to J.J., since they’d still not managed to meet yet, but otherwise he just listens in, doesn’t contribute much but grows to like the both of them a little more.

Just before they make their exit, Hayden mentions that the twins miss both Uncle Shane and Ilya, and suggests that they come over at some point in the off-season. Shane nods, promises they will, and Ilya nods in agreement, touched that the twins remember him.

Yuna and David have moved a couple of tables over, appear to be talking to Bennett about photography. Ilya tells Shane that Bennett’s taken a few of the photos of New York currently displayed around the bar, and if he wants to know more then Kyle loves bragging about them, so he only has to mention it in passing for a full explanation of each.

Shane grins, admits he’s good for now. Ilya cradles one cheek with his hand, presses a thumb into the corner of his mouth as he smiles, pretends to peer at his teeth.

“The dentist did a good job,” he compliments, and Shane bats his hand away. “Cannot tell which is fake.”

“He put my real one back in, asshole,” Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s not the first time.”

“So strong, moy korol,” Ilya teases. “But really, you are okay?”

“Yes, Ilyusha,” Shane leans in, brushes their lips together. “I promise. The dickhead got partially what he deserved. Hopefully the league will suspend him for at least a game, but we’ll see.”

“So righteous,” Ilya sighs, presses fingertips into Shane’s hips. “And not just a goal, but a Gordie Howe too? I almost feel like you deserve extra reward, for that.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs, “But I won’t say no,” he adds, leaning in to bite Ilya’s lip sharply, grinning at Ilya’s sharp inhale.

They look over as cheers echo through the room and Petrov is grinning at the edge of a table surrounded by other players, flushed and clearly rapidly on his way to thoroughly sloshed, as he takes one of the two shots lined up in front of him. Everyone else takes the single shots in front of them as Petrov takes his second. There’s a loud cheer, a call for more shots, but Petrov grins and begs off, heads towards Shane and Ilya as they lift a hand in greeting.

“Nice goals,” Ilya compliments. “Especially that second, very slick.”

“Thank you,” Petrov smiles, not slurring quite yet but voice a little slower than normal. “It felt really fucking good.”

“I’m sure,” Ilya agrees. He collects a pint of water from Kyle and gently pushes it into the rookie’s hand. “Drink this before you have any more alcohol.”

He nods, obediently sips at the water. It seems to steady him a little, as does the quiet twenty minutes he shares with Ilya while Shane goes to take the brunt of the celebrations. Ilya watches carefully, but Shane manages to ease through with only the one shot - which is good, because Ilya has plans for tonight. Yuna and David have an extra early flight back in the morning, so they’re staying at an airport hotel, giving Ilya room to think.

They linger longer than usual, as Shane gets caught up in a conversation with Yuna and David for a bit while Ilya chats to Kyle at the bar. But slowly the other players filter out, whether to home or to another club to pull. Ilya sees Petrov safely into a car home, and he and Shane wave goodbye to Yuna and David as they head for their hotel, before calling their own car home.

Shane’s practically vibrating as they enter their apartment, eyes intent on Ilya as he shuts the front door behind them.

“Yes?” Ilya sees the impatience immediately furrow Shane’s brow, “What is it?”

Shane leans in, tries to kiss him and Ilya leans back, captures his chin to hold him still.

“You do not get kiss until you answer.”

“Ilya,” Shane protests, and Ilya grins wickedly.

“Shane.”

“I- you promised me a reward,” Shane mutters sulkily.

“Hm, I did,” Ilya agrees, and kisses Shane softly in reward for answering. “What is it you want, moy korol?”

“I- whatever you want to give,” Shane replies softly, and Ilya feels the heat induced by the response ravage him as always, practically cut him off at the knees.

He hums, makes a show of thinking, before gently backing Shane up against the wall. “A Gordie Howe deserves something special, maybe, yes? Hat trick means you get to come three times. But an assist, a goal and a fight. I could fuck you in the living room, the bedroom and the shower? Or we could choose other kind of variety, and make you come with my hand, my mouth, and my cock,” he presses in until he’s practically speaking the words into Shane’s mouth, lingers at the last as Shane strains lightly against the hold on his chin, trying to lean in for a kiss.

“... Both?”

Ilya’s mouth curls as he gives in and kisses Shane, feels hands tug impatiently at the hem of his t-shirt.

“Was assist, then goal, then fight, yes?” he confirms, and Shane hums a yes as he bites at Ilya’s neck. Ilya wraps a hand in the collar of his shirt, uses it to tug him over to the sofa, pushes him down to sit as he looms over him.

“Shirt off.” Ilya waits patiently as the shirt is folded and placed neatly on the arm of the sofa.

Ilya takes Shane’s hands and drags them up and along the back and presses them down in a soft warning to keep them there. He nudges one leg between Shane’s, presses at his knees until his legs are spread wide, enough room for Ilya to kneel between them. He drops a cushion to protect his knee as he bends down, kisses Shane open-mouthed and messy before dropping his mouth to his jaw, to his neck.

He takes his time as he trails down Shane’s chest, open-mouthed kisses that will leave a mark. He sinks his teeth in hard over Shane’s pec, holds him down as his hips buck up with the sting, watches the indent turn soft pink and smiles sharply as he sees Shane looking down at the mark with pure satisfaction.

He carries on, tugs Shane’s zipper and trousers down enough that he can pull his erection free. He gives Shane no warning as he opens his mouth and sinks down, swallows around, and has to press Shane’s hips back into the cushions as he tries to thrust upwards.

He stays to a count of ten, eyes watering as he focuses on breathing through his nose, the sting of Shane’s hand gripping his hair too hard a delicious ache that reverberates down his spine. 

“Ilyusha,” Shane groans and he pulls back slowly, licks the excess spit up as he goes. He meets Shane’s eyes, dark with heat and disbelief, and sinks down again; slower this time, but takes a deep breath and relaxes his throat and just holds him for as long as he can.

He gets to a count of fifteen, this time, before a twitch of Shane’s hips he can’t stop has him dangerously close to gagging and he pulls back.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Shane’s muttering almost incoherently as his hands tug through Ilya’s hair, knead at his shoulders, and Ilya’d entirely forgotten he’d asked him to hold them still on the back of the couch.

Ilya thinks it’ll only take one more, so with a deep breath he slides down again, takes Shane as deep as he can and holds him there. Counts to eight, and slides a hand up Shane’s chest, and presses hard into the bite mark as he purposefully swallows and Shane’s coming with the sting of pain and the pressure around his dick, hunching over Ilya as he grips his shoulders hard enough to bruise, pants into his hair.

“That’s one,” Ilya murmurs, and sees the way Shane’s face goes a little slack at how hoarse his voice is, throat obviously sore. “Two more.”

“Fuck, Ilyusha,” Shane leans in, kisses him deeply, tongue pressing into his mouth as if he can reach down his throat and soothe the soreness himself.

Ilya presses down on Shane’s thighs as he leverages himself to his feet, tugs Shane to his and leads him into the bedroom. It’s difficult to walk, Ilya’s so hard still, but he doesn’t think he’s got more than two in him tonight, and he’s determined to wait.

He strips out of his own clothes as they approach the bed, tossing them towards the hamper and hiding his smile as Shane collects them, folding them neatly and putting them on the dresser instead.

“How tired are you?” Ilya asks conversationally, and sees Shane still. 

“Not that tired,” he replies cautiously.

“Enough energy to ride me?”

Shane grins, presses in close as he lets Ilya steer him towards the bed. “Even after the longest fucking game I think I’d find enough energy to ride you,” he promises. 

Ilya grins back, “I will test that, one day,” he warns. “You may regret.”

“I’d never regret anything I do with you,” Shane says, unexpectedly tender and honest for the mood, and Ilya finds himself melting, leaning in for softer kisses.

He sits back on the bed, scoots back until he’s propped against the headboard, lube dug out from the bedside table and next to his hip.

Shane loops his leg over, the long, muscular lines of him a feast for Ilya’s eyes and he lets himself gorge as he strokes a hand across his waist, slaps his ass lightly. Shane’s eyes darken, hands clutching Ilya’s shoulders for balance as he settles across his thighs.

“I think I am still catching my breath,” Ilya says, peeling one of Shane’s hands off his shoulders and using the other to pour lube onto his fingers. “Open yourself up.”

Shane’s eyes glitter as he slides his hand back and down, shoulder lifting as he twists his wrist to press his fingertips against himself. 

Ilya stares as Shane’s head tilts back, wishes in part he’d had Shane turn around so he could see his fingers press in, but the way Shane’s eyes flutter closed, his head tilts back to show Ilya the long column of his throat, the gap between his lips as he gasps softly at a good spot has him so hard he thinks he might not even be able to last until Shane’s ready.

He leans in, presses soft kisses up his bared throat, sucks gently over his adam’s apple. The vibration of Shane’s groan ripples across his lips, and Ilya gives in, slides one hand around and back to find two of Shane’s fingers already pressed deep. He presses an index finger between Shane’s, bares his teeth against delicate skin as Shane’s breath hitches but he opens so beautifully around the added digit.

“Good boy,” Ilya whispers, and Shane whines as they pull their fingers free, Ilya encourages him forward until he can press his dick against the slick opening. Shane sinks down, hands reaching back to clutch at Ilya’s thighs for support as his back bows, head dropping back with a gasp.

He stays there for a long moment and Ilya bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from coming as the wet heat of him envelopes his dick in overwhelming pleasure.

“Shanya,” he groans softly, and Shane lifts, thigh muscles in stark relief as he pushes himself up and sinks back down over and over. He tilts forward, head pressing against Ilya’s shoulder, soft pants in the hollow of his throat as he keeps shifting. Ilya turns his own head, nips lightly at Shane’s jaw, at his shoulder.

“Bite me again,” Shane pleads lowly, and Ilya can’t fucking deny him, sinks his teeth into the meat of Shane’s shoulder as hard as he can as he sinks down onto him, and Shane’s coming suddenly, shout loud and surprised in Ilya’s ear. He can’t stop his own orgasm at that, at the knowledge that Ilya’s bite had been the trigger.

He sinks back into the pillows, carefully pulls Shane down with him as his softening dick slips free. 

Shane catches his breath against him, head still nestled against his shoulder, and Ilya can’t help but trace the bite with his tongue, catches the tiny bead of blood where he’d broken skin.

“Sorry,” he murmurs slowly, pulling back and pressing a gentle thumb to the tiny cut until it stops.

“No, I love it,” Shane sighs, “Maybe too much.”

“Never too much,” Ilya disagrees. 

They shift as come starts to drip down Ilya’s thighs, cooling and a little gross, and Ilya leads Shane into the shower, a little dreamy from two orgasms in close succession.

“Again?” he checks, and at Shane’s nod backs him carefully into the spray and gently wraps a hand around his still-soft dick. Shane gasps, twitches as if to escape, but loops his arms around Ilya’s neck and leans in to kiss him in direct contradiction. Ilya presses close, slides another hand around to his ass, gently slides his hand through the mix of lube and come leaking out of him. He presses a finger back in, feels Shane jolt, start to thicken again in his other hand. 

“That’s it,” he encourages softly, kisses him again. He keeps going, a gentle push-and-pull until he’s three fingers deep again, pressing deeper with every down stroke, pulling out with the up until Shane’s hips are twitching forward and back with the rhythm. 

“I- Ilya,” Shane whispers, a good few minutes later, clearly overstimulated but getting so close. Ilya kisses him again, presses his chest further into Shane’s so he’s pinned tighter to the wall. Mouths down his jaw, his neck, until he can fit his mouth over the bite earlier, gently fit his teeth to the mark rapidly bruising, and press down with the lightest of pressure.

Shane comes a third time with a little wounded noise, barely any come making it out of him as his knees give way and Ilya’s torso holding him to the wall is the only thing keeping him on his feet. 

Ilya waits, keeps kissing him softly as the steam continues to rise around them. Shane eventually nods, can stand on his own, and Ilya reaches for the soap and sponge as he gently washes him, every worshipful touch a soft caress, an intimate thank you.

It’s well past Shane’s bedtime by the time they make it into bed; Shane still loose and fucked-out, Ilya pretty pleased with his handiwork. He tugs Shane into his chest, rests a possessive hand over the mark on his shoulder and flicks off the light with the other as they crash into sleep. 

Chapter 29: Mr. I-Can't-Keep-A-Secret

March brightens into April as Spring arrives in earnest. 

The Admirals men’s team continue to blaze through their games. They fall to second in their division for a short while in early March, as Boston pick up wins left right and centre and take the second playoff spot, but Shane goes on a tear as if he’s been personally offended, until Ilya can barely keep up with the number of orgasms he’s owed and the team slides back into contention.

The women’s team aren’t doing quite so well - they’d started out strong, but a couple of injuries including to their best goalie has losses increasing over wins, and falling behind their divisional competitors. It seems unlikely they’ll manage to cinch a wildcard spot as March ticks on towards their last few matches, though they’re trying.

Rex is off on holiday for a week in March, so Ilya helps to fill in for her, which includes getting to join the team on a short roadie down to Carolina for an away game. It’s a fun time, he gets to know the players a bit better and they’re a riot. It's also a nice distraction as it happens the same time one of Shane's longer roadies on the West Coast.

On the plane back their goalie, Matties, mentioned she’s heard the rumours about him and Shane and asks him if it’s true. He says yes, they’re together, and suddenly gets another barrage of questions. He answers them all as best as he can, keeping the more intimate details they keep trying to tease out to himself. But when he admits Shane will be coming out post-season, he gets dead silence for a second before the entire plane practically gasps. Stevens, their captain, promises any assistance the women’s team can give, gets a chorus of nods from every single player and staff member on the plane, and Ilya can’t deny how moved he is.

He texts Shane as they land, apologises for spilling the beans but also suggests Shane see if they can have the women’s team looped into any post-coming-out Admirals press. The project group continually working on it said they’d been debating it, but agree it’s a good idea and plans and strategies start ramping up again as they continue to see the end of the regular season come closer and closer.

Ilya continues his appointments with Dr. G. He’s not had as bad a dip as the first time, so they’ve agreed to hold off on meds, but chat about his bad days which still happen, analyse his diary to see if they can figure out any triggers. He’s gotten better at telling his team when he comes in if it’s a bad day, and they’ve been nothing but supportive, adjusting some of the more technical-English-heavy tasks for when he’s feeling more able to process the foreign language without wanting to cry.

Ilya sees Cliff weekly; they continue to hang out at his when there’s an away game on and Ilya’s got Max, and occasionally head down to the Kingfisher to watch when he doesn’t. Kip and Ilya text regularly, meet up for drinks as Kip laments his graduate studies and Ilya commiserates. 

Sveta texts often, still calls fortnightly, and promises to come to New York soon - she will if the Admirals continue playing like they’ve got nothing left to lose and make it to the finals, and if not, will be back for Pride again anyway.

Shane falls ill towards the end of March, picking up some kind of bug or flu and is scratched for two games, a home and an away. Ilya spends four hours on the phone to Yuna as he goes to the nearest import supermarket, picks up the better brands of the miso soup and other ingredients she guides him through, and then follows her strict instructions as he makes sticky rice and Shane’s favourite soy-glazed salmon with fresh vegetables - still healthy enough that it fits inside the nutritionist-approved list.

He feeds a sniffly Shane until he can’t eat anymore, and then pulls him on top of him on the sofa, ignores his weak protests that he’ll get Ilya sick too, tells him Russians don’t get sick. Shane ends up sleeping half of the afternoon away, wrapped up in blankets and Ilya, and Ilya never stops petting him, carding hands through sweat-damp hair.

They fight, occasionally, though most arguments are unserious and end up turning into foreplay for the two boys. One of the worst episodes is after a three-loss-streak in early April, when Shane returns home just past his bedtime due to a delayed flight, tired and stressed and agitated, to find a few of Ilya’s dirty socks on the bathroom floor and not in the laundry hamper. Ilya can only stare from the bed as Shane tugs at his hair, complains that "for fuck’s sake, Ilya, it’s not that goddamn hard", and lies on the opposite side of the mattress with his back to his partner before he can get a word out.

Ilya gets no reaction to his quiet apology, and doesn’t want to risk the pain he knows he’ll feel if his touch isn’t welcome. Instead he lies on his back, leaves his hand open between them on the mattress in the hopes that Shane won’t go to sleep angry but he's left restless and sad when he wakes to find his hand still empty and Shane’s side of the bed cold.

He assumes Shane’s gone to the gym, hopes he works out some of this stress and they can talk about it later, but is proved wrong when he shrugs on one of Shane’s hoodies and slinks out into the kitchen to see Shane on the phone at the dining table.

Ilya freezes, unsure of his welcome, but immediately hurries over when Shane offers an apologetic look and stretches out his hand. He takes it, gets a soft squeeze, and is released.

He goes to make coffee as Shane continues to murmur on the phone, Ilya picking up the name Mark and realises it’s Shane’s therapist. By the time his mug is full Shane has hung up and is watching him with wide, sad eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, before Ilya can, and carries on as Ilya opens his mouth to reject the apology. “No, Ilya, I was a fucking asshole last night. Being upset is no excuse, and I am sorry that I reacted in anger and coldness. I was just… the fucking shit that Utah were spouting, it was like Montreal on steroids and it all just got under my skin and I was in such a fucking mood when I got home and my brain just… fixated on the mess.”

“I am sorry I forgot the socks,” Ilya returns, pulling out the chair opposite Shane and is relieved when Shane’s feet trap one of his in their usual way.

“No, they’re just fucking socks,” Shane half-groans at himself. “But, yes, please if you don’t mind putting them away. I’m trying not to be bothered by this stuff, but.”

“I know,” Ilya soothes. “I know you are stressed, that this is a lot. You cannot always help what bothers you, when you have other more important things.”

“Still, I’ll try not to let my first reaction dictate what I do,” Shane promises. “And thank you.”

“Is okay,” Ilya grins. “But does this mean I can tell everyone you are the asshole? I think is important information for them to know.”

“Nah, that’s still you,” Shane argues through his bright returning grin.

They learn, move on. Ilya gets better again at keeping the apartment a little neater, he’d gotten into some sloppier habits as he’d made himself more at home. Shane learns to take a breath, to signal to Ilya when he’s had a particularly bad game or bout of travel, so that Ilya can give him a little more space to process if he needs it.

And then there’s only six games left in the regular season, then five, four, three, two, and Ilya’s watching from the Admirals’ WAG seats as Shane scores his last goal of the last game, at the start of the third period. 

It’s been an almost unbelievable, fairy-tale type run of a season. They’ve had their injuries, and losses, but with this last goal Shane has 90 over the 76 games he’d played, beating his previous record of 88 over 82 games two years ago, and putting him second in the league-wide record for the highest number of regular-season goals of all time.

The buzzer sounds, and with this win the Admirals have just beaten Boston for the top of their division, and are three points above Tampa in the Atlantic division, so are likely to clinch their conference too. 

The stands erupt, shaking under his feet like a high-magnitude earthquake, and Ilya finds himself screaming with Kip as the boys celebrate on the ice until his voice goes hoarse.

The Kingfisher is insane post-game. The team has five days to recover before their first playoff game so are clearly in the mood to celebrate, and even Shane is accepting more drinks than usual.

He gets handsier as he drinks, and the team watch, amused, at this new side of Hollzy that most of them haven’t really seen before, Petrov and Hunter the main two exceptions. Ilya has to grin, push Shane’s hands away as they tug his t-shirt out of his jeans, start to slide up his sides as he plasters himself to Ilya’s back.

“Moy korol,” he admonishes gently, when he gets wide, pleading eyes and a pout for being sensible. “I am not sure you will not be embarrassed in the morning, if you continue.”

“But it’s just my team, Ilyusha,” he practically whines. “They won’t mind, they support us.” His voice is a little hushed, with an undertone of joyous disbelief.

“Yeah we do!” Vaughan yells across the table. “Get it, Hollzy.”

“See,” Shane purrs, biting at his earlobe, tugging at his diamond stud, hands sliding across Ilya’s abs, pausing at his belly-button, tracing one finger down the line of hair to his waistband.

“Or, we could not be overly obvious in what is still technically still a public place,” offers Hunter dryly, “Especially since a couple of journalists have found out that this is our bar.”

Shane sighs as if put out, removes his hands from under Ilya’s shirt but remains leaning up against his back. “I guess we can’t come out yet either, now,” he admits, and the hockey players surrounding him go silent.

“Ah, I think this was something you were waiting to tell everyone tomorrow, sonlyshko,” Ilya murmurs, both for Shane and for everyone listening in.

“You’re coming out? Publicly?” Scott asks, voice an octave higher than usual in shock.

“Yeah,” Shane nods, a little dreamily, against Ilya’s ear. Ilya leans back into him, captures his fingers by his waist and squeezes gently. “Was gonna tell you guys after practice tomorrow, coach has put in some time for it. Whenever our season ends, whether that’s this round or at the finals. Not gonna hide anymore.”

“Fuck,” Jalo huffs quietly.

“This is what all the meetings with leadership have been about?” Bennett asks, and of course the goalie had noticed.

“Yeah,” Shane nods again. “Got a whole, like twenty-step plan. Management, my agent, and lawyers, and my mom all helped.” The guys exhale at the last; Yuna’s reputation precedes her.

“We thought you weren’t happy,” Huff admits gruffly. “Might’ve been regretting the trade, even with Montreal being so shit. Thought you were figuring out your next move.”

“No!” Shane’s the one to sound shocked, now. “No, I actually really fucking love you guys? Montreal was my home for a long time, but they really fucking sucked as a support system, and hockey was fine but it wasn’t fun when I was playing there. Here? It’s like the total opposite. I don’t think I ever wanna leave.”

“Will be easy at least to get a no-trade put in on your next contract renewal, then,” someone shouts from the back.

“As if they’d be stupid enough to trade Hollzy anyway,” Vaughan retorts, and Ilya feels the way Shane jerks a little, sees the pleased sheen in his eyes as he takes in the passionate defence of him.

The team devolves into rapidfire conversation, everyone chatting passionately amongst themselves. Ilya sees the way Kip tugs a still-stunned Scott over to one booth, leans in against him as they talk, heads close together. Petrov sidles up to Ilya, smiles as he sips a glass of vodka, nods in congratulations and support. 

The team agrees to a final round of shots, clinks them together in a weirdly eloquent “to motherfucking love” cheer before they down them, and Shane gets a slap on the back or a hug from every single player as they slowly disperse for the night.

“Come on, Mr. I-Can’t-Keep-A-Secret,” Ilya teases as he lifts Shane from the bar stool he’s propped himself up on. “Time for home.”

He’s used Shane’s phone to call a car and helps the player out and into it.

“I’m so drunk,” Shane admits as Ilya helps him buckle his seatbell.

“Oh, I know so,” Ilya agrees, amused despite himself. “You had a good night?"

“The best,” he agrees. “Ilyusha. I could never let go like this with Montreal. It sucks, but I couldn’t trust them, they way I trust you, or even the Admirals. I know you’ll be there to catch me, if I fall, so.”

“Always, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya confirms softly, takes Shane’s hand when he reaches over the middle seat for touch.

“But we’ll make it through this round, and the next, and the finals,” Shane continues dreamily, and Ilya hopes he keeps this confidence as the game start up again, “and then we can get this whole plan over and done with.

“And then you’ll come to my cottage this summer,” his smile is like pure, soft sunshine and Ilya feels his heart practically explode in his chest, “I can show you my house, it’s so private, we’ll have so much fun.”

“Maybe I’ll propose,” Ilya teases, not sure Shane will remember any of this tomorrow but tipsy enough himself that he runs away with the fantasy. 

“Or maybe I’ll propose,” Shane protests.

“Nuh-uh,” Ilya shakes his head. “You asked me out first, I get to propose.”

“That was ages ago!” Shane sounds so offended Ilya can’t help but burst into laughter. Shane holds on to his indignation for a minute before cracking up with him.

He’s not sure how long they laugh for, but every time they catch each other’s eye they set each other off again, howls slowly dying down into little bursts of giggles, and before he knows it the car is pulling up outside their apartment.

“Come on, moy korol. Some water, I think, and then bed.”

He wishes the driver goodnight as he shuts the car door behind Shane. He gets his boyfriend to drink a pint of water after a hot shower, and folds around him in bed as Shane softly murmurs, “can’t wait to be married to you” and Ilya feels himself soar even as the alcohol still in his blood pulls him down into sleep.

Ilya wakes up with a mild headache to the smell of coffee, and is surprised when he sees Shane already up, sitting against the headboard with a mug in hand, Ilya’s head pillowed on one thick thigh.

“Here,” Shane murmurs, voice a little hoarse, as he reaches over and lifts another mug off his sidetable. Ilya groans, lifts himself so he’s sat next to Shane and accepts the mug with a desperate thanks.

“You are not too hungover?”

“A little,” Shane admits. “But it could’ve been a lot worse. I think that last pint of water you made me drink really helped.”

“I’m glad,” Ilya turns his face, kisses Shane’s shoulder. “What time is practise?”

“Not til two. I think coach wanted to give us all a lie-in.”

“Hm, very generous.”

They sip their coffee in companionable silence, the caffeine washing away some of the residual tiredness. 

“Were you serious last night, about proposing?” Shane asks suddenly.

“Were you?”

“Ilya.”

Ilya sighs. “We have said before, one day, yes? So I thought you were thinking about it. I would marry you, if you wanted to be married.”

“I’d only want to be married if it was to you.” And fuck, every time, Ilya thinks, how does Shane say things that should be cheesy from anyone else, but were so fucking heartfelt from him?

“It will have been over a year, if we make it to the cup, so that’s not too crazy,” he adds, and Ilya can practically hear the little gears whirring around in his head. “And it would make things easier, long-term. I could sponsor you for a spousal visa, and things. Not sure it’d do much while we’re living here, but… I always thought I’d retire in Canada, at my cottage. I hope not for another few years yet, I’d like to play until I’m thirty-five, at least, but...”

Ilya leans in, presses his lips to Shane’s shoulder as he listens to him continue to talk his way through it.

“So, yes?” he summarises, when Shane comes to a stop. “We both want to be married to each other.”

“I- yes.”

“So I will propose.”

“What- no, you asshole. I’m the one who brought up marriage in the very first place, anyway, ages ago.”

“Ah, no,” Ilya shakes his head. “I am pretty sure that was Emma, or Ruby, or whichever of the many Pike babies. You do not get to claim credit for that.”

“Fuck you,” Shane pushes his face away from his shoulder, but laughs when Ilya grabs for his mug, sets them both on the side table as he loops one leg over Shane’s hips, pins him down.

“Ah, I think you want me to fuck you,” Ilya returns smugly, and kisses the retort off Shane’s lips.

It’s slow, gentle, Ilya aware Shane’s still feeling a little raw and hungover, and still has practice later on. But in the soft morning light, the beams cutting across the room and highlighting the freckles across Shane’s nose until he has to press kisses across as many as he can, it’s perfection.

Round One of the men’s Playoffs happens in the latter two weeks of April, as the Admirals face off against New Jersey, who’d picked up the second wildcard spot for their conference. 

Sadly the women’s team hadn’t made it through, so Ilya has found work slowing down a little, though there’s plenty to do to evaluate the last few months and prepare for next year. 

Charlie goes on a week’s leave, so he picks up most of her work. Shaz and Rex admit they’re happy to be travelling less, and Liz is setting up several new comms strategies for next year so is keeping herself busy.

Ilya watches from home with Cliff as the Admirals play away for the first two games. He has Max both nights, so they go for a long walk prior to try and shake off any excess nerves, but he shouldn’t have worried.

The first game goes well, with Shane scoring twice and giving Petrov an assist, collecting a 5-2 victory. The second is closer, but with Bennett providing a shut-out against their opposition, the Admirals collect a tidy 2-0 win.

Shane returns home quietly confident, and Ilya gives him his three rewards from the two games over the two days before the ones at home.

He has Max again, the first game, and tries not to regret it as Shane comes home disappointed in a 3-2 loss. But two days later he’s in the arena, watching as the Admirals win 4-1 and cheering with the rest of the stadium in glee and giddiness.

Two days later, he’s kissing Shane long and slow in a quiet meeting room before the bus departs with the team for their next match - hopefully the last, if they win.

“The Admirals do not need luck,” Ilya murmurs, as Shane’s phone buzzes in alert that he needs to go. “They have you.” Shane melts, kisses him once more and Ilya grins against his mouth as he pulls back to say, “and I made you come how many times yesterday? Was more than your goals, no? Should be enough luck, I think.”

“Asshole,” is Shane’s parting word, as he offers Ilya his middle finger to which he blows back a kiss.

But Ilya’s right, and they win 5-4 in overtime, Shane’s final goal a thing of pure beauty with three seconds to go that gets him a very good reward, when he gets home.

Shane’s birthday falls in the three days they have between the playoff rounds. Ilya knows Shane only has an optional skate that day, so is hoping he can find something more interesting that will have Shane willing to celebrate with him over training.

So Ilya spends a lot of time thinking about and researching what he can do to celebrate but finds little that seems just right. He’s lamenting at work that for all that New York has everything you could ever want there was nothing perfect when Charlie suggests something that’s probably as close to it as they’ll find. Ilya buys her lunch in gratitude, sets the wheels in motion to plan a perfect day.

He wakes before Shane in the morning, which is unlike him, but makes the most of it as he wakes the hockey player with his mouth already around his dick with a long, slow blowjob. He makes him one of his disgusting smoothies and an omelette for breakfast, and then takes him for a long walk.

Shane grins as they enter the museum on the other side of Central Park and Ilya pays for them to enter the “History of Sports” exhibition, with an entire hall dedicated to Ice Hockey. Ilya had thought it would be boring but he would suffer through it for Shane anyway, but seeing the hockey player’s face light up, as he expands on some of the facts outlined in the museum to Ilya so passionately, Ilya’s the most interested he thinks he’s ever been in niche history.

It's empty in the museum so they make out for a bit, tucked behind one of the exhibitions out of sight, and only break apart when they hear someone approaching from the other hall. They scan through the other rooms briefly, but it’s going on lunch and time for their next stop.

The Admirals are already in the restaurant, loud and boisterous after their morning skate, and they cheer when Shane walks in, sits at the head of the long tables with Ilya on his right. They eat, chat, sing Happy Birthday as the waitress brings out a little cake with a candle in it as Shane flushes but he doesn’t stop smiling the entire two hours they’re there.

Ilya walks him home, afterwards, and they make lazy love in the cloud-suffused afternoon light. Shane calls his parents while Ilya makes him his soy-glazed salmon and sticky rice with miso soup for dinner, now a dab hand with the recipe, and Shane lets Ilya pamper him with a slow massage afterwards, leading to another, less-gentle fuck.

“Thank you for the best birthday,” Shane murmurs as they shower and return to bed. “I- fuck, I don’t think I even know when yours is? You’d’ve said, right?”

Ilya shakes with laughter on the bed. “You do not know my birthday?” he asks. “You have known me now, what, close to a year?”

“Fuck!” Shane whacks his shoulder. “Tell me, Ilya. When is it?”

“June fifteenth,” Ilya replies, unable to tease any longer in the face of Shane’s stress. “You have time to come up with something. Not sure you can find anything better that today, though.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m gonna give you the best birthday of your life.”

It's cheesy but Ilya thinks that Shane wouldn't even need to do anything special for it, that just by being with Shane, it's already going to be the best.

Round two is against Toronto, who’d won their first round but had gone to game seven against Pittsburgh.

The Admirals start at home, and Ilya is there for both games. He and Kip cheer louder than any of the WAGs, although the Admirals lose the first game in OT, a 2-1 loss just at the last second. Shane comes home with a fire in his eyes, shoulders square and ready and Ilya takes him up against the windows, reminds him that New York is out there supporting him, ready to see him win.

And they do, the second game, Shane scoring a goal within the first four minutes and pressing a hand over his heart as he glides past the cameras in a move Ilya knows is for him. Toronto equalise and then pull ahead in the second period, but Petrov comes out in the third like something’s chasing him and slaps a goal neatly in the top left corner.

Vaughan gets the final goal not long after, a neat assist from Hunter. Toronto try, manage one more goal before the buzzer sounds, but they’re 1-1 for wins as they go into Game 3.

They lose the first in Toronto, and Ilya spends a long time on the phone with Shane that night, listening to him talk, trying to reduce his stress as much as possible. He reminds him they’ve beaten Toronto before, that this team have his back, that he has Petrov and Huff on his line and they’ll make it up.

They win the fourth game by the skin of their teeth, another one that goes to overtime but Hunter manages to put the puck in the net thirty seconds in.

They return home for game five, lose; head back to Toronto and win, and finally in mid-May are at game seven. Shane’s exhausted, bruises up his back and shoulders from rough slams into the boards, but they have three days between game six and seven, so Ilya spends much of it encouraging him to see the physios and masseuses, does his best to fuck any remaining tension out of him.

He sits in the stands, Gloria on his left and Kip on his right, as the Admirals play their fucking hearts out on the ice for the last game of the final.

He prays to whatever Gods might be out there, to his mama. Shane deserves this, deserves the whole fucking world, and although it’s already been an unbelievable season, one with so many joys and celebrations, it’s also been one of heartbreak and cutting ties for Shane, and Ilya wants him to know, to have veritable proof in reaching the fucking Cup Finals, that it was worth it.

If they can make it this far this year, as a brand new team, with Shane having to relearn how to play with an entirely new set of people with a very different style of play, having to had to relearn to enjoy hockey slowly, Ilya can’t imagine how well they’ll do next season.

So it doesn’t matter, he tells himself, if they don’t win today, if they don’t make it to the cup final.

But fuck does he want it for them. For Shane.

He gets what he’s wished for. The Admirals come out on a tear, being at home imbibing them with additional energy until Shane’s taking every shot he can on goal, three making it in in short succession, the roof practically blowing off with the force of the crowd’s cheers. 

Toronto make up two in the last period, but it’s too late, the buzzer sounds and they’ve fucking done it, made it to the Cup Finals.

Gloria throws her arms around him and Kip as they bounce around, celebrating almost as hard as the men on the ice and Ilya can’t fucking wait until he’s home with Shane and they can celebrate in private.

Chapter 30: Mr. Champion

The Cup Finals begin just before the last week of May, as Edmonton secure their own place in their second round. 

Edmonton is hosting first, and while Ilya wants to go just can’t justify the time off work as he’s already taking four weeks in the summer so he and Shane can go and have a very lazy time of it in his cottage; with a quick pit-stop off in Montreal too, to see his parents and the Pikes.

Shane understands, is admittedly a little disappointed but Ilya has promised to make it to every home game, and if it does go to Game Seven he’ll fly out anyway - the Admirals as an organisation would understand, as would Charlie.

The Wednesday before Shane's due to fly out for game one, Shane's at a late training session and Ilya’s walking over to a bar to meet Cliff for a drink when he sees it.

The gold band sits neatly in the jeweller’s window, glinting in the afternoon light and before he’s consciously aware of it Ilya’s inside the store, pointing to the ring, lifting it reverently off the cushion the jeweller holds out to him.

He’s not entirely sure what Shane’s ring size is, he admits, but their hands aren’t too dissimilar in size. He’s encouraged to try it on, has to stare for a long second as the gold band slides neatly over his knuckle, heart in his throat.

He pays, ignores the cost of it - his savings are looking healthy, and for something like this he thinks he’d drain them dry - and apologises to Cliff as he turns up ten minutes late, the box burning a hole in his backpack.

Now he’s got the ring he doesn’t want to wait, isn’t sure he can. He hides it in the half-empty box of condoms they don’t use anymore that's tucked in the drawers on his side of the bed, and plans over the next couple of days until the weekend, when Shane disappears for the day for practise; they’ll be leaving for Edmonton tomorrow, for the first game on Monday.

He heads out as soon as he’s waved Shane off, calls Sveta as he goes to the nearest florists and other stores. He picks up everything he wants, Sveta approving of his plans, and goes home to put it all together.

It’s taken most of the afternoon, but he thinks he’s pleased with it. He makes himself a sandwich for a late lunch, stares, tweaks the room as he waits, starts pacing impatiently. 

Is he being too impulsive? He knows Shane wants to marry him, has caught all of the sly intimations about proposals ever since their early-morning conversation. But Shane’s so focused on the Cup, is this the right time?

It’s too late, as the front door clicks open as he sits on the sofa, ring box clutched between his fingers like a lifeline, and Shane is stopping dead in the doorway as he stares at the array of LED candles and flowers that decorate every available surface of the apartment.

“Ilya, what-”

Shane falls silent as his eyes focus in on Ilya’s hands, his soft intake of breath the only noise in the flat.

“Shane, Shanya,” Ilya gets up, takes one of Shane’s hands as he pulls him a little further away from the door. “I love you. So much. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will tell you that every day for the rest of your life if you let me.

“Moy korol, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya drops down on his good knee, lifts up the box with trembling fingers. Shane’s hand covers his own mouth, eyes shining with tears, reflecting the hundreds of pinpricks of candlelight around them. “Will you marry me?”

“Ilya, I- yes, of course I fucking will, oh my god,” Shane’s dropping to his knees, flinging his arms around Ilya’s neck as he pulls him in tight, presses kisses to the side of his face. “Holy shit, put it on?”

He pulls back, holds out a shaking left hand, and Ilya slides the ring from velvet and onto his finger.

They kneel there in silence for a long second, both staring at the gleam of gold, and then Ilya’s being pulled forward, topples over as Shane collapses onto his back on the floor, pulls Ilya on top of him to kiss the life out of him.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters, rolls them over, hands gripping Ilya’s hair. “I can’t believe you beat me to it.”

The laugh is pulled out of Ilya at that, as he beams up at his now-fiancé.

“You asked me on date first, and then to move in,” he reminds him. “Was my turn.”

Shane shakes his head, kisses him again. They lie on the floor for a long minute, before Shane pulls back with a curse, lifts Ilya to his feet, and then disappears down the hall into the bedroom with a “wait a second”.

Ilya follows anyway, curious, and sees Shane rifling through one of his fancier jacket pockets in the back of his wardrobe, pulls out a box similar to the one Ilya had left somewhere on the living room floor. 

Ilya’s breath catches as Shane turns to him with a wry grin. “I had a plan, you know,” he said. “For after the finals.”

“That does not surprise me,” Ilya agrees, leans against the doorway as his knees go a little weak when Shane approaches him with strong, purposeful steps.

“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane whispers softly, “Will you marry me back?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, and watches as Shane lifts his gold band from velvet. His has two inset diamonds, twinkling next to each other, and Shane smiles sheepishly when Ilya’s eyes meet his.

“I thought- we can get you a plain wedding band too, if you like, when we actually sign the papers, but. These would match your earrings, and-”

He lifts his left hand, cutting Shane off, and the hockey player blinks. “I thought, I mean, I googled and they said wedding bands usually go on the right hand, in Russia?”

Ilya smiles helplessly, of course Shane had looked it up. “Is true,” he admits. “But I do not ever plan to go back to Russia. Parts of my heritage mean much to me, but my future with you is the most important thing now.”

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane’s eyes glisten again, and Ilya finds his own doing the same as he watches gold sliding over his nail, his knuckle, until the band rests at the base of his finger, diamonds shining like the promise of everything Ilya had ever dreamed of.

“It fits,” Shane sounds relieved. 

“It does,” Ilya agrees faintly, overwhelmed.

They’re drawn almost automatically back into another kiss, Ilya held against the doorframe with Shane’s hands cradling his face.

“Christ,” Shane laughs, “I- now?”

Ilya shrugs, “I did not want to wait. And… I wanted you to know that I would want this, no matter how the next few games go. I know you knew that anyway,” he says before Shane can protest, “but I see the pressure of the Cup, the want to win, to be the best. I want you to know that even if you do not win, you are the best, to me, for me.”

“Fuck, Ilya, I love you so much,” Shane kisses him again. 

They spin across the room as they tug off clothes, as Ilya pushes Shane down to the bed and pins him down. He takes Shane’s hand, presses it over his heart, runs a finger over the new gold band. 

“You have all of me,” Ilya murmurs softly. “Moy korol.”

“Ilyusha,” Shane sighs softly, shifts his fingers so he can press a kiss to Ilya’s chest. “You have me too.”

Ilya wastes no time in opening Shane up with his right hand, his left stroking up and down his torso so can admire the gleam of gold with every movement as he presses soft kisses to his hips, his inner thighs. He presses in, laces both hands together with Shane so they can feel the new solid additions between their fingers as Shane wraps his legs tight around Ilya’s hips, gasps under him as they move in sync.

They come together and collapse together after. Shane’s fingers drift up and down Ilya’s hand, trace over his ring again and again, rubbing softly at the little diamonds in it.

“I need to call my parents,” Shane says, when the afterglow fades and he tugs Ilya out of bed for a shower. “And- fuck, we’ll have to get the team to update all of the comms. Change partner for fiancé, at the very least.”

Ilya grins, presses Shane against the shower tiles. He kisses him again, almost sickeningly sweet, as Shane parts his lips for him, melts under him, hands cupping Ilya’s neck.

“Later,” he promises.

Later, Ilya sends Sveta a picture of his own ring.

17:34 | From: Sveta

He beat you to it? 😂

17:35 | To: Sveta

No. But he counter-proposed.
I said yes.

17:37 | From: Sveta

As you fucking should.
Let me know when the wedding is - I need plenty of time to go find my bridesmaid dress.

He beams down at his phone, heart soaring at this additional proof that he’s getting married. To Shane fucking Hollander.

Shane sits next to him on the sofa, curls into his side, lifts his own phone in question.

“Sveta says congratulations.” She hadn’t, but Ilya knew she’d want him to pass it on anyway.

Shane smiles, leans up to kiss him softly.

“Ready for my parents?”

Yuna answers straight away, launches directly into questions about how Shane’s feeling for Monday, for the final matches against Edmonton. Shane gives Ilya a rueful smile as he answers, reassures her he’s feeling as ready as he can be, that the team is determined to do their very best.

“We actually had some other news, though, mom,” he finally says. “Is dad there, too?”

They wait a minute while Yuna goes to fetch David, offers to hear them out anyway if it’s urgent but Ilya assures her it can wait until the two of them are ready.

David comes around the side of his desk, leans close to Yuna so he’s half in the video frame.

“Everything okay, boys?” he asks.

“Everything’s great,” Shane assures him. “I just- we had some big news we wanted to share with you. I- um, we’re gonna get married.”

Shane takes Ilya’s hand, lifts it so their fingers and rings are visible as Yuna blinks, clearly thrown, but David smiles knowingly.

“Congratulations, sons,” he says, and Ilya feels his throat tighten as he emphasises the plurality of the second word. “And welcome to the family, Ilya.”

“Thank you,” Ilya murmurs, voice a little hoarse.

Yuna recovers, smiles brightly down the phone. “My boys,” she murmurs. “I’m so happy for you both. How did it happen?”

Ilya lets Shane describe the proposal, coming home to see Ilya surrounded by flowers and fake candles (Ilya admits he’d thought about real candles, but knew Shane would see the fire hazard and immediately be too anxious to listen to his proposal), and how Shane had given him his own ring back. His parents listen intently, Yuna getting a little teary-eyed. 

“Your mother owes me fifty bucks,” David tells them, when she disappears to get a tissue. “I told her it would happen before the Cup.”

Shane laughs, and they chat to his parents for a while longer until his stomach reminds him it's dinner time and they sign off. Yuna promises to reach out to the team about updating the Press releases and statements before they do, and Shane relaxes further with another thing taken off his shoulders.

He texts Rose as well, later that evening, and she calls immediately, demands to see their rings. She’s on a late shoot, so can’t stay long, but congratulates them and promises to come out as soon as she can to celebrate in person.

When Shane worries about playing with his ring just before he leaves the next day, Ilya takes it off him to loop it onto his chain, presses a kiss against it.

“Should be safe there, no?” he says, and gets a kiss back for his trouble.

He leaves for the team flight to Canada, texts him constantly. Shane’s decided not to tell the team about their news, wants to keep them focused on the games. If they don’t win, it’ll be hopefully good news that’ll take away some of the sting, and if they do they can celebrate extra hard.

They lose game one, as Hunter takes a bad check and is out from the second period onwards for recovery. Shane manages a goal, but Edmonton manage another and then a second in overtime.

But they win game two, Hunter back and clearly trying to make up for his absence as he scores once and passes a neat assist to Vaughan who taps it in, while Bennett manages a full shut-out against Edmonton’s attempts on goal.

“I think it’s going to go to at least game six,” Shane admits into Ilya’s chest when he gets home, after a long, leisurely fuck in their bed. “I’ve just got this feeling.”

“Even if it does,” Ilya murmurs, “you can make it.”

He nods, and they win both games at home as Ilya cheers from the stands.

They have several meetings with their press-team when Shane’s back in New York. With only one more win needed to make them champions, the pressure is on to make sure all of their strategies are in place and they’re as prepared as they can be, whatever the result.

The MLH are finally told that this will be happening, on the advice of the lawyers, and Shane ignores any phone calls that aren’t from his agent, his parents or his friends. His agent tells him that the Commissioner’s office is being relentless, as do the Admiral’s leadership who’ve said they’re calling for an urgent meeting with Shane, but they tell him to focus on the game, that they’ll deal with it once the Championship is over either way.

Ilya hates that he can't go to Edmonton for game five, that if the Admirals win they get the Championship while he's not there to celebrate with him. But it's an early game and he can't get the time off work, and he has Max the same evening so he just can't go. Shane rides him the night before he leaves, promises him it's okay, promises him if they win they'll celebrate privately at home, and Ilya can't wait for that, rolls them both over so he can fuck into Shane sharp and hard until they're both coming.

He watches at work instead, most of the team taking the large conference suite and playing the game live on the giant screen. It's as fun as it can be even as Ilya wishes he was there in person, watching Shane score his two goals.

But unfortunately despite an intense effort it's a loss in overtime again, a 3-3 tie just lost as Edmonton manage a shot in the last forty-seconds.

Shane comes home resolute, lets Ilya fuck the tension out of him against the windows, reminds him again how much New York fucking loves him.

Game Six coincides with Ilya’s birthday. He wakes to Shane’s mouth already around his dick, gets to bite bruises into his shoulders as he fucks into him before he goes to practise.

He gets a delivery at work just before lunch, the delivery person dropping off an insulated box in which Ilya finds a Russian honey cake, and several little disposable plates.

He texts Shane a thank you, gets a heart in response, and accepts the various birthday congratulations from the wider team as he shares out the cake, heart fit to burst.

Kip hands him a beer that night when he joins him and Elena in the stands, wishes him a Happy Birthday, and Ilya thanks him. Cliff joins them, grinning at the good seats - Ilya had asked Shane to get another seat for his friend if possible. Yuna and David join them shortly after, Shane’s mom practically vibrating as she sits in the seat in front of Ilya.

She demands to see his ring and he smiles as he shows her, gets exclamations from Cliff and the others as they clock on. He declines another beer, says they’ll be drinking plenty later if the Admirals win, that he wants to keep a clear head for the game.

He tells them about the proposal, about the flowers, a couple of which Shane has now pressed in a couple of his thick hockey books as a keepsake, and the candles, and Shane admitting he’d planned to propose anyway after the Cup. He gets soft awws, questions about the wedding - tells them they’re not sure yet, maybe towards the end of summer. He mentions that the statements are ready to go once they’ve had a bit of breathing room post final-game, and are bracing themselves as much as possible for the fallout.

Before they can get too deep into that rabbit hole, the players are appearing for their warm-ups. Ilya keeps careful eyes on Shane but he looks oddly serene as he glides around the ice, drops into his stretches. Ilya notes how he approaches Petrov, claps the rookie on the shoulder, nods as they speak.

It feels like Ilya blinks and the buzzer is going for the start of the game, Hunter in the centre for the first face-off.

He takes it, peels away with the puck with a grin. Edmonton try, but they don’t quite get possession as much as the Admirals; though their goalie is on fire, blocking the nine attempts the Admirals have on goal in the first period.

They go into the first break with no goals, the stadium buzzing. Yuna would be pacing if she could, Ilya can tell, so he leans down and offers her his hand, smiles as she squeezes tightly.

The stadium roars as the second period begins, lines changing rapidly until five minutes in Edmonton slide a shot just above Bennett’s shoulder into the goal. There’s a soft murmur of disappointment across the stadium, but Bennett blocks every attempt after that with prejudice.

Shane jumps over the boards with two minutes to go, takes the puck from Jalo and peels down the rink with it. He gets slammed into the boards behind the goal, but knocks the puck to Petrov who wings it over to Huff, who knocks it almost slowly into the goal - the goalie moving too quickly so that the puck glides in the other side of his foot.

The stadium roars, the energy electric throughout the second break and into third period. Ilya feels his heart racing in his chest, his stomach tied up in knots as the third period continues without a goal. It’s vicious, violent, the checks and a few attempted slashings happening but the refs don’t seem to be noticing, and the crowd is booing at them in displeasure.

The third period ends in the tie, and Shane’s out for overtime, slams his opponents into the board to collect the puck but it doesn’t quite make it through to the goal. 

And fuck, the buzzer goes, and they go into penalties. Ilya’s hands are gripping his thighs so hard his knuckles ache as he leans forward, watches with his heart in his throat as Edmonton make their first goal.

Hunter makes his, though, screams of approval ricocheting around the arena. Edmonton miss their second, to an even louder scream, and Shane grins as he makes his own penalty.

Edmonton make their last, Bennett flagging a little as he misses it by less than a millimetre, the jumbotron zooming in on the distance as if to emphasise how close it had been.

And then Petrov steps up, glancing at the ceiling as he appears to mutter a little prayer. Ilya’s a little surprised, had thought they’d maybe choose Huff, given his historical accuracy, but Huff seems unbothered as he squirts water into his mouth on the bench.

There’s a soft chant of Petrov-Petrov-Petrov as he approaches the puck, and it’s barely ten seconds later until there’s a moment of silence, no-one sure if the puck made it in or not the shot had been so fast, before the goal lights up and the stadium erupts.

Edmonton slump in their benches, disappointment evident, as the Admirals pile out onto the ice, jump onto Petrov and shake him with joy. 

There’s pure pandemonium for a long few minutes, lights and buzzers flashing in celebration, as the WAGs start to pour down the stands and onto the ice. Ilya follows behind Yuna and David, Cliff caught up in it all too with Kip and Elena. 

The Admirals start to expand, find their wives and girlfriends as there’s plenty of celebratory PDA on the ice. Ilya hovers at the boards, suddenly not sure he should step out onto the ice with everyone else. Yuna and David are a little ahead of him, hugging Shane tightly as he beams with sheer fucking joy at them.

He spots Ilya, something equivalent to a fuck it passing through his eyes as he skates over. Ilya's heart leaps, can't stop from beaming as Shane presses in close, throwing his arms around him. Ilya follows the pressure of his hands as he encourages him to jump up, wrap his legs just above his thick thigh-pads, so Shane can carry him onto the ice.

“Mr. Champion,” Ilya purrs, half-a-head taller than Shane this way, and doesn't want to, is unable to resist as Shane tilts his head up, silently requests a kiss.

Ilya hears the noise around them stutter for a single second before it renews tenfold, wonders how many TVs across North America this is being broadcast to, and then decides he doesn’t care as Shane’s tongue twines with his.

He’s eventually set on his feet when Yuna taps Shane’s shoulder insistently, as the Commissioner and the Cup have made their way down onto the ice for the final ceremony.

He accepts the arm around his waist from his soon-to-be mother-in-law, supporting him as his sneakers slip slightly as he steps away, smiles at Shane with the promise of everything he’s going to do to him later behind his eyes.

Shane’s own gaze goes dark, hungry, before he’s pulled away and the Admirals line up on the ice as the Commissioner is handed a microphone, announces the Admirals as the Cup champions for this year, and hands the Cup over to Hunter.

It’s a whirlwind after that, each team member taking it in turns to lap with the cup to deafening cheers. Shane gets a tight handshake from the MLH team, nods serenely at a quiet word one of them has with him, shrugs as he skates away.

An hour later, Ilya’s waiting by the player’s exit with Yuna and David. Shane’s showered, has agreed to answer two questions from the press - and Ilya and Shane's parents crowd around his phone to watch the live feed.

“Shane, that was a, uh, very unexpected celebration from you, today. Would you care to tell us more?” one reporter asks, skirting neatly around the elephant in the room.

“Ah, well, I don’t think it was all that unexpected?” Shane replies, purposefully oblivious. “Pretty much every player with a partner has them down on the ice to celebrate, so I was just doing the same? I mean, not counting last year being out on injury, this is my third season in a row where I’ve made it through to the Championship and won, so I think I’m pretty justified in celebrating, wouldn’t you say?”

Ilya pinches himself hard as his cock twitches in his pants. This confident, almost belligerent version of Shane sets something off in him like a dog panting in heat, and it's the last thing he wants Yuna or David realising as they stand next to him practically shoulder-to-shoulder.

“I think our colleague was, um, more suggesting that the who you were celebrating with, rather than the nature of it, was the surprise,” another reporter suggests timidly.

“Oh, Ilya. Right. There’ll be a statement coming out from my team in the next couple of days about him- about us, so I’ll let that do all the talking. And I think that’s my two questions?” He glances over where the Admirals’ press team is waiting, must get a nod as he smiles politely, says “great, thanks guys,” and leaves.

Ilya can’t help his laughter, Yuna and David sighing exasperatedly next to him, but grins curving up on their own faces.

They don’t have to wait much longer, Shane emerging from the exit in his game day suit with Petrov in tow.

Ilya hooks a finger in Shane’s lapel, pulls him close for a brief congratulatory kiss. Shane smiles sappily at him, and turns to speak to his parents as Ilya congratulates Petrov on his penalty.

“It doesn’t feel real,” Petrov admits. “My rookie year? To play with Hollzy, and now a win? It’s insane.”

Ilya laughs, wraps an arm around his shoulders, “You played well,” he promises. “You know I would not lie to you about this. You’re a good member of this team, you helped bring them to victory, you should be proud.”

“I am,” Petrov agrees. “Thank you. And congratulations yourself, no?” he adds, glancing down at Ilya’s hand. “Much to celebrate for you and Hollzy.”

Ilya grins smugly, nods. “It will be a very good summer,” he agrees. 

The car pulls up shortly after, drives slowly through the throngs of press still condensed around the exit of the rink. It’s only a short drive to the Kingfisher, but the press have clearly beaten them to it there, too.

Luckily, Kyle or someone had had the smart idea to hire security, so they’re waved through as bouncers hold back the press, and posters cover the windows inside so no-one can get photographs through the glass.

The cheer when Hollander and Petrov walk in, the last two to make it having had their interviews last, is louder than at the stadium, and shots are instantly disbursed.

"These are all mostly in thanks to Hollzy," Vaughan shouts as everyone picks up a glass. "Who's leading the team in PDA fines for this season, at a cool $2950. Followed shortly by Ollies at $2300 and Cap at $2100. The bar tab will continue until that's all spent at which point you're funding yourselves, so fucking cheers!"

The team roars in approval, and Shane flushes as the majority of the shot glasses are lifted in his direction, Yuna's eyebrows almost in her hairline as she half-grins at her son.

For the rest of the evening the cup sits on the central table in the pub, the Keeper of the Cup keeping a watchful eye from the bar. Champagne gets poured into it as the team takes it in turns to drink from it, cheers for every sip, the atmosphere wild and loose and exultant. 

Shane, Cup-champagne and four shots in, on what Ilya thinks is an empty stomach so is hitting him hard, gasps and says “my ring, it’s gone” to Ilya as he stares at his bare hand with mournful eyes.

“Is okay, moy lyubimyy,” he promises, pressing in close. “Is on your chain, remember?”

“Put it back,” Shane pouts, thrusting his hand out at Ilya, and he rolls his eyes but fondly undoes Shane’s chain, takes the ring off and slides it back onto Shane’s finger. He’s aware the room has fallen silent around him, all eyes on them, and almost drops Shane’s chain when they’re suddenly piled on by the entire hockey team, shouts of ‘ohmygod’ and ‘congratulations’ and ‘whatthefuck, why didn’t you tell us?’

Another round of shots makes its way around in additional celebration, although Shane loses his as the alcohol sloshes over the side as everyone jostles him in congratulations.

The party goes on to the early hours of the morning. Yuna’s helped fasten Shane’s chain again, when Ilya’s a little too unsteady himself to fiddle with the tiny clasp, and she and David beg off around midnight to retire to their hotel. Cliff disappears not long after, with a clap on the back for Ilya and a thanks for inviting him along.

Shane’s falling over himself drunk by the time they all wind down. Ilya calls a car, and when he sees the press still camping outside of the front door, asks Kyle if there’s a backway out of the pub. He nods, shows them the back alley which leads to the other side of the block, and Ilya calls the car to ask them to pull around and pick them up from there.

Shane eschews the seat by the door, buckles himself into the middle seat so he can lean against Ilya as they’re driven home. Ilya’s a little unsteady himself, but has the wherewithal to be asked to be dropped at the apartment’s rear entrance, just in case, and he and Shane support each other as they stumble up the stairs, snickering.

They’re both feeling a little worse for wear the next day, but Yuna and David turn up for brunch around 11am so they peel themselves out of bed and let the shower wash away the residual smell of alcohol and sweat.

Yuna tells them that after the kiss, the statements have been pulled forward, so were released at 9am this morning. She’s had an inundation of requests, as has Shane’s agent, and the Admirals, but they’re all dealing with it so Shane doesn’t have to worry.

“Ninety-eight percent of it has been overwhelmingly positive,” she promises them. “I’ve had several LGBT+ magazines request for interviews, as well as some of the TV shows like Late Night. Many of them are asking for both you and Scott together, if they can.”

“Me and Hunter?” Shane repeats.

“Oh, yes, well, you were busy,” Yuna flushes, looks at her plate. “You weren’t the only one kissing their boyfriend on the ice, yesterday. No-one’s sure which one of you went for it first, but Scott and Kip certainly had their moment too.”

Shane swallows around his pancakes as he processes that.

“Fuck, I didn’t think Scott wanted to come out,” he admits, washing his mouthful down with coffee.

“I think he did,” Ilya disagrees. “Was just… scared. Kip said it had been… I forget word, but problem, in their relationship last year. But Scott was being braver, for Kip, and then he heard about you, and it made him extra brave.”

Shane nods, squeezes Ilya’s hand. “I’ll admit, it’s nice not to be the only one,” he confesses.  He goes back to the conversation about the interviews, looking a little apprehensive, but promises to set up a time over the next few days to talk it through properly, understand the asks and the potential ramifications.

He turns his phone on, eventually, and it almost buzzes itself off the table with the number of notifications that flood through.

He blocks all incoming calls for the minute, given he’s with the key people he needs to speak to and Yuna has the numbers of everyone else he might need to, and scrolls a bit through his texts and messages. Rose has messaged to say congratulations, that she really needs to come out to celebrate - and are they doing Pride again, this year?

“That was one of the calls,” Yuna mentions when Shane asks Ilya. “They wanted to know if you’d want to be Grand Marshall? It’s very last minute, but.”

Shane looks at Ilya, who grins. “Good idea for your day with the cup, no?” he suggests, and sees Shane’s face light up with glee.

Yuna and David leave later that evening for their late flight home, and Shane promises to call tomorrow so they can fine-tune any further details. He emails the group who’d been dealing with the press for him all day to say thank you, and maybe they should also meet soon, to sort next steps.

They get takeout for dinner, laze around on the sofa, lingering headaches in both of them, and physical exhaustion in Shane.

Ilya offers, since Shane’s so tired, to spread him out on his front on the bed, eat him out and fuck him and Shane won’t have to move a single fucking muscle but just take what’s given. He gets an eager nod and makes good on his offer, until they collapse back into the mattress, chests heaving.

“I really, really love you,” Shane murmurs, head resting on Ilya’s chest as he presses a soft fingertip to Ilya’s cross. “I can’t wait for this summer, next season, a whole fucking lifetime with you.”

“Me neither, moy korol. Cannot wait for everything life with you will bring.”

Chapter 31: Epilogue: Mr. Hollander-Rozanov

Chapter Notes

Ilya sits on the deck outside Shane’s - now their - cottage, feet dangling just above the water, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. The sun rises behind the cottage behind him, washes the surface of the lake in a soft golden glow.

Just fifteen months ago Ilya had been in a sad, lonely place struggling to make ends meet, doing his best just to survive. 

And now, the August the year after he'd met Shane, he’s happy, healthy, financially stable. Married, of all impossible things.

He inhales soft smoke, exhales it into the early morning air where it swirls above his head. Now he can afford it he’s picked up smoking more regularly again, to Shane’s disapproval. But he’s found it tempers some of the anxiety that bleeds into his sadness, gives him something to do when his thoughts are too loud, and he’d needed that this summer. When he’d managed to voice that aloud to Shane his then-fiancé had given in, though usually insists Ilya cleans his teeth before kissing him post-cigarette.

And the last few weeks of this summer had been intense. Not just the post-Championship press for the Admirals, but Shane’s coming out had led to journalists turning up at their apartment, had led to more people than ever approaching Shane on the street - even those who hadn’t been hockey fans had seen him on the news.

Most of what they get is positive. Shane’s had more people than he can count thank him for coming out, thank him for being so brave - and he’s shared a lot of that with Scott, who Shane had connected with his own team who'd then helped the Captain release his own statements. 

There was a short trend of people who’d interacted with Shane speaking out with nothing but positivity; including the family of 3 from Pride and the Pride game, sharing the photo they’d took last June and saying how much Shane’s bravery had meant to their small queer family of three; the two women who’d approached Shane in Grand Central post-pride, had asked him to sign their phone case, and the family from Christmas who Shane had upgraded at the airport.

There’d also, finally, been repercussions for Montreal. No-one will admit to it, but someone had leaked screenshots of the disgusting commentary from Montreal players’ group chat post-kiss, and Comeau is facing several fines and a potential suspension early on in the next season. Many of their fans had pieced together that Shane's loss had been directly caused by their discriminatory attitutes, and there'd been a fair amount of online discourse disparaging the decisions made by management. 

The MLH hadn’t been great, either, but the pressure put on them by several other more supportive hockey teams had had them releasing a statement, and backing it up with several donations to charities like You Can Play.

They’d had other negative reactions, of course. Some of the comments online had been absolutely horrific, to the point that Ilya had logged Shane out of most of his social media accounts, changed his passwords and handed over the responsibility to his agent and team, who were reporting the hate speech as fast as the sites would let them.

Shane had been busy - and requests had come in even thicker and faster once the Adidas campaign had released almost immediately post-Championship and post-statement, splashed across every single billboard and TV slot they could make it, post-Cup. He is now also an ambassador for Rolex, and has plenty of other brands lining up to talk to him through Yuna.

He’d ended up on a Late Night show with Scott and Petrov, where they’d mostly talked about hockey and how it felt to lead the Admirals to the Cup, how Shane had felt to beat the all-time record for number of goals scored for season including playoffs; but had mentioned the post-cup celebrations. Petrov had been asked how he felt, playing with gay men, and had flatly said that he didn’t see an issue - they weren’t hitting on him in the locker room or anywhere else inappropriate, that their lives were their lives and what did it matter, who they loved? It’s not like they had a choice, anyway, he'd reminded everyone emphatically. 

The gif of Petrov slamming his hand onto his thigh with emphasis becomes a bit of a meme in the days after, as the community adopts it when referring to their own relationships, to the silly things they do together, to the references to Pride protests - it’s not like they had a choice, anyway. 

Shane had also done an interview with a predominantly queer magazine in Canada that had had to do three reprints due to demand; the first issue had sold out within three days of publication. It was helped by Shane being shirtless in a lot of the photos, Ilya had teased, even as he'd fucked him up against their bedroom window to remind Shane who he really belonged to. But Shane’d talked about the struggle of being a closeted player, how his heritage had played too into the pressure he’d felt. How he’d loved hockey, but his team had made him feel so alone, especially after he’d come out to them. How New York wasn’t perfect, but was almost perfect for him, and the Admirals had been the very pinnacle of a supportive team. He’d then, finally, talked about meeting Ilya - and the Russian still can’t think about it without crying - about how even not knowing a single thing about him had been drawn to him, had learnt so much about himself, as a young adult and queer person, through being in a relationship together. How he’d finally understood what all the romance books talk about, when they mention butterflies in your stomach, or heart squeezing in your chest, that Shane had never really felt before them.

And then there’d been New York Pride. Shane had accepted the title of Grand Marshall, had this year stood on a float in his Pride Jersey, the Cup next to him draped in little Pride flag bunting, his hand in Ilya’s as he’d waved to everyone watching. Rose, Sveta, Cliff, Scott, Kip, Bennett and Kyle had all been on the float with them and they'd all gone to get spectacularly drunk afterwards. The smiles hadn’t left Shane's nor Ilya's faces for days, and several more photos had gone onto their shelf, now looking a little overcrowded. 

Rose and Sveta had stayed for a couple of days post-Pride, spent a day recovering from their hangovers before they'd all attended Ilya’s Graduation Ceremony (and why it had to be a full year after he’d graduated he’s still not sure). He’d felt ridiculous in his cap and gown, accepting the rolled up fake-degree on stage, shaking the Dean’s hand. But Shane had watched him with dark eyes, had ridden him as soon as they’d gotten home, so eager that Ilya’s trousers had still been caught around his thighs when he came.

As a delayed birthday celebration (because Shane had insisted that a motherfucking Cup win hadn't been enough), they'd also all gone out for a night. Sveta had found a queer bar with an excellent drag show, and Ilya had made the most of the atmosphere by dragging Shane into a dark corner and making out with him, before dragging him into the bathrooms and blowing him on the bathroom floor, Shane brave and horny enough to return the favour.

A week after Pride, he and Shane had flown up to Montreal, had spent a day or two at Yuna and David’s, a day with the Pike’s. They'd gotten to meet the newest Pike, little baby Amber, and seeing Shane holding her in the cradle of his thick arms had Ilya feeling things he's still working to process.

Before going to Shane’s parents they’d worked on the Charity Proposal, and had pitched it to Yuna. While they think it’s still a few months or so from getting off the ground, Shane’s hoping to announce it fully in the New Year, start the hockey camps the following summer if he can. He’s been talking to other hockey players he’s friends with; Desjardins from Pittsburgh, Hayden and J.J. in Montreal have agreed to host at least two more outside the one Shane wants to host in New York, and he’s doing his best to find someone on the West Coast, too. 

Yuna had been all over it, had made suggestions, talked through some of the legalities with them, made sure she understood their current plans and goals and wants. She’d been moved when they’d asked her to be Treasurer, and agreed instantly.

She’d then asked them what it was going to be called, and Shane had hesitated before he’d said “I was thinking… the Irina Foundation? And I know we’ve focused a lot on LGBT+ charities and things, but I was hoping we could work with mental health organisations too, suicide prevention and so on.” 

Ilya had cried and Shane had panicked until he’d been able to reassure him that they were good tears, between his sobs. Shane had told Yuna a little about Ilya’s mother with Ilya’s permission and she’d agreed it was a perfect name, that it was a lovely legacy to leave, and Ilya had cried all over again in the safe circle of her and Shane’s arms.

Shane’s parents and the Pikes had all driven to Ottawa and met Rose and Sveta there for a small, intimate wedding ceremony. Neither of them wanted to wait, Shane had wanted to get married in his home country, and they’ve made plans for a bigger party in early September once he and Shane have returned to New York. They’d worked with Kyle to book out the Kingfisher so the Admirals can join them, both the men’s team and Ilya’s invited his colleagues and the women's team too. 

Finally, they’d retreated to Shane’s cottage, where they’ve spent two weeks in peaceful solitude. Shane had bought groceries on the way, so they hadn’t even had to leave if they didn’t want to, though with his parents at their own cottage down the road they’d made the effort to go and visit every two or three days. They’d otherwise had to leave once, when they’d run out of lube, but Ilya had been able to pick up a variety of junk food at the same time, to Shane’s silent sigh - but half the snickers bars had disappeared before Ilya could eat them, so he knew the hockey player wasn’t exactly being strict with himself either.

Ilya can see why Shane loves it here so much, the soft calls of the birds (except the stupid Canadian wolf bird, which had almost given him a heart-attack as they’d sat outside by the fire on their first night), the quiet stillness of the lake, the way he’d had the cottage built to be a home.

They’d done their best to christen it as they had their apartment, ticking off every room first, and then Ilya had insisted they had to fuck in the outbuildings too. Because of course Shane had a mini plastic rink built next door, so he could continue to practise in the off-season. The sheer competence of the player would never not fail to get Ilya going, and he’d enjoyed being able to join him on occasion on the rink, knee carefully protected with a brace.

He’d booked a specialist appointment too, for September, now he had decent health insurance. His knee was doing fine, he’d been careful, but he was overdue for a check-up, just in case. Shane had promised to come with him if he wanted, and although Ilya was fine going on his own, he knows Shane worries about it so had given in immediately.

He’s broken from his thoughts as Shane emerges, bringing with him his own coffee and a thick blanket. Ilya shifts over, makes room, and thanks him as he drapes one corner of the blanket around Ilya’s shoulder, the other over his own as he sits.

“Morning,” Shane leans in, rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder as they look out over the lake.

“Good morning,” Ilya turns his head, kisses his temple, returns to the view.

“I don’t think I want to leave tomorrow,” Shane admits. Ilya doesn’t either, but work waits for no man, and he’s not at the point where he’d let Shane pay for him if he quit, not that he’d even want to leave his job. He loves it, loves his team and the organisation, and has high hopes for the women’s attempts this season. 

“We can come back,” Ilya reassures him. “Even for long weekend, if we want.”

“That’d be nice,” Shane agrees. “Maybe we can do Christmas here, or something. I don’t mind it at Montreal and my parents, but it’d be nice to have a quiet space to ourselves too, over the holiday.”

“Mm, so we can fuck, you mean,” Ilya cuts to the heart of it with an amused laugh.

“Well, yeah, that too,” Shane huffs a laugh back.

They fall silent, sip their coffee in companionable, comfortable silence until their mugs are empty and Ilya’s stomach growls.

“Come on then, Ilyusha,” Shane grunts as he hauls himself to his feet. “Let me feed you.”

Ilya takes the offered hand, knowing he’d follow wherever it would lead him, even if just back into the cottage for breakfast.

“After you, Mr. Hollander-Rozanov.”

Chapter End Notes

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