Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, Original Dog Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Dog Owner Shane Hollander, Dog Owner Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Bipolar Ilya Rozanov, Mental Health Issues, Past Suicide Attempts, Homophobia

Language:

English

Collections:

Hollanov Reverse Bang 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-14 Words: 42,393 Chapters: 4/4

How to Make Perfect Tonkatsu

Summary

The Montreal Metros are out of the playoffs, and Shane’s just found out that his grandmother has died. For reasons he doesn’t understand, she’s left him her dog, a poorly-trained mutt named after his childhood favorite food. And to make matters worse, the Ottawa dog park where he goes to train Tonkatsu is apparently the new hangout of one Ilya Rozanov.

Shane doesn’t know why his rival was traded to Ottawa, or how he gets his dog Anya to behave so easily. He shouldn’t be so fascinated by Rozanov, but he can’t help but be drawn to him. And the dogs aren’t helping.

Notes

This was inspired by a prompt by MarinaPaintsFanart for the Hollanov Reverse Bang!

I want to say a huge thank you to my hockey picker, DragonsIre, and my betas and sensitivity readers kittleimp, AK, and SarahJeanne! This is my most heavily-betaed fic I've ever written. I've had a great time writing this, and I'm so excited to get to share it with you all!

For best results, turn creator's workskin on; I got to create my very first skin to make the texts show up, and I'm very excited about it!

Chapter 1

May
Montreal

Going into game five of the playoffs, Shane knows that they’re going to lose. Montreal had taken the first game on home ice, but after that it had been nothing but defeats. JJ is injured, the Admirals are on a tear for the second year running, and the Metros are just not clicking on the ice this season. That’s the press answer. The real answer is any number of things, starting and ending with Shane himself.

The other thing Shane knows leading up to the game was that his mother is lying to him. They’d had dinner the night before, they always did for home playoff games, and something was wrong. She was quiet, distracted, and kept smiling at him sentimentally in a way she never does.

They’re staying at the three-bedroom condo in Montreal he bought them after his first season, and he trudges over for dinner after the game even though he wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed and stare at the ceiling in the dark. It’s an excuse to not go out drinking with his teammates while they drown their sorrow and New Yorkers celebrate in their city. And maybe it’s not a good idea to be alone.

Seeing this coming didn’t make it hurt any less.

So he isn’t surprised when his parents’ condo is quiet, but he is surprised to see his mom sitting on the couch with a glass of white wine, her eyes red.

“Mom?”

His dad is sitting next to her, shoulders pressed together, but there’s an empty space on her other side that she pats, waiting for Shane to sit down. He does, sitting close to her. He doesn’t usually do much touching, they’re not the sort of family that can’t go two seconds without hugging, but from the way she relaxes he can tell this was the right move. He glances at his father, who says nothing but lets their bodies box her in, pushing away the empty spaces.

Yuna takes a deep breath and puts her glass down on the coffee table. She turns to Shane and takes his hands.

“Shane,” she said. “Your obaa-chan had a stroke yesterday morning. She didn’t make it.”

Dividing up his grandmother’s estate doesn’t take much. She only had what could fit into the one-bedroom apartment in her assisted living community that always smelled faintly of cucumbers. Everything else she had sold or donated years ago when she’d moved in here. No attic boxes or storage units for Emiko Ishikawa. Like her only living daughter, she was a firm believer that everything had a place. “If you do things right the first time, nothing will go wrong,” she’d once told Shane, intending to be comforting.

Shane isn’t sure if that belief had held up. He hasn’t — hadn’t — seen his grandmother in two years, so he wouldn’t know either way. He didn’t mean to go that long without seeing her, but after her first stroke she couldn’t leave the apartment very often, and he was going to visit her but then he’d been asked to sub in on an interview last minute, and then he was going to try again the following week, but with hockey and sponsorships and everything else, somehow it just hadn’t happened. She’d never complained, at least not that he heard, but it doesn’t make him feel any less guilty. He kept putting it off, and now he’s out of chances.

They stop by her lawyer’s office before they go to her apartment to go over the will. There’s no dramatic reading with the whole family there, just a tired-looking woman in a suit who hands Yuna a stack of papers and speaks in such a slow voice that Shane almost falls asleep. Baachan’s will was updated just last year with little fuss. What’s left in her bank account will go to her daughter or be divided between a handful of local charities. All of her possessions are Yuna’s to do with as she sees fit, with two exceptions.

“The shoebox on the bottom shelf of her bookcase is yours,” Yuna says, looking at the pages. “That’s sweet, she must have put something aside for you. I think I know where it is. And.” She pauses and sighs. “Oh no. Tonkatsu.”

Shane is hit suddenly with the memory of a taste he once loved. It’s wrapped up in the smell of his grandmother’s apartment, years before nutritionists or performance diets. He remembers her weathered hands showing him how to use chopsticks, sesame sauce stains on a napkin and the certainty of a child who doesn’t have his life planned out and doesn’t have to.

He frowns. “Tonkatsu is not on my nutrition plan.”

“Tonkatsu-kun is her dog,” Yuna says. “I don’t remember if you’ve ever seen him. He’s… interesting.”

Interesting, it turns out, is the kindest descriptor she could muster. According to the paperwork, Tonkatsu is legally a dog. He’s a scruffy-looking thing, light brown and shaped like the pork cutlets he’s named for, with stubby legs and teeth that stick out of a drooling mouth. Shane hears him before he sees him, his bark shrill and just as off-putting as his appearance.

Yuna sighs. “I wanted to tell her not to get that dog,” she says. “I thought, ‘it’s just going to outlive you and then I’ll have to deal with it’. But how do you say that to your mom?”

Tonkatsu has waddled over to sniff them, apparently having decided they’re not a threat, and is currently drooling on Shane’s Reeboks.

“He’s… cute,” Shane says. He’s really not, but that’s what you’re supposed to say when someone shows you a picture of an ugly dog or a wrinkly baby or a hot woman.

“Yeah,” Yuna agrees, in a tone that says she’s seeing exactly what he is. Tonkatsu sniffs her and she reaches down reluctantly to scratch behind his ears. “She asked if I’d take him when she was gone, but your dad’s allergies… I thought she’d find a friend to do it, not try to pawn him off on you. I mean what was she thinking? You can’t have a dog.”

Shane’s a good son, he is, but hearing can’t always does something to him, activates a little contrary part of his brain that he keeps expecting to grow out of but never has. It’s what drives him to break records everyone said couldn’t be beat, what keeps him going when all reasonable people would have stopped. Driven is just another way of saying stubborn, after all, and you never tell a stubborn person they can’t.

“Why not?”

Yuna looks up, surprised. “When would you have time for a dog?” she asks. “Between your travel schedule and your training, not to mention your sponsorships and brand deals, plus league responsibilities. I don’t want you to get overloaded, honey.”

“I’m fine Mom.” Shane barely resists rolling his eyes. “Hayden has four kids, you think a dog’s harder than that?”

“Hayden isn’t captain,” Yuna points out. He also has a wife, which she doesn’t mention. Shane knows it’s just because she doesn’t want him to think she’s needling him about his sexuality, but it still rankles to hear her talk like the captaincy is what’s holding him back from having a life, not everything else.

Shane looks around the apartment for a leash and tries not to think about it. Montreal is out of the playoffs. Summer, for Shane, has officially started early. And now he has a dog.

Whatever. Dogs are easy. Shane has this under control.

May
Ottawa

Life gets quiet in the off-season. Ottawa is a young team, a rebuilding team, and too many of the boys like to go home to their parents or on vacation when the season ends. Ilya used to hate summers. Summers meant going back to Russia, meant caring for his father and paying off his brother, meant feeling at home for a rare few months out of the year, with a familiar language in his mouth and familiar streets under his feet and familiar people who didn’t give a damn about him.

Now, summer is different. Barbecues at Bood’s, working out with Barrett, letting Harris drag him along as a third wheel to whatever event was happening this week, and of course, Anya. The highlight of his summer. His beautiful girl, the love of his life, his favorite sight to come home to. In the summers, he gets to see her every day. She is the best dog.

Today, he’s taken her to his favorite dog park, the big one that’s more like a forest, complete with trails and trees and a lake in the middle. She’ll be exhausted and need a bath when they get home, but it will be worth it. She deserves to spend every day of the summer in the dog park, after being left alone so often during the season.

(He leaves her in a high-end dog hotel with staff who are obsessed with her and cameras so he can check in multiple times a day. She loves it, and he still feels guilty every time.)

He lets Anya off her leash, watching as she performs her usual rocket dash just to the edge of where she could hear him, and he smiles. She’ll get it out of her system and run back to him, tail wagging and tongue out, but for now he can watch her have fun.

Anya runs for a bit, sniffs another dog, chews a stick and lays down, and has to be called off eating a bug. Ilya is far too indulgent with her, he knows, but it’s hard not to be.

He calls her over and starts on a leisurely jog around the lake. Anya keeps up easily, occasionally pausing to sniff or squat, but never letting him get too far away. “You have an advantage, I only have two legs,” he often tells her. She doesn’t seem to mind.

All in all, it’s a beautiful day until a snorting, huffing projectile charges across the path in front of them. Ilya jumps back to avoid it, then reaches forward without thinking about it, trying to get between Anya and the intruder. Luckily the other dog isn’t attacking, but even a man who balances on skates for a living can’t go in two directions at once and expect to stay upright. He’s on the ground before he knows it, a puff of dust rising around him.

“Blyat,” he mutters. A wet nose is in his face immediately. He’s familiar enough with Anya checking up on him when he’s lying on the ground to not be surprised.

He is surprised, however, when a second nose joins hers, followed by a very wet tongue in his mouth.

The other dog is a little thing, some sort of chihuahua mix maybe, with long fur that’s barely been brushed and breath that makes Ilya reconsider the idea of ever getting up again.

“Sit,” Ilya says, switching to English for the command. The dog stares at him. “I don’t speak French, so I hope your people taught you English,” he says. He spots a woman walking past with a poodle and waves at her. “Excuse me! Is this your dog?”

She shakes her head but doesn’t slow down. Ilya sighs. “Where is your human?”

The dog makes a sound like a cat about to throw up a hairball, recovers, and starts to wander off.

Technically Ilya should probably let him. It’s an off-leash dog park, after all. But no one seems to be coming for him, and the lake is right there. Ilya grabs the little dog’s collar before he can think better of it.

“Someone must be missing you,” he says. He tugs the dog closer to him so he can take a look at his collar. It’s embroidered, clearly custom-made. Ilya traces his fingers over the text there as he sounds it out. “Tonkatsu-kun.” It’s not an English word he’s heard before, but he must not have been too far off on the pronunciation, because the dog’s tail wags a little bit. “Is that your name?”

The dog, predictably, doesn’t respond. But there’s a phone number next to the name. Ilya takes one last look around, but no one is looking at him. The woman with the poodle has all but disappeared now. If someone is looking for this dog, they’re not looking nearby. With another sigh, Ilya dials the number.

For a moment, he thinks no one will answer, but a woman’s voice picks up after the fourth ring. “Emiko Ishikawa’s phone, Yuna speaking.”

“Hello,” Ilya says. “I found a dog with this phone number on its collar.”

The woman sighs, exasperation shooting down the phone lines. “Tonkatsu,” she says, like it’s a swear word. “Where are you?”

Ilya tells her the name of the dog park and describes his location. “Is Emiko Ishikawa his owner?” he asks, scratching Tonkatsu’s chin. “Do you know if he’s here at the park?”

“She,” the woman says. “I’m afraid she’s passed away. My son adopted her dog, though. He must not have replaced the collar yet.”

Her son. Ilya looks around, craning his neck while he mumbles condolences to this unknown woman. Now he knows that he’s looking for a man, probably young based on his mother’s voice. Except there are no young men in his immediate vicinity. “I don’t see him,” he says. “I assume he must be looking for his dog.” He’d paused in petting the dog in question for a moment, and Tonkatsu makes his thoughts about that known by burying his head in Ilya’s palm and pushing. Ilya laughs. “Yes, you are a very handsome boy, your daddy is looking for you.”

Yuna makes an odd noise. “I’ll text him and let him know where you are,” she says. “What did you say your name was?”

“Ilya.”

There is a pause. Ilya doesn’t stop petting Tonkatsu, but he can hear her wondering at that. He could be any old Russian, it’s a common enough name. But in Ottawa, at least, most people heard the name Ilya and thought of the captain of the Centaurs first.

“Right,” Yuna says slowly. “Well, I’ll let him know. One of us will be in touch soon.”

She hangs up before he can respond.

Ilya scratches Tonkatsu behind the ears. “Your family is very mysterious, handsome boy,” he says.

Tonkatsu starts to pull back against Ilya’s grip on his collar, so Ilya clips him to Anya’s leash and calls her back to his side. She comes with a stick, which she drops for his attention and is promptly stolen by Tonkatsu.

He supposes he can’t go any further, not while waiting for Yuna’s son, so he settles down off the trail and lets the two of them play a game they made up that seems to consist entirely of stealing sticks back and forth from each other. He’s just starting to wonder if the mysterious son is actually coming or not when he hears a voice behind him.

“Tonkatsu! No!”

Ilya looks up and locks eyes with Shane Hollander.

Fuck.

For eight years, Shane Hollander had been Ilya’s biggest rival in the MLH. He was the only person who even came close to matching Ilya on the ice. (And that isn’t grandiosity, Galina, fuck off, it’s not a delusion when you’re right.) And then Ilya’s stupid brain had decided that the peak of his career was the perfect time to have a breakdown and he’d gotten traded to Ottawa. He hasn’t won a game against Hollander since.

He knew the man was from Ottawa, but surely he had better things to do in the summers than waste time in a dog park. That’s Ilya’s coping mechanism, thank you.

Of course, he’d rather eat glass than let Hollander think he’d caught him off-guard, so Ilya stands, stretches, and smiles.

“Hollander,” he says, injecting the word with his most charming drawl. “Did you lose your dog?”

Hollander stops and scowls at him, the distaste evident in his expression. “Rozanov,” he says stiffly, in the same tone his mother said “Tonkatsu” earlier. “I didn’t lose him.”

“You just didn’t know where he was?” Ilya can’t help teasing him a little bit. Hollander has always been one of the more fun opponents to chirp at. He’s never been able to get under his skin enough to throw him off his game, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun to try. “I don’t know word for that, my English not so good, you know.”

“Your English is fine.” Hollander rolls his eyes. “I’ll take him back now thanks.”

“Are you sure you won’t lose him again? He is very fast.”

Hollander makes a little huffing noise like he’s holding back saying something worse. Ilya knows he’s annoyed, but the polite little golden boy just says “I’ll manage, thanks” in a tone that could probably wither Ilya to dust if he tried hard enough.

Ilya doesn’t argue, just lets Hollander get a little closer before unclipping Tonkatsu’s leash from his collar. He’s half-expecting the dog to immediately take off, but instead he ambled over to sniff at Anya, completely ignoring Hollander.

“They are friends,” Ilya observes.

Hollander glares at him. “My dog has better taste than to bother with your dog,” he snaps. “Tonkatsu, come.”

Tonkatsu doesn’t even look up. Ilya manages to suppress a laugh, but it’s a close thing.

With a sigh, Hollander marches over and grabs Tonkatsu’s collar. “Bad dog,” he says firmly. “No.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “You scold him for coming? No wonder he doesn’t listen to you.”

“Fuck off.”

He probably should. But seeing Hollander like this, flustered and suddenly bad at something… well, he makes Ilya curious. And Ilya just can’t let it go.

“How long have you had him?” he asks. “He has another name on his collar, Emiko…”

“Emiko Ishikawa.” Hollander takes pity on his pronunciation. “My grandmother. She passed away a few weeks ago and left her dog to me.”

“It’s a good inheritage,” Ilya says.

“Inheritance.”

He looks up, half-expecting to hear some mockery of his English. But Hollander is smiling in a way that isn’t even remotely mean. He isn’t upset at Ilya’s Japanese pronunciation or his English vocabulary. If anything, he almost looks like Ilya has told him a very good joke. “Inheritance,” Ilya repeats. He can’t stop looking at Hollander’s smile.

Anya has no such problem. She’s gone back to chewing sticks, glancing up occasionally at Tonkatsu to see if he’s interested in playing.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ilya says.

Hollander ducks his head in acknowledgment. “Thanks,” he says. He tugs on Tonkatsu’s collar roughly. “I should get him out of here. I thought getting him some more exercise would help his behavior, but I guess he needs a leash still.”

“Maybe try smaller dog park?” Ilya suggests. “That way you can see him.”

Hollander scowls at him. “Thanks for the suggestion,” he says dryly, and leaves.

Shane is not prepared to be a dog owner.

He took Tonkatsu to the vet. Apparently his pork cutlet shape is not his ideal body type. He’s not positive what Baachan had been feeding him, but there hadn’t been any kibble in her apartment, and Tonkatsu likes to wait right under Shane’s feet whenever he’s cooking, so probably table scraps. The vet has told him very firmly that human food is not considered a nutritionally balanced diet for a dog, and he needs to lose weight.

So now Tonkatsu has prescription weight-loss kibble and strict instructions to stick to his diet and get enough exercise. Shane leaves the vet’s office feeling confident. He can do this. He’s the most disciplined person he knows, he loves exercising, and he’s the last guy who would be swayed by puppy dog eyes. All in all, he’s the perfect person to do this.

And then he turns around for two seconds at the dog park, and Tonkatsu is gone.

He goes in the wrong direction, apparently, and is just about to panic when he gets a call from his mother saying that Tonkatsu has been found.

“He said his name is Ilya,” Yuna says. “You don’t think it could be Rozanov, do you? He’s in Ottawa now.”

As if Shane didn’t remember that the only player who really challenged him had been traded to his (honestly pretty terrible) home-town team. But Ottawa is a big city, with a large immigrant population. There has to be more than one Ilya in town.

Not so much, apparently. Rozanov teases him about his dog training abilities, occasionally smirking at his own dog, who is showing off its own training. But he also says he’s sorry for Shane’s loss, and he sounds sincere when he does.

Shane lets go of Tonkatsu’s collar after he’s sure they’re out of eyesight. Tonkatsu immediately turns around and starts to amble back.

“No,” Shane snaps, grabbing him again. “We’re going to the car.”

Tonkatsu plants his feet.

Shane pulls hard enough that he can feel the collar stretch, but Tonkatsu doesn’t move. “You have to come with me,” he says. “I’m your owner, you’re supposed to come with me.”

Instead of listening and following him like a normal dog would, Tonkatsu sniffs the ground a little bit. Shane tugs him again, and he responds by planting his feet again.

“I can’t just leave you at the dog park, that’s abandonment,” Shane says. “You want kibble? You want treats? Pork chops? They don’t have those at the dog park. You have to come home.”

For whatever reason, Tonkatsu doesn’t seem inclined to do that.

Shane sighs. “I’m going to pick you up if you don’t come with me,” he says. “You only weigh thirty pounds, you’re not difficult to lift.”

When Tonkatsu doesn’t budge, he realizes that he needs to make good on his threat. With a groan, Shane picks his dog up.

To his surprise, Tonkatsu doesn’t actually fight him. Instead he goes still, legs sticking out in the air. Then he leans against Shane’s chest, resting his little chin on Shane’s shoulder. It should be annoying, even embarrassing, to have to carry his dog out of the dog park, but it’s actually kind of nice. It’s like a stuffed animal, but heavier and warmer. Shane doesn’t put him down until they get to the car.

The warm feeling goes away as soon as he gets home and fills Tonkatsu’s bowl. Tonkatsu doesn’t look at it, instead jumping up on the couch.

“No,” Shane says. “Tonkatsu, off. Down. No couch. Couch bad.” He claps his hands. Tonkatsu looks at him.

“Kibble,” Shane says, pointing at the bowl. “Dinner. Eat.”

He’s learned from youtube that he’s supposed to say short phrases. Dog brains can’t parse full sentences the way that human brains can, he’s learned. If he’s lucky, Baachan will have taught Tonkatsu some words in English. So far he doesn’t think he’s found a single one that the dog knows. If he has to start learning Japanese, he’s going to be way busier this summer than he’d planned to be.

With a sigh, he physically moves Tonkatsu off the couch. “No dogs on the furniture,” he says. And then, correcting himself, adds “Couch no. Down.”

Tonkatsu woofs at him and stretches into a downward dog, tail wagging. That’s good, probably. He likes structure. Shane can do this.

Shane absolutely cannot do this, he decides an hour later, when Tonkatsu hasn’t managed even a bite of his food. He’s tried to get back on the couch twice, wandered into the kitchen to bark, and chewed the base of his tail for several minutes, but he hasn’t eaten his actual food at all.

“I’m making dinner for myself, and you can eat when you’re ready,” Shane decides out loud.

This seems to be something Tonkatsu recognizes. Or maybe it’s the smell of his salmon. He trots into the kitchen and waits patiently for his share.

“No,” Shane says. He points at the bowl. “Kibble.”

Tonkatsu doesn’t look away from the salmon. Do dogs usually understand pointing? Is Tonkatsu particularly stupid? Shane’s a little worried about his dog, if he’s honest with himself.

He can’t bring himself to leave the kibble out when he goes to bed, so he pours it in the trash and takes it outside. When he comes back, Tonkatsu is on the couch, curled up in a ball and howling sadly. He jumps up when Shane comes in and prances over to him, tail wagging.

“You aren’t going to be able to handle a hockey season, are you,” he says with a sigh. Tonkatsu doesn’t answer.

How the hell does Rozanov do it?

Shane had been as surprised as anyone when the news came that his biggest rival was being traded to Ottawa. Sure, he’d had a rough season or two, but this was Ilya Rozanov. He was a generational talent, a star. Boston had practically built their team around him. What were they thinking, trading him? Had he wanted to go?

He’d gotten no answers from watching sports news, and none from locker room gossip either. Rozanov had given plenty of media one-liners whenever he’d been asked, but nothing real. Since then, Montreal has played Ottawa plenty. Rozanov’s play hasn’t worsened at all, but without a real team around him he doesn’t stand a chance against Montreal. The Centaurs are a joke in the league.

Not for long, Shane thinks. The Centaurs are rebuilding, that much is obvious just watching them play. Rozanov might not be enough to turn the team around in one season on his own, but there have been clear signs ever since his trade that sooner or later they were going to be a force to be reckoned with.

Maybe Rozanov had just wanted a challenge. Shane can’t imagine wanting to spend seasons losing without a guarantee it would ever change, but someone might. Or maybe he wanted longer summers so he could spend more time with his stupid perfect dog.

With a sigh, Shane shoos Tonkatsu off the couch again. “Alright,” he says out loud. “This is just an adjustment period. You’ll figure out how to be a good dog before the season starts.”

Because if he doesn’t, Shane will have to admit that his mother was right. And he’ll have to give Tonkatsu up to a shelter or something. He pictures rows of cages with sad dogs in them waiting to be adopted.

Tonkatsu wouldn’t get adopted, he knows. Rozanov’s dog probably would, but Tonkatsu is an ugly little thing with no manners and a prescription weight-loss diet who smells like corn chips and despair. He would die in that shelter, alone and unwanted, with no one to care about him. Shane can’t do that to Baachan’s dog.

He just has to keep trying.

Obviously the big dog park hadn’t worked yesterday, but Tonkatsu still needs exercise. Shane suspects that he wouldn’t get very far taking the little dog for one of his runs, so he finds a smaller dog park on his phone, one with fences where he could see the entire dog park at once, and heads there after his morning workout.

Tonkatsu starts pulling on his leash as soon as Shane clips it to him in the parking lot. Shane, who is a lot stronger than a thirty pound dog, pulls back. “Don’t do that,” he says. “That’s not how this works.”

Tonkatsu ignores him.

Once inside the fence, Shane lets him off the leash, at which point Tonkatsu promptly stops pulling and sits down. Shane sighs.

“Go for a run,” he says. Tonkatsu does not.

They have the dog park to themselves this morning, which makes sense. It’s a beautiful day, but it’s also eleven am on a Monday, so most people are probably at work. Hayden had commented last time Shane had seen him that they’d gotten knocked out of the playoffs before his kids got out of school for the year.

For the second time in the row, he hadn’t said, but Shane hears it anyways. It doesn’t take a genius to see what had changed between their multiple cup wins and their past two seasons.

Shane came out.

Everyone told him not to tell the team. But they were fresh off of back to back championships, and Shane had led them there. Surely, he’d thought, that had earned him enough goodwill for this.

It hadn’t.

Tonkatsu noses at his ankle, bringing him back to the present. Shane sighs.

“Sorry, buddy,” he says. “I’ll throw a ball for you?”

He seems interested in the ball, at least until Shane throws it. Then he looks at Shane like he has no idea why the stupid human is getting rid of the toys and sits down in a huff. After some coaxing, Shane manages to get him to walk over to the general vicinity of where the ball lands, although he usually winds up sniffing it and then lying down. It’s a little bit of exercise, at least.

After Shane throws the ball about a hundred times, Tonkatsu has the brilliant idea to pick the ball up and bring it back. Shane can’t quite contain his shout of joy at that. He picks the little dog up and holds him close, scratching the side of his face while he wags his tail. “Good job,” Shane says. “Good job!”

Tonkatsu wiggles out of his grasp and jumps to the ground, barking loudly and taking off towards the fence. Shane turns around and is surprised to find Rozanov leaning against it, his own dog at his feet.

“You taught him to fetch. Good progress, yes?” Rozanov asks.

Shane feels his face heat up. Of course the one success he’s had with his dog, and this asshole has to come ruin it. “Fuck off,” he says automatically.

Rozanov shrugs and steps around to the gate, letting himself and his dog in. She’s practically vibrating out of her skin as she sniffs Tonkatsu through the fence, and the moment she’s off her leash she takes off at a full sprint, Tonkatsu on her heels, both of them barking madly.

“She likes him,” Rozanov observes. “Anya is picky about what dogs she lets chase her.”

“Oh.” It feels like a compliment somehow, like he’s saying Shane’s dog is special. Across the park, Anya has been backed up against the fence. Shane’s about to shout at Tonkatsu to leave her alone when she feints left and dodges right, taking off again. Tonkatsu follows her. Both of their tails were wagging, as if they hadn’t been fighting at all.

“They are only playing, Hollander, relax.”

“I knew that,” Shane lies.

Rozanov only smirks. “Sure you did,” he says.

He turns to look back at the dogs, but Shane continues watching him. Aside from the one time they’d been forced to present an award together (which had been a disaster), he’s never really spoken to Rozanov off the ice. He’s not sure what to say. But Rozanov doesn’t seem bothered by his awkwardness, just watches the dogs play. There’s an air of calm around him that Shane hasn’t noticed before.

“What type of dog is yours?” Shane asks.

Rozanov glances back at him. “Breed, you mean?” He’s smiling. “Anya is Australian shepherd mostly. A rescue. My friend found her on his family’s farm and asked me to take her.” He looks like he’s about to add something else, but then shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. “I am glad I did,” he says instead, and somehow it sounds more honest than anything else he could have said.

Shane is prepared to answer the same question - pug and chihuahua and Shiba Inu and who knew what else, according to the vet - but instead Rozanov asks “what does it mean, Tonkatsu?”

“Oh. It’s… it’s a kind of fried pork cutlets. It’s Japanese.”

Rozanov made a considering noise. “I don’t know this food,” he says at last. “Do you eat it when you are here in Ottawa?”

“No. It’s not in my nutrition plan.” Obviously. Does Rozanov think he’s that undisciplined with what he eats? He wouldn’t be at this level in his career if he was.

“Too bad,” Rozanov says cryptically.

Shane feels like there’s something there he missed, a question that was more subtext than anything else, but if that’s the case, Rozanov’s clearly not interested in clarifying. Shane doesn’t ask. “My grandmother named him,” he says instead. “She wanted me to have him after she died, I guess. I don’t really know why.”

“Maybe she wanted you to have a friend,” Rozanov says. His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, like he’s seen something fragile in Shane that he doesn’t want to shatter. It should make Shane angry, but it doesn’t.

Still, he can’t bring himself to let it pass by without a comment. “I have friends, asshole,” Shane says.

“Mm, but not a dog. Dogs are best friends.”

“Last night Tonkatsu snuck onto my bed while I was in the shower and licked his crotch right on my pillow. None of my friends do that.”

“Maybe you need better friends.”

There’s a moment where they’re both trying to find a comeback, and then the tension breaks and they’re laughing harder than Shane’s laughed in a long time. And just like that, sitting here with Ilya Rozanov in a fucking dog park of all places doesn’t feel weird at all.

They end up at one of the picnic tables, because the dogs are showing no signs of slowing down and standing by the fence all day feels silly after a while. Rozanov calls his dog over with a sharp whistle and she breaks off from the run to come sit at his feet and take a treat.

“How the hell do you do that?” Shane asks.

Rozanov’s ruffles Anya’s fur before looking up at him. “Do what?”

“Get her to come when you call? Every time I try it on Tonkatsu he just ignores me.”

Tonkatsu had started towards them when his friend did, but had gotten distracted by a bowl of water someone had left out, and was now eating dirt. Rozanov looks at him, then back at Shane, shaking his head.

“Is easy, Hollander,” he says. “Give him treat when he comes close, he will come closer the next time, give him another treat. When he comes all the way to you, you tell him he’s a good boy.”

He makes it sound so simple, but it fucking isn’t. How do you reward a dog for coming to you when he doesn’t come to you? It doesn’t make any sense. “Treats aren’t in his diet,” Shane says instead, picking the easiest problem.

Rozanov makes a frustrated noise. “Then find him doggy nutritionist, I don’t give a fuck Hollander! Listen, he is simple dog. You give him treat, tell him he’s good, he will be happy. You yell at him, tell him he’s bad, he will be sad. You make him happy when he comes to you, he will come. You make him sad, he will not. Easy.”

Shane’s about to argue, but before he can there’s a dog in his lap. Anya, apparently having decided this argument is too boring, has jumped onto him and is sniffing his face intently.

“Hi,” he says.

Rozanov whistles and, aggravatingly, Tonkatsu notices them and comes over. He sniffs Rozanov’s calf and lets himself be picked up, leaning against Rozanov’s chest like he belongs there. “Good boy,” says Rozanov, scratching him gently.

Shane is surprised to find that he likes having Anya in his lap, even though she’s Rozanov’s dog. She’s warm and a little heavier than Tonkatsu and seems intent on distracting him from feeling annoyed. He puts his hand on her, feeling tentative, and finds that she’s just as soft as she looks.

When he looks up, Rozanov’s watching him again, a small smile on his face.

Anya had enough fun with Tonkatsu that Ilya doesn’t feel too bad about taking her to the smaller park again the next day. Hollander isn’t there, but she still has a good time, and he takes her on a long run to make up for it.

He doesn’t think too hard about why he takes her again the next day. Or the next.

When he actually does see Hollander again, four days later, he’s almost surprised. He waves from across the park as Hollander lets his dog off-leash to go chase Anya.

“You’re here again,” Hollander says as soon as he’s in earshot.

Ilya shrugs. “I live here in Ottawa now Hollander, maybe you haven’t heard. Is a good town.”

“Yeah but the hockey team is shit,” Hollander teases.

He gets this look on his face when he’s joking around, like he’s assessing Ilya for a reaction, like he wants to get a good grade in chirping. It should be a lot more annoying than it is, but Ilya can’t help but feel a little charmed by it.

“Not for long,” Ilya says. “They have a new center now, did you hear? Best in the league.”

“Second best, I heard.”

Ilya gasps in mock offense. “Hollander! No one told me you are an asshole.”

“Not an asshole if I’m right,” Hollander shoots back. “I was ahead in the scoring race even before you got traded.”

“Mm, not for long I think,” Ilya says, because if he doesn’t tease back he’s going to feel the stab of shame at his performance leading up to the trade. Hollander has one thing that Ilya has never managed to master and that’s consistency. Ilya had let himself spiral out of control, and his hockey had suffered for it.

He’s fine now. He isn’t going to let today be ruined by bad memories. He changes the subject.

“Your little pork chop looks like he is having fun,” he says instead. “Is he doing better now?”

Hollander heaves a sigh and makes his way over to the same picnic table they’d wound up at last time. “Sort of,” he says, sitting down on the table with his feet on the bench. “He’s starting to come when he’s called more often, and he eats his kibble because he’s figured out I won’t feed him anything else, but he still wants to hang out on the furniture all day. At least Baachan managed to potty train him.”

Ilya laughs. “It takes patience, Hollander.”

They actually talk this time more than argue. Ilya’s surprised to find that Shane Hollander, golden boy of Canadian hockey, isn’t actually as untouchably perfect as his image would suggest. He’s funny in a sly sort of way, and when the dogs take a break from their play to come check on their humans, he’s gentle with them, if a little uncertain. He talks about his grandmother a little more when Ilya presses, about how she used to make him tonkatsu when he visited, before hockey got too serious.

“You know, when you’re that young, before it turns into everything,” he says. “When it’s just fun.”

Ilya does know, although it takes him a moment to get there in his memories. There was a time when hockey wasn’t just an escape, was more than something he can do to his body to make the world stop screaming at him. He thinks that time may have been a little more short-lived for him than it was for Hollander, but he doesn’t say that.

“Is it still fun?” he asks.

Hollander shrugs and says “Of course,” but it sounds like the answer he’s supposed to give. “Hockey’s fun, but it’s not just fun. It’s everything.”

Ilya would have loved to say that this was unhealthy. It probably was, his therapist Galina would certainly say so. Actually she has, several times. And she was right.

But that doesn’t mean Ilya doesn’t understand.

“Easier to say when you are winning, I guess,” Ilya says.

“Yeah.” Hollander looks at the ground.

Ilya knows that Montreal was knocked out of the playoffs in the first round this year. He also knows that Ottawa didn’t even make the playoffs, so he doesn’t feel too bad for poor perfect Hollander and his poor perfect Original Six team.

Okay, maybe he feels a little bad. Hollander has such a sad look on his face that Ilya can’t help but try to cheer him up. “But losing gives you more time to spend with Tonkatsu,” he says.

Hollander huffs a small laugh. “Oh yeah, if I had to pick between another Cup run and hanging out in Ottawa while my grandmother’s mutt farts on my bed when he thinks I’m not looking, I know what I’d pick.”

“He doesn’t eat, he farts on your bed…” Ilya starts.

“Yeah, he’s a bad dog,” says Hollander. He says it with a shrug, like what can you do, but he doesn’t sound angry at Tonkatsu. If anything, he just sounds affectionate.

Still, Ilya isn’t about to let this slide without a comment. “Maybe he needs better food,” he suggests.

“This is the food my vet recommended. I asked if there was a better option, they said just to stick with this. I buy it from the practice.”

Oh boy. Ilya can’t help but laugh a little bit. “You are being scammed,” he says.

“I am not! They’re a very well-regarded practice. They have four and a half stars on Google.”

“Oh, four and half stars, wow. Very impressive.”

Hollander scowls. “Shut up.”

“These reviews, half of them are robots and half of them just want someone to tell them what to do. Like you.”

“I do not want someone to tell me what to do.”

“Oh, I think you do. You buy bad food for your dog because the doctor says, you eat bad food yourself because the team says. Very boring, very sad for you. I’m sure you paint your house sad colors because someone says decorating is bad for you. It’s probably beige.”

The way that Hollander huffs at that tells Ilya that he’s exactly right. “I listen to experts,” he argues. “That’s rational. I’m outsourcing.”

“Give me your phone.” Ilya puts his hand out.

“What?”

“Your phone. Give.” He flexes his fingers like he thinks Hollander might not know what to do with his hand. (Hollander probably wouldn’t know what to do with most of him, if he had the opportunity, but that doesn’t mean Ilya isn’t curious.) He’s pleased when Hollander hands it over without further argument, pausing only to unlock it. Ilya likes that initiative. He wonders what Hollander would say if he called him a good boy.

Pretending he hadn’t just thought that in public, Ilya navigates to his contacts and opens a new one and adds his number. Then he texts himself.

“There. I will text you my vet. You will take Tonkatsu and ask for second opinion. Get him new food if the vet says to, alright? And I will send you my trainer’s information, she can give you good advice.”

Hollander takes his phone back and looks at the new contact. “Anya?” he asks.

Ilya shrugs. It had been an impulsive decision, something to create a bit of distance. He saves Hollander’s contact as Tonkatsu before he looks back up.

“You want to outsource decisions,” he says. “Outsource to me.”

Shane doesn’t think too hard about it, just goes home and books an appointment with the veterinarian that Rozanov recommended. It’s fine, he tells himself. Normal. He’s just getting recommendations from another dog owner. That’s how people do things. Word of mouth. It’s not a big deal.

He calls the trainer too, and leaves an awkward, stumbling voicemail that doesn’t include his name or Rozanov’s. Maybe she won’t call him back and he can say he tried next time Rozanov asks him.

He’s just about to get dinner out of the fridge when his phone buzzes with a text.

Rozanov replies with a gif of a man petting a dog, which Shane is not going to read too much into.

“Are you sure you want to be friends with her?” he asks Tonkatsu, barely looking up from his phone. “I’m sure there are other dogs you can chase who have normal owners.”

Tonkatsu snores. He apparently jumped up on the couch when Shane wasn’t looking and has fallen asleep with his legs hanging off the edge. Shane should wake him up and make him get down. He snaps a picture instead and, before he can think better of it, sends it to Rozanov.

Rozanov responds immediately with a picture of Anya curled up on a soft-looking dog bed. She’s next to a window, lying in a sunny spot, curled up so her tail lays gently over her nose, looking like the dictionary definition of contentment.

Shane puts his phone away for the rest of the night.

Tuesday is normal. He spends most of the day in the gym except when he walks Tonkatsu and goes to dinner with his parents. He leaves Tonkatsu at home because it would be weird and inappropriate not to, but makes sure to leave his food out, because he should get his meals at the same time every night. Maybe Shane should invest in one of those automatic feeders people use for cats.

His parent are worried about him. They have been for months, but this summer they’re especially worried.

“I know this season was hard,” Yuna starts, and Shane groans. “It was! And not just on the ice.”

“Mom,” Shane says.

“No, let me finish. I know this season was difficult for you, and losing your obaa-chan right at the end hit you really hard. It’s a lot! And I can tell that you’re distracted this summer.”

Shane looks at his dad for help and finds none, predictably. “Mom, I’m fine,” he says. “I know things with the team are bad right now, but I’m handling it. And next season will be better.”

“I’m not worried about the team, honey, I’m worried about you.”

She says it so gently that Shane wants to scream. He almost wants to tell her what’s actually going on with the team so she can say that she told him so and they can get it over with. If he’d taken her advice in the first place, his team would still be following him the way they had before. He’d still be part of something.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, with a smile he knows looks as fake as it feels.

He can tell she’s about to argue with him, but his phone lights up with a text before she can. Her eyes are drawn to the preview, and Shane is suddenly glad that Rozanov didn’t use his real name when creating a contact, because Yuna asks in a casual voice “Who’s Anya?”

“Dog park friend,” Shane says. He unlocks his phone to see what Rozanov sent him.

It’s a picture of Anya mid-leap chasing a ball. It looks like she’s in Rozanov’s back yard. The sun is setting behind her. Rozanov is nowhere to be seen in the picture, but Shane smiles anyway as he shows the picture to his parents.

“He’s adorable,” David says. “Tonkatsu’s been playing with other dogs?”

Shane puts his phone away before he can convince himself to find something to take a picture of to send to Rozanov. Tonkatsu’s not here, he’d have to send a picture of, like, his parents or his dinner or something. That’s not the sort of thing they text about.

“Yeah, I’ve been taking him out to a smaller dog park so I don’t lose track of him again. He’s doing good.”

“I’m still worried about you having a dog right now,” Yuna says. “You can’t afford a distraction at this point in your career.”

“It’s fine Mom,” Shane says. “I’ll just hire someone to take care of him when I’m too busy.”

“Dogs do take a lot of work,” David says. He’s usually neutral on their arguments, but when he does take a side, it’s his wife’s.

“His last owner was an eighty-nine year old woman who lived in a rest home, I think I can keep up with him,” Shane snaps.

He feels bad immediately. He and his mother butt heads all the time, they’re too similar not to, but he almost never snaps at his dad like this. His parents both look concerned. Shane almost apologizes, but he realizes that he doesn’t actually feel bad. “It’ll be fine,” he says instead. “Really.”

Rozanov doesn’t text him again until the next evening. Shane won’t admit that he’s been waiting for it, but he has.

He hesitates and then adds:

He gets a response almost immediately

He feels weirdly nervous changing the topic like that. He and Rozanov barely talked about hockey in either of their meetings, which feels weird. It’s the main thing they have in common.

But Shane doesn’t have long to wait before his phone buzzes again. And just like that, they’re off.

Talking to Rozanov is surprisingly easy. Sure, he talks puck with his teammates, with his mom, Rose, and basically everyone he talks to for more than five minutes. But Rozanov isn’t his teammate or his friends. The rivalry has died down a little, but that doesn’t mean anything. And Shane has never thought of Rozanov as a particularly strategic player.

Except he knows more about the incoming rookie class than anyone Shane has talked to, with the possibly exception of Yuna Hollander herself. His observations are sharp, and sometimes a little mean, but Shane gets it. He’s looking for something incredibly specific. Maybe it’s because they’re both captains? Or because they started playing at the same time, so they have the same context?

Whatever it is, this text conversation with Ilya Rozanov is the most fun Shane has had all week.

June
Ottawa

Ilya really expects Hollander to go back to Montreal. Surely he has summer training to do with his team, weddings and birthdays to attend, or, he doesn’t know, protein shakes to alphabetize. And he does take off for a few days for some photo shoot or ad campaign every now and then. The first one happens about a week after Ilya convinces him to find a new vet. Ilya knows, because Hollander texts him asking for recommendations for dog boarding.

Ilya sends him the name of the place he sends Anya when he’s on the road, and suppresses the urge to offer to watch his dog for him. That would be incredibly weird.

But aside from these few obligations, Hollander seems to be planning to spend the summer in Ottawa. Ilya barely wants to spend the summer in Ottawa, and he actually lives here.

“I usually spend a few weeks at my cottage on the lake,” he admits one day, while they’re watching the dogs wrestle. “But I’m having some major renovations done. It was supposed to be done before the summer, but the timeline kept getting pushed back.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “Mr. Real Estate,” he says.

“Shut up.”

“No, no, is very impressive. You must have a very big, what is it, portfolio?”

Hollander shoves him lightly. “Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s about to chirp back, throw in one of his old favorites like “only if you help” or “it’s more fun with you there” when it hits him all at once that he wouldn’t be joking.

Shit. How long has he been flirting with Shane Hollander?

Ilya typically knows perfectly well when he’s flirting. He has to. Drop an innuendo on the wrong player, bat your eyes at the wrong girl at a bar, and getting decked is the best you could hope for. Hollander snuck up on him though. It’s not fair.

And then, because he must have burned down an orphanage in a past life or something, Hollander says “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

Ilya gestures for him to continue, because he hates himself.

“Why did Boston trade you?”

Ilya closes his eyes. He’s been expecting Hollander to ask since they first started talking, but that doesn’t make it any easier to think about. For a second he even considers telling Hollander the truth. It might be nice to talk to someone about it besides his therapist.

That’s ridiculous, though. Hollander is the absolute last person he should tell about what happened in Boston.

He shrugs and stretches out. “They wanted a change,” he says. “They had been winning too much, wanted to try losing for a while. What do they say? Variety makes life spicy?”

“Variety is the spice of life.” Hollander takes the bait, but doesn’t let it distract him. “Yeah, but the season before that you were playing differently.”

Differently is a polite way of putting it. Terribly might be more accurate. He’d been a mess. Bad enough that Boston hadn’t even made the playoffs not once but twice in a row. Galina likes to remind him that there are supposed to be other players on the ice, that it can’t all be on him, but for once he knows she’s wrong. A team lives and dies by its captain, his father would say. Ilya had been worse than a distraction.

And then there was that awful game he barely remembers. He knows Hollander has seen it, the whole world did. Even if he hadn’t been watching live, he’d seen the replays on every sports program for months afterwards. Ilya Rozanov leaves the ice mid-game. Rozanov AWOL, Boston loses. Why did Rozanov abandon his team? Top ten hockey drama moments. They didn’t see the locker room afterwards, the way Marleau tried to calm him down and Ilya lashed out at him until Coach sent him home.

He doesn’t say that though. “Tonkatsu is eating mud. You do not feed him?”

Hollander is up in a second, swearing under his breath as he pulls at Tonkatsu’s collar, dragging him away from the interesting patch of mud. Ilya laughs at him.

“Give him something more interesting than the mud,” Ilya suggests. “Give him a treat, or distract him with a ball.”

Hollander raised his eyebrows at him like he knows exactly what Ilya is doing, but he takes the ball anyway and lets himself be distracted.

August
Ottawa

Ilya Rozanov is not what Shane expected at all. They’ve started making plans to go to the dog park together most days. It’s good for Tonkatsu, Shane tells himself. And true, he has lost a lot of the excess weight, and he is doing better around other dogs. Proper socialization, the trainer calls it. He’s learning how to play with other dogs, in other words.

Shane hadn’t known that dogs could need to learn how to play. Maybe as puppies, sure, but by adulthood they either know it or they don’t, right? Well, apparently not. Tonkatsu has managed to fetch all of twice, but otherwise seems completely uninterested. He wrestled too hard with another dog once and got snapped at, and Shane almost had a panic attack over it while Rozanov reassured him. He spends a lot of time doing that these days, it seems.

Rozanov still hasn’t told him what happened to get him traded from Boston, but now Shane knows for sure that it’s something. Sure, there’s always politics behind the scenes in hockey, that’s just a natural fact of the sport. But if it was just politics, Rozanov would have said. Shane knows him well enough at this point to be sure of that.

Secrets aside, they’re talking about more than hockey these days. Sure, that’s the topic that takes up most of their conversations, but that’s also what they have in common. Hockey and dogs. Rozanov likes teaching him about dog training. Shane’s hired a professional now, he technically doesn’t need this, but he doesn’t stop him. He’s learning a lot from multiple sources. And besides, it’s what’s best for Tonkatsu.

A few weeks before the pre-season starts, Shane is watching a highlight reel of their new rookies when he gets a text from Anya that’s just a link. He opens it immediately.

Shane laughs.

There’s a moment when he doesn’t get a response, and he wonders if he’s gone too far. They’re kind of, almost, friends. But maybe Rozanov doesn’t want to admit that. Maybe he hasn’t noticed, and now that he’s realized what he’s doing, he’s going to think better of it. Maybe it was just a joke and Shane’s text makes him seem desperate.

But before Shane can go too off the deep end, he’s saved by the three dots of Rozanov typing.

Shane clicks the about us page of the bar. The owner is a woman with curly dark hair and a wide smile. Jessica Pritchett, the caption says. Shane’s used to seeing his teammates stumble out of bars with women in tight clothes and too much makeup. The same sort of girl who used to be in pictures with Rozanov back in Boston. Jessica Pritchett doesn’t look like that. She looks like someone you’d go introduce your parents to.

A power play. Shane can do that. They’re friends. Guy friends. Bros. Bros go to bars together to pick up chicks. With their dogs.

Shane was alone, so there was no reason to hide his smile.

The bar is cute. Shane thinks there might have been a burger place here when he was a kid, but he can’t remember exactly. Someone has put string lights over the patio in a criss-cross pattern, but the sun isn’t even close to setting so the effect is a little lackluster. Maybe seven was too early to go out to a bar. Shane usually goes out later, but that’s with his team, during the season, so they usually have a game before they go out. He just thought it would be convenient.

He can’t worry about it for too long, though, because Rozanov is waving him over. The sight of Ilya Rozanov sitting at a picnic table, a dog lying calmly at his feet feels wrong, but it still makes Shane smile. He looks relaxed, happy. Normal.

Shane goes through the motions, getting Tonkatsu settled at the table, ordering a beer he doesn’t really want from a woman with a massive nose ring while he pretends the dog barking too loudly isn’t his, dodging a couple of kids on his way back to the table. When sits down he realizes that Tonkatsu has stopped barking and is in Rozanov’s lap, sniffing intently at his hand.

“One treat,” Rozanov says.

“His diet—”

“I used the treats the vet approved, relax.”

Shane frowns. “Wait, you used the—”

Rozanov pulls out a bag and shows it to him. “Boring low-fat salmon treats, yes. You told me which ones vet told you to use, I bought some so I can give him treats.”

“That’s. Really nice actually.” Shane probably shouldn’t be this touched by the gesture. It’s just a small thing. But it feels like more.

“I am bribing your dog to like me better,” Rozanov says, as if he isn’t currently putting Tonkatsu down gently and facing him towards Shane.

“All part of your plan, huh?”

Rozanov looks confused.

“To steal my dog and use him to pick up chicks.”

“Oh.” Rozanov laughs. “Yes, that plan. You’ve caught me.”

“Where’s your friend, anyway? Or did you strike out before I got here?”

He isn’t staring as Rozanov takes a swig of his beer. Not at his lips, not at the way his throat works as the drink goes down, and certainly not at his large hands curled around the glass. “I never strike out,” Rozanov says with a slow smile. It sounds like a challenge. Shane swallows.

Luckily, Tonkatsu ruins the moment by barking at a passing child, and once Shane is freed from that distraction, they settle into their usual conversation. The new batch of hopefuls coming to training camps soon, how much input their coaches ask them about rookies, whether dogs preferred salmon or chicken. (“Squirrel,” Ilya insists as soon as they stray too close to agreement. “Anya goes crazy for roadkill.”)

It’s nice. Comfortable. Shane gets a second beer, then a third, then comes back with a sparkling water and flushes when Ilya teases him about it.

“They didn’t have any ginger ale.”

“What the hell is ginger ale, Hollander?”

“It’s like a soda, but it’s made from ginger. It’s really good. You’ve seriously never had ginger ale?”

Rozanov gestures as if to encompass not just the bar, but the entire culture of bars and drinking and hockey and Russia. “When would I have had ginger soda? Why would I drink this?”

“It’s good! Shut up.”

He pretends not to see how Ilya’s looking at him over the rim of his glass. “Alright,” Ilya says after a long pause. “I’ll try some.”

“They don’t have any here. I checked.”

“Why not? Because it’s a weird drink that no one likes?”

Maybe it’s the way the sun is setting, or the press of a warm dog against his ankles, or the three beers he’s had, but Shane hears himself say “I mean, I have some back at my place if you want.”

He doesn’t look up to see Rozanov’s reaction, so he hears instead of sees when he says “Alright. Pay your tab, let’s go.”

Now Shane looks up. “Now? We didn’t even see your friend.”

“Who?”

“The owner? The… woman you were flirting with?”

Rozanov laughs. “I don’t think her wife would like that very much.” He gestures at the bar, where the woman with the nose ring is turned around to talk to… oh. The woman from the website has been twenty feet away from them the entire time. Ilya hasn’t even tried to talk to her. He’s not looking now, just drumming his hands on the table. “Come on. Let’s go.”

It feels weird, unlocking the door to his Ottawa apartment with Ilya at his elbow. Aside from his parents, Shane hasn’t brought anyone here since he moved in. It feels bigger than it should, just having a friend over.

He lets Tonkatsu off his leash as soon as the door is closed, and the little dog makes a beeline for the couch.

“I gave up on the no furniture rule,” he says. “As long as he doesn’t go on the bed, I guess it’s fine.”

“You are a pushover, Hollander.”

“Shut up.”

Anya is sniffing intently around the living room. Shane hesitates for a moment, feeling oddly like a bad host for leaving the dogs to do their own thing. He compromises by refilling Tonkatsu’s water bowl, even though it doesn’t really need to be refilled. Then he goes to the fridge and pulls out two cans of ginger ale. He’s going to do this right. He takes down his favorite glasses and pours each can into one. No ice. For a second, he wishes that he had, like, a sprig of mint or something. A garnish. Ridiculous.

When he turns around, Rozanov is in the living room, looking around with naked curiosity. Shane flushes. There’s nothing embarrassing to see here, just some books on hockey he’s already read, Tonkatsu’s dog toys, and a candle his mom gave him. He’s usually not in Ottawa very much, so his decor is minimalist to say the least.

“Here you go.” He has to get Ilya’s attention to hand him the ginger ale, and he has to step closer to pass it over. Their hands don’t really have to brush, but they do anyway. Shane steps back.

He watches as Ilya swirls the drink experimentally, sniffing it with a suspicious look on his face, and takes a sip. He makes a face, then drinks again.

“It’s not good,” he says. “But I like it?”

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

“I said I like it.” He drinks again. This time, he does it slowly, tipping his head back so his neck is stretched out as he swallows. He breathes out softly, his eyes coming back to Shane’s as his tongue dips out to brush his lips. Shane can’t tear his eyes away.

Ilya puts his glass down on the coffee table, not bothering with a coaster. Shane probably should ask him to use one, but instead he’s putting down his own drink, because that’s just hospitable, isn’t it, doing what your guest is doing? It takes him a few tries because he doesn’t want to spill but he isn’t looking. Then Ilya is closing the distance Shane put between them, and he’s suddenly standing so close that Shane can feel the heat of his body. He should back up. Maybe Ilya would follow him, back him against a wall, maybe he would…

Shane is kissing him before he can finish the thought.

It must be the right thing to do, because Ilya breathes out “Fuck, Hollander” and his hands are in Shane’s hair and cupping the back of his head and pulling him closer, and Shane has never wanted to be closer to someone than he is right now but he wants to be closer to Ilya, he wants the heat of their bodies to weld them together, he wants to crawl into Ilya’s skin, he wants and wants and wants.

He doesn’t even realize he’s pulling them towards the bedroom until his legs hit the bed and he’s pulling Rozanov down on top of him, and Ilya’s pulling away just long enough to breathe out “fuck” again before he starts kissing his way down Shane’s neck.

Shane gets his hands under Ilya’s shirt just to feel him. The warmth of his skin, the way his muscles move underneath. Ilya groans and shimmies backwards a little awkwardly, peeling the shirt off as he goes. He taps Shane’s knee with his hand as he does.

“Come on, shirt off, let’s go.”

“Bossy,” Shane complains, but he’s taking his shirt off too. He hesitates then. What he wants is to take off his pants and for Ilya to do the same, but what if he’s misread the situation? Sure, they’re shirtless and were just making out on his bed, that’s usually a pretty clear signal, but what if Ilya doesn’t want to go any further than that? Does adding dicks into the equation make it real? Is there some sort of straight guy code where making out with your bro isn’t gay but touching his dick is?

Then he can’t worry about that anymore, because Ilya is kissing him, skin hot against skin, his hands coming up to cup Shane’s chest and brush one thumb over his nipple, and Shane stops having coherent thoughts for a while. Ilya’s hands are massive where they hold him down as his body presses Shane’s into the mattress.

The urgency rises up again at the same time for both of them, and Ilya starts tugging at the waistband of Shane’s jeans just as Shane wants them off. Shane has never been with someone who matched him this well, who wants exactly what he wants when he wants it, except for the way that Ilya pulls back once they’re stripped, apparently just to look at him.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he says again, but this time his voice is low and gravelly. He sounds reverent, like he’s seen a holy relic or something.

“Touch me.”

Shane means for it to come out pushy, maybe even flirtatious, but it’s soft and desperate. It does make Rozanov choke out a gasp though before he leans in and kisses him again. Shane gasps as he feels lips press against a sensitive spot on his neck, then his collarbone, fastening around his nipple before creeping lower and lower until they finally wrap around the head of his cock. He restrains himself from bucking up, but only barely.

“Holy shit, Rozanov,” he says. Ilya’s doing something with his tongue that makes his toes curl. His fingers clutch at the sheets, desperate for something to ground himself. There’s one large hand clutching his thigh, kneading at the muscles there while the other snakes under his body, fingers sliding along the crease of his ass to tease at his hole. Now Shane does thrust, he can’t help himself, but Ilya swallows around him and presses down further.

It was too much, but he’s not overwhelmed. He can’t be, because this feeling is everything. Ilya is everywhere. He doesn’t think he’s ever been anywhere but this bed, never felt anything but this. He’s not even trying to restrain the sounds he’s making anymore. He’s fairly certain he’s begging at this point, and he doesn’t even care.

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he chokes out. Rozanov just swallows him down further. Shane gets one hand in his hair and comes with his fingers wrapped tight in golden-brown curls.

He’s shaking when Ilya pulls off him, from overstimulation or exertion he can’t be sure, but he needs, more than anything, to get his mouth around that cock. Ilya makes a little choked noise when he pushes him onto the mattress and crawls down his body.

“Hollander, fuck-“ he starts, but Shane shushes him. He presses one hand onto Rozanov’s belly, holding him down and flicking out his tongue, tasting the salty head before he dives in.

He’s only been with a few men, but Shane loves sucking cock. He loves the silk-smooth feeling of the skin as it grows heavier on his tongue, loves seeing how much of it he can fit in his mouth, loves the challenge of opening his throat to take it deeper. Ilya Rozanov’s cock is exceptional. He’s big and just thick enough to make a stretch, and he tastes incredible. Shane was barely buzzed when they got here, and now he feels falling-down drunk and desperate with want.

He’s good at this, Shane knows, and right now he’s using every trick he knows. He needs, more than he’s ever needed anything, to see what Ilya Rozanov looks like when he comes. He needs to be the one who made that happen.

He’s so single-minded in this pursuit that everything else falls away. He forgets about the world outside this bedroom, forgets why they’re here, forgets about the team and locker room culture and grief and belonging and staying focused on hockey and being in charge. He forgets it all until he hears a crash and a yelp from the living room, and, before he can pull off, feels that salty rush and hears Ilya gasp above him.

Shane pulls off, choking. Ilya is petting his head while he coughs.

“Sorry.”

“The dogs-“

“I’ll go check.”

And then Shane is sitting naked on his own bed, his throat sore with come drying on his chin. He barely has the time to himself to think What the actual fuck before Ilya comes back in, Tonkatsu cradled to his bare chest.

“All is fine. They knocked over his little toy basket and he got startled.” Rozanov goes to hand Shane the dog, and Shane balks.

“Don’t let him in here after we just had sex!”

Ilya pauses. “Why not? Has your dog never seen you naked?”

“Of course he has, that’s not the point.”

“Of course?” Ilya raises his eyebrows. “Is that priority, when you get new dog? Find vet, buy food, let him see you naked?”

Shane can feel his face heat up. “Asshole.”

Apparently bored with the discussion, Tonkatsu wiggles until Ilya puts him down - on the floor, thankfully - and trots back to the living room after giving the bed one small sniff. Shane feels like he’s going to die of embarrassment. His grandmother’s dog is sniffing the bed he just had sex in. The bed he just had sex with Ilya Rozanov in. He never even told her he was gay, and now her dog has seen him immediately after exchanging mutual blowjobs with a six foot tall Russian hockey player who once drank tequila out of a woman’s belly button and split his lip on her piercing and then, when asked about the injury by a reporter, happily recounted the entire story, on the record.

That same man is currently looking at him with concern. “Hollander, you are okay? Are you freaking out?”

“I’m not freaking out,” Shane lies.

“Have you been with a man before?” Now Rozanov is looking actually concerned, and Shane almost laughs.

“Just because I’m not on every gossip site in the universe at least once a month doesn’t mean I’m a blushing virgin, Rozanov. I’ve been with guys before. Have you?” Oh god, what if he hasn’t? There’s never been the slightest suspicion that Rozanov is gay, Shane would have heard about it if there was. What if Shane is his gay awakening? That’s too much responsibility.

But Rozanov shrugs, looking entirely too calm for someone who’s just learned something new about their sexuality. “Of course. I’m bisexual. Mostly I like women, but I have been with men too. My coach’s son in Russia, a guy in Boston, before—well, anyway, you are not my first.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “Yes. Cool.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Shane’s blushing again, why is he blushing again. Rozanov gets to him way too easily. He turns the tables. “Did you fucking come because you heard my dog knock something over?”

“No! Was just timing.”

“Sure.”

“It was.”

“No, I believe you. It was a total coincidence. You don’t have a kink for chaos or anything.”

Rozanov smiles. He has a nice smile, half a smirk and half something almost secret, something that looks like it’s shared just between the two of them. But then he glances behind him at the living room.

“I should go,” he says. Shane hopes he’s not imagining the regret in his voice.

“No, yeah, totally.”

“I have to…” he hesitates, then waves his hands vaguely. “Anya needs her beauty rest.”

“Sure.”

“I had fun though.”

Which is absolutely something you say after a hookup that went totally right and normal. Jesus Christ, did Shane just risk his entire career for an okay blowjob and a guy who’s never going to talk to him again? Tonkatsu won’t understand why he doesn’t get to play with Anya anymore. He’s going to be so sad.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Me too.” Because there’s nothing to do but play it cool.

Ilya is still buzzing when he gets home. His mood is infecting Anya, who immediately takes off and runs a lap around the house before leaping onto the bed and lying down, tail wagging and tongue out. Ilya smiles, scratching her behind the ears.

“Did you have a good time?” he asks her in Russian. “I did.”

Shane Hollander. That was unexpected.

The possibility of getting laid hadn’t been far from his mind when he’d suggested the bar, but he knew it was a distant possibility. Sure, he’d been getting signals for a while now, but even if Hollander was into men, it wasn’t likely that he’d accepted that. Ilya expected that, best case scenario, he could manufacture some compromising situations and slowly build up to something.

Instead, Hollander had suggested they go back to his place. He’d kissed Ilya. And apparently Ilya wasn’t the first man he’d even been with.

Ilya nudges Anya out of the way and throws himself on the bed. He feels like he should be kicking his feet and giggling. It wasn’t as though he’s been living like a monk since he’d moved to Ottawa, but it has been a while since he’d had sex that good. A very long while. Hollander’s eagerness, his desperation, the way his face looked so open and trusting with Ilya’s dick in his mouth - that was something special. Something worth waiting for. Instead they’d hurtled straight into it.

He just hopes that his quick departure hadn’t put too much of a damper on the night for Hollander. Ilya needs a bit more planning these days if he wanted to stay the night. And he did want to stay the night! Hollander would understand.

Anya crawls onto his stomach, placing her paws on his chest. Ilya pets her distractedly.

He should get up, take his medication like he’d come home to do. But he needs just a little longer to live in this moment.

Anya taps him insistently with her paw, the way she always does when she wants his attention. Ilya gives her what she wants, because how could he not? Especially tonight. None of this would have happened without her.

Chapter 2

June
Ottawa

Shane has a routine. He wakes up, takes Tonkatsu for a walk, works out, drinks his protein shake, feeds Tonkatsu, and checks his email before he starts his day. Admittedly Tonkatsu is a new addition to the routine, but he slots in well.

So he doesn’t look at his phone until almost eight o’clock, which means he isn’t on Twitter, which means he doesn’t see the posts. His phone rings at seven forty-five.

“Mom?”

“Shane, honey. Have you been online today?”

“No?” Shane shakes a scoop of kibble into the bowl for Tonkatsu. “I’m never online before eight, you know that.”

“Break that rule today. I’m texting you a link.”

The text comes in immediately. Shane looks at it, and his stomach drops out.

It’s a picture from the bar the night before. Ilya is holding Tonkatsu in his lap, a wide smile on his face. Across from him, Shane is just sitting down, looking painfully fond.

Shane knows exactly what that looks like.

His hands are shaking when he brings the phone back to his ear. “Mom?”

“We need to call our publicist and get a statement out,” Yuna says. “Ideally sooner rather than later. I’m thinking something casual, but we’re going to need to know how you want to play this. What happened? Did you run into him at the bar?”

He almost wants to tell her everything. She knows he’s gay, but even though she’s accepted that long ago, there’s no way she would ever be okay with him hooking up with Ilya Rozanov. Much less had a one-night stand that Rozanov is clearly not going to want to repeat, based on the way he ran out last night.

“We’re friends,” Shane says. “You remember when he found Tonkatsu?”

“Of course.” Yuna had demanded he call as soon as he recovered the dog, ostensibly to make sure they were alright, but also to find out if the Russian accent on the other end of the line had belonged to the Ilya she thought it might.

“I ran into him again a few days later at the smaller park,” Shane admits. “We’ve been texting back and forth all summer. He’s been giving me some training tips.”

“Training tips.” He can feel the displeasure dripping from his mother’s voice. Shane winces.

“Dog training,” he says. “His dog is really well-behaved, and Tonkatsu… I mean, you’ve seen him. But they’re basically obsessed with each other, so we’ve been letting them play, and he recommended a new vet and got me in touch with his trainer,” he clears his throat, forces himself to stop before he goes any further. “Rozanov’s friends with the owner of a bar that just opened, and they’re dog friendly, so we decided to take the dogs to support her.”

Yuna still sounds suspicious. “You’re friends?”

Sort of. Not really. Shane thought they were but maybe he had misread things. “Yeah kinda,” he says.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” Shane sits down at the table, giving up on his protein shake for now. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal Shane! You hate him.”

Had Shane ever actually hated Rozanov? He doesn’t think so. They were rivals on the ice, but outside of that, Shane never really thought about him too much before this summer. Certainly not off the ice.

“I mean, not really,” Shane says. “We had a rivalry thing going on, but he plays for fucking Ottawa now Mom. It’s not like they’re a big challenge.”

“Still. He plays dirty. He’s famous for being an asshole.”

“That’s branding though,” Shane argues. “I mean, his mom’s probably telling him that I’m famous for being a stuck-up prude.”

“And you’re sure you want to associate yourself with that brand?”

Shane groans. “I mean, I just wanted to get a beer with a friend. I wasn’t thinking about the brand.”

“Alright, alright.” He can tell that she isn’t entirely reassured, but she’s willing to let the conversation drop for right now. “We need to get aligned with Rozanov’s team. Can you get his publicist’s number?”

“I’ll ask.”

“Alright honey.” There’s a long silence, and Shane knows what she’s about to ask before she says anything. “Shane. You know I’m not judging you right now.” She absolutely is. “But I need to know the full story before we go ahead. Is Rozanov gay?”

Shane winces. His stomach is curling up like it can tie itself in knots. He feels the press of a wet nose against his shin and glances down to see Tonkatsu looking up at him. He smiles, reaching out a hand to pet him.

“We’re not dating, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. “Honestly. We’re just friends.”

“Does he know that you’re gay?”

He knows why she’s asking. Could he ruin you, if he wanted to?

Well, it’s mutually-assured destruction. Rozanov has as much to lose as he does, maybe more if the news he’s heard about Russia is true. He’s not going to tell anyone.

“I haven’t told him,” Shane says, which is true. “We don’t need to worry about him outing me.”

“Oh Shane.”

Her sympathy is the last thing he wants to hear right now.

“I’m going to call Rozanov, see what he wants to do,” Shane says. “I’ll send you my thoughts before I make any posts about it.”

She lets him go a little reluctantly. As relieved as he is to get off the phone with his mother when she’s in this mood, he’s not looking forward to the next call he has to make.

As he navigates to the contact named Anya, it occurs to him that he and Rozanov have never actually talked on the phone before. He stares at his phone. All of a sudden the idea of doing this feels completely impossible.

Tonkatsu has finished his breakfast already, Shane can tell from the sound of his nails tapping in the hallway. Maybe he’s noticed that Shane isn’t sitting down at his laptop and thinks that they might be about to skip straight to their lunchtime jog.

“Fuck it,” Shane says, and dials.

Rozanov’s voice is sleepy when he answers, his accent thicker than usual. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” Stupid opening, like Rozanov doesn’t have dozens of men who sounded exactly like Shane calling him on a daily basis. “Shane.” He winces and corrects himself. “Hollander.”

“I know, Hollander, I have caller ID. What’s wrong?”

“Why do you think something’s wrong?”

He thinks he can hear Rozanov sit up. “You are calling me just to hear my voice? At… eight in the morning?”

“Fuck off,” Shane says. He hesitates. “Have you been online today?”

“I just woke up. Why?”

Shane swallows. “There’s pictures. Online. Of us. Someone got pictures last night.”

“Where?” Rozanov demands. “At your apartment?”

If the existing pictures are tying his stomach in knots, the idea of that makes Shane actually want to throw up. “No, not that. At the bar. You’re holding Tonkatsu.” He doesn’t know why that feels important, but it does. “It’s all over the internet. My mom saw it.”

There’s a long silence. Shane can feel his throat closing up. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do,” he insists, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels.

“Not on the phone,” Ilya says. “Too hard to talk. Are you at your apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“I will be there in ten minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

They hang up. Shane sits down on the couch, trying to get his hands to stop shaking. He needs to be prepared when Rozanov gets here, he needs to know what people are saying. With a shaky breath, he navigates to Twitter and searches his own name.

He’s not trending, thank god, not yet. But it’s picking up steam already as people wake up to the news. Hollander and Rozanov seen together. Is the rivalry dead? Was it ever real? Are they in a secret relationship? #hollanov. Whose dog is that? Is it faked, just a coincidence, look-alikes? Is Rozanov trying to get traded to Montreal? Is Montreal giving up on their star center?

Shane feels sick.

It feels like no time at all has passed when he hears a knock on the door. It’s Ilya, of course, and he has Anya with him. Shane opens the door.

Tonkatsu barks and bolts for the door; Rozanov barely catches him before he makes it outside. Anya ignores him though, hurrying inside and making a tight circle around Shane’s ankles.

Shane ignores her. “We need to strategize,” he says. “This is bad. There’s trade rumors, conspiracy theories, some people think we’re in a secret relationship.” Anya is licking his hand for some reason. He pulls it away from her. “There’s a hashtag. We’re not trending right now but it’s not even nine yet, a lot of people aren’t online. I’m seeing at least one news outlet picked up the story already. It’s going to be a top story by the end of the day. People are going to figure out what happened last night, they’re going to know. Ilya they’re going to know.”

He’s only vaguely aware of a furry body pressed against his thigh before Rozanov says sharply “Hollander. Sit down.”

Shane freezes.

He looks at Rozanov for the first time since he got there. He’s picked up Tonkatsu and closed the door, and he’s looking at Shane with concern. Shane sits down.

As soon as he makes it to the couch, Anya is on top of him. She climbs into his lap and nudges until he lays down, and then drapes herself over his chest. Shane can’t get up without pushing her off. She sniffs his face gently.

Gradually, Shane’s breathing slows. He gets his hands in her fur just to feel the softness and closes his eyes. The weight on his chest presses him into the couch as the shaky feeling in his core starts to release, and he breathes.

He opens his eyes when he hears the click of a glass on the coffee table. Rozanov is standing a respectful distance away, Tonkatsu at his feet. “Drink,” he says.

Anya moves to allow him to sit up, although she stays next to him, pressed up against his thighs. Shane takes the glass and sips, tasting ginger ale fresh on his tongue. He looks up.

“Sorry,” he says.

Rozanov shrugs, settling into the armchair across from him. “Is alright. Situation is stressful.”

Shane laughs without any humor in it. “Yeah.”

Tonkatsu jumps up on the couch without waiting for an invitation and presses himself into Shane’s other side with a sniff. Shane pets him absently.

For a moment, they sit in silence. Shane finishes his drink and puts it on the table, at which point Anya jumps down and goes to sit on her human’s feet. He smiles at her briefly before returning his gaze to the man across from him. Shane realizes that Rozanov is waiting for him to speak.

“I came out to my team last season,” he says. “A couple of people already knew. Hayden and JJ, my parents, my ex-girlfriend. Mom said not to tell the team, but I thought — well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.” His jaw tightens and he finds that he can’t move on from that. “I’ve won two fucking Cups with them. I’ve been in their weddings, met their kids. They called me their brother. And apparently none of that fucking matters.”

“They were not good?”

He shakes his head. “Hayden and JJ are fine,” he says. “I have my parents, that’s more than a lot of people have. But I thought my team would fucking have my back. Instead they…” He cuts himself off, because he doesn’t actually want to detail every little betrayal, every moment of rejection that’s been the background radiation of his life for the past year. “For the first time in my life I’m not excited for the season to start. And being seen with you, I know what they’re going to think.”

Rozanov is silent for a long time, but Shane can see his mind working. “Do you think they will tell people?” he asks at last.

“No.” Shane sighs. “That’s the thing. If it goes public, they know there’s no way the team will keep me. And they might hate me, but they know that would make their jobs a lot harder.”

“They would never win another Cup.”

He laughs, almost against his will. “I’m not that good,” he says.

“They cannot win without you,” Rozanov insists.

It should feel good, that firm, direct belief in his skills, but instead Shane feels sick again. “Yeah, well they can’t win with me either right now. You saw us last season, we played like trash.”

“They played like trash, you played like you always do.”

He’s right, Shane knows. He’d been playing good hockey last season. But the team wasn’t clicking like they usually did. He’d taken more hits than he should have, especially when JJ wasn’t on the ice. His defenders didn’t want to get close enough to him to let him do his job. Commentators had noted that his team was taking more shots when a pass would have been more strategic. Once he’d passed to Comeau and he could have sworn that Gil hadn’t even tried to get it, like he thought the puck was contaminated by being in Shane’s possession.

It doesn’t make a difference, though. Being the captain doesn’t just mean that he’s the best player on the ice; it means that he’s the one who can bring his team together, inspire them, drive them to play as one unit. Instead, he’s been the wedge driving them apart for what turned into their worst season since his rookie year.

Rozanov sighs. He looks away, down at his clasped hands, then back up at Shane.

“I told you there was a man in Boston,” he says at last. Shane nods. “He was the GM’s son.”

“Holy shit.”

He nods. “It was bad decision, I know. He was fun, wanted to be a,” he casts around for the word. “A rebel. Against his father. I was just a convenience to him.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says.

Rozanov waves his hand dismissively. “I felt the same about him. He was a good fuck, dangerous enough to be fun, and I was… well, I don’t always make the best decisions.” He smiles a crooked smile that looks more rueful than amused. “We were caught. The manager, he was furious. He could not decide if I had corrupted his innocent son, or if his son had made his star player a queer. In then end, he could not look at either of us. He told Elias he had to leave Boston. He had a choice, work at the family company in Singapore, or he was cut off.” He shrugs. “He chose his family. I probably would too, in his situation.”

“And you got traded to Ottawa,” Shane says.

He can see the regret on Rozanov’s face, but the other player doesn’t flinch away. “Exactly. I hadn’t played well for a while. Things were bad in the locker room too. Not the same as yours, no one knew about me in Boston, but I was… hard to work with. I… I don’t remember the word, made friends angry? Like a little ET?”

“Alienated?”

Rozanov snaps his fingers. “Alienated, yes. I alienated my team. Coach was not happy with my playing. So when the manager wants me traded, no one argues. No one wants me to stay. So, I go.”

That’s their lives as professional hockey players. They go where they’re sent, regardless of their own wants.

Shane loves Montreal. If he’d had a choice when he was a rookie, this was the team he would have picked. He loves the city, the fans, the team, the culture. But he also knows that he didn’t have a choice. If Montreal hadn’t wanted him, if Boston had picked him over Rozanov in that draft, Shane would be somewhere else. And if Montreal changed their mind about him, then Montreal wouldn’t be his home anymore.

You go where they send you. No matter what else you give up to do that.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.

Rozanov shrugs. “It is not so bad,” he says. “Ottawa is terrible team, but it is better here for me, in some ways.” He takes a breath, his eyes darting away before coming to rest on Shane’s face. Shane can see the moment he decides to say what he’s thinking.

“My brain does not always work right,” he says at last. “I did not realize it, but when I was in Boston, I was very sick.”

“Like, a brain tumor or something?” Shane asks. Rozanov shakes his head. “Oh, like crazy-sick?”

Rozanov huffs out a laugh that’s mostly breath. “Jesus Christ Hollander, you don’t have to guess,” he says. “Yes, crazy, sure.”

“Sorry.” Shane feels his face heat up. “That was insensitive.”

“A little maybe, but it doesn’t matter.” Rozanov shrugs. “Anya’s job is to help me. That’s why she sat on you just now, she could see you were panicking and she wanted to help.”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Shane says.

He can tell as soon as the words are out of his mouth that Rozanov doesn’t believe him.

“You looked like you were going to pass out. You had a panic attack, it’s fine. Anya fixes.”

Shane looks at the dog sitting at his feet. She’s watching him with some concern, but seems to have redirected most of her attention back to Ilya now that Shane is out of immediate danger. He smiles almost in spite of himself.

“Alright,” he says. “Well, thank you Anya.”

Rozanov huffs and waves his hand as if to say was that so hard? “Okay,” he says. “You are calm now. We both have problems. This picture is a small thing. We will solve it.”

It’s not the easy bluster of a rookie who’s never faced failure before, but the well-earned certainty of a veteran who’s been working hard for years. He sounds so confident that Shane immediately believes him.

[Image description: Tonkatsu sitting on the floor of the kitchen, tongue out. Tonkatsu in motion, running next to Anya. Ilya Rozanov, wearing a black tank top and a backwards baseball cap, kneeling on the ground between both dogs. Tonkatsu curled up on Shane’s couch, clearly sleeping.]

[Image description: Anya playing-fighting with Tonkatsu. Anya and Tonkatsu play-bowing at each other. Shane Hollander in a loose blue t-shirt, throwing a ball for Anya while Tonkatsu faces the other direction, distracted.]

Hollander’s team came up with a good plan. Admit to their friendship as though they’ve done nothing wrong, because they haven’t, and redirect attention to the dogs. The internet can’t resist cute animals. Sure enough, the conversation turns immediately from them to their dogs. #hollanov all but disappears, replaced with #holladogs and the less creative #dogsofottawa. In a week, no one will remember this.

Ilya isn’t at all disappointed.

He’s sitting on his bed with Anya curled up at his feet and his tablet propped up on his knees showing him Shane talking to the press.

“And speaking of your summer training in Ottawa, last week you were photographed with Ilya Rozanov. The two of you have garnered a lot of attention with the pictures of your dogs playing together. What can you tell us about this? Is the rivalry dead and buried?”

Hollander laughs pleasantly. “Rozanov is always going to be a top-tier competitor for me, so in that sense the rivalry is alive and well. But he’s given me a lot of great advice about dog ownership, so I’m happy to keep the rivalry on the ice.”

Ilya had been jealous of him once. Back when they were first drafted, when no one could say one name without the other, he knew that people were comparing them in every press conference, every interview. Ilya’s answers were always short and clipped as he struggled to understand the questions, English making his tongue heavy and dumb in his mouth. Hollander, on the other hand, had always made it seem so easy. Everyone had loved him from the moment he first stepped in front of a microphone.

How had Ilya ever thought he was at ease there? Shane looks like he hates every moment that he has a camera pointed at him. This isn’t ease, it’s effort.

“Last season, Montreal had the worst record since your rookie year. Naturally, you being spotted with another team’s captain has rumors of a trade swirling. Can you give us any insight into your plans for next season?”

God, what a terrible question. Maybe because of his stilted answers earlier in his career, maybe something else about him, but no one asks Ilya about trade rumors or his record. Even when he was playing at his worst, he’d never had a reporter be this direct.

But Hollander doesn’t look at all phased, even though Ilya knows he must be. “Last season didn’t go the way we wanted, absolutely, but I have every confidence that next season we’ll be in much better shape. We have our eyes on a Cup run this season, and I’m determined to make that happen.”

“And Rozanov?”

He deliberately misunderstands. “Ottawa has some really strong players, a really interesting starting line, but I don’t think they have it in them to challenge us this season. I’m sure Rozanov would disagree, but we’ll see what happens on the ice.”

The interviewer wraps it up there, and Anya crawls up to sit next to him on the bed. Ilya hadn’t even noticed he was bothered.

It’s hearing the way Shane talks about him in public. Rozanov this, Ottawa that. He’d called him Ilya that afternoon in his apartment. Ilya doesn’t think he even noticed.

He doesn’t have a family anymore. Svetlana, well she’d tried her best but they haven’t spoken since their last disastrous fight. Outside of therapy, Ilya can’t think of the last time he’d heard someone say his first name. The way that Hollander - that Shane had said it? Ilya had never heard that before. He’d been terrified, but he’d said Ilya’s name like he was reaching out for comfort. Like Ilya was the only person who could save him.

Fuck, this is a bad idea.

Ilya, for all his impulsivity, knows when he’s in over his head. And right now he’s so far down he can’t even see the surface. And he doesn’t want to stop.

He reaches for his phone, ignoring the texts from his team reacting to the news (Bood wants him to invite Hollzy to hang out with the team, Haas wants to know if he’d actually play with them, Young just says “Brooooooooooo” until the text preview cuts him off), and jumps to the one thread he actually wants to follow.

Ilya smirks. It had been a guess, but an educated one. There’s no way that Hollander left packing for the last minute.

The typing continues for several long minutes before he gets his response.

Shane arrives far too soon for someone who only left after the text conversation, Ilya notes. He has Tonkatsu with him, straining against his leash to get inside. It takes some maneuvering before Shane is able to unclip the leash, but eventually Tonkatsu is freed and set off to explore Anya’s space, drinking out of her water bowl and sniffing her bed.

“Do you want something to drink?” Ilya asks. Shane nods

He preens a little inside when he hands Shane a glass of ginger ale and is rewarded with his surprised expression. Ilya did that. Ilya made him happy.

“You liked it?” Shane asks.

Ilya shrugs. “It’s terrible, but yes. I didn’t buy it for me though.”

Another surprised look. Ilya feels like he’s just scored a game-winning goal.

He’s patient. He waits until Shane has finished his drink, until the dogs are settled down chewing on toys across the room from each other, before he steps closer. Shane moves towards him like it’s inevitable. Not just something he wants but a fact, like gravity. Ilya moves, Shane follows.

He cups one hand on Shane’s jaw, feeling the lines of bone and muscle, the light stubble that’s grown in since his last shave, the pliant spread of his lips as Ilya’s thumb brushes over them. And he waits, holding himself back just a breath away from kissing him. He won’t move until Shane does.

He can see the moment when Shane breaks. His eyes flicker away and then back, desperate, wanting, and then he leans in. His mouth is warm and wet and wanting and everything Ilya thought it was last time, but he’s sure in a way he wasn’t before. Ilya slides his tongue in between Shane’s teeth and swallows down the noises he makes in response. He slips his hands up under the hem of Shane’s shirt to feel the muscles on his back, the warmth of his skin, and thinks mine.

Shane pulls back when Ilya’s hands start to drift lower. “We can’t.”

Probably, Ilya should pull back too. Probably he should tell him to go. He nips his lower lip instead. “Don’t want to, or shouldn’t?”

“Shouldn’t.” Shane makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “It’s a bad idea, people will know…”

Ilya huffs. “No they won’t.” He’s prepared to say more, but Shane is kissing him again. “They know we’re friends,” he manages. “They don’t have to know anything else. We keep it a secret.”

“A secret,” Shane repeats. Ilya kisses the side of his neck and he groans, pushing himself deeper into Ilya’s arms like he thinks Ilya’s touch will ground him, keep him from shaking apart when he’s at his most desperate. Ilya privately thinks he’s right. “We can do that. Casual.”

That wasn’t what Ilya had meant, but it’s enough. “Casual,” he repeats. “Exactly.”

He kisses his way down Shane’s neck, pausing to lick apologetically over every spot he bites, finding the places to suck that make Shane arch in his arms and the places to drag his teeth that make him cry out. He noses at the hollow of his collarbone and whispers “I want to fuck you.”

Shane stiffens in his arms. They’re so close that Ilya can feel his heartbeat quicken. He’s silent for long enough that Ilya almost takes it back, tells him they don’t have to. And then, eyes wide, he says “Please.”

They check on the dogs one more time, confirm that they’re not getting into any trouble, and Ilya leads Shane by the hand into his bedroom. He hasn’t had nearly as many guests here as he’d had in Boston, and no men, but he finds that he’s not nervous at all. Shane reassures him. Makes him brave. Maybe it’s something about the way he looks at Ilya with those wide brown eyes, like he’s putting all of his trust in Ilya’s hands and has never considered that he might break it. Or maybe it’s the smooth lines of his body as he lets Ilya peel him out of his clothes, the easy way he follows Ilya’s slightest touch until he’s laid out on the bed like a feast, his hands on his ankles.

Ilya doesn’t ask if he’s done this before. He kisses Shane’s knee, then down his inner thigh, feeling the muscles relax under his lips as he goes. He pauses for a quick kiss on the head of Shane’s cock, already hard and glistening, before he takes his mouth lower and presses a kiss to Shane’s hole. Shane gasps.

Ilya loves doing this. He loves tasting someone’s most vulnerable parts, loves watching his partner unfurl under him. He’s good with his mouth; he plays bodies like instruments, tuning them with little licks and kisses, just enough of his teeth to hint at danger, with the gentleness of his tongue to make up for it. He’s sucked cock, he’s eaten ass, he’s licked pussy, and he’s loved every minute of it.

Shane Hollander surpasses them all.

He’s so sweet and pliant under Ilya’s touch, but never seems close to breaking. Instead he pushes back against Ilya’s mouth, soft little gasps and moans filling the air as his legs shake with the effort of holding them out of the way. Ilya slides his tongue in and finds that he tastes clean, sweat and musk and skin as his muscles clench against Ilya’s mouth.

When he’s ready, Ilya pulls off and retrieves the lube from the bedside table, switching to fingers. The one tragedy of having a mouth as talented as his is having to give up on being kissed after he’s put it to such good use.

But Shane surprises him again. The second Ilya’s face is in reach he’s grabbing him, fingers burying in his curls and tugging him down to press their lips together, desperate and wanting. From the little noises he’s making, he does not mind at all where Ilya’s mouth has been.

“Fuck me,” he begs, “please.”

It’s probably too soon, Ilya has just barely gotten started fingering him. But he’s not a patient man, and Shane knows what he wants. He stretches him just a little more as he grabs a condom, adding more lube as he goes.

He pauses, just as he’s lining himself up. “Okay?” he asks.

Shane nods. “Okay. Please.”

Ilya has the wild thought that he should make him beg, that he wants to hear that “please” repeated again and again until it loses all meaning. But not today. He pushes in slowly, watching Shane’s face for any sign of pain. Shane’s eyes are closed, his mouth parted ever so slightly, and his hands are grasping for something at his side. Ilya catches one with his own hand and Shane squeezes, his desperate movements settling like this was all he needed.

He’s halfway in now. Ilya is putting all of his strength into restraint, holding himself up with one arm and going slow, slow, slow. He can feel Shane’s muscles twitching around him, straining to let him in. A little further, and Shane’s eyes fly open, fixed on the ceiling, his mouth forming a wide “o”.

“Okay?” Ilya prompts. He holds still when Shane doesn’t answer immediately.

Finally, with a long release of breath: “Yes.”

“A little more?” It’s half a question half a statement, but Shane nods anyway, and Ilya pushes the rest of the way in.

It’s incredible, being held like this. Shane is wrapped around him like he’s never going to let go. Every move Ilya makes draws another new sound out of him, something perfect and private and his. Ilya wants to swallow him down and cradle him tight and fuck him until he forgets he’s ever had to be anywhere but this bed. He settles for kissing along his neck, setting the pace slow and constant and unrelenting while Shane gasps and bucks under him.

Ilya has never had sex like this before. He thinks maybe no one ever has. It’s possible that the word “sex” was meant to refer only to the act of fucking Shane Hollander while he whines and moans and bats his pretty eyes at you, and for thousands of years no one has been able to actually have sex because Shane didn’t exist yet, and everyone else is just pretending, settling for something barely half as good because they don’t know the alternative. He can never let anyone find out.

He should turn them over so he can fuck him harder, show him what he’s capable of, but Shane’s hands are big and firm on his back and he’s making little choked off noises when Ilya kisses his neck. In this position, Ilya can see the way his face scrunches up when he hits the right angle, the way his eyes are darker every time he opens them, the way he bites his lip. He’s pushing back against Ilya, pulling him closer, trapping him with his noises and his face and the way his breath comes quicker.

Shane comes without warning, a moan on his lips, his legs locking Ilya to him as his ass clenches hard. Ilya follows shortly after, fucking harder into his sensitive hole as he kisses and apology into his throat. He feels like he might cry.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers into his ear.

Ilya laughs. He pushes himself up to look at him, and whatever look is on his face sets Shane off too and they’re both laughing, tired and sweaty and wrapped in each other, Shane burying his face in Ilya’s shoulder while Ilya is still inside him.

“I didn’t even touch your dick,” Ilya says, as if Shane wouldn’t have noticed. He reaches for a tissue and manages to grab it without pulling out, helping to clean the mess off his stomach.

Shane props himself up to watch him, a contented smile on his face. “I’ve never done that before,” he says.

“What, come hands-free? Or had sex?”

“Fuck you, I’ve had sex before.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows, and he can feel the heat rising on Shane’s skin. He flushes all the way down to his chest. Ilya wants to bite it.

“Okay, I’ve never done anal before,” Shane admits. “It’s not a big deal, I’ve had sex, just not like that.”

Fuck. Maybe that should have made Ilya anxious, knowing now that he’d just shown Shane something new. But all he can think is I’m the only one who’s had that. He’s the first person — the only person — to rock inside Shane while he grabbed his back, to feel him from the inside when he came, to hold him exactly this close.

“Everything you hoped for?” he asks, hoping he sounds casual.

Shane kisses him.

They stay together as long as they can tolerate it. Eventually Shane starts to shift uncomfortably, and Ilya is too sensitive, and he has to pull out and feel the way that Shane groans at the loss. Ilya wishes they could stay joined like this forever, that he could always be inside Shane. It is very much not a casual thought.

“So listen,” Shane says, once they’ve both showered. “I was thinking.”

“What, just now?” Ilya asks. “Because I thought I fucked your brains out.”

Shane snorts. “You wish. During the season though, we’re going to be playing against each other a lot. And I just thought, if people already know we’re friends, it wouldn’t be too weird that we’re spending time with each other. If I don’t go out with my teammates and go hang out with you instead.”

Ilya can’t keep a grin off his face. “Are you asking me to fuck you again?”

“I mean, not right now. I don’t think I can go again right now, and I do need to leave tomorrow. But maybe later in the season? If you want?”

He’s so literal. Ilya can’t quite keep the grin off his face as he kisses him. “I want,” he breathes into Shane’s mouth.

Montreal

In August the new roster is announced for training camp. Shane finds a dog walker and a vet and a trainer and a boarding facility for Tonkatsu. He texts every one of them to Rozanov like he’s looking for his approval, and feels more ridiculous every time. Except Ilya doesn’t stop replying

His team asks him about his friendship with Rozanov, of course. Specifically, Drapeau asks “is he also a fag?” and Shane can’t really tell him not to say things like that because they already don’t listen to him, and the last thing he needs is for them to think they’re getting to him. So he just says “no” and pretends not to hear when Comeau mutters “he’s going to find out eventually.” Hayden asks later, in private, more politely, and Shane’s too tired to try to explain so he tells him to fuck off.

In September he sees Comeau talking to a group of the rookies before their home opener. They all look up at him and stop talking when they see him come in. Shane doesn’t ask, but the rookies also stop asking him for advice. Shane greets the fans after the game and three people ask him to sign pictures of Tonkatsu. They’re calling him Tonka, which Shane doesn’t love, but they picked one of the cutest pictures from his Instagram and even though the Metros lost they’re still excited to see him.

Tonkatsu starts sleeping in Shane’s lap when he’s doing tape reviews at home. Sometimes when he starts breathing too fast he feels a cold nose on the inside of his wrists.

He texts Ilya about it. He can’t quite say exactly what he’s thinking, but he says “do you think he’s trying to do Anya’s thing?”

Ilya gets it though. He tells Shane to give him a treat when he does it. Shane doesn’t need an emotional support dog or whatever Anya is to Ilya, he has way more important things to train Tonkatsu on than this, but he does it anyway and doesn’t think too hard about it.

They play against Ottawa in October. Montreal wins 2-1. Dykstra checks Shane into the boards hard enough that his teeth rattle, and looks surprised when he gets away with it. Shane thinks his team might be relieved when he says he’s staying in tonight - JJ invited him, and if he hadn’t they probably wouldn’t have. Ilya plays with Tonkatsu for a good twenty minutes before he kisses Shane, and Shane can’t bring himself to be annoyed, especially when he presses his teeth over the bruises from the game and makes him come hard enough that the ringing in his ears stops for the first time in weeks.

Ottawa goes on a winning streak after that. Shane watches replays of the games in hotel rooms and in his apartment. In November, Shane has a three-day break between games, and spends the first night at home watching the Ottawa-Toronto game live with Tonkatsu snoring at his side. The Centaurs win 4-1, with Ilya scoring a hat trick. His last goal is so beautiful that Shane texts him immediately, even though he knows he’s still on the ice.

He turns bright red as soon as he’s sent it and slams his phone down on the coffee table hard enough that Tonkatsu startles. He misses the post-game coverage to take him outside, leaving his phone facedown on the table indoors before he can devote any time to googling how to un-send a text.

When he gets back, the game is over and he has a reply.

He’s on the road before he can think twice. He takes Tonkatsu with him. Half of him wants to pretend this is just a playdate for the dogs. The other half doesn’t want to try to arrange a sitter if he winds up staying the night.

He doesn’t go to his knees at the front door, he can’t make himself do that, but he does take Anya out and feed both dogs. It’s just so that Rozanov doesn’t have to do it when he gets back from celebrating with his team, he tells himself. And maybe he likes the domesticity of it. He’s not going to tell Rozanov that.

He’s on the couch in the living room playing with the dogs when he hears the front door open. Ilya stops in the doorway and looks at him like he can’t quite believe that he’s here.

“I thought I said kneeling by the door.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

Anya interrupts by charging over to greet him. Tonkatsu follows, which Shane thinks is a little rude. He never goes to greet Shane like that when he comes home.

Ilya bends down to pet both of them anyway, giving them each a moment of his full attention, hands rubbing their faces as he praised them both. He looks up when he’s done, and Shane’s stomach does something exhilarating and pleasant when their eyes meet.

“I score a hat trick and you bring me handsome Tonkatsu for a reward?” he asks. He’s smiling, his eyes sparkling, and he’s so beautiful he takes Shane’s breath away. “I should do that more often.”

Shane doesn’t consciously move so much as he feels himself slide off the couch as his knees fold underneath him. Something in him settles as Ilya approaches and he turns his eyes up to the other man. The constant battle of the season feels like it falls away.

When Ilya stops in front of him, Shane doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his hands around those muscular thighs and buries his face in his body, breathing in the scent of him. He can feel Ilya’s dick through his pants, but he’s not in a rush to take it out. Instead he rests his forehead on Ilya’s belt and lets Ilya pet him, big hands combing through his hair as his shoulders drop and his mind clears.

He doesn’t know how long they stay there. At some point the tap of nails on hardwood tells him the dogs have wandered off, but Ilya doesn’t seem concerned, so he doesn’t bother to look up. He feels relaxed in a way he’s never felt before, like his mind has spread out to every inch of his body and found corners and cavities he didn’t know about to settle into. It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.

It feels like a natural progression when Ilya’s hips cant forwards, almost involuntarily. Shane noses at the growing bulge in his pants. He isn’t sure he could speak right now if he wanted to, but Ilya doesn’t ask him to.

They stay there until he can feel Ilya harden past a point where it could be comfortable. But even then, the hand on his chin is gentle. Ilya pulls him back and just tilts his face up. Whatever he sees in Shane’s expression must satisfy him, because he leans down and kisses him.

It’s not a chaste kiss, but it is gentle. His mouth is hot and possessive, and he feeds Shane his tongue like it’s a treat Shane has been begging for. Maybe it is.

At last, Ilya pulls back and his fingers go to his belt. He pulls out his cock and Shane doesn’t hesitate before he rocks forwards and takes it in his mouth. It’s everything he’s needed. Heavy and salty on his tongue, hands sweet and gentle in his hair, a deep ache forming in his knees and jaw that remind him that he’s here, he’s alive, this is real. It’s the truest Shane has felt in months. He lets himself devote his mind entirely to his task, teasing at first, then taking him deeper, bobbing his head and relaxing his throat and sliding his tongue along the underside of the cock in his mouth. Shane is proud of many things, but his skill in this area is one of his favorites, and one that he so rarely gets to show off. He’ll show it off for Ilya, though.

He can tell that Ilya is close, but he doesn’t rush. He’s almost disappointed when he feels fingers tighten in his hair and Ilya rocking his hips forwards as his voice comes in short gasps. Shane swallows it all, rocking forwards on his knees to get all of it, desperate not for his own release, but for this moment of connectedness.

Ilya pulls off once he’s finished, breathing hard. He doesn’t take his hand out of Shane’s hair. Shane looks up at him, mouth wet and open. He knows his must look like a wreck, but Ilya is staring at him like he’s discovered the secrets of the universe.

“Come here,” he says at last. He tugs Shane upwards, sitting down on the couch and pulling Shane with him. Shane lets himself be manhandled. He winds up sitting in Ilya’s lap, straddling his knees and facing outwards with his back to Ilya’s chest. It means that he can feel Ilya’s strong arms encircling him, holding him close, but it also means that he can’t look at Ilya’s face.

That downside is worth it though, when Ilya gets his pants down below his hips and frees his cock. Shane hadn’t even noticed he was hard, but now, in the cold air, he can feel the aching desperation between his legs. He groans.

Ilya’s hand cups under his chin. “Spit,” Ilya orders, and Shane does it without question, watching with wide eyes as Ilya takes his now-drenched hand down to wrap around his cock. He throws his head back while Ilya jerks him, which gives Ilya the chance to kiss along his neck. Shane gasps.

It’s just Ilya’s hand on him. A messy handjob slicked with spit like he’s a teenager again. It shouldn’t be this good. But Shane is being held in place, and the hand around him is so big and the chest he’s held against is strong and broad and warm and he can feel Ilya’s heartbeat and there are teeth scraping against the sensitive spot under his ear, and he feels warm and safe and pinned and held and wanted and desperate and he’s choking out a gasp as he comes and Ilya doesn't slow down until he’s wrung the last second of pleasure out of him.

Shane collapses even further against Ilya’s chest. He can feel his chest rumble deeply as he laughs.

“Was that all for a hat trick?” Ilya asks.

Shane smacks him lightly on his arm. “Fuck off, it was hot.”

“You have a hockey fetish.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

Ilya bites his ear gently. “Mm, yes, I did like that goal against Buffalo last week. Your backhand is getting better.”

“My backhand is fucking textbook.”

“Is boring. No heart.”

“I don’t need fucking heart in my backhand, have you seen my stats?”

Ilya almost sounds offended. “Of course I have, who do you think I am?”

What an asshole. Shane knows his backhand is beyond good. Pretty much no one but Rozanov can keep up with him on the ice. But that goal against Buffalo had been pretty good, even for him. Sexy, Ilya would say.

“Well if you want to reward me for that goal, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Do you have time?” Ilya’s hand strokes up and down his stomach, making Shane shiver.

“I don’t have anywhere to be tonight,” Shane says. “I have practice tomorrow afternoon though, so I’ll have to leave pretty early.”

“So I shouldn’t keep you up too late?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Ilya laughs. He shifts so Shane is off his lap, grabbing a tissue from the coffee table to clean off his hand. “Let me just feed Anya.”

“I already fed her,” Shane says.

He shouldn’t feel proud of that. It was a weird thing to do. But he’s seen Ilya feed her before, he knows how much she gets, and besides, he didn’t want to interrupt any of the time they had together. And Ilya doesn’t look upset. Instead he tackles Shane to the couch and kisses him.

December
Ottawa

“This is the year we go all the way!” Bood crows. He’s raising his beer over his head, and the Centaurs crowded around him all cheer. “And we couldn’t do it without Cap!”

A second round of cheers, this time directed at Ilya. He tips his own glass in acknowledgment.

No one has commented on the fact that he’s drinking soda. He hasn’t had a drink in two years, and as far as he can tell, no one on his team has noticed. Non-alcoholic beer is a disappointment all around, but passes for the real thing enough that no one has bothered him about it. He doesn’t want to have to explain that his medications mean he can’t drink, any more than he wants to explain that Anya has a job or that Boston didn’t just trade him because he wasn’t playing well.

Whatever. That’s in the past. The Centaurs are really coming together this season, and Ilya is playing like he used to. The bullshit that put him in this position in the first place is past him.

Sometimes he wonders if the Raiders would take him back, once his contract is up. He knows, realistically, that they wouldn’t. But he texted Marleau yesterday to wish him a merry Christmas, and Marly had responded “hell yeah brother” and asked if he wants to go out for drinks when they play in Ottawa next month. Things are getting better.

Ilya takes a sip of his soda and grimaces. He’s about ready to be done with this bullshit.

Going into the Christmas break, the Metros record is worse than it was last season. Worse than it was the season they got the number two draft pick and chose Shane, put their trust in him to save the franchise. Maybe they’ll get first pick next year. Maybe they’ll be able to find someone better, someone who can actually do what Shane was meant to do for them.

Christmas was grueling. Shane loves his mom, but she has so many opinions about why and how the season has gone so poorly, and she isn’t shy about sharing them. The worst part is she doesn’t blame him. Everyone else, they can point out missed goals, assists he didn’t take, moments where he could have been more aggressive, poor locker room culture, poor team cohesion, failures of leadership. Yuna points to teammates who shot instead of passed, defenders who didn’t get between Shane and hits, plays that weren’t carried out.

“What is your coach thinking?” she asked. “He’s letting them get away with murder out there.”

“No one’s being murdered,” David had said mildly.

“The season is being murdered, David! How are they going to do in the playoffs if this is how they’re playing? They’re up against New York next week, Scott Hunter is going to grind them into dust.”

“Mom,” Shane said.

So Christmas hadn’t gone great, all in all. Shane is still in Ottawa for two more days. He’s brought Tonkatsu with him, which is the only highlight of the trip so far.

He promised himself before he left Montreal that he would spend the holiday with his family. No distractions. It’s not even noon on Boxing Day when he breaks that promise to himself.

Too intimate. Shane’s supposed to be spending his time focusing on hockey and his family, not hooking up with Ilya Rozanov.

Then again, maybe that can be a New Year’s resolution.

That’s an even worse idea. One of them is going to think this is a date. Shane is going to wind up staying the night again, and they’d barely managed to get away with it last time. He’d woken up early just to slip out of bed and shower so he could say that they didn’t wake up together.

Ilya doesn’t pass on his congratulations. His teammates know that they’re friends, but he hasn’t told them that he’s hanging out with Shane today, and he doesn’t want to. They might try to come over or ask him to invite Shane over right now. They’re all a little obsessed.

Ilya doesn’t really blame them. Shane Hollander is a hockey legend. It’s like someone saying they’re friends with a god. He’s never brought Shane to a team party, never invited him out with them after they’d played Montreal. Coming home to Shane feeding his dog and sucking his cock is already too much for the casual nature of their relationship, he can’t introduce Shane to his team too.

He wonders if Shane knows that this isn’t how hookups are supposed to go. He said that Ilya isn’t the first man he’s been with, but Ilya has the sense that there haven’t been too many. He knows, doesn’t he? There’s no way that he thinks that this is what casual means.

He says goodbye to his team, takes Anya on a run, and stops by a grocery store on an impulse. He should probably just order a pizza or something. Why the hell did he invite Shane over for dinner?

He starts cooking before he can think better of it.

There’s a knock at the door at seven o’clock on the dot, and Anya jumps up, barking. Ilya follows her, pausing to check his reflection in the hallway mirror before he opens the door. Anya barks again when she realizes Tonkatsu is here, dropping into a play bow and sniffing him vigorously. Shane nearly trips over them as he steps inside.

“They missed each other,” he says.

“They did.”

Ilya can’t stop looking at him. Does Shane notice that he’s staring? He looks at Ilya and ducks his head, a small smile on his lips. Ilya wants to kiss him.

“I made chicken,” he says instead.

Shane looks surprised. “You cook?”

“A little. Nothing special. You want some?” Internally, Ilya feels like he’s just revealed that he can fly. Anything he can do that takes Shane by surprise is a wonder to him.

He’s still dancing inside while Shane takes off his shoes and sits down at the table, lets Ilya pour him some ginger ale and a coke for himself, plate up some grilled chicken over rice. It’s really not an exciting dish, but it’s one of the only ones that Ilya is regularly confident in being able to cook. He should learn more, find something complicated so he can show off. He’ll make pirozhki and pelmeni, salmon burgers from scratch, he’ll make a soufflé, maybe he’ll figure out how to make tonkatsu just to give Shane a taste of his childhood. Does Shane know that Ilya has tried every Japanese restaurant in Ottawa since they first talked about tonkatsu? He has a ranked list of his favorites by food quality, adherence to a performance diet, and privacy. He hasn’t worked his way up to finding an excuse to take Shane to any of them yet, but one day he will.

The chicken is good, Shane even says so. They make casual conversation over dinner, talking about the dogs and their teams and how the season is going for each of them. Ilya can tell that Shane is nervous, especially when they talk about his team. He wants to ask. He’s seen the Metros play, he’s seen how they neglect Shane, how the defenders don’t protect him. Do they know that they’re losing because they’re icing out the only player with any fucking talent?

He doesn’t say that though. Instead he turns the conversation back to the dogs, an easier topic for Shane.

“Tonkatsu seems much happier,” he says.

Shane shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “He’s coming when I call him more often, and he sits, but he still barks whenever he wants me to feed him and he’s a pain the ass to walk.”

“You expect too much too fast,” Ilya tells him. “Tell him he is good for what he does, not that he is bad for not being perfect.”

“I don’t expect him to be perfect.” Shane rolls his eyes. (Ilya absolutely does not believe him.) “But he should be picking up more by now.”

He looks so annoyed, his face scrunched up in confusion like if he stares hard enough at his plate he can figure out all of the mysteries of dog training. Ilya restrains a laugh.

“My Montreal trainer says I need to use my alpha voice on him, but Kathy in Ottawa never said anything about that.”

“What the hell is alpha voice?”

Shane puts on a deep, booming voice. “Tonkatsu, heel,” he says.

Ilya can’t resist anymore. He burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny! He says that dogs are biologically hardwired to respond to deeper voices and authoritarian tones.”

“Biologically hard wired?” Ilya tested the words out. “What the fuck is that?”

Shane shrugs. “I don’t know, that’s just what he said.”

“Your voice is not deep enough? I like your voice, your voice is plenty deep. What does any of that mean? Does he think dogs do not respond to women? Have you told Kathy this?”

“I thought about texting her but that felt like bad professional boundaries,” Shane admits.

“She would love it. Tell her what this fool says and she will tell you a better person to see. Sweet Tonkatsu deserves better.”

Shane shakes his head and laughs, but he doesn’t argue. He takes a long drink of his ginger ale and then says “I like your voice too.”

It takes Ilya a moment to recognize what he means. Shane looks a little uncomfortable at his own declaration, so Ilya doesn’t push, just clears his throat, scratches his nose, and stands up. “Finished with your food?” he asks. His voice is far too high.

He waves off Shane’s offers to help and stacks the dishes in the dishwasher. When he returns, Shane isn’t in the dining room. Ilya follows the sound of nails on hardwood to the living room and sure enough, Shane is there. He’s leaning against the back of the sofa watching the dogs tug a toy between them. Half-bent like this, the way that their relationship goes should mean that Ilya comes up behind him and grabs him by his hips. He should pull Shane against him and let their bodies take what they need from each other. But instead, he finds himself standing there in his own hallway, watching.

He’d been curious about Hollander since the beginning. The first time he’d seen him, Ilya had been sitting in the locker room back in Russia, watching video clips on the old TV monitor the coach had wheeled in. He’d stayed behind after the other boys had left because he was going to represent their country at World Juniors the following year, and his coach had wanted him to be prepared. He’d trained for hours, until his body gave out, and then watched tapes of his opponents. The Swiss, the Americans, the Finns. And the Canadians. Hollander was definitely going to be selected, his coach had told him. Watch him. Learn from him. Figure out how to crush him. Bring the win back for Russia.

Ilya had been an obedient player, so he’d watched. Hollander was fast but not as fast as he was, strong but not as big as him, strategic but he had his weak points. A year later, sure enough, Ilya was in Saskatchewan. It was his first time in North America, and he’d taken in every difference and similarity with an eager hunger. No one but Svetlana knew he dreamed of playing hockey abroad, using his talents to escape his father’s household. He wasn’t just a wide-eyed teenager on a new continent, he was exploring his future home.

He’d gone out behind the rink the day before the finals to smoke. He’d seen Hollander in the distance, looking as if he was going to approach, before someone out of Ilya’s vision caught his attention and he turned away. Ilya had stubbed out his cigarette and slipped away before he could turn back. No distractions.

He’d only seen Shane at a distance that day, so he couldn’t say for certain if he was as beautiful then as he was today, but Ilya can’t imagine that would be possible.

Shane must sense him staring because he turns around. There’s a small smile on his face, a question, an invitation. Ilya can’t help himself, he’s crossing the room in two short strides and taking Shane’s face in his hands and kissing him.

It’s always good, but right now it’s like a kiss from a movie. The final scene, the big celebration, the moment where everything falls away except him. Ilya forgets about the world outside his house, forgets about the dogs, about hockey, about who he is and who Shane is and why this can’t be anything, and kisses him. And Shane kisses him back.

Ilya turns them, and Shane lets him, pliant and wanting and still kissing him back as they stumble towards the stairs. It’s probably a terrible idea, but he can’t stop, can’t let go. He feels desperate right now in a way he never has before. They stop on the landing because Shane bites his lip and Ilya has to push him against the wall, only it must have all been a ploy because Shane takes the opportunity to peel off Ilya’s sweatshirt and leave it on the stairs. Ilya manages to get the top button of Shane’s jeans unbuttoned in retaliation, which almost causes them both to fall, but they make it to the bedroom without incident.

Ilya stops when they make it to the bed, and just looks. Shane Hollander is spread out on his bed, hair rumpled and shirt askew, lips red from kissing and eyes so big and brown and full of want. Ilya wishes he could stay in this moment forever. He’ll live to be a thousand, he’ll have left hockey so far behind he doesn’t even remember how to hold a stick, and in his mind he’ll still be right here, watching Shane’s broad chest rise and fall as his lips part and he breathes.

Slowly, Shane spreads his legs. His jeans are resting absurdly low on his hips, showing off one sculpted hip bone and a tantalizing start of a patch of dark hair. Ilya’s eyes rake over his body and he feels like he’s about to lose his mind.

All of that is out the window, though, when Shane bites his lip and says in the softest voice imaginable “Fuck me?”

What the fuck could Ilya do but obey?

His attempts at stripping Shane out of his shirt are slowed by Shane’s hands refusing to leave his body, but he manages eventually. And then he’s frozen, holding the shirt in his hands as he stares down at the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life.

Carefully, feeling like the moment will shatter if he moves too fast, Ilya folds the shirt as neatly as he can and places it on the bedside table.

Shane is watching him, breathing shallowly, his eyes dark and lips parted. Ilya feels like he’s in a church. He remembered going with his mother when he was young, the way everything felt so huge and solemn, how the world seemed to go quiet. They should put a portrait of Shane in every place of worship. Ilya would dedicate his life to prayer.

He kneels down on the mattress, a daring trespasser in his own bed, and presses a soft kiss to the hot skin on the side of Shane’s neck, just under his ear. The place that Ilya knows will always make him moan and squirm. He kisses his way down, cataloging every sound he draws out of Shane’s parted lips, memorizing whine and gasp he creates out of his tongue and skill and desire. He presses his lips to Shane’s stomach, holding himself there for long seconds, just breathing him in.

Carefully, slowly, Ilya gets his hands on Shane’s waistband, nudging him to lift his hips so he can slide his pants off. He folds them too, placing them with the shirt on the nightstand, as carefully as if he’s handling some sort of ancient relic.

This time, when he looks back, that stunned look is off Shane’s face. Shane grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him down into a messy kiss. And Ilya is lost.

From there, it’s a blur of hands and bodies and heat and Shane. Shane’s teeth against his neck, Shane’s hands on his chest, Shane’s thighs parting for him. Every movement, every breath, seems perfectly coordinated, Shane fitting exactly where Ilya left off.

Once he’s inside Shane, he loses all control. Shane is pushing back against him, whining softly, his mouth opened in a constant pant, letting out little “ah, ah” noises, and Ilya can barely keep his rhythm. Everything else is gone, nothing else has ever existed for him except Shane and Shane’s body and Shane’s voice.

It’s never been like this before. Not with Shane, maybe not with anyone else. Ilya is reduced to rocking desperately against him, locking into a kiss that really is more breathing into each other’s mouths because he can’t imagine being separated right now.

He pulls back just enough that they can lock eyes. Shane is gorgeous like this. He’s always gorgeous, but like this is special. No one but Ilya has seen him like this, no one else knows the way his eyes get wide and wet, the way his face flushes down to his chest and his lips part and every fiber of his being seems to scream out I’m yours.

Ilya feels himself approaching the edge as his thrusts get wilder, messier. He drops his forehead down and breathes out as he comes

“Shane.”

He realizes almost as soon as the word is released what he’s said. Shane stiffens beneath him and Ilya wants nothing more than to take it back. It’s too familiar, too close. The way he said it, he might as well have said I love—

But Shane is following him over the edge, and his voice is tentative as he tests out “Ilya”.

If Ilya could only hear one sound for the rest of his life, it would be this: his name in Shane’s mouth.

Except Shane is still stiff, holding himself still like Ilya has him trapped. As slowly as he can manage, Ilya pulls out and rolls away to lay down next to him. He tries not to notice how frozen Shane is, doesn’t let himself look at Shane’s face.

“I have to go,” Shane says.

Ilya sits up. “Hollander,” he says. It’s a peace offering. It’s a plea.

But Shane is already on his feet, reaching for the neatly folded pile of his clothes. “I’m sorry, I- I have to go.”

“Hollander.”

Shane doesn’t look at him. “I have to - Tonkatsu has an appointment I forgot about, I have to go right now.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. They both know it’s a lie, and they both know why he really has to leave, and Ilya feels like he’ll choke if he says either out loud.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again, and he’s gone.

Chapter 3

January
Montreal

The worst part is, Shane can’t tell anyone.

His team has noticed that he’s off. Of course they have, it would be impossible not to. “What’s wrong, Roz break up with you?” Thomas teases, bumping their shoulders a little harder than is strictly friendly.

Shane doesn’t say anything.

“Seriously, man, you’d tell me if something was really off?” Hayden asks. “I mean, I know things in the locker room fucking suck right now, but if it’s something else…”

“It’s not,” Shane says.

He knows right away that Hayden doesn’t believe him. “Alright,” he says instead. “Look, if you want me or JJ to step in more…”

“I really don’t,” Shane tells him, because the only thing he can imagine that would be worse than the way things currently are is if things were just like this except he also had someone else fighting his battles for him.

“I know the season’s been rough so far, but there’s plenty of time to turn it around,” Yuna says when he calls, and Shane makes his excuses and gets off the phone.

He thinks about calling Rose, but he doesn’t even know what he would tell her. Hey, remember how I was a terrible boyfriend and I couldn’t even manage to love you properly? Yeah, turns out someone else maybe wants that and I don’t know how to tell him that’s not allowed. Oh, and I’m not going to tell you anything about him, and if you try to give advice I’m probably going to throw up.

In the end, he goes to the only person he can think of.

“He probably didn’t mean anything by it, right? Most people use first names when they’re hooking up with someone, that doesn’t make it not casual. I said sit.”

Tonkatsu sits back down with a huff. Shane at least remembers to reward him this time.

“Good boy.” He tosses a treat, which Tonkatsu catches with impressive accuracy. They’ve been working on that, mostly to give them something to do. So far it’s going pretty well. “Stay.”

He’s supposed to spend a little time every day with Tonkatsu, help him socialize, practice their training together. And more and more lately he’s been using this time to talk about Rozanov.

“If anything it’s probably weirder that I freaked out on him than that he said my name. I’m being super obvious, aren’t I? He noticed I was feeling weird about the whole thing and he tried to make it more. I don’t know.” Intimate, his brain supplies, which is absolutely not the word he was looking for. He’s not intimate with Ilya Rozanov! “Personal?”

Tonkatsu doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, but his eyes do start to bug out a little while staring at the treat in Shane’s hand, which is cuter than it should be.

Shane sighs. “Good boy.” He tosses the treat and switches to practicing the names of his toys.

It’s hard to tell if Tonkatsu misses Rozanov and Anya. It’s not like they have — had — a schedule, so maybe he hasn’t even noticed that they’re not seeing them anymore. In theory, he could take Tonkatsu to the dog park in Montreal, try to make him some new friends, and he’d forget all about them.

He never does.

Tonkatsu starts doing it again though, the things he’d seen Anya do. He circles around Shane’s feet sometimes, or traps him on the couch. Which is ridiculous, because Shane is fine. He’s not anxious. He would just prefer to crawl into a hole where it’s dark and quiet and stay there for a week or two. Maybe the rest of the season.

Really he just wants to be left alone, but JJ and Hayden keep inviting themselves over. Hayden likes to watch him play with Tonkatsu — the kids have been bugging him about getting a dog — while JJ alternates between tug o’war with the dog and raiding Shane’s fridge. They manage to rope him into video games every now and then, and it almost feels like a normal team hangout, except for the fact that there’s only the three of them.

“Hey, you know you can tell us anything, right?” JJ asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Shane says, not because he’s seriously considering telling them absolutely any of the things that are bothering him, but because he wants to end this conversation right now.

“If the team is bothering you,” JJ continues, oblivious.

“I mean, obviously they are,” Hayden adds. “But if it gets too much, if you want us to say something…”

Shane can’t restrain a scoff at that. “Yeah, because that would help,” he says.

It’s not that bad, really. So they don’t talk to him much, that’s fine. It doesn’t say anywhere in the rules of hockey that you have to be friends with your captain off the ice Shane’s not so pathetic that he feels like he needs to demand that. Sure they make comments every now and then, little things to needle at him, but none of them ever cross the line. Shane can handle it.

The only part that really needs to be addressed is how they play together. Coach Theriault has been drilling passes more, until they’ve had no choice but to pass to Shane when he’s free. And he knows Desjardins has been cracking down on the defenders ever since Andropov’s flub in the last game. So it’s handled.

“Or if it’s anything else,” Hayden says. Shane looks at him and he shrugs. “You’ve been off lately, bro. Like maybe it’s not just the team stuff?”

Shane feels a sinking feeling in his stomach. They’ve noticed.

“Everything’s fine,” he lies.

February
Detroit

Ilya is tapping his credit card against the bar, waiting to settle up so he can go back to his hotel, when Wyatt Hayes sidles up next to him. He’s immediately tired of this before Hayes can say anything. He’s not in the mood for his goalie’s relentless cheer.

“Hey, Cap. Good game.”

“It was not,” Ilya says. He winces as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Hayes only let two goals through the entire game, despite a truly ridiculous number of shots from Detroit’s team. It was the rest of them who had played like shit. Ilya hadn’t scored a single goal. If it hadn’t been for Haas’s last minute wild shot, it would have been a shutout. “You played good,” he amends. “We let you down.”

Hayes shrugs. “I’m just happy to have some time on the ice,” he says. He watches for a second while Ilya tries to get the bartender’s attention. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you happy? Because you seem kind of down lately. And I just wanted to say, if you need to talk about anything, y’know, you can talk to me. You don’t have to worry about it getting out or nothing. I’m a vault.”

Ilya turns, momentarily distracted from his desire to get out of here as soon as possible. “Why do you think I am ‘down’?” he demands.

Hayes waves over the bartender, who notices him right away, of course. “Hey, my buddy and I are going to settle up,” he says with a wide grin.

They pay quickly. Ilya isn’t sure if he’s more relieved to be out of here or resentful that Hayes managed to get them attended to as soon as he started trying. He supposes it doesn’t matter. Both sides feel the same muted, tired distance.

Hayes falls into step with him as he leaves. It’s a short walk back to the hotel, and Ilya is calculating whether he can leave him behind when he speaks again. “Look, if it makes a difference, I don’t think anyone else noticed. I just have goalie powers of observation.”

“Fine.” Ilya huffs. “What have you observed?”

He isn’t looking, but he can still see Hayes crack his knuckles like he’s about to tackle a difficult problem. “You’re drinking,” he says.

Ilya doesn’t look at him. “I’m a hockey player, hockey players drink.”

“Yeah, but you usually stick to soda and those gross non-alcoholic beers. No offense. I noticed right after I got traded, you never drink alcohol. I thought, okay, guy’s sober, that’s no big deal. But you always seem to try to hide it, so I never said anything.”

Ilya is quiet. He’d quit drinking just a few months before Hayes got traded to the Centaurs. Galina said he wasn’t supposed to drink with his new meds, that he shouldn’t be drinking at all with his mental health the way it was, and honestly it hadn’t been too much of a sacrifice at the time. The clubs and the parties that had been his home since he was a teenager had stopped feeling exciting about the time no one wanted to go with him.

“Except now you’re drinking.” Hayes says it gently, but it still stings. “And look, I just wanted to say, if you’re going through something, if you’re having a relapse —”

“I am fine,” Ilya snaps.

Hayes puts his hands up in surrender. “It’s all good man. I’m not judging. I just want you to know I’m worried about you.”

Much like Anya, Hayes has a way of looking at you that makes you feel instantly guilty for any bad mood or harsh words. Ilya sighs.

“You are right,” he admits. “About me being,” he waves his hand vaguely, “down. But I don’t think there is anything that would fix it.” Unless Hayes wants to skip out on tomorrow’s travel day to take a nine-hour drive from Detroit to Montreal instead. If he can just get Hollander to talk to him, he can convince him it’s not a big deal, that he didn’t mean anything by it.

He doesn’t say that, of course. But it occurs to him that if he asked Hayes to help him talk to Hollander, he actually might. Probably not if it involved driving nine hours and missing a game, but Hayes has a sister out on the west coast who has a wife, and he talks about her nonstop not just with affection, but with a challenge. It’s like he’s daring anyone on the team who has a problem to say something. No one has. They haven’t said anything about Troy Barrett dating Harris either, although that might have had something to do with Ilya’s promise that if anyone was uncomfortable with a gay man in the locker room, they could come to him and he’d break their kneecaps so they didn’t have to play anymore. Details.

For the first time in weeks, he feels something. Just a spark of an idea, a curiosity, but it’s something.

“If it would help just to talk,” Hayes is saying, but Ilya interrupts him with a wave of his hand.

“Boston traded me because I fucked the wrong person,” he says. “The wrong man.”

Hayes raises his eyebrows. Surprised, but not shocked, and not running away. “They found out you’re… gay?”

“Bisexual.”

“Sorry, shouldn’t have assumed.”

Ilya waves a hand. “I make bad decisions in many directions, with many people of many genders. I made bad decisions in Boston, got traded. Make bad decisions in Ottawa, scared someone off.”

Scaring people off was practically a second career at this point. His brother, the only one left of his family he’d scared off intentionally after their father’s funeral. The Raiders, Sveta, he’d never meant to but he had. Shane. Galina would probably say he hadn’t scared off the Centaurs, but there was an unspoken “yet” in that sentence.

She’d described depression once as a language. You grow up learning to speak it, practicing it every day without realizing what you’re doing, and even your thoughts are in that language. Lately Ilya feels like he’s been speaking English for years and has just remembered he can speak Russian. He knows how to get out of this, but he’s so tired. And Russian is so much easier.

“Hey man.” He’d almost forgotten Hayes was there. But the goalie is looking at him with a smile on his face, and he doesn’t look scared off. If anything, he looks relieved. “I feel you. Breakups suck. And I know it’s complicated, I don’t know what it’s like to be bi and play professional hockey, but I know enough to know it’s gotta be hard. But you’re going to find someone, alright? Someone who likes all of you.”

“It. Wasn’t exactly a breakup,” Ilya says. He coughs, just to clear his throat, and looks anywhere but Hayes’s face.

“So it wouldn’t help if I snuck out to buy a couple pints of ice cream and we had a movie night?” Hayes is grinning. “We could even invite some of the guys, we don’t have to tell them why.”

He’s trying. Ilya knows it won’t fix anything. If Hayes knew that the person he scared off was Shane fucking Hollander, he wouldn’t be talking about finding someone else. If he knew what Ilya had been like in Boston, frantic and raging like a bear biting the bars of a cage, he wouldn’t talk about someone who liked all of him. He probably wouldn’t be talking to him at all. But it helps that he’s trying.

Ilya forces a smile. “Tell whoever,” he says. “I’ll text the boys, you get ice cream, we meet in my room.”

“Alright man. See you in a few.”

Hayes trots off towards the nearest convenience store, and Ilya texts the team group chat. The responses are immediate and overwhelmingly positive. Young and a few of the other rookies have gone to find a club but appreciate the invitation, Dykstra has wandered off and doesn’t know where he is, and Boyle and Chouinard agree to go find him. But Haas replies with a lot of exclamation marks, Bood throws out movie ideas, and Barrett adds a thumbs up, which probably means yes.

He’s going to tell them. Not about Shane of course, but he’ll tell them he’s bisexual, and he’ll let Hayes call this slump the fallout from a breakup so they have something they can understand. Bood is probably going to try to set him up with a man, which he’ll have to put a stop to, but Barrett will be relieved to not be the only one, and Haas will still look at him with that half-terrified hero worship, and Hayes will have his back. And maybe it’ll get out to the league, maybe it won’t, but either way there will be something. Future tense.

Ilya smiles at his phone and takes his meds.

March
Montreal

They’re playing Ottawa tonight. Shane wishes he was anywhere else right now.

He’s given up giving speeches before the games. He was never very good at it to begin with, and right now he has no desire to be inspiring. Even if he was, the team hasn’t been listening to him in months. Hayden does it now, and manages to rally them up, despite the shit season they’ve had.

Shane’s a free agent this year. No one from the front office has contacted him about a contract extension, and he’s not sure there’s one coming. If it does, he’ll give up the C before they ask him to, just to retain a little bit of dignity.

Hayden claps him on the shoulder when he’s done with his speech, and Shane startles, realizing he hasn’t been listening. “Let’s go,” he says, but the team is already filing out into the tunnel.

He doesn’t look up when they emerge onto the ice. He knows abstractly that there’s a crowd. He also knows, less abstractly, that Ilya is on the other side of the ice. He just hopes Ilya isn’t looking at him.

JJ and Hayden are warming up next to him. Two years ago, it would be the whole team working together, but it’s fine. Warm ups don’t matter, locker room doesn’t matter, practice doesn’t matter. Only the game matters.

Unfortunately, the game is brutal. Shane takes the first faceoff, and he can see Ilya trying to catch his eyes the whole time. He keeps his head down and snaps the puck from him and takes off, pretending that he can’t feel Ilya breathing down his neck, close and real and here. He fires off a pass to Olsson, who misses it entirely, and swears under his breath.

Ilya’s gone when he turns around.

From there, it’s a bloodbath. Shane’s mouthguard is covered in tooth marks, and he’s honestly surprised that he hasn’t bit straight through it. Barrett scores twice, and if he gets a third one and Shane has to accept that motherfucker scoring a hat trick on his team, he might actually kill someone, and it won’t be Barrett. The second one is with an assist from Ilya, who celebrates with a kiss on the cheek and catches Shane watching him. Shane looks away before he can see the smirk finish forming on Ilya’s face.

Ilya doesn’t let him go with that, though. The next time Shane has the puck he checks him harder than is strictly necessary into the boards and holds him there for a long moment, long enough to hiss “jealous, Hollander?” into his ear.

Shane ignores him.

At the end of the first interval, Comeau says something to Boodram that has them both dropping gloves. Barrett crosses the ice like a missile, and Shane is halfway there because whether they like him or not, he’s still their captain and it’s still his job to intervene, when he’s slammed backwards. He’d know Ilya’s body on his even through their pads, he realizes with a jolt.

“Stay out of it, Hollander,” Ilya barks, teeth bared.

“Fuck off.” Shane’s too tired to try to find a better comeback. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say to Rozanov right now.

Rozanov just smirks. “How’s your puppy?” he asks. “Is he being a good boy without me?”

Shane shoves him hard enough that he wobbles as he lets go. “Tell your boys to get off my team,” he snaps. The fight’s already over.

He asks Comeau what the fight was about when they’re back in the locker room. He’s not even really surprised when he just laughs, but he’s a little surprised when what seems like most of the rest of the team joins in.

“Just some friendly advice about keeping things from getting offsides,” Comeau says, and that just makes the others laugh harder. “Man to man, you know?”

Hayden tells him, when the team isn’t listening anymore. “His wife’s sister went to high school in Ottawa,” he says. “One of her old friends is dating one of their guys, can’t remember his name. Anyway, apparently Rozanov came out to the team a few weeks ago. Did you know he was into guys?”

Shane’s mouth is too dry to speak. He’d thought so many times about how word travels between locker rooms. He’d come out to his team only, but he knows that most of the league knows at this point. But he’d never thought that the same thing would happen to Ilya.

He thinks about the safety briefings they’d gotten before the Olympics in Russia, the news of mass arrests and beatings and propaganda laws. He and Ilya talked about hockey, about dogs, but never about their lives, never about Russia. He doesn’t know if Ilya had wanted to ever go back, if he still could, or if it would be too much of a risk. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Comeau and Wilson laughing as Comeau ices a bruise on his cheek. He has a sudden image of Comeau hearing that Ilya is back in Russia and having an idea of how to keep him off Canadian ice for good. A quick tweet, an email to the police, Shane doesn’t know how he’d do it, but he knows that if he thought of it, he would.

He feels sick.

“Probably just a joke,” he says, too loudly. “I know Roz, he’s straight.” Please don’t do this, please don’t risk it, he thinks, as if Ilya can hear him from the visitor’s locker room.

Hayden looks concerned. “Shane…”

“How are you so sure?” Comeau asks. “You hit on him or something?”

Shane’s face is burning. “Leave it,” he says, and hopes they can’t hear how much his voice is shaking. He closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. He thinks of Ilya playing with the dogs, Ilya collapsing on top of him after sex, his weight solid and comforting, Ilya’s hand on the back of his head while he knelt in his living room, forehead on his thighs.

Comeau laughs. “Shit, you actually tried it on with him? That’s fucked up dude. No wonder he checked you so hard, probably trying to break your arms to keep you off him.”

“Nah, that was practically a cuddle for Rozanov,” says Wilson. “That’s like breakup sex or something.” He makes a gagging noise.

“Wait, so he’s not gay?” Mitty asks, always a couple of steps behind the rest of them.

Drapeau shrugs. “He doesn’t have a problem with Barrett playing on his line, so he probably is. Didn’t have an issue with Holezy either.”

“Drop it,” Shane says. He’s surprised by how sharp his voice comes out.

Hayden tries, he really does. “Look, we’re down by two but we can still bring this back…”

But Comeau scoffs. “We’re losing because Hollander’s pissed off that his boyfriend’s sucking someone else’s dick. I’m not going to sit here and fix his problems.”

“We’re a team,” Shane says, as steadily as he can. “Look, you can hate that I’m gay all you want, but if you want to keep winning Cups — like we have been the whole time you’ve had a cocksucker as your captain — then we’re going to play like a fucking team.”

“Fuck this,” Comeau said. “We’d have won last year if you weren’t so busy being a fucking f —”

Shane moves without a thought, as smooth as he does on ice, his body just reacting. His fist connects with Comeau’s face, and Comeau falls.

Ilya tosses his phone from hand to hand. He should be relishing the win, celebrating with his team at crushing their rivals (however one-sided that rivalry may be during a normal season), but instead he’s trying to talk himself out of texting Shane.

To be fair, he’s usually trying to talk himself out of texting Shane these days. When he’s not thinking of reasons not to text Shane, he’s thinking about fucking Shane. Or thinking about cooking dinner for Shane and petting Shane’s hair and kissing Shane and telling Shane about his day. Or he’s kicking himself for thinking about these things instead of accepting that he’s already lost him.

Usually a distraction will help him break out of these thoughts, so he’s relieved when Barrett slides into the seat across from him.

“Hey.”

Ilya puts on a big smile and reminds himself to act like a fucking captain for once. “Barrett!” he says. “Game MVP. How does it feel?”

“Pretty good.” Barrett’s smiles are always a little tentative, like he’s not sure it’s allowed, but this one breaks through just a little more. "Sucked that Hollander wasn’t there for the last two periods. Do you know what happened?”

“You would have liked to score a hat trick on him?” Ilya forces a smile and pretends that he hasn’t been thinking about this exact topic the entire train ride back to Ottawa. “Don’t be greedy, Barrett.”

“Hey, he’s your career rival, not mine,” Barrett says. “Hollander’s all yours.”

Ilya wants to close his eyes and let the words wash over him, memorize the sounds, pretend that he thinks they’re true. He doesn’t.

“I don’t know what happened to Hollander,” he answers instead. “Maybe he was injured?”

If he was, it wasn’t from Ilya checking him into the boards. But Ilya knew he wasn’t injured. He’d been scratched mid-game for some reason, and Ilya has no idea why.

Shane had told him Montreal hadn’t reacted well when he came out. He hadn’t given any details, but Ilya suspects that it’s worse than he would admit. He’s been watching their games and he sees how alone Shane is out on the ice. His team has turned their backs on him.

Ilya wishes they were still friends. He wants to call him. He wants to ask him what had happened before the end of the first interval and listen to him vent about his team. He wants to make an excuse and jump off the moving train and run back to Montreal just so he can hold him.

Fortunately, being on a train with his entire team helps curb that urge. Barrett gets a text from Harris just then with a series of pictures of their puppy wearing a Centaurs jersey in celebration of their win; sure Chiron is trying to eat the jersey, but Ilya is distracted helping his team pick out which pictures should go on social media, and he doesn’t think about Shane.

Much.

April
Montreal

Shane sits on the edge of his bed and ignores his phone. After a brutal game against Buffalo of all teams he’d had to sit through the media frenzy and find a different way to answer all of their questions, which all boiled down to the same thing: Why did you miss that last goal?

There are a thousand reasons why. His ankle hasn’t healed properly, and he probably shouldn’t have played that last shift, and he’s been flinching more whenever JJ isn’t on the ice because he knows the other defenders don’t have his back, and the team wasn’t playing well and he was tired and he hasn’t talked to Ilya since last month and Coach had made it clear that he’s sick of Shane’s shit, and there’s been no extension offer and at the end of the day none of this matters because if he had scored, they would have at least made the playoffs as a wild card. And because of Shane, they hadn’t. Just a few years ago he was hoisting the Cup with his team for the second time in a row, and now he’s sitting alone in his apartment, a week before the playoffs start, the sour taste of loss in his mouth and his dog drooling on his feet.

His phone buzzes again and he glances at the caller ID before silencing it. The picture that flashed up on the screen wasn’t a little brown dog about to tackle Tonkatsu, so he doesn’t care what they have to say.

The one good thing about a humiliating loss in their own barn is that he didn’t have to face a travel day with the team he’d disappointed. He wonders if Montreal will make an offer, if he’ll take it if they do. He’s a free agent now. Maybe he’ll end up somewhere else next season. Some of these guys he might never see again off the ice. He knows he should be sadder about that, but right now all he can feel is relief.

Tonkatsu, clearly having had enough of his wallowing, leaps up onto the bed with a great bark that sounds like “oof” and paws at Shane’s chest. Shane probably shouldn’t let a little dog push him around, but he isn’t in the mood to fight and he lets himself fall back until he’s lying on his side. Tonkatsu crawls into his arms and lets out a put-upon sigh.

“Good boy,” Shane says quietly.

He must fall asleep like that because when he opens his eyes next the sun is coming in through his window and Tonkatsu has moved to curl up behind his knees. His back aches but the storm that was tearing apart his insides seems to have settled a little — if not into calm, then at least into resignation.

He spends the morning packing up his Montreal apartment. He’s startled to find how few of his things he actually wants to take with him. Tonkatsu’s toys, his clothes and toiletries, and… nothing else significant. He doesn’t keep any photographs, no sentimental mementos, nothing to indicate that he has a life outside of hockey.

He’s almost done in the bedroom when the shoebox catches his eye.

In all the confusion and race to move in Tonkatsu, last summer had disappeared before he knew it. He’d put his obaa-chan’s death in the back of his mind in the neat little box that everything lives in during the season, and he’d forgotten all about the neat little box his grandmother had left him.

He sits down on the floor to open it. Tonkatsu immediately attempts to climb into his lap, but settles for laying down in a huff next to him, his entire body pressed up against Shane’s thigh. Shane pets him distractedly as he opens the box up.

The first thing he sees is a letter. He remembers sitting next to Baachan on her couch when he was first learning to write, tracing her neat English cursive. Some days she’d add in kanji, although he doesn’t remember any of it now. She used to pick him up from school while his parents were working and take him to her apartment to work on his homework. This was before he had hockey practice after school most days, when he was young enough to cry over bruises and crave a warm hug and an after-school snack to get him through the day.

The handwriting on this letter is shakier than what he remembers. Yuna had told him that she’d been struggling with fine motor control after the first stroke. He wouldn’t know, he hadn’t been there.

Shane-kun —

Little one, I have loved you since the moment you were born. You are so easy to love. I still remember your first smile, how I hoped then that you would never stop smiling like that. Do you remember how I used to make you tonkatsu when you were small? It used to make you so happy, I would have made it for you every day if you had asked. I can’t imagine how anyone could know you without loving you.

That’s why I’m asking you to take care of Tonkatsu for me. He’s a sweet dog, too friendly for his own good. Maybe I’ve spoiled him a little, but like you, he’s easy to love. Still, you’ve always been so disciplined, so consistent. That will be good for him. I think that Ton-kun will be good for you as well. You’re so focused. Don’t forget to have fun!

Ton-kun eats what I eat and sleeps whenever I’m out of the house. He’s very easy to take care of. I know that you have a very full life, but there’s nothing like coming home to someone who loves you above all else. I believe everyone can benefit from more love in their life.

Take care of yourself, Shane-kun. Never forget how loved you are.

— Baachan

Shane finishes reading the letter and finds that his eyes are burning. Tonkatsu has managed to wiggle into his lap while he was reading and nosed his way up under Shane’s arm.

“She called you Ton-kun?” Shane asks. Tonkatsu licks his face. He laughs. “Maybe I can try to get your fans to call you that instead, Tonka never suited you.”

Ton-kun sniffs his face, tail waggling and whiskers tickling Shane’s skin. Shane smiles at him, scratching his head, and he realizes then and there what felt so odd about the letter. Baachan hadn’t mentioned hockey once.

Shane wonders when he’d last had a conversation where his hockey career hadn’t come up. He talks to his teammates, his coaches, fans. His nutritionist, his yoga instructor, of course he talks to them about hockey, but even his interior designer, his stylist, and his housekeeper all have thoughts about the last game, or want to wish him luck. Every bar he’s been to in the last year he’s been to with his team, every cab he’s taken and photographer he’s posed for and ad executive and dog trainer and all the people he runs into in the course of his day want to talk to him about hockey. It’s not like he tries to dissuade them. Hockey is his favorite thing. It’s usually what he wants to talk about.

He flips through the rest of the shoebox. It’s mostly junk. A little dinosaur toy he doesn’t remember ever owning but that has his name written on its foot in a childlike handwriting. A box of crayons for some reason, and a tiny little pocket coloring book with a price tag still on. A harmonica. A couple of international coins, a single Pokemon card (Squirtle, slightly ripped), and a keychain of a little pork cutlet with a smiling face on it.

He’s gotten presents like this from her before. A birthday when she’d gotten him a squirt gun and also a little box with her favorite marbles and a slap bracelet and a pair of plastic New Year’s glasses. That Christmas when she’d bought him the new hockey stick his parents had told her to get but also a couple of loose sheets of origami paper and a seashell from their family vacation to the ocean and a set of markers that were half used-up. Things that made her think of him throughout the year. For whatever reason, she’d thought of him when she’d seen this Pokemon card, even though he hadn’t been interested in them since he was six, and a harmonica, which he’s never played in his life, and a toy he doesn’t even remember.

Shane doesn’t need any of these things. It feels wrong to get rid of his grandmother’s last present to him, but what is he going to do with any of it? It’s clutter.

Well, he can decide what to do with it later. He carefully packs the box up and puts it in his suitcase. He does put the keychain on his keys though because it makes him smile.

May
Ottawa

He has his parents over for lunch at the end of May, two days after Ottawa is knocked out in game six of the playoffs. Well, it’s more that they came over bringing chicken pad thai and a salad and said they wanted to catch up, because Yuna had seen that his calendar was clear today. Shane lets them in and wonders if maybe he should stop syncing calendars with his mother.

They settle down to dinner, Tonkatsu at their feet begging. Shane spots a piece of chicken leaving a fork just before it happens.

“Dad no.”

David freezes, the chicken halfway to Tonkatsu’s snout already. “What? I’m just giving him a treat.”

“Tonkatsu stay,” Shane orders, and Tonkatsu sits with a whine, eyes still fixed on the forbidden chicken. “No people food, Dad.”

David raises his chicken-less hand in surrender. “Okay.”

Unfortunately Tonkatsu takes that as permission and leaps, snagging the chicken in his mouth and racing off before Shane can stop him. Shane has pretty much given up on chasing him down for any food that isn’t outright poison. He may be faster, but Tonkatsu is more motivated, and only one of them can fit under the couch.

“Anya wouldn’t pull this,” he calls out after him. “Asshole,” he mutters.

“Anya is Rozanov’s dog right?” Yuna asks. Her voice is perfectly neutral, and Shane tenses immediately.

“Yeah. Why.”

She shrugs, perfectly polite and unchallenging. “Oh, nothing. I just know you’ve been very impressed with his dog training skills.”

“Well, it’s impressive,” Shane says. “I learned a lot from him last summer.”

“Mm.” Yuna picks at her lunch. “His hockey though,” she says without looking up.

“Ottawa beat us twice in the regular season this year,” Shane points out.

“After he illegally checked you!”

Shane scoffs. “The refs didn’t see it so it didn’t happen,” he says. Sure maybe there’s a little bitterness in his voice there. That check hadn’t decided the game, but his mom was right, it was a cheap move on Rozanov’s part. He hadn’t complained in the moment though, too wrapped up in getting the puck back and moving on. And maybe it had been nice to feel Ilya’s body against his, even if it was just for a second.

“Still.” Yuna is a lifelong hockey fan, she’s used to the things that referees do and don’t see, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. “I’m just glad you haven’t picked anything up from him. Dog training aside.”

Shane’s first thought is that they always used condoms. His second thought is how does she know? It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking about hockey tactics.

“He’s a good player.” Shane isn’t sure why he’s defending Ilya Rozanov, except that Ilya is the best that Shane has ever played against.

“He sure does like to bait his opponents,” David says placidly. “It seems to work for him.”

Shane has spent more hours than he’d like to admit watching Ilya Rozanov chirp compilations on youtube. He’s good at it. He’ll rile up his opponents, draw a penalty, and spend the entire power play flashing grins at the sin bin. Shane has never been the recipient of that particular smile, although plenty of his teammates have been.

“Anybody who falls for that deserves the penalty,” Shane says. So maybe there’s a little sneer in this voice when he thinks of the Metros who have let Ilya bait them into fighting.

Yuna doesn’t disagree with him. It may not be the best sportsmanship to think that of your own team, but he knows she thinks as little as he does of people who fall for such easy tricks. But she does take a sip of her water and ask perfectly calmly “is that what was different this year?”

“What?”

“Your play was different this season. The whole team was off. I was wondering if you were trying to imitate Rozanov, since you two were so close last summer, but I don’t think that’s it. Maybe there was something else getting in your head?”

“You think Rozanov chirped me so hard over the summer that it threw my entire season?” Shane asks. “Mom, come on. I’m a professional.”

He can see his dad tense up out of the corner of his eyes. David hates it when they argue, but never enough to get between them. His mom shrugs. “Well, it was something,” she says.

It’s obvious to anyone with a shred of hockey knowledge that something was wrong with the Metros this season, and Yuna has more hockey knowledge than most. But she doesn’t know how bad it was. She can’t. Shane feels sick.

“It was just a tough season,” he says. “Can you drop it?”

“I’m worried about you,” Yuna says.

“Honey,” David warns.

Yuna waves him off. “No, I am David, and I’m allowed to be worried about our son. Shane, you’ve been so private lately, I just want to know what’s wrong! It’s not just the hockey. You’ve started hanging out with new people, and I’ve seen the pictures, you’re not going out with your team. Your play is different, you’re clinging to that dog…”

“Jesus Christ Mom, enough about the dog!” Shane snaps. “I got a pet, that’s not the end of the world. Ton-kun is good for me.”

Her eyebrows shoot up at the nickname. “Is this about your obaa-chan?” she asks softly. “Because I miss her too.”

“It’s not… I mean not really.” Maybe. Shane doesn’t know.

“I know that you haven’t gotten your extension offer, is something going on with…”

Shane cuts her off, dropping his hand on the table hard enough that she startles. He instantly feels bad about it, the anger bubbling in the back of his throat turning to cold shame.

“I just.” He clears his throat. His eyes aren’t watering, but they’re hot and he wants more than anything to just curl up in a ball and hide.

He could tell her. Admit that he went against her advice and came out to his team and it went as badly as she said it would, and now Montreal doesn’t want him anymore and maybe no one will. That he still loves hockey, but hockey doesn’t love him back, and there’s a big empty hole in his chest that has nothing to do with the sport and everything to do with soft blue eyes and warm hands and coming home to someone who loves you.

“I’m not going back to Montreal,” he says. It feels like the words are being torn out of him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do next year but there’s nothing I can do about that now, so I just want to have a couple of fucking weeks off before my entire life goes to shit publicly, so can you please just drop it?”

“I’m not going to drop it honey,” Yuna says, so gently he wants to scream. “I’m your mom, I’m always going to worry about you. We can figure it out, whatever it is.”

“Not right now Mom!” Shane snaps.

There’s a bark from the living room and Tonkatsu bounds in to press himself against Shane’s leg. He looks up at Yuna and David accusingly and then licks Shane’s hand.

“I need some air,” Shane says. He grabs Tonkatsu’s leash, ignores his parents’ protests, and leaves.

As soon as he makes it to the street, he breathes easier. He closes his eyes and refuses to think about anything. Tonkatsu needs a walk anyways, so he walks.

He lets the dog lead. Usually Shane has a strict route for each of their walks, calibrated to the neighborhood and amount of exercise they each need, but today he just wants to be somewhere else, and he’s happy enough to let Ton-kun’s nose decide where they’re going. Shane just walks, and breathes, and doesn’t think.

He’s not surprised when he turns a corner and realizes where Tonkatsu has been taking him. The small dog park nearest to his apartment, the one where they’d spent most of the summer last year. Of course Tonkatsu would take him there. He should be more surprised to discover that the park is occupied, but it’s hard to maintain surprise when every bit of tension in his body eases as he comes face to face with Ilya Rozanov.

Tonkatsu, who had been flagging, immediately perks up and runs to the fence, barking loudly, as Anya joins him, her tail waving like a flag. Across the park, Ilya just stares.

Shane opens the gate, lets Tonkatsu off his leash, and walks over to him.

“Hollander.”

“Rozanov.” They haven’t spoken since the on-ice fight months ago. Just hearing his voice makes Shane feel settled in a way he hasn’t since December.

Ilya clears his throat, looking away. “You’re back for the summer,” he says. “I know this park is close to you, Anya and I can find another place.”

“You don’t have to,” Shane says.

Ilya looks up at him, eyes flickering with barely-concealed hope. Behind them, the dogs have finished sniffing each other and have started to run, but Shane is only looking at Ilya.

“I watched your playoff series. It was a good run.”

“We lost.”

Shane shrugs. “Well, we didn’t even make the playoffs, so I don’t really have room to talk.”

This should have drawn a smile out of Ilya, it had in the past, but now it just gets him a surprised look. Shane still likes surprising Ilya. He wishes it wasn’t like this, but at least they’re talking.

“How is Tonkatsu? Is he happy being back in Ottawa?”

“Yeah, he’s — he’s great. Really happy to get to hang out with my parents.” The mention of his parents makes his stomach sour, but he covers it. “And he missed Anya.”

“Anya missed him too.”

Ilya sounds tentative, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to say it. Shane doesn’t have any thought on his mind except erasing that uncertainty when he blurts out “I’m sorry.”

His heart is pounding like it’s overtime in game seven, but he can’t stop himself. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that in December, I didn’t — it wasn’t that I didn’t want to…” he trails off, because how could he possibly finish that sentence? He doesn’t even know what Ilya was offering. Maybe it really was nothing.

But Ilya is looking at him, his face unreadable but full of feeling. “Hollander,” he says quietly.

“I missed you,” Shane says, because if he’s going to do this, if he’s going to be honest, he’s going to do it all the way.

“You changed your mind?” Ilya is still looking at him the same way, desperate and wanting, but his voice is harsh. “Why?”

Shane stammers. “I didn’t… it wasn’t a decision in the first place, I was just scared. And then I was home for the season and I was fighting with my parents —”

“Ah.”

The single syllable has weight to it, like a heavy door slamming shut. Shane almost flinches at the sound.

“That’s not why I came here,” he says. “I mean, it’s why I came here right now, but I would have done this anyway.”

“Hollander, you’re not making any sense.”

Shane takes a deep breath and wills himself to slow down. It’s not always easy, making himself understood, but if he’s ever managed it before, now is the moment.

“I was going to call you, not just show up here,” he says. “When I left before, and for the record I am sorry about that, I just… I didn’t know what you wanted. You were the one who suggested we keep it casual.”

This gets Ilya’s attention. “I did not.”

“Yes you did!”

Ilya shakes his head. “I said secret. You said casual.”

Had he? Shane can’t remember that conversation, nearly a year ago now. He remembers watching the dogs play in the living room, remembers Ilya giving him a glass of ginger ale and kissing him, remembers rough stubble and teeth on his bottom lip, but the actual words are a blur. Ilya had said it would be a secret, that much Shane knew, but what, was Shane supposed to take that to mean secret but not casual? A serious secret relationship? What the hell was that supposed to look like?

For once, Shane decides not to argue any further. “Well, I’m sorry either way,” he says. “And I’m sorry for not texting you. I wanted to. It sucked not talking to you.”

“Your whole season sucked,” Ilya says.

Shane can’t restrain a snort. “Yeah, kind of,” he admits. “Things were worse than ever with the team. I tried everything, but they just couldn’t get past the gay thing.”

“Ah yes, the gay thing, so difficult.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “Much better to lose with gay captain than win with the same fucking gay captain.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not going to have a gay captain next year,” Shane says. Ilya looks at him and he shrugs. It’s public information, all the hockey sites have been talking about it for months. There’s no way Ilya doesn’t know. “Montreal hasn’t offered me a contract extension. I don’t know if I’d take it even if they did.”

“This is what you fought with your parents about?”

Shane shakes his head. “Sort of. Not really.”

“Oh, very clear.”

“Shut up.” He gathers his thoughts. “They’re worried about me,” he admits at last. “They want to know why I’ve been so distracted, and I kind of haven’t told them… anything. I mean, they have eyes, they’ve seen my games, they know something’s up. But I haven’t told them what things are like in the locker room, I haven’t told them how bad,” he forces himself to stop. “They mean well, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“What do you want?”

When he looks up, Ilya is watching him. Not casually either, he’s looking at Shane like Shane might hold the secrets to the universe.

“I want too much,” Shane says. “I want to play hockey, that’s all I’ve ever wanted, but I want to win another fucking Cup, and not with this team. And I want my dog and my parents and and I want to not have to sit in that fucking locker room and listen to those assholes who never would have won shit without me acting like I’m the one polluting their shitty locker room.”

“That’s not too much,” Ilya tells him.

But Shane isn’t done. “And I want you,” he says, and it feels like the admission is torn out of him at the same time as it feels like it never could have gone any other way.

He says it while he’s looking at Ilya, because he can’t miss a second of his reaction, so he gets to see the way Ilya’s face changes, the way his body angles towards Shane’s, still casually leaning against the fence but subtly different in a way that feels impossible to ignore. His hand shifts, and Shane’s does too, and he can feel the brush of Ilya’s finger against the back of his hand.

“It’s not too much,” Ilya repeats. Shane’s heart is pounding but at the same time he feels perfectly still, the certainty of a goal he’s already sunk before the puck has hit the net.

They watch the dogs in silence for a few moments. Tonkatsu is tired now, laying belly-down on the ground and panting, and Anya seems to have accepted that she’s not being chased and has gone over to sniff him.

“You need a place to stay?” Ilya asks.

Shane is startled by his own laugh. “I have my own apartment,” he points out. He doesn’t think of his parents, probably still sitting in that apartment, waiting for him to come back. He’s left his cell phone and his wallet behind, but still. It’s hardly an emergency.

“I was thinking maybe you should not be alone,” Ilya says quietly.

Suddenly laughter is the last thought on Shane’s mind. He’s not — he doesn’t have to be watched, like the way Ilya is saying it, he doesn’t need someone to look after him. But it might be nice.

Ilya mistakes his hesitation. “Just company,” he promises. “It doesn’t have to be more.”

“I want more,” Shane says.

He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him like a physical pressure. But Ilya just smiles.

“Okay.”

When Ilya wakes up, he’s warm.

Anya is in her usual spot, pressed lengthwise along his back, and he can hear Tonkatsu snoring somewhere nearby. But his focus is on Shane, sleeping peacefully in Ilya’s arms. His back is to Ilya’s chest, his hands clinging to Ilya’s forearm, and sometime in the night he’s caught one of Ilya’s legs between his knees. He’s breathing steadily, his dark eyelashes interlaced, and he’s the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen.

Ilya doesn’t know how long he lays there just admiring the man in his arms. Shane is naked and warm, and the early morning sunlight gives his skin a golden hue, making him look almost godlike. Ilya feels like a trespasser here, but he’ll look his fill for as long as he’s allowed.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there before Tonkatsu wuffles in his sleep and Shane stirs. Quickly, Ilya pulls back, blinking feigned sleep out of his eyes until Shane turns around, catches his eyes, and smiles like the sun has come up.

“Good morning.”

“Morning.” Shane snuggles back against him, his hair tickling Ilya’s nose.

Ilya is about to suggest something they could do that would keep them in bed for much longer when Anya notices he’s awake. He feels her stretch out, get up, and paw at him, right in the most ticklish spot on his ribs. He flinches involuntarily. “Oh, fuck.”

Shane props himself up on one elbow to see what’s happening. “Anya.”

“She knows I’m awake. She has very strict rules about staying in bed all morning.” Rules he trained into her, at his therapist’s advice, because much of the point of having a dog, in her mind, was to give him a reason to get out of bed. They hadn’t planned for that bed to have Shane Hollander in it though, and that changes the equation more than Anya could ever understand.

“Probably for the best,” Shane says, because he also doesn’t seem to understand what an achievement it is for him to still be here when Ilya wakes up.

“One day won’t hurt.” It’s not quite a whine, but it’s close.

Shane raises his eyebrows. “She won’t mind having to wait for her walk?”

At the word, both dogs are up in a flash. Anya starts nosing more urgently at Ilya’s back, and Tonkatsu clambers over both of them to sniff Shane’s face as if he could detect whether a walk was imminent, his wagging tail nearly catching Ilya in the jaw.

“You did that on purpose,” Ilya accuses.

“What? Said walk?”

“Is it possible to undo fucking someone?” Ilya wonders out loud as the dogs howl. Shane just laughs, and it’s worth the early morning to hear that sound.

They don’t hold hands when they step outside, but it doesn’t stop Ilya from imagining it. Anya and Tonkatsu are terrible at walking together. Anya insists on marching ahead at full speed, while Tonkatsu wants to stop and sniff everything. Both of them seem to have completely forgotten the concept of leashes, and their humans end up dancing around them to avoid a tangle.

“We should drill this,” Shane complains, after the third time it happens. “Use it to teach the rookies how to deke.”

“I told my team that if they were bad I would buy little skates for Anya so she could chase them around the rink until they got faster,” Ilya says.

He’s expecting a laugh, but instead Shane frowns. “Do you think you could teach a dog to ice skate?” he wonders out loud. “Do they have the coordination for it?”

His face is pulled into the expression he makes when he’s deep in thought about something he takes absolutely seriously. It’s adorable. He stands there for a moment while Tonkatsu sniffs a tree, the cutest frown on his face, genuinely considering the logistics of dogs ice skating, and Ilya feels like someone just reached into his chest and squeezed. Oh, he realizes distantly. Oh, I’m in love with him.

It should be a bigger shock than it is. It should be earth-shattering, should make him stop in his tracks, set off every car alarm on the block. This could ruin him. Not just his career, Ilya knows, this could destroy the careful peace he’s built for himself.

If anything, it feels like the world has slipped back into place around him. Like this was always inevitable.

Shane is standing there in his ridiculous backwards baseball cap and his white socks that go halfway up his calves despite the fact that he’s wearing sandals. He’s wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, and Ilya is pretty sure he’s stolen his underwear. He hasn’t taken a shower since last night and he smells it, and he’s carefully folding a bag around his hand to pick up dog poop while he talks about the construction of ice skates, and Ilya can’t imagine ever not loving him.

And then, as they make their way back to Ilya’s apartment, Shane seems to make a decision. “I want to go to my cottage,” he says, and Ilya feels his heart sink.

Of course he wants to go. Last summer was a fluke, but this isn’t where he belongs. And Ilya has never loved someone who didn’t leave. He looks up at the sky, forces a smile onto his face, and says “that sounds nice.”

Shane brightens. “You’ll come with me?”

Ilya is thrown off-guard by that, and he can’t even begin to hide it. “You want me to?”

“Yeah, of course! We could go for a week or two, it’s really peaceful. It’s right by a lake, and it’s so private. The dogs will love it. Tonkatsu’s never been, I was having some work done last summer and then things were busy.”

“Busy, hm?” Ilya raises his eyebrows, just to make Shane blush.

“Shut up.”

They’ve reached Ilya’s building now, and he lets them inside. Once the door is closed behind them and the dogs are off their leashes, Shane takes his hand.

“It’s a really nice place. And I’d like to spend some time with you somewhere where we don’t have to worry about anyone else. Just us.”

“And the dogs.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course the dogs Ilya, I’m not going to go on a fucking vacation in a forest paradise by a lake and leave the dogs at home. Who does that?”

Probably someone, but Ilya can’t stop grinning. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?”

Ilya wrinkles his nose as he searches for the English word. “Riled up?”

“I’m not riled up.”

“Are you sure?” Ilya steps closer, crowding him against the wall. “I could fix that.”

Over by her food bowl, Anya barks once. Ilya groans.

“Cock-blocked by a dog.”

Shane laughs. “Your English vocabulary is incredible.” Tonkatsu joins his friend with a shrill howl and he winces. “I should take him home, though. He needs his own food, and I should get my phone. And pack.” He looks up at Ilya, suddenly shy. “You really want to come?”

Ilya ignores the dogs in favor of kissing him. “Yes,” he promises. “I’m coming to the cottage.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

June
The Cottage

Shane has never gone from thinking about the cottage to seeing Ottawa in the rearview mirror so fast. He texts his parents to confirm that he’s alive and to tell them he needs some time to think, and he doesn’t read their response. Then he packs the same bags that took him to Ottawa just a few weeks ago, and before he can think too hard about it, he and Tonkatsu are in the car on their way to pick up Ilya and Anya.

He’s more excited than he should be. He only has two weeks left on his contract with Montreal, he has an email from his agent that’s been burning a hole in his inbox for a week now, he needs to fix things with his parents, but the only thing he can think about is that he’s about to have as much time as he wants with Ilya.

He’d let Tonkatsu lead him to the park because he wanted to see Ilya, but he didn’t really expect that he would be there, much less that he would be so quick to forgive Shane for his cowardice. But he had. And last night he’d fucked Shane like he owned him, like he was trying to say something without words, and Shane felt like he had actually understood him.

And now he’s coming to the cottage. No teams, no reporters, no management or fans or rivalries or anything except the two of them and a pair of dogs who are currently barking at each other through the window of Shane’s car.

Ilya tosses his bags in the trunk and lets Anya into the back seat before sliding in next to Shane and asking “what the fuck is that?”

“It’s a hammock,” Shane says.

“A hammock? I’ve been in a hammock, that is not a fucking hammock.”

“It’s a car hammock for dogs, it goes over the back seat so they don’t fall between the seats if you brake too hard.” It had come highly recommended, and reviews had highlighted that it was easy to take down and set back up. Shane hasn’t taken it down in months. Tonkatsu is the only one who rides in the car with him these days.

Well, except for Ilya, who is currently giving him an incredulous look. “Why not just let him ride in the front seat?”

“That’s not safe!” Shane protests. He blushes. “Also he likes to stand up to look out the window and it’s easier to do that in the back.”

He’s watching the road, but he dares a glance over at Ilya, who is smiling at him fondly.

“You’re hilarious,” he says.

Shane scoffs, but he does rest his hand on the center console. Ilya takes it without hesitation.

The drive is easy. Nice. The dogs settle down fairly quickly, content to smell the breeze as it comes through the open windows, and Ilya insists on taking over music duties. His tastes are varied and range from popular songs Shane doesn’t actually mind to absolutely godawful. Even the terrible songs stir a new sort of delight in Shane. It’s something he’s learning about Ilya. He stores away every awful musical choice, every bad joke or complaint about other drivers, hoarding the little moments somewhere deep in his chest where they can never be taken from him. He almost regrets when the drive is over.

Ilya follows him from room to room, taking everything in, and Shane wonders if he has the same hoard of moments. The dogs trot after them or wander away in pursuit of a smell, nails on hardwood telegraphing their location. They find the best place for their bowls, set up water, take them outside to explore, and the whole time Ilya is watching him in a way that makes Shane shiver.

By the time the dogs are settled, it’s starting to get dark outside. Shane is just starting a grocery order on his phone when Ilya asks “and which one’s my room?”

Shane looks up. “You’re going to bed already?”

“Maybe.”

“I guess it was a long drive. It makes sense that you might be tired.”

“I didn’t say that.” Ilya steps closer. “But I am a very demanding guest, you know. I have specific needs for my stay here.”

Shane can’t quite hide a grin, but he plays along. “I’m sure we can accommodate you, sir.”

“Mm, yes. Is very fancy place, but I am very important man. You will have to work very hard if you want to please me.” He takes another step towards Shane, boxing him in. Shane’s heart beats faster.

“Why don’t I show you to your room then, and you can see all of our amenities firsthand?”

Ilya gestures for him to go on, so Shane does. He leads him to the primary bedroom, the one he’s always claimed for himself ever since he first had this place build. No one else has ever slept here, Shane realizes, just him.

“This is our most exclusive suite,” he says. “As you can see, it has a king-sized bed, a full en-suite bathroom, and a lakeside view.”

“Hm.” Ilya enters after him, looking around the room like he’s inspecting it. “Pet friendly?”

If you’d asked Shane when he was first talking with the architect about his dream cottage, he would have said absolutely not. Now he can’t imagine a different answer. “All our rooms are pet friendly,” he says. “With an additional deposit, of course.”

Ilya waves his hand dismissively. “Money is no object. But this bed…”

“What’s wrong with the bed?”

“I don’t think it is king sized.”

Shane knows he’s joking, but he’s surprised to find that he’s actually a little offended at the insinuation. “I assure you, it is.”

“It looks small.” Ilya turns and stalks towards him. Even here, the way he moves is incredible. On the ice he’s a force to be reckoned with, but on solid ground he moves like a predator stalking its prey. Shane stands his ground even as he feels a shiver of excitement run through him. “Are you trying to cheat me, Mr. Hollander?”

Shane licks his lips. “I promise you sir, the bed is the proper size.”

With one fluid movement, Ilya catches him by the wrist and throws him down on the bed. Shane goes down easily, giddy under Ilya’s touch.

“We will have to test this, won’t we?”

Ilya kisses him. It’s a rough, bruising kiss, possessive and hot, and Shane chases his lips when he pulls away. Ilya laughs low in his throat. “Get on your stomach,” he whispers.

Shane groans and obeys immediately, letting Ilya strip him as he goes. Ilya’s body is a warm weight on his back as his fingers travel downwards.

“Terrible news though,” Ilya says in his ear. “I packed for this fancy hotel but I forgot to bring any lube.”

Were they still playing this game? Shane’s head was swimming already and Ilya had barely touched him, but he made a noise that definitely wasn’t a whimper and wiggled against Ilya, testing that the hold was as solid as it felt. It was. “We provide complimentary — ah — personal lubricants in all of our rooms,” he managed. “Left bedside table.”

Ilya laughed. “Good boy,” he said, which didn’t seem like something you’d say to a hotel manager you were sexually harassing, but he kissed the shell of Shane’s ear gently and went to fetch the lube.

It felt different this time, in a way that Shane couldn’t quite pinpoint. Ilya was slow with him, but not gentle, teasing his fingers against Shane’s rim, biting into his mouth, using his whole body weight to hold Shane down. Shane could probably have gotten out if he wanted to. Maybe. But he didn’t want to. Ilya made him feel small; not in the way that people usually seemed to mean when they said it, not useless or degraded or weak. He felt… protected. Owned.

That was too much for what they were. Shane has never been good at casual, secrets have never come naturally to him. Having Ilya in his bed feels like the world has fallen into place. He has to consciously remind himself that it won’t be like this forever.

And then Ilya is fucking him and it’s hard for him to consciously think much of anything.

Ilya’s hand grips his jaw, holding Shane’s head in place as he bends down to give him another bruising, claiming kiss. Shane moans and bucks up into it, but Ilya has him pinned too securely for him to do more than just writhe desperately, which makes Ilya laugh.

“You like this?” he asks, punctuating the question with another hard thrust. Shane moans. “Hm? Use your words.”

“Fuck, Ilya…”

He trails off into rough, incoherent animal sounds, and Ilya thrusts once more, sending hot sparks of pleasure down Shane’s spine, and freezes. “Words,” he reminds Shane. “Or I stop.”

Shane glares up at him. “Fuck you, no you won’t. You want this too.”

“I have patience.” Ilya’s grin is wolfish, and far too controlled for a man who is currently buried hip-deep in Shane’s asshole. Shane wants to be stubborn, he wants to fight it, but he knows with absolute certainty that he won’t win.

“I like it,” he confesses, his voice high and desperate. “Please, Ilya, I need it. I need you.”

He sees the moment that the laughter dies on Ilya’s lips. He looks wrecked, stunned like Shane has just hit him with a hammer. Shane doesn’t know what he said, but he knows with absolute certainty that he’d been right the first time. Ilya wants this, just as much as he does.

He can’t explore this much further though, because Ilya is driving into him now with full force, and his hands are everywhere on Shane’s body and his lips are on Shane’s mouth and nothing in the world has ever mattered as much as touching Ilya, holding him, being here with him right now. In this moment, Shane feels claimed and owned and absolutely, irrevocably Ilya’s.

For a moment, everything seems perfect. Shane only wishes it wasn’t so temporary.

The cottage is everything that Ilya hasn’t dared to let himself dream of. A week or two, Shane had said, and Ilya had packed for two weeks even though he knew that was hoping for too much.

Shane is different out here. He’s not the untouchable star captain Ilya had known in the periphery all these years, but he’s not the easily-rattled new dog owner he’d spent last summer with. He’s just Shane. He plays fetch with Anya, he loses horribly at every video game they try, and he lets Ilya fuck him into the mattress so hard the headboard dents the walls and so slow that he’s boneless by the end, syrup-sweet and liquid, too far gone for words but looking up at Ilya with those big brown begging eyes.

He doesn’t even argue when Ilya first lets the dogs into the bedroom, just sighs as Anya jumps up on the bed to sniff him and helps Tonkatsu up as well.

“Rules are relaxed just while we’re out here,” he says, scratching Tonkatsu’s chin. “Don’t get used to it.”

Ilya doesn’t point out that dogs don’t really think of things that way. He’s fairly certain Tonkatsu has already won the dogs in the bed argument and Shane knows it.

Hockey takes up much of their conversation, because it always will, but they don’t talk about the Metros, or Shane’s free agency, or what next season will bring for them. Instead they talk about strategy, about training, about games from the past and the biggest referee failures and the high of winning and the sting of losing.

“I wish I’d had you to talk to about all of this earlier,” Shane says on their third night there. They’re sitting by the fire pit that he’d spent nearly a full hour lighting, listening to wildlife that Shane insists isn’t dangerous, while the dogs snooze at their feet. Ilya was dubious of the whole idea of a fire, and he still doesn’t quite get the point of being out here surrounded by bugs when they could have the same conversation inside, but it’s nice to feel Shane pressed against him.

Ilya makes a noise of acknowledgment. He’s thought about it before of course, what it would have been like if Shane had been with him this whole time. Not as they are now, he can’t imagine that, but maybe they would have been friends.

“You almost walked up to me, our first year at World Juniors,” he remembers. “In Saskatchewan. Do you remember?”

Shane laughs. “Yeah, I did,” he says. “I’d been watching your tapes, getting ready for the game but I’d never seen anyone our age play like you did. I wanted to tell you how awesome you were to watch. I thought you were so cool.”

“Thought is past tense, yes?” Ilya teases. “This has changed?”

Shane pokes him in the shoulder. “Yeah, I’ve met you. I’ve seen you do that thing with the creepy corn chip fingers, I know you’re not cool.”

“Bugles are always cool,” Ilya protests, mostly for show.

He’s prepared to defend his snack choices, but Shane kisses him and he’s distracted.

“Someone got my attention,” Shane says, and it takes Ilya a moment to remember what they were talking about. “I don’t remember what they wanted, but when I turned around you were gone. I didn’t get another chance to talk to you until the draft, and by then I didn’t really want to.”

Ilya is pretty sure that he could distract Shane again with some light flirting. He doesn’t have to talk about this. But something about the way that Shane is leaning against him, something about how the firelight flickers and the dogs snore, makes him want to be honest.

“I was afraid,” he admits. “I’d watched your tapes too, I knew you were an incredible player, but my English wasn’t very good yet, and I had never been in North America before, and I thought if I talked to you, you would find some weakness to use against me.”

“I probably wouldn’t have noticed,” Shane says. He rests his head against Ilya’s shoulder, letting Ilya wrap an arm around him more possessively than he has any right to. “I wish we could have been friends back then,” he says, half to the fire and half to Ilya’s collarbone.

Ilya’s eyes are burning in a way that has nothing to do with the fire Shane has built. He fights to keep his voice steady as he says “You wouldn’t have liked me back then.”

“I would have.” Shane sounds certain, but Ilya still shakes his head.

“I was holding together, but I was not an easy person to be around.” He doesn’t want to say any of this. Every word out of his mouth is one step closer to ruining their time together. The only thing worse than saying this is for Shane not to know.

“My therapist says it’s bipolar disorder,” he says at last. “My friend Marleau, he said I was being a weird little bitch. Whatever you want to call it.”

Shane shifts position and puts one warm hand on Ilya’s knee. “I think bipolar disorder might be more medically accurate,” he says gently.

Ilya huffs. “Well, Marleau is not a doctor. He’s a good friend though.”

“He called you a weird little bitch for having a disorder,” Shane points out.

“Well, I was being a weird little bitch,” Ilya says. He laughs, even though Shane doesn’t. “Marly is not the problem. He did his best. Kept the team off my back when I couldn’t care about anything. Calmed me down when I thought everyone was out to get me. When I felt good we would party too much, but he was always there after, when I crashed.”

Shane is quiet, but he doesn’t move away. He nuzzles his head against Ilya’s chest, curled up next to him like something small and delicate that Ilya has to protect, and it shouldn’t help but it does. Ilya closes his eyes and strokes his fingers through Shane’s hair.

“My mother died when I was young,” he says. “Suicide.” The word still leaves a metallic taste in his mouth. It feels like a lie. She was pushed to it, he wants to say. She didn’t want to leave him, but his father was so cruel and the world was so hard, and maybe she had been like him and they hadn’t known, maybe the doctors had given her the wrong medicine, maybe it really was the accident that his father told him to say it was.

He shakes his head. “My father was hard on her,” he says instead. “Hard on all of us, really. I always felt crazy in his house. Nothing I ever did was enough, he and my brother were always watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake. And I always did. I would go to Russia for the summer, and I would come back and feel like everyone in Boston was watching me too. Marly was there for me. My friend Svetlana too, I knew her since we were kids. And then my father died in the middle of the season. I went home for the funeral, and it was… it was too much.”

He stares into the fire until it hurts his eyes. Anya wakes up with a start and pads over to where he’s sitting, putting her chin on his knee. Ilya scratches her head with his free hand, the one that’s not currently holding Shane.

“When I came back to Boston, that’s when I started sleeping with Elias. It was like nothing was real, so none of it mattered. It was the worst I had ever been. In the middle of the game I thought… well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I left the ice. Marly tried to get me back and I hit him, I yelled at my coach, I was a mess. It was easy to trade me.”

“It shouldn’t have been.” Shane’s voice is so fierce it startles him. “They should have seen that you were struggling. They should have helped you.”

Ilya scoffs. “I don’t know what it’s like in Montreal, but Boston is a hockey team, not a mental health charity.” It’s a cheap shot, maybe the first time he’s said the word Montreal in three days, but Shane doesn’t take the bait. He just keeps rubbing Ilya’s knee like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and Ilya feels the fight go out of him. He lets out a puff of air, just so he can pretend that he’s not entirely pacified by a single gentle touch. “It was not their job to help me, it was my job to win Cups for them. And that I did not do.”

“You won the Cup twice,” Shane points out.

He sits up, and even in the dim light, Ilya can see the frown on his face.

“2014,” he says. “You won the Cup, and we had to present that stupid sportsmanship award together at the awards that summer, do you remember? You were acting so weird backstage. I thought you were drunk.”

He might have been. Ilya only sort of remembers the presentation. He’d had a script, but he’d spent three days drinking and he’d been high on the Cup win, and by the time he was on stage next to Hollander he didn’t remember what he was supposed to say. He’d mumbled his way through a few sentences, remembered he was supposed to take a selfie, and pulled out his phone and started snapping pictures. He hasn’t been asked to present since.

“I was in a very bad place,” he says. Shane leans back against him, and Ilya feels more settled immediately.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice,” Shane says. “If I had, maybe I could have helped.”

“Hollander, that was like the second time we’d met off the ice,” Ilya says with a laugh. “My best friend who I’ve known since I was eight couldn’t help me, there was nothing you would have done.”

“Svetlana?” Shane asks. “You mentioned her, but I’ve never heard you talk about her before. What happened?”

Ilya sighs.

“She tried,” he says, because that’s the best way he can describe it. “Svetlana spent most of our teenage years taking care of me. She was hurting too, she had her own things, but she saved my life more than I can count. That year, I had been very bad to everyone, but she stayed. She came to Russia to visit me, she went to my father’s funeral, she was there when I cut off my brother, when I said goodbye to Moscow for the last time. Then in Boston I — did something stupid. The same sort of thing my mother did.”

“You tried to kill yourself?”

Shane’s voice is steady and gentle. Ilya wants to bury himself in that voice. He nods, and pretends his throat isn’t burning.

“She stopped me. But after, she told me she couldn’t be what I needed. That it couldn’t be just her helping me, I needed to get real help.” He shakes his head. “She was right, but I didn’t want to hear it. We haven’t talked since.”

He feels Anya’s nose cold against his wrist. He’s been forgetting to pet her, and she can’t allow that, not when he’s upset. He strokes her soft ears and curls his other arm around Shane’s shoulders. Tonkatsu snores loudly from several feet away, fully asleep. That also helps, in its own way.

“But you did get help,” Shane says.

“After I moved to Ottawa, yes. My first season was hard. I knew I couldn’t live like that anymore. I thought, okay, either I die or I try to fix it. Trying to fix it won. Barely. But I found a therapist, I met Anya. I take medication now.” He’s been taking the pills in the bathroom before they go to bed. He’s not sure if Shane has noticed or not. “I quit drinking. Well, mostly.”

“I was going to say, I’ve seen you drink,” Shane says.

“Non-alcoholic beers,” Ilya tells him. “They are terrible, but better than the medications not working.” He pets his hand through Shane’s hair again, feeling oddly at peace. “I am okay,” he says at last. “Not perfect. This isn’t something that will be cured ever. But I am okay. I wanted you to know.”

He’s never felt this urgent need to tell someone before. He’s never wanted to show off his soft underbelly and let another person take a bite. But coming to the cottage feels like being invited into Shane’s mind, like being part of his world in a way that no one else has ever been. Seeing him. And Ilya wants to be seen too.

“Have you talked to your friends from Boston since you got better?” Shane asks suddenly.

Ilya wants to point out that he’s not actually better, he’s just less bad, that was the whole point of this speech, but he doesn’t.

“I have talked to the team,” he says instead. “Some do not want to see me again, that I understand. Marly is my ride or die, we go out whenever we have a game. Connors, Kavanaugh, a few others, we talk sometimes. My brother back in Russia, my stepmother — they were not good for me. Life has made them terrible, and they make me terrible. I was not thinking right, but I wasn’t wrong to cut them off.”

“What about Svetlana?” Shane prompts.

He’d been afraid that Shane would ask, but he’s been learning that Shane simply doesn’t have it in him to leave well enough alone.

“There is too much there,” he says, his voice heavy with everything he can’t say and who he can’t say it to. “Svetlana would not want to hear from me.”

Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s chest, but doesn’t move away. “I mean, you know her better than me,” he says. “But it kind of sounds like she would want to know that you’re doing better. You could at least give her that, maybe?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Ilya says, as if he isn’t already desperate to talk to her again. “It is late.”

“You could schedule a text,” Shane offers. “I can show you how —“

Ilya hauls him up and kisses him hard enough that he forgets what he was about to say.

It’s a question and an answer all in one. Shane hasn’t run away from him, but that doesn’t mean nothing has changed. But the way Shane kisses him back, the way his hand cups over his chest, the way his body responds is the same as always. More, even. He’s soft and responsive in Ilya’s arms. Shane lifts himself up enough to get his pants down past his hips, undoing Ilya’s fly. He looks up to meet Ilya’s eyes like he’s trying to see if this is alright. Like there’s ever been a moment when it wouldn’t be perfect.

Ilya doesn’t fight it. He takes Shane’s wrist in his hand, gently but commandingly, and looks at him one more time before he spits. Shane huffs out a breath as he reaches down to wrap his hand around both of them at once. Pressed up against Shane like this, root to tip, hips to shoulders, Shane’s strong thighs bracketing his legs and Shane’s back against his hand, it feels like Ilya’s body is exactly where it’s supposed to be. It feels like home.

Shane comes first, with a gasp of “Ilya” breathed into his mouth, and Ilya follows soon after. “Shane,” he says. And then in Russian, unable to keep a secret in his mother tongue, he whispers “ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane nuzzles into the crook of his neck. He doesn’t ask what it means, but he does let Ilya carry him to bed.

He texts Svetlana a picture of Anya, curled up on Shane’s couch with her tail over her nose.

“Are you going to talk about it?” Shane asks, once Ilya translates the text thread for him.

Ilya pockets his phone. “Absolutely not.”

June twenty-ninth is a good day. They’ve been at the cottage for almost two weeks, but neither of them has mentioned having to go back to reality. Shane has already decided he won’t be the first one to bring it up. He doesn’t want Ilya to feel unwelcome. And more than anything, he doesn’t want Ilya to leave.

The renewal deadline is tomorrow, which is just one more thing Shane is not thinking about.

He’s already emailed his agent Amanda some of his preferences. And maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he asked her to talk to Ottawa. The idea of playing on the same team as Ilya is more than appealing, but he’s not going to get his hopes up. He hasn’t told Ilya he’s thinking about it.

So the day before the deadline, he wakes up content. The thrumming anxiety in his veins is still there, but so is Ilya, and only one of those two presses him into the mattress and does things with his mouth that make Shane forget how to form words.

They get up after that and take the dogs for a run, then breakfast, and then a swim. Shane has brought a life vest for Tonkatsu, which Ilya makes fun of him for, but he eventually agrees to get one for Anya, for safety’s sake. Whether it’s for next summer or not, neither of them asks. Anya is a strong swimmer, but Ton-kun mostly just flails around. He seems to be having fun though.

With the dogs finally tired out, Shane starts to pace again, his thoughts racing, before Ilya grabs him by the shoulder and puts him on his knees. It shouldn’t settle him as much as it does. But from here, he can wrap his arms around Ilya’s legs, he can press his face to Ilya’s hips and breathe in the smell of him, he can let Ilya overwhelm his senses until everything else just shuts down.

They’re both still dressed for swimming, but Ilya shucks off his shorts easily, tossing them over the back of a chair, which Shane hates only slightly less than leaving them wet on the floor. He’s in no position to argue right now, though. He needs to get his mouth on Ilya right now.

Ilya is soft in his mouth but quickly hardening. Shane loves it here. He loves breathing in Ilya’s scent, he loves tasting Ilya, feeling Ilya’s hand gentle in his hair. Ilya scratches his fingers along Shane’s scalp and Shane lets his eyes drift closed. The world feels softer here, his problems a little more distant. He’s surrounded by Ilya and he’s never felt safer.

The cock in his mouth is just getting hard and Ilya has just let out a quiet groan when the peace was shattered by the sound of a key in the lock.

Shane scrabbles backwards, which only makes things worse, because as his parents enter, calling out his name, instead of seeing him on his knees they see him falling onto his back just as Ilya’s impressive cock slips out of his mouth.

“Shane!” Yuna exclaims.

There’s no hiding what’s happening, Shane realizes. There’s spit coated on his lips, and he’s shirtless, and Ilya is fully naked looming over him like some sort of statue of an ancient Greek hero.

Probably there’s a more embarrassing position they could have found him in. Ilya could have him tied to the bed or bent over the couch or — this isn’t helping.

“Mom!” He spots his dad behind her and tries to scoot behind the couch, bumping into Ilya’s legs on the way. Ilya puts his hand on Shane’s head, which is also not helping.

A cacophony of barking comes from further in the house, and Tonkatsu charges towards the front door, quickly followed by Anya. Ilya grabs them both, which only shows off his nakedness even further.

David clears his throat. “We were just checking on you.”

“You haven’t been answering your phone,” Yuna says. “We thought you might be out here.”

“Clearly you’re okay, so we should just go,” David says.

Yuna grabs his arm. “We’ll be outside. Get dressed.”

And then they’re gone the way they came. Shane attempts to sink into the floor.

“They seem nice,” Ilya offers.

Shane groans. He rests his forehead against Ilya’s knees and tries to remember how to breathe. “This is a nightmare.”

He’s pretty sure there’s a crawlspace underneath the house. Maybe if he pries up the floorboards he can sneak out that way and never have to see his parents ever again.

Ilya pets him gently, his hand combing through Shane’s hair and down his back. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s all okay.”

“I think I’m going to die,” Shane groans.

“You will not die,” Ilya promises. He bends down to press a kiss to Shane’s head. “We will get dressed, and we will go and say hello to your parents, and I will be very charming and everyone will love me. It will be okay.”

Shane doesn’t want to, but Ilya is so gentle and soothing, and he helps Shane to his feet and guides him to the bedroom. Shane barely remembers getting dressed, but before he has time to prepare, they’re heading back downstairs. He stops in his tracks.

“Fuck, I don’t want to do this,” he groans.

“I know.” Ilya pauses on the steps and pulls Shane close to him. “But you will, because you are very brave, and your parents love you very much. And —” he cuts himself off.

“And what?”

Ilya kisses him. “I will tell you later. A reward for surviving this.”

Shane nods, and takes a deep breath, and goes downstairs.

His parents are on the front porch, and he can see through the window that they’re arguing. Whatever the topic is, they stop when the door opens.

For a moment all of them stand there. Shane clears his throat.

“Mom, Dad,” he says. “This is Ilya Rozanov. He’s visiting for a bit.” Ilya’s hand rests on his shoulder and Shane instantly relaxes.

“It’s nice to meet you.” David puts his hand out for Ilya to shake.

Yuna follows his example. “We knew you were friends but we didn’t realize you two were so… close. How long has this been going on?”

“Yuna!”

“What? I can ask, can’t I?”

Shane closes his eyes. “Last summer, I guess,” he says.

“You guess?” asks Yuna.

“No need to guess.” Ilya squeezes his shoulder. “It was last summer,” he tells Shane’s parents clearly. “We did not know each other off the ice before then.”

Shane nods.

“And this is… serious?” Yuna asks.

Shane looks at Ilya. They haven’t talked about it — they can’t talk about it, not yet — but he knows the answer.

“It’s serious,” Shane says, his voice soft.

Ilya takes his hand. “Very serious.”

“Is that what was going on with you this season?”

David startles at his wife’s blunt question, but Shane has been expecting it. He squeezes Ilya’s hand for courage. “It’s never impacted how we play against each other,” he says. “I’ve never let him win.”

“Shane, your mother wasn’t asking…”

“Yes she was.”

Yuna doesn’t deny it. Inside, Tonkatsu is barking, riling Anya up.

“I think the dogs need some attention,” David says abruptly. “Rozanov… Ilya, do you want a hand with them?”

Ilya looks at Shane, concerned. Shane nods.

“I would like this,” Ilya agrees, and they step inside, leaving Shane alone with his mother.

He gathers his courage. “Mom,” he says. “I know you don’t approve. But I really like him. A lot. And… Mom, are you crying?”

She wipes her eyes. “Shane, I’m sorry.”

Suddenly it’s not the fear that’s overwhelming him, not the embarrassment of being caught with Ilya’s dick in his mouth. Shane clenches his jaw.

“No,” he says, his voice tight. “I’m sorry. If you’re not okay with this, if me being gay was just fine in theory but when I have an actual man who I actually care about it’s suddenly a problem, then fine. You don’t have to like it. But Ilya’s mine, I picked him, and I’m not letting him go just because you have an issue with it.”

“Oh Shane.” She takes both of his hands, and with a deep inhale she gets her voice under control. “I’m not upset about Rozanov. I’m surprised, of course, but if he’s your choice, then I support you. I’m upset because I failed you.”

“You didn’t fail me,” Shane says. He can’t imagine how she would think that. Growing up he’d had everything he’d ever wanted. He’d been loved and cared for, and he’d whatever he’d needed to follow his dreams. He was probably the least-failed child in Canada.

But Yuna shakes her head firmly. “If you ever have children of your own, you’ll understand,” she says. “The only way to truly fail them is if they don’t know that you love them unconditionally.”

Shane’s eyes are hot with tears. He wants to tell her everything. Not just about Ilya, but about Baachan and the Metros and about everything he’s lost this year and everything he’s been keeping from her. The words are sticky as tar, but he clears his throat and manages to say, “This hasn’t been a very good season.”

Yuna laughs. “No,” she says. “No, it hasn’t.”

“I told the team I’m gay,” he tells her. “You were right. They weren’t ready to hear it.”

He can see the gears turning in her mind, and with every click her frown gets deeper. He knows that she’s imagining it now, picturing every missed pass, every over-enthusiastic check, every shift that ran just a little too long. He sees her hockey brain put things together, and he sees her discard it all in favor of saying “Oh honey. I’m so sorry.”

She pulls him down into a hug, and Shane buries his face in her shoulder. She smells of the clean detergent she’s been using for years, and it’s all he can do not to sob on his mother like a child.

“I wanted to tell you,” he says. “But every time I almost did, something would happen and I would think ‘I can’t tell her this’. I know how excited you were when I got drafted, the Metros have always been your team…”

“And you are my son,” Yuna says fiercely. She holds him tighter. “Fuck the Metros, fuck Montreal, and fuck anyone who’s ever made you feel like you are less than perfect. I will burn the whole city to the ground if I have to.”

Shane sniffs and pulls back. “Please don’t burn down Montreal,” he says. “I don’t think that would help anything. It’s a nice town.”

“Fine.” Yuna sighs. “I came here because Amanda couldn’t get ahold of you. The Metros sent in an extension offer.”

“I’m not going to take it,” Shane says immediately.

“Good, because it’s a fucking insulting offer.” He can see now that she’s practically vibrating with anger. “You’d be taking a paycut. They’re offering barely above what you got as a rookie, it’s ridiculous. Amanda is going to rip them a new one just for thinking about this contract. I mean, who do they think you are?”

“I asked her to put some feelers out with other teams,” Shane says. It’s such a relief to talk about this with her. His mom knows hockey better than anyone, and he’s never tried to handle contracts or negotiations without her before. He’s glad he doesn’t have to.

“Have you thought about the Admirals?” Yuna asks. “Because Bennett’s retiring this year, that should free up some cap space. And my understanding is that they’ve always been very supportive of Scott Hunter since he came out.”

New York could be nice, Shane supposes. It might even be fun to play with Hunter. But that’s not the team he’s been thinking of. He takes a breath.

“Actually, I asked her to talk to Ottawa.”

Yuna doesn’t answer. She looks past him, and Shane turns to see Ilya standing on the other side of the screen door. He has the same look on his face he’d had two weeks ago at the dog park. His lips are parted, his eyes are wide, and he looks like he can’t get enough air in. Shane turns to face him fully.

“You didn’t say.”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Shane says. “There’s no guarantee they would even want me.”

Yuna and Ilya both scoff at the same time. “Who wouldn’t want you?” Ilya asks, and Yuna exclaims “Exactly!”

Shane shakes his head. Is this going to be the rest of his life? Hearing his mother and Ilya Rozanov disagreeing in stereo every time he downplays his own skills?

There are worse things.

He doesn’t say that though. “It’s still June,” he says instead. “I can’t get any offers for two more days. Can we wait until I’m a free agent before we talk about this?”

He can tell without even looking at her that his mother is about to argue, but Ilya nods. “Yes, we can wait. Come inside, your father is going to make lunch.”

They go inside.

It’s easy in a way that Shane could never have predicted. Just like he’d promised, Ilya is his most charming self. And like he’d known she would, Yuna immediately sees through the charm, her questions sharp as a skate blade, but Ilya doesn’t seem perturbed. He answers both of Shane’s parents’ questions honestly, soothing every worry about his reputation with women (“I am bisexual. But I have never liked anyone as much as I like Shane.”) and his priorities (“hockey is very important, but it cannot be everything.”) and even his trade from Boston (“I was not a good player or a good captain then. But I am better now.”). Shane holds his hand under the table throughout, and glares at his parents when their questions get too close to the topic of Ilya’s breakdown. Maybe someday Ilya will want to tell them the details, but not today.

David manages to get through the whole lunch without sneaking any food to either of the dogs. He’s delighted by Anya, and loves watching her do tricks.

“Do you think Tonkatsu will pick anything up from her?” he asks.

“I’ve been hoping he would, but no luck so far.”

Ilya clicks his tongue. “Sweet Tonkatsu is perfect the way he is.”

“He’s absolutely not,” Shane argues. “He still needs…”

And he realizes he can’t finish that sentence.

Tonkatsu eats his food now. He goes for walks and runs and swims in the lake. He still eats human food too, but it’s hardly his fault that Shane’s dad keeps offering. He comes when he’s called, and he doesn’t know many tricks but he likes Shane enough to want to stay close to him, and when Shane gets anxious he’s always there, even if he doesn’t have the same training Anya does. He barks when he gets nervous and he gets fussy when his schedule is disrupted and he still can’t figure out fetch, but he’s gentle with other dogs and he loves exploring new places and cuddling up on the sofa.

“He’s got a lot to learn,” Shane says, “but he doesn’t have to be perfect. He’s still a good dog.”

It had been a good day, Ilya thinks. He and Shane had gone for a run together, and a swim. He’d been so successful at keeping Shane calm even though the renewal deadline was tomorrow. They’d played with the dogs and Anya had barely alerted to Shane’s anxiety. Ilya won’t pretend he isn’t proud of that.

Then Shane went to his knees for him so sweetly, and wrapped his strong arms around Ilya’s thighs, held him in his mouth and breathed like just being with Ilya steadied him. It was a heady feeling, not just the warm mouth around his dick but knowing that he can do this to Shane. That Shane will let him — no, that Shane likes it.

That was interrupted of course, but still. The Hollanders seemed to like him. Shane’s father (“Call me David, Mr. Hollander is my son”) had played with Anya, and Shane’s mother had asked him all sorts of questions but seemed satisfied enough with his answers. Maybe, Ilya thinks, just maybe, they thought he was good enough for Shane.

Shane who barely glances at the dogs cuddling at the foot of the bed before he pulls back the covers and climbs in next to Ilya. They’ve shared a bed every night for two weeks now, and sometimes Ilya feels sick thinking about having to sleep somewhere else. Shane is considering Ottawa, though! Ilya snuck away and made a few phone calls while the Hollanders were distracted. He’s determined. They will find a way.

But right now, Shane is curling up next to him, warm skin and solid muscle pressed up against Ilya like he’s everything. Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s jaw and says “I want my reward now.”

Ilya looks down at him and groans. “Hollander, I cannot go again. You will kill me.”

“Not that reward.” Shane laughs. “You didn’t finish your sentence, right before my parents got here. You said you’d tell me as a reward.”

Ilya had almost forgotten. He’d definitely thought that Shane had. Even the pleasant day couldn’t entirely take the pit out of his stomach.

He presses a soft kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Maybe I don’t remember.”

“Liar.”

It’s easier in Russian. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says, not for the first time.

Shane frowns. “That’s not fair, you know I don’t speak Russian yet.”

“Yet?”

“I was thinking maybe I could learn,” Shane says earnestly. “I mean, it’ll take a while, but I want to try. It would be nice to be able to talk to you in your own language.”

Ilya’s throat is suddenly tight. He kisses Shane firmly and says with all the conviction he’s ever had “I love you.”

For a long moment, Shane doesn’t say anything. Ilya debates the merits of running away. He could go live in the woods behind Shane’s cottage and haunt him like a ghost. He could teach the squirrels how to play hockey. Come back to face Shane on the ice with a whole pack of highly trained hockey squirrels, and impress him so much that he never runs away again. But who is he kidding? Somehow even his most absurd plans always seemed to find their way back to Shane.

He sees the moment that Shane finishes processing because he says “holy shit.” And then he says “Is that what that means?” And then, finally, he says “I love you too.”

The tension he’s been holding collapses out of him in a deep breath, and Shane wraps himself around Ilya even tighter and says “I love you. I love you. Fuck, I love you so much.”

Ilya only realizes he’s crying when he goes to kiss Shane again and finds both of their cheeks are wet. “I love you,” he repeats. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Shane tests out the words carefully. His accent is uncertain but Ilya still feels a sob rise up in his throat. He never thought he would hear that again.

He gathers himself and holds Shane close. “I never knew it could feel like this.”

“Ever since I met you, I never knew it could feel like anything else,” Shane says.

Ilya kisses his shoulder. He doesn’t know what they’re going to do if he can’t have this next year. But whatever offer Shane gets, whatever he takes, Ilya will find a way to be with him.

July 1
First day of free agency

Shane has five offers at midnight on July 1st, according to his agent. It’s good news. He’d never said it, but Ilya knows that a part of him had been worried that he wouldn’t get any. But it’s not until later that morning that his agent calls again.

He’s on the phone for what feels like hours. Ilya goes outside to give him some privacy and plays fetch with Anya. Tonkatsu is interested enough that for a moment he thinks that he might start to learn, but he runs right past the ball before tripping over his own paws. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though. He jumps right back up, spots Anya, and runs towards her and goes right back to playing.

Ilya doesn’t check his phone. He doesn’t want to know how long has been. He forces himself to look up and smile when he hears Shane comes outside. The dogs are playing in the grass, but Shane barely spares them a glance before he sits down in Ilya’s lap and kisses him soundly.

“Well?”

“You might get a call soon,” Shane says.

Ilya’s heart leaps. “Yes?”

“Coach Wiebe was very worried I would be offended that he wasn’t offering me the captaincy. I told him it wasn’t a problem, but he says that my new captain will make me feel very welcome on the Ottawa Centaurs.”

Ilya laughs and launches himself out of the chair, taking Shane with him. Shane lets himself be lifted up, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s shoulders as Ilya spins him around.

“We’ll play together?” Ilya can’t quite believe it.

Shane shakes his head. “We’re going to fucking win together.” He kisses Ilya, then kisses him again.

Ilya feels his heart soar. The dogs have caught up to them and are dancing around their feet, barking in excitement. Carefully, he puts Shane down.

“We are going to have so much fun.” He can’t keep the grin off his face. Anya does a circle around his legs just in case there’s something wrong, then sits down on his feet and barks. Ilya scratches her head absently, but he can’t take his eyes off Shane.

Shane who is crouching down to pet Tonkatsu as the smile on his face fades to a curious frown. “How could they afford this?” he wonders out loud. “Shouldn’t they have hit the salary cap?”

“I took a pay cut.”

He says it as casually as he can, but Shane still looks up sharply. “You did what?”

Ilya shrugs. “I took a pay cut. It’s what’s best for the team, isn’t it? I don’t need more money, I’m already rich. Besides.” He ducks his head. “I have a very rich boyfriend, maybe?”

“Boyfriend?” Shane can’t quite hide his glee. Ilya’s smile back at him is completely involuntary, but he doesn’t try to stop it.

“Well, maybe, if he says he is?”

Shane kisses him.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! This fic was a real journey for me; it was my first fandom event, my first time using CSS, and honestly the most fun I've had writing fanfiction in a long time. I'd love to hear your thoughts! What was your favorite part?