Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Background & Cameo Characters

Additional Tags:

POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Established Relationship, Self-Doubt, Insecurity, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Domestic, Love, Friendship, Press and Tabloids, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Happy Ending, Anxious Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Injury Recovery, Sexual Content, Protective Shane Hollander, Hockey, Hockey-Typical Violence, Miscommunication, Unreliable Narrator, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Racism

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-21 Words: 109,211 Chapters: 22/22

No Turning Back

Summary

Ilya can hear the squeak of wheels on linoleum floor, feel his body being moved along a hallway. Maybe the light dims in front of his eyelids when he’s pushed into an elevator. Maybe he’s just falling asleep.
How is he supposed to tell?
“Wait; is he okay?”
Ilya knows that voice, hears the panic in it.
“Please; how is he? Where are you taking him?”
Shane’s here? Why would Shane be here in the hospital?
If he’s in the hospital, how badly is he injured?

Ilya gets injured during the playoffs, upending all of his and Shane's plans.

Notes

Hello! Here we are again! What did they put in this damn ship?! 😊

First thing's first; the reason this fic is called No Turning Back is because when I was looking at it this morning, the song of the same name by the gloriously voiced Joy Oladokun ended up being the song I listened to on repeat. If you haven't heard of her, go go go listen because she will shatter your heart and stitch it back together at the same time (if, you know, that's your thing).

Second; I'm about 2/3rds or so through writing this fic. Normally I don't post until I've finished completely but there is a first time for everything (not actually my first time, but, this is rare for me). With that in mind. Tags may get added along the way. If I put a warning/headsup/whatever in the chapter notes, please read them.

It's set as a mix of both the show and the books, and the timeline is, well, it's something. Also, as I said in a previous fic, I have no idea about the goings on behind the scenes of the NHL or if some of the stuff I write here is even a possible thing. Hey! Let's play pretend, it's fun here!

The first part is written entirely from Ilya's POV, the second from Shane's, and after that, well, we'll figure that out when I get to it 😊 I'll be posting every two or three days depending on how editing/writing goes.

That's pretty much all I have to say right now, so, if you're joining me on this little adventure, hello! Happy reading!

🧡

**Hello! Now that I've proofread chapter one, here are some more notes.

- This is marked explicit for some sex scenes later on in the story. Some of them are tame, some of them not so much. I don't believe there is any explicit-rated worthy violence or anything like that.
- There is some homophobic behaviour/language in this, not a ton, but enough to mention it.
- Russian dialogue will be shown as italicised.
- I don't know/can't remember all the names of the other hockey players in the books on the teams (even though I'm rereading right now), so, a lot of them are made up.
- Shane gets to be a sassy pants in this one, because he deserves that.
- I'll answer any comments on the day I post a new chapter, so if you really need to yell at me, I guess there is always Tumblr.

The first chapter starts with an injured Ilya in the hospital - nothing life threatening, I promise! It is Shane worrying about Ilya when he's injured that leads to them being outed.

Chapter 1

Ilya POV

Ilya has never, ever, been a fan of drugs. Never. He doesn’t even particularly like the feeling of being drunk. Sure, the warmth of it, the numbing of the worst words in his head, he’ll always appreciate that about alcohol. And of course, some alcohol just tastes that good; why wouldn’t he want to drink?

But drugs? No, thank you. The occasional painkiller when he has a headache that just won’t quit, and that’s enough for Ilya. There is too much steeped in drugs that stirs up memories and fears, from the constant image of his mom after that empty pill bottle, to this feeling right now, in this stark white hospital room.

Ilya is out of his head, and floating, and at the same time sort of weighs several tons. He doesn’t care for it at all.

“Why am I here?” he asks the nurse by his bedside, who raises her eyebrows at him then looks around the room with a look of help on her face.

Oh. Wrong language.

“Why am I here?” Ilya asks again, sure he can see relief in the nurse’s eyes.

A little, anyway.

“Mr. Rozanov. Do you not remember what happened?”

Would he be asking if he did?

Would it be easier to remember if there weren’t various things bleeping around him? Machines, most likely. Is he connected to them?

“Mr. Rozanov.”

Oh, that’s a different voice, a deeper one, and, Ilya thinks, a little more serious.

“Mr. Rozanov. Can you open your eyes for me?”

His eyes aren’t open? Oh. That’ll be why he can’t see anything right now, then. His body is not his own anymore, Ilya is sure of that, and it appears his brain is leaving him as well.

His body is being moved for him. An eye opened, his mouth, something at the back of his throat. A disgusting spasm of pain rips through him from maybe his chest, his shoulder, his stomach, and the raging beeping of a monitor by him is getting so loud, so fast, it’s surely going to give him a headache.

“Mr. Rozanov. We’re taking you up to surgery,” Ilya hears next, and really wishes he could move enough to protest.

He’s on the move. On a gurney, possibly? Ilya can hear the squeak of wheels on linoleum floor, feel his body being pushed and pulled along a hallway. Maybe the light dims in front of his eyelids when he’s rolled into an elevator. Maybe he’s just falling asleep.

How is he supposed to be able to tell?

“Wait. Wait; is he okay?”

Ilya knows that voice, hears the panic in it, feels his own heart racing even faster now.

“Please; how is he? What happened? Where are you taking him?”

Shane’s here? Ilya thinks, pleased in one moment that he gets to see him, and confused as hell the next. Why would Shane be here with him, in public?

If he’s in the hospital, and Shane is here, how badly is he injured?

“Please,” Shane says again; can anyone else hear the tears in his voice, or is it just Ilya? “Just tell me what’s happening.”

“Mr. Hollander,” says the deep voice from earlier; a doctor, maybe? “I don’t know who let you back here, but—”

“I’m his emergency contact. His—”

“But Mr. Rozanov needs surgery. Immediately. You can’t be back here.”

“But—”

A soft, whooshing sound blocks out whatever else Shane is trying to say. Ilya pictures elevator doors closing, keeping them separated.

Isn’t that the story of their lives?

“What the hell is Shane Hollander doing here for Ilya Rozanov?” Ilya hears another man’s voice say, as a woman's adds, "Emergency contact? What's that about?"

“Mr. Rozanov is our patient. We need to get him into surgery now. You can keep your thoughts to yourselves,” says the deeper voice, earning two soft, sorry, doctors from whoever else is present.

Ilya only knows this. He can’t feel his body, he doesn’t feel like he’s in his own head, he’s on his way to surgery for who knows what reason. And Shane is somewhere in this hospital, sounding worried about him.

What the hell happened?

“Mr. Rozanov?”

Bleep, bleep, bleep, goes another monitor. At least if it’s connected to him, and that’s his heart, it sounds far steadier than before.

Swallowing and instantly knowing discomfort, Ilya tries to rid some of the dryness from his tongue.

“We’ll get you some ice chips. Mr. Rozanov, can you open your eyes for me?”

No. He’s way too tired for that, but also, Ilya can’t help himself. He blinks his eyes open, vision horribly blurred for a few seconds before he can focus, putting himself in another bleak hospital room.

“What happened?” he rasps out.

“Hello. I’m Doctor Sullivan. Do you know where you are?”

Ilya stares up at the man looming over him, considering shaking his head. Then, his surroundings catch up to him properly.

“The hospital?”

“Yes. Do you know why you are here?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ilya is making a quip about some really good party, or experimenting with homemade vodka. Then, a horrible sound, that is probably his head smashing into the boards on a rink, comes back to him.

“We were on the ice.”

“Yes,” Dr. Sullivan says encouragingly. “What else?”

Urgh. Other memories come back to him, horrible sensations, and shoots of pain that run through him even now.

“We were in the second period. Somebody… I don’t remember who, checked me. I think I fell?”

The doctor looks pleased with him, somehow, then tells Ilya about his injuries. Serious concussion. Bruised ribs. Badly sprained ankle. And, the whole reason for his surgery, what sounds like a nasty compound fracture of his left arm.

“Is okay now?” Ilya says, wincing as he turns his head to look at the thick layer of padding covering him from shoulder to wrist.

Surely that's a little excessive.

“It was a complicated fracture, with more clots than we would like. But, so long as you rest up adequately, and we keep an eye on things, then I am confident of a good recovery.”

This is a lot. It’s also disappointing. Ilya remembers now that Boston were in the second round of the playoffs, and doing pretty damn well. He doesn’t even know the score of the game he’s just apparently crashed out of.

Ilya does know, that he still hates, hates the feel of chemicals in his body, that all he really wants to do is either fall asleep, or climb out of this bed.

The first option seems easier, at least, though he is now incredibly thirsty.

The doctor has more words for him, ones that Ilya only half listens to, then is checking him over, and leaving the room.

He promised him ice chips, though. Ilya doesn’t even know if he listened to where the doctor said the call button was if he needs a nurse.

Maybe, he won’t be thirsty at all if he falls back to sleep.

He is not expecting in the slightest to see Shane walking in to his hospital room, clutching a small cup in his hand as he worriedly stares at him.

“Hi,” Shane says softly, leaning down over him. “How are you feeling?”

Is he… stroking his cheek? In a place where literally anyone can walk in and see them like this?

More importantly, does he know how wonderful that feels? Ilya closes his eyes, lets himself lean into the touch a little.

“Tired. And thirsty,” he manages to say, smiling for the thumb still sweeping over his cheek.

“I can help with one of those things. Open up.”

Opening his eyes again, Ilya is not expecting to see Shane holding up a small spoon of ice chips, hovering it in front of his lips. He does open his mouth though, letting the small chunks of ice dissolve on his tongue, relieving some of the feeling of dryness there.

“So… why are you here?” Ilya asks, watching Shane’s face fall momentarily.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?”

Ilya can’t help glancing towards the door.

“Anyone can see you here.”

“So?”

So? He’s saying so to him, when they’ve been keeping their relationship secret for getting on for a year now? Doing whatever they want to call what they were doing before that, secret for even longer?

Just how hard did he hit his head?

“Ilya,” Shane says then, his voice rough, and his eyes filling with tears. “You really scared me.”

“I’m okay.”

“But you weren’t. You were knocked out, and you’re hurt, and—”

“I’m okay,” Ilya says again, glad that Shane is on the right side of his bed, because screw who might walk in, he has to hold his hand.

Shane takes his hand like it’s a lifeline, even cradles it between his own, and surprises Ilya yet again when he raises it halfway and bends down the rest to kiss it.

“You’re coming home with me. When they let you leave,” Shane says, running a gentle thumb over Ilya’s bruised knuckles.

They’re bruised too? What the hell happened to him out there on the ice, was there a brawl or something?

He has too many questions, and to be honest, the urge to sleep is stronger than before. He can’t fight it, but, if Shane is in here with him and apparently not afraid of anyone knowing it, then Ilya will take some comfort from that where he can. He turns his hand the little he is able to, slots his fingers properly through Shane’s, and lowers their hands down by his hip.

“Can you stay?” he whispers, already half-asleep.

Ilya hears a scrape of a chair, feels the angle of Shane’s arm change, then a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

When he next wakes, Ilya’s head is clearer, though there is no room in his mind for much in the way of thinking because of the pain searing through his body.

“Your body has been through a lot in a short time,” says the nurse that Shane just frantically called into the room the moment Ilya started wincing. “You need to rest.”

“I was sleeping.”

“Good. That’s the best thing you can do right now. I’ll arrange for some pain relief as well.”

Ilya is in enough pain to stop himself from arguing against it.

“You don’t have a temperature, or anything?” Shane says once the nurse leaves, pressing the back of his hand against Ilya’s forehead.

“No.”

“I guess that’s good.”

“This bed is not that comfortable,” Ilya says, stuck between wanting to move to find a better position to lie in, and knowing how much it will hurt.

Shane’s face is apologetic. “They want to keep an eye on you for another night. Maybe two. Then, we can get you home.”

Home. Yes. Ilya has a desperate need for his own bed, remembering belatedly that the game they just played was at home in Boston. That makes things easier, then, though it’s alarming that pieces of information, details of what happened, are coming back to him so slowly.

Another thought occurs to him then.

“You were watching the game?” he asks Shane, who is hovering between the bed and the door as though that will make the nurse appear any quicker with that pain relief.

“At yours, yes.”

That’s right. Montreal have been out of the playoffs since the first round, and Shane has been flying out to wherever Boston have been playing to be with him. He was waiting for him at home; Ilya had so been looking forward to seeing him. It’s kind of hard to believe he’s actually here, that they aren’t exactly hiding from anyone.

“I saw you get knocked out, and I just…”

Shane’s words fail him, his face crumpling momentarily, before he shakes it off.

“Shane…”

“I knew which hospital they’d take you to anyway, so, I was already on my way here when they called me.”

“They?”

“The hospital. I’m down as your emergency contact, remember?” Shane says, with something that looks like a proud smile.

They did do that. They are each other’s emergency contacts, a little thing between them that is a link, a connection that nobody else would ever know about unless something like this happened. Ilya has always pictured the terror on Shane’s face if that connection was ever made public. It’s so weird to see him standing here so easily by his side.

Even when the nurse comes in with pills for him, Ilya can’t get over how Shane is fussing over him, pushing hair back from his face, taking his hand.

Ilya swallows the pills, barely taking his eyes off Shane as he does it, willing them to work as quickly as they can.

The hospital room door closes again, and silence fills the room. Shane gives him a nervous smile, and to Ilya’s horror, there are tears in his eyes again.

“Are you angry with me, Ilya?” Shane asks, with a crack in his voice that sets off Ilya’s heart racing; it’s a good thing they turned the volume down on that monitor because he can feel his heart thumping away in his chest.

“What? Why would I be angry with you?”

“I just… would you prefer it if I wasn’t here? I mean—would it have been better if I wasn’t?”

“Shane—”

“I know I’m… I know I get nervous—or, I did get nervous—about us getting caught. And I know I’m… cold sometimes.”

“No, you aren’t—”

“But I couldn’t just sit there and watch, and do nothing, when I thought you were… I couldn’t not be here, if you were hurt,” Shane says, his tears finally starting to fall.

Oh, how Ilya wishes he was better able to move right now, to get his words out, to do something other than lie in this bed.

“Shane. I am so happy you are here. I want you here.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I wish I wasn’t in the hospital, but… I don’t understand why you think I would be angry with you,” Ilya says.

Maybe he’s in the middle of a really weird dream? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’m your emergency contact,” Shane says softly, with a helpless shrug of his shoulders.

“Yes.”

“And, everybody knows that now.”

They do? Well, they probably do, yes, Ilya considers, then thinks about how the nurse just now didn’t seem bothered by Shane’s presence at all.

“Okay.”

“No. I mean… everybody knows that now. Probably, anyway. I… couldn’t exactly hide the fact that I was right here in Boston when you got hurt, and they called your emergency contact number. And I wouldn’t want to. There was no way in hell they were keeping me out of here.”

A little pride, a lot of love flares in Ilya’s chest. He squeezes Shane’s hand, carefully raises it to kiss.

“I am glad you are here.”

“Really?”

“Why would I not be glad?”

“Because I… because I kind of… barged my way in here demanding to know how you were doing,” Shane says, his cheeks now delightfully pink.

More pride flares in Ilya’s chest. It’s pretty hard trying not to smile.

“Okay.”

“And I’m pretty sure there were press downstairs when I came in, and they saw me, and… there’s no way in hell that people wouldn’t be talking about the fact that I showed up, that the hospital called me when you were hurt, and… you know.”

Ilya considers all of this, all the implications of it that Shane isn’t directly saying out loud.

“So. Maybe people know about us now?” Ilya asks carefully, expecting to see fear in Shane’s eyes.

There are just more tears. He even ducks his head, and nods. “Yes. Probably.”

The panic Ilya once imagined he’d feel in a moment like this is just not there at all. Maybe it’s because his body is so broken right now?

“Then… we will… deal with it. When we need to. Yes?”

“Are you angry with me?” Shane asks again, looking oddly terrified.

“Why would I be angry with you? I don’t understand.”

“Because. Maybe everybody knows about us now. And I didn’t even ask you about that happening. If you even wanted people to know. And I just… I didn’t even think—the thought that you were hurt, or… I don’t even know what I was thinking. I just… Ilya. I couldn’t pretend I don’t care about you. That I don’t love you,” Shane says, again looking helpless.

Ilya’s brain is really messing with him, because the problem Shane is seeing he is not seeing at all.

“You think I am angry at you because people probably know you love me?”

“Maybe?”

“Shane—”

“And maybe, you didn’t exactly look all that pleased to see me here,” Shane adds, in a shaky voice, raising his head like he is forcing himself to look at him.

Almost like he is expecting to hear something bad.

“I love you,” Ilya says, watching Shane swallow hard. “I am very happy you are here. I am very not happy that I need to be here. And everything is… my head is messy right now. My body. Everything in me. But, it is all better, I think, because you are here with me.”

Shane’s face starts to break into a cautious smile.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“You really mean that?”

“Yes. I do. But,” Ilya adds, because now it’s starting to become obvious just how scared Shane is feeling. “I think I would mean it even more if, maybe, you kissed me better.”

There. That worked, because now Shane is properly smiling at him. He even sighs in relief, curling his fingers around the frame of Ilya’s hospital bed as he leans down to kiss him.

He’s slept again. Ilya’s eyes are still closed, and his body still feels like it is several steps outside of where it actually is, but the overall pain is more of a whisper than a yell now. So, he won’t complain.

He also won’t complain, because Shane’s hand is still firmly in his, gripping like he’ll never let go of him again.

Ilya hopes he won’t.

Although. Now he is waking fully, and despite his own body being whatever it is, Ilya can’t help feel some tension in the forearm resting against his own. So he squeezes his eyes, hoping to rid them of some sticky sleep, then cracks them open.

Several faces grin at him from the foot of his bed, a brightly coloured balloon bobbing just over Marleau’s head.

“He lives!” Marleau says, then cheers, as do however many other Boston players there are now crammed into his hospital room.

Counting is hard.

Ilya isn’t convinced they’re all allowed to be in here at once.

“You have visitors, and you choose to sleep the whole time?” says another voice, just to his left side.

It’s harder work than he would like to turn his head that way, but he does, startling for the huge grin Svetlana gives him. Ilya smiles automatically, because that’s his best friend, and she’s really here, as are so many people from his team.

It does make sense though, why Shane might feel so tense. Oh, fuck. He’d better check up on him, hadn’t he?

Also. Shane is sitting here holding his hand while he sleeps, with all of these eyes on him? Maybe being out of his mind is not the worst thing?

“Hi,” Ilya says cautiously anyway, finally looking to his other side.

“Oh, so no hello for the rest of us,” Svetlana says, her words echoed by everyone else in a teasing rumble.

“Sorry. Hello,” Ilya says, to a round of laughter, some of which actually comes from Shane.

“Got knocked out pretty hard, there, Roz,” Marleau says.

Marleau who has, now Ilya is more alert to notice, a disgustingly large black eye.

“What happened to you?”

To a round of titters, Marleau bows. “I was defending your honour.”

“Marleau got into a fight with Bishop after he checked you,” Shane says, sounding… kind of pleased about that, actually.

Oh. Bishop. That’s who checked him. Even more belatedly, Ilya remembers they were playing against the Carolina Hurricanes.

“That was no fight. That was an ambush. By you,” says Svetlana as she points at Marleau, who is looking really pleased with himself, puffing out his chest.

“So. How’s it going?” Marleau asks Ilya then, to a murmur of agreement from the rest of the team.

They want words from him? Okay, then. Ilya forces himself to try.

It turns out, Boston won the game without him, and have crammed themselves into Ilya’s hospital room now, because they’re flying out tonight. A part of Ilya is sad, wishing he was going with them, but the majority of him is still just wishing for his own bed.

With Shane in it, obviously.

His team leave him after a while, wishing him a speedy recovery, and promising to do their best without him. The moment they are gone, Svetlana slumps into a chair facing Ilya, feet up on the bed by his shins. She reaches behind her for the balloon someone has left for him, tying it to the bar at the foot of the bed.

Then, she gives a pointed look at where Shane is still holding his hand, and smiles.

“Don’t worry, Ilya. We already introduced ourselves,” she says, her words full of tease.

Thankfully, all Ilya hears from Shane is a soft snort.

Or, maybe not. Shane untangles their fingers, and clears his throat.

“So… maybe I’ll go get us some drinks?” he says, standing awkwardly.

In other words, he’s giving Ilya and Svetlana a moment alone. Ilya smiles, because that’s sweet, but also, he’s not sure he’s ready for a barrage of words from Svetlana right now.

Oh well. It’s happening either way. Ilya tries to haul himself up, and yelps.

“What are you doing?” Shane says, tersely, as even Svetlana swings her feet down and jumps up.

“Nothing. Trying to move.”

“With your really, really broken arm, bruised ribs, and everything else?”

“He is stubborn. Not even broken bones can change that.”

Oh, okay, maybe being stuck in a room with his boyfriend and best friend isn’t the sweet thing Ilya had just been fantasising about.

“Yeah, well, that’s not happening,” Shane grumbles, and finds the control on the bed to help bring Ilya into a seated position, rearranging the pillows behind his head and back until Ilya is comfortable. “Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Ilya won’t look in Svetlana’s direction. Why would he, when he can feel how hard she is grinning at him, just dying to tease?

“Good. Are you hungry?”

Ilya consults his stomach. “Yes. I think so.”

“I saw the hospital food they tried to leave you earlier. I would rather eat my own face,” Svetlana says, looking revolted.

“So… there’s a McDonalds near here. You want that?” Shane says, fighting a smile.

Then, he bursts out laughing. Probably because Ilya can’t control the surprise on his face.

“You would go to a McDonalds for me?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” Svetlana says, screwing up her nose as Shane looks at her.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. There was still at least one stupid press van downstairs when I came in.”

Shane shrugs. “I don’t care.”

Does he realise the damage he is doing to Ilya’s heart, by seeming so unfazed about the idea of people knowing about them? Shane has to be completely terrified inside, at least. Maybe when they get out of here, Ilya can ask him about it.

“You want them to follow you to McDonalds?” Svetlana asks.

“I said. I don’t care,” Shane says, half glaring, half smiling at Svetlana.

Oh, Ilya thinks, they like each other already. This might be dangerous.

“Maybe you don’t care,” Svetlana says, pointing at Shane, “but maybe everyone in the McDonalds will be less happy if you, and a whole news crew, take up all their space.”

“I’m really not that interesting…”

“They don’t know that, though,” Svetlana says, grinning back at Shane who, much to Ilya’s delight and bewilderment, immediately flips her off.

What the fuck happened while he was asleep?

“Fine,” Shane says, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’ll do a drive-thru. What do you want?”

“I—”

“Not you,” Shane says to Ilya, patting his hand affectionately, “I know what you want.”

He knows his McDonalds order? When he never eats it himself? When… this is all so, so much to deal with right now.

Predictably, Svetlana reels off an absurdly long—and unhealthy—list. Shane doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. Which he has done at him in the past. What’s that about?

“Okay,” Shane says, when he’s finished noting down Svetlana’s long, long order, shoving his phone back in his pocket and leaning down over Ilya. “I won’t be long. You need anything else?”

A new arm? A new body? A lot of things to make more sense?

“No,” is what Ilya says instead, sighing in contentment as Shane ruffles his hair, then smiling when he leans down to kiss him.

“Okay. I’ll be back soon.”

The moment Shane is out of the room, Svetlana kicks one of the wheels on Ilya’s bed.

“Ow. What the fuck are you doing?”

“He’s cute,” she says, nodding after Shane as she slumps back into her chair.

“...yes.”

“Hot, too. Besotted with you.”

Mm. About that. How is he supposed to explain this—Shane—to his best friend? He’s planned so many conversations doing just that, but right now, not one of them is in his head.

“I—”

“Relax, idiot,” she says, kicking the bed again.

“Stop. I’m injured here, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Ilya holds up his arm, regretting it immediately for how everything complains about the movement, and earning himself a not-so-sympathetic eye roll. “Yes, injured.”

“Aww, poor you, going home with a hot nurse to take care of your every whim. How hard your life is.”

“So…”

“Ilya,” Svetlana says, sternly. “Do you really think that I—me—didn’t figure out who Jane was a long, long time ago? Are you stupid? Because I’m not.”

Oh. Well. Huh?

“You… didn’t say anything,” he says, knowing it’s stupid immediately for the glare he receives.

“It was my responsibility to say, hey, Ilya, I know who the secret love of your life is, but I’m fine with you not telling me? Which, I am fine, by the way,” she adds, reaching out and patting his ankle—thankfully, not the injured one. “I was just waiting for you to figure out your words about it.”

“I did not mean for you to find out like this.”

“No, I can’t imagine getting concussed, and broken, and… god knows what else is wrong with you was part of the plan,” Svetlana says, with a dismissive wave over Ilya’s poor battered body. “But. It’s out there now. Everyone knows. Not just me.”

llya feels sick just thinking about what might be being said about him and Shane. Oddly, though, the emotion he feels most is relief.

“Is it… bad?” he makes himself ask, watching Svetlana’s face morph into an affectionate smile.

“What, that the love of your life is so hot, and taking care of you, and glared his way into the hospital, and told several press outside the hospital to go fuck themselves? That doesn’t sound bad to me.”

“...he did what?”

“There will be videos. You should watch, when you’re recovering at home, with Shane Hollander taking care of you,” Svetlana says, bursting into giggles.

Ilya laughs too, a little more gently because of everything that is wrong with him. He’s still worried, though. Him and Shane haven’t been keeping their relationship a secret for the fun of it.

“Seriously. How bad is it?” he asks, hating how hard his heart is now thudding.

Svetlana gives him a considering look, saying nothing for a moment. Then, she shrugs. “People have opinions. A lot of opinions. But, don’t they always, about everything?”

“Svetlana—”

“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean of course, it’s not perfect. But, mostly people—the ones that matter—are okay with it. I mean… not okay, but, there are less bullshit comments being made than you’d probably think.”

Well. That’s something, at least?

“Also,” Svetlana says, now grinning at him in tease, “there is a rumour spreading, that you’re planning on signing with Ottawa when you’re a free agent. Which is only a few weeks away. I didn’t believe it at first, but then I got here to the hospital, and, I think I get it. I don’t, obviously; fuck you for leaving Boston. But, I get it. Anything you feel like telling me about?”

Today is already far, far too much, and all Ilya wants to do is close his eyes, fall back to sleep again.

He won’t though. He owes his best friend an explanation, his boyfriend is out there in the world, currently going to buy him McDonalds, and apparently, they are not a secret anymore. It’s a lot to take in, a lot to process—and now, apparently, people know about their Ottawa plan. Fuck.

Maybe, trying to process all of these things while heavily medicated will make it easier, somehow?

“Where do you want me to start?” Ilya says, groaning internally for the tease written all over Svetlana’s face.

“Wherever you want," Svetlana says, arranging herself more comfortably. "Make it juicy, though. I think you owe me that, right?”

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Well, the fic is still a WIP but I now have close to 65k written so I think the end will be in sight sometime soon. Or, at least, it's making decent progress to get to the end.

For this chapter, we have a little insecurity/uncertainty from them both, and a whole lot of them being very lovely as they adjust to Ilya being injured and Shane taking care of him.

🧡

“...I didn’t say anything.”

Fighting back a smile, Ilya traces his fingers over the hand Shane just slipped into his lap. There is silence for a beat, then a beat more, then they both burst out laughing, and Ilya lets his head fall back against the headrest.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Ilya says, wishing he could hold his hand properly. “Your face is saying everything.”

“My face is saying this was the least bad of your cars that I figured I could get you into without jarring your arm, and ankle, and ribs? And everything else?”

“Yes. It is saying all of those things.”

“And here was me being used to being told I’m not in any way expressive.”

Ilya watches him in profile, again wishing he could move, maybe rest his head on Shane's shoulder or do anything to show him some affection. Instead he is trapped in his seat, cast-covered arm cradled to his chest as gently as he can so he doesn't hurt his bruised ribs. “You are expressive to me. You always are.”

They have escaped the hospital after Ilya was in it for almost three days, and the freedom from that hospital room makes Ilya want to both cheer and sigh in relief.

He won’t though. First, they had to get out of the hospital, Shane pushing Ilya through the grounds in a borrowed wheelchair, and Shane threatening to use him to whack photographers in the shins with if they didn’t let them through. The wheelchair was more to do with getting Ilya to the car quickly, and less to do with his sprained ankle and other injuries, and there is no way of knowing if having it made their exit easier or harder for them. The nurse who took it back for him certainly didn't look too pleased having to fight her way through the crowd of photographers surrounding their car.

Then, they had the fun of getting Ilya in to the passenger seat of his Porsche, which he has always protested to Shane is actually quite spacious, but now feels anything but. Shane has pulled the seat right back for him but there is so little room, and the cramped space is putting pressure on his body that he really doesn’t need right now. Also, his arm is protesting, because any small bump in the road makes it jar, and the pain of that is sickening.

“I don’t know how expressive I was flipping off that photographer who followed me around the grocery store earlier,” Shane says with a heavy sigh that Ilya thinks is also tinged with relief.

They’re going home. Well, they’re going to Ilya’s place in Boston at least, which he likes well enough, but isn’t the cottage he’s been so looking forward to spending the summer in. Ilya wasn’t due to go for another couple of weeks, or who knows, maybe even longer, depending on how the team did in the playoffs. Now, the whole summer is stretched out before him, possibly longer, even, because of his various injuries. Even if his plan, his hope, his dream of going to the Centaurs so he can be closer to Shane goes through, Ilya isn’t convinced he’ll be fit to play by the start of the season.

Will that fuck up his chances? God, Ilya hopes not. In recent weeks he has, unofficially of course, heard good things from the club’s owners and management, but nothing at all can happen until the first of July, and his injuries are… well. Hopefully not a deal breaker, anyway.

He can’t let himself spiral into the territory of what-ifs right now, because that isn’t going to help anything.

“Tell me about the groceries,” Ilya says, needing the distraction.

Also, the image of Shane flipping off a photographer is fresh in his mind, because he’s both seen that in various videos now, and just got to witness it outside the hospital. It is way, way too hot a thing for him to be thinking about right now, in this broken body.

“Are you hungry?” Shane asks.

“Not really. But if you tell me what food we have, maybe.”

“I don’t know? All the usual stuff I see you eating.”

“...like what?”

“Tuna. Potatoes. Other fish. Cheese. Pickles. Bread. Vegetables. Pasta, obviously.”

He does like pasta. Ilya likes pasta possibly more than anything else, it's something he hadn’t been all that bothered by back in Russia but now eats happily three or four times a week.

“What about what you want to eat?” he asks.

“I like… all of those things?”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes,” Shane says, offering Ilya a half-hearted glare. “I’ll eat whatever you eat. Especially as I’ll be the one cooking.”

“I can do that.”

“With one arm? When your ankle hurts too much to stand on for more than a couple of minutes? I don’t fucking think so.”

Pinching his lips together so he doesn’t smile too hard, Ilya lets himself imagine what it will be like, letting Shane take care of him. It’s a frightening thought. Not because he doesn’t want it—he actually really does—but what if it’s the thing that puts Shane off of him? Him being needy?

“Thank you. For coming here. For doing all of this,” Ilya says quietly, earning himself a pleased, maybe proud smile.

“Of course. I’d obviously prefer you weren’t in pain, but. You know I’m happy to do this.”

“We get a longer summer together. Starting early.”

“There’s that too. Pity we can’t leave Boston right away, but, it’s not so bad, right?”

“The cottage would be much nicer, but, yes. A little time here is not so bad.”

He’s been told he can’t fly with his arm like it is. And with everything else that has happened, flying wouldn’t exactly be comfortable anyway. So they will be here in Boston for at least a couple of weeks, before they can even think about doing anything else.

“It’s about a seven-hour drive from here, to the cottage. I checked. So… I don’t know. Once you’ve been back to have your arm checked in a week or so, if we want to leave, we can drive up there, if we want to. Not in this car, though,” Shane says, looking Ilya over in a way that says he’s worried about how uncomfortable he is.

Very. Very uncomfortable. Ilya doesn’t think any other car would be better right now, really.

“We will see,” he says, because there are far too many things to think about, and it’s exhausting him already.

“Sleep. Or, rest your eyes for a bit. We’ll be back at yours soon,” Shane says softly, smiling when Ilya turns his head.

Ilya has never been so glad to see the door of his penthouse, sweating so profusely with the effort of moving as he steps off the elevator that it feels like the floor is swaying beneath him.

“You okay?” Shane says, adjusting all the bags of Ilya’s stuff from the hospital so that he has a hand free to extend towards him.

“Fine,” Ilya says through gritted teeth.

There are about ten or so paces, probably, until he is at the door. He’s going to have to focus on every one of them.

“It’s probably shock more than anything,” Shane says, walking beside him.

Ilya fights the urge to tell him to shut up. This is already hard work without having to make conversation.

“Mm.”

“Plus, you’ve been on your back for almost three days. That on top of your ankle hurting, and everything else hurting, and standing up after so long—”

“Shane…”

“Yeah?”

“Just… one minute, okay?” Ilya says, hissing the words out as he stumbles and jolts his ankle in the process.

Shane falls silent. Great. Now he’s probably upset him. Ilya curses himself and takes Shane’s hand, smiling when he looks at him.

“Almost there,” Shane whispers, nodding in encouragement.

At the door, Ilya can do nothing but rest his head against it as he catches his breath. His hand is trembling so badly that he can’t slot it in his pocket for his keys, and his other arm is completely useless.

“Okay,” Shane says softly, kissing Ilya’s shoulder then dipping his hand into his pocket himself.

He gets the door open in seconds, puts all Ilya’s things inside the doorway keeping a path free, and then faces Ilya with a raised eyebrow and a stern look for him.

“You aren’t going to be difficult, are you?” Shane asks.

“Difficult? About what?”

“Never mind.”

Ilya goes to say something, anything. What can he say, though, when Shane bends slightly, wraps his hands around his thighs, and effortlessly hoists him up?

“Shane—”

“It’s a good thing I’ve been here so many times and know my way through without even having to see where I'm going, right?” Shane says, barely even straining his voice as he kicks the door closed behind them then turns around.

Ilya has never been picked up in his adult life. He wants to resent it, but oddly is kind of charmed by it. Likes it, even. He wraps his good arm around Shane’s shoulders, and his legs awkwardly around his waist, and holds on.

“This is about the only way I could think of carrying you without hurting more of you at once,” Shane explains, turning Ilya slightly then carefully lowering him to the floor.

Is that disappointment he feels that they’re at the couch already? It might be. Ilya won’t let himself say as much out loud.

“Thank you,” he manages to say, taking Shane’s hand so he can lower himself to sit.

Shane even helps him get his feet up slowly, doing his best to avoid any strain on his ribs.

“No problem. Sit there a minute, okay? I just want to get your things in, then we can… I don’t know. Whatever you want. Sleep. Eat. Watch something.”

Kind of bewildered, and absolutely still charmed, Ilya nods, then watches and listens as Shane disappears, coming back with all his things from the hospital. There are cards, flowers, a couple of teddy bears—the biggest of which is actually from Shane—and his balloons, and chocolates, and other gifts. Shane carefully puts up the cards on the coffee table, strings the balloon around a paperweight ornament on a bookshelf, puts the teddy bears in the corner of the couch, and takes anything edible into the kitchen.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“Vodka?”

“Not while you’re on those painkillers.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but is smiling anyway, because he loves this, he loves being fussed over and cared for. He’s really not used to it.

That won’t stop him from pretending to complain, though, pretending to be sulking when Shane comes in with a can of Coke and one of ginger ale.

“How’s your arm now?”

Ilya watches him open the cans then takes his when offered. “I don’t know? The same?”

“I didn’t hurt it too much when I drove us back here?”

That’s what he’s worried about? Ilya is so tempted to tease him, but the genuine concern on Shane’s face as he sits beside him is too much.

“No. I’m okay.”

“We need a plan,” Shane says then, reaching for the TV remote.

Internally, Ilya sighs. Of course Shane needs a plan, that’s how he handles things. Ilya doesn’t even mind, because Shane’s plans have historically worked out really well for him. It’s just… a little too soon to be thinking about anything difficult.

Still. He can’t leave all of that stuff for Shane to think about alone, because that wouldn’t be fair at all.

“I don’t know? Maybe... I should change my agent now. To your one. I think I can, even before I come to Canada, yes?”

Shane’s eyes flare wide. “I mean, sure. Probably. She said you could figure that out even before you get there, keep your one here until you move. But—”

“If we have her, and check what she thinks we should say, maybe… we could make a statement. Maybe think of everything else after that.”

Shane’s mouth opens, then closes, a doubtful look covering his face before, apparently, some realisation dawns.

“Oh. You’re talking about… us,” Shane says, slowly nodding.

Now it’s Ilya’s turn to be confused.

“...yes?”

Shane’s face splits into a delighted smile. “You want to make a statement about us?”

“I think maybe? Yes? Probably we should?”

“I’d like that.”

“...okay. Good?”

Chuckling, Shane nods, takes a sip of his drink, gestures for Ilya to do the same, then stretches to put their cans on the coffee table.

“We should do that. And we will. But, uh… I kind of meant… a plan, for here. For how I take care of you. What you need help with, what you want me to leave you do to by yourself. That sort of thing,” Shane says, gently lowering an arm around Ilya’s shoulders.

Oh. Now Ilya feels like an idiot, and apparently he can’t keep that emotion off his face.

“As far I’m concerned, people know about us. Right?” Shane says, letting his forehead rest briefly against Ilya's temple. “They have their questions, probably their opinions.”

“Yes.”

“I thought I’d be terrified. I mean… I kind of am. But… Ilya. All that can wait. Whatever people need to say about it, about us, whatever we need to do. The most important thing right now, is that we get you better. There is nothing more important to me. When I saw you knocked out on the ice, and saw how bad your arm looked even there, and… everything. Seeing you so pale in the hospital, thinking maybe you wouldn’t wake up. All those wires and monitors around you—I don’t really give a fuck about anything else right now,” Shane says, softly, but urgently, and, now Ilya is paying attention, he can feel how Shane’s heart is beating fast where his chest is pressed against his arm.

“Shane. I am okay,” Ilya says, even if his own heart is soaring, for the evidence he has right here in front of him of how much Shane really does love him.

“I know. But you might not have been. And you were really hurt—you are really hurt. So, you need to tell me what you need, what you want, whatever we need to make happen, to make sure you’re okay. I, uh… you really scared me,” Shane whispers, again letting his head fall against Ilya’s, this time with a shaky breath blasting out.

Ilya tilts his head to lean against Shane’s better, slipping his hand into his lap.

“I am okay now. Better, because you are here. Okay? I promise I am okay.”

“I love you,” Shane mumbles in a still shaky voice against Ilya’s temple, though also lets out a relieved sigh.

Ilya smiles for hearing it, lets his eyes fall closed, lets himself sink into the wonderful feeling of being cared about.

“I love you, too,” he whispers back, smiling for the second kiss he feels.

They doze for a while, not really meaning to, just talking softly together one moment, and fast asleep the next. When Ilya wakes properly he forgets where he is, hissing when his foot knocks against the side of the sofa, jarring his injured ankle in the process.

“What?” Shane says, blearily, freezing with his arm around him. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I hit my foot.”

“Shit.”

Carefully, Shane extracts himself from being wrapped around Ilya, reaching over to rest a hand on his ankle through his sweatpants.

“We can do an ice pack. That’d probably help.”

Probably. The problem is, now that Ilya is waking up properly, he feels pretty gross. Someone must have at least washed him over in the hospital, right? He would have needed to be clean for surgery. But he’s not had a shower since before the game, and his skin is starting to complain about this.

How the hell is he standing in the shower, though?

“I am dirty,” he says, deciding he won’t breathe in too much because what if he stinks?

How can Shane bear to be so close to him if he does?

He doesn’t seem to be complaining, though, as he nods thoughtfully, looking Ilya over.

“Okay. Well. I’m not sure about you getting in and out of a bath right now, even if I help. Your ankle, your ribs, that's gonna hurt, even before we get to your arm. I don’t think any part of you would enjoy that.”

“No. Probably not.”

“We can manage a shower though, right?” Shane says brightly. “I can tape something over your arm—rip up a trash bag or something—and we can… okay. Let me think.”

Ilya smiles, first for the quick kiss Shane gives him, and then the enthusiastic way he jumps up. He watches Shane explore the living room, then hears him out in the kitchen and the hallway, before disappearing elsewhere into the apartment. Ilya hears the balcony door sliding open, and then, next, a triumphant little, yes.

“Okay. So… this isn’t exactly meant for the shower, but, it is waterproof, right? Weatherproof, at least. I mean, it stays outside all year round, so, it has to be,” Shane says, coming back in carrying one of the two chairs Ilya has on his balcony, that he barely ever uses. They’re often covered in snow, or rain, or whatever, and they look fine, so, yes, they will probably survive a quick shower.

“I think so,” Ilya says, smiling up at Shane.

“You can sit on this, and we’ll cover your arm. I’ll wash your hair if you want—and, you know. The rest of you. If you need me to,” Shane adds, suddenly looking shy.

It’s adorable. And completely unnecessary. It’s not as though Shane hasn’t touched him literally everywhere already, or like they haven’t shared a shower a million times.

Oh. But, now he’s watching him, Ilya thinks he gets what Shane is thinking. He doesn’t want to overstep, make him feel uncomfortable.

“I would like that. If you would help me,” he says, knowing his guess is right for the relief he now sees on Shane’s face.

“Of course. Always. You… want to wait there while I get things ready?”

“Uh, no. I… need the bathroom,” Ilya says, grimacing, because that’s been a lot of not-fun in the hospital already.

“Okay. Give me one second.”

Shane is off again, carrying that chair through, and apparently putting it in the bathroom already. Then, he’s in front of Ilya, holding his hands out.

“So. Am I picking you up? Are you pulling yourself up? What do you need?”

Ilya looks down at himself, and laughs. “I don’t know? Let me try, though.”

Shane nods encouragingly, gripping firmly to Ilya hand when he takes it, then taking his weight when he hisses, and stands.

“How was that?” Shane says, his voice now straining a little.

Oh. Maybe Ilya is gripping his hand a little tighter than he realised.

“Not fun.”

It doesn’t help that it’s both his left arm and his left ankle that is the problem. A whole side of him isn't working properly right now.

“Okay. So. Maybe I can pick you up again? Just until you can bear weight on your ankle.”

Should he be mortified? If he should, Ilya doesn’t feel that at all. He only nods, loops an arm around Shane’s neck, and then enjoys the new sensation of being effortlessly picked up, carried through his apartment. Shane gets him on the chair under the shower and leaves him there to get them both clean clothes, scolding Ilya the moment he gets back because he finds him tangled up in his shirt.

“You couldn’t wait one minute?”

“I was trying to be helpful.”

“Yeah, well, now you’re tied in a knot. Where’s your head in there?” Shane says, trying to extract Ilya from his shirt.

“Here?”

“Not helping. Oh. There you are,” Shane says triumphantly, smiling when Ilya’s face is free, and then carefully peeling the shirt off.

Taking his sweatpants off is harder, Ilya gritting his teeth trying not to curse as together they tug them from him. He hates being in pain like this, hates feeling as useless as he does right now, but then Shane treats him to the lovely view of him stripping, and suddenly, nothing hurts anymore.

“Maybe if you behave,” Shane says with a wink, slapping Ilya’s good hand away when he reaches for him.

Then, he gets Ilya's arm securely covered and the shower on behind them, angling it away from Ilya until the water is warm.

Oh, that’s nice. Closing his eyes for the gentle fingers working through his hair, Ilya lets himself relax. Shane guides him to tilt his head to each side as he massages shampoo through then rinses him clean, coming around to stand in front of him as he washes his own hair with his own shampoo.

“I bought more of your shampoo. Actually, I bought one of everything, I think. I didn’t know if you were out of anything.”

The fact that Shane knows all of his preferred toiletries—and how he knows all of Shane’s too—is such a simple thing. It does make Ilya feel pretty euphoric just thinking about it, though. Also, the fact that his boyfriend is within touching distance washing himself, is a treat too tempting to ignore.

“Hey. Hands off,” Shane says, half-heartedly pushing Ilya’s hand away from his hip.

“I still have one hand that is working.”

“Yeah, and then you’ll get distracted, forget your other arm—”

“Do you blame me?”

“And then you’ll be on the floor, and I won’t know how to help you out without, you know. Hurting you worse,” Shane says, tangling his fingers through Ilya’s when he reaches out again.

This is probably true. It’s still hard to hide how… interested, he is, in his wet, soaped-up boyfriend standing right in front of him. Especially when he drops to his knees to help Ilya wash.

“Mm. I guess it has been a few days for you,” Shane teases, taking his time as he dips his hands between Ilya’s thighs, then lingers over his soaped-up cock.

“Too long,” Ilya says, dropping his head back, as Shane starts to toy with his balls.

“I think I can do something about that…”

Oh. That feels good. Ilya keeps his head back and eyes closed for a few seconds then just has to watch, covering Shane’s free hand where it rests against his leg. He won’t last long at all like this, not when it really has been a few days, and Shane is taking such good care of him. Especially because of the clever things he is currently doing to his cock with his mouth.

Nope. Ilya doesn’t last long at all, curled over and cursing as he comes, mostly because of his ribs.

“Shit. Sorry. You okay?” Shane asks, hands flaring out immediately against Ilya's thighs.

“I’m good. Really good. Is nothing. Stand up for me.”

“Uh, no. No, you don’t need to do anything,” Shane says, getting his meaning immediately.

He even starts stroking himself where he is knelt. Ilya lets himself enjoy the view for a few seconds, then is cupping Shane's face in one hand.

“My mouth stills works, and I want to. Up,” Ilya says, watching Shane rise fluidly to his feet.

Shane doesn’t last long either, fingers gripping on to Ilya’s curls and the fight he has against thrusting into his mouth so obvious, Ilya smiles around him.

“Fuck,” Shane blasts out, resting his hands on Ilya’s shoulders and panting as he fights to keep still.

“Ah, so is not just me who needs help to stay on their feet.”

“Shut up. Besides. You’re still sitting down, aren’t you?” Shane says.

“When my ankle is better, you just wait.”

“Oh, believe me. I’ll be waiting. But I’m pretty sure we can figure out some other things we can do in the meantime, right?”

“Yes. You are very… creative,” Ilya says, laughing when Shane pretends to pout.

“Alright. Let’s see how creative I am at getting you out of the shower and dried off,” Shane says, shutting the water off.

He makes Ilya stay seated while he dries him off a little, doing the same for himself before helping Ilya to stand.

“How’s your arm? Still dry?” Shane asks, inspecting where he has that trash bag taped around him.

“Good, I think.”

“I’ll check in a minute,” Shane says, finishing drying Ilya off properly, then inspecting his handiwork with the bag. “Hey. That worked better than I thought.”

“Good. Thank you,” Ilya says, resting a hand on Shane’s waist.

“How are you feeling?” Shane asks, letting his fingers sweep softly down his chest.

“Mm. Better, for being clean.”

“Hungry?”

“More tired, really.”

“We can sleep a little, if you want. Not like we need to do anything else right now.”

Mm. His bed is calling, and it’s better than anything to know Shane will be right there beside him. His stomach might be calling out for better food than he’s eaten in days, but going to bed with Shane? That’s a winner above pretty much anything else.

“Yes. Let’s sleep,” Ilya says, but insists on leaning on Shane this time instead of him carrying him.

“Stubborn.”

“Yes. Always.”

“Get into bed,” Shane says, flicking back the duvet.

“Yes, sir,” Ilya says in tease, loving how it makes Shane laugh.

They climb in together, laugh more as they figure out a new way to lie together with all of Ilya’s injuries, whisper soft I love yous, and are asleep within minutes.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Hello! Nothing particularly to warn about for this chapter. Remember to suspend some disbelief and have a little whimsy, this is fanfic, not a how-to-NHL-hockey guide 😅

The bed is cold beside him when Ilya wakes, giving him no reason to keep his eyes open. Instead, Ilya scans his body, feeling the dull ache and then sharp stab when he turns his ankle, the general ache of his legs, that crampy, tugging feeling over his ribs. His head hurts too, which might be the concussion, or might just be because he’s probably dehydrated by now. Lastly, because it’s the part of him he is most worried about, Ilya tries to get a sense of his arm.

It’s an awful break. He is no expert, of course, but to Ilya the x-ray looked like someone had taken a hammer to just above his elbow, smashing it into a hundred pieces. Of course, that’s not what happened, there are three breaks, two clean and one with some splinters, and it’s that particular break that punctured the skin.

The clots the doctor mentioned sounded awful. They are one of the reasons Ilya has been told not to fly for a little while, although he already knew that flying with a freshly fitted cast would be a no, because of potential swelling. He’s going back next week for a check up, and then depending on how that goes, the week after, too. Hopefully by then, he might have a better idea of how his recovery is going, what he can start doing to help himself heal faster.

He is scared. Ilya isn’t sure if he has reason to be, or even what specific thing is scaring him so much. The thought that he might not play hockey for a while? The thought that this accident might have messed up their plan for him to go to Ottawa? The idea that, if he can’t play hockey, he isn’t working, and his immigration status here is only good for so long?

What could, and might happen to him if he had to go back to Russia now, now that his relationship with Shane is out there and known, is a nightmare all on its own. He should remember that, and not think about how relieved, how excited a part of him is that they aren’t a secret anymore.

It’s all too much to think about, to be honest, and if he lies here alone for any longer then he will keep thinking, and spiral. So, he has to get out of bed.

Maybe easier said than done.

Ilya is stiff from sleeping, and rolling the little he can to put himself upright without jarring his arm, is hell on his ankle and ribs. He rests when upright, heels then toes to the floor to keep himself steady. He should put on clothes, but the effort he’s just made is already leaving him feeling weak.

So. Ilya stands, grits his teeth for how the pain in his ankle flares, and then with stupid little steps makes his way from his bedroom, seeking Shane out. He can hear a pan sizzling, and something being stirred, right before he hears Shane say, “Yeah, well that’s bullshit.”

Turning the corner, Ilya can see Shane in the kitchen with his back to him, phone pressed to his ear. He limps towards him, half-convinced he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but since Shane seems to be listening more than talking lets himself get closer.

“No. Because this has been a… this whole thing has been a wake-up call for me,” Shane says next, still by the stove. “We had this whole plan to keep things private, to announce the Irina Foundation at the start of next season, for Ilya to go to Ottawa. It’s all… I don’t know. All of that is still happening, one way or the other, but this other stuff, it’s just… it’s bullshit, Farah.”

His agent? Ilya freezes, imagining all sorts of terrible things.

“Boston have actually been pretty great with Ilya,” Shane says next, sighing. “Yeah, they have made him an offer. They did a while back. He… already told them he was looking to move for personal reasons. I know they were disappointed, but, I know his managers were all pretty supportive. The GM.”

It’s true. Boston have been pretty understanding about Ilya saying he wasn’t looking to re-sign with them. They probably know exactly what those personal reasons are now, right?

“Yeah. Different story entirely with my team, that’s for sure. Look. If Montreal want to try to threaten me, or whatever, they can. Threaten me, for what, exactly, though? I don’t take my private life into the locker room or on to the ice. It’s not impacted the way I’ve played for a second, and they know that. They could at least have the decency to talk to me directly, instead of harassing you. No,” Shane says, and laughs, stirring something in the pan. “I know that’s what you’re there for, but that’s not the point. They shouldn’t be talking to you like that, either.”

Montreal being awful? No surprises there for Ilya. He makes himself take another step closer to the kitchen because his ankle is screaming at him for putting weight on it by standing still.

“I… I hate being cocky, or too confident, or whatever, but, if I have to be, I will,” Shane says next. “I’ve given absolutely everything to Montreal, and they know it. They know we’re a good team, they know I’m a good captain. We won the playoffs, because we work so fucking hard. Fine; I play alright, too.”

Are the backs of Shane’s ears pink? Yes, Ilya thinks they are, and knows that Farah just paid him a compliment.

Good. Shane might have a problem admitting how good a hockey player he is, and Ilya does like to compete with him over it, but Shane needs to hear about his talent, his skill, from as many people as possible. He might even believe it one day.

Maybe he is starting to believe it now?

“The truth is, I’m going to keep playing hockey, however that looks. Right now, the only priority I have, is making sure Ilya is okay.”

Ilya stops in his tracks again, and catches himself holding his breath.

Shane sighs hard, switching off the stove’s heat, still with his back to him. “I hate seeing him in pain. But the thing is, if it was only his injuries, it would still be awful, but, we’d be okay. I’m not letting him recover on his own.”

No, he isn’t, and Ilya finds himself more in love with Shane by the second for how attentive he’s being.

“But it isn’t just that,” Shane says, now bending over and resting his elbows on a counter. “It’s the fact that the press are circling around us like… I don’t know. Sharks, or something. Ilya doesn’t need any of that shit right now—and, fine, I’ll speak to whoever I need to if I have to, it’s just another thing we have to think about.

“Plus, we’ve got his free agency coming up, and our whole plan with Ottawa is… I don’t know? We still want it, I think, but if he’s injured… I don’t know how that works for them?”

See? That’s not a worry Ilya is making up in his own head, if Shane is saying it out loud.

“And then, obviously, I mean… I know it’s not the biggest consideration, because he has quite a while left with his right to be here, with immigration and everything. But… if anything happened to that, or changed, or… I don’t even know. I don’t even know if I’m just worrying over nothing, but… I don’t want him to be forced to go back to Russia, Farah. Not with people knowing about us. Not with people knowing about him, and what—whatever that could mean happens to him. I can’t have anything happen to him.”

There is fear in Shane’s voice, and it’s sort of relieving to know that fear is something they both share. But Ilya hates hearing any kind of worry coming from Shane, especially if he’s the one that’s causing it. So, he starts limping forward again, making it to the fridge and gratefully propping himself up on the counter, before Shane realises he isn’t alone.

Shane spins on the spot, phone still to his ear, his eyes narrows until he sees Ilya standing there, then relaxing. He even gives him a quick once over—okay, a slow once over—grinning at him before extending his hand.

Shane even kisses him on the cheek, as he continues to listen to Farah.

“Yeah? That would be great. No, no I don’t know any real timescales yet, neither of us do. We’re going for a check-up next week, and then the week after, so, hopefully by then we might have some idea of how he’s healing.”

We. Ilya loves hearing we about all this from Shane.

“Okay. Yeah, that’s good. And you’re okay doing that? Yes. Yes, thank you, that’s amazing. Okay. I’ll tell him. Yes; I’ll tell him that too, Okay. Goodbye—and thank you again,” Shane says, smiling as he waits for Farah to finish their call, then pushes his phone on to the counter.

“Why are you up?” he says, taking Ilya by the waist and gently guiding him over to sit on a stool.

“I think I slept enough?”

“I’m making food.”

“I can see that,” Ilya says, glancing over whatever is in the pan—shrimp, mushrooms, bell peppers from the looks of things—and pasta in a saucepan next to it.

Suddenly, he’s absolutely starving, and his stomach makes that very apparent with how it then growls.

“Okay, then, we’ll eat, and you probably need to take some pain relief by now, right?”

“Mm. My head hurts.”

Shane pouts for this, bends and presses a soft kiss on Ilya’s forehead. “Okay. Dinner can be ready in about five.”

“I might just be thirsty.”

“We can do something about that,” Shane says, patting his good arm and going over to the fridge, getting both a bottle of water and a can of Coke out. He uncaps the bottle when Ilya points at it. Then, he digs through a bag on the counter for Ilya's pills, reading the pharmacy label and then popping two into Ilya's hand.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get you some shorts or something to put on? Not that I’m not loving the view,” Shane adds, pretending to stretch on tiptoe to peer over Ilya shoulder.

Ilya laughs, taking a long gulp of water and then the pills.

“Okay.”

“I just don’t want you dropping pasta, or anything else, in any places that will be useful to me later,” Shane says, kissing the back of his neck, making Ilya laugh again.

“You want me to be useful to you later?”

“Always.”

“But I am injured,” Ilya says, as though he would be able to resist Shane at any time.

“But, I’m not.”

“True.”

“I’ll get you something to wear.”

“Shane,” Ilya calls out before he can get too far. “What were you talking to your agent about?”

“Montreal being dicks? More importantly, though, she’s going to contact your agent here, so they can work out some kind of… I don’t know? Deal between them? And she’s going to speak to Ottawa, too. Unofficially, of course.”

Ilya wants to ask more, particularly about Montreal being dicks to Shane. But he’s caught on the fact that Shane just had a whole conversation about him, is already at least several steps into whatever plan he has been brewing while Ilya has been sleeping. Something about this thought must be written over Ilya’s face, because Shane continues walking away—probably to get him some shorts—then stops suddenly, looking at him in concern.

“I… I hope you don’t think I’m… taking over, or anything. Overstepping?” Shane says, leaning on the counter beside him so he is facing Ilya.

“You—”

“I just need to make sure you’re okay. That you have all the support you need. That you’re safe,” Shane says, reaching out and cupping Ilya’s face.

How can Ilya put into words, that he is overwhelmed right now, and the reason he is overwhelmed is that it’s been a long, long time since anyone has cared about him as much as Shane so clearly does? He can only shake his head, and bargain with his unshed tears not to fall.

“Is good. It’s… nice. That you are trying to help me.”

“I should have waited until you woke up, to ask you first,” Shane says, screwing up his face.

“No. No,” Ilya says, and awkwardly gestures for Shane to move to stand between his legs. “Thank you. For talking to Farah for me. For being so worried. I am just… not used to that.”

Shane nods slowly in understanding, getting a determined look about him as he rests his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, and bends down for a kiss.

“Well. Get used to it,” he whispers, arching an eyebrow until Ilya smiles. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees, and tilts his chin up for a second kiss.

The pasta is delicious. Ilya might enjoy teasing Shane about how closely he follows recipes sometimes, but one, he loves the times they follow those recipes together, and two, he always makes incredible choices. This is also the first proper meal Ilya has eaten since the night before the game, and that Shane made it for him probably contributes to how it feels extra special. Ilya does feel a bit useless, though, when he’s sitting here on the couch and Shane is cleaning up.

“I can do something,” Ilya calls out, even if, to be honest, even getting up seems impossible now.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know?”

“You can’t get your arm wet. You’re not supposed to be moving it anyway. Your ribs are bruised. Your ankle is sprained, so it hurts to stand on. What can you actually do?” Shane calls back.

“Okay. I am useless.”

Whatever Shane is doing, he stops, something heavy clunking on to the counter, and soft footfall coming towards Ilya.

When Shane is in front of him, there is a deep frown on his face. “Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“That you’re useless.”

“I was joking.”

“Then don’t joke about things like that, because you’re not. You’re supposed to be recovering. That’s the most useful thing you can be doing right now.”

Ilya smiles. He can’t help it. He knows Shane takes him literally for so many things, does better when Ilya is direct with him. Which doesn’t mean Shane doesn’t get his jokes, it’s just sometimes, maybe the jokes don’t land so well.

Also, Ilya thinks, maybe the fact that he does actually feel useless right now, is obvious even when he doesn’t say that word out loud.

“Okay. Not useless. But you are doing everything for me.”

Shane crosses his arms across his chest. “Would you do the same for me, if it was me hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Then… what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem. I just feel bad. No. Not actually bad,” Ilya says when Shane opens his mouth to talk. “Guilty.”

“For… being injured?”

“No. Maybe. More, for you doing so much for me.”

Shane narrows his eyes at him. He’s a little angry, Ilya thinks. Well, this isn’t the way he wanted things to go at all.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Shane says, turning abruptly and walking away.

Fuck. He’s messed things up already. Ilya drops his head back on the couch and goes over his words, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say.

“How’s your head?”

Huh?

Opening his eyes, Ilya finds Shane just coming back in the room, sitting cross legged and side on to him.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“I think so.”

“Oh.”

“So. How’s your head?” Shane asks, reaching up and gently playing with Ilya’s hair.

Oh, that feels nice.

“Better now.”

“Good. So. Maybe we could talk a little?”

Ilya snorts, but keeps it internal. How many times in all the years they have known one another, has one of them tried to start a conversation? How many more times have they brushed it off?

Not anymore, though. No. They are getting better at that.

Slowly.

Ilya raises his arm, resting his hand in Shane’s lap.

“Okay.”

Nodding slowly, Shane doesn’t say anything at first, but Ilya can see him planning his words.

“So. This is a little… weird,” Shane eventually says.

“What is?”

“Us. This. Getting to spend this time together, with no kind of… I don’t know. Deadline, or anything, for when it’s ending?”

Mm. Yes. That is new for them. Now he’s thinking about it, Ilya really likes that idea.

“Yes, is new, but, good, yes?”

Shane laughs. “Well. Obviously. I mean it would be way, way better if you weren’t in any pain or anything. I hate seeing you hurting.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Now who’s the bad liar…”

Laughing, Ilya pats Shane’s knee. “Okay. It’s not so bad right now, but, when it hurts, it hurts too much.”

“Then, let it hurt. I mean, don’t try hiding that from me. And let me know when I can help.”

A softness blooms in Ilya’s chest, that same one he felt earlier but didn’t fully acknowledge. He really does love this sense of being taken care of.

“Okay.”

“I’m a little… worried,” Shane then says, which of course makes panic rise up in Ilya’s throat.

Shane is right to worry, maybe. Their plans are potentially ruined with this stupid injury, and for all they know, there could still be press waiting downstairs trying to talk to them.

There could be phone calls from their teams, from the league commissioner, from… so many people Ilya really doesn’t want to hear from right now. He can’t think about it, demanding to himself that he reins in his panic, at least until he’s feeling a little better in himself.

“Yes. Many things maybe will be different now. With this,” Ilya says, gesturing at himself.

Shane frowns. “I mean, sure. Obviously.”

“Yes.”

“But that’s not what I was thinking about.”

He’s found more things to worry about? Ilya doesn’t like the sound of that at all, so only nods, waiting for Shane to keep talking.

“We’ve never really… had a long stretch of time together. No, we have, because we had last summer at the cottage.”

Yes, the cottage, and one of Ilya’s best memories ever.

“That was good,” he says, glad that Shane’s smile is a relaxed one.

“That was amazing. I can’t wait for us to go there again, leave everything else behind.”

“Soon, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Shane agrees, covering Ilya’s hand with his own. “I was thinking more that, this is more, I don’t know. Normal. Real? No, not real—it is, but… fuck.”

Watching Shane struggle, and then laugh at himself, is very confusing, so all Ilya can really do is wait him out.

“What if I piss you off?” Shane blurts out suddenly.

Ilya just stops himself from saying yes you do, and I love you for it, and I piss you off too, because now really isn’t the time to be making jokes.

“I don’t think you will.”

“No, but what if I do? I know I’m… annoying sometimes,” Shane says, frowning.

“You would tell me I am annoying all of the time.”

“...only sometimes.”

“Exactly. Everybody is annoying sometimes, I think.”

“True, but… you know.”

Ilya shakes his head. “What?”

“I’m… me,” Shane says, with a helpless shrug.

Oh, this is getting weird, because Shane looks distressed, for some reason, and Ilya doesn’t like seeing that.

“Yes. You are you. And I like you, very much. I also love you,” he says, at least managing to make Shane smile.

“I—I know I’m a lot, sometimes. I like—I need things in a certain order, or, I do things a certain way, and… sometimes I freak out over stupid things. I don’t mean to, but it happens, and I… I don’t want to piss you off.”

Ilya considers his words, translates a couple, and carefully arranges a response.

“Did you not notice that I like your… routines?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You laugh at my routines. Look at when I get ready for bed, and I’m moisturising, and everything, and you just stand there, laughing at me.”

“No. I don’t laugh,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s leg, because he needs him to know he’s being serious. “I smile. I smile, because I’m happy. Because I like watching your routines. It’s like… I don’t know. It’s like… you are giving me a part of you, I think nobody else ever sees. When I see you doing your… thing with the toner, and the moisturiser, and the other thing—”

“It’s for pores.”

“Yes. That. When I see you doing that, and I know it helps you, and makes you happy, it… makes me happy, too.”

Shane’s smile is shy. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“But not for everything, right? I mean… I think I annoy you when I… I don’t know. Does it annoy you when we cook together and I feel like we have to prepare everything in a certain order?”

“Why would that annoy me? It makes sense. When we are following a recipe.”

Shane nods, scrunches up his nose. “Okay. But… how about when I do the laundry?”

“You like to organise everything before it goes in the machine. So it washes everything properly.”

“...yes.”

“...what is the problem?” Ilya asks, now genuinely confused.

“I don’t know…”

“Shane.”

“I just think… I’m aware, sometimes, that I have these… things I do, that, I feel like I might go insane, or crawl out of my skin, or something, if I don’t do them the way I need them to be done.”

“So? Do them your way.”

“Other people aren’t like that.”

“Some people are. Who cares about other people, anyway?” Ilya says, slotting his fingers through Shane's.

“But this is your home, Ilya,” Shane says, not looking at him, but playing with Ilya’s fingers. “What if I get into one of my routines here—when, sure, we’ve had a summer together, so, we’ve had weeks in the same place. But mostly we’re seeing each other for a couple of hours, in person at least. And I know we speak every day, but, it’s not like I can annoy you from thousands of miles away.”

“I don’t understand why you think you annoy me.”

“I’m just aware of it, is all. That I have these routines, these things I do in a specific order. And I’m in your house. And I don’t want… to piss you off,” Shane says with a defeated shrug.

Again, Ilya takes in his words, processes their meaning a little, then lifts Shane’s hand to kiss the back of.

“Shane. I love you. And I love your routines. Even if I don’t understand them. They are important to you, yes?”

“...yes. They shouldn’t be.”

“Why shouldn’t they be?”

“Because nobody else needs them,” Shane says, frustrated.

“No, that is not true, and you know it is not true. Some people do need routines. Some people should have routines but do not. Nobody is exactly the same, and that is good.”

Shane isn’t satisfied, so Ilya tries again.

“Shane. This is my home, yes, but, you are here too, so it is your home, too. You can do anything you want. Anything you need to do. Okay? And,” he says, before Shane can interrupt him, “I don’t think we can pretend every day we will always be happy, all the time. Nobody is like that. Even when everything should be good. But, I think we are getting better, yes? At talking about things?”

“A little,” Shane says with a soft smile. “Slowly, anyway.”

“Yes. So. I think, we will be okay.”

“I want to help you…”

“You are helping me.”

“But I think maybe I might forget that… I don’t know. You need to tell me, okay? If I’m taking over, or doing too much, or… you know.”

“Not really.”

Shane scrunches his face up again. “You need to stop me, if I start acting like my mom.”

Oh. Well, that’s the first time Shane has said anything like that to him.

Ilya loves Yuna, and David, they have made him feel so welcome, so supported already. It is true, though, that Yuna has the kind of focus and drive that makes Ilya feel sleepy. There is no better person around when things need to get done. It is just a little intense sometimes, though, Ilya has been witness to that, and if Shane is scared he might behave similarly…

Oh.

“Your mom is great,” he says.

“Yeah. She is.”

“I understand what you mean,” Ilya adds, hoping that’s enough.

“Yeah?”

“I promise, if there is anything, that I will tell you. But you must tell me, too, okay?”

Sighing, in what sounds like relief, Shane nods. “Okay.”

“This is what you were worrying about?” Ilya ask, to which Shane nods again.

“Of course. Obviously.”

“So… nothing else?”

“I mean, sure, there are plenty of other things we need to think about, but, we just got you home.”

“Okay. Now you are making me worry,” Ilya says, and he’s only partially teasing.

Of course Shane looks curious now, maybe even wary. “Why?”

“Shane. People know about us. You are having conversations with your agent about us. You have had conversations, I think, with many people about us. And you are… okay. You are not, freaking out.”

Shane’s eyes widen. “And that’s what you’re worried about? That I’m not freaking out about that?”

“You are so calm. I expected you would not be.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m calm, but… I don’t know. It’s like, all this time I’ve been scared someone would find us out, that it wouldn’t be on our terms. And this,” Shane says, gesturing at Ilya’s arm,” this isn’t exactly on our terms either, but, it’s out there now. And I’ve not exactly had to have any big conversations yet.”

“Okay. Maybe.”

“And,” Shane says, absently reaching up, cupping the back of Ilya’s neck, “it’s a little different now.”

“It is?”

“Yes. All this time I’ve been scared about us being found out, and then, I’m sitting on this couch, watching you on that TV, getting checked so badly, that you literally was out cold on the ice. Your arm was up at a weird angle, your face looked blue, you looked… I was so scared, Ilya,” Shane says, leaning forward and resting his head against his. “And sure, people finding out about us this way isn’t ideal, but, it was like everything kind of shifted. How the fuck could I care about what people knew, or didn’t know, or thought, or didn’t, when you maybe were… I was scared I might lose you.”

That Shane’s voice is shaky, and Ilya is convinced he can hear tears there too, makes his heart race.

“I am okay.”

“But I didn’t know that. You did not look okay, at all. So. What does it matter what anyone else knows, or thinks, when you could’ve… it looked really, really bad,” Shane says, his breath blasting against Ilya’s cheek.

What can he say to any of that? Ilya doesn’t have the words, in any language.

“I'm here,” he whispers, when he can’t think of anything else.

“Yes. You are. So… seeing you like that changed something for me. I couldn’t—there was no fucking way I wasn’t coming to the hospital. It’s not—keeping this secret isn’t worth it, not even with whatever else comes our way as a result. It’s not worth it, it’s not worth anything, if I’m supposed to see you hurting, and not act like it isn’t killing me, too. Like I don’t care.”

Ilya’s heart is still racing, but it feels different now, a kind of thrumming excitement taking place of any panic. He turns his head, tugging on Shane’s hand so he knows to stay close, letting their foreheads rest together.

He doesn’t have the words, not now, not for how big all the things he is feeling are. So Ilya only whispers a soft I love you, and tucks into Shane’s side when he rearranges and throws an arm around him.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Hello!

No particular warnings I don't think, except to say that it's implied that Montreal have been fairly awful to Shane since hearing about him and Ilya.

Also, this fic is practically finished, finally! It's going to end up being 22/23 chapters, and I'll know that for sure by the time I next post.

Ilya has been home for three days now, and is concerned about his health. Not his various injuries, which are healing just fine as far as he can tell, the bruises already fading from black and blue to yellow. Not his mind, which Ilya knows, even when he won’t acknowledge it, is sometimes no a great place at all. Not even a general kind of worry about how long it might be before he can train again, or how physical therapy will be. No, Ilya’s concern comes from a much stranger place, one he doesn’t really have any metric for.

He feels… content. Comfortable. Secure and supported in ways that he has never known before. It’s only three days in to him and Shane essentially living together while Shane takes care of him, so maybe he’s being too optimistic, but honestly? Being home and sharing a space with someone has never, ever felt as good as this.

Not that he’s ever actually shared a home with someone before, of course. He just didn’t expect it to feel so… nice? Especially with him being laid up and injured, and not able to do very much.

Being in love has clearly softened him in all sorts of weird and wonderful ways, and Ilya can’t even stop smiling long enough to be mad about it.

See? He just heard Shane’s key in the door, and his smile couldn’t be any wider.

“Hey,” Shane calls out, “how’re you doing?”

“Good? I am still here. On the couch.”

“Oh, so you’re behaving then,” Shane says, smiling as he joins him in the living room.

Ilya takes a moment to enjoy the view, which is a sweaty and happily-exhausted looking Shane, fresh from the downstairs gym that personally, Ilya has never used.

“I am reading,” Ilya says, holding up his book, which actually, he’s read two chapters of in Shane’s absence.

“Good. You need anything?”

“No. How was the gym?”

“Pretty good. Quiet. Only a couple of people in there. Only one of them trying to get a photo of me,” Shane adds with an eye roll, right before he curls his fingers in the back of Ilya’s hair and bends down for a kiss.

Oh, Shane. It’s hilarious to Ilya in some ways that Shane is so lacking in self awareness, that he has no idea why people photograph him as much as they do. Sure, he’s a famous, successful, incredible hockey player at the top of his game, but he’s also gorgeous, and beautiful, and has the kind of smile that can leave pretty much anyone either stunned, or smirking, or… other things.

Which brings Ilya to when it is not hilarious that people like to take so many photos of Shane, always seek him out and gush over him and, though Shane doesn’t notice, flirt with him. Shane is his. Ilya is possessive about that, and jealous of every single person who gets time with him that he doesn’t.

Shane is still his, though. No one else gets to experience him just like this, sharing space.

“Maybe they didn’t recognise you and thought you were not a resident, but using the gym.”

“Oh.”

“No. No, I’m joking,” Ilya says, and starts laughing, tilting his head back so Shane will kiss him again.

“You’re messing with me,” Shane says, pretending to pout but smiling by the time he reaches Ilya’s mouth.

“Yes.”

“...fine. You coming with me for a shower now, or—”

“Yes. Now,” Ilya says, marking his page in his book and holding his hand out, so Shane can help him up.

Immediately, Shane loops his arms around his waist, grinning at him looking pleased.

“You’re getting quicker at that.”

“I’m not rushing.”

“No, I know. It’s just nice to see you getting up and not looking like you’re in so much pain. You’re not, are you?” Shane adds, glancing down at Ilya’s ankle and hovering a hand in front of his ribs.

“Ankle; almost okay now. No, not almost, but, I think it will heal the first. Ribs, awful. But, better than before. Arm is… arm,” Ilya says, forgetting himself and moving it, hissing immediately for the shoot of pain it causes.

“That… won’t help,” Shane says, wincing, and ducking to press a gentle kiss to the top of his sling.

“Not too bad.”

Sighing, Shane kisses him on the cheek, then wraps an arm around Ilya’s waist, guiding him to the bathroom.

“We have an email. From Farah,” Ilya says later when they have had their shower, gotten distracted with one another, and of course ended up back in bed.

“Mm?” Shane mumbles, already half asleep beside him.

“She messaged us. With a statement.”

Oh, that’s woken Shane up.

“When did you get your phone?”

“I didn’t. I saw a notification on yours. I didn’t read it,” Ilya adds, hastily, “but the title says Statement. And I saw my name too, on the contact thing.”

Shane arches an eyebrow at him, looking between them where his phone now is on the bed, and picks it up, shoving it into Ilya’s hand.

“You know my pin,” he says, shoving his arm above his head and closing his eyes. “Read me the email.”

“I… do?”

Shane smiles, or rather smirks, and oh, yes, Ilya does know what his pin is. So he unlocks Shane’s phone, clicks on the email, and reads it out.

“That sounds perfect, actually,” Shane says when Ilya is finished.

“Yes. She is very good. I hope I will work with her properly soon.”

“You will,” Shane says, reaching out and patting his leg.

Ilya hopes so. He’s spoken to Farah just once over a video call, and had a couple of email conversations, but already he knows that they will work well together—far better than he works with his current agent here. With everything up in the air, though, because of his injuries, Ilya’s mind likes to play the what-if game with him. Which he refuses to play right now, instead turning his head and kissing Shane’s shoulder.

“So. We can copy this to Instagram, yes?” he asks.

“Definitely. Maybe when we get up? I’ll make us some food, and, maybe we can choose some photos to post with it?”

“Good idea.”

“In a minute though, right?” Shane says, turning on his side and snuggling up to Ilya.

Ilya kisses the top of his head. “Yes. In a minute.”

Two hours later, they are comfortably full of food and sprawled out on the couch, bickering over photos to post with their statement. They don’t have a lot together taken to choose from, so it’s not even close to a real argument, and to be honest those they do have are just a small handful taken by Yuna or David.

Well, no, that’s not true, is it?

“...I have these,” Ilya says, debating with himself then going into his secret folder labelled boring and turning his phone for Shane to see.

Shane leans in, frowns, then laughs, bumping his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder. “Wow. You actually took those photos? I thought you were pretending.”

“No.”

No. Because these are the only photos of Shane that Ilya has, that he has had, for all these years. He’s looked at them more times than he can count, knowing every emotion possible when staring at them. Heartache, jealousy, need, want, agony—and when he stopped denying it to himself, love. Once he let himself feel that, then he let himself imagine what a life with Shane might actually be like, and in the beginning that had felt impossible.

Look at them now, though. That life he imagined them sharing it seems they’re going to have now, right? Just thinking about that makes Ilya’s heart race, and his face turn up in a smile.

“My hair got long, huh?” Shane says, pulling on some strands over his forehead.

Ilya rolls his eyes. He’s kept these photos all this time, transferring them from phone to phone, and—

“I can’t believe you kept these all this time,” Shane adds, softly, letting his head come to rest on Ilya’s shoulder.

Time to be honest, then.

“I only had these. For a long, long time. Even this year, we haven’t kept any photos of each other.”

“No. We’ve sent a ton, though.”

Yes, they have, and those photos, for however briefly kept, they have kept Ilya going, like nothing else could.

“Maybe we don’t need to delete them now,” Ilya says, feeling Shane smile as he turns a little to kiss his shoulder.

“We don’t need to delete anything now. Well. Maybe there are still some photos we take that we really do need to keep to ourselves…”

“I think you should tell me about these photos later,” Ilya says, earning himself a snort, and a smile when Shane sits back up.

Then, Shane’s smile dips a little, before he scrunches up his nose, and a light pink covers his cheeks.

“You know, uh… for a while, I… I didn’t have any photos of you. Not even like these,” Shane says, gesturing at Ilya’s phone. “So I… the only photo I really could have of you back before, was… you know. Your game one.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Game one?”

“You know.”

Oh. “The… that one on the cover?” Ilya asks, knowing he’s right because Shane’s cheeks are now bright red, instead of pink. “You bought the game for that?”

“It was one reason.”

If Ilya’s smile is as smug as it feels, no one would blame him.

“What was the other reason?”

“To play, obviously."

"Ah, obviously."

"I did buy two copies, though. One for the cottage, and one, that… I kept one in Montreal. Just to, you know. Have a photo of you. Wherever I was,” Shane says, keeping his head ducked.

Ilya’s ears are ringing. He wants to tease, and he wants to cry, and what he wants most of all is to wrap Shane up tightly in his arms. He won’t be doing any of those things, but he can take his hand, and raise that to kiss.

“You can have any photo of me that you want now.”

Shane tilts his chin at him. “Same.”

“Good. So. Maybe, we take one of these,” Ilya says, nodding at his phone. “Maybe… one from the cottage. One from Christmas. Maybe we can take one together now?”

Shane’s eyes get really big, and then they light up, and his face breaks into a smile. “We can really do that now, huh?”

“Yes. I think so.”

Smacking a kiss on Ilya’s shoulder Shane rearranges himself beside him—almost in his lap, not that Ilya is complaining—then holds his phone up.

Their Instagram statement gets a pretty good response, the positive comments far outweighing the… other stuff. It means a lot to Ilya that so many of his teammates were the first to respond; it also makes him a little guilty that he’ll be hopefully leaving them soon. Though, he will take any of those feelings because, not that he meant to look, he knows a few of them have now followed Shane. Not that he’s on Instagram a lot. It’s just nice that they are reaching out to them, accepting Shane—accepting them—in a way.

Now that they’re official to the outside world, though, apparently everyone wants to speak to them. Well, to Shane, at least. Ilya counts himself pretty lucky that the only person who has called him instead of texting is Svetlana, and he will happily talk to her whenever. The coaches and managers at Boston have emailed and texted, as have most of the team. Who else is there that needs to talk to him? Any press requests have gone to his agent here, and his agent is… not exactly a fan of the press. Not in a protective way for Ilya, but more that he just doesn’t like having constant conversations.

Honestly. That is probably the only reason why Ilya has stuck with him so long.

There are press requests, though, requests for interviews with various media that Farah reads out lists of to Shane and shows no reaction on her face for every single no. Shane has spoken to exactly one coach and one manager from Montreal who have been as horrible as Ilya would have guessed, but to be honest Ilya has never seen Shane look so confident and determined. Any time anyone says anything remotely negative of accusatory, Shane brings out a brand new scowl that Ilya is fascinated by.

A scowl that becomes a displeased frown when he looks at his phone after hearing an alert.

Ilya watches him roll his eyes, and tries not to wince when Shane slumps back against his shoulder making him jump and jar his arm, shaking his head when Shane looks at him in belated apology.

“What happened?”

“JJ? Commenting under our statement with you owe me a phone call?”

“...that’s it? That is all he said?”

“I texted him, and everyone else, after you went to the hospital. I’ve barely heard from any of them, aside from… you know."

Yes. Ilya does know. He has nice ideas of, when his arm is better, fighting every last person who sent such awful messages to Shane. Nobody gets to put that look of disappointment, and fear, and really, sadness above all else, on Shane's face.

“But, Hayden, yes?” Ilya says, sure he would never have imagined himself almost defending Hayden Pike for anything.

In truth, Hayden has been fairly good with Shane—weird, because he can’t help himself—but okay at least. He has been messaging Shane constantly, checking to see if he’s doing okay, and, to Ilya’s amusement, even asking about him. Hayden and Shane have spoken on the phone a couple of times too, and so while Ilya won’t pretend he understands their friendship, it is good to have some evidence that Hayden is actually a decent friend to Shane. It matters far less that Hayden doesn't like him all that much.

JJ, though, Ilya suspects, given his lack of response, will not be so accepting of any of this.

“Hayden’s fine,” Shane says, absently playing with Ilya’s hand. “Weirded out, but, you know. Fine.”

It’s not his favourite thing to think about, anyone being weirded out about his and Shane’s relationship, but Ilya will take people not being a dick to Shane over anything right now. He knows some of the things Shane’s had to listen to from people at Montreal haven’t been great, and that Shane is shielding the worst of it from him.

Ilya wishes he wouldn’t, but this is all so new, and he doesn’t want to push.

Someone who is supposed to be a good friend of Shane’s, though? Ilya can't keep quiet about that.

“What will you say to JJ?”

Shane snorts. “Nothing? I already texted him once. If he has something to say, he knows where I am. What the fuck is he commenting under a public post for, instead of calling?”

Mm. That does seem pretty shitty behaviour.

Before Ilya can overthink it he grabs his phone—his ribs protest, but, whatever—and opens Instagram. He finds their post, and replying to JJ, writes, thank you for the kind words.

It’s nothing, it’s stupid, probably, but hey, he’s hitting send on it anyway.

Seconds later, Shane is looking at him incredulously.

“What?” Ilya asks innocently.

“You… never mind.”

“What? Is he going to tell me to go fuck myself when I am being so nice? On our post?”

“I seriously don’t want you two trying to out-asshole each other,” Shane says, getting up.

“Are you worried who will win?”

“Me. I will.”

“Okay. Where are you going?” Ilya says, reaching up for Shane’s hand.

“The bathroom? Think you can behave for a few minutes?”

Ilya grins, and makes his accent thicker. “I can try, but, you know. The temptation… is too much.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but is laughing. “Fucker.”

“Yours, though.”

“Always,” Shane says, and lets go of his hand.

Shane’s phone starts to buzz the moment he is out of sight.

Shit. JJ calling to give him some shit for Ilya’s message, maybe? With his eyes screwed up, like that might prevent him seeing the name on Shane’s phone, Ilya picks it up.

Rose?

No. He’s not answering Rose, Ilya thinks, dropping Shane’s phone immediately, and of course, hitting the button to answer it.

“Hi!”

Oh… fucking hell. What has he done now?

“Um. Hello. Sorry. Shane is… not here.”

Ilya hears a gasp. Oh, no. That’s even worse.

“Hi, Ilya!”

Fuck.

“Hello.”

“This is Rose.”

“...yes. Hello.”

“How are you feeling?” she says, concern evident in her voice. Ilya really tries his hardest not to scowl.

“Uh. A little better?”

“That’s good. Are you getting plenty of rest?”

“I am sleeping a lot. I think that helps.”

“That helps more than anything else, I think,” Rose says. “Is Shane taking good care of you?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“And is he… doing okay?” Rose adds, which is the turning point in the conversation for Ilya, because concern for him is one thing, but for Shane? That’s something else entirely.

“Yes. I think so. I think this has been difficult for him.”

“He saw you getting hurt, and knocked unconscious, and then carried off the ice, Ilya. Of course it was difficult.”

That’s not, entirely, what he means, though it is another reminder of what Shane went through. Not enough to distract him from the fact that he's stuck on a phone call with Rose Landry, though.

“Yes. I know,” he says, looking towards the bathroom and silently pleading with Shane to hurry the hell up.

“I’m really happy you two have each other,” Rose says next. “I know it’s probably come as a surprise to some people—”

“Big surprise.”

“But it makes total sense, just looking at you. Well. Not just looking at you,” Rose adds, laughing, “because we’ve not had the chance to meet yet. But, I hope we can, soon?”

“...yes. That would be nice,” Ilya finds himself saying.

“I loved your Insta post, by the way. You said everything perfectly, and the photos were amazing. Anyone who looks at them and can’t see two people in love, is an idiot.”

“...thank you. Rose.”

“Of course,” Rose says, “I can’t wait to meet you in person. And I know you like to dance; maybe we can get Shane to loosen up a little? I know he’d be amazing if he let himself.”

Funny. Ilya has thought the same as well, even imagined the perfect, quieter kind of environment that might happen in. Up until now, he hasn’t had the chance to explore that possibility.

There is no reason they can’t now, though, now that everyone knows about them.

“Maybe,” is what Ilya says in reply, instead of any of the words that would go with the very nice images he is now conjuring in his head.

“But, you need to get better first. And I meant, just from the way Shane talks about you, it’s obvious as anything, how happy he is. With you, I mean.”

Okay. So maybe Ilya is on the verge of calling himself an almost-Rose Landry fan. Almost, though. Not all the way there, yet.

“He makes me happy, too,” he says, because he can, and knows relief when he hears the bathroom door opening.

“Oh, shoot,” Rose says next.

“What?”

“I just got called back to set. Dammit. Listen. Take care of yourself, okay, Ilya? And tell Shane I’ll call him another time. Take care!”

The call disconnects. Ilya lowers the phone to the couch, looking up as Shane approaches.

Shane gives him a curious smile. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Um. I didn’t mean to answer, but, Rose just called you. She will call you back. I don’t know when.”

Shane’s mouth falls open, and then he laughs. “You spoke to Rose?”

“Yes.”

Shane sits, squeezing Ilya's leg. “And?”

“And… I don’t know. She seems… nice?” Ilya says, seeing the pleased, triumphant smile on Shane’s face, and is helplessly smiling back at him.

“She is nice. What did she say?”

“Nothing. No, she asked if I was okay, if you are okay. She said maybe we can meet sometime. When I am better.”

“That would be amazing. I mean, she’s filming somewhere in Europe right now, so it won’t be any time soon, but, that could be good, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, sliding his hand into Shane’s lap as he settles back beside him.

“And Svetlana should come over while we’re here,” Shane adds, pointing the remote at the TV.

They have barely spoken about Svetlana since they got home from the hospital. Ilya is suddenly replaying how easy the conversation seemed between Svetlana and Shane there.

“Yes?” Ilya asks.

“Of course. Maybe she can come over for dinner, or something? Maybe takeout though,” Shane adds, and laughs. “I get the feeling she’d be critiquing my cooking.”

“No, no. She would just be asking for more cheese, more sauce, more oil.”

“We’ll get takeout.”

“Okay. You liked… my teammates, yes? From Boston. In the hospital?”

It’s no surprise at all that Shane looks confused for his stilted subject change.

“Sure? I mean, they all seemed pretty great. They were funny. They teased me a bit, about you,” Shane adds, going pink. “But it was… good, you know? It was nice. Easy. I didn't have to think too hard about how I should be.”

Ilya is so, so proud of his team, and so relieved. But that isn’t what he really wanted to ask.

“You… liked Svetlana?” Ilya gets out next, letting his head fall to Shane’s shoulder.

“Well. I only got to speak to her for, I don’t know, less than an hour, before your team showed up. But, yes. I kind of felt like… I don’t know.”

“...what?”

“I don’t know,” Shane says again. “You know how, sometimes, you meet someone, and it feels a bit like you already know them? Or… you know how, sometimes, when you meet people, and you have no idea how to act around them? At least, I feel like that, with a lot of people."

Ilya wants to hug him, knows Shane does worry about that kind of thing all of the time. He also doesn't want Shane to think he is patronising him, or anything, by bringing that up, so only nods in encouragement for him to keep talking.

"I didn't feel like that with her at all. Not even for a second. I don't even know why. I just felt like I only had to be myself. I can't explaining it,” Shane says, shrugging.

“Oh.”

Well, that's a relief. At least, Ilya thinks it is.

“And," Shane adds, "we have something very important in common."

“Your obsession over hockey.”

Shane kisses the top of his head, hard. “No. I mean, sure, but, I meant, that we both love you.”

Well, Ilya can only smile at that.

He has to tease a little bit though, or, if not tease, get out a thought that’s been stuck in his head for a bit, and he's tried to ignore. “I worried, a little, that you would not like her.”

“Oh, believe me. I hated her before I met her. Not hate, hate, but, as much as it makes me happy to think you’ve had this best friend your whole life, who has always been there for you, I… Jealousy is a thing, okay?” Shane says, clearing his throat and looking elsewhere when Ilya sits back up.

Ha. That’s what Ilya was assuming, but now he’s hearing Shane admit it, it’s nothing to be triumphant about. In fact he feels… not guilty, but a little sad that he’s ever made Shane feel like that.

“That was all a very long time ago, and it was nothing important. She is important to me, of course, but, just because she is my friend. Before, it was just… you know. Just sex.”

“Yes. I know.”

His voice is clipped. Ilya doesn’t want this conversation to turn into a bitter, or angry one.

“I am jealous of everyone who ever had you like that,” Ilya says, taking Shane’s hand. “I am also jealous of everyone who has more time with you than I can. Which, sometimes, is most people.”

Shane’s lips curve up a little. “Yeah. I’m still pretty jealous about that, too.”

“Also. I wanted to hate Rose. She is very unfair. Why is she so nice?” Ilya says, letting out an exaggerated blast of frustration that really makes Shane smile.

“I don’t know? I know she’s become a really good friend. It’s not the same as you, and Svetlana, and it’s not even like how Hayden is my best friend. But it’s good. It's great. I can’t… I don’t think I had that many friends when I was, you know. Younger. So. It’s been nice.”

Ilya can picture that so easily, and his heart breaks for a younger Shane, picturing him walking unsteadily out in the world not sure where to put his footing. He has known Shane for years now, has seen the growing confidence in him, but also knows what it takes from Shane to be open, to have his guard down.

“We both have some good people in our lives now, I think,” Ilya says, quietly.

“Yes. I think so, too. It will be nice. When we can maybe, not share, exactly, but, maybe have some of those people in the same space sometime.”

Immediately, Ilya’s mind conjures their wedding and those people being there to celebrate them.

He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. Though ultimately, it’s the biggest, most comforting thought in the world, to know that is where the two of them are headed some day.

“That would be nice,” he says, instead of any of that.

“You know what would be amazing?” Shane says then with a big smile, and also, Ilya thinks, an element of a groan in his voice.

“What?”

“Can you imagine the kind of conversation my mom would have with Svetlana, about hockey?”

“Oh my god,” Ilya says, because he now can't think of anything else, his mind already filled with the vision of Yuna and Svetlana putting the entire hockey world to rights.

“That would be epic. And terrifying. Mostly terrifying,” Shane says, laughing to himself.

Ilya knows it would. It would also probably be incredible to watch.

One day, maybe.

“So terrifying,” he agrees.

“So. Ask Svetlana if she wants to come over for dinner.”

“Yes. But, maybe after I have my check-up, yes?” Ilya says, nodding over his arm.

“How is it feeling?” Shane says, dropping his head on Ilya’s shoulder.

“I don’t know. Not painful, but, it feels wrong. Because it is wrong right now. I don’t think it is any worse than before.”

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” Shane says, and carefully rests his fingertips against Ilya’s sling.

Ilya turns just enough to kiss his forehead. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Nothing much to warn about this chapter I don't think - please be aware of what is already in the tags.

This fic, barring some tinkering, is done! It will be 22 chapters in total.

🧡

The doctor’s office door clicks closed, and Shane immediately offers Ilya both a smile and his hand.

“Doing okay?” he says, in that way he does when he knows the question is pointless but has to say something anyway.

“I don’t know?”

“At least we’ll find out something today, about, if there is anything we can do, or we need to do anything different.”

What they really need to hear is that Ilya is recovering perfectly, faster than expected, and everything will be resolved by the start of the next season. What would be good to hear, if not that, is just how much time this healing is going to take. What Ilya fears is hearing absolutely none of these things, and leaving this appointment today with even more questions.

He doesn’t need to say any of that out loud, because all of it is written across Shane’s face.

They sit in silence waiting for the doctor to return, a Dr. Garcia, Ilya thinks she is called, too nervous when coming in to listen when she introduced herself. She was gentle when she examined him though, asking questions of his recovery so far that he could answer easily. The waiting, he thinks, is the hardest part of it. It gives him time to think about how bad his arm might be, and how Boston are now out of the playoffs as of last night, and about a million other things.

Five minutes go by. Ten. It’s not the longest wait in the world, but Ilya almost jumps out of his chair in relief when Dr. Garcia finally walks back in.

“Okay, Mr. Rozanov,” she says, crossing the room and immediately going to display his x-rays. “The pin in your arm is stable, and looks good. Everything is fusing as it should be. I see no concerns about further clotting, or disfigurement. And I am pleased to see that there is absolutely no sign of infection, which is something we see more commonly in compound fractures like yours. But, we have to be practical here.”

What the hell does that mean?

“Yes?”

“As compound fractures go, and despite how chaotic it might look up there,” she says, looking at the screen again, “yours is nowhere near the worst I've seen. It's still not great; ideally you wouldn't have this fracture at all, and we wouldn't even be having this conversation.”

"No."

“Having said all of that, what I don't want you to do now is think this isn't a serious injury, because it is. If you want full use of your arm in the future, and to be back doing what you love as quickly and safely as possible, you cannot rush your recovery on this. At this stage, I wouldn’t even like to guess at how long you might need. But, I know you need to know something, and I know your team doctor will be wanting a copy of my report today.”

Ilya knows a sudden bout of guilt. In theory, his team is Boston, but, in practice? In his mind, it’s been nothing but getting to Ottawa, and then the next part of his life, for a year now. So, no, Boston’s team doctors won’t want this medical report, and Ottawa might not ask for it yet.

Or at all. Ilya hates feeling stuck in limbo like this.

“Are there no rough estimates or anything?” Shane asks, when Ilya doesn’t find his words.

Dr. Garcia pauses, considering. “You’re in the reparative stage right now, where your body is essentially starting to knit you back together. That usually takes between one and six weeks.

“Remodelling comes next—don’t worry, that’s something the body does itself, you don’t need to do anything,” she reassures them. “By that stage you should be fairly free of pain, but, you will need some patience with yourself. Average times… well, we say maybe up to ten weeks with a fracture like yours, but that’s just an average.”

“Then, there will be physical therapy, and… other things?” Ilya asks, hoping the panic that is rising in his chest isn’t obvious.

“Yes. I think your plan of action is to rest, as much as you can, follow medical advice, come for regular check-ups, and ultimately, don’t push for too much too soon. You also need to consider,” Dr. Garcia adds, with a slightly more serious look for Ilya, "that, even if everything goes perfectly with your recovery, and you're back playing hockey within, say, the year, you have to be aware there might still be some weakness. You'll need to take care of that arm, for a while yet."

“Is there anything we can do to help with recovery?” Shane asks, still holding Ilya’s hand.

“Keep away from alcohol. Don’t smoke.”

“I gave up. But, I will make sure I don’t… slip,” Ilya says when he can feel Shane narrowing his eyes at him, earning himself an affectionate eye roll when he looks.

“Good. Because both of those things can reduce blood flow and impair bone healing. I would say, though, that you are in otherwise excellent health, so don’t take my estimate—or lack of one—as the ultimate answer. You could heal much faster than any of us can hazard a guess to right now. As to things you can do, try to follow a bone-friendly diet.”

“What does that look like?” Shane asks.

“Plenty of protein—lean, preferably. Calcium-rich foods. Vitamin D in the form of supplements, or fatty fish.”

“We—Ilya eats a lot of fish anyway, so, that won’t be too hard.”

“Good. Then, all I will say, is keep doing everything you’re doing, and be patient. Your ankle seems back to normal already; you can bear weight comfortably now, correct?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “My ribs, they are much better too. A little sore sometimes, but nothing too bad.”

“Good. I think that’s also a good sign of you recovering quicker than expected. I just don’t think it wise to get your hopes up with putting a definitive timescale on this.”

It’s not what Ilya wanted to hear, but about as much as he expected. He is quiet on the drive back home, and Shane, seeming to sense his worry, only keeps reaching up to squeeze the back of his neck or play with his hair, not saying a word.

He does curse though, when there are two photographers and a journalist standing right by the entrance to the parking lot for Ilya’s apartment.

“What the fuck do they want now?”

“Probably, they know I had a doctor’s appointment today.”

Of course they would know, it’s been on the news, which seems a stupid thing for anyone else but him to have to know about, but what would he know?

“Well. They can fuck off.”

Shane is right, and Ilya couldn’t face questions now even if he wanted to, so keeps his head down, and leaves Shane to drive.

Right up until the journalist thumps on Ilya’s window to get his attention.

“Ilya—”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ilya says, already half out the car, immediately getting in the journalist’s face. “What do you want, huh? What?”

The journalist stumbles backwards, eyes wide until he composes himself. “Care to comment on any of the rumours currently circulating about you?”

“What rumours?” Ilya demands, as he hears Shane climbing out as well.

Shit. Now the journalist is looking at him, too, and the cameras are flashing.

“That your injury means you won’t be returning to playing any time soon.”

What a stupid fucking question. Ilya is so angry he can’t actually tell them that.

“Well, it’s also off season for us now, so, no, not any time soon,” Shane says, rounding the car and standing protectively in front of Ilya’s injured arm.

“Any comment on your relationship?”

“Yes. It is good. We are happy. This will help you sell many stories, yes?”

“You want us to pose? Will that make you fuck off?” Shane growls out and walks around Ilya’s other side, throwing an arm around his waist and glaring at the two photographers, who hesitate, but then both resume snapping pictures. “Got what you want? Good. Let’s go, Ilya.”

Shane opens Ilya’s door for him. He starts to duck inside, then—

“Is it true that you are planning on leaving Boston when you become a free agent?”

Fuck.

“You think we’re thinking about anything right now, aside from Ilya’s arm recovering?” Shane asks, then takes out his phone, and starts taking pictures of the photographers and journalists. “If there is so much as a scratch on that window, you will get a bill. Fuck off.”

Ilya gets into the car as quickly as possible, not bothering with his seatbelt and glad that Shane shuts the door behind him so he doesn’t have to. Shane jogs around the car, and apparently for good measure feels the need to tell the journalist to fuck off again. Ilya can’t help smiling at him for it when Shane climbs in.

“They will say I have corrupted you,” he says, as Shane starts the engine.

“They can say whatever the fuck they want.”

“No, I know. It is just funny to me. That everyone thinks you are so polite, when your mouth is… not very polite at all.”

Shane tries not to smile, and fails. “You like my mouth.”

“Oh, yes, I really do.”

“Let’s just get home, huh?” Shane says with a sigh, his smile dropping, patting Ilya’s leg as he steers them into the parking lot.

The look on Shane’s face is either disgust or admiration, most likely a weird mix of the two. Ilya is fairly impressed himself, watching Svetlana ponder the leftovers of their takeout order before shovelling a piece of shrimp toast into her mouth whole, and then dunking a dumpling into sweet and sour sauce. She has one more look, stabs her chopsticks into the noodles and drops a large scoop into her mouth, then falls back on the floor with her hands on her stomach and her head on a pillow, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Okay. Now I think I’m done,” she says.

“How the hell did you eat all that?” Shane asks in wonder.

“I had a busy day.”

“She is a garbage can.”

“I have seen you eat from a garbage can…”

Shane’s head whips to the side; it’s kind of funny, so Ilya schools his smile in before it can really form.

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“If I did, I do not remember.”

“Yes, because you were drunk,” Svetlana says, and stretches her arms over her head.

This is so, so weird, in fact it’s weird that it’s not weird. Svetlana arrived a couple of hours ago, and anyone would think it was the three of them who had been friends forever, instead of just her and Ilya. Shane is comfortable with her, in a way Ilya knows he isn’t with all that many people. In fact, he could probably count on one hand just how many people have ever got to see Shane as relaxed as this.

It’s nice, though. The little knot of worry in Ilya’s stomach over tonight was for nothing, and anything else he has to worry about can wait until the morning. Unless the conversation comes up, of course, which knowing Svetlana, it will. He’s not going to be the one to start it, though.

“Shane. How is your Russian?” Svetlana asks, her face barely visible now from where she’s sprawled out on the floor on the other side of the coffee table.

“Uh. Not great yet?”

“Maybe I should teach you. I’m a much better teacher than Ilya.”

“Oh, are you,” Ilya says, tempted to throw a pillow at her.

“Yes. I have more patience.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Don’t you want to sit on the couch?” Shane asks, stretching his neck a little to see Svetlana’s face.

“No. This is how I can eat so much. If I lie on a hard, flat surface, afterward, my stomach is happier. The couch is too soft.”

This is strange Svetlana logic that Ilya has heard before, and will not pretend to understand, only giving a one-shoulder shrug when Shane looks at him.

“Oh, that photo from earlier was cute,” Svetlana says then, groaning as she sits up and grabbing her phone from the coffee table.

Shane sags beside him. Ilya knocks their shoulders together in solidarity. “If you say so.”

“I do. It’s cute. Look,” Svetlana says, leaning over the table so they can see her phone.

Okay. It’s not the worst photo in the world, and the fact that Shane is glaring at the camera is kind of hot. His arm is very much around Ilya’s waist, in fact there isn’t a gap between them, and it’s obvious, isn’t it? How well they fit together, how they have fit together, for a long time?

“There are a million likes,” Svetlana says, scrolling through her phone once they have looked.

“Probably not a million,” Shane says.

“Close enough. Maybe they will give you a break now? This is your first actual photo together, like, one that someone else took, and not you. Maybe this will be enough for them for now?”

Ilya doesn’t believe that, but wants to. He also has seen the photo already, of course, and all the likes, and, unfortunately, some of the comments. There are only a handful of negative ones that he paid even a little attention to, and to be honest, most of the positive ones he didn’t read much of either. It’s those few comments from people who also noticed how hot Shane looks when he is angry that Ilya feels things about. Good things, bad things; he hasn’t decided yet.

“I don’t know what anyone expects us to say,” Shane says, frowning hard. “We’re together. We know us being rivals is a weird thing for people to get their heads around.”

“Us, too, for a long time,” Ilya adds, earning himself a look.

“True. But, like, what do we actually have to say about it? We’ve talked to our teams. We’ve talked to our agents. We’ve talked to—we’ve talked to all the people that we need to. What else is there to say?”

In truth, they will probably have to talk to more people about this at some point, even if Ilya agrees—what else is there left to say? It just seems that right now, with his arm injury, and their future plans potentially upended, that there is no point in saying anything.

“How are your teams with you?” Svetlana asks, as though she doesn’t probably already know.

“Boston are okay, I think. Most of them,” Ilya says, then nods at Shane. “Montreal… not so much.”

“I don’t feel like I know even half of them anymore,” Shane says, looking defeated and sad until he schools that in.

“Then, they are stupid. Nothing changed about how you play hockey.”

“Tell them that.”

“Oh, she would, if she could,” Ilya says.

“I would. I would tell them a lot of things. And that coach, Theriault, I would have fired him years ago. He’s pathetic. A bully," Svetlana adds, scowling.

Shane wants to agree, Ilya knows he does, and also knows that he won’t.

“Maybe… they will be better when the season starts,” Ilya suggests, though doesn’t really believe at all.

Svetlana gives him a look that says she knows that too. “And you? Has Boston said anything to you about Ottawa yet?”

“No.”

What if there isn’t anything to say?

“Ilya has a call with the Centaurs' management tomorrow,” Shane says, to which Ilya nods.

“I wanted to wait until after my doctor's appointment,” Ilya says, nodding at his arm. “Now, I know… some things. Not very much, but, enough to talk to them, honestly.”

“Even if you’re in PT for a while yet, you’re still an amazing asset to that team. They’d be idiots to turn you down. But, anyone would be.”

Ilya wishes he had Svetlana’s confidence in him, but doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to dampen this comfortable, happy mood.

“We will see,” he says, then starts stacking up the takeout containers closest to him—one-handed, of course, knocking Shane’s hand away playfully when he goes to protest.

If Shane doesn’t let him come soon Ilya will not be held accountable for his actions. He’s been riding him for, okay, not hours, but it feels like it, so slow and tortuously delicious that Ilya is out of his mind. Every time he gets close to coming, every time he thinks Shane can’t hold on any longer, he slows down, circles his hips in a teasing drag that makes Ilya’s eyes roll back.

“You are trying to kill me,” he grunts out, running his fingers down Shane’s sweaty chest and taking him in hand.

Shane grunts too, biting down on his lip as he thrusts up into Ilya’s hand, then knocks his wrist away again.

“And you hate it.”

“...no.”

“Exactly,” Shane whispers, almost stopping moving altogether as he bends down to kiss him.

In fact, he does stop then, only clenching down on him repeatedly, smiling triumphantly against Ilya’s mouth when he lets out a whine.

He’s not complaining, really, not even close. He wraps his hand around Shane’s thigh knowing another rush of heat for just how solid it is, then drops his head back, closing his eyes when Shane ducks and mouths at his neck.

Shane starts to move, giving slow, small circles of his hips, then the other way, then raising himself up only to impale himself on him so slowly, all Ilya can do is curse. If his ribs were completely back to normal he would thrust up into him. Or not. Ilya loves when Shane takes control like this, loves the tease of it, the determination in Shane’s smile. He especially loves watching Shane slowly unravel, that control he’s exerted for however long now starting to fall apart, as his legs being to shake, and precum leaks from him so much that Ilya has to swirl his thumb over his cockhead, get a taste for himself.

“Fuck.”

Winking, Ilya takes his cock in a soft grip, letting Shane thrust into it at the pace he wants. It’s heaven when he stirs his hips again, trying to get the perfect angle, the hiss that falls from his mouth telling Ilya, just here, this is it, exactly where he wants.

Ilya can’t move that much, but what he can do is press up into him, tighten his grip just that little bit so Shane can ride him with abandon, chase his pleasure however he wants, bringing Ilya to the brink as he does. That look on Shane’s face says he can’t drag this out any longer, his hands curling around Ilya’s shoulders for support.

Ilya can’t take his eyes off him, the way Shane stares back at him open mouthed, eyes full of lust, and need for him. It’s intoxicating, being wanted this much, feeling Shane give himself over to him so entirely. This is all his, and any minute now Shane will clench down on him, spurt over his chest, claiming him.

Ilya feels himself building only able to gasp out Shane’s name, barely getting a kiss in before Shane is throwing his head back and starting to whine. He knocks Ilya’s hand away getting himself off and clenching down, letting out the filthiest moan as he splashes over his chest. Ilya gives one roll of his hips then is coming, pleasure ripping through him like a wave, Shane’s name blasting from his mouth.

Panting, and heavy with exertion, Shane drops their foreheads together and lets out a sigh. He is trembling all over, though Ilya is no better really, his hand shaking as he reaches to stroke down Shane’s arm.

“Yes. I am dead now,” Ilya says, turning his head to kiss Shane’s cheek. “Goodbye.”

“No. No goodbye.”

“Maybe… goodnight then.”

“Mm. Not yet,” Shane says, then curls his fingers through Ilya’s hair and kisses him slowly, like they have all the time in the world.

Which… they don’t. They have about an hour now before Ilya has a video call with the Centaurs' management, which means before that, they need to make time to shower and dress. It feels impossible to move, both because he’s blissed out and boneless, and because his gorgeous boyfriend shows no signs of getting off his lap—lucky him.

Shane does move eventually, though, and what can Ilya do but lean forward immediately, suck him into his mouth, slip a finger into his hole and feel the evidence there of his claim on him.

Shane’s soft hum and hands resting loosely on his shoulders says he’d happily stand here and let Ilya do this for a while, but no, they can’t, so, maybe later. Ilya gives one last suck, kisses Shane’s inner thighs, then holds out his hand for him to haul him up.

Their shower takes way, way too long, and Ilya is red cheeked and breathless by the time he is sitting down ready for his video call. This is all, probably, deliberate on Shane’s part, because he already tried several ways to calm him earlier, but Ilya’s mind has been racing all morning. All night, too, realistically, because he really didn’t get much sleep.

“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” Shane says, looping his arm gently round Ilya’s shoulders where he’s sitting at his dining table, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Yes. We will.”

“I’m gonna get you a drink, then I’m gonna go sit on the couch, and if you need me for anything, just yell. Unless you want me to stay here with you?”

A part of him does, but also Ilya thinks he should probably do this call alone. He needs to show some strength, doesn’t he? Some confidence in himself? That he can manage one single video call alone without help from anyone?

No. It’s not that. Not really, anyway—Ilya needs to make this call by himself, for himself. If the call goes well, that will feel like an achievement, and if it goes badly, he will need a few minutes alone to process it. So Shane being just a few steps away but out of sight is probably the best scenario he could hope for.

Ilya covers Shane’s hand with his own, absorbing the warmth of him pressed against him, smiling for the kiss to his neck.

“Okay. Good luck. I love you,” Shane says, punctuating his words with kisses to his cheek.

“I love you,” Ilya says, holding on to Shane’s hand for a few seconds before he can stand to let go of him.

He waits until Shane’s footfall fades away, then rearranges his face into a neutral expression, and stares expectantly at his laptop screen.

The call connects. Ilya holds his breath as the image pixelates then clears, relieved, mostly, that there are only two faces on the screen.

“Ilya,” says the man on the left, “I’m Ralph Lalonde. General manager for the Centaurs. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes. You too.”

“And this is our team doctor.”

“Terry,” says the second man, waving. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

“How are you doing?” Ralph asks.

Oh. Why does that feel like a difficult question?

“Good. I am okay. Not bad,” Ilya says, immediately cursing himself for tripping over his own tongue.

“How hard has it been, resting up?”

“Oh, not too bad. I know it is better for me, if I do.”

“I would be bored out of my mind,” Ralph says with an easy smile, “but then, I never did do too well sitting still.”

“I think maybe when my arm is a little stronger, that will be me, too, but, now, it is important to rest. So I can be better, more quickly,” Ilya adds, because that’s the aim, isn’t it? And the aim of this conversation is to make Ottawa still want him.

Terry has some questions for him next. Ilya answers them the best he can, surprised that the team doctor is so easy to speak to. At Boston, it’s all very professional, yes, but that sometimes comes across as cold, mechanical, even. By the time Terry has finished with his questions, Ilya is feeling quite relaxed, which he warns himself not to be feeling. He has to make this work out, he has to get this right, he has to get to Ottawa. Otherwise, everything him and Shane have planned for will fall apart, and that can’t happen.

Please, don’t let that happen.

“So,” Ralph says, with a discreet nod at Terry that makes Ilya’s blood run cold, “I think at this stage, nobody can know for sure when you’ll have full use of your arm again.”

“No. But, I will train very hard, and—”

“Ilya,” Ralph says, waving his hand to stop him and shaking his head, “the last thing we want is you pushing yourself to get better too soon, and making things worse for yourself.”

Oh. Okay then. Is that a good thing? Ilya tells himself that it is.

“Okay.”

“The thing is, Ilya, I’m sorry to say this injury hasn’t really come at the best time for us.”

Ilya’s heart sinks. “No. I know.”

“Not that this is any of your fault of course. Nobody asks to be injured,” Ralph adds.

“...yes.”

“Now, we know, the Centaurs aren’t performing anywhere near as well as we’d like to. The potential is there, we think, and it’s no denying that having you as our star center could be the change that we need. But, considering everything, we need to think a little longer term, perhaps.”

What does that mean? Ilya can only nod, waiting for Ralph to continue talking.

“We’re a patient team,” Ralph says. “We haven’t been anywhere near the playoffs in a while, but, that really isn’t our priority right now. We can build to that. I am confident we will build to that, but, we have to be more realistic about the timing of it. I don’t envision us getting to the playoffs next season, for example. But, I do think, perhaps with your help, we might, the following season.”

Ilya’s heart thuds. “I would like to help.”

Ralph nods, and glances at Terry again.

“And, hypothetically speaking, of course, we would love for you to help. Though perhaps, at least not at first, not in the way you might expect.”

“Okay…”

“Ilya. I have been in some really good meetings with the club’s owners, with Terry here, with other members of our team. We have come up with an idea that might suit you, just as much as it suits us. Want to hear it?”

Ilya tells himself to breathe. “Yes. Yes, please.”

Ralph smiles back, nods again, and clears his throat.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Now that I've finished writing this thing and only have to proofread the chapters, I'll post every other day.

What is talked about in this chapter I have no clue if would ever actually happen in the NHL, so let's play pretend that in the MLH we can do whatever we want forever, okay? Also, having skim read some of the upcoming chapters, apparently I've made Shane suffer quite a bit in this one later on, so, prepare for that.

🧡

In a daze, Ilya closes his laptop lid, staying seated at the dining table for several minutes. Then, he makes himself stand, walking slowly into the living room. The moment he sees him, Shane turns down the volume of the TV.

“How was it?” he asks, worry evident in his eyes.

Ilya doesn’t know how to answer him, not yet, only walks around the coffee table and lowers himself carefully to sit beside him.

“Ilya…”

Ilya takes his hand, dragging it into his lap.

“I think, maybe, the Centaurs are a very strange club. No, not strange. Uh. Unusual, maybe,” he says, trying to organise his words.

“Unusual, how?” Shane says, leaning against him.

“I spoke to the general manager, and the team doctor. Both of them were… nice?”

Nice is not the word Ilya means. He isn't really sure of the word to describe what he is thinking.

“Hey. Not every club is full of assholes like mine is,” Shane jokes, which is good to hear; gone are the days, maybe, when Shane won’t say a single bad word about Montreal.

“Yes.”

“So… what did they say? Did they have a lot of questions for you, about your arm?”

“Some. I think Terry, the team doctor, will probably want a copy of my doctor’s notes, or reports, or… everything about this injury.”

Ilya feels Shane go very still, knows immediately from his stiffness that he is expecting to hear good things. Which he will, it’s just—

“They have an idea for me,” he says, before Shane can spiral with his thoughts. “They know that, probably, when the new season starts, my arm might not be ready enough. And, they know I want to be in Ottawa. They know why, now.”

Shane smiles, cautiously. “Okay? Is that bad?”

“No, no. Not bad. Just unexpected that they would mention it. No, not that; that they would mention it, as a part of this thing. Positively.”

“Would you just tell me?” Shane says, exasperated.

Ilya laughs. He understands the impatience completely, but hasn’t quite got this figured out in his head yet either.

“They want me to be, like a player-coach. Kind of. Temporarily, at least. Maybe.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, quietly, “there hasn’t been a player-coach in the league for decades.”

“Not officially no, I know. They told me. But, they have this plan.”

Ilya does his best to explain then to Shane, how the Centaurs don’t think he will be fit to play at the start of the new season, but how they still want him on the team. That, if he can't play, they don't want to waste time with him as an LTIR for however long he might need for recovery. Put his experience to good use was the phrase the GM used.

"Okay," Shane says, cautiously, "I mean, I guess that makes sense."

"Yes."

"Plenty of other players still get signed when they're injured, though. You wouldn't be the first LTIR in the league. Definitely not the last, either. If they just wanted you as a long term reserve, that is, instead of… this idea," Shane adds.

Ilya knows that. He's known it, logically, all along. Him and Shane even looked up the stats on long term injury reserves throughout the league, spent many an hour reassuring themselves with this fact alone. It hasn't been enough to reassure Ilya, though, and if Shane Hollander, who is just as experienced a hockey player as him, had shared similar concerns, his fears didn't come out of nowhere. Ilya would challenge anyone in his position not to panic, not to worry, not to think he's fucked up irreparably, instead of just quoting stats.

It must be nice to have a brain that doesn't overthink, and criticise constantly. Ilya envies people like that, wonders what it must feel like.

"No, I know," Ilya says.

"And, I guess, there is always the cap allowance thing, that potentially helps them out. The LTIR pool?"

"Mm. I don't know about that. There was some… condition, or something. I don't know; they will talk to Farah, and she will explain better. Let me finish."

"Sorry," Shane says, smacking a kiss on his shoulder.

The Centaurs have heard good things, apparently, about Ilya as a captain. Somehow they have decided this means a temporary role as a trainee coach could be something he could do while his arm heals. Then, depending on how that goes, and how he heals, perhaps later in the season, or the following season, he can play hockey again, if that works out for everybody.

“So…” Shane says when Ilya is done, looking as surprised as, honestly, Ilya still feels. “They still want to sign you when your free agency comes up.”

“Yes.”

It's not that Ilya doesn't have confidence in himself; when it comes to hockey, at least. But the way the Centaurs' GM and team doctor spoke to him was a boost to his confidence that he hadn't really known he'd needed. They said they wanted to sign him, injury or not, and that feels so, so good right now, after everything. Such a relief. He hasn't fucked their plans up entirely by getting himself injured.

“They want to sign you, whether your arm is okay, or not.”

“Yes, they do.”

"Well, that's great, right? Just that part alone sounds great," Shane says, with an encouraging smile.

"Yes. I think, yes."

“Then, instead of just going the usual LTIR route, they’ll assess your arm closer to the start of the season, and if it’s going to take longer to heal, which, it probably will, then… they want you as a trainee coach, for half a season? A whole season maybe? Or… however that works out?”

“I think that’s right, yes. They need a new star center. They need a new coaching team. But, they said they don’t want to change everything at the same time, it would be too complicated."

"That would be a lot for a team to adjust to at once, for sure," Shane says, narrowing his eyes in that way he does when he's trying to picture something.

"I think so," Ilya agrees. "For me, if I am doing this, they said I would be more of an assistant assistant coach, and because I play center—"

"Or wing," Shane teases, proud of himself when Ilya rolls his eyes.

"Or that. Because of that, I could help more like maybe an offensive coach; you know, for the forwards?"

"Makes sense."

"The head coach now, Theo, I think is his name, he is only doing it temporarily until they have a replacement," Ilya adds. "He does not want to be a head coach—he doesn't want to be any coach for more than maybe one, two more seasons. They are looking for a replacement for him, but, they do not have the right person yet. So… maybe there will still be many changes at the same time, but… I don't know. It is a lot of things.”

Shane nods, slowly, clearly processing all of this. “Ilya. I know you’re a great captain. Everybody knows that. You’re probably one of the best captains in the league.”

“No, I don’t know about that.”

“I think it’s true,” Shane says, both frowning and smiling. “And I also think… being a captain and being a coach is… pretty different, right?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, I think you’d be an incredible coach, actually,” Shane says, apparently really thinking now.

He has a proud smile on his face, the one he always has when Ilya has done something that Ilya wouldn’t let himself be proud of easily. This makes Ilya feel even better, somehow.

“Is this what you want, though? Do you think you’d like it? It’s a whole new thing, and… I mean, how can you know anything, right this minute? They literally just asked you.”

Ilya’s mind is still racing. Of course Shane’s would be too. But a picture is forming in Ilya’s mind, and it’s a pretty good one. He leans back against Shane, and rearranges his words again.

“I want to come to Ottawa. I did not expect it to be like this, I did not know it could be a thing for me. I was worrying, very much, that hurting my arm, maybe, would mean they did not want me,” Ilya adds, looking down at his arm, then back up to see Shane’s soft smile. “But. If I cannot play yet, or for some time, I still want to be in Canada. I still want to be there, so I can apply for citizenship. I still want to be as near to you, as I can,” he adds, making Shane smile.

“I want that, too.”

“I don’t have to say yes to anything yet. I can’t say yes to anything properly, until July. But, I think I will think about this. I think… maybe, this is a good idea. One way, or some other way, I am coming to Ottawa.”

Shane grins at him, shakes his head in clear astonishment, and then, gently, throws his arms around Ilya for a hug.

“You’d be the youngest coach in the league. Maybe ever,” Shane says the next morning just as they are waking up.

It’s a good thing that Ilya is a light sleeper, because Shane wakes up alert in a way that is honestly disconcerting. Ilya still needs a few extra seconds to process what he’s just said.

“Training to be a coach, but, yes. Probably.”

“And, you are an amazing captain. I mean, everyone talks about it.”

Ilya is not sure it is everyone, but that anyone might be talking about how he is as a captain is a good feeling. Particularly as the word that pairs so commonly with his name is asshole, and always has been.

Maybe his softness with Shane has trickled into his every day way of being. Or, maybe he’s always been less of an asshole than he, or anyone else thought. Or, some other thing. Ilya will leave the deep thinking so early in the morning to Shane.

“Do you think that is enough? Being a captain some people like?” he asks, yawning.

“A lot of people like. Your team is always singing your praises. And your coaches.”

Maybe, it’s normal for coaches to say encouraging things about their team, and their team captain. Maybe the reason that Shane hasn’t experienced that with his own team and captaincy is purely because Montreal are awful. Ilya won’t say that right now, though.

“I think many people would be surprised if I am suddenly a coach. Even a training one.”

“Well, sure. That is something to be surprised about. I’m surprised about it, and we’ve only known this might be an option for you, for… not even a whole day yet. I’m sure you’re pretty surprised too, right?”

“Very. You think I can do this?” Ilya asks, turning his head as he hears Shane turn on his side.

“I’m pretty sure you could do anything you wanted to, Ilya. It’s not really about what I think, or anyone else thinks, though. I want you in Ottawa, and you to get Canadian citizenship, and us to have our lives together. But, you need to be happy with whatever you’re doing.”

“Not having to worry about citizenship will make me happy.”

Shane pats Ilya’s stomach. “Yes. That would make me happy, too. You need more than that, though. Or… you should want that for yourself, right?”

“Would you be disappointed if I didn’t play hockey?” Ilya asks, letting out the question that has been on his mind ever since his video call.

Shane tilts his head, absently swirling his thumb over Ilya’s side while he stares off at some point just above Ilya’s head. Contemplating.

“Our rivalry has always been more about what other people think it is, instead of what it actually is. But, I do love playing against you on the ice.”

“Yes. Me, too.”

“And we still would be, in a way? It wouldn’t be face to face, but, it would still be your team against my team.”

Ilya grimaces, imagining being a coach, on the ice, opposite Theriault of all people. Fuck. Anyone could be a better coach than that man, Ilya is sure.

Maybe, even him?

“In a way, yes,” he says.

“I think… you love hockey,” Shane says, carefully, then; Ilya knows to expect some difficult words.

“Yes.”

“But I don’t think you love hockey like I love hockey. Don’t tell me no one does,” Shane adds, poking him in the side.

“I will say nothing.”

“I think, you’re an incredible hockey player. I always thought you were. I used to watch you when I could, when. You know. Before,” Shane says, his cheeks pointlessly but adorably pink.

Before they even met, he means. The thought makes Ilya warm, and feel a little like him and Shane were always destined to meet. Maybe, though, it's still very early, and being still half-asleep is letting out all his romantic notions.

Or, maybe, he just loves Shane that much, that it feels like he always has loved, and known him.

“I watched you, too,” Ilya says.

He could add more to that, make light of it, even tease him a little—or, say any of the assortment of the nasty things his dad had said whenever they saw Shane on a TV screen.

He doesn’t want to say anything else, though, only to focus on the way Shane is smiling at him.

“And, I think, you will still play incredible hockey, once your arm is healed. If you want to. No, I don’t think—I know you could.”

“Thank you.”

“But I think, that maybe, you… might not miss it, like I would, if I couldn’t play.”

If Shane could, he would probably play forever, Ilya knows that. It’s too soon to imagine Shane doing anything else, but Ilya does know for sure that post-hockey player Shane will still be involved in hockey, somehow.

Maybe that’s true for him too, with this coaching thing?

“I don’t know what I think yet,” Ilya says, though then feels a weird sensation in his chest that belatedly, he recognises as excitement. “I think… I like this idea. I don’t think I understand exactly, how it will work, or anything, but—”

“But that’s what Farah’s for,” Shane finishes for him. “And, you can sign with her properly—I mean, just with her—if this thing goes through. You won’t need your one here anymore.”

“Good.”

“It could be, right? This could be good for you.”

“For us,” Ilya says, watching Shane’s eyes light up.

“Yes. For us,” he says, and rolls forward, kissing Ilya’s shoulder before dropping his head there, and tucking his arm carefully around his waist.

“Any pain here?” Dr. Garcia asks, pressing gently but firmly against Ilya’s lower rib cage.

“Not really?”

“What does not really feel like, on a pain scale of one to ten?”

“I don’t think even two?”

Dr. Garcia nods, and smiles. “That’s good to hear. No problems with your ankle now?”

“No, nothing.”

“Excellent. So, it’s just your arm. Can I take a look?”

Ilya nods, letting Dr. Garcia take it from its sling and check it over, prepared to feel pain. There is a slight ache there, something similar to toothache, he thinks, and tries to explain this to his doctor.

“Yes, that sounds right. And on a scale of one to ten for pain?”

“Oh. Mostly, it is one, but, sometimes, a little more. Maybe… four, at most? But not often. When I move my arm, or forget to be careful. It is never for long.”

“He hasn’t needed any pain relief for a few days,” Shane adds, then blushes.

Ilya knows that face, it’s a new one of Shane’s, it’s the sorry if I’m overstepping or getting too involved face. Ilya loves it, both the particular face, and the way Shane is taking care of him. It’s not like when he used to berate him for smoking, and it’s not the disdainful look he used to give his McDonalds, sometimes. It’s just Shane caring about him and how he’s doing. And to be honest, Ilya kind of loves the berating and disdain too, because it’s weirdly nice having someone wanting Ilya to take better care of himself simply because they love him.

With all of that in mind, Ilya winks at Shane and slips his hand into his, as Dr. Garcia finishes checking his arm.

“We’ll do another x-ray to check your progress,” she says, getting it set up for him.

It is in settings like this that Ilya is reminded of how lucky he is. He’s heard of waiting times in hospitals and doctor’s surgeries, delays in getting appointments, general waiting lists everywhere in the healthcare system. That has never been something he’s had to give a second thought to since playing for the league. How many people have similar injuries to him and aren’t getting same day x-rays, regular appointments, and all the other care afforded to him so easily?

The x-ray shows good progress, which is good to hear, but no magical fix, which would be nice. Still, it is good to know that there aren’t any problems, so Ilya lets himself feel some relief.

“It’s still difficult to know when we could say your arm will be fully recovered. But, everything is healing as it should be. If you keep doing everything you’re doing and don’t push yourself, I think the prognosis is excellent. Outcome,” she amends to, when Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“I haven’t been outside very much—at all—since I did this. Is that okay now if I do that?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. In fact a little light exercise—I’m only talking about walking, mind you—would probably do you good. Just make sure you are careful with your arm, try to avoid knocking into anything.”

Mm. That’s not really what Ilya is meaning.

“It was more for other reasons that I didn’t go out,” he says, not that he really needs to explain himself.

Dr. Garcia nods in understanding anyway. “Well. If there are reporters, and other people, desperate to take photos of you, or ask you questions in the street, demand your attention, the risk of you knocking your arm is pretty high. So, if that’s still a concern, you need to take that into consideration wherever you go.”

“I was thinking more… if I could travel,” Ilya says, feeling Shane sit up straighter beside him.

“Well. In theory, yes, you could fly; I think the risk of DVT, or inflammation, or anything else is far lower now than before. But. You have to imagine that if you are flying, you’ll be in a confined space for however many hours your flight is, and while the risks of hitting your arm against something in that situation is smaller, the cramped space might cause some discomfort. So. Yes. You are safe to travel, but you need to be just as cautious as you would be, say, walking down the street. I would also perhaps give yourself at least another week of healing here, before you go anywhere.”

“Okay—”

“That being said,” Dr. Garcia adds, “I wouldn’t advise an excessive amount of travelling, either.”

“No, no. It would just be to Canada.”

Dr. Garcia nods, slow and considering. Ilya sees her brief glance over at Shane.

“That should be fine. Perhaps try to avoid busier periods for travel. And, should you be in Canada for an extended period, it is important that you continue to have regular check-ups. Should that be the case, we’d be happy to send on your medical files from here.”

After a few more questions they are free to leave, Ilya pulling his ball cap down firmer out of habit the moment they step outside.

“That went well,” Shane says, taking his hand as they walk towards the car.

Oh. That’s nice. That’s something they have never been able to do. Ilya looks down at their joined hands and can’t help smiling, looking up and catching Shane doing the same.

“I think so,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s hand back.

“I’m pretty sure there’s a photographer over there,” Shane adds, nodding off across the street.

The parking lot outside the doctor’s office is half-closed off for renovation, so they had to park elsewhere and take a short walk. Just short enough for some idiot with a camera to be waiting to catch them. Ilya is determined to pay no attention to them at all.

“Good. They will see how pretty you are.”

“Fuck off.”

“No.”

“Why were you asking about travelling?” Shane asks, tapping Ilya’s hand as they wait to cross the road.

“If we have no reason to be here, we can go to the cottage. If you want to.”

“I want to,” Shane says, with the biggest smile. “Also, I can recommend a couple of doctors who I use. Or, ones I used to use in Ottawa—that my parents still like.”

“That would be good, yes.”

“Be prepared,” Shane says, gently nudging his good arm as they approach the car. “My parents will fuss over you and your arm.”

Ilya smiles, liking the idea more than he is going to admit. “The Hollander personal healthcare system is very good. Five stars. Will recommend.”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Shane still manages to smile, and then surprises Ilya altogether by kissing him quickly as he opens the car door for him.

Speechless, and probably grinning like an idiot, Ilya ducks inside, laughing when Shane pulls a face at him through the window after shutting the door.

Shooting daggers at Shane when he tries to protest, Ilya continues to help to put groceries away.

“I have one good arm. I can do something.”

“I know you can. I just didn’t want you to—”

“I am putting groceries away, not arm wrestling.”

Shane holds his hands up in defeat. “Fine. You finish it, then.”

“Kiss first, though,” Ilya says, snagging the front of Shane’s t-shirt and tugging him forward.

Shane rolls his eyes, then kisses him thoroughly, pulling away without warning and leaving Ilya in the kitchen happily smirking to himself.

“Coffee?” he calls out after him.

“Please.”

When Shane returns to him, just in time to carry their mugs through to the living room, he has changed into shorts and a t-shirt and looks beautifully relaxed.

“How was grocery shopping?” Ilya asks.

“Fine. Pretty normal.”

“No cameras today?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“Maybe they are bored of us already,” Ilya says, getting a quick squeeze in of Shane’s ass because neither of his hands are free.

“I hope so,” Shane says, smiling over his shoulder.

“Come. I have something to show you,” Ilya says, scooting around him and lowering himself to the couch immediately.

He waits until Shane is sitting too then waggles his fingers for him to pass his tablet, swiping over the screen to open it and resting it against Shane’s leg.

“The… NHL Coaches' Association?” Shane asks, looking at the screen.

“Oh. No. Not that.”

“But you’re looking into this?”

“This has many free seminars, and videos, and… many things. About how to be a good coach.”

“Is it interesting?”

“It is,” Ilya says, then finds himself sharing what he’s been watching while Shane was out, what excited him, the long list of things he now wants to look up because of working through all these videos.

Shane’s smile is full of pride for him. “You’re enjoying this. Aren’t you.”

“Yes. I think so. And, even if this does not happen for me, that I am not a coach, I think this is good to know. Good information to learn. For me, anyway.”

“I’m proud of you. And I love to see you excited about stuff. You seem pretty excited about this.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, even if he is also telling himself not to get too excited, because they don’t know anything for sure yet.

Farah’s feedback so far is positive though, her telling Ilya there are plenty of conversations going on behind the scenes that are in his favour.

“But,” Ilya says, flicking to another tab, “that was not what I was going to show you.”

Taking the tablet Ilya just shoved in his hands, Shane squints, then zooms in on the picture. “What’s this? You’re buying a new car?”

“Look at it.”

“It’s… metallic grey?”

“Oh my god…”

“What?” Shane says, glaring at him.

“Look at it,” Ilya insists, nudging Shane’s leg.

“It’s a… well, it looks way more sensible than your other cars, for starters,” Shane says.

“Yes. Very sensible.”

“Since when would you want a Mercedes SUV? This is exactly the kind of car you’d probably call boring.”

“It’s more exciting than your car…”

“Barely,” Shane grumbles, and kisses him on the forehead. “But… how many cars do you need? Not that—hey, if you like them, that’s your thing, and… what? Now why are you laughing?”

“Sorry,” Ilya says, dropping his head against Shane’s shoulder. “I am going to sell probably two of my cars. The money we can put into the Irina Foundation.”

“...oh.”

“But. I am thinking that, if everything is okay for Ottawa, I need a car that is, you know. Good in snow.”

“For driving between Montreal and Ottawa,” Shane says in understanding, a smile evident in his voice even without Ilya looking.

“Yes. And, this car has lots of space. So, if we drive in this, my arm will not be flying everywhere, and hitting my knees, and everything else.”

“...So…”

“So. You said, to drive from here to the cottage will take maybe seven hours. I think we will need breaks too, but, maybe, we can go. In a few days. This is being delivered here tomorrow,” Ilya adds, and sits up.

Shane’s eyes flare wide in surprise. “You bought this?”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“I started looking after we went to see the doctor, but, yes.”

“Ilya…”

“Of course, if you do not want to drive for that long—”

Shane shuts him up mid-sentence with a kiss, cradling Ilya’s face between his hands. “I’d love to be at the cottage already. But I didn’t want to rush you, or push you into it if you wanted to stay here while your arm gets better.”

“I would prefer to be at the cottage, too. I will be able to do more things—not bad things for my arm,” Ilya says when he knows Shane is about to protest. “But, I can go outside freely, and not worry about the press, and you can use your own gym, and we can… be just us.”

“That sounds perfect,” Shane says, dropping their foreheads together with a happy sigh.

“So… yes? We will drive up to the cottage in a couple of days?”

“Yes,” Shane says, squeezing Ilya face between his hands and kissing him until they are both laughing. “I can’t wait.”

“Me, too, but, we have a little time. For packing, for… other things.”

“Other things,” Shane says, grinning, and then groaning. “And, I just bought groceries.”

“I have a cooler. And ice blocks. If we don’t eat everything, we can take it with us.”

Shane nods, curling his fingers through Ilya’s. He doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t need to, because Ilya can see how happy he is.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Hello!

No major warnings for this yet, I think they start in chapter 8. So, no big headsup for anything is needed, however, if you want to know what's in this chapter, then see below!

In this chapter...

- We have Ilya with some circular thinking as he worries about the Centaurs signing him. That brain of his is a little fucker.

- Shane and Ilya have an argument

The lake water ripples in the soft breeze, the warm sun creeping over his legs. From behind his sunglasses Ilya watches clouds float overhead, his book abandoned by his side. It's the perfect summer afternoon, actually. One made better for the shadow that passes in front of him, and the back of a hand then coming to rest on his chest as Shane lies back beside him on the decking.

“I definitely made too much food,” Shane says, kissing Ilya on the shoulder as he settles.

“Then, we will have some for lunch tomorrow, or something.”

“Unless we’re really hungry later.”

“Or that.”

Shane sighs in contentment, his foot resting against Ilya’s ankle, and his hair tickling Ilya’s shoulder when he tilts his head.

Ilya loves this cottage, loves the peace it brings them both, loves how relaxed Shane is here like he isn’t anywhere else. This is only Ilya’s second summer here, and only his second with Shane, but it already feels like something they have done for a lifetime. How many summers has he wasted back in Russia when he could have been here, when they were both scared and denying what they were to one another?

How different will their future look now, for everyone knowing about them?

“I can’t believe we’ve been here three weeks already,” Shane says after a while, his voice a little sleepy.

Neither can Ilya. Time feels strange here away from everything, like it is out of step with the rest of the world. His arm is growing stronger by the day, and according to his new doctor in Ottawa, the fracture itself is healing beautifully. The estimate now is another two weeks and then it should be healed enough to start physical therapy. Which, from the sounds of things, he will need for months. Long after the start of the hockey season.

Which should be okay, shouldn’t it? A week after he starts his physical therapy Ilya is officially a free agent. The Centaurs are still interested in having him, and the arrangement they want to make for him to be a trainee coach feels more likely to happen by the day.

Unless he somehow messes up, of course, because he's good at that.

Ilya is nervous about all of it, because what if it falls through? What if they change their mind? What if his healing takes a back step and needs even longer?

But what if, as he has reminded himself, and Shane has too, so many times, what if it all goes fine, and he starts out coaching, and it all works out? Could he be that lucky?

Is he really good enough to do this?

“Are you sleeping?” Shane whispers, which has Ilya opening his eyes, taking off his sunglasses and turning his head.

“No, no. Just thinking.”

“Mm,” Shane says, flipping over and sprawling out so he is plastered along Ilya’s side. “Thinking? Or worrying?”

“Maybe both?”

“Can I help?”

Can he? Ilya has said everything in his head out loud so many times now, that Shane must know the entire speech word for word. The thing is, Shane never looks bored when Ilya is surely repeating himself over and over, only smiles in encouragement and helps coax more words from Ilya than he knew he needed to let out.

“If you can ask my brain to stop thinking the same things over and over, and making them turn bad, then, yes, you can help.”

“Your brain is a bully, if it’s doing that; one that doesn't know what the fuck it's talking about,” Shane points out, which is pretty obvious.

Ilya doesn’t know how to deal with that right now, when there is so much else going on.

“I know,” he says. What else can he say?

“Okay,” Shane says, smacking a kiss to Ilya’s neck. “Start from the beginning. Or, wherever your head is at now. What is it you’re thinking about right this second?”

Oh.

“I am thinking that, if the Centaurs agree to sign me on the first of July, then I will have not that long to get everything ready.”

And if they don’t sign him, then… what, exactly? Will Boston take pity on him and sign him for another year, another contract, another anything, when he has already made it clear he is leaving? Ilya hasn’t had the fight in himself to reach out and ask, which, he probably should have at least discussed with his agents as a back up plan.

He is so focussed on Ottawa, though, and after, the life he’ll get to build properly with Shane. This has to work out, and if he spirals again thinking about it he will be helping nobody, least of all himself.

“Okay. So, what’s the first thing?” Shane says, ever pragmatic, and, in moments like this, so much like his mom that Ilya can’t help smiling to hear it.

“First thing is… probably finding somewhere to live.”

“That’s easy.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Exactly,” Shane says. “My realtor is amazing. You can just tell her what you’re looking for, and she’ll find you it.”

“You think it will be that easy?”

“Easy enough. And, if for any reason you don’t find somewhere quickly enough, you know my parents have said you can stay with them. Which isn’t ideal, I know, but, it’s a decent backup plan. As an alternative to just staying in a hotel for a while, obviously.”

Ilya loves Shane’s parents, he really does, but is not convinced living with them would be a good idea. The easy reason to give, should he have to give one, is that they are far more hands on in their approach to fussing over his injuries than Shane is. Shane actually lets him breathe.

Realistically, though, Ilya worries if living with them would make Shane’s parents change their mind about him, were they stuck in close proximity together for a long stretch of time. What if they realise he's just not good enough for their son, and then convince Shane of that as well? Ilya can't take that chance.

Still, it is nice that they have offered, that they have accepted him enough to offer.

“I need to sell my apartment in Boston if I am moving here,” Ilya says next.

Or moving anywhere.

Fuck. What if all of this falls through, and nobody wants him?

Stop.

“Who at Boston would know a good realtor? Or, would Svetlana know someone?” Shane asks, oblivious to Ilya’s internal panic.

“She is like me. Real estate is very boring to her.”

Shane grumbles for that, which amuses Ilya no end.

“Okay, then, we can look into realtors in Boston who would help, if we need to. And, you know you can pay people to pack up your things for you.”

“I will need to go back to Boston for some things.”

“Right. I know that. But, I was thinking more about you packing and how that will be with your arm.”

Oh. Yes. Well, that is important.

“Okay.”

“What else are you thinking?” Shane asks, when Ilya doesn’t say anything.

“I will need to apply for citizenship.”

“Farah can help with that. And me. Mom. Dad.”

“You have an answer for everything today…”

“Every day,” Shane retorts, wriggling against him and making Ilya laugh.

“Okay.”

“What else?” Shane asks, propping himself up and staring down at him. “Or… am I being too much?”

“No, no,” Ilya says immediately, already turning on his side and slowly rearranging so his injured arm is against Shane’s chest securely. “I am probably overthinking. There are so many things that need to happen, and I can’t do any of them yet. I am impatient, maybe.”

“Probably. But, I would be way, way worse than you’re being,” Shane says, protectively curving his fingers beneath Ilya’s elbow.

“Oh, yes. Much, much worse.”

“Hey.”

“It’s true,” Ilya whispers, smacking a kiss to Shane’s shoulder before he can protest too much.

“Anyway,” Shane says; Ilya can feel him glaring even if he isn’t looking, “you’re preparing as best you can, before anything else can happen. You’re reading, and watching all these videos, learning all this stuff about coaching—and you really seem to be enjoying that.”

“I am.”

“See? And, you’re resting, which is the most important thing. And, it’s summer. So, you don’t have to do everything, anyway.”

“Shane. Are you telling me to relax?”

“Yes. Exactly. That’s what you’d be telling me.”

“…if Ottawa is okay, if I can go there, with the Centaurs, and I have many things to do before the season… our summer may be… shorter,” Ilya says, which is the thing that he’s probably worrying about most. Which says everything about him, honestly.

Shane kisses the top of his head.

“I know that. But. One, it will be worth it—not just for you, for both of us. Two, I know I can’t do everything with you, but, before the season starts, I’m free. I’m literally doing nothing but spending time with you, wherever that needs to be. Here. Boston. Ottawa.”

“And, you are my chauffeur,” Ilya says, smiling for the harder kiss smacked to his head.

“Exactly. And, before, we thought we had, just… so many years, such a long time before we could be together for real. But now, it’s not like that. Obviously, we don’t know what it will be like at the start of season, what people will have to say then, but… I think—I’m hoping—that things will be a whole lot easier for us. Now that everybody knows. No more hiding.”

No more hiding. What a relief, what a pressure off that will be.

“I will still miss you very much when we are not together,” Ilya says, softly.

Shane sighs, and adjusts his arm around him.

“I’ll miss you, too. But, we’re here right now, aren’t we? Maybe we don’t need to worry about that just yet.”

He’s right. Ilya hates his overthinking brain sometimes. So he tells it to be quiet, slips his foot beneath Shane’s ankle, and lets himself sink into his boyfriend’s warmth.

Exhausted, Ilya slips into the passenger seat and groans in sheer relief. He gives himself a moment then pulls the door closed, dropping his head back against the headrest as Shane joins him.

“That went well, I think?” Shane says, reaching over for Ilya’s seatbelt like he has been doing ever since his injury.

He also hovers there, bracing himself so he doesn’t lean on Ilya’s arm, but is right there in front of Ilya when he opens his eyes.

Of course Ilya’s eyes drop to Shane’s mouth, just as they have done every time Shane has done this.

“I think so.”

It did go well. The exercises his physical therapist has suggested are pretty much as Ilya has been expecting—and researching over the last few weeks. He can do them daily at home without further instruction, and will come back in two weeks to check how he is progressing. The only problem Ilya thinks he faces with the exercises is the urge he’ll probably have to rush things, or push himself too hard. There is now just a week until he is a free agent, and so much is pinned on the Centaurs still wanting him.

He has to be fit enough; whether that’s for being a trainee coach, or a player benched by injury, or some other option in between, he has to be as good as he can be.

“We should get you some kind of reward system. For when you do your PT at home.”

“Mm. What kind of reward was you thinking?” Ilya asks, his exhaustion lessening its grip on him just so he can appreciate the smile on Shane’s face, brush his lips over his.

“It’s your reward. Anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything that won’t make your arm worse,” Shane says, kissing the corner of Ilya’s mouth in tease, laughing softly when Ilya quickly turns his head to claim another kiss.

“We will have many things to catch up on. When my arm is better.”

“Oh, for sure.”

“Not that everything now is not… very enjoyable,” Ilya adds, wrapping one hand around Shane’s waist.

Shane’s cheeks are immediately pink. God, Ilya loves that look on him.

“What do you think?” Ilya whispers. “When the new season starts, and everyone in the Montreal locker room says Wow, Shane, how did your thighs get so big over the summer? Will you tell them it was because you were riding me so much?”

Those pink cheeks turn red. Ilya gets kisses over both of them just before Shane ducks his head, and clicks the clasp for Ilya’s seatbelt into place.

“I’m pretty sure my thighs are the same as always.”

“No, no. They are even bigger now.”

Shane looks down at himself. “Really?”

“Yes. I would know. I have many lovely dreams about your thighs…”

“You do?”

“Mm. Is not as good as the real thing, but, I think about them a lot. I think about them always,” Ilya says, and proves his point, by slipping his hand into Shane’s lap and happily gripping his bare leg, just beneath his shorter-than-usual shorts.

Ilya loves these shorts, very very much. A little shorter would be great too, of course, but, he’s not going to complain about all that is already on display for him.

Snorting, Shane starts the car and covers Ilya’s hand with his own. Gently.

“Be careful.”

“What? I am only resting my hand in your lap. I am not doing anything too much,” Ilya says, but does tease Shane with a slip of his fingers between his thighs.

Fuck it feels good to have his arm free to move; even if he still has to be careful and there is so much work to be done, to build its strength back up.

“Okay. If you say so.”

“And, sometime after the season starts, and my arm is stronger, if I am in the locker room with the Centaurs and they see my arms, and they say, Wow, Ilya. How did you get your arms so big? And I will say, it’s because my boyfriend likes to be fucked against the wall and I have not been able to pick him up in so long. I had to get stronger and bigger for that. Not hockey.”

Shane fights so hard not to smile, and then laughter bursts from him. Though he then looks mildly confused, and says, “Hey. Your coaches at Boston never actually showered with you, did they?”

“You are making this sound very strange.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes. But… no. They did not.”

“So, if you are a coach at the Centaurs, you aren’t planning on showering with your team?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Who is in the locker room,” Ilya says, taking his turn to snort with laughter when Shane turns a scowl on him.

“You are terrible.”

“Yes, yes. But you love me for it.”

“I do. There must be something wrong with me.”

“Yes. It is because you have not been fucked against a wall in so long,” Ilya says, triumphant when Shane’s cheeks light up yet again.

“I… am looking forward to that.”

“Oh, I know.”

“But. We’re good for now, right? As we are?”

“Mm. When we get home you should ride me again, just so we can be sure.”

“Any requests about where?”

Ilya loves that Shane doesn’t even pretend to protest, or joke, or anything.

“Mm. Outside again. I like that chair very much. You know the one.”

Shane clears his throat, and then, because he’s a tease, adjusts himself. “I do.”

“Do you need some help, or…?”

“Don’t you dare. We're going to my parents' for lunch. I don't need that kind of distraction."

"If you say so."

"Hey. At least Mom won't be trying to cut up your food again now your arm's not in a sling," Shane says, laughing when Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. "Okay. There is no guaranteeing she won't try that anyway."

Yuna definitely will. David will just pour him more vodka and smile as he watches. Ilya will roll his eyes, but love all their fussing regardless.

He still can't resist stroking his fingertips over Shane's inner thigh. "What?" he says, when Shane clears his throat to stop him. "These fingers have not touched you for a very long time. They have missed you."

Gently, Shane strokes the back of Ilya's hand, flattening it against his leg. "I've missed them, too."

"Then…"

"If you touch me, I'll get distracted, and we won’t get to my parents quickly for lunch, which means we won't get home any time soon.”

Leaning to kiss Shane's shoulder, Ilya tilts his head. “There is much space in the back of this car.”

"That's why you brought it, right? Or, one of the reasons."

"Yes. Another reason is that the seats look very comfortable for your knees."

Immediately, Shane pinks up again. “Your arm is still recovering.”

“So… when it is better, you will ride me back there, yes?” Ilya says, loving Shane’s half-exasperated sigh.

“Is that what you want for your reward?”

“No, no. That is too far away. I need many rewards when I am working so hard on my arm.”

“Then, get thinking. About what you want before then. Don't tell me until after lunch,” Shane adds, turning his head to grin at Ilya, before putting all his focus back into the traffic.

They have had their first actual argument since he hurt his arm, and Ilya hates himself for being the one who started it. It is a fight not to be rough with himself as he takes a shower, because a little pain in his arm might be a good distraction from the look on Shane’s face a few minutes ago but is not going to help his recovery.

Was it even an argument? Ilya replays all their words and really can’t be sure. He does know he feels awful now, a little nervous about going downstairs.

Neither of them have slept. That is probably contributing a lot to their anger, but it’s the date today, what this day means, that is probably making them both so reactive. As of today, Ilya is a free agent, and it feels like he can’t breathe until he hears about the Centaurs. Of course, in theory, he has absolutely nothing to worry about, but his brain has what if playing on repeat for him, louder than ever. What if nobody calls him today? Does he reach out to Farah if he hasn't heard anything by lunchtime? What if it’s a no from Ottawa, and then from Boston? Sure, there was talk of Tampa Bay being interested at some point, but, as he’s heard nothing since, Ilya has to assume that is all it was; talk. A couple more clubs reached out too, but Ilya has been so focussed on the plan they’ve had in motion for a year now. What if everything falls through? What the hell is he going to do if no one wants him?

Will any team elsewhere in the league generously take him on when he can’t even start the season?

Fuck. Ilya doesn’t know anything.

He does know, it’s barely seven o’clock, and their fight has likely sent Shane to his gym. Ilya debates with himself; should he leave Shane to work off some more of his anger and frustration? Or would he already have had enough time while Ilya was showering?

Fuck it. He’s terrified enough about what today might bring him, he can’t have his boyfriend mad at him too.

Shane—in his shortest pair of workout shorts, because he wants to kill Ilya—is taking his anger out on the rowing machine. His shirt is sweat-soaked, so Ilya knows he’s probably already pounded several miles out on the treadmill, but there is still a furious look on his face when Ilya silently approaches him.

“Shane.”

“Fuck off.”

Not the best start.

Ilya doesn’t do what Shane tells him to though, only grabs one of the smaller exercise benches and sits down on it just out of Shane’s reach.

He’s still angry. Furious. Ilya watches Shane in profile monitoring the tension across his arms and shoulders. Now he’s looking harder, he can see how his lip is trembling.

Well, that’s fucking worse. He’s made him angry, and upset him.

Ilya hates, more than anything, when Shane is upset, and he can’t comfort him. Especially when it is all his fault.

Which doesn’t mean he knows what to do to fix things right now, though. So Ilya watches Shane work out on the rowing machine, then follows him over to the weights, trying to focus on how pissed Shane is at him and not how good he looks working out. Which is easier said than done. It would be so easy to reach out, to touch him, to, probably, fuck their way out of them being mad at each other, and act like everything is okay again.

No. He won’t do that. They are far too important, and they are too good, to gloss over things like this, use sex as a way to distract from difficult words.

How to start, though?

“I love you,” Ilya says, when Shane has safely lowered the barbell he is using.

“And you think, what, that I don’t love you?”

“I never said that.”

“Or, you don’t think I love you as much? Is that it?”

“Shane—”

“You don’t think I’m capable, or something?” Shane says, turning his back on him and stamping a short distance away to pick up a kettlebell.

So… that is the argument, then. Well. It’s a start at least, to know for sure.

“I did not say—I did not mean to make you think that I was saying, that you don’t love me, like I love you.”

“You think it wouldn’t upset me as much if you ended up on the other side of the country, and I could only see you twice a year?” Shane growls out.

It was a hypothetical five a.m. stupid what-if conversation, about how awful it would be if things don’t go to plan today. Ilya had said… he doesn’t remember exactly. But, maybe he did imply, that it would bother Shane less than it would bother him.

“I would be fucking lost without you, okay? I hate how things are between us. I hate only seeing you for a couple of hours every couple of weeks, or even longer. I hate it. I miss you so fucking much,” Shane says, his voice breaking, but his back is still to Ilya, so Ilya knows he isn’t ready to look at him yet.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Ilya nods. Shane can't see him, though, so he then says, “Of course.”

“Because that’s not what you were saying earlier. Earlier, you were making it sound like the only important thing to me, is hockey, and that you were way, way down on my list of priorities.”

“Shane. Hockey is important to you.”

“Yeah. And it’s pretty fucking important to you.”

“It is. I just… I only meant, that, it is very hard to imagine you not playing hockey. Hockey is your life.”

“So are you,” Shane says, whirling around to glare at him. “Why can’t both things be true?”

“They can.”

“That’s not what it sounded like earlier. Earlier, you were saying that if we played in teams that barely compete, and we barely saw each other, only you would be upset about it. Because I’d still be playing hockey, and that’s the only fucking thing that matters to me. Like you don’t.”

The kettlebell gets put back in its rack, and Shane starts stomping away again. Ilya catches up to him with a soft grip around his arm, feeling the tension running through it.

“I don’t see why I should have to give up hockey. I should be able to to play hockey, and have a life. A life with you,” Shane says, refusing to look at him.

“Shane. Nobody is asking you to give up hockey—”

“What, because that’s the only good thing about me? That I’m so, I don’t know… lacking in feeling anything, and emotions, and anything like that—that, what, I might as well just do what I’m good at, and that’s it?”

Ilya slips his hand down Shane’s arm and slots it through his. Shane is still breathing hard, but at least he doesn’t pull away.

“Did I say those words?” Ilya asks, softly.

“You might as well have.”

“Did I say those words?” Ilya says again. “Because I don’t think I did. I think I said, that I would worry less about you missing me, if you were happy with your team playing good hockey. That it would be… a good distraction, maybe.”

“And you think that’s enough?” Shane asks, his voice smaller now.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Shane says nothing.

“I also don’t think that hockey is the only good thing about you. You are incredible at hockey, it is a big part of your life. It is not the only thing, but, I think it would make you very unhappy if you had to stop playing before you were ready to stop. But. That is not what I meant to say, and I am very sorry if what I said before made you think that… I am… not very sure what you think I said, or what I maybe said, but didn’t mean to,” Ilya says, relieved when Shane slowly turns towards him, only to be devastated again for the tears in his eyes.

“I’m not, like, emotionless,” Shane says, which under other circumstances might be funny, because there are tears in his eyes; how could anyone think he isn’t emotional?

“I know you aren’t,” Ilya says.

“Just because I can’t, I don’t know, express myself the same way you do, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel things.”

“I know that, too. I never think you have no emotions. No feelings. I know you, Shane. I know how much you feel everything.”

“Not as much as you,” Shane says, then closes his eyes and shakes his head, “I didn’t mean that sarcastically. I just mean… I know you feel things so, so much, and it’s awful when you says things like that, because… I can’t deal with thinking that you think I don’t love you.”

Now, Ilya is close to crying too. He reaches out, and with his injured hand, carefully thumbs away a tear from Shane’s cheek.

“I know you love me. Sometimes, it is the only thing I am sure about. Sometimes, if my head is messy, and everything feels bad, and awful, the only thing I know for sure, is that you love me. Just as much as I love you.”

“I’m not good at showing how I feel. Sometimes,” Shane says, not looking Ilya in the eye.

“You have always been good at showing me how you feel. Maybe not everybody is so lucky,” Ilya says, which has Shane lifting his head up.

“I don’t know.”

“I know,” Ilya says, dropping Shane’s hand and cupping his face instead. “And I know you worry about some things—maybe many things—about maybe you think you are not so good at showing people what you are thinking. I do not think this is true. I think everybody who knows you, and loves you, they understand you perfectly.”

Shane swallows hard. Ilya thumbs away another tear.

“I know you better than anybody,” Ilya adds in a whisper, and gets a kiss to Shane’s cheek. “So. I am very sorry if what I said earlier was… I don’t know. Maybe I said something wrong. Maybe you heard me say something. Maybe we are both tired and very worried about today, and our words are… not good for each other.”

“Why are you so good at that?” Shane says, sighing, the tension starting to drop from his shoulders.

“Good at what?”

“Calming me down? Being direct about things, when I need you to be? Explaining the shit that’s in my head when I can’t?”

“That is easy,” Ilya says, smiling, and more relieved than he can say that Shane smiles right back. “It’s because I love you. And I know you. And because you know me, and love me. You can do the same for me, too. When my head is, you know.”

Shane sighs hard, closing his eyes, and wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck, holding on tight.

“I love you so much,” he mumbles against his skin, as Ilya carefully crowds up against him, immediately feeling whole again.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Hello!

We're switching to Shane's POV in this chapter - you'll know when, when it says Shane's POV in the text.

There are some warnings going forward now, so, if you want to know before you read, they are below!

Warnings

Shane feels pretty isolated in this chapter.

The Metros are The Actual Worst; you can choose which of them you think is because they're all pretty awful.

Prepare for homophobia/implied homophobia/homophobic language/implied homophobic language.

There is some violence; the upside, if there is one, is that Shane gets to punch someone.

After a long, long make out session in the gym, Shane heads off for a shower, and Ilya makes them breakfast. Eggs, bagels, some fruit and yoghurt, coffee of course; it’s amazing what he can do one handed, and even more amazing the little he can already do with his injured arm. Which is not much, because he is not pushing it, there is no point, but Ilya is pleased to see even the little progress there is.

When he rejoins him, Shane takes one look at the breakfast waiting for them on the dining table and is clearly torn between being pleased and exasperated.

“This looks great,” he says, gently taking Ilya’s hand and raising his arm, ducking down to kiss up the scar from his surgery. “How is it?”

“Fine. Not sore. Weak, of course. But. Getting better.”

“And you’re okay?” Shane asks, demanding honesty from Ilya with nothing but a look.

“Yes. I am. So is my arm. I promise.”

“Okay. Then, let’s eat,” Shane says, and pulls out Ilya’s chair.

Breakfast is good, the atmosphere more relaxed, even if they are both still on edge waiting to hear something. Ilya is just tipping the last of the fruit on to Shane’s plate when his phone starts vibrating against the table.

“It’s Farah,” Ilya says, his stomach dropping as he stares at the screen.

Shane slips his hand into Ilya’s and nods in encouragement.

Ilya swipes to answer, blurting out a hello that sounds nervous even to his own ears.

“Good morning, Ilya. How are you?” Farah says, with not a hint in her voice to tell him anything.

“Oh. You know. A little worried.”

“Don’t be. Is Shane there? If he is, you can put this call on speaker phone if you want.”

Ilya does just that, putting the phone on the table between them, gripping firmer to Shane’s hand.

It’s good news. It’s the best news he could hope to hear, actually. The Centaurs want to sign him. They have looked at his medical records, and want their own team of doctors to assess his arm in two weeks, and that is when they will officially decide if Ilya will start the season as a LTIR, or, as a trainee coach.

“Given the conversations you have had with them, and I have had with them, it does look like a better fit for now, if you are a trainee coach. I am no doctor, though. So, we wait and see what the Centaurs' doctors think, yes?” Farah says.

“I think so, too,” Ilya says, watching the beautiful smile on Shane’s face and sure his own is just as wide.

“Excellent. I’ve read the contract through, and everything is exactly as they have suggested. Are you happy for me to start official proceedings?”

“Yes. Yes, please,” Ilya says, absolutely stunned.

“Excellent. Now, Ilya; this isn’t the most unusual deal the league has ever seen, but, I’m sure there will be questions.”

“Oh, I am sure.”

“I will draft you up a statement—in fact, I will polish the one I drafted in anticipation of this outcome. Once I hang up with you, I’ll speak to your other agent, and then between us, we will speak to whoever else we need to.”

Ilya’s stomach knots a little for that, but he will get through any difficult conversation thrown at him, if it means he can make this move.

“I am free all day,” Ilya says, to which Shane enthusiastically nods.

“Good. Okay. Then, let me get on with things here, and we’ll get some dates firmed up for you to see their doctors, to organise your schedule, and so on.”

“Will I need to sign something today?”

“Digitally, yes. There will be an official signing in the Centaurs offices at some point, but so long as we get a digital signature from you on the contract for now, that will work just fine.”

“So… should I wait to sign, before I start doing… other things? Like, I need to think about selling my apartment in Boston, and finding somewhere to live in Ottawa, and—”

“I’m confident about this, Ilya,” Farah says. “But, if you would feel better having that contract in front of you, that is understandable.”

“...maybe.”

“Then, start looking into things if you want to, but don’t agree to anything yet. I do think, though, I should be able to get this contract across to you in a couple of hours at the latest. Does that work for you?”

“Yes. Thank you. That is perfect.”

“Excellent. Then… congratulations, Ilya,” Farah says, the smile obvious in her voice. “I’ll be speaking to you again probably within the hour.”

Ilya thanks her, ends the call, and stares at Shane in amazement.

“This is really happening,” he whispers, as Shane pulls him to his feet.

“This is really happening,” Shane repeats, then laughs, throws his arms around Ilya, and smacks kisses into his neck.

Shane POV

Brossard looks the same as it has done for years as Shane drives to the sports complex where Montreal hold their training camp, familiar landmarks catching his eye in passing. He remembers the first time he drove here, the sleepless night he’d had before the start of camp that was mostly because of just how ready he was to start his career. The way his heart raced as the complex appeared on the horizon. The sense that he was heading somewhere he belonged.

Very little has changed since then, so many of the same places he has always driven by without much thought, the route so familiar he probably could close his eyes and still get there. Everything is different though, today, including the reason he barely slept at all last night. The usual flutter of excitement he feels in his chest as he looks the complex over while parking has been replaced with the uncomfortable pressure of dread.

Shane hates that feeling.

Is there any need for him to feel this way? Shane isn’t sure, and that might bother him more than anything. He hasn’t done anything wrong, and he hasn’t become an entirely different person since he last saw his team, but Shane can’t convince himself out of the car just yet for feeling both of those things. Or, more realistically, knowing that other people will feel those things about him. Maybe what should bother him most is caring about what other people might think, which for the most part he doesn’t. It’s just that… this is the first day where he has to confront those potential things face to face.

How can he convince his team that this is where he still belongs?

Hearing Ilya’s voice in his thoughts coming to his defence, Shane thumps his head back against the headrest and grabs his phone.

I miss you. I love you. You’re going to be amazing today, he writes, lets the message send, then scrolls through his gallery at all the pictures he has saved there.

This is new, having photos of Ilya that he can freely look at, photos that nobody else ever gets to see. Gone are the days of staring at the covers of games, or scrolling through the internet for pictures, and information, and anything he could get hold of about Ilya from afar. It’s exciting, and at the same time terrifying, that the thing they have realistically always been heading towards is actually here now, and happening.

They are together. Publicly. Together for everybody to see. Which is incredible, and has taken more stress off their shoulders than it’s possible to articulate. It’s what Shane has wanted all along, really, even back before when he couldn’t form his thoughts about it into words. It’s always been Ilya for him. He’s proud, and more than a little smug that Ilya is his, that everyone gets to know that now.

In the months it’s been since their relationship went public, though, so many of the things he’s had nightmares about have come to be. That is why he is sitting here now, staring at the familiar sports complex to start the familiar training camp before the start of the hockey season, playing worst case scenarios of what is waiting for him inside.

His phone buzzes. Relief washes through him before he even looks.

Ilya: I love you, and I miss you, and you will be incredible too. Remember you are so very important to that team (more important to me though) and they are stupid if they do not see that

Taking a deep breath, Shane allows Ilya’s words to soothe him the little they can.

Thank you, Coach, he writes back, imagining Ilya smiling at his phone.

Ilya is going to kick ass at coaching, Shane is a hundred percent sure of that. He is also sure he will miss playing against him. But, whether this coaching thing is temporary or becomes permanent, if it makes Ilya happy, then Shane will adjust. He will still find ways to compete against him on the ice in one way or another, that’s another thing Shane is sure about.

Maybe I will learn new tricks for you, when I am coaching, Ilya writes back along with a wink.

Shane reads his message twice, then laughs, feeling a touch of heat rush up his cheeks. He could sit here all day reading Ilya’s messages, but that won’t get them anywhere, will it? So Shane sends back another I love you along with more kisses, then makes himself get out of the car.

He can do this. He will do this. One foot in front of the other, Shane walks the familiar path around the complex to its entrance, and convinces himself to head inside.

It occurs to Shane as he puts his things away in a locker, that he didn’t check the parking lot for cars to see who else might be here already. Maybe he should have listened to Hayden and driven in with him, instead of being stubborn about it.

Was he being stubborn? Shane isn't sure. Out of everyone in his life—and admittedly, there aren't all that many people—Hayden's reaction to hearing about his and Ilya's relationship has been amongst the best. Way down the list after his parents and Rose, and really not the most supportive of responses at first, but, better than literally every other person. Should he want more from his supposed best friend? Shane thinks so, but also isn't sure if he can ask for that.

Hayden doesn’t quite understand Shane and Ilya’s relationship. Barely at all, really. In fact, when it isn't painful to hear some of his thoughts about it, it’s almost been funny for Shane to hear all the ways Hayden has twisted himself in his words, trying to be polite. Shane hates it. Hates how it makes him feel. Hayden is someone he hasn't had to hesitate much around in all the years he's known him—not too much, anyway—and now Shane finds himself second-guessing every other word. He tries to be normal, to brush off the hurt some of Hayden's words causes, but overall it just leaves him feeling pretty alone.

As well as that, Shane hates that his alleged best friend is so against his boyfriend, repeatedly tells Shane he can do better as though Ilya isn't the love of his life. Hayden says this is a joke. It doesn't feel very funny to Shane.

But. Hayden has been better than the majority of people, and since the number of people Shane can call friends is so few, maybe he has to take what he can get. At least Hayden has made an attempt at an effort, and even passed on well wishes to Ilya through Shane.

Nobody else from the Metros has.

Nobody else has spoken to him much at all since Ilya ended up in the hospital, not a kind word for Ilya and his recovery, and not an understanding one for Shane. He’s had a couple of texts that were along the lines of What the fuck do you think you’re doing, and another he can still see when he closes his eyes. It only said, This is gross upon gross, it shouldn’t have so much power over him. Shane feels like he will see those words in everyone’s eyes here today.

“Hollander.”

Shane freezes for hearing his name, stowing a bag away in his locker and turning around.

It’s Gilbert Comeau. Someone he’s played with for years, went to their wedding, sent a care package to when he had his first kid, and he can’t even call Shane by his first name now?

Is he reading too much into things?

“Comeau,” he says, watching him in profile.

Comeau nods, makes a great show of getting his things away and himself out of the locker room as quickly as possible.

Shane sits on a bench, swallowing back the choked feeling in his throat.

He can do this. He has to.

Heading to where they have their medicals Shane passes another two of his team, who stop talking when they see him, nod, and don’t say a word. Anger courses through him, but Shane makes himself breathe deeply and calms his system. The last thing he needs in the medical is for his blood pressure to be sky high, or his heart rate high, or… anything wrong at all.

The medical goes fine, as he expected it would. Liz, Perry, and Shaun, the medics who assess him, are, if not quite as friendly as he is sure they were last year, at least make conversation with him.

It is not until he steps into the gym area where they do the off-ice testing, that he sees any more of his team.

“Hey, buddy!” Hayden says with a big smile and wide eyes, which only makes Shane think people were talking about him before he walked in.

Was Hayden a part of that? Or defending him?

“Hi,” he says, surprised when Hayden closes the gap between them and hugs him hard.

“Doing okay?” Hayden asks, which is either a loaded question or, well. Shane doesn’t know what else it could be.

“Sure. You?”

"I'm great!"

“Good.”

“Good! How’s… Ilya?” Hayden asks next, which is another surprise for Shane.

“Also good. He’s at camp, too. Just starting, actually.”

“As coach,” Hayden says with a bemused smile that should not put Shane on edge, but does.

“He’ll be great,” Shane says, through gritted teeth.

Hayden grasps him on the shoulder. “I’m sure he will.”

“Can’t believe they’re letting that guy be a coach,” says Sam Thayer as he walks past them.

“What the fuck does it have to do with you?” Shane growls out before he can stop himself, hearing an answering scoff.

“Is that what it takes to get special treatment?”

“What?”

Thayer only sneers. Shane hears a million insinuations in his head, though none of them formulate into something he can grasp on to, so it's like he knows he needs to be pissed, but isn't completely sure why. Curling his hands into fists, Shane is only stopped from doing something stupid when Hayden steps in front of him, shaking his head.

“So. Let’s go get this done, huh?” Hayden says in a too bright voice, curling his hand around Shane’s bicep and all but dragging him away, though not before getting a glare in at Thayer.

Shane shakes him off when they are out of sight of the others. Hayden holds up his hands in defence.

“Look. It’s the first day we’re all back together. We’ve got all the usual testing, and then recovery, and photos, and press and… okay,” Hayden says, laughing nervously, “I’m clearly not helping here.”

“Sorry,” Shane says, again telling himself to breathe deeply and calm.

“I just think, once we get into the swing of things, when we’re out there on the ice like the team we always are, they’ll all get their heads out of their asses,” Hayden says.

“You really think that?”

“I… really hope that?” Hayden says after a long pause, screwing up his face.

Shane doesn’t believe it for a second. He knocks his arm against Hayden’s, and nods for them to keep walking. “Let’s go do this.”

They have timed sprints, pull ups, push ups, jump tests; all the usual off-ice things they go through each year. Shane is convinced he hits more repetitions than he ever has in the past; it’s amazing what being fuelled on fury can do with things like this.

There is a quick break, during which Shane avoids everyone, doesn’t even look at his phone. If Ilya is having a similar reception to him, Shane will be furious, and upset for him. If the Centaurs are far better, it just says all the terrible things about the Metros that Shane has always tried to defend and ignore.

Also, if he tells Ilya how bad his morning is going so far, Shane can almost hear his reaction. It’s a comforting thought, briefly having Ilya’s voice in his head, but he has to get back to work.

The on-ice testing grounds Shane somewhat, the feel of his blades against the ice the perfect way to still all the raging thoughts in his head. The tests go well, as they always do, and when done, Shane grabs himself one of the ice water baths that is about the furthest away from everyone. He hates every second of it, but his muscles will thank him later, so Shane perseveres.

After a good hot shower, it is time for lunch. Shane would rather be absolutely anywhere else. It takes a lot of talking to himself for him to join the rest of his team, who either go silent when he gets anywhere near any of them, or glare at him.

Later, when alone, he’ll probably be upset, but right now it’s only fury keeping him upright. Shane channels it, glares back just as hard, bangs his plate and cup around as loud and obnoxiously as everyone else is behaving.

“What’s with the attitude, Captain? Did you think we’d lay out a red carpet for you? Or, were you expecting a rainbow one now? With sparkles?”

Marcus Hood looks so pleased with himself, particularly when three others, Glenn, Dunlap, and Porter, snort with laughter.

Shane sees red. One minute he is about to sit and eat a meal he probably won’t taste a bite of, and the next he has punched Hood hard in the face, is swinging for a second punch, and only stopped from doing so by Hayden and JJ each grabbing on to an arm.

“Get the fuck off me!”

To their credit, both Hayden and JJ do let go of him. Shane steps forward, seething over Hood where he is now sprawled out on the floor, cradling the side of his face.

Shane counts to ten, then holds out his hand, yanking Hood back to his feet and shoving him against the dish rack behind them. “Anything else to say? C’mon, Hood, you might as well get it out now. You can hate me as much as you want, you can all be the homophobic fucks that you all are," he adds, glaring over his shoulder, "but unless they’re stripping me of my captaincy, I’m still your fucking captain. You don’t have to like me, and I sure as hell don’t like you. So. Come on. Say your worst. Let's see what you've got.”

Hood swallows hard, shaking his head.

“What? You forgot how to talk now, or something?”

“...sorry.”

Shane grips the front of Hood's shirt, pulls him close so he is right up in his face. “What was that?”

“I said. I’m sorry,” Hood says, his words thickened, his eye already swelling, and his cheek bright red.

Shane shoves him off, and turns to glare at the rest of the team. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do they, all looking at their feet, or the floor, or anywhere else at all, also magically forgetting their words.

Off to the side, Shane spots Theriault. There is something clearly wrong with him, because Shane only glares at him, daring him to comment. He’s too incensed to care about any consequences. That will come later, probably.

Theriault stares back at him, his expression unreadable. Then, he clears his throat. “Hollander. Hood. Go get yourselves checked over. Everyone else get back to lunch. We’ve got press and… fuck. Photos, this afternoon,” he says, looking absolutely pissed.

Shane’s knuckles are a little swollen and will probably bruise. The medic, Marc, slaps an ice pack over his hand and holds it in place.

“Keep ice on this when you get home, ibuprofen, no more punching things,” Marc says, and smiles, which feels so out of place with everything else that’s happened today.

“Thanks.”

“Hey. If you’re happy, that’s all that matters, right? Fuck anyone who tries to drag you down or say anything different.”

Marc’s words are in danger of breaking through Shane’s fury, letting the sad out, and he can’t have that. So Shane only nods in thanks, and stalks out of the medical room, back to… maybe he’ll get some juice, or coffee, or something. He can’t face eating right now.

Just as he’s about to push through the doors to where everyone is eating, JJ steps out.

Shane wants to walk right by him but doesn’t, watches as JJ leans back against the wall looking at him in thought.

“If you have something to say, you might as well say it,” Shane says.

JJ says nothing.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Shane says, pretending to pat himself down for his phone, “do you need to talk to me through Instagram now where everyone else can see? Is that how this works?”

“Fuck off, Shane.”

“No. You fuck off. What the fuck’s your problem?”

JJ’s eyes first flare wide, then narrow in anger. “Fucking... Rozanov? Of all people?”

“Yes, him. And?”

JJ throws his hands in the air. “Fucking Rozanov?”

Shane scoffs. “Yeah. I am. Happy now?”

A ripple of something crosses JJ’s face; Shane assumes it is disgust.

“You could have told me…”

“Oh,” Shane says, and laughs, gesturing between them, “and this reaction from you right now is exactly what would make me want to tell you.”

“Shane—”

“Do you remember the playoff back in 2014? At Hayden’s house?” Shane adds, folding his arms across his chest and doing his best to keep his injured hand free.

JJ continues to stare.

“It wasn’t even just then, because you said so much fucking homophobic shit before then. You all did—”

“Hey—”

“But then, when we were watching Boston win the Stanley Cup, do you remember what you said? Because I do. I can’t forget hearing it. Every time I even came close to telling you, I heard it.”

For the first time, JJ looks a little unsure.

“I'll remind you then,” Shane says, stepping closer. “You called him, an animal shitshow cocksucking Russian. Remember that? Do you?”

JJ swallows.

“I said. Do you remember that?” Shane demands.

There. That’s better, there is a flare of anger in JJ’s eyes.

“I fucking remember, okay?”

“Right. So. You think about all the similar shit pretty much every one in this fucking team has said, over all these years, on the ice, in our locker rooms, wherever we’ve been. You think about all of that, how it felt hearing all that—forget about Rozanov for a second. You think about how it felt hearing all that shit, every fucking day? When I was still trying to figure things out for myself? It’s almost worse hearing it from you more than anyone else, because apparently, you’re my friend—”

“I am your friend,” JJ protests, almost reaching out to him.

“And you’re doing a real fucking good job of acting like it right now. You think I didn’t picture exactly what happened in there with everyone just now, happening over, and over? And maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you? Why I didn’t tell anyone? What the fuck do you want from me, JJ?”

“...you could have told me,” JJ says, with a helpless shrug of his hands that only makes Shane want to punch something again.

“Tell me something. Are you more upset that you weren’t in on some big secret, or that I actually didn’t tell you? Because if it’s the first, you’re a dick, and if it’s the second, do you fucking blame me? After everything I just said?”

JJ opens his mouth and then immediately closes it.

Defeat is threatening to swallow Shane whole. He fights it off, he has to get through lunch, then press, then photos. Then, he can go home, take it out on the treadmill, and be soothed just for hearing Ilya’s voice on the phone.

He rolls his eyes at JJ, pushing the door beside him open. “You have my number,” he tells him quietly, then walks in, leaving JJ standing there.

Time for press. Or, is it?

Shane has avoided everyone, even Hayden, for the entire time they were allotted for lunch, so if there has been a change to the schedule, he won’t know about it. He thinks to look at his phone, see if there is something about the schedule updated there, but really can’t face seeing Ilya’s name on his phone screen. That will be the thing to soften him, and Shane needs to feel anything but soft right now.

He checks the time; if everything is on track he is due to see the press in about fifteen minutes. Shane makes his way around the building taking a longer route that hopefully no one else will take, heading for the usual area they let the press into.

Theriault is waiting outside of the room with an unreadable expression.

Shane comes to a stop in front of him.

Theriault looks up slowly, eyes lingering over his hand.

“How is it?” he asks, nodding at the ice pack covering Shane's knuckles.

“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ll keep this out of sight,” Shane adds, folding the ice pack over and shoving it in a pocket, flexing his knuckles glad to see much of the swelling is already gone.

“Good. Pity about Hood’s face.”

“Maybe it’s an improvement.”

“You think this is funny?” Theriault says, glaring.

“Not one minute of this day has been funny so far, so, no. I don’t think this is funny.”

Sighing, Theriault keeps on looking at him, as though he is staring right through him. “I should probably penalise you, or fine you, or something. Because what you did in there was fucking out of order.”

“To be clear. A lot of things were out of order in there. What exactly are you gonna fine me for? Standing up for myself when I’m surrounded by bigots?”

“I don’t like that word.”

“And I don’t like homophobia slung in my face. What the fuck changed about me, just because of who I—”

“Okay, okay, enough,” Theriault says, closing his eyes and holding his hand up.

A part of Shane knows triumph, imagines what Theriault might now be picturing because of what he was about to say. A part of him is absolutely amazed about how confident he feels right now. It’s a powerful feeling. Maybe—definitely—he will slump later, worry about all of the things he’s said, but right now, Shane feels like he can do anything.

“If I get out there on the ice tomorrow at practice, and somehow, I’ve forgotten how to skate, or play hockey, then, fine. But we both know that’s not going to happen.”

“No,” Theriault says after a beat. “I know that’s not going to happen.”

“No.”

“But you need to lock in.”

“When have I ever not been locked in?” Shane demands.

Theriault doesn’t have an answer for that, apparently. He slips his hands into his pockets, and leans back against the wall. “We’ll do joint press, like always.”

“Who? You and me?”

“Head coach and captain. Like always,” Theriault says, like he is making a point.

Maybe he is. Shane thinks he should know relief that he is still captain.

“Fine. We’ll do that. Now?”

“Yes.”

Shane moves towards the door and stops. He might as well take advantage of how much strength all this anger is giving him. “By the way. I did not appreciate the way you, and everyone else here, were speaking to my agent over the summer. I didn’t appreciate the way you all did—and didn’t—speak to me much, either.”

“What, you want an apology?”

“I would never expect anyone here to be capable of admitting they were wrong about anything,” Shane says with the most earnest look he can manage.

Good. Theriault looks absolutely livid now.

Shane says nothing else, pushing the door open. Maybe Farah—and Ilya—are right, and it’s time to acknowledge his worth.

The press room is silent when Shane walks in, all the eyes on him making him want to turn around and leave again. He makes himself walk across the room and sit in his designated seat, saying nothing as he is micced up. Theriault joins him after a couple of minutes, no visible trace of anger there on his face now.

It’s the usual pre-season bullshit interview, the questions probably identical to every one of these things that he’s done over the years. Even most of the faces are the same, Shane realises as he looks around the room. Does he look the same to all of them? He should do.

“Shane. Do you want to make a statement?” one of the journalists asks just when he thinks they are wrapping up.

He shakes his head. “About what?”

“Your… status.”

“My status?” Shane repeats in disbelief.

“Your… relationship,” she says, at least having the decency to look uncomfortable.

He should have anticipated this, probably, maybe even prepared something that he could say just in case.

“Not that that has anything to do with hockey, which is what this interview is allegedly about, no. I don’t need to make a statement about that. Ilya and I already did that a few months ago.”

“So, are you confirming—”

“Nothing has changed since then. Thank you for being so invested in our private life; I'll pass on your regards to Ilya,” he says in the most cutting tone he can, glad to see the journalist in front of him shrink back into her seat.

“Any comment on what you think about the shock new choice of coach over at the Centaurs?” another asks, clearly thinking they have said something clever.

“Did you get lost coming in here?" Shane asks, pointing at the door. "In case you did, we are in Montreal. Not Ottawa, or anywhere else. This is a pre-season interview on the first day of training camp, for the Montreal Metros. What other teams are doing is absolutely not any of our concern right now.”

Shane can feel the way Theriault is biting his tongue, holding in his anger, doing whatever the hell else he is, from where he is sitting. Shane knows triumph for it.

“Is that everything?” Theriault asks tersely, and the moment the journalists agree they have nothing further to ask.

They leave the room together. Shane expects some kind of berating, braces for it.

“We’re going to have to learn to work together,” is what Theriault actually says.

“What have we been doing all these years?” Shane retorts.

Good, he’s frustrated him again. What is wrong with him? He’s kind of enjoying this feeling.

“Let’s go. We have team photos,” Theriault says, walking away.

“And how are we going to convince the team to stand with me? Aren’t you worried I’ll turn everyone gay?”

“That’s enough, Hollander.”

“Is it?”

“Look,” Theriault hisses, turning quickly and in doing so bringing Shane to a quick stop; Shane doesn't so much as stumble. “Far as I’m concerned, whatever you do in your private life is your problem.”

“Believe me, it is not a problem.”

“But here,” Theriault continues, his face getting red, “you are the team captain, and I expect you to act accordingly. I’ll be talking to the rest of the team about this, and so long as we can all act professional, then I don’t see there being a problem.”

Just like that? No offer of apology, no admittance of any wrong doing, nothing at all? Shane is not even disappointed, not at all surprised. Both of those things, Shane knows, can feel, they are going to hit him later, when he thinks about the team he’s seen as brothers for so long, all suddenly turned against him.

In fact, it’s starting to get to him now, the usual flutters in his stomach and white noise in his ears that warn him he’s about to freak out. Which he has absolutely no time for right now. He will not let it happen. Not yet.

“So. Photos?” he says, with a steadier voice than he thought he would be capable of.

Theriault rolls his eyes, and nods. “Let’s go get this shit over with.”

Theriault turns on his heel. Shane follows, a couple of paces behind.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Hello!

After the last chapter, this one is a bit of a reprieve, it's just one scene between Shane and Ilya. It's not the most fun conversation in the world, but it is soft! Mostly soft, anyway.

Happy reading! 🧡

If he closes his eyes Shane can pretend that Ilya is on the other end of the couch from him, instead of more than two hours away in Ottawa. He's even put on one of the sweatshirts Ilya left here needing the comfort of his clothes—and scent—to help him calm, make Ilya feel closer.

Ilya does this too, wearing Shane's clothes that he's left behind or packed in the wrong luggage when in a reluctant rush to part. It's nothing even close to being together, but to Shane, it is evidence that they have been. That they have shared the same space, that neither of them are as alone as all of this sometimes feels. That Ilya is real, and loves him, just as much as Shane loves him.

Ilya sounds so excited. So happy. So vibrant and alive and so content in himself that Shane just wants to lean into that feeling, absorb all of its warmth. So he keeps asking questions, so he can hear about how welcoming the Centaurs are, how much fun it was seeing so many new faces fresh to hockey at camp, how good it felt seeing the already established team get along so well. Even the on- and off-ice tests were fun for Ilya to watch, and he’s even predicted just from seeing those where certain new players will end up within the league.

It’s so in contrast to Shane’s day that this might as well be a parallel universe. Shane has the urge to step into Ilya's and leave this one far, far behind. If only that were even possible.

“Now, will you tell me about your day?” Ilya says after a while in that gentle, coaxing way he does that means Shane instinctively will do just that, whether he intends to or not.

“It was okay,” he says, and doesn't mean at all, obviously.

He will be honest about it, but that doesn’t mean Shane has his words in a good order just yet.

“Shane…”

Fine. Shane snaps his eyes open, the reality of where he is, and where Ilya isn’t, coming back to him harshly.

“Awful?” he says, and then finds himself blurting out the whole thing unfiltered from start to finish.

He pauses only for a breath and some water before he talks about the photos the team took before he was finally, finally free. Shane isn't sure what Hood is maddest at him for, his entire existence, the punch, or the thick make-up needed to tone down the prominence of his bruises.

“I knew it was gonna be bad, but… I never thought it would be like this," Shane says, hating how hard he has to fight the urge to cry.

Ilya curses in Russian. Shane is too drained by his day to even attempt to understand.

"I guess this is what I have to expect now," he says. "A bunch of pissed off, but somehow still blank faces staring back at me with a look in their eyes that says they would happily be saying all kinds of shit to me. That they're talking about me, together, behind my back. That, no matter what I say or do, they're gonna find some way to punish me, somehow."

"Punish you for what?"

"For not being like them?"

"You are not like them," Ilya says, heatedly, "you are nothing like those fucking asshole bastards."

Isn't he? After his behaviour today, maybe he is just as bad. Maybe, because he's still kind of numb about it all, that is just confirmation that, yes, he really is as bad as any of them. Worse.

"I don't know…"

"Shane. No. You are nothing like them. And there is nothing to punish you for. Punish you for what? For being in love?" Ilya demands.

Shane closes his eyes. He is in love. Desperately, achingly, and wholly. Why can't things just be as simple as that; he loves someone.

"Well. Whatever reason they come up with, it doesn't make much of a difference. I can hope, I guess, that they decide to just say nothing to me at all? I guess… silence is better than any of that other stuff they could say to me?”

“Not much. Not at all,” Ilya says quietly; Shane can hear the rage there in his voice anyway.

“I don’t know. I do know, it was the quickest photo thing we’ve ever done, though. Hood’s face looked pretty bad, even with all the make-up.”

“Good.”

“I feel like I should… care more about that? Feel guilty?” Shane says, trying on the word guilt for size and not feeling it at all. “I don’t, though. I don’t know, Ilya. I just feel… pretty wild right now, but, still like myself? I don’t know.”

“You are you,” Ilya insists, “you did not change.”

Shane knows that in his heart, which is why being treated so differently so suddenly is really fucking with him.

"You feel like coming here and telling my whole team that?" Shane jokes.

"Yes. Of course. Very happily. I can tell them with my mouth or my fists."

It's such a nice idea. Shane allows himself to imagine it for a moment, snapped out of it for then picturing the weird look he suspects would be on Hayden's face were Ilya to show up in the Metros locker room.

Ilya needs very little reason to find bad things to say about Hayden. It's best if Shane keeps to himself how lonely he feels right now, for not being sure he can even trust his best friend.

“I know," Shane says, hating absolutely everything currently.

“Shane. You are you. You have always been this. You have a… I don’t know how to say.”

This makes Shane smile, because he can picture one of his favourite Ilya faces, the one when he’s trying to translate what is in his head to the perfect English words.

As if Ilya doesn’t know Shane loves his flawed English, his perfect English, his accent, and Russian, and absolutely everything else in between.

“Mm. You know I have a… sweet tooth, yes?” Ilya then says.

“Yes.”

“So. When I was very small, very young, my mom would take me to the rink all the time. Many times per week.”

Immediately Shane is laser focused, all other sounds dropping away, any awareness he might have had for anything else on pause. He will never get enough of hearing Ilya’s childhood memories; particularly ones that involve his mother.

“I bet that was nice,” he says softly, hoping to encourage him to keep talking, hoping that he’s not interrupting him.

“Yes,” Ilya says with a smile obvious in his voice, “it was. Every time she took me to the rink, we would have a little time, after, just for us. Every time after practice, and showers, and changing, and everything, we would find a place to sit, and then she would give me this little paper bag, full of candy. She would always draw a little something on the bag. Maybe a bird, maybe a tree, maybe… many things.”

Shane can picture this so, so clearly. Ilya has painfully few photos of his mom, so Shane is even more honoured that the few he has, he has willingly shared. There is one specific photo in his head right now, of a perhaps five, or six year old Ilya with curls absolutely everywhere, grinning at the camera with his mom’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. She’s looking down at him so adoringly, it puts tears in Shane’s eyes every time he either sees, or thinks about this photo, like he is doing now.

“I don’t, exactly, remember what candy, but, it was things like… mm. One is like a mint-milk thing. Alyonka. Lakomba. Korovka. Oh… Burazhe. I liked them very much. Oh, and there is one that is called Golden Key, in English. That is very good, too. Oh, and another, is Little Miracle, and then there is…”

Holding in his absolutely delighted laughter, Shane listens as Ilya loses himself in some candy nostalgia. He lets Ilya's voice soothe him, almost sad when Ilya interrupts himself in the middle of a fairly intense description of some marshmallow thing.

“Oops. Sorry,” Ilya says with an embarrassed little laugh.

“No, no, I love hearing these things. Keep talking.”

“Anyway,” Ilya says, clearing his throat, and laughing again. “I only wanted to say, that, you are like that.”

“Like what?”

“You are like some of my favourite candy. Like… maybe Caramilk, here, now.”

A little snort bursts from Shane. “That’s… sweet, Ilya. Thank you.”

“No…” Ilya says with a whine in his voice.

Shane hears something soft behind his voice, knowing for sure, because this happens all the time on their calls, that Ilya has thrown himself backwards either on the couch—his brand new couch that only got delivered yesterday—or his almost-as-new bed—that he’s had about two weeks.

A bed that they have already tested out. Shane can confirm; very sturdy, very comfortable, with a good, solid headboard he can hold on to while riding Ilya. Perfect, in other words.

He can't wait to test out the sofa, as well…

“It’s okay," Shane says, "I know you like me. Your secret is out.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, and laughs. “Is not a secret anymore.”

“No. It’s not. I’m… not exactly sure it ever has been.”

“Same for you.”

“Of course…”

“Anyway,” Ilya says, “I wanted to say that, you are like so many of my favourite candies because, you have this… shell, this, um, outside thing. This outside thing, it is you, it is real, but, the very real you is inside. The inside is what you let everybody there at the Metros see a little of today, and they are probably shocked, because they normally see only the shell part.”

Shane replays his words, processes them a little.

He’s not good with metaphors, people saying a million things instead of the exact thing they mean, and this is one of the things Shane loves so much about Ilya. He is typically direct with him in the ways he needs. But also, when Ilya uses metaphors, or explains things in an unusual way, for whatever reason, Shane gets him. He understands Ilya better than he probably ever has anyone else.

“So… I have an outside version of me, that I let everyone see—that I maybe use to protect the real me—and the inside me that… probably only you, and maybe my parents usually get to see?” he says.

“Yes,” Ilya says, sounding so relieved that he’s understood him. “I think that.”

“I… feel like that’s true? I feel like I had to do that. I mean… I think you have, too. Maybe everyone does, in some ways.”

“Yes, yes, I think so too, it is just that, maybe, your shell is maybe a little tougher than most people have.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No, no, definitely not. But. I do think that, now people are getting to see a little more of the inside you, they are shocked. This is their problem, not yours,” Ilya adds.

“The real me curses constantly, throws punches, gets sassy, and… probably—definitely—pretty rude, or, unprofessional with the head coach?” Shane says, wincing in preparation for a wall of shame and fear to descend on him for how he spoke to Theriault earlier.

Nothing descends. If anything, Shane has the urge to call Theriault right now, give him even more of a piece of his mind.

Then, he would call every fucker on his team, and—

Shane shuts down those thoughts because Ilya is on the phone with him right now. He doesn’t need to think about any of that shit.

“You curse at me all the time. For many reasons. You are always sassy with me. And rude. Always unprofessional—”

“Hey.”

“When we are not on the ice together,” Ilya adds, laughing softly.

A little sadness hits Shane, for the thought they might never face each other on the ice again. Which is silly, isn’t it? Nothing is for certain yet, with Ilya coaching. He’s only doing it temporarily at the moment. And even if his arm isn’t strong enough for him to return back to hockey when he is next properly assessed, which will be in early January, then, they’ll deal with it. Ilya’s health, and him keeping in work so that his citizenship application isn’t in jeopardy, is more important than anything else.

Also. It’s not like they have met that many times on the ice, really, is it? If they had seen each other on the ice as much as he would have liked, competed that often, maybe they would have figured out what they were to one another far longer ago than they did.

Something for him to think about and dwell on later.

“I haven’t punched anyone in a while. Probably not since I was a kid.”

“But, you did have a fight with Scott Hunter that time. Because of me,” Ilya says, sounding so, so proud of that fact.

Shane doesn’t even blush for it like he used to when Ilya found out about it and would tease. He does replay, briefly, exactly what Ilya did to him the first time they met up after that fight, though.

Yes. That is a very good memory.

“I feel like I should feel more about all this. More, like, guilty, or embarrassed, or, fuck, even worried that I went too far, and there will be some consequences down the road that I haven’t even thought about yet.”

“Probably there will. Probably those assholes will realise they cannot push you over anymore.”

“I don’t know…”

“I know,” Ilya says, confidently. “And, I think today, maybe you showed your asshole coach and your asshole team that you know how important you are to them. I think you have scared them. I am very proud.”

“I’m proud of you, too,” Shane says. “And I’m really, really glad, that your team were great with you today.”

“I am lucky.”

“You deserve it.”

“So do you,” Ilya says, and then as though sensing Shane needs a change of subject, adds, “What do you think Marleau sent me a photo of today?”

Shane rolls his eyes, but is already smiling. The moment Ilya announced officially that he was leaving Boston, Cliff called Ilya, yelled at him, and then asked if he could sublet his place. Ilya sold it to him with everything in it, only going back for a couple of days with Shane to collect his personal things.

Almost every day since, Cliff has sent him random photos from the apartment. A bottle of chili sauce that had rolled into the corner of a kitchen cupboard. A car magazine under the couch. A handprint—likely Shane’s, to be honest—on the glass of the window looking out over the city, a photo which had Shane blushing immediately.

And today’s image? Two not… small dents in the wall behind Ilya’s former headboard.

Oops?

“...oh,” Shane says, smirking, and blushing, and oddly, kind of proud.

“And he wrote, I am going to bleach everything, and burn the mattress.”

“...if he’s burning things we’ve fucked on—”

“Yes, yes, I know, I already told him to burn the whole apartment,” Ilya says, his voice filled with glee.

“I will… wait to see the headline about that,” Shane says, loving to hear Ilya burst into laughter. “Hey. How’s your arm been today?”

Shane can picture him holding up his arm to inspect.

“Mm. Good. Terry made me do my exercises with him after lunch, and checked it over. He thinks it is getting strong again, and at a good… pace?”

“That’s really good to hear.”

“So. I have an idea,” Ilya says.

Shane narrows his eyes. If he tells him he’s going to start weight lifting or bench pressing or—”What?”

“We both have a day off next week, yes? Seven days from today.”

“We do, but—”

“We will finish our game the night before, probably by nine, nine-thirty. We will be finished by ten at the latest. I think it will be the same for you?”

“Probably,” Shane says, telling himself the excitement building up on him is selfish.

“So. I will drive to you. And,” Ilya says, interrupting Shane before he can get a word in, “I will not be as tired as you, I don’t think. Because yes, I will be coaching, but, it is not the same as however many shifts you have, three periods, any overtime. I will not be as tired as you are after the game, I don’t think. So. I will come to you after the game. Stay for the day. And, our morning skate the next day is at half past ten. I leave yours and drive straight to the practice. I am not arguing about this.”

Shane wants this to happen, desperately, in fact it’s been a fight not to climb into his car already today, drive straight to Ottawa, to Ilya’s new house and just… stay there. The thought of Ilya driving, though, and hurting his arm just to get to him—

“Before you start worrying and everything, I asked Terry if he thinks it is a good idea or not. He says yes. He says, is probably better for me to try driving now, too, instead of taking a taxi to the camp. He says it is good practice for longer journeys, and to help my arm get back to normal.”

“I… guess I can’t argue with a team doctor,” Shane says.

“No. You cannot,” Ilya says, with triumph in his voice.

“I don’t really want to argue with him. I wish I was there with you right now.”

“Yes. My house is pretty great,” Ilya teases, though it’s true; the moment Shane saw the house Ilya was interested in he knew it was perfect for him, and the place already feels like a home.

His house does too, in a way, it’s just… Ilya isn’t here. No place ever feels much like a home when he isn’t with him.

At least, Shane tells himself, they don’t have to spend the next year pretending they barely like each other. They have the launch of the Irina Foundation to look forward to soon, and don’t have to hide when they’re spending time together. Nowhere near enough time, of course, and so few people will, apparently, be happy for them. Shane tells all of those objecting people he is picturing in his head to fuck off.

“I can’t wait to see you,” he says, hearing Ilya’s soft sigh.

“Me, too. We can FaceTime tomorrow night, yes?”

Shane kind of wishes they had done that tonight, too, but he couldn’t trust his own face, knew even with the falsest, biggest of smiles, Ilya would know he was struggling.

“Definitely.”

“I have some meetings and things after the practice in the morning. I should be home by, maybe six?”

“Look at you. Coach meetings and everything,” Shane says, then gets the nicest image of Ilya in his head, of him alert and focused discussing plays and lines and the team.

Fuck.

It’s going to be torture when they play against the Centaurs now, while he is on the ice in his usual gear and Ilya is standing there looking incredible in a suit.

Now, that, that is something he is looking forward to. Being tortured, by the sight of his gorgeous boyfriend, just standing there looking all focused.

Hmm. Yes. A very good thing to think about.

“They think I am very sensible,” Ilya says.

“You are, though. Not all the time—that would be boring, and that’s my job.”

“I love your boring.”

“Thanks,” Shane says, snorting with laughter. “But I just mean… for you saying I have a shell, you do, too.”

“I know.”

“You act, or you did, like this… you know what you acted like.”

“Yes, yes, I know what you think of me.”

“I think, you’re probably the most incredible person I’ve ever met,” Shane says, truthfully.

“… only probably?” Ilya says, even if his voice has gone all soft in the way it always does when Shane pays him a compliment.

“Yes. But secretly, inside, you are—and I know these are difficult words for you to hear—”

“Shut up.”

“No. You are kind, and you care, and you’re generous, and you have a big heart. That’s what’s in your shell.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then laughs, clears his throat, even. “You cannot tell anybody that.”

“I think some people are starting to know that already. That they already know.”

“You do not need to make it easier for them to know, then.”

“...fine,” Shane says, loving, again, to hear Ilya laughing.

“You should rest,” Ilya says then, reluctantly.

“You too.”

“Yes. But, you more, maybe. Your day was not so nice as mine. That is very tiring, just that.”

He’s right. Shane feels like he’s done three games back to back, taken all the shifts, and gone into overtime. The moment his head hits the pillow he will be out for the night.

Maybe that’s the best thing that could happen, so he doesn’t overthink and replay this horrible day until the early hours.

They say their I love yous and goodbyes, and then the call is over, and Shane feels loneliness creeping in. He hates it. That urge to drive to Ilya comes back, and it’s a fight not to listen to it. Instead, even though it’s still pretty early, Shane checks everything is locked up then heads to bed. He falls asleep while thumbing through his gallery, the slowly accumulating number of photos of Ilya the only company he actually wants right now, if he can’t have the real thing.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Slightly longer chapter this time, and we have difficult conversation ahead, so please see the warnings below.

Warnings

- Theriault calls a team meeting 'about the elephant in the room', in other words, Shane. During this meeting there is a discussion about the lack of inclusivity in the team/league, which covers both racism and homophobia.

- Shane faces accusations from various members of the team about throwing games for Ilya, and how he's made them look bad in the league.

- Shane continues to feel pretty isolated, gets a little upset, but does get to be his snarky self.

Day two of training camp. Why does it feel like he’s been there for a month already? Why does it feel like he hasn’t slept at all, when he slept for almost ten hours straight?

Groaning, Shane drags himself out of bed, checks his phone for the time, and scowls. Time to start the same routine he’s had for years, to get himself ready to be his best. There isn’t any other way he knows how to be.

Run, stretches, weights, breakfast, shower; the same as he’s always done. Shane still feels outside of himself, off balance, even. He’s out of his depth, with no clue how he’s supposed to fix his mood and face whatever the day is going to throw at him.

Then, he realises. Yesterday, when that oh too familiar feeling of being overwhelmed threatened to descend on him, he’d pushed it away, and made himself a promise that freaking out would be an option but only when he finally got home. At home, though, he’d been angry, and numb, and sort of stunned as he replayed so many moments of his day. Then, he’d spoken to Ilya and gone to sleep. There had been no time for a freak out. There had been no opportunity for the wave of calm that tends to follow.

Now, as he drives to the camp, the knowledge that he’s not got all of the stress out of his system is hanging around his shoulders, threatening to hit at any time. He can’t let that happen. He shouldn’t need to prove himself, doesn’t even feel like he needs to, but Shane knows everyone will be watching him more carefully today.

Time to shut down, then, force thoughts of anything other than playing hockey out of his head. He parks his car, grabs his bag, walks into the sports complex with his head held high. He only allows himself a couple of seconds to hesitate outside the locker room then is shoving the door open.

There are four of the team in there already, and as expected, the room falls silent when they see who just walked in.

"The coaches want us to work on power plays this morning; apparently, that’s what took us out of the playoffs," Shane says, no good morning, or greeting of any kind as he walks straight to his locker.

"Oh. Okay?" says Comeau sounding confused.

Shane pictures the others looking between each other and at where he has his back to them.

"I don’t think it’s that," Shane adds, putting his things away and starting to get changed. "Allegedly, we’re a team. We work well together. We know each other’s every move on the ice. But. What would I know?I've only played with some of you my entire professional life."

"So… what do you think happened, then?" Comeau asks, cautiously.

Shane takes his time to turn around and face him.

"Luck? The other team having a better day than us? Our lines were good, our passes perfect. We got out-manoeuvred on goal opportunities at every turn. Maybe that’s what we’ll be focusing on next. More tactical offence, defence."

"...right."

Shane sends a belated good morning text to Ilya, smiling for the message already waiting. And the photo. Damn, it is good that he gets to keep all of these now.

"See you out there," Shane says, tucking his phone away in his bag and letting his locker door slam closed.

There is no reason for him to hang around in here with a team that doesn’t know him anymore. He might as well get warmed up, and out on the ice before anyone else.

Two of the coaches are already on the ice when he approaches.

Great.

So much for some alone time.

Benjamin Jenkins, and Jan Torres, who didn’t have much to say yesterday—not as much as anyone else, anyway—also fall silent as he steps on to the ice. Shane shuts down the outrage and hurt threatening to rise up and skates out, letting the ice soothe him as it so often has. He skates laps, avoiding whatever the coaches are setting up for their practice, not saying a word.

He hates that his stomach drops as the team starts to trickle in. How dare they have this kind of hold over him?

Shane gives a half-smile to Hayden and no one else, even more unsure of how he stands with him right now. He probably shouldn’t feel like that, because at least Hayden is trying to understand him. Sometimes, anyway.

Lock in. Shut down, Shane tells himself, determined to keep his head in the game and nothing else.

Practice starts. There are drilled practices for warm up, then penalty shoots, before the coaches split them up into three teams. One sits out while the other two compete, going over and perfecting all the things they typically do during playoffs. Do the fans know how choreographed all of these things can be? Does it matter?

It does matter, in a way, because the moment they start the practice it is even easier for Shane to think only about the hockey they are playing. He might notice everyone is practically silent, but because they have played together so long and so well, no one needs to say anything anyway. They pass, they block, they do all the things they always do, like it’s muscle memory. Like they have every right to claim themselves as one of the best teams in the league. If all of their games in the future go like this, with no talking, just actions, then it’ll be strange, but Shane thinks he could probably get used to it, if he has to.

He can almost pretend that nothing is wrong, nothing is different.

Almost.

After their practice, and recovery, they return to the locker room, and it’s the first time Shane has actually looked at Hood’s face today. It is a mess. His hands did that. Shane digs deep, tries to find a little remorse, strangely alarmed when he finds none.

Is this who he is now? An angry asshole who faces all his problems with his fists? Fuck, he hopes not.

There is a team lunch after their showers. Shane has every intention of skipping it and heading straight home to eat there. In fact, he’s just packing his things up while contemplating the contents of his fridge, when he feels a nudge against his arm.

When Shane looks arond it is to see Hayden looking at him in both concern, and hurt.

"You haven’t said one word to any of us all morning," he says, with a discreet glance around the room.

He should at least speak to Hayden. Look at that, Shane thinks, scolding himself, he is capable of an emotion other than anger. He feels guilt for not speaking to his best friend.

Some, anyway.

Should he feel guilty?

That he isn't even sure tells Shane that he should.

"Sorry. Just keeping locked in, right?" he says, closing his locker.

"You don’t need to do that with me."

"Oh, I don’t?"

"No," Hayden says, really looking hurt now, "you don’t. I don’t—I didn’t—understand, but, I’m figuring it out, okay? I’m figuring out it’s not your problem if I don’t understand. That all I need to do, is… be your friend. Can you let me be that?"

Guilt is threatening to give way to upset, and upset reminds him why he can't trust anyone in this room yet. Not even Hayden. Shane can’t let these emotions and their fallout happen. So he clasps Hayden’s arm and squeezes, forces a smile on his face.

"Of course. Sorry. Just let me settle into things for a few days."

"Of course," Hayden says enthusiastically. "But if you’re up to it, maybe you can come over for dinner? Maybe… Friday? Jackie’s asking. And, I miss you, man."

Making himself breathe steadier than he feels, and not say no like he wants to, Shane nods. "Sure. Definitely. Let’s do that."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

"Amazing," Hayden says, looking more happy than he needs to do, honestly, about this.

"Good. I’m gonna—"

"Team meeting after lunch," Theriault calls out as he sticks his head around the locker room door, keeping his gaze averted. "I won’t keep you long."

He’s gone before anyone can say a word.

Shane curses, and he’s pretty sure several pairs of eyes are on him now, blaming him for this meeting needing to happen. He shoves his things back in the locker, and the moment Hayden is finished getting ready, nudges for him to follow him out.

"Okay. Let’s address the elephant in the room," Theriault says the moment the Metros are seated and he has shut the meeting room door behind them.

Shane keeps his eyes on Theriault, ignoring the glances in his direction. His heart might be racing ridiculously, but his face is a mask of calm. He knows, because he's had a lot of practice at this.

Theriault glances back at him, his jaw working like he is gritting his teeth.

"The Metros have always been committed to inclusivity—"

He really doesn’t mean to snort so loud. Shane does enjoy the look of annoyance on Theriault’s face, though, and the discomfort on everyone else’s.

"Sorry," Shane says, holding up a hand, "I didn’t realise you were making a joke as an ice breaker."

Murmurs ripple around the room. Confused murmurs. Is this what Ilya meant last night, about letting his real self slip through?

Maybe. Oddly, Shane feels better for being himself in the moment, not pretending, not being quiet, not being good, like he’s always done.

"You think inclusivity is a joke, Hollander?" Theriault asks.

Shane makes a point of looking around the room. "There are, what… one fifth? Sixth? Of this entire team, this entire roster, who aren’t white. You think we don’t notice the comments some of you make about us? Those jokes that are oh, so funny, that you think are okay to make in front of one ethnicity about another? You think any of us grew up without hearing that our whole lives?"

A couple of the players who are in that small minority, look at Shane properly for the first time today. He does his best not to glare back.

"You think the locker room, the ice, anywhere in hockey is an easy place for any of us to be?"

"So, you think if you’re not white, you need special treatment?" asks Dunlap, which only makes Shane laugh again.

"You think us not-whites aren’t used to being accused of wanting special treatment?"

"We just want to be treated normally. Because we are normal. We’re just fucking people," JJ says, just loud enough for everyone to hear, which is unusual for him, normally not afraid of his voice carrying.

Maybe it's this subject that is muting him a little. How many times have people made snide comments, and blatantly racist jokes, about the reasons why JJ is so loud?

He doesn’t look at Shane as he talks, which is fine.

"So, yeah. I do think, actually, that the idea of inclusivity—in this team, in this league, in hockey generally—is a joke," Shane says. "If the first thing we get told when we talk about wanting inclusivity is that we want special treatment, it is nothing but a joke."

An uncomfortable silence falls on the room. Theriault is in the rare position of apparently not knowing what to say next.

Shane asks himself why it should fall on him to keep things going, when he wants to be anywhere but here. But if not for him, maybe this conversation won’t happen at all, and he wants it over and done with.

"All I want, is to be treated the same as you’ve always treated me. I’m no different now, at the start of this season, than I was the last. Except for happier. And a little more comfortable with myself. Away from here, anyway," Shane adds, catching several people ducking their heads.

"You’re still our captain," Hayden says, looking, weirdly, emotional.

"Exactly. I’ve been your captain for a while now. I’m proud of this team. I think of you as family. Or, I did. Or, you did me. I don’t know. I know I didn’t change," Shane says, frustrated with himself for lacking the right words.

"The trust is gone," says their goatender Drapeau, also not making eye contact.

"How? Why?" Shane asks.

"How many games did you throw for him?" Thayer asks coldly, bordering on disgust.

White, hot rage surges through Shane. It is hard to keep his face neutral, but he thinks he manages it.

"That's what you think?"

"What else are we supposed to think?"

"I don't know? How about you think about how many Cups we've won together? How many games we beat Boston? How many times we—this is such bullshit," Shane rages, begging himself to keep under control. "If you think for one second that I'd help anyone—anyone!—win, aside from my team, then I think… I think none of you knows me at all. At all. What the actual fuck?"

A weird, uncomfortable silence fills the room. It's a fight for Shane not to run straight out.

Comeau, avoiding eye contact and pulling on his hair, sighs heavily in the corner of the room. "Okay. So. You probably didn't throw anything to help him out."

"No. Never," Shane says.

There are a million other things he really, desperately wants to say, starting with how every time Ilya is so much as spoken about in a derogatory tone, Shane wants to break the world. Maybe some faces along the way, as well.

He won't, though. Not now, when he's so close to breaking.

"But," Comeau adds, "if we're wondering about it, you have to think that everyone elsewhere in the league is thinking about it, too. This whole thing makes the team look bad."

That's what they think? Fuck. These people that he once thought he knew are even worse than he was beginning to fear.

"If anyone seriously thinks that, why haven't they reviewed every minute of our games against Boston, to be sure? Has anyone done that?" Shane demands, glaring at Theriault.

Theriault has the decency to drop his gaze, too. "No," he says, mostly to the floor as he shakes his head. "Nobody has investigated that."

"So… you all just decided, what; that because I'm gay, I somehow have to throw all of our games—games that actually, I've helped us win, mind you—to, what? Please my boyfriend? Earn myself some, I don't know… fucking… sexual favours, or something?"

Well, look at that. The word boyfriend is so discomforting to them all.

Good. Maybe he'll say it again, louder this time.

He could just call them lovers like Ilya did before, exactly once, see if the Metros shudder more than he did himself back then.

No. These assholes don't deserve to hear Ilya's words, even when those words are so disturbing to them.

Or, Shane then considers, the word boyfriend is the least scary thing he just said. Shane plays out the rest of his words, and bites back a sudden burst of laughter for the images he might have put in their heads.

Good.

"You think being gay means I'm weak? A pushover? What? What?" Shane asks again, slapping his hands down against the table, glad to see at least three people jolt in surprise. "Exactly how am I behaving any differently now, to before, when I've been gay this whole fucking time?"

"That's the problem," mumbles someone, he can't tell who, because they are down the other end of the table.

"What is?"

"You've been gay this whole time, around us," says another voice.

"And that means… what, exactly?" Shane asks.

No one answers. Oh, this is fun.

"What, you think I’m gonna be staring at you all in the showers, or something?" Shane asks, and is met with the majority of the room squirming in discomfort. He feels sick. He feels sick, and maybe even like he might pass out, or something.

"Or," he continues in a smaller voice, "you think I already have been sneaking looks at you all, this whole fucking time? Seriously?"

No one answers again. These assholes.

"Okay. First of all, that’s gross. I’ve showered in the same spaces as you all for years. Absolutely none of you are interesting for me to look at."

"Not even me?" Hayden says, hand to his heart and pretending to be upset.

Shane’s lips twitch. He pats him on the shoulder, and sighs, deeply. "No, Hayd. Not even you."

"I’m heartbroken."

"I’m sure Jackie can help with that."

"Why Rozanov?" asks Dunlap, as several heads shoot up.

The question everyone wants an answer to, apparently.

"Because he makes me happy? And I love him?"

Oh, look, even more triggering words for these bastards. What the actual fuck is wrong with all of them?

"Okay. So. If I was just gay—"

More uncomfortable squirming. That tells Shane everything.

"If I was just gay, and was with someone else—a guy who wasn’t Rozanov—are you seriously telling me any of you would be better about it?"

“Maybe," Dunlap says, but is frowning like he doesn’t believe his own words.

Well. Fuck all of them. Time to really blow their minds, then.

"I’m still the same person I’ve always been. Literally. None of you in this room ever knew me before I was… with Ilya, in some way or other. It's been him, the whole fucking time."

As expected, now all eyes are on him, shock and horror greeting him at every turn.

Only Hayden knows this particular detail—and his reaction at the time of being told Shane would rather forget. Now, though, he only sits in silence, appearing to show Shane some solidarity by monitoring the reactions of everyone else.

"So," Shane continues, "I literally haven’t changed. This is who I’ve always been. Sure, it took me a while to figure out who I am, and us, me and him, a little longer to figure out… us, but it’s always been this. You’ve never seen me—you’ve never known me, without Ilya Rozanov being a big part of my life."

No one seems to know what to say. Not even Theriault.

Shane is tired. He really wants to get out of here.

"If none of you want to talk to me off the ice, whatever. I don’t care anymore, I’m not changing myself to suit anyone else. But you will respect me on the ice, when we’re playing, when we’re training. If you have your big, special opinions, and your clever little jokes, I’m sure you’re very proud of yourselves. Keep it out of my face. I’ll do my job as captain, you do yours. We don't need to interact in any other way, if it's too hard for you all."

"Getting the team to the playoffs is the only thing of importance here," Theriault adds.

He seems… exasperated? Angry? Something at Shane. Maybe because he’s taken over the room?

Who cares, honestly.

"Couldn’t agree more," Shane says. "So. Are we done here?"

He is already standing anyway.

"We’ll be keeping an eye..."

Theriault’s words sink in slowly. He could mean, they, whoever they might be, will keep an eye on the team, make sure the things that happened yesterday won’t come close to happening again.

Theriault is looking at him, though, as he says it. Fury rises up in Shane again, settling around his shoulders.

"Keeping an eye? For what? On what?"

"The team is the priority," Theriault says. "So long as everyone plays their part, doesn’t get distracted by their personal lives—"

"Are you insinuating—"

"I’m only saying. We keep hockey in our heads, on the ice, in our training. Nothing else matters. Off the ice, away from here, you can do whatever shit you want. We do not need to hear about it."

Shane points at his own chest. "Is that just for me?"

Theriault doesn’t say anything, sending a fresh wave of anger through Shane. How hasn't he exploded by now?

"Are you telling me to behave myself?" Shane asks, hoping he sounds amused, instead of devastated like he now feels.

"We could all do with behaving better," Theriault says eventually.

"So, why are you aiming all of this at me?"

"Hollander—"

"I’ll do my part," Shane says, tucking his chair beneath the table and slinging his bag over his shoulder, hoping the fact that he is trembling isn’t obvious. "You all do yours."

"That’s all we ask," Theriault says, then adds, "of everyone here."

"You could always trade me, if you think I can’t live up to your expectations," Shane growls out, not, exactly, meaning it, but so close to breaking that he has no filter against the words threatening to come out.

Theriault gets very small, very quiet, even looks a little pale. "Nobody is talking about trading anybody."

"I’m a free agent at the end of this season. Maybe I just use this year to prove myself to literally everyone else in the league. See what happens then," he says, and because he no longer trusts himself, storms out before he can do even more damage.

Shane throws himself in his car, and cries quietly all the way home.

This is the first time he’s been to Hayden’s since last season and already Shane is debating turning around, driving back home. In fact, he's pulled over on the drive here twice, already. Maybe that alone is a sign he shouldn't try?

It’s the sight of Ruby and Jade bouncing excitedly on the doorstep when they see him that stops Shane from doing just that, instead rearranging a smile on his face as he climbs out of the car.

"Uncle Shane!" they shout out in unison, their little arms around him in a hug before he gets even a few paces.

"Hello, hello; wow, you got so big!"

"It’s only because you haven’t been here forever," Ruby tells him, looking up at Shane in disapproval.

"Yeah, forever," Jade agrees, adding her own frown.

"Well. I’m here now. And, I almost forgot; there is candy in the car."

The girls cheer, letting go of him and walking with Shane as he goes back to the car, pulling a bag from the back seat.

"Are you sneaking my girls candy before dinner?"

Shane doesn’t know what is funnier, Hayden sneaking up on them or the way the girls whine in protest.

"No, no. Just… making sure I have it with me."

"Come on, trouble. All three troubles," Hayden says pretending to roll his eyes as he shoos them in.

"Something smells good," Shane says, breathing deep the moment he is in the house.

"You said you’d eat anything for once, so, Jackie made only the best thing in the whole world."

"Lemon pepper chicken?" Shane guesses, because this is the dish that Hayden actually talks about when they are on the road, like he misses it as much as his family.

"You’re gonna love it," Hayden says, his eyes rolling in the back of his head almost; is he tasting it already?

Shane loves his best friend, even when he’s being a little weird.

Which he has been lately, in ways that haven't been fun. Shane pushes the reminder of that away, determined to try to enjoy himself here tonight.

There are hugs from Jackie, and then there is a wave from Arthur, and a gurgle from Amber, who is just over a year old now. It actually feels pretty good to be here. Not just because the week has been awful so far, or because this is the first company he’s had in days. Shane really wants to be here. He wants to be fully relaxed in the home of his best friend, and now there aren’t any secrets, he can be.

Mostly, anyway.

Okay. So what he really wants is just to feel accepted, to feel like he still has a best friend. To be treated normally, to feel welcome here like he thought he used to feel in this house.

"Can I do anything to help?" Shane asks after washing his hands.

"No, no. Hayden’s getting the table ready when he’s finished helping the girls pick up their toys. Dinner is almost ready. Get yourself a ginger ale. You can sit and talk to me," Jackie says.

Shane does as asked then slips on to a stool at the kitchen island. "How are you?"

"I’m good. Really good. How are you doing?"

"Yeah. Pretty good."

"Rough start of training camp?" Jackie asks in sympathy.

"This has not been my favourite training camp ever."

Jackie, who is generally one of the happiest people Shane knows, scowls as she gives the huge pan of lemon pepper chicken another check.

"I’m—I tell myself to be grateful. About the Metros. The life we have, because Hayden plays for them, how we’ve, so far, never had to move anywhere. The friends I’ve made," she adds, offering Shane a soft smile.

"Yeah," Shane says, nodding, "all of that’s pretty great."

"It’s not great how they’re treating you. It’s the exact opposite of great. I wish I was… more surprised."

Is he the last one to catch up to how awful the Metros are as people? Sometimes Shane feels so naive. Sometimes he’s mad at himself, because it’s not as though he hasn’t seen plenty of evidence of how strict, and controlling, and unwelcoming a place the Metros can be. This team has meant so much to him, though, so maybe he’s guilty of ignoring the worst of things, just because they gave him a sense of belonging?

He doesn’t know how to process all of that, along with how he does not feel that sense of belonging now. He’s still hoping he will do; maybe when the season starts properly?

"Yeah. I don’t know," Shane says, helplessly shrugging for not knowing what to say.

"We don’t have to talk about that. How’s Ilya?" Jackie asks as she moves over to check the rice cooker, turning it off at the wall.

She asks the question so easily, that it throws Shane for a second.

"Good. Yeah, he’s really good. Thank you," he adds belatedly, then feels stupid for it.

Jackie doesn’t seem to notice. "How is he enjoying coaching so far?"

"He’s really loving it," Shane says, feeling himself smile, his heart soar with pride, and his stomach do the thing it’s done all week.

He’s so happy for Ilya. He’s so excited seeing Ilya excited. Shane knows Ilya is absolutely thriving as a coach, and will probably be loving it even more once the season starts. The part of him that is sad they won’t compete face to face again, at least for a little while, Shane labels as selfish. How can he think about something as unimportant as that, when Ilya is as happy as he is?

"I bet he’s a natural," Jackie says, smiling. "I’ve seen him with his team on ESPN, SportsCenter, and wherever else. They’re lucky to have him."

"They are. And they know that, too. He’s… really liking the team so far," Shane says.

Jackie shoots him a sympathetic smile. "That must be a relief?"

"Definitely."

"You deserve the same," she says, quietly, her smile dropping to a sadder expression before she shakes her head and smiles brighter again, as Hayden and the girls come in.

The lemon pepper chicken is exactly as amazing as Hayden has been raving about all these years. If Ilya were here he would be on a second or third portion already, like he is whenever they are at Shane’s parents’ house. The thought makes Shane smile, then makes him sad again, for missing him so much.

“How is Ilya liking Ottawa so far?” Hayden asks as they sit down to dinner.

“The city? He doesn’t know it that well yet. And, after living in Boston, I guess there isn’t all that much to do.”

“You guess,” Hayden says, grinning.

Oh. Well, this feels close to normal. Shane isn't sure if he should trust it.

Shane narrows his eyes. “His house is amazing, though. He’s settling in there pretty well. Oh, and he’s probably going to be seeing my parents more than I do. They’ve been helping him move things in, get stuff ready. Driving him crazy with being over-enthusiastic about taking care of his arm. He’s been over to theirs for dinner on his own a couple of times already since he moved.”

"Ilya will have to come over for dinner here when he can," Jackie says as she piles up Hayden’s plate.

Shane can’t help darting a look at Hayden, bracing for his reaction, glad to see him only nod repeatedly, his cheeks bulging with food.

"He’s not on any special diet or anything?" Hayden says once his mouth is empty.

"Ilya?" Shane says, laughing. "Unless you think McDonalds and junk food is a special diet, then no."

Hayden drops his fork. "Seriously?"

"What?"

"I don’t know? I kind of… I don’t know why I had it in my head, he’d have a weirder diet than you. Not that yours is weird. Obviously."

Shane considers scowling, but then shakes his head. "No. He eats pretty normally. The junk food was a joke, mostly, but, he does like it. A lot more than he probably should. We cook pretty healthy stuff when we’re together, but..."

Hayden picks up his fork, staring at Shane. "You cook together?"

"When we can, sure."

"That’s really nice," Jackie says.

"You always tell me I’m in the way when I try to help," Hayden says in a sulky voice.

"That’s why you’re on dish duty," Jackie says giving her husband an affectionate smile that, for some reason, makes Shane miss Ilya harder still.

He misses him, so, so much. The thought of not seeing him for a few more days, and then with weeks in between seeing him, almost turns Shane’s stomach.

"How’s his arm doing now?" Hayden asks, reaching out and absently wiping a smear of food from the table by Ruby’s elbow.

"Basically back to normal. He’s still doing physical therapy, and being careful with it. But he’s doing good. He started driving again this week."

"That’s amazing," Jackie says encouragingly.

"Yeah. He’ll be working with their team doctor over there to start a new exercise regime, to get some strength back in his arm."

"I’m so glad it wasn’t even worse. That looked awful," Jackie says, neatly putting her cutlery on her plate now that she has finished.

Shane’s mind takes him back to seeing Ilya knocked out, then him in the hospital, then the look of pain on his face in the early days of his recovery. It feels like so long ago, a different time, even. Will he always feel like this, though? After every long stretch of time they have together, and then have to part?

"It could have been bad. The break was pretty bad, but, the surgery went well, and, we did everything we could so he could rest it properly."

"We could have come visited you. At your cottage," Hayden says.

Shane does his best not to scoff. "I know. Next year, maybe."

"You think I would’ve held back his recovery?"

"I think if you two got into arguing, then, maybe?"

"They don’t get a lot of time together, as it is," Jackie says, placatingly.

"Doesn’t mean you give up all your time with your friends. That’s not healthy. Not that I’m saying—"

"Exactly what are you saying, Hayden?" Jackie says before Shane can.

Hayden looks between them, startled. "I’m not saying anything."

A horrible idea dawns on Shane.

"You don’t think… you’re not trying to say this is Ilya’s fault, are you? Like he’s stopping me from seeing you?"

Hayden hesitates. Only for a couple of seconds, but it’s enough to make Shane’s blood boil, and that tiny bit of trust he was beginning to let himself feel crumble away.

"You’ve never spent even five minutes in the same place as him off the ice. You don’t know the first thing about him."

"I know… he must be a better guy than I thought he was, if you’re, you know. Happy with him," Hayden says, like it's really hard.

"He puts up a lot of walls. And, I’m not stupid. I know exactly what he’s like when we’re on the ice. And off of it sometimes. He’s an asshole sometimes, or at least, he can be," Shane says, sighing. "But he’s way, way more than that. I just wish people would give him a chance."

Hayden opens his mouth, closes it, then scrapes up another forkful of food. "Look. If you’re happy, that’s great!"

"I am happy."

"Good. But, c’mon. Forget all the..."

"Forget all the what?" Shane says, feeling fury starting to build in his gut.

"Forget that fact that you’re… you know."

"What?"

"Both… guys?"

"That’s pretty hard to forget, Hayd," Shane says, ready for an argument now, just as Jackie mumbles, oh, Hayden…

"Sure. Okay, sure, yeah, I get that. But… if we’re—if I’m—weirded out about you choosing Rozanov over literally any other guy in the world, you have to think that, elsewhere out in the league, people are thinking the same thing about him choosing you."

Okay, that’s not where Shane was imagining this was going.

"What do you mean?"

Hayden takes a large gulp of his drink. "Look. Ilya has a certain reputation, okay?"

"Yes. I know."

"And, again… forget the fact that you’re gay," Hayden says; look at him, not even struggling with the word, "and he’s… I don’t know what he is?"

"Bisexual."

"Right. That. Forget that. You have to be thinking that, there will be people out there in the league, and elsewhere, looking at Rozanov and his reputation, and being really… confused. That he chose you."

"Why? What’s wrong with me?" Shane asks, a rage of emotions he can’t put a name to swirling around his chest.

"Nothing! You know I love you, man! You know you're the best friend I've ever had!"

Shane swallows back all of the retorts threatening to burst from him.

"But?"

"But you have to admit! You’re his exact opposite! In so many ways."

"That whole rivalry thing—"

"I’m not talking about that," Hayden says with an animated wave of his arm. "It’s just… on paper, you two are so different, that, the idea of you two together, it… it’s a hard thing to picture, you know? Especially as none of us has seen you two together. Aside from a couple of photos over the summer, and videos, of when you were back in Boston and… that’s all we’ve seen."

Shane wants to say, good, because their relationship is no one’s business. A little flare of hope rises in him at the thought that, maybe that’s all it will take, people getting used to seeing them together in public, and then they can go back to semi-normality again.

A little voice, that he really, really wants to ignore, says that maybe, he’s just not good enough for Ilya. Not fun enough. Not adventurous enough. Not free enough, or open enough, or… so many things.

Instead, he says, "You think that’s all it will take? Us being together, and people seeing that?"

"I’m sure it’ll make a difference?"

"I can’t exactly imagine bringing Ilya to a team dinner or anything."

Not that they have all that many of those.

"...no. Maybe not that."

"Why not though?" Jackie asks.

Hayden looks at her startled. "What? Because—"

"Shane. If you were asked to go to a Centaurs team dinner, would you go?" Jackie says, glaring at her husband.

"Actually, one of them does a grill night thing. They’ve invited me already, for the next one. When I can, obviously."

Jackie makes a gesture at Hayden that says, see?

Hayden slumps back in his chair, defeated.

"Okay. So. The Metros would… probably be less open to that. Not without making a scene about it."

"A scene? I don’t think it’d be a few chirps and dirty looks, Hayden."

"Well. We’ve already had fists flying this week," Hayden says, and smiles at him.

"How is your hand?" Jackie asks, looking.

Shane holds it up, flexing his fingers. "Completely back to normal."

"Good. We should… have Ilya over for dinner. Just us. When you’re ready," she says, gently.

Shane grits his teeth. He could say, sure, and arrange something for when Ilya comes to Montreal on their day off next week. But he won’t, because he needs that full day with him, to get himself recentered. To feel like himself again. He isn’t ready to share Ilya with anyone just yet.

"I’ll talk to him," he says, already imagining the look of horror on Ilya’s face at the thought of having to spend time, willingly, with Hayden Pike. He can hear his voice, even.

Shane holds on to that voice, that imagined look on his face, letting it keep him company, as he spends the rest of the evening with Hayden and Jackie.

When where he really wants to be, is with Ilya, in Ottawa.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Hello! Nothing much to warn about this chapter, really, so have at it!

🧡

He should be asleep, resting at least, but Shane can’t sit still, pacing the house and, when that’s not enough, prowling outside. Ilya set off from the Centaurs’ game just before ten, and it’s a little after midnight now. So. He’s due any time, then. Every part of Shane is on alert, desperate to see him, even if all that happens is they hug. He doesn’t need anything more than having Ilya right in front of him, safe, and whole.

Is he overreacting, because this is the first time Ilya has driven any distance since his accident? Is he selfish, for knowing Ilya will be tired and probably ready to go to sleep, but he can’t let him do that yet, because he needs to hold him so badly?

It could be both of these things, and many more besides. All Shane knows is that since he woke up this morning he has been negotiating with time itself to hurry the fuck up. That led to a frustratingly slow morning skate where he was so wound up that nobody even dared look at him wrong, and a game against Philadelphia, that the Metros won 6-1. He scored a hat trick for that, barely celebrated, barely made eye contact with anyone in the crowd. He couldn’t have made it more obvious how much of a hurry he was in to leave, and if a part of him whispers that this is the letting his personal life in that people tried to insinuate about, then fuck them all. His free time starts the second he’s fulfilled his captaining duties, and that is all they better ask of him.

Headlights arch across his drive, and Shane’s heart leaps into his mouth. He has the gate open in seconds, only stopping himself from running to Ilya immediately because he needs him to get the car parked before he drags him out of it.

Ilya’s grin through the car window settles something in Shane, his little wave making Shane choke back a sob. Ilya is out of the car in seconds, meeting Shane halfway across the drive, tucking his face into his neck and sagging against him.

“I missed you so much,” Ilya mumbles into his skin, as Shane curls his fingers into his hair and tries to tuck himself even closer.

“I missed you, too.”

“You aren’t tired?”

“I don’t care. I needed to see you.”

“Me, too,” Ilya says, cupping his face and staring at him before he’s kissing him.

In the middle of Shane’s drive. Right where neighbours could see, and even, probably, paparazzi. How incredible it feels not to give a fuck about any of that.

“How was your arm with driving?” Shane asks the moment they break apart.

“No problems. It was fine. Normal.”

“Good. Let’s go in,” Shane says, tucking his fingers through Ilya’s and going with him willingly when he steps backwards towards the car to grab his bag.

“Do you need anything? Or—”

Ilya cuts Shane’s question off with another kiss, this one far deeper and heated than the one outside.

“Can we shower?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then I only need that. And you.”

They barely let go of one another climbing the stairs, and then barely stop touching as they undress. Very little in the way of washing happens at all for a time under the shower, the thrill of being skin on skin after this year-long week far too big and important to ignore. Then, Shane gets the urge to get his hands in Ilya’s hair, gently tugging on it then massaging shampoo through.

“You are very good at that,” Ilya says with a soft sigh, his fingers ghosting over Shane’s waist.

“I love your hair.”

“It loves you, too.”

“Good,” Shane says, then instructs Ilya to close his eyes as he rinses.

“I need you,” Ilya mumbles against his mouth sending a shot of heat through Shane that steals his breath.

“Here?”

“We can start here, but, no. In our bed.”

Our bed, Shane thinks, as an ache blooms in his chest for the idea of them sharing one permanently.

He reaches up for the tube of oil-based lube they always keep in this shower, handing it to Ilya before dropping his forehead against his shoulder. He angles his ass back, tracing random patterns into Ilya’s skin, humming relieved appreciation as Ilya starts working his fingers into him.

How the fuck has he gone without having this for a whole damn week? It doesn’t seem possible.

They step out of the shower eventually, and before even reaching for a towel, Shane drops to his knees, desperate for a taste. Ilya’s fingers are in his hair immediately, and his words a soft murmur of encouragement. He does tug Shane back to his feet in minutes, though, the heated look in his eyes telling Shane how badly he needs to be in him.

They dry themselves quickly, Ilya squeezing Shane’s ass as they head into the bedroom. Shane is on his back in the middle of the bed in seconds, arching up when Ilya crawls between his legs and takes him into his mouth. Shane lets his legs fall further open, cursing when Ilya sucks his balls into his mouth in turn.

Ilya kisses his way up his body, bracing over Shane with the happiest of smiles on his face.

“Look at how strong your arm is now,” Shane says, tracing his fingers over his scar.

“Mm. Maybe not strong enough for the wall yet, but, okay for this.”

“Please…”

Ilya’s eyes darken with need. He ducks down and kisses him then with a well-practiced move leans over for the nightstand, tugging another lube out. He smears some over Shane’s hole, teasing him with a slip of finger, then slicks himself up, eyes never leaving his as he slowly, slowly sinks into him.

“I love you,” Ilya says, arranging on his forearms favouring his right a little more, kissing him as he starts to roll his hips.

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, and that still doesn’t feel close enough, throwing his legs around his waist as well.

“Love you,” he whispers back, closing his eyes for the brush of lips over his neck before Ilya is kissing him with a soft hum of relief.

They stay like this until Ilya’s arm begins to shake. Shane drops his legs from his waist keeping them up and open so he can watch a little as llya fucks him before slowly withdrawing.

The moment Ilya is on his back Shane is in his lap and sinking down on his cock again. He holds still as they arrange pillows behind Ilya’s head, then stirs his hips, knowing euphoria for the way Ilya drags his lower lip between his teeth. He whimpers the moment Ilya wraps a hand around his cock, and any thought of going slow leaves him because he has to chase this feeling, he has to see his come splatter over Ilya’s chest in claim, and, more than anything, he has to feel Ilya empty himself into him.

It doesn’t take them long. Ilya grips his hips so he can fuck up into him easier, as Shane throws himself down on his cock repeatedly. He angles back just so, crying out for the perfect nudge against his prostate, aching with his need to come for the desperate look on Ilya’s face.

The moment Ilya’s breath starts coming out in short, sharp blasts, Shane takes himself in hand and starts to stroke. It’s perfect, their names groaned into the air, that incredible wet feeling of Ilya spilling into him the thing that tips Shane over the edge, coming hard over Ilya’s chest and even splashing against his throat.

“Fuck,” Ilya grunts out, his hands falling to the bed and his legs sprawling out.

Shane laughs, clenching down on him to drag another curse out, then bends for a kiss, and slowly eases himself off of him.

“Shower, round two?” he says, but doesn’t move, only braces himself over Ilya and enjoys the soft hands over his sides, as well as the view.

“And, you need sleep.”

“You too.”

“Mm. And we are doing nothing all day, yes?”

“Well. Maybe not nothing…”

Ilya grins up at him, then angles up for a kiss, before nudging for Shane to move.

It is heaven waking up to Ilya’s arms around him. Shane snuggles in deeper sure this is the best sleep he’s had in a week. Ilya’s soft mumble behind him says the same is true for him, and for a minute, Shane considers giving up everything just to experience this kind of thing every day.

It’s not fair. Why should either of them have to give up anything? Why can’t they have exactly this, and still play hockey? Shane thinks then of Jackie, how it must be for her to be left behind raising four kids when Hayden is on the road. At least Hayden can come home to her, has never had to hide it, has no one questioning it.

“Stop. Thinking.”

Smiling for both the words and kisses smacked over his shoulder, Shane turns the little he can to enjoy Ilya’s sleepy face.

“Okay.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“We can stay here for a while, yes?” Ilya says, nuzzling against his shoulder.

“Definitely,” Shane replies, smiling when Ilya hums, and lets his eyes fall closed again.

They doze for a while, Shane has no idea how long, but is feeling more alert when he next opens his eyes. Ilya has rolled on his back and is carefully stretching his arms over his head, wrapping one around Shane the minute he turns over and drops on to his chest.

“6-1 for you last night, yes?”

It takes Shane several seconds to catch up. “Oh. Yes.”

“I listened to highlights when I was driving.”

“It was 1-3 for you?”

Ilya hums, absently kisses his forehead. “Yes. But, it was still good. Getting to watch everyone play properly together for the first time. I think it will take some time—maybe longer than they think—but, this is a good team. It feels good.”

“Do you… think you’d feel the same if you were still playing?” Shane asks, squashing back any of the words in his head that sound selfish.

“I think so. I think, maybe, I would be more frustrated more easily. But. Now, it is easier to see, um. What did Bood say… oh. The bigger picture.”

“Because you’re coaching, and not out there on the ice?”

“Yes. It is like, you can see the… potential. How the lines are all coming together, and the team is working as a team. How the goalie—we need a new goalie,” Ilya whispers with a grimace that makes Shane smile. “How they… think the goal is much smaller than it is.”

“Or. Maybe he just thinks he is bigger?”

“No, he is already very big. It is very strange to watch him. He is okay, but… this coaching thing is very similar to making the puzzles with your dad.”

“It would be a problem if one of the pieces was either too small or big, or the gap you’re trying to fill was.”

Ilya presses a long kiss to his forehead. “Something like that.”

“So… this is a big puzzle for you?” Shane asks, proud of how settled Ilya already sounds, which is such a conflicting feeling to missing him on the ice.

Which, is stupid. Their teams have a game against one another next week; he can miss facing off against Ilya then. There is no point to doing so before.

“Yes. It is so good to watch, when you have an idea, and can help someone change just a little thing, and then they are playing, and it all just…”

Shane watches Ilya miming a click of his fingers, and gets a surge of pride again. It’s pretty fucking exhausting having his emotions up and down like this. Can anyone blame him for switching them all off sometimes, when he can?

He won’t do that with Ilya, though. Shane raises his head, and traces his thumb along his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Ilya’s smile is shy. “Yes?”

“Yes. Completely. You’ve been doing this for a week—only a week!—and you already sound like you’re at home.”

“No. My home is where you are,” Ilya says, of course short-circuiting Shane’s brain momentarily.

“You’re mine, too,” he replies when he can, leaning in for a kiss.

“Maybe, it will be different when the season starts properly, but, it feels very good for now,” Ilya says.

“Good. It’s perfect for you. Perfect for now, anyway. I mean… we don’t know what you’ll be doing in a few months, or, whatever, yet, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, then flips them over, pressing Shane to the bed with his chest.

Good. His favourite place to be. Shane curls his fingers around Ilya’s upper arms to keep him in place, enjoying the weight and warmth of him.

“I hate that your team is full of assholes,” Ilya says, frowning.

“It’s okay.”

“No.”

“No, it’s not. I know. But. It’s a little better now, than it was the first couple of days. Maybe by the time the season starts, it will be… even better?” Shane replies, hating that he can hear the doubt in his own voice.

“Everybody is still not talking to you?”

“I prefer it, honestly.”

“Shane…”

“No, no, it’s fine. They still, you know. We’ve all started, like, talking, or I guess it’s better just to say communicating, when we’re on the ice. That’s all I need.”

It’s going to be a very lonely year ahead if his team keep giving him the silent treatment off the ice. Shane tells himself he is ready for it.

“JJ?” Ilya asks, anger evident in his eyes.

“He keeps looking at me like he’s figuring out how to talk to me. Or, like I grew another head. I can’t be sure.”

Ilya mutters something in Russian, that Shane happens to know is bastard. Ilya knows he knows, too. Shane hasn’t the strength or the interest in attempting to defend his friend.

Former friend, maybe.

“And Hayden?” Ilya asks.

“He’s good. Better than everyone else.”

“He should be. He is your best friend.”

“I know. And, seriously, it’s good between us. Better, anyway. I think he’s just getting used to the idea.”

“How long does it take someone to get used to their best friend being happy?”

Way longer than he’d like, that’s for sure. Shane only sighs. At least Hayden is trying, when literally nobody else in the team is.

“Hayden and Jackie want us to go to theirs for dinner sometime.”

Ilya’s eyebrows hitch up so suddenly, Shane can’t help smiling.

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“They do not think their house will catch fire if I am in it?”

“No, Ilya. Jackie wants to meet you. And you’ll love the kids.”

“Hayden wants to try to tolerate me?” Ilya says, rolling his eyes.

“I think… I honestly think, that if Hayden spends a couple of hours with us, together—and if we’re all… I don’t know. Nice to each other—”

“I can be nice.”

“...sure.”

“I can be very nice,” Ilya whispers, bending down for a kiss.

“To me, anyway.”

“The most important,” Ilya agrees, nuzzling his cheek.

“It’s good that he wants to try,” Shane says, frowning. “I just wish it didn’t feel like such a big deal to him. Like it's a chore, or hard work, instead of just… normal. Because it is.”

“Maybe it is him that is not normal…”

“Maybe. But… I wish I knew. If they were all… are they being dicks because they’re all giant homophobes—”

“Yes. I think yes.”

“Or,” Shane says, tapping his arm, “are they being dicks because it’s you?”

“Mm. I don’t like that any better.”

“Me neither. But if… I don’t know. I think I’m trying to tell myself that they’re all mad at me because you and me are rivals, and that, they’re not actually being homophobic. But. I think… I think maybe I’m being naive about that,” Shane says, which is a horrible thing to have to say out loud.

Ilya kisses him in the way he does when he is trying to distract him.

“You care about your team,” he says.

“...yes.”

“You have worked very hard to help your team win.”

“Also yes.”

“And now, when it would be good to have your team supporting you, even a little, they are not there for you. It is… normal, maybe, that you are hoping they are better people than they are behaving right now.”

He’s right. He’s right, and it hurts. Shane doesn’t have the brain space to deal with this.

“That’s… a lot of words,” he tries to say.

“A lot of true words,” Ilya says.

“Ilya…”

For a moment Ilya stares at him, frowning. Then, he nods in understanding, and leans in for a kiss.

“We should go to Hayden’s for dinner. Maybe the next day off.”

Shane replays Hayden’s words, the ones about him not making time for his friends. What friends, right now, though? He has Rose, who is wherever she is in the world currently, and he has Hayden, mostly. It’s not as if he has ever had the most hectic of social lives. Why should he give up the very little time he gets to spend with Ilya?

But, maybe, he can make a compromise, something that works out well for them all.

“I have an idea,” Shane says, which of course has Ilya smiling.

“Tell me.”

“I think, we have our next day off, exactly like today.”

“Okay,” Ilya says easily. "I will drive here again straight after the game.”

“And, after that, we’re coming to Ottawa to play against you. We have time, between our morning skate, and the game. Maybe only a couple of hours. But… maybe, you, and me, and Hayden, we could… I don’t know. Meet for coffee, or something?”

Ilya's face goes through an entire journey.

“No Jackie?” he asks, eventually.

“She’s too nice,” Shane says, scrunching up his nose. “I think the first time you, and Hayden, and me are in the same room, it’s not going to be the easiest conversation. I don’t think Jackie should have to watch that.”

Ilya grins at him. “You are worried you will want to punch him in front of his wife?”

“...I hope that never happens.”

“But? That was not a no.”

“I don’t know? I guess I have… no patience. For anyone talking shit about you. I’m not listening to it.”

“It would be the same for me,” Ilya assures him, but looks very pleased with himself.

As if Shane could stand to be passive about anyone talking shit about Ilya. He’s spent years biting back anger about that sort of thing. There is no way in hell he’s continuing it now.

“I know," Shane says. "Maybe, when the season starts, we will hear some things like that.”

“Maybe. I had different reasons for wanting my arm to be stronger, but…”

Now, Shane can’t stop smiling; how the hell does he always do that to him? “You’re thinking about getting your arm strong to, what, defend my honour?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Instead of taking me up against a wall?”

The glint in Ilya’s eye is beautiful, as is the delighted way he smiles. “As well as,” he whispers, then shifts until he is between Shane’s legs, and neither of them have anything more to say.

“So… how’s the foundation stuff coming along?” Hayden says, after a long, long silence, which should be impossible given how loud this coffee shop is.

Ottawa are hosting Montreal tonight, and Shane feels like he's been half-planning, half-dreading this coffee all week. They met out front of the coffee shop, Shane gave the most awkward introductions of his life, then stood there watching the weird, even more awkward smiles and hellos between Ilya and Hayden, before Ilya held out his hand for him to shake.

So awkward.

Now, they have found possibly the smallest table in the entire world, barely daring to breathe for how tight the space is.

If Shane is looking for positives, the coffee is decent, and he’s firmly pressed into Ilya’s side. So, there’s that, if nothing else.

“Everything for the foundation is good. Very good,” Ilya says, his hand firmly wrapped around Shane’s leg beneath the table.

Is he trying to keep himself calm and steady, or Shane? Shane has no idea but appreciates it either way.

“We’ve lined up a bunch of places we hope to donate to in the future. Mom’s set up the press conference announcing it, and some interviews. We were thinking… two weeks only, to start with. At least for the first year, to see how it goes,” Shane adds.

“It will depend how many people we have to help,” Ilya says, picking up his coffee.

“I’m in. Just say when and where,” Hayden says immediately, leaning forward with enthusiasm.

Ilya wants to make a snarky quip, Shane can feel the tension in his hand from holding back. Later, he might tease him for being so polite for his sake, but right now he could kiss him for it.

He won’t, though.

Though… why couldn’t he?

No. He won’t.

“So… how are you enjoying coaching?” Hayden asks Ilya next.

Shane could, well, not kiss him, but maybe hug him, because he’s trying as well.

Is he the only one that isn’t?

“I like it very much,” Ilya says, smiling easily. “The team is very good. Maybe not good, um, as… it will take some work. To make every player into one team.”

“You were saying it feels a little easier, being outside of it, instead of trying to lead that change as a captain?” Shane says.

Ilya nods. “Our captain is a nice guy. Our alternate captains are nice guys. Nobody really likes being a captain.”

“It would probably be a hell of a lot easier if you had someone in that role, that you could work with, right?” Hayden asks, to which Ilya nods. “So… if you hadn’t gotten hurt, that would be you, right? As captain?”

“Probably, yes.”

“They didn’t want to change everything at once,” Shane explains on Ilya’s behalf. “They want a new star center, and they want new coaches.”

“We do not really have a head coach. Theo is temporary, and he will be very happy when he can stop. Both him and our second coach want to retire in a year or two, so, they want a whole new team. It would be too much change, doing everything.”

Hayden nods at this, seems to remember he has coffee, takes a gulp, then winces when it is too hot.

“And how long are you trialling as coach for?” Hayden says, digging his tongue against his teeth, clearly having burned it.

“I agreed for half a season, with another agreement to maybe do all season if my arm is still no good. We will know nearer then.”

“And, say you go back to playing, to being captain, that means your team is sorted, right?”

Ilya shrugs. “Not really. There are some more changes to make, I think.”

“But, you’d be back playing, so that would mean just those two coaches?”

“Yes. But, I would help, when I could, too, if it is just them still.”

“First player-coach in years,” Shane adds, proudly, patting Ilya’s hand when he squeezes his leg.

“Or, you might decide you like coaching better,” Hayden says.

Ilya nods. “Ah, I don’t know yet. It is too early to know.”

Again, silence.

“So… you think your team’s ready for tonight?” Hayden says.

Shane wishes that he could forget they have a game here tonight, pretend he was here in Ottawa only to be with Ilya. This won’t be the first game in his life that he’s dreaded, but they could be doing literally anything but being here.

He is interested in seeing what suit Ilya will be wearing tonight for coaching, though.

“Probably. Practice was good this morning,” Ilya says.

“It’s gonna be, not weird, but… different. Strange. Seeing you standing there, doing what Theriault does for us,” Shane says.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “What? Be rude, and angry, and tell you you are not working hard enough? I will never be doing that.”

Hayden laughs. “He’s in such a weird mood this season.”

“I’m sure that’s my fault,” Shane says, earning himself another squeeze from Ilya.

“You did nothing wrong.”

“I know that. Not many other people think that, though.”

“I don’t think you did anything wrong, either,” Hayden says, looking between them. “I was just… shocked. Surprised.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow. “Shocked? About what?”

“Just… it wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.”

“What? That your friend had a boyfriend? Or that your friend’s boyfriend was me?”

Hayden looks to Shane for support. He has none to give him.

“Both. Okay? I wasn’t expecting it. I guess, looking back, it makes all kinds of sense. The boyfriend part,” Hayden adds. “Not, uh, you.”

Ilya nods. “I am the problem.”

Shane slips his hand into his. “No. You’re not.”

“Your problem, maybe,” Ilya says, his face softening.

“Okay. Maybe that.”

Hayden keeps looking between them. Shane is seconds away from asking what the hell he is looking for.

“Hey. If you’re happy, then… I’m happy for you. I’m adjusting to it,” Hayden says.

“There’s nothing to adjust to. There shouldn’t be, anyway. Absolutely no one makes any kind of scene when anyone else on the team gets a new girlfriend, or gets married, or… anything. This is no different,” Shane says.

“Shane was going to tell you. About us. In the summer,” Ilya says then, which has Shane tightening his grip on him, and Hayden’s eyes flaring wide.

“Really?”

Really. Instead of losing sleep worrying about Hayden might react to him and Ilya like he'd planned, Shane instead lost sleep for seeing how he reacted. He'd blurted out about the foundation one day not at all meaning to, because of all of the stress of that.

At least Hayden has always been positive about the foundation, if nothing else…

“Yes," Ilya says. "But. With my arm, and, everything else—”

“How everyone reacted,” Shane adds for him.

“It was not necessary. To tell anybody.”

“I was gonna tell you first, and then, we were gonna announce the foundation, and then, after that, I was gonna maybe try coming out. To the team.”

“Everything changed,” Ilya says, swirling his fingers in the air to demonstrate.

“It’s been a crazy few months. For you both,” Hayden says quietly, after a long, long pause.

“Yes,” Shane says, at the same time as Ilya nods.

Bracing against the table, Hayden blows out a deep breath. “Well. I am sorry, for any part I played in… making it hard for you to tell anybody. I wish I’d been better. About… a lot of things.”

Why the hell is he tearing up? Can either of them see it? Shane schools in his expression to be as neutral as he can.

“Okay.”

“And, from now on—and before too, in case it wasn’t obvious—I have your back. I’m… so fucked off with how the team is being. I can’t believe they’re all just… let me be a better friend, than I have been being, okay? Like… I don’t know how that looks, or how the season will go, or… we’ll figure it out. Right?” Hayden asks, looking actually a little scared.

Maybe his friendship is more important to Hayden than Shane has been letting himself think?

He won’t cry about it though. Not here, and not yet.

“Okay,” he says, seeing relief wash over Hayden’s face.

“Come for dinner,” Hayden says next, looking between Shane and Ilya. “I mean it. Jackie is the best cook ever. She can make anything. The kids will probably love to meet you, Ilya. And, I think it’d be good. The four of us. When you’re ready, obviously.”

Shane watches Ilya, letting him be the one to answer him.

Slowly, Ilya nods, and for the first time since they sat down, gives Hayden a small, but proper smile. “We would like that. Very much. Thank you, Hayden.”

Hayden exhales a long, relieved breath. Shane feels tension unclasp from his shoulders. He then smiles his face off, when Ilya lifts their hands, and kisses the back of his, while winking at him.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Hello!

This chapter has some stuff towards the end of it; please see the warnings below before you read if you are concerned.

Warnings

- JJ still seems to have a horrible reaction to mention of Shane and Ilya being together.

- The Metros keep up with their agenda to be The Actual Worst, starting with some sneer-filled comments about Ilya.

- Shane is ostracised by the Metros on the ice.

- a Metro's fan makes a homophobic gesture at Shane.

- Theriault is an absolute bastard to Shane; get those pitchforks ready!

- and after all of that, I guess it will come as no surprise that Shane is a little defeated by it all, and has something of a breakdown in his hotel room?

The game goes to overtime, and after a long, hard slog, Montreal beat Ottawa 4-3. The Centaurs feel different already, Shane is convinced of it. A little more confident, a little more cohesive, and he can’t help thinking it; this is because of Ilya, and his coaching. He’s so proud of him.

The locker room is not a fun time afterwards. Shane doesn’t know if he’s making up the grudging looks in his direction, how the blame for them only just winning—and having to work for it!—is somehow his fault. What a horrible way to be encouraged to keep on winning, because it’s going to be hell if they ever lose to Ottawa.

What the fuck will they say to him then?

“We could go find a bar. Celebrate,” JJ says, coming to stand behind Shane at his stall.

“In Ottawa? You hate Ottawa,” Shane says, instead of pointing out these are the first words JJ has said to him since the first day of training camp.

JJ shrugs, awkward and not quite making eye contact. “You probably know a place.”

“I’m going home,” Shane says, zipping up his bag and shutting the locker door.

“Home?”

“Ilya’s.”

Anger ripples across JJ’s face.

Shane has no time for this. He swings his bag over his shoulder and makes to leave.

“Wait.”

Looking down at the hand that just nudged against his arm, Shane braces for an argument, or something.

“What? We have morning practice here. We’re leaving straight from practice to go back to Montreal. Why wouldn’t I spend the night with my boyfriend?”

It’s almost—almost—funny that that word makes JJ’s jaw twitch.

Shane has come to realise over this long, hellish training camp that it’s about a 70:30 split in his team; 70 percent of them really are just homophobic dicks, but the other 30 percent have a problem with Ilya, and Ilya only. JJ falls into the later, which is nice in one way but actually worse in another. Yay, his friend isn’t quite as homophobic as the rest of them, just spews out the most awful words from time to time, but also hates his boyfriend so much that he won’t talk to him like a regular person.

Maybe it’s on Shane, for still calling JJ his friend in his head.

He leaves JJ standing there, hugging Hayden in passing as he steps out of the shower area.

Wearing only a towel.

Is Shane imagining the way everyone else averts their eyes or looks disgusted?

Whatever.

“See you at practice?” he says, making himself smile even when he doesn't feel like it.

“See you at practice,” Hayden says with a bigger smile. “Heading to Ilya’s?”

“...yes.”

Hayden nods. “Coffee was nice.”

He’s trying, he’s really trying, and Shane doesn’t have it in him right now to be mad that it’s so hard.

“Yes. Coffee was nice.”

“Okay. Get going. See you in the morning,” Hayden says, clasping him on the shoulder and gesturing at the door.

Laughing, Shane nods, then heads out with not so much as a glance over his shoulder, picking up speed as he steps outside.

Ilya is stood, waiting, leaning against the side of his SUV, his smile getting bigger the closer Shane gets.

“Hello,” he says, dropping his arms from where they are folded across his chest.

Shane cups his face, and grins at him. “Hi,” he says, then kisses him hard.

He needs him. Desperately. Shane doesn’t give a fuck if any of his teammates step outside now and find him plastered across Ilya.

Ilya does break their kiss, though, holding him by the waist. “Is this because you won?”

“This is because of your fucking suit,” Shane says, plucking at a lapel.

“Mm,” Ilya says, slotting his hands together at Shane’s lower back, as Shane hooks his hands over his shoulders. “You like?”

“Too much.”

“I think you will like it more if I take it off.”

“No,” Shane says, kissing him. “I’ll like it more when I take it off.”

Ilya grins against his mouth. “Then, we should go home, so you can do that. Yes?”

“Yes,” Shane agrees, kissing him again, harder this time.

It’s hell peeling himself away, but the thought of getting Ilya out of his suit is far too big a pull to be wasting any more time here.

For the final pre-season game Montreal beat Ottawa at home, 3-2. They have two days now, until the official first game of the season, and as Shane drives him and Ilya away from the arena, he wishes it was more. Far longer. Maybe a month or more. Longer even.

It is a horrible feeling. Hockey has always meant so much to him. It still does.

His team are not making things easy for him, though.

“They’re angry that we didn’t win with more goals,” he says, stroking over Ilya’s hand when he slides it into his lap.

“I think they would not be happy anyway.”

“Probably. They probably like having an excuse to be pissed off.”

“At you?” Ilya asks.

Shane can feel his eyes on him, and shrugs. “I don’t know? Yes, actually. Me. It’s my fault. I get the feeling everything is my fault now.”

The silent treatment has been one thing to have to adjust to, but the slow creeping in of snide comments Shane really could do without.

“Your second line was not strong tonight. Not working together. Not helping the whole team,” Ilya says, slotting his fingers through Shane’s.

“Spoken like a true coach.”

“I’m right, though.”

Shane sighs, hard. “I know you are. They do, too. It’s just easier to blame me.”

Ilya curses under his breath in Russian. Shane is kind of proud that he understands every word.

“I don’t know about any of that, but, yes. Apparently this is your fault, too,” Shane says, laughing.

“What? Because I am doing what I was asked to do, and helped to coach the team?”

“I mean, that would be the easiest thing to blame you for.”

Again, Shane feels Ilya’s eyes on him.

“Not that?”

Shane shakes his head. He’s delaying this, because, well. There are all sorts of ways Ilya could react to this. Shane isn’t even sure how he feels about it right now, aside from small.

“They said—”

“Who is they?”

“A couple of the guys.”

“Which?”

“You know… actually, no, you probably don’t. Not that well, anyway. Dunlap, and Porter.”

“Ah. Two of your second line. This will be good, I know it,” Ilya says, already with an edge to his voice.

“They said I would have scored more goals, taken more chances, if I wasn’t so fixated on how you looked in a suit. That you were more distracting there, than on the ice.”

There is a weird silence in the car, now. Shane waits for Ilya to organise his thoughts.

“You have seen me in a suit, many times,” Ilya eventually says.

“I know. They know, too.”

Ilya’s lips twitch. “Is a nice suit, no?”

Shane has to take a quick peek. “So good. My favourite one yet.”

“You wait until the season starts properly…”

“Great,” Shane groans, “you’re just gonna keep coming out there looking fucking incredible every time we play, and I’m gonna have to deal with them all being… fuck. We’ll just have to win every time. Win well, too.”

“Mm. Very easy.”

“Shut up.”

“It is nice that your teammates think I am so handsome in my suit that I would distract you. Maybe I am distracting them, too. Making them question things.”

Shane fights back a smile, and of course Ilya notices.

“What?” Ilya asks, squeezing his hand.

“...I… might have… said something,” Shane says.

“What?”

“I might have said something like, you keep asking, why Rozanov, and then, maybe… maybe I said, uh… do you blame me? When he looks like that?”

Shane won’t recreate the tone of voice he’d used, or tell Ilya how, while they were giving him shit, he’d pulled up a photo of Ilya from a few hours earlier that he’d sent Shane to show off his new suit and shoved it in their faces.

Okay. So maybe he’ll tell him that part, at least.

Ilya bursts out laughing. “I think this made them very happy.”

“I think it confused them, more like. Or, other things. I don’t know. They all shut up pretty quickly.”

“I love it,” Ilya declares, slapping his hand over Shane’s repeatedly in excitement before he holds it again, and drags it up for a kiss. “Your team is funny. Not on purpose.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“They are also very stupid, and giant assholes.”

“Now, that part is true. Apart from Hayden. He’s… getting better.”

“Dinner will be interesting,” Ilya says, sounding amused.

The next time the Centaurs come to Montreal, that will be happening. Fuck, how much shit are they going to face before then? Or, will things magically improve?

“I’m more looking forward to this grill thing at Bood’s tomorrow,” Shane says.

He’s had only a little time to speak to some of Ilya’s team, but they do genuinely seem like good people.

“It will be my first, too, but, everybody says he is a very good cook. And host. And, you will get to meet everyone.”

Ilya sounds so happy about that. Shane is, too. But he can’t ignore the pang of wistfulness in his gut for knowing they won’t ever get the same thing with his team.

“That’s tomorrow night, though. And, we’re at my parents’ for lunch. We have some time in between all that,” Shane says, looking forward to them closing Ilya’s front door behind them in a couple of hours and forgetting everything else.

“Time for many things,” Ilya says, winking at him when Shane looks over.

He also leans in and kisses his shoulder, mumbling sweet words until Shane feels himself start to relax.

Bood’s backyard has an impressive setup, and the smell of whatever is on the grill currently promises the most delicious of food. Shane tells himself he isn’t nervous, or awkward, or too difficult to talk to, ready to slip into his typical mask at the first hint that he is any of those things.

Ilya’s hand pressed against his lower back does help to steady him, as does the euphoria of actually being somewhere public with his boyfriend. Everyone has welcomed him, not even hesitating, or looking uncomfortable. Not a single dirty look or sneer. Maybe, Shane thinks, as Ilya introduces him to their social media manager, Harris, he really has slipped into a parallel universe.

“It’s good to meet you,” Shane says, shaking Harris’ hand.

“You are his favourite hockey player not in the Centaurs,” Ilya stage whispers, which has Shane blushing, and, oh, look at that, Harris is blushing as well.

“You are an incredible player,” Harris says, but also shoots daggers at Ilya, who is loving this.

“Thank you.”

“Actually. Did you know? You probably didn’t.”

“What?”

“They were archiving some paperwork going back over, god, maybe three, four decades. At the offices. I ended up with six boxes of stuff that I’ll be putting together for some nostalgic posts over the… there’s enough material for probably two seasons,” Harris says. “And, in all of that material, there are obviously a ton of photos. Guess who I found a stack of, circled in the crowd, watching the Centaurs as a kid?”

Ilya inhales sharply as Shane’s ears start ringing. “You did not tell me, Harris.”

“I’m telling you now. Both of you.”

“Seriously?” Shane eventually says.

“Yep. I’ll get some copies made. They’re really cute. Some of them aren’t the best quality, but most are pretty good.”

Unexpected nostalgia hits Shane, then, of being rinkside as a kid watching the Centaurs, wedged between his parents. What an entire world away that feels right now.

“That’s amazing. My parents have a bunch of me playing as a kid, but, I guess I didn’t think about there being any of me just spectating.”

“You are a hockey prince,” Ilya teases, wrapping his fingers firmly around Shane’s waist and tugging him into his side.

“Barely.”

“Yes. You are.”

“I am… not getting in on this argument,” Harris says, holding his hands up and laughing, then his eyes lighting up when Bood shouts to announce that they should all start to eat.

“Hungry?” Ilya asks Shane as Harris immediately joins the line over by the food.

“Actually, starving. I think it’s the smell. Everything smells amazing.”

“Mm,” Ilya says, pressing his nose into Shane’s neck and inhaling hard. “You, too.”

Shane feels his cheeks light up a little. “Yes. But you can’t eat me.”

“Not here, anyway,” Ilya mumbles into his ear before smacking a kiss to his cheek and steering him across the yard to get something to eat.

It’s such a good night. Shane keeps catching himself bracing for things to take a horrible turn, to hear something awful, or him to mess up in some embarrassing way. He can’t help watching all these other people, Ilya’s new team, looking happy and relaxed in each other’s company, and be convinced he’s done something wrong.

It’s not even about how his team is being, really. Shane has always felt a pace or two out of step with the world. Up to now, he’s been pretty good at hovering in just the right space that means a lot of people don’t notice this. Hockey has helped him hide that feeling better than anything else, because he is good at it. It doesn’t feel like that is enough anymore.

“You are thinking very hard,” Ilya says later in the evening when everyone is talking quietly and softly, far too full of food for much more.

“No. Not really,” Shane lies.

“A little, then.”

“This is just so nice,” Shane says, which isn’t a lie at all. “So normal. Everyone here is just… okay with everything.”

Ilya kisses his temple. “Because. These are all good people. They don’t need to try to be anything else. They are not trying—this is just who they are.”

“You think other teams in league are more like this or more like mine?”

Ilya tilts his head, considering. “Maybe there are some who are the same, some worse, some better.”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t know if some team will prove me wrong, but, I think the Metros are probably the worst. For everything that is not hockey.”

“I… wish I could disagree with you,” Shane says, smiling as a couple of players burst out laughing on the other side of the yard, when a neighbour’s cat has snuck in and stolen a piece of sausage from one of their discarded plates.

“You like disagreeing with me,” Ilya says, nudging his shoulder.

“Only about some things.”

“...true.”

“I’m really happy you came here. To Ottawa,” Shane says, and smiles at him.

Ilya leans in and kisses him. “And I am really happy that you came here tonight.”

No one comments, no one makes a disgusted noise, no one does anything that leaves Shane sure he’ll vibrate out of his own skin. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and infuriating at the same time; why can’t it always be like this?

Why waste any more of the evening worrying about it? Shane tells himself to fuck off, and kisses Ilya back.

The Centaurs start the season heading to Chicago, as the Metros are hosted by Boston. While on the bench, Shane glances up at the scoreboard showing highlights from Ilya’s game. 0-1 to Chicago, at the start of the second period. Why the highlights spend barely three seconds on the goal, and a good twenty on Ilya holding on to his whiteboard, Shane doesn’t know. He does appreciate getting to see him, but does worry what commentary might be being made that he can’t hear.

“Aww, is your boyfriend learning to spell, or something? Or is he finally bothering to learn English?” sneers someone—Shane can’t tell who—behind him.

He can’t even flip them off for it, never mind turn around and punch them like he’d love to, because there are cameras everywhere. Cameras that feel even more trained on him than usual.

Back on the ice for another shift, Shane is also aware that he’s received nothing but decency and even kindness from the Boston players. They treat him no differently than they did last season.

Or, maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe it is a little different, and how the Boston players are with him now reminds Shane more of that time he first met most of them properly in Ilya’s hospital room. The worst thing anyone of them has said to him is some teasing about how it’s because of him Ilya has moved to Ottawa. Which is true, and hasn’t been said with any malice, and this feels so out of place with what he’s experienced with his own team that Shane feels like he might break any second.

Not yet, though.

He scores in seconds, the team swirling in around him like they usually do for a goal, but only Hayden reaching out to touch him. Which is fine. Shane doesn’t actually like being crowded like that anyway. It’s just so isolating. Surely the fans are seeing this, noticing?

Fans who have mostly been okay, in the sense that in their online comments—and here at the rink, apparently—they lean into the team’s approach of not talking about the problem that is him being gay, with Ilya Rozanov for a boyfriend. The message is a clear, so long as he continues to lead the Metros to keep winning, then he's okay, useful to them, even. He’s seen one gesture mimed at him from a Metro's fan, calling him a cocksucker, but whoever that guy was with slapped his hands down as he was doing it, so that’s something, maybe.

Montreal win against Boston, 5-3. Will that be good enough to save him from being blamed for not doing enough?

Shane doesn’t know, though does dread the locker room. He’s almost thankful that Marleau calls out to him before he gets off the ice.

“Hey. How’s it going?” Marleau says with a big smile, shaking his hair out.

“Pretty good. You?”

“Pretty good. They treating you okay?” he says more quietly, gesturing discreetly over towards the exiting Metros.

Shane only shrugs, to which Marleau nods with a glint of anger—and worse, sorrow—in his eyes.

“You got five minutes after you’ve showered and everything?”

“...sure?”

“I’ve got some mail for Roz for you to pass on. Doesn’t look like anything urgent, otherwise I would’ve told him—to be honest, a couple were just for coupons for a couple of grocery stores. But, better he looks through it for himself, right?”

“Right. Thank you.”

“I’ll come round to your locker rooms.”

“Actually, I’ll come find you outside yours,” Shane says, because that’s a good excuse to get him away from his team as quickly as possible.

Marleau seems to get that without him having to say anything. “Okay. I won’t be long.”

“I… hope I won’t be either.”

“I’d say, come to mine for dinner if you want, but, I’m guess you just wanna get back, call Roz?”

Why are there tears stinging in his eyes for someone being nice to him, so normal? Shane is so overdue a crashout by now, it’s going to be hell when it hits.

“Thank you. And, yes. Maybe next time, though? That’d be great.”

“No problem,” Marleau says, clasping his arm. “I’ll see you in a few?”

Shane nods, and reluctantly leaves the ice.

He takes the quickest shower possible, and is grateful only that the usual debrief is shorter than normal. Thank fuck for the days when Theriault has a headache and doesn’t want to talk that much.

Theriault does stop Shane just as he is setting off to find Marleau, though.

“Tonight went well. But it was the first game. No one should be getting complacent, or cocky,” Theriault says the moment they are alone.

Fury starts to swirl in Shane’s gut. “Of course.”

“We need a hundred and ten percent from you.”

“Just me?”

“From everyone,” Theriault says with a scowl.

“Fine.”

“You’d better grow some thicker skin. Toughen up a little,” Theriault adds, folding his arms. “Whatever language you hear on the bench from the other players, I can’t do anything about it.”

You could, Shane thinks, but doesn’t say, kind of horrified that Theriault heard whoever said what they did about Ilya earlier, and doesn’t give a fuck to try to stop it.

“And I really can’t, and more importantly, won’t, be dealing with anything players on other teams say or do to you. So. Watch your back. You painted a target on it.”

With that, Theriault walks away, leaving Shane stunned, thankfully numb enough not to start crying. He does walk in a daze, though, barely recognising Marleau looming in front of him.

“Hey. Hey, Hollander; you alright?” Marleau says in obvious concern.

“Yeah. Yes,” Shane says, forcing himself to sound normal, and even smile. “Just, uh. Ready for some sleep.”

Marleau nods slowly, evidently not believing him. “Okay,” he says, handing over a small pile of mail. “Hey. You wanna exchange numbers? In case you need anything when you’re next in town?”

If he can get his phone out of his pocket without showing how his hands are trembling, sure.

Fuck. Marleau probably noticed already when he took the letters, right?

“Sure. Yes, that’d be great.”

Marleau smiles brightly, they swap numbers, say goodbye, and then Shane is free, finally. Well, not quite. He still has to get on the team bus, see all those faces so disgusted with him. Shane takes several attempts to get his legs working, and several more to make his face seem neutral.

He’s just grateful that he’s not actually the last one on the bus. The comments would be… no. Shane doesn’t want to think about that. He climbs on the bus, legs feeling heavier than ever, keeps his head down as he walks along the aisle then drops into the seat Hayden has kept for him.

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” Hayden says with way too much enthusiasm.

Shane sags, and closes his eyes. “Sure.”

At the hotel, Shane locks the hotel room door, then takes many, many breaths to steady himself, tucking his hands into his armpits in an attempt to stop them shaking.

Is he falling apart? It feels like he might be. There is no way he can put his face on a phone screen for Ilya to see. So he lies and says he has a headache, denying himself the comfort seeing Ilya would bring, but does insist on a phone call.

He needs him. And if he doesn’t at the bare minimum hear his voice, Shane really does feel like he might rattle into pieces.

“Hi,” Ilya says the moment he answers, keeping his voice soft for Shane’s fake headache and the softness only pricking tears in Shane’s eyes.

He won’t be able to see them. Will he hear them, though? Shane really hopes not.

“Hello. What was it in the end? 2-1?”

“Yes. Not so bad.”

“How did it go?”

Shane listens, leaning into all of Ilya’s enthusiasm, what he’s come to think of as his coach talk about the team, the way they’re coming together, and everything else. It’s such a relief, so soothing. Shane wouldn’t mind if he didn’t have to answer a single question about his game.

“Tell me,” Ilya then says, predictably.

“What?” Shane replies, despite that.

“Shane. How was it?”

“We won?”

“Yes. I know,” Ilya says. “How was everything else?”

He can’t see the tears leaking down his cheeks. And Shane is keeping the soothing rocking he’s doing to a minimum so he won't know about that, either. But, because Ilya knows him so well, it will only be so long before he figures out something is wrong. So is there any point in denying it?

“Fucking awful,” Shane blurts out, bursting into tears, far too inconsolable to listen to Ilya’s worried voice trying to reach him.

He cries, and tries not to, presses his knuckles to his mouth just to keep some of the sound from coming out. That doesn’t help much, and that rocking isn’t helping either, so Shane sinks to the floor cramming himself in a tight ball beside the bed, against the nightstand. He has to get this under control, there is no choice in the matter.

“I just miss you a lot, that’s all,” Shane tries to say, roughly wiping tears from his face, hating how it feels when they clump his eyelashes.

“I miss you too. And I love you, so I know, it is not just that. Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not your problem.”

“Yes, it is my problem. Everything that upsets you is my problem.”

“It’s too much,” Shane says, sniffling, furious with himself.

“Okay. So, tell me one thing.”

He always does this. He always coaxes words from him, when nobody else can. Shane almost wishes he could hate him for it, but he can’t hate Ilya for anything.

Himself he can hate, though. On days like this, Shane hates himself more than anything in the world.

“One thing, right?” he says, tugging at the elastic of his sock, the ping of it against his leg oddly soothing.

“Yes. Just one.”

“I saw Marleau. He has some mail for you. Nothing serious, he doesn’t think. I’ll give it to you… the next time I see you,” Shane says, hiccuping for the thought of how long it is until then.

“Okay. Thank you. Tell me one more thing.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s cheating.”

“No, no. It is just one thing at a time,” Ilya says.

“I hate my team. I hate that I don’t want to hate them. The season literally just started, and I… I hate everything,” Shane says, mournfully, and hates himself for that as well.

“What did they do?” Ilya says, with an angry edge to his voice.

“They didn’t do anything. They barely made eye contact with me.”

“Mm. I saw your goal,” Ilya says, and that somehow makes all of this even worse.

“Exactly. Someone, and I don’t know who, because they weren’t brave enough to say it to my face, said some trash about you. Nothing that bad, but—”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks of me.”

“No, I know," Shane says, even though it's not true; Ilya does care, loses sleep over this sort of thing at times. "But. I do.”

“I know,” Ilya says, with a smile in his voice.

“Theriault said some shit, too,” Shane adds, without meaning to but then thinks, fuck it, and lets all of it out.

Ilya is silent for a while but Shane swears he can hear the fury in him.

Then, he curses in Russian, then in English, then says a bunch of things that, honestly, Shane is too overwhelmed to hear. He can hear Ilya pacing his room, though, even thinks he hears him kick something. This isn’t good. This is why he can’t just dump his problems on Ilya.

“Hey. Be careful of your arm,” he says.

“I kicked my bag with my foot, not my arm,” Ilya snaps.

“Okay.”

“My arm is okay, too,” Ilya adds, a little softer. “I am so very angry for you. I want to come to Boston right now and… hit something.”

What he wouldn’t give for Ilya to show up, curl up in bed with him, and fall asleep right here.

“I don’t want you to hit anything, but, if you were to magically show up in this room, I would not complain at all.”

“Your coach should not be talking to you like that. He is not supposed to be gentle with you for everything like you are a child, but he is not supposed to say what he is saying,” Ilya growls out.

Shane thumps his head back against the side of the bed. “I don’t know.”

“I know.”

“Right. But, maybe, in some way, he’s right? Like, maybe I should have been better prepared for this?”

“For what? For people being fucking assholes?”

“Maybe.”

“No, Shane,” Ilya says, still pacing his room. “No. This is not because of you. Or me. We did nothing wrong.”

“...I know.”

“So? How can this be your fault? This is not your fault. It is not my fault, too.”

“It’s definitely not yours.”

“Shane—”

“Hey. Don’t be mad at me,” Shane says, hearing a grumble at the other end of the call.

“I am not mad at you. I am mad at them. Everybody else.”

“...I know.”

“Where was your best friend when this was happening?” Ilya growls out in accusation, that is not at all fair.

Not that Ilya could possibly know that.

“Theriault said all of this to me when everyone else was gone. And I haven’t told Hayden about it yet. Or, about whoever said what they said about you.”

"So, he is an asshole, and a coward."

"…I guess," Shane says, wishing for a moment that absolutely everything would just… go away.

Ilya sighs hard. “I wish I could hug you.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“But. Maybe… you should… maybe not hug him, but… maybe it would be good to talk to somebody who is closer.”

“...Marleau did invite me for dinner at his. Your old place.”

“You should go!”

“No, I can’t. Not tonight,” Shane says, his skin crawling at the thought of having to leave his hotel room again.

It sounds like Ilya is back on his bed. Shane waits for him to calm enough to talk to him.

“Okay. So… please. Talk to Hayden tonight. I think it would be good for you to speak to someone in person. I wish it was me.”

“...okay.”

“Maybe go now, before he is sleeping, or something.”

Shane’s heart sinks, for realising Ilya wants their call to end.

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll check he’s not speaking to Jackie.”

“Then, come back to your room, and when you are ready to sleep, I will sleep, too. We can talk until we fall asleep. It is not the same as being at home together, but, maybe it will help a little.”

Oh. He’s being an idiot. Already, Shane feels himself calm a little.

“That would be great, actually.”

“Yes. You can say hello to him from me, if you want to,” Ilya adds.

“Hayden?”

“Yes.”

Shane smiles, and holds in his laughter for how reluctant, how begrudging Ilya sounds. “Okay. I will.”

“I love you, Shane,” Ilya says next, sounding so sad for him, so upset on his behalf, that if Shane isn’t careful, it will be his undoing.

“I love you, too.”

“Okay. Go talk to your friend. I am going to… hit something in the gym downstairs until you are ready to sleep.”

“Please don’t hit anything.”

“Fine. I will… run, or something. Ride the bike very hard.”

“That sounds better.”

“Good. Let me know when you are back. Okay?”

Shane sighs, and nods into his empty room. “Okay. Speak to you soon.”

“Soon,” Ilya agrees, telling him he loves him again before ending their call.

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Hello! No particular warnings for this one!

Two days later, they are in Anaheim. Hayden refuses to listen when Shane says he’s just staying in his hotel room during the break they have between practice and their game. Shane wants to be mad, but, he was pretty good to him after the last game and everything that happened. Hayden takes him to a nearby park insisting that Shane needs some sun on his face.

“It’s good for you. It’s good for everybody. Way better than being stuck in a hotel room all day,” Hayden says, stretching his arms out wide and tilting his head back with a satisfied hum.

Shane observes his friend as they sit on a bench beside the path weaving through the park, wishing he could figure out what Hayden is really thinking there behind his closed eyes. “Since when do you care about things like that?”

Still with his eyes closed, Hayden shrugs. “Since… now?”

“Okay.”

“Does it matter?”

Shane shakes his head; not that Hayden can see him do it. “I guess not.”

Saying nothing feels weirder than filling the silence with empty words, but currently, Shane doesn't have anything to talk about. Instead, he watches a toddler tottering by clutching on to a toy rabbit, and hides a smile when two joggers almost collide when coming from opposite directions. Then, a large black and brown dog—probably a puppy, Shane thinks, which means this dog is going to be enormous when fully grown—runs up to the bench with an excited wagging tail.

Ilya would love this dog, Shane knows he would. Since Ilya isn't here, Shane pets the dog on his behalf, smiling for the way the dog seems to be laughing, and surprised by just how soft their fur is. Hayden is less than impressed when the dog sticks its snout into his lap as well looking for more pets, startling him in the process.

"The girls want a dog," he says, as they watch the dog run back to its owner.

"You should get one."

"You should get one," Hayden retorts.

Immediately, Shane's mind is filled with waking up in Ilya's house, coming downstairs for his morning routine and letting a dog out in the yard as he does. It's the simplest thing, but in that moment Shane can picture it so clearly, it's almost like it is happening right now.

He wants it, so badly, imagining a million ways they could actually be living together already, and knowing not one of them can actually happen. Shane feels himself in danger of slipping into the most lonely of moods, and needs to escape it. He nudges Hayden on the arm, smiling when he looks at him.

"Let's keep walking."

They don’t say a lot as they walk, and it’s a slow, meandering route they take, looking at the lake off to one side and families having picnics to the other. It’s nice, actually, peaceful in a way, and a reminder of the world outside of hockey. Maybe that's what he needs more than anything else right now.

“Ready for tonight?” Hayden says when they start to loop back towards the hotel.

“Sure.”

“Really?”

No. He isn’t. But he will be.

“Of course. They’re looking good. Strong. We’ll probably have to fight for every goal,” Shane says.

“No one can blame you for that,” Hayden says.

“I’m sure they’ll try. Or not. Not everything is about me. I get Montreal always wanting to win. I always want us to win.”

“Well. With you as our captain, we have the best chance,” Hayden says, slapping against Shane’s arm when he huffs. “You are a great captain. Don’t let any of this shit make you think otherwise.”

“Ilya is a great captain.”

Hayden nods slowly. “Not right now, he isn’t, because he’s coaching. But, sure. He definitely is. That doesn’t mean you’re not, though.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You can’t let these assholes knock your confidence,” Hayden says, softly, but also urgently, like maybe he is worried.

How can Shane say that it’s not even just the assholes who have knocked his confidence in recent months? Hayden is trying harder than anyone but even he has contributed to that, and Shane's brain refuses to let him forget.

“I’m not,” is what Shane says, instead of being honest.

“Look. Back at training camp, when everyone was giving you shit, you stood up for yourself, took absolutely no shit at all. That was good, okay? You need to get back to that. Because that? That’s what is gonna get you through however long it takes everyone to stop being so stupid. I know that sucks,” Hayden adds, “I wish everyone was better already. But, until they are, fight back. Don’t let these bastards make you feel small.”

Shane takes those words to heart, along with similarly encouraging ones from Ilya, both in the team warm up and out on the ice. It’s like choosing a mask; his normal working one, which is outwardly calm, keeping his emotions held tightly, is not the one he needs tonight. So Shane forces himself to step into the less familiar one, the one that lets him feel strong. His face must already match the way he is commanding his body to feel, because his team shift uncomfortably when he glares at them.

None of them are talking shit at him today.

He wins the first face off, scoring a goal in seconds, his arms thrown in the air demanding the team’s celebration. They all tuck in around him, and there are pats, and cheers, and even a couple of smiles for him. It’s close to normal, all Shane knows he’s going to get, and still feels pretty fucking good.

With laser focus he chases the puck across the ice, using his speed to his usual advantage and his anger to keep his shoulders locked, not giving anyone a damn inch. Martins, an Anaheim player, looks stunned when Shane smashes him into the boards. Shane won’t feel guilty. Martins’ usual trick is to try to trip or hook other players making it look like an accident, and when that doesn't work, act like he is the player who has been wronged. Shane is having none of it today, getting up in Martins’ face when he attempts to protest, continuing to glare at him when Hayden tugs him away.

"Go play soccer, Martins," Shane shouts, "you'd be way more at home with a bunch of injury fakers. Leave hockey to people who can actually fucking play."

This is good, this feels better, and when he’s on the bench and the Centaurs vs. Islanders game comes on during the highlights, Shane smiles up at Ilya—why they’re so focused on the coach again instead of the game Shane doesn’t know but is thankful for—then glares around him at the rest of the team, daring them to say a word.

They don’t. This is the closest to normal they have treated him in a while, and it’s not really like he’s being any different, right? He's just another version of himself tonight. Just because he is thought of as polite, he has no problem sassing anyone out, or cursing. Just because he has a reputation of being calm, doesn’t mean he can’t throw punches when he needs to, and shout. Just because he let all the pressure of everything get to him after the last game leaving himself open to people being awful, doesn’t mean he has to let it happen again.

So. When the Metros walk into the locker room after a 4-1 win, Shane has his head held high, and pride roaring in his chest. They shower and change, and though it’s stilted, there is a little conversation among the team, that Shane is a part of. As much as he chooses to be, anyway.

The debrief goes as it typically does, though this time Shane scowls at Theriault for the entire thing. He argues every time their head coach tries to say they didn’t play well enough, standing up for teammates who have treated him like shit.

He’s not doing this for them.

Theriault wants to say something as they go to leave, Shane can feel it without him having to ask. He hangs back so he is the last out, falling into step with Theriault as they head for the bus.

“Bit rough out there on Martins, weren’t you?” Theriault says.

"Pretty sure it was him in the penalty box for embellishment."

"Doesn't mean you weren't too rough with him."

Shane scoffs. “So. I can’t expect any support from my team, or coaches. I’m supposed to just take it when anyone talks shit at me, whether they’re on my team, or not. And now you’re trying to tell me that I can’t defend myself on the ice?”

“I’m not sure you were defending yourself—”

“He was in my way. We were playing hockey. You remember how that works, don’t you? Oh, that's right,” Shane says, anger roaring in his chest and cheering him on. "You've never even played hockey, have you."

Theriault, of course, does not look pleased about any of this, bristling in barely contained rage. “You don’t want to get a reputation as—”

“I have a reputation for playing good hockey. Great hockey, sometimes. That’s good enough for me.”

“You—”

“Don’t tell me I painted a target on my own back and then expect me to let people aim shit at me,” Shane says, storming off and climbing into the bus before Theriault can get out another word.

Another two games pass. Montreal win both. It’s early days yet, but, Shane is trying to learn a new kind of balance, one he’d started building up during training camp but had gotten careless about, let his guard down. He is him, the usual Shane, from the moment he is behind the privacy of a locked door until the second he steps into a locker room. Then, the mask slips on, the one that is still him, but angrier. More sure of himself. Ready to take on the world in less than diplomatic ways.

It is tiring, though. Exhausting, actually. Shane knows the various roles he plays throughout the day, his usual self really a handful of different versions that blend together so well he doesn’t need to put the effort in to change from one to another. This other version, his new hockey version, is taking a lot out of him.

He’ll adjust. He always has in the past.

But.

In the middle of a phone call with his parents, when they are having an incredibly rare heated argument, something occurs to Shane, that steals all of his words.

Ilya talked about him having a shell, that he keeps up to protect himself. That’s fair. Everyone does that.

Ilya also said that maybe, back at training camp, Shane let out some of the parts of himself he doesn’t easily let most people see. That… also feels true.

This new mask he’s making himself wear on the ice and especially around his team, the traits in that are part of the real him too, aren’t they? So. Why does it feel so hard to keep up, so exhausting when he slips it off at the end of the day?

Because it’s not really him, he realises, heart starting to thud for it. It’s like a ghost of certain parts of himself that he’s trying to reanimate, instead of just… being.

How the fuck does he reconcile any of that with who he is, and who he wants to be? While dealing with everything that is going on around him?

Shane has a headache. A bad one.

He ends the call with his parents after apologising and using his headache as an excuse, goes down to the hotel gym, and tries to process things on the treadmill. It doesn’t work, only shifts things around, makes them even more confusing and his headache even worse. Frustrated, he heads back to his room, takes a shower, and then throws himself on the bed.

“Hello,” says a happy, relaxed sounding Ilya when he calls him; for a second Shane is furious, wishing he felt anything close to that.

He shakes it off, though. He’s not exactly sure what’s going on with him, and he’s too disconnected, frustrated, fucking confused, to deal with any of it right now. He is not taking out his messy feelings on Ilya.

He does need him, though.

“Talk to me in Russian,” Shane says, very aware of how demanding he sounds.

Shane hears Ilya laugh softly, and also hears a slight rustle of… something. No. He will not tell Ilya off for eating candy, or whatever it is he’s eating, because his words would come out awfully.

“I am reading a very boring book about the history of the Centaurs. Harris gave it to me. He thinks he is very funny. I will try to translate it to you,” Ilya says, and starts doing just that.

An overwhelming wave of love hits Shane immediately, threatening to make him cry. Ilya knows he needs him, will later, probably, ask why, but right now is giving him exactly what he wants from him, with no hesitation or discussion about it.

Ilya loves him that much, knows him that well. In moments like this one, Shane isn't sure at all that he deserves something as incredible as being loved, and known like that.

Then, he closes his eyes, lets Ilya’s voice and words wash over him, and forgets everything else.

Ilya is waiting on his doorstep when Shane drives through the gates to his house, the deep clang of them shutting behind him almost as comforting as Ilya’s smile. Shane is out of his car in seconds and in Ilya’s arms even quicker, pressing his face into his neck and breathing deep in relief.

“Hello,” Ilya says, kissing the side of his head and running soothing hands over his back.

“Hi.”

“Tired?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Hey,” Ilya whispers, pulling back and holding him by the waist. “You have me some of the day tomorrow. Much of tomorrow night. Some time the next day.”

Then, first thing the following morning, Shane will be heading to the airport with his team, off to play in Calgary. The days when they play back to back games are his least favourite so it is good there are typically only one, perhaps two times that happens in a month.

He won’t complain much this time. He’s just driven from a home game in Montreal, is off tomorrow, then playing against Ottawa the day after that. That means four consecutive days where he gets to see Ilya, even if two of them will only be for a couple of hours. Like tonight.

He doesn’t want to waste it sleeping.

“I know. Hi,” Shane says, closing his eyes the moment Ilya’s mouth is on his.

How long they stand there he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care, really. Eventually, though, Ilya kisses him on the cheek, then slips Shane’s car keys from his pocket.

“What? I know you have bags,” Ilya says, already walking towards Shane’s car and retrieving those bags before Shane can say anything about it.

“Thank you.”

“How was the game?” Ilya asks, passing Shane his keys and the smaller of the bags, nudging his shoulder so he goes into the house.

“Fine.”

“Really.”

“Not at all. First loss of the season.”

“I am surprised you are here so early,” Ilya says when they are inside, shoes off, and already taking Shane’s hand to lead him to the kitchen.

“Game started at six. No overtime. I guess I should be thankful Theriault’s wife has a cold, or something, and he wanted to get straight home.”

Ilya’s snort echoes in the open fridge. “Wow. I think she would like it more if he stayed away.”

“Maybe he’s a different person with his family.”

“He would have to be. Quiche? Or pasta. The pasta has chicken, mushroom, and cheese, the quiche is broccoli and… I don’t remember. It is very good, though. It is from a bakery Harris likes very much.”

Shane could say he isn’t hungry, and it wouldn’t necessarily be a lie, but there is something about being in Ilya’s kitchen and him insisting on feeding him. Something comforting, and homely, and a lot of other things that just leave him feeling warm and content.

“Are you eating with me?" Shane says, leaning back against a counter.

“Depends. Quiche? Or pasta?” Ilya asks again, waving both dishes in front of him.

“Pasta,” Shane says, knowing that’s the one Ilya is more likely to eat, loving how his face splits into a smile.

“Good. We can eat in the living room. Take something to drink,” Ilya says, nodding to the fridge as he puts the pasta into the microwave to heat through.

They make out while waiting for the pasta, Ilya’s hands on his ass pulling him tight against him settling all of the turmoil in Shane like nothing else ever can. The pasta is amazing, Shane far hungrier than he’d realised. He knos a pang of… something, when Ilya seems so pleased he’s cleared such a big plate.

“How’s your arm?” Shane asks later when they are settled, comfy on the couch, and have the TV on more for background noise than to watch.

He traces his fingers over the scar of the arm slung around him, smiling for the kiss to the back of his head.

“I think I am very lucky. I have no pain. It is stronger every day. No problems. It is not full strength, but, I think it will not be too long.”

Too long does mean at least a few more months, Shane knows that, but can’t help be relieved for the reminder that Ilya really is okay. That night when he’d been laid knocked out on the ice was one of the worst of Shane’s life, those brief hours of imagining what it would be like if he lost him the most terrifiying.

How much worse it would have been, how devastating, how world ending, if he had lost Ilya, and no one had known about them. He would have had to live his life without him, without anyone knowing, or even caring how much he was hurting. Sure, Shane knows his mind went into overdrive that night, and most of his fears were a product of his overreacting. But the real danger of what could have happened, and what the aftermath could possibly have been, it terrified him. It terrified him so much that there was no way he could keep his love for Ilya a secret anymore.

Even with how awful things are now, even knowing that will last a while, Shane would do it over, and over, just to get to be with Ilya so freely.

“I’m so glad you aren’t in pain,” Shane says, letting his head fall against Ilya’s shoulder and sliding his fingers along his arm until he can slot them through his hand.

“Me, too.”

“You can’t rush your recovery, though.”

Ilya nudges his head against Shane’s. “I’m not.”

“No, I know. I just… I don’t know.”

“You worry about me,” Ilya says, proudly.

“Yes.”

“I worry about you, too. For example. I did not like the way that Svensson pushed you tonight.”

That’s the problem with Ilya having a mostly free day today, he got to watch Montreal play against the Red Wings, whose defenseman, Svensson, shoved Shane pretty hard for no real reason at all.

“It’s not like I didn’t shove him back,” Shane points out.

“Oh, I know. I liked very much how surprised he looked.”

“Are you encouraging me to get aggressive?”

“I don’t need to. I know you,” Ilya whispers into his ear, which makes Shane smile.

He closes his eyes, turns his face more into Ilya’s neck, and snuggles in.

“I know we haven’t played every team yet—”

“No. The season just started. Just a few weeks.”

“Exactly. But. It feels like my team have more of a problem with me, than anybody else does.”

Ilya sighs. “Yes. That is obvious.”

“No one’s like that with you, right?”

“No. But. Maybe they would be, if I was playing, not coaching.”

“But, you’ve had to speak to other coaches, right?” Shane asks, slipping his fingers beneath Ilya’s t-shirt to trace over his chest.

Ilya hums in approval for this.

“Yes. I have been with them a little, before games, before interviews. After.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Not nothing; they all have the same joke,” Ilya says, laughing softly.

“What’s the joke?”

“Oh. You know. It is strange to see me not on the ice. Or Hey, Rozanov, you forgot to change! Your suit will get very wet on the ice! Something like that. Nothing bad.”

Shane is relieved to hear that. “Good,” he says, flattening his palm against Ilya’s chest.

Ilya slips a hand up the back of Shane’s shirt, stroking over his back and side. “It is not fair that it is just you who has to listen to stupid people, about us.”

“You’ve heard some stuff, too.”

“Yes, but, mostly, it is online. It is not nice, but, it is different, when it is not in your face.”

“Maybe. It shouldn’t be happening at all, to either of us, in any way, though.”

“No, I know,” Ilya says.

This is far too many words for such a horrible subject. Shane moves quickly, turning and straddling Ilya’s lap.

Ilya’s smile says, I know you’re trying to change the subject, but his eyes say how much he’s missed him, so Shane is going to lean in to that. Shane tugs his shirt over his head tossing it to the side barely breaking eye contact, leaning back so Ilya does the same then leans down for a kiss.

Ilya cups his face, walks his fingers down his chest, grabs his ass, like he has no idea what he needs from him first. So Shane grinds down on him, feeling the vibration of Ilya’s hum against his lip, smiling when he slips his hands down the back of his sweatpants and squeezes.

“I can’t wait to fall asleep with you,” Shane finds himself whispering, feeling Ilya’s mouth curl up into a smile.

“Yes. But, later?”

“Yes,” Shane agrees, having no objection at all when Ilya suddenly shifts them putting him on his back along the length of the couch.

Shane tilts his hips up when Ilya gestures for him to, helping to shove down his boxer briefs and sweatpants. Ilya is dropping to his knees beside the couch already, so all Shane needs to do is raise his leg, give him easier access.

Winking, Ilya keeps his gaze on him, opening his mouth slowly over his cock head and slowly taking him in. Fuck, he’s so good at that, flicking his tongue against every point along his length that he knows will leave Shane whimpering. Shane parts his legs wide, cursing when Ilya takes full advantage of this by dropping his hand down and starting to play with his balls.

Arching up, Shane gets one arm over his head attempting to brace himself against the couch arm, and the other he reaches down, having to get his fingers in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya hums for this, the vibration of that sending the most delicious shudder through Shane. Ilya smiles around him, taking his time to drag his way back up and chasing Shane’s cock head with his tongue, when it slips from his mouth.

Standing, Ilya strips quickly, stumbling forward when Shane reaches out and grabs his thigh. He tugs him closer and props himself up on an arm, pressing kisses up the underside of Ilya’s cock and loving to hear the soft fuck that falls from his mouth.

Shane laps over him repeatedly in tease, then sucks him in, offering his hand when Ilya curses louder and stumbles again. Ilya’s eyes are blown as he watches him, fingers trembling when he reaches out to stroke over Shane’s cheek. Then, he thrusts into his mouth just once before pulling out, bending down to kiss him frantically and settling on his knees between Shane’s legs.

As Ilya starts to bend down, angle them together, Shane reaches out to take them in hand. Ilya thrusts into his grip briefly then is dropping down, mouthing up Shane’s throat as he rocks against him. Shane throws his legs around Ilya’s waist, rolling his hips to meet him as much as he can. Then, he tells himself; no hurry, and instead drops an ankle over the back of the couch as he presses his other foot into the couch for better leverage.

“Mm, good,” Ilya mumbles into his skin, then claims his mouth.

Shane moves his shoulder a touch, giving Ilya something to lean on if his arm gets too tired. Ilya smiles at the gesture, presses kisses over his cheeks, and then slips his tongue back into his mouth.

They try to go slowly, but it’s been far too long, and everything feels too good, that it isn’t long at all before they’re panting. Ilya comes first, blasting a fuck against Shane’s mouth, and then another one when Shane reaches between them, giving his cock a quick tug to finish himself off.

Groaning, Ilya drops his forehead against Shane’s then gently drops down on his good arm and shoulder, holding still as Shane rearranges his arm around him.

“Tomorrow we have more time,” Ilya whispers, words that are filled with promise.

Shane can’t wait, but he’ll take the sleepy kisses, shared shower, and amazing sleep that are coming before any of that.

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

Hello!

So... I didn't mean to post chapters two days in a row over the weekend 😅 I got distracted crafting and forgot when I'd last posted. Oops! Also good/bad timing for the Great AO3 Outage I guess?

In this chapter, some of Shane's teammates are idiots (what's new), Theriault is a bastard (... again, what's new), Ilya has an interesting interpretation of Terry's suggestion for physical therapy, and then! Theriault is the biggest bastard ever again.

🧡

The Centaurs are hosting the Penguins tonight, and Shane, along with his parents, are here to watch the game. Nostalgia hits Shane immediately as he looks around, taken back to his childhood and the same excitement from back then firing through his veins.

Despite everything that is happening, hockey still means the world to him.

“Oh, this brings back so many memories,” Yuna says, patting Shane’s arm as she too looks around.

“They’ve decorated since we were here last,” David says, earning himself two sets of affectionate eye rolls. He smiles at them pretending he hasn’t seen, then his face lights up even more as he nods over their shoulders. “I think we have a visitor.”

“Only a quick visitor,” Ilya says, surprising Shane when he gently squeezes his waist.

“Hey,” he says, turning quickly and so happy to see him, like he didn’t leave Ilya’s house just a couple of hours ago.

“Hello,” Ilya says, tucking an arm around Shane as the four of them step closer, while Centaurs fans stream by them on their way to the rink. “How was the new coffee shop?”

There is a new coffee shop opening near here, that is probably hoping to benefit from foot traffic on game days. It was his dad who suggested they try it out, since obviously Ilya had to be here a little earlier than they would and they had time to kill.

“They had mango latte,” David says.

“Ah,” Ilya says as he nods sagely, as though this explains everything.

Maybe it does?

“It was fine,” Shane says. “We should go back there some other time, because the caramel latte did look pretty good—something you would like, anyway.”

“It was huge,” Yuna says, throwing her head back. “And it had four espressos in it. So much cream and ice cream.”

“Ah yes. Perfect for me,” Ilya says, then squeezes Shane’s side. “Sorry. I can't stay. I just wanted to say hello.”

“Good luck,” Yuna says.

Shane narrows his eyes at her. “How hard was that to say, Mom?”

Ilya laughs softly, bumping his forehead against Shane’s shoulder. “Is okay.”

“I want Ilya’s team to win. When he’s not playing against yours,” she says, as though this is the most reasonable of things to say.

“You miss being on the ice, Ilya?” David asks.

Shane feels rotten. He hasn’t found the courage to ask Ilya that yet, and here his dad is, as casual as anything.

Also. Why is he holding his breath waiting for Ilya’s response?

“Ah, yes. Sometimes. When I am watching a game and I think, if I am there, I would do this, and this.”

“Maybe Shane should just come to play here,” David says, earning himself a glare from his wife.

Shane pictures it, getting to play on the same team as Ilya. In his happy imagining Ilya is back on the ice instead of a coach. He also pictures the torn look on his mom’s face for being a lifelong Metro’s fan, and wanting to cheer on her son’s team.

A funny thing to picture. Not the worst thing to imagine, though.

“Okay. I must go,” Ilya says, then leans in and kisses him.

Shane’s heart skips for the casualness of the gesture, how good it feels. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. Cheer loudly, please.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. Goodbye,” Ilya says, with quick hugs for David and Yuna before a longer one for Shane that comes with a second kiss.

“Okay. Let’s go,” Yuna says once Ilya has walked away, looping her arm through Shane’s and smiling expectantly.

Thanks to Ilya they have great seats. Shane notices the moment he is spotted by fans, which is fine, and then sees a camera sweeping around to focus on him.

Great. He’s not here to take any attention away from this game, he’s here with his parents only to watch.

With that in mind, what version of himself is he going to be tonight?

Whichever version just whispered to him how funny it would have been to wear one of Ilya’s jerseys, he wishes he could be that one. That would have produced some incredible reactions he is sure.

He doesn’t have that jersey, though. So Shane only nods, then thinks, fuck it, and waves with a big smile on his face when the camera zooms in on him. For some stupid reason, the announcers make a big deal about him being in the crowd.

He has to take a peek, see how Ilya might be reacting. Shane thinks he makes out a wink, and that’s good enough for him. He won’t be out here trying to distract him.

Ilya’s suit is going to be appreciated, very hard, the moment they get home, though.

Fuck. What kind of tortuously amazing suit has he got lined up for the Ottawa vs Montreal game tomorrow night?

The game is good, lots of movement on the ice, both teams performing well. The cheers that roar around the rink for Ottawa’s second win of the season is so euphoric, that Shane can’t help getting up on his feet and yelling, too. Even his parents join in, which he will tease his mom about later, but for now the atmosphere is too good, too happy, to focus on anything else. Shane wishes he could climb his way down to Ilya now, congratulate him here for everyone to see. Which in theory, he could, it’s just, Ilya looks so happy right now surrounded by his team; it would feel wrong to get in on his moment.

Besides. Shane has all sorts of ideas about how they can celebrate at home, so he just continues clapping, and when the camera focuses on him again, let’s out another cheer.

The Metros are not at all impressed that Shane went to see the Centaurs game last night. He’s had snide comments about loyalty throughout morning practice, and apparently has the plague during the team lunch. Hayden sits with him of course, and JJ hovers, but still hasn’t properly spoken to Shane in weeks. That still really hurts. But Shane is good at hiding these sorts of things.

There are also pointed comments from Theriault and the other coaches during the pregame meeting, about not letting distractions get in the way of them winning.

“Distractions like boyfriends on the ice,” Dunlap says, off to Shane’s side, to a round of tittering from three or four other players.

Shane doesn’t even bother to look. Though Theriault does let the room fall silent, seems to be looking at him pointedly for a reaction.

This can’t be happening, surely, he has to be imagining it.

Nope. When Shane glances up at Theriault it looks very much like he is expecting, what, confirmation from Shane that he won’t get distracted?

Fuck this.

Shane puts a hand to his chest, puts on his most sincere face. “I don’t have a boyfriend on the ice. Dunlap, do you have a boyfriend on the ice?”

The look of sheer horror on Dunlap’s face is beautiful, and the tittering laughter not being aimed at him for once Shane will take.

“None of us are getting distracted by anything,” Theriault says, just as Dunlap is about to protest.

Fascinating. Were he not in the eye of the storm that is this stupid fucking team’s idiocy, it would be quite entertaining to study their dynamics. Like a bug, or something.

And to think, he’s given his entire career to this team, helped build them into something incredible. Shane doesn’t really recognise another person in this room right now.

It’s actually exasperating, when they step on to the ice for the pregame warmup, and no less than four of his teammates mumbles words at Shane to the effect of, Dunlap was out of order back there. That one of them is Hood, of all people, is shocking to him. Offensive, even, maybe. It’s taken them weeks to get even this close to speaking up? How long into the season will it be before any of them actually respect him again? Or will this moment be forgotten, erased, if he has the audacity to not make them win tonight?

Shane is not convinced, at this point, he’ll ever respect any of them ever again.

Ilya looks incredible behind the benches opposite. Shane lets himself look briefly, then locks in. Even with having met most of the Centaurs, and liking them, it’s so easy to slip into competitive mode. They are here to play the Centaurs, and the Metros are here to win.

And win, they do, 4-2, but the Centaurs make them work so hard for it, possibly harder than they have for any game all season so far. Shane thinks he can be relieved; no accusations of letting Ilya’s team win are valid, at least. Will they find some other way to mock him? It’s likely, isn’t it.

There are a brief few minutes when the two teams mingle in the hallway outside the rink. Shane gravitates towards the Centaurs naturally, easily chatting with all of them. Ilya finds him, smiling widely, coming to stand by his side—with at least a foot between them, of course. The game is over, but they have always been professional when it comes to hockey, and just because everyone knows about them doesn’t mean that will change.

“You can’t be seen together,” Shane hears in an urgent hiss behind his shoulder.

What?

He turns at the same time as Ilya, and even with that foot of distance between them Shane can feel anger radiating from him.

Anger aimed at Theriault, who is red in the face, eyes darting everywhere before glaring at the two of them in turn.

What’s he looking for?

The press, Shane realises.

“The game finished, Theriault,” Ilya says, coldly.

“Fuck off. I’m not talking to you. Hollander—”

“Excuse me?” Ilya says, knocking Theriault’s arm away when he reaches for Shane, to, what, steer him elsewhere?

What the fuck is actually happening right now.

“You are fraternizing,” Theriault growls out through gritted teeth.

“And you are an idiot.”

“And if you didn’t want anyone drawing any press attention to us, congratulations,” Shane adds, scathingly, interrupting whatever retort Theriault is about to make. “You’ve just done that yourself.”

He’s right, because several cameras are on them right now, flashing, and filming. Microphones are being held out to capture their words.

Every part of this is ridiculous. Theriault looks so incensed, Shane would not be surprised if he started stamping his feet.

The hallway has fallen quiet, everybody apparently listening in. Shane knows he will feel mortified about this later, even though he’s done nothing wrong.

“Be careful,” Theriault says practically under his breath to Shane.

“About what?” Shane asks at the same time Ilya does.

Scowling at them both, Theriault clicks his tongue and storms off. Shane is too tense to let himself sag in relief.

“What the fuck was that?” Ilya asks, also watching Theriault go.

“I really have no idea. I’m sure I’ll hear about it later, though.”

“Tomorrow. You can hear about it tomorrow. Forgot that bastard for now. I will meet you at the car,” Ilya says, offering Shane a smile.

Yes, Shane thinks. One more night when he can fall asleep next to Ilya. It will be at least two weeks, before they can have that again.

Shane feels like crying. He has three hours left with Ilya, and then he will be heading to the airport to meet his team to fly out to Calgary. By the time he is in the air, Ilya will be at morning practice, coaching his team. The next time they will see each other in person is so far away, and for anticipating the looks, the silence, the mumbled comments he’ll receive soon instead of seeing Ilya’s face, it’s just… too much.

Shane needs to hide how he’s feeling from Ilya, because they have so little time together anyway, and he wants their time together to be good. But today, the weight of everything is so heavy, and Shane isn’t sure he knows what to do with his expressions.

“Do you want to help me with something?” Ilya says, walking back into his living room with the coffees he just left to make.

Oh. Good. Relief hits Shane; of course he can hide how he’s feeling, tuck it away to focus on giving Ilya any help that he needs.

“Of course,” he says, already getting up from the couch.

“No, no. You can stay there,” Ilya says, putting their mugs on the coffee table then sitting in the corner section of his couch, patting between his legs for Shane to sit.

Confused, but willing, Shane scoots across the couch and rearranges, happily settling into Ilya’s arms.

Ilya mouths at his neck, hums there, sending a delicious shiver through Shane.

“So. Terry, the team doctor, he thinks it would be good if I train my arm a little. For strength, maybe some endurance. He said it would be good for the muscle. And the tendons.”

“Okay. Of course. What do we need to do?”

Ilya hums again, slipping his fingertips into the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants and boxers. “Up,” he whispers into the back of his ear, making Shane shudder.

In the best way. He is so on board with whatever is happening here, shoving down his clothes and then kicking them away.

“You want to help me?” Ilya mumbles in his ear, rearranging Shane’s legs over his own, displaying him.

Shane’s heart is racing. He won’t even pretend to protest because one, why would he, and two, his cock is already making it very clear just how interesting in this he is.

“And he suggested this, specifically?” Shane has to ask, feeling Ilya’s lips curl into a smile.

He doesn’t answer him, though, only teasing Shane with a brush of his fingertips over his balls.

Fine. Words are going to be impossible in about ten seconds, so Shane doesn’t mind at all.

At first, Ilya explores him slowly, a squeeze of Shane’s balls between his thumb and his finger, a wide stroke up the underside of his cock with his palm. His injured arm is his non-dominant one, so his hand a little less coordinated than usual, but still perfect. Shane watches in fascination, sees his own stomach ripple the first time Ilya takes him fully in his grip.

“Oh. I forgot,” Ilya mumbles in the back of Shane’s hair and dropping his grip on him as he leans a little to the side.

He hands Shane a sachet of lube, one of several free samples they got when they last ordered some toys. Shane's cock jolts in anticipation making them both laugh.

“Mm. I understand. I have not touched you in hours,” Ilya whispers in tease.

Shane refuses to think how many more hours—days—fuck, weeks—it’ll be before he’s touching him again.

Instead, he rips the sachet open and tips it up, letting the lube trickle down over his cock before squeezing the rest into Ilya’s hand.

Ilya smacks a kiss to his cheek in thanks, plucking the now-empty sachet from Shane’s fingers and tossing it to the side. Then, he makes a show of wrapping his fingers in a loose grip around Shane’s cock, and starts to stroke him slowly.

Heat flares through Shane immediately, a sweet, familiar pleasure building in him with every stroke. He watches himself leak precum when Ilya sweeps his thumb over his cockhead, watches him squeeze it so more leaks out.

When Ilya alters his grip just a little it sends a shoot of pleasure through Shane that has him stuttering, fidgeting. Ilya presses his right hand firmly against Shane’s thigh to keep him still, humming his approval behind his ear.

In fact, because he knows exactly what it does to him, Ilya continues to whisper encouragement and praise to him in Russian for every sound Shane makes, every time he tries to thrust up into his hand. Every time Shane starts thrashing desperately, trying to press his foot into the couch for leverage, or tilting his ass back—both for more movement and to enjoy the hard length pressing against him—Ilya pauses, hand loose around his cock not quite touching. Shane whines, and curses, and even pleads, until Ilya is stroking him again.

Shane is out of his head with need and incoherent by the time Ilya has brought him to the edge, three, now four times. Whatever noises fall from his mouth probably don’t make any sense, but Ilya’s words are now urgent, and his voice cracking with his own need. Shane cries out as he circles his fingers around him again knowing he won’t be edging him this time.

He comes loudly, and desperately, only prevented from arching off the couch—and probably slipping from it—by the firm press of hand still against his thigh.

“Fuck,” he groans out, hearing the crack of his own voice and watching the spurts of his come starting a lazy trail down his heaving chest.

Ilya hums his approval, absolutely unbothered when he wraps both arms around Shane’s chest and squeezes.

“Mm. Maybe this is my favourite physical therapy for my arm so far,” he says, to which Shane snorts, and tiredly reaches up to mess with his hair.

“What about you?” Shane asks, half-heartedly angling his ass back against Ilya’s cock.

“I think you should come for a shower with me. In a minute,” Ilya says, and only hugs him harder.

Theriault has nothing to say to Shane about whatever the hell happened last night. Shane is glad he didn’t waste too much time preparing for the conversation, but he is on alert, not letting his guard down once until alone in his hotel room.

They win against Calgary, but it doesn’t feel like much of a victory, with two of their players injured, and three more clearly playing through being sick. Shane had braced for this game too, expecting some kind of commentary, or shoving, or something from their opponents. Either they are too sick and injured to give a fuck about him and Ilya, or, it’s as little a deal to them as it should be.

Shane chooses to believe it is the latter, for his own peace of mind.

They have press in the morning, but not until eleven, so Shane has nice ideas of sleeping in a little, maybe starting the day with some yoga. He is on a FaceTime with Ilya telling him these ideas when a notification dates to interrupt their call.

“What? You are frowning,” Ilya says immediately.

Holding up his hand to tell Ilya to wait a second, Shane grabs his tablet and opens the email from the Montreal Metros on that instead. Easier to read that way. His glasses need a good clean and are in his luggage, and he would rather be speaking to Ilya right now than doing literally anything else.

He reads the email twice, has no idea what to think, so tosses the tablet on the bed and turns his attention back to Ilya.

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning before press. There goes my plan for some yoga,” Shane groans.

“What is it about?”

“No idea. The email just tells me to go to one of the meeting rooms here at ten.”

“Early yoga, then,” Ilya says, encouragingly.

“Maybe. I guess the GM will be on video call or something.”

“It is with your GM?”

“Yeah. And Theriault. Maybe they want to talk about my attitude,” Shane says and rolls his eyes, because he would not be surprised.

“They cannot threaten you, like you are new, like a rookie,” Ilya says, instantly fuming.

“Tell them that.”

“Oh, I would, if you would really let me.”

This makes Shane smile.

“It’ll probably be some bullshit. I’ll probably care about it later. In case I do, maybe you should distract me,” Shane says, holding up a newly purchased tripod.

Ilya grins at him, angling the phone so Shane can see his is already set up.

The Montreal Metro’s GM, Paul Layne, is not, in fact, participating in this meeting by video call, but is waiting in the room when Shane arrives. He gives him the same look he’s been receiving from Theriault since training camp; a grimace and a smile with hesitancy that does not make Shane feel good at all.

Theriault walks in seconds later, and it seems, from the way the room is set up, that he is leading this meeting.

Are they seriously about to berate him? Reprimand him? Punish him in some way for something?

For what, exactly?

“We thought it was about time we started talking to you about negotiating your contract renewal for next season,” Layne says, then gestures for Theriault to explain.

Huh?

Well. Shane wasn’t expecting that. To be honest he knows plenty of other people in the league start negotiations long before their unrestricted free agency. He’s just… always assumed he would spend the rest of his career with Montreal, and that it was already an unconfirmed done deal.

Up until this season started, at least.

Theriault starts talking about no trade clauses, and no movement clauses, how it’s important Shane feels secure in his position with the team, because he’s so valuable to them.

What the fuck?

“And of course, once you’ve re-signed, we can—”

“Hold on,” Shane says, raising his voice to stop Theriault from talking. “I’m sorry. Where is this coming from?”

Theriault shakes his head, looking at him blankly. “What?”

“I don’t understand. Why we’re having this conversation now.”

“Plenty of players in the final season before they become UFAs start negotiations earlier. Far earlier than this,” Layne says.

“Right. Sure. But… none of you have asked me about that before now.”

“There was no need,” Theriault says, not looking at him, instead paying a lot of attention to the papers in front of him. “We had no reason to think you would be interested in leaving Montreal.”

“Oh, I wonder why I might be interested in leaving Montreal now,” Shane says sarcastically.

Theriault’s head shoots up. “So, you are considering trying to leave Montreal.”

“There would be no trying. Once I become a free agent I can sign wherever I want. Unless you’re planning on changing the entire league’s rules especially for me.”

Theriault looks furious. The GM gets his attention with a cleared throat, and some unspoken communication happens between them. Theriault nods, pausing before he speaks again.

“Whatever offer you think you might get elsewhere—”

“Think?” Shane repeats, incredulous, and even a little stunned. “You think I wouldn’t get any offers elsewhere in the league?”

“Your confidence in your abilities might have had some foundation last season, but, things have changed since then.”

“Am I playing worse hockey?” Shane asks, fighting back the tremble he can feel building in his chest for what he knows is the underlying accusation here.

“No. Your hockey is fine.”

“Okay,” Shane says, standing up, much to the alarm of the room’s other occupants. “This conversation feels like an ambush. You didn’t tell me that this was a contract negotiation. You can set up an official meeting through my agent if you want, but—”

“The only reason we didn’t start negotiations before now, is because of all the attention you drew to yourself over the summer,” Theriault spits out.

Carefully, so as not to show his anger, Shane tucks his chair beneath the table.

“I thought you didn’t start negotiating for me to re-sign because you just assumed I’d be spending my whole career at Montreal?”

Theriault turns an interesting shade of pink.

“I like how, again, you’re acting like somehow this is all my fault,” Shane adds.

“Who else’s fault is it?” Theriault demands.

“Thank you for your time,” Shane says in his most sarcastic voice, smiling coldly at the GM. “I’m sorry you had a wasted journey. If you want to set up a proper meeting about this, you’re welcome to do so through my agent. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“You were seen watching the Centaurs’ game,” Theriault growls out as Shane reaches the door.

Shane stops, turns a little. “And?”

“How do we know you and Rozanov—”

These people really have to stop spitting out Ilya’s name like that.

“—haven’t been concocting some scheme, so you can sign there—”

“I went to watch the Centaurs play, because my boyfriend is a coach there, currently. I think you’ve heard of him.”

“You—”

“And because he paid for tickets for me and my parents to watch,” Shane continues. “I seriously don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“We haven’t finished—”

“Yes. You have,” Shane says, cutting Theriault off again, sure his fury is following him out of the room and down the hall.

What the fuck was that? Shane asks himself on the way back to his hotel room.

Fuck. It’s press now, or, soon, and his head is nowhere clear enough after that meeting.

Shane jogs up the stairs instead of taking the elevator to work off some nervous energy, sinks to the end of his bed, and replays everything.

Nope. It still doesn’t make sense.

What the fuck?

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

Hello!

We're switching back to Ilya's pov now; let's see what levels of unreliable narration we can get to this time, hm?

Not anything major to warn about in this one really - we hear a bit about Shane defending himself, JJ tries to do better, and Hayden is, um, potentially comic relief? I don't know 😅

🧡

Ilya POV

Something is wrong with Shane.

Ilya tells himself he is not too worried; Shane looks healthy enough in their calls, still makes his heart soar whenever he talks to him, and always makes Ilya’s entire day when he laughs at something loud and carefree over FaceTime.

Ilya knows the Metros are still being awful, and he knows there are players elsewhere in the league being aggressive with Shane, or doing worse damage to him with their words. The urge to seek those players out when the Centaurs play their teams is strong for Ilya, but he knows he'd probably do more harm than good. He also doesn't need to. There are still awed whispers in news stories, and overly-surprised headlines, because Shane laid a player out cold last week barely breaking a sweat.

Good. Dallas Kent deserves everything he gets, especially after what he said to Shane that inspired that particular punch. Ilya has very nice ideas of punching Kent himself, or even better, watching Shane do it again. He lets the thought soothe him whenever he sees any stupid comments about him and Shane. There aren’t as many as in the beginning, and nowhere near as many as he’d once feared, but the fact that they are happening at all pisses him off. Pisses them both off; Ilya hates that all of this is how people get to see that Shane isn't meek, or mild, or any of the awful things people have been calling him recently, but if it shuts all the noise up, then, it's not a bad thing.

Still.

None of that really matters.

Something is wrong with Shane, and he isn’t telling Ilya what it is. This is making Ilya’s mind race in overtime, even while he tells himself nothing can actually be that wrong. He should just ask him. He could insist. They are getting better at talking, after all.

He hasn’t asked, for two reasons.

One. Shane is going through enough right now with the Metros, he doesn’t need any added stress of feeling like he has to answer questions before he is ready to. Shane doesn't like the feeling of being interrogated at the best of times.

Two. If he asks, and Shane tells him, maybe Ilya will hear something that hurts too much, and the fallout of that will be an unknown kind of awful. What will he do then? The guilt would be overwhelming.

So, Ilya won't ask, because what if Shane confirms something Ilya fears; that he resents him, because he is taking the brunt of the fallout of their relationship being public knowledge by himself? There is no way to fix that, Ilya wouldn't even know where to start, and the more he overthinks it, the longer Shane is handling everything on his own. So he's making things worse, really, by doing nothing, and Ilya hates himself for it.

These are the thoughts that keep Ilya occupied on the flight to Montreal, and keep him mostly unsociable from the rest of his team. Landing can’t come quick enough, and Ilya has to bite his tongue instead of demanding everyone hurry up, desperate to get through security and out of the airport as quickly as possible.

Shane is waiting in arrivals for him, instead of by the car as they’d arranged. His face lights up and he is walking towards Ilya already, arms thrown around his neck in relief.

“I couldn’t wait outside. It was too far away,” Shane mumbles into his shoulder, sighing in relief when Ilya gets both arms around him too.

“You missed me that much?” Ilya teases, as if he too isn’t sagging in relief, pressing in as close as possible.

“Of course not,” Shane says, then pulls back to grin at him before kissing Ilya hard.

They walk out with the rest of the Centaurs, Shane's arm around Ilya's shoulders the entire time. Shane seems so comfortable with the rest of his team, so unconcerned to be in their company, that Ilya knows another flood of frustration that Shane’s own team is being so terrible to him.

“Okay. See you at practice,” Ilya says the the rest of the Centaurs as he and Shane wait for them to board the bus.

They wait just long enough for the bus door to close and then are climbing into Shane’s car.

“How was today for you?” Ilya asks, sliding his hand into Shane’s lap.

Shane covers his hand, sighing.

“I don’t know which was harder work. The Metros being them, or my mom.”

“What is Yuna doing?”

“You know,” Shane says, squeezing Ilya’s hand. “Because I know she’s called you as well.”

Ah. Yes. Well, it is to be expected, of course. Tomorrow, Montreal are hosting Ottawa, and the following day, him and Shane are announcing the Irina Foundation. Ilya is excited, and terrified, and plenty of other emotions in between.

“What was she doing today?” he asks, leaning and kissing Shane’s shoulder in sympathy.

“The usual. I think, if she could plan every single word of the press conference—and I actually mean, the questions from press, and our answers—then she would. I feel like she’s quizzing me every single conversation we have.”

“She speaks very fast when she is trying to tell you everything at once.”

“Exactly,” Shane says with a heavy sigh that Ilya has to hide a smile for, because it’s so wonderfully growly, and followed by several mumbles curses before he clears his throat. “Anyway. How was your day since I spoke to you at lunch?”

Ilya tells him about practice, and press, and a bunch of other things. Shane looks so happy, so content, so at ease in the car beside him, that the idea that something is going on with Shane momentarily leaves his thoughts.

“Ah!” Ilya shouts the following morning, as unexpected—though very welcome—hands reach in to the shower and tickle his sides.

Shane’s triumphant laughter echoes around the shower as he steps in. He presses kisses of apology into Ilya’s neck.

“Sorry.”

“You are not.”

“Not even a little bit,” Shane says, smirking when Ilya grabs his ass and pulls him flush against him. “But. I have good news.”

“Oh?”

“My parents. They can’t make it until tomorrow now. Probably not until the afternoon.”

“Oh, no…”

That means, no parents here tonight when they get back from their game, the whole house to themselves.

“It’s terrible.”

“Yes, very terrible,” Ilya agrees, smiling against Shane’s mouth as he slips his fingers between his cheeks, teasing his hole.

After, when Shane is flushed and looking very pleased with himself, Ilya collapses on top of him on the couch.

“We should miss practice and stay here,” Ilya says, burying his face in Shane’s neck as Shane slings his arms around him.

“You should, anyway.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes,” Shane says, groaning softly. “We lost the last game. So, we have to beat you tonight.”

“What, the Metros can’t lose two games in a row?”

“The Centaurs just won two games in a row.”

“Exactly,” Ilya says, smacking a kiss to his cheek, “we should make a hat trick of games.”

“Well. They can’t get much madder at me than they already are,” Shane says, then shakes his head. “I don’t want to think about them now.”

He should really coax Shane into talking.

“Shane—”

“Anyway,” Shane says, his eyes flitting over Ilya’s face. “Are you ready for tomorrow? The press conference?”

He needs to coax him, he needs to do something to get Shane talking. Ilya curses himself when he can’t find the words to do it.

“I think so. Yes. I think we are ready. I am happy we are doing it, finally.”

“I’m so excited that we’re making it official,” Shane says, with a real smile. “I feel like we’ve been planning it forever.”

“A long time,” Ilya agrees.

“It’s the first time we’ll be in the same room, publicly, since your accident,” Shane says, softly, his smile dipping a touch.

Oh. Maybe that’s what is on Shane’s mind, has been for a week or so now. Ilya tells himself it is this, and tells himself to relax.

“There will probably be stupid questions, yes?” Ilya says.

“There definitely will.”

“I think we have had a little practice now, of answering stupid questions.”

“And this time, we’ll be doing it together,” Shane says, smiling as though this is an incredible thing.

It is, in a way. Ilya wishes they didn’t have to think about it happening, could instead focus on what an amazing thing their foundation could be.

This conversation is also a reminder of Ilya’s fears, that Shane probably resents him for how many of these stupid questions he’s had to handle by himself so far.

He can’t bring it up now. Not when they have only about an hour left together before their days start separately, and they won’t see each other again until after the game. So, he just kisses him, then tucks his face back into Shane’s neck and lets his eyes fall closed.

“Hey. How’s your arm?” Shane says after a while, resting a gentle hand over where Ilya’s scar is.

“Pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” llya says, kissing Shane’s neck, then cheek, then mouth as he props himself back up.

“It doesn’t hurt at all?” Shane asks, running his thumb over the scar just beneath Ilya’s t-shirt sleeve hem.

“No. Sometimes it aches, like… similar to before, but not very painful.”

“You said it was like toothache?”

“Yes. Like that, a little,” Ilya agrees.

Shane nods, then grins, squeezing Ilya’s upper arm. “It definitely feels stronger.”

“Ah. You are hoping for some wall time soon, hmm?”

Predictably, Shane’s cheeks flush pink, which is answer enough, really.

“Only when you’re sure your arm is properly recovered.”

“It would not be the worst way to injure it again.”

“Hey. No,” Shane protests, rolling his eyes when Ilya just grins at him and bends down for a kiss.

It is hell leaving him to go to practice, but it is nice that Shane drops him off for it, kisses Ilya across the car seats, and doesn’t drive away until after Ilya has waved and headed inside. The first thing Ilya does is seek out his second cup of coffee of the day, sure he’s the first one here since Shane had to leave so early to get to his own practice.

Sure enough, no one from the Centaurs is present yet. Ilya takes advantage of the quiet to go through his usual physical therapy exercises for his arm, and then a short workout. He has a quick shower, and is just trying to tame his curls when he hears the mumble of voices coming in.

He smiles as the team bursts into the locker rooms with cheers and greetings. Ilya really does love this team already. They put so much effort in on the ice, and their attitude off of it makes every day feel easy, even when it’s hard work. So much so, that Ilya misses being on the ice more than he thought he would. He is loving coaching more than he thought he would, too. It’s a lucky problem to have, the opportunity for such good options.

If, when the club’s doctors examine his arm during the first week of January as agreed, it is strong enough for him to play hockey again, then Ilya will be available to play for the second half of the season.

But, it’s not quite as straightforward as that. Him officially joining the team—as captain most likely—would mean they would be down a coach. While the Centaurs are working behind the scenes to find the right head coach to fit—and Ilya is obviously not a head coach—he might stay in his current position if it helps, until that coach is found. So. His future is up in the air until January at least, and then potentially up in the air for longer, never mind the outcome of that exam.

“Penny for your thoughts?” asks Dykstra, whi is easily the team’s best defenseman.

Ilya drags himself back from wherever his thoughts had been taking him, stabbing some fries on to his fork.

“No. Not really. Just think about… you know.”

“It was a pretty good practice, right?” Dykstra says, happily digging in to the fishcakes on his plate.

Dykstra thinks he is thinking about their practice. He probably should be thinking about the game tonight. Instead, what is Ilya thinking about, instead of participating in this team lunch? Honestly, wherever his mind is taking him. The press conference tomorrow. What might happen to him in January. Shane, forever and always in his thoughts all of the time.

Time to lock in now, though.

"Yes. Practice was good," Ilya says. "Even if you were very sassy with me."

Dykstra blows a raspberry at him. "Like, once."

"Oh, once."

"You were right, though. About my backhand," Dykstra adds around a mouthful of food.

"Then, you should listen to me, yes?"

"I did listen to you! Eventually…" Dykstra adds when he raises an eyebrow at him.

"Okay. But. Yes," Ilya says. “Practice was very good.”

“This lunch is pretty good,” Dykstra says, shoving another forkful in his mouth.

To his side, Bood looks at him horrified, grimacing when Dykstra chews really loudly. Ilya ducks his head so Dykstra won’t see him laugh.

By the time the Centaurs are boarding the bus to head to the game, there have been no less than six messages from Yuna in the Irina Foundation group chat.

She’s getting worse the closer it gets, Shane writes in a private message with an emoji of his head exploding.

Ilya: She is just being sure everything is ready. But yes. Maybe she will calm down when the press conference is over.

Shane: You really think that?

Ilya: ...not really?

You could lie to me, you know, Shane writes back, now with a side-eye emoji.

Ilya: I am going to coach tonight, with no shirt, just for you.

Shane: I said, lie to me, not make me promises you can’t keep.

Ilya: I will make it up to you when we get home

Shane sends a wink back and several hearts, giving Ilya plenty to smile about as the bus starts to move.

Since it is unusual for rival teams to see one another before their game, Ilya is startled to see someone in a Metros jersey out just off to the side of the door of the opposition locker room. He knows it won't be Shane, but his heart does lift in hope.

Hope that morphs immediately into irritation when he realises it is JJ.

Several Centaurs players politely nod at JJ in passing, though their confusion about seeing him there is obvious to Ilya.

Ilya waits until there is no one else present, before he looks at him properly.

“Is Shane okay?” is the first thing he asks, since that is the only thing that matters.

JJ breathes slowly, observing him.

“I said—”

“Yes. Yes, sorry,” JJ says, pushing away from the wall. “He’s fine. He doesn’t know I’m here, though.”

Why would Shane? JJ has barely spoken to him since the summer. Ilya knows there have been a handful of attempts, but their friendship is by no means fixed.

“Okay,” Ilya says, flaring his hands. “So. What do you want?”

Uncharacteristically, JJ looks unsure of himself, laughing uncomfortably and absently messing with his hair.

“I don’t even know,” JJ says after a minute. “I only... I don’t know.”

“If you want to talk to Shane, you need to talk to him. Not me.”

Never mind that Ilya doesn’t think JJ has the right to Shane’s friendship at all at the moment. That decision is not up to him.

“He won’t talk to me,” JJ says, exasperated.

“So? What do you want me to do? Tell him he must talk to you? I am not the person to do this.”

“No. Not exactly. But—”

“You understand why he is not talking to you, yes? You understand why you need to try first, if you want to be his friend?”

JJ just keeps staring at him. Ilya tells himself he’ll give him another 30 seconds and then he’s leaving.

“There was a photo. Of you. You and him. At the airport last night,” JJ says then, frowning deeply.

Last night? Probably when Shane came to pick him up. Nothing scandalous. Ilya shrugs.

“Yes?”

“This is really fucking weird,” JJ says, laughing, like he is nervous of all things.

“What is?”

JJ shifts uncomfortably, hands out to his sides in a helpless gesture.

“You really do love him. Don’t you.”

Ilya scoffs. “You needed one photo to understand that?”

“No! No. I… saw that one, and went looking at a bunch of others—”

“So, you needed many photos to show you that I love Shane? That we love each other?” Ilya says, trying to squash down the anger building up in his gut.

“I don’t know, man,” JJ says, throwing his head back and slumping against the wall. “I don’t even know why I’m so mad about you two. I am, though. Or, I was. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

“Well. That is your problem. Not ours.”

“No, I know that. It’s just, a part of me was thinking that it was all one-sided. Maybe that he felt all these things for you, but you didn’t love him back.”

That anger starts to build to rage. Ilya demands of himself to keep calm.

“You were wrong,” he says, quietly, for not trusting his voice.

JJ swallows hard, and nods. “I think I was.”

"Yes."

JJ stares at him, then closes his eyes and sags in defeat. "Look," he says then, opening his eyes, and flaring his hands out. "I fucked up, okay? I know I really fucked up. With you, and Shane, and everything."

"Yes. You did."

"I don't know you, aside from on the ice. I assumed you were… every word that is in my head is going to kick me in the ass if I let it out," JJ says in obvious frustration.

He can't help it. Ilya snorts at that. It's nice, in the strangest way, to see a flicker of a smile from JJ, too.

"Words do that sometimes," he says, earning himself another sort-of smile.

"I'm sorry, Rozanov. I am. I'll do better."

Relief courses through Ilya momentarily. He's not exactly sure why, and it doesn't last all that long. Still. If JJ is attempting to make an effort here, then he can, too.

"Okay. Thank you. But. It is not me who needs to hear you are sorry so much."

JJ nods, his face falling. "I know."

To further Ilya’s confusion, JJ pushes away from the wall, awkwardly pats his arm, and then walks away without another word. What is he supposed to do with any of that? Ilya hasn’t a clue.

So. He stares after JJ until he disappears around a corner, curses under his breath, and counts to ten. Then, he takes one long, deep breath, and tells himself to get his head in the game.

Montreal win, 5-4 in overtime. Ilya thinks he sees JJ skate over to Shane, arms extended and cheering. He knows that’s what he’s seeing for the obvious confusion radiating from Shane’s body when he wraps his arms awkwardly around him. They will have an interesting conversation about that later, Ilya is sure of it, that and everything else about their days, and the press conference for the Irina Foundation that they are holding tomorrow.

A moment of panic about that hits Ilya first, imagining all the questions that will be thrown at them, and what it might look like if he can’t easily answer. Then, he tells himself he is probably overthinking.

Maybe he’s just tired. It seems to have been the longest of days.

Yes. That’s probably it.

Ilya really can’t wait to be home.

He is leaning against Shane’s car when the Metros come out, the Centaurs bus having long gone. He will be flying out to meet the team in Florida after the conference tomorrow, the Centaurs management and other coaches not even bothered about Ilya making that request. They didn’t even ask him for a reason for it, though Ilya did tell them—with a request that they keep it secret until they announce the foundation themselves, of course.

Ilya has a good feeling that at least a couple of the team will volunteer to help out at their camps once they know about them. He can’t imagine any of the Metros volunteering aside from Hayden. Maybe JJ, after their extremely brief conversation tonight? Ilya has no idea.

He watches the Metros walking to their cars around the parking lot. A few of them are having quiet conversations, but it’s nothing like the Centaurs after a game. These guys aren’t even proper friends, Ilya thinks, surprised that it’s taken him this long to realise that. Even back in Boston the team made the effort to be friendly with one another off the ice. The Centaurs, he accepts, might be pretty unique, but the contrast between his team and the Metros seems so stark now, standing here in this parking lot.

Ilya recognises Hood, who gives him a brief nod, slipping into a car two down from Shane’s. He sees a couple of others, who avoid his eye contact altogether. Dunlap tries to stare him down; it’s hilarious when Ilya pushes away from the car suddenly, and Dunlap actually stumbles backwards and then speed walks to his car.

Then, Ilya spots Shane and relaxes. A little, anyway. He has Hayden and JJ with him. Ilya braces for… whatever is about to happen.

“Hi,” Shane says as they reach Ilya, leaning in and kissing him in greeting without the slightest hesitation.

“Hello,” Ilya says, curling his fingers around Shane’s arms. “Ready to go?”

“Yes. In a minute,” Shane says, then pats his chest and whispers, “I want to tell them about tomorrow. And… I want to tell JJ, about the foundation.”

“...okay.”

In theory, this is coming out of nowhere. Ilya has no idea if JJ actually apologised to Shane tonight, or if they've talked things out, or anything at all. To him, it's maybe too easy, if Shane has forgiven him that quickly, but that is not his decision to make. Also. If it helps Shane, if it soothes some of his nerves about tomorrow to share details about the foundation with someone, Ilya isn't about to object.

In practice? JJ did apologise to him earlier. It was weird, but it felt good to hear, and even if it wasn't the biggest gesture in the world, it is a step in the right direction. Maybe that's why Shane wants to share this information with JJ now, because he told him about their conversation earlier. Which is fine, good, even. It's less important to Ilya if JJ likes him or not, though. What's important to Ilya, is how JJ is with Shane. And it is Shane who is owed the apology.

Another thing for Ilya to ask about later.

Shane turns, leans into Ilya's side. Ilya throws his arm around him.

“We’re announcing something tomorrow. At a press conference,” Shane says.

Hayden’s eyes get really wide. “Please don’t tell me you’re getting married.”

“What—”

“You can’t do that, man!” Hayden says, looking frantic. “You deserve to have a real fucking wedding, not one thrown together in five minutes just because people are being dicks.”

“Hayd—”

“No, Shane,” Hayden says, then looks at Ilya in pleading. “Tell him. You don’t want that either, right?”

“We—”

“It takes time to plan these things,” Hayden continues, not letting them get a word in. “You need to write your vows, choose your cake, a—and the menu. Pick out a song for your first dance—”

“There’s a first dance?” Shane asks, sounding so shocked that Ilya bursts out laughing for it, barely schooling it in when Shane looks at him.

Hayden’s eyes get even wider. Ilya did not know that was possible.

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Hayden says, looking between them increasingly frantically.

“Hayden,” Ilya says, raising his voice a little and holding his hand up to stop him. “We are not getting married. Not yet, anyway.”

It is a nice idea, though. A very nice idea. Ilya likes to think it is in their future, in fact most days he knows that it is, except on the days when his brain makes him hate himself and think he isn’t worthy of something as good as marriage.

“No,” Shane says, smiling at Ilya, “not yet. And absolutely not like that.”

“I think you need to hire Hayden as your wedding planner,” JJ says, looking between all three of them seeming torn between laughter and unsure if it would be welcome.

“No, dude, I’m the best man. I mean, I could help you organise it too, I guess, but—”

“Hayd,” Shane says, raising his voice to get his attention.

Hayden holds his hands up. “Sorry.”

“Tomorrow, we are announcing a foundation together,” Ilya says. “We have been planning it for more than a year.”

"Oh…" Hayden says, suddenly relaxed as anything.

“We’re gonna run hockey camps,” Shane says, excitedly, looking between Hayden and JJ. “And the money will be going to charities. For mental health.”

JJ looks stunned for a moment. Maybe even sad. "You've been planning this for a year?"

Fuck. If he even looks like he's about to upset Shane—

"Yeah, I would… not have understood that. At all. If you'd told me before," JJ continues, and then smiles at them both, looking like he is visibly shaking off whatever emotions he is feeling. "Good for you. I think that's great."

Ilya can feel the hope in Shane's body, even if his smile is only tentative.

"Yeah?" Shane asks, quietly.

"Fucking yes," JJ says, grinning. "A whole fucking foundation? To give money to charity, and teach kids hockey? That's a beautiful thing! I'm impressed. Especially with you, Rozanov. Didn't know you had it in you. A heart, that is."

"Oh, fuck off, JJ," Shane growls out, as JJ smirks at Ilya.

Ilya can tell JJ is joking just from the mischief in his smile, so laughs, even holds his hand out for JJ to shake.

JJ knocks it away, and instead grapples him into a hug, slapping him on the back. "Thank you," he whispers, nodding discreetly at Shane.

There is a lot being said in those words, that gesture. For the first time, all the tension, the anger, the discomfort he feels about JJ in how he is with Shane, fades a little.

Only a little, though. Ilya can't help being on alert.

JJ hugs Shane next. Hayden announces he needs to get in on this shit and tries to hug all three of them at once.

“That’s amazing,” Hayden says, eventually, like he didn't already know.

“Fucking yes,” JJ agrees. “I hope you are looking for volunteers?”

“Because yes. The answer is yes,” Hayden says.

“We absolutely will be,” Shane says.

“You should come. To the press conference. If you are free,” Ilya adds, sure that even a little visible support might be good for Shane.

Even if some of that support is from JJ, and JJ still needs to earn Shane’s forgiveness a little more, as far as Ilya is concerned.

He will forgive him in this minute, though, just for how happy Shane looks.

They talk for a few more minutes, sharing some details about the foundation until they are the last people left in the parking lot. They plan to meet at the hotel where they are having the press conference, then there are more quick hugs, and Ilya and Shane are finally alone.

“Well. That went well. And was a little weird,” Shane says with a final wave at Hayden as he ducks into his car.

“Do you feel better now you have told them both?” Ilya asks.

“I… think so? Hey, you didn’t mind, did you? Us telling JJ tonight?” Shane asks, unlocking the car.

“Not at all. But,” Ilya says as they climb in. "Did he talk to you tonight? Apologise?"

Shane gives a tight nod of his head and a small smile. "He did. He apologised a lot, actually, it was… I don't know. Nice, or something."

A little more relief trickles into Ilya's heart. "Okay. Good."

"It's not fixed or anything," Shane adds. "There has been far too much said, and not said to just… you know."

"Yes."

"But," Shane says, sighing, "we said we'd sit and talk, properly, when we fly out for our next game."

"Good," Ilya says, and kisses him on the shoulder.

"I hope so…"

Ilya really, really does too. Maybe he should let things sit now, and just be here to listen when Shane wants to talk about JJ more.

“Also, I think it was good practice to tell someone. And, perhaps, we have our first volunteers.”

“Can you believe we’re doing this?” Shane says in excitement turning to him.

Ilya cups his face, an smiles. “Yes.”

“Okay, yes, Me, too.”

Okay. Ilya really needs to stop thinking about sensible things, and in fact anything that isn't Shane.

“Shane.”

“Yes?”

“I think there is just one more chair in your house that we have not fucked on yet. We should fix that tonight.”

Snorting, Shane puts on his seatbelt, watching Ilya do the same. “Unbelievable.”

“What?”

“You have a one track mind.”

“Yes. The only track in my mind is you calling out my name on repeat.”

Shane’s cheeks are predictably pink. “How do we go from talking about our hockey camps to us fucking on the chairs at home?”

“Easy. We are very good at… organising our time.”

Shane starts the car, shaking his head, but smiling hard. “I know which chair, by the way.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes.”

“Now who has a one track mind?” Ilya teases, sliding his hand into Shane’s lap.

“Me. For you. Always,” Shane says, slotting his fingers through Ilya’s. “Did you even go in that room today?”

“...no.”

Shane’s smile is triumphant, and when he glances at Ilya, apparently full of mischief—and other things—too.

“Then, you don’t know what I already put in there ready for when we get home.”

“Tell me,” Ilya says, feeling himself stirring already.

“No. It can be a surprise.”

Ilya slaps Shane’s thigh three times in quick succession, making him laugh. “Then, drive quickly. I need my surprise now.”

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Alright, here we do have some warnings; please see below if you want details in advance.

Warnings

- Shane gets into a bad fight during a game and has various injuries.

- It's implied that a player says something awful about Ilya/mental health/Ilya's mum.

- Ilya's self-doubt it starting to build up.

🧡

“Damn. Hollander really has turned into such a scrapper, eh?”

Ilya pauses from straightening his tie, first looking over at the journalist that just did his pre-game interview, then following his eyes to the TV screen.

The Centaurs are playing in 30 minutes, theirs one of the latest games in the league this evening, which means Shane and the Metros will finish playing around the same time the Centaurs begin. Presumably, the Metros game is on the TV now.

At first, Ilya isn’t sure what the journalist is talking about, for the blur of blue—probably Metros players—and black and white—no doubt referees—speeding across the screen. Then, his heart is in his throat. There are splatters of blood over the ice, helmets and sticks abandoned, and Shane is… beating the utter crap out of someone.

“Damn; is that Russell Bailey?” says a second journalist, coming to stand beside them, eating an apple and looking so calm it’s clear this is entertaining to him.

Ilya’s heart is racing painfully, and white noise filling his ears. He winces when a punch gets thrown in Shane’s face, convinced he’s just seen an arc of blood from the contact.

It is Bailey, from Edmonton. Ilya doesn’t know him all that well, but now hates him automatically.

Why the fuck are the referees taking so long to break this thing up?

It’s JJ who reaches Shane first. Ilya watches in horror as Shane shoves at him too, sure he can see him telling JJ to fuck off. Hayden skates in seconds later, arms extended in a placating way that—nope. Shane doesn’t appreciate that either.

Whatever has been said, whatever has happened, it takes two referees to drag Shane away from Bailey, who stands there looking dazed until he too is escorted from the ice.

Ilya needs to call Shane immediately, needs to know what happened, even starts reaching for his phone. He can’t call, though, not when they have their own game about to start. He glances at the screen again, hoping for some kind of indication as to what has happened, cursing under his breath when there is nothing.

"Hey."

So dazed, Ilya barely notices Theo, their temporary head coach, stepping in front of him, only aware of his presence properly when Theo puts a hand on his shoulder. It's hell, and Ilya doesn't trust his voice even a little bit. He makes himself clear his throat and then forces himself to talk.

"Yes?"

With a pensive look, Theo nods towards the TV screen that has now gone on to another game, like what Ilya just saw was nothing. "If you need to—"

"I can't do anything. Not from here."

"I know that," Theo says, patting his shoulder before dropping his hand. "But if you need a minute, or you need anything at all—or you need to sit this one out."

Ilya shakes his head, face crumpling before he gets himself together, but probably not before Theo catches the tears in his eyes.

"I can't do anything here. It is better, probably, if I am busy."

Theo studies him for a moment, then nods. "Okay. The offer is there, though. And if I hear anything before you do, I'll let you know?"

Ilya nods, tries to convince himself that yes, actually, keeping busy is the only way he won't worry himself sick. He's seen Shane fight plenty of times recently, far more than he'd like even if he knows damn well Shane can take care of himself. This one, though? It's the worst he's seen so far. How can he not worry?

"Here," Theo says then.

Ilya hadn't even seen him move, but now sees a packet of M&Ms in his own hand. "Oh. Thank you."

"Bit of sugar will help. Temporarily. You good?" Theo asks with an apologetic smile.

No. Not even close. But Ilya nods anyway. "I'm good," he says, then rips the packet open, and with trembling fingers tips half of its contents into his mouth.

The Centaurs win their game 3-2, and it’s potentially the longest game Ilya has been a part of in his life. It is torture going through the usual post-match briefing, and the drive back to the hotel seems to last all night.

Finally, he is alone in his hotel room, Ilya sending a FaceTime request before he even has the door closed.

Shane answers immediately, Ilya knowing relief in one moment and horror in the next, when Shane’s face fills his screen.

“What happened?” Ilya asks, tears already stinging his eyes as he takes in how Shane’s eye is swollen shut, there is a large bruise already forming along his jaw, and, it appears, there is some kind of cut or something to his ear since it’s covered in gauze.

Shane swallows painfully; what else has happened to him?

“If I say nothing, will you believe me?” he tries to joke.

"Shane—"

"Please don't worry, Ilya," Shane says, urgently. "I'm okay."

"You are not," Ilya says, hating that his voice cracks, cursing himself to be stronger than he is feeling.

"Okay, I'm not, but, I will be. Please don't worry."

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Ilya growls out, hating how far apart they are right now so much that it feels like he could fly to Edmonton on anger alone.

“Don’t bother. He’s not worth it.”

“Oh, but it is okay he did that to you?”

“No. Obviously, it’s not. But it's not like I didn't hurt him as badly as he hurt me. And, he’ll be fucking watching his mouth around me again. And you,” Shane adds, now looking livid himself.

Ilya’s stomach sinks. The thought of Shane out there getting into fights because of them, it doesn’t sit right at all. It shouldn’t be happening. And there is no one in the league who appears to give a fuck about it happening.

No wonder there are so few players actually out, when shit like this is going on.

“I am so sorry, Shane,” Ilya says.

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do this. This was all on him.”

“I do not like to see you injured because somebody has a problem with us.”

Shane winces, closes the eye that he can, as the other weeps a little. Ilya has a desperate need to kiss it better.

“I don’t even know if he has a problem with us. I mean, probably; he definitely seems the type after tonight.”

“What? Why? Then, what happened? If not because of us?”

Shane shakes his head.

“Fucking tell me!”

Ilya watches Shane drop his head like he doesn’t want to look at him, then watches his shoulders rise and fall, the entire time his heart beating faster and faster.

“I don’t want to tell you…”

“Shane—”

“I don’t want to tell you, because you’ll be upset. And this is not something you should ever have to be upset about.”

Ilya swallows hard. He has no idea what to expect but both needs to know, and is dreading it already.

“Please tell me,” he says, watching Shane’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine. I’m not telling you the exact words, because he’s fucking disgusting. But he… made a joke about you. And mental health. Made a joke about what… happened with your mom. I couldn’t… nobody, is saying that kind of shit to me about you. Or your mom,” Shane says, anger radiating off of him.

In a daze, Ilya sinks to the end of his hotel bed. “Shane—”

“Please don’t ask me to tell you word for word, because I won’t.”

His mom? Why the fuck is this asshole saying something about his mom? Ilya regrets now, being so open at the Irina Foundation press conference just two days ago. Or, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe shit like this is exactly why he can’t regret being open about it.

He refuses to regret it, actually. Their press conference for the Irina Foundation was surprisingly well received, with only two dumb questions about their relationship compared with all the good ones about the foundation and its camps. If it’s possible, Ilya is even more proud of the foundation they are building now because of that positive response. He will not let bastards like Bailey ruin that for him, take anything away from this important thing they are doing.

He will curse him forever for daring to mention his mother.

He needs a drink. Right now. Ilya stands up again, ignoring how his hands shake as he reaches into the mini bar pulling out… three vodkas and a can of Coke. He puts his phone on the side as he opens them all.

“I’m really sorry, Ilya,” Shane says.

“You do not need to say sorry. You need to tell me about how you are. Are your hands bad, too? Anywhere else?”

Sheepishly, Shane holds up both hands. His knuckles look awful. It’s probably a good thing the Metros aren’t playing tomorrow.

“He said what he said, and, when people have said shit up to now, about us, I’ve dealt with it better sometimes, not so well others. But this? I don’t know. I didn’t even think about it. One minute he was talking shit, and the next—”

“You were making a hamburger of his face?” Ilya finishes for him, almost smiling for the face Shane tries to pull, and fails doing so, because of his eye.

“Something like that. Why are there so many of these assholes in this league, Ilya?”

“There have always been assholes. Maybe we were lucky before that we didn’t notice so much.”

“Maybe we should have noticed more. No,” Shane says, and sighs in frustration. “Why are there so many of these assholes in hockey, or anywhere? How can… how can people walk around every day thinking it’s okay to think and say such hateful shit?”

Ilya takes a long slug of his first vodka, willing it to soothe him, then picks his phone back up.

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. Show me all your injuries.”

Shane is already shirtless, so Ilya can already see the blue spreading around the corner of his collar bone, and similar colouring over his ribs. He’s been punched in the jaw, which Ilya saw happening for himself and will, no doubt, be replaying in horror throughout the night. Shane also tells him he’s going to see a dentist in the morning because something in the side of his mouth feels uncomfortable. Bailey caught his ear when he missed a punch to his face, which means the lobe is ripped a little, and there are three stitches under all that gauze. Lastly, his poor eye, which is going to be the most awful colour by the morning, when hopefully the swelling will go down.

“I guess it’s a good thing we’re not flying out until tomorrow afternoon, and we don’t have a game until the next day,” Shane says when he’s finished.

“You should be resting, Shane.”

“Yeah, well. We’ll see. I’m pretty sure they’ll say we already have enough time before the next game for me to fully recover.”

Fury rips through Ilya. He washes it down with more vodka, then pushes the glass on to the nightstand, taking a swig of Coke from the can instead. The last thing he needs right now is to get drunk, to numb this feeling. He needs to feel every second of it if Shane is hurt because of him.

“I don’t even know what the final score was for you,” he says, dropping to the bed.

Shane lies back on his bed, a lot more carefully than Ilya just did, wincing along the way. “We won 6-3.”

“How many goals were yours?”

“...two?”

“Of course,” Ilya says, making himself smile, even if he's holding his breath waiting for Shane to settle comfortably. “This is with at least five minutes in the penalty box, yes?”

“Probably closer to ten, with other things.”

“Other things?”

“Just. You know. The usual,” Shane says, attempting to give a careless shrug.

Great. So Shane has been hurt more than once because of him tonight.

“Shane—”

“So, I guess that’s not bad?”

“It is no surprise to me. It would not surprise me if all six were yours.”

Shane smiles for this, then sighs. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I wish I could do something to help with you hurting.”

“You are. This is helping right now.”

“Is not the same,” Ilya says.

“No, I know. But, what did we say? Next Wednesday you’re playing at home, so, I’ll drive over—”

“Are you sure?”

“Very. It doesn’t feel right being in Montreal when you’re in Ottawa. I don’t care if I have to sleep on the plane the next day.”

Ilya tells himself to protest, to tell Shane not to drive to him if he’s tired and still sore. He can’t though, far too selfish in his need to see Shane in person—and far too desperate to check his injuries over, make sure he really is okay.

“I can’t wait to see you,” Ilya says, hating that, when Shane tries to smile at him, even that apparently hurts his face.

“Me, too. Fuck, me too. How about I quit right now?” Shane jokes, which is such an uncharacteristic joke for Shane that Ilya’s heart thuds.

“We could both quit. Go to live in Fiji. Or, somewhere.”

“Yes. Let’s do that,” Shane says, sighing, then reaching for his watch on the nightstand and groaning. “Apparently, Hayden and JJ have decided that they’re coming to check on me soon.”

“Good. I’m glad someone can check on you,” Ilya says, genuinely glad and genuinely hating it; that should be him with Shane right now.

“Maybe talk to you later?”

“Please. Call me again before you sleep.”

“Okay. Love you,” Shane says, giving Ilya a sad half smile.

“I love you, too,” Ilya says, still staring at the screen long after Shane ends their call.

Harris: Morning Ilya! You should check your Insta

It’s the first notification Ilya sees the next morning, sliding his thumb across the screen to see the rest. He’s only interested in Shane’s message to be honest, surprised at how late he has slept in and disoriented as he tries to wake himself up enough to properly start his day.

Shane: Good morning! I love you. Think my eye is better already but it’s definitely a no face in public kind of day. I wish. I hope you’re having a slow start to the day and lots of sleep!

That’s right. The Centaurs are flying out this afternoon to New York, as the Metros head to Buffalo. It’s already ten o’clock, so Ilya knows he really should start moving. First, though, he replies to Shane hoping he’ll be honest about he is feeling, then follows Harris’ suggestion, and opens Instagram—realising belatedly just how many notifications he has from there.

At first, Ilya doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Screenshots, maybe? He curses himself to wake up, pinches over his eyes a couple of times then starts to read properly.

The words on the screen instantly put tears on his cheeks.

The screenshots are of donations to the Irina Foundation. The first pages are all from Edmonton players, even two of their coaches, and all their medical team as well. The messages accompanying the donations range from single thumbs up emojis, to variations of on behalf of Russell Bailey, and a few more descriptive ones in between.

Ilya chokes up reading them, wiping his tears away.

Then, the next pages are of donations from the Centaurs—all of them. Literally every person Ilya can think of associated with the Centaurs has donated something, and their comments are far wordier, making fresh tears fall form in his eyes.

The last batch of screenshots are a mix: Yuna’s post on behalf of the Irina Foundation about the unfortunate stigma and misconceived ideas about mental health; several posts from players around the league commenting on Yuna’s post and showing their own donations—including Hayden and JJ; a heartfelt—and brave—post from Ryan Price with his own donation; a very tactful donation post from Rose; a far less tactful one from Svetlana; and so many more that Ilya’s eyes start to blur.

Mom says she posted something on Insta earlier? Ilya reads next from Shane, which at least makes him laugh.

Shane rarely goes on Instagram willingly. Yuna’s suggestion that he try harder even if it is only for the Irina Foundation was met with a glare over dinner once that was so surly that Ilya had to leave the table for laughing so much.

You didn’t check? Ilya asks, knowing it’s a pointless thing to say.

Shane: No? I was at the dentist.

Fuck. Now Ilya knows fresh guilt for having forgotten that, and a new burst of worry.

Ilya: How was it?

Shane: Fine. Looks like just some swelling around my jaw from the punch, a cut to the gum that was making it uncomfortable. Better now though. Nothing broken. What happened on Insta?

Ilya does not like how quickly Shane is changing the subject, but doesn’t know how to steer it back.

Many people made donations to the foundation because of the fight last night, Ilya writes.

Shane: Seriously?

Ilya: Yes. There are a lot of screenshots

Shane: ...good that I’m useful for something, I guess?

This message makes Ilya frown, and the constant-of-late background thought that something is wrong with Shane creeps up on him again, guilt-tripping Ilya for not having figured out what yet.

You are always useful, Ilya writes back immediately, chewing on his lip as he waits for a response.

I know I have my uses to you, Shane replies along with a wink, then says he has to get going.

Ilya’s stomach drops. This tone doesn’t sound like Shane at all. The strongest sense of guilt grips Ilya; has he missed something? Not paid enough attention? Something definitely is wrong. How the fuck is he going to figure out what, though, when they won’t see each other until next week—and even then, only for a few hours?

That uneasy feeling stays with Ilya.

By the time he is heading to the airport there are videos of the Metros doing the same. Or, of them in the airport, at least. Shane looks awful, battered, and bruised, and clearly hasn't slept judging just by his posture, the way he carries himself as he walks. He’s flanked by JJ and Hayden at least, as the rest of the team walk ahead without so much as a glance back. Ilya wants to scream at them, and all the random people snapping photos of Shane, trying to get him to talk. It is the weirdest feeling in the world to be grateful when he sees JJ shoving a reporter away.

“I don’t know what to do,” Ilya tells Svetlana helplessly when he calls her before his flight, trying to explain everything.

“You haven’t even said what’s wrong.”

“That’s because I don’t know.”

“Have you tried asking him?” Svetlana asks.

“Kind of?”

“Kind of is not asking. Talk to him,” she insists.

Is he a failure because he doesn’t know how to talk to his boyfriend, because he doesn’t magically know what’s wrong? Ilya curses himself, and their schedule, and everything else, and tries not to glare at anyone when the Centaurs’ gate is announced.

Shane is already at the house when Ilya gets home from the Centaurs game. Ilya parks next to Shane’s car, grabs his bag, then jogs in, finding him in the kitchen drinking a bottle of water.

“Hi,” Shane says with a big smile, his eye back to normal size but the traces of bruises still over his face, and his ear lobe still quite pink.

“Hi,” Ilya says, wrapping Shane up in a hug making sure to touch as much of him at once without squeezing too hard.

He is fussing over Shane’s injuries from last week whether he protests or not.

“You won,” Shane says, sighing in relief, and putting his bottle of water on the kitchen counter behind Ilya.

“Yes. What time did you get here?”

“Not even five minutes ago.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, pulling back, “good timing.”

“The best,” Shane agrees, and leans in to kiss him.

It’s almost enough to break Ilya’s resolve; when has he ever been able to resist Shane’s kisses, or anything else? But, no. He has to check Shane over, and he has to get him to relax, and he has to, somehow, ask, what it is that is going on with him.

Yes. In that order. That’s the only way this is going to work.

Right?

“Come,” Ilya says, taking a swig of water from Shane’s bottle and then taking his hand.

“What?”

“We are taking a shower.”

“Oh, no… that’s a horrible idea...”

“And I am checking your bruises,” Ilya says, leading Shane up the stairs.

“You don’t need to. I’m fine.”

“I am checking,” Ilya insists, getting the shower on then turning to Shane, and, ignoring the slight frown on his face, kisses him.

He slips his fingers beneath Shane’s shirt, eases it over his head and pulls him close for a longer, more thorough kiss that at least makes Shane sag against him, more relaxed.

Then, Ilya gets to work.

There is a slight outline of a yellow bruise along one side of Shane’s ribcage, and a tiny spot of the same yellow left just beneath his collar bone. Ilya kisses both thoroughly, unbuckling Shane’s belt as he pauses to kiss him, then gets him stripped, and is back to his inspection again.

“Get undressed,” Shane says, plucking at Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya yanks his shirt off, tossing it across the room. He mouths gently along Shane’s jaw that has the slightest dusting of not quite blue, not quite black bruising along it. His eye, now he’s up close and looking properly, is still a little watery, a little red. Though, Ilya thinks, as he runs his thumbs beneath Shane’s eyes, he’s clearly not slept. Maybe the redness is because of that?

Lastly, he checks Shane’s ear, and the tiny line left after the neat stitches that were there were taken out earlier today. He kisses the shell of Shane’s ear, ghosts a second kiss over the still-pink lobe, then hugs Shane to him tightly, angry, and hurting for him, and hating that he doesn’t know what to say.

They get each other off under the shower, making out for ages, and actually washing themselves almost as an afterthought. Even when they dry each other they don’t speak, don’t really do anything other then hold one another, and kiss. There is a wrongness in the air that is tangible and terrifying, and Ilya is scared, because he really doesn’t know what he should do next.

“I am a little hungry. You?” Ilya says, handing Shane a pair of his sweatpants because despite Shane having plenty of his own clothes here, Ilya really likes seeing him wearing his.

“Not really. But I’ll come downstairs with you if you’re gonna eat.”

This is not quite what Ilya wants to hear but it is a start, and he does have plenty of tricks now to get Shane to eat at least something. Tonight, that takes the form of coaxing Shane into a bite of his bagel, and then sharing a little ice cream from the same bowl.

“You know. My mom’s favourite ice cream is salted caramel,” Shane says, and makes Ilya’s heart skip when he opens his mouth for another spoonful.

“Yes. I know.”

“My dad likes chocolate.”

“And you like vanilla,” Ilya says, smiling when Shane laps a spill of ice cream from his lip.

“Yes. Because I’m boring.”

“No. Because you like the flavour. Vanilla is good. And,” Ilya says, kissing him messily on the cheek, “because you like to add the flavours you like, in the amount you want.”

“Exactly,” Shane says, his eyes lighting up, and giving Ilya his usual, lovely, wonderful spiel about how it has to be the best vanilla ice cream with just the right mix of fruit, or nuts, or whatever sauce—usually butterscotch—he is in the mood for on that particular day. Not too much. Not too many flavours at once.

Fuck, does Ilya love this man.

“And your favourite flavour, is cookie dough,” Shane says when he has finished, nodding at the now-empty bowl.

“Yes.”

“So, now, my parents have four separate tubs of ice cream in the freezer all the time.”

“Yes.”

“They love you very much,” Shane adds, which of course makes Ilya smile.

“I know. I love them, too.”

“You’re going to theirs for dinner tomorrow night, right?”

Ilya wishes it was both of them going, that Shane wasn’t leaving probably by lunchtime at the latest, but smiles anyway.

“Yes.”

“Good. I think my dad found a new recipe he wants to try out on you.”

Ilya loves Yuna and David’s cooking, and loves even more how often they try new things out on him. How he feels so much a part of the family already that he can walk into their house and feel instantly at home. It’s still incredible to him, even after all this time, and it’s even better now that he actually lives not that far from them.

“I can’t wait.”

“And,” Shane says, taking the bowl from Ilya’s hand and looping his arms around his shoulders, “Mom picked you up some new cookie dough ice cream to try.”

“Oh.”

“Not chocolate for my dad,” Shane adds, grinning at him, “and absolutely not vanilla for me. Not even salted caramel for herself. Just for you.”

“She likes me very much,” Ilya says, with a little pride roaring in his chest.

He is so, so lucky to have the people he does around him right now.

“Good,” Shane says, then hums, and drops his head into Ilya’s neck.

He needs to talk to him. He needs to ask Shane what is wrong. But he’s so warm against him, so relaxed, so comfortable. Ilya doesn’t want to ruin it, so wraps his arms around him, and promises himself he’ll try again tomorrow.

They don’t speak in the morning. Shane wakes Ilya by climbing in his lap, impaling himself on his cock barely seconds after Ilya is fully awake. He rides him so hard that they are both breathless, and exhausted enough to fall straight back to sleep. It is a rush to get ready when they wake again because Ilya should probably have already left for the airport, and Shane will now have very little time to do the same once he gets back to Montreal.

“Can you believe it’ll be December when we see each other again?” Shane says as they pull up at the airport so he can drop Ilya off.

“So quick.”

It’s not quick. Well, it is, but that is still two weeks away, and two weeks passing when he can’t see Shane feels several years long.

Ilya scolds himself for being dramatic, then again for not being nearly dramatic enough. And to think this situation is a better option for them now than they once had.

It’s getting really hard, this constantly being apart.

Something occurs to Ilya, after Shane has kissed him goodbye and while he is watching him drive away.

He will never, ever complain about Shane waking him up with sex, or distracting him with kisses, or talking excitedly about anything. But. It’s pretty obvious now, that Shane did all of that this morning, because he knows, doesn’t he? He knows Ilya was going to try to talk to him. Shane is avoiding talking, avoiding them having a conversation.

For the first time in a while, the little voice in Ilya’s head that he so desperately ignores, brings up a new, old subject to taunt him with.

What if Shane doesn’t want him anymore?

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

Hello!

No major warnings for this one, though brace yourself for an argument!

🧡

Two weeks later, that little voice has gotten loud and obnoxious. Ilya tells himself there is no reason for it, no evidence to support all the horrible things he is saying to himself. It’s enough to churn his stomach, make Ilya slow down on the last stretch of his drive to Shane’s instead of fighting the urge to speed up like he usually does.

Worst of all, he doesn’t even get Shane to himself tonight so he can assess if there is any truth to his fears, because Hayden and Jackie are over for dinner. He’ll have to be on his best behaviour. Not one wrong word, not one foot out of place, not a single thing wrong.

Should he really even be here?

Shane has the front door open when Ilya pulls up, and the most beautiful smile on his face. He hugs Ilya tightly the moment he reaches him, that smile dropping when he pulls back to look at him.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” Shane says immediately, clutching on to his arms.

“What? Nothing.”

“No. Not nothing. I thought on FaceTime you looked tired, but…” Shane reaches up and gently runs his thumbs under Ilya’s eyes, frowning in concern. “You aren’t sleeping.”

“Not too well.”

Sighing—and frowning even deeper—Shane takes his hands. “Okay. So. You stay in bed in the morning. I have early practice, but that’s good, because you can sleep, and I’ll be back by eleven at the latest. Then, we can have a pretty lazy day, until I leave for our game.”

Ilya swallows hard, hating that he suddenly feels so emotional. “I was thinking about coming to watch your game.”

It would be the first one he's been to. And to be honest, Ilya only started thinking about it on the drive over, desperate to spend every second he can in Shane’s vicinity, if he might not get to ever again soon.

Shane’s face lights up. “Seriously?”

Why does he look so happy? “Maybe?”

“Jackie’s going tomorrow night. I’ll get you a ticket. At least you’ll have someone else to sit with, then.”

“Oh—”

“Close your eyes,” Shane whispers, and the moment Ilya does, Ilya feels soft kisses over his eyes. “I’m sorry you aren’t sleeping.”

“Me, too. I sleep better with you.”

“Me too,” Shane says with a deep sigh, then hugs him again. “I can’t wait to fall asleep with you later. I’m kinda pissed I have to share you with other people tonight.”

Ilya smiles, gets in another kiss, and tries to argue with that little voice. See? Shane still wants him.

Maybe, he’s just being nice, says that awful, taunting voice.

Ilya kicks off his shoes, and follows Shane in to meet Hayden and Jackie, telling that voice to fuck off.

Their evening is actually pretty amazing, Ilya letting his guard down after only about ten minutes, and finding himself fairly at ease in Hayden’s company. Jackie is clearly the fun one between the two of them, making Ilya laugh so much he has tears in his eyes.

“You two are going to be trouble tomorrow night, aren’t you?” Hayden says after dinner when they are in the living room.

There is no heat to his words, in fact he sounds quite pleased about the idea.

After stretching for his phone on the coffee table when it buzzes, Shane leans over on the couch, resting a hand on Ilya’s thigh. “They definitely are. Just got confirmation of your ticket,” he adds, turning his phone for Ilya, and then Jackie to see.

Jackie grins at Ilya, and even stretches her hand up and over like she is virtually high-fiving him from her chair.

“Okay. I want you two cheering every time we score, and booing any time the other team gets close,” Hayden says.

“Can I punch anyone?” Jackie asks.

“You’d better,” Hayden says, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

“Do you want me to punch anyone, Shane?” Ilya teases.

Shane drops his chin on Ilya’s shoulder and sighs. “Can I give you a list?”

“Of course.”

Ilya turns his head a little, heart thudding when Shane winks at him, and then again when he turns, tucks into his side, and drags his hand into his lap.

He’s comfortable. He’s comfortable showing affection for Ilya in the company of his friends. There is absolutely no reason for Ilya to be second-guessing anything.

“Okay, so, I’m dropping the kids off at my mom’s before the game. I can swing by and pick you up then?” Jackie says to Ilya, when she and Hayden are getting ready to go home.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to.”

“Tough. I am. Shane? Tell him.”

“I know better than to argue with Jackie,” Shane says, with a fond smile on his face.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t argue with her either,” Hayden adds in a loud whisper.

“Because you know I’m right,” Jackie says, leaning on her husband as she adjusts the back of her shoe.

She kisses Shane and Ilya goodbye in turn, then calls for Shane to give Ilya her number.

“Text me,” she says, spinning on her heel and pointing at Ilya.

“Okay. I will.”

Ilya drops an arm around Shane’s shoulders, kissing his temple as they watch Hayden and Jackie drive away. A little of the fear has settled in Ilya’s stomach, and why wouldn’t it? This evening really has been so nice.

It’s nicer still when Shane gets the door closed behind them and backs Ilya against the wall to kiss him. Ilya can’t break this spell with his stupid thoughts or by starting a conversation.

“I love you,” is what he says instead, loving the way Shane smiles against his mouth.

Shane slots his hand through Ilya’s, watching himself do it, then looks back up at Ilya’s face. “I love you, too,” he says softly, then leads him up the stairs.

He still hasn’t started a conversation with Shane.

Shane kissed him good morning and tucked Ilya back beneath the duvet telling him to sleep, leaving for practice before Ilya had even dozed off again. Then, he woke him a few hours later by crawling back on to the bed and draping himself over him.

They had a lazy but delicious lunch, then lazy sex on the couch, then dozed with the TV on for background noise until Shane had to leave again. It has been the perfect day, almost, if that conversation wasn’t hanging over Ilya’s head.

He can’t do a single thing about that now, though, not with the game about to start.

“How many games do you see when the Metros are playing at home?” Ilya asks Jackie, now that the teams are out on the ice.

“I used to try to come to all of them. The first year or so Hayden and I were together, anyway. Then, with the kids and everything… I’d say maybe ten? Twelve?”

“That is quite a lot.”

Jackie smiles, leans into his side. “Do you know how many I’ve been to this season?”

“...no?”

“This is the second. I went to one of the pre-season games, and then…”

“And then?” Ilya asks, when she doesn’t continue.

Jackie gives him a pensive smile. “I love Shane a lot. He’s become like family to me. Knowing how his team are treating him… I don’t want to show my support when that’s happening. I watched that first game, saw how they were on the ice, and said, no more. I only came to this one because Hayd already had tickets for me for a lot of games, but, this is the only one I couldn't hand off to someone else. The Metros can fuck themselves,” she adds, a little loudly—loud enough for other fans nearby to turn and look at her in surprise.

She does not seem bothered by this at all.

Ilya’s heart is in his throat. He isn’t sure why.

“It is nice to know he has some support here. There has been so little,” he says.

"Can I be honest about something with you, Ilya?" Jackie says then, leaning in.

Oh, fuck. Where is this going?

"Of course," Ilya says, fixing a false smile on his face.

Jackie studies him quietly at first, then nods to herself.

“I suspected Shane might be gay, years ago. I even suspected he had someone in secret,” Jackie adds, now making Ilya’s heart thud in surprise. “Hayden, god, I love that man, but, he’s so oblivious. And he’s really, really good at putting his foot in his mouth. Saying the wrong thing. Tripping over his words. You know. If there was a Stanley Cup for fucking things up just by opening his mouth, he'd have won several times over.”

A little too stunned to reply, Ilya only nods.

“I’m not impressed with how Hayden handled hearing about you two at the start. I’m more fucked off than I can say with the rest of the team. Disappointed as hell in JJ, but, I see him trying now. The rest of them though…”

“It is hard to see,” Ilya says. “It is hard to know it is happening. Especially when I do not know everything that is happening, because he will not tell me.”

“He’s just trying to protect you, I think.”

“Maybe.”

“All I know,” Jackie says then, looking at him seriously, “is that I’m glad that it’s you. That it’s you for him. You two seem so… right. So. Whatever these fucks have to say about it—”

Ilya watches the wild gesture she makes with her arm.

“—It means nothing, Ilya. Nothing,” she says, and pats his hand.

Ilya leans in, hoping it’s not obvious how close he is to crying, for what Jackie’s words mean to him. “So… Fuck the Metros?”

Jackie nods solemnly then grins. “Fuck the Metros.”

The Metros lose 4-2. It’s a hard game, and the Metros make the Kings fight for every single goal attempt, with Shane winning their only goals. Goals that are celebrated properly, Ilya is relieved to see, even if he knows the moment the team is off the ice, the camaraderie of the team will disappear again.

After the game, Jackie tucks her arm through Ilya’s and guides him back to where other partners of the players are waiting. There are only eight of them in total; Ilya wonders then if that is more or less than elsewhere in the league.

After a long wait, the Metros start pouring out, defeated looks on the faces of those who don’t look pissed. A couple of them spot Ilya, glance over him uncertainly. Another sees Ilya within arm’s distance of his wife, and marches her off.

“Yes, I would, too, you know a threat when you see one,” Jackie calls after him, to a round of snorts of laughter and titters, as the player in question speeds up to escape.

It works like an ice breaker. The rest of the partners waiting with them introduce themselves to Ilya, and by the time he spots Shane walking out with Hayden, he feels a little more relaxed.

“I didn’t take you for a WAG, Rozanov,” JJ says, coming up to him with a big, teasing grin.

It’s so weird. What kind of weird, Ilya isn’t sure, but, this feels like a good kind of tease, instead of anything malicious.

“Next time, there will be matching jackets and many sparkles.”

“Make sure it’s diamonds. None of that fake glittery shi—stuff.”

Ilya nods his head, smiles when JJ gives him a squeeze on the arm as he walks out.

“Hi. That sucked,” Shane says, dropping his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder and sighing there.

Ilya hopes Shane can’t feel the tension in him as he scans around the room monitoring for any bad reaction to them being together like this. Then, Ilya tells himself—and anyone with a problem—to fuck off, and runs his hands over Shane’s back.

“Your goals were very good.”

“Not enough, though. Hi,” Shane says tiredly, lifting his head back up and giving him a soft smile.

“Hello.”

“Would you mind driving?” Shane says, already pulling out his keys from his pocket.

“Of course,” Ilya says, taking the keys and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Kiss,” Shane whispers, nudging against him and making them stumble as they start to walk out.

Shane can have absolutely no idea what he is doing to Ilya’s heart.

Of course he'll kiss him, though.

“Good morning,” Ilya hears, smiles immediately for the fingers ruffling his hair.

“Good morning.”

When he opens his eyes, it’s to see Shane standing by the side of the bed, his wet hair telling Ilya he is fresh from the shower.

Shane is so meticulous with his morning routine that half of the time, Ilya envies him, and the other half it inspires him to crawl back into bed.

“What time are you heading back?” Shane asks, nudging so Ilya knows to move over, make room for him to sit.

“Mm. You want me to go?”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “When do I ever want you to leave?”

“I don’t know?”

For a moment, Shane looks angry, and then it morphs into concern. Shane twists, leans down over Ilya and braces on his forearms either side of him.

“What’s going on in there?” he asks softly, stroking his thumb over Ilya’s temple.

Of course Ilya’s stomach knots. “Nothing.”

Frowning, Shane studies him, then bends down to kiss him over each eye. “You’ve slept a little better.”

“Yes. Always when you are here with me.”

“Maybe I should get you a me-shaped pillow.”

“Maybe, you should not get out of bed,” Ilya says, trying to persuade Shane to lie back down.

He doesn’t budge, only kisses him on the cheek, then pushes himself back up to sitting.

“I made you coffee,” Shane says, nodding towards Ilya’s nightstand.

Sure enough, there is Ilya’s mug, right within his reach.

Normally, Shane only likes things in bottles in his bedroom, nothing open like a mug or glass. The change of routine is alarming to Ilya, and he doesn't know why.

"Thank you," he says, hoping the confusion roaring him isn't obvious in his voice.

“You're welcome. Stay there,” Shane says, then stands, already out of the room before Ilya’s, okay.

Ilya doesn’t have much time to overthink their conversation so far because Shane is back with him in minutes, carrying a tray.

“What’s this?” Ilya asks, hoisting himself up as Shane carefully sits beside him.

“I think it’s called breakfast for other people. You can call it what you want, though.”

Ilya pretends to glare. Shane looks so very pleased with himself.

“I thought you would like breakfast in bed for once. You’ve not been sleeping.”

“You made me breakfast in bed because I am not sleeping?”

Open drinks is one thing in Shane's bedroom, but actual food? Ilya's world feels thoroughly upended.

“Yes,” Shane says, then kisses him on the shoulder and puts the tray in Ilya’s lap.

“You need to eat, too.”

“I am eating,” Shane says, taking half of a bagel and spreading the thinnest layer of butter over it.

Ilya bites his tongue so he won’t comment, then notices the pot of raspberry jam.

“My favourite," he says, dunking a spoon in to sample it.

Shane pretends to pull a face but looks far too pleased to manage it. “I know.”

Their breakfast is so nice, so relaxed. Ilya wishes as he always does that they could have this sort of thing every day. It’s far too good an atmosphere to start a difficult conversation, no matter how many times Ilya tells himself he must.

“Tell me things,” Shane says when he leans back against the headboard after they finish eating.

“Like what?”

“Everything? Anything.”

This is the perfect opportunity, right?

“Our new goalie is a good guy, and, I think a very good goalie,” is what Ilya actually says.

“Wyatt Hayes, right?”

“Yes. He has been in practice with us for two weeks now. Tomorrow is his first game.”

“Yeah, he was great at Toronto. I can’t believe they traded him. Their loss, though.”

“Yes.”

“Ottawa are doing amazingly right now,” Shane adds, with what Ilya thinks is a proud look for him.

He thinks it’s pride. Ilya is also convinced there is a little sadness there. He wishes he had the words to ask him why.

“Not so good, but not so bad.”

“Hey. It’s already miles better than last season. So much of that is because of you,” Shane says, patting his leg.

“Thank you.”

“I’m serious. You’re amazing at hockey, you know that, but, it seems like you’re pretty incredible at coaching, too.”

Ilya smiles, lets his head fall on to Shane’s shoulder, then takes his hand. “I am lucky. I have a good team, and the coaches already there have taught me so much.”

“Will you take a compliment,” Shane teases.

“Would you?”

“I’m not a coach.”

“I am only a trainee coach,” Ilya points out.

“Still.”

“And, a temporary trainee coach.”

"For now, anyway."

"…yes."

“Feels like forever already,” Shane says, with a heavy sigh. “Or, this season feels like forever.”

Ilya has so much he could say about that, so much he wants to. Instead, he kisses Shane into the mattress, because there is never enough time to be with him. It seems so wasteful, he thinks, as Shane arches beneath him, to spend that time talking about serious things.

December passes so quickly. Christmas with Shane’s parents is perfect, and, perhaps even better, is going to Bood’s Boxing Day party with Shane. Nobody would know, Ilya doesn’t think, that he is terrified that Shane might not want him anymore, not for how attentive Shane is in front of people, and how proud he looks to be there by his side.

The thought is still in Ilya’s head, though, and if he isn’t careful gets stronger by the day. By New Years Eve, they are snappy with each other, and it’s all Ilya’s fault, he knows it is. Even now, he’s starting an argument—over nothing.

“Ilya,” Shane says in that exasperated but patient voice of his that always means he is especially mad. “I don’t understand what you want me to say.”

“Oh. You don’t?”

“No. I really don’t. You’re in Columbus. I’m in Dallas. We both play in a couple of hours. There is no way, even if we wanted to, that we could go to a New Years Eve party together.”

“So. You don’t want to,” Ilya says, hating that he sounds so petulant, that he’s finding fault when there is none to find.

Shane scowls at him over FaceTime. “Not when you’re in this mood, I wouldn’t.”

“What mood?”

“You’re picking a fight with me! Over nothing! I don’t even understand why you’re pissed at me.”

Neither does Ilya.

“I hate not seeing you. For important days, for not important days. All the time,” Ilya says, which is nothing but the truth, if not all of it.

At least that makes Shane’s expression soften.

“I hate it, too. At least we had Christmas, right?”

“Not enough.”

“I know. But I’m coming to Ottawa in, I think, ten days?” Shane says with a hopeful smile.

“And that is enough for you?”

Rolling his eyes, Shane then glares at him. “Obviously, it’s not.”

Ilya has no answer for him. They sit in silence, half glaring at one another, and half just looking confused. Shane does, at least.

“Look. I know it’s not the same, but, maybe… we can do something when I’m there, okay? Maybe not a party, or anything, but, maybe we could have some people over for dinner?”

“So, the little time we have together, you want us to spend with other people?” Ilya bites out, absolutely hating himself for it.

Shane might hate him too, judging by the look he is giving Ilya now.

“You know what? You’re right,” Shane says, getting up from his hotel bed.

Ilya's heart is really thudding now. “About what?”

“Why spend the little time I have with you, with you, when you’re so fucking mad at me for no actual reason, when I could be spending that time with other people? Or even just fucking by myself?”

Shane ends their call, leaving Ilya staring at his phone in horror, and shaking.

What the fuck has he just done?

All the anger drains from him instantly, replaced entirely by fear. Ilya has the desperate need to go work all his frustration out in the hotel gym.

He can’t, though. How can he go down there in front of other people, and at the same time have the privacy he needs to cry?

What the fuck has he done?

It is the fourth of January, and Ilya hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days.

It’s perfect on one hand; he’s so tired that he can stumble through life in a daze not having the capacity to think about much of anything. On the other, it’s the worst timing. Today he is having his arm formally assessed, and the outcome of this is critical to whatever happens next for him. Being exhausted and not properly rested is going to mess up his results, change his responses to the tests, and any other thing he hasn’t thought to be worried about yet.

Shane hasn’t really spoken to Ilya since New Years Eve.

Ilya doesn’t blame him one bit, has reread his Happy New Year message and the handful of other texts he’s sent since a million times over already. Ilya did apologise, but since he really didn’t know how to word what he was apologising for—what he started them arguing for in the first place—the apology probably meant nothing. Plus, he only texted it to Shane, and Ilya knows it’s nowhere near enough.

He’s messed up.

Svetlana shouted at him when he called her for some support, and she was right to; he was self-sabotaging, for no good reason at all. He is absolutely making things worse, just like she said, by not reaching out, trying to find his words even when he feels empty.

She doesn’t get him entirely, though.

Ilya is so afraid of reaching out to Shane, of offering himself in all his apologies, only to find out he’s been right all along, and Shane doesn’t want him anymore. He has to talk to Shane, but he won’t out of fear, and this living in limbo not sleeping and half out of his mind with worry in the moments he isn’t numb, is exhausting.

Add to that, the knowledge that Shane is still out there taking shit from other teams—most recently, from a veteran defenseman from Winnipeg—about them and their relationship, it’s a whole other layer of pressure. Shane is still good enough to be dealing with all of it—having to suffer all of it—even though the two of them are… maybe not lasting.

Maybe that’s the crux of all of this, why Shane isn’t reaching out to him either. Maybe Shane is so tired of taking the brunt of the awfulness about their relationship, and Ilya's awful mood, that he doesn’t think it’s worth it anymore.

He can’t think about that now.

Ilya makes himself take a few deep breaths then steps into the medical center where he is meeting the team doctor, Terry, checking the email on his phone to make sure he has the room number correct.

“Don’t look so worried,” Terry says when Ilya steps in to the room, trying to make him smile.

Ilya does his best. It’s probably not good enough.

Mobility; good. Ilya has essentially his entire range back, no stiffness, no movements that feel uncomfortable. The fracture itself; healed beautifully. Strength; good. All the effort he’s been putting in has been enough, apparently.

“You can start adding in more strength training, a little more weight. Slowly, though. Not everything at once,” Terry says, looking happy for him. “Let’s just do a few more physical tests, see how you’re doing overall."

He’s healthy. Ilya sort of knew that, could feel it in his body, and is relieved that his lack of sleep and constant overthinking hasn’t messed this up for him as well.

"If it was up to me entirely, and personally, I'd be wrapping you in cotton wool and making you recover for a year or so," Terry says with a big smile that says, hopefully, that he's joking. "But. Essentially, so long as you're careful and don't do too much too soon, you're good to go."

“So. If they want me to, it is possible for me to play hockey again?” Ilya says, when they are all done.

“You’re definitely fit enough for training.”

“Not for playing?”

“Also for playing,” Terry says. “My only concern would be if you were to throw yourself into a game, say, the next one—tomorrow night. By all means, if that’s what is happening next for you, speak to management, and I’ll clear you to play. You have to listen to your body, though. You have to go steady, and ease yourself back into it. We can pad you up for a couple of games, so you have that little bit of extra protection, then assess how that goes.”

Ilya is relieved. He is. Or, knows he should be.

No, he is, the thought of playing hockey again is actually exciting, but with everything else, with the mess he’s made of things with Shane, it’s way down on his priority list.

Then, of course, there is the whole problem of if the Centaurs are ready to release him back to playing hockey—playing hockey for them for the first time—or if they want him as a coach for longer.

Honestly. The only thing Ilya really wants right now, is to go to sleep. Which of course, he can’t even try to do, for at least a few more hours.

“Okay. It is not really up to me, I don’t think, if I am playing hockey or not, yet,” Ilya says, sitting back in his chair.

“Of course it’s partly your decision. You have to have a say in what comes next for you,” Terry says, giving Ilya an assessing look, apparently even more in doctor mode than he was two minutes ago.

“Maybe.”

“Are you doing okay, Ilya?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You look a little tired,” Terry says.

Fuck.

“It’s nothing. I had an argument with Shane. It is very hard right now—always—seeing him so little. And, I worry about him so much. Because of… us. What people are thinking, doing.”

Terry nods slowly. “I’m sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry people are still being stupid about you two.”

“Stupid, would be okay.”

“I know,” Terry says, sympathetically.

“I think, because right now I am helping to coach, the people who don’t like that we are together, are… it is easier for them to be terrible to Shane, in person.”

“Because you’re a little more behind the scenes,” Terry says, nodding in understanding.

“Yes. A little. I am still behind the benches, the fans, the players, they can all see me, I am not hiding, or anywhere else. But, nobody has been so bad to me, directly, as they are to Shane.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“No. I know.”

“But, even with you being, as you say, behind the benches, you’re still not as visible as he is. And that’s not your fault, either. It does make him an easier target, when it shouldn’t.”

“Maybe he blames me for that,” Ilya says, running his thumbs over his knuckles and keeping his eyes anywhere but on Terry.

“I’m sure that’s not true. Maybe it feels like it’s true, because you feel guilty he’s getting the worst of this, but that doesn’t mean it is.”

If he keeps talking about this, Ilya knows he will either get angry, or far too sad, so he says nothing else.

Terry understands him, it seems. “Okay. Ilya, you are welcome to talk to me about anything at any time if you want to, okay?”

“Yes, okay.”

“Now, though, let me get you signed off as fit to play, and get it sent over to management. You’re heading over there next, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. By the time you get there they will have my report.”

Ilya thanks him, shakes his hand, tells himself his breathing is a little easier when he steps back outside.

The first thing he spots is a man with his head down wearing a ball cap and an oversized puffer jacket.

Ilya’s knees almost fail him.

“Shane?”

Chapter 18

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Okay, Shane has a lot to say this chapter. Please give him lots of hugs!

And yes, Ilya still has some more talking of his own to do. Soon!

“I’m sick,” Shane says, barely looking up.

Ilya's mind is a whirlwind, and his heart racing harder than it ever has. “What—”

“I’m supposed to be sick. So, can we—”

“My car. This way,” Ilya says, walking quickly with Shane sticking a step or so behind him.

Ilya won’t read into him doing that, at all.

Once in the car, Ilya faces a number of problems, and he has no idea which to tackle first. The sudden need to fall into Shane’s arms? The difficulty of getting his trembling fingers around the steering wheel so he can drive? The urge to break down in relief because Shane is here, or to clam up in terror for what that might mean? He's sick? What kind of sick? What the fuck has he missed by being so selfish?

“I told them I was staying at my parents with a stomach flu,” Shane says, not looking at him. “The team doctors, I mean. I figured, it would be easier to tell them that than telling them the truth. Which I hate.”

Relief momentarily floods through Ilya. "You are not sick."

"No."

“So… why are you here?” Ilya asks softly.

“I wanted to be?”

“...okay.”

“You don’t want me here?” Shane asks, just as softly.

The minute he slides his hand into Shane’s in his lap, Ilya feels a little more like himself again.

Not all the way, though. Not even close, actually. He's fucked so, so much up.

Forcing himself to find words, Ilya says, “I always want you with me. I think that is the problem.”

Shane looks down at their joined hands, covering them with his free one. “It’s not a problem. I always want you with me, too. I thought it would be easier, us being together, and everyone knowing it. It’s not, though. It’s way worse.”

“Yes.”

Sighing, Shane lets his head fall to the headrest. “Listen. I know you had your medical just now—how was it, by the way?”

“Perfect. Everything is okay.”

“Good,” Shane says, and gives him the first smile Ilya has seen in… too long. “And, I know you’re supposed to have a meeting with your managers right after?”

“Yes. I should be going now.”

“Okay. Then, let’s go,” Shane says, dropping Ilya's hand and putting his seatbelt on. “I can wait in the car, or something. Then, if you aren’t doing anything else—”

“No. Nothing.”

“Then, we’ll go back to yours, and… I don’t know.”

“We should talk,” Ilya says, swallowing hard.

Shane sighs. “Yes. We probably should.”

They don’t talk much on the drive to, or on the way home from Ilya’s meeting, though Ilya does take comfort in the fact that Shane holds his hand both times.

At least he knows where he stands with the Centaurs now, if nothing else. They want him playing hockey for them next season at the latest, but more likely in a couple of weeks when they have things finalised with a new head coach. Ilya feels good about playing again. He has missed playing hockey far more than he really thought he would.

Ilya feels even better, and incredibly humbled, that the management team are so impressed with his work as a trainee coach, that they told him they would welcome him back as a full time coach should he ever be wanting to do that.

It’s a good thing to think about, for the future. So long as his future has Shane in it.

Please let his future have Shane in it.

At the house, Ilya makes them coffee, then since there is nothing else to stall with, joins Shane on the couch.

“Feeling okay?” Shane asks, when they have sat in silence for far too many seconds.

“Yes. You?”

“Yes. I don’t actually have stomach flu.”

“Yes, I know.”

Silence, again.

“Why are you angry with me, Ilya? What did I do?” Shane says softly, after a while.

That puts Ilya’s heart in his throat. He takes his hand, hoping Shane won’t feel how badly his is trembling.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“So, you are angry,” Shane says.

“I’m not.”

“But, you are. You have been. Not all the time, but, something is definitely wrong. And I have to think that, maybe I've done something? Just with how things have been—how you've been—lately. Like, you’re angry about something. Or, something is happening with you that you don't want me to know about. I know you haven’t slept well in a while, and you keep looking like you’re, I don’t know. Keeping something from me.”

Irrational anger bubbles up in Ilya. He makes himself pause before speaking, but it does nothing to calm his mood.

“I am keeping something from you?” he says, keeping his voice low so some of that anger is hidden, at least.

“Yes.”

“Me? When something has been wrong for you for a very long time, and you won’t tell me? Any time I try to ask you what is wrong, you distract me, or change the subject. All the time.”

The worst thing is, Shane doesn’t even try to deny it, only stares back at Ilya in silence.

Pain ripples through Ilya. He’s about to lose everything that matters to him, isn’t he?

“I’m scared, Ilya. I’m scared I’ve completely fucked things up between us, and I don’t know… I don’t know how to fix it,” Shane says, terrifying Ilya with the tears now forming in his eyes.

Ilya braces to hear the absolute worst, and demands of himself that he is brave.

“Tell me,” he rasps out.

Shane swallows hard, looking down now at their joined hands—or, more likely, Ilya thinks, just at anything that isn't him.

“It was me who suggested you move to Ottawa,” Shane says, eventually.

“Yes.”

“I think it was a good idea, right? I mean, the club has been pretty good with you so far, and you seem to like everyone there. And I know, Ottawa isn’t exactly exciting as a place to live, but, you seem to like it okay? This house is great,” Shane adds, looking around them.

“Yes. All of those things.”

Shane nods. “And, the whole point, was that, we’d only be two hours apart all year.”

“Yes. That was the idea.”

“We see each other a little more now, because of that. But it's barely anything more, really. It’s not enough. I miss you too much,” Shane says, his voice trembling as he finally looks at Ilya, making his breath catch.

Does Ilya trust his voice? Not really. He has to answer him anyway.

“I miss you too much as well.”

“I think I fucked up. I think I fucked everything up,” Shane says, and drops his forehead on to Ilya’s shoulder as he bursts into tears.

A million scenarios hit Ilya at once, each one increasingly awful. He has to be patient, he has to… he has to know.

“What happened?” Ilya makes himself ask, even if his voice is trembling as badly as Shane's.

Again, it takes some time for Shane to answer, putting Ilya even more on edge.

“When I suggested you come to Ottawa, the whole plan was that you’d be here, you’d be playing here. And I’d be playing in Montreal.”

“Yes. We said that.”

“I can’t stay in Montreal,” Shane says, his voice thick with tears as he shakes his head, once again not looking at him. “I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I keep pretending that it's okay, but it's not. It's killing me. I hate it. I hate everything, Ilya…”

He’s too upset. Ilya has to hold him. He tugs on Shane’s arm until he is straddling his lap, and holds him close as he cries.

“Tell me,” Ilya says.

Angrily swiping tears away from his face, Shane sighs, hard. “I’m probably naive, or stupid, or some other shit.”

“No. You are not.”

"I feel stupid."

"Please don't," Ilya says, tapping his fingers against Shane's thighs.

“I thought I’d probably be playing for Montreal my whole career. That was the plan, anyway.”

Ilya knows that. He doesn’t think Montreal deserve him at all, but that isn’t up to him.

“You know what they’ve been like, since the start of the season,” Shane says, curling his fingers against Ilya’s chest, absently playing with the cord of Ilya's hoodie. “That hasn’t gotten much better. It’s good with Hayden, and JJ, obviously, now, but, the rest of them… and the management. The coaches. Most of the medical team. Everyone behind the scenes—honestly, I prefer it when none of them talk to me at all."

Ilya doesn't believe that for a second. As much as he knows Shane prefers to have just a few people around him, and values his alone time above a lot of other things, he has to be feeling so lonely right now.

"But it’s a horrible way to be a part of team," Shane continues. "I don’t feel good playing for them. I don’t like the version of me I feel like I’m having to be, just to get through training, and playing, and press. All of it. Everything feels like it’s like, ten times as much work. More, probably.”

To Ilya’s surprise—and now mortification for not having noticed already—he sees the dark smudges beneath Shane’s eyes that say how badly he's been sleeping, sees the way he looks generally drained, and defeated. Still beautiful to him, of course, but the Shane in his lap now feels like he’s lost all the fight in him.

“They do not deserve you,” Ilya says.

“Maybe not. I don’t know.”

“I know. You are too good to that team, those people, when they are so terrible to you. Where is your support? Where is it? They give you nothing.”

“I’m really tired, Ilya,” Shane says, looking absolutely crushed.

A fresh wave of guilt hits Ilya. If he can’t find at least some of his voice now, then he probably never will, and he'll never deserve any of Shane's time again.

“I think maybe you are angry with me,” he says, which isn’t quite what he’s ever rehearsed saying to Shane, but does get him a reaction.

“I’m angry that you won’t talk to me, when I know that something’s wrong.”

Yes. Shane is definitely angry with him, judging by the way he’s glaring at him now. And just like that, Ilya feels himself closing off again.

“You first.”

“No. Why do you think I’m angry with you?” Shane demands.

Well. He’s started now. Might as well make it worse.

“Because. Ever since everybody started to know about us, you have done everything. People have wanted to talk to you. Tried to talk to you. About us. The press, I mean.”

"It's my fault everybody knows about us. I'm the one who couldn't hide how scared I was—"

"But that's—"

"It's my fault everyone is being like they are," Shane says, his lip trembling. "My fault. I started all this. I'd prefer everyone just… fucked off, but, if they're going to be dicks, it's better they are to me, instead of you."

"Shane. No. It is not your fault that people are being… nobody should be doing any of the things they are doing to you."

Shane says nothing.

"I am glad that everybody knows about us now," Ilya adds. "Maybe, it could be better if they learned some other way, but, I think some people would still be assholes even if—"

“So, they should be talking to me, and being assholes, to me, instead of you. if they can't just shut their mouths. I should have done everything when you first got hurt. Besides the fact that it's my fault they all know about us anyway, you were injured. You needed to rest, and recover, and… you needed help, Ilya."

"Yes. And you helped me."

"I should have done more."

"Shane—"

"And anyway. It's not like people haven't tried to talk to you, too, about us, and everything,” Shane says. "Even when we were still in Boston, it's not like the press didn't try to talk to you, too."

“Yes, but, then, the season started, and I was hiding as a coach.”

Shane looks at him in surprise.

“'Hiding'?”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t—”

“Every game you played, for a long time—even now—people who are not happy that we are together, they hit you, punch you, say horrible things to you. It is much less for me.”

“Good,” Shane says. “Still doesn’t explain why I’d be angry with you.”

“Because. It’s not fair. Everyone is terrible to you! Your team, more than anyone, but, most people are okay with me, or better with me. It is like because they cannot talk to me as much as they talk to you, they are… less awful to me. Much less awful.”

“Ilya. I’m glad they don’t have the chance to be awful with you all the time.”

“I’m not glad. It should not be just you.”

“It probably shouldn’t be either of us. We didn't do anything wrong,” Shane says, narrowing his eyes. “Wait. That’s what you think I’m angry with you for? Because it’s not, what… equal? How awful people are being?”

“Yes. If not that, then I don’t know what I did wrong, to make you angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you!” Shane shouts, which seems fairly contradictory to his words. “I’m not angry with you at all, I’m worried about you. You’ve been looking at me for the last couple of months like there’s something on your mind, or you’re worried about something, and you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“This! This is what’s wrong!”

See? Ilya is being very helpful now to this situation, by shouting too.

Fuck, he could do with a drink.

Shane glares at him, doesn’t say anything at first, then taps his fingertips against his chest. “Talk to me, Ilya.”

“You won’t talk to me. That is the problem. I ask you every game what happened, and in the beginning you would tell me, but then you stopped. Every time I tried to ask, or ask more, you talked about something else. You won’t talk to me, Shane,” Ilya says in frustration.

Shane stares at him, for ages.

“I didn’t want you to worry about me. With everything that has been happening when I’m playing.”

“Shane—”

“It’s not bad all the time. With some teams it’s like nothing happened, and sometimes it’s just some teasing. The teasing is funny, actually. I don’t mind that. But. My team is the worst, always, even when they aren’t trying to be. I can’t do anything right, and it’s exhausting trying to. Or trying to pretend that I’m doing okay with playing for a team full of assholes.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Ilya says, to which Shane rolls his eyes.

“But that’s the whole fucking problem, Ilya. What do I do? What can I do? Sure, I can stop playing altogether, refuse to go to practice. That’s fine, I could do that. I’ve thought about doing that.”

He has? Ilya’s heart almost stops for hearing it.

“But, then, what would I do? I’m a free agent at the end of this season. Who’s gonna want to sign me if I just refuse to work the last half of this season because, what, my team are being mean to me?”

“They are being more than mean…”

"The thing is, Montreal have never—and I’ve never—never even thought about it. The plan was to stay there for all of my career, so, they’ve never talked to me about re-signing once my contract is up. I, and they, we all just assumed. Then, we happened,” Shane says, all of his anger softening briefly, which gives Ilya a bit of hope before he tells himself to stop being selfish.

“And, when people found out about us, because of me, because I was so scared when you got hurt, I got to see—finally—what you, what everyone else has always said about the Metros," Shane says letting his arms drop in frustration. "I can’t defend them anymore. I can’t overlook or… I see them for what they are, now. I wish it wasn’t like this, but, it is.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say. He only wraps his hands around Shane’s thighs, waits for him to keep talking, which takes a little while longer.

“Do you remember when I came with my parents to watch you play against the Penguins?” Shane asks eventually.

“Of course.”

“The Metros were pissed at me for that.”

“For what?”

“Watching the Centaurs play?”

“What the fuck does it have to do with them?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I kind of assumed at the time that they would find literally any reason to be pissed at me. So. I don’t know. No reason? Every reason?”

“Okay.”

“But then,” Shane says, and laughs coldly, “we played you, and then we flew out to Calgary.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“You remember me telling you about a meeting?”

“Yes. You said it was just a stupid thing, them trying to tell you they were an inclusive team.”

“I lied to you, Ilya,” Shane says, avoiding eye contact. “I lied, because… because I didn’t know what to say to you, and I knew, for definite, maybe for the first time, in that meeting, that… I couldn’t stay playing for the Metros.”

Ilya’s heart starts to thud. “Tell me.”

“They set up a meeting, without telling me first, without contacting Farah, without even—it was Theriault, and the GM flew up—”

“Wow.”

Montreal's general manager is known for not wanting to go anywhere with the team, unless it's a home game. To have him fly up for a meeting with Shane? That does sound pretty serious.

“Exactly. They just decided that I was re-signing with them. Which, I get, because like I said, they, and me too, we just assumed I would. But they… I didn’t get why they would even offer me another contract when they were so… when they clearly hate me now.”

“You’re too important to them to lose. That is why.”

“I told them to set up a meeting with Farah and walked out,” Shane says.

“Good.”

“I refused a meeting, Ilya,” Shane says, closing his eyes. “And every time they've brought it up since, I've put them off. I don't think they'll keep asking for much longer, and… this is where I’ve probably fucked things up for us. Which is why I didn’t tell you. Because I didn’t know how.”

“Shane. You have to explain to me. What are you saying?”

“I’m not signing with the Metros again.”

“Yes. Good. You deserve better.”

Shane opens his eyes again looking absolutely heartbroken. Or something.

“I’ve had offers from other clubs,” Shane says. “Obviously, not official offers, or anything, because I can’t. Not until I’m a free agent.”

“Shane. I am only surprised other clubs have offered you contracts if you tell me it is only one or two.”

“Three, actually.”

“Okay, that is still pretty shocking.”

“They’re too far away,” Shane says, his eyes filling with tears again. “If I say yes to any of them—which, I don’t know what choice I have if I still want to play, and I do, I do still want to play—I’ll see you even less than I do now. And I don’t… it’s too hard right now, being away from you so much. I don’t think I could do it. I know I couldn't. I don’t want to be away from you.”

White noise fills Ilya’s ears as Shane’s words sink in, everything over the last couple of months starting to make sense.

He hates it. He understands now, why Shane has been so quiet of late, and he hates it. Ilya hates everything.

But. They can figure something out, right? They always have done.

“I don’t know why it took them—the Metros—trying to trick me, or whatever, into re-signing with them, for me to realise how much I never wanted to play hockey for them again,” Shane says. “And, you know what’s funny?”

Nothing? Absolutely nothing is funny about this.

“What?” Ilya makes himself say.

“They tried to tell me that no other club would ever sign me. Like, they would be doing me a favour, letting me re-sign with them.”

“That’s fucking bullshit.”

“But, the real reason, the only reason they were suddenly really invested in getting me to re-sign, was because I came to watch that fucking Centaurs vs Penguins game. That’s the whole—it’s not, but it might as well be—reason, they were suddenly trying to, I guess, lock me in?”

“Why?” Ilya says, shaking his head.

“Because they, Theriault, I guess, he got it in his head that you, and me, we were hatching some plan, coming up with some idea for me to sign with the Centaurs.”

Ilya’s heart skips, in an entirely different way now. “When you are a free agent, you can sign with anybody. That is the whole point.”

“I know that. I think maybe the Metros think I’m stupid, or something, and didn’t think I’d know that.”

“They are fucking stupid, nobody else,” Ilya growls out.

“So now, I either re-sign with a club that hates me, when I think it will… actually kill me, to keep playing for them after this season. Or, I can sign with one of the clubs who have made me an offer, which would take me far too far away from you. Or, I can just… I guess. Retire,” Shane says, looking so sad, Ilya wishes he could fix everything for him instantly.

“You cannot retire. Not yet. You would not be happy.”

“What I can’t be, is without you. And before you say anything, no. I wouldn’t expect you to change clubs again for me. Or uproot your life again, for me.”

“I did it for both of us.”

“I know that. It’s not the point.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, and takes both of his hands. “It is only January. I am very sure you will have more offers before the end of the season.”

“Yeah, but even if I’m lucky, and it’s a team that isn’t a million miles away, it would be, what; Toronto? Buffalo? Fucking… Boston? They’re all still so far away, it won’t be any better than it is now. And, I know we knew it would be like this, but… I really did think that us being out, publicly, would make it so, so much easier for us. And it’s not,” Shane says, shaking his head. “It’s worse. Because I can be with you, and you can be with me, because everyone knows about us. But we can’t actually have that much more time together. And it’s… so much worse. I miss you now, even more, than I ever did.”

Ilya’s heart is really thudding now.

“Is Ottawa such a terrible team that you wouldn’t want to play with us?”

Shane shakes his head. “How could I?”

“What do you mean?”

“How could I play for the Centaurs, when you’re a coach there? People have been so fucking awful about us just being together. I can’t play on the same team as the one you’re coaching. Can you even imagine the kind of shit we’d get for that?”

“Are you so worried about what people would say?”

“I’m worried, the league would find some kind of rule, or something, to say we couldn’t do that. Like, it would be a conflict of interest, or something.”

“They cannot make up rules out of nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Shane says, laughing sadly. “It feels like the Metros made up all kinds of rules especially for me this season.”

“The Metros is not the whole league.”

“No, but—”

“And, if I stop coaching in a couple of weeks, or I stop coaching at the end of the season, I will not be a coach next season,” Ilya adds. “There are no rules about two people playing together, who are together. Probably because the league never imagined a thing like that happening. They cannot do anything about it, though. They cannot stop you. Not if Ottawa is where you want to go.”

Shane closes his eyes, looking absolutely tortured. “I can’t.”

Even after everything they have said so far, everything that points to them being fine, actually, and Ilya just being stupid, Shane’s response still makes Ilya fear the worst.

“Why not?” he makes himself ask, then braces for his world to fall apart.

“Because. You left Boston for me. Left a team that was—that you built up to something incredible. Stanley Cup winners. You gave up an apartment I know you liked a lot. You’re miles away from your best friend now, and people like Cliff. You moved to Ottawa, joined the Centaurs, for me, because I suggested it. Because I wanted you to be closer to me. You changed... so much for me, Ilya,” Shane says, gently patting his cheek. “I’m not making you change anything else for me. I’m not making you give up anything else for me.”

Ilya processes his words, sees some truth in some of them, but not a lot in others. It feels important to get his reply right, so Ilya makes himself take his time.

“I did that for us,” he tries to start with, to which Shane shakes his head.

“I know it was for us. It still feels like it’s for me. I mean... I thought I’d be at Montreal forever, but now... If I hadn’t been so fixated on that, maybe I could have moved to a team closer to you.”

“True, but, I was a free agent before you. We would have waited even longer. And, you did not know the Metros would be so bad. I think nobody did.”

Shane nods, but he’s still not satisfied. That’s fine, because Ilya isn’t finished yet.

“My apartment in Boston was just okay. It was very beautiful, yes, very expensive, but, it was just a place. There was nothing special in it. And, this house I really love,” Ilya says, glancing around him and really meaning it.

He’s never lived in a house before, it’s always been apartments. True, one or two of them were fairly luxurious, but Ilya is convinced none of them felt like this house.

“It’s a nice house,” Shane agrees.

“Svetlana, I speak to all of the time. We are best friends, yes, but, in our lives, we have had times when we don’t speak for maybe weeks, maybe months. Then, when we speak, it is like the time is no different. I think it is possible that now, I speak to her a little more than before. Cliff, too. Not more than when we played together, but, much more than—regularly.”

“Well. That’s something, I guess.”

“I like Ottawa,” Ilya says. “Yes, it is very boring, but, I think it is much better for me here. I really like my team. I love this house. I have your parents nearby.”

Shane smiles for that at least.

“I am happy here,” Ilya says. “Not everything is perfect, but, nothing would be perfect anywhere.”

“Then, you understand. Why I’m not doing anything to take any of that away from you,” Shane says with a sad smile.

“No. I don’t understand. I very much do not understand. The only thing that could make all of that even better—one thing, anyway—would be if you also played for the Centaurs. We would see each other all the time,” Ilya says, his heart racing for the thought of it. “Yes, of course, we would need to adjust a little, because we only have a little time together now, and, after that, we would be together so much of the time. But. I think we could be very happy like that.”

“I wish I could see you all the time.”

“Then, what is the problem?”

Resting his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, Shane sighs. “You’re enjoying coaching, aren’t you.”

“...yes?”

“Exactly.”

“What is, exactly?” Ilya asks.

“I don’t, really, care, what anyone else has to say about us. I wish they’d all fuck off, but, I don’t care. But, I do care, about what might be said, what might be done, if I start playing for a team that you’re coaching.”

“But—”

“I don’t want you to give up anything else you love for me,” Shane says, with fresh tears in his eyes. “I can’t do that to you.”

Ilya processes his words. “So... us playing together, is okay, but—”

“I would love to play with you,” Shane says, smiling beautifully, and then looking sad again.

“So... What is the problem?”

“You like coaching.”

Realisation dawns for Ilya. “You think I like coaching more than playing hockey?”

“Don’t you?”

“I like coaching very much.”

“Exactly.”

“I also like playing hockey very much. I miss it.”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You do?”

“Of course.”

“But you never say that. You’ve never said that, not once.”

“And you have never asked me if I miss hockey,” Ilya points out.

“Because... because I didn’t want you to be upset, that you couldn’t play, becase of your arm. So, I didn’t want to ask. And,” Shane says, before Ilya can answer him, “maybe, I was afraid. That you love coaching so much that you’d never want to play hockey again. I know we never got to play against each other a ton of times, not really, but, I miss that. No, I—I just miss being on the ice with you. In any capacity. But, I’m so proud of how you’re coaching, so I... I don’t know.”

“You think you would like to play with me, instead of against me?”

Shane nods, gives a wistful sigh. “I think, we would be unstoppable, if that happened.”

“I miss hockey,” Ilya says, “I miss being on the ice with you. And, I like coaching. But. I think coaching is something for me to do later, too. Like, maybe when I retire. When I am ready to stop playing hockey. I am not ready for that yet.”

Shane’s face lights up in cautious hope. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, laughing. “So, you would not be making me stop doing something I love, if you came to Ottawa. I will be doing something I love very much, very soon. A few weeks, a few months... I am not wishing I could stay as a coach, and not telling you that.”

Shane closes his eyes, looking overwhelmed. Ilya bargains with himself to get a few more words out.

“You could come to Ottawa,” he whispers, squeezing Shane’s arms. “We could play together. You would be away from your asshole team, and we can make the Centaurs something very special, I think. The whole team, together, yes, but. You, and me.”

Shane studies him, his breathing a little faster now. Then, he shakes his head. “Ottawa didn’t offer me anything, though.”

“You don’t think Shane Hollander can walk up to a club, and say, hello, I am playing hockey here now?” Ilya says, pleased that he’s made Shane laugh.

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“You don’t know, if you don’t try. Shane,” Ilya says softly, and hopefully, all while telling himself not to get too excited, “would it be so terrible if you signed with the Centaurs? That we played together, and lived together, here? In this house?”

Shane stares at him, harder now. Then he laughs, as tears run freely down his face.

Ilya tells himself this is a good thing, when Shane suddenly falls forward, and wraps his arms around his shoulders.

Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Yay! They finally had a conversation 🎉

We'll be switching back to Shane's POV at some point during this chapter. Nothing much to warn about in this one. Happy reading!

🧡

“Okay,” Shane says much, much later when they are lying in bed, spent, and drained from so many tears. “It’s your turn now.”

Ilya can barely get his head off the pillow. He has no clue how Shane is even talking right now, because, fuck.

“My turn for what?” he says, or rather, forms shapes with his mouth that he hopes come out as those words.

“You have to tell me what’s wrong. Why you’re mad at me, or, if you aren’t actually mad at me, what’s happening with you. You can’t tell me it’s nothing,” Shane adds, tapping his fingers against Ilya's chest.

Well. Every ounce of energy he had, which wasn't much to begin with, he just exerted on fucking Shane. Ilya tells himself to dig deep, find some energy reserves—and some bravery—so he can keep talking.

“I felt bad," he says first, trying on those words to see if they are a good fit. They are a start, at least, so he keeps going. "I feel really guilty. That you are having all of these problems with people on the ice, like it is only you people are angry with.”

“You don’t need to feel guilty about that. That’s not on you. And even if, I don’t know, ten people are assholes to you, and ten people are assholes to me, it’s not gonna feel any better. In fact, it will feel even worse. You don’t want me to have to deal with all this, right?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Then, why would you think I’d want you to have to deal with it?”

This makes sense. Ilya doesn’t think the guilt will leave him any time soon, regardless.

Maybe when he’s back playing hockey again, things will be different?

“Okay,” Ilya says, which isn’t really an answer, and Shane’s huff says he knows it isn’t, but he then kisses his chest and turns his cheek to lie there.

“What else?”

More words? Fuck.

Okay then.

“I thought… maybe there were more things happening to you, because of us, that you didn’t want to tell me,” Ilya says.

“Not really? Not… when it’s just stupid stuff, when it barely even registers, I don’t bother.”

“Don’t tell me you forget. You keep everything up here,” Ilya says, tapping the top of Shane’s head then resting his hand on his back.

“Okay. I promise that, right now, I can't remember anything that stands out as being all that bad. But, if there are any I haven’t told you about, and they’re still in my head, or I remember them later, I’ll tell you.”

“Yes?”

Shane turns his head, resting his chin on his chest instead. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Keep going,” Shane says.

It would be far, far easier to say this next thing if Shane was looking elsewhere. Since he isn’t, Ilya does the next best thing, which is to close his eyes instead.

“You were getting very quiet with me,” Ilya says.

Kissing Ilya's chest, Shane presses even closer to him. “...I didn’t mean to. I'm sorry.”

“No, I know. But. In my head, there is, uh… I have maybe, an enemy? More like, a voice sometimes. Not a real voice, but, it is always telling me everything I do wrong, or that I’m not good enough, or… you know.”

He hears Shane swallow. Ilya has to look at him so he can gauge his reaction.

“I think… a lot of people might have that,” Shane says with a soft smile.

“Yes. Probably.”

“Like… maybe, your mom?”

Ilya wants to recoil, but, why should he? And why would he, when Shane is looking at him with nothing but understanding?

“Maybe. Maybe it is something I need to think about. Not today, but, one day.”

“I’m proud of you,” Shane whispers, and stretches up to kiss him, which is one of the problems, isn’t it? Ilya is constantly, always, so very easily distracted by Shane, whatever he does.

“Thank you.”

“Please keep talking. Now. Tomorrow. After. About this. About everything. Let me in,” Shane says, his voice cracking.

Ilya can't have him upset again, not because of him and his stupid problems, so he holds him close until it feels like Shane is calmer.

"It is hard, talking sometimes," Ilya says, smiling as Shane tucks back into him, wrapping his hand securely around his waist.

"I know it is. But I'm yours to talk to. About anything. And, I'll try harder, too. To talk to you. Deal?"

Of course Ilya's heart skips. "Deal."

"I know we've said so, so much today, and that it's a lot. But I think there are some things that… maybe you need some help. With that.... enemy of yours," Shane says, again lifting his head to look at him.

Ilya wants to say no, of course not, joke his way out of the subject and think about something else, but they've just promised to try talking to each other better than they have been doing.

He really isn't ready to talk about that properly yet, though.

"Yes. I think it is a good idea. But…"

"Maybe not today?" Shane guesses, mirroring Ilya's smile.

"Yes."

"Okay. So… another day, then. But we will talk about this again. Okay?"

Ilya leans up and kisses him. "Yes. Okay."

"But we still have some things to finish talking about, for now, I think? Like… is there something else? Something else we need to say, or talk about, about… us?" Shane asks, with the briefest flash of nervousness in his eyes before he smiles.

He could lie, but aside from the fact that Shane is looking at him so earnestly, Ilya realises he needs to get this last part out, for them both.

“Okay. I didn’t—I don’t—know why, but when I thought you didn’t want to talk to me, I thought that… maybe something was wrong. Not wrong.” Fuck, Ilya thinks to himself, hating that saying this is so hard. “I thought you were tired of me. That you… did not want me, anymore, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe, you had enough of me.”

Ilya makes himself look at Shane.

Shane’s face ripples with several different expressions, from shock and horror, through to several shades of sadness too. Then his eyes fill with tears that he furiously rubs away, before he clears his throat.

“Ilya,” he says softly, then shakes his head, and is then straddling his chest. “I love you. You think I could ever… no.”

Oh, look. His favourite thighs, right there almost in his face, now right beneath his palms.

See? So easily distracted. Ilya allows himself to pause—and of course to touch—then drags his thoughts back to their conversation. “I know.”

“You think you could stop loving me?” Shane asks, poking him in the chest now, his voice still wobbly.

“Never. I would not want to.”

“Me neither. Why the fuck would you think—no. Just no. I love you, Ilya. I want my whole life with you. Forever. I always want that. That’s not changing. Just… please don’t think that, okay?” Shane says softly, cupping Ilya’s face in one hand.

“I love you so very much,” Ilya says, hating that he’s tearing up again, trying to hide it by turning his head to kiss the heel of Shane's palm.

Shane shakes his head, lowers himself over Ilya, and tucks his face into his neck. “You are never getting rid of me. Deal with it.”

Ilya smiles, kissing the back of Shane’s head and wrapping his arms around him, knowing peace for the first time in days. “Good.”

Shane POV

When they walk into his parents, Shane's dad is at the dining table on a work video call, and his mom with her feet up on the couch, working on her laptop.

“Just one second,” she says, holding up a finger as Shane and Ilya come to a stop in front of her.

Shane looks at Ilya, knowing his eyes will be where they always are in this room. First, it’s the photos of him as a kid (“You were adorable, Shane. What happened?” he always says with the biggest smile), and next, the growing collection of photos of the two of them together. Every time Shane asks, Ilya has a new favourite one.

Shane's is the very first, just a quick shot his dad took of them sitting together relaxing after dinner. It felt like a milestone at the time, and of course it still is, but Shane can't help be aware of just how far they've come since then.

“Okay,” Yuna says, closing her laptop and swinging her feet to the floor. “I think your dad needs another ten minutes, or so. He’s multitasking, making lunch while he’s on his call. So. You know what that means.”

“A little chaos,” Ilya says, and grins over his shoulder where David is, predictably, up from his call, jogging to the kitchen to check the pan, all while keeping his colleagues updated on whatever it is they’re working on. And, apparently, their lunch.

“Exactly,” Yuna says, stepping around the coffee table and rubbing Shane’s arm. “So. Come outside. I have new flowers to show you.”

Dutifully, they follow her out. It is such a relief to see Ilya smiling, feel the warmth of his hand on his back, that Shane finds himself relaxing for the first time in days.

Their argument on New Year's Eve was awful, and pointless, and has stolen what little sleep he’s been getting almost completely. He’s not actually sick, but he might as well be, for how exhausted, how worn down he feels.

But.

The world isn’t ending. Ilya isn’t angry with him a reason that isn’t fixable, that won’t destroy their relationship. Ilya isn’t okay, of course; Shane has always suspected that depression was something present, even creeping up stronger in Ilya. He’s never known how to approach the subject, never known how he’s supposed to help. A part of Shane hopes that now the foundation is happening, somehow, some materials from that, and the people they will be able to help, will somehow inspire Ilya to get help, too.

He should probably consider getting some help for himself at some point. This difficult last few months have taken a bit of a toll on him, made Shane see parts of himself he knows he isn’t comfortable with. The anxious feeling that has often been in him seems more insistent, far more present, because of everything that has happened.

He’ll consider help for himself later, though. There are far more important things to consider first.

He is leaving the Metros. That’s something Shane has been sure of since that non-meeting in Calgary. There is no way in hell he can continue playing for a team that shows him so little decency, never mind respect. Now, though, now he’s more certain he won’t be fucking up Ilya’s life—their lives—by doing that, he can relax a little, look at his options properly.

How he’d completely written the Centaurs off because he’d convinced himself Ilya was happier as a coach, Shane doesn't know. And to think, he was thinking that he was becoming a better listener, better at understanding people.

Something else he needs to work on, apparently.

“Oh, these are nice,” Ilya says when they step into the small shed at the bottom of the yard, as Yuna points out her new flowers, pink in colour, and to Shane look upside down.

“I’m over-wintering them for now. They’re called Dragon Wing Begonias,” Yuna says, proudly, telling them how they needs a bit of shade, how she’s working on something called companion planting and is picking up some Dusty Millers, whatever they might be, next week.

“Everything will look very beautiful,” Ilya says, earning himself a pleased smile from Yuna.

“Yeah. They look great,” Shane adds, when Yuna raises her eyebrows at him because he hasn’t yet said a word about her new flowers.

“Maybe we can look into some plants for your yard when you have some free time,” she says to Ilya, with a reproachful look for Shane.

“Yes. I would like that,” Ilya says.

“So... you aren’t gonna say anything?” Shane says, because he can’t stop himself.

Yuna shakes her head, confused. “About what?”

“Us?” Shane says, waving between him and Ilya. “Arguing?”

Yuna scoffs, pats them both on the cheek, then ushers them back out of the shed. “As if you two would ever have a serious problem. Come on. Let’s get some lunch.”

Shane stumbles to a stop, kind of stunned, kind of embarrassed that this huge problem he’s been sure was brewing is such a non-event to her.

Ilya collides with Shane’s back because he’s stopped so suddenly, and wraps his arms around him, kissing his shoulder.

“Maybe she knows us better than we do,” he whispers.

Shane snorts at that, squeezing his hand and then taking it as they head back inside.

His dad has finished his call now, already putting plates and cutlery on the end of the table. Ilya, as he always does, goes straight into the kitchen, says some soft words to David that make him laugh, and washes his hands. He is already setting the table by the time Shane is peeking over his dad’s shoulder by the stove.

“Spaghetti?”

“It’s quick, you two love it, and it will give you enough fuel to drive home on, without making you sleepy at the wheel. Unless you want to stay here tonight,” David adds.

“You could if you wanted to,” Yuna says, passing by with a bottle of juice, another of water, and cans of Coke and ginger ale.

The world isn’t ending for Shane, but it might be trembling beneath his feet.

“We have a game tomorrow,” he says.

“You could just, not play. You are sick, aren’t you? Sick of them, if nothing else.”

His mom, the world’s biggest Metros fan, encouraging him to keep up his lie of sickness, and miss a game? Yes. The world is not ending, but it’s definitely tilted a bit.

“Do you want to play tomorrow?” David asks, walking in with the steaming pan of spaghetti.

“Not really? But, lately, I never want to play. I want to play hockey,” Shane adds, feeling the need to clarify. “I just don’t want to play for them.”

“If you have stomach flu, it is probably better you stay away from your team,” Ilya points out.

None of them are helping. All of them are enabling, though.

It’s probably not a good idea.

“What did you team doctor say?” Yuna asks, shooing Shane to wash his hands and putting glasses on the counter for him to carry in.

“Nothing... repeatable. When we’re about to eat.”

Three sets of eyes are on him now. Ilya’s are particularly intense.

“Not like that,” Shane says, hastily, knowing Ilya must be imagining terrible words. “He was just asking if I was throwing up, or, the other thing. He said to take today and to be back tomorrow. To come late to practice, go home to shower, don’t eat with the team at lunch, so I don’t pass it on to the team. Pretty normal day, for me, actually.”

Ilya curses under his breath.

“I know that one,” David says enthusiastically, immediately making Ilya grimace.

“Sorry.”

“No, no, say it again. I need to work on my pronunciation.”

If anyone had told Shane a couple of years ago that he would be sitting down to lunch with his parents and his boyfriend, while his boyfriend taught his dad how to curse in Russian, he would have… he wouldn't have done anything. The scenario in front of him, his reality, is far too good for him to have imagined back then.

Yuna smiles at David and Ilya already pulling out chairs at the table, then gestures for Shane to do the same.

“Are you sure you must go back?” Ilya says later, when Shane walks him out to his car.

Shane backs him against the car and leans on him. “Yes. I think so. I think I should.”

Ilya looks disappointed, but understanding. “Okay.”

“To be honest, I think I need the drive back? The time, I mean. I think it will be good for me, having a couple of hours like that, so I can think about, you know. The Centaurs?”

Immediately, Ilya’s face lights up. “Really?”

“Yes. I don’t know anything for sure, yet, but, I hadn’t let myself even consider that as an option. So. I should consider that. Right?”

“You definitely should.”

“I will. And you?” Shane asks, kissing him. “You’re going to the rink?”

“Yes. I want to try to do my workout, from before. Then, a little skating. I think I will do the practice tomorrow, as a coach, but, with a little more.”

“Not too much, though,” Shane can’t help saying.

Ilya nods. “Of course. Just a little.”

He still looks exhausted. Shane knows guilt for his contribution to that, makes himself swallow the feeling down.

"Please try to sleep early tonight? Catch up a bit?" he says.

Ilya smiles, a real one, the kind that Shane always finds himself breathing easier for seeing. "Promise."

“Good.”

“Good. So,” Ilya says, taking him by the waist, and grinning. “You love me.”

Shane can’t help echoing that grin. “Yes. And you love me.”

“Very much,” Ilya says, kissing the corner of his mouth. “So very much.”

“Same.”

“Don’t think so hard when you are driving that you forget you are behind a wheel.”

“I won’t.”

“We will speak tonight?”

“Yes. We can have dinner together, maybe. Over FaceTime.”

Ilya pats the Tupperware box currently sitting on top of his car. “Good idea.”

“They’re sending me home with a ton of leftovers too.”

“Mm, they made extra on purpose.”

They didn’t even flinch when Shane told them he and Ilya were arguing. Not even for a second. They probably did plan lunch immediately, knowing he would be bringing Ilya back with him, like there was no problem at all.

Shane can’t even be exasperated by that, even though he’s trying to be.

“Probably. Okay; go practice,” Shane says, kissing him, “be careful.”

“Yes. I will. You, too. Let me know when you are ready to eat. And when you get back. And… everything.”

“I will. I love you.”

Ilya sags against him, resting his forehead against Shane’s. “I love you, too.”

Shane watches as Ilya drives away, needing a few minutes to himself before going back inside. He has so much to think about.

He can’t do it all right now, though.

There is one thing he has made a decision about, that he really does want to think about right now, something that is a priority over everything else. Truthfully, it's been on his mind for a little while anyway. Shane is kind of pissed at himself that it took Ilya feeling like he was losing him to push him into action. As if he could ever, ever consider a life without Ilya. Shane shudders for the thought.

Mostly, though, he's excited, more certain about this particular thing than he has been about anything else in ages. And, he wants to tell somebody about it. The only people he would consider telling this sort of thing first.

Back in the house, his dad is in his usual chair, and Shane joins his mom in his usual spot beside her on the couch.

“Are you okay to drive?” Yuna asks, patting his leg.

“You know I’m not actually sick.”

“We know all of this has been making you sick,” David says.

Yes. But he’s not rehashing any of that.

“I want to tell you something,” Shane says, decisively.

“You’re not re-signing with the Metros next season,” Yuna says, not missing a beat.

“No. I’m not. That’s not I wanted to tell you, though. It’s about Ilya. I’m gonna propose,” Shane says, laughing when Yuna yells it's about damn time, and immediately rolls to her side to hug him.

Over his mom’s shoulder, Shane smiles for his dad’s pleased nod of approval.

The Metros are playing in Vancouver tonight. In previous seasons at this point in the day after the usual team lunch, he would be preparing for the game. Getting his head ready. Maybe watching previous games played by the opposition. Going through the plays practiced meticulously in training. Or, if none of that, making sure he is fully rested.

Shane will still give his all on the ice tonight. That’s just who he is, the hockey player he has always tried to be. Now, though? All the things on Shane’s mind are… none of those things.

It’s Ilya’s first game playing hockey for the Centaurs this evening. Shane really wishes he was there to watch. Ilya is so excited. The way his smile never left his face when he called Shane to tell him is a nice memory Shane is sure he’ll replay a lot.

The Centaurs’ temporary head coach Theo has very happily stepped down to be replaced by their new head coach, Brandon Wiebe. Ilya has good things to say about him so far despite Wiebe only being with the team for a week. The Centaurs were hoping to have him before Christmas, but Wiebe wanted to get school secured for his girls before moving them to Ottawa, and to let them enjoy their Christmas with the friends they were leaving behind. These seem like good things to Shane, both Wiebe’s decision and for the kind of person it might mean he is.

The Centaurs have been really busy behind the scenes. They have their new goalie, their new head coach, and finally, in Ilya, the star center they signed back in the summer. And now, it is looking very likely—unofficially for now, of course—that Shane will be joining them.

It’s so unbelievable that things are falling into place like they are. Shane thought about his options for a couple of days, took another to work up the courage to, if not get the ball rolling, then at least put some feelers out. He called Farah, discussed how he had no intention of re-signing with the Metros. Then, he mentioned he would want to try for a team in Canada at the very least. Farah connected the dots without him saying a word, suggesting she reach out to the Centaurs to let them know Shane would happily accept an offer, were they to make one.

Which they did, within two days. It’s nowhere near as generous an offer as he’s been made elsewhere, but is more than enough to make him feel valued—and of course has a million other bonuses to it that money could never buy him.

Which brings Shane to his purpose for being out here today, when he could be doing all sorts of things to prepare for his game.

He steps into the small jewellers, glad it is away from the crowds and down a side street. He has already spoken to them to assess if they are the kind of place that he would feel comfortable in, shopping for something so important. He has a good feeling, and the staff who immediately greet him make him want to trust his instincts.

“Do you have an idea what you’re looking for?” asks Claire, the first member of staff to approach him.

“Not exactly. I know a rough size, though,” Shane says, proud of himself, and also kind of embarrassed.

Ilya doesn’t wear any jewellery aside from his mom’s Orthodox cross. Shane also won’t be seeing him for another two days, and hasn’t seen him since their big conversation. So. Shane did what he does best, which is to overthink, plan, and research. He has studied a not-insignificant number of photos of Ilya, specifically his hands, and with some calculations provided by online jewellers thinks he has a close-to-perfect match.

“Okay. Well, let’s show you the rings we have,” Claire says, nodding for her colleague over by the displays.

The moment Shane sees it, he knows it’s perfect. The ring is black, with a gold interior, plain, but flashy enough to be eye catching. Beautiful. He can already see it on Ilya’s finger, and when he tries one on for himself Shane has to swallow back some tears.

Ilya is going to be his husband. That is, of course, if he says yes. Which Shane is a good 95 percent sure he will, 99 when more confident, and a solid 92 when not.

He does consider just buying Ilya’s ring and coming back for one for himself once he has Ilya’s answer, but then Shane tells himself no, and to trust, to stop overthinking everything.

He is barely in the store 30 minutes, leaving with two rings in a black velvet box, a chain to put his ring on when he’s playing hockey, and his heart in his throat—in a good way.

He has to talk to Ilya. Not to tell him about this, but, he just really needs to hear his voice.

“Hello,” Ilya says after just two rings like he was waiting for him.

“Hi. How are you? Are you ready for tonight?”

“I think so. Yes. Very ready. What are you doing?”

Shane clutches the bag he is holding on to, grinning hard. “Just walking.”

“Just walking?” Ilya says in surprise.

“I didn’t want to be in the hotel. I didn’t feel like being with the team—”

“No shit.”

“And I didn’t feel like… I don’t know. Anything. So. Walking.”

“Ah.”

“You?” Shane asks.

“Mm. Resting, a little. I am being good,” Ilya says, his voice full of tease.

“First time for everything…”

“Yes, yes.”

“Looking forward to it?” Shane asks, sure he can hear Ilya smiling.

“Yes. But I am looking forward to seeing you more.”

Now, it’s Shane’s turn to smile. He’s not planning to propose to him in two days—to be honest, he is still kind of figuring out how to do it—but knowing he has these rings now makes everything seem closer to being settled. It also makes Shane feel very far from home.

“Yes,” he says, picturing Ilya wearing a ring, “I can’t wait to see you, too.”

The Metros win 3-2, and, more excitingly for both Ilya and Shane, the Centaurs win 5-3. Shane replays Ilya’s first post-match interview as captain of the Centaurs and is absolutely overwhelmed with love and pride for him. He looks so happy, maybe the happiest Shane thinks he’s ever seen him be on a TV screen. It makes him miss him harder, of course, but Shane can count down in hours now, almost, to when he’ll see him again. Also, if things go to plan, their future is going to look pretty different soon.

“How is your arm?” Shane says, quite a way into their FaceTime call, almost able to forget Ilya’s injury for seeing him so at home back on the ice.

Ilya holds his arm up, inspecting it.

“I feel nothing. No different from before. Terry gave me some protective sleeve… thing, to help, and, that feels a little strange. But, no problems. In my head, I am aware of it, I think. Maybe a little too aware,” Ilya adds, then shrugs.

“What do you mean? Too aware?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I am suspicious, that everybody coming towards me knows my arm is newly better.”

“You think players are, what, trying to go for your arm?” Shane asks, horrified at the thought.

Ilya laughs easily. “I don’t think that. My brain thinks that. My brain thinks I should wrap myself in, maybe, a duvet, to play hockey. And, my brain says I am a fucking idiot for… I don’t know. Many things. Today, I am not listening.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“I won’t. You had two goals, yes?”

“Second and third,” Shane says. “Thayer got the first.”

“Mm. I am not interested in him. Tell me about you,” Ilya says, “how was it tonight?”

“Okay, I think? No one from Vancouver had anything much to say to me. Nothing bad, I mean,” Shane adds, when Ilya looks like he might protest. “And the Metros were, the Metros.”

“Special, then.”

“Very. Not so bad, though. They like me more when we win.”

“I don’t like them any time.”

“Soon, they won’t be our problem,” Shane says, which has Ilya grinning.

“They will not be going to the playoffs next season without you.”

It’s probably a little early to be overly confident about it, but, if they keep playing the way they are, the Metros will likely make the playoffs this season. They haven’t been out of the top three of the division yet. The same can’t be said for the other teams.

Honestly? Shane doesn't give a fuck if the Metros get to the playoffs or not. In fact, it would be better for him if they didn't. What a shame it is that he is professional and keeps playing his best hockey.

“If we go this year, I’ll be playing for me. Not them.”

“Good. Because I will only be cheering for you. Not them,” Ilya says.

“I will be listening for you.”

Ilya laughs. “How was Theriault tonight?”

“Same as always? Told me to work twice as hard as everyone else, and that I didn’t do enough?”

“Asshole.”

“Nothing new there. He even had the nerve to say I hadn’t gotten back to Farah about arranging a meeting about me re-signing.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up. “Still?”

“Yes.”

“After saying everything else?”

“Yes,” Shane says again, laughing too.

Laughing, but these next few months are going to be utter hell. The thought dampens Shane's mood for a moment, but then he thinks about proposing to Ilya, and everything that will follow, and he can breathe easier again.

“You know what I think?” Ilya asks.

“What?”

“I think, he is scared. I think, when your contract finishes, and he cannot make you re-sign, maybe, he will not keep his job.”

“I… don’t know about that.”

“We will see,” Ilya says, then hides a yawn. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s your first game back, of course you’re tired.”

“Not too tired, but yes. A little.”

“You feel like falling asleep with me?” Shane asks, already pulling back the duvet of his hotel bed.

Ilya’s smile is beautiful. “Yes,” he says, kicking back his own covers and slipping beneath them, propping his phone up on the pillow where Shane's head should be.

Chapter End Notes

Hello!

Just to let you know that the lovely gravollet has made a cover for another of my hollanov stories, A Year In The Life. If you want to see it, I've added it to the first chapter.

🧡

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

Hello!

So. Theriault is back in all his asshole glory. Be prepared to want to throw things at him. Knives, custard, I don't know, you can choose. I'll give a brief warning too because he says and does some things that are completely unacceptable, so if you're concerned, please check before reading.

Warnings

- Theriault uses some pretty shitty language with Shane, including some insinuated homophobia.

- His behaviour with Shane is kind of threatening; he even grabs him by the wrist at one point.

(Shane is fine and can hold his own with this, don't worry, it just shouldn't happen!)

While we're doing warnings, the Metros continue their campaign to be the worst homophobic shits.

Shane is and will be fine, but he has been through so much so far this season, and it does catch up to him a bit in this and the next chapter. He'll be behaving slightly oddly, even noticeably out of character for Hayden and JJ, but again, I promise he'll be fine.

🧡

The sight of Ilya’s car on his drive has Shane smiling, hurrying to park and get inside. The house is cosy when he walks in, and hearing Ilya’s footfall approaching while he kicks off his shoes and straightens them by the door is the best welcome home.

“Hi,” Ilya says, opening his arms.

Shane falls right into them. “Hi.”

“4-1?”

“4-1,” Shane agrees. “That’s enough hockey talk.”

Ilya snorts behind his ear, loops his arms around Shane’s waist. “No more talking,” he says, then kisses him.

Shane closes his eyes, and lets himself lean on Ilya.

Not for long, though. They have been apart for far too long, and he needs Ilya. Preferably, right now. He pulls back just enough to look at Ilya, and Ilya knows exactly what that look means, winking, then tilting his chin, gesturing for Shane to drop to his knees.

As if he needs any encouragement. He nuzzles at Ilya’s crotch the moment he drops, can tell from the hard outline of his cock that there is nothing beneath his sweatpants. Shane yanks them down, walks his fingertips up his thighs, grins up at Ilya, and without breaking eye contact takes him slowly into his mouth.

Ilya hisses, locking his knees, stroking a thumb over Shane’s cheek and cursing when he gives a harder suck. Shane grabs his ass, keeping him in place, humming his approval for all the noises Ilya is making. It’s the best feeling, knowing how easy it is to take Ilya apart.

“Up,” Ilya rasps out, wiping Shane’s mouth with the backs of his fingers.

He leans in to kiss him, already unbuckling Shane’s jeans. They strip right there, still just behind the front door, far too eager to break apart.

They should, though. Shane tells himself this while Ilya has him pinned against a wall, mouthing hard against his throat as he thrusts against him.

“Where do you want me?” Ilya whispers into his ear, sending a shoot of heat through Shane.

“Couch,” Shane grunts out, “on my knees.”

Ilya hums in approval, kissing him hard again, then taking Shane’s hand.

In the living room, Ilya already has a towel and tube of lube waiting. He sits on the couch first, guiding Shane to straddle his lap. He has his fingers in him in seconds, chasing every moan Shane lets out of his mouth.

He needs him.

“Now,” he growls out, snorting for the kiss smacked to his cheek. Ilya holds his hands out for Shane to balance, lets him get his forearms on the back of the couch as he kneels on the edge of it.

“Mm. A little more,” Ilya whispers as he stands then nudges for Shane to kneel wider, pressing a hand between his shoulder blades so he leans deeper.

Shane adjusts another inch and arches back, crying out in relief when Ilya thumbs him open and then fills him whole. He has just enough thought left in him to get the towel down in front of them, then gives himself over to Ilya entirely. He drops his forehead to the back of the couch too, arching back a little deeper, the slight angle shift making them both groan out.

With Ilya gripping his waist so tightly Shane can only thrust back on him a little but makes the most of that and clenches down, proud for every desperate moan of his name that falls from Ilya’s mouth. In minutes, he’s half-delirious, having just enough strength left to brace on one arm so he can stroke himself furiously in time with Ilya’s thrusts.

A choked off grunt bursts out of Ilya. He grips him tighter, thrusts harder still, then is falling against Shane, bracing himself on the couch at the last moment so he doesn’t crush him. He smacks Shane’s hand away, giving a few final, quick tugs and mumbling his encouragement when Shane curses, and then comes.

Laughing tiredly, Ilya smacks a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, then drops his forehead there.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much. You?”

“Very much,” Ilya says, humming against Shane’s skin and then straightening up.

He collapses to the couch, Shane crawling into his lap immediately. Shane peppers kisses over his face, and Ilya cleans him up a little, then drops his face into his neck in relief.

In bed the next morning, Shane wakes up to Ilya sprawled over him with his face in his neck.

“Good morning to me?”

Ilya presses a hard kiss to his throat. “Good morning.”

Stroking his hands up Ilya’s sides, Shane rests his head against his and says, “Not that I don’t love this, but—”

“You kicked the covers on the floor. You complain when you wake up cold. I did not want to get up for the covers. This was faster. And I am still a little asleep.”

Ilya logic. Shane loves it, and him, so very much.

They doze for a while, then Ilya is jabbing him in the sides. “Get up. Brush your teeth so you will let me kiss you properly.”

Shane doesn’t need telling twice about important things like this. They tussle a bit to get out of bed, because of course they do, then get their teeth brushed, and are back under the covers in minutes. If only every day could start like this, with a slow make out session in bed.

Soon, maybe. And if not every day, then a whole lot more days than they are getting now.

It’s a dream start to the day, actually, the waking up together, the unhurried kisses, the casual conversation as they make and then eat breakfast. Sure, Shane knows they will have some adjustments to make when they are living together properly, because they will be going from missing each other desperately, and then potentially getting in each other’s way.

He worries about how rigid he is compared with how laid back Ilya is, how the routines he has will feel different, need to be adapted, when living in another place, with another person, constantly. Next season when they are both playing for the Centaurs, they won’t be able to escape each other. Not at work, not at home. Not training. Shane, personally, he loves the idea, knowing they of course will have time to themselves, do things separately enough not to get on each other’s nerves. Of course they will do that, too, but what if—

“You are thinking too much,” Ilya says with a kiss to his forehead, breaking Shane away from his racing thoughts.

Fuck. He wasn’t even spiralling, he was actually thinking about how great it’s going to be when they can live together properly. His brain might not be as awful to him as Ilya’s is, but it’s definitely not his friend all the time.

“Sorry,” he says, chasing Ilya’s mouth when he pulls back, mirroring his instant smile.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing? Okay. Not nothing,” Shane says, when Ilya hitches up an eyebrow. “I was just thinking about how great it will be when we can do this all the time.”

“Mm mm,” Ilya says, shaking his head. “There were too many frowns for you to be thinking something so nice.”

“Fine. I was thinking all of that, and then I started, you know. What if this, what if that.”

“Aah,” Ilya says, throwing his head back and clutching his chest. “What if I want to do yoga in the yard but Ilya is doing some exercise? I know. I am very distracting.”

Shane throws a blueberry at him. “Stop.”

“What if we bought too many groceries and now there is an apple that will make the fruit bowl look out of shape? I will eat the apple for you, don’t worry,” Ilya says, leaning in and kissing Shane quickly before he can protest.

“You’re mocking me.”

“Yes. What if I am having a bad day, and Ilya is also having a bad day, and we know if we are together in the same room we will be terrible together? It is a big house,” Ilya whispers, “we have many rooms to be in if we need to be alone. And the yard, and the gym. We can also leave the house. We also have cars.”

Oh. So Ilya has thought all of the things Shane just caught himself worrying about already. Of course he has.

“Shane,” Ilya says, leaning over and bracing himself on Shane’s thighs, “we will be okay. We will not be perfect, and I think we will have many more things to learn about each other. But. I know we will be okay.”

Shane covers his hand, kissing him on the cheek. “When did you get so smart?”

“Ah, it is the coaching. I am very wise now.”

“Wise-ass, more like.”

“And you are very funny,” Ilya says, ducking quickly to blow a raspberry in Shane’s neck, before sitting back.

He could propose right now. He could go upstairs to his closet, move the carefully arranged boxes on his shelves, pull out the ring box, and come right back down here and do it. Ilya deserves something special, though. They both do.

Of course, he could be overthinking this as well.

Likely.

“It’s going to be hell, playing out the rest of the season, knowing I’m going somewhere else next season,” Shane says, instead of doing any of the things he is contemplating.

“No. You will still play good hockey. You will still be professional.”

“I know. But... knowing I’m going, knowing I haven’t told the Metros yet—”

“You do not have to. You are signing a new contract with a new team when you are a free agent. You are not doing anything wrong.”

“I know, but, people started hearing about you not re-signing with Boston long before it was official, too.”

“True,” Ilya says. “But. My old agent was not so good as Farah. Maybe he was even angry at me, so was less careful about keeping it a secret until it was official.”

Shane considers this, and nods. “I suppose the worst thing that would come out of people finding out early, is the Metros accusing me of not putting in the effort anymore. They’re already doing that.”

Anger flashes across Ilya’s face. “I am very much looking forward to playing against the Metros in two weeks.”

Ilya’s first time playing against the Metros for the Centaurs, actually on the ice, will be... a range of things. Shane is looking forward to it, of course, but he can’t deny the knots already forming in his stomach about what might be said, might be done.

“At least we don’t have All Stars this year, all the comments and stuff that would probably get us,” Shane says, needing a slight subject change.

He wasn’t that far off the number of votes to be selected for All Stars, which is good, in two ways. One, he might have fallen in favour to the fans because the hockey fandom is rife, as is the league, with homophobia, but he’s not fallen so far that they all hate him now. Not too much, anyway. And, two, what a relief it is not to have to go to the All Stars this year. They have lost their fun, their novelty a little, and often feel more like a chore. The only good part about them in recent years was getting to see and spend time with Ilya. He is beyond relieved that they don’t have to endure the scrutiny of it this year.

Ilya didn’t even qualify to be chosen as an All Star, because of the timing of him finally playing hockey, instead of coaching. So it’s a win for them both, really.

“It should be a day off, or something, anyway, for everyone,” Ilya says.

“That would be amazing.”

A nice idea of the two of them going away somewhere, just them, and getting to propose to Ilya in some romantic setting, fills Shane’s head for a few seconds. The reality is they won’t be going anywhere any time soon, it’s only a little over halfway through the season. Also, he really doesn’t want to wait that long to propose. Shane even has a rough outline of how things should go over the next few months. He will propose, Ilya will say yes, Shane will start moving his stuff Ilya’s while selling this house discreetly. Then, they will get married before their very first hockey camp for the Irina Foundation.

It could happen like that, at least some of it. He does have to get the proposing part of it done before any of that other stuff can happen, though.

No. He wants to make it special, so at least a few more days of planning—and overthinking—are needed, so he can get it right.

“A word,” Theriault says, just as the Metros are leaving the locker room ready to line up for their game against the Centaurs.

Internally, Shane sighs, but refuses to show any emotion. In his head, he brings up the calendar he's created to help him count down the days until he can step into this locker room for the last time.

That last day can't come quick enough.

Both of them look around, waiting until they are alone.

“What?” Shane says.

Theriault narrows his eyes. “Your attitude is not captain-worthy.”

“You have two alternate captains. Make them captain if I’m so bad.”

Shane sees Theriault's jaw click. Good. It’s the only fun he gets with his team these days, monitoring all the ways he can piss Theriault off.

“Maybe we give you too much ice time.”

“Maybe you do. Might do the rest of the team good, remind them it’s not just me who can actually try to score goals.”

“You’re pretty arrogant tonight, aren’t you,” Theriault says then with a nasty smile that Shane really doesn’t like.

“Oh, so tonight, I’m arrogant. Last game, I wasn’t focused enough. The game before that, I was looking, what did you call me? Fragile?”

“Can’t imagine what Rozanov must have done to you, to make you walk like—”

“Did you have any constructive criticism for me? Last minute pep talk? Something that I actually need to hear?” Shane says, hoping his tone is indifferent and the way his pulse is racing isn’t obvious.

“Won’t be so brave next time when your boyfriend isn’t here to protect you,” Theriault spits out.

Shane is almost disappointed. As digs go, this is a poor effort from Theriault. Maybe he’s not feeling well.

“Okay. Great talk,” Shane says, turning away with an eye roll.

A hard clamp around his wrist doesn’t connect for Shane with Theriault grabbing him at first, but when it does, he shoves him back against the wall. Twice, actually, since the fucker dares to try to move. The second shove is hard enough that, if Shane wasn’t livid, he might wince for how that thunk of his head just sounded.

Theriault looks stunned, then furious.

"You will never, never, fucking touch me again," Shane says through gritted teeth, glaring.

Shane really wants to punch him, repeatedly, until his mind fogs over and all the noise of everything shuts off. He stops himself, though, walks away before either of them can say or do anything worse.

On the ice, just seeing Ilya across from him makes it easy to forget all about Theriault.

Temporarily, at least.

“Enjoying the view?” sneers Comeau, but it’s a half-hearted, pitiful thing.

He is enjoying the view a little. The two teams are on the ice stretching, and warming up. He hasn’t seen Ilya across from him at a rink doing that in so long.

“You should see what he looks like when he’s stretching naked,” Shane says, not taking his eyes off Ilya but very much enjoying the horrified spluttering he hears.

“What was that about?” Hayden asks, skating up to him when Comeau has gone.

“Just Comeau being weird.”

“Right,” Hayden says, then looks over to where Shane is looking at Ilya. “Can I hate him at least a little bit now he’s playing hockey again?”

“You can go fuck yourself, is what you can do.”

“I meant professionally! Hating him professionally! When he’s not playing, he’s... nice enough?” Hayden says with the most awkward shrug, it’s almost hilarious.

Or, would be, if everything didn't feel so out of focus, so off balance for Shane right now.

Anyway.

“That really hurt you to say that, didn’t it?” Shane says, making himself smile, which is far harder work than it should be.

“It wasn’t the most fun thing I’ve had in my mouth.”

“I tell you what is fun to have in your mouth…”

“No!” Hayden says, covering his eyes, which doesn’t hide how his face just flushed bright red. “I don’t need to know!”

“What are you doing to Pike?” JJ asks, as he skates by them, with Dunlap just behind.

“He’s thinking about me blowing my boyfriend,” Shane says without missing a beat, proud of himself because Hayden’s loud, argh of protest might be funny, but Dunlap actually falls over his own skates.

Now that is hilarious.

JJ looks down at Dunlap sprawled out on the ice in exasperation. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Nothing!”

“Then fuck off!” JJ says, watching Dunlap scramble to his feet and do just that.

Then, JJ turns on Shane, frowning and looking… is that concern? “Okay. What happened?”

“Nothing?”

“You never say shit like that about Rozanov.”

“Yeah. You don’t,” Hayden says, “and mostly, I’m glad about that. But it feels weird right now.”

“You want me to tell you that kind of thing?”

JJ opens his mouth, and closes it, frowning at Hayden when he hooks his arm over his shoulder, grimacing. “Not... a lot.”

“See? Not that I would.”

“But you did come out here like you had a rocket up your ass,” Hayden points out. “I thought you were gonna carve up a trench in the ice. What did Theriault say to work you up this time?”

Ilya skates by them then on the other side of the line, giving Shane a gesture that says, is everything okay? Shane nods back, smiling when Ilya does too and winks. Then, he turns his attention back to Hayden and JJ.

“Just the usual shit.”

“You—”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s play hockey,” Shane says, then continues his warm up.

It’s a weird game. Shane feels like everything around him is muffled slightly, sounds tuning in with sharp focus one moment and fading out the next. He could almost swear it is him who is physically fading in and out because he knows his body is present, but Shane's mind feels distinctly elsewhere.

Maybe he got too engrossed in the last film he watched on a flight?

It’s great getting to play against Ilya again, though, and the first few minutes of not being sure how he’s supposed to be around him dissolves the first time Ilya slams him into the boards.

“Bet you enjoyed that,” Dunlap says in a loud whisper as he skates by Shane.

Shane scoffs. “Is that really the best you’ve got?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“If you ask him nicely, maybe he’ll slam you into the boards, too.”

“Gross,” Dunlap says, and skates away.

When the two teams play, the Centaurs are focused, great offense, great defense, amazing net minding from Wyatt Hayes. The second they pause, though, the moment there is a break, they are all so friendly with Shane, that, his most cynical self whispers that they might be trying to put him off.

He knows they aren’t, though.

Hayes is actually a phenomenal goalie. He blocks so many shots, barely looking like he’s breaking a sweat, which is why they go into overtime with one goal each. Shane scores them a second, and it’s a relief for the game to be over. It’s a distinctly pitiful you didn’t do enough, Hollander result, Shane already hearing Theriault’s words before he has a chance to say them. He's happy enough with their win, though.

Mostly he's happy, because it’s one game closer to the season finishing—and far too early in the season to be thinking like that, probably.

Oh well.

Then, there is the usual post-game interview to give, which Theriault uncharacteristically joins Shane for. Shane can’t help think he’s trying to monitor his every move, every word.

“What’s it like getting to compete against Rozanov again? What was it like having him back out there on the ice?” asks one of the journalists.

Shane feels Theriault bristle by his side.

Well. Fuck him.

“Good,” Shane says, forcing an easy smile on his face. “Personally, I’m relieved that he’s recovered so well after his injury, and doing so well. Professionally, he’s always been a great opponent, always provides a good challenge. It was like old times.”

“How confident are you that you’re going to the playoffs?” asks a second journalist.

Before Shane can answer him, Theriault clasps a too-friendly hand around Shane’s shoulder. Shane glares at his hand, then at him, not looking away until Theriault drops his grasp.

“I think it is too soon to talk like it’s a definite thing, but, on the ice, the Metros work hard to be one of the best in the league. If we keep doing that, I think we stand as good a chance as anyone,” Shane says.

“And our captain will be leading us all the way,” Theriault adds in a far too jovial tone.

“And here was me thinking you were about to bench me,” Shane lets slip out before he can stop himself.

He does enjoy the look of horror in Theriault’s eyes, though.

“Shane, why are the Metros considering benching you; are you sick?”

“Shane. You’ll become a free agent this summer. Any thoughts on what you’ll be doing?”

“Many. Thanks, guys,” Shane says, and walks off before either the journalists, or Theriault, can say anything else.

Theriault is going to yell so hard at him when he gets the chance.

Shane almost looks forward to it.

That feeling disappears when Theriault storms into the post-game briefing with their GM Layne in tow, who is also looking thunderous. Shane doesn’t particularly care if he’s about to be berated yet again, he’s used to it by now, but in front of the team who still don’t have any respect for him?

If that happens, Shane will have to talk himself into not walking out.

Thankfully, that doesn’t happen. Idly, as Shane listens to Theriault drone on and on about how poorly they performed tonight, despite winning, he wonders what these briefings are like in other locker rooms. Are they at least a little encouraging?

He knows the Centaurs briefings are far different, for example. Ilya says that Wiebe is the best coach he’s had in his life so far, which is not something he would say lightly. Wiebe's briefings are full of encouragement and praise, and accountability for the part he played in the team not getting a win.

What the fuck is that like? Shane has no idea.

Ilya also told him about a sandwich technique that Theo, their former head coach, liked to use in his briefings. He demonstrated this for Shane by making him a sandwich; one slice of ham—a good thing, like a great pass, then a slice of vegan cheese—one bad thing, like a missed scoring opportunity, and then another slice of ham—also a good thing, like, a goal.

The vegan cheese in question was, Shane thinks, really not as revolting as Ilya made it sound at the time. Ilya was just being Ilya.

Also, though, Shane will never be buying that particular cheese again. He didn't even mean to. This is what he gets for doing grocery shopping without his glasses.

Shane wouldn’t mind a sandwich right now, actually, as he listens to Theriault deliver a three slices of vegan cheese kind of briefing. Ilya would be appalled, for multiple reasons.

Of course, Theriault wants to talk to Shane after the briefing, once again waiting for the team to shuffle out. JJ and Hayden hover, looking concerned, but Shane only shakes his head. He might as well get this over with.

Layne sits down on the edge of a bench with a disgusted grimace; is he scared of tainting his suit with sweat? Theriault doesn’t sit at all, making sure the locker room door is closed and then turning abruptly.

“You need an attitude adjustment,” Theriault tells Shane immediately, with his hands on his hips and a ridiculous scowl.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t joke with the press like that,” Layne says, stony faced. “Saying things like you did tonight only stirs up rumours and creates a headache for us all.”

“And you are already causing us so many headaches,” Theriault adds. “If you would just agree to the incredibly generous offer the Metros are giving you to re-sign, then we—”

“If I’m such a headache, why would you want to re-sign me?” Shane says, interrupting him.

“We know your value to the team,” Layne says, to which Shane scoffs.

“You really need to have a better idea of what message I’m supposed to be taking from this. The last time I spoke to you in person, the Metros had organised a meeting about me re-signing, without any input from me, and without any input from my agent. You implied,” Shane adds, glaring at Theriault, “that I should be grateful you were making me an offer, because I wouldn’t be wanted elsewhere.”

“I still think you are over-estimating your potential,” Theriault says with a vicious smile.

“So, then, why would you tell that reporter out there that I was leading the Metros to the playoffs this year? Those are some mixed messages you’re giving me.”

“You made us look like fools, with your whole thing with Rozanov,” Layne says coldly. “You damaged our reputation. Who wouldn’t question how many times you let his team win because of personal reasons?”

“Anyone who wasn’t an idiot?”

“You have cost us more than you realise with this little stunt,” Layne adds like Shane hasn’t even spoken. “You—”

“Okay. One, it’s not a stunt. We’re in a relationship.”

“If that’s what you want to call it...” Theriault sneers, looking disgusted.

“Because that’s what it is,” Shane growls out, demanding of himself that he keep his composure. “And two, if I’m such a problem, if I’m so costly, why the hell are you so determined to re-sign me?”

“Hollander—”

“And as for me not joking with the press earlier, it wasn’t exactly a joke, was it?” Shane adds, before Theriault can get another word in. “You’re the one that threatened me earlier, saying you were giving me too much ice time.”

Layne’s head shoots up, looking at Theriault in alarm. “You did what?”

“Remind me. Was that before or after you told me I wasn’t captain-worthy? Or when you grabbed me?”

“Theriault—”

“It was just his fucking wrist,” Theriault says dismissively, waving away Layne’s words.

“Let me be really clear,” Shane says, so angry now that he can feel himself trembling. “I have given this team everything since my rookie year, absolutely everything. I’ve always been professional. My personal life has never got in the way of me playing. Nobody even knew I had a personal life until this season.

“This season, I’ve still given this team everything. I’m still the same player I’ve always been, nothing changed about me on the ice. You, and everyone else have ostracised me. This is the first season I’ve ever dreaded coming to practice. You don’t give a fuck what the rest of the team say or do to me. You don’t give a fuck what any other team does either. I’m never good enough, you make that clear every chance you get, and yet you’re still asking me to re-sign? What the fuck.”

“We’ve protected you from having to deal with Crowell directly,” Layne says, though doesn’t quite make eye contact.

“I doubt that. I’m sure you’ve done something to protect yourselves. What, did he warn you to make it clear to me that being openly gay in the league wasn’t an option? Is that what you’ve been doing all season, trying to wear me down, bully it out of me, or something? Or he said it would look badly on the team?”

Shane’s stomach grips uncomfortably when neither Layne, nor Theriault, look at him. He has to get out of here, right now.

It is not the best timing at all, possibly the worst timing ever, that Ilya chooses right then to shove the locker room door open and stroll in like he is supposed to be there. Shane is so glad to see him, regardless of that.

“You’re in the wrong fucking room, Rozanov,” Theriault spits out.

Ilya grins at him, that mocking, knowing grin that used to intimidate—and do other things to—Shane, in their beginning. “And you are holding up my drive home.”

“You’re driving tonight,” Shane says without thinking, and tosses him his car keys.

“Yeah. Go wait in the car,” Theriault sneers.

Ilya only drops his bag to the floor, sits on a bench, then stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankle. “I think I will rest a little,” he says closing his eyes and slotting his fingers together in his lap, after putting the car keys in his pocket. “Pretend I am not here.”

Shane doesn’t want this to take long enough for Ilya to get comfortable, or even pretend to.

“I am not re-signing when I become a free agent,” Shane says to Theriault with his head held high. “You can do what you want to me before that happens. Don’t let me play, strip my captaincy, send me down to the AHL. I don’t care. Find a good reason for it. Put it in writing. Speak to my agent. I’m sure our legal team will be in contact with yours, if any of that happens. As far as I’m concerned, until then, I will fulfill my contract with the Metros and play hockey like I always have.”

Theriault and Layne glare at him, but say nothing.

Shane glares back. When it is clear neither of them are going to speak, he picks up his bag. “Unless I hear differently, I’ll be at the next practice. Let’s go,” he adds, softer, to Ilya, who leaps up immediately, and follows him, saying nothing until they are outside.

“What the fuck was all of that?” he hisses as Shane stumbles to a stop, turns his face to the sky, and breathes hard.

“Can we just get out of here?”

His anger is dispersing now, and Shane hates how that leaves him feeling. He really wants to be behind closed doors and alone with Ilya.

Ilya’s lips press together in an angry line, which is a non-verbal we’ll talk about this later if Shane has ever seen one.

“Let’s go home,” Ilya whispers, kissing him gently, then taking Shane’s hand, and leading him towards the car.

Chapter 21

Chapter Notes

Hello!

A long chapter this time around, nothing much to warn about. Can you believe we're almost at the end already?!

I finished proofreading and what would you know, AO3 was having a wibble 😅 so it's a bit later than usual.

Also, I'll probably post the last chapter on Saturday so I have chance to look at it properly before it goes up.

Thank you for reading along so far!

🧡

“Are you staying here tonight?”

Dazed, Shane looks around him, sees Ilya in the driver’s seat, and realises they are parked outside of the house. It feels like a lot of effort to get out of the car right now.

“In Montreal?” he says, staring at his front door and thinking... Shane is not sure what he’s thinking, actually.

"I meant, in the car."

He hears Ilya shift in the seat beside him, feels a warm hand wrap around the back of his neck. Oh. That helps. Shane takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a second, then feels the fog lift a bit from his brain.

“Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. But, I think you had a difficult night. We should go inside,” Ilya says, smiling when Shane turns to look at him. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

Shane follows him in, apparently forgetting his bag, forgetting how to unlock his front door, barely remembering to kick off his shoes when they get inside. Ilya even straightens Shane’s shoes up for him in their usual spot, looking at him with increasing concern.

“I think you are in a little shock,” he says, cupping Shane’s face.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I haven’t had anything big happen that would shock me.”

Ilya shakes his head. “I don’t think it works like that, exactly.”

“What?”

“Shane.”

“...right. Sorry.”

“No,” Ilya says, kissing him on the forehead, the cheek, then the mouth. “Come on.”

He’s on a kitchen stool. There is a glass of water in front of him, as well as one of the few bottles of beer that he keeps in his fridge. There is a pan sizzling. Shane can smell butter, maybe cheese. Did he even have any cheese in?

It's not that awful vegan stuff, is it?

“We stopped for some groceries,” Ilya says, frowning.

Maybe he’s right to. Shane doesn’t remember asking the question out loud, and he certainly doesn’t remember them stopping for groceries. Though also, if Ilya was the one that bought groceries, they are both officially safe from vegan cheese. That's something, at least.

Now, there is a grilled cheese sandwich in front of him, his beer unopened, his glass of water untouched. Again, Ilya cuffs the back of his neck, smiling in encouragement when Shane turns his head, then nudges the glass towards him.

Shane drinks, but doesn’t really taste anything.

Should he? It’s only water. That doesn’t taste of anything, right?

“Okay,” Ilya says, standing up quickly; Shane hadn’t quite processed he was sitting beside him.

Two plates of grilled cheese sandwiches disappear, as does the glass of water. Shane lets gentle hands guide him, finds himself under a blanket on the couch, that same plate with a grilled cheese sandwich on now in his lap.

“Here. Drink this. It is definitely shock of some kind.”

Oh.

Now that has brought him back to reality. Shane glares at the vodka remaining in his glass, then thinks, fuck it, and takes another gulp.

“Okay. I’m okay, I think.”

“I don’t think it must be something very shocking to make you have shock,” Ilya says, drinking his own vodka in a far more sedate way than Shane probably just did.

“I guess?”

“I think this season has been harder on you than you were thinking. More than I was thinking, too.”

“Nothing that bad happened, though. Okay,” Shane says, when Ilya nudges against him, “it hasn’t been easy. It hasn’t been that easy for you, either.”

“Yes, but, not so bad.”

“Ilya. You were knocked out. You broke your arm. You didn’t know if it would affect your career. You moved to a whole other country. Started working on your citizenship. Coached for the first time. And people haven’t exactly been great to you all the time, either.”

“They have been much worse with you.”

“We don’t need to keep score.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya says, holding his hands up placatingly, making Shane realise he must be getting agitated. “But, you are not so good, in this moment. Everything else doesn’t matter. I am worried about you.”

That snaps Shane back a little more. He drinks more of his vodka, hates it, but it helps, then picks up one half of his grilled cheese and takes a big bite.

It’s greasy, and cheesy, and buttery, nothing like Shane would ever normally eat. It’s perfect right now, though, and Shane realises suddenly that he’s starving. Ilya looks so pleased as he eats, watching him finish a half before starting on his own. They wipe their hands on napkins when done, Ilya taking their plates to push on to the coffee table. Then, he throws his arm around Shane, tugging him into his side.

“Do you want to tell me what happened with Theriault and your GM?”

“You probably heard most of it,” Shane says, dropping his head into Ilya’s neck.

“Not all.”

Shane finds himself telling Ilya most of it anyway, the words just spilling out of him, along with, without his permission, some angry tears. Predictably, Ilya looks furious for what he hears, and devastated for what he sees. Shane is just glad he wasn’t present for the whole conversation.

Or the one he had just with Theriault before the game. What the fuck did he think he was doing grabbing him, threatening him like that?

And what the fuck is his body doing, reacting like it is? Why is he suddenly trembling so hard, on the verge of sobbing incontrollably, and also convinced he's about to burst out laughing? Shane closes his eyes, pleads with that numb, out of step feeling from earlier to return, and when it doesn't, just lets himself be held.

"I love you," Ilya whispers into his hair as he runs his hands over Shane's back. "And I am very proud of you, for saying everything you did to Theriault and the GM."

"Thanks…"

"Shane. You're good now. Okay?" Ilya says, cupping Shane's face so he has to look at him. "Okay?"

"I want to be," Shane says, hating the feeling of more tears pricking in his eyes.

"Okay," Ilya whispers with a sad smile, then kisses him, continuing to shower Shane in affection until all the strangeness he is feeling has subsided enough for him to feel close to normal again.

“Honestly, right now I feel like, if they told me I couldn’t play for the rest of the season, I’d love it. But. It’s probably just because I’m so angry right now," Shane says when he finds his voice again, imagining being back in the Metros locker room and feeling sick.

Ilya nods, absently thumbing away the last of Shane's tears before kissing him quickly. “A rest would be good for you, maybe.”

“You too.”

“I had lots of time to rest. And, this is different,” Ilya says.

“True.”

“They will want you to play.”

Closing his eyes, Shane tucks himself even closer to Ilya. “Most likely.”

Ilya wraps his arms around him, kissing the side of his head. “You are too good for them to keep you away.”

“They’ll have to get used to it, won’t they.”

“I want to punch Theriault,” Ilya says through gritted teeth.

“You and me both.”

I almost did, Shane thinks, kind of wishing he had.

“At least they will stop asking you for meetings about re-signing?”

That’s a relief, honestly. It’s also a relief that he doesn’t have to keep it a secret anymore. The details, sure, but that he won’t be staying with the Metros? Who cares who knows about that now?

“You know what I’m going to do?” Shane says, sitting up suddenly, knowing a fresh, sudden burst of energy, and a renewed sense of determination.

“I hope it is something without clothes...”

“Later. Not that later,” Shane amends, also having nice ideas about some things he really needs to do to Ilya tonight.

Sighing, Ilya pats his leg. “Okay. Tell me.”

“I want to start packing. Not everything. But, some things. And, I’m emailing my realtor,” Shane adds, patting himself down for his phone.

Now where is it?

“You left it in the kitchen.”

“Come on.”

“We just ate,” Ilya complains, but is already up and has collected their plates, following Shane to the kitchen.

“So, I’m emailing them right now, they’ll reply tomorrow. Maybe they can come and take a look, take some photos, figure out a price? I don't know how quick it will be, but, I want it to be over with.”

“If you sell your house very quickly, before the end of the season, what will you do?”

“Book a hotel? I don’t know,” Shane says, excitement—and more likely, adrenalin—coursing through him. “And, I don’t care. I’m leaving. That’s the end of it.”

Shane can tell Ilya is torn between wanting to tell him to take more time, and being excited himself.

Then, he smacks a kiss on Shane’s shoulder, and puts their dishes in the sink.

“Okay. Maybe you still have some boxes in the garage, from groceries. If we pack some things tonight, then I can take them home with me in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Shane says, and pulls a face.

That sounds far too soon.

“At lunchtime, then.”

“After lunch,” Shane bargains for, knowing he’s won for the exasperated but affectionate smile Ilya gives him.

“After lunch,” Ilya agrees, and pulls him into a hug.

Early the next morning Shane wakes with a start, a sheen of sweat covering his face and neck.

"What?" Ilya says sleepily, trying to tug him closer.

"Nothing. I told Theriault I'd see him at next practice."

Shane can feel Ilya's confusion, almost smiling when he hears a quiet, "…yes?"

"We're flying out tomorrow. Today now, I guess. Road trip. Three games. Practice won't be until… well. When we get there. I'll see him before then. Unfortunately."

"Okay?"

"Nothing," Shane says, laughing at himself as he settles back down. "I just forgot."

"You forgot?" Ilya grumbles, plastering himself over Shane and pressing sleepy kisses into his neck. "Now I know I need to kill them all. They have confused your brain."

"…I'm not confused."

"Okay," Ilya says, yawning. "Go back to sleep."

"I should pack…"

"No…" Ilya whines, giving an indignant wriggle. "Later."

Shane snorts, and snuggles closer. "Okay."

Their morning still passes too quickly for Shane's liking. He keeps Ilya in bed for as long as possible, then drags out packing his bag for the road, answering a call from his realtor in between packing up some of his things.

Ilya heads back to Ottawa a little after one in the afternoon, his car filled to the brim with everything Shane could wedge into the few boxes and large bags that he could find. Shane is convinced the house already echoes, a satisfactory sound to hear as he leaves for the airport. Knowing he is one step closer to leaving this place, his team, this hellish season behind makes the usual sting of missing Ilya a little more bearable. Having an appointment now set up with his realtor to have the house photographed and valued when he gets back from this roadtrip helps a lot as well.

In the back of the taxi, Shane expects his stomach to clench and his heart to start to race just for thinking about having to see the team, and Theriault again. Neither of those things happen. He doesn't want to see any of them of course, but that sick feeling at the thought of it hasn't returned either. There is a strange kind of certainty running through him instead of any of those emotions.

At the airport and realising he is early, Shane finds a coffee shop. He replies to an email from his realtor confirming his appointment, trades photos of coffees with Rose, and laughs when Ilya forwards a photo from Cliff.

The latest in Cliff's look what you left in your old apartment adventures.

Ilya: this garlic looks more shrivelled than Theriault's balls

Shane: I have questions. One - did Cliff seriously find that garlic in the back of one of your old food cupboards? Now? After all these months? And two - why the fuck are you thinking about Theriault's balls?

Ilya: He tells me yes. I think maybe he just forgot it. But he says, no, because he doesn't like garlic.

Shane: What is he, a vampire?

Ilya: Most probably yes.

Shane: And Theriault?

Ilya: I am very sorry, you are right. This garlic does not look like Theriault's balls. Theriault has no balls. He also has no soul, and no heart. And soon, no star center captain

Ilya: Also, no job. Just you wait. I will be right.

I guess we'll see, Shane writes back, then sees the time and tells Ilya he is leaving, sending an I love you as he drains his coffee.

The Metros are all pretty silent as usual barely even acknowledging him, aside from Hayden and JJ who both have smiles for him and hugs just before they board their plane. Shane stands a little longer than necessary, surveying the team as they all get seated, these people who have meant so much for him for so long. A pang of sadness hits him, but is soon followed by anger, and this then shifts to outrage before he calms. How dare these people treat him like they have been doing?

"I just wanted to say something," he says, raising his voice as he stands in the plane aisle, hearing murmured conversations slowly die out.

At least they all bother to look at him, turning with a mix of curiosity and scowls.

Fuck them all.

Looking at Hayden and JJ first, Shane gives an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I wanted to tell you first, but... it didn't work out like that."

Both of them look sad, almost as though they know what is coming. Maybe they do.

Shane clears his throat. "I—"

"Hollander," Theriault barks in a warning tone from further up the plane, "not now. Just sit down and—"

"No."

The plane falls eerily silent, Shane's one word seeming to echo around them.

If anything, the Metros look more curious now.

"Not that any of you give a fuck, or are probably even surprised; I'm not re-signing next season."

There. He's said it. And oh, does it feel good, even knowing this will reach the press likely before their plane lands, and he will definitely be greeted by a ton of questions.

The plane seems even quieter now. Shane sees a few of the Metros exchanging alarmed looks, and couldn't give a fuck what any of them are thinking.

"Oh, and Theriault?" Shane adds, glaring at him down the plane. "From now on, if you have anything you need to say to me, you're saying it in the presence of other people. I don't feel comfortable having one on one conversations with you after yesterday. If you think we need a meeting, or something, we'll arrange it in writing, formally. I don't think that's necessary anymore, though, do you?"

Shane doesn't wait for an answer, though is very aware of all the confused whispering around him. He doesn't care. Shane feels lighter already, which tells him what a good decision this is. Without another word, he slips into his seat beside Hayden, tugs the rim of his ball cap down further over his eyes, and closes them.

"I'll talk to you about this later," he says quietly to Hayden, who sighs loudly, but settles companionably beside him.

"Whatever you need, buddy," he says back, his seatbelt buckle clicking into place extra loud for how silent the plane still is.

Shane smiles to himself, and then tries to go to sleep.

“I will trade you... two shrimp gnocchi for two gorgonzola ones,” Ilya says, inspecting his and Shane’s plates.

“Help yourself. Falafel?”

“Mm. That thing looks good. The... spanokopitakia," Ilya says, grabbing the menu and reading slowly from it.

“You didn’t try any yet?” Shane asks, picking one up from the main serving dish to put on Ilya’s plate.

“No. This falafel is so good,” Ilya says, spearing one directly from Shane’s plate and grinning at him around it.

“This is good,” Shane says, picking up one of the gnocchi.

“This is better,” Ilya whispers, leaning over their table and resting a hand on Shane’s arm, looking so, so happy.

Why wouldn’t he?

This might be their first real date, ever. If he thinks about how long it’s taken them to get to this point, Shane might feel sad, but instead he wants to focus on this. The small round table with a candle in the middle, background music that he can’t really identify, the murmer of other people at the various tables, and his boyfriend looking beautiful across the table from him.

This is also a, sort of, belated date for Valentine's Day, which they both had games on, playing on opposite sides of the country. This is the first chance they’ve had to do something even close to celebrating in the three weeks since.

“This is perfect,” Shane agrees, moving so he can squeeze Ilya’s hand, feeling so giddy for such a small gesture.

“I will tell Wyatt this restaurant is very good. I think he wants to take his wife.”

“Maybe next time we can, we could go together? I haven’t met him properly yet,” Shane says.

Ilya’s smile is everything.

“Look at us,” he says, laughing, and spearing a fry with his fork.

“What?”

“Having dates. Maybe planning dates with other couples. So normal.”

“I like being normal.”

“Me, too,” Ilya says, so earnestly that Shane knows he means it, far more than he ever could.

Why that almost brings a tear to his eye he has no idea, but Shane won’t let it happen because tonight is far too perfect for tears.

“So. Tell me the house plan again,” Ilya says, picking up one more of his gnocchi and putting it on Shane’s plate.

“It’s been photographed, and valued. Goes on the market in a couple of days. Then, we’ll see. Soon, hopefully.”

Both the Metros and the Centaurs have home games tomorrow. The Metros just got back from a game in Buffalo and the moment he was free Shane went home, packed up some of his boxes into his car, and drove straight to Ilya’s. He’ll be tired in the morning, but it will be worth it to get to spend the night with Ilya. He will still give his all at practice, which he will drive to straight from here, but Shane’s heart is definitely not in it anymore.

The end of the season can’t come quick enough.

“Do you want me to unpack your boxes?” Ilya asks.

“You can if you want. It’s just some books, and some kitchen stuff.”

He could wait to have everything packed up and delivered to Ilya’s—theirs—at the same time. Shane likes doing it this way, though. The emptier his place in Montreal looks, the closer he feels to living with Ilya.

Fuck, he can’t wait to leave Montreal behind.

“You will leave some spare things with Hayden, yes?” Ilya asks.

“Just a bag of clothes. He said I could stay there if I wanted, but, I’ll probably just get a hotel if I need to. That’s if the house sells that quickly, that is. It might take months.”

He really, really hopes it doesn't. Shane wants to cut all ties with Montreal and get on with his life.

“It doesn’t matter. You already have a home.”

A home with Ilya. A life with Ilya. A thing he’s wanted for more years than he let himself admit, that he never thought he’d have.

“Are you ready for me to move in?” Shane teases, watching Ilya stop eating, fork halfway to his mouth.

“In my head, you already did.”

Why does that sound so good? “Oh.”

“But,” Ilya says, with a look of mischief taking over his face, “I have some plans to make it official when we have more time.”

"I can't wait," Shane says.

“And,” Ilya says, gesturing at him with his fork, “I have a good idea.”

“About making my moving in official?”

“Not that. Yes, that,” Ilya amends, “but, one more, other idea, for another thing.”

“Are you... sharing?”

Ilya looks so pleased with himself. Uh oh. This is going to be... something.

“Maybe.”

“Tell me,” Shane says, tapping his foot against Ilya’s beneath the table.

“I think, you are going to the play-offs. The Metros,” Ilya says, taking a sip of his drink.

“…yes. Looks like it. The Metros are, at least.”

“No. I think definitely. They would be too stupid to go to the play-offs without you."

Shane appreciates Ilya's confidence in him, and lacks any confidence in his team. "Okay."

"The Centaurs are not going,” Ilya adds.

“They’re closer to going than they have been in years, though,” Shane points out.

“And, next year, maybe,” Ilya agrees, “but, not this year. So. My season will finish before your season.”

“Okay. Rub it in...”

"I will rub in anything you want…"

Of course Ilya says this when Shane is taking a sip of his drink, making him cough. He has to glare, and has to then blush for the wink Ilya gives him.

The fucker.

Laughing, and looking so pleased with himself, Ilya pats Shane's arm and then helps himself to more food.

“I like the idea of seeing more of you,” he says.

“...okay?”

“I also like the idea of making the Metros very, uh... maybe not angry, but, I think I can make them very uncomfortable. I think that would be nice.”

Uh oh.

“Okay. What are you planning?”

“I am coming with you when you go to the playoffs,” Ilya says, so matter of factly. “I will stay in your room, and if they give you trouble, I will book us a room elsewhere. I will be everywhere. Well. Maybe not everywhere. I don’t know if I want to see every game, but, probably. I don’t want to be in the locker room with your team, though.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure if they would like that either,” Shane says.

Could this really be a thing? Shane tells himself not to get his hopes up, then takes in the look on Ilya’s face, and knows he’s serious.

“You really want to come to the playoffs with me?” he asks, his heart thudding stupidly when Ilya nods.

“Yes. Maybe I will need to come back here sometimes—if your mom needs us to do something for the foundation, and you are busy. But, yes. I want to come with you. If you want,” Ilya adds, looking away, then back at Shane.

“I want,” Shane says, reaching across the table and grabbing his hand.

Ilya’s face lights up. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

It’s probably not a good idea at all, because Ilya has very little impulse control when it comes to mischief. To be honest, though, Shane really hopes he’ll get to see that happen.

For the first time this season, Shane might actually be looking forward to the play-offs.

Ilya isn’t the only one with a surprise tonight. Shane drove them to the restaurant to keep his mind occupied, and he’s so glad of that decision because, now they are almost home, his nerves are starting to set in.

Why, though? He’s been planning this for weeks, knows this is just the next step towards their future together, and it’s very unlikely Ilya’s answer will be anything but yes.

Still. Shane is thankful he can focus on the road, and listen to Ilya regale him with some of Cliff’s recent adventures, leaving only a little room in his head to go over what he’s planned.

A stupid idea? Maybe. But a simple one. And, for them, for everything it’s taken to get to this point, a simple idea feels right.

“Oh?” Ilya says as they pull up near the house and he holds up the remote to open the gate.

Shane’s stomach clenches.

This is it.

“What?”

“Look. We have a delivery,” Ilya says.

Ilya has a large delivery bin on his gate, where parcels and other mail can be deposited securely, that he can open with a key from the other side. Shane has spent a number of hours planning this, from checking he has the size right, to making sure the package he’s had delivered will not only fit, but be protected while they are out.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry; I ordered some new sneakers to come here,” Shane lies, when in fact, he arranged for this delivery to arrive while they were at dinner, and it is not sneakers at all.

“Okay.”

“Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Ilya says, leaning to his side, “I have a spare key for the box in the kitchen, but, use this one for now.”

Shane secures the key Ilya just slid into his lap beneath his leg.

“Thank you.”

“It’s a little late for delivery, no?”

“The tracking thing said it was running late. So late, I kind of forgot about it.”

No, he didn’t, Shane was carefully tracking his package while Ilya was in the restaurant washroom.

“They work such long hours,” Ilya says, sighing.

“Yes.”

“I need to go,” Ilya says, gesturing at his crotch and half out the door before Shane is even parked. “You get your package?”

“Yes.”

That’s perfect, actually. Shane watches Ilya run inside, hands tight on the steering wheel as he steadies himself.

Here goes nothing, then.

The package is a large, plain white box, that he carries into the house and puts on the floor beside the coffee table. The boxes he brought here today are neatly stacked in a cupboard by the kitchen that, until now, Ilya has had no use for. Shane quietly gets the door to the cupboard open, listening out for where Ilya is in the house. When sure he is still upstairs, Shane takes out the contents of the small bag he’s had stashed since the Metros last played in Vancouver.

“Are you tired?” Ilya calls out as Shane is hiding things behind a couch cushion, trying to look natural.

“No. Not at all yet.”

“But, no coffee this late, I think.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late, either,” Shane says, already on his way to the kitchen.

“I am not drinking coffee. Your dad bought me some new tea to try. With no caffeine, for nighttime.”

“Oh.”

“You want?”

“Sure. Let’s try it,” Shane says, glad for a few minutes of reprieve.

“How are the sneakers?” Ilya asks while setting up a small glass teapot and putting some water on to boil.

“I didn’t look yet. Can I do anything?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, beckoning Shane to come around the kitchen island, then kissing him unhurriedly. “Okay. Now you can go. I will bring the tea.”

Laughing, Shane heads back into the living room, and again tries to arrange himself as casually as possible.

“Mm. Smells good,” Ilya says as he walks in with a tray, inhaling the steam from the tea.

“Great.”

“What time will you leave tomorrow?”

“Seven?”

Ilya blows a raspberry. “Okay. So... do you want to take me to the airport on the way?”

“I can do that,” Shane says, pleased that he can do something to help.

He’s stalling, though. Shane waits just long enough for Ilya to pour their tea, then picks up his box. He cracks open the lid, peeks inside, and is relieved by what he sees, smiling as he lowers it on to Ilya’s lap.

“Actually, this is for you,” he says, telling his heart to calm.

Ilya smiles at him curiously. “You bought me sneakers?”

“Not exactly.”

Visibly puzzled, Ilya peers inside, and instantly starts smiling wider. “You bought me flowers?”

“Take them out,” Shane insists.

Oh, that’s good, the vase he ordered is just as nice in person as it was online. There is a care label too, telling Ilya how much water to add, along with a small sachet of plant food.

“Nobody has bought me flowers before,” Ilya says with the most soft smile on his face as he takes the roses, in their vase, from the box to inspect.

“Roses.”

“Yes. Roses.”

“Specifically, these ones are called, Irina roses,” Shane adds, watching the emotions ripple across Ilya’s face.

“Shane—”

“I thought, if you like them, then, we can maybe look into getting some to plant in the yard. For your mom.”

Ilya swallows hard. He secures the vase between his thighs and reaches out to take Shane’s hand. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Maybe read the care label; I’m not exactly sure what you’re supposed to do.”

Ilya nods, still smiling as he does just that, which gives Shane just enough time to discreetly reach behind the nearest couch cushion and drop to his knees.

Of course Ilya looks startled. “What are you doing? Did you slip?”

Shane bursts out laughing, which is better than the tears that are threatening already. He cracks open the ring box by Ilya’s knee.

“So. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he begins with. “Really, I’ve probably been thinking too much. Because you, and me, us being together, when we’re not thinking about anything else, it’s pretty simple, right? You love me, I love you?”

Ilya swallows hard, and nods. “Yes,” he whispers.

“I was fucking terrified that I might lose you when you had your accident. And then, you seemed pretty scared that maybe you would lose me, because you thought—because somehow, I let you think—that I could ever be without you. Which, I can’t. So. We know where we’re headed. I can’t imagine wanting anything, or loving anyone, as much as I want, and love you. So,” Shane adds, his voice trembling, “Ilya Rozanov—”

Ilya is already crying, so of course Shane is now, too.

“—will you marry me?”

Ilya starts nodding frantically, wiping tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Yes,” he chokes out, leaning forward to put his vase on the coffee table, and then tugging Shane up into his lap.

“Yes,” he says again, kissing him, then holding out a trembling hand, crying harder when Shane slips a ring on to his finger.

Shane’s own eyes are so blurry when Ilya puts his ring on as well, laughing, and crying, then throwing his arms around Ilya in relief.

“I love you so much,” Shane says, choking back more tears as he rocks in Ilya’s arms.

“I love you so much, too,” Ilya says, the words muffled into Shane’s shoulder, before he clings on to him even tighter.

They're getting married. They're actually getting married, are going to spend their lives together. If that knowledge alone doesn't get Shane through the rest of this season, absolutely nothing will.

Shane walks into the Metros locker room the next morning feeling tired in all kinds of good ways, and happier than he’s been in a while. Does he look like he just got engaged? He’s pretty sure it’s obvious something is going on with him, because the barista at his usual coffee shop seemed alarmed by how much he was smiling.

Or, it could also be he is imagining that.

Either way, there definitely feels like there is a spring in his step, and maybe, even an uncharacteristic hum on his lips.

“Morning,” he says cheerfully to Comeau, and Drapeau, and then Hayden when he walks in next, hugging him tight.

“Damn right we’re celebrating,” Hayden says, hugging him back just as enthusiastically.

See? Maybe being engaged is written all over his face.

“This is either gonna fuck everything up, or... turn everything around,” Comeau says.

“It can only get better now. I guess we either have a surprise coming in, or, one of the others will step up. Or, fuck, I don’t know; maybe we just stay as we are?” Hayden says.

Shane is officially lost.

“Wait. What are we celebrating?” he asks, starting to put his things in his locker.

Hayden’s eyebrows hitch up in surprise. “What do you mean what are we celebrating?”

“You just said, damn right we’re celebrating.”

“What were you talking about?”

“I wasn’t talking about anything,” Shane says in frustration.

Hayden nods slowly. “Okay. So... I’m guessing you were at Ilya’s last night?”

He was at theirs, but, sure.

He should probably tell Hayden his plans, right? JJ too. He doesn’t want to be accused of keeping secrets from them yet again.

Not that anyone is entitled to his news before he’s ready to share it.

“Yes,” Shane says, far more simply than any of that.

“You drove straight here?”

“I did.”

“And, you didn’t look at your phone, didn’t have the radio on, didn’t do any of that?” Hayden adds.

“Theriault’s gone. Fired. Guess we have you to thank for that,” Comeau says over his shoulder.

Shane whips his head around to Hayden for confirmation. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Hayden says, clasping him on the arm and grinning. “I can’t believe you don’t know already.”

Everybody knows, apparently, even Ilya, it seems, when Shane eventually checks his phone.

Told you, Ilya has messaged along with a wink, and a link to a news segment talking about Theriault’s firing.

Here was me being too busy making wedding plans in my head to think about anything that isn’t us, Shane replies.

Ilya: I am very good at multitasking, I can think of many things at once

Shane: Like what?

Ilya: Like, your new chain, and ring. I am thinking about that a lot

Smiling, Shane yanks his shirt off, and, with absolutely no interest in who else is in the room with him, takes a selfie making sure to get in the chain and ring resting against his chest.

“The lighting in here is no good for taking selfies,” JJ says appearing out of nowhere.

Shane sends the photo quickly.

“He won’t care.”

To his right, where Comeau and Thayer are, there is uncomfortable silence, and to his left, only JJ laughing. Hayden just looks like he’s not sure what to do with his face, which, honestly, isn’t much different from most days.

Ilya, just as Shane thought, does not object to the poor lighting of his selfie. Shane's cheeks do feel really hot for his response, though, so he sends back a, later, along with kisses and hearts, then puts his phone in his locker and searches his bag for his undershirt.

He doesn’t put it on yet, though, contemplating, and then deciding he wants to shout that he’s engaged from the top of his lungs.

In his own way, anyway.

“So," he says, slowly turning around to face Hayden and JJ who are also dressing. “A thing happened last night.”

Immediately Hayden looks pained. “Please don’t tell me it was a sex thing.”

“Oh, that happened too—”

Shane delights in seeing Hayden taking a deep breath and pinching his eyes, while JJ watches on in amusement.

“—but, something else. Ilya and I, we got engaged,” Shane says, toying with the ring.

Hayden tackles him immediately, cheering so loud it makes Shane’s ears ring, and JJ has his arms around them both in seconds, cheering even louder.

“You’re getting married?” Hayden says, clutching Shane’s arm and looking, bizarrely, teary-eyed as he grins at him.

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

“Oh my fucking god,” he says again, shoving JJ away because apparently, he needs to hug Shane properly.

“Congrats,” JJ says, slapping him on the shoulder as Hayden continues to squeeze him.

Breathing is about to be a problem if he doesn’t let go soon.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

There isn’t a lump in Shane’s though, not at all. “I know.”

“You’re getting married!” Hayden shouts for a second time, pulling Shane back to arm’s length.

“Yes.”

“Oh my fucking god, that’s amazing!”

“...thank you?”

“We need to start planning, right now,” Hayden says.

JJ laughs, gives Shane a look that says, you’re on your own with this chaos, turning back to his locker to finish getting changed.

“’We’?” Shane asks.

“Yes! I don’t trust you to handle your wedding without missing all the important stuff.”

“Actually, we’re planning on having a quiet thing. Nothing major.”

Hayden looks crestfallen. “But—”

“How come you’re excited about us getting married, but not about—”

“I seriously don’t need to be picturing Rozanov naked, that’s all,” Hayden says, covering his eyes.

“Then don’t?”

“I mean, I love him now. Ilya,” Hayden says, ducking beneath his hand like he’s scared Shane might, what, show him a photo, or something?

As if he’d share something as important as Ilya naked with anyone.

“Okay...”

“But I draw the line at naked things. That’s definitely your thing. Naked Rozanov things.”

“Believe me, that is a thing I take very seriously.”

Hayden points at him, looking about to scold. Then he just says, “Good. You should.”

“Okay. I will. I do, actually.”

“Good. Good,” Hayden says, mostly to himself. “So! We need to get planning! Even if it’s a quiet thing.”

Shane bites back laughter for the disdainful way Hayden says the word quiet, and returns to getting dressed. “We can talk about it properly later.”

Their game hosting San Francisco is probably the best one Shane has had all season. The fans seem happy, so the atmosphere is incredible, and Shane celebrates every goal with a hug and cheer from Hayden and JJ. The rest of the Metros might as well not even be there. JJ scores a goal in the first period, then Shane scores an unbelievable hat trick in the second. The third period they just keep playing the puck, and it's kind of a fluke that San Francisco manage to sneak one in with just three minutes left on the clock, but the Metros win regardless.

Straight after the game there is, of course, the post-game interview. Shane has tolerated these at best over the years, and dreaded a lot of the worst of them, but today, he all but marches up to waiting reporters with the biggest smile on his face.

"Shane," says the first reporter, "congratulations on the win."

"Thank you."

"That hat trick must have felt pretty good, right?"

"Sure," Shane says, "it always feels good to score. I had a couple of great assists, that really helped. We've practiced those sorts of passes and shots so many times now, it's basically muscle memory at this point. On the ice, regardless of everything else, the team still works well together. That makes it easier."

"What was it like being out there after losing your head coach?"

Shane shrugs. "I don't know? Peaceful? The team plays well regardless of who is or isn't coaching us. Better today, probably. Made a nice change to go out there without being berated before we even started."

There isn't an audible gasp amongst the reporters, but Shane can see their discomfort and surprise.

Good.

"So, you believe the firing of Theriault will actually be beneficial to the team?" asks another reporter.

"I wouldn't know. I'm just here to play hockey. Until the end of the season, anyway," Shane adds, because damn, does it still feel good to say that out loud.

He's been saying it every chance he gets in recent weeks. This is the first time he has actually said it to the press, though.

Immediately, there is a frenetic kind of energy rippling through the reporters now, who all seem... shocked?

Why, though? Why would anyone expect him to stay playing for this team after everything over these last few months?

"I feel it is my duty, though, to highlight the pages and pages of free resources available on the Irina Foundation website. We have some great advice on there, a lot of links to organisations that can help in difficult situations. Including bullying in the work place, how to handle unprofessional behaviour from team leaders, your rights when it comes to discrimination, and harassment. Assault," Shane adds, and now yes, there is actually an audible gasp amongst the reporters.

They are so shocked, it seems, that it takes them a few minutes to think of any new questions.

"Do you care to comment on the rumours that you're already in discussions in private with another team?" a third reporter asks.

"If they're private discussions, obviously not?"

"But you will be signing with—"

"Well I'm not retiring yet," Shane says, cutting the reporter off. "So, yeah. I'll be signing with another club as soon as I'm a free agent."

"The Metros will be quite a different team without you next season. Care to speculate on they will do in your absence?"

Snorting, Shane shrugs. "No idea. I am under contractual obligation to the Metros until the end of the season. After that? No interest at all. It will be fun to play against some of these guys, though," Shane adds, smiling at the cameras and then looking over his shoulder, making it obvious he wants to leave.

"Okay, one final question. Well, not really a question," the original reporters says, their cheeks actually flushing. "Congratulations on your engagement."

Shane bursts out laughing. "News travels fast, huh?"

"Well—"

"Thank you," Shane says, giving the reporter a more genuine smile. "We're really happy."

"That's great to hear."

"Yes. Make sure you congratulate Ilya as well when you see him."

"...yes. I will."

"Good. Any more questions?" Shane says, glancing around the reporters, and nodding when they have nothing else. "Okay—"

"Congratulations," says another reporter, more quietly, only just loud enough for his microphone to pick it up. "I hope you know that... more people are happy for you than those that aren't."

Well. Shane can't walk away from that. He steps forward, extending his hand to the reporter to shake.

The reporter seems... tearful? Which is a surprise. Though not as big a surprise as him then pulling Shane into a tight hug.

"You made a lot of people feel braver today. This whole season, actually. Me included," the reporter whispers, looking teary eyed when he pulls back.

Shane doesn't know what to do with that, but does feel a lump forming in his throat. "Thank you," he says, clasping the reporter on the shoulder, then nods to the rest to say he is leaving.

"Lucky bastard," he hears before he fully turns away, grinning over his shoulder as he goes.

"Oh, believe me. I know."

Chapter 22

Chapter Notes

Hello!

We're at the end! 🥺 got here much quicker than it felt like it would!

No warnings for the last chapter, that would be mean. It's not all fun times but it's also nothing bad, more of a release of emotions at one point and, well, lots of nicer stuff before and after that.

The POV switches back to Ilya for the 'epilogue' to end the chapter.

Thank you so much for reading along! I've loved having your company! I don't know what I'm writing next, there is a little oneshot ready to proofread probably in the next week or so but other than that, we'll have to see what other ideas wander into my head (unless of course the various WIPs inspire, or something else does).

🧡🧡🧡

Over the next week, news about Shane and Ilya’s engagement overshadows the story of Theriault being fired, but there are several news reports about him lashing out at photographers or anyone approaching him for an interview. The Metros GM Paul Layne also comes under scrutiny with the club. A video of him storming out of a meeting with top management is in stark contrast to his statement announcing he is leaving for his health, and no one is surprised when the Metros then announce they have fired him. Shane doesn't know what to think, doesn't give a fuck, but does get a lot of petty joy out of turning the Metros down for a final time when management approach him with a ridiculous offer to make him stay.

Like before, when their relationship first went public, Shane and Ilya avoid giving any major interviews. Instead, they have Farah draft another statement about their engagement, and post several new photos that include their rings. Some of the photos they take just before making the post are now Shane's favourites, but most of them are inappropriate to share. They are accumulating quite a collection.

They receive, surprisingly, a lot of congratulations, people reaching out from all over the league, and elsewhere, to say they are happy for them. It's not everyone, of course, and some of the comments under the Instagram post are predictably disgusting, but the good far outweigh those few. Games become easier too. Shane can count on one hand the snide comments he gets from opposing players when on the ice, and others reaching out in private shows him the entire league could be different, if only those in charge would let it be.

The best Shane can hope for from his own team is silence. He mostly gets that, along with a surprising couple of mumbled congratulations said in private, almost like those players don't want the rest of the team to hear. It's a bittersweet feeling to receive so many calls and messages from the Centaurs, and know that Ilya is surrounded by their love and support—which of course he deserves. Shane can only glance around his own locker room before they head out for a game and see the number of backs turned to him, and count down in his head how many days are left before he can get out of here.

It's not all bad, though. Hayden and JJ have his back, giving him all the distraction he needs from the rest of the Metros, and the thing he's really needed from them from the beginning; unwavering support.

They even insist on taking Shane out to celebrate.

"Everything, buddy. Everything and anything and some more things!" Hayden informs Shane when he asks what it is they're actually celebrating.

Since they decide this celebration is happening the night they play in and beat Boston, Shane grabs Cliff before they leave the ice to invite him as well. Svetlana, who for reasons Shane doesn't know and won't ask about, is at the game as well. Of course he tells her to come along too. Ilya’s face when Shane—mildly tipsy if you ask him, and drunk as hell if you ask Ilya—calls him on FaceTime with an also tipsy Svetlana by his side, is hilarious to see.

“We are going to compare notes and gossip about you,” Svetlana says solemnly, raising a glass in toast to him.

“Oh, I need to be in on that,” Cliff announces, joining the FaceTime and throwing his arms around their shoulders, planting kisses on both Shane's and Svetlana's cheeks as he nestles in between them. "I can tell you about a certain guy who can chug vodka like it's nothing, but give him one too many cocktails, and—"

"Oh, is this about the night you cracked your elbow drunk dancing on a table in Buffalo?" Shane asks, remembering this story, and remembering kissing said elbow better when he saw Ilya a few days later.

God, how stupid have they been. That was years ago, literally years, back when they were telling themselves there was nothing to them. Shane had been tender with him then, and Ilya had looked alarmed, but then so pleased with the attention that…

God. How many moments did they cross the line of being nothing back then?

"Gotta do something to pass the time in Buffalo," Cliff says, but then laughs and shakes his head. "But, no. No, I'm thinking specifically about another time. Or maybe, many other times when it was Rozanov vs. cocktails…"

“I am scared,” Ilya announces, blushing more furiously than Shane has ever seen him do—even when he still insists he never blushes—then tells them to have a good night.

Hayden posts a million photos of their night on Insta, only about a third of which aren’t blurred, or weirdly shot. They still receive a bunch of comments on them, though. And it is a good night, one they suffer for in the morning. Ilya gleefully teases Shane when JJ posts a photo of himself, Shane, and Hayden looking absolutely awful, crammed around a table in a McDonalds with an absolute ton of breakfast menu wrappers strewn between them.

Cliff then messages, asking Shane why he has a traffic cone in his apartment, and then posts a photo of several people passed out asleep on his couch. Shane doesn't recognise any of them, in fact doesn't even recognise Ilya's former couch. It turns out, Cliff woke up in someone else's apartment. It was a good night, yes, but apparently, Cliff's night turned out far wilder than his.

Jenkins, the coach stepping up reluctantly as Theriault’s temporary replacement, looks absolutely terrified when it’s announced. Then, before the next game, he gives a not-so-rousing speech about how he expects the entire team’s input to help get them through the rest of the season and then the playoffs, which are at this point only a few weeks away.

It’s better than Theriault’s usual shouting, at least.

Shane gets a call with an offer for his house towards the end of March, when the Metros are in Carolina. It’s a decent offer, and will be one more thing off their list of things to think about. So, after calling Ilya to discuss it, Shane emails his realtor back to accept.

“That is it. You are officially mine now,” Ilya says when Shane says the message is sent.

“I thought I was anyway,” Shane says, still smiling to himself.

“Yes. But, more now.”

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

“Me, too,” Ilya says, his smile evident even when he can't see his face.

“We've done a lot. But there's still a lot to do,” Shane adds, ticking off items on a mental list. “We’ve booked our justice of the peace. We have suits. And the rings.”

“Your parents are arranging the backyard for us.”

“You know Mom’s gonna go overboard, right?”

“I know,” Ilya says and sounds so happy about it.

"She… was not prepared for Hayden in full wedding prep," Shane adds, Ilya immediately laughing as well.

Yuna Hollander against the world? Yuna would win every time. Hayden Pike against any minor wedding inconvenience? Wow. Nobody is prepared for that. His mom certainly wasn't.

"I think Hayden scared the caterers," Ilya says.

"I think Hayden scared everyone."

"But. He was very helpful. We have the best wedding cake now."

Of all the things Shane ever considered Hayden and Ilya might bond over, he had not expected it to be a rushed hour of wedding cake tasting. Ilya is right, though. The cake is excellent, as is all the food that they chose—and Hayden approved.

“I need to organise getting my stuff packed up," Shane says, still going through his list.

"Yes."

"Or... You know what?”

“What?”

Shane starts laughing, the simplicity of his latest idea too perfect for him not to have considered it before. “I don’t like any of my furniture? None of it. I love yours, though.”

“Ours.”

Yes. Theirs. “Ours,” Shane agrees, grinning to himself for it.

“So. If you don’t want anything—”

“I can donate it all to charity. JJ did that when he moved, and they came to collect everything.”

“Okay. That would be good.”

“If I’m doing that, then, there really isn’t much left to take, that I want to keep. Some clothes. Probably the last of the stuff in the kitchen.”

“Bring the weights,” Ilya says, “yours are nicer than mine.”

“Okay. I’ll do that. Can you think of anything else?”

“No. But we have some time, I think.”

If it all goes smoothly, it could be as soon as, what, the end of playoffs? That feels pretty perfect timing to Shane.

“We do,” he says, a little overwhelmed—in the best ways—by how different things soon will be for him.

“So. We have about, two more weeks, yes? Before the end of the season—for me, anyway,” Ilya says.

For a second, Shane’s excitement drops away. They really aren’t going to see one another for more than a couple of stolen hours before the end of the regular season. Ilya is driving to Montreal to see him in between games, and will be taking some more of Shane’s things back with him, and that will be about it.

He will get to see Ilya though, at least he will actually see him, and soon? He'll get to see him all the time.

There, see? That is something that can make him smile again.

“I think so. Yeah, that sounds about right,” Shane says.

“Okay. My last game is a home game, on the sixth. Your last game is also a home game, on the seventh.”

“...yes.”

“And, the first playoff game for you, is also at home. On the tenth.”

“You know my schedule better than I do,” Shane teases.

“Of course. It is my responsibility as a WAG, because I am coming with you for the playoffs.”

Shane’s face heats up, and despite being in his hotel room alone, he covers his face with his hand. “Ilya...”

“Okay,” Ilya says, laughing, “then, it is my responsibility as your fiancé.”

Oh, that works so much better, a fresh wave of pride roaring through Shane.

“I like that.”

“Good. Me, too. So. After our last game, the Centaurs, we are having a party. I think, maybe, there will be very much to drink.”

“Yeah, I thought there might,” Shane agrees, thinking only that next year, he’ll be doing that celebrating the end of the season with them.

Unless they are going to playoffs, of course.

“So... maybe driving the next day will not be a good idea for me.”

“Probably not, no. But, you don’t need to. I really don’t think I have that much stuff left to bring. I’ll load up my car with the very last of it so I can drive straight to you after the game.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Then, I have you for a day, before you go back for more training?”

“A whole day off.”

“But, I will be coming back with you, to Montreal. So, it won’t be so bad.”

“And you don’t mind us being in a practically empty house?”

“No. But, if we don’t like it, we can stay in a hotel. We will be in many hotels for maybe two months anyway.”

Shane smiles. “You think we’re making it to the finals?”

“I think you should be going to the finals. I don’t care about your team.”

Me neither, Shane thinks, and doesn’t have to say out loud. “If that happens, you realise it will only be, what... three weeks? Before we get married?”

“Twenty-two days. I checked,” Ilya says immediately.

Of course he did.

“I can’t wait,” Shane says, which is an understatement.

Years ago, the most important thing about this time of year for Shane was the playoffs, and winning. This year, he’s focused on packing up his house, becoming a husband, and joining a new team. He has his priorities far better than his former self did, that’s for sure.

This is it, the last time he will drive away after a regular season game playing for the Metros, leaving a massive chunk of his life behind. Shane is relieved, more than anything else, but a big part of him is also sad. Tears roll down his cheeks as he drives through the familiar streets of Brossard, passing the usual landmarks and other spots that have become ingrained in his mind over the years.

Shane isn’t sure exactly what he’s crying for. The person he thought he’d be, retiring after an entire career playing for the Metros? The pure relief that this season from hell is finally, finally done? How horrible it feels that barely anyone from his now former team said as much as goodbye tonight?

He’ll be lucky if anyone but JJ and Hayden say goodbye to him whenever he plays his last ever game for the Metros, whenever the play-offs are over for them. That thought hurts, far more than Shane thinks it should after everything that’s happened this year.

So. Maybe that’s why he’s sad. He’s held in a lot of his tears all year, pushed down much of his anger and devastation and so many other feelings; maybe this is the healthiest way to get rid of some of that? In this last post-game drive from Montreal to Ottawa?

Yes, Shane decides, letting his tears fall and being extra careful on the road as a result. These tears are for what’s happened. He can dwell on it a little for these next two hours as he drives. After that? There is so much to look forward to.

By the time he is pulling up to Ilya’s—theirs—and the gate is slowly opening, Shane is cried out, and peaceful like he hasn’t felt in months. He still falls in to Ilya’s arms, lets him soothe him and kiss him and take care of him, soaking up all of the fuss he is making of him, because why not?

“We are not driving back to Montreal until after lunch the day after tomorrow, yes?” Ilya says when he has thumbed away a final tear and made Shane laugh.

“Yes.”

“Good. I have a new recipe for us to make together tomorrow night, to celebrate you living here.”

They haven’t had the chance to cook together in so long. Shane’s heart skips just for the thought of getting to do it again—the thought that this will become something normal for them.

“I can’t wait,” he says, letting his forehead fall against Ilya’s in relief.

“First, though. I will go to take the boxes from your car.”

“I’ll come too—”

“No,” Ilya says, smacking a kiss on his cheek. “It won’t take long. Go upstairs. I made the bath for you.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Give me maybe five minutes, and I will come to join you.”

Shane claims a kiss then climbs the stairs, the scent of candles hitting him before he even gets to the bathroom doorway. Ilya has outdone himself, candles on every surface and the bath full of steaming bubbles. Shane takes in the room as he strips, then carefully climbs on.

Oh, it’s perfect, just that little bit too hot telling Shane that Ilya only just filled it, his muscles immediately relaxing into the heat. It’s even better when Ilya comes in with a bottle of champagne wedged in an ice bucket and two glass flutes, treating Shane to the sight of him stripping by candlelight.

“Are we starting to celebrate my moving in tonight?” Shane asks, as the champagne cork ricochets off the wall and Ilya grins in triumph.

“I would celebrate you living here every day.”

“I mean, we can do that.”

“Good,” Ilya says, pouring them both glasses and then passing one to Shane before bending down to kiss him.

It takes a little rearranging, so Ilya can climb in behind him. When he’s settled, Shane gets a kiss in over the scar on his arm before he folds it around him.

“This is nice,” Shane says, sighing, dropping his head back on Ilya’s shoulder in relief. “We can do this every day if you want.”

“We could.”

Shane smiles when Ilya toys with his engagement ring, closing his eyes for how that feels.

“Thank you for bringing in my boxes,” he says after a while.

“No problem. How was the game?”

“You didn’t watch?” Shane says, trying to sound outraged and failing completely.

“Mm, a little, but, your dad made me eat a hangover lunch—”

“A hangover lunch?” Shane says, bursting out laughing.

“Yes. Bacon. Egg. Sausage. Some potato thing. Toast. It was very good.”

“Did it help?”

“Very much, yes,” Ilya says.

Shane knows the Centaurs had a good night last night because he was sent so, so many photos directly, and then there were all the ones that were posted on Instagram. Shane has never really been one for big parties, but Monks, the bar the Centaurs apparently have adopted, is small and cosy-looking. Shane already imagines he’ll feel quite at home there next season.

Once he’s officially a Centaur, obviously.

And, after all of that, the idea that his dad made his fiancé hangover food? It’s surprising what crazy things have Shane smiling these days.

“And, after your lunch?” Shane asks.

“Then, I went to buy things for your play-offs,” Ilya says, kissing Shane’s temple.

“What things?”

“We will need things.”

“What things?” Shane asks again, already blushing because... well. He knows Ilya. He knows he has absolutely no filter.

He also knows he can never keep his hands off him anyway, so whatever he’s potentially brought? That really isn’t going to help.

“You will need to wait. Surprises are good.”

“Okay...”

“Also, lube,” Ilya adds, almost as an afterthought. “Lots of lube.”

Shane bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh. “Okay then. Good.”

“We will need all of it,” Ilya whispers in tease, knowing exactly what that will do to him.

Then, he ruins the moment entirely, noticing the shadows they are casting over the wall by candlelight and making hand shadow puppets. Of course Shane has to join in. Of course they get competitive about it, making up more and more elaborate stories. Of course they laugh so much that their sides hurt, and water splashes everywhere.

It's perfect.

After their bath, and two glasses of champagne each, Ilya insists they go downstairs.

“You don’t need clothes,” Ilya mumbles against the back of Shane’s ear making him shiver.

“What if I get cold?” Shane asks, but doesn’t mean at all.

“You won’t,” llya says, winking over his shoulder as he grabs the champagne bucket and glasses, tilting his head for Shane to follow.

He’s cut up strawberries, perfectly sweet ones, and proceeds to feed them to Shane on the couch. Ilya sucks a spill of juice from his lip and accidentally spills champagne on his chest as he does.

“Oops,” Ilya says, grinning at him as he bends down to lap it up.

“Clumsy,” Shane says, holding a piece of strawberry up to Ilya’s mouth when he lifts back up, and watching his eyes darken as he sucks his fingers clean.

“Yes. Very clumsy,” Ilya agrees, taking another piece of strawberry and sliding it down Shane’s chest.

He follows it down with his tongue, nipping at Shane’s stomach, then moving lower, and lower, ghosting kisses over his already very interested cock.

“You should keep doing that,” Shane says, parting his legs.

“Oh, I should?”

Ilya says this, as though he isn’t already taking a mouthful of champagne, dribbling it over Shane’s inner thighs, and immediately lapping it back up.

“Mmhmm. You should,” Shane says, letting his head it the back of the couch.

“Maybe you should show me what you want.”

Of course Shane’s stomach ripples, and of course his heart thuds, and of course his cock jolts in anticipation of all kinds of good things. Right now, it’s enjoying the way Ilya is darting his tongue over his cockhead in tease.

“That’s pretty good,” Shane says, humming in approval when Ilya sucks him a little into his mouth.

He does want something else, though. He takes Ilya’s glass to have a sip of champagne then hands it back, reaches down, and thumbs his cheeks apart.

Ilya’s eyes narrow, and his breathing deepens.

“What do you want there?”

“Right now? Your mouth.”

Smirking, Ilya takes a gulp of champagne and puts the glass on the coffee table out of the way, covering Shane’s hands with his own. He wastes no time at all, knowing exactly what Shane likes, knowing exactly the way to draw every sound out of him. He’s so good at this, Shane trying to watch every flutter of tongue against his hole, and cursing when Ilya works his tongue tip into him.

Fuck, he could probably come like this, couldn’t he? He has done before, because Ilya is just that good.

He won’t though, because Ilya clearly has other plans.

“You are messy,” Ilya says when he kisses a path over his balls, up his shaft, then laps precum from his cockhead and stomach.

“I wonder why...”

“I have an idea.”

“And what’s that?”

Shane finds himself being picked up and deposited on a longer section of the couch, laughing when Ilya blows a raspberry on his hip.

“This is your idea?” he asks, watching Ilya kneel on the floor beside him and retrieve a bottle of lube from a dish on the coffee table.

“I have many ideas. This one is good, though.”

“I haven’t tasted you yet, though,” Shane says, pretending to pout.

Ilya pauses from flicking the lid back on the bottle and tilts his head. “Good idea.”

Before Shane can say anything else Ilya is kneeling either side of his shoulders, teasing him with his cockhead against his mouth. Shane flicks his tongue out, pleased for how quickly Ilya stutters and has to brace himself. Then, he takes his time to suck him, watching the growing tension in Ilya’s thighs for trying to keep himself still.

“Fuck,” Ilya says suddenly, pulling away from him and standing up.

Smugness has Shane grinning up at Ilya, watching him try to compose himself.

“Everything okay?” Shane says in his most innocent voice, laughing for the shrewd eyebrow raise he receives.

“Yes. And it will be even better when you do something for me.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

The bottle of lube is in Shane’s hands immediately. Ilya sinks back to his knees beside the couch.

“Touch yourself. Get ready for me,” Ilya says, his voice already a little rough.

Swallowing hard, Shane squirts lube over his fingers and passes the bottle to Ilya. With their eyes locked Shane reaches down, parts his legs more, then circles teasingly over his hole. Ilya is fascinated, curling one hand behind Shane’s knee to keep him open. Shane watches the dip of his throat as he presses a finger into himself, and feels ridiculously powerful when Ilya starts to absently palm at himself.

Shane works a finger into himself, exploring, and stuttering when he finds his prostate.

“Play,” Ilya demands, cursing when Shane does just that, circling and tapping his fingertip, the ripple of pleasure this sends through him making him gasp.

“More,” Ilya croaks out, and the moment Shane presses two fingers into himself is groaning, leaning down and kissing him hard.

He keeps kissing him, snatching his mouth away to watch as Shane continues to finger himself, then kissing him again, before dropping their foreheads together and groaning.

“What are you doing to yourself?” Ilya whispers, absolutely everything happening driving Shane wild and leaving him desperate for Ilya to be in him already.

“Fingering myself,” Shane makes himself say, the tiny bit of embarrassment he might have felt when he started long gone.

“Why?”

“Getting myself ready. For you.”

Ilya curses again, crawling around the edge of the couch and kneeling up. He grabs the lube, slicks himself, drags Shane to the end of the couch and immediately thrusts into him with a deep groan.

“Sorry,” he rasps out, pressing on the backs of Shane’s thighs as he fucks him. “I couldn’t wait.”

“I am not complaining,” Shane says, blood surging in his ears as he watches Ilya fill him, then withdraw, then fill him again.

“Yes, but, I want something else,” Ilya says, then snaps his hips a couple of times before withdrawing altogether with a look that says it pains him to do so.

Then, he has Shane on his feet, is picking him up, parting his cheeks and urging Shane to sink down on him, which he does, just seconds before Ilya gets him against the nearest wall.

“Oh,” Shane grunts out, letting his head thud back against the wall as he raises his legs higher and wraps them tighter around him.

“Yes, like that,” Ilya urges, supporting Shane with his hands on his ass as he fucks him, mumbling constant praise as he does.

“Is this my welcome home present?” Shane manages to rasp out just before Ilya changes angle slightly, the following surge of pleasure having him curl his toes mid-air.

Ilya laughs, mouthing messily at his cheek, and jaw, and neck, but is apparently out of words.

Shane doesn’t mind. He keeps his thighs gripped firmly around him, urging him on with encouragement when he can, and whimpering when he can’t. He’s so close to coming, when Ilya gasps suddenly and then snaps his hips harder, the delicious feeling of being filled with him almost, almost enough for Shane.

“Fuck,” Ilya grunts out with a final thrust, mouthing hard at his shoulder, which sends another shoot of pain-edged pleasure through Shane.

Ilya mouths at this throat, helps ease Shane’s legs back down, and once he’s standing, drops to his knees to suck him off.

Shane lasts seconds, kept upright only by Ilya’s hands pressed firmly against his thighs, and then all of Ilya’s energy is gone anyway, so Shane slips to the floor with him, the two of them collapsed in a messy, exhausted heap.

“You like your welcome home?” Ilya says tiredly, laughing into Shane’s shoulder.

Shane can barely move, and he loves it. “Best welcome ever,” he says, getting a kiss to the top of Ilya’s head, groaning as he leans against him.

Ilya POV (epilogue)

“You aren’t gonna make out on the ice if we win the Cup, are you?” asks Gilbert Comeau from across the plane aisle.

“Scott Hunter did it,” someone, Ilya thinks it’s one of the medics, Marc, shouts from somewhere further in front on the plane.

“When we win. When,” mutters JJ, mostly to himself.

He has already been chosen to captain the Metros next season, and the reality of that appears to be sinking in for him. It's fascinating how many rumours there are about various Metros now considering offers elsewhere in the league. Ilya is convinced JJ was offered captaincy just to try to keep him at the club. Though Ilya also assumed JJ would take the news of his captaincy in his stride, when instead he looks kind of nervous about it, so, clearly he doesn't know everything. In contrast, though, Shane, who is the captain for these play-offs, has never looked so relaxed about hockey in all the years Ilya has known him.

It’s ironic, and pretty funny to Ilya that the Metros now find themselves in the same position as the Centaurs did this time last year; down both a head coach and a star center.

As long as Shane doesn’t follow his example and get injured, Ilya thinks, glaring at Shane’s arms daring them to get hurt as Shane looks out the window, oblivious.

“Don’t worry, Comeau. If you win, I will find you and kiss you first,” Ilya says to a round of snorts of laughter and uncomfortable grumbles.

“I don’t think your fiance would approve,” Shane says, slipping his hand into Ilya’s in his lap and turning to smile at him.

“I will kiss you, too.”

“Instead. You’ll kiss me instead.”

“Yes, Captain,” Ilya says flirtily, watching Shane’s cheeks pink up and hearing more grumbles off to his side.

These Metro players really have no sense of humour, do they? So uptight.

“Not for much longer...”

Shane could be talking about his last play-offs with the Metros, but Ilya knows, he’s thinking about his future with the Centaurs. Ilya will continue to captain them next season meaning there will be no matching C on Shane’s chest for the first time in a while. He says he’s good with it, that he’s even looking forward to it, excited to see what playing without that kind of pressure will feel like. Ilya suspects it will take some adjustment for Shane. Maybe a lot of adjustment.

They’ll deal with it. If this last season has taught them anything, it’s that they are good, solid in a way that means difficult conversations will only strengthen them.

Ilya can’t wait to call Shane his husband.

“Where’s your WAG jacket, Rozanov?” Hayden says, strolling back down the aisle after using the washroom and leaning on the back of Ilya’s seat with a huge grin on his face.

“Where’s your wife, Pike?”

“If you two are gonna keep this up the whole time—”

“No, Captain,” Ilya says at the same time as Hayden says—

“Sorry, Captain.”

Shane gives them both a withering look then lets out a put upon sigh. “I think I liked it better when you two hated each other...”

In recent weeks, ever since Hayden decided he was helping plan their wedding, Ilya has inevitably got to know him a little better. He’s actually funny, curses way more than Ilya ever has, and now he’s got his head out of his ass about their relationship is a fiercer friend to Shane than he ever has been. This is the most important thing to Ilya.

Also. It turns out that Hayden's snark game is actually good. Now they are friendlier, Ilya almost looks forward to the ways they will wind each other up when they talk. There is no malice in it, and them coming up with increasingly more creative ways to insult each other in jest is entertaining. Not even just for how much it exasperates Shane.

“Ah!”

Ilya hears then from, was that JJ?

“Rozanov!”

Yes, that was JJ.

Ilya wouldn't say he's completely okay with JJ now, but, in recent weeks, it does feel like he's got to know him a little better too. They first spoke on FaceTime when the Metros were in New York and Shane was dealing with an over-excited Hayden talking about wedding favours. Wedding favours. Hayden should just quit hockey altogether and become a wedding planner, honestly. JJ commentated this entire conversation for Ilya, who was laughing so hard he gave himself hiccups. Since then, they've chatted a handful of times over Instagram, and JJ is also responsible for posting a photo of Shane that is currently Ilya's favourite of him. It is hard to completely dislike a person who gave him something as good as that.

Hayden straightens up but still keeps his elbow resting on the back of Ilya’s seat.

“What?” Ilya calls out to JJ.

“I forgot!” JJ yells sounding excited, jumping up and rummaging in the overhead locker.

His grin is goofy as he jogs the few steps from his seat to theirs.

“I got you something,” JJ says, shoving something into Ilya’s hands.

Um. Well. What?

“Please tell me that’s an early wedding present,” Shane says.

“Oh, no, no, that’s coming; just you wait.”

“Oh, fuck...”

Laughing already, Ilya unwraps the small package. It is a giant pin of Shane’s face outlined in an offensive amount out glitter. Glitter that is already spilling over Ilya’s jeans making them sparkle.

“I thought it would look nice with whatever WAG look you picked out for tonight,” JJ says, looking so proud of himself.

“Ah,” Ilya says, resting his hand on his chest and sighing dramatically. “I am afraid I cannot.”

“But why? It’s perfect for you.”

“Yes, yes, it is perfect, but, my WAG look for tonight is my birthday suit. Maybe I can put it through my nipple?” Ilya says, pretending to inspect the back of the pin.

JJ bellows with laughter, as Ilya is convinced he feels a wave of awkward coming from the rest of the Metros.

Oh, this whole play-off trip is going to be so, so much fun.

“I will wear it now,” Ilya says, pinning the pin to the front of his t-shirt, twisting so that Shane can see. “What do you think?”

Shane is fighting a smile. He rolls his eyes, ruining the whole disgruntled look by then bursting out laughing.

“You couldn’t have found a better photo of my face?” he asks JJ in exasperation.

“I mean... I could have...”

“Come. We must take a photo so I can publicly thank you for my gift,” Ilya says, standing up and stepping into the aisle.

JJ laughs, immediately throwing an arm around Ilya’s shoulders. Hayden crowds into his other side.

“I seriously have the worst taste in friends and fiances,” Shane says, but is holding up his phone to take photos of them anyway.

“No, you love us,” Hayden says.

“...it’s a good thing I do.”

“Send the photos to Rozanov. His posts are way funnier than yours,” JJ says.

Shane’s look of pure disdain for all three of them is perfection itself. Ilya throws himself back into his seat and kisses him.

“This is going to be a fucking long trip,” mutters the Metro's goalie Drapeau from the seat behind them.

“Oh, just you wait,” Ilya says, raising up enough to smirk at him.

JJ and Hayden laugh, then both head back to their own seats.

“Are you going to behave?” Shane asks.

Ilya shakes his head. “Never.”

Sighing, Shane keeps himself busy, getting the photos he’s just taken sent to Ilya. Then, he leans across and braces on Ilya’s thigh, smiling at him. “Good,” he whispers, and kisses him, flipping off the for fucksake they hear from the seat behind.