Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Ryan Price (Game Changers), Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Brandon Wiebe, Brandon Wiebe's Wife

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Career Ending Injuries, Therapy, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Coming Out, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Slow Burn, Getting Back Together

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of win conditions

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-08 Completed: 2026-02-05 Words: 102,965 Chapters: 10/10

Change Your Win Conditions

Summary

Sometimes life came at you with a clenched fist and Ilya had never figured out how to duck.

So here he was, twenty-eight years old, single, dealing with the fallout from injuries given to him by the game he loved, and the second youngest assistant coach in the league to one of the worst teams. Stability was hard to come by, but he was managing.

Then along came Shane Hollander to knock him on his ass, one more time.

Notes

I am picking and choosing my canon to play with between the show and the books. Particularly, I went with Svetlana and Ilya's relationship from the show. They are still intimate here, but not romantic.

• Translation into Русский available: Change Your Win Conditions | Меняй правила победы by PANDAR

Chapter 1: I just wanna shine like the sun when it comes up

"What is this?" Ilya threw his hands up as he watched the better of the Centaur's two rookies whirl on the ice like a tornado. "What are we doing here?"

"Practicing?" Luca ventured, coming to a stop in front of Ilya with wide hopeful eyes. The spinning had clearly made him queasy and Ilya took a slight step back. His days of being vomited on were behind him. Hopefully.

If someone had asked Ilya eighteen months ago if he was a patient man, he would've said yes. Hadn't he drilled himself into being one of the best? Hadn't he gritted his teeth and dealt with every injury and insult, throwing them back with the best of them? Hadn't he waited his turn to win the cup? Hadn't he waited for familial acceptance that was never coming like a penitent on his knees in an unfeeling church?

Being an assistant coach had Ilya had had to scrape the bottom of his old well of his patience clean and dig a new one out back.

"Yes," Ilya said carefully. "I can see that, thank you. Why are we spinning in circles?"

"We were taking a five minute break," someone offered, wisely mumbling. "And getting the rookie dizzy."

Ilya nodded once very slowly. Everyone sailed backwards on the ice away from him as if he'd started screaming. Good.

"Haas," Ilya said quietly, "do not listen to these assholes. Yes?"

"Yes," Luca nodded, a little too hard.

"The rest of you…start spinning. Not much fun if only one person does it, I think. Good practice for balance."

Bood sailed back onto the ice, back from a bathroom break and stood for a moment, watching half of his teammates trying to be figure skaters while Luca dizzily clung to the wall.

"What the fuck?" Bood breathed out. "Sorry, coach, I forgot I can't leave these lunatics alone for ten seconds."

"It's fine," Ilya gave him a wane smile. "Hazing is never good, but…this is not so bad."

It was like everything about the Centaurs. Not so bad.

The drills started again and Ilya watched them. The constant itch to join them, to be one of them again, wasn't so bad today. It came and went.

"I heard we were doing some hazing," Wiebe appeared at Ilya's elbow.

"Little bit. I haze back. It's fine," Ilya glanced at him. "How was the press?"

"Bored," Wiebe laughed quietly. "We're being annoyingly unproblematic. I think they want you to shuffle onto the ice and throw a few punches so they'd have a story."

"Would it help us win?"

"The work you're doing with Haas has a better chance with that."

They both watched Luca make a smooth pass as if he knew he was being discussed.

"He's good," Ilya allowed. "He will be great. Some day. Not today."

"That's all right," Wiebe said. "I'll take some day. That's the nice thing about people having low expectations. It gives us time to sneak up on them."

Sneaking up on people was not Ilya's style. He had run at life like a wolf with his teeth bared, ready to snatch wins by tearing out jugulars. But it wasn't so bad maybe, to be patient. To build confidence and energy and skill.

"Tape review this afternoon?" Ilya checked.

"Yeah, I pulled clips already. Including that fumbled goal. I want you to break that one down for them," Wiebe said. "I have an unrelated question for you."

"Mm?" Ilya glanced at him. Wiebe looked as neutral as ever. The man gave little away really, despite a generally kind attitude.

"What do you think about Shane Hollander these days?"

Internally, it was as if someone had put a hand through Ilya's chest, wrapped their fingers around his heart and squeezed for all they were worth. Externally, he was as calm as Wiebe. Say what you would about Russia, but it had given Ilya a fantastic poker face these last few years.

"What is there to think?" Ilya shrugged. "He's best player in the league. Now."

Wiebe laughed. "Right, right, but I meant personally. I know there was a lot of played up drama about you two, was any of that real?"

"Some," Ilya conceded. "But only on ice."

Which was true enough. His stolen nights with Hollander were far behind him now. A collection of memories he may still occasionally take out to admire and mourn over like stolen jewels that couldn't be sold.

"Good. I had a feeling, but I was curious," Wiebe said.

Wiebe was rarely curious, but Ilya was wholly uninterested in finding out what had led Wiebe to asking about Hollander of all things. Probably the same thing that made other people ask Ilya about him, stirring the last dying coals of what had been a raging publicity fire for years to see if anything might still catch.

The rest of practice was uneventful. In tape review, Wyatt settled beside Ilya. He evaded the worst of Ilya's bark, a competent goalie who was outside Ilya's intended scope. The Ottawa coaching team was really too small for them to stay in their lanes.

"Sorry I didn't catch them egging on Haas in time," he whispered as the tape started up.

"He was enjoying it, I think. It was friendly," Ilya allowed. "No hazing makes rookies nervous too."

"Right, waiting for it to jump scare them," Wyatt laughed quietly. "Maybe that's worse. Listen, I'm throwing Lisa a birthday party next month. Small thing. Just some friends and family. Want to come?"

"Send me the date," Ilya said, eyes on the game.

He'd go. He might even have a good time. Stranger things had happened.

On a higher profile team, Ilya might've had to worry about the optics of a coach being too friendly with players, but the blessing of mediocrity was less scrutiny. If Ilya had his say, which he would, they would not be mediocre for long, but for now, there was something to be said about being lower profile.

It certainly gave him time to think. His therapist said maybe a little too much time. Galina was always suggesting hobbies, interests. The best Ilya could give her was that he was considering a dog.

The review went well enough. Their players were trying. They listened, they took things seriously, and they at least made new mistakes every time instead of repeating old ones. That's all Ilya could ask of them.

He walked to his car slowly, reluctant to end the day.

The players were dispersing, plans and good nights being shouted across the parking garage. Getting his keys out of his pocket always took Ilya longer than he'd like now. He could use his left hand and be done with it, but making the right work was good for it. Good for him. Probably. Mostly it made him grind his teeth.

Triumphantly seizing on them, he glanced up to make sure no one was watching. They weren't, but something else caught his attention.

For a swooping insane moment, he was almost positive that he'd seen Hollander walking quickly away. It was hard to tell in the fading light, only a slice of dark hair and the distinctive profile as he ducked between cars.

But no. Whatever Ilya had conjured, likely jarred by Wiebe's earlier conversation, was only an illusion. What would Hollander be doing here?

All plans Ilya might've had crumbled to ash. He was clearly having a bad day even though it had started out well. Bad days happened. There were plans for bad days. He drove home (no longer his favorite sexy sports cars because manual was a pain in the ass now, but at least a low slung expensive sedan whose engine purred to him) and forced himself to cook.

Cooking was one of his so-called hobbies. It was good, losing himself in preparations even if most of it went right back into the fridge to be brought out for future lunches. The act of it soothed him and the shower afterwards, long and hot, did its work too.

No hockey on the TV or on his phone. No work after work, a firm rule that he often broke. Tonight he stuck to it. Ilya watched the Korean drama that Svetlana was crazy about these days and texted her incessantly, complaining about the pacing. She didn't answer, but that was fine. Whenever she came back to her phone, she would reply to his rants with fond amusement, telling him exactly how wrong he was.

Mostly it felt good to rant in Russian.

He slept. He was good at sleeping. A little too good. Alarms, a chalky pill, and sheer perverse will power kept him from taking multiple useless naps some days.

As predicted, Svetlana had an incisive reply for him in the wee hours of the morning, calling him a number of creative names that mostly amounted to 'you're wrong, I'm right forever'.

Ilya: I will finish the next season, if only to preserve my life.

Svetlana: Wise choice. I've decided to bless you with my presence this weekend.

The sheer relief of knowing she was coming made his head spin.

Ilya: It's rude to invite yourself over. Didn't anyone ever teach you that?

Svetlana: If I wait for an invitation, I may never see you again. I know you don't have any games.

Ilya: I invited you over the summer!

Sveltana: Two entire months ago. I fly in on Friday. Pick me up from the airport.

Ilya: Demanding. Send me the information.

The promise of company erased any of the weirdness of yesterday from Ilya's mind. The routine he'd worked hard to establish here moved him forward. Long runs and light lifting for himself, careful strength building exercises to keep the physio happy, shower, practice, meetings, dinner. Therapy on Thursdays, physio on Mondays and Fridays.

Sometimes there were clubs. Less and less now. Sex, his greatest refuge for so long, no longer harbored the promise of relief the way it once had. It was still good. Great even, but as his temporary partners walked away, Ilya found an unsettling exhaustion crashing in.

"I have to leave early," Ilya told Wiebe on Friday morning. "Picking up a friend from the airport."

"Good," Wiebe said.

"Yes," Ilya said. "It is."

Pulling up to arrivals and spotting Svetlana already waiting, five times better dressed than everyone around her smacked a foolish smile on Ilya's face. He rolled down the window and wolf whistled at her.

"Hello, lovely lady. Would you like a ride?"

"From you?" She raised her eyebrows. "If I have to."

She slid into the passenger seat and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

"Do you want to go out for dinner?" He offered. "You seem dressed for it."

"I had an afternoon meeting before the flight," she said. "I want you to make me something."

"I can do that."

All the way to his house, they talked about her work and Ilya sank back into Russian like a seal too long out of water. The tiny dramas of annoying co-workers were the same everywhere and they compared troublesome people to each other. While he cooked, she sat on the island, and every time he walked by, she reached for him. When everything was simmering, he simply sank into her arms and they hugged for a long quiet minute, his entire spine melting into it.

"Boston is a misery without you," she told him.

"No, it isn't," he said, his forehead resting on her shoulder. "You love it there."

"Two things can be true," she said and rubbed his back. "Like: I'm very glad you're here, but I wish you were there too."

"You don't want two of me. You would never get any rest."

She laughed and kissed the top of his head. "Too true. Still. You could come visit."

"I will," he said and he meant it now. Time had passed. He could go back to Boston and enjoy a few days. "I'll come to your fancy job and tell them I'm your boy toy."

"Wear something designer. If you're my toy, then I want them to know you're a luxury one."

They ate dinner on the couch, her legs over his lap and Ilya could forget anything had ever changed. She followed him up to his bedroom and they had the kind of sex that came with long familiarity and affection.

"Let's go out tomorrow," she said, rubbing her nose over his shoulder. "Somewhere touristy and stupid."

"A museum? I haven't gone to the National Gallery."

"Yes, good. That. We'll look very smart."

"If you're hoping to get photographed, you're no longer in the right company."

"Who gives a fuck? We can look good and smart for ourselves too."

So that's what they did. Dressed to match, slick and flashy, they wound their way through dull art exhibits as they gossiped. Svetlana held his hand the whole time.

When he'd first gotten injured, Svetlana had appeared like a blazing vengeful angel. He had forgotten that he had made her his emergency contact. With her forthright competence, she acted as his translator, his companion and his care manager. He had tried to make her leave, to go back to work, until she had held his uninjured hand so tightly that he feared for it too and hissed You think my love for you stops at the door of a hospital room? We don't have to be the kind of people that marry to take care of each other. Shut up.

From then on, he had reached for her whenever she was near and she had taken his hand up like a promise.

"Sometimes," he said now as they stood in front an enormous abstract painting, "I think I would've died without you."

"No," she said firmly. "You survive because of you. I was only there to spot you like with your ridiculous weights. But anything I did, I'd do again a thousand times."

What could he do about that, but take her out for an expensive dinner and let her order whatever wine she wanted? They went clubbing afterwards, dancing as if they were the only two people alive. She went home with him. They didn't have sex again, but they shared the bed and that was nearly as good. In the morning, he made too much breakfast and they gorged themselves.

He drove her back to the airport and kissed her goodbye.

"I love you," she said. "Come visit."

"I love you," he said. "I will."

Then he was alone again.

That was fine. Ilya was great at alone. Really really great. Perfect.

Fuck his entire life.

His right hand trembled all the way home, just to really rub it in.

They flew out to Pittsburgh for a game. Ilya got to watch his players put in their best efforts and eek out a 2-1 win. It wasn't a glorious victory, but Ilya would take what they could get. Heaping praise on all of them felt better than trying to soothe bruised egos and handing out scoldings anyway.

"Good assist. I'm proud of you," Ilya told Luca and the boy's eyes had gone so wide, Ilya was a little worried they might roll out of his head.

"Damn, coach, careful," Wyatt laughed as Luca stumbled away. "You might kill him like that one day."

"That would be a news story," Ilya shook his head. "You did well too."

"I know," Wyatt winked at him. "But it's always good to hear. Just don't expect me to swoon about it."

"Fuck off," Ilya shoved at him a little and Wyatt cackled harder.

"Hello, boys!" Harris peeked his head around the door. "Nice job tonight. Ilya, can I borrow you for a second?"

Why did they have Harris at an away game? Ilya liked him, but that seemed like overkill to bring the social media guy for a mid-season game with low stakes.

Not that any of their games were high stakes. Yet.

"You have me," Ilya said as he stepped into the hallway. "You need a picture? Quote?"

"Not exactly," Harris said. "I wanted to get your opinion on something. I- well. Okay. Look, I'm not assuming anything, but given the speech you gave over the rainbow laces last time, you seem like one of the safest people to ask."

"Is someone giving you a bad time?" Ilya growled, instantly ready to go for blood. His right hook might not do him much good anymore, but he could still do a lot of damage with the left.

"No! No, oh my god," Harris grinned. "But thank you for that. It's appreciated. It's not about me at all."

Ilya subsided. "Fine. What is it?"

"There's a very loud rumor going around that a player with some name recognition is going to officially come out. A current player," Harris said. "Not on our team. I'm not supposed to know anything, but communications people tend to communicate."

"Sure," Ilya said, already scrolling through a list of potential names. "Good for them."

"Is it?" Harris asked wryly.

"Yes," Ilya said. "I hope."

"Yeah, I hope so too. The thing is, I want to do some supportive posting about it and I already cleared it with the higher ups. I need someone outside the department to look at the posts. Someone who knows what kind of support someone like that would want to hear."

"You're good at this," Ilya said, stalling. How did Harris know? Did he know?

And then in a burst of calm that smacked of Galina's breathing exercises, Ilya realized it didn't matter. So what if Harris knew? Ilya wasn't a famous player anymore. He wasn't anyone, really. An assistant coach to a third-rate team. But he was, by an extreme rush job that was likely deeply unfair to other patiently waiting people, a Canadian citizen now. A boring Canadian man could be out. No one cared.

"I'm bisexual," he announced and Harris' mouth dropped open. "If that is what you are asking."

"It absolutely was not, I promise. I just thought you were a good ally who knew more about locker room things," Harris said, mouth wavering a little before resolving into a kind smile. "Thank you for telling me. I appreciate your trust."

It didn't feel any different, having Harris know. It was fine. Ilya smiled back. "You're welcome. I will read your post."

"Great! I'll send it to you tonight. No name yet, but I don't think that'll matter for the content," Harris hesitated, then plowed on. "Hey, no pressure, but if you ever did want to come out more publicly, this is probably the best team to do it with. Everyone's been very cool here and I'd help you with the publicity."

"I will think about it," Ilya said and was surprised to find he wasn't lying.

The posts Harris sent him were genuine and heartfelt. The photo he'd chosen was simple, a line of skates, with a single pair laced up with the pride laces. Ilya stared at the picture for far too long. It was lonely. Poignant.

Ilya: Its good. Picture is depressing. Two. There should be two.

Harris: You're right. Next to each other or apart?

Ilya: Together.

Maybe it didn't make sense with only one person coming out, but Ilya was grateful Harris took the note.

Whenever 'soon' was, it wasn't in the next few weeks. Lisa's birthday party arrived and Ilya went with a nicely wrapped gift and expectations of getting wasted. He hadn't taken into consideration that Lisa and Wyatt were both gigantic nerds, so instead of dancing and shots, they were playing board games with slowly drained beers.

"No, no, so like, when you have enough eggs you can do that," Wyatt explained for the fourth time.

"I think you are making up the rules," Ilya said. "I'm not sure this is a real game."

"It would be a really elaborate prank," Wyatt said, then went a little distant as if he was considering what that would entail. "Anyway, how about you just be on my team?"

"Yes," Ilya said with great relief, letting the cards fall to the table. "Thank you."

"I thought board games would be up your alley. You love to play."

"I love to win," Ilya corrected. "I do not even know how to win this game."

"Liar," Wyatt said, even as he reached over and pulled Ilya's chair closer. An impressive feat of strength. Ilya was no longer player weight, but he wasn't a lilting flower either. "If you minded losing so much, you'd leave us for a better team."

"Never," Ilya said fiercely.

"It really doesn't bother you?"

The other players were still settling in, ignoring the two of them as they set up their pieces. Lisa was helping one of them, who seemed to be having more success following things than Ilya.

"That we are going to be winners and surprise everyone?" Ilya shook his head. "No. I like it."

"What if we're not?" Wyatt asked and there was no anger or doubt it. Just sheer curiosity. "Can you live with a losing team forever?"

"Nothing is forever," Ilya said.

"Rozy, seriously. I'm afraid we'll wake up one day and you'll have left us for a newer, hotter team."

"You worry about your marriage or me?" Ilya elbowed him. "I'm not leaving."

Because two things could be true. Ilya could love to win and he could also love coaching a team that had taken him in when his world was collapsing around him. He could be competitive and loyal. He could love and suffer. Look at him go.

"What is happening?" Ilya asked a half hour and two beers later. He was slumped against Wyatt at this point. Undignified, maybe, but he'd left his dignity at the bottom of his last Corona.

"We're winning," Wyatt said.

Lisa brayed like a donkey. "In your dreams, babe. I'm about to pop off."

"This is a game about birds," Ilya said. "You have plastic eggs. What will you pop off about?"

"We're very serious about our bird game," Lisa said, wagging her finger at him. "Cuddle my husband harder. Distract him for me."

"You make this difficult," Ilya complained. "I'm comfortable, but we are on the same team. So if I stay I'm wrong, if I move, I'm wrong."

"Don't worry," Wyatt said giving Ilya a distracted pat on what he probably intended the shoulder and was instead partially Ilya's face. "I've got this, do what you need to do."

There was a card game (not the fun kind, something with special cards with cute little characters on them) being played in the other room and their laughter rolled in. There were worse places to be then held up by a friend in a room full of people having a good time at a dull roar.

"Thanks for coming," Wyatt said, much later. They had, apparently, lost at the bird game. "We might start doing this more often. It was fun, right?"

"Yes," Ilya agreed. "But simpler games, maybe."

"We can play checkers or is that too rough? Tic tac toe?"

Ilya flipped him off as he headed for the waiting car.

At therapy that week, Galina started the session as she usually did: by asking Ilya how he was doing. In the beginning, he'd always given her the same 'Fine' that he did everyone else, then let her dig up the truth. These days, he gave her the truth immediately. So it was nice to say,

"Good. I had a nice week. I played a board game. Sort of."

The Centaurs won their next three games. Ilya got to say 'good' a lot in therapy. When they played New York (a loss, but a close one), Ilya took the next day off and got on the long train ride to Boston. He surprised Svetlana at work, dressed in his sluttiest designer best and she played it up with a sparkle in her eye, taking him ostentatiously to lunch.

"I told our communications guy that I'm bi," he told her. The likelihood of anyone else speaking Russian in the restaurant was low, but it felt good to say it at a normal volume anyway. "He said if I wanted to come out, he would help."

"Really?" Svetlana smiled at him. "That's great. What are you going to do?"

"I might. Maybe. I don't know yet. Who would even care now?"

"I don't know why you think the world has forgotten you. You're not that easy to erase."

"Tell me more about the deal you're making. The one that gives you millions."

"I will let you distract me because I actually want to tell you about it, but we'll come back to this."

Ilya was great at distracting her. They didn't get back to it. He had to catch a flight out that night and she had to go be powerful and beautiful at people.

The flight was quiet, one of those times where almost everyone fell asleep. Ilya stared out the window at the darkness outside, occasionally broken up by solitary red lights blinking far below. Idly, he picked up the cross from around his neck, thumbing over the tiny raised details as familiar as the lines of his own knuckles.

He was trying. He was succeeding. For himself. For her.

The season went on. There was no hope of the playoffs, but Ilya could see a season shaping up when they would be. Wiebe seemed to share his vision, an infectious cheer radiating off him after every game regardless of outcome.

"We're cooking," he said over and over. "It's happening."

The end of the season loomed a little dark. It was the first summer that Ilya wouldn't go back to Russia. He and Galina had come up with a plan. If a dog could be said to be a plan which Ilya contended was and Galina was leery about. She was pro the dog, but anti his thinking stopping there. Too bad for her, that's as far as he could manage.

"Hey, coach!" Bood called across the ice. They were training today, but everyone was getting lazy about it. End of season-itis without a goal in sight. "What are you doing with your time off?"

"Going to an island and surrounding myself with beautiful women until I forget all your names," Ilya called back. "I have already started. You are Buddy, yes?"

Luca skated closer than he should've. "Are you really?"

"Going to forget your names? Yes. Immediately."

"No, are you going to an island? That sounds nice."

"No," Ilya shrugged. "I am getting a dog."

"Do you already have on picked out?" Luca asked, his attempts to pretend to follow instruction forgotten.

"No, I am considering."

"You're going to get one from a shelter, right?"

"Get what from a shelter?" Bood called out.

"Are we not practicing?" Ilya asked them.

"We're taking a break! Tell us about the dog!"

"There is no dog yet!"

That wasn't enough to deter them and Ilya found himself surrounded by a half dozen full grown men, who wanted puppy details for a puppy that didn't exist.

"Do I want to know?" Wiebe asked, emerging from whatever warren of meetings he'd been trapped in that morning.

"Rozy is getting a dog!"

"What kind?" Wiebe asked and there went his chances of escape.

That kind of hostage situation was why Ilya found himself letting Luca climb into his passanger seat three days after their last game. Instead of being politely hung over and miserable like a normal rookie, Luca was brimming with well-caffeinated energy and excitement.

"Thanks for taking me along!" he chimed. "I know I can't get a dog right now, but I had them all the time growing up and I miss them."

"I need an expert," Ilya said. "So today, you are the expert."

They drove out to the Dover household which was so picturesque and pleasant that it made Ilya borderline angry. Or it did until Harris introduced him to the dog that he'd found on the side of the road.

Then all Ilya could see was her. He was vaguely aware of Luca talking at him and the dog. Harris was also making conversation, words flying over Ilya's head. Maybe Ilya was even responding since no one was calling him on being distracted.

But everything was with the lovely dog who immediately wanted to sniff him all over and lick his face and accept his eager ear scritches. Eventually, Ilya had to acknowledge the humans around him with a slightly more plugged in attention and he found himself eating dinner with Harris' very nice family.

"She fell right into your lap," Luca grinned at him. "You should name her something like 'Lucky'."

"No," Ilya pulled a face. "Anya. Her name is Anya."

"You are definitely the guy that gives his animals human names," Harris said. "She does kind of look like an Anya."

"Of course she does."

Luca liked the Drovers so much that he might have moved in if Ilya hadn't extricated them after dinner. The rookie needed more friends.

"Hey, before you go," Harris trailed them out to the car. "Remember that post for our potential gay guy?"

It had been months ago now, but Ilya remembered. He figured whoever it was had backed out. Understandably. "Yes."

"I think it might go up this week," Harris said. "I guess they were waiting for their season to end. Or maybe they want to do it before playoffs. The word is that it's soon, anyway."

"Thank you," Ilya's concentration was on Anya. She was his job this summer, not whatever some random guy was doing. "I like to know."

"Me too."

The first week with Anya was perfect. She had to adjust, of course, and Ilya had to adjust too. She didn't want to wait for him to roll out of bed. Bathroom times were mandatory and early. It wasn't so bad though. The backyard was fenced in, but he quickly found himself taking her for walks more often than letting her out.

They moved well together and when he risked running a little, she kept up with him. He wouldn't force her on his entire 10k treks, but it was nice to jog a little with a companion. At night, she got into bed and he let her, burying his face in her fur. Just the sound of her breathing unwound the knots in his head.

Ilya: [Photo of Anya curled up at in her plush doggy bed] My new favorite girl.

Svetlana: I give up without a fight, she is very sweet.

The bubble of doggy paradise burst on Friday night. Ilya had already lost track of the days a little, only kept at all on schedule by phone reminders. He'd gone to physio this morning, the endless rounds of strengthening and toning starting to feel useless. Three years on, things were what they were.

He took Anya on a long walk in the afternoon. Long enough that she fell into a deep sleep as soon as they came home, snoring a little. Adorable. He took a video and posted it to his Instagram which at this point was a wall of dog photos. Fine. Who cared? It was the least controversial thing he'd ever posted.

Boring Canadian man has dog. Big news.

It was great not being big news. Mostly. Sort of. A little.

He ate dinner, then stretched out on the couch. Scrolling through feeds took a little time and then he was setting the phone aside to try to read a book again. Reading in Russian was still easier, but it made him a queasy disgusted kind of homesick now. Reading in English had the advantage of giving him new vocabulary words to spring on his unsuspecting colleagues.

He made it a few chapters in before his phone went ballistic. Notifications buzzed in from every direction. It made every sound it knew how to make and maybe a few more before he fumbled it off the table. He couldn't take anything in except a text from Harris.

Harris: Watch this immediately. We're putting up our post now. You may get some people reaching out to you for a response for old times sake. I'd recommend not responding.

The link was to a video that started playing as soon as it opened.

There was a neutral blue backdrop and a white couch. A nowhere kind of set. Sitting on the couch was Shane fucking Hollander. Someone had helped him pick out grown up clothes for this moment, a striped button down shirt with a single button open at the neck and the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows. Calculated to be both casual and formal. His hair had gotten a little longer than Ilya remembered it. It swept becomingly over his forehead.

"Hi," Hollander said and if there was a prepared statement, he must've memorized it. There was nothing in his hands, no indicator of a teleprompter. "I've spent a long time thinking about this moment and how it should go. I used to think it would be a nightmare. Something sudden that I would have to do.

"Instead, I get to choose to do it. I'm grateful for that."

The reality of what he was watching caught up with Ilya all at once. He stuffed the heel of his hand between his teeth, a scream mounting there. Now? Like this? At the height of his career? Why? . Ilya's stomach churned ominously.

"I love hockey. There isn't much I wouldn't do to keep playing and winning for all the people that have cheered me on over the years. It's my life and I look forward to many more seasons playing."

Hollander paused to inhale. A small thing. He shifted a little. The small movement changed the lighting. Now, Ilya could see every one of his freckles.

"But I can't keep pretending either. I'm gay. I've always been gay. For three Stanley Cups and all the playoffs. Every award, every medal was won by a gay man," Hollander said the last with a defiance that shot straight through the camera. "I gained a lot by keeping that secret. But I think a lot about what I've lost.

"I've lost some self-respect. I've lost the feeling of freedom. Mostly though I think about the people," Hollander's voice caught. Not a lot. Not even noticeable to most, Ilya would guess, "that I've lost. I'm done with that. I'm done losing. I much prefer winning. I consider today a win."

And then, the little fucker did it all over again in French like it was a fucking airport announcement.

How many times had Hollander taped that so it came out smooth? Had his mother stood behind the camera, making phone calls as it went on, ensuring that all the sponsors were warned?

Why now?

Why ever?

Ilya watched the video again. And again.

The way Hollander looked straight down the barrel of the camera was getting into his head. It was like he was looking right at Ilya.

"I hate you," Ilya told his earnest face. "Every day. Every fucking night, I hate you."

Anya roused, disturbed by his vehemence and padded over. He leaned down to kiss her furry head which at least made sense. Hollander's voice kept playing, looping now whether in reality or just in Ilya's head.

The people he'd lost.

As if he had accidently left Ilya behind in the car or dropped him between the couch cushions. Left behind. Lost. As if Ilya wasn't two hours away from him right now with the same phone number.

Ilya's phone rang, silencing Hollander at last. Instead of an unknown number getting it into their head to get the old rival's take on things, it was Wiebe. Who was certainly supposed to be on vacation with his nice wife and nice children right now.

"What's wrong?" Ilya demanded.

"That depends on if you think good news is wrong," Wiebe said.

"What news?"

"Well, brace yourself," Wiebe said. "Because I didn't believe it either. It's not a done deal, but it's been in the work for months, so it seems likely. Unless the Metros do some serious mea culpas."

"What is- never mind. Tell me," Ilya demanded.

"You saw the coming out video?"

"Yes," Ilya closed his eyes.

"Good. I was waiting for that so I could tell you. There were some serious NDAs around all this. Turns out Hollander talked to the Metro leadership about it months ago. He wanted to do a big formal thing and they said no. It's been a bloodbath for him over there. So he gave them an ultimatum: let him come out formally in the team jersey or he was going to leave at the end of the season when he became a free agent."

"No," Ilya said reflexively. "There is no Metros without Hollander. He wins their games."

"Yeah, tell that to them," Wiebe said, elation in his voice. At the downfall of the Metros? At Hollander's pain? Doubtful. Not his style. "So get this. Hollander's agent doesn't shop around. There's no fishing. They came straight to us."

The place Ilya went to in his mind was quiet. It was the place that he had hid when his mother died, the place he went every time his father and his brother listed his many flaws, the place he'd went to when he'd first been injured and the doctors kept trying to tell him what was wrong.

"Rozanov? Rozy?" Wiebe wheedled. "You still with me?"

"Yes," he said woodenly. "So. What you're telling me is that we're getting the best player in the NHL."

"You don't sound thrilled about it," Wiebe said gently. "It's why I was asking you about him a few months ago. I didn't know the reason back then, but it seemed likely. Were you lying to me? Because if you can't work with him than I don't want him."

"No," Ilya frowned. "That is stupid. Having him is a bigger advantage than having me."

"Factually incorrect. I need you Roz. The boys have each other, but you and me, we're a team too, aren't we?"

Ilya pressed his shaking right hand over his eyes. It was too much. He couldn't stay in the cool silence of his head. That space had shrunk since he started therapy as Galina showed him the prison cell it was instead of a refuge.

"Hollander should come," Ilya said, proud of how steady it came out. "He is an idiot for it, but we can use him."

"We were already getting better," Wiebe corrected. "He's right to want to get into it with us now. Think about the story. It'll be something."

"Yes," Ilya said numbly. "It will."

"All right, I'll leave you to your vacation. Give that pup of yours an ear scratch for me. She's really cute. I bet everyone will be thrilled if you bring her to practices, you know.'

"Yes, they should be. It would be a big honor for them," Ilya said. At least being an asshole was a reflex for him by now. No higher thinking required.

"It would. Good night, Roz. Be easy on yourself."

"Good night."

Ilya hung up and sank slowly off the couch onto the floor. Anya clamored into his lap to lick his face. He pet her absently, the warmth of her trusting body keeping him grounded.

The careful cadence of Hollander's voice had started again. The video really was looping, starting over again now that the call had ended.

Hollander was out. Hollander was leaving the best team at the height of his career. Hollander was coming to Ottawa.

They hadn't seen each other in person in two and a half years. Not since Ilya had made the hideous mistake of calling him 'Shane' and asking him to sleep over a single night.

A month later, Ilya had been in the hospital, the All Stars game that he'd been looking forward to suddenly impossible. As soon as he was getting through the day without pain killers, he got the call that his father had died. At some point in that haze, Hollander had sent some weak text about being sorry for Ilya's loss. It was unclear if he meant Ilya's father or hockey or both. Ilya had never responded. What would the point have been?

Two and a half years of silence and now the ghost of Fuck Ups Past were finally coming back to haunt him.

At least the Centaurs might win a few more games.

Fuck Ilya's entire fucking life.

Chapter 2: hot time, summer in the city

The timing of Anya's arrival in Ilya's life couldn't have been more perfect. Her tiny doggy needs were all that kept Ilya moving for a few days. Getting up was a necessity because she needed to walk. When he fed her, he fed himself since he was standing in the kitchen anyway. When his reminders went off, he followed them so she would stop giving him curious looks.

"I love you," he told her, several times a day without shame.

He spoke to her in Russian mostly, English slipping in now and again. Anya didn't seem to mind. She understood her name and was obeying 'sit' in both languages. They were going to have to work on the rest.

When he called Galina's office, her assistant sounded excited when she confirmed that Ilya could bring Anya with him to his appointment.

"She's gorgeous," Galina said immediately. "You seem happy with her."

"Yes," Ilya said as Anya investigated the office, then Galina herself. Galina let her sniff her hands then gave her one or two pats, before shooing her towards Ilya. "I like her very much."

"But its been a hard week?" Galina guessed.

"You saw. Everyone saw it," Ilya ground out. "I know I never said his name, but I didn't make it hard to guess."

"Your 'sometimes' man?" She asked anyway.

"My sometimes man," Ilya agreed with a sigh. "Who 'lost' me, apparently."

"You don't agree?"

"Lost is death. Lost is…items. It's not running out and never coming back," Ilya said bitterly. "But why should he have come back? We were never anything. Just sex."

"What are you feeling right now?"

"Angry," Ilya said immediately, then shook his head. "No. A little. But mostly sad. I can even be a little happy for him. It's good that he's out. It's good that- shit. That's the other thing."

"What is?" she asked.

It was under NDAs though Ilya hadn't signed anything. Wiebe had trusted him. But Ilya had told Galina far more exposing things than hockey gossip and she had kept to her oath of silence.

"Hollander is joining the Centaurs."

Galina made a very tiny strangled noise. He hadn't gotten that kind of genuine surprise out of her in their entire time together and Ilya had told her some pretty provocative things.

"Why?" she asked as if she couldn't help herself.

"He wanted to come out with the Metros jersey on and they were being assholes about it, apparently. Now he's a free agent and he didn't even ask about any other team. He's coming to us."

Galina nodded slowly. "And why do you think he's doing that?"

"You want hockey gossip?" Ilya teased.

"No, I want to know what you think," she said gently.

"I don't know what to think," he said, reaching down to pet Anya. "He could go anywhere."

"Do you think it means something that he's coming to you then?"

"Not to me. To the team."

She let that hang there. Let him sit with it, before saying, "All right. So what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. I will coach him which will be weird," understatement of the century, "and it will be fine. We are both professionals and that's all we we will be. We are nothing to each other now. Only memories."

"Memories can be powerful, you know that. Would it be helpful to meet him ahead of time?"

"No!" Ilya said and Anya startled under his hands. He soothed her apologetically. "No, it will be easier to make it work if it stays at work."

They went around in circles. That happened sometimes. Not every session was divine revelation, but at least Ilya got to talk about it with someone. Galina encouraged him to tell someone else about Hollander. Any one that he trusted. He refused to agree, but of course the thought nagged him long after he left the office.

"You don't care, do you?" Ilya said to Anya. He had never talked to himself before, but this didn't count. Anya was listening. "I can tell you."

So he told her. It helped, a little. Far more than his attempts at 'journaling' as Galina called it which left him endlessly frustrated and his house full of torn up bits of paper. But he knew who he really wanted to tell.

Ilya: You should come up this summer.

Svetlana: I'm leaving tomorrow, but I'll change my return flight to land in Ottawa.

Right. Some people could still go home. Ilya wouldn't call her when she was there. While he had left quietly, he knew his change in citizenship had been noted by the people that mattered. Tarnishing her reputation any further with his own was unacceptable.

Ilya: Good. Have a safe trip.

Svetlana: Send me a list, I'll bring you back treats.

Could she bring him back a sense of peace? That would be nice. Instead, he asked for the peach jelly candies he couldn't find an equivalent of, and vodka, of course.

While his phone was still in his hand, a text from Wyatt arrived.

Wyatt: We're going to another board game night this weekend. Last minute decision. Are you in?

Ilya: Yes

Wyatt: Great! A lot of people are out of town, anyone else we should invite?

It was a very odd mix with Lisa's doctor friends, Harris, Luca and Ilya, but they made do. Apparently Wyatt and Lisa had learned from last time and adjusted their expectations to the kind of games that could be quickly taught. The card game Ilya had glanced from the other night came out and it was as silly as he expected, but it was fun as everyone got increasingly competitive over tacos and cats. The slapping element quickly got out of hand until Luca swatted Ilya's left hand so hard it stung.

"Sorry, coach!" he squeaked, flushing such a bright red that Ilya doubled over in laughter.

"Where is this fire on the ice?" Ilya teased him when he stopped wheezing. "Should we paint tacos on their helmets?"

"He didn't even win," Harris tsked as Lisa took her spoils.

"It's all right, kiddo," Wyatt said, giving Luca a consoling pat on the shoulder. "You've joined the legions of people that have taken a crack at Rozy and lost."

"That would be a good compilation video," Harris mused. "Would you be okay with that? Considering everything?"

Ilya tapped his own card pile while he weighed that. He had lost in the end, he supposed, the unspoken conclusion to that kind of clip show. But he had a lot of very good shots before that.

"Yes," he decided. "Do this, I want to see it."

"Done," Harris grinned. "That'll be good off season stuff. I'll do something for Wiebe too. Spotlight our coaches' careers."

Wyatt glanced at Ilya with the an 'uh oh' expression. Ilya grimaced in return.

"What?" Harris asked, glancing between them.

"Wiebe is a great coach," Luca said, loyally.

"Agreed," Wyatt said. "But as a player, he was pretty standard. If you put those clip shows back to back, it won't look good."

"You're underestimating me," Harris said, apparently unbothered. "I'll blow your minds, just wait and see."

They ate a disquieting amount of chicken wings and than Wyatt got it into his head to get a fire going in the pit he had outside. Ilya 'helped', mostly by drinking a beer while Wyatt explained the intricacies of dried wood. It was better than being inside being taught the rules of something new.

And maybe it made Ilya almost unbearably fond. He suddenly wanted to tell Wyatt everything. He knew Wyatt's sister was gay and had a girlfriend, who Wyatt and Lisa adored. It would be fine to tell him. Except for the who. It would be fucked up to put that burden on Wyatt. 'Hey your new teammate and I used to fuck' had to be something like workplace harassment anyway.

Oh. Shit. Suddenly, Ilya knew exactly who he did have to tell. That was going to be a horrifying conversation.

"Fires always hypnotize me too," Wyatt said, the flames casting shadows over him.

Ilya stopped lurking and sat down in the chair next to him. It was a little nice to sit close to the fire. The evening was cool and Ilya had dressed to be inside.

"I like them in fireplaces better."

"City kid," Wyatt laughed and nudged him with his elbow. "Me too, honestly, but I like this part. My dad used to try to take me camping."

"Out in the woods?" Ilya pulled a face. "What did you do wrong?"

Wyatt laughed harder.

Bolstered by a little camaraderie, Ilya dug himself out of the hole he'd sunk into. He started working out again, finding his feet in his schedule and after giving up on another book, he attempted some of Galina's other suggestions. The crafts seemed too much like physio for him to be relaxing and Sudoku or crosswords too much like homework. Reading was fine in small doses. He could only cook so much.

Before he could uncover a secret talent in the endless listed suggestions on the internet, he had to start going back in to work. Coaches had a different schedule as it turned out. Last summer, it had been a saving grace, a way to cut his last summer in Russia short. This year, he was even more grateful. With permission, Anya went back with him, just as happy to sleep in her bed in his office as at home apparently.

"Knock knock," Weibe said at Ilya's open door. What a dork. It unraveled a layer of Ilya's tension.

"How was vacation?"

"Relaxing," Weibe said, coming in and closing the door behind him. "It's the first time we skipped going with Dottie's family to the cottage and actually traveled with the kids. We were worried about breaking tradition, but honestly, it was a relief to do our own thing. I think my youngest wants to move permanently to the beach now."

"I understand. I wanted this too, the first time I saw the ocean" Ilya said. "Then I found sand everywhere for weeks."

"I hear you, we're still knocking it out of our luggage," Wiebe settled into the chair that the players usually used on the rare occasion they came in. "How about you? Had a good few weeks?"

"Yes," Ilya said automatically. "Fine. Anya knows 'sit', 'stay', and 'lay down' now."

"Smart girl."

"I need to tell you something that is private, but important," Ilya said, unwilling to small talk around it any longer.

"I'm listening."

"It's about Hollander."

"Ah," Wiebe nodded, "good. I had a feeling there was something and it's better if it's out in the open. So to speak."

Ilya sighed. "It is private and his business too. I wouldn't say if I didn't think I needed to."

"It stays between us."

There was nothing Ilya could do, but trust that that was true. "Before the injury, Hollander and me. It was not romantic, but we had an agreement. We would meet up when we were in the same place. "

He watched the words come to rest with Wiebe. Ilya wondered if he would have to spell it out further, but Wiebe nodded in understanding.

"It happens," Wiebe said. "What about since you were injured?"

"Nothing. We haven't seen each other. Or talked. It's fine."

"Is it?" Wiebe asked wryly. "All right. That's your business. As far as I'm concerned as long as you keep it professional here, then it's fine. Hockey is a small world, we're all bound to bounce into each other eventually."

"That's it?" Ilya asked.

"That's it. Do you think you're the only one who had an affair with another player?"

Ilya looked at Wiebe with new eyes. There was something placidly magnetic about him with his full shock of dark hair and the warmth of his eyes that Ilya had liked from the very first time they'd met. The rumor was that he'd been difficult to manage when he played which was hard for Ilya to imagine. It wasn't hard to imagine some other hot young guy noticing him and following him into a hotel room.

"You too?" Ilya asked in a hush.

Wiebe gave him a half-smile. "Another story for another time. Point is, it shouldn't be remarkable. You'll be coaching your ex. It's not ideal, but if you were in any other industry, it wouldn't be news."

"He won't need much coaching," Ilya said. "He knows everything about hockey."

"Then he knows that he can still learn things," Wiebe said firmly. "Do you want me to say anything to him? Hollander? About keeping it professional." 

"No," Ilya said. "He is the most professional anyway. Nothing needs to be said. Please." 

"Roz-"

"Ilya," he corrected. This was not a discussion of last names, he decided. 

"Ilya," Wiebe said and then with half-smile. "Bren. Should be Bran, but I'm not a cereal. Not out there, but between the two of us, yeah?" 

"Yes. Same," Ilya said. "Thank you, Bren." 

"No need. C'mon. This is a lot for a first morning back. How about we get something hot to drink and wander around?" 

Bren liked a walking meeting. Ilya had come to appreciate them too. Their conversation shifted to the far more interesting nuances of tactics and gossip about other teams. They circled the arena, Anya's claws clicking along beside Ilya as if she were adding to the conversation. 

"Do you miss it?" Ilya asked as they got close to the ice.

There were a few figure skaters using the ice, working with individual coaches. Future Olympians maybe. 

"I don't have to," Bren said. "There's a regular pick up game at the rink near my house. Drop in kind of thing for people that work too many hours to get into the amateur league. Whenever I miss it too much I knock around with them." 

"They don't care that you used to be professional?" 

"Nah. Doubt anyone recognizes me, but even if they did, we're all just there to have fun. Some of the regulars are pretty good. We get some women too. You could come too, if you wanted." 

"I think they would recognize me," Ilya said wryly. 

"Maybe. Who cares?" 

"They will expect me to be good." 

"So? Fuck 'em. It's not serious." 

"I don't know if I can do not serious," he admitted. 

"Won't know unless you try." 

Which was annoyingly true.

After that, they had to give into the mountains of email. There were many publicity requests from people trying to circumnavigate Ilya's agent and publisher as well as Harris. Ilya happily forwarded them on to the correct parties without a response. 

"They are going to ask," Harris said, appearing in Ilya's doorway. Hollander's arrival was now more of an open secret in the administration though it hadn't yet trickled down to the players.  "Wiebe will field most of it, obviously, but the press are going to want a statement from you once it's official. They'll want to ambush you so having something prepared is good." 

"I am excited to work with one of the best players in the league," Ilya said flatly. "I always respected him as a fellow competitor and look forward to starting a new chapter in our professional relationship. " 

"Yeah, okay, I get it, you've done this a few times," Harris laughed. "Can you sound like you believe it when you say it?" 

"Yes," Ilya sighed as if very put upon. "I am so excited. Mind blown." 

"And here was me thinking that they dramatized all that rivalry stuff. You guys really didn't get along?" 

Ilya could poison the well against Hollander before he ever walked in the door, he realized. The people here already knew Ilya and liked him. They would believe him if said Hollander was an asshole. It was a cold comfort. Not Ilya's style.

"We did, sometimes. I liked him. We haven't seen each other in a long time. It's fine," he said. "Not enough to get excited." 

"Oookay." Harris gave him an evaluating look. "Permission to be excited? Because he's big news." 

"Yes, yes," Ilya said, summoning a smile. "You will get all the likes and comments that you could want." 

"The food of my people," Harris winked at him. "Speaking of, I was going to get a gyro for lunch. Want one?" 

It was so ordinary for everyone else. Exciting, but ordinary. Ilya went to lunch with Harris and they didn't even talk about Hollander again. Dogs were a boundless shared interest after all and there was always the team to discuss. 

"They're saying we're getting Troy Barrett too," Harris said.  

"I know nothing," Ilya said. 

"Fine," Harris sniffed. "But if we were getting him, what do you think of him?" 

"A good asset for the team." 

"Rumor is he's a bully." 

"Yes? Then I will bully him back. If we were getting him. Which I do not know." 

"You're not a bully." 

"Not unless I need to be," Ilya said. 

"Yikes," Harris said, but he was grinning. "I'd say I didn't believe it, but I've been working on that compilation. I think I might highlight some of your best chirps. You're funny as hell. I could do one on just all the ways you called Scott Hunter old." 

"Fossil," Ilya said with some satisfaction. He had learned that one just for Scott. "But do not, please. Don't tell, but I like him. And he is still on the ice and I am not." 

"Aw, he seems like a good guy. Did you see he and Kip got engaged?" 

"Yes, my feeds keep showing me the pictures like I will forget."

"Exactly," Harris sighed. "Like I'm so happy for them, but also I have never felt more single in my entire life."

"If I get invited to the wedding, you will be my guest," Ilya decided. "And we will both promise to leave with someone else."

"What?" Harris' eyes went wide and then he cackled. "You want to take me to the gay wedding of the year to meet other people?"

"Yes," Ilya said earnestly. "If I get invited. I like Scott, he maybe doesn't like me back so much. Because of all the comments and the being much better than him for so long."

"Amazing. I accept your tentative proposal."

Naturally, Hollander's arrival had to be done by special announcement with cameras and everyone in attendance. Ilya's formal marching orders arrived via email and his informal ones via his publicist that included 'wear a suit and tie' and 'be pleasant'.

"I am pleasant when pleasant is earned," he groused to Anya.

He was laying on the floor of his bedroom, suit laid out on the bed. She licked his face in consolation. It helpd a little.

At least it was Bren who would be standing beside Hollander in the photographs and do all the formal smile and nodding with the GM. Especially because Ilya arrived almost too late intentionally. An old move, but still a useful one.

Hollander was already in front of the cameras when Ilya eased in to frame, behind him and out of sight. Ilya didn't have to look him in the eye or even see his face. Though even from behind, Ilya could tell the suit had been expertly tailored. The shirt from the coming out video wasn't an aberration apparently. Someone had started dressing him. A professional stylist, maybe? Poorly-advised googling had revealed that Hollander hadn't been romantically linked to anyone since Rose Landry.

The initial speculation about those two had been a brutal slap to Ilya's ego at the time. Rejected and then for his replacement to be the epitome of female desirability? But now, looking back over it, Ilya wasn't nearly as convinced by the handful of papped photos and single game attendance. More detached, he could see the places the media had knit together a story from very little evidence. Neither of them had ever given a statement. There had not even been a single 'caught canoodling' reference, a tabloid favorite.

So someone else had chosen the sharp suit that showed off Hollander to best effect even under the intense lighting.

Ilya tried to blend in with the other officials. Nothing to see here. He kept his face neutral, but eyebrows slightly lifted so he didn't give off murderous accidentally, a trick he'd learned early in his career from his first publicist. It also kept him from nodding off during the boring formal speeches.

When the last of the hands had been shaken, it was time for the press gauntlet that squeezed them through one by one, looking for any extra juice in the story. Hollander was pulled through first and Ilya 'accidentally' moved himself further down the line, so he was nearly last.

"Rozanov! What do you think about your team taking on your former rival?"

"My job is very different now. I am happy for my team and to get a chance to work with him," Ilya said and just for Harris, he smiled about it.

They ask him the same question fifteen different ways, but that's fine. Ilya could do this all day now. No one was asking him if he'd sucked Hollander's dick, just if he could put up with him. Easy.

"Good work," Harris whispered as Ilya finally escaped into the reception. "I wanted to prove myself as a good future wedding date so I got a scoop on the appetizers and made you a plate before they disappeared."

"You are a good hunter," Ilya said approvingly as Harris produced a plate laden with goodies.

The reception was small, despite all the interest around it. Hollander's move had been ballsy and public and most people were too cowardly to share that spotlight. Both of Hollander's parents were there, unsurprisingly. Hollander himself was buttonholed by officials in the corner, almost invisible behind the wall of boring suits.

"Whew, that was long," Bren appeared at Ilya's elbow. "They wiped out catering already. How'd you even get all that?"

"Harris made me a plate because I was nice," Ilya said. "You can share."

"You don't know if I was nice," Bren laughed.

"Unlike Harris, I do not give a shit if you were."

They shared a few mini quiches before Bren took a deep breath and waded out again to glad hand around. Reluctantly, Ilya did the same. He was better with the press than with the administrative types, but he knew part of why they had hired him was to have his face at things like this. So he shook hands and said meaningless polite things until he wanted to scream.

And then, because no one could actually keep him there, he left. All without having to say so much as a 'hello' to Hollander. Perfect execution, Rozanov, no notes.

Ilya spent most of the next week sitting next to Bren to interview a potential second assistant coach. They really needed someone to do defense or at least manage the tape reviews. The GM sat in on every interview, but per usual, he seemed happy to defer to Bren which was crazy considering how little experience he had.

"Sometimes a distracted GM is the best GM," Bren told Ilya over lunch between interviews. "Let's be thankful we get a say."

"You haven't liked any of them," Ilya pointed out.

"I like them just fine," Bren said. "But I want someone who will commit to this team. Not someone who sees us as a stepping stone to a better place next season. I don't expect a blood oath, but a little time would be good."

"You found me," Ilya said. "We will find someone else."

"That was luck," Bren said.

"You hunted me down. You came to Boston and pulled favors. What kind of luck is that?" Ilya scoffed.

"I was lucky you said yes," Bren shrugged. "Let's look at the next resume."

They didn't have any luck with that pool, but now that Ilya had a sense of what Bren wanted, he had a feeling they wouldn't find them in any more a traditional way than Bren had gotten Ilya.

Svetlana landed before Ilya could get thoroughly sick of business. She was too jetlagged to do more than eat, sleep and watch things for the first day or so, but as soon as she was engaged again, he took her out shopping. They picked outrageous things for each other, trying on everything and leaving with far far less. She let him pick up a tennis bracelet for her birthday, all opals and rubies.

She was wearing it in her pajamas that night, the glistening of the stones making her elegant even in plaid boxers and a tank top.

"I want to tell you something," Ilya said before she could start looking for something else that he just had to watch.

"Oh, serious," she set down the remote. "What is it?"

"Do you remember Jane?"

"Elusive Jane! Yes, how could I forget?" Svetlana crossed her legs, facing him. "You texted him a lot."

"You knew?"

"Why else would you hide 'Jane' so well? You didn't care who knew about the women."

"Yes. Well. I want to tell you who he is and you will understand why I never said."

She frowned. "Why now? You haven't talked about him in years."

"Because it was Hollander," he said. It was easier the second time around.

The sound Svetlana made could've broken glass. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

"No," he groaned. "I swear."

"Oh my god…oh my god. OH MY GOD!" She screeched again. "Ilyusha!"

"I know, but it's over. It's been over for a long time. But I haven't seen him since the last time we fucked."

"When was that?" she asked, her surprise draining away to leave behind her insatiable curiosity.

"Six weeks before," he gestured at his right arm. "I made a mistake and he left and that was it."

"Oh shit," she breathed out. "Did you stop it or did he?"

"He did," Ilya said. "But it was never anything. Sex. Hiding. A few texts."

"If that was all it is, you wouldn't be telling me," she decided. "It wouldn't matter who he was, if it meant nothing, it would already be forgotten."

Emotional intimacy was a trap and he was stuck in it now.

"I really liked him," Ilya admitted around a lump in his throat. "It was all so impossible though. I couldn't afford to like him."

"That never stops us though, does it?"

"No," he agreed. "He left me and never said a fucking word. And now he has come out and he's coming to my team and I have to coach him. Be professional."

"Why the fuck is he doing this?" She asked, angry now on his behalf.

"He came out. Where was he going to go? If his team was being shitty about it, which they probably were, where was it safe to go? Maybe New York with Hunter there, but they're capped. If he asked around, people would tell him about us. Our locker room is good. Safe. No one makes comments and there are many queer people on the staff."

"That is a good reason," Svetlana grumbled. "I guess. But I don't like it."

"Me either," Ilya slumped back against the back of the couch. "But he's professional. We will play nice. It was a long time ago. I don't even care any more."

She leaned in and kissed his temple. "Liar. But maybe if you say it enough times, you can make it true."

"I am trying," he agreed, miserably.

"He is very hot," she said after a beat. "I understand the appeal."

"He's hotter now," Ilya complained. "Longer hair, these new clothes. Meanwhile, I am turning into a stick figure."

"You're still a big slab of man meat," Svetlana snorted. "You could pick up anyone you wanted, any time. Do you want me to fuck you right now and prove it?"

Ilya considered that then nodded. "If you wouldn't mind."

"It's a terrible burden, but I think I can manage."

So the summer went by with Svetlana, board game nights, training Anya and coach interviews that went nowhere. Eventually, Ilya did a little press, answering a few questions here and there from people his publicist vetted. At work, Ilya had lunch with Harris or Bren far more often than he did alone.

And maybe, sometimes, when everyone else had gone home and the rink was quiet, Ilya would put on the skates he kept hidden in his office and get on the ice. During the season, he'd often skate out for a few minutes, getting close for skill drills and generally being as present as he could. He needed to stay at least a little in shape for that.

Ilya didn't need to go whipping around like he was trying to outrun the devil. Then again, he didn't need to do a lot of things. It wasn't hockey, but it was clean and crisp, taking turns with razor precision. It soothed a little of the terrible itch inside him.

Despite the trickle slowness of the off-season, it still seemed to end abruptly. All at once, Ilya and Bren were pouring over schedules and planning rosters for the exhibition games. They had Hollander and Barrett coming in, of course, but there were spots for two rookies that could get some time in. Luca would be pleased. Ilya remembered the first rookies that came after him in Boston and how it had felt to show someone else the ropes. Like the first taste of being captain.

Speaking of.

"You are keeping Bood captain?" Ilya checked.

"Yes," Bren said absently, scribbling down some incomprehensible note. "Hollander can make his case this season if he wants, but the boys are used to Bood and he's a good leader. Should we throw him the alternate title?"

"If someone had done that to me, I would have spat on it," Ilya said. "He will want to earn it."

"All right then," Bren said. "Wyatt can keep it. He's a steady force."

Before training camp started, Ilya crammed in a last therapy visit. The emptiness of the summer was about to become the frenetic go-go of the season. Galina picked up his mood and got down to business. They went over ways to deal with stress, reminders about support systems, and scheduled their next few appointments around his obligations.

Ilya vetted every dog facility in the area and found an acceptable dog hotel for Anya to stay in for travel days. It wasn't ideal, but he wasn't going to put her through the stress of so many flights. At least during training, he'd be close enough to come home to her.

"Wish me luck," he said to her as the first day of training camp arrived at last.

She gave him a sleep look, worn out from the long run he'd put her through that morning It hadn't done much to shave the edge off his nerves. Too bad, the day wouldn't wait for him.

As soon as he stepped into the locker room, greetings rained in from all sides.

"Coach!" Luca ran at him and Ilya almost decked him before he realized what Luca was angling for. Immediately giving up any credibility as a hard ass in front of the new guys, Ilya let Luca hug him. "Sorry!"

"Why?" Ilya rolled his eyes and gave him a few back pats, before shoving him gently off "I am very huggable. Right?"

"Oh yeah," Wyatt threw an arm around his shoulders. "I say that all the time."

After that, it was apparently open season and Ilya got rough embraces from most of the returning team members. No one was in their gear yet, so he was mostly just menaced by too much body spray.

"I didn't get that kind of greeting," Bren said mildly. He was already posted up by the doors leading back to their offices, clipboard in hand. "What's Rozy got that I don't?"

"It's the curls, coach," Bood said. "They're good luck."

"Don't touch my fucking hair," Ilya warned. "Understood?"

"Yes, coach!" They chorused.

Barrett was there already, standing by his locker, watching the rest of them warily as he dressed. Hollander hadn't arrived yet, but that wasn't surprising. The actual start time for training was an hour out. Ilya would bet good money that the team group chat was the reason for the early arrival, eager to gel back together after weeks spent apart. A chat that Hollander wasn't in yet. The fact that Barrett was here spoke to dedication or fear or both.

"We've got a batch of hopefuls with us today," Bren said, getting their attention. "We'll run some drills with them, start seeing who's rising to the top. I'll want some of you to lead the drills so Rozy and I can get a bigger picture view."

"Can we do it same as last year?" Luca asked and Ilya should've known. Fuck. "I mean, it was just really cool as one of the new guys to see that and I think it'd be nice again this year."

"Coach Rozanov?" Bren was clearly trying not to smile. Asshole.

"Yes?" Ilya asked mildly.

"I believe Haas is asking if you'll start us off again this year. Your choice."

"You say 'my choice'," Ilya mimicked. "But they are all looking at me like sad puppies."

"Please?" Wyatt made his eyes bigger somehow. He looked sick.

"Fine," Ilya allowed. "Once a year is enough to remind you all that I could still beat you if I wanted."

A cheer went up, startling Barrett visibly. Someone else would have to read him in. Ilya had things to do before they got started.

"You don't have to," Bren reminded him as they beat feet back into their offices away from the congenial locker room. "You know two years in a row makes it a tradition and then you're locked in for life."

"It's fine. I don't mind being a tradition."

There were warm ups first, the fleet of new hopeful players all doing a little too much. Still, Ilya could see some interesting potential. He was going through their names on his tablet, , making notes and it struck him all over again that he was on this side of the boards now. Being a coach wasn't only his safe landing. He was good at this.

"What are you thinking?" Bren leaned in. "Because I like that Yolen kid. He's quick. Not just on his skates. You can see the gears grinding."

"I like him too," Ilya said. "But it's only warm ups."

"Too true. All right, you want to lace up, get this party started?"

"Yes, yes."

Bren was on the move giving his opening speeches. Ilya sat down and took off his shoes, pulling the skates on carefully. It was, in all honesty, not a great morning for this. He had slept on his right arm and had already started paying for it before he arrived. The anticipation and nerves weren't helping. He managed to get his left skate tied, but when he bent to the right one, he already knew it was a lost cause. The tremble was bad, far too shaky to get a grip on the lace, let alone the strength to tie it even with his left doing most of the work.

If he waited long enough, Bren would come back and Ilya could ask him to do it. That would be mildly embarrassing, but relatively fine. Unless Bren just called for him from the ice. Then Ilya would have to fake something to get his attention.

Worrying about it was making it worse. Galina would tell him to close his eyes, so he did. He used his left hand to cover them for good measure, blocking out input. Circle breathing. 1,2 in. 3,4 hold. 5,6 out. 1, 2 in, 3, 4, hold, 5,6… his laces were going tight. What?

Ilya dropped his hand and opened his eyes.

Kneeling at his feet was Shane fucking Hollander. With the diligence and speed of long practice, Hollander finished tying Ilya's skate as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Then he tilted his head back to look up at Ilya.

Hollander on his knees with the warmest brown eyes ever gifted to a human being, and his gorgeous freckles met Ilya's dumbfounded gaze and smiled ever so slightly.

"Hi, coach," Hollander said softly. "Sorry, I'm late."

Ilya stared at him and for once in his fool life, he was entirely bereft of words. Then all at once, Hollander was up and over the boards, sailing away to meet the rest of the team who greeted with him with waves and back pats.

Chapter 3: I am flesh and I am bone

Chapter Notes

I realized I overshot my timeline a little, so did a tiny bit of editing. It's been two and a half years since Shane and Ilya's ill-fated tuna melt date. Ilya was injured roughly two months later.

@ottawacentaurs Highlighting our amazing coaching team! Is it coincidence or fate? Either way, let's appreciate this dynamic duo!

[Video: Glitter and Gold by Barns Courtney plays. Each cut timed with hard foot stomps in the song.

Cut: Ilya Rozanov goes over the boards in his rookie season with Boston, sailing to the center of the ice.

Cut: Brandon Wiebe, in his rookie season with Sante Fe, goes over in the same exact spot.

Cut: The back of Rozanov's jersey with focus on '81'

Cut: The back of Wiebe's with focus on '18'.

Cut: Rozanov bending down, eyeing down the camera like he intends to murder someone.

Cut: Wiebe with the same expression.

Cut: A puck landing on the ice.

Cut: Rozanov taking off down the ice with the puck.

Cut: Wiebe taking off down the ice with the puck.

Cut: Gloves being thrown, Rozanov's hand comes back for the punch.

Cut: Wiebe's fist connects.

Cut: Rozanov takes a punch.

Cut: Weibe spits out blood.

Side by side: Both men use the back of their hand to wipe blood off their mouths

Cut: Rozanov sinks a goal.

Cut: Wiebe sinks a goal from the same spot on the ice.

Cut: Rozanov in the sin bin has his cross in his mouth, eyes narrowed, watching play.

Cut: Wiebe sits in the same location, a leather cord from around his neck in his mouth.

Cut: Rozanov lifts a child out of the crowd of fans letting her sit on his shoulders as he signs autographs.

Cut: Wiebe takes a knee to talk earnestly to a little girl in a sparkly jersey with his number on it.

Cut: Grainy footage of Rozanov sitting in the stands of a game in civilian clothes, looking pale.  Wiebe sits down beside him, leaning in for a handshake.

Cut: Rozanov wearing all black training gear stands in front of a group of Centaurs, saying something urgently then bangs his knuckles on Wyatt Hayes' helmet affectionately.

Cut: Wiebe and Rozanov stand side by side, watching play then lean in to whisper something to each other at the same time, almost knocking heads.

Cut: Rozanov has Luca Haas' face in his hands and knocks his forehead to his, clearly giving him some kind of motivational speech.

Cut: Wiebe brings Zane Boodram in by the arm off the ice and slaps his back with a grin.

Cut: Rookie Wiebe and rookie Rozanov clench their jaws and roll their necks from side to side.

Cut: Coaches Wiebe and Rozanov clench their jaws then stride out into a crowded press room together.

Cut: Rozanov lifts the Stanley cup over his head in triumph.

Cut: Wiebe looks longingly over the ice. The caption slams up beneath it 'His Time Is Coming'.

Cut: The entire Centaurs circle up around the two coaches, all of them are grinning like they have a secret, sticks hitting the ice in perfect unison. ]

"And for those of you who haven't met him yet, this is my assistant coach, Ilya Rozanov," Bren gestured at Ilya like he was a prize Bren had won at auction.

It wasn't the first time that Ilya had gone over the boards with his heart pounding in his ears and his adrenaline through the roof. Slapping on his game face, he skated out to meet Bren. His team and this year's crop of hopefuls were waiting. Hollander's baffling bullshit would have to wait.

"Welcome," Ilya said steadily. "If I know you, it is good see you. If not, try not to suck so I say its good to see you next year."

There was a bit of nervous laughter from hopefuls. Bren clapped him on the shoulder. "Some of you may have already heard, but we're a little light on coaching staff again this season. We've got our feelers out, but for now it's me and Roz. Zane Bodram is your captain. Bood, you want to say anything?"

"Happy to be back, coach. And to the rest of you, if you need anything or something is fucked up, you come talk to me. We're strong because we stick together and we help each other here. Suffering in silence is bullshit."

Ilya couldn't help, but check to see what Hollander thought of that. He was standing beside Luca, but a little away, still separate from everyone else. The expression Ilya found on his face was familiar. It was the one that said Hollander was processing. Ilya had seen it on the ice, at interviews and in bed. It was the one Hollander wore most frequently. Maybe other people would see it as blank, but Ilya knew that Hollander's mind was hard at work, grinding down what it was taking in and synthesizing it into pure talent and grit.

Asshole.

"Thank you, Bood," Bren said with a nod. "Coach Rozanov and I both have an open door policy. We want to hear from you about issues before they become big problems. But that's not what we're here for today."

"Training," Ilya said, scanning over the whole crows, forcibly shoving Hollander out of his mind. "Practice. What we do over and over because every time we are a little closer to winning. Two weeks to become a team again."

Bren grinned, taking back over. "But we also like to remember that the game is fun as hell, right?"

"Most fun you can have and get paid for it," Wyatt hooted.

"Damn right," Wiebe nodded, "So to get us all in the right head space, we have a new tradition around here. The first day of training, we do a speed drill. You'll have a time to beat. Current team members who beat that time, get a free hour to use at any point during training camp and are excused from leading a drill today. New guys…well. It's not everyone who can say they beat Ilya Rozanov's time."

"Post-retirement," Ilya tacked on. "Make sure you say this when you brag."

"Wouldn't want anyone to get a big head about it," Bren said with mock gravity. "Ready?"

"Yes," Ilya said as if it barely mattered. He glided backwards, giving them all a broad wink. "Good luck."

"You're the one skating!" Dykstra called out.

"I don't need it!" Ilya yelled back.

He did a few smaller circles warming up. It was a bit of cheat not to have any equipment on, but Ilya wasn't going to wrestle with shoulder pads for the sake of fake fairness. This was only fun and having a bit of advantage would keep it from being embarrassing.

"Ready?" Bren had his stopwatch out. The team was already losing it, yelling over each other so much that Ilya couldn't tell what they were chirping.

"Ready."

The stopwatch clicked and Ilya's focus narrowed to the task. His nights alone on the ice weren't enough to keep him in professional player condition, but they had kept his speed up, along with the accidental marathon training he'd been doing on his morning runs over the summer. The body that had always been fast, but tuned for power, had narrowed a little. Become ever so slightly more aerodynamic.

There was also one more factor that could not be ignored: Hollander was going to compete against him. That thought had always spurred Ilya on to higher heights. To do things that he shouldn't have been able to do. Sharpened him to a razor's edge.

The end result was that he did his lap at only half a second behind his old time. A miracle that he probably couldn't repeat, but no one else had to know that.

"Fastest coach in the NHL!" Someone shouted and there was some ragged cheering.

A useless fact, but a true one nonetheless. Ilya allowed himself to preen, giving his old shit eating grin to all of them as he sailed leisurely past.

"How are we supposed to beat that?" Chouinard complained.

"Hollander should go next so we can get it over with," Wyatt said.

"Easy for you to say, you're not supposed to be fast," Dykstra elbowed Wyatt. "Let the rest of us have some hope."

"Hazy is very fast," Ilya corrected. "Or do you think he becomes the best goalie in the league with slow reaction time?"

"Yeah!" Wyatt laughed. "What he said!"

"But he is the slowest skater on the team," Ilya shrugged. "So he goes next. Set the low too and then we will have a good scale."

"Fuck you, coach," Wyatt said merrily and came over onto the ice.

It might've been for fun, but it did give a good place to start measuring things with the hopefuls. There were a few impressive runs, but nothing that got close to Ilya's time. Eventually, Barrett had to stop hiding in the crowd and take his turn. The man was nearly silent. Apparently his viral moment of calling out his former best friend as a rapist in public had taken away his tongue for now.

Ilya didn't give a shit as long as he was up for the job. They needed a deeper talent pool at their center line than just Hollander. The man might be the best, but he wasn't a one man army.

Barrett didn't beat Ilya's time, but it was damn close.

"Good," Ilya said as Barrett came to a stop near him.

"Thanks," Barrett said, eyes on the ice.

"Listen," Ilya said, low enough that his voice slid under the hubbub of the team egging on Haas to go next, "we do not give a fuck what happened in Toronto. For me, I think you did the right thing. NHL is a fucking mess with anything that is not puck and stick."

Barrett's head whipped up and eyed Ilya wearily. His jaw was clenching. Nerves or anger? Hard to tell.

"And," Ilya pressed on, "I believe what those women say. You believe them too."

"I do," Barrett bit off.

"Good. Then we are good. You start new here. Fresh."

Barrett's eyes cut over to the team, laughing and elbowing each other, then back to Ilya as if to say 'you don't get to decide that'. Maybe he didn't, but he knew his team.

"Okay," Barrett said. "Sure."

"Believe or do not. But I think you will see I am right. Go. Haas is going to beat your time. And mine."

"You know that?" Barrett frowned. "How?"

"I am psychic."

Barrett gave him a last confused look, then went. Ilya skated up to Haas and shoulder checked him lightly.

"Tight around corners," Ilya reminded him.

"Yes, coach," Luca said.

Then Ilya moved away to watch Haas streak off. His skating was gorgeous. His stick work was excellent. If they could only marry the two together, he would be deadly.

"That's .4 seconds faster," Bren announced.

The team erupted like Luca had won Rookie of the Year and the boy flushed scarlet.

"What do you think?" Bren leaned in. "Do we pretend we don't notice Hollander hasn't gone?"

"We won't have to," Ilya said, the reminder killing off the good feeling pride in Luca had raised him.

Sure enough Wyatt called out, "The new guy didn't go!"

"Don't call him the new guy!" Bood shoved Wyatt a little. "If he's new, you're an antique, Hazy."

"I meant to the team, asshole," Wyatt shoved him back, still grinning. "C'mon, Hollander. It's easy pickings now. You gotta be able to beat Rozy these days."

Ilya snorted, but kept any opinions about that to himself. He wasn't another player anymore. He couldn't chirp at Hollander and he certainly wouldn't be able to keep it funny if he did.

"I don't mind running drills," Hollander said. "I don't have anything to prove."

"Boring," Ilya said automatically. His resolution had made it less than four seconds. Excellent work. Great job.

It was unclear if the team had heard him, but Hollander certainly had. That laser focus snapped to Ilya and to his horror, Hollander was clearly trying to repress a smile.

"Asshole," Hollander said without inflection and then was over the boards. "Sorry for trying to spare your ego."

"My ego is fine," Ilya shrugged. "Best to let us know now if you've gotten slow."

"Slow," Hollander repeated.

"Yes, slow like..what is that animal?" He looked to Bren, who's eyebrows were up near his hairline. "With the three toes?"

"Sloth?" Bren offered.

"Yes, thank you. Like sloth. Resting too long on your wins."

Hollander's jaw ticked. "I don't feel like preserving your ego anymore."

"Fantastic," Ilya said with equal flatness.

"Okay then," Bren said. "Ready, Hollander?"

"Ready."

It was a shame that Ilya wanted to throw up being in proximity to him because Hollander was still perfection on the ice. Luca might've beat Ilya's time, but there was no match for how precisely Hollander moved. He took each turn as if he'd carved the corners himself.

"Damn, same exact time down the millisecond," Bren declared. "We don't have a rule for a tie."

"Technically-" Hollander started.

"Technically, you tied with a retiree," Ilya said. "So. Nothing to get excited about."

"I wasn't excited," Hollander said.

"Good," Ilya said. "Coach, give him the hour off and make him run drills since he does not mind anyway. Half and half for a tie."

"Fair," Bren said and his eyebrows settled down. "That work for you?"

"I don't need an hour off," Hollander said.

Before Ilya could summon something for that, Bren clapped Hollander on the arm. "Kid, take time when it's handed to you or you're going to end your career shivering in a corner."

Ouch. That was better than anything Ilya could've come up with and he didn't even think Bren meant anything mean by it.

"Thanks," Hollander said stiffly.

After that, the rest of the day was almost easy. Ilya could work with the people who needed it and Hollander was overseeing drills that were coincidentally on the other side of the rink. Ilya made a point of eating his lunch with Harris, upstairs in his office.

"I posted the video today," Harris said around a mouthful of roast beef. "Want to see?"

"Yes! I thought you would do it over the summer," Ilya said. "Or you decided it was no good."

"It's not really the one we talked about. I realized clips of you getting into fights might not send the right message, but I'm happy with how it came out."

"The message is I like to fight," Ilya said. "It is not wrong."

Harris clicked away his laptop, summoning the post. "The Rozanov I know hasn't thrown a punch since I met him."

That was true. That was…really true. Ilya didn't even box in his gym at home, despite having a bag. What would the point be? Anyway, he only had one reliable hand. He wasn't going to go around breaking the knuckles on it for fun.

The video was well-edited. Nicely done. It made Ilya feel a way and he wasn't sure what it was.

"Thank you," Ilya settled on. "This is very nice. I didn't know his number was 18."

"Fun coincidence, right?"

"Very. Where did you find clip of us meeting?"

"I chased it down. I remembered when Wiebe came back from that game and he mentioned talking to you and that you might be coming here. So I looked up footage and since you were sitting front row, it wasn't hard to find a good shot."

A good shot. Ilya nodded once. "I see."

"Was that…not good?" Harris asked carefully.

"No, it is fine," Ilya summoned a smile for him. "It has a few likes?"

"A ton. It'd get more if you reposted it."

It would interrupt the flow of Anya photos, but Ilya obediently did it. His feeds had certainly lost their cache over the last few years, but he still had a respectable number of followers. Every once and a while, he posted a gym selfie at careful angles which got results that were good for his self-esteem.

In the afternoon, they ran small, short scrimmages. The players rotated in and out quickly, leaving Ilya scribbling through notes at a prodigious rate. At one point, Wyatt came up to look over his shoulder then groaned.

"It's not even fun to spy on you. You write in Russian?"

"Yes. It is faster."

"Right, because it's your first language," Wyatt wrinkles his nose. "Sorry, that was stupid."

"No," Ilya said. "You just need to have inside thoughts for a few seconds before sharing."

"Yeah, you're not the first to say that."

"Hayes," Ben said with an amused look. "Where are you supposed to be right now?"

"It says on my schedule that I have a five-minute Rozanov break, coach. It's mandated. Chirping drill."

"Is it?" Bren pressed his lips together. "Fascinating. I don't remember putting that on there."

"It's okay, coach. We all forget things sometimes. Like that my five minutes are up!" Wyatt was gone in a blink.

"Idiot," Ilya said fondly.

When everyone was at last sent back to the locker room, Ilya and Bren retreated to Bren's office where they stayed late, going over both their notes. It was a lot of talking and by the time Ilya got home, his brain was mush. Anya seemed to agree even though she'd spent most of the day cozy in Harris' office with Chiron, the team dog.

"I don't know if I can do this," Ilya confessed to her as he lay in bed, petting her.

She had no reply to him, but to roll over a little so he could reach an itchy spot.

Luckily for Ilya, training camp was designed to keep players moving and their coaches' heads on a swivel. There wasn't much time to be cornered or have an idle moment. And if Ilya put in a little effort into avoiding any situation where Hollander could talk to him one-on-one, then for his part Hollander didn't seem to be hunting him down either.

Towards the end of week two, there was a morning drill, Luca and Hollander trying to get in rhythm with each other, and Bren was busy down at the other end of the ice. At first, it was easy to concentrate on Luca, who had much further to go.

But eventually the moment came. Ilya couldn't put it off anymore.

"Hollander," he said stiffly. "He can keep up with you, stop looking for him where he is not."

Ilya readied himself a tug of war. That was what they did, the verbal back and forth to match their sticks. It wouldn't, couldn't, fly here and he'd have to do something about it if Hollander tried it.

"What do you mean?" Hollander asked, no conflict, just going still and waiting for further guidance.

"You are too used to slower players," Ilya said. "Haas is fast. He can be where you need him to be."

"It's okay, coach," Hass said quietly. "I get it. I'm not always-"

"This is not for you, Haas," Ilya said with cut off hand gesture. "Hollander cannot think of you as slow or you will miss each other."

For a second, Hollander said nothing then nodded. "Got it. Let's go again, Haas, okay? Sorry about that."

"That's okay," Haas brightened considerably. He must look up to Hollander. Of course he did. Had he had a poster of him on his wall?

The next run was better and the one after that was textbook perfection. Ilya clapped his hands together once.

"Good. Again," he said.

He watched them start to talk as they moved. Nothing distracting, quick bites that would soon become the silent shorthand they would need.

"Barrett!" Ilya shouted. The man's head shot up like he'd been sniped. "Leave that shit, come over here."

"Yes, coach," Barrett gave the hopefuls he'd been half-heartedly working with and skated over.

"You, Hollander and Haas are a scrimmage team this afternoon. Say hello and start moving the puck around like you give a shit about winning."

"I do," Barrett said.

"Make me believe," Ilya said.

With a repressed grunt, Barrett circled up near Haas. It was a hard energy to add into Hollander and Haas' more fluid playing styles, but better they work on it now. With two experienced players, they didn't need his constant eye, so he left them to it to give exasperated instruction to some of their future washouts.

He had survived directly coaching Hollander. It had been fine. This was all going to be fine.

"Why do you look like you're trying to grind your teeth into sand?" Bren asked.

"I am thinking," Ilya said.

"About the end times? Jesus, Ilya, take a breath. It's only practice. Save that energy for the games."

"Yes, yes," Ilya forced his jaw to relax which reminded him, "Did you see the video that Harris posted last week of us?"

"Yeah," Bren elbowed him in the ribs. "Made me look damn good. We're not a bad team, huh?"

"The best," Ilya said. "I did not know we were being filmed that day."

"Accidentally and not closely," Bren said. "You want Harris to take it down?"

"No," Ilya sighed. "It is just strange. Like when some stupid fanboy tries to film me pissing."

Bren made a strangled noise. "That's happened to you?"

"Twice."

"Only you, Rozy."

"Absolutely not! It happens. They are crazy sometimes," Ilya shook his head. "When people think they know you, they will do all sorts of things."

Ilya got distracted by a very amateur move in the scrimmage and spent an unhappy few minutes figuring out how that had gotten so cocked up.

The day ended with the hard task of telling all the hopefuls where their hopes were taking them. Most of them away and for the most part, they took it in on the chin, accepting their marching orders. Two of them cried.

"I hate this," Ilya said, when the second crier left. Ilya had wound up giving him an awkward back pat while Bren talked to him about his options.

"Me too," Bren scrubbed over his face. "They're just kids, really."

"I was the same age my rookie year."

"And you were a kid too," Bren said. "So was I. We ask a lot of kids in sports."

Ilya didn't smoke often anymore. Just one sometimes in the morning when he was having a hard time adjusting to the waking world. But he remembered when it felt like stepping out into the cold to smoke was the only part of his day that he had complete control over.

"Too much, maybe," Ilya muttered.

"Sometimes," Bren nodded. "Let's call it a day, huh? Everything else can wait for tomorrow."

"Yes. Please."

The locker room the next morning was riotous enough that Ilya could hear it from his office as he tried to finalize some paperwork. What he really wanted to do was join them. To be one of them. Not even to go out on the ice, but to enjoy the easy knowledge that he was part of something bigger than himself.

Another burst of laughter flooded in as he deleted spam emails.

His jaw twitched.

Fuck it.

Ilya got up and wandered down the hall to go lean in the doorway. Everyone was mostly already dressed for the last day of practice though Wyatt was still in his Nightwing t-shirt, explaining something to Dykstra that required a lot of hand motions. Harris was in the room, snapping a few photos and apparently getting pulled into the good mood.

"I still say invisibility, man," Dykstra said.

"Creepy!" Bood said. "Why don't you want people to see what you're doing?"

"It would just make hunting a lot easier," Dykstra wrinkled his nose.

"You're all thinking too small," said Wyatt with disgust. "You could have any power! Flying and invisibility are easy pickings."

"What would you want?" Dykstra shot back. "Iron skin or something?"

"Instant evolution. Just adapt to every situation," Wyatt said. "I'd be unstoppable."

"I want to start fires with my mind," Bood cut in. "How fucking cool would that be?"

They all took a second to contemplate that, before Harris guessed, "For barbecuing?"

"And other stuff!" Bood said defensively. "What about you, Hollander?"

Hollander was sitting, ready already, but serene amidst the chaos. Someone had thought to set him up on Bood's left, so while he had no official captaincy, alternate or otherwise, he was positioned as if he might.

"Never thought about it," Hollander said.

"I don't understand any of you," Wyatt groused. "Think about it now! It's a fun hypothetical, that's all. Barrett, what about you?"

Barrett had his eyes firmly on the floor. He was also fully changed already, and his eyes kept darting to the door that led to the rink like he wanted to escape. Being called on made him swallow hard.

"Uh, dunno," he mumbled, glancing at Harris of all people. "Speed, maybe."

"Speed is good," Wyatt said with an edge of gentleness. "Be fucking useful, at least."

"How is speed better than flying?" Luca demanded.

"You can't fly in the rink," Wyatt said like that was perfectly reasonable.

"Teleportation," Hollander said. "That would be better than both of them. Instant travel."

"Oooh, Nightcrawler style," Wyatt snapped his fingers at him. "I like the way you think."

"What about you, coach?" Luca asked, mid-stretch.

Ilya's first thought would only bring the mood down. A few eyes were already on him now, players clocking that he was there for the first time.

"Shape shifting," he decided, a faded memory of a movie with a blue woman in it coming to him. "Good for sneaking and for fun."

"Damn, that is a good one," Wyatt nodded.

Barrett was hovering by the door now. What was he running from? The conversation? Or Haas exposed thighs? Or just other people in general? Ilya watched him look to Harris again even though the man was only listening to the people around him. Interesting.

"Fifteen minutes and then everyone is out there," Ilya reminded them as if he'd come for that purpose. "It's only Centaurs now and we make every minute count."

"Giddy up!" Bood said to the room.

"No more cowboy jokes this season, you promised! We're only half horse!"

It was only as Ilya walked back to the office that he was struck by a certainty that Hollander's first choice wasn't teleportation. Something in the way he'd looked. Some tiny tic of a facial expression. It nagged him a little. What would he say if he was being honest?

What would Ilya?

What a stupid fucking conversation. Hollander was bad for his head and Ilya had to find a way to extract him. Their first game was in four days. They didn't have time for bullshit, least of all Ilya's Hollander bullshit.

Thank fuck he had a session with Galina at the end of the day.

"I don't know how to do this," he told her.

"You're already doing it," she said. "One day at a time."

"It's hard," he said. "I have moments where I forget. I can make him another player in my head, but I can't keep him there."

"Do you have to? Do you treat Luca like all the other players? Wyatt? Bood?"

"I-"Ilya started than stopped. "No. Each of them I treat a little differently. Luca needs a lighter touch. Wyatt likes to play. Bood wants hard facts."

"So, you treat Hollander differently too," she said.

Ilya frowned. "That is too easy."

"You could also talk to him. Set some boundaries."

"That is too hard," he scolded her. "Something in the middle, please."

"I think that's for you to figure out," she said with a slight smile. "You have done a lot of difficult things these past few years. You're strong."

"I know," he said with a grimace. "Hard man."

"Not hard. Strong. Strong enough to be soft."

Ilya fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "What are you saying?"

"A lot of things, but mostly, be gentle on yourself about this. You're strong enough to do that." He blew a raspberry at her and to his surprise, she laughed a little. She rarely did that. "You are, Ilya. Truly."

Strong enough to be soft. What did that even mean?

Bren: shinny at 11am tomorrow. coming?

The text came through as Ilya got to the car. They did technically have the weekend off. Monday would be a press gauntlet for Bren and Ilya, some of the players too. Then Tuesday. Game day. Ilya should use tomorrow to prepare himself, get his house in order.

But he had a housekeeper and he'd already cooked more food than he could eat for the next week. Spending the day pacing around his home like a caged tiger sounded deeply unappetizing.

Hockey though. Ilya flexed his hand slowly. It had been an okay week. And he needed to do something to burn off all the energy humming dangerously under his skin.

Ilya: Fine, don't start begging. Not a good look on a head coach.

Bren: Thanks for saving my dignity. Dottie will want to take you home for lunch after.

Ilya: Tell her I am not for eating.

Bren: Hilarious. Yes or no? Gotta figure out how many chicken cutlets to buy.

Ilya: Yes. Thank you.

It had sounded like a good idea until Ilya woke up the next morning and had to fetch his gear. He had plenty still, carefully preserved with his trophies in a small room off the front entrance. When the decorators had done it, they sent pictures for his approval and he had barely looked at them. Since moving in, he had gone inside all of twice.

"Don't get excited," he told Anya as he opened the door. She surged inside, deeply curious about this space she had previously been denied access too.

It was all there. The pristine case with photos, framed jerseys, medals and cups. A career to be proud of even if it had been cut short. Ilya caught his reflection in the glass and looked away. It was a shrine to a dead man.

The closet off the room had his boxes and he pulled out one marked 'training equipment'. A quick glance confirmed that it had what he needed. He grabbed the spare skates he'd stored there from some brand deal long since expired.

"Come," he said to Anya, leaving as quickly as he'd come in. She followed along, her metal tags clicking against her collar in the relentless assurance of her presence. The door clicked back closed with finality behind him.

The rink was decent drive away, an indoor affair, but the kind that hosted kid's birthday parties and games. When Ilya got inside, there were only a dozen or so people milling about. There was someone already out on the ice, doing easy warm up laps in a faded Sante Fe jersey with the number 18 on the back.

"You wear your own jersey to pick up games?" Ilya called out. "Show off."

Bren flipped him off as he went by and Ilya grinned.

"There's my husband's work husband," a warm voice said behind him. "I was wondering when he'd finally get you to show. I'm glad you're here."

Ilya turned to find Dottie Wiebe. She was a chubby, red-cheeked woman with close cropped dark hair that was currently dyed blue at the tips. They had met a handful of times, including a strange afternoon in the early days when she had shown up at his new house and insisted that they go out for lunch. Over sandwiches, she had peppered him with a hundred questions than patted his hand and said 'You're a good egg. Thank you for saying yes.'

It had been a bewildering, but nice experience. So it was good to see her. Especially in hockey gear.

"You are playing too?" Ilya asked.

"Against him," Dottie said with a grin. "You know that's how we met, don't you?"

"No, I did not know this," he said, already some of his worry evaporating. "Tell me."

"My sister and I played in high school. In our junior year, they thought it would be cute to pit the girls' team against the local boys' team. I was on defense and Bren could not get past me for love or money. I thought he was so cute, but I wasn't going to give up a point to make him happy."

"Smart," Ilya said. "You cannot let them win or they think they always get to win."

"Exactly," she winked at him. "So I figured I'd blown my shot, but then he comes up to me after the game and asks if I want a hot chocolate. We wound up sitting in his car, half-frozen talking for six hours. Then we didn't see each other seven years. Picked up right where we left off though."

"And you still beat him at hockey now?"

"50-50," she allowed. "Depends on my team."

"I want to be on your team," Ilya decided.

"Oh honey," Dottie said and gave him a warm smile, "I already told him that. You don't have a choice."

They wound up with six people per team. Ilya played a position that could be called right wing, but was really generally making a nuisance of himself. It was clear that a few people knew who he was, but either they'd been forewarned or they genuinely didn't care because no one said a word about it. Instead, they played with the same intensity of a pro game with a quarter of the skill. Bren was still capable, but Dottie had his number and the two of them were flirting a little as they got in each other's ways.

Ilya scored within the first ten minutes and Dottie hugged him like he'd won the whole thing.

"That was beautiful!" She said. "Do it again."

By then his grip was shot on his right hand, but he was fast and he could mostly keep his stick steady with his left. There were a few small scuffles, but no one was inclined to fight. They didn't even have a referee. It was messy and a little pathetic. Ilya had amazing time.

He scored two more goals before Bren finally sunk one in and one of his teammates managed another.

"That's time!" Someone on the sidelines called. Ilya hadn't known anyone was keeping track.

"You're coming back to the house?" Dottie checked.

"Yes, thank you," Ilya said.

"Great, we'll give you the address, but just follow us out, it's easier than the GPS."

The house was a low slung building on top of a hill. There were bikes left at the bottom of the driveway, off to one side. Ilya could hear the noise of kids before he even parked. They came pouring out of the house as their parents arrived, a small riot of stocky young Wiebes. Elliot, 16, Tina, 12, and Melissa, 9. They had all met Ilya in passing and seemed to accept his presence as a given.

It was deeply strange to sit down to a lunch with all of them. There was a lot of food and not much order. The kids got up and down a dozen times for a dozen reasons, conversations shooting back and forth across the table, overlapping with each other. Dottie kept filling Ilya's plate every time he made a dent and by the end of the meal, he was fuller than he could recall being in a long time.

"Bren mentioned you only do decaf," Dottie said as the kids finally dispersed. "I'm the same way this time of day. You want a cup? We can go drink it on the back deck. We're almost out of days for that."

"That's a great idea," said Bren.

It was lovely outside. Fall had grasped onto the trees already, shaking green into gold, red and brown. They sat around a glass table that must've seen a lot of art projects over the years with smears of paint and glue. It was nice. Lived in.

"You boys ready?" Dottie asked as she cradled her coffee to her chest.

"Yes," Ilya said. "I think so."

"I know so," said Bren. "It might be a rocky start, everyone still getting used to each other, but we've got something."

"That your take too, Ilya? Sometimes he gets a little optimistic," Dottie said wryly. "Starts telling me the sun will come out when it's down pouring."

"It depends," Ilya said and took a small sip of the decaf. It was terrible, but it was always bad. He missed regular coffee a lot. "But with Hayes, at least we will not lose embarrassingly. The rest is up to them. Barrett needs to relax and Haas needs fine tuning."

"What about Hollander?" she asked casually. "I have to admit, I wasn't as excited as most fans about getting him."

"Why not?"Ilya asked.

"Ah, I don't know. I'm not as excited by star players," she said, then winced. "Nothing personal."

"I am not anymore," Ilya said with a shake of his head. "But most people like big. It's fun to watch."

"Sometimes," she said. "And sometimes, it makes you forget about the solid guys, who are also getting the job done."

"Bren had a big star on his team?" Ilya guessed.

"How'd you know?" Bren grinned. "She's a professional grudge holder."

"He wasn't even that good," Dottie groused. "Show boating dickface. At least you and Hollander had the skills to back up the hype. Though looked exhausting, all that media circus bullshit around you two."

Ilya stared into the murky depths of his mug and took another sip. "It was. I didn't know how much until it stopped. But it's okay to have him now. Maybe people will actually show up."

"That'd be nice."

They didn't. Their first game was against Toronto. A bad fit. Barrett was clearly in his head about it, already a write off. Ottawa fans never turned out in big numbers, even for home games, but when Ilya had done a loop to get a feel for the crowd, they were so clearly out-massed by Toronto fans that it was embarrassing. Bood gave a good rousing speech in the locker room that Ilya only partially caught.

He followed the lineup grimly outside. He watched Barrett walk with his head down, anger already coming off him in waves. He watched Hollander take in the half-empty stands with confusion. He watched the resignation on his players' faces as they faced another quiet game.

"We will pack this in two months," Ilya told them. "You play like they are full and they will be full."

"Yes, coach," a few of them replied with some enthusiasm. That's all he could really ask for.

It was only when they got out there and the announcer started going through names that the final nail in the morale coffin was nailed in.

"Shane Hollander, 24, starting for the first time-" the announcer said.

And the rest was drowned out by boos. The word 'traitor' was taken up as a chant. Fuck. They weren't even Montreal fans. It was hard to see Hollander's face from this distance, but his body stayed locked and ready. He would play well. Hollander always played well like some kind of hockey robot.

Sure enough, he won the face off handily and was halfway towards the goal before anyone was ready for him. Barrett wasn't where he should've been though, already getting boxed in by his ex-teammates. What a fucking nightmare.

The Centaurs did their best. Between Wyatt, Dykstra and Chouinard, they kept Toronto goalless, but there was no hope of scoring either. The first period ended and everyone already looked exhausted. Bren honed in on their worn out defense and Ilya meant to go for Barrett.

Except Hollander sat down, took off his helmet and dropped his head heavily into his hands. He stopped moving, he barely seemed to breathing.

The first time Ilya had seen that, he was close enough to feel the panic waving off the statue stillness. It was no less heartbreaking now, even though Ilya kind of wanted to kill him still.

With a cut off sigh, Ilya got in front of him, then squatted down.

"Hollander," he said softly. "You're all right."

"I just need a minute," Hollander said to his knees.

"You're all right," Ilya said again. "Every person on this bench has your back."

Hollander still didn't move, his breath caught a little though, an engine restarting. Just a man, after all. One Ilya had a lot of feeling about, but just a man. Not a hockey robot.

"You've never been booed," Ilya guesed. "Not like that."

Hollander wordlessly gave a small head shake.

"I have. All the time. It's good."

"How is it good?" Hollander asked, voice strained.

"It's like cheers," Ilya explained. "They care the same. They want to love you. They want to hurt you. It's the same for them. Your name is still in their mouth."

"You really believe that?" Hollander muttered.

"I do. 'Rozanov', they can say like a curse or blessing. God is dead, who cares?" Ilya said lightly. "I know they think about me. That I am in their heads. Other team, other team's fans, they spend so much time thinking about me. This is good."

"That explains so much about you," Hollander said and lifted his head. He didn't meet Ilya's eyes, instead he fastened his gaze on Ilya's lips. Normal Hollander behavior.

Why did Ilya retain all this useless knowledge? Why couldn't he forget?

"Yes, yes. Very insightful," Ilya tsked at him. "They will say worse things, Hollander. Many. But you are still cup winner, all-star, MVP. You still play like that and they will swallow their words like poison."

"I am a traitor," Hollander said. "I mean not really, but I get why they think so."

"Me too," Ilya said with a shrug. "You are not special. You did not even give up your citizenship about it. Amateur hour."

Hollander laughed, pained and quiet, but a real laugh. "I watched. They streamed your ceremony. It was nice."

Ilya stared at him. "You watched."

"I've been watching," Hollander said and the panic had fallen away. He was breathing normally again. "I never stopped."

"Fuck off," Ilya said with a dagger of anger that he hoped stabbed Hollander in the fucking face, then stood as if nothing had happened and walked down the bench to Barrett, his stomach in knots. "You."

"Me?" Barrett raised his chin. "What, coach?"

"You are angry. Good. You forget you have team to be angry with you. Bad."

"I- what?" Barrett blinked at him.

Ilya leaned back against the boards and raised his volume.

"Who is fucking pissed off at these assholes who stay loyal to a man like Kent?"

The entire bench raised their hands, even Hollander, who still looked a little slapped. Bren raised his hand too.

"They think they can beat us because NHL loves them more. Because fans love them more," Ilya said, meeting every one of their eyes in turn. "Fuck them. We take care of each other. We give each other love. Maybe today we lose, I don't know. Maybe the next one too. Because we are learning. They are too stupid to keep learning. They are done. Old news. They win today? Maybe. They will not win the next time or the time after that. By then it will be too late. We will run them over like Zamboni. Boom! Flat."

All eyes were on him, some reverent (Luca), some grinning (Wyatt, Bood), some grim (Ilya wasn't actually sure Barrett had another expression) and some…well he wasn't going to fucking look at Hollander.

"This is when you say 'Yes, coach'," he prodded.

If the force of the 'Yes, coach' took Toronto by surprise beside them, then that was all to the good.

Kent scored in the second period, throwing it in Barrett's face. Then Barrett did something perfect. He went blank, tilted his head to one side like Kent had confused him, and simply moved away. The fight that Kent had been clearly trying to brew fizzled.

Good man.

They lost 3-1. Hollander scraping a goal together at the last minute. It was a loss, but everyone came off the ice with their heads held high. The locker room might not have been joyful, but no one was mourning either.

Ilya left them to lick their wounds in peace. He'd said enough tonight. Instead, he checked in with Bren, ran into and had a stiff, but ultimately fine conversation with the GM, then went to turn off the lights in his office.

Hollander was standing outside his door, hair still wet from a shower. He wasn't in his nice new styled clothes, but a familiar worn gray hoodie. Had Ilya caught the strings of that one to bring Hollander in close? Or had that been another, identical piece of clothing lost to history?

"I'm sorry for being creepy," Hollander said when Ilya slowed. There was a generous amount of space between them, but no one else in the hallway. Ilya's car keys were in the office. He was stuck unless he wanted to keep going into the locker room on pretend business.

"I don't care," Ilya said and decided to go right past him.

Of course Hollander followed him in. "Okay. I just wanted to say that. And something else."

"I don't want to hear it," Ilya said tightly, headed for his desk.

"You don't want to know why I'm here?"

Shit. Ilya opened the top drawer of his desk, plucking out his wallet and keys. "To play hockey or you have made big mistake."

"Rozanov."

"Hollander," he said, shoving his keys into his jacket pocket where they'd be easier to retrieve.

"Please."

Ilya exhaled messily and finally looked up. Hollander wasn't blocking his exit. He stood to the left of the door. Anyone looking at him quickly would think he was calm. Ilya knew his nerves too well. So what? Ilya had nerves too.

But Hollander had watched Ilya become a Canadian citizen. What would have been the most boring half hour of Ilya's life if he hadn't been so profoundly relieved. Shutting the door on Russia had been a frightening process, but the click of the lock catching had let him breathe free, if empty.

Hollander was here and he wasn't going away.

"Fine," Ilya said, slamming the drawer closed. Hollander flinched which should not make him feel guilty. "Why are you here?"

"I made a lot of mistakes. I have excuses. Not reasons. They weren't reasonable, but they made sense to me at the time," Hollander said and Ilya knew he had practiced this, could hear it in his cadence. "I'm not going to list them out now. Not ever if you don't want to hear them. But last winter, I was in a bad place and the only thing I knew would make me feel better was being closer to you. Even if you never forgive me. Even if you hate me. I just had to try."

"You could call. Text," Ilya said, his mind a slot machine spinning wildly. "Write email. You have a fucking phone. Not…all of this. This is insane."

"It's not," Hollander said calmly. "I had to leave Montreal if I wanted to come out and I was done hiding. I'm done with a lot of things I thought I could live with. Done pretending there's things I could live without too."

"Get out of my way," Ilya said, even though Hollander was still politely to one side of the door. He stormed past because anger was the easiest thing to grasp.

"If I called, would you have picked up?" Hollander asked as he passed by him.

"No," Ilya said. "I would've blocked you."

"Yeah," Hollander said not upset at all, apparently. Vindicated. "That's what I thought."

Jesus fucking Christ. Ilya whirled on him and they were suddenly far too close. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"A lot," Hollander said. He had a very small smile on and he was looking at Ilya like he held the keys to the world. What. The. Fuck. "I missed that."

"Missed what?" Ilya snapped. "Your fucking head working? Me too."

"That look in your eye," Hollander said.

"Like I'm going to punch you? You miss me slamming you into the boards that much?" Ilya's brain was on fire.

"Like you're ready to do whatever it takes to get what you want," Hollander said.

"I want you to get out of my fucking office," Ilya said.

"Then I'm going," Hollander said and brushed past him. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much, but I am. And if you ever want to talk about it or just scream at me, I'll be here. Any time."

"Get the fuck out," Ilya said tiredly.

Slamming the door behind Hollander's retreating back would attract too much attention. Instead, Ilya waited until there was no reasonable way Hollander was still in the hallway and left to go home. It was a longer drive than usual. As soon as Anya greeted him at the door, he was on his knees.

"I have had a very long day," he told her and took her for a walk in the dark with music blaring in his ears.

Hollander had come to Ottawa for him. Hollander was sorry. Hollander didn't want to live without him.

Big fucking deal. Ilya didn't need that kind of dramatic, ill-considered shit in his life. If only he could tell that to the smile that kept trying to creep over his face without his permission.

Chapter 4: I'm the resident leader of the lost and found

Chapter Notes

I'm starting shuffle in characters and plot beats from the other books in this one, but I will try my best to contextualize everyone so if you haven't read them, hopefully everyone will still translate over. But do be aware it's spoilers ahoy for Tough Guy and Role Model as well as The Long Game from here on out.

@ottawacentaurs With the fresh season underway, we're doing Q and A's with our new players! Up today @shanehollander! You can already check out @troy_barrnett and @joeyolen answers to these questions!

[Video: Shane Hollander sits on stool in front of a blue backdrop. He's wearing a gray v-neck t-shirt and while not smiling, seems comfortable and relaxed. The camera catches him slightly off to the side, so he's looking past it instead of at it. An interviewer off screen clears his throat.

Harris: Thanks for joining us today, Shane. We're really excited to have you as a Centaur.

Hollander: Thanks for having me. It's been great being here so far.

Harris: Okay, first question: Who's your favorite current player?

Hollander: Scott Hunter.

Harris: (light laughter) Popular answer in the room today.

Hollander: Scott is amazing to watch play. I look forward to facing him again.

Harris: Are you a dog person or a cat person?

Hollander: I've never had any pets, but a dog seems nice to have around.

Harris: The best to have around!

Hollander: [small nod] Good to know.

Harris: Do you have any hobbies?

Hollander: I've been told that I don't because all my hobbies are hockey-related, but I think they still count. I read a lot of hockey books.

Harris: Maybe we should do book reviews with Shane Hollander! Give the people some tips on what to check out.

Hollander: Uh…if anyone would care? Sure.

Harris: Sound off in the comments if you'd watch those videos! Ok, what's your favorite ice cream?

Hollander: Mango sorbet.

Harris: Is that ice cream?

Hollander: It's the only answer you're getting.

Harris: Okay, I guess I'll take it then. Who do you play in Mario Cart?

Hollander: Luigi.

Harris: Any particular reason?

Hollander: When I was a kid, I felt bad for him because everyone only pays attention to Mario and Luigi is right there doing all the same things for less credit.

Harris: I love that! Ok…what's your favorite place on earth?

Hollander: My cottage. It's really nice to go there in the summer and unplug from everything. I travel a lot for work and I've seen a lot of great cities, but that's where I'm happiest.

Harris: Mountains or ocean?

Hollander: Oh, um. Hm. I like both a lot. I guess ocean if I really have to choose.

Harris: You really do. These are life or death questions, clearly. Last question! What's your favorite type of apple?

Hollander: Cortland. I like them sweet, but a little sour too.

Harris: Ooh, I do love a Cortland. Ok.

Harris: I lied actually, I do have one more question, if that's okay?

Hollander: Shoot.

Harris: What are you looking forward to most this season besides winning?

Hollander: Besides winning? Tough one. [Hollander's expression softens a fraction] Spending time with everyone. I've always liked being part of a team, having that camaraderie, but the Centaurs are something else. Everyone here has been really welcoming and I look forward to settling in with them. ]

"Ilyusha," Svetlana whispered as if what she really wanted to do was scream, "are you fucking kidding me?"

The phone was propped up in the kitchen towel roll and Ilya sat at the island on a stool, chin cushioned on his folded arms. Svetlana was in a hotel room across the world, a boring convention for work. She had been getting dressed for dinner, but now she was staring into the phone, lipstick forgotten in her hand.

"No, Sveta," he said. "It's true. Every word."

"I have no idea what to say. That is so romantic and so stupid," she said. "How did you not kiss him?"

"I'm still very angry with him," Ilya said. "For the horrible abandonment? Two and a half years with only one text message? Have we forgotten?"

"Oh no, true," Svetlana said. "I'm impressed with you though. I think I would've taken him on the desk right there and then."

"You would not. You would've punched him," Ilya snorted. "He's crazy. A stalker. He watched my citizenship ceremony. That is stalker behavior."

"They aired it on the local news," she reminded him. "It wasn't hard to find. It's not like he's digging through your garbage cans."

"No, he just blew up his entire career and outed himself so he could be near me. Apparently. Ugh, I hate him," Ilya said. "Seven years of hiding and then two years of silence and now this. What do I do with this?"

"I don't know," Svetlana admitted. Which was bad. She always had answers. "What do you want to do with it?"

"I don't know. Nothing, maybe. I have a job to do and he's part of my job. So I will do it."

"I don't think 'nothing' is an option."

"You think I should fall into his arms? Forgive everything?"

"No," she rolled her eyes at him. "But you could let him tell you why. Don't you want to know?"

"I already know," he said mulishly. "He was afraid like I was afraid. So he ran. But unlike me, he did not come back. Now he's having some kind of very early midlife crisis and he's decided I'm the answer to everything. I don't need that."

"Okay," she said and nodded. "So you can read his mind?"

"Yes," Ilya ground out. "I am psychic."

"You're stubborn and scared."

"That too," he agreed without hesitation. "How many chances should I give him to hurt me?"

She wrinkled her nose. "So… you will date other people again instead?"

"Maybe! I could go to a club right now and find someone."

"In Ottawa," she said dryly. "On a Friday morning at dawn?"

"I will fuck the cleaning crew."

"Great. Good plan," she snorted. "It's your life, but I don't want you to be so alone."

That sobered him a little. "Can my choices be more than alone or with an insane man possessed by the spirit of terrible movies?"

"Yes. Get an app. Go dancing. Meet people. Maybe talk to them for five minutes before you take them home. The world is large."

That was true. Ilya nodded vaguely, "Yes. It is. How is the conference?"

"I know you don't actually care."

"I care deeply about sales and numbers," Ilya said. She stared at him. "Ok, I don't care, but I care about you, so tell me."

And because she was the best friend he could hope for, she gave him a disbelieving look before launching into a laundry list of complaints about the sessions she'd gone to so far. He listened and asked questions, made jokes. They hung up so she could go to dinner.

"Fuck," he said to Anya, who was asleep at his feet. Sales talk bored her too apparently.

At least he was busy with the season. Their games were about to come thick and fast. Hollander was a lot of things, but he usually kept his word. If he said he would wait for Ilya to come to him, then he would. Let him wait. Let him wait for two and a half years.

Maybe not two and a half. That wasn't exactly fair. Ilya had certainly left him in silence for six months once. He could deduct that time. Two then. Two years was fair, wasn't it? Then he thought about Hollander's stupidly gorgeous face and his ridiculous surety. No. Two and a half. Maybe three. Maybe forever. Fuck him.

Ilya needed to not be in the house. He'd already worked out today, probably for too long. There was no work he could justify doing. He tapped his phone idly, opening his texts. There were recent ones from Svetlana, of course, and then a dentist appointment reminder. Under that one from Bren about what he wanted for lunch from earlier this week. Before that was Harris sending him memes as he apparently did to everyone. Wyatt from Monday, asking about a future board game night with a list of dates as if Ilya had big plans that might intersect. It was missing a reply, so Ilya sent back a 'whenever' response.

Wyatt sent back a quick response and they texted for a few minutes about bullshit and then the game a little.

Toronto. Fucking awful team. Dallas Kent was a piece of shit, naturally, and then the rest of them gathered around him to protect him from justice. It was disgusting. No wonder Ryan had given the entire sport a middle finger after being with Toronto for all of ten minutes.

A thought struck Ilya like a bolt of lightening. All his confusion and anger drained away, replaced with renewed purpose. He got out his laptop and started searching, then checking social media feeds. Then he texted Bren.

Ilya: I have an idea.

Bren: Dangerous, but I'm listening.

Ilya: Can I call?

Bren called him instead. There was noise in the background, traffic and doors slamming.

"Just finishing the school drop offs," Bren explained. "I try to do it for Dottie on my days off so she can drink coffee in peace. What's the idea?"

Once, Ilya had gone on his tiny adventures without anyone's knowledge. It had been freeing, doing what he wanted on the spur of the moment, finding the people he needed to find. Vegas. New York. Toronto. But this was different. This was for the team. For him and Bren. They needed help.

"You'd drive out there and back in a day? That's nuts, Ilya."

"I like driving," Ilya said. "And maybe I'll stay over. Leave early in the morning. I'll be back for afternoon practice."

"Hell, for this kind of gambit, I think it's okay if you miss it," Bren decided.

"Even if it fails?"

"Yeah. But do me a favor and get a plane ticket, huh? You can afford it."

That was true. And Ilya didn't actually want to drive four and a half hours each way. "All right. I'll call you after. Tell you how it went."

"Do that. Good luck."

The first thing he did was call the dog hotel. It would be a good trial run for Anya to go for a single night, even though it made Ilya terribly sad to bring her there. She seemed pleased about it, immediately interested in the sounds of other dogs.

It felt like it should be harder to arrange the flights. Ilya hadn't done his own booking since he'd flown from Boston to Ottawa still injured and almost certain that he would somehow get turned away when he touched down. Today, he showed up the airport barely two hours after booking his flight and no one blinked twice at him. A nonissue. Boring Canadian man travels through Canada.

He'd gotten a hotel room too, close to the venue. Just somewhere to leave his bag. It was exciting to travel like this again, light and free. Maybe he should make this his hobby. Galina would probably point out that it wasn't sustainable, but she wasn't here right now. Ilya could have the high of a plan and its execution without analysis.

It had all gone so smoothly that he even had time to get a decent dinner, catching himself up on the Western Conference games as he crashed through an enormous hamburger and a fat plate of fries. Well fed, he entered the bar and treated himself to some halfway decent vodka. It was a little early, but he'd come early on purpose. The stage was small and already cluttered with equipment. A slight, beautiful man in a lacy black dress was flitting around it, settling things where he wanted them.

Fabian Salah was an objectively beautiful person. Subjectively, Ilya would certainly have taken him home if they had met at the right moment, even if he wasn't Ilya's usual type. Most people probably would. Anyone with sense, eyeballs and a loose grip on their sexual preferences.

And Ryan Price had a lot of sense. The man himself lumbered into view, carrying an enormous amp like it weighed nothing. He had a new haircut these days, the ferocious orange bush tamed into a modern and sleek look. His clothes had been a little upgraded too, bringing more attention to his body while also giving it some shape. Nice.

The former infamous enforcer had been traded around to a half dozen teams in his career, an impermanent fixture that silently kept star centers safe and was thanked by being given away. The few times Ilya had played against him, he'd found him brutally intimidating and shut down. The single season he'd been in Boston, Ilya hadn't paid him much attention, except to rely on him to keep the other team off his back. Which wasn't nothing.

Apparently, that whole time, Ryan had been living as an out gay man without much fanfare. Unnoticed. Moving in silence. Then he'd come to Toronto and within months, came out more publicly and quit.

Ilya had met with him just before all that, at a quiet funeral for another player neither of them knew very well. An overdose. They had been the only two players that had shown up, even his team members hadn't come. Their conversation had been interesting. Ilya liked Ryan a lot. With the veneer of violence stripped away, he was a soft, anxious man that just wanted peace.

Ilya didn't like how familiar that felt.

As soon as Ryan set down the amp, Fabian leaned over to kiss him. They were sweet together. Ilya approved. He slid through a few people to make his way to the stage where Ryan was plugging things in with confidence.

"Mr. Price," he said, "can I have an autograph?"

Ryan didn't even turn around. "What the fuck are you doing here, Rozanov?"

"I heard there was a concert," Ilya said, delighted to be so quickly sniffed out. "I can't enjoy some music?"

"You're supposed to be in Ottawa. Don't you have a game on Sunday?"

"You keep track of me?" Ilya asked, wide-eyed. "Fabian! Did you know your boyfriend is obsessed with me?"

"Hi, Rozanov," Fabian said. "Nice to see you. Thanks for coming tonight."

"You're welcome. Thank you for being polite, unlike your very rude boyfriend."

"He's so much politer than me with everyone else," Fabian said, raising a single eyebrow. God, Ilya wished he could do that. "Must be something about you."

"Yes, probably," Ilya conceded. "Do you need help?"

"No, I'm a professional roadie at this point," Ryan said, finally finished fussing and turned to face him, "What are you here for?"

"What is anyone here for? Music. Vodka. Company."

Ryan gave him the kind of look that used to give Ilya the good kind of shiver on the ice. The one that said the hunt was on and if he knew what was good for him, he'd be too fast to get caught.

"You're up to something."

"Almost always," Ilya agreed. "But right now, I want to buy my friend a drink. "

Ryan hesitated. "We're friends now, are we?"

Ilya shrugged, "Why not?"

"Go on," Fabian said, leaning down for another kiss before shooing Ryan on his way. "I have to warm up anyway."

"Okay," Ryan conceded and headed for the bar, Ilya on his heels. "I don't need you to buy me a drink."

"Yes, I'm sure you can afford the whole bar. Me too. So what? Enjoy a free drink."

Ryan got a beer and Ilya got another vodka, sipping it while Ryan eyed him up like he was drinking toxic waste.

"He's gotten popular," Ilya gestured at the stage. "You must be proud."

"Very," Ryan said. "He's amazing. Got a whole tour set up this year, you know?"

"Yes, very impressive. All of North America. Will you roadie with him the whole time?"

"Nah. I'll drive out to the closer shows and help him if he needs it, but he'll have other hands with him," Ryan said.

It wasn't hard to get Ryan talking about Fabian and Fabian's career. Ilya learned all about the difficulties of the music industry as they killed off their drinks and ordered another round. The venue was filling up by then and Fabian had taken out his violin, playing aborted snippets to test the sound.

"What about you?" Ryan asked eventually. "Sorry, wow. I should've asked that a lot earlier."

"It's fine, I was interested. I'm busy now. The game schedule is packed," Ilya said with some satisfaction. "I feel good about them. The team."

"They seem like an interesting bunch," Ryan said. "Wyatt seems to really like all of them,"

"Oh, you still talk?" Ilya asked like he wasn't entirely aware that Ryan and Wyatt's bromance still boomed via some online farming game because they were both enormous fucking dorks.

"Yeah, he's pretty much my best friend," Ryan said. "Great guy."

"He is," Ilya agreed. "I wish I could be better coach for him, but he does okay without one. Dykstra and Chouinard though…mm. We are not defense coaches, you know? But things are good. I played last week in this pickup game? Have you ever done that?"

"No," Ryan snorted as if the very thought was impossible. "Can you imagine me showing up to one of those?"

"I could not see it either," Ilya said, taking a smaller sip of his vodka, letting it roll over his tongue. "But it wasn't so bad. It reminded me that it was fun once."

From the corner of his eye, Ilya watched Ryan exhale slowly, before taking a long draw on his beer. Yes. Good.

"It was, wasn't it?" Ryan asked wryly. "I could barely remember that near the end. Every time I got on the ice, I was just filled with dread."

"And now? Do you miss it?"

Ryan nodded, just once and very small. "A little. But Fabian would freak out if I even did a pick up game. He worries. About my body and my head, you know?"

"Yes," Ilya said, even though no one had worried about his body and mind like that in a long time. Not until it was too late. "He loves you. It's nice."

"It's fantastic," Ryan said with a lilt of awe. "I never thought I'd have that. It was worth giving up hockey for that, even if I hadn't been ready to quit anyway."

"Does he…" Ilya fished for the right English word, then gave up. Might as well see if Ryan was the kind of person that would help him or tease him. "What is…no one gives up all? The middle."

"Compromise?" Ryan suggested without hesitation or the slightest bit of amusement. Perfect.

"Yes, this. Does he compromise with you for other things?"

"Sometimes," Ryan said in a way that did not build a lot of faith in Ilya. "He mostly doesn't have to. I'd give him the world if I could."

Fuck. Well. It was still worth a try.

"But if it was something you wanted?"

"We'd talk about it. We'd get there," Ryan said, suspicion starting to rise in him. "Why are you here, Rozy?"

"I have a job offer," Ilya said and threw back the rest of the glass to set it on the bar behind him.

"I don't need a job. I'm retired," Ryan said firmly.

"Then you don't care if I tell you about it. I tell you and you say no, then we have another drink and watch your boyfriend's concert."

Ryan tapped his finger against his beer bottle. "I'm not moving to Ottawa."

"No one is asking you to! Listen," Ilya said. "Please."

"I didn't know you knew that word," Ryan raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, I know many words," Ilya rolled his eyes, but he saw his opening so he barrelled ahead towards the goal. "We have a new 'work from home' policy. It was for some office people, but it can be for you too. Coach from home."

"Coach," Ryan repeated. "You want me to…what?"

"We need a video coach. Someone that clips and has thoughts and watches the game from every angle. Not something that needs a body at the side of the rink," Ilya said as if he hardly cared. As if Ryan's terror of flying wasn't common knowledge. "Bren does this now and he does not have the time. You Skype for meetings, do FaceTime for one-on-ones. It can be done from home. Maybe sometimes you drive or take the train to see games in person. You would have to come for training camp, but you don't even need to get a hotel room. Stay with me. Wyatt. Whoever."

Ryan stared at him and Ilya kept his eyes on Fabian. The flex of the bow over strings was fascinating. The control would have to be enormous. The muscle memory of thousands of hours of practice. Maybe being a musician and an athlete had some shared DNA. Obsessions of the body that took different forms.

"That's crazy," Ryan said. "You came out here just to offer a crazy thing to me?"

"Vodka," Ilya tapped his glass with one finger, then pointed at Fabian. "Music." Then at Ryan. "Company. I can come for many things."

"You know it's a 'no', right?"

"I know you should think first. Talk to Fabian," Ilya said. "Because what I know is there are many many long hours now. Days alone in your house. I know the quiet. The way you must move to make noise so you know you are alive."

He knew he'd hit his target when Ryan set down his beer very carefully. As if it might shatter.

"There were a lot of rumors about you after you got hurt. No one saw you for months."

"I did not want to be seen," Ilya said wryly. "Pain does not make me kind."

"I heard that you could've played again, eventually. No one thought…"

"Mm," Ilya sighed, weighing the cost of sharing this with Ryan. It had felt good to be honest with Harris. He might as well try it again. "I could have, maybe. Gone on and off injury list. Good days, I could play a full period, two. Bad days, none. Boston would keep me for a season or two to look like good guys. Then I would go somewhere else like trophy. Taken out and shown around, but not used."

"That's bleak," said Ryan.

"Yes. And I still would have done it," Ilya said wryly. "I would have done anything to keep playing."

"So why didn't you?"

"Wiebe," Ilya said.

"He made you an offer you couldn't refuse?" Ryan asked with a slight smile.

"Yes," Ilya said.

"That's a reference," Ryan told him.

Ilya scoffed, "I have seen the Godfather. I spend too much time in hotels and planes too."

"Right," Ryan laughed. "Okay. So now you're trying to make me the same offer?"

"Different offer. You do not need what I needed. But yes. Sort of."

"I'll tell Fabian. We'll talk about it. Then I'll say no."

"Fine, take a few days. A week. We don't have any one else we want, so we can wait."

"I'm your only pick?" Ryan frowned. "Come on, there's a million guys who could teach your guys to throw a punch."

"Who wants that?" Ilya wrinkled his nose. "Do you see how we play? We are 'nice guy' team. We say 'excuse me' when we go by you on the ice. We had the fewest fights of any team last season."

"Really?" Ryan frowned. "Rozanov's team doesn't throw punches?"

"They are not mine that way. They are their own thing," Ilya shook his head. "Nice good boys and now Hollander, king of the nice guys is with us. So lots of good queer nice boys."

"Lots? Is one 'lots' now?" Ryan snorted.

"There is also me," Ilya said bluntly. And yes. It felt good. It felt fucking amazing, actually. Even better than telling Harris. "I am bisexual. And Harris, our social media man, is out. Then there are some maybes. I'm working on it."

"Oh," Ryan said. "Wait. You?"

"Me," Ilya said. "Surprised? Really?"

Ryan stared at him. "Yeah, a little."

"Good, I was trying to hide. Nice to know it worked," Ilya said. "I don't want you to teach them to fight, I want you to make them help Wyatt. He is a one man wall right now and we need better."

"A queer coaching team," Ryan said as if the words didn't quite fit in his mouth. "For a team with Hollander on it."

"Yes, we are gayer than New York now. Hunter will be so jealous."

That got a small laugh out of Ryan and Ilya would take it. The lights started to dim.

"I'll think about it," Ryan said. "And then say no."

"Okay," Ilya said. "But you won't."

"I will."

"Okay."

Ilya waited for Ryan to be transfixed by his boyfriend's admittedly hypnotizing talents before taking out his phone and firing off a text to Bren.

Ilya: He says he will think about it. He wants me to think he will say no, but he will say yes.

Bren: I'll start working on the GM.

The trust made Ilya grin and he shoved his phone away to give Fabian at least some of his attention.

The music was excellent and Fabian had a small mob of fans to deal with afterwards. Ryan waded in, standing behind Fabian like the most overkill bodyguard of all time. Very sweet. Ilya quietly slipped out of the club and walked back to his hotel, satisfied with a night's work.

On a whim, Ilya used the number that he had only managed to pry out of it's owner's hands by being extremely annoying.

Ilya: When you retire in the next five minutes, what are the odds of you coming to Ottawa?

Scott: Why haven't I blocked you yet?

Ilya: Do you know how? I know technology can be confusing.

Scott: I don't need this, I'm on a date right now.

Ilya: Tell Kip I say hello and where is my wedding invitation?

Scott: You're not coming to my wedding.

Ilya: 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Scott: What do you want?

Ilya: I cannot say hello to a friend?

There was a long pause, three dots dancing up and down over and over. Ilya could well imagine Scott's confused expression as his nice guy tendencies warred with his desire to shoot Ilya down as hard as possible. Scott was so much fun. Ilya really had to start bothering him more often. Except then Scott really might block him which would be a shame.

Scott: Wait, are you offering me a job? For when I retire, many many years from now?

Ilya: Yes

Scott: Go to sleep, Rozanov. You're drunk.

Ilya: I am not. But fine. Good night, friend Scott. Remember the invitation! I have a plus one ready.

There was no response. Rude. Ilya grinned to himself as he stripped down and got into bed. He slept better than he usually did in hotels and got back on the plane the next morning for another dull flight. Perfect.

Ilya did wind up landing in time to make it to afternoon practice. He must've worn his satisfaction all over him because Hollander kept giving him tiny glances followed by frowns and heavy sighs. Too bad. Let Hollander think Ilya had gotten laid, what did he care?

"Heya," Harris appeared as things were winding down. "Do you think I could chat with the guys for a few minutes before everyone heads out?"

"Don't see why not," Bren said. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I just want to get some volunteers for some upcoming posts," Harris said, typing rapidly onto his phone. "The new player Q and As we did were pretty successful. Hollander's did the best, but Troy and Yolen went well too."

"Oh, did Troy's go well?" Ilya asked, amused.

"I just said it did," Harris frowned, then realization set in and Harris' cheeks flushed behind his beard. "Shut up."

"No," Ilya said. "He's not bad looking, if you take away the murder eyes."

"He does not have murder eyes," Harris hissed.

"A little bit, he does," Ilya said. "But some people like that."

Hollander didn't really do murder eyes, but he had a steely determination about him that had always made Ilya want to pin him down and crack him open to lick into the soft sweet part of him underneath.

"I don't," Harris said firmly. "There's nothing wrong with using people's first names. You use mine."

"Because you asked me too," Ilya pointed out. "It's fine, I won't tease. Much."

"Anyway, he's probably straight," Harris muttered.

Barrett, who was currently smacking puck after puck into an open net with stone cold anger, stopped for a moment. He wiped his face a little and glanced up to find Harris beside Ilya. Barrett smiled broadly at him, before he realized Ilya was also looking his way. Then he shut down and went back to work.

"Do you think so," Ilya said dryly.

"I don't think we should be speculating," Wiebe said from Ilya's left. "Let's not make an HR incident."

"Exactly," Harris said, even redder now.

"Sorry, sorry," Ilya muttered.

Hollander cruised up to Barrett, and then the two of them were taking turns, doing more precision shots.

"Haas!" Ilya called. "Go show them how it's done."

"Who?" Luca had been very carefully weaving around orange cones with Yolen following after him like a lost puppy.

Ilya pointed down to the goals. "Young hotshot. Old pros. You know how it goes. Embarrass them."

"Oh, I don't-"

"Go."

Luca took off and Wiebe laughed silently beside him.

"Can he?" Harris asked. "Embarrass them?"

"No," Ilya snorted. "They will only become more competitive, but it will be fun to watch."

Sure enough, everyone else quickly abandoned what they were doing to watch. Dykstra took on the role of designating targets that got progressively smaller. Hollander slapped in shot after shot hitting with unerringly accuracy. Barrett was not nearly as dependable, but the speed that the puck came in was impressive and a little threatening.

And Luca was quietly meeting Hollander shot for shot. It was very amusing to watch Hollander realize that Luca wasn't faltering. There was a tightness around his mouth, a narrowing around his eyes.

Of course, he kept saying 'good one' to Luca over and over again too until Luca was probably fit to explode from it, so no one could say Hollander didn't have perfect manners when he was trying to annihilate you.

Ilya had situated him self a little behind all of them. The sheer power and talent on display was worth watching, but Ilya could admit that his eyes were on Hollander alone. The sharpness of him, the clean strike, and the intensity was mesmerizing. Ilya watched and very very quietly in the worst darkest depths of him, he wanted. He knew if he let that want out, it would consume him like wildfire. Wanting Hollander was easy. Muscle memory.

Ilya could practically smell him, almost felt the carefully built strength under his fingertips. How many times had Ilya watched him on the ice like this and thought about it later as he peeled Hollander down to his essential beautiful self?

Ilya wanted, but he kept that want in the tiny box at the depths of his head where it belonged.

At last, Luca faltered, a shot going wide and it was like the world could breathe again. There was no gloating, Hollander only put his arm around Luca's shoulder and gave him a little friendly shake.

"We can win," Wyatt said, all at once quite close to Ilya. "We can actually do this."

"This is what I have been saying," Ilya said. "I am always right."

"I got a weird text from Ryan," Wyatt followed up. "Saying that you were in Toronto last night."

Ilya raised his eyebrows. "Was I?"

"He wouldn't say what was up, only that you hung out and weirded him out. He said I should keep an eye on you."

"Okay," Ilya said and gave him a grin. "See anything interesting?"

"Not yet," Wyatt said and elbowed him on his left side. "Be nice to Ryan. He's a good egg."

"Okay," Ilya rolled his eyes. "You are like a papa bear. I will not touch your enormous grown cub, who could kill me with his thumb if he wanted to."

"He wouldn't."

"Yes, I know," Ilya sighed.

"Hollander is- wow. I knew he was crazy good. I've watched him play for years, but it's something else seeing him act like a fucking cyborg, isn't it?"

"He's not a robot," Ilya said. Hollander was talking to Dykstra now, calm as anything. All the competitive verve drained from him now that he'd won. "He would like to be, maybe."

"Yeah, maybe," Wyatt snorted. "Who wouldn't sometimes?"

Ilya liked being human most days. Especially when he picked Anya back up, all slobbery kisses and excited wiggling, along with a detailed report card. She had gotten rave reviews across the board. Of course she had.

"She was a little hesitant to socialize, but she got there. Maybe take her to a dog park some time? I bet she'd like that. We have a list of a few local ones if you need it."

"Yes, thank you."

They lost the game the next day, 4-2. Ilya wasn't deterred from the certainty growing in him.

"Vancouver next," Bren said to the locker room. "I always like the first away game of the season. It's got potential. Let's bring our best, fellas."

Two days at home and then Ilya regretfully said goodbye to Anya once again to get on another plane. He wondered how many hours of his life had been spent in the air now. How many did you have to clock before you were legally part-bird? Bren sat next to him on the flight and they went over clips from Vancouver's first two games of the season. They were all right. Not as good as the Centaurs were shaping up to be now.

It was, unfortunately, a bad night for Ilya's hand. He had pushed himself with the rapid travel, even with making sure he used his left hand as much as possible. It was fatigue more than use. The team had strict orders to go to bed, but Ilya wasn't play tomorrow. He could go for a walk, stretch his legs and see if that helped enough for sleep to find him.

It was as he was walking out that he saw Barrett coming in, a paper bag clenched in his hand. When he spotted Ilya, he froze for a beat then pressed on like maybe Ilya hadn't seen him. Like a little kid.

Ilya put himself in Barrett's path and calmly held out his hand. "Give."

Barrett shook his head in denial for a second, curling the bag in closer to himself. "It's not-"

"Give," Ilya repeated and Barrett's shoulders slumped, yielding it up. The bottle of vodka inside was insultingly cheap. "We have a game tomorrow."

"I know. It's not- I can't-" Barrett cut himself off. His hands curled into fists then relaxed again, then curled up again.

"This is your hometown," Ilya recalled. "You don't like it here?"

Barrett kept his eyes down, anger and pain radiating off him. "It's fine."

"Mm. Come," Ilya decided. "I'm going for a walk, you'll walk with me."

"I just want-"

"I know what you want. This?" Ilya held up the bottle. "Is this regular for you?"

"No," Barrett said quickly. "Never. I don't do this. I promise."

"Good. Then we don't start tonight," Ilya said. "Come."

Barrett followed him like he was going to his execution. At the front desk, Ilya set down the bottle in front of a tired looking night clerk.

"Do you need ice?" the clerk asked.

"No, this is for you. You have been very helpful tonight and I know we were very loud."

"Oh. Thank you," the clerk said, taking the bottle. It was cheap enough that Ilya almost felt like he should apologize.

"You're welcome, good night."

Outside, the air was bracing. October had arrived with a vengeance. It smacked Ilya pleasantly in the face. It wouldn't do his body any favors, but he still craved the sting of cold on his face.

"Where are we going?" Barrett asked after Ilya had led them out of view of the hotel.

"Nowhere. I like to walk sometimes," Ilya said. Then with some concession, he drew his right hand out of his pocket so Barrett could see his thumb, pointer and middle finger spasm just once, before he put it back. "When it is like this, sometimes it helps to move the rest of my body."

"Oh. I- sorry?" Barrett said.

"Why? You had nothing to do with it."

"I saw it happen," Barrett frowned. "On TV."

"Yes, many people did," Ilya said.

"It was brutal. So. I'm sorry that happened. To you."

Ilya gave a tight nod, "Yes, thank you."

"Did you take me out here to yell at me or something?"

"No," Ilya said.

"Okay."

Barrett kept pace with him, clearly trying to figure out his motives while Ilya led him in a circuitous long route around the neighborhood of the hotel. He'd stayed here a few times before, he knew the general layout, enough not to get them lost. Even if he did, Barrett could probably un-lose them.

"Who is it?" Ilya asked eventually, when Barrett's breathing had finally gotten to something like calm.

"Who is who?" Barrett asked.

"Someone is in your head tonight. Kent?"

"No," Barrett said.

"Family?"

Barrett swallowed hard. Bingo. "It's not a big deal."

"Big enough deal to take a big risk," Ilya said. "You're new. You have an entire bottle. We have practice in the morning."

"I wasn't going to drink the whole thing."

"You were going to drink enough," Ilya said. "Or you would've bought better booze."

Barrett hunched in on himself. He was an attractive man, maybe, but he spent so much time scowling and keeping his silence that Ilya found it hard to see what Harris had seen. Maybe it was only looks, but Ilya didn't think so. Harris would want someone kind. Someone who would burn their reputation, their career, their best friend to make sure the truth was heard. Barrett had defended those women, in his own clumsy explosive way.

"It's hard," Barrett muttered. "Being here. My dad."

"Always," Ilya said heavily. "Fathers. Difficult."

"Yeah."

"Will he be at the game?"

"I don't know. Maybe. He likes to show off sometimes."

Fuck. Fine. "It's hard. To want them to be proud and knowing that they will never be proud of you as you are."

Barrett's head whipped up and Ilya gave him a tight smile. "What the fuck do you know?"

"Many people have fathers. Some of us have ones like that," Ilya said. "I did too."

"Oh," Barrett said. "Got it."

"Mm," Ilya slowed his pace a little. "I think sometimes, we tell each other lies. Hockey likes lies. 'I'm okay', 'I can play with broken ribs', 'I don't need a break'. Little lies. Big lies. But it's stupid. I want this team to speak truth to each other when we can. So. Troy Barrett, are you okay?"

Barrett stared at him, eyes two glittering points under the street lights. He inhaled and then exhaled. "No, coach. Not really."

"Okay. Do you want to play tomorrow?"

"Yes," Barrett said fiercely.

"What do you need to do that?"

"Nothing! I can do my fucking job!"

It occurred to Ilya that if someone had asked him that to him three years ago, he might actually have bitten them, so Barrett had taken it comparatively well.

"I know. But what do you need to do it without pain?"

That stopped Barrett in his tracks. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Yes," Ilya said, stopping too. It was hardly that busy at this hour. The few other people walking hunched against the cold could move around them.

"This team is so fucking weird," Barrett muttered.

Ilya broke out in laughter, unable to help himself. "Good. Weird is good."

Heading back towards the hotel, Barrett's footsteps a heavy plod behind him, Ilya lost hope of getting a real answer out of him. That was fine. Maybe it wouldn't be this time, but maybe next time. They re-entered the lobby, heat sinking back into them. The clerk gave Ilya a little wave. He hoped they hadn't already dipped into the shitty vodka, but he could hardly blame them. Ilya waved back.

Without arguing, Barrett let Ilya follow him all the way to his room. Outside the door, Barrett fumbled out his key card, then hesitated.

"I'm good now," he said. "I think I needed company."

"Yes," Ilya said and gave him a nod. "Me too. If you start thinking about the shitty vodka again in a hotel before game night, you knock. I don't mind company."

Without another word, Barrett slid in the key card and disappeared into his room. That was fine. Ilya's hand had calmed down and he needed to sleep.

Of course, he was up early the next morning because his brain and body sometimes hated him, but it was enough to go on with. He headed downstairs to pick over what was sure to be a dull breakfast buffet. There were a few older men gathered in the lobby, talking a little too loudly. Hollander was milling by the breakfast area, looking mildly put out by the options. Reluctantly, Ilya joined him with a plate. He needed to eat.

"The scrambled eggs are cold," Hollander said with a sleepy disgruntlement that Ilya refused to find cute.

"Your life is one terrible thing after the other," Ilya said and picked up the biggest raspberry danish they had. "How do you survive it?"

"Is that Shane Hollander? And Rozanov?" The men in the lobby. Great. "Talking to each other?"

"Too early," Hollander mumbled, then reset his expression into the pleasant neutrality as he turned.

Ilya offered no such courtesy, reluctantly turning at all and with a much darker set to to his face.

"I can't believe my boy has good enough luck to blow up his whole career only to wind up with the great Hollander on his team," said the man who had been holding most of the attention. He ambled over and stuck out his hand, "Curtis Barrett."

Great. Ilya took his hand before Hollander could. "Hello."

"So how is my boy doing 'coach'?' Curtis said, grinning like he and Ilya were in on a joke together. "I know he made a fool of himself in Toronto. but I promise he's a good player."

"I saw nothing foolish," Ilya said coldly. "Troy is an excellent player. We're lucky to have him."

And to his relief, Hollander didn't try to soften the statement with politeness or smooth anything over.

"Oh, sure, well if you're welcoming in Holly here, I'd guess you're comfortable with just about anything," Curtis said with the same upbeat tone as if everything was fine. As if that was perfectly acceptable.

"I am very comfortable with Shane Hollander and your son, Mr. Barrett," Ilya said and took a step forward.

To his immense satisfaction, Curtis took a step back. Good. Ilya could also still make his eyes look like murder.

"Great. Sure," Curtis said, squaring his shoulders. "Do you know what room he's in? I just wanted to give the kid a hello before the game tonight. Can't wait to watch him play."

"No," said Ilya.

"That's fine, we'll just wait here then."

"You misunderstand," Ilya said patiently. "No, you cannot see him. I do not like my players distracted."

"I'm his father," Curtis said and the anger was starting to come in now. Great. Maybe Ilya would make the news for the first time in a long time for decking this man. He'd never get Barrett to trust him if he did that though. How did he finesse this?

"Mr. Barrett," Hollander's voice was patient and earnest over Ilya's shoulder. "It really is team policy. I know its not always enforced, but we're not supposed to have visitors at these hotels. All things considered, it could get Troy in a lot of trouble."

"Is that so," Curtis said, looking between the two of them.

"Yes, sir," Hollander said. Good boy certainty and sincerity dripped off him.

"I like policy," Ilya said, in what might be the biggest lie of his life. "It keeps things neat. Orderly. Good for the game."

"It's not doing you a lot of good right now, is it?" Curtis sneered. "Worst team on the ice."

"Interesting," Ilya said, "I do not agree. But if we are going to get better, then we need to concentrate. So. Please go now."

For a tense moment, it seemed like Curtis would push back, but maybe there was something to being stared down by two men, who had an intimate knowledge of how easy it was to break a nose that made someone reconsider things.

"Sorry, guys," Curtis said, turning back to his friends, who had missed most of the exchange. "Sounds like Troy is in time out or something. We'll see him at the game tonight."

There was a modicum of grumbling, but eventually the lobby was clear and Ilya groaned. "Fucking dicks."

"Yeah," Hollander said tiredly.

Ilya turned to find him still staring at the doors. "Is this policy real?"

"Yeah," Hollander said with a blink. "Don't you read the manual? You have to sign it and everything."

"Hollander, they write it in English."

"I know you can read English," Hollander said. "Very well."

"Yes, but it's rude not to translate it, don't you think?"

"Did you ever read a single policy for a team you were on?" Hollander asked as if he already knew Ilya's answer was going to horrify him.

"No," Ilya said. "If I make a mistake, they will tell me."

"You know you almost had no accent when you were getting his face."

Ilya grimaced, "Sometimes people listen better like that. Let's eat."

Somehow he wound up sitting across from Hollander at one of the wobbly tables. Still scorning the eggs, Hollander had settled on a sad little yogurt cup and a barely ripe banana. Why anyone would eat that when they could have a danish was beyond Ilya. Hollander also had a coffee. Black. Ilya wanted to steal it badly, but kept to his hot water and lemon like a grandmother. The tea bags had all been caffeinated. Maybe he needed to start bringing his own like a real granny.

"Is it weird that people calling you Rozy is kind of nice and when people call me Holly I see red?" Hollander asked idly.

"No," Ilya said. "Also how he said it was to hurt."

"Yeah," Hollander said, opening his yogurt slowly. "I don't want to eat this."

"So don't," Ilya gestured at the buffet behind him. "Eat whatever. I won't tell on you to the nutritionist."

"Yeah, I know, you never followed a diet plan either," Hollander said. "Four cherry cokes at an All Star Game."

"I liked coke," Ilya groaned. "Do not remind me."

"Not anymore?" Hollander asked, poking his spoon into his yogurt like it had offended him.

"I do. Probably. But I cannot have caffeine."

"Ouch," Hollander sucked in a breath. "I can give up a lot, but caffeine would be hard."

"You have no idea. I have to wake up 'naturally'!" Ilya complained and he could see the hint of a smile on Hollander's lips which absolutely should not fill him with warmth. "Worse than cold eggs."

"Much worse," Hollander conceded. "At least the cold eggs are just for today."

It was just…nice. To sit here and talk. Had they ever done that? Surely the must've at some point, but Ilya could no longer remember. Every memory he had of Hollander was on ice or naked, except for the first few times when they had really been boys, just feeling each other out. Then feeling each other up.

It didn't last long. Luca bounded up to them, plate brimming with food and then stood next to the third chair at the table like they might shove it away so he couldn't join them.

"Can I…"

"Sit," Ilya said at the same time Hollander did.

"Thanks!" Luca plopped himself down, eyes bright. "The gym here is terrible."

"Right?" Hollander groaned. "I mean I wasn't expecting much, but even the elliptical is broken."

"We're going to have practice and a game and you two already worked out?" Ilya asked.

"What did you used to do on game day?" Luca asked.

"Sleep in, jerk off, eat waffles," Ilya listed off his fingers, before he realized he probably should not be telling Luca at least a third of that. "Forget I said the the middle one."

Judging by the inferno status of Luca's blush, he would not be forgetting that anytime soon.

"Ignore him," Hollander said. "He can't have coffee."

"That's terrible," Luca said sympathetically. "I'm also going to have waffles, once I finish with this."

"Good. You will need a lot of fuel today apparently."

Barrett came in last, but Ilya didn't see any signs of being hungover. When he walked past their little nerdy table (Hollander and Haas were getting deep into their workout routines and talking about 'macros' in a way that made Ilya very bored, but not enough to leave), he gave Ilya a very small acknowledging nod.

Ilya hoped that Curtis would be too ashamed to admit to his son he'd been chased out of the building by the Gay Bureaucracy Menace and his too-young-to-take-seriously coach.

"So what do you listen to?" Luca asked, already pulling out his phone like he and Hollander might exchange playlists.

"Oh, no," Ilya realized with delight that someone else was about to find out the terrible truth. "Hollander, don't tell him. You will break his young mind."

"Don't be dramatic," Hollander said.

"I'm not sure Roz knows how to turn that off," Wyatt said from the next table. "But now I gotta know too."

"Know what?" Bood asked.

"What Hollander listens to when he works out," Luca explained. "Its okay, I knew a guy back home who could only work out to Vivaldi. People have their things."

"Tell them," Ilya said.

Hollander sighed. "I don't know why its such a big deal. It's normal."

"Oh no," Wyatt whispered. "is it podcasts?"

"No," Hollander shook his head. "I just don't."

"Don't what?" Bood frowned.

"I don't listen to anything."

No one said a word. Luca's mouth dropped open a little. Ilya took a sip of his grandma hot water. For a morning with such a poor start, it had gotten very entertaining very quickly.

"Ever?" Luca asked tremulously.

Hollander shrugged. "I mean when someone else puts something on that's fine, but if I'm alone I don't bother."

"No music," Bood repeated. "Nothing? Are you… are you okay, man?"

Hollander glared at Ilya, who gave him an unimpressed look back. "This is you, Hollander. I did nothing."

"I'm fine," Hollander said and scraped out the bottom of his yogurt container like it had insulted his mother. "We all have our quirks, right? Rozanov used to eat McGriddles before games."

"McDonalds?" Luca asked. "How could that have been on your meal plan?"

Ilya shrugged. "I eat to enjoy myself, not just for check boxes. You follow yours though. Do not get me in trouble."

"Okay," Luca said dubiously and shoveled more cold eggs into his mouth.

"Sorry, I can't get worked up about Rozy having a gross breakfast after hearing about Hollander staring into the void and listening to his own breathing," Wyatt said.

"I think about my day," Hollander muttered. "Plan stuff out."

Bood nodded slowly. "Yeah. Of course. Okay."

"You sound like murderer," Ilya told him.

Hollander's head whipped up and too late, Ilya remembered the dark alley behind Hollander's apartment. "I like being orderly."

"Yes," Ilya held up a placating hand. "It's good. We like order. Don't we?"

"I love order," Luca said loyally.

"Your locker doesn't say so," Bood teased him.

"I'm working on it!"

And the conversation drifted away. Hollander shook his head and got up to clear away his garbage. It didn't pop Ilya's bubble though and he was right to maintain it. Practice went well and then the game went well. The win wasn't anything to brag about for any other team, but the Centaurs took pride in their 2-1 score and gassed each other up in the locker room after.

Barrett had scored one of the goals and he looked lighter for it. Less murderous. He still wasn't warm or open to the happy chaos around him, but one step at a time.

"Not bad, not bad," Bren said, grinning ear to ear at them. "Let's do it again in Edmonton."

In Edmonton, they did it again. Hollander and Luca ran circles around the rink. There was a rough moment with Barrett getting into it with a ref, but Ilya let Bren handle that one. He didn't want Barrett to think Ilya was going to be on him constantly either.

Back in Ottawa, Bood organized a barbecue for the players and Ilya declined a last minute invite. It was actually nice to come back to his house for once, fetching Anya on the way. He read through some press. No one was excited for them yet, citing the two wins as 'interesting' at best.

He took Anya to a dog park and after a few heart pounding minutes, he settled in to watch her play exuberantly. At home, he gave her a bath, getting them both soaked and tired. He was settling in as if he was going to watch a movie and already sure a nap was coming on when he got a text.

Ryan: Can I call you?

Ilya: Yes

His phone jumped to life and Ilya hit accept.

"Hello," Ilya said.

"Hi," Ryan said. Then nothing else.

"If you want to listen to me breathing, I will charge you by the minute," Ilya told him.

"Shut up, Rozanov," Ryan groaned. "This is such a bad idea."

Ilya grinned at the ceiling. "Sorry, sorry. What is a bad idea?"

"I would like," Ryan said slowly, "to discuss your job offer. If it's real. And I'd like to make an actual professional meeting about it. With your head coach and your GM, not just you."

"Yes, that would be good. I don't know how to do all the paperwork," Ilya agreed. "I will talk to Wiebe and he will make things go."

"It would only be for this season. To see if I like it," Ryan warned.

"Of course," Ilya said solemnly.

"Stop sounding so smug."

"I cannot," Ilya admitted. "I'm very excited."

"I don't understand why."

"I like you. I always like some of my team members. This will be the first time I like all of them," he said simply. "Its good to work with only people that you like."

"I wouldn't know," Ryan said, a hint of bitterness there.

"You will," Ilya said. "I promise."

Ryan went silent again, a hitch of breath. "That's a big promise."

"Yes."

"Fine. Tell them to email me. I don't like cold calls."

"I will."

"Good." The line went dead. Ilya punched the air in triumph.

Chapter 5: take your time, hurry up

Chapter Notes

CW: The opening 'video' contains a brief description of an injury and blood.

[Video Title: Top 10 Most Gruesome Hockey Injuries -  #5 Rozanov's Luck Runs Out

Announcer: Rozanov has the puck and he's pounding down the ice…oh that was a close call, but he's got a clear shot now. Marleau keeping on him to clear out obstacles. The Falcons have been vicious with Rozanov tonight and he's been doing his best to keep them riled up. He's going to fake- that's going to be a hard hit to take. Rozanov is down and- it's hard to tell what's happening, but play has stopped entirely.

The footage has been distant up until now, but the the editor rewinds and zooms in. In silence, Rozanov gets bodied by a massive Falcon with a murderous expression. He goes down hard, his helmet smacking against the ice. Instead of curling protectively into himself, Rozanov ragdolls on the ice, immediately unconscious. His right arm sprawls out from his body at an unnatural angle. A player from behind him doesn't compensate in time. The sharp blade of the skate cuts hard into his arm, cleaving through fabric in the vulnerable space between protective pads.)

Announcer: There's blood on the ice. Rozanov isn't moving and the medics are rushing out. A sobering end to the second period. No one looks happy about this. No matter how difficult Rozanov can be, no one wants to see a player go down like that. ]

"You're still smoking?"

Sometimes Ilya thought he was cursed. Obviously, he wasn't. He was lucky beyond measure in many respects and he tried to keep hold of that thought as he nearly dropped the cigarette it had taken him far too long to light. It was windy this morning and nothing wanted to catch.

"No," Ilya grumbled, "I just like to wave it around."

"It stinks," Hollander said, walking down the ramp.

The arena was technically smoke-free, but Ilya had found Jill from accounting hiding behind a bush outside the parking garage by a utility door eight months ago. Her spot had become their spot. It was only partially hidden from the road. If you were a diligent, careful driver, you might spot the tiny plume of smoke as you drove in.

Fucking Hollander.

"I like it," Ilya said and then took a long, blissful drag, blowing the smoke directly upward so it wouldn't carry into Hollander's face.

"Nicotine can't be any better than caffeine."

"I have one a day," Ilya complained. "It's nothing!"

Hollander took another few steps forward and with a distant smile, leaned against the door.

"This feels familiar."

"Yes. Ten years and you haven't changed."

"Neither have you," Hollander said and the smile was only growing. "I can't believe I worked up the nerve to introduce myself to you. I'd been following your career all year before that. I thought I was going to puke."

Ilya closed his eyes as if that would help, but now all he could see was Hollander from ten years ago, mostly the same except more nervous and jangly. Talking too quickly for Ilya to translate right away. That first stumbled, embarrassing conversation, both of them posturing in their own ways.

At seventeen, it had been one of his favorite memories to play over and over, before he fell asleep.

"I know," Ilya said quietly. "I followed you too. We were the best. We had to know."

"I thought you were a dick," Hollander said.

"I thought you were ridiculous. But I kept thinking about your freckles," Ilya said, before he could stop himself. There was a tiny sharp inhalation of breath from Hollander.

"I- yeah. I thought about your lips a lot. The way you kept smirking at me all through the game. Like you already knew something I didn't."

"I did," Ilya said and took a long drag, letting the smoke fill him.

"Come off it, no you didn't."

"I did," Ilya sighed. "I knew you were going to be enormous pain in my ass. I did not know it would be for a fucking decade."

"I think you've been more a pain in my ass, actually."

The comment was so flippant that it didn't register for a second and then all at once, Ilya was barking out a laugh. "Hollander! What the fuck! Are you trying to kill me?"

"I'm not a murderer," Hollander said, still clearly very pleased with himself.

It wasn't nearly as cold as the day they'd met though October had already given way to November with ill grace. Everything was crisp and dead, but there wasn't snow yet. Just unrelenting brown and when Ilya looked up, the pretty splotch of Hollander among it. He was in his workout clothes, shorts and a hoodie, comfortable and soft.

"A murderer would say that," Ilya said.

"Oh my god, shut up," Hollander rolled his eyes. "Do you even listen to half the shit that comes out of your mouth?"

"I listen to all of it. I'm very interesting."

"Serves me right for trying to be nice. I just came over here to see how you were doing. I heard about that shitty guy with his video at the press conference."

Ilya took a step backwards and thudded himself against the door beside Hollander. Not touching, not even close enough for the possibility, but at least level now.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Are you? Because someone around here keeps talking a big game about being truthful with each other and asking for help when we need it," Hollander said. "And he should live up to his own bullshit."

"Where did this confidence come from?" Ilya asked, gesturing at all of Hollander with unoccupied hand. "Why are you good at this now?"

"Why are you?" Hollander shot back.

"Therapy."

"Yeah. Well," Hollander huffed, then said a little more quietly. "Same."

Huh. Well. Shit. "Your therapist thinks its a good idea to quit your amazing team and come to ours?"

"She thought it was a good idea that I get out of a toxic environment, yeah," Hollander said. "Does your therapist know you smoke?"

"Once she let me smoke in her office." That had been a very very bad session.

"She did?" Hollander sounded like someone had pissed on his shoes. Fuck, Ilya loved that scandalized note in his voice.

"Yes. She is also Russian, she understands. I had to sit on the windowsill in fucking January though. Smoke detectors."

Hollander shook his head. "It's good you found someone you could speak Russian with. Translating therapy sounds like a nightmare."

"Mm, it helps." Ilya said, and took the last viable drag off his cigarette before grinding it against the sole of his shoe.

"But seriously, you're okay?"

"No," Ilya allowed. "But I will be."

"I don't get how you went for so long without knowing. I mean people must've tried to tell you."

"I knew, basically. I just didn't want to see it happen. Marleau is my friend. It was an accident. He didn't cry when his own grandmother died, but he cried in the hospital when he saw me. Sometimes he still texts me when he gets drunk to say sorry again."

"What do you say back?"

Ilya grimaced. "I lie. Tell him it's okay. We're okay."

"Yeah, I would too," Hollander said. "Harris said they'll bar that guy from the press room now."

Tucking the butt into his jacket pocket to toss later, Ilya let his head loll back against the chilly metal. The sky was painted white today, horribly bright.

It had happened fast. Answering questions about their first win at home and then there was a phone with a video playing shoved in Ilya's face, some question about how it felt to be 'ranked number five', but Ilya had barely heard it. Instead, he'd watched himself fall like a puppet with its strings cut. Watched the skate stab into his arm and the slow pan away from the blood to Marleau's horrified face. It took maybe four seconds.

Ilya had gotten up silently and left the room. He'd never walked out of a press room before. But it had been necessary because he'd also never thrown up in front of the press before and he wasn't about to start now. It had been Harris that found him, already emptied and back on his feet. Ilya had clung to the sink and Harris had rubbed his back, saying nonsense until Ilya could breathe again.

The backlash had mostly been against the 'independent reporter' and not Ilya, at least.

"Svetlana says men like that are the reason she hates all men," Ilya said.

"She's still your friend?"

"For life," Ilya said.

"But you're a man," Hollader said.

"I am exception," Ilya said with a little pride. "Too special for the rule."

"No wonder you love her, she feeds into your ego."

All the tired lassitude left Ilya in a heartbeat. "What did you say?"

"That you love someone feeding your ego?"

"How do you know I love her?" Ilya demanded.

"She's the only person you still talk about from Russia. I didn't piece it together for a long time, but you mentioned her even back when we were kids. Someone you've known that long and trust that much, you must love her."

"Yes," Ilya said because Svetlana deserved him saying the truth. Even though he felt naked and raw about it. "She's my best friend. Don't you love Pike?"

"Yes," Hollander said without shame. "We've never had sex though."

Ilya mimed gagging at the though. "Thank fuck. I would think much less of you. Svetlana is most beautiful woman I know. Very different."

"I already thought my reputation was in the gutter with you."

"You keep winning games. I like you a little more," Ilya allowed.

When had Hollander pieced that together? Why did he sound so sure? What had therapy and time done to the man? Why hadn't it done that for Ilya? Nothing was fair.

"I like this," Hollander said.

"The big bush that smells like piss?" Ilya wrinkled his nose. "Even I don't like it. It just is the only place to smoke."

"No, you asshole," Hollander grinned. "I like that we can do this."

It would be easier to say something dismissive, but the briefly chased away fatigue had returned. What was the point?

"Me too," Ilya admitted. "I don't want to talk yet. About all of it."

"That's okay," Hollander said.

Very slowly and like Ilya might punch him for it, Hollander reached out across the gap between them, his hand held palm up.

Ilya was so tired. He wanted Svetlana, not even for her own sake, but because he desperately needed someone to hold him and she was the only real candidate. Bren might, but an older man being tender with Ilya might actually break him in half right now.

Without making eye contact, Ilya took Hollander's hand in his own. The contact was small, just the clasp of palms. Hollander gave Ilya a light squeeze, but didn't release. Ilya willed his hand to behave and for once, it did what he needed as if being held calmed it down too.

They held hands in silence for far too long. It made Ilya desperately want more and to run from it in equal measure. 

"We play Montreal next," Ilya pointed out, even though there was no way Hollander hadn't been obsessed with the thought for weeks.

"Yeah," Hollander sighed. "That'll be fun."

"It will," Ilya said. "Remember, boos and cheers are the same."

"They're really really not."

"You have to listen better," Ilya said. "Trust me."

Beyond the bush, a car rolled up . Out of sheer instinct, they both let go and Ilya instantly mourned the loss of contact.

"I do," Hollander said. "Trust you."

"Good," Ilya straightened. "Come. We're almost late now."

And Hollander, the best active hockey player in the league, followed along in Ilya's wake as if pulled by a string. How could that not be addictive?

They were far from late, but that was all right. Ilya had someone to meet anyway.

Standing outside the door across from Ilya's office was the hulking outline of Ryan Price.

"Why do I have an office?" Ryan asked. He was wearing a very nice gray suit. The door had his name on it and where Ilya's said Assistant Coach, Ryan's said Consulting Coach.

"For when you are here," Ilya said. "It is very good to have a place to hide from them."

"The press?"

"No," Ilya gestured down the hall to where the locker room noises were already starting up. "From those idiots."

Hollander snorted, dipping past Ilya.

"Nice to see you again," Hollander said, sticking out his hand to Ryan. "I'm looking forward to working with you."

"Oh. Thanks," Ryan said and gingerly shook Hollander's hand. "It was really something for you come out like that. Really brave."

"Nothing Scott didn't do first and with more style," Hollander said. Humble. Gross.

"Do not give Hunter so much credit," Ilya tsked. "He had hot boyfriend to please. You did it on your own."

"It's not a competition," Ryan tsked.

"But if it is Hollander wins. One for the Centaurs."

"I wasn't even a Centaur yet," Hollander said, rolling his eyes. "I'm going to go get changed for practice, coach. That okay with you?"

"Yes. Get lost. Goodbye," Ilya said. "I have more interesting person to talk to now."

"I'm so sorry, he's in a mood," Hollander said to Ryan. "Go get Wiebe, he manages him better."

And then Hollander was disappearing down the hall. Ryan turned slowly to Ilya. "What is that about?"

"What is what about?" Ilya asked innocently.

"I didn't even know you two could stand to be in the same room as each other. I was sort of bracing for impact, honestly."

"Eh. Mostly for show and what's there to be angry about now? We're on the same team. Do you want coffee?"

"I can't really do caffeine," Ryan practically whispered.

"Me either," Ilya said. "If you ask nicely, you can share my herbal tea."

"…what kinds do you have?"

Bren joined them in the staff room, and out of sheer solidarity, drank some chamomile. He was a good man.

"It's nice to meet you in person," Bren said to Ryan. "I know we've got the contract laid out to the letter, but you let us know if you ever need to skip one of the in person days, all right? It's not really hard and fast."

"Thank you," Ryan said. "I have it mostly worked out around my partner's schedule. He'll be away a lot, especially around the playoffs."

"Always hard. Dottie, that's my wife, is a saint about how often I'm away," Wiebe said. "I saw a few clips of Fabian performing. He's a real big talent. My oldest plays the cello and he told me Fabian's bowing was impressive."

"You watched Fabian with your kids?" Ryan asked.

"It's hard to get privacy when you've got three kids," Wiebe said. "I've gotten used to a real 'what's on my screen is in your eyeballs' mentality."

That seemed to seal the deal. Ryan's shoulders came down and they talked more about logistics and the next few days. The team would be bussing to Montreal and Ryan had agreed that those were away games that he could attend. Normally he'd meet them there, but it seemed right to have him on board for the first one. Anyway, it would get him to two practices, enough to get everyone on the team used to him and his style before he was at a remove.

"Heya!" Harris chimed from the door. "I've been sent from the rink to ask if you guys are going to show up today or not?"

"We are not even late," Ilya huffed.

"You're a little late," Harris laughed, bounding into the room. "It's really great to meet you Mr. Price. I'm Harris Drover, communications, mostly social media. Everyone calls me Harris here."

"Hi," Ryan said and even if he didn't remember Ilya telling him that Harris was gay, Harris' many rainbow pins would remind him. "Ryan is fine. I don't do social media stuff."

"It's okay, they told me already," Harris assured him. "I won't stick a camera in your face ever, I promise. Do you like apples?"

"Say no," Ilya said quickly. "If you say you like them, he will bury you in them."

Ryan looked to Harris clearly waiting for him to correct Ilya, but Harris just kept smiling like beacon of beard-y sunshine.

"Uh. Yes?" Ryan ventured.

"Awesome! I'll make you a starting package. Do you drink?"

"Yes?"

"Even better! Okay, I played messenger, I'm going back to my office now. Rozy, do you want a gyro for lunch?"

"Yes, please."

"Great! Nice to meet you!"

"I cannot be blamed for the apple hell that will now happen to you," Ilya said sadly.

"He did try to warn you,"Bren nodded. "Can't be helped. All right, let's go see what our players are up to."

As soon as they got out to the rink, Wyatt flew up to Ryan. "My man!"

"Hey," Ryan grinned at him. "Good to see you."

"I'm going to hug you as soon as practice is over and I've showered," Wyatt warned him. "And then Lisa and I are taking you out for dinner."

"Okay," Ryan said. "Sounds good."

Wyatt did finger guns at him, then pulled on his gloves and skated away backwards.

"If he was any happier, he would explode like a firework," Bren said with a chuckle. "Okay, fellas! You got someone new to show off for today. Let's do some scrimmage so Coach Price can get an idea of where you're all at. Especially defense!"

Everyone scrambled, except Barrett, who looked a little bit stricken having laid eyes on Ryan. Their shared time in Toronto must've sucked. Barrett and Kent would've taken chunks out of an obvious target like Ryan.

"You don't have to deal with Barrett," Ilya said. "He's my problem child."

Ryan gave a single stiff nod. "But he's better now?"

"Much. No bullying. Barely says anything to anyone, except Harris."

"Harris?"

"I don't know anything."

"Somehow, the way you say that implies so many many things that you know."

"Does it?" Ilya grinned.

If Ilya had had any reservations in getting Ryan on board, they evaporated as soon as Ryan put on skates and went out to bring their defensive line in close, He talked to them in a serious, but gentle way, his hands cutting through the air. Chouinard was immediately smitten, hanging on every word and Dykstra was pretending to play it cool, unaware of the hearts in his eyes. Boyle and Homberg were stonefaced, but Ilya had overheard them gossiping excitedly about finally getting some 'real help', so he had a feeling that would work out.

All and all, it was a very good morning, especially considering Ilya had spent most of yesterday in a limp, damp pile under his duvet.

"You look pretty happy, all things considered," Harris said over gyros.

"I like this team," Ilya said simply. "I like being here."

"Yeah?" Harris smiled softly at him. "Me too."

There was a knock at the door and they both turned to see Barrett holding a tray of coffees and a little white bag. "Shit. Sorry, I- you said you liked that drink and they had them."

"An eggnog latte!" Harris said, eyes wide. "You didn't have to!"

"No, I just- It's fine," Barrett said, flushed.

"You stay," Ilya stood and collected his food. "I have emails. Many, many endless emails."

He slid past Barrett, who was still standing there so awkwardly that he might as well be holding up a neon sign that said 'Big Stupid Crush' on it. Too bad for him Harris apparently needed glasses.

When Ilya got down to his office, there was a small box in front of the door. There was one in front Ryan's too, so Ilya assumed it was another surplus offering from the Drover's orchard. He picked it up and carried it with him, setting on his desk along with his half-eaten lunch. Because working for a living was a fucking joke, Ilya did actually have emails to answer, so he pecked through them as he finished eating.

Only once he'd got through most of them, did he treat himself to real break and open the box. there was no tape, just the leaves meticulously folded together so he practically had to rip the cardboard to open them. There were bottles inside, but not of the Drover family cider.

It was a six pack of soda, the familiar 'Coke' label in gold instead of red or silver. Bemused, he stared at it until the label resolved a little and he registered the beautiful red 'Caffeine-Free'. With a huff of surprise, he cracked it open and took a sip. There was a slight change in taste, but it was his first Coke in over a year, so he didn't give two shits.

Ilya could've cried. It was such a ridiculous thing to miss, but he loved the thick syrup stupidity of American sodas. When he'd first moved to Boston, it was like some terrible parallel universe where he struggled to understand even the basics of life some days. Soda had made sense. Sugar was a universal language and Coke had invaded every market in the world. It had become a comfortable touch point in his day, especially as he started to whip around the enormous continent and found himself newly confused with every new city they arrived in. Coke was always the same. He could always order it right.

Why hadn't he thought to look for a version without caffeine? They made it a thousand different ways.  No one would've told him. No one in Ottawa was aware of his former near addiction to the stuff. 

Wait.

No one here knew. Except for one very fucking annoying man, whose hand he might've just held like a child. Heart pounding, Ilya looked in the box again. There was a yellow post-it note inside that had drifted to one side, caught between the side of the box and the soda.

Don't drink it all in one sitting. -24

Ilya set down the bottle, folded his arms on top of his desk and let his forehead fall against them. Not for the first time and likely not for the last, he wondered if Hollander was going to be the actual death of him.

The old Ilya would've fellatio'd the bottle in front of Hollander to fuck with him during afternoon drills. New Ilya was mature and aware of his status as coach. And scared out of his fucking mind. New Ilya only took mindfully non-suggestive sips, generally when Hollander wasn't looking.

"What's that even taste like?" Ryan asked skeptically.

"Porn," Ilya said without hesitation.

"I- what?" Ryan stared at him.

"Almost sex, but not as good," Ilya explained.

"Wiebe?" Ryan said strangled.

"Mm?" Bren was eyeing up Yolen, and only gave Ryan half his attention.

"I changed my mind."

"You already signed all the papers, son. We own you for nine months. Joe! Stop fucking around!"

"Sorry, coach!" Yolen yelled. "Luca said-"

"Haas! He's listening to you, don't lead him into hell!"

"Yes, coach!"

"Be a good role model!"

"Yes, coach!" 

"They're the same age, aren't they?" Ryan asked, bemused.

"Yes, but Luca has been playing professionally longer," Ilya explained. "And Yolen thinks Luca knows everything. Very cute. Very fucking annoying."

Ryan frowned and watched Yolen mostlycalm, still going a little too fast and glancing back to make sure Luca was watching.

"Roz."

"Mm."

"You weren't lying about this team, were you? It really is the queerest in the league."

"I am always saying the truth," Ilya winked at him. "Now you know."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Ryan laughed quietly. "Okay. Never mind, I guess I'll stay."

"You didn't actually have a choice," Bren reminded him. "But that's nice to hear."

That was a good energy to bring to Montreal. Traveling with Ryan when he wasn't obsessing about an eminent plane crash was far more pleasant. He even got up and walked around a little on the bus, stopping to talk to all of guys, getting to know them.

"You did good," Bren confirmed to Ilya, nudging him with his elbow.

"Because you did good first," Ilya told him, trying to hide how pleased that made him.

Fuck Montreal though. The morning was fine. They practiced and no one was around. Hollander was a little tense, but nothing concerning. Everyone else seemed oblivious that this game might be different. They were only worried because of Montreal's record.

Galina had explained hypervigilance to Ilya. He knew that some of what he sensed sometimes wasn't real, but sometimes it was. Right now, he could taste the danger crackling in the air and it was definitely real. Lunch was a blur, food automatically ground down for fuel. They did tape review in the afternoon, Ryan delicately pointing out gaps in Montreal's defenses.

When they finished, the guys went to the locker room and Ilya escaped outside to find a spot to smoke. Instead, he caught the early arrivals. The diehard fans who showed up to wait on line, too excited to put off coming for another second. One of them had a handwritten sign: Eat Puck, Hollander!

It wasn't very clever, but it didn't need to be. It was a warning sign. Ilya didn't smoke. He went back inside and found Bren and Ryan.

"It's bad," he said.

"What is?" Bren asked.

"The fucking vibe," Ilya said. "We need to say something. Not to Hollander. Get him out of the room."

"I'll give him a separate pep talk. Sound good?" Bren offered.

"Perfect."

The guys hadn't even started changing yet, just sitting around shooting the shit. Hollander diligently trotted off with Bren when he was called. His departure silenced the room. Maybe they had all read the feeling in the air too.

"Bood," Ilya said. "You do whatever big talk you were planning later for him and them. I am not trying to steal your lightening. Okay?"

"Thunder," Ryan whispered to him.

"Thunder," Ilya repeated, tucking that away for later.

"Okay, coach," Bood said. "We're listening."

"I know we have strategies to deal with teams like Montreal," Ilya said. "But, tonight we have only one plan."

"Fuck 'em up?" Wyatt guessed.

"No," Ilya said then considered. "Well, yes, but listen. They are so angry with Hollander. The team, the fans. He made them great and then they shit on him until he left. Fuck them. Most nights, we should be a team, support everyone equally. Not tonight. Tonight, all we do is make everyone sees how fucking good Hollander is and what they lost. We are new girlfriend showing off to ex-girlfriend. We have stolen their man and we will make them very very jealous."

"Hell yeah!" Dykstra said, slamming his fist against a locker. "We're so much hotter than them!"

"Yes," Ilya grinned. "Exactly. Can we do this? For him. For us?"

"I'm going to shove my tits in their face!" Chouinard flexed his pecs.

"Too bad we can't crop top our jerseys," Yolen said, a little shyly.

"Do it in your minds," Ilya said. "And do it by crushing them. We will not win tonight. We will fucking kill them and smile while we do it. Yes?"

"YES, COACH!"

Ilya retreated after that, letting the idea take root in them. He indicated the hallway to Ryan and they ducked out into it.

"Was that a good idea?" Ryan asked. "Riling them up?"

"I know you did not like what they said to you. The fans. But they did not hate you, did they?"

"No," Ryan conceded. "Not usually."

"Mm. It's different. I don't care. I liked it. But Hollander cares. They will all care because they like Hollander. And some of the things they are going to say will be…"

"Yeah," Ryan filled in the blanks. "Shit. I know."

They both stared down the hallway where already the din of excited fans was starting to reach them. A tide coming in to knock down sand castles and dreams.

"We will show them," Ilya said with surety.

From minute one of the game, it was clear Montreal's entire strategy tonight was to make Hollander a marked man and prevent him from even sniffing the puck. Too bad they had woken the protective monster that slumbered inside decent men.

Every single player on the Centaurs made it their mission to get Hollander to the goal untouched. They took serious damage to make it happen. Even Yolen, their smallest player, intervened between what should've been a hard hit to the boards for Hollander and skated away as if nothing had happened even though the little shit had bruised his ribs to hell and back.

The best part was they didn't throw gloves once. They didn't get a single penalty. Every move was legal and clean. It was Montreal that looked like thugs, coming for the Centaurs' necks as Hollander put away goal after goal. He had a hat trick before the end of the second period. At no point did he celebrate.

No one did. The Centaurs were unmoved by their own success.

The crowd was in a fury. Insults and chants rained down around them. No one cracked. None of them smiled or celebrated. Not a single chirp left the teams' usually wisecracking lips. Hollander shot in each goal like it offended him that it was so easy.

"Do you want to take a break?" Bren asked Hollander after second period.

"Send me back in, coach," Hollander said without taking a breath. "I'm not fucking done."

It was, Ilya could admit in his heart of hearts, one of the hottest things he'd ever heard.

Montreal was scoreless. It was the kind of game that had once been easily played against Ottawa, the saddest little team in the league. And now the great dynastic Montreal was being systemically laid out by them and furious with it.

Except, and Ilya was forced to give credit where credit was due, Hayden Pike. For reasons Ilya could easily guess, Pike was held back from play until the third period. As soon as he was over the boards, Pike slowed down. He moved like someone had filled his skates with cement. When his teammates went in to give Hollander a hard time, Pike was literally anywhere else on the ice like no one had sent him the memo.

Late to the party, but at least game to try J.J. Boiziau joined him. The two of them leisurely cruised around like they had no where to be and nothing to do. Meanwhile, Barrett shot the puck to Haas, who lined it up for Hollander and the fourth goal went in.

"Huh," Pike said audibly as he passed by the Centaur coaching team. "I think that kid Hollander has some promise."

"Yeah, he's not bad," JJ said.

"I heard he might beat Rozanov's old goal record," Pike said, raising his voice even louder.

Ilya had to work hard to keep from laughing at that, the break in tension almost taking him out. Pike winked at him. Ballsy.

"Friend of yours?" Ryan whispered.

"Absolutely not," Ilya said. "but he is Hollander's bestie."

"Nice guy," Ryan said. "Too bad he hangs out with such a bad crowd."

Ilya was absolutely not going to look up when Pike's contract expired. There was only so much one man should have to put up with. But he might send Pike, his pretty wife, and two dozen children a very nice fruit basket.

The game ended at 4-0. Bood sailed in, snaking out a hand to grab Hollander, planting him next to him at the entrance of the tunnel.

"I'm not-" Hollander said.

"Shut up," Bood said gently.

Every single Centaur touched Hollander as they came in. Gloves off. Nothing invasive. Pats on the arm mostly. The Metros might have been chirping, but Hollander got no chance to pay attention to them with the way his team was showering him with affection.

Until Pike, who went in last and yelled across the ice. "Hey, Shane!"

Hollander's head snapped up. "What?"

"Jackie wants to know if you want her to make that chicken thing again next time you're over?"

"Yes, please," Hollander said.

"Cool- get the fuck off me Mitty," Hayden snapped at his own captain, who was attempting to hurry him along. "Text me, so we can choose a date! Bye, Shane!"

"Bye, Hayden," Hollander said and then headed in himself, trailed by Bood, who was still watching as if someone might jump them from behind.

"Wow," Bren said. "Well. How do we want to debrief from that?"

"Music, vodka and company," Ryan said.

"I love you," Ilya told him.

"Shut up, Roz."

The team was not celebrating when they got into the locker room. Instead they were listening.

"Thank you," Hollander was saying, holding himself like he might shatter into a thousand pieces. "I can't- you've all been really amazing. I appreciate what you did tonight. Don't do it again. Haas, you could've had that goal. Yolen, do not take hits for me."

"Sorry," Yolen said, grinning to beat the band.

"You don't look sorry," Wyatt said, matching his smile. "We're not sorry, Hollander. But it wouldn't work again anyway. Element of surprise!"

"I was very surprised," Hollander said, not exactly smiling, but not disapproving either.

"Good work, all of you," Bren said serenely, breaking in. "We've got an early wake up tomorrow to get the hell out of this cursed town. As long as there are no noise reports to the lobby or bills to pay tomorrow that I wasn't expecting, then all I know is I went to bed on time and slept like the dead."

Leaving them to it, the coaching team wound up in Bren's room. They did not drink vodka (boo) or at all, but they did reminisce like old men about other strange games and stayed up a little too late. When Ilya finally left to find a few hours sleep, he wandered down to the hotel gym on a hunch. Just to check.

Hollander was sitting on one of the bikes. Not using it. Maybe he had been, judging by the sweat on his face, but now he was slumped over the handles, staring blankly out the window in the parking lot.

In theory, Ilya could leave him there. Hollander was a grown man, who didn't need a coach to babysit him. He wasn't Barrett, who might careen into shitty liquor or Luca, who had once cried himself sick over missing home last season soaking through Ilya's favorite Centaurs' shirt.

In theory, Hollander didn't need Ilya.

Ilya walked into the gym.

"How many games have you scored four goals in?" Ilya demanded. "This is how you celebrate?"

"There's nothing to celebrate," Hollander said woodenly. "I gave them so many years. So much time. So much fucking effort. For what?"

"Oh, you are in your divorce era," Ilya said.

"Fuck off," Hollander said tiredly.

"No,"

Ilya sat down on the bike beside him. Apparently, they were really going to do all the hits. In fairness, their single-minded intensity about their sport meant that their lives were a never ever ending loop of the same kind of places. Repetition was inevitable.

"I know I'm great. Fucking legendary even," Hollander said without a hint of bragging. He didn't even sound happy about it. "And that used to be all that mattered. I don't know when that stopped being the most important thing. Four goals in a game and I feel like shit."

"The good ones could be worse than the bad ones," Ilya said.

"I never felt that way before last season," Hollander said, glancing at him. "You did?"

"Sometimes," Ilya frowned, trying to think of how to say it right. "I was happy right after. Drink, find someone, have sex. Drive fast. All good, but after, it was sometimes empty. And I could not explain this. If I lost, everyone understood. You win, you must smile."

"Empty," Hollander repeated. "Yeah. That's what started happening. When I really understood that most of the people I knew, didn't care if I was happy or sad as long as I was winning.  Not my parents, Hayden or JJ, but everyone else. I could be gay as long as I wasn't bothering them about it or making it a thing. As long as they could still say gross shit in front of me. I let them. For months, I let them."

"Why?"

"Because I figured 'that's just hockey'. The price that I had to pay to play," Hollander said. "I still believe that, a little."

"It's bullshit. We shouldn't have to pay," Ilya said.

"We shouldn't," Hollander agreed. "but we did."

The terrible bright lights of the gym showed Ilya their dimmed reflections in the window. They both looked tired. Worn through. 

"So we fix it," Ilya said.

"You're already doing that," Hollander said. "I see you doing it. It's incredible."

"It's not," Ilya said, staring at the reflected Hollander. Soon his hair would be long enough to draw back from his face with an elastic. What would that be like? Pretty, probably. "It's only for us. This team. It's not enough."

"Okay," Hollander said. "Then you keep doing it and I'll start planning."

"Planning what?" Ilya finally turned to him. Hollander was looking right at him.

"How to make it bigger. It's a long term plan. I'm better than you at those."

"Fuck off, I am great at plans," Ilya said.

Hollander snorted and slide off his bike. "Take the 'L', Rozanov. You're the master of a short term execution, but I'm the one with the long game. How do you think we got here?"

The bastard swanned out, leaving Ilya there to watch his fantastic ass leave with the last word.

Ilya: I'm fucked.

Svetlana: Why?

Ilya: Hollander.

Svetlana: It's 3am on work night, unless the news is that you fucked him or you killed him, please wait until morning to have your breakdown.

Ilya: Mean.

Svetlana: 😴😴😴

Chapter 6: I don't have any reasons, I left them all behind

@ottawacentaurs Thanks to the great reception of our Barbecuing with Boodram series, we're going to be expanding out to show some of our other players interests. Did you know @luca_haas39 is a super talented artist? Check out some of his work!

[A photo series of colored pencil drawings in a realistic style. The first drawing is of Chiron, the team dog with a hockey stick in his mouth. The second of Luca's own locker, the equipment put away messily, his jersey crumpled on the bench, only the 'H' visible in his name, and another jersey tossed down beside it, '-len' visible where they overlapped. The third was Ilya Rozanov from the side, in skates on the ice, arms folded over his chest and his lips very slightly turned up in a smile at something he sees in the distance.]

"It's mostly really tedious," said a light feminine voice. It was coming from the locker room which caught Ilya's ear immediately. "I have to sit for about six hours."

"That sounds like torture!" Luca exclaimed. "Worse than a plane ride."

"You get used to it, but I'm glad that this is my last one."

Curious, Ilya slowed and ducked his head around the door. Sitting on the bench, surrounded by wide-eyed players, was Rose Landry. Even out of her Hollywood glam, she looked like a star. Her smile was veneer white and bright. Luca was literally sitting at her feet like she was a librarian at story time. Behind her, Hollander was leaning against his locker, looking unbearably fond.

"It's the last X-Shot movie?" Wyatt asked, hand to his chest like he'd been shot.

"I doubt that," Rose laughed. "Just the last one with me in it. For now. I want to do something else for awhile."

"Get kidnapped?" Hollander suggested. She flipped him off without turning around and Hollander chuckled.

"No, I want to do some dramas again. Something that actually feels like acting," she said.

"I loved that one you did with all the cherry blossoms," Dykstra said. "Me and my wife both cried about the ending."

"Oh, thanks!" Rose said. "I loved acting with Kieren, he's so funny. Are you sure it's okay for me to hang out in here?"

"Yes," all of them said almost in sync with each other.

Ilya crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, that's interesting. Is it? Mr. Policies, is this allowed?"

"Yes, coach," Hollander said, shooting him a glare. "Visitors are allowed, when they check in and have proper identification and are on the list."

"Coach Rozanov!" Rose greeted him like he was the famous one.

She got to her feet, carefully stepping over Luca's legs and came over to meet him. Instead of a handshake, she threw open her arms.

"Hello," he said, bemused, but accepted the hug if only because everyone was watching.

"Sorry! I'm a hugger," Rose said, pulling back to study his face like it was a text book. "Wow. You really are rock star handsome, huh? Its one thing on TV, another in person."

"Thank you?" The charm offensive was not what he'd been prepared for.

"You're welcome," she said. "Wow. Wow! Okay. It's really good to meet you. I should probably get out of the locker room so these guys can get changed. Shane said it would be okay if I could stay and watch practice. Is that all right?"

"Yes, okay," Ilya said, still wrong footed. She looked at Ilya expectantly and before he could stop himself, manners kicked in. "You can come wait in my office. Unless you like to watch the Zamboni."

"I'm good," she said, then called over her shoulder to Hollander, "I'll be watching! Try not to fall on your face!"

"One fucking time!" He groaned. "Don't do anything weird."

"No promises," she sing-songed. "See you on the ice, guys!"

Ilya led one of the most famous people in the world into his office. It was a little easier to view her from behind his desk, some authority reinstated. Rose sat in the visitor's chair, tucking one ankle under the other thigh. Her clothes were cozy winter things, but all of it very high end. Girl next store if she had an unlimited budget. Even under the terrible lighting, she glowed.

"Did you come to Ottawa to visit Hollander?" he asked, fishing for pleasantries. "Or are you filming here?"

"Only visiting," she said brightly. "I just finished a project, so I saw my family for a bit, now I'm stopping here and then I'm off to a spa retreat with one of my friends from high school. I try to cram a lot of relaxation into my down time."

"Do you have a schedule?" Ilya guessed. "For relaxing?"

"Maybe," she hedged. "I don't get a lot of time off."

"No wonder you are still friends with Hollander," Ilya determined.

"I guess we do both like a schedule," she said. "But we didn't figure anything out for tomorrow. I ambushed him a little."

"There is a so-so museum if you like art," Ilya offered.

"Shane likes art as much as he likes music," Rose snorted.

"Yes, his head is full pucks and sticks, mostly."

"Yours isn't?" Rose said, a little challenge in her.

"I also like dogs and music," Ilya shrugged. "But yes. Mostly pucks and sticks. I do know a few clothing places you would like."

"You think so?" She asked, tilting her head.

"My friend, Svetlana. She has said you have very good taste," Ilya said. "I know where she likes to go when she visits. It would be the same, I think."

"Oooh, Svetlana," Rose said knowingly. "I've heard a little about her."

"How?" Ilya demanded, then caught "Ugh. Hollander. He never even met her."

"I know, I think he'd like to," Rose said then winced. "Oh no. I already fucked up."

"Fucked up what?" Ilya asked and then knowledge came to him like a bolt. This woman was not a challenger. She was Hollander's friend. His lockbox. Ilya immediately changed his body language, relaxing a little in his chair. "I heard nothing. I will not tell him."

"Oh no, oh no," Rose said and buried her face in her hands. "He warned me too!"

"About me?" Ilya asked, the last of the churning in his stomach swept away in delight.

"No. I mean, yes, a little," Rose groaned. "Don't look at me."

"Okay," Ilya said and went on staring at her. "He talks about me?"

Rose shook her head, face still buried in her hands. "I'm not telling you anything."

"You could tell me one little thing?" Ilya coaxed. "I will never tell him you did."

"No," Rose said, but she was peeking out between her fingers like a kid. "He would be so upset."

"Well, then, say nothing," Ilya nodded seriously. "We do not want to upset Hollander. He will give us the sad eyes."

Rose choked back a laugh and dropped her hands. "He might! I'll feel guilty forever."

"Forever is a very long time. That would be very sad for you."

"Let's change the subject," she said firmly.

"Difficult. He is the only thing we have in common."

"Not true! I like hockey. I've been following the team. You guys are doing great this season."

"We will do better," Ilya said and reluctantly let her change the subject.

By the time Bren found them, Ilya had made them both tea and convinced her to eat one of the apple cider donuts from the staff room that kept appearing in frightening quantities.

"Hey, you going to turn up for work today, Ilya or-" Bren stopped short, taking in Rose. "Excuse me, miss. I didn't know Roz had a guest."

"She is Hollander's guest," Ilya said. "But he is irresponsible and left her with me. Rose, this is Coach Wiebe."

"I've heard such nice things about you!" Rose got up up and held her hand out.

Bren shook it without so much as an eye twitch. "Thank you, that's nice to hear. Now that you mention it, I did hear something about Hollander having a guest today. Just figured it was his mother. But she usually doesn't come to practices."

Which was weird, now that Ilya thought about it. Where was Yuna Hollander? This was her home town. Ilya had seen her and her husband at two of the home games, sitting in the stands, but nowhere else. She was Hollander's manager, wasn't she? How had she felt about her son leaving her many times self-professed favorite team to come here?

"I hope it's all right," Rose was saying as Ilya picked at that knot. "I'm not trying to be a distraction, I just don't get to see Shane much."

"Are you staying with him?" Bren asked.

"Absolutely not," she said with a smile. "Shane is a morning person and I'm a night owl. I stayed over at his condo for three days once and it was the closest we ever came to a fight."

"You've been friends a long time then?"

"Two years or so," Rose said.

"That's nice," Bren said, his eyes darting to Ilya. Trying to convey what? "Glad he's got supportive friends. Not many people want to watch a practice. Even if they're paid to do it."

Oh. Right. Ilya was late.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Would you like to join us in the box, Rose?"

"Yes, please."

She sat down on the bench when they got there, waving to Hollander, who waved back and then taking out her phone. Bren and Ilya stood a little away, focused out, giving out some direction to get things going.

"You are acting very calm about her," Ilya said.

"Funny, I was going to say that to you," Bren said, raising his eyebrows.

"Why?" Ilya asked, bemused.

"I kind of thought she might be a secret girlfriend or something."

"Hollander is gay," Ilya reminded him.

"Your secret girlfriend."

The laugh that spilled out of Ilya was unbecoming, but he couldn't help himself.

"What's funny?" Rose's head came up with a snap.

"Wiebe thinks we are dating."

"We just met, unfortunately," Rose gave Ilya a thoughtful once over. "And you're not my type, even if you are hot for a hockey guy."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dykstra had been passing by and was now slowing, looking offended.

"Sorry!" Rose said, eyes wide. "It's just that I hang out with ridiculously beautiful people all day. You are all very handsome, I promise, it's just an unusally high bar."

"Nah, I'm teasing," Dykstra assured her quickly. "You gotta be into broken noses for our crowd."

"Ridiculously beautiful people?" Bren asked Ilya in a whisper. "Is she a model?"

Ilya stared at him, then said very quietly, "Bren, she is one of the most famous people alive. How do you not know Rose Landry?"

"Landry?" Bren repeated, the penny dropping. "Holy shit. I know that name."

"She's been in a thousand movies, yes, I would assume you know her name."

"I'm terrible with movies!" Wiebe winced. "I'm too tired by the time we put them on and I fall asleep. Do you think she's offended?"

Ilya glanced at Rose, who was now taking a picture of Shane from a distance, zoomed in on him slapping in a shot that zoomed by Chouinard.

"I do not think she gives a fuck," Ilya said.

"Oh good. Man. Dottie is going to tease me about this for weeks when I tell her."

"You could not tell her," Ilya said.

Bren frowned, "No, that's half the fun."

Which Ilya understood on a fundamental level and wished he did not.

At a water break, Hollander came over and leaned over the boards. "Not coming out on the ice?"

"Fuck off," Rose laughed. "I'm not dressed to skate. It would be kind of fun though. I could pretend to fall and maybe some big strong guy would rescue me."

"They all reek right now," Hollander warned. "And they might crush you competing over who gets to do it."

"See? I knew there was a reason not to bring skates. Why did I even bother coming if there's no one to flirt with?"

"I told you I'd meet you for lunch, you insisted on coming."

"Well, yeah," Rose said, and gestured a little vaguely. "Because of reasons."

"Reasons aren't going anywhere," Hollander said. "We could've done reasons somewhere else."

"No, we could not. I'm lucky I got anywhere near reasons," she said. "You would've kept reasons in a box under the floorboards forever if I let you."

Ilya kept his eyes on Barrett, who was hunched over his phone with an intensity that was somewhat troubling. Nothing to see here, Ilya projected as hard as he could, you are both boring and I am not listening.

"That's not true," Hollander protested. "I told you about reasons."

"You talked around reasons. You inferred reasons. You implied reasons. If I hadn't gotten you drunk in Seattle, then I never would've gotten any details about reasons."

"We have got to stop saying that word, it's not making sense any more," Hollander muttered mutinously.

"Well, if it helps," Rose said a little more lightly, "I like reasons. Very charming and surprisingly good manners. Didn't even try to interrogate me much despite all your warnings."

"What did you-" Hollander started then cut himself off. "Rose."

"Relax," she said and that was gentle. Not a scold or a snap. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya caught Rose giving Hollander's arm a gentle squeeze. "It's fine, I promise. It's all okay."

"No, I know," Hollander muttered. "Sorry."

Wiebe's whistle cut through the air. "All right, fellas, let's get some hustle going. Barrett, why is your phone out here?"

"Sorry, coach," Barrett said, slapping it down on the bench. "I- sorry."

"You can have it if there's an emergency," Bren reminded him. "Is there an emergency?"

"No, coach," Barrett said.

"It's your first offense, you're off with warning," Bren said. "You want us to go stow that in your locker?"

"Yes. Sorry. Again."

Holding out his hand expectantly, Ilya took Barrett's phone and carried it back. Hollander had skated off anyway. Footsteps sounded behind him the hallway almost immediately. Ilya led her to empty locker room and set Barrett's phone carefully on the shelf. The screen was flooded with notifications from social media. Probably some new blow up with Kent. No wonder Barrett looked fucked up. Ilya made a mental note to follow up before turning to face Rose again.

"If you really want to flirt, Tanner Dillion's girlfriend broke up with him for the third time this week. We would all say thank you if someone distracted him," Ilya said. "He is not 'so bad for a hockey player', I think. Not as good as 'reasons', of course."

"Thanks for the tip," Rose said. "Shane thinks it's a good code word."

"Yes. He is very smart and then very dumb," Ilya said.

"Would you come to dinner with us tomorrow night?" she asked.

"So you can get to know reasons?" Ilya studied her face, but she was a very good actress, actually. She gave nothing away.

"Because it would make him happy. He likes having all his people in the same room and he never gets to have it," Rose said

It was so frank and stark that Ilya almost felt like she'd slapped him.

"I am not-"

"Let's not fuck around," she said, eyes flashing. Damn. All right. Ilya understood why Rose Landry was so successful now. All that sweetness wrapped around steel.

"Fine. Then no," Ilya said, then tacked on a limp: "Thank you."

Rose scanned his face. "Why?"

"Because I can see already you will arrange dinner then have headache," he said. "Or bad stomach."

The cloud of annoyance that swept over her face told him he had her dead to rights.

"How did you know that?"

"Because Hollander has a type," Ilya said and sidestepped away from her, heading for the door. "Enjoy your dinner! We have scrimmage now. You can watch your new boyfriend, Tanner, get slammed into the boards."

"I haven't even met him yet!" Rose protested and followed him out, her face a cloud of annoyance.

To Rose Landry's credit, she did indeed lightly flirt with Dillion, who took it as intended which Ilya had known he would. Dillion was too hung up on his ex to do otherwise. Practice ended with Hollander whisking Landry away, leaving Ilya in peace to go bother Barrett.

It took a very long time to find him. There was no way Barrett had left by the state of his locker where his car keys were still rested next to his wallet, but he wasn't in any of his usual haunts either. Harris wasn't even at work today, but Ilya checked the communications offices anyway. Empty.

It was only happenstance that he took the stairwell down and found Barrett there with his phone gone dark in his lap.

"What are we doing?" Ilya asked and sat down next to him.

"I don't know," Barrett said. "I just couldn't be quiet anymore."

"So you said what?"

The phone came to life again and Barrett showed him. The posts were simple. Statistics about sexual assault, lists of links for assistance, and some helpful infographics. Only inflammatory if you were notorious for having confronted your ex-best friend about it and your mutual workplace choosing his side.

"This is all good," Ilya said. "Simple."

"Harris said it was okay. I checked first," Barrett said defensively as if Ilya had yelled at him.

"Okay," Ilya said.

"The comments are…" Barrett trailed off.

"Yes. People are terrible. This is not news," Ilya said.

"I know," Barrett sighed. "I just want to fix it."

"Ah, yes. You, Troy Barrett, decent hockey player can definitely fix all bad things," Ilya said solemnly.

"I have to try. I let him- it's my fucking fault. I didn't know. How did I not know?" The very real anguish broke through Barrett's stone cold edifice and shattered it into sand.

Shit.

"I am going to hug you if you do not say stop in the next five seconds," Ilya warned him.

Barrett frowned, but he didn't say stop. Ilya pulled him into a rough side hug and held on. Barrett hadn't showered after practice and frankly smelled disgusting, but Ilya was used to that.

"Sorry," Barrett said as if he could apologize his way into a better future.

Wouldn't that be nice?

"No, sorry," Ilya told him. "There is no sorry. You did not do these things. You did not know these things happened. Maybe this makes you not best man in the world, but you are not the bad guy. You are doing your best now. We will help."

Barrett didn't put his arms around Ilya in return, but he did fold in against him and let himself be held for a long time.

That had all been terrible and vaguely horrifying. Five hours later, Ilya threw himself on Galina's couch with enough verve that the poor defenseless piece of furniture groaned. Before she could even ask a question, he was streaming everything out, the words falling over each other and his Russian punctuated with emphatic English.

"A busy few weeks," Galina said mildly.

"Yes," Ilya groaned. "So what do I do about it?"

"What do you want to do?"

He muffled a grunt in his palm. "I don't know."

"Maybe you didn't, but I think you do now," she said. "Ilya, imagine a year from now. What is the best possible day you could be having? What does it look like?"

An impossible image came to Ilya immediately. It made him hot and cold all at once.

"I can see something," he said.

"Good. Tell me about it."

He told her. Galina nodded slowly. "I think, considering everything you've told me, that is not an impossible dream. What steps do you need to take for it to happen?"

"I've been told I'm not good at long term planning," he said with only a hint of bitterness.

"What do you need to do to get better at something?" she challenged.

"Practice."

"Practice," she confirmed. "In this case, a long term plan should be flexible, but how about we figure out a few first steps, okay?"

Ilya took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. Then another. And another. "Okay."

They flew out to New York the next day. Luckily for Ilya, the first step in his plan was very flexible because he was not planning on doing it any time soon. Even though he did have plans for taking Manhattan, they were separate, smaller plans.

When the landed, Ilya sent a few important texts, getting back the replies he needed. They were slightly edged in sarcasm, but that was fine. Old people were often cranky.

Ilya slept well that night and at morning practice, the team was cohesive if a little nervous.

"The Admirals are just kind of forceful this year," Wyatt offered when Bren pulled them into the video room.

"They are," Ryan's voice filtered over them through the sound system. It was a little like being contacted by a divine spirit. If said spirit had once or twice or more knocked a man out cold with a single punch. "But they're not unbeatable. Let's go over some ways to get around them."

The strategy was sound and by the end, everyone left with a little more confidence.

The game went fine. The Admirals were in fine fighting form, including their beloved captain. With the wind beneath his wings and love in his heart, Hunter played like he had when he was Rookie of the Year. Ilya had maybe watched a few highlight reels. It was actually fun to see Hollander and Hunter square off. They battled each other like knights of old, full of rules and honor.

Both teams did well, 2-2 by the third period and every step towards victory a worthy battle. At one point, Hunter made a beautiful assist and to Hollander shouted after him, "I didn't know you could still do that!"

"Want me to teach you how?" Hunter yelled back.

Very pathetic chirps, but Ilya was proud anyway. Hard to say of which one, really.

New York did take the win in the end, but Ilya wasn't upset at 3-2 loss against one of the best teams in the league. It had been a very clean game, few mistakes made and a lot of good plays to point out in tape review later. Ryan had texted throughout with a lot of compliments to pass on that would leave their defense proud as they could be without actually winning.

"Good game," Bren said with some satisfaction. "Next time, we'll leave them in the dust."

"Yes," Ilya said without hesitation. "And if we meet them in the playoffs, it will be to run them over."

"Your lips to God's ears," Bren chuckled. "Oh! Before I forget to ask again, what are you doing on Christmas?"

"Your Christmas or mine?" Ilya asked wryly.

"It's different?" Bren asked bemused.

"We celebrate on January 7," Ilya said. "But you mean your Christmas, I know. Nothing, maybe. I haven't thought about it."

"Okay, well our Christmas is next week. Come to our place. We're trying to start some new traditions this year. Dottie and the kids would love to have you on the day."

"This is for family," Ilya said. "I don't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be because we're inviting you. Really, you'll be doing us a favor. The kids are so used to a big family thing and Dottie is already kind of sad," Bren paused then sighed. "Her father passed away a few years ago and her sister moved in with her mother to help her, but they're both not the nicest women in the world. They make each other worse. This is the first time I got Dottie to agree not to go and get beat up all day by them."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Ilya said. Who would be mean to Dottie Wiebe? People were so stupid.

"Me too, but if she can have an extra person there to make it seem a little more full at the table, I think she'd love that."

"Okay," Ilya said, keeping as much of the emotion out of his voice as he could. "I will come. But I want to get things the kids will like. Do they have lists?"

"They do, but one item a piece, please, and nothing too expensive," Bren warned him with mock sternness. "They don't need a ton of new things."

"Yes, I promise," Ilya said, already thinking about how he could obey the letter and not the spirit of that law.

"Great!" Bren said as if Ilya really had done him a favor. "Going out tonight?"

"For a bit. I have to take two of them with me. Coaching excursion. They will be back in time for a good night's rest."

"Okay, sounds good, see you at breakfast."

It was a good thing that the ride back to the hotel was quiet and dark. Ilya needed a second to process that. He had not had a real family Christmas meal in a very long time. Since he joined the team in Boston, he had either celebrated Christmas alone or with Svetlana, the few times she couldn't make it home herself. In his rookie year, there had been a really lovely group of WAGS that threw a dinner party on Christmas Eve for all the players who couldn't get home. Ilya wasn't sure that counted, but it had been nice.

Once at the hotel, he gunned for Barrett's door, knocking sharply.

"Coach?" Barrett frowned. "What-"

"You are coming with me. We're going out. To a bar."

"Why?"

"If you don't have some fun, I'm worried your brain will shatter. But I will be there, so you will not have too much fun. Yes?"

"Okay."

"Good. Get your coat."

Barrett got a coat and his shoes and followed Ilya four doors down. He knocked again. A few moments later, Hollander opened the door. He was clearly dressed to go to sleep in boxers and an ancient white t-shirt.

"No," Ilya said, "we are going out. Pants. Shirt."

"What?" Hollander blinked at him. "Hi, Troy."

"Hi," Barrett said, a little strangled.

If Ilya had had any doubts (he didn't) about Barrett's deal, the way he was eyeing up Hollander's thighs would've convinced him. Ilya couldn't blame him, but he could tilt himself slightly to the left to block the view.

"Coach orders. We're going out. Get dressed."

"Where are we going?" Hollander asked.

"A bar," Barrett supplied.

"A mandated bar outing?" Hollander frowned. "But-"

"No questions," Ilya said. "It's only for an hour. One drink. Everyone will be tucked into bed before midnight."

"Fine," Hollander said and let the door shut in Ilya's face. Rude. He repressed a grin.

"Do you want me to get Wyatt and Luca? They're the next two down," Barrett offered.

"No," Ilya said. "Just you two."

"Why us?"

Without answering, Ilya took out his phone and sent a confirming message. The door swung back open a minute later. Hollander was in dark wash jeans and a soft looking light blue sweater with a v-neck. Something about the color made his skin glow and Ilya stared for a second too long. A knowing smile started to form on Hollander's lips and that snapped Ilya back into the moment.

"Come," Ilya said. "Our car is waiting."

"Where are we going?" Hollander asked.

"He won't tell us," Barrett said, doing the work for Ilya. Good boy.

The discreet car whisked them away, the bright city lights throwing fascinating shadows over Hollander's face.

"I don't think a coach has ever taken me mandated bar hopping before," Hollander said.

"Not hopping. One bar," Ilya said.

"Are we being kidnapped?" Barrett asked Hollander without a trace of humor.

"We agreed to come," Hollander said. "So technically no."

"What about not technically?"

"Debatable."

"This is why we're going out," Ilya groaned. "You are both like violins. High strung."

"I'm not," Barrett and Hollander protested in unison. Both sounding very high strung.

"Very convincing," Ilya nodded. "I almost believe you."

"Really?" Barrett asked.

"Wow, okay," Hollander said. "We need to talk about learning how to tell when he's being sarcastic."

"You will teach this?" Ilya's eyebrows flew up. "Because-"

"Fuck off, Rozanov. I can tell. Most of the time."

The car slowed before Ilya could mount a counter argument. He got out and stretched. There was an enormous rainbow flag hanging over the front door and under it a neatly painted gold sign that read 'The Kingfisher'.

"This is Scott Hunter's bar," Barrett said.

"And Eric Bennett's. Retirement project," Ilya said.

"This is a gay bar," Hollander said.

"Yes. Will anyone catch on fire if we go in?" Ilya asked dryly.

"No," Barrett said quickly. "But why are we here?"

"You both say Hunter is your favorite current player. So we come to his bar," Ilya said and opened the door.

Ilya caught the discreet 'reserved' sign on the empty six top towards the back. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat. After a second of dueling uncomfortable looks, Hollander and Barrett sat down too. Barrett across from Ilya and Hollander to Ilya's left.

Like clockwork, Kyle appeared as soon as asses hit seats. He was a slight man with a near permanent sly smile and artfully tousled hair.

"Kyle!" Ilya grinned at him. "This place looks much better."

"Funny what some money and some care can do," Kyle said. "Do you want menus?"

"There are menus now?" Ilya asked, delighted. "I cannot order a virgin Scott Hunter?"

"You can, but now it's laminated. Have you guys been here before? No, right?" Barrett and Hollander mutely shook their heads. "So all cocktails can be made without alcohol. They're crafted to taste just as good."

Ilya glanced over the menu quickly and then his eyes caught on something and he barked a laugh. "Kyle!"

"We change them monthly," Kyle said like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "I'm sure it's a coincidence."

"Big coincidence," Ilya shook his head.

The Scott Hunter was proudly at the top of the menu, but under that was 'Talk to the Posts' which was some kind of mojito, then 'The Carter' which included a maraschino cherries 'by the handful' and below that-

"Russia's Greatest Love Machine?" Hollander's voice pitched up. "Why is it just a shot of vodka?"

"And a lime twist," Kyle said helpfully. "The mocktail version is seltzer instead."

"I will have this. With the vodka," Ilya said, already enjoying himself immensely. "It's the good stuff?"

"I don't mess around."

"This one just says Canadian Wet and Wild," Hollander said, his eyes wide. "The only ingredient is ginger ale and a 'shot of your choice on the side for when you're feeling brave bilingually'."

"Yes," Kyle said patiently.

"That's not a cocktail," Hollander pointed out.

"Do you not want it?" Kyle asked.

"Somehow this is your fault, Rozanov. I know it. " Hollander said with conviction. "Yes. Please. Thank you."

"Do you have beer?" Barrett asked meekly, covering the menu with one hand like it might attack him.

"Sure," Kyle said. "Lager or pale ale?"

"Lager, please."

The front door opened again, bringing in a blast of cold air and several happy men to add to an already decent crowd of them.

"Hunter?" Hollander sat up straight like teacher had arrived.

"Holy shit," Barrett muttered.

"Hello, boys!" Kip called out, sliding in to study their table before Scott and Eric could reach them. "Oh wow. You're Shane Hollander! Nice to meet you. I'm Kip Grady."

"I know," Hollander said, holding out his hand. "It's really great to meet you."

"Aw, thanks," Kip shook his hand, then turned his sights on Barrett. "And you're too pretty to be a hockey player."

"Hey!" Scott protested.

"Sorry! It's true! But you have to be…oh! Troy Barrett, right? You've been doing really great work online."

"Thanks," Barrett said softly.

"It's heroic," Scott said and clapped Barrett on the shoulder. "We're fans."

"I-no, I mean-" Barrett was short-circuiting, "you're the hero."

"Cute," Kip deemed. "Oh, hi Roz."

"I am a cheap after thought," Ilya sighed. "It's fine. Forget about me."

"Actually, I had a question for you," Kip said.

"Not in front of him," Ilya waved at Scott. "We cannot keep our plans to run away to a tropical island a secret if we say in front of him."

Scott rolled his eyes, "Kip doesn't like beaches. He likes museums,"

"Yes, that's the only reason I'm not going," Kip said with a laugh. "No, I'm just curious. You told Scott you already have a plus one to the wedding you're not invited to. Who is it?"

Bless Kip Grady from his silly little name to his designer sneakers. Ilya was going to get a three-for-one and he didn't even have to set it up himself.

"Harris Drover, our social media manager. Hunter, social media is these things on your phone…you have a phone, yes?"

Barrett's ears went red, Hollander's eyes narrowed and Hunter sighed like he was the most put upon man in the world. This was truly the best night ever.

"He's pretty active on Twitter, actually," Kip said with a wide grin. "Is this Harris cute?"

"Adorable," Ilya said sincerely. "But I am only bringing him so he can find another date. I promised to be a wing man."

Everyone calmed down. It was only fun if it didn't tip over into a brawl, after all.

"Our wedding is not a singles event," Hunter said.

"This is very uncharitable. You should want to spread love around," Ilya said. "You are Mr. Philanthropist. What happened?"

"You make me into Scrooge, Roz. It's the smirk."

Across the room, Eric Bennett was leaning over the bar to kiss Kyle.

"Bennett!" Ilya called. "You are slowing down the service!"

Over his shoulder, Bennett flipped Ilya off. Fair. It did catch Hollander and Barrett's attention though and they watched Bennett kiss the young pretty bartender under a pride flag.

"What is happening?" Barrett mouthed to himself.

"Oh," said Hollander. "That's nice."

Kip followed his line of sight and sighed, "Hey! You're working, Kyle!"

"And my sugar daddy owns the joint," Kyle yelled back. He had Bennet by neck of his expensive starched shirt and Bennett seemed entirely comfortable with that. "I'm paying our bills right now!"

"Eric isn't a sugar daddy," Hunter said quickly to Hollander. "Its a joke."

"A very old and boring one," Kip rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll leave you hockey boys to catch up. I'm going to go do inventory because my life is one excitement after the next."

"I love you," Scott said, leaning over to kiss Kip on the cheek.

"Love you too," Kip said meltingly sweet and then went towards the bar, still heckling Kyle.

Bennett sauntered over and took the last empty seat. "What are we talking about?"

"How I am going to be Hunter's best man, I think," Ilya said.

"Carter will rip out your jugular if you try," Bennet snorted. "Hey, Hollander, it's great to see you. That was some coming out video. We're really proud of you. Montreal is full of assholes, huh?"

"Yes," Hollander said with a slight grimace. "But Ottawa is pretty great as it turns out."

Their drinks arrived and Ilya subsided, letting the conversation rise up around him. Naturally Hollander and Hunter bonded over hockey strategy almost immediately, the talk sinking into deep dull waters while Bennett and Barrett mostly listened, occasionally commenting when things swung into their areas. Ilya made the right noises and in a particularly loud moment, excused himself and headed to the bathroom. After a piss, he still felt the desire to retreat, so he went out the front circuitously to avoid getting spotted.

It was downright bitter now, the winds whipping down the streets. It felt good. Pure. Ilya's hand was cooperating today and the wind considerately blew in a consistent direction, so he turned his back on it and got his cigarette lit. The city was vibrantly alive around him. People walked, shoulders hunched against the wind, talking animatedly on the phone or to the person beside them. Noise from the bar and other restaurants ricocheted out every time a door opened.

New York wasn't so bad.

Ilya missed Boston.

Not always. Not even most of the time. But Boston had a different flavor from New York. He'd liked the way history was crammed in among the modernity, the rough manners and odd moments of intense neighborly kindness. Ottawa was great. Ilya wanted it to be the last city he lived in, tired of trying to make new places home.

He took a long drag and blew it out slowly, watching the smoke disappear towards a starless sky.

Boston was gone from him. Moscow was gone from him. It was careless to lose two homes, probably. It would be criminal to lose a third. No one was going to take it from him, he reminded himself.

He was going to have fucking Christmas with the fucking Wiebes. This was his life now. Ilya took a last drag and stubbed it out. He flicked the butt into the grate, took a deep breath and dove back inside.

The bar had filled up more, but Ilya's seat was open at the reserved table under a neon purple light. Scott had leaned into Barrett, speaking to him earnestly while Bennett nodded in agreement like the good minion that he was. Then Hollander laughed in surprise at something and the sound soaked into Ilya like a cool rain.

As Ilya got closer, Hollander looked over his shoulder. He smiled and inclined his head towards Ilya's empty chair, encouraging him to join. As soon as Ilya slid into the seat, all the rattling clanging feeling left him.

"And that's when I look up and see Roz just leaning against the wall like he owned the place," Hunter said. "I asked him what he was doing there and he never really answered me, but he didn't leave either. Just stuck around for Scott Hunter Night, dancing his ass off."

Oh. Shit. No longer talking about hockey then.

"At a gay club," Barrett said, gaze skittering to Ilya and back.

"I was surprised too," Hunter said.

"What?" Ilya rolled his eyes. "Bisexuals are not allowed in the club now? Must I tell the world that Hunter is biphobic. Bad look for Patron Saint of Gay Hockey."

"There's so much wrong with that statement, I don't actually know where to start," Hunter said.

"You're bi too?" Bennett asked.

"Yes," Ilya said.

Bennett nodded. "Nice."

"Kyle!' Ilya yelled. "Your boyfriend is hitting on me!"

"Good for him!" Kyle yelled back. "What's your policy on threesomes, babe?"

"Strictly against! Still!" Bennet yelled, then flushed.

Hollander nudged Ilya with his elbow and Ilya glanced at him. The approval was written all over his face, even with the threesome comment. Like Ilya had done something spectacular instead of admitting to be queer in a gay bar.

"Shut up," Ilya muttered.

"I didn't say anything," Hollander pointed out. He was close enough that Ilya could feel the flutter in the air his words made.

"I'm not biphobic," Hunter said, interrupting the moment.

"And yet, I am not invited to your wedding," Ilya pouted.

"Because you're an enormous pain in my ass, not because you're bi," Hunter said patiently.

"Hm," Ilya said. "I don't believe you."

"Tell Harris that I'll find him some nice boys in Ottawa," Hunter said. "Because you're not coming."

"Hunter, I can find him nice Ottawa boys," Ilya said.

"Then why do you need my wedding?" Hunter asked triumphantly as if he'd won.

"He doesn't," Hollander said, taking a sip of his ginger ale. "But at least if he's there, something fun might happen. It's really him doing charity for you if you think about it."

Ilya was so deeply fucked. He grinned and held his glass up to Hollander's to clink together as Hunter's face when through five stages of grief all at the same time.

Then Hollander said without any tone at all, but those gorgeous brown eyes boring into Ilya's:

"Don't take Harris if you get invited. Just. Don't."

"Okay," Ilya said and shot back the rest of his vodka. "Okay."

The conversation moved on and this time Ilya stayed with it. At one point Barrett got up to get another drink which Ilya decided to let go. He would shepard them away once it was done. Barrett lingered at the bar and came back a little hot around the cheeks.

"Kyle flirt with you?" Bennett asked.

"No!" Barrett said quickly, then winced. "I mean. Maybe. I don't know."

"It's fine," Bennett laughed. "It's his hobby."

"Okay," Barrett muttered into his beer.

Once Barrett was mostly done with his beer, Ilya clapped his hands together. "All good little Canadians must go to bed now. Say goodnight."

They all got out after a few more minutes of goodbyes (and some numbers exchanged, Ilya noticed), then slipped back out into the night. They would have to wait for the car for a few minutes, traffic backing up before their eyes.

"It's not a long walk," Barrett said. "Is it?"

"No," Ilya conceded and he wouldn't mind stretching his legs. "Hollander?"

"Fine with me."

They braved the wind and pushed down the long city blocks together.

"I can't believe we went there," Barrett said after five or so minutes.

"Your first gay bar?" Ilya asked.

"Yeah," Barrett said.

"Mine too," Hollander admitted.

"But-" Ilya started then cut himself off. "Really?"

He'd brought Hollander to his first gay bar. Ilya shouldn't be this pleased about that.

"Never got around to it," Hollander said. "I thought it would be louder."

"Most are. Hunter keeps it elder-friendly," Ilya said. "What did you think?"

"A lot like a regular bar, except way more relaxing," Hollander said. "What did you think, Troy?"

"Surprising amount of hockey players."

They all cracked up over that and reached the hotel in high spirits. They reached their floor, the hallway spinning off in that dizzying infinity way some hotels had and dropped Barrett off.

"I'll walk you to your room," Hollander said.

"Oh, the whole fifty feet?" Ilya asked. "I can make it."

There was no response, just Hollander walking beside Ilya all the way to the end of the hall. Ilya quieted, sinking into the hush of the carpet. He reached into his pocket to pull out his key card.

"This is mine," Ilya said.

"Thank you. For tonight."

"It was nice," Ilya said vaguely.

"I was wrong," Hollander said. "About your long game."

"Oh, can you say that again into my phone?" Ilya lit up. "It can be my new ringtone."

"Shut up," Hollander said with a fond smile. "I wasn't totally wrong. I do think I can do some better planning, but you were already working the long term stuff and I didn't even know."

"No, no," Ilya said quickly, a horror rising in him. His adventures were not planning. "You were right! Very short term thinker."

"It wasn't just Scott in Vegas. It's Ryan. And Eric said you were purposely obnoxious to get him to realize how much he liked Kyle and helped him get out of the closet. And whatever you're doing with Barrett…you've just been working the angles," Hollander said. "Building a network."

"Absolutely not," Ilya said firmly. "Total accident."

Hollander shook his head. "You were doing it. It's really beautiful."

"Stop," Ilya said, his heart was racing now, the blood pounding in his ears.

They were close enough that Ilya could not only see each of Hollander's freckles, but remember specific ones. There was a particular group of three, so close under his left eye that they almost merged into one, nearly a flower with pretty little petals.

"Stop what?" Hollander asked. "We're just talking. We can keep talking. I could come in."

"If you come in," Ilya said, "we are going to fuck."

The word struck through the air, slicing hard between them. To his credit, Hollander didn't even argue.

"Yeah. Probably."

"And you want to talk first."

"Ideally," Hollander said. "But-"

"No. I- I also want to talk. First. I am trying, I don't know…" Ilya's words were lost.

"Okay. Not tonight," Hollander said straightening a little and taking a step back. "Got it."

Fuck. Not tonight. That was fine. That was good. Flexible plans. Ilya hadn't even thought about doing anything tonight.

He watched helplessly as Hollander take another step back and said, "Good night then."

The return goodnight stuck in Ilya's throat. Instead, he reached out and put his hand on Hollander's arm. He drew him back and Hollander came as if magnetized.

Gently, Ilya brought his other hand to Hollander's cheek. His thumb swept over the flower cluster of freckles. With a soft sigh, Hollander leaned into the touch.

What was Ilya supposed to do with that?

He leaned in and kissed Hollander right there in the hallway. It was late and every door was closed. They would hear the elevator or a door opening far before anyone could catch them out. And apparently, Hollander didn't care.

The kiss was, for them, almost chaste. Just lips, chapped and dry from the winter, touching. Yet, Ilya felt it over every nerve in his body. He could not be more turned on if Hollander had grabbed his dick. His eyes were hot. His skin was too tight. His throat burned. It was a total annihilation.

They parted and in that brief, terrifying silence, Ilya knew what he had to do. To get to a year later, he had to take the first shaky steps. Flexible could also mean now.

Hollander had run to him, arms open and heart on his sleeve. He was waiting, patient and repentant. It was Ilya's turn to do the hard thing. The most frightening thing he could think of.

All Ilya could see was Hollander pulling on his pants with frightened urgency. Running. Escaping. But Hollander wasn't going to do that this time. Ilya had to believe that. He had to take a leap of faith.

He had to do it.

"Good night, Shane," Ilya whispered.

Shane made a pained noise and kissed him again, his hand flying to Ilya's neck, fingers tangling into his curls. It was a slightly filthier kiss, but it ended before it could go far. Shane was breathing hard and he swept smaller kisses over Ilya's cheeks, his forehead, his chin, then he was stepping away again, eyes bright.

"Good night, Ilya."

Ilya watched him walk away, but not far. Only far enough to reach his hotel room door. At the last second, before disappearing into the room, Shane met his eyes and smiled at him. Bright as the sun. Then he was gone and Ilya could breath again.

He stumbled into his own room, slamming the door and pressing himself against it.

In his pocket, Ilya's phone buzzed and he fumbled it out.

Jane: Please reply to this. I'm sick of the last thing I see when I go back to read these being silence.

Fuck. Ilya's eyes started burning hotter.

He hated it too. The beautiful dialogue of their filthy minds, their wanting hearts and it died a cold, unfeeling death with a date getting farther and farther away. Fixable. A small step.

Lily: Go to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Good night.

Jane: Sweet dreams.

Chapter 7: Without you the world revives, colors renew, but I know blue, only blue, lonely blue

Scott - 3 Years Ago

The hours Scott had with Kip were like diamonds. He hoarded them like a dragon, refusing to concede a single minute. They'd barely had two months together and their future was obscured by a deep rolling fog. If this was all he had, he wasn't going to waste it watching hockey. There were so many other hours to spend reviewing tapes and crunching numbers.

"I'm exhausted," Kip admitted, falling against Scott on the couch and tucking up under his chin. "I pulled a double to cover for Jean no-showing."

"What a douchebag," Scott said, getting his arm around Kip's shoulders to pull him in even closer. "I can't believe they haven't fired him."

"It's the accent," Kip grumbled. He shifted a little and then it was perfect. "Can we just order in and watch something? I might fall asleep on you."

"I would love if you fell asleep on me," Scott said, nuzzling his nose in Kip's hair. He was a little sweaty, but otherwise smelled like oranges he spent hours juicing. "Even if you snore a little."

"A little? You sound like a cement mixer," Kip teased.

"It's the nose," Scott sighed. "You break it a few times and it's never the same."

"It's a good nose," Kip assured him, giving it a kiss to prove his point.

They ordered in and ate on the couch. Kip chose some prestige series that Scott liked just fine, even though all the characters seemed whiny. When Kip really did fall asleep on him, Scott paused it and then gave into his worst impulses. It was fine, he reasoned. He had to watch something while Kip napped. He did lower the volume.

The only game on was Boston vs Nashville It would be a bloodbath, most likely. Nashville had been playing like shit.

It was halfway through the first period and Boston was indeed up 2-0 already. Rozanov parted the defense like a hot knife through butter, passing the puck so quickly that Scott felt a little bad for Brody. Brody was a shithead, but he wasn't an awful defense player. Too bad for him Rozanov was Rozanov. There must've been quite the chirp following that goal. Brody went after Rozanov like they'd entered the boxing ring.

The closed captioning provided the usual commentary about Rozanov being formidable, but difficult. They all had their short hand things. Scott was 'strong, but unreliable'. Carter had once had it put on a t-shirt and gifted it to Scott for his birthday.

With Kip heavy and warm at his side, Scott yawned a little himself. He settled in deeper into the couch, the commercials parading past him mostly unseen. Second period got underway, a dull unmoving clash as Nashville briefly rallied. Sleepily, he watched Rozanov break away with Marleau on his heels to ward off any interference.

Brody was on the move. Scott frowned with sleepy annoyance. What did he think he was going to do? It was better now to anticipate where Rozanov was going then meeting him where he was. This was why Nashville was so far behind.

Then Brody slammed full force into Rozanov in a way that was definitely personal. Scott winced, feeling the impact a little himself. It didn't surprise him that Rozanov went down hard. No matter how tough you were, sometimes you were only a skin bag of organs under all the pads.

Except Rozanov didn't just go down. Scott hissed as helmet struck the ground too hard. That was going to ring his bell.

The blood started flowing before Scott could even process what had happened. Later, he'd watch it over and over, horrified at the terrible perfectly bad luck of it all. In that moment though, he only saw a player that in his heart of hearts Scott was a little fond of, gush blood onto the ice.

Scott waited, barely breathing, as the medics rushed in. Marleau, one of the toughest motherfuckers Scott had ever faced, had intense distress written all over his face as he was forced back by the ref to the box.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Kip asked sleepily.

"Sorry," Scott hadn't realized he'd tensed up enough to wake him. "Go back to sleep, it's nothing."

"You're upset," Kip frowned and sat up immediately. His eyes darted to the TV and he sucked in a sharp breath. "Who is that? A friend of yours?"

"Not a friend," Scott said. "Rozanov."

He'd complained enough about Rozanov's chirping to Kip the last time they'd played Boston. Would Kip think he was being ridiculous worrying over someone like him?

"That looks really bad," Kip said. "Will he be okay?"

"Yeah, probably. He was knocked out, so he might have a concussion," Scott said. "But he'll probably be fine. Just a lot of blood."

"From his head?"

"It looks like he got cut on a skate."

"Yikes," Kip winced. "What do you do when someone you know gets hurt like that? I'd send flowers to the hospital, but that doesn't seem very hockey."

"If I sent Rozanov flowers, he'd think they were full of poison ivy," Scott agreed.

"A card?'

"I doubt he'd read it."

"Might make you feel better though. You're pale as a sheet, babe."

Was he? Scott sighed, "Watching someone get injured always freaks me out more than getting hurt myself."

Kip smiled gently at him and kissed the corner of his mouth. "That's because you're a really great guy, I think."

"We can go with that," Scott said. He turned off the TV and reached for Kip instead, coaxing him to straddle his lap. "How about we head to bed?"

Scott didn't forget about Rozanov, but he did put it on the back burner. When he showed up for practice on Tuesday, the rumor mill was in full effect. None of it was couched with much compassion. They'd all taken hard hits before and Rozanov was a universally detested adversary. But there was a tinge of 'there but for the grace of god goes I' about it all. Concussion, broken collarbone, and an emergency surgery on a severed flexor tendon.

After practice, Scott went into a Rite Aid and walked down the aisle of greeting cards. There were dozens of 'Get Well Soon' choices and they were all far too cheery or sentimental. What would a card mean anyway? Maybe he should forget it.

Then he spotted a cartoony one shoved towards the bottom. He plucked it out. There was a chicken in a hospital bed, a bowl of soup on a tray. There was another chicken in a nurse's outfit hovering over them with a word bubble that said 'Don't worry about what's in it, just eat it'.

Scott grinned and plucked out the matching envelope. Back home, he wrote inside Get well soon. Beating Boston tastes better when you're the one crying about it. -SH.

Rozanov's address wasn't common knowledge, but Scott had a lot of ways of finding things out in the hockey world by now. He put the card in the mail and forgot about it soon after.

Svetlana Vetrova - 2 Years, 8 Months Ago

It was amazing how easy fooling people could be when they didn't want to look too hard. Svetlana put on the right kind of dress, did her hair the right way and said the right things. As soon as she did that, she was the right person for whatever job was before her. For today, she was the perfect girlfriend to the grieving son.

"You're being good to him," her father said. Not disapproving, but weighing the thought. "A good partner."

"Yes," she said. "For today."

"Maybe for tomorrow too," he said hopefully. Papa had always liked the idea of her with Ilya, more than he liked Ilya himself. He would be happy if she married him.

"Maybe," she said, placatingly. There was enough family tension at this funeral. She didn't need to add to it.

Watching Ilya's father being lowered into the ground would have been elating if it had happened three months ago. Today, it only made her grimly satisfied. For Ilya, she had pretended respect, but for his sake and her own, she had loathed the old bastard and mourned only that he hadn't died sooner.

It was unsurprising when Alexei decided to take up where his father had let off. Svetlana had followed as soon as Alexei tailed Ilya to the bathroom. Bore witness.

Sometimes that felt like all she could offer Ilya: to stand in silence and watch as he fought battle after battle without any other aid. When Alexei insulted her, she watched Ilya's rage rise, watched him do his best with one arm to put his brother in his place, pain pulling the color from his face.

All at once, certainty rose in her. No more watching.

"No," she intervened. "He's not worth it."

"Listen to your stupid slut," Alexei growled. "I have proof of what you are."

"There is no such thing," Ilya said.

"A picture. I have one," Alexei said with a grin a little too wide. "With your old friend, Sasha."

Ilya released him and stepped back as if Alexei had punched him. "Prove it."

"I don't have to prove anything," Alexei spat. "You will be the one who will have to defend himself. I was the one who was here. I was the one who took care of the old man. I don't want to drag our name through the mud, but I will if that's what it takes."

"What do you want?" Ilya asked, already capitulating.

They had always been close, but Svetlana had moved herself into his home these past two months. She had grown to know Ilya in new ways. All the little habits that he might have tried to hide from her, every expression and weird comment he made when the painkillers robbed him of his defenses. She knew what he looked like when he wept with exhaustion and pain in the middle of the night and the emptiness that settled over him when there was nothing left.

They weren't things she'd wanted to know about him. It was a hard thing to admit, but for a long time, Ilya had not been quite human to her. He was her partner-in-crime, of course, and her friend. He had also been a symbol of home in a strange land. He had been her protector on more than one occasion. Always the man who was there when every other man let her down. Her lover when she could find no other. The man who would always kiss her when she needed to be kissed.

He had never before been a person who needed her to take care of him. Ilya would never, given the choice, have let her tend to any of his needs. That had been perfect. He could go on being a handsome hand in hers when they went home and she never had to worry about him seeing her as some maternal housekeeper like so many men wanted.

But when they had called her from the hospital and said 'Emergency Contact', she had run to him and never looked back. She doled out his pain medication because he was terrified of having full access to them on his own. She walked him to the bathroom in the middle of the night and more than once rubbed his back as he vomited. She listened to the doctor's and taken notes when he was too disassociated to do it himself.

Svetlana had never felt so close to another person in her entire life. It was claustrophobic and terrible and beautiful.

The last thing that was going to take it from her was Ilya's piece of shit brother.

"I know what you did," Svetlana said, steady as a rock.

Ilya's eyes darted over to her, his breathing still too fast.

"What?" Alexei turned on her.

"I know," she repeated. "Maybe you have a picture, maybe you don't, but I know what you did. I can certainly prove it. I will tell my father and he will go to your boss. No father to protect you now."

"You're full of shit," Alexei said. "You don't know anything."

"Men like you," she snarled. "You think women are invisible. You ignore us. And all the while, we watch and we hear. How much was it? Do you even remember?"

Alexei glanced to Ilya, who at least had gathered himself enough to reinstate his stony mask. "You would let her do that? Let your own niece grow up without a father?"

"Yes," Ilya said coldly. "She is a child. I will make sure she is cared for. You? I don't fucking care. Not anymore. I will put money in her trust. I will give you my condo. A place to live, security for her. I will show up and play good family so no one looks too closely. Svetlana will say nothing and you will keep your picture hidden. We will hold these loaded guns to each other's foreheads."

There was more posturing after that, but the agreement stood.

"Let's go," Svetlana said.

"The meal isn't over," Ilya said woodenly.

"You have a terrible headache from your concussion," she said. "No one is going to argue about it."

She took him back to his condo. It wouldn't be hard to pack things up here. Ilya never bothered to fully move in. It was a place he came for a few weeks in the summer, not a home.

"What did he do?" Ilya asked.

Svetlana undid his tie. She had tied it this morning. For the last six weeks, she had been his right hand. It would be strange when he healed and she was only her own again.

She looked forward to it and she dreaded it.

"Hm?"

"Alexei. What do you know?"

"Oh, nothing," she admitted and pulled the tie free, tossing it towards one of his suitcases. "I guessed."

"You guessed," Ilya repeated. "Sveta."

"Your brother is a piece of shit, Ilyusha. Of course, he's probably embezzling or something."

For the first time in months, Ilya laughed. "I can't believe you. You bluffed him."

"I did," she said. "I do it for work all the time. It's easy."

"I don't deserve you," Ilya said.

"If we only got what we deserved, how sad our lives would be," she said, cupping his face in both her hands. Then she drew him down to her height and kissed him gently. "But we do deserve each other."

"Let's get married," he suggested, not for the first time.

The idea of marrying him had it's appeal. She could see the life they would have together. But they would both be painfully unhappy in the end.

"No," she said, even as she held him closer, careful to angle her body away from his injured arm. "But I will promise to love you forever even though you leave wet towels out for me to trip on."

"Yes, fine," he sighed as if very put upon and she grinned against his neck. That was her Ilya. "You're annoying."

"You're impossible. Let's get drunk and watch cartoons."

Hayden Pike- 2 Years, 7 Months Ago

The guitar strum Hayden set as he text message sound years ago plucked through the air waking him from a dead sleep. Three kids had helped him master the art of waking up instantly, but it didn't help his brain fog clear. Beside him, Jackie protested weakly, eyes opening as she searched for small faces. Seeing none, she lapsed back into sleep.

There were only three people that could contact Hayden through his 'Do Not Disturb' and one of them was adorably asleep beside him.

Had his mother had an accident?

Fumbling for the phone, he found the third and least likely culprit was to blame.

Shane: I might miss practice.

Hayden stared at the message. It was apparently 2:23 AM. Practice started at 10 AM. Never once in six years of playing together had Shane missed practice, except when ordered to for injury recovery. He'd also never texted Hayden in the wee hours of the morning.

Hayden: What's wrong?

Shane: Nothing.

Hayden: Something is wrong. Where are you?

Shane: Boston

Carefully sliding out of bed so he didn't jar Jackie awake again, Hayden speedwalked out into the living room and hit Shane's number. It only rang once.

"You didn't have to call. It's no big deal," Shane said.

It was almost convincing. The convenience of Shane's generally flat tone was that he was almost impossible to read. Hayden had spent weeks in their first season together convinced that Shane was the chillest guy he'd ever met. What a bonehead he'd been.

"You're in another country. Why are you in Boston?" Hayden demanded.

"No reason," Shane said.

"Hollzy, are you out of your fucking mind?" Hayden asked. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"I'm going to ask you one more time and if you say 'nothing' again, then I am going to punch you straight in the fucking mouth next time I see you," Hayden ground out. "What's wrong?"

There was a long silence and then Shane said very carefully, "A lot."

"Did someone die?" Hayden pressed.

"No," Shane said. "Nothing like that."

"You're scaring me." It came out unfiltered and raw, the realness of 2 AM ripping any patina of cool off of Hayden.

"Sorry," said Shane. "It's fine, Hayd. Really."

"When are you getting back?" Logistics. Hayden could manage logistics.

"I booked the earliest flight I could find. I should get in around 7. If there's no delays, I'll be at practice."

All very practical. All very sensible.

"I'm picking you up from the airport."

"What? No."

"You know my ride comes with free stale cheerios," Hayden said, the joke weak and he tried to bolster it with a little laugh. "Just send me your flight info."

"I'll take a car service."

If you hadn't stood besides Shane for years and practically forced him to join your family, you might have believed him. Right now, Shane was tired. Maybe drunk though usually that'd be easier to tell (Shane was a happy, if rare, drunk). He was tired and something else. Something Hayden didn't recognize.

"Come on," Hayden wheedled. "I can take you right to rink if your flight runs late. I can stop by your place and pick up your gear if you don't have it with you. It's a good deal."

"Fine," Shane relented. "I'll send it to you."

The line went dead. That was also very much not Shane. He ended conversations with goodbyes and talk-to-you-soons, all nice manners down to his core. The flight information arrived. Just an email forward without comment.

Hayden forced himself to go back to bed and sleep. Two hours later, he was playing short order cook for the twins and tracking Shane's flight on his phone anxiously when Jackie came in.

"Honey, what's wrong?" she asked immediately, coming to his side.

"Something is up with Shane."

Between the kids' demands and making Jackie her preferred breakfast, Hayden tried to explain the situation in snatches.

"Do you think it's his Boston girl?" She asked.

"That makes the most sense, but he's never made a trip just to visit her before. I don't know."

"When do you have to leave to get him?"

"In like twenty minutes. I'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry," she said. "Bring him here."

"That was the plan."

Part of Hayden believed that he'd pull up at the airport and be proven a fool. Shane would get in the car, rolling his eyes at Hayden and ready to tackle the day with a perfectly reasonable explanation for his behavior. Hayden held onto that hope for approximately two seconds after spotting Shane at arrivals.

Disheveled and pale, Shane approached the car like a zombie. He had ridden in Hayden's passenger seat a hundred times, but today, he fumbled at the seatbelt like it wasn't where he expected it to be.

"We've got some time," Hayden said as casually as he could. "Let's stop by my place, okay? The kids would love to see you."

"Yeah," Shane said, slumping back. "Sure."

The easy capitulation was almost as scary as Shane's ironed out expression. Hayden tried to ask questions, but instead of his usual nervous defensiveness, Shane produced only dead eyed silence.

The twins ran in circles around Shane when they spotted him, excited by the interruption of routine.

"Hey," Shane summoned a smile for them, but it faded as soon as the girls started chattering.

"Hi, Shane!" Jackie greeted him as if this was all perfectly normal. "Do you want something to eat?"

"No. Thanks," Shane said.

"Hey," Hayden cleared his throat. "You must've been awake a lot of hours. Why don't you take a nap in the guest room? I'll wake you in forty-five. That should get us there on time."

Shane nodded vaguely and walked off in the direction of the guest room. It was really more a Shane Room since he was the only one who ever used it, except for increasingly rare grandparent visits. A door clicked shut.

"Is he okay?" Ruby asked.

"Uncle Shane is just tired," Jackie said brightly. "He'll take a nap for a bit then be okay. Where's your school bag?"

Together, Hayden and Jackie rallied and got the girls ready for the day.

"Do we call his parents?" Hayden asked, packing lunches.

"Let's find out what happened first," Jackie said. "That's the nuclear option."

At forty-five minutes, Hayden found himself reluctantly in front of the guest room door. He knocked and the door sailed open under his hand.

Shane wasn't laying down. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

Freaking out.

"You okay?" Hayden asked.

"I just need a minute."

"Sure, man. Of course."

Everyone had their things in the locker room sometimes. Mitty couldn't be asked about his lucky socks. Toby took extra long showers when they lost. Hollander sometimes needed to put his head on his knees and do some funky breathing exercises. They trained all the rookies on these idiosyncrasies. Everyone knew that when the captain said he needed a minute, you gave him exactly a minute and then he'd be fine.

Hayden backed out back into the living room.

"I'll run the girls to school," Jackie said.

"No, babe, I promised-"

"It's okay," she cut him off.

"He just needs a minute," Hayden said limply.

"A minute?" Jackie frowned. "I don't like this."

"Yeah, me either. Maybe I can get him to skip practice. Do some day drinking or something and cheer him up."

Jackie pressed her lips together. "I'm going to be a little mean to you for a second. Okay?"

"Okay," Hayden braced himself. They had agreed very early in their marriage that sometimes you needed to be brutally honest. Sometimes it hurt, but Hayden had always appreciated that Jackie wasn't afraid to be direct with him.

"Shane doesn't need Alternate Captain Pike right now," she said. "You can't bro your way through whatever is happening. He needs my Hayden."

"He doesn't want that. He hates sappy shit."

"Something bad has happened here," she said sharply. "You can't joke and elbow each other through it. You need to be my Hayden for him. The one who shows up for the people he loves in a big way."

It'd be nice if Hayden didn't know what she meant. If he could pretend to be one person.

Hayden knew he had a work alter ego. He figured it was normal. Even office drones had that, probably. A protective layer between work and your essential self was necessary.

You went into the locker room with your team and you were one of them. A fish in a school. You followed along and you all laughed at the same dumb shit. You called each other friends and brothers. You traveled together, ate together, played hard together and socialized together.

You watched guys cheat on their wives and girlfriends, saying nothing even though it made no sense to you. You watched them drink too much and learned things about them that you wished you didn't know. You pretended that insults that dug deep bounced off you. You didn't ask hard questions. You didn't make eye contact for too long.

Alternate Captain Pike was an easy-going guy who could move around the first and second line anywhere you wanted to shove him. A dependable if not notable player. He made all the right jokes, and was always good for his round at the bar. Sometimes, he hosted dinners at his house and Jackie was a picture perfect WAG. Pike was acceptable. Palatable. White. Prosperous. Straight as an arrow with a brood of children to show for it. A little boring when it came to partying, but he voluntarily roomed with Hollander, so what could you expect?

Hayden, on the other hand, loved his wife with a deep, abiding passion and would have given up being on the road away from her and the kids in a hot second if he was good at anything that wasn't hockey. Hayden kept himself to a wary two beers and had removed rookies from worrisome late night parties with surgical precision as soon as he had enough seniority to get away with it. Hayden liked romantic comedies and Pixar movies. Hayden was soft all the way through.

The only player who got more Hayden than Pike was Shane, but Hayden had never been sure he got more Shane than Hollander in return.

Jackie was so smart though. If she thought that was what Shane needed right now than she was probably right.

"Okay," he ducked his head. "I'll try."

"He loves you," she kissed him gently. "Not as much as I do. But he does."

Hayden nodded, "Yeah. I guess."

"He does. He texted you, didn't he? Go on, I'll get them to school. Than Arthur and I have Mommy and Me."

It was always a little awkward when Hayden showed up to Mommy and Me, but liked it anyway. The music was sweet and Arthur was very serious about the tiny plastic xylophone. Hayden missed far more sessions than he made and he'd been looking forward to this one. Next time, he promised himself.

With Jackie's words ringing in his ears, Hayden sent off a few message quickly, getting back roughly worded sympathy and orders to get better soon.

Back to the guest room, where he found Shane still frozen with his elbows planted on his thighs.

"Hey," Hayden said, and then slowly came into the room and sat down next to him.

"Hey," Shane said roughly. "We should go."

"The salmon I cooked last night was off," Hayden said.

"What?" Shane turned to look at him for the first time.

"Yeah, it happens. Took us both out though. Ugly scene. It's a good thing this place has a couple of bathrooms."

"I can make it to practice," Shane said stiffly.

"I already texted Theriault. I said you were knocked out from it."

"You shouldn't-"

"You never miss practice. I never miss practice. Literally no one will care, man," Hayden said heavily. "Mitty can play captain for two hours, it'll probably make his month."

"Fuck," Shane said, but he didn't sound angry. Just defeated.

"Was it Lily?" Hayden asked softly. "Did you guys breakup?"

The sound Shane made wasn't quite a laugh, but Hayden didn't know what else to call it. "Nothing happened."

"We're doing that again?" Hayden sighed.

"I can go home and get a start on laundry. Since you changed my schedule on me," Shane started to rise.

"Sit the fuck down," Hayden snapped, then winced. "Please."

Shane stared at him and sat. "What the fuck, man?"

What the fuck, indeed.

"I always wanted a brother," Hayden said. "Then my rookie year, lucky me, the other rookie is you. I figured it was a match made in heaven. Two only children weirdos that liked to stay in at night on the road."

"Right," Shane said warily like Hayden was the one acting nuts.

"Outside of Mom, Jackie and the kids, you're the only family I have. I meant all that shit I said when we started calling you Uncle Shane. I wouldn't let anyone else be that for my kids," Hayden said carefully.

"Yeah, I know," Shane said. "Same, man."

"Is it?" Hayden asked and the pain he only showed Jackie usually cracked out of him. "You never let me in. You don't want me to know you and it fucking sucks, dude. I will always always come and get you from an airport or answer the phone at 2 AM for you. No matter what you tell me, that's true. I just wish you wouldn't think so fucking little of me to think that'll change if I know even a little more about you."

"I-" Shane was really staring at him now. Like he was seeing him for the first time. "I didn't know you felt like that."

"When could I have told you and not had it been a massive thing?" Hayden asked, exhausted by it all. "I love you, Shane. Really, I do. No matter what. Go home, if you want. You don't have to tell me anything. But I wish you would."

"I'm gay," Shane said so abruptly that they took a second to register.

The words fell between them heavy and clanking like dropped weights.

"Oh," Hayden said. "Shit. Wow. Okay. That…explains some things."

"Yeah," Shane said. "I guess it does."

Processing that, Hayden poured over memories and then said hesitantly, "So Rose Landry…"

"She's the one that helped me figure it out. She was nice about it."

Hayden sat with that for a second. "Wait. So…was this you telling Boston Lily? I guess she wouldn't take it well."

"He knew," Shane practically whispered.

"He knew," Hayden repeated. Lily was a man. Even more things made a terrifying sort of sense. "It's been years! Of course he knew and you didn't know? Shane. Buddy."

"Shut up," Shane grumbled. "I was scared out of my mind."

"Yeah, I'll fucking bet," Hayden said and several things occurred to him in succession, each worse than the last. "Jesus Christ. Your life must be fucking torture."

"It's not," Shane said. "Most of the time. But sometimes, it's not awesome."

"And Lily is your boyfriend?" Hayden asked.

Shane shook his head. "No. It's not- it's complicated."

"Yeah, I'm not sure how it could be simple," Hayden said. "Who is this guy?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

Shane shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. "It's not only my secret. It's dangerous for him too."

"Okay, so don't tell me his name."

"It matters," Shane said, frustration starting to break through. "It doesn't make sense if I don't tell you who it is. And you're going to flip out and it'll be a whole thing and I'm so fucking tired, Hayd."

"I will not flip out," Hayden promised.

"You will. Trust me, I know you."

"Okay, maybe I will," Hayden said slowly, worse case scenarios flipping through his mind too fast to pin any one of them down. "But I will do it inside. Quietly. The only person I will ever tell is Jackie and she's going to ask you directly anyway. The two of us will keep it a secret until we die if you want."

Shane's hands knotted together in hoodie pocket over and over. It was painful to watch.

"I can't," Shane said with less certainty.

"Does anyone know?"

Another head shake. "I mean, Rose knows I'm gay, obviously. Now you. That's it."

"Fuck, that's awful," Hayden grimaced. "And Boston Lily?"

"I never told him. I mean. He knew. A little. Obviously. We had a thing for a long time."

"You started texting her- him," Hayden corrected himself, "like almost as soon as we met."

"We met the summer before our rookie season."

That was so long ago. Long enough for Hayden to have three kids. Long enough for them both to lose the remains of baby fat and become men together.

"The whole time," Hayden said hollowly. His best friend. His brother. The lockbox.

"On and off. And off now for good," Shane said.

"So last night was because of Boston Lily?"

Shane groaned and he dropped his face to his hands again. Hayden reached out tentatively and put his hand on Shane's back. When Shane collapsed a little under the touch, Hayden started rubbing small circles between his shoulders.

"Fuck it," Shane said into his palms. "Hayd, you really promise to only flip out quietly?"

"Swear on my life."

"Rozanov."

"Rozanov," Hayden repeated, keeping his voice in a whisper even though he wanted to scream. As if the baby were asleep beside him. Hayden was going to lose his shit so so quietly. He had promised. Taking a few deep breaths like he did so he didn't throw gloves when that asshole chirped at him, Hayden steadied himself. "Okay. Sure. Why not. Rozanov. The guy you hate."

"I don't hate him. I'm…I fucked it all up."

Boston Lily. Lily. Ilya. Staring Hayden right in the face. Every time he'd told Shane to go get laid, he had. With Rozanov. The biggest man whore in the league. The guy who had once asked if Hadyen was a P.R. stunt because surely no one had hired him to play hockey on purpose.

Quiet. Quiet. Shut up. Show up.

"What happened?" Hayden asked.

"It's never been serious. We'd meet up and…" Shane trailed off. Hayden's mind helpfully filled in a lot of 'and' in a way that made him queasy. "But the longer it went on, the more it's like something else. But it can't be. Can you imagine if people found out?"

That made Hayden a lot more than queasy. A protective horror came over him and he put his arm all the way around Shane as if the wolves were at the door already.

"So you broke it off?"

"Months ago. He wanted me to stay over. We'd never done that before. I freaked out. I ran away. Then I met Rose."

"That is a hell of a rebound," Hayden said numbly. "You really only do things all the way."

"It was a mess," Shane said. "I knew I hurt him. But Rose made me see some things and I started thinking that at least we could be more honest with each other even if we couldn't tell anyone. I was going to talk to him at the All Star Game."

"Shit," Hayden said, the timeline falling into place. "And then he got injured."

"Yeah. Yeah. And I fucked that too. I tried to- it doesn't matter," Shane said emptily. "I figured I'd wait until he was home. Then his father died. I texted. He never texted back."

Hating Rozanov was a 'sky is blue, grass is green' level of reality for Hayden. He was a menace. A toxic waste dump of a person. But Rozanov had lost Shane Hollander, an entire season, and his father in the span of three months. Even Hayden didn't think he deserved that level of shit.

"I guess he was going through it," Hayden said.

"Yeah," Shane said blankly. "I was going to leave him alone. I didn't think he'd want to talk to me again. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. It felt awful. Painful. Then I heard he was getting a second surgery."

"Fuck, really?" Hayden winced. "I hadn't heard that."

"It's a complicated injury. I guess they were hoping to make more repairs."

They both looked down at their own hands, the reflexive 'Oh God, what if it was me' of every serious injury on the ice.

"So you went to visit him in the hospital?" Hayden ventured.

"There was no way they'd let me in without it becoming a thing. I was going to wait until we were back in Boston, but it's already been so long and that would've been another month," Shane said as if it was all very logical. "I had to go now if I was going. A 36-hour window was the best I was going to get. The plan was to fly in, talk to him, then turn around and get back before anyone noticed I was gone. Take red eyes so I was less likely to be recognized in the airports."

"Jesus," Hayden said. "You couldn't just call?"

"He would've blocked me if I did. I would've blocked me," Shane grimaced. "I couldn't give him any warning or I'd get locked out. Luckily, I had his security codes from the last time."

"You went straight to that man's house without even texting?" Hayden demanded. "Shane! What if someone-"

"It was late. I figured he'd be alone," Shane shrugged. "I didn't say it was a good plan. I couldn't come up with anything better. It's like my brain has been in a blender for weeks."

Come to think of it, Shane hadn't really been himself. It had been an intense, easy to write off any weirdness, especially with Shane not even getting All Stars week off. He'd been distracted off the ice, but normal on it, so no one, not even Hayden, had called him on it. Shit.

"Okay, so you showed up and he…what? Told you to fuck off?"

"His house has these big windows," Shane said dully. "I got most of the way up the driveway and then I saw them. He was holding this woman in his arms and she was rubbing his back. Whispering something in his ear. Then they kissed. A lot. And…"

"Oh. Oh shit," Hayden held Shane harder. "I'm so fucking sorry, man. What a dog."

"I wouldn't care if they were just having sex. She was taking care of him. Loving him."

"You wouldn't care if they were having sex?" Hayden's voice pitched up.

"We never promised each other anything. He likes women, I know that. It's not just appearances for him. I never used to care about his hookups." Shane's voice was so taut, it might snap and whip both of them across the face. "I can't explain it, but it was different. It was real and serious and I just.. I missed. Whatever it was that we could've had, I missed it. The worst missed goal of my life."

The happenstance of a night out that had led to Hayden meeting Jackie could've been a miss. What would his life had looked like if he'd stayed in like usual? If he hadn't worked up the courage to ask for her number?

"I'm sorry," Hadyen said.

"What for?"

"All of it. For not being the friend you needed. And for what happened. If you loved him-"

"I didn't," Shane cut him off.

Maybe Hayden deserved for this to happen to him. Maybe he'd kicked puppies in a past life or something. He was going to have to explain to his best friend that he was in love with a man Hayden frequently daydreamed about punching in the throat.

"Shane, bud. No one gets this upset about someone they're casual about. This the stuff you do for someone you're ripping your heart out over."

Shane was stiff under Hayden's arm, but he didn't pull away. "It is?"

Right. Shit. Shane had never been in love before. There had been Boston Lily and not a hint of anyone else for years.

"Do you think about him all the time when he's not around?"

"I kind of have to. No one lets me forget he exists."

Which was true. God. Hell on fucking earth and Hayden had had not one single clue.

"Does just seeing him make your whole day better?"

Shane went silent for a long beat. "I- yeah. Sometimes."

"Do stupid things remind you of him? Do you want to tell him every time something good or bad or fucking weird happens?"

"Yeah," Shane admitted.

"If I'd never met him, how would you describe him to me?"

"That's stupid," Shane muttered. "You know him-"

"I know Rozanov on the ice. I don't know shit about him otherwise. Tell me about him."

"He's funny," Shane said. "Like really funny. He never stops chirping at me because he's a huge asshole. He's also really good to me when he thinks I won't notice. When he can get away with it. He tries really hard, all the time. His English is getting better all the time because he's so fucking smart. No one ever says that about him. They talk about my hockey IQ, but he's just smart in general. You know how hard it is to be funny in your second language and he is all the time. He cares about his family even though I think maybe they don't care about him."

It was like a dam had crashed open. It poured out of Shane, all these words that he must've held back for years. What could Hayden do, but hang on and listen?

"He has this crooked smile that makes me crazy. The way he talks makes me crazy. The way he kisses me makes me crazy. I think maybe he just makes me crazy. "

Holy fucking shit.

"Yeah, man," Hayden said. " I think that's love."

Shane slumped into Hayden as if that was the worst news he'd ever heard. "It doesn't matter now. It's over."

"Then you'll get over him. It happens, I think."

"Oh yeah, you're the expert on getting over people?"

"I've heard rumors," Hayden grumbled. So what if he'd married the first person he'd been even a little serious about before either of them had a 2 in front of their age? He knew things. "There's other gay guys who would love to be with you. You're Shane fucking Hollander."

"They'd be in the closet with me. They couldn't tell anyone. How could I do that to someone?"

Without any other answer, Hayden dropped a kiss into Shane's hair like he really was one of the kids. It was probably too far, but Shane didn't protest. He just stayed limp under his arm.

"We'll figure it out," Hadyen said. "Jackie will help. She's smarter than both of us."

"Yeah," Shane swallowed hard. "Yeah, she is."

"You want one of your fucking awful protein shakes?"

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks."

Hayden released him and they both got up. At least, Hayden could do this without a second thought. He poured a shake out over ice like Shane preferred and set it in front of him at the island. Then he started tidying up from breakfast on autopilot.

Rozanov. Jesus fucking Christ. Thank fuck it was over at least. Maybe Hayden could find him a nice boy in Montreal somewhere.

Brandon Wiebe- 2 Years, 3 Months Ago

It was loud in Boston. The arena was packed for the playoff game, fans already whipped into a fury with five minutes before the start of game. Bren shut it all out. The outcome of the playoffs mattered to him professionally, but only in the abstract.

All he cared about today was one man, sitting right up against the glass. The seat next to him was supposed to be filled with some other special guest. It had taken a little doing to secure it for himself instead. Eleven years in the league hadn't earned Bren many favors, but he had always made nice with the ticket offices for Dottie's sake.

Taking his seat, Bran caught a shift in blond curls, an evaluation and then a dismissal as Bren proved to be wholly uninteresting. Or maybe nothing was interesting right now. Rozanov watched the ice with a uncomfortable stillness. As a player, he was always moving, always anticipating and adjusting. It was impressive to watch. Had been impressive to watch. Right now, there was no motion to him at all.

On the ice, players moved, traditions were observed. The puck dropped. Boston lost the face off. Rozanov swore quietly in Russian.

"It's hard not to storm on there and do it yourself," Bren observed. As an opening gambit, he thought it was a good one.

"Yes," Rozanov said, taking the bait. "We must win this. We should win this."

Now that they'd exchanged words, Bren could get a better look at the guy. Even with a few months off the ice, Rozanov was unmistakably a pro athlete. He was built with useful muscle, bore a few scars and had all his sharpness still about him. There was also evidence of neglect: his stubble was uneven, his curls tumbled around his face unchecked and his color was bad. The injured wrist was held tight to his body even though he had to be months into rehab.

Mostly, Rozanov looked bone tired. Bren had listened to his latest interview, at first because it happened to be on and then again because it had struck him hard. For years, Rozanov had been a media darling, always providing entertainment. That interview had been flat. Dead on arrival. He had said things some publicist had handed to him without much inflection.

"I think he's depressed," Bren told Dottie.

"Darling," Dottie sighed. "He got knocked out of an entire season and he's probably high on pain killers."

"Maybe," Bren said, watching Rozanov close down further the longer the interview went on. Whatever they had wanted from him, they weren't getting it which only made them press harder.

"This isn't like your college boys," Dottie reminded him. "He's a grown man."

Bren watched the light die behind Rozanov's eyes and said, "You're right."

It was a good thing Dottie knew him because when he told her where he was headed, she only rolled her eyes, kissed him and reminded him to back in time for Michelle's softball game.

Now, the man was before him and Bren felt more certain than ever.

"What do you think of the Ottawa team this season?"

"What team?" Rozanov scoffed. "They do not play together. They are lucky they did not all fall over like bowling pins when we played them."

"Ouch," Wiebe said, with a half-smile. "What do you think they'd need to be in the play offs next year?"

"New players. New coaches. Maybe set fire to the arena and build a new one," Rozanov said.

"Mhm, did you hear they have a new head coach? Whole coaching staff walked off with the old one too."

"I did not," Rozanov said, his eyes still on his teammates as they attempted a play that needed a strong center to work. It failed. "Hope the new guy likes losing."

"I think I like it as much as the next person. Which is to say, not at all, but I can deal with it to get to a win," Bren said.

That got Rozanov's attention for moment. He glanced over Wiebe for the first time, taking in his face.

"Who are you?" he asked warily.

"Brandon Wiebe," Bren said and didn't hold out his hand. The last thing he needed was Rozanov straining himself to prove that he could still shake with his right. "Head coach for the Ottawa Centaurs."

"That is very sad for you," Rozanov said.

"I know what I'm getting into. I've been coaching college teams for a bit, but not long enough for anyone else to take the leap of faith on me," Bren said. "But I think there's strength in the team. They just got Wyatt Hayes for one."

"He is very good," Rozanov allowed. "Under used."

"There's Dykstra too. He's not bad. Boodram."

"Boodram is okay. Another one that could be better if someone knew what to do with him," Rozanov said. "Two or three okay players isn't enough."

"There's some interesting kids coming up this year though. You heard of Luca Haas?"

It was a bet Bren had made. A well-informed one, but a gamble nonetheless. Was Rozanov just a loud, talented guy or was he, as Bren suspected, a passionate and knowledgeable player, who made it his business to keep an eye on the whole sport?

"He will be the second or third draft pick probably," Rozanov said without a second's hesitation. "Curtis or Ng have more skills, but they are not as fast."

Excellent. "We're going to do our best to snag him. I watched him play in person last month and he's got a lot of potential."

"I am not interested," Rozanov said.

"In what?" Bren asked.

"You are not the first coach to come around trying to snipe me off the injury list. You want to trot me around with my name on merchandise and let me play only enough to show that you have me. A toothless lion," Rozanov's eyes blazed. "I will not do this until Boston tells me to leave."

"Let me guess: LA, Vegas, and…hm wild card…Vancouver."

Rozanov narrowed his eyes, suspicions deepening. "You all discuss me?"

"None of those guys would take my calls," Bren laughed, untroubled by the thought. "I'm a nobody. But I pay attention."

"So you think you can make a better offer than them?"

"Nope," Bren said. "I think you should stop playing."

The bark of laughter had no joy in it, but Bren could feel Rozanov's attention prickling all over him. "It will not help your team win."

"Yeah, you're probably right. But I'm really more worried about you than them right now."

"Oh yes. Of course," Rozanov rolled his eyes. "So concerned with a man you have never met."

"I played. Eleven seasons. I wasn't bad. Nothing like you," Bren said. "I wasn't well liked."

"Okay, so what? We're both difficult?" Rozanov huffed. "We should be friends now?"

"They never said it, but they didn't like me because I don't like hockey culture," Bren said with a wry grin. "I hate how we talk to each other. I hate when we let players get away with because they're decent with a stick. Nowadays, I'd be more subtle about it, but when I was young, I thought I could change things if I was loud about it all time. In their faces. Shockingly, that didn't work out very well. I got punched a lot. Suspended a few times."

"Do you want applause?" Rozanov asked, but Bren could see the first sparks of interest in him now.

"I want to change things. I want to show people that you can have a team of guys who treat each other and everyone else with dignity and respect and still win," Bren said with all the conviction he'd had when he'd interviewed for the job in the first place. "I want a locker room where guys don't say shit that would have them fired in any other decent workplace. I want everyone I coach to feel safe."

"That is a lot of want," Rozanov said.

"It is. It won't happen in a day and I need help. I've watched you play. I've listened to you chirp. And I've heard your team talk about you."

"Ah, lots of people to tell you that I'm asshole then," Rozanov said with a tight smile. "Good."

"The right kind of asshole," Bren said. "Even the people you annoy the most talk about you with like they're trying not to smile. You don't talk shit about race, gender or gay people. You remember the important things. You show up to funerals when no one else does."

Rozanov inhaled sharply. "Who told you that?"

"Your coach. He mentioned it was the only time you took a day off in the past three years before you had the world's shittiest autumn."

"That is my business," Rozanov said darkly. "He should not have said that."

"Maybe, but it was interesting to learn."

"I do not want to play for the Centaurs."

"Great. Like I said, I don't want that either. You should retire."

Rozanov made a sound that was almost a bear's growl if the bear had kind of adorable curly hair. Had anyone called Rozanov adorable and made it out alive? Probably not.

"I can still be good. Better than most."

"Maybe," Bren said. "You could push yourself back out there and play. I'd still watch your games. I'm sure most people would."

"So why then?" Rozanov demanded. "What are you saying?"

"You have an amazing career. They'll probably put you in the hall of fame some day. Even if you stopped tomorrow. If you keep going, what's that look like? What does it feel like?" Bren asked gently. "Do you keep letting whatever is eating you alive gnaw at you until there's nothing left?"

"You do not know my mind," Rozanov said, but the words weren't strong. They faltered.

"I don't. I'm only guessing. My wife says I'm a terrible guesser and it's going to bite me in the ass someday," Bren said philosophically. "But I've won more than I've lost so far.."

"What do you want?" Rozanov demanded. "Why are you bothering me?"

At least he was listening, wary and pissed off, but listening.

"I want an assistant coach."

There was a very long silence from Rozanov after that. He went back to watching the game which was getting worse by the second. Boston was already tired, flailing without the dynamic energy of their star center that had carried them through the last six years. Even in his rookie season Rozanov had been a phenom, a powerhouse on the ice that elevated everyone around him.

"I would not be a good coach," Rozanov said, the words almost lost in the noise of the crowd.

"Why not? You're one of the best captains in the league. You just offered an assessment of several players that most people wouldn't be able to name with a gun to their head," Bren pointed out. "You know the game. You know players. You're already good at motivating them. I talked to Vespers, your rookie from a few years back. He told me you're the one that made sure he learned anything because the coaches had already written him off."

"No, this isn't true," Rozanov said quickly. "They did not write him off. They had the wrong expectations, that's all."

"So you made him what they expected. You're the one that encouraged him to take the trade to Vancouver. Now he's one of their best."

"It was only a little extra practice. It was nothing."

"Not to him it wasn't. I will give you a team of Vespers. Rookies, experienced players. Good solid men, who just need someone to help them be what we know they can be. And we'll get more of them. Between the two of us, we can figure out who's worth having. The ones that are getting overlooked or are trouble because they don't fit in."

"You want a collection of freaks."

"I want better. For me. For you. For this whole goddamn sport that we love," Bren said. "Don't you?"

"I want to play,' Rozanov said with a brief glimpse of naked pain.

Bren nodded, "Yeah. I get that. Look, the slot is open for you. The money isn't star player caliber, but it's very good. There's room to negotiate too. Beyond money. If there's something you need."

"Fuck off," Rozanov said, and he sounded even more tired than before.

"I will in a second," Bren fished out a business card and held it out to him. "This gets you right to me. Day or night. Take it and throw it out if you want, but take it."

Very slowly, Rozanov plucked the card out from between Bren's fingertips. "You are very annoying."

"I know," said Bren. "But I believe in you. I still think Ilya Rozanov is the future of hockey, if he wants to be. You've already done a lot to be proud of, but you're not even thirty, kid. Don't let them put you to pasture already."

"Fuck. Off."

"Fucking off," Bren saluted him and stood, wincing at the stiffness in his knees. "Have a good night."

Bren walked away. He waited until he was almost to the exit to look back. When he did, he found Rozanov watching him leave with a fire in his eyes. A light. With a grin, Bren gave a little wave and ducked out into the concourse. No time to waste, idling around here. He had a softball game to catch.

Luca Haas- 1 Year, 11 Months Ago

"First day nerves?"

"No," Luca denied quickly, before he could even figure out who was talking to him.

"It's okay, we all get 'em. I'm Wyatt Hayes, goalie."

Wyatt Hayes, goalie, wasn't a particularly big guy. He had a friendly face and unruly hair. He was holding a hand out to Luca, who shook it carefully.

"I am Luca Haas," he said.

"We're psyched to have you," Wyatt said. "I can't believe you weren't first draft pick, that was crazy."

"Ng deserved it," Luca said. He could hear his mother telling him to be polite about everyone. You never knew who knew someone. "He's a very good player."

"Sure, but you're better," Wyatt said like it was a proven fact. "Bood! The rookie is here!"

After that it was a swarm of names, handshakes and back claps. Luca was immediately underwater, trying to attach names to faces. His heart started knocking too fast in his chest, and the distant tinny whine sounded in his ears. It was all a little too much.

"Enough," a voice cut through the room. "You want to smother the rookie? He will suffocate and then I will not get you a new one."

"Holy shit," someone whispered near Luca. "He really is here."

Standing at the door to the locker room was the imposing, unmistakable figure of Ilya Rozanov. No big deal. Not like Luca had had a poster of him squaring off against Shane Hollander over his bed since he was twelve.

"Yes," Rozanov rolled his eyes and threw open his arms as if to embrace the whole room. "I am your new assistant coach. Say thank you that I have arrived. We will all meet and talk later. Right now, Haas, you are with me. Come."

Haas got to his feet, aware everyone was staring. In person, Rozanov was even better looking, his eyes more striking and his jaw more chiseled. A horrible cocktail of fear, anticipation and a tiny bit of lust spiked through Luca and sent his stomach churning. Rozanov turned and stalked back down the hall with Luca trailing after him like a duckling.

The office was empty except for a desk with a single box on it.

"It is my first day too," Rozanov said, closing the office door. "I am also a rookie, all over again. Ridiculous."

"I didn't think about it that way," Luca said, trying not to stare as Rozanov started rooting through the box and pulled out a laptop that he set carelessly down.

"The locker room, is it too loud for you?"

"No!" Luca said immediately. "I can handle it."

Rozanov made an annoyed sound like that was the wrong answer. But that was always the right answer. Luca could handle a lot. Pressure, hard work, noise, lights. Whatever it was. He could take it. He was tough.

"Here," Rozanov produced a tiny plastic package with bright yellow things inside them.

"What are they?"

"Ear plugs. We know how to be quiet. Americans and Canadians? They only know noise," Rozanov said. "Take, use. Don't. It doesn't matter. Sometimes it is better only to know you can use them."

Luca could've cried. It was too loud in locker rooms sometimes, but more than that, it was the first time a coach had seen him struggling with something that wasn't a skill and helped without question.

"Thank you, coach," he choked out.

"Sit if you want. I need to find a few things then we get started, maybe."

Luca sat down and watched the great Ilya Rozanov paw through a box to pull out a bobblehead of himself and set it down in the corner of desk, then smacked it so the head bobbled around.

"One day," Rozanov said conversationally as he pulled out a photo frame and set it next the bobblehead, "maybe you have one of these too. Then you can flick yourself in the head too. Very satisfying."

"That would be cool."

"It is," Rozanov declared with authority, "the coolest. So you will listen to me and Wiebe and become a bobblehead some day. Okay?"

"Okay," Luca breathed out. It was like getting a blessing from the pope. If the pope was one of the hottest people you'd ever met in person.

The rest of the day was kind of anticlimactic after that.

Dr. Galina Molchalina - 1 Year, 6 Months Ago

Intake Notes

Ilya Rozanov, 27, Male, White

Native Russian speaker, fluent in English

Appearance: Well-groomed

Mood: Low

Affect: Restricted but appropriate to discussion

Speech: Coherent, language-switching occurs with ease and without significant confusion

Thought process: Distracted, but logical when kept on topic

Orientation: Alert and oriented to time, place, and person

Presenting Problem:

In the first session, patient stated that he is having difficulty getting motivated to do basic care and reports that he is often too tired to get out of bed. The issue is currently constrained to days he is not at work. He would like assistance in improving executive function as well as removing some 'dark thoughts'.

Mental Health History:

The patient has never received mental health care in any form previous to this appointment. His father suffered from dementia at the end of his life, but the patient did not know of any other previous mental health conditions. The patient did not wish to speak of his mother at this time, but inferred that much of his current concerns have to do with her and what may or may not be genetic.

While his current symptoms were precipitated by several difficult situations over the course of last year, the patient says they have reoccurred periodically throughout his life to a lesser degree.

Risk Assessment:

Despite numerous challenges and over all depressive presentation, the patient shows enthusiasm and interest in his work. There is no self-admitted history of self-harm. Patient does drink weekly, but not to excess. Patient smokes in an attempt to self-soothe, says it is 'at most two' a day.

There is some risk around these 'dark thoughts'. Further meetings will need to occur before a full assessment can be made.

Short Term Goals:

• Strategies to increase activity on days off, including finding a hobby

• Work on finding and building relationships outside of work

• Build coping mechanism for challenging moments

• Complete risk assessment and discuss possibilities for medication

Personal Notations:

Ilya presents as mildly antagonistic. He uses humor defensively and is not above personal jabs when he feels cornered. However, any push back quickly results in him backing down. His desire to improve seems genuine. It's not for himself, as he mentioned several times in the first session, but his team. The fear of letting them and his boss down seems to motivate him more than any other factor. Already he has shown some ability to reflect on his behavior that bodes well.

Yuna Hollander- 1 Year, 2 Months Ago

"The plan isn't working anymore, is it?" Yuna asked as her son carefully wiped away foundation.

The shoot's makeup artist had already packed up, but that was fine. Yuna alwasy came prepared with her own makeup wipes just in case. As soon as he got home, Shane would shower and scour himself clean, but for now this would be enough to make things bearable.

"It was one lighting problem," Shane said, scrubbing harder at his eyebrow. "They adjusted it quickly enough."

"Not that plan," Yuna said.

"Mom," Shane froze. He checked the room as if she would somehow have overlooked some hidden observer in the small space.

"It was a good plan for the information we had, but we didn't have the full picture," she went on.

In the mirror, she was calm. Yuna had learned a long time ago that the way to get results was to stay steady and direct. Any sign of anger or any thing someone could point to that turned her from manager to 'angry mother' would damage her and Shane. Some people believed that no matter what she did, but she could mitigate the damage a little.

So she was calm. Outside.

Inside, she was weeping. When Shane had come out to them, she had cried in front of him for the first time in years. They had made their tearful apologies to each other. It was far from the first time Yuna had felt like a failure as a mother (David packed Shane's lunches because Yuna couldn't make his sandwiches right no matter what she did; pushing him too hard to study until she found him hiding under his desk trying to sleep for just ten minutes between school and practice; the one time she had looked away for only a second and he'd jumped off a swing and fractured his wrist), but Shane's pain as he tried to apologize to her for simply telling her something true about himself was the worst.

And now, the careful constructed plan for him to slowly come out was hurting him all over again. It had mostly been his idea, but she had encouraged it. Come out to his team, person by person. His coaches should know. His manager. His agent.

It was supposed to set him free. Instead, Yuna had watched as Shane shut down in stages. He'd always had that ability to retreat into himself, going remote and flat, staring through people. Over the years, they had worked together to train him out of it, so he could manage to be present even when the lights were too bright and there were too many voices. As a team, they found places for him to escape. Bathrooms, stairwells, and alleyways. Tiny brief retreats that could level him out to come back and paste on a smile for a little longer.

Not enough. Yuna never gave him enough. She was supposed to give him everything she had. Wasn't that a mother's job? Maybe what she had wasn't enough.

Shane had retreated to that place inside him and not come out for a month now. Yuna and David had both tried to talk to him. David had made his favorite foods and wheedled over dinner. Yuna had cancelled an entire stretch of meetings, claimed the brand had done it for their own reasons and gone with him up to his cottage. Even his most comfortable space, Shane only floated from room to room, distracted and lost.

The only thing left was directness.

"We can adjust. Pull back. If it's too much too quickly," she said. "You don't have to tell anyone else if you don't want to. There's nothing you have to prove, honey."

"It's fine," Shane said and crumbled the wipe into his fist. "I'm fine. What's tomorrow look like?"

What could she say to that? He was a grown man. She was his old, irritating mother and manager. There were only so many lines she was allowed to cross. With a quick nod, she pulled over a chair and got out her phone. They went over the schedule for the interview. Shane already had it, but she knew he worked better if they went over plans a few times. Nothing unexpected, and if there was something, they already had contingencies in place.

They were stuck in the little dressing room for another few minutes, waiting for the director to officially call an end to things, so plans discussed, they both receded into their own phones for a bit. Yuna scrolled through Instagram. She didn't use it personally, but she found it useful to track other players and adjacent personalities.

A post came up that made her pause and she studied the photo, then read through the description.

"She's got a mind like a razor," Yuna said approvingly.

"Who?" Shane asked without looking up.

"Svetlana Vetrova. She works in luxury car sales, but she gets a lot of hockey endorsements, probably thanks to her father. I think the whole Boston team did something with her five or six years ago."

All at once, Shane was back. Gone was his flatness, his dead eyes, his slumped shoulders. All of her son's attention was on her.

"That name sounds familiar," he said, affecting casualness far too late.

"Here," Yuna said, passing the phone over. She would've torn her heart out of her chest to get him to look that interested in something these days. "That's her. Do you know her?"

"I can't believe it," he said and then, to her astonishment, he started to laugh.

He laughed and then his shoulders started shaking.

"Shane, baby, what's wrong?" she asked, reaching out for him. "Are you okay?"

"It was her! This whole time! They just kept calling her his 'mystery woman'. I never even thought- it was her voice!" Shane scrubbed at his face. "Fuck."

"Shane!" Yuna scolded.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry! Can I just look for a second?"

Bemused, she let him keep hold of her phone, scrolling through this random woman's Instagram feed like he was searching for treasure. He paused at what seemed like random, opening posts, reading them and shaking his head, then going back. He went back and back and then stared at one picture for a long time. The caption was in Cyrillic and as she watched, Shane carefully cut and pasted it into a translator.

Luck is a best friend, who knows what you look best in and isn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

Shane swiped back to the image. A man was bent over a pile of dresses under a sign that read 'Sample Sale'. There were a lot of women around him also going through the piles, but Svetlana had filtered the photo so they were all blurry, only the man's backside and broad shoulders were visible as he dove in. A little funny. nothing special.

So why did her son look like he'd seen the face of God?

"Mom," Shane said and set her phone down with a small smile on his face. "You're right."

"I am?" she said, startled.

"The plan needs to change. And I need to tell you and Dad a few things tonight."

"I would love if you'd tell us more than a few things," Yuna said, putting her hand gently on his forearm. "We're worried about you."

"Yeah. I'm a little worried about me too. So we need a new plan," Shane said. "Will you help? Even if what I want isn't what you want for me?"

"Of course," she said. "Baby, all I want for you is for you to be happy."

Several hours later, she had cause to regret her full-hearted agreement. In private, she would do her own mourning of the career they had made together. The man that had lived in her mind with Shane's face. The person that wasn't Shane at all, apparently.

To his face, she dug deep and found a smile. Together, as a family, they made a new plan.

Jean-Jacques “J.J.” Boiziau- 1 Year Ago

"Are you really sure about this?" JJ asked.

"It's happening," Shane said. "You don't have to be here."

"Fuck off with that, yes I do."

JJ planted himself next to Hayden on uncomfortable plastic chairs. There was only one camera in the room, but a dozen lights shone down on the couch centered in frame.

"We have to let him go," Hayden said.

"We could fix things here," JJ frowned. "I know we could. We just need more time."

"It's been years," Hayden said. "Come on, you hear it too. I know you do."

JJ went silent and stared sightlessly at the bland set. The casual racism that had dogged his footsteps from his very first childish forays onto the ice was the background radiation of his life. He'd always just lobbed it back harder and with a smile. With Shane beside him, it was easier to feel untouchable. Shane never winced when someone said something callous or stupid or even intentionally cruel. He would often seem not to hear it at all. It was a master class in smooth.

And when Shane came out, he handled it the same way. He went on letting people say stupid shit to him, rising above higher and higher, never letting it touch him.

Or so JJ had assumed. He'd never really asked. Maybe it's what he had hoped. It was what he took home with him and reminded himself of when it got to him. Rise above.

Now Shane wasn't rising. He was going to tell the world who he was and then, unless everyone got really cool about everything really quickly, he was going to leave JJ behind.

"I don't want him to go," JJ said.

"I do," Hayden said. "I'll still be here. We're still in this together."

They'd had some version of this conversation six times in the last two weeks.

"In what?" JJ asked.

On the little set, Shane sat down on the couch and took out his phone. He mouthed something. Practicing.

"Making them regret it," Hayden said with white hot certainty that shot through JJ like a bullet.

"How?" JJ asked.

"Man, if I knew that, I'd be a Hollander," Hayden groaned. "I've been trying to think about it and I can't come up with shit."

The crew that Shane had hired for this came in. The makeup artist carefully dusted his face a last time, the lighting was adjusted.

"I know what we have to do," JJ said. "I guess I've always known, but I'm freaked out about it."

"Tell me," Hayden pleaded.

"We stop doing it with them for one thing. No more going out with those assholes. No more pretending we don't hear shit. We make them explain every shitty joke. We stop laughing."

"Oh. Shit. Yeah, yeah!" Hayden said, nodding. "Fuck, man. You're right. We stop laughing."

"They'll turn on us."

"Good," Hayden said. "I don't think I want to be on the same side as men like that anymore."

"You were calling them brother last week."

"So were you. Are they?"

Both of them watched as Shane's parents got up and left him alone again. Shane sat up straight. He put on his 'Captain' face and he looked down the barrel of the camera. Waiting.

He was so fucking brave and JJ loved him for it.

"No, they're not," JJ said. "No more laughing."

"No more laughing."

They made a pact as Shane took a breath and started coming out to the world.

Ryan Price- 6 Months Ago

"I don't like it," Fabian said.

They were naked in the dark. The room was thick with the scent of sex and the 'Winter Dreams' candle Ryan had lit hours ago. He hadn't done it with this conversation in mind. In fact, he had resolved not to tell Fabian about the offer at all.

Yet, somehow, here they were, discussing at as Fabian traced fingertips randomly over Ryan's shoulders.

"I already said I wouldn't do it," Ryan reminded him.

"You miss hockey."

"No," Ryan said. "Of course I don't."

"You still play with the kids once a month. You're so happy when you come back from that."

"Right, because of the kids, not because of the hockey." It had been better when he'd done it with Wyatt anyway.

It had been nice having a friend nearby. Fabian's friends were great and Ryan liked all their traditions and games. They weren't quite all the way his friends though.

"You'd be a good coach."

"No, I wouldn't," Ryan said immediately. "Can you imagine? I'd be worried about the wrong things all the time. I've never taught anyone to do anything."

"You're patient. Kind. I think that's what most people need, isn't it?"

"I like being retired."

Fabian moved languidly, pulling himself up and over Ryan. The shadows the candle threw painted him in gold and black. There was something inhumanely beautiful about him. Transcendent.

"Do you?" Fabian asked him. "Or do you like that I like it?"

Fatally, Ryan hesitated. Fabian nodded and pressed his hands against Ryan's chest like that was answer enough.

"I've got plenty to do around here," Ryan said, wrong footed now. "Projects to work on. I keep meaning to go to those are classes at the community center. I'll take up painting or something."

Fabian leaned down and kissed him. "I love you. Say no to him if you want, but don't do it for me. It's a good offer. All the parts of hockey that you liked, none of them you didn't."

"You hate all of it," Ryan whispered. "I don't want to lose you over a job I don't even need."

"I'm not going anywhere. Except on tour," Fabian amended. "And you'll be here a lot. I'd feel better knowing you had something to keep you busy."

"But-"

With a sigh, Fabian kissed him again. "It's your choice, love. I can't say I'll watch the games, but I wouldn't mind listening to you be passionate about something again."

"I'm very passionate about you," Ryan said, running both his hands over Fabian's back.

"Mm, good. I do love listening to you talk about me, but there is a limit."

"Sounds fake," Ryan teased.

They stopped talking about it, in favor of making out for awhile. Fabian fell asleep not long after. Ryan leaned over to blow out the candle than wrapped himself around Fabian. There would be time to consider it in the morning.

Ryan didn't fall asleep.

As soon as it was a civilized hour again, he sent the text to Rozanov and started writing up his list of demands.

Troy Barrett - Last Week

It had made sense to get Harris the apple pride pin. Simple. Easy. No big deal. Troy had noticed it in the large collection behind the bar at the Kingfisher and after some mild flirtation, Kyle had given it to him.

Except now it was burning a hole in Troy's pocket and he had no idea when to give it to him. Would it be weird to get him another latte and leave it on top? Should he make it a real present or an after thought?

"Barrett," Hollander's voice cut through his spiral.

"Yeah," he said getting to his feet. Practice had ended a half hour ago. "Sorry, I'm going."

"Why are you apologizing?" Hollander asked. "I was asking if you had an extra protein bar on you. I don't like the brand they have stocked in the machines and you eat the same ones I do."

"I think so, hold on," Troy turned to root around in his bag, producing an entire box. "Here."

Even though they were all the same flavor, Hollander studied them before selecting one. Troy had spent a good portion of his career wishing he was Hollander (and maybe a little bit thinking about kissing him. Not his fault the guy was hot as hell). Now that they played together regularly, some of the mystique had worn off. Hollander was an odd guy, slow to smile and locked in all the time to a ridiculous degree.

He was nice though. Not like Wyatt or Bood or Dykstra were nice. His own, more hand's off, kind of nice. Troy liked him.

"Any reason you're hanging around?" Troy asked then winced at his own tone. "Not like that."

"Not like what?" Hollander asked, already halfway through the bar. "I'm meeting my mom for lunch in a bit. No use in going home first. You?"

"I-uh…" Troy grasped at straws. "Got lost in thought."

"Okay," Hollander said, seemingly accepting that. "Do you only get the vanilla ones?"

"Usually. I like food to be the same," Troy said. Did that sound insane? He'd made the mistake of telling Dallas that once and he'd been roundly mocked for weeks.

"Me too," Hollander said.

"Is that why you're eating that before going to lunch?"

"The place we're going has slow service. If I wait for the food there, I'll get hangry."

A curly head peeked around the door.

"What the fuck are you two still doing here?"

"Enjoying the amenities of the locker room is one of our contractual rights, coach," Hollander told Rozanov without turning around.

Not turning around meant he missed Rozanov's shit-eating grin. That was fine. Troy had a feeling Hollander had seen it a lot. Watching them in the Kingfisher that night, dipping in and out of each other's personal space, teasing each other like children had been a fever dream. It had only been made worse by Scott Hunter presiding over the table with his approving grin. Troy had gotten to talk about hockey strategy with Scott Hunter AND Shane Hollander. They had asked for his opinion.

Rozanov had also pretty brazenly outed himself and it had started to sink in to Troy that he was at a table of people he admired and not one of them seemed to the least bit ashamed for the world to know exactly what they were.

"The amenities of eating terrible protein bars in a smelly room?" Rozanov mused. "This seems like a rip off. You should complain."

"That one is mine. Not an amenity," Troy said, then immediately regretted getting involved.

"We eat the same brand," Hollander explained around a mouthful.

"What a bonding moment," Rozanov said dryly. "Your contract does not extend to providing food? Oh wait, it does. Better food than this."

"I'm going out to lunch with my mom," Hollander said. "It's only a quick snack."

"Do you hear this?" Rozanov asked Troy. "This millionaire is taking food out of your mouth that he does not even need."

"It's fine, I have a whole box," Troy said.

"I didn't steal it from him," Hollander rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to incite class warfare. We're all rich here."

For some reason, despite the lightness of their tone and the vaguely confusing banter, the room was shrinking. The pin was getting heavier in Troy's pocket too. A nagging weight. A reminder of a bar spilled in warm light.

"You are still richer, Mr. Real Esate," Rozanov practically purred.

Fuck this shit. Troy reached into his pocket and ran his thumb over the little pin.

"I'm gay," he blurted.

Hollander's retort to Rozanov died on his lips. "You are?"

"Oh my god, Hollander," Rozanov pushed off the doorway and walked over to Troy. "Ignore him, he is useless. Thank you for telling us. We're very proud."

"That I'm gay?" Troy asked.

"That you said it out loud," Hollander clarified. He was still eating the protein bar. "It's hard and scary."

"It's not really with you guys," Troy admitted. "It's kind of pot and kettle."

Rozanov turned to Hollander. "Telling someone something about themselves that's also true about you. Pot calling the kettle black."

"I don't like this one," Rozanov decided. "It does not matter. Do you need anything?"

It took Troy a second to realize Rozanov was talking to him agian. "Uh, what would I need?"

"No idea," Rozanov shrugged. "Support? Hug? Dating app recommendation?"

"I don't know if I'm ready to date."

"It is scary the first time," Rozanov said.

"What first time?" Troy frowned. "I meant because I just had a bad break up. We were both closeted, but he met someone else and came out when announcing his engagement."

Hollander and Rozanov made joint 'ouch' noises.

"How long were you together?" Hollander asked.

"Two years," Troy said and the thought was still painful and raw, but for the first time, he thought it might also be healing a little.

"Two years? This is a very long time," Rozanov said, almost mockingly.

"Shut up, "Hollander groaned. "He's not talking to you, ignore him. That sounds awful, I'm sorry."

"It was. I miss him a lot."

"Yes," Rozanov said, more serious now. "But maybe you can stop missing him if you find someone else. Conveniently located."

"Hey now," Hollander said.

"Not in this room," Rozanov rolled his eyes. "I am not selling you to the highest bidder. Anyway, he already tried to buy you with a protein bar. Cheap bid."

"I wasn't told there was an auction?" Troy ventured.

"There's not," Hollander said firmly. "Stop trying to match make."

"No," said Rozanov. "I have very few pleasures left in life, stop stealing them from me."

Someone's phone made a cricket noise. Hollander sighed. "That's probably Mom showing up ten minutes early. Rozanov, mind your business. Barrett, thank you for telling me. Text me if you ever want to do a support group thing. Don't include this asshole."

"I- yeah, okay," Troy said and watched as Hollander scooped up his duffel bag and headed out. "I would also maybe like if you minded your business a little, coach. If that's okay. "

"Everything is my business. That is the best part about being a coach," Rozanov said indignantly, but he gave a small nod. "Hearts take the longest to heal, I think. But don't suffer just because. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks," Troy said.

Rozanov left, headed towards the rink.

A little lighter and both more and less confused than before, Troy ducked out to the elevator and hit the button for the floor Harris worked on. Whatever happened next couldn't be any less confusing than what had just occurred.

Kip Grady - Two Days Later

The first version of the list that Scott had given him had been so depressing that Kip hadn't looked at it again for a few days. Four other players and his coach. A few people from the charity. His agent and his manager.

The first version of Kip's list had been fifty people long and that was before his parents started adding on the relatives that Kip wasn't as close to and family friends.

They hadn't set out to have a huge event, but it startled Kip how quickly you could think of people you wanted to see your wedding once you got started.

"Do you want to take another pass?" Kip suggested a few days later. "Like… I don't know. Its up to you, but do you only want some guys from the team there?"

"All of them would be too many," Scott said. "Wouldn't it?"

"Babe, you said sky's the limit for this."

"Yeah, I meant it."

"Did you only mean it for me?" Kip asked gently.

Scott stared at him for second then sighed. "No."

"Good. If you want the whole team, let's invite them."

"There's a few people I wouldn't mind skipping, but I doubt they'll come," Scott said, warming to the idea.

The list got longer and then a little shorter, then longer again as they went over names and made plans.

Today was finally the day though. They had invitations picked out and ready. Their wedding planner had guided them to a full-service print shop that would do all the envelopes and mail them. The final version of the list was up on the computer screen.

"I do have on last thing," Scott said, leaning over Kip's shoulder to study it.

"What?" Kip asked, too enthralled by how close his fiance's very nibble-able neck was to pay too much attention.

"How pissed off do you think Roz would be if I sent his invitation to Hollander? Address it to Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov?"

"What do you know?" Kip demanded, jerked back into the conversation.

"Why?" Scott asked, a smile playing on his lips. "What do you know?"

"I don't know anything, I have suspicions though."

"Because of the other night?"

"Yeah, I mean their body language was really speaking."

"You should hear how they used to chirp at each other. I could swear one time Roz told Hollander his room number."

"Are you sure?" Kip pressed.

"No."

"So this is less to make Rozanov's day worse than it is to test a theory?" Kip asked.

"Oh, no, it's definitely also to make his day worse."

Kip stared at the two names, then deliberately so Scott could see it clearly, he deleted Rozanov's line and added his name next to Shane's.

"I love you," Scott said passionately.

Kip attached the new list and hit send. "I love you too. Can we fuck?"

"You think it's hot when I mess with him, don't you?"

"Absolutely not," Kip slid off the chair to start walking Scott backwards towards the bedroom. "I think the idea that those two are screwing is kind of hot though."

Scott made a horrified noise. Stopped. Made a considering noise. "Okay, but we're not talking about it in bed. That's a step too far."

"Noted. Drop your pants, Hunter. We only have a half an hour before we have leave for my parents' place."

Christmas Day

Jane: Merry Christmas

Lily: Merry Christmas

Jane: I've been awake since 4 am

Lily: Why?!

Jane: [photo of twin girls sitting in a pile of wrapping paper in front of a three story dollhouse] Hayden and Jackie told the girls they weren't allowed to wake them up before 6. They did not include me

Lily: On purpose?

Jane: They claim no. Seems like a lie.

Lily: I am with much better behaved children. [Photo: A teenage boy plays something on a Switch at one end of the couch. Bundled into an enormous hoodie, a tween girl reads a thick book and practically sitting in the photographer's lap is the youngest holding a fat stack of cards.]

Jane: Pokemon?

Lily: Yes. I am learning a lot. Some of it does not make much sense. Dottie says that it is 'someone else's turn to listen', so I am listening.

Jane: She seems happy about it.

Lily: She is a happy child. It is nice. Pike's children are also happy. This seems wrong. Do you bribe them for this?

Jane: Fuck off, he's a great dad. Look at this. [Photo of Hayden Pike now sitting with the girls. His son is in his lap, clutching a fluffy rabbit stuffed animal watching his father animating one of his sisters' dolls. Jackie's legs are visible behind him and he's partially leaning against them.]

Lily: The children are very cute. You can keep cropping Pike out.

Jane: He helped. A lot. With everything. Be nice.

Lily: Send me a photo of you.

Jane: [Selfie of Shane sitting on a couch, holding a baby under his chin. He looks relaxed and his hair is a mess] You too.

Lily: [Selfie of Ilya, also reclining on couch. He is smilling and there is a tiny bit of tinsel stuck in his curls].

Jane: I'm changing your name in my phone. This is ridiculous. Every time I see Lily, I start getting nervous and I don't care about getting caught any more.

Ilya: I will miss my Jane.

Shane: I never liked Lily. I don't think that would've been your name if you were a girl.

Ilya: And you are not a Jane. Even though it is the right amount of boring.

Shane: I have to go soon. They invited my parents over for lunch which was pretty nice, but I'm going to help clean up a little and take a shower.

Ilya: I was going to leave at noon, but I am told I must stay. They watch a movie every year while they eat lunch.

Shane: A Christmas Carol?

Ilya: Princess Bride. I have not seen it before.

Shane: Enjoy it! Got to go!

Three Hours Later

Ilya: When we get to Tampa, after the Carolina game, I want to talk.

Shane: Not before?

Ilya: We have a whole day and a night. By the beach.

Shane: I like the beach. Can we watch the sunset?

Ilya: As you wish.

Chapter 8: So we were cowards, so we were liars, so we're not heroes, we're still survivors

[Video: Hollander has been seated next to an out of focus bookcase. He is in practice gear as if he was snagged out of a hallway as he passed by. He seems about as prepared.

Harris: What's your favorite hockey book?

Hollander: Of all time? That's a tough choice.

Harris: Let's say one that you read in the last year or two.

Hollander: Umm…Breakaway then.

[In the upper third, a book cover appears Breakaway: From Behind the Iron Curtain to the NHL: The Untold Story of Hockey's Great Escapes by Tal Pinchevsky]

Harris: What's it about?

Hollander: The guys who came to the NHL during the Cold War from the USSR and Czechoslovakia. I had no idea how hard it was for them to get here and what they gave up. It's like a spy movie.

Harris: Is that what you liked about it?

Hollander: It was a good reminder of what people sacrifice to play a game that a lot of us take for granted. I mean, I think a lot of them came here to for a different kind of life. I know it's not just hockey.

Harris: So it's a recommended read?

Hollander: Sure? If you like reading about hockey.

Harris: I think our followers might. Can we get a preview for the next one? What are you currently reading?

Hollander: Can I check my phone? I want to get it right.

Harris: Sure.

[Hollander pulls out a phone in a thick protective black case. It has a single 'Centaurs' sticker in the center.]

Hollander: Stickhandling through the Margins: First Nations Hockey in Canada by Michael A. Robidoux

[Another book cover crops up in the upper third]

Harris: We look forward to discussing it with you.

Hollander: Great. I think. ]

"It's got to end soon," Dykstra was barely moving, barely breathing. "They can't keep going like this." 

"You have this, Hazy," Chouinard said. "We believe in you!"

"Fifty seconds!" Haas called. "That has to be a record."

Ilya took a sip of his tea. "Should we have put money on this?" 

"I don't think it's good form to bet on our players," Bren said. "Anyway, which one of us was going to bet against Hollander?" 

The staring contest was a little disturbing to watch. Shane had clearly dug in and was not only not blinking, he might not even be breathing. While Wyatt had goalie steadiness, even he was starting to crack under the pressure. 

"Worst way you ever passed time in airport?" Bren asked. 

"We found safety pin and started poking each other with it. The first person to make noise had to drink the bottom of our goalie's water bottle," Ilya said, not without some nostalgia. "I did not lose, but it was almost as bad to watch the other guy drink it." 

"No!" Yolen cried. "We almost had him this time." 

"You didn't," Shane said, leaning back in satisfaction.

"How did you even do that?" Luca asked, in awe. 

"I swim a lot with my eyes open."

"Without goggles? You're gonna get brain worms, man," Wyatt demanded. "Ow, there's sandpaper in my eyelids."

"What about you?" Ilya asked Bren. 

"Couple of guys dared the rookie to drink a cement mixer. I thought we were all going to get tossed out like it was a bar at closing time." 

"What is a cement mixer?" Ilya asked. 

"Orange juice with a shot of milk in it." 

Ilya made a gagging noise. "This should be illegal."

"Coach!" Luca bounded up to Ilya. "Can you challenge Hollander? No one else will go up against him and he'll be undefeated otherwise." 

"No," Ilya said, pointedly taking a sip of his tea. "I'm very busy." 

"Busy losing," Hollander said. 

"That will not work," Ilya said loftily.

Hollander snorted. "So you don't think you can win." 

That was very annoying. Ilya tightened his grip on his cup. 

"You're folding like a cheap suit," Bren muttered. "Come on, Roz, buck up." 

"I know I can win," Ilya announced. "It would be too easy. Boring." 

"Oooooh," a few of the guys took up the call.  

"You used to blink first in face offs too," Shane chirped. "So predictable." 

"Hold this." Ilya shoved his tea at Luca, who clutched it protectively right away. 

"For fuck's sake," Bren laughed. "That was embarrassing." 

Ilya stalked over to the seat Wyatt quickly abandoned. He sat down slowly. With a small grin, Shane settled in. 

"I am so recording this," Harris said with delight. " Someone else get their phone out too. I need multiple angles. It's going to do numbers!"

"You are a monster," Ilya whispered to Shane.

"Uh huh," Shane said, closing his eyes to prepare. "And you're too easy." 

"Eat shit, Hollander," Ilya muttered, closing his eyes too. He tried to will moisture into them.  

"One, two...three!" Luca called. 

They both opened their eyes and Ilya immediately realized his mistake. He had signed up to stare into Shane's eyes. His pretty brown eyes framed with long dark lashes. In their slapdash encounters over the years, it had become a game to try and get Shane to look him in the eye. Ilya had used a variety of tactics: grabbing his chin, saying his name, lightly insulting him until he just had to glare, and once, very memorably, simply shoving their foreheads together, their breath intermingling. Each time, Ilya's reward had been the raw beauty of Shane's unfiltered gaze.

And now, suddenly, Ilya had him as long as he could manage to keep his own eyes open. Forget about winning, Ilya was motivated by a new force. He studied the striations of color, the way the brown was more complex than it seemed at first. Darker around the pupil and then shooting out in a dozen subtle shades. It was like a rich suede after you passed your hand over it. Did they make sheets like that? Ilya wanted to rub it all over himself.

Ilya was seized by the perverse desire to lick Shane's eyeball. Something he was certain would get him in deep shit with Shane if he even suggested it, but appealed to Ilya on the same base level as eating Shane out. All Ilya wanted in this moment was to impress himself on every part of Shane's body.

Maybe Ilya should've had sex some time in the last four months. He was starting to come unglued. Just thinking about rimming Shane made him lick his lips like a rabid wolf.

Shane's eyes tracked the quick movement, then flicked back up to Ilya's with just a hint of distress. So for science, Ilya did it again. This time Shane stared at him so hard that he must've been trying to set Ilya on fire with his mind. That was unreasonably hot too. Ilya grinned.

"He blinked! Hollander blinked!" Wyatt declared.

"Fuck," Shane muttered, now blinking rapidly. "You're a cheater."

"You are terrible loser," Ilya declared.

Collapsing backward in his chair, Ilya signaled to Haas to return his tea and took a triumphant sip.

"That was two minutes," Harris said. "Absolutely nuts. There is something wrong with both of you."

"I am built different," Ilya confirmed.

The P.A. system crackled on. Now boarding group A from Flight 451 to Tampa.

It was a good thing that there was a sudden rush of everyone getting their carryons together. It gave Ilya a chance to lean forward and whisper, "You have very pretty eyes."

"Not as pretty as yours," Shane whispered back, then was on his feet and heading for the building line.

Frankly, the man should be classified as a biological weapon for the things he was doing to Ilya's body and mind.

"Here." Bren held out Ilya's bag to him.

"Thank you," Ilya took it.

"Sure. Least I could do while you were holding up our side. You cracked him open like an egg."

"Did I?" Ilya asked as if he hadn't noticed.

Bren gave him a knowing look. "You know, if you ever need to re-open that conversation we had over the summer, sooner is better than later. H.R. waits for no man."

Oh. Shit. Ilya stood up a little straighter. Bren wasn't a threat, he reminded himself. No one was coming to take anything from him. He and Shane were safe. Or as safe as anyone could be.

"When we get home," Ilya said. "Maybe then I will have something to say."

"All right. That'll be an interesting talk," Bren said. "Not sure where to even start as far as the formalities, but we'll figure something out."

Ahead of them by only a few people, Troy had his head bent to listen more attentively to whatever Harris was saying to him.

"Maybe we need policy," Ilya suggested.

Bren followed his gaze and made an interested noise. "You think?"

"Yes, I think," Ilya confirmed.

"One thing about this job is that it's never boring, that's for sure."

"Big talk about making everything so nice for everyone, but as soon as it is a little too nice, we are not boring enough for you?" Ilya teased. "You make a queer team, they are going to be queer at each other."

"Yeah, got that, thanks," Bren snorted. "Policy it is. You can't even help draft it, can you? Because you're part of it."

"What a shame," Ilya said dryly.

"What's up with Yolen?" Bren frowned. The rookie was at the front of the line, hugging his backpack over the front of his chest, instead of mixed in with Haas, Bood and Wyatt like he usually preferred.

"He was okay last night," Ilya said. "After the game too, I think."

"I'll see if I can sit next to him. You good on your own?"

"Who's hand will I hold when we take off?" Ilya asked with an eyeroll. "Who will tell me whole plot to the movie I am thinking of watching?"

"Maybe Yolen will manspread less," Bren said thoughtfully. "I could have a permanent new seat partner."

"No, no," Ilya said with a wince. "Important strategic talk happens on flights. Terrible for team if you leave me."

"Hollander was right," Bren grinned. "You are easy."

"I hate everyone in this line. I am quitting tomorrow and staying in Florida forever."

"You need to give six weeks notice. It's in your contract."

The plane was small and the team took up the entire front half of it. Per usual, actual seat assignments quickly went out the window, guys jockeying around until they found their usual partners or made temporary changes to adjust for games or movie watching. Troy stood in the aisle for a minute too long, then sat down next to Harris with the back of his neck the color of a tomato.

They took off and Ilya watched the ground depart with idle interest. It was funny how quickly different places looked the same as they grew smaller in the distance. From this height, he could not have said what country they were in. Nomads of the sky. For the first hour of the flight Ilya maintained a blissful quiet bubble around him which he used to idly catch up on the other teams, read over Ryan's latest notes, and made a few of his own to share with Bren later.

Then a familiar gray hoodie came into Ilya's field of vision.

"We can have a rematch later," Ilya said, trying to fight down a smile. "When you have rested."

"Move your legs," Shane demanded.

"Why?" Ilya looked up, took in Shane's unimpressed face and gave up the fight. He smiled brightly at him. He didn't move. "Did you want something?"

"You brought this on yourself, asshole," Shane declared, then started stepping over Ilya's legs to get to the empty window seat.

This necessitated Shane's hand landing on Ilya's thigh momentarily to steady himself, the brief warmth a brand that seared through Ilya like wildfire. For a moment, Ilya's vision was filled with dark hair and his nose was spiked with Shane's minty shampoo. A smell that Ilya was mostly familiar with from sweaty pillowcases.

Triumphantly, Shane settled himself in the other seat and buckled his seatbelt, tightening it like the safety videos told you to. Ilya had already unfastened his.

"Demon," Ilya muttered.

"Hm?" Shane pretended not to hear him. "You want to watch something or what?"

"I'm going to bite you," Ilya growled.

"Promises, promises," Shane said with pleased little smile. "Action or comedy?"

"Action," Ilya sighed as Shane produced his tablet.

They were still trying to agree on what to watch forty minutes later because bickering about it was giving Ilya the kind of joy that usually required drugs. Bood was standing in the aisle delivering a loud story while a few of the other guys egged him on.

The skies were still clear outside when the plane dipped down several feet out of nowhere. In the aisle, Bood almost hit the floor, barely keeping himself upright.

"Get in your seat," Ilya snapped at him.

"And you, buckle your seatbelt," Shane chided Ilya.

"You do it for me if you care so much," Ilya challenged, already imagining Shane's hands brushing over him again.

"Don't be-"

The plane bumped hard again as Bood stumbled into his seat. Ilya buckled his seatbelt with a frown.

"I hate turbulence," Shane muttered darkly beside him, already sliding his tablet into his bag.

"Nobody likes it," Ilya said, but his skin was already crawling. "I think something is wrong."

"Wrong how?"

The plane shuddered and there was an ominous dull bang.

This is your captain speaking. We're experiencing some mechanical difficulties. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts securely fastened.

"Difficulties," Shane repeated. "Fuck."

"We will be fine, yes?" Ilya said quietly. "Planes are very safe now. Lots of things to protect from emergencies."

"I'm not scared," Shane said defensively.

They dropped again.

"I am," Ilya admitted instead of screaming.

There was a tense minute of silence and then another shudder as if the plane itself was frightened.

Please stow away all your personal belongings. Make sure they are secure. Please remain calm.

Shit. Shit! Was this it? Had Ilya survived everything else for this to be it?

Ilya reached for his phone at the same time Shane did. All round them were the sounds of frantic messages being sent, voices rising and falling over each other as the team prepared for the worst.

The only contact Ilya pulled up was Svetlana's. Her little picture next to her name was a side profile, the sheer density of her curls almost entirely obscuring her face except for her smile and nose. 

Ilya: I love you. Always.

That was it. What else was there to say? Who else was there to notify? He wasn't going to spend his potential last moments messaging his agent. Anya would never understand a text. Ilya hoped the Drovers would take her back in. They would be good to her.

He watched as Shane dashed off several messages. Of course Shane had more people to tell.

"I'm so fucking glad we're here together," Shane seized onto Ilya's hand, holding it tight as his other one kept flying over the keys.

"You want us both to die?" Ilya asked, trying to joke, but the words dragged out of him with a bizarre pitch.

"No," Shane said, hitting send and letting his phone drop between his knees. "Because we're not going to die."

"You know this?" Ilya asked, a spike of familiar annoyance in him. Despite the deranging amount of fear coursing through his veins, he could apparently still spare a little energy to want to shake and kiss Shane all at the same time.

"I do," Shane said. "Because the fucking absurdity of this plane crashing before we can figure our shit out is unacceptable."

Which was how, despite deeply fearing for his life, Ilya was able to dredge up a smile.

We have been cleared for an emergency landing in Tampa. I promise we're going to do our best to get everyone home.

"We will live then," Ilya said. "Shane fucking Hollander says so."

"Damn right," Shane said, and even with his voice pinched with fear, his eyes were as determined and steady. It was an expression Ilya had seen across two sticks and a small length of ice countless times.

Their fingers were interlocked, their palms pressed together. Ilya brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to each of Shane's fingertips. There was another lurch and someone was screaming. They were beyond his help now. All Ilya could do was hold on and believe in the steel surety of Shane's will.

With care, Shane tugged their hands to his lips, turning them so he could return the kisses to Ilya's fingers. Then he set them firmly in his lap, giving Ilya's hand a squeeze before closing his eyes. Good idea. Seeing the world hurtle towards them would be no help. Ilya closed his eyes too.

Curiously, he relaxed. He was cradled in the palm of Shane's hand. Their fate was out of their hands, all the nerves and concerns were swept clean away. It was only this for however long it took, whatever way it ended.

The plane shuddered and the someone yelled something about fire, but Ilya refused to hear it.

Was this how Mama had felt? Ilya had always preferred to imagine that she had simply fallen asleep and stayed in that peaceful realm for good. Maybe she still slumbered there still in a way, and that's why she could so easily visit his dreams.

The plane shuddered again and then, there was the familiar whir of descening landing gear. As if everything were perfectly normal. Ilya sucked in a breath and held it as the plane seemed to speed up tremendously. Surely too fast?

The touchdown was smooth, smoother than many Ilya had had on entirely untroubled flights. The plane slowed and came to gentle stop,

Ilya opened his eyes. Emergency lights flashed and a burnt hair smell pervaded the cabin, but they were on the ground. They were alive.

"See?" Shane was shaking like a leaf, but his voice was steady and confident. "I told you."

"Shane fucking Hollander," Ilya said, then he threw back his head and laughed.

It took some time to get them off the plane. Everyone's phones were ringing wildly, even more voices overlapping and there were many many relieved hugs. At some point, Luca tucked himself under Ilya's left arm and didn't come out, so Ilya walked across the tarmac calling Svetlana with a teenager stuck to him. At least Luca only spoke English, French and German. 

"I can't believe you!" Svetlana screamed when she picked up. "I thought you were-"

"Sorry! Sorry!" He said. "The plane had a mechanical failure and it seemed very very bad. I did not mean to scare you, Sveta."

"Oh, Ilyusha," she quieted. "That must've been awful."

"It was," he matched her tone. "But I'm all right. I promise. I'm sorry, but I wanted you to know. In case."

"I already know," she assured him. "But I love you too. So much."

"Will you come visit soon?" He asked, more plaintively than he liked. "I know you can't take more time off right after the holidays, but maybe March or April when it's not so cold. Come see a game?"

"I'll be there as soon as I can," she said. "You play Boston in three weeks. Stay with me for that and I'll see if I can fly back out with you."

"Yes," he said with feeling. "That would be perfect."

"I'm happy you're alive," she said.

"Me too." And for the first time in a long time, Ilya meant that with his whole heart.

On the bus ride, Ilya couldn't sit with Shane as much as he would've liked to. There were five million phone calls to make between him and Bren, so they parked up front and talked to their head of Public Relations, coordinating with Harris, who was holding his broken laptop like a baby and crying a little bit while still sounding entirely professional on the phone. They made statements, started insurance paperwork, talked to their travel department and in general acted like they had their shit together.

"I want to be one of them," Ilya groaned, listening to the story getting retold behind them, already growing in detail and danger.

"Me too," Bren said, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. "We should buy a round at the hotel bar. Thank fuck we're not playing tomorrow."

Both their phones buzzed and they were back at it again. Disembarking, they counted heads with a diligence they usually skipped. It seemed all too likely they could've misplaced one of their idiots in the chaos afterwards. The airline had sworn up and down that their luggage would be delivered within a few hours, after initial inspection of the plane. At least all of them were traveled enough to have the bare necessities in their carryons.

Crowding into the hotel bar, the mood was both high and anxious. There was a lot more attention to phones than usual. Bood made the rounds, checking on everyone, but he was also picking up his phone constantly and reassuring yet another member of his family. Or at least that's what Ilya assumed until Bood said,

"Hey everyone!" Attention snapped to him, including several random hotel guests. "I was going to tell you all soon, but it seems like this might be a good time. Cassie is pregnant! I'm going to be someone's dad by May!"

It was perfect timing. No fetus had ever been so roundly celebrated. They all toasted several times. After the first drink, Ilya switched to tonic water with lime and carried his glass around the room, checking in himself as Bood became too swamped in well wishes to do it. Bren was working clockwise to his counterclockwise.

"I want to drink too," Luca whined, "I hate this country's ridiculous rules."

"Did you speak to your parents?" Ilya checked.

"And all my siblings," Luca confirmed. "They were confused about waking up in the middle of the night, but glad to hear my voice. I should call more often. I am a bad son."

Ilya put a hand on his shoulder, "You do your best. They are proud of you, yes?"

"I try," Luca said.

He was so young and so far away from home. Ilya scanned the crowd of friendly faces.

"Who is your roommate?" Ilya asked.

"Hazy," Luca mumbled.

"Come."

Ilya got up to the knot of people Wyatt was jammed in, "Hayes, Luca needs a movie night, not a drunk night."

"I want to do a movie night," Dykstra said immediately.

"Me too," Chouinard decided. "Having a hangover after all this sounds like shit, actually."

So Luca got scooped up by half their defense and carried along upstairs to watch something doubtless very stupid and enjoyable. Bren had buttonholed Yolen and a few of the other younger players, so Ilya mentioned the room number to them and soon a second load were on their way to overcrowd two full size beds.

"Who else?" Bren asked tiredly.

Harris was talking quietly to Lapointe, but otherwise everyone had found their group. Shane was shoulder to shoulder with Bood, apparently offering baby tips. Spending time with Hayden's entire litter must've given him some first hand knowledge.

Only Barrett was by himself, hunched over his glass.

"I will take Troy, you go call your wife."

"Dottie knows I'm okay."

Ilya gave him a look. "Did I say for her? Talk to your wife and children. It was a bad day for you too."

"Yeah," Bren sighed. "It sure fucking was. I told everyone at the home office that tomorrow is still a day off for all of us. Enjoy the beach. Okay?"

"Okay," Ilya said.

Bren headed out and Ilya targeted the bar, sliding in next to Troy. "What are you drinking?"

"Whiskey," Troy said.

"Better than shitty vodka," Ilya said.

"Is it?"

"Less insulting to me personally. Any answers in it?"

"Not yet," Troy said.

"No movie night for you?"

"I don't think I'm great company right now."

Ilya studied the handsome profile and cast a look back to Harris, who was giving Lapointe a hug. He was a friendly, sweet man and Barrett was a little like being scoured with steel wool sometimes. It wasn't a soft approach, but Barrett was clearly trying to be better so hard that it was a little painful to watch.

"A good day to be bad company," Ilya said. "It is still better than being dead."

"You and Hollander," Barrett said quietly.

"What?" Ilya demanded, a prickle of fear rising in him that he violently squashed.

"So…."

"No," Ilya said. "Once, yes. Maybe again now."

Barrett sat up straight, his whole face a mask of surprise. Oh. Shit. He'd only been fishing, trying to distract Ilya. He hadn't actually known anything.

"Seriously?"

Ilya sighed. Shane could never know this was how Barrett found out. It was too embarrassing, Ilya would have to give Barrett credit and say he figured it out himself. That was for the best.

"Seriously."

"I mean…when?"

"It does not matter," Ilya declared airily. "But I am going to take advantage of this terrible day to go tell him things from my heart. Maybe some people in this room should do same. But I am 'minding my business'."

"And to be clear, your business is Hollander," Barrett said.

"Good night, Troy!'

Ilya charged off leaving Barrett to his terrible whiskey. Except that as soon as Ilya was two steps away, Barrett was on his feet and clearly moving in a positive direction, leaving the glass that still had a half finger of whiskey in it. Ilya considered, swung back, threw down the rest of it for a last bit of liquid courage then headed back on his original trajectory.

He stood next to Shane's seat at the bar and waited for him to finish his sentence.

"Need something, coach?" Shane asked without looking up.

He thought he was so clever and Ilya would wait for him forever.

Which he would. That wasn't the point.

"You made request, Hollander. 5:58pm."

"That's specific," Bood said. "What's that about?"

"Ask Hollander, his request," Ilya said. "He likes specific."

"I do," Shane said, clearly trying to piece it together.

"Mm, is 5:30 right now. So tonight or tomorrow?"

"Tonight," Shane said, catching on. "Right now. Sorry, Bood. We can talk more tomorrow?"

"It's cool, man, do what you need to do," Bood said and the way his fit his mouth around the words, Ilya had a feeling he would not remember much of the conversation in the morning.

"Drink water," Ilya told him then turned and headed out of the bar. Shane fell into step with him in the lobby.

"We don't have any beach stuff with us," Shane pointed out.

"What stuff? Late enough to not need sunscreen. Your shoes come off your feet."

The beach was twenty feet from the back door. There were even towels conveniently stacked in a box for guests and Ilya picked up a few. His hand was a mess, not only with the occasional spasms, but hints of bruising from how hard Shane had held it towards the end of the landing. Good. It was a reminder they'd survived.

At the edge of the stone patio, Ilya took off his shoes, shoving his socks into one of them. To his surprise, Shane did the same without any fussing. Together they walked out over the sand. They were just in time, the sun already mostly down, but still throwing vibrant colors over the water. Shane took the towels when they got closer, unfurling them to lay reasonably flat against the sand. They sat and for a few minutes, really did just admire the view.

Before Shane could start into whatever packaged speech he'd prepared for this moment, Ilya decided to seize it.

"I'm sorry."

Shane frowned. "What for?"

"That last day," Ilya said. "I thought about it a lot. I don't even know what I wanted. For you to stay, for you to say my name, maybe. But beyond that…no plan. I went about things all wrong. I talk about women, I tell you that you mean nothing except sex then want you to stay. I wanted so much and I was so scared that I say very stupid shit."

"But…" Shane trailed off. He was looking at Ilya and Ilya couldn't bear to look back right now.

"I know, big moment and I steal your thunder."

"There's no thunder," Shane groaned. "I just…I'm processing that. Give me a second."

The waves washed in, breaking and retreating. The rhythm of the world moving without either of their input. It would have done this if their plane had crashed to and there was something reassuring in that. Time continuing on with or without them.

Ilya's right hand spasmed. He took it into his left hand and started rubbing slowly into the meat at the base of his thumb.

With a quiet inhalation, Shane started again, "You did freak me out. But I still shouldn't have run."

"Okay," Ilya said. "So we both maybe had a bad day. But we had other bad days. Why that one and never again?"

"When I met Rose, I thought it was like…a fix? Proof that I could like a woman like that. I couldn't and she talked me through it. It was like everything started to make sense after that. Or it did for a little bit. I was going to talk to you at the All Star Game. Really talked if you let me."

"I would have," Ilya said without hesitation. "I wanted to be there. So much. But."

"Yeah, but," Shane said, then reached out and asked, "Can I see?'

"Not much to look at."

He extended his arm to Shane anyway. Ilya never made an effort to cover the scars. They weren't dramatic or particularly ugly. Skates were sharp, the cut had been clean. It was the surgeries that had widened the scar tissue. All told, if people hadn't seen it on TV, they would assume he'd had a weird accident with a kitchen knife maybe. If they noticed it at all.

Gliding fingertips over it, Shane studied the healed wound. "I called the hospital a few times."

"You did?" Ilya asked, hoping he didn't sound as instantly wrecked as he felt at the thought.

"Yeah. I almost called your cell, but I had no idea who might have it, you know? It took me a few tries to get your room number out of someone. I think I said I was your agent or something, I don't even remember."

"You lied and someone actually believed you? Miracle."

"Shut up," Shane said, even as he went on caressing Ilya's wrist. "I called and a woman with a Russian accent picked up. I thought it might be your mother, so I hung up. Panicked."

"My mother is dead," Ilya said mildly.

"I'm sorry," Shane said, "but you never said. How was I supposed to know?"

Which was fair, except. "It is in my Wikipedia article."

"Why would I read your Wikipedia article?"

"Why would you not?" 

"Did you read mine?" Shane asked incredulously.

"They keep your records up to date. Very useful when I was trying to beat you. Also I dispute un-cited claim that says you own a vineyard."

"Why would I own a vineyard?" Shane asked, bemused. "I don't like wine."

"Exactly. I had it removed."

"I'm not saying thank you if you're looking for that. I can't believe you read that."

"It is free on the internet, not your diary." Ilya rolled his eyes. "Get back to you calling me in the hospital."

"Like I said, I heard a Russian lady and I got spooked. She picked up again the next day and then after that, you got checked out. If you were with your family…I don't know. I didn't want to maybe reveal anything to them. You didn't seem happy that day to hear from your brother."

"I am never happy to hear from him," Ilya said. "But I do not have to anymore."

"Good, I want to know about that," Shane said.

"I want to know more about these calls."

"It wasn't just calls."

"No?" Ilya frowned. "What else?"

Shane sighed. "Okay, please don't freak out because I know I was wrong, okay? All of it. What I did, what I saw and what I thought I saw…"

"Saw what?"

"So I texted when your Dad died and you never got back to me, but I figured I wasn't your top priority right then. Or your favorite person. I was going to try to see you at our next game, but then I heard you had to have another surgery when you got back."

"I did too much when I was in Russia. Tore stitches and things," Ilya admitted. "Maybe I would have needed it anyway, but yes. Too much doing and they had to fix it."

Shane nodded slowly. "I came to see you. I went out on a red eye in between practice days. I figured I would use my rest day to try to see you then leave if you didn't want to see me."

"You did not come," Ilya snapped. "I would have noticed that."

"You would if I'd made all the way there," Shane grimaced. "I used your gate codes. It was really late. And you had that whole glass wall practically. You can see a lot."

The myriad of things that Shane could've seen in the middle of the night after that second surgery were horrifying to contemplate. Ilya pulled his wrist back from the light touch, trying to prepare himself to even ask the question.

"It's okay," Shane said. "I got it later."

"Got what? That I- no." He had already been fooled into giving up too much information once tonight, he wasn't doing it again. "What was it?"

"You had a woman up on your kitchen counter. The way you lifted me up on there which was…yeah. You were kissing her, but she was also kind of…petting you. Running her hand over your hair and then you let her hug and rock you," Shane said. "It looked like love. To me."

"Shit," Ilya said, eyes falling closed.

There could be no telling what night that was. That week had been a blur of painkillers, agony and all the fears still sticky from Russia in his mind. Svetlana had stayed every night, sleeping in his bed, doling out pain pills and waking him from the worst of the nightmares. More than once, she had helped him shower and make simple food when that proved too complicated for his overtaxed brain.

"I know what it was now," Shane said gently, "I had no idea she was Svetlana then. I should have, but you didn't give me much to go on. I had no idea what she looked like."

"No, I did not," Ilya said. "Fuck. I fucked myself then."

"I think we can both take a lot of credit for that," Shane sighed. "I left. I should've- I don't know. I gave up. If you were in love with someone else and I screwed up, missed my chance, then I figured the least I could do was give you space."

"Two years of space," Ilya said.

"Yeah, well I kept seeing photos of you together," Shane agreed. "Seemed permanent." 

"But you had…what? Change of heart?" Ilya asked bitterly. "Suddenly you don't care about my fake love?"

"A lot happened," Shane said. "I came out to Hayden, then my parents. That was a lot. Everyone was supportive, and I thought 'Ok, I can do this part. I'll come out to everyone and then I can be…something. Normal and gay or something."

"You are normal and gay," Ilya said. "Boring normal gay Canadian man."

"Thanks," Shane shook his head. "I think. But it didn't really work that way. I mean, it did and it didn't. I came out and I felt a little better. I told the rest of my team and at first, that seemed fine. I started dating a little. Another closeted guy, just to be safe."

"Who?" Ilya asked, the bile of jealousy rising so quickly it almost made him dizzy.

"He's still closeted," Shane said. "I promised I wouldn't tell. Don't worry, you'll probably never meet him. An L.A. guy. Rose set us up, a friend of a friend. We went on like three dates. It was fine. Better than with a woman."

"Fine," Ilya repeated. "Only fine?"

"I started to get this terrible idea that maybe being gay wasn't the beginning and the end of the story for me," Shane said. "Can I hold your hand again? Even if you're pissed?"

It was embarrassing how fast Ilya dropped his hand into Shane's. It felt too good to hold back even if he was feeling five different things all at once about it.

"What is the end of the story for you?"

"Ilya," Shane said.

"Yes?"

"That's the answer."

Could being stabbed feel good? That's what this was. The press of a knife straight into Ilya's heart that was orgasmic in quality.

"You know this from three dates?"

"I know this since 2008. Well. I didn't know know. But. I knew. You know?"

"Too many knows," Ilya said, buying himself time.

"It's okay, if you didn't feel the same. Don't feel the same. I get it."

"You're an idiot," Ilya said with his whole chest. "There's no one else. There is never anyone else."

"There were a lot someone elses," Shane said.

"Yes, yes," Ilya groaned. "Fine. I like sex. Okay?"

"I know," Shane said. "I like sex too."

"I know," Ilya said. "I liked sex with you most."

"Me too. With you, I mean."

They weren't close enough. The beach was mostly deserted and it was getting dark anyway. Ilya shifted and then slowly enough that Shane could shove him off, he laid himself over Shane's lap, still facing the waves. To his vast relief, Shane only shifted his hold, resting a hand over Ilya's ribs.

"You said last year you were in a bad place," Ilya said. "My fault?"

"No," Shane said. "I mean, yeah, missing you like crazy was a big part of it, but like…all of it. The team was okay with me being gay, sort of. It was little things. Some of the guys stopped changing when I was in the room which I guess I sort of understood. They kept making the same shitty gay jokes and expecting me to laugh when I never even laughed at them before."

"I will kill them," Ilya decided.

"Yeah, sure, that'll look good," Shane snorted. "Don't do anything. We're murdering them enough on the ice. I always used to be able to ignore all of it. I had a lot of practice. The racist stuff…you know. After awhile, I stopped hearing it. Or I heard it, but I thought it was just noise they made at each other."

"Yes," Ilya sighed. "I know about this. Not as much as you, but…Russians in America is very funny apparently. They tell jokes 'Oh in Soviet Russia hahaha'. They want me to laugh with them. U.S.S.R. falls before I am born, but the scars are still everywhere. And Russia is not even safe for me, but it is still my country. A little."

"Why wasn't it safe? I mean I know being someone who kissed guys there was really bad."

"My father and brother were police," Ilya said. Fuck. How little he and Shane had told each other. Years of knowing so much and yet so very little. "And they both did not have much love for me. I try to make peace, give money, so much fucking money, but it is never enough. When Bren offered me 'anything' to be assistant coach, I asked for Canadian citizenship."

"I'm sorry," Shane said quietly and his other hand slid into Ilya's hair. Incredible. "And your mom?"

The waves crashed. The darkness encroached a little more.

"Suicide."

The word had a taste to Ilya. Gained in that terrible session with Galina when he sat in the window, freezing air billowing in as he shakily lit a cigarette that probably polluted her office for weeks.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," Ilya said and he tried hard to think of nothing. Let the waves roll in and out. Shane had to know this before they went a step further. The scar on Ilya's wrist was nothing compared to the one she had left behind. "It was pills. I came home from practice and she was asleep on the couch. Waiting for me, I thought. Maybe she was."

The fingers in his hair were so gentle. Shane's thumb pressed at the spot where his spine met his skull and rubbed.

"What was she like?"

"Funny, kind, sad," Ilya swallowed thickly. "Beautiful. Everything good in the world and my father made her feel like she was worthless all the time. Even after she died. He called it 'accident'. Like she made a stupid mistake, but I can say the truth now and that helps. Because at least she did it on purpose. She made plan, she left because she thought she needed to go. Not like forgetting to take out garbage or spelling error. That would be worse."

"Ilya," Shane breathed out.

"I am so angry with her sometimes," Ilya grimaced. "But it is too much to be angry when I am also so sad. So. This is all I want to say about her right now. Okay?"

"Yeah, of course that's okay," Shane said.

"You say about you again," Ilya requested. "The locker room."

For a second, Ilya was worried that Shane might argue, but he only went on messing Ilya's curls up in the best way possible.

"It got uncomfortable. And I don't know…I started to shut down. I wasn't eating much, I wasn't sleeping much. I broke it off with that guy, we'd still been sort of texting to plan to meet up again, but I couldn't take it," Shane reported it all like it was dry fact, but Ilya felt the tension in his legs under Ilya's shoulders and head. "Me and my parents made this plan about how I was going to come out. Really slow. In stages. It made sense. But like…do you believe in fate?"

"No," Ilya said. "I believe in nothing."

"Really? But you wear a cross."

"My mother's," Ilya supplied. "For her, I wear it. I believed in her. I believe in you. In Bren sometimes. I can believe in people. Not in other things."

"I don't know what I think now," Shane said. "But it was like fate. I was so fucked up and I still couldn't tell anyone about you. I mean, Hayden knew."

"Yes, you say this before," Ilya made a face. "Bad choice. You have bad taste in men."

"Tell me about it," Shane laughed quietly and Ilya only kissed the patch of sweatpants in front of his face. What did he care? Shane had proved he liked Ilya more than was reasonable. He could laugh about it. "Anyway, I was having a really bad day. We'd played the Centaurs the week before and I kept seeing these glimpses of you from across the ice and you wouldn't even look at me. It was like I wasn't even there to you."

"I couldn't look," Ilya winced. "It was too much. I pretended you were some other player so I could talk about you without sounding insane."

"Oh," Shane said. "Every time?"

"Every time," Ilya said. "But we are not discussing me. Your bad day."

"Right. So. I had that in my head and I did this photoshoot and it was the first time they wanted me in hockey gear in a while and all I could think about was that one we did together."

"I think about this often too," Ilya said. "Very cute. First time I see you laugh."

"First time I saw you really laugh too. It was cute."

How giddy they had been. How pleased Ilya had been that his gambit had paid off. A word in the right ear, a casual wink and he'd summoned Shane to him like magic. A full day to admire his freckles and plan an assault to pull him into Ilya's bed.

"We are still cute," Ilya said.

"I don't know about that," Shane said.

"I am, maybe you not so much."

"I'm cuter than you if either of us are. You scowl too much to be cute."

"Lies," Ilya said. "So. You have terrible day thinking of me when I was younger and hotter."

"Younger only," Shane corrected. "You're hotter now."

The grin on Ilya's face was obcense and probably illegal considering how painful some of this was. Too bad.

"Yes, every day, better looking, yes?" 

"I'm not agreeing to that. It was a low day and then out of nowhere, my mom just happens to show me this post from Svetlana's Instagram. Mom follows everyone who gets a hockey brand deal with the Raiders."

"Ferrari," Ilya recalled and then paused. "Wait. This is how you know what she looks likes?"

"I knew what your 'mystery woman' looked like because you guys get papped together like five times a year. It's ridiculous," Shane scolded. "You go looking for it, don't you?"

"Not anymore. But no one is really looking anymore."

"I'm looking," Shane reminded him.

"At what? You are not reading my Wikipedia articles."

"Shut up. Anyway, I told my parents about us."

That shouldn't have surprised Ilya, but he was shocked anyway. "You did? You tell them…what? I have been fucking my archrival for years, but I stopped because I assume eight hundred untrue things like a very wrong man?"

Shane groaned. "I should've just let you tell them apparently. That was a lot shorter than what I said."

"What did they say?"

"They were confused."

"Yes, me too," Ilya said. "You too, I think."

"Yeah, plenty of that going around," Shane agreed. "They didn't take it as well as me being gay. Especially not when I told them I wanted to try to get you back."

"You tell your parents this?"

"Well, yeah," Shane said as if it was evident. "I needed help making a plan and Mom is the best at those."

Ilya turned over, almost shoving Shane over into the sand so he could stare up at him. "What the fuck?"

"It was a big deal!" Shane threw up his hands. "And I was maybe not entirely okay. Even a little okay. We made a deal. Mom would help me if I went to therapy."

"She was okay with you leaving Montreal?"

Shane shook his head, "She got there, but not at first.  Also, I fired her."

"You fired her," Ilya repeated. "Why?"

"Donna, that's my therapist, and I kept talking about why I never told my folks stuff. And some if it is hockey, some of it is just me, but also it was getting hard to see her as my mom sometimes. Which wasn't fair to either of us. That was a rough conversation."

"Yes, I can imagine. Is she angry still?" With me? Ilya wanted to ask since all of this felt like it led back to him somehow.

"No. She wasn't ever mad. Sad, I think. Confused again.  Dad and I convinced her to take on other players instead and make a real business of it. She works with Hayden and JJ now, they never had good rep. So she's in Montreal as much as ever and she still gets to be a part of that even if she sort of hates them because of…you know. Everything."

"I hate them too," Ilya said, in case there was any doubt.

Shane cupped Ilya's cheek. "Yeah, I got that."

"Fire your mother, come out, switch teams, seduce me. Big year for Shane Hollander. Anything else?" Ilya asked him.

"The seduction thing is still in progress."

"No," Ilya assured him. "Done deal."

"Oh yeah?"

Reaching up, Ilya snagged the neckline of Shane's shirt and dragged him down so he could kiss him, long and slow and sweet. "Yes. Done."

"Is there anything else we need to talk about?" Shane mumbled against Ilya's lips.

"Probably, but we have a long time to say things. Come back to my room."

"Do we need to hide?"

And that was a big one, wasn't it?

"Not for me, now. For you?"

"No," Shane said and then he was smiling. "Holy shit. No. I can't think of a reason at all. I mean, I don't want the world to know yet, but just so we can settle into it first. Enjoy each other before things blow up in the press. Is that okay?"

"Very okay," Ilya forced himself up, out of the warm comfort of Shane's lap. On his feet he offered both hands down to Shane, who took them. "We can maybe walk together and go into a room without it becoming big news, yes?" 

"Yes." 

They walked into the hotel and they weren't touching, but they were together, still holding their shoes and probably looking at each other like fools.

"I'm rooming with Bood," Shane said.

"I have my own."

Ilya had only stopped into his room to throw his carryon on the floor. It was as featureless and bland as every other hotel room they had been in together. He already knew he'd never forget a detail of it.

As soon as the door closed behind them, they were on each other. Impossible to say who had started it, but they kissed like they were both starving for it. Shane's hands went up under Ilya's shirt immediately, shoving it upwards with impatience. Skimming out of it entirely, Ilya threw it aside.

It took him a moment to decide if he could manage it with his hand in a bad way and Ilya decided he didn't give a shit. He got his hands under Shane's thighs and lifted him off the ground. It was more of a strain than it had once been, but he managed to carry him to the bed and throw him down.

For a moment, they stared at each other. Shane, eyes bright and his face a picture of want. His thighs were spread in invitation already.

"Three years," Ilya said.

"I know," Shane took off his shirt and started folding it.

"Fuck," Ilya muttered. "You know the first time you did this, I knew I was in deep shit."

"Folded my clothes?"

"I wanted to watch you do it a thousand times."

"It's just a thing," Shane said, but he was smiling. "I'm not- that's another one of those things we should talk about eventually. I'm not neurotypical."

"I don't know that one," Ilya admitted, watching Shane pull off his pants also pulled away about half of his brain cells.

"Autistic?"

"Yes." Ilya said. "Okay. This one I know. You are?"

"Yeah, probably. I didn't bother getting an official diagnosis, it's kind of a pain in the ass, but yeah."

"We can talk more about this when you have pants on," Ilya decided. "I am depressed. Not right now. Not at all right now. But you know. Often. I take pill that helps."

"That makes a lot of sense," Shane said, hooking his thumbs into his underwear. "I'm glad you've got something. How does it-"

"No, no. We are naked now," Ilya said, working quickly on his own clothes to make sure that was true. "We are doing naked things. No more feelings."

"I have bad news," Shane said, piling his underwear on top of everything else and setting the pile down on the floor by the foot of the bed. "I have feelings for you even when we're naked. Maybe even more than usual."

"Yes, me too," Ilya waved that away and tossed his underwear somewhere behind him. "Who cares? Suck my dick."

"Romance is dead," Shane said, but he reached for Ilya's hips and his fingers dug in as he pulled him close.

"Suck my dick…please?" Ilya tried. "Better?"

"Better," Shane laughed and then he was sucking Ilya's cock into the heavenly wet heat of his mouth.

"Fuck, Shane," the words punched out of him.

Ilya grabbed Shane's shoulder, his face, his neck. He tried to touch him everywhere he could reach, reacquainting himself with the body that he had once known as well as his own. If not better. In return, Shane was groping his ass as he tried to swallow down around him as if he could consume Ilya whole. Ilya thumbed over the flower of freckles and wanted a thousand unreasonable things. At least there was one, very reasonable, thing he could ask for. 

"I want to fuck you," Ilya managed to get out around a moan.

With reluctant 'pop', Shane pulled off him and stared up, already lust-struck. "I want that too. Do you have anything?"

"I have negative tests, no sex since. Lube in my bag."

"Good enough. Negative too. Nobody else in a long time."

How could Ilya not kiss him over that? He had forgotten how delicious Shane's mouth could be. Ilya could lose himself there if he let himself. Another time.

There would be another time. They had so much time. Ilya was dizzy with it. 

"We are going to fuck enough times to make up for the years of no fucking," Ilya said, parting only long enough to rifle through his bag, making a mess of his packing until he seized on the travel size bottle he kept in his bag out of habit.

"Tonight?" Shane asked, a little alarmed.

"No, tonight maybe once. Long day. But eventually. Over time."

"That's a lot of sex to make up for," the smile that curled only the corners of Shane's lips pulled Ilya's heart into his throat. "That'll be fun."

"Only fun?" Ilya stalked towards him. "On your stomach. Another day, I lick you open until you come for me, but right now, fingers. Okay?"

"Yeah, fuck, okay."

Shane scrambled to obey. What a drug. What a life. What a man.

Covering Shane entirely with his own body, Ilya pressed kisses to the back of his neck, the broad span of his shoulders, the gorgeous curve of his spine. Slicking his fingers, Ilya groaned almost as loudly as Shane then he rubbed his thumb over the tightly furled muscle of Shane's hole.

The preparation had always been part of the appeal. It used to take ages to coax Shane into a relaxed enough state for Ilya to take him, but tonight, after everything, Shane opened for him like he was made for it. Ilya informed him of that reverently.

"I was made to play hockey and give you shit," Shane said, his voice already a fucked out wreck. "This is a bonus feature."

"Better than any other bonus I have gotten," Ilya said, wiping his fingers off on his own stomach.

Using his left hand to finger Shane and his right to hold himself up, he had barely managed to stay balanced, but Ilya's stamina in that department was running out. Saying something to Shane was critical and Ilya entertained a few excuses, a few ways to hide it as a come on.

But that's not what they were doing any more. Anyway, Shane had tied his skates. He had touched the scar. He had watched Ilya's hand betray him a thousand times over the last few months.

"Do you want to ride me or go on your side?" Ilya asked and mitigated it only with a smeary kiss to the small of Shane's back. The place Ilya wanted to make a home in. "Another day maybe I can do this way, but not now."

"Ride," Shane said. "I want to see your face."

It was that simple. Ilya laid down as Shane got up, straddling Ilya's waist with ease. It was good this way, all of Shane on display, his powerful thighs ready to be put to their unintended purpose.

"So pretty," Ilya praised, running his hands up Shane's legs.

"Shh, I'm concentrating," Shane scolded and Ilya laughed, purely joyful.

Until the head of his cock was being seized, held in place and then blissfully led home. The gut-punched noise Ilya made should probably be embarrassing, but there was no room for anything in his head other than yes yes yes Shane yes  Shane yes Shane Shane Shane.

"Fuck, you're so fucking big," Shane groaned and then started sinking down. "Ruined me for other guys, I swear to god."

"Good," Ilya said greedily and got his hands on Shane's waist, holding him as steady as he could manage, trying not to drive his hips forward.

"We're done with that," Shane said, eyes locked on Ilya's as he settled, fully seated on Ilya's cock. "Just you and me now, right?"

"Yes," Ilya said immediately. A tiny part of him wanted to text Svetlana right now to tell her. Both to say no more and to brag a little. She would give him so much shit. It would be fun. 

"Good," Shane licked his lips. "That's…fuck that's good."

With a little finessing, Ilya got his feet planted against the mattress for leverage. He guided Shane up then pulled him back down, thrusting up to meet him. "Good?"

"Yeah," the panting moan stoked the fire inside Ilya to new heights. "Please…"

That was all Ilya needed. It was a hard, fast, demanding fuck, both of them engaging every muscle in their bodies to meet thrust after thrust. The wet slick sounds mingled with their harsh breathing, the breaking of their names on each other's lips. Ilya watched Shane break apart above him, a demigod at the pinnacle of his power.

"Touch yourself," Ilya demanded and Shane wrapped a hand around his cock in slow motion, drugged by pleasure.

They dove into each other and came out the other side with matching ecstatic cries as they came in impossible concert. Ilya ground himself in as deep as he could, holding Shane there as wet heat splattered down from Shane's cock onto Ilya's stomach like cleansing rain.

A mess of ragged breath and sweat, Shane dipped down to kiss him and Ilya grabbed his face to hold him there so he could lick into his mouth with no less desperation than he'd had when they'd begun.

"Now I can say the seduction worked," Shane whispered and Ilya tasted his smile with delight.

"Excellent plan," Ilya said. "You are maniac."

"Maniacs can be interesting."

"Not you," Ilya said. "You are world's most boring maniac."

"And you're the sweetest asshole that I've ever met."

Unceremoniously, Ilya's cock softened and slid free of Shane's body. The loss was tremendous, but Ilya made up for it by pulling Shane into a tight embrace. He nosed into Shane's hair, filling his senses with mint.

"You are very smart. Excellent plan. Very effective," Ilya huffed a laugh.

"This wasn't actually the plan," Shane said into Ilya's chest, kissing his pec. "The plan actually ended when I joined Ottawa."

"It did?"

"I told you. I just wanted to be near you. I missed you."

"And if we'd never fucked again?" Ilya asked. "You gave that all up and we never even kissed again. What then?"

"Still worth it to be your friend. I like you."

Ilya could've wept. "I like you too. Stay?"

"I want to shower, but yeah. I'm not going anywhere."

"We can shower together."

"We can try."

It was really too small for the both of them, but Ilya didn't give a goddamn. He would've wedged himself into a sewer pipe to stay close to Shane right now. It might've been the least efficient shower he had ever taken.

"You're getting soap in my eyes," Shane protested as Ilya smacked kisses over his freckles.

"Mm, small price to pay," Ilya said, but he carefully swept his thumbs over Shane's eyelids to clear away the suds. Then, giddy and ridiculous with it, Ilya announced, "I want to lick your eyeballs."

"Not right now," Shane mumbled and tilted his head so Ilya would bite at his neck.

Perfect. Shane was perfect, how had Ilya forgotten?

They tumbled into bed, dried off only because Shane demanded it then stood patiently still for Ilya to chase down every droplet of water of Shane's body with a towel and the tip of his tongue when necessary (it often was).

It was only nine and they fell asleep with the lamps still on, the curtains wide open. At dawn, the sun stretched over the bed and Ilya woke with Shane sprawled over his chest, one arm thrown possessively across his waist. Like someone might try to snatch Ilya out from under him in the night or even more unlikely that Ilya would try to leave.

"G'morning," Shane yawned, nuzzling in closer.

"Good morning," Ilya said and wove patterns over Shane's back with his fingers. "I like this."

"Me too," Shane's smile was sleepy and tender, barely visible from Ilya's position.

They didn't move beyond that. Ilya went on stroking Shane's back and occasionally Shane dropped a kiss right over Ilya's heart. Just below his mother's cross.

Chapter 9: It always comes as a surprise, when I feel my withered roots begin to grow

@ottawacentaurs Thank you to everyone who reached with your concerns and well wishes. We are grateful to the amazing pilots who made sure we landed safely yesterday. The entire team, including support staff, arrived in Tampa unharmed if a little shaken. We're taking the day to recoup and connect with loved ones. We'll be back in fighting form on Friday to battle it out with our Florida foes! For now, here's us in recovery.

[Photo: Two very crowded hotel room beds. On one Haas is bracketed by Dykstra and Chouinard. Yolen leans up against the bottom of the bed, apparently already asleep sitting up. On the other bed, Hayes, Lapointe and Dillion are all laying on their stomachs, lined up so they all barely fit together. Everyone has a calm, but unsmiling expression, gaze firmly on whatever is on the television.]

The tender moment might've stretched forever if Ilya's phone hadn't started buzzing. He reached for it, fully intending to tell whoever it was to die in a fire before he saw Ryan's name flash across the screen.

"Shit," he said and hit answer. "Hi."

"Hi? Hi?!" Ryan shouted. "Are you fucking kidding me, Rozanov? Are you going to tell me why I woke up this morning to five hundred press requests about a fucking plane crash?"

"No one crashed! I called you yesterday, left a message. Bren called you! I know you have a concert, very loud, but that is not our fault."

"Are you okay?" Ryan demanded. "The team?"

"Did you call me first thing?" Ilya asked. Shane had a questioning expression, so Ilya mouthed 'Price' at him.

"No," Ryan said, too quickly.

"We are okay," Ilya said. He wanted to tease, very badly, but he remembered the singular time he had been on a plane with Ryan all too well. "Everyone is okay. Harris' laptop didn't make it, but all people are okay."

"Fuck," Ryan breathed out. "What a fucking nightmare."

"We are okay."

"Yeah," Ryan said shakily. "Shit."

"You are okay too," Ilya reminded him. "Not on the plane. Safe on the ground. Yes?"

"I shouldn't be making you calm me down," Ryan groaned. "Sorry. Fuck. I'm just- Fabian isn't even awake yet, he went to bed like an hour ago.  I'm in the bathroom of this shitty hotel room and I can't do shit for you."

"I need nothing," Ilya said soothingly. Shane kissed his chest again and Ilya grinned down at him. "I am very okay. Team is all right."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I'm seeing Harris' post now. He works fast. The guys had a movie night?"

"Some of them, yes."

"That's good. Jesus, engine failure?"

"Don't read that," Ilya scolded. "Who is that going to help? Read Harris' nice messages and listen to me. We are all fine."

"It's only half the team in the picture. You aren't there. Hollander. Bren."

Ilya sighed. "Hold on." He put the phone on mute. "Price is losing his shit. I switch to video call, maybe he sees my face and relaxes a little. Is that okay? You want to go?"

Shane hesitated then shook his head. "Ryan is safe, right?"

"The safest."

"Okay. Maybe put a shirt on though."

"No," Ilya said, wrapping his arm tighter around Shane's shoulders. Then he unmuted. "Are you breathing?"

"Yes," Ryan said like a guy who maybe hadn't been breathing.

Ilya hit the video button. Ryan accepted and his ruddy face appeared on the screen, his normally well-quaffed hair sticking up in every direction like a distressed orange hedgehog.

"I am okay, see?"

"Yeah, I see- are you calling me from bed?"

"Yes," Ilya yawned pointedly. "You call at dawn, I am in bed."

"I can't fucking believe you," Ryan laughed with an edge of hysteria.

"Why not?" Shane asked, reasonably. "This is pretty much his entire deal."

"Rozanov," Ryan said with startling calm. "Is there someone else in bed with you?"

Ilya tilted the phone down a few degrees so Shane's face, plastered to his chest could just barely be seen. Shane's bare shoulder was for Ilya and no one else.

"Hey, coach," Shane said like it was nothing. "Sorry to freak you out. We're all good here."

"This has to be violating something. Including my eyes," Ryan said.

"Wiebe is working on policy, so not violating anything yet."

"Was this a panic thing? Please tell me this wasn't a one night stand you decided to tell me about for reasons I can't fathom."

"No," Ilya started playing with Shane's hair because he could. He was allowed. "He came to Ottawa for me."

"Ilya," Shane groaned.

"What? It is true," Ilya said.

"That's not how we're telling people it happened."

"Why not?"

"It leaves out a lot!"

"Oh, okay." Ilya rolled his eyes and gave Ryan a serious look. "Since before rookie year, we are on again and off again. Then we are off for three years because we are both very stupid. Hollander cannot stand to be without me, so he burns down his entire career to come play for us and be near me. I take pity, now we are back together, hopefully for good. Better?"

"I hate you," Shane groaned.

"Since rookie year?" Ryan asked quietly. "Really?"

"Summer before," Ilya said.

"Wow. That's- wow. That must've been so painful."

"Sometimes," Ilya said. "But always worth it."

"Is this a secret?"

"Not a secret," Ilya said. "A little private, maybe. Only for now."

"Can I tell Fabian?" Ryan asked tentatively. "I hate not telling him things."

"Yeah," Shane mumbled. "Right?"

"Fine, yes, tell your songbird," Ilya nodded. "But tell him not to spread it around to all his famous friends. Rose Landry might hear before Shane can tell her and then she kills him."

"Oh god, Rose," Shane closed his eyes. "She's going to gloat."

"I have to hand it to you, Roz," Ryan said with a shake of his head. "I'm not having a panic attack anymore."

"I know," Ilya said smugly. "I am very good at this."

"You're a menace to a society," Ryan corrected. "And I'm so happy you're alive. Everyone else too."

"In an hour, call Bren," Ilya advised. "He is okay, but you know."

"I know," Ryan said. "I can do that. Bye."

The call went dark and Shane sat up a little. "We did that."

"We did," Ilya confirmed and kissed him. "Too soon?"

"I think one person knowing feels okay. Let's do it one person at a time."

"Deal," Ilya said and rolled Shane onto his back. "My hand is better today."

"Great news for you."

"You don't want me to show off?"

"I want breakfast first. I had whiskey for dinner."

That did explain the slight headache and cramping in Ilya's stomach. The thought of food turned it into a need.

"I will go get us things," Ilya decided. "From the complementary breakfast. We eat in bed."

Shane gave him a look. "What about me makes you think I'm the kind of person that eats in bed?"

"Hope?" Ilya floated. "We nearly died. Special occasion rules?"

"There is no occasion special enough for me to eat in a bed I'm going to sleep in tonight."

"You will?" Ilya asked, too delighted by that thought to worry about the rest of it.

"Yeah," Shane smiled shyly at him. "If that's okay."

"That is best news," Ilya kissed him. "Food later."

"Food now," Shane contended.

The kissing went lower and Shane's arguments faded into heavy breathing. To leisurely suck Shane's cock in the warm dawn light was more luxurious than any expensive massage. Ilya made it last and Shane's hands tangled into his curls over and over again, dropping Ilya's name until it coated him like honey.

When Shane came, Ilya swallowed all of it, then pressed an adoring kiss to the softening head of his prick. He crawled back up Shane's body to share the taste of it for him and they kissed slow and hungry. Turning over, Shane gave him a lazy soft look over his shoulder and Ilya kissed his shoulder as he reached for the lube.

"Don't prep me," Shane mumbled. "Just go slow."

Fuck. Ilya generously poured lube around Shane's hole and followed orders. He pushed in with painful care, kissing and nipping across Shane's shoulders to distract himself. Every centimeter felt earned, the reluctant give of Shane's body contrasted with the pleased moans falling from his kiss-pinked lips.

"Yes, like this," Ilya said senselessly, "Beautiful man, I will make you feel this good every day."

He made a lot of promises that got increasingly more unhinged in that golden morning light. His only salvation was that Shane was beyond remembering specifics, his eyes closed as he met each thrust with a broken groan, his hands clutching at Ilya's where they were planted on either side of him.

They came close together, Shane untouched like that first time so long ago and Ilya buried to the hilt, slick with sweat and electrified everywhere they touched. He barely managed to roll off Shane instead of smashing him against the mattress afterwards. Shane watched him with sleepy affection, kissing the inside of Ilya's wrist where it had fallen near his mouth.

"Now I'm actually starving," Shane observed. "And I need to shower."

Motivated by sheer desire to fufill every one of Shane's needs, Ilya got to his feet and went searching for his discarded clothes.

"You shower, I will bring food. We can eat at the stupid desk thing," Ilya gestured at it.

"There's only one chair," Shane pointed out.

"You will sit in my lap and I will feed you," Ilya said.

"No," Shane said firmly, but his eyes were already shifting towards the chair with serious consideration.

"Then I sit on floor, who cares? Go and shower. Do not leave."

"I'm not leaving," Shane said amused. "I want-"

"Scrambled eggs, one sausage if turkey, not pork. If there are no eggs, then you whine and eat yogurt. Coffee, no milk, no sugar, no joy. Yes?"

"I- yeah," Shane stared at him. "You memorized my breakfast order?"

"It is not hard, you are boring," Ilya said with all the fondness welling up in him. "Eggs and sausage do not touch."

"I don't like the grease on the eggs," Shane agreed. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome," Ilya kissed him and pulled on his shirt.

"You'll shower after?"

"Yes, moy sólnyshka," Ilya said quickly and dashed out before he could be asked a question.

Unsurprisingly, there was no one else from the team at the buffet. Ilya grabbed a few plates and started piling things on his own, before carefully preparing Shane's. Right in the middle of considering if Shane would eat a patty over a link if that was the only option, Barrett appeared. His hair was a wreck and his clothes from yesterday were on, the shirt inside out.

Not that Ilya could judge, all things considered.

"Good morning," Ilya said pleasantly.

Barrett nodded slowly, staring at Ilya so hard it felt like a physical touch. "Yeah. That."

"You need coffee?" Ilya asked, bemused.

"I fucked up," Barrett said.

With a sigh, Ilya set down the plates and did some mental math. He probably had ten minutes before Shane was done showering and the eggs would go cold long before that. Ilya had roughly eight minutes before he should actually scoop eggs onto the plate for maximum warmth.

Fine. He had time to speed run Barrett's breakdown.

"What happened?" Ilya asked.

"Not here," Barrett whispered, eyes darting around the virtually empty space.

"It will be less obvious if we talk quietly here, then walk away quickly somewhere else," Ilya pointed out, then picked up a piece of bacon and bit into it to make it clear he was not abandoning food. "Tell."

The whisper was so low, Ilya almost didn't catch, "I slept with Harris."

Ilya waited. Nothing else was said. Barrett looked at him with wide, hurt eyes.

"This is the mistake?" Ilya checked.

"I'm a mess! I'm still getting over my ex. And Harris is like…I can't do that to him."

"Can't do what?" Ilya asked, taking another bite of the bacon.

"Make him deal with me and being closeted and…everything."

"Harris does not know how to make choices for himself?"

"No! I mean yes, obviously he does," Barrett whispered fiercely. "But he doesn't know what a mess I am."

"Your mess is very obvious."

"Not the breakup part."

"Mm," Ilya wiped his fingers off on a paper napkin. "If only there was way for him to know about it."

"I'll tell him and then I'll break it off," Barrett said as if he and Ilya were in agreement. "It was just because of yesterday. He'll get it."

Ilya balled up the napkin and tossed it at Barrett's forehead. It bounced off and landed like a dud grenade between them. "No."

"No?" Barrett blinked at him.

"Listen to me. Are you listening?" Ilya hissed. "Paying very close attention?"

"Yes, coach," Barrett said with very wide eyes.

"We do not have to know why someone likes us. It is none of our fucking business. We just say thank you and yes, please. No 'so sorry I exist' nice polite boy Canadian bullshit."

"But-" Barrett started.

"This is not advice from a book," Ilya cut him off, trying to keep his voice down even though he wanted to beat his words into Barrett's pretty face. "I lose years to this. Years and years. For what? Do not be me, Barrett. Go back upstairs with plate of food, knock and say you are a dumb fuck and you are sorry, here is some breakfast and some blowjobs."

All the color had drained out of Barrett's face and it was possible Ilya's voice had started to rise at the end, but there was literally no one here and Ilya was so fucking exhausted with tiptoeing around invisible straight people's breakfasts in the vague hope they wouldn't ruin his life for fun.

"That's a lot," Barrett said.

"Yes," Ilya said.

"Are you okay?" Barrett asked tentatively.

"This is the most okay I have been in three years," Ilya informed him.

"That is so upsetting," Barrett swallowed thickly. "Really?"

"I fucked a man so beautiful this morning that I almost went blind. I am fantastic. Please get out of my face. If you make Harris cry, I will make you do laps until you throw up"

"Your pep talks are terrifying. I'm going to go…somewhere else now."

"He likes those." Ilya gestured at the muffins. "Blueberry."

Carefully scooping eggs onto the second plate, Ilya accounted for utensils and went back to his tiny pocket of paradise.

"Hey," Shane said, coming out of the bathroom in a puff of steam, towel drying his chair and otherwise naked.

"Hello," Ilya said, stunned all over again by the reality of him. "Eggs."

"Yeah, I can see that," Shane said, holding his hand out for his plate. "You want to shower or eat first?"

"I want to eat you."

"Yeah, same, but I don't think I can get it up again until I have calories and a few minutes."

With a petulant sigh, Ilya sat down in the crappy desk chair, setting up their plates and drinks.

"Come, eat," Ilya said, scooting back and patting his thighs enticingly. "Before your eggs get cold."

"We'll break the chair," Shane said.

"Oh no," Ilya gave him look. "Not this ugly chair that neither of us can afford to replace."

"I don't want to fall. That would be the dumbest thing I've had to explain to a medic ever."

"That would be it?" Ilya frowned. "We have had very different careers."

"Don't tell me, I don't want to know."

Ilya waited him out and then Shane sighed and primly perched himself on Ilya's knees. "Tell me."

"A rookie stapled my jersey to a bench by accident and I got up, took whole bench with me, fall on my face then bench falls on top of me," Ilya told him, triumphantly forking up some egg. "Bam! Very loud and I have very ugly bruises."

"How do you accidentally staple someone to something?" Shane asked. Ilya held the forkful of eggs up to him. "Absolutely not, Ilya."

"I am being helpful," Ilya complained. "I tell you whole story and feed you and you can relax, do nothing."

"I'm not a child," Shane rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I know this," Ilya ran his other appreciatively over Shane's back. "But its sexy."

"It's sexy to feed me?"

"It's sexy that you let me feed you. It's sexy when you let me do things to you. Always."

"That seems fucked," Shane mused, but he ate the eggs, probably because they were threatening to fall off the fork onto his still exposed dick.

"Fucked with me or you?"

"Mm," Shane chewed and swallowed. "Yes."

"Fair. But our 'fucked' matches."

"It always has," Shane said ruefully. "Fine. Tell me about the stapling."

The story didn't take long, but it segued into another and then Shane remembered Hayden's fight with an automatic paper towel dispenser and Ilya recalled a beer pong game that ended in a nosebleed. Once Shane's plate was done, he picked up the sticky danish that Ilya had snagged for himself and held it out to him.

Without hesitation, Ilya took a bite, maintaining eye contact with Shane the entire time. Shane's story stuttered to a stop and he withdrew the danish to lick sugar off Ilya's mouth. When he drew back, he tried to keep talking, but his story slid away from him. Eating took a backseat to making Shane lose the narrative, especially when he forgot that he supposedly wasn't enjoying this and shifted to be fully on Ilya's lap.

When the danish was finished, Ilya licked Shane's fingers clean over increasingly less believable protests. Despite some very inventive plans that had drifted through Ilya's mind, he wound up pulling Shane even more flush against him and giving him a messy handjob while sucking on one of his tits and pulling his hair.

It was uncomfortable, awkward and fantastically messy. Ilya would rate it in the Top Ten Shane Hollander Orgasms That Ilya Rozanov Had Witnessed. For now. He intended to knock it out of place along with all the others that had come before. Hopefully by the end of the week.

"I need to shower again," Shane said vaguely, so fucked out that his head was limp against Ilya's shoulder, neck utterly useless.

"Or we could be filthy all day," Ilya proposed.

"I never considered that a danger of actually having all the time we wanted is that we might die of dehydration."

"I will let you up to drink water."

"You're a real giver."

Then with a graceless dismount, Shane got off Ilya's lap and sank to his knees. Without much energy or finesse, he pulled down Ilya's pants, stuffed his cock in his mouth and gave the kind of blowjob that made people betray their deepest held beliefs. Ilya didn't so much as come as he lost control of his entire central nervous system and saw a star collapse into a black hole.

"Hey," Shane wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. "Did you die?"

"Yes," he mumbled. Ilya's phone buzzed. "You answer. Tell them you kill me and you must pay for your crimes."

Shane fumbled around behind him, grabbed the phone and glanced at it. "It's Harris."

"Fuck. Give," Ilya held out his hand and Shane dropped the phone into it. He answered. "I will make sure no one finds the body."

"What?" Harris asked.

"Barrett. I kill him?" Ilya offered. "Not right now, but give me a half hour."

"Please don't," Harris said, tone unreadable. "But thank you. I was just going to say that Gen sent me the official statements if you want to take a look at them, but also don't because it's our day off. I got everyone on board for a beach day. You should come too. Maybe we can do some minigolf."

"Harris."

"Yes?"

"Did you have muffin for breakfast or must I pick teeth out of my knuckles in a half-hour?"

Instead of getting up, Shane rested his head against Ilya's thigh and closed his eyes like he might nap there. Incredible. Ilya wished he could take a photo and keep this forever.

Wait.

He could. He could have a vaguely incriminating photo and just keep it. No deleting. 

"I had a muffin," Harris said, very calmly.

"Okay," Ilya frowned. "Did you like the muffin?"

"I had a long talk with the muffin. It was a good talk."

"Why are we arranging team beach trip then?"

"Because I don't want to only fuck the muffin, Roz," Harris said with some exasperation. "I want to go have fun with the muffin and my friends because I care that all of us didn't die, not just the muffin. Wow, I said that too many times. Muffin is losing all meaning and it sounds weird now."

"English is a bad language," Ilya said sympathetically and risked pulling the phone away from his ear for the second it took to take a picture of Shane's serene face. If he cropped it right, no one would be able tell what his pillow was.

"-trying to figure some things out," Harris was saying when he put the phone back to his ear. "Come down to the beach? I'm going to try to get Bren too. You guys don't have to lock yourselves up, the team would love it if you were there."

Trapped. "Yes, fine."

"Awesome. I'll text you when we're heading down. See you soon."

"Goodbye," Ilya said, ending the call with a relieved sigh. "We have to go to the beach and have fun with people instead of dying of thirst."

"We do?" Shane said, eyes still closed. "Why?"

"So the team feels good. You used to do this as captain. Get everyone in the right mood. Throw parties."

"Ilya, do you really think I did any of that?"

It was a little hard to picture. "You were a good captain."

"Was I?" Shane asked idly. "I don't know."

"Three cups is proof."

"Yeah, sure. On the ice I was great," he said. "But Hayden always did the locker room stuff. Had the dinner parties and things. I hated all that."

"Is that why you were okay with not being captain with us?"

"A little. Especially once I met Bood and Hazy. I like having the 'C' on my chest, but it's been nice actually. Just being one of the guys. I don't think I really did that before. They made us captains so young. And I never had whatever you had that made that work."

"It was mostly being loud. Everyone likes when they are the people the asshole doesn't treat like shit."

"Am I everybody?" Shane asked, watching him warily under his eyelashes.

"No, you are the guy who likes when the asshole is special kind of asshole to just you," Ilya said fondly.

With a put upon sigh, Shane got to his feet, planted one knee on the edge of the chair and kissed Ilya like he was counting his teeth to make sure none of them were in a muffin.

It was possible that Shane had sucked some of Ilya's more useful brain cells out.

"Shower," Shane said.

"But we will go to the beach and get all sandy and salty anyway."

"You're not going down there smelling like sex and bacon."

"Why? That is amazing cologne. I would buy five bottles."

Then Shane did something with eyebrows and Ilya was in the shower. He would swear that was the order of events. Something might have happened in between, but he would never know what.

The beach did offer some interesting revelations. For one Bren apparently owned, and had no issue with wearing, the ugliest swimsuit Ilya had ever seen. It was somehow both neon and bland. It hit the world's most awkward length, neither short enough to be for showing off or long enough to be a default masculine 'ignore that I have upper legs' look. For a forty-three year old, Bren had an excellent ass, but these only sagged sadly. 

"Where did you get these?" Ilya asked, beholding them with impressed disgust. "We must burn this place to the ground." 

"No arson, I'm done with fire this week. I think I've had them since I was a teenager anyway," Bren said airily. "You look happy."

Several yards away, Shane had joined the Frisbee match that Harris had gamely orchestrated. He had on a Centaurs hat and sunglasses. Despite a lifetime indenture to Speedo, his swimsuit was a sensible pair of trunks. The t-shirt was ancient, stretched out at the neck and an indiscriminate gray color. Ilya fought the desire to sling him over his shoulder and carry him back inside.

"I am," Ilya said simply. "Dottie is okay?"

"Oh yeah, I think so," Bren claimed the deck chair next to Ilya's. "I think we'll both feel better once I'm home."

"Game first. And another flight," Ilya said grimly.

"Right back on the horse. It was a one in a million thing. If we need to hand out Xanex like party favors about it for awhile than we'll figure out how to do that."

"Maybe Nyquil," Ilya suggested. "Easier to get and we would finally get some peace and quiet."

"Great idea," Bren nodded seriously. "This is why you're the strategy guy."

"Ah, no wonder we are so fucked."

They both could laugh at that. Because they weren't fucked. Horrible traumatic incident aside, their season was bright. People were starting to talk. Notice. Raising the word 'playoffs' without complete disbelief in the same sentence as 'Centaurs'. 

"Roz," Wyatt charged up to him, sand somehow stuck to almost every inch of him already. "We need a ref. Harris is a cheater and I think Hollander is trying to optimize so he slices a Frisbee through one of us."

"Sounds very sad," Ilya said and stretched leisurely. "You will manage."

"C'mon, please?" Wyatt fluttered his eyelashes at him.

"What is this?" Ilya grimaced. "What are you doing? You have sand in your eye?"

"How come it works when Luca does it?" Wyatt complained. "Is it because he's a Disney prince?"

"He does kind of look like little animals should follow him around and make him things," Bren said. "It's a talent."

"We should suggest this to Harris for a video. Little animated birds," Ilya agreed.

"Haas, come make Roz be a ref!"

Under another umbrella, Luca had been sketching something and looked up confused when his name was invoked.

"Why?" Luca asked.

Ilya shrugged. "Apparently he is scared of Hollander."

"Of course I'm scared of him. Every goalie in the league is scared of him. That's a natural adaptation," Wyatt said. "Sometimes we compare Hollander stories when we're together. It's like he teleports the puck into the net."

"He's on our side now though," Bren reminded him.

"Yeah, sure, but I still have to practice against him. We all kind of breathed a sigh of relief when you retired, Roz. No offense or anything, but with two of you on the ice, it was like being hunted for sport."

"I am very kind to you to retire." It came out lightly and Ilya was even smiling. Apparently coming three times in twenty-four hours made joking about things a lot easier. "And now I am allowed to sit in the sun while you run around after disc."

"Rozanov!" Shane barked from the sand. "Your team cheats!"

"Your team!" Ilya reminded him.

"Harris is definitely just on your team," Wyatt said. "He throws like he's trying to decapitate someone." 

"You guys do remember you're all pro athletes and I'm paid to sit at a desk, right?" Harris checked, grinning as he tossed the Frisbee up and down.

The game wound up dissolving without Ilya having to get involved. As soon as some of them started to troop towards the water, he did get up, shedding his shirt and heading for the promise of the waves.

Swimming ate the rest of the morning. Lunch was an every-man-for-himself affair and the afternoon was somehow spent in minigolf under Harris' excited gentle dictatorship. If Ilya and Shane got a little intense about it, so did a lot of the guys and no one seemed to notice or care.

"Ha," Ilya poked Shane in the chest with his club, "I win."

"This hole. I'm winning the game," Shane pointed out, batting at the club.

"For now. Anyway, no matter what, I win a hole," Ilya said and poked him again. 

"Wrong," Shane said carelessly, then lightening fast, grabbed the club out of Ilya's hands and tapped him on the ass with it. "You're the a-hole, remember?"

It was so fucking fun, Ilya was in danger of losing control of his basic faculties.

Dinner was a group affair, too many tables smashed together at a Mexican restaurant. With a game tomorrow and coaches present, no one dared to drink, but they did all load up on food, everyone rolling back to the hotel ready to sleep. Ilya and Bren finally had to cave to answering a few emails. They worked together quietly in the lobby and when all was wrapped up, they closed their laptops with identical sighs.

"It was a good day," Bren said. "A very good day to be alive."

The question that Ilya had wanted to ask for months was on the tip of his tongue. Bren was relaxed. They were alone. Shane was waiting upstairs for him, but suddenly Ilya needed to know more than he needed five extra seconds with him.

"Why didn't you talk to Dottie for seven years?"

"She told you that?" Bren frowned. "When?"

"When she told me how you met. She said you had a long first date then nothing."

"I knew I was going to get drafted. There were scouts and noise about me back then," Bren said, resting his hand on top of his laptop. He stared at the bland art hung over a fake fireplace. "I knew I was going to get out. I didn't love being home. My parents should've gotten a divorce, fought like they were out for blood all the time."

"This is difficult," Ilya acknowledged.

"Yeah, it was. And Dottie was great, but it wasn't- shit. I knew she liked me and I liked her, but it wasn't that conked over the head love at first sight thing for me. I was seventeen and my whole focus was on getting the fuck out of there. So I didn't kiss her that night and I didn't take her number."

It was disquieting. Ilya could see Harris' video spinning out. 18. 81. A story looping over and over.

"I understand."

Bren nodded and gave him a half-smile. "I met him at All Stars. I shouldn't even have been there, but it was a year a lot of other guys found ways to get out of it. They made their way down the list to me. He was a much bigger deal. Not like you and Hollander, but big enough."

"Would I know his name?"

"Yes, probably. Not a hall of fame kind of guy, but notable. I don't know how we even figured each other out. Luck, maybe."

"You can tell sometimes," Ilya said, remembering Shane's nerves and bravery. The way he'd scolded right from the start like he'd been sure Ilya would listen to his sensible advice.

"You do. Three years. In and out of hotel rooms, apartments. When I told him I loved him, he laughed at me," Bren didn't sound upset. The memory must be old now. Might feel like another life. "I was though. In love."

"What a fucking dick," Ilya frowned. Shane had run off, but he'd never laughed at him. He'd never brushed Ilya off that way. They had always taken each other deadly serious under the crushing masks of denial.

"No argument here. I stopped seeing him after that. He didn't stop trying. Even after I met Dottie again. I was worried, you know. That he'd ruined it all for me, but the next time I saw her, it really was that knock over the head kind of thing. She grew into herself and she was so steady and sure. Plucked me out of a crowd at a party, reminded me of her name and made me take her home."

"I like her. A lot. She is a very good person."

"She's the best person," Bren said with the kind of loyalty you could build a franchise on. A family on. Foundational. "And I got to meet her twice. Who gets that kind of lucky?"

"Only dumb fucking assholes," Ilya said ruefully. "You know, I used to think you made very strange choice coming to find me."

"Not anymore?"

"Now I am not sure how we did not find each other earlier."

"This feels like we're angling into a hug," Bren said. "Is that only for Haas and Hollander or can I get in on that action?"

There were some things Ilya would never tell anyone. Not even Shane. Not even Galina. It was entirely his that when Bren hugged him, firm and solid that some tiny fissure in Ilya's heart closed. It was barely something he could explain to himself, let alone anyone else.

By mutual agreement, they immediately parted and went to their own rooms. Some things didn't need further discussion.

When Ilya opened the door, it was to find Shane in bed with a book in his lap. He was wearing glasses. As soon as he spotted Ilya, he reached up to take them off and Ilya choked out, "No. I like them."

"The glasses?" Shane's hand over them uncertainly.

"I am going to fuck you in those glasses," Ilya declared and started shedding clothes like they were on fire. "How did I not know about the glasses? This is illegal. You cannot hide these things like this from me."

"I only wear them to read," Shane said, his hand slowly coming down and the book landing on the bedside table.

"Now you only wear them to read and get fucked," Ilya said, tearing the blankets down so he could kiss Shane's bare knee.

It was frankly amazing Shane could move enough to get on the ice the next day, but because he was Shane fucking Hollander, he still played like a god. If Tampa had been expecting a shaking, traumatized team, they had been sorely mistaken. The Centaurs beat them so handily that it would've been embarrassing if Floridians knew how to experience shame.

"That is what I mean!" Ilya shouted at them all on the bus. "This is who we are now. Fucking winners! Yes?"

"Yes, coach!"

After that, the plane ride home was startlingly easy. Everyone was nervous, certainly, but no one needed drugs. Harris and Barrett sat beside each other, not talking, but comfortable, so Ilya left them to it. Hollander wound up with Haas, the two of them locked in some word game that made Ilya want to gag violently. So Ilya sat next to Bren, a schedule scrolling out before them, and Ryan's game notes poured over.

The landing did make everyone hold their breath a little, but they got there. They made it. Everyone dispersed like sugar in hot water as soon as they had their bags. Ilya all, but ran to his car and picked up Anya. Their reunion was sloppy and he maybe hugged her a little too long, but she was a very good girl and only lapped eagerly at his face.

He walked her and let himself back into his house. It was a little stale, but he was relieved to be there. Mostly because Shane was there twenty minutes later with his overnight bag.

"No, I did not have it built. Yes, you can have a tour in the morning. No, I do not know the architect," Ilya said to him. "Now get in the bed."

"Yeah, okay," Shane smiled, almost shyly.

They were both a little sore from the last few days and tender in a dozen places. They faced each other, kissing languidly, only rutting against each other, coming almost by accident long after they started.

"Salmon, rice, broccoli," Ilya listed as Shane scooted out of the wet spot.

"For dinner?" Shane checked.

"No, for my plans to take over the world. Yes, for dinner."

"Yeah, that sounds good."

Shane sat at the island as Ilya cooked, giving Anya the right amount of attention (all of it for several minutes until she got bored and went back to her bed) and they talked idly about their next game. They ate standing up, shoulder to shoulder.

They watched a movie, Shane tucked under Ilya's arm, his hand up under Ilya's shirt, resting on his stomach without intent. They went to bed, tangling up together. Anya jumped up, accessing the situation with a little confusion.

"You let her sleep on the bed?" Shane asked, horror spiking in his voice.

"Yes," Ilya said, dragging Shane in closer. "She was here before you. Deal."

"She absolutely was not," Shane protested.

Anya huffed, then circled and curled up at their feet.

"She takes up no space."

"But the dirt and the fur."

"Very sad for you," Ilya kissed the back of Shane's neck. "To have to sleep with two dirty animals."

"You're not an animal. And you showered."

"Then we wipe her paws before bed. She will not mind. Okay?"

"Fine. But she can't watch us have sex. That's too weird."

"That is your line?" Ilya grinned in the dark. "Being observed by small dog?"

"Go away, Rozanov."

Ilya nuzzled into Shane's hair. "No."

They got ready together in the morning, taking separate cars so Shane could head to a marketing meeting after practice.

Despite a prickle of concern, it was actually easier to coach with things settled between them. The tension was gone and now, Ilya could focus better, separating Shane from Hollander with ease.

"That went okay," Shane said, apparently on the same track as he stepped into Ilya's office with his hair still wet from the shower. "Comfortable."

"Yes," Ilya agreed. "We'll get your backhand stronger in no time."

"Shut up," Shane laughed. "I have to head out."

"You will come back to me for dinner," Ilya said as if they had already discussed it. "Bring your little bag again."

"Yeah," Shane said with a nod. "Of course. Uh, when? Do you have meetings or anything?"

"So many," Ilya said with resignation, then reached for his phone. "I will send you door code. Walk Anya for me?"

"I've never walked a dog before."

"I trust you."

So Ilya was fully prepared to have some version of wound up Shane in his house when he got home. He had not expected to be met with, "What the fuck did you do?" as he walked in the door.

Ilya glanced behind himself, but his car was sensibly parked next to Shane's and they hadn't spoken since the exchange in his office hours ago.

"I don't know," Ilya frowned, trying to imagine what sin he could have committed.

An envelope was waved in his face. "Did you talk to fucking Hunter about us?"

"No!" Ilya protested and snatched the envelope before he got a papercut on his chin. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know!" Shane threw up his hands. "But that was in my mail. I didn't check it yesterday, but I think it's been there since we left."

There was a gold sticker holding the envelope shut with the Admirals logo stamped on it. Weird. Ilya turned it over and saw Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. Their names. Together.

Quickly, Ilya tore into the envelope open and pulled out thick card stock with pristine gold script declaring:

You are cordially invited to witness the wedding of

Christopher Grady

and

Scott Hunter

on

Saturday, July 21 at 7 PM

in

The Edison Ballroom

There were three more cards behind it and another envelope. Despite himself, Ilya was smiling.

"Scott Hunter," he said with far too much affection, "is a fucking troll."

"Oh," Shane said. "So it's a joke?"

The anger was entirely gone and Ilya heard something that might be disappointment in there.

"We will find out," Ilya decided. He held the envelope carefully, tossing the rest of the invitation onto his counter with far less care. The envelope he put on the fridge with the magnet that usually held up the game schedule.

"You're supposed to put invitation up there," Shane said, bemused.

"This is first thing that someone else gives us that says we are a couple," Ilya said.

"I- yeah, I guess so," Shane flushed. "Wow. Okay. So-"

"I am calling him now," Ilya said and hit the contact before Shane could protest.

"Someone better be dying," Scott said instead of 'hello'. "I was in the middle of something."

"Hunter," Ilya gritted out like he was pissed off beyond reason. "Are you being a dick or do you know things?"

"I know a lot of things," Scott said. "What are you- oh. You got it, huh?"

"Tell my boyfriend that I did not tell you anything," Ilya demanded and shoved the phone at Shane.

"Boyfriend?" Shane asked, eyes wide.

"Probably," Ilya cleared his throat and gestured at the phone. "Yes."

"Yes," Shane repeated, dazed and put the phone to his hear. "Hi, Scott. What the fuck?"

Leaning against the counter, very patiently and calmly reaming out Hunter, Shane had never looked more tempting. No. That was a lie. Ilya couldn't actually rate how tempting Shane looked at any given time. It was pretty much only measurable by how long it had been since they'd both come. Ilya dropped to his knees and nuzzled into Shane's crotch.

"It was just startling," Shane was saying and then put his hand on Ilya's forehead, shoving him back with a warning look.

With raised eyebrows, Ilya licked his lips slowly. Shane shook his head once, but his hand moved away. Ilya dipped in again, this time taking down Shane's zipper and reverently pulling his cock out. Because his boyfriend (boyfriendboyfriendboyfriend) was perfect, he was already half-hard. Ilya closed his eyes and blissfully took Shane into his mouth with a happy hum.

"Yeah, well, it's all fun and games until someone else picks up my mail," Shane pointed out, his hand sinking into Ilya's curls. "Hm? No, that's the dog."

Ilya growled a little and Shane tugged at his hair.

"Yeah, Anya. She's cute. He has a dogwalker, I think, and a place she stays when we're away."

With a deep inhalation, Ilya got most of Shane into his mouth and started bobbing his head in earnest.

"You must be working hard on…on planning," Shane choked out. "Hope that isn't to stressful."

Ilya couldn't reach Shane's mouth from here which was a shame, but he could shove his hand up his shirt and tweak one of his nipples, an aborted moan his quick reward.

"Hm? No, Ilya turned the TV on," Shane said quickly. "Yeah, no. Mhm."

Sometimes Shane was too easy, Ilya used every trick he'd re-learned in the last few days and all of a sudden the phone was yanked away from Shane's face, the mute button ruthlessly stabbed and he was coming down Ilya's throat with bone deep groan.

"Fuck you," Shane said breathlessly.

"Okay," Ilya said, sitting back on his heels in blissful satisfaction.

Shane stabbed the mute button. "Sorry, he's being- what? No! I can't believe you'd accuse me of that, Hunter. Don't you have any fucking manners?"

The flush on Shane's face was impressively pink and Ilya admired it as Shane somehow squirmed out of the end of that phone call to stare down at him, deeply unimpressed.

"That was sick," he told Ilya. "He totally knew. He asked me if you 'being fresh' with me."

"It's good for him to hear what exciting sex sounds like," Ilya grinned dopily up at him. "He and Kip missionary only, I think. Very sad."

"I don't care how Scott Hunter fucks."

"Liar," Ilya said. "You like thinking he might know you are being bad."

"I was behaving. You were being bad," Shane contradicted and leaned down to kiss Ilya at a very stupid angle. It was great. "Don't do that again."

"I won't," Ilya said. "Unless you ask for it."

"I won't," Shane said and Ilya was happily unconvinced.

They ate dinner and they fucked and fell asleep with Anya at the end of the bed, her paws very clean.

Their schedules were already the same. Getting up at the same time, using Ilya's home gym to warm up for the day, taking Anya for a walk and having breakfast was simple. Shane took his own car in, so he could leave after practice to do his thousand other obligations and Ilya had his hundred and five meetings.

If they always wound up back at Ilya's house, then that was just convenient. After the next game, they celebrated another win with Shane sucking Ilya off pressed against the front door, unable to wait five seconds to get to a softer surface.

It wasn't that Shane moved in. He had his own place. He just…stayed. By accident. Accidentally filling up a drawer in Ilya's closet and shelf in his fridge.

When Shane went home to pack for the away game in L.A., Ilya wondered if he could've done it straight from here, if he'd had his suitcase. Maybe Shane had the same thought because he called while Ilya was counting out pairs of socks.

"Miss me already?" Ilya teased.

"I realized that right now the only time we can't sleep together is at away games," Shane said. "We're in opposite land. And that was so fucking weird that I had to tell you."

Dropping socks into his bag, Ilya considered that. "Fuck."

"I like it this way better," Shane said.

"Me too. And when we are ready…"

"Yeah, we'll change up the rooming. How's that policy coming along?"

"Bren has it written. Waiting for approval now."

"Okay. I want to tell Hayden and Jackie. It's a good trial run before my parents. They'll probably want to meet you."

"Pike has met me," Ilya said grimly.

"He has an open mind about you now."

Ilya wrinkled his nose. "Great."

"Come on," Shane sighed. "I wouldn't have gotten here without him. Try your best."

"I will," Ilya promised and hoped that his best was good enough.

Somehow that resulted in the entire Pike clan invading Ilya's home on a bright cold Thursday afternoon. They arrived in a minivan. It was like a joke, how so many of them poured out of it. The kids moved around so quickly there could've been eight of them instead of four. The baby, at least, was strapped to Pike's chest.

He didn't look so bad in the light of day, unhelmeted. Even if he did hug Shane a little too long and almost squish his tiniest child about it.

"Hi!" Jackie said brightly. "It's really great to meet you, Ilya. This is Jade, Ruby and Arthur. The little one is Amber."

"Nice to meet you too," Ilya said and immediately dropped into a crouch to regard the two little girls. One was tidy in green overalls, her hair pulled back in a pony tail. The other one had space buns rapidly coming undone and a dress that had been through the wars. "I heard rumor that you like to color."

"Sometimes," the one in the dress said warily. "What do you have?"

"I found sparkly crayons at the store. And markers that make tiny paw print stamps. I have never seen these before. Have you?"

They were sold. Ilya barely had to talk to Pike at all. Instead, he sat next to his coffee table with a pile of crayons, following the very strict directions of Ruby as he colored in a princess for her while her sister neatly did a horse on her own. Arthur and Anya had hit it off as he threw a rubber block for her and she brought it back with fervent adoration in her face.

It turned out that Jackie Pike was a thoroughly delightful human being.

"So the rest of the WAGs and I made him a veggie platter instead of a cake and stuck the candles in some hummus," she finished. "He even blew them out because he's a good sport."

"It was a nice gesture," Shane muttered, red-faced.

"I love this," Ilya said emphatically. "Did he eat the hummus?"

"No one could," Jackie laughed. "Too much wax got in it."

"Carrots are gross, Uncle Shane," Ruby said. "No, the red one, Ilya."

"Yes, sorry," Ilya said obediently.

"I like carrots," Shane said as if they had had this conversation many times before.

Maybe they had. The Pike children were comfortable with Shane. Arthur had climbed into his lap at one point when the room got loud and stayed sheltered there until the draw of the dog was too much. The girls included him in their conversations with ease and he sat close to Jackie, not pulling away when she lightly touched his shoulder or arm. Pike handled him like an extension of himself, shoving and knocking into him and reaching over him for things in a way that Shane subtly adjusted to without any sign of distress. More than once, the baby was shoved at him for a few minutes and he held her with familiarity. He was one of them in his own way.

"We should get on with dinner," Shane said as the sunlight faded.

Preparing a meal with Shane for their guests wasn't something Ilya had ever considered enjoying, but it was profoundly good. They moved easily around each other, getting things in and out of the oven, dressing the salad and conveying it all to the table at mostly the same time.

"Thank you for getting them nuggets," Jackie said as they all sat down. "It is a little easier to not fight them about food in a new place."

"Oh, we didn't buy them," Shane said with a small smile. "Ilya had them in the freezer."

"They're easy," Ilya shrugged. "I like easy food." 

"I eat some of the kids' nuggets sometimes when I'm not in the mood to make myself something," Jackie nodded sympathetically. "Sometimes I put cheese on top of them with ketchup. It's like sad chicken parm."

"You are a genius," Ilya said emphatically. "I am doing this."

"Don't try to make me eat it," Shane groaned.

Mostly Ilya got through dinner by talking to Jackie and clearing plates as soon as they were finished. His luck ran out after dessert. The need for a cigarette had seized him. Under the guise of letting Anya out in the backyard, he stood in the spot that no one could see from the inside and leaned against the wall.

He got one drag in before the backdoor slid open again.

"One a day!" He said petulantly. "I don't even do it before working out now."

"I don't give a shit, actually," Pike, not Shane, said.

Ilya sighed and took another deep inhalation than let it out slowly. He vacillated between potentially explosive topics and wound up settling on silence. Pike came to stand near him, but not close enough to inhale the smoke drifting from the tip of his cigarette.

Anya sniffed along the fence, undisturbed by this newcomer. Good thing Ilya didn't need a guard dog.

"When he told me it was you, I was grateful that it was already over," Pike said, face blank in the growing gloom. "I feel bad about that."

"Why?" Ilya snorted. "I was worst person for you to hear him say, yes?"

"I mean, close to the top of the list. I didn't feel bad because of you. It was him. He missed you like crazy. The first time we played you guys when you started coaching, I thought he was going to throw up before the game."

Considering Ilya had spent most of that day in a queasy haze that only felt fair. "He would not like you to say this to me."

"Probably," Pike conceded. "I saw the Shane that came back from your hookups all those years, and I knew he was happy. Then I saw this Shane that was so fucking sad that it broke my heart. I don't want him miserable. He's not miserable with you."

"I am not miserable with him too."

"I can see that," Pike glanced at him. "You're different. Then what I remember."

"Not so different. Older. More tired. I have not shoved you into the boards and called you something terrible in a few years. I do this a few times and maybe I seem familiar again."

"Or you could not," Pike said. "I won't, if you won't."

Ilya took a drag on his cigarette. Disliking Pike was instinct. Muscle memory. But he had been there for Shane when Ilya couldn't be. He and Jackie and their litter of adorable kids. Pike was terrible, but his biggest sin was being not as good at Shane at hockey and kind of dork.

With a sigh, Ilya held out his hand to him. "Deal."

They shook on it, then Ilya whistled, calling Anya back to his side.

"Don't tell my kids you smoke."

"No? I was going to offer them one. Good to start young."

"Fuck off," Pike said tiredly.

A truce, but not a friendship. For now. Ilya could work with that.

The Pike clan departed early, too many small people's bedtimes to worry about.

"Thank you," Shane said, sweeping crayons into a box for next time.

"For what?" Ilya picked up a crayon that had rolled to the floor. It took him three times, fatigue setting in and making his grip weak, but he got it.

"Just…everything, I think."

It was not a good idea to fuck on the floor, but sometimes, a man had to do what a man had to do.

"I should tell Svetlana," Ilya said flat on his back with some definite rug burn. "I will see her in Boston when we go and she will come back here with me for a visit. I want her to know before that."

"I could clear out for a few days," Shane offered though his expression said 'but you better not fucking make me'.

"I have guest room." Not that she had ever used it before, but he didn't think that would be much of a conversation. "You can meet her."

"That's a big deal," Shane frowned. "You're ready for that?"

"Yes," Ilya said bemused. "How is it bigger deal than Pike?"

"You should practice calling him Hayden."

"Oh, should I also practice slamming my dick in cabinet doors?"

"Don't be a drama queen," Shane huffed. "I mean, she's like your family."

Was she? With his parents gone and Alexei dead to him, Ilya considered himself an entire orphan for the most part. But Svetlana had been there for almost as long as his brother and he loved her a lot more. 

"Can you be family with someone you slept with?" Ilya asked. 

"Found family," Shane said. "Like Hayden and I are brothers."

"Please stop suggesting you fuck Pike."

"I'm pretty sure he's straight."

"How sure?" Ilya asked. "Because I get a thing from him."

"What thing?"

"A vibe, the kids say."

"What kids?"

"Never mind," Ilya rolled his eyes. "Yes. Fine. She is what I have instead of family. But she is not like mother or sister. She will like you because I like you. Easy."

"Easy," Shane repeated. "She knows that I ran out on you and never came back. I wouldn't forgive me so quick."

And shit. She was the reason, in a way, that Shane hadn't come back. Ilya was not looking forward to explaining that to her. She would feel awful, even if she understood it wasn't really about her.

"I will tell her. It will be okay. She is very fun and she likes to tease me. You will get along."

"If you're sure," Shane said reluctantly.

"Very sure."

The call was a little less confident than that. Ilya waited until he was home alone, Shane away doing one of his five million things that weren't Ilya.

"Ilyusha, I was just thinking about you," she said happily, her Russian curling comfortably into his chest. "My time off is all approved."

"That's fantastic," he said. "I have to tell you something first though."

It took a little while to tell and he could hear her breathing, listening, but she asked no questions until he finished with, "So he will be here when you're here. He's here a lot now."

"You sound so happy," she said softly. "Are you happy?"

"Yes," he breathed out. "Sometimes I still have bad days, but they're better because he's here."

"I'm so sorry that I made it harder," she said. "I'm not sure what I could've done differently-"

"Nothing," Ilya cut her off sharply. "Sveta, you did everything. He wasn't there. I forgive him for that and I own part of it, but none of it is your fault. None. I would've given a lot to have him through that, but I would never have given up having you beside me."

"Oh," she said with a sharp inhalation. "You don't have to say that."

"I don't say things I don't mean," he reminded her. "Not to you. Not ever. I love you."

"I love you too," she said readily. "Bring him over in Boston too. I need to get to know this man that makes my brother so happy."

"Sveta."

"Ilyusha."

"Too much feeling," he said.

"I know. We're getting American about it. Disgusting," she laughed a little wetly. "I'm going to go have feelings where you can't hear them."

"Me too."

They hung up without saying goodbye. That was fine. Their conversation hadn't really ended, only paused.

So everything was going along swimmingly until Bren texted. shinny tomorrow, 11 am. You in?

And Ilya had agreed before he properly thought about it. He debated how to tell Shane about it right up until 10 am. At which point, he had to get his equipment in the next half hour to get there early enough to change into it.

"I have a thing with Bren," Ilya said vaguely.

"What kind of thing?" Shane was curled up on the couch, reading with his adorable glasses on. He was naked because Ilya had already gotten distracted by the glasses once.

"A nothing. Just a meeting thing."

"On a Saturday morning?" Shane gave him a look over his book. "Why do you look shifty?"

"I am not shifty," Ilya groaned and then begrudgingly said, "A pickup game. Just some people at a local rink. It's nothing."

"You're playing?" The book went down abruptly.

"Not really," Ilya said and headed toward the trophy room, ill at ease.

"That's a yes or no question!" Shane called after him.

He ducked inside, ignoring the glass shelves for the closet as usual. He really had to find another place to store his gear.

"Holy shit, I thought this was a storage closet," Shane said from the doorway. Because he'd followed Ilya like a diligent boyfriend. Shit.

"It is," Ilya said, taking out his bag and stick. "Just a place for things to get dusty and useless like me."

"Ilya," Shane said softly.

"Do not," Ilya grimaced. "I hate this room."

"Yeah, me too. It's not nearly big enough," Shane said, glancing around.

"It is the right size for a tomb," he snapped. "Move. I want to get out of here."

"No," Shane said with a frown. "It's not big enough for all the things we're going to win."

"We'll build a second one for you," Ilya sighed. "For your one million things, I know."

"Not me. You," Shane shook his head. "I'm not saying this right."

"Say it wrong somewhere else then," Ilya headed for the door, but Shane didn't move. Unwilling to shove him, Ilya was at an impasse. "What?"

With one hand, Shane pushed Ilya gently back and back until he hit the glass of the case. Ilya dropped his bag, trying to figure out which way this was headed.

"It's not big enough for all the things we're going to win together," Shane said, meeting Ilya's eyes with a blazing focus. The kind usually leveled on a goal. "You were an amazing player. The best of the best. The only person I wanted to play against because you were such a fucking challenge."

"I was-"

Shane put his hand over Ilya's mouth which was uncalled for. And a little hot, but he was not really in that headspace right now.

"You were one of the best players. You're an even better coach," Shane said, unblinking, unsmiling. "You're incredible. Haas would've flamed out in a worse team. Wyatt was misused everywhere he went until here. Barrett probably would've been provoked into doing something violent eventually so they could get rid of him. Ryan wouldn't be anywhere near hockey right now. And you don't have to stop or retire. You can do it for years.

"I think you should do it in the summer too. For kids. You're really good with kids. I've been thinking that we could do it together. Do a camp or something. Raise money for charity. Something for mental health and suicide prevention."

Ilya was very very glad of Shane's hand over his mouth because he had no goddamn idea what to say to that that would sound even reasonably sane. He hoped his eyes were saying it for him.

"You're amazing. I love watching you. I love-" Shane inhaled and exhaled slowly. Still making eye contact, he said very slowly and with a perfect accent, "Ya lyublyu tebya."

He dropped his hand. Ilya swallowed thickly. "Who taught you this?"

"I did. From YouTube. When we came back from Florida. Is it wrong?"

"Perfect. It's perfect. Say it again. Please," Ilya pleaded.

"Ya lyublyu tebya." It was even sweeter the second time.

"I love you too," Ilya gasped between his suddenly labored breaths. "So much."

The kiss knocked his head against the glass and he couldn't have cared less. He wanted to live in that kiss forever. Ilya had to pull away though because he apparently couldn't sob and kiss at the same time. With a hand gentle on the back of his head, Shane pulled him into an embrace, kissing the top of his head with his lips out of reach.

Somehow, they left the house. Despite Ilya wanting to stay and make love and his deep fear of Shane watching him play again. They drove in Shane's car because Ilya was still shaking a little. The rink was sparsely attended. A few people recognized Shane, but no one bothered him though he got a few odd looks.

Dottie skated up to the boards. "Get your kit on, Roz. We don't have all day to kick Bren's ass. You're Hollander?"

"Yes," Shane said, politely offering his hand. She shook it, gave him a quick up and down, then waggled her eyebrows at Ilya. 

"Nice. Hollander, our usual scorekeeper didn't show. You can man the board," Dottie told him. "I heard you like fish. We're doing cod for lunch and you're coming."

Then she skated off, shouting something at one of the other women.

"Who was that?" Shane asked, bewildered.

"Wiebe's wife," Ilya said. "Dottie. She is wonderful."

So Shane dutifully flipped over numbers as Ilya played with desk jockeys and retirees. He waited for it to be embarrassing, but there was no time to think about that when Bren kept trying to slip the puck by him like he was a rank amateur. They squabbled over it and when Ilya broke away and sank a goal, Shane cheered about it in a way that would make any hockey fanatic proud. 

They would eat lunch at the Wiebes, Ilya thought. Shane would meet their kids too. Maybe they would do this once a month. A tradition.

Ilya's life had been devoid of traditions for a long time. He forgotten that they could feel like safety. Like home.

He skated up to Shane when everyone took a water break, hanging over the boards.

"I love you," he said again. "I want a bigger room. I want you in it with me."

"My lease is up in a few months. I kind of hate the apartment anyway," Shane smiled at him, eyes on his lips. Ilya loved that too. He loved every ridiculous beautiful thing about him. "And in the summer, we can go to my cottage."

"Rozanov!" The dental hygienist yelled at him. "Quit flirting and get your ass to center!"

"Better go," Shane laughed. "These people are worse than my coach."

"He sounds terrible."

"I don't know. People say he's an asshole, but I kind of like it."

"Once more, moy sólnyshka."

"My sunshine, right?" Shane asked.

"How much Russian did you learn from YouTube?" Ilya demanded.

"Idi i poigray," Shane said. Go and play.

"Roz!" Dottie called.

"We are talking more about this later," Ilya said mock sternly. "You are language sneak! I want answers!"

Shane's laughter followed him across the ice. The puck dropped. Ilya's heart steadied. He went for the goal.

Chapter 10: When the river was deep, I didn't falter, when the mountain was high, I still believed, when the valley was low, it didn't stop me, I knew you were waiting

Chapter Notes

@ottawacentaurs Meet the Rookie! Joe Yolen is our newest player. Dynamic on the ice, we've recently discovered that he's also a whiz with strings! When choosing between hockey and cello, Yolen chose hockey by a slim margin which is a win for the Centaurs! Check out what he made second fiddle (pun intended) to be a part of our team! 

[Video: A plain light blue background with the Centaurs logo in one corner and a chair. In the chair, a broad shouldered young man with short dark hair holds a violin. He appears nervous for a moment, looking at the camera several times. Then he begins to play. A lower third caption reads: Dvořák's "Song to the Moon". As Yolen plays, he relaxes and his eyes fall closed. The camera slowly pulls away to reveal that many other players are there, watching.  Haas in particular sits only a few feet away, sketching as he listens.]

"What is this?" Ilya asked, coming out of the bathroom to find Shane holding up a black blazer like it might bite. "What are we doing here?"

"I want to look nice," Shane frowned. "I know she cares about clothes." 

"She cares about her clothes, she won't care what you wear," Ilya said.   "Wear what you want, it is not that nice a restaurant."

"So why are you wearing that?" Shane gestured at Ilya. "You look like you're...." 

"For sale?" Ilya guessed.

He had had to do some serious wiggling to get into his pants and doing up the fly had been touch and go. For a brief moment, he'd considered asking Shane for help, but that would've made them late to dinner and Svetlana would murder him. He'd managed in the end. The silky shirt was very loud with emerald splotches on a black background. The first three buttons undone. Mostly by design, but also because he was sick of fiddling with them,

"No," Shane said, pinking up. "Kind of like you do it for free?"

"I do, if you ask nice," Ilya winked at him. "I like to be loud, so does she. We will match and you will be you." 

The blazer stayed in Shane's hands, wavering. "I want us to look like we belong together." 

"We wear same colors and logo all the time. You want matching t-shirts off ice too?" 

"That's not what I meant," Shane grumbled.

Pushing off the doorframe, Ilya crossed to him, took the jacket out his hands and tossed it on the bed, before giving him a long, involved kiss.  "You look pretty no matter what you wear and I am always very hot. Good match, I think, in any room." 

"You're the only one that thinks I'm pretty," Shane contended. 

"Wrong," Ilya said. "We could go outside now and find ten people that agree in a minute."

"Do not start asking strangers if they think I'm pretty," Shane ordered. "Or the internet." 

There went that idea. "Okay. Wear something you feel nice in. You get very buzzy when you wear something you don't like." 

"Buzzy?" Shane frowned. 

"Static. I can feel. Bad energy. Like itch, but under your skin." 

"How did you know that?" 

"I see it. You move around too much, pick at what you don't like." 

"I thought I was hiding that," Shane said with a frown. 

"From most. I am not most." 

"You really aren't," Shane kissed him absently on the cheek. "Can you choose my outfit? I don't want to think about it anymore." 

If they had been at Ilya's house that would've been near unlimited power. Here it was the amount of power you could back into two small suitcases which wasn't nothing. Ilya picked up the blazer. The cut was good and the texture pleasing, definitely one of the professionally selected pieces. Shane would probably wear a starched shirt under it. A lot of structure. Shane would look a little stiff next to him which never bothered Ilya, but was apparently getting to him. 

Going into his own suitcase, Ilya plucked out a jewel toned blue t-shirt with his signature slutty v-neck. Shane might wind up hating it, but it would be a very nice view for Ilya for a few hours.

"This," Ilya handed it to him. "Blazer over it and your dark jeans." 

"Jeans?" Shane frowned, but pulled the t-shirt on, let it settle and yes, that showed off just enough to be very pretty. "I thought it was a nice restaurant." 

"Nice, not very formal," Ilya explained. "Jeans are okay, especially with the blazer." 

The final outfit wouldn't grace any magazine covers, but Shane was comfortable, touchable and pretty as ever in it. Ilya tugged him into the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror. Draping an arm over him, Ilya let Shane take them in side-by-side.  If Shane had the ability to relax his body language at all, they would definitely look like they were going to the same club at 2am.

"See? Match."

"That is better," Shane decided, though his hand fluttered over the neckline for a second before dropping away. Accepting it. Ilya wanted to eat him.

"Same color palette," Ilya nodded. "We should take picture tonight." 

"For Instagram?" Shane asked, giving him a sidelong look. 

"For us, but we can post. Why not?" 

"Let me think about it. Definitely one for us though. Later. In case she hates me, I don't need a record of bad night."

Having gone around that conversational roundabout too many times already, Ilya didn't argue with him again. Instead, he herded Shane out of the room and down to the lobby to wait for the car service. Dykstra and Bood were outside, talking near the doors.

It was a free evening for the whole team, and Ilya vaguely recalled dinner plans being made with some of the married guys while the singles planned a grueling pace through the local clubs. Ilya had not given them any tips. Audibly. If Luca had learned to read his face as they went through a list, well that was him being very clever.

"Looking sharp!" Dykstra called out to them. "Going somewhere too cool for us?" 

"Meeting a friend for dinner," Ilya said. 

"Someone we know?" Bood asked. "Boston guys?"

"Ilya's best friend from Russia," Shane said before Ilya could land on something else. "Apparently she wants to meet me." 

Bood's eyes darted between them. his eyebrows drawing together, but then the expression cleared and he nodded. "Yeah, I'd want to meet Shane Hollander too if my BFF spent six years trying to destroy him." 

"I did not want to destroy him," Ilya said lightly. "Only beat him at everything he cares about and break all his records. If I destroy him, there is nothing left to beat." 

"See?" Dykstra said to Bood. "Can you imagine that barreling down the ice at you?" 

"I played against him too," Bood reminded him. "I'm not two minutes old like Haas and Yolen." 

"He did," Ilya confirmed. "He did not like it." 

"You said I played like I'd learned how at ballet school. I couldn't figure out if that was an insult or a compliment for days." 

"Both," Ilya said. "Too much fancy skating, but very graceful. You are much better now." 

"Thanks, coach." Bood grinned. "I'll take it." 

The car pulled up out front before any further questions could be asked. They escaped into the relative safety of dinner hour traffic. The restaurant itself was the kind of fine dining that didn't do linens on the table, but still smelled like money.  

Svetlana was already there, exquisite in a shiny purple dress with her favorite kind of draped neckline, ferociously high heels, and the tennis bracelet he'd bought her gleaming on her wrist. When they reached the table, she rose and took both of Shane's hands before he could even say hello. She studied his face and he stayed quiet, eyes on her chin. 

"He always likes them so pretty," she said with a soft sigh. 

"Told you, Hollander," Ilya chimed. Any fear he had about the moment drained away leaving only giddiness behind. His two favorite people together. Why was that so amazing?  Maybe because it had never happened before.

"Shut up," Shane said, then winced. "I mean-" 

"No, this is good," Svetlana laughed. "I tell him this all the time too." 

"I have nothing, but interesting things to say and you are always silencing me," Ilya protested, pulling her chair out so she could sit back down. 

She sat, letting him push the chair back in a little, cutting off the waiter, who had likely been hovering to do the same. Then he pulled out Shane's chair, ignoring the look he got for that, before taking his own. 

"I like your bracelet," Shane said, so well-trained. Find a thing on a woman she chooses for herself to compliment. 

"Thank you. A present from this one," she waved her hand in Ilya's direction. "He spends too much." 

"I spend enough on what matters," Ilya grumbled and picked up the menu. 

"He said you're in car sales?" Shane asked. 

"Yes, matching big money to fancy cars, but I have an interview soon. Maybe I will be near hockey again." 

"Really?" Ilya stopped reading the appetizers.  

"A company that sells advertising space in arenas. I will have more regular hours, maybe, and some travel, but when I'm not traveling, I can work from home. Better pay, but less commissions so I have to consider this."

"What company?" Ilya asked. 

"I can't say yet. It's only an interview," she demurred. "How do you like your new team...how should I call you? Shane or Hollander?" 

For a moment, Ilya saw a coin in the air. A loonie maybe. It flipped over and over itself as Shane regarded her across the table and Svetlana looked back. Did either of them feel the weight of the question too or was it only in Ilya's own mind?

"Shane," he said, ducking his head a little. Heads. A win.

She smiled, "Shane, then."

"I like them a lot," Shane said. "I miss playing with Hayden and JJ, but the rest of it was getting uncomfortable towards the end. The Centaurs are a really solid group."

"You are going to the playoffs," Svetlana said.

"I mean, we don't know that yet."

"I know it," she said with a grin. "I am great at knowing these things. Also, Montreal sucks without you. Did your shoulders ever get tired, carrying a whole team on them?"

"I don't know about that," Shane coughed to hide a laugh. "I mean, they aren't all terrible or anything."

"Agree to disagree," Svetlana said. "It is embarrassing. I hope they never win again."

"You cannot say this to him," Ilya sighed. "He still wants his friends to do okay. I keep saying, who cares?"

"Hayden and JJ don't deserve that," Shane said, "I want them to be comfortable too."

"Comfortable," Ilya made a face. "Then they should go if they can. Montreal is very uncomfortable for them now, I think."

"You do?" Shane asked. "Why?"

With raised eyebrows, Svetlana cut Ilya a look. He gave a quick shake of the head. He'd tell her later about some of Shane's small quirks and blind spots. At least they didn't overlap with Ilya's. They could help each other get the full 365.

"They are not going with the flow. Both games we've played against Montreal, they aren't doing the strategy. They even joke about it. Whatever is happening in that locker room, they aren't a part of it," Ilya said. "Did you ask Pike what it's like?"

"Shit, I didn't," Shane sighed and got out his phone. "I'll text him now so I don't forget. You really think it's bad?"

"I don't think it's good," Ilya said carefully.

The waiter returned as Shane texted. Svetlana and Ilya ordered, but when they came to Shane, he said, "You choose for me. I want to finish this text."

That probably shouldn't make Ilya feel as warm as it did. Too bad. He ordered for him, heavy on protein and vegetables. A bottle of prosecco for the table because Svetlana had a weakness for it and he was curious if Shane would like it.

"Sorry, okay," Shane stashed his phone away again. "That was rude."

"Rude," Svetlana repeated disbelievingly. "Ilyusha, you got one that worries about being rude? How do you live with this?"

"Look how cute," Ilya waved at Shane's entire person. "I find ways."

"Stop," Shane scolded. "Ilya isn't rude around me. Mostly. Sometimes….okay, he's actually awful, but I like it?"

"I like it too," Svetlana assured him. "Tell me about how you destroyed Boston last night. What was the strategy going in?"

"I thought you were a Boston fan?" Shane asked, bemused.

"I liked Boston because Ilyusha was there. Now I like Ottawa," she shrugged. "I don't tell my co-workers this, but it is the truth."

"Yeah? That's great," Shane said and relaxed a fraction.

Had that been one of Shane's concerns? His lover's mind was a warren of worries that Ilya couldn't begin to conceive.

"We planned to win by being better," Ilya pronounced. "They are terrible right now."

"Weak defense," Svetlana nodded.

"See, that's what I thought too, but Ilya keeps saying the problem is actually their first line," Shane said.

It was a very pleasant argument and one that Ilya subsided from after his first few prodding comments. Svetlana was passionate if not quite as well-informed with insider information these days, and Shane could talk about hockey for hours if someone only let him. It was nice to let him.

The food was good and Shane did drink a few sips of prosecco before switching to water. Judging by his face, he hadn't been impressed. It was an expensive bottle too. Ilya wanted to kiss the taste out of his mouth, lick away every apparently offensive drop.

"You didn't bring a bag," Svetlana observed in Russian as he gestured for the check. "Going back to the hotel instead of home with me?"

Ilya darted a glance over to Shane, who seemed involved with his phone again, a small frown on his face.

"Careful," Ilya said in Russian too. "He's been learning Russian and he won't tell me how much he knows. Or how he's picking it up. I'm sure he's lying about YouTube, but I can't actually prove it and usually he's terrible with lying."

"He's learning Russian?" she widened her eyes. "This beautiful, talented, millionaire hockey boy? Ilyusha. Did you rub a genie's lamp or something? I know, I know. You had a terrible time getting here, but he's ridiculous."

"Tell me about it," Ilya sighed. "I love him so much that it's stupid. But I don't think he'd appreciate me sleeping in your bed tonight, even if it's only to sleep."

"I'll talk to him," she resolved. "Go to the bathroom or something."

"Sveta-"

"Go, Ilyusha."

He hoped she understood the trust he was showing in making his quick excuse and heading towards the back of the restaurant. He took an extra long time washing his hands and giving his hair a quick re-arranging where some of the curls had gone rogue. Five minutes would have to be enough for her, he'd already had a cigarette today.

Stepping back out in the restaurant, Ilya was caught by the image they made, an apparent couple without him sitting between them. They both glowed in the soft ambient light like two jewels nestled into a single golden setting.

It was easy to admire them even as they spoke to each other with serious expressions. How beautiful! How wonderful! And Ilya could just approach them and take back his place between them, changing the architecture of the moment without breaking it. He wove around the cluster of tables and as he approached, he caught Svetlana saying:

"One more time." Whatever Shane said in reply pleased her and she gave him a little nod. "Just like this. You have it."

"Have what?" Ilya asked, sitting down. Shane apparently sniped the bill while he was away. Not ideal, but fine.

"You should go over to her place," Shane said quickly. Covering. He was such a bad liar, even by omission. "For tonight, I mean. I didn't know that was the original plan and I crashed it. Come back to the hotel with me and pack a bag."

"You're sure?" Ilya asked quietly. "She will live if I do not."

"It's true," Svetalana said, not even pretending not to overhear. "I live many days without him. More than with him."

"Yeah, me too," Shane said with a small smile. "It was awful. No one should have to do that."

One day, Ilya would have an entire day where no conversation involving Shane ended in him drowning in feelings. That day was not today.

They were nearly out of the restaurant, when Svetlana said, "Ask the hostess to take picture of us! We should remember tonight, I think."

They stood for it, Ilya's arms around both of their shoulders. Somehow none of them wound up smiling, but Ilya liked it better that way. They all looked like models, fierce and aligned.

"Don't post," Ilya said to her. "Not yet. Soon though, I think."

"How soon?" Sveltana asked, not Ilya, but Shane.

"A few weeks maybe," Shane said, then glanced at her. "You're staying with us until after the home game, right?"

With us. Ilya was one half of an us now.

"Yes," she said.

"Cool. My parents want to do dinner."

Ilya stared at him. Svetlana went rigid under his arm.

"Shane," Ilya said slowly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I met your family, I want you to meet mine and since Svetlana will be here, it makes sense for all of us to get together," Shane said simply. "Right?"

"It does?" Ilya asked, lost. Yuna and David Hollander had been lurking in the back of his mind like polite ghosts for the last few weeks. To be so suddenly confronted with them was a jump scare.

"Yes," Shane said. "My mom was asking when I said we were all having dinner because she wants to pick Svetlana's brain."

"Mine?" Svetlana asked. "About what?"

"She manages a few players and loves talking to anyone who arranges endorsements, especially when she isn't trying to make a deal with them. Even more so other women. It's a whole fucking thing," Shane shrugged. "She'll probably grill you, but nicely."

"Grill nicely," Svetlana repeated.

"It just rips the bandaid off. First family dinner behind us all at once, right?" Shane looked between them like this was all perfectly reasonable.

Ilya was going to bring Svetlana to meet Shane's parents because his boyfriend operated on an whole other plane of existence where that was fine and normal. A man, who only a few years ago, had an entire meltdown over the concept of a sleepover. All or nothing Hollander at work again.

"Right," Svetlana decided. "Yes, I will come. What do your parents like to drink?"

"Mom likes white wine," Shane said and then his smile growing when there was no resistance to his plan. "Dad likes Russian vodka."

"Perfect," Svetlana said. "I have host gift already."

She headed back home from there, Ilya and Shane taking a quiet car ride back to the hotel, not talking in case the driver overheard. More habit than need. In the hotel, Shane pressed his own floor in the elevator.

"Nooo," Ilya whined. "Come to mine while I pack."

"If we do, we'll fuck and then you'll be late and she'll know why," Shane said.

"She knows we have sex," Ilya pointed out.

"There's knowing and knowing," Shane said. "It's fine, I'll see you at the airport."

"Not fine," Ilya made grabby hands at him, but the elevator opened and Shane stepped out, giving him a little awkward wave before the doors closed again.

Ilya: That was very mean.

Shane: Have a nice night.

Svetlana's apartment was not actually a place Ilya had spent much time. There was never anywhere to park on her street and she had preferred letting herself into his house at all hours of the day instead of cajoling him over to hers. It was familiar though, still lightly scented with the lemon cleaning products she favored. Her kitchen was pristine because she rarely cooked and her couch was incredibly comfortable because she loved to sink into the cushions for hours. She often slept there, despite having a fantastic bedroom.

She wrapped both arms around his left one and dragged him straight to those cushions so they could fall into them together. "I like him."

"Me too," he said. "Too much."

"What is too much?" She asked.

"If I lose him now…I don't know, Sveta. It's a big thing to have and then not have."

"Then don't lose him," she said. "I don't think he'll wander away again."

"He's moving in over the summer," he admitted.

"Oh, he wasn't already living with you?" She asked wryly. "Every time I call he's there."

Ilya blew a raspberry at her. "He does have his own place. For now. I don't know what's left in it, he has a lot of clothes at my house."

"I can't tell if you're moving at the speed of light or the slowest snails finally crossing the finish line," she mused. "It's horrendous and entirely you."

"You're horrendous," he muttered mutinously.

"Try again."

"You're a beautiful, perfect princess and I'm a troll that lives under a bridge."

"A good looking troll," she said, lifting his arm and putting it around her shoulders. He drew her in close and glanced a kiss off her temple. "I can't believe I have to meet the parents with you. I feel like I've been assigned extra homework by the teacher."

"You should see him with his glasses on. It's very college professor. Very hot."

"Is there anything about him that doesn't turn you on?"

"No," Ilya admitted. "It's terrible. You don't have to come. I can tell him that it would make you uncomfortable and he'd understand."

"I'll come," she said. "As long as you want me there."

It would be fine if only he and Shane showed up at the Hollanders' house. Probably. Ilya alone with them. He could do that. They had helped bring Shane back to him, so they must not hate him too much. But to do it with Svetlana at his side too felt like something else. A mingling rather than an assessment.

"I want you there."

"Then I'm there."

Their conversation veered to other things, plans she was making for her next visit home. What she was going to wear to her interview. When she started yawning, Ilya drew away.

"I will sleep on the couch," he said. "Or the bed. Whichever you don't want."

"Don't be stupid, come to bed," she said. "We worked it out."

"Worked out what?"

"I told your beautiful man that our love's heart is big enough to hold two," she pressed her hand to Ilya's chest. "Maybe many more. His cock is also huge, but its sharing days are over. It belongs to him alone now."

"I think I'm the one who gets to keep that," Ilya said, trying not to grin too wide. "Did he blush and stare at you? Like he was trying to melt through the floor and read your mind at the same time?"

"That is how I would describe it, now that you say it."

"I can't believe I missed that," Ilya sighed gustily. "My favorite. So you told him that and he said what?"

"That he trusted you. I said we always share a bed, even when we're not fucking and he said that was fine in my place, but not 'at home'." she leaned hard on those words.

"He said that?" Ilya asked, dazzled.

"He did. In Russian. Not very good Russian, but he tried."

"I missed more Russian? I should never have gone to the bathroom."

"It was very adorable. Like being lectured by a tourist. A blushing one."

"You're torturing me," Ilya complained.

"You don't even know the half of it," she said merrily. "Let's go to bed."

Svetlana was as warm and familiar in his arms as ever. Memories of other nights rose up and popped like bubbles. The sex had always been good between them, fun and lighthearted, but Ilya felt no pain in saying goodbye to it. He got to have her at his side and Shane's hand in his. That was the best combination he could imagine.

Ilya left before her the next day. The team arranged flight had been full and she preferred a later start on travel days anyway. It gav Ilya time to get Anya and restock the groceries while Shane aired out the guest room.

"It's nice in there," Shane said. "Has anyone ever used it?"

"No," Ilya said. "Why? You want to try it?"

"I like my room," Shane said with a small smile. "It has all the amenities."

"Oh, your room now?" Ilya stalked towards him. Shane took a few steps back with a quick tick of a smile. "You are thief?"

"You weren't using it to it's full potential," Shane said. "Half the bed was empty. I'm optimizing."

"Who asked you to optimize, Hollander?" Ilya moved another step and Shane took another back. Towards the bedroom. "Always you must make improvements?"

"To your shit? All the time. It's begging for help."

Ilya gave chase and Shane ran, his laugh trailing behind him until Ilya tackled him down to the bed, kissing his face all over.

"We can't," Shane said earnestly as Ilya reached down to cup his cock, massaging it through his pants. "She'll be here in twenty minutes."

"Mm, then you better come down my throat quickly, moy sólnyshka. It would be embarrassing for you to be hard when you see her, hm?"

"Fuck," Shane bucked into his hand. "Five minutes."

"Three," Ilya promised and sank down the bed.

It took seven, but only because Ilya got lost for a bit around Shane's thighs. So sue him. They were excellent thighs and they deserved to be bitten a little. And because Shane was so polite, he did have to return the favor. Ilya wound up sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor and the love of his life on his knees before him, sucking him off with his eyes at half-mast.

Ilya exhaled sharply and Shane looked up at him, the gorgeous suede brown locked on him. Ilya's hand was shaking from carrying the groceries, from grabbing at Shane. He cupped Shane's neck with it anyway. Shane took his hand off Ilya's waist to press over it, their fingers sliding together. He never took his eyes of Ilya's, indulging him.

Ilya came quietly and without fanfare. It was almost beside the point.

"Do you know how beautiful you are to me?" Ilya asked him, breath caught in the back of his throat.

"I think the same amount you are to me."

"Come here," Ilya insisted. "You are too far away."

He drew Shane into his lap and kissed him, both their mouths still flavored with each other's intimate fluids. They were both still mostly dressed, mostly clean. It was as if they had sidestepped out of the course of the day into this pocket of time.

"Shane," Ilya murmured and kissed him slowly, still hungry for him.

"Ilyusha," Shane said and Ilya's breath caught in his throat.

"Fuck," he said.

"Did I say it wrong?" Shane asked with all the confidence of someone who knew they had nailed it.

"I am never going to the bathroom around you two again," Ilya muttered. "She teaches you this."

"I asked. I read about diminutives, but I wasn't sure if it was accurate until I heard her use yours. When I asked, she said it would be normal for me to use yours. Is that okay?"

"Say it again," Ilya asked.

"Ilyusha," Shane said with a smile.

"Yes, is very okay," Ilya kissed it off his lips. "Not at work, I don't need them all using it. But everywhere else. Please."

"I can do that," Shane said, pink with pleasure.

The front door opened, Anya started barking and then Svetlana called out, "If you are naked, I am stealing your dog and going to hotel!"

"We're not naked!" Shane called out and then turned bright red.

"Sveta," Ilya provided for Shane. "If she is doing this then I am doing this."

"Sveta," Shane repeated even as he scrambled to his feet, righting his clothes and running a hand through his hair. "That's not too much?"

"You make her my family in one breath, Sveta is not too much," Ilya said firmly and put his cock away, got to his feet and sauntered out to meet her. "If you steal my dog, I will cry. You want me to cry?"

"Only if you forget when I am coming and don't answer the door," she said, but she was grinning. "Your hair is a mess. Like maybe someone runs their fingers through it."

"You are imagining things," Ilya leaned down to kiss her cheek. "He calls me 'Ilyusha', what am I supposed to do? Not lose my fucking mind? Blame yourself."

"Hi, Sveta," Shane said, the name a little awkward in his mouth, but lots of things fell awkwardly from Shane so it sounded fine.

"Hello, Shane," she said, clearly very amused and pleased with herself. "I am starving. What's for lunch?"

Things were awkward for about ten minutes and then they turned on the Nashville vs. Vancouver game. Ilya could've left, started a new family and come back and they would likely both still be sitting there, arguing over plays. He made them lunch and tried not to smile like a cartoon villain the entire time, soaking in how easily they fell into bickering. At one point, Svetlana smacked Shane in the face with a pillow and reflexivly, Shane grabbed it from her and smacked her back.

"Shit, sorry!" He said immediately and Svetlana fell back laughing.

"I can take a little rough treatment," she giggled and Shane flushed all over again.

It was all very sweet and gorgeous and Ilya would have been in orbit if he wasn't also losing his mind about dinner.

"I'm going to change," Svetlana announced, signaling that it was actually time now. They were going to go do this.

"Yeah, I should get ready too," Shane got to his feet. "Ilya?"

"Yes, let me take Anya out first."

He did the shorter walking route so he wouldn't lose track of time. Anya trotted along next to him, unaware of the weight of the night.

"I would like to be you sometimes," Ilya said to her as she pissed on the side of the road. "Your most complicated dinner is when I can't get the pull tab up on the can."

She sniffed around a mailbox post, then gave him a baleful look.

"Yes, never mind. That is very tragic, I am so sorry for making light of your pain."

The pull tab didn't give him hell that night at least, so someone ate without any drama. Ilya walked into his closet, ignoring Shane where he was dithering over his hair in the en suite. For a man who had the same hairstyle the entire time Ilya had known him, he really could put the time in on combing it to 'just right'. It was, of course, adorable, but there was no time for distractions tonight.

Ilya had weighed several 'meet the parents' outfits, before remembering that the Hollanders had seen him shove around their son on the ice for years in their least favorite team's jersey, so he could really only go up from there. He went dark, black pants, black shirt, but he pulled on a deep burgundy cashmere sweater over it. One with a little structure and a few interesting details in the seams. He pushed the sleeves up and made some small adjustments to his hair.

When he stepped out, it was to Shane topping off the buttons one of his standard rotation shirts. One his parents must've seen a thousand times. As soon as Ilya emerged, he got a once over, then a twice over.

"I haven't seen that one before."

"I bought it for interview last year," Ilya said. "Nice ladies magazine and my manager says to look 'approachable'."

"Why did they book you for that?"

"This was my question also."

"It's nice," Shane touched his sleeve, running his fingers over it. "Ready?"

"No. But yes."

Of course, Svetlana was perfect, all cabled sweater and nice jeans, her hair swept up. Casual and clean and lovely. Consumer friendly. She had a bottle of nice vodka and Ilya picked up the bouquet he'd bought on his run to the grocery store. That would have to be enough.

The house was attractive, but not the mansion Ilya had pictured. It was the same house Shane had grown up in, before hockey had turned them from well off to ridiculously wealthy. All of the money had gone into the cottages after that, first the family's than Shane's. This was a tidy enough bi-level with a lot of impeccable gardening.

The door swept open before they could even get close, Svetlana and Ilya behind Shane like some kind of familial shield. David Hollander gave them a friendly, if slightly stiff wave, so like Shane's that Ilya was instantly endeared.

"Hey, come on in, it's still freezing out here. Where's everyone's jackets?"

"Dad," Shane said sharply. "Don't."

"It's my job. Come on get out of the cold, then we can do introductions."

The foyer was a little dark, but they rustled around, shoes coming off at Shane's pointed look, before they trooped into the living room. The walls were a shrine to Shane's childhood, dozens of photos that Ilya desperately wanted to look at, but his attention was quickly robbed by Yuna's appearance.

Ilya hovered, uncertain and hating that uncertainty.

"Mom, Dad, this is Ilya," Shane said. "And this is Svetlana."

"It's very good to meet you like this," Ilya said carefully. "I think maybe we have seen each other before."

"We've certainly watched you play. Call me David."

"Yuna," she said.

"Thank you for having me too," Svetlana said. "You have a lovely home."

The stilted giving and receiving of flowers and vodka went over all right. They were shepherded to a crowded kitchen table, the bottle opened and poured around. Conversation went in small bursts, all very polite and nothing. Until Yuna said,

"When Shane told us that you two had started dating again, I was worried."

"Again?" Ilya asked reflexively, then winced as Shane's wounded expression crossed over his face. "It is a little different this time, moy sólnyshka."

"My sunshine," Svetlana translated without a hint of mischief. "He always calls him this."

"He did a lot to get here," David said. "Some inadvisable things, but he was certain about you."

"Come on," Shane muttered at his plate.

"I am certain about him too," Ilya said because what else did he have to offer worried parents? Not much. "I have had many good people in my life, but I have only been in love twice. Both times with the same man. That is how certain."

Everyone was looking at him after that. Ilya only looked at Shane.

"Me too," Shane said, voice dropping a little into the register of their private conversations. "Back then?"

"Back then," Ilya said.

"Oh trust me, back then," Svetlana said.

"You can walk home," Ilya decided and to his pleased surprise, David stifled a laugh.

"You knew?" Shane asked, a hint of concern despite everything.

"Not that it was you," she assured him. "But I knew he was gone on someone. He was not subtle."

"What about the team? Will it change things?" Yuna asked, all brisk practicality. "I don't want a Montreal redo."

"They already know I'm gay, Mom," Shane huffed. "And they are definitely not like Montreal."

"I'm asking Ilya, sweetie. I want his take."

"Not like Montreal," Ilya confirmed. "Not even a little bit. They will take some time to adjust, but will mostly think it is funny, I think. They laugh too much at all things. Not a very serious group, except about hockey."

"Do they take you seriously?" She asked. "As a coach, I mean. It must be hard when you're the same age as a lot of them."

"They do," Shane said. "Wiebe's the good cop."

"This is true?" Ilya frowned. "I am bad cop?"

"I didn't say that. You're the enforcer, that's all. Everyone knows you won't let them slack."

"Good," Yuna said. "Wiebe is a nice man, but a little too easy on the boys."

"Bren is very good coach," Ilya said, pricked. "Sometimes I wish I had had easier, instead of always hard."

Shane's foot touched his under the table. "You want to call Haas right now and ask if he thinks your 'bad cop'?"

"He will not pick up. He calls his parents on Friday night, they stay up very late for him to do this."

Even Svetlana stared at him for that one. Why? Luca talked about his family constantly to anyone who would sit still for five minutes. It wasn't a state secret.

"Not the bad cop," David concluded. "Who wants dessert? We've got mango sorbet so you can have some, kiddo."

"Thanks, Dad."

Yuna got up to clear the plates and Ilya picked his up, stacking Shane and Svetlana's on top. When Shane made to get up, Ilya put a hand to his shoulder, keeping him down before following her.

This was what Ilya had been worrying over. This moment, whatever it was going to bring. David seemed like a nice man and Ilya was sure they'd have a few conversations over the coming months, but he was reasonable and clearly pleased that Shane was happy.

Yuna, Ilya couldn't place. Mothers. What did he know about them really? His mother had been special, then gone, long before he could know her as an adult. Would she have been protective of him? Cornered Shane in a kitchen and asked his intetions? Ilya liked to think so. Like to imagine she would've have loved Shane too.

Ilya watched Yuna scrape her plate into the garbage and followed along with the ones he'd taken, then handed them to her as she put them into the dishwasher.

"Since Shane started playing, I've had a talk with every one of his coaches," she said, mouth pursed, her eyes fixed on Ilya's face. "Even when he got to Montreal, I spoke with Theriault. Shane was so angry with me, but he was only nineteen."

"I see why he would be angry," Ilya said, already wrong-footed. "But I would understand, if parents wanted to talk to me about their teenager. I could not tell them things, but I would listen."

She nodded once, "I didn't do it when he moved to Ottawa, obviously. It was strange. To just have to trust someone. I know he can advocate for himself, but it felt like I had missed a step in the process. But now I have you here. So I'm going to do it."

"Going to what?" Ilya asked, bemused.

"Coach Rozanov, a minute of your time?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and meeting Ilya's eyes. There was such beauty in her sternness. Her strength. This was where Shane's steel had come from and Ilya loved that. But maybe too, a little where his playfulness had come from. A hint of it around her lips even though she wasn't smiling.

"Mrs. Hollander," he acknowledged. "Of course, go ahead."

"I'm happy to see my boy playing for your team. I know that he'll bring you a lot of success because he puts everything in hockey."

"He does," Ilya said, imagining his desk between them. Just two very serious adults having a serious conversation. "I can see this in how he plays."

"Shane is a great hockey player."

"The best currently playing," Ilya said. "He has no competition. Any more."

She didn't break, but she did give a slight nod in acknowledgement. "But he sometimes loses sight of himself to do it. He's in tune with his body, of course. Careful with his diet, with his sleep. But he forgets about his mind. About his heart, sometimes."

Ilya brought his hands together, rubbing his left thumb into his right hand. "I have seen this too, sometimes."

"So I'm asking you as a parent," if Ilya didn't know Shane, he would not have heard the wobble in her voice, the slightest tell of a tumultuous ocean of feeling beneath the still surface. It made him ache for her as it made him ache Shane, "please take a little extra care with him. He's unique and he's wonderful, but when he needs help, he won't ask. Sometimes he doesn't even know he needs it. Especially when it comes to how he feels."

"Mrs. Hollander," he said heavily, "taking care of his heart is the best job I have. Always. That he gives this to me, I am grateful for every day I have it."

She blinked a few times and looked away from him. "Thank you."

"I do not need thank yous," he said. "He is a thank you. He says it so often, I worry it is his middle name."

"His middle name is Yori. My grandfather's name," Yuna said. "Shane was from David's side. The oldest son is always a Shane and David's brother didn't want kids."

"Yori?" he tested the pronunciation and when she nodded he committed it to memory. "Shane Yori Hollander. I love this."

"When Shane told us he wanted to be close to you again, I thought it was a bad idea," Yuna shook her head. "It seemed obsessive. Worrying. I thought you might take it badly or even the way it was meant and still say no to him and then where would he be? But he swore he didn't care. That it was enough to be near you. I thought he had hitched himself to an idea that he had to see through like always. But now I think he knew."

"Knew what?" Ilya asked.

"That you were still waiting for him. How long would you have waited?"

Just like her son, Yuna was an arrow. Straight and true, plunging right into Ilya's heart where he could least afford more holes.

"Forever," he admitted to her, the invisible desk long gone from between them. "I did not think this is what I was doing. But I was and I would have until he was ready."

"You two are a pair," she said, not without some exasperation. "Good. It would've been horrible for him if you were anything less than equally obsessed. Can you get the wine glasses?"

He liked her, he decided, as he gathered glasses. Svetlana and Shane both surveyed him as if Yuna might've left visible marks on him.

"You want your terrible fake ice cream?" Ilya asked Shane.

"It's sorbet," Shane said, instantly exasperated. "It's not pretending to be ice cream. It's dairy-free."

"It is what he likes, Ilyusha," Svetlana scolded, her eyes dancing with reignited humor. "Leave him alone."

"It is barely dessert. There is fruit and ice. It should not count."

"Fruit is dessert," Shane groaned.

"I think I'm with Ilya on this one," David said. "Dessert is better with dairy."

"Thank you," Ilya said gravely. "Listen to your papa. He is a wise man."

Shane glowered at him and Ilya bussed a kiss on his cheek, before carrying the glasses into Yuna.

"I usually hand wash those," she said, gesturing to the sink. "They're too fragile for the dishwasher."

"I can do this." he offered. "You give Shane his sad yellow dessert."

"Mango is a good flavor," she defended.

"Yes, but it is not rocky road."

"I'd say it's better."

"This explains so much," Ilya sighed, turning on the water. "It is genetic."

Yuna didn't laugh, but she did smile and Ilya would gladly take that. Dessert was slightly less awkward (aided by a second round of vodka and Ilya wasn't sure what to make of Shane drinking both, except that maybe he had been more nervous than he'd let on). Yuna did start to grill Svetlana, but Svetlana grilled her right back. They migrated to the sofa, asking each other increasingly intense questions, and gesturing a lot. Ilya was positive he heard the word 'patriarchy' at least twice.

"We should leave," he suggested to Shane and David.

They were all at the now cleared table, David telling Shane about some work drama in a very roundabout way, made more meandering because he kept stopping to fill Ilya in on the back story and persons of interest. Ilya was maybe a little invested in Denise's from H.R.'s fate until he heard the fatal buzzword.

"Why?" Shane frowned. "Are you tired?"

"No, all three of us," Ilya said. "They are going to begin plotting against all men soon. Sveta has that look."

"I thought you were exempt," Shane said.

"Only until she remembers that I am part of the problem," Ilya said darkly.

David laughed, "If Yuna has let me live this long than I think we're all safe. Settle down, boys."

They did leave twenty minutes later. David gave Ilya a clap on the back and Yuna took his hand, giving it one short squeeze. Small gestures, but they rang with the promise of future hugs and kindnesses.

"I love her," Svetlana said as soon as they were safely in the car. "Beautiful man, be grateful that I am not homewrecker."

"Please don't hit on my mother, Sveta," Shane said firmly, then paused to take that in. "Are you bi?"

"For a very special woman, I can be anything."

"She dates women when she is sick of men, but then she gets sick of women," Ilya explained.

"Fair," Shane decided.

The rest of Svetlana's visit went like a dream. She came to the game on Saturday, in the best seat he could get her. It meant Ilya could hear her yelling at Dykstra when he let a puck pass him by. People on the moon might've heard it. Certainly Dykstra did because he visibly apologized to her personally, hands on his heart as he skated by her seat.

This may have been after Ilya made the strategic error of letting the team finally meet her.

"Is she a movie star too?" Bren whispered to Ilya as Dillion edged closer to her. "I can't make the same mistake twice in six months."

"No," Ilya assured him with a grin. "But she will love that you asked."

They won the game, the fourth in a row. A good streak, but if they were going to make it to the playoffs, they had to do better.

"You will," Svetlana said with serene certainty.

And then she was gone, a kiss on the cheek for Ilya and then one for Shane too.

They were alone in the house again. Anya was asleep.

Shane started taking off his shirt in the middle of the kitchen.

"We are naked cooking?" Ilya guessed, repressing a smile.

"I'm saving time. You're going to try to fuck me over the kitchen counter. I'm going to say no and then we'll do it anyway."

"Rushing though the good parts," Ilya tsked at him, but he reached for the hem of his own shirt and drew it up.

"Just for today."

Ilya fucked him against the kitchen counter, kissing his shoulders, kneading at his chest and generally making sure that Shane made the biggest possible mess when he came.

"We should tell the team," Shane said, still slumped over the marble, cheek pressed against it to cool off.

"Do not talk about the team while I am still inside you."

"Yeah, okay. That's probably a good rule."

"Is very good rule. I promised your mother I wouldn't let you think about work all the time."

"Ilyusha!"

"What?"

"Do not fucking talk about my- not when you're still inside me!"

"Mm, maybe we need list. Sex rules. Who else can we not talk about?"

"Everyone. Literally just…everyone. Except me and you."

Later, more chastely (not that much more, still naked though now in bed with the sheets pulled up to cover the interesting parts), they made another list.

"My parents, Sveta, Scott, Kip, Ryan, Fabian, Bren, Dottie…" Shane trailed off with a small frown. "That's a lot. How did it get to be so many?"

"Barrett," Ilya added reluctantly.

"Since when?" Shane looked up from where he'd been resting his head on Ilya's chest.

"Tampa," Ilya sighed.

"You didn't tell me," Shane narrowed his eyes.

"It was not relevant?"

"How is that not relevant?"

"He found out and then we had sunset on a beach. Many more important things to think about."

"Fine. Barrett too," Shane said and put his head back down. No lies had to be told apparently. No investigation. The tiny bit of guilt was something Ilya could live with to keep the tatters of his pride intact. "Ten people."

"And you want to tell the team soon."

"Don't you?"

"Yes, but I will wait. If you are not ready."

"I want to go to board game night," Shane said his hand going flat on Ilya's stomach.

"You can do this anyway."

"I want to come and sit next to you. I want to go to Bood's barbecues and go out for drinks. I want to do all that and hold your hand like the WAGs get to do."

"You want to be WAG?" Ilya teased, so he could swallow down a little of the tide of feeling rising in him. Not one day of peace. Fucking Hollander. "You would be cute in my old jersey."

"Not happening. You wear my jersey."

"Okay," Ilya said. "Not to a game, but once people know, I wear it everywhere else. I will be excellent WAG."

"Focus," Shane demanded. "The team. The policy?"

"Mostly done," Ilya said. "All making copies and adding to manuals now."

"That you won't read."

"You read them for me and tell me, why do I need to?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Rozanov."

"That is not good pet name. Blasphemy is for during, not after."

"Blasphemy. Where'd you pick that one up?"

"Probably while you were calling out for-"

"You're distracting me," Shane groaned. "Come on. I'm good with it. I'm ready."

"Okay," Ilya said and kissed his forehead. "Then I am ready."

"You're not scared?"

"I am," he admitted. "A little. But I am also excited. It will be good, I think. I want to sit next to you at game night too. Maybe I will win something if we play together."

"I said I wanted to sit next to you, not be on your team. You'll hold me back."

"Forget it. We tell no one. We call the people we did tell and say we made big mistake."

Shane laughed and kissed his chest. "Shut up. Practice tomorrow? You want to do it?"

"I think better they hear from you. I will be there."

"Okay."

Ilya fell asleep long before Shane though he only knew that in the morning when he found Shane still beside him in bed when their alarm went off. On training days, Shane was usually awake well ahead of the alarm. He would walk and feed Anya, then start breakfast and Ilya woke up to a happy dog and a half-caffeinated boyfriend. It was no hardship to reverse things for once. He brought Shane his coffee and woke him up with a kiss. Like a prince. If the prince had morning breath and an evil side eye.

"No breakfast in bed," Shane said.

"Good morning to you too," Ilya held out the mug. "No breakfast, only black coffee. No crumbs. Did you sleep?"

"A little."

"Change your mind?" Ilya asked.

Shane sat up and to Ilya's surprise, actually took the mug. He'd thought that would take much more persuasion "No. I was thinking about that question Wyatt asked us a few months ago. What super power you'd want? You said shape shifting for some reason."

"A lie." Ilya sat down on the edge of the bed, watching Shane take a sip. "You too. You lied too."

"I don't know if I'd call it a lie," Shane said. "But it wasn't my first thought. My first one wasn't anyone's business. I remembered that blue guy that can teleport from the X-shot movies and said that instead."

"What was real answer?"

"Time travel," Shane said.

Ilya closed his eyes and huffed out a laugh. Shane's mug-warmed fingers cupped his neck. "This is what I thought too."

"Probably for different reasons at that point," Shane said ruefully.

"No," Ilya groped for Shane's hand so he could drag it to his mouth and nestle a kiss at the center of his palm. "The same. So I do not say things that make you leave. That you stay and things are different."

"Not about your injury?"

"I wish it had not happened still," Ilya opened his eyes to take in Shane's face. "I want to play. I miss it every day. But I want this too. I want to have our team. This life. Do we have this if I do not get hurt?"

"Maybe we would've figured things out."

"Maybe," Ilya said and decided not to think about it any further. Galina would approve. "We have it now. And we still will tonight after we tell people. And tomorrow. Whatever they say, they say. They cannot take this from us now."

"I love you," Shane said and put the coffee down on the bedside table to kiss him.

"I love you too. Let's be late."

"Absolutely not."

They weren't late. Ilya's life was shit. He took it all back. He needed time travel so he could wake Shane up from his doze and bully him into morning sex instead of a heartfelt conversation. Emotional intimacy was the fucking worst.

They had tape review all morning. Ryan was in person today in a turtleneck of all things, looking like the world's toughest poet. He gave his run down in a hypnotic low rumble.  In the hushed dark, a whisper went around. An understanding that everyone should gather in the locker room and not start changing right away.

Bren gave Ilya a look across the table and Ilya mimed pulling a trigger. Bren gave a nod. A blessing. They were doing this.

A gathering in the locker room might have been an odd place for this, Ilya realized too late. Especially with Harris somehow materializing and the coaches lingering along the edges. It gave the impression of a pre-game pep talk instead of a coming out. Then again, Ilya had no idea how one staged this kind of event. Maybe this was the best case scenario.

Placing himself in the doorway, less for easy escape and more so he could see the entire room, Ilya settled in to keep watch over expressions and actions. Just in case.

Planted in front of his stall, Shane appeared calm. His face was quietly blank and body language as open as it ever was. Ilya saw the tiny signs of nerves, the hold of his shoulders and his thumbs hooked into his pockets, as he took in the room and said with only a little more volume above his usual speaking voice, "Hey." 

The room went silent in a ripple, starting with Bood and Wyatt and traveling around. All eyes went to Shane and he shifted slightly as if their attention had a physical weight he was taking on.  The obvious respect filled Ilya with pride not only for Shane, but the entire team.  

"There's something I want to tell you all, but first I want to say thank you," Shane said, his gaze locked firmly on the floor a few feet in front of him. "I didn't know what to expect when I joined the team and it's been...it's been really good. So. Thanks." 

"We're fucking thrilled to have you, man," Bood said.  

Had Shane been up all night mentally crafting this statement? Getting it perfect in his head? What a nerd. Beautiful, perfect nerd. 

"We filed some paperwork with management today, so I want you to hear this from me before it goes around the building," Shane said evenly. "Coach Rozanov and I are romantically involved." 

Oh, absolutely not that. Romantically involved. Like a business deal.

"Lovers," he corrected.

"No, Ilya" Shane said, eyes going wide. "Ew."

"Boyfriends," Ilya tried again and Shane made a soft annoyed sound, but he had a twitch of a smile. 

There was a beat of silence and then Bood said, "Fuck that makes so much more sense. I thought maybe you two were doing some intense extra training or a two man fight club or something." 

"What?" Shane asked, officially sidetracked. 

"You keep going off with each other," Bood shrugged. "And you were out already when I woke up to puke in Tampa. So like pre-dawn gym sessions made sense to me and we know you guys like a back and forth, so maybe boxing or something you didn't want us to see." 

"Fight club was your best guess?" Wyatt asked incredulously. 

"I thought they were talking strategy," Dykstra admitted. 

"Strategy sessions," Ilya repeated flatly. 

"They were going off together alone?"  Dillion frowned. "When?" 

Six years of hiding and now Ilya had to wonder if they should have bothered.  Apparently the could've carried on right under everyone's noses. Maybe they could've made out in hotel lobbies and people would've assumed he was checking Shane's dental work.

"I knew," Barrett said with a hint of his old bro-y tones. 

"You did not," Ilya scoffed. "You made lucky guess." 

"I knew you were bi, so not that lucky." 

There was a general hubub, but the overall tone was gentle confusion resolving into acceptance. Shane glanced over at Ilya with bewilderment written all over him. Ilya shrugged and gave him a little 'go ahead' gesture. 

"Uh, hey?" Shane said again. 

"Shut up," Bood shouted and everyone shut up. "Hollander wasn't done." 

"Yeah, thanks Bood," Shane muttered. 

"You got it." 

"There's a policy, you'll all get it in your email, about these kinds of relationships on the team. Mostly though, I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to get any special treatment or anything. Rozanov isn't going to make any decisions about me and Wiebe and Price will hear you out if you feel like anything is unfair in either direction. No favoritism. Uh. That's it. Unless you have questions?" 

"So many," Wyatt gusted out. "Like a thousand and five. But they're all really nosy and rude.  But hey, congratulations!" 

"Thank you?" Shane blinked. 

"Yes, thank you," Ilya said gravely. 

All at once, Luca was in front of Ilya, searching his face like it held the key to the world. "You're really bi? You're actually dating Hollander?" 

"Yes," Ilya said. "All true." 

The hug was so hard and abrupt that Ilya smacked his head against the doorframe. "Fuck." 

"Sorry," Luca said without letting go. 

"What is this for?" Ilya asked, returning the hug out of sheer defense.  

"I grew up thinking I was going to have to be alone in this. The only one hiding," Luca said into Ilya's chest. "And I thought you were both so cool and I could never be like you." 

The hug went from a light hold to a very hard squeeze on Ilya's part, understanding setting in. "You are not alone. Never. All right?" 

"Yeah," Luca buried his face deeper against Ilya's chest. "I got it now."

When Ilya glanced up, it was to find himself the center of attention. "What? No one ever comes out to you before? You are all new? Bother Hollander, I'm busy. Unless anyone else has things to say." 

"Me too," Barrett said into the momentary silence. Then turned bright red and swallowed hard. Next to him, Harris' face had gone slack in surprise. "I'm gay too." 

"Pansexual, not gay, but that's awesome," Luca said, still mostly into Ilya's chest, before pulling back to dash an arm over his face. "I'm not crying." 

"Aw, Haas-y," Dykstra said affectionately. "It's cool. I cried last night. You ever seen Up? That wrecked my shit and the kids wanted to re-watch it." 

Shane was still holding himself in his speech giving position. This could not possibly been one of the ten thousand scenario outcomes he'd run while Ilya slept beside him last night.

"Do we have a policy on pronouns?" A very small voice asked. Yolen, mostly tucked away behind Lapointe's bulk, was ghostly pale.

"The policy is everyone uses the ones you want or we have words," Bren said. "I'll sort the rest out later."

"They/them," Yolen murmured.

"Someone else hug them," Rozanov said. "I'm busy."

Poor Yolen disappeared into a dog pile and Ilya's arms were suddenly suspiciously empty. Luca had wormed his way into the massive wall of bodies and when everyone else cleared away, he had his arm protectively around Yolen's shoulders, whispering in their ear.

"Fuck me running, Roz," Ryan said tiredly. "You knew this was all coming."

"Did I?" Ilya said, attempting to maintain an air of mystery. Mostly he felt walloped.

"You promised me the queerest team and you delivered."

"I personally make them all gay just for you," Ilya said.

"Even Hollander?" Ryan said with a wink in his voice.

"Especially Hollander. Before I met him, very straight. Very boring. Very sad."

"I can hear you," Shane said over the mini pride parade the locker room had turned into.

"Does anyone else need to come out?" Bren asked. "Because we do actually have to run some drills today and play a game tomorrow. You can come out whenever you want, no pressure, but if you want get on the bandwagon right now your window is closing."

"Coach," Bood said very seriously. "We don't need practice. We're going to kill them with the power of gay love and being a thousand times better at hockey than them."

"They're all starting sound like you too," Ryan said.

"I know," Ilya mimed wiping away a tear. "I am so proud."

Shane finally moved to come stand at Ilya's side, "We didn't talk about privacy or anything."

"Do you want me to get their attention again?" Ilya asked him. "Tell them we have more policy?"

All around the room, people were grinning. Harris was sitting so close to Barrett, it was a quiet declaration in and of itself and Barrett had an actual smile on his face. Yolen and Luca had their heads bent together. Everyone else was ranging around between them, attempting to have fifty-seven conversations at one time.

"No," Shane said. "It's okay."

"I think better than okay."

"Yeah," Shane hesitated then took Ilya's hand. In front of Ryan, Bren, Harris and every fucking Centaur in the room. "Way better than okay."

"Wait!" Wyatt's deranged circling finally came back to them. "Hollander, is that why you came to Ottawa? Because you were seeing Roz? That explains so much!"

Ilya opened his mouth, and Shane snapped: "No." Ilya closed his mouth.

"Oh," Wyatt said, glancing between them. "Uh…"

"I left Montreal because it was a fucking dumpster fire," Shane said. "And I've been in love with Rozanov for a long time, but we weren't together when I came here. We were once though. It's a complicated story. But yeah. I came mostly for him."

"I want to hear that story," Wyatt said.

"You don't," Ryan said. "It's actually horrifyingly sweet and demented. You'll never look at them the same way again."

"You stop too," Hollander said to Ryan sternly.

"You told me against my will in the first place," Ryan said. "I didn't ask for this."

"No one asks for Shane Hollander," Ilya shrugged. "He happens to you like a punch to the face and then you ask for more."

"I think that might just be you," Ryan said.

"Good. No one else can have him."

Shane sighed as if very put upon, but he didn't let go of Ilya's hand so that was fine.

Things changed. Of course they did. Some of the older guys, the ones that lingered on the peripheral of the team went quieter and warier. Everyone else was a little over the top about how accepting they were until Shane actually started barking at them when they went too far. It was interesting to see the team remember who Shane was as Shane himself so often forgot.

Their winning streak kept on streaking.

Five games.

They met Yuna and David for dinner twice, each time a little more comfortable. They came over to Ilya's for the second one and David got down on the floor to play with Anya. Yuna reorganized their silverware drawer, arguing with Shane about 'bad forks' the whole time. A very good night, all around.

Six games.

They went to board game night and Shane learned the rules to the bird game in fifteen minutes flat and wouldn't let Ilya talk to him the whole time they played. Shane was also apparently fine with Ilya being half-draped over Wyatt instead of him if it meant he could concentrate on winning.

Everyone laughed over Ilya's dramatic pouting over it. When they got home, Shane attempted to apologize, so Ilya had to edge him until he was a blubbering mess. A real sacrifice. A man had to do what a man had to do.

Seven games.

Another shinny and Ilya helped Dottie make lunch while Shane got educated about Pokemon against his will.

"He tries hard, doesn't he?" Dottie asked as she chopped up bright orange melon and passed Ilya the best bits before tossing the rest in the bowl to become fruit salad.

"Every day," Ilya said, letting the burst of sweet juice coat his tongue. "All the time."

"Good. You deserve that."

Ilya stared at her for a long moment. "I have been told it is not about what we deserve. Just what is."

"Yeah? I like that. Sounds true. Do you want tomato on your sandwich?"

"Yes, please."

Eight games.

Shane dropped his suitcase in Ilya's room in Santa Fe. There was no place they couldn't spend the night together now. It was so heady that they didn't even have sex about it, just crawled into bed and fell asleep entwined.

Nine games.

"No one has to do this," Harris repeated, surveying them. "I'm serious. Solidarity is great, but I want all of you to really think about what's going to happen when this goes live. There's no going back."

Ilya scanned serious faces. No one moved.

"Can we post it in the morning?" Shane asked. "Before the Montreal game?"

"That was the idea," Harris gave him a grim smile. "People will talk about the timing."

The smile on Shane's face was borderline diabolical. Ilya was pretty sure he'd stolen it from him, "Good."

@ottawacentaurs Our favorite colors are usually black and red, but today, we wanted to honor all our team's colors. We're here. We're queer. We're going to win.

[Photo 1: The four players are in their full uniform, in standard Centaurs jerseys. They all look down the barrel of the camera, unsmiling. Each of them has a flag draped over their shoulders. Barrett and Hollander have green, white and blue, Haas with pink, yellow and blue and Yolen with yellow, white, purple and black. Standing a little off to the side of them are two coaches in all black, Centaurs logo embroidered on their fleeces. They are both draped with flags too, Rozanov in pink, purple and blue. Price in green, white and blue.

Photo 2: The same shot, everyone is laughing at something, except for Hollander and Rozanov who are looking at each other across the ice, book ending the group, private smiles on both their faces.]

"Ready?" Ilya asked the room, but mostly Shane.

"Yes, coach!"

With deliberate care of his psyche, Ilya had not tried to take the temperature of the crowd ahead of time. The post had gone live this morning and he had turned off his phone too. That part of the plan had been Galina's and Shane had reluctantly followed along. It hadn't entirely worked, it was obviously still on their minds for most of the day, but at least nothing specific could bring them down. The silence had been eerie, but at least it wasn't hateful.

So when they went out onto the ice and were met with full stadium, it was a bit of a shock.

"Holy fuck," Ilya whispered to Bren. "You start to win and everyone is your friend."

"I don't think it's just the winning," Bren pointed at a cluster of teenagers holding up the biggest pride flag Ilya had ever seen.

"We were already gay. What do they think Hollander was?" Ilya grumbled. "He came out in two languages."

"He wasn't theirs yet. Now he is," Bren elbowed him. "Ease off and enjoy it."

The line up announcement was drowned out by chanting. Yolen. Haas. Barrett. Each of their names taken up like fervent prayers. And when at last Shane got on the ice, it was deafening.

Hollander! Hollander! Hollander!

If the Montreal fans were trying to yell anything else, it was drowned out in the noise. Shane lifted one glove to them all, giving a small wave and his name dissolved into pure chaotic screaming.

When Montreal came out, the crowd went quiet. The cheering was sparse and only from visitors' the section. Ilya kept his face neutral, calm. Inside, he was laughing so hard that it had taken a turn to the maniacal.

Pike and JJ were both grinning while the rest of their team looked like they were lining up for an execution. They saw no time on the ice. A very stupid error considering Pike had somehow becoming one of Montreal's best scorers in Shane's absence, but Ilya wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Shane didn't need the distraction.

Shane faced off against some new no name that Ilya instantly dismissed as unworthy. Of course, Shane won and the slaughter began. The crowd's energy was so intense, it could've been the playoffs. Ottawa had tasted potential victory and it had made them bloodthirsty. When one of the defenders pulled some dirty shit on Yolen near the end of second period, Ilya watched with warring pride and horror as Luca dropped his gloves and punched him so hard the guy's head snapped back like a cartoon.

"Haas," Ilya said as Luca dropped into the sin bin with an adorably murderous look on his face. "Did you break anything?"

"Just skin, coach," Luca held out his hand so Ilya could see it was undamaged, except for one torn knuckle. "I did it like you showed me."

"Good work, Haas. Don't make a habit out of it," Bren said.

"Yes, coach," Luca said without a trace of regret.

Yolen scored a goal with a textbook assist from Hollander a minute later like a second punch to the face.

The defeat was definitive. Wyatt didn't let a single puck anywhere near the goal. They finished off the game 5-0 with the last goal scored by Shane as if to make a point that he could've done worse to them.

Later, Ilya heard that a hoard of overexcited Ottawa fans had swarmed out into the streets and gotten so collectively drunk that they flipped a car with a Montreal bumper sticker and turned it onto a makeshift karaoke stage.

In the moment though, all Ilya knew was Shane's face as he listened to the crowd chanting his name. The pure joy and glory of being a winner.

Ten Games

They finally lost, but the mood didn't dim as they all swarmed around Wyatt's phone. He tried to hold it up as high as he could so everyone could see Bood holding the tiny blanketed bundle.

"Milo," he told them. "His name is Milo. And he's sleeping so any of you motherfuckers yell, I will come to your house and coldcock you."

Everyone whispered 'Congratulations!' with intense fervor.

"Roz," Bren inclined his head as twenty grown men tried to quietly coo at a phone.

"What's wrong?" Ilya asked as soon as they were in the hallway.

"Nothing. Listen, a friend of mine reached out to me," Bren said. "He's a coach too, different sport, met him in an airport…anyway. The details don't matter. But he had some guys that wanted to talk to you and Hollander."

"About what?" Ilya frowned.

"He was cagey, but I trust him. A solid guy. Can I pass on your number? You can always block them if they turn out to be dicks, but I don't think they will."

Ilya hesitated, then nodded once. "If you trust him, then I trust him."

"Great," Bren got out his phone, then sighed. "Hey, I keep feeling like I should apologize for not-"

"Do not," Ilya said firmly. "You have children. It is different."

"It shouldn't be. I should've stood up with you guys. But the pile on and Dottie's family-"

"Bren," Ilya said and put his arm around his shoulders. "We know. There is no cowardice in keeping your people safe. We want this too."

Bren nodded once and started typing, staying right where he was.

Which was how two days later, Ilya came to be sitting on his couch, Shane beside him and his phone on a tripod in front of them.

"How did we never even hear about it over here? It was huge," Shane said.

"Maybe it is getting a little boring," Ilya said without much hope. "Men kissing men after games. Hunter ruins it for everyone by being so old and uninteresting."

"Hey now."

"Don't worry," Ilya kissed Shane's temple. "You are still the most boring to me."

"I fucking hate you," Shane said, eyes sliding closed and a warm smile on his face.

"You have strange way of showing it."

The phone rang and reluctantly, Ilya pulled away to hit accept.

On another couch across the world, two men sat on another couch with a little more distance between them. They were both young, bright eyed, one with hair that stuck straight up and the other with a sharp undercut, a slice through one eyebrow and the loudest hoodie Ilya had ever seen.

"Hi," a pretty accent curled out from the one with stuck up hair. "Thanks for taking my call. I'm Colin. Colin Hughes. And this is-"

"Jamie Tartt," the grin was shit-eating immediately. A man who thought his name should be recognized. "AFC Richmond Oi! Kent! They're on! Are you coming?"

"No!" Came a bark off screen. Tartt laughed and then refocused on them after Hughes gave him an elbow to the ribs.

"I'm Shane, this is Ilya," Shane gestured at him. "Ottawa Centaurs."

"Great," Hughes said then cleared his throat a few times. "Um."

"Hughes and me want to start a thing," Tartt said. Or something like that. His accent was making English far harder than usual to translate. Then Tartt called off screen. "What'd you call it, babe?"

"A coalition!" A woman's voice drifted back.

"Yeah, one of them," Tartt said. "Like a group of out queer players. Retirees too, but like as many active ones as we can get."

"That," Hughes nodded enthusiastically. "As many sports as we can get. So we can like do collective action stuff. Raise money for charities, fight hate online, things like that."

"Why did you reach out to us instead of Scott Hunter?" Shane asked.

"Because we are younger and hotter," Ilya said automatically.

"I like him," Tartt said to Hughes, then to Ilya: "I like how you think."

"I like your terrible hoodie," Ilya said. "Where do you get this? I want twelve."

"It's a-" Tartt started and Hughes clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Focus, Tartt. You were the ones we could get in contact with, so that's where we're starting," Hughes said. "So you're first. But any one you know that you think would want in, we want. Including Hunter. We don't really have a plan yet. It's more of a handful of ideas?"

"People need to see us," Tartt said, shoving Hughes hand away, a switch flipped to something like serious. "More than once a year for special pride shit or whatever."

"Agreed," said Shane. "And it'd be good to keep spreading out. Make it international."

"Yeah, you get it," Hughes nodded. "Across the world. We need a good name, but Keeley says maybe we need people first. So we're starting small. Seeing who we can get in on it."

"We are starting charity," Ilya offered. "Running a hockey camp in the summers to raise money for mental health. Maybe we can link these things?"

"Yeah!" Hughes said. "Man, I knew bringing in other people would help. We're not really planners."

"That is okay. My boyfriend is excellent at planning, he will do it," Ilya said.

"Stop volunteering me for things," Shane scolded, but his processing face was already on. "I can think of a few things we might want to consider. A few names too if we can find a way to reach out to them."

It was a very nascent plan. A list of names. A few thoughts. But Ilya could see it branching out, reaching through the world. Something bigger than them and maybe more lasting. Something truly beautiful.

The Playoffs

"I got the job," Svetlana announced as Ilya packed his bag for Santa Fe. "So now I can tell you why I want it."

"What happened to the pay and work from home? This is not enough?" Ilya asked, putting her on speaker. Shane had packed two hours ago, but he was going over his travel checklist, mostly to read it to Ilya as if he might forget his toothbrush after all these years of traveling without his help.

"Hi, Sveta," Shane said.

"Hello, beautiful man," she said. "Listen, this new job. It is for many many arenas, but it is based in Ottawa. I will not move from Boston, this is work from home part of the deal, but I will be there six, seven times a year for meetings at least. Maybe more."

"You will?" Ilya dropped his t-shirts into his bag, mostly missing. "Sveta!"

"I will," she said. "So maybe you can tell me nice place to stay? A room with a big window maybe?"

"It's your room," Shane said without hesitation. "Right, Ilyusha?"

"Yes, yes!" Ilya grinned at him. "We will make little sign. 'For Terrible Scary Woman that Bites' and that will keep out everyone else."

"Perfect," she said. "Tell Yuna too, then tell her I love her."

"Do not hit on my mother," Shane said with an eyeroll. "I don't know which one of you is worse."

"Me," Ilya said with consternation at the same time Svetlana said, "Him, obviously."

"Glad we all agree."

Detroit fell before them. New York lost to New Jersey. Ilya composed a text message to Hunter that Shane ruthlessly deleted and made him re-write twice.

Montreal lost to Tampa which was just embarrassing. Ilya composed a text message to Pike and Shane confiscated his phone before he could send it.

Ilya did not tell Shane about his conversation with Yuna last month.

"JJ is getting traded to New York," she had whispered to him while Shane and David were occupied setting up the new Roku. It was taking them a long time, but they kept insisting they were almost done so Yuna and Ilya were stuck spectating. And gossiping.

"This is good for him?" Ilya checked. "Montreal is bad, but will New York be okay?"

"I think so. Their prospects are decent for next year and he knows a few of the guys. They'll pay him what he's worth too."

"That is sad," Ilya said. "So little?"

"You're awful," Yuna said with the same light amusement she treated all of Ilya's worst chirps with. "I think he'll flourish and I wouldn't mind a reason to go there a few times a year. But I'm worried about Hayden."

"Ah," Ilya said. "This is why you tell me what you are not supposed to tell me."

"He's a free agent now. Signing back with Montreal is easiest for him in some ways. He's got a family that he doesn't want to uproot."

"Yes, but is horror show for him," Ilya concluded. "Shane says he keeps saying 'its' fine'."

"I think Hayden would say he was fine if he was actively on fire as long as his family was all right."

"He complains. A lot," Ilya muttered. But Pike didn't complain about Montreal. In fact, the few times Ilya had overheard his and Shane's conversations, Montreal was the only team they didn't discuss.

"He's a solid player and I don't think he'd be precious about moving to the second line if he could be somewhere he'd be appreciated and not fighting for his life in the locker room every day. It would give you a lot of depth of talent."

"Saying Pike is talented is too much," Ilya warned her, but it wasn't the first time he'd thought about it. "I cannot decide on my own. There are many layers over me."

"You're Ilya Rozanov. They'll listen to you."

"I will say something to Bren," he conceded and he knew as soon as he promised that, the dominoes would fall into place until he had to deal with Pike every day. Joy.

The Centaurs smacked down Pittsburgh, but not without causalities. Lapointe had a nasty concussion, Yolen was the first lost tooth of the season, and Bood returned briefly from paternity leave only to have one of his ribs busted.

They limped into the finals against Colorado, bloody and bruised. Shane fell asleep in an ice bath, fished out by a worried Yolen who smiled gap-toothed at Ilya when he praised their quick thinking.

"We're not going to make it," Bren said without much sign of upset as they presided over a last practice.

"That's not a great attitude," Ryan said, nervously cracking his knuckles.

"Not wrong though," Ilya said. "But we act like we don't know this."

"Yeah, they could pull it out. No use discouratging them," Bren agreed. "Too much left on the ice in the last few weeks. If we could've closed this in five games, we would've gotten it. But there's nothing left in the tank."

"We leaned too hard on the first line," Ryan nodded. "We need to fill out the ranks for next year."

"Not defense?" Ilya asked.

"Shut up, Roz, my guys were perfect. Yours were a mess."

"Eat a bag of dicks, Price," Ilya said merrily.

That night, curled up in bed, Shane asked, "You think we have a shot?"

"Yes," Ilya said. "Of course."

They didn't make it. They all fought the good fight, but they were ragged and tired. As they came off the ice, celebration raging behind them, Ilya checked each face, every expression, looking for danger signs.

"We're all good," Wyatt told him, last to come in. "Next year, Roz, right?"

"Next year," he confirmed.

"Hey, coach," Bood pulled him off to the side as everyone quietly changed. "I want to give up the C for next season. Give me a little time to concentrate on the kid, you know?"

"Oh. Yes," Ilya frowned. "You are sure?"

"Very. But uh, look. I'll talk to Wiebe, obviously," Bood frowned. "It's only that I don't want Hollander to think I'm taking a stab at him. But Wyatt is-"

"I know," Ilya put him out of his misery. "Talk to Wiebe. It is not stabbing. Wyatt will be good captain. You will want the A still? Maybe also one for Hollander."

"That was what I was going to say. He's great on the ice, leading practice. Making it official woudl be good," Bood visibly relaxed. "That's great. Okay. Thanks, coach."

"Thank you, Bood," Ilya said sincerely. "Go. Be captain for tonight still. They need you."

"On it."

Without discussing it, Ilya and Shane went back to the hotel after the press junket chewed them up. Ilya's hand was a wreck and he drove with it held between both of Shane's. Shane was silent, a little grim.

"I've never gotten that close before and not gotten it," Shane said as soon as the door closed behind them.

"I have," Ilya recalled. "It was almost worse than not getting to playoffs at all."

"Really?" Shane frowned.

"Like how silver medalists in Olympics are more unhappy than bronze."

"Oh, yeah. I guess that makes sense," Shane frowned. "What could we have done differently? What'd we miss?"

"This is not for tonight," Ilya said. "We think on it after we take a few days."

They went to bed, and Ilya couldn't say who was comforting who. Maybe no one was steering the ship and they were adrift. At least they weren't alone.

"Ilyusha," Shame murmured in the dark, one finger wrapping one of Ilya's curls around it over and over, "I think I can live with losing if we do it together."

"If we are together," Ilya kissed the spot where Shane's collarbones met, "then maybe this is winning too."

"Yeah," Shane said quietly. "Maybe it is."

They lay in perfect silence for about five seconds.

"This is bullshit, of course," Ilya said. "Winning is winning."

Shane let out a long held breath, "Oh, thank fuck, I thought you'd been body snatched or something."

"Can you imagine?" Ilya laughed and Shane started laughing too. "Roll over, I want to fuck."

"Yep, still you," Shane rolled on to his back and pulled Ilya with him.

It was a little hard to kiss while laughing that hard, but they managed.

Shane Hollander, Saturday, July 21

"Ha!"

"No!" Shane protested, but his phone was out of his hands and Ilya was standing over him in triumph. "You were sleeping."

"Was I?" Ilya asked, raising an eyebrow. "You think you are very sneaky."

"I'm allowed to have privacy."

"This sounds like lie. Now, I find your little Russian…owl?"

"You discovered my terrible secret," Shane heaved out a sigh. It was amazing he'd managed to keep it from Ilya this long and he'd been a little proud of himself for it. "Duolingo."

"You learn Russian from app?" Ilya asked. "This is worse than YouTube. You cheat one me with bird."

Sometimes, in his heart of hearts, Shane had to admit that his boyfriend, the love of his life, might have something fundamentally wrong with him.

There were the obvious things, of course. The things that came baked into people or were introduced through terrible traumas. Ilya's occasional episodes of crushing depression seemed to be a little of both. So far, they had weathered the small storms as they came up though Shane did wonder if he made them worse.

At Ilya's insistence when he was well, Shane strictly enforced their routines, even on Ilya's worst days. The summer had brought several of them. The lull in activity and the scattering of the team to vacation destinations near and far seemed to exacerbate things. So Shane got him up in the morning, forced him to the gym with him and tried not to feel like a monster as a shadow of Ilya's usual self followed him reluctantly, but without complaint. Sometimes Ilya came back to himself by the afternoon, but there had been a full bad week in June that had Shane thinking that maybe it would never get better.

It did. Ilya assured him it always did. That Shane had helped and not made things worse at all. He told him about the previous summer, where he'd walked around in a haze until life reasserted itself and forced him along.

"Next summer, we'll have camp," Shane said.

"That will be good," Ilya had said, still exhausted around the edges despite the too many naps he'd been taking. "Kids help. Lots of energy and need."

Which was something to consider. Not right now. But someday, maybe. Shane liked to think about someday.

In the 'something wrong' department, there was also the obvious physical things. Ilya made no bones about what he could and couldn't do now. He was direct with Shane about it, in a practical gutted way that made Shane ache for him. Their home was littered with Ilya's adaptations: the butter knife that lived on the counter for the pull tabs on Anya's dog food; the front door with it's keypad instead of a keyhole; and furniture selected for it's bigger drawer pulls. A lot of the internal doors were simply left open unless there was good reason to close them. Which was fun when Svetlana was there and Ilya went about his normal routine, leaving Shane to wake up from a nap with her walking by their bedroom door while his whole ass was out of the sheets.

That might just be Ilya being funny. It was hard to tell sometimes.

Shane had already started the process of bringing those things to the cottage. It was slow going, but he was determined that his home away from home would be a place Ilya loved to be, not matter what it took.

So yes. Body and mind, there were things wrong with Ilya. But they were things that were natural. Accounted for.

This shit was just Ilya being fucking weird. Shane had a terrible barometer for weird, but he was almost positive he was right about Ilya.

"You're jealous of cartoon owl?"

"I am jealous that you hide him from me," Ilya said, mock seriously (please let it be be mock). "For… oh. That is a lot of days."

"It's a normal amount of days. People like to keep streaks going," Shane said and tried to grab his phone back. Unfortunately, he'd been sitting in the uncomfortable hotel room chair and Ilya was standing over him. That made it all too easy for Ilya to evade him by planting a hand on his chest and pinning him down.

Shane could've fought him off, but then it would be a wrestling match and he wasn't in the mood.

"This is many, many days," Ilya said, his eyes darting as he calculated. "Four years of days?"

"Learning new languages is good for keeping your mind flexible. It's like yoga for my head," Shane sighed and stopped trying to take the phone. It was too late. "JJ was trying to learn Spanish for a bit and he got me into it."

"And you choose Russian. When we are still seeing each other sometimes."

"It was the only one that looked appealing," Shane muttered.

"And you keep going. Day after day. For years."

"So?" Shane asked, caught out and maybe a little turned on by the way Ilya had him pinned down like a butterfly.

Shane's phone arced across the room to land safely on the bed amid the sheets. Ilya planted a knee between Shane's thighs.

"I like this," Ilya said simply and leaned down until their faces were level. "You learn my language, you join my team. You come to me and I get to be lazy."

"Shut up with that," Shane said, his treacherous breathing already coming too fast. "You're not lazy."

Ilya kissed him, almost always tongue first like he was trying to dive under Shane's skin. Like he was burrowing into him. And Shane reached for him because that's exactly what he wanted.

"On your knees," Ilya murmured and Shane was already halfway there.

There was little between him and his goal, Ilya's tiny briefs were usually more of a tease than a useful piece of clothing. Shane mouthed him through them, the cloth damp with saliva and his mind already drifting pleasantly.

By the time he was face down in the sheets, Shane was flying high. His boyfriend's tongue was buried in his ass, dragging every nerve ending Shane possessed along for ride. It should probably stop feeling this good by now. Shouldn't he grow used to the way Ilya could turn him inside out and develop some kind of tolerance to how it liquefied his brain? Not so far. Maybe not ever at this rate.

"Ilyusha," he moaned, half a question and half a statement.

"Do you want something?" Ilya pulled away a little and that was terrible.

"I want you," Shane pleaded. "Fuck me, please."

"Mm, you ask so nice," Ilya nipped at the meat of his ass and Shane groaned in a mix of annoyance and pleasure. "I love when you beg. Beg me."

Sometimes, Shane wanted the push-pull, the argument of it all. Not today. Today he started begging. He didn't care how it made him sound. Ilya knew what he wanted and it only seemed to bring him in closer. Like dropping the shame between them had made room for more mutual obsession.

"Please," Shane begged. "I want you fill me up. I want you so bad."

Another nip and then Ilya's warmth pulled away for a painful handful of seconds, before he returned to pour lube over him. Ilya always used his left hand to finger him now, a little less confident than his right, but Shane had grown to love that too. The slight stutter at the beginning of things, the willingness to struggle to get where they were going.

"Okay?" Ilya leaned down to lay a kiss between Shane's shoulder blades, already teasing the head of his cock against Shane's spit and lube slicked hole.

"Always," Shane groaned. "Please, I want you."

"I have you," Ilya's breath ghosted over him. "Always, I have you."

The pressure, the burn, the immediacy of Ilya launched a barrage against any remaining walls Shane had. They fell against the relentless and tender assault to leave him raw and wanting. They moved together, temporarily a single entity, in relentless pursuit of a single goal. Sometimes Shane wanted this to last forever and sometimes, he wanted only for Ilya to take and take from him until there was nothing left, but to finish messy and hot in his own fist.

Shane's head filled with divine static, undercut with Ilya's heavy breathing and groping hands. When he grew tired of holding them both up, Ilya simply shifted them, still immensely strong. On their sides, the angle wasn't nearly as deep, but without care for his hand, Ilya could increase the pace, burying his face against Shane's neck. The scrape of his stubble and grasp of his hand on Shane's hip drove Shane wild.

The stream of Russian in his ear began. It was almost silent, the words caught under Ilya's breath, more mouthed than said. Shane now knew the shape of Ilya's fuckdrunk rambling, the praise for Shane's body, the expressions of joy at the way Shane broke apart in his hands, and 'I love you' over and over.

How could Shane have picked any other language? How could he have given up a single day of his streak? He would have missed this too and that would've been unbearable.

With a pleasure thickened tongue, most likely mangling things beyond comprehension, Shane commanded in Russian, "Fuck me harder."

It must've been clear enough because Ilya kicked into the last gear he had, the punishing one that Shane could feel in his chest. He moaned in a constant stream until he came with Ilya's name forming on his lips.

"Perfect," Ilya said and Shane wasn't sure what language it was in, only that he understood it. "So beautiful and perfect for me."

It hurt a little to keep going like this past his own orgasm and Shane lived for it. The way Ilya never went easy on him, never slowed, but also kissed him like he would die if he didn't until he was grinding to a finish, pulling Shane closer to him at every point.

Then that powerful body was limp and quiet, a heavy arm over Shane's chest still holding him close. Shane cooled down slowly, tracing his fingertips over Ilya's forearm.

"What happened to my phone?" he asked idly.

"It is sticking me in the thigh," Ilya muttered.

"Wonderful," Shane groaned. "You couldn't have moved it first?"

"No, moy sólnyshka, I was very busy turning you into jelly."

"Fuck, fine. How much time before we have to get ready?"

"Hours and hours," Ilya murmured, kissing his shoulder. "Unless you still want to have lunch with Bennett and Kyle. We can skip, who cares?"

"We said we would," Shane said. "We have to."

"This is not how things work," Ilya grumbled, but he did shift a little. "We should get up if we are going."

It turned out to be a good thing they went. Shane had no particular attachment to Eric Bennet or his boyfriend, but Ryan and Fabian showed up too. The six of them made for a pleasant, if eclectic lunch party. Fabian was delighted by Kyle, the two of them flirting outrageously.

"That doesn't bother you?" Shane asked as Fabian gave Kyle an extravagant compliment.

"The world loves him, I can't get hung up on one guy," Ryan said with a shrug. "Anyway, he always comes home to me."

"You hear that," Shane said to Ilya. "Do you hear how that sounds? Normal. Sane. No one is jealous of a cartoon bird."

"You do not want normal and sane," Ilya said without even looking at him, focused on whatever he and Ryan had been talking about. "You are not these things."

"You call me boring all the time," Shane reminded him.

"Because you are. But you are boring and not normal and not sane. It's okay. I love you like this."

Shane clenched his teeth and Kyle shot him an amused look. "Hey, man, you chose him. Literally no one made you do that. I think actually, they made a whole six year marketing campaign about it."

"I am aware," Shane gritted out. Then Ilya's hand was on his neck, giving one quick squeeze before dropping to rest on the back of Shane's chair again. Any actual irritation melted away with his touch. "Okay. Maybe I'm not sane."

"You're very sane," Ryan assured him. "I'm pretty sure. I don't know. I don't think I should be the arbiter of that, actually. Eric?"

"I'm not involved in this conversation," Eric said, which was interesting because up until Shane's question he had been very involved. "I don't care what you two are doing as long as you keep it in Canada most of the time."

"We are improvement on your country's general awfulness," Ilya said. "A blessing from above."

"Uh huh," Eric said. "Can we go back to talking about charity hockey camp? That seemed safer."

At the very least, it was something Shane wanted to talk about. They were still building out the scaffolding of a plan, messaging with Hughes and Tartt (an unfortunate amount of memes and emojis were involved that frequently left Shane and Ilya equally confused), and consulting with Mom for project planning purposes.

"Hey, fellas, I know most of you guys are only putting on suits, but some of us have eyeliner to start applying," Fabian cut in. Hours must have passed, Shane realized, the amount of glassware on the table troubling. "C'mon, babe, I need your help with my dress too."

"Sure thing," Ryan pushed up with a few clicks and clatters, stretching until something popped. It was mildly alarming, but he seemed at ease as he offered his arm to Fabian, who took it with no apparent concern.

"I want to go look pretty too," Kyle declared.

"You don't need any time for that," Eric said softly.

"Babe," Kyle beamed at him. "You're so sweet."

It was very sweet. It also made Shane's teeth itch a little. He got to his feet wordlessly, and Ilya rose too.

"See you later," Ilya said for both of them and strode away like it was his idea to get up in the first place.

"I was being weird," Shane determined when they got into the elevator.

"When?" Ilya asked.

"The flirting stuff. I shouldn't have asked, right?"

"Mm," Ilya considered it, then shrugged. "Ryan doesn't mind, I think it is okay. Who else can you ask?"

"The whole thing, just sitting there with a bunch of guys, knowing they're all comfortable with who they are…I don't know."

The elevator stopped and they walked to their room quietly, some habits were harder to break than others. Inside, Ilya went to the closet to pull out their garment bag, laying it carefully on the bed.

"I think it was weird too," he said as he unzipped it. "But good. I am not some picture in a magazine to those assholes. Only another guy who has a boyfriend. It's okay to talk, to ask."

"Talk about what?" Shane asked, watching Ilya hungrily. Not for sex right now. Though always that a little too. Hungry for his existence, for how he moved through the world.

"You ask Ryan about flirting, I talk to Barrett a little about the things people say online about him. How people assume things. I don't know. Not everything is big. Sometimes it is little things like knowing no one there cares if I touch your neck or call you beautiful."

"I guess tonight will be like that too," Shane said.

"Probably, yes," Ilya smiled at him and pulled their suits out. "You want bathroom first?"

"Yeah, thanks," Shane took his suit and hung it on the back of the door.

With care Shane brushed his teeth, then took his time with his hair. He didn't have any eyeliner to put on. Had Ilya ever worn makeup? It didn't seem impossible. What would that look like? It was definitely a nicer thought than spiraling out about asking the wrong question at lunch.

Getting everything else in place, Shane reached for his suit. He'd hoped it would be black tie, if only so he had a reason to see Ilya in a tuxedo again. It had been awhile and not one of their better outfits as far as memories went. Shane wouldn't mind overwriting some of those nights with new ones.

But the invitation had said formal, so regular suits it was. At least Shane had plenty to choose from these days and he'd gone with the slate gray and it's soft blue shirt, the tie pinstriped silver and blue. It wasn't lost on him that Ilya liked him in blue. He never asked Shane to wear it, but whenever Shane asked him to pick something for him, it almost always had some blue.

It was funny. Ilya came off as so demanding. He loved to order Shane around. At work, he was a titan. A pillar in black on the sidelines, watching with such close assessment that it was like a physical touch. When he said jump, the whole team jumped.

Yet, he asked for so little really. Sure, he asked for sex all time, but he knew Shane would give that to him and wanted it just as much, if not more sometimes. More reluctantly at first, but with increasing surety now, Ilya sometimes asked for more of Shane's time. That was about it. And if Shane said no to anything with any real seriousness, Ilya accepted it and stopped asking.

So Shane could wear blue and learn Russian. He could buy caffeine free coke and tie skates. He could love this impossibly wrong man with his own impossibly wrong heart that had never wanted anyone else.

It was possible that Shane was getting a little in his own head about a shirt. What else was new?

"Done," Shane said, stepping out.

"Let me see," Ilya said, turning to face him.

It was not a suit Shane had seen before. It was devastatingly good. Black with white pinstripes, tailored to show off broad shoulders, a trim waist and everything in between. How did Ilya make every piece of clothing look good? It was deeply unfair.

Except that Ilya was giving Shane a slow perusal too, so maybe not too unfair.

"You are being very rude," Ilya said. "Looking better than the happy couple."

"Then you're being rude too," Shane said.

"I am not even done," Ilya preened and held out his tie. "Would you?"

"Yeah, of course."

Shane plucked the silky length from Ilya's hand. It was a surprisingly plain affair. A solid light blue. The same exact shade as Shane's shirt.

"Ilyusha," Shane smiled at him and looped the fabric around his neck.

"What?" Ilya grinned back. "You like to strangle me with this? Because I tease you at lunch?"

"If that made me want to strangle you, you'd be dead a thousand times over," Shane said, settling the tie in place. "How did you know what I was going to wear?"

"I watch you pack," Ilya said, staying still as Shane tried to reverse familiar steps in his mind to tie a tie backwards. "It was luck that I had this."

"Just luck, huh?"

Ilya's eyes went wide and innocent. It was one of the few looks he couldn't carry off convincingly, but it was cute when he tried. "What do you accuse me of?"

"Listening to me and being nice about my hang ups. I know, awful. You're a monster."

"It is not only yours. I want people to see us together and know too. That we are a match," Ilya said firmly. "Especially tonight."

"Yeah. Me too." Drawing up the knot and settling it, Shane smoothed down the tie over Ilya's chest. "I like this."

Ilya captured his hand and kissed his fingertips. "You like this tie."

"I like this tie on you."

"I would like it on you too," Ilya said, the suggestion of sex sliding into his voice. "Maybe around your wrists later."

"Maybe." Shane's maybes were always yeses, the same way Ilya's were almost always nos. "Do not make me hard right now. We have to go be fucking normal people at a normal wedding."

"What is a normal gay wedding?" Ilya asked.

"Why would I know?"

They stared at each other.

"Do you think," Ilya said slowly as if it was a slow dawning revelation, "that we are bad at being gay?"

"We're uneducated about being gay," Shane corrected. "We're pretty good at parts of it. And you're not gay."

"A little gay to fuck you every day," Ilya said untroubled. "Ready?"

"Yeah, I guess. Do you think gay weddings do all the traditional stuff?"

Ilya held the door open for Shane, waiting for him to pass. It was annoying and hot and appreciated and detested. So. Normal. For them.

"Why? You want to throw rice? I think that is bad for birds. Do you want to kill birds, Hollander?"

"That's my new weekend hobby," Shane rolled his eyes. "I mean like tossing the bouquet and everything."

"Seems complicated. Who has bouquet to begin with? Then who throws it and to who? Better to not," Ilya said. "But it is Hunter and Grady. Maybe they will. They would like traditional things."

"Yeah, I think so too," Shane mused.

There was a box at home. Small. Black. Unpleasantly fuzzy for some reason. It was too early for it. Even if they were living together, Shane's lease officially over in two weeks, they'd really only been together for less than half a year. Or six and a half years. Or a handful of stolen days and six months. Or maybe it was nine years, the break in the middle simply a continuation of their many other silent periods. Trying to account for it made his head spin.

The thing was, Shane was almost certain that he'd seen that box's twin tucked away in a sock that had been shoved to the back of a drawer. He hadn't been snooping. These things happened.

"What?" Ilya demanded, pressing the button for the elevator. "You are thinking too hard."

"I want to make a bet with you."

That got Ilya's full attention. "What bet?"

"If they do the bouquet toss and we're told to be a part of it," Shane emphasized the later half. Ilya was great at inviting himself to things he wasn't supposed to be at. "Then whoever catches it wins."

"And what is the prize?" Ilya eyed him closely.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open.

"Whoever wins gets to be the one that proposes," Shane said and stepped inside.

For a brief moment, he thought he'd have to reach out to stop the doors because Ilya stood on the other side stunned.

"This will be me," Ilya said, scandalized, charging out at the last second. "Hollander, you cannot have every big moment! You already do too much. Give me my turn."

"You existing is your turn," Shane said. "Give me mine."

"Fine," Ilya said searching his face. "I take the bet."

"Great, can't wait to-" Shane realized something and said very sharply, "Not at the wedding. That's definitely not okay."

"I would never do this," Ilya huffed. "They get no credit for us. If we get engaged tonight, then forever it is Hunter saying 'oh, they did it at my wedding'. Absolutely not."

"I think he'd be more offended than flattered." Shane watched the consideration. "Ilyusha, no."

"I know, I know, I would not," Ilya waved that away.

The doors opened and it was suddenly far too crowded to keep talking that way.

Weddings were awkward. Shane had always thought so. So much small talk and no direction for it to go in except how you knew the couple and weren't they so happy. Speculation and gossip in a different suit. This one was nice to look at though. Everything was restrained despite the high price point, minimal, but lovely flowers, and gold ribbon lacing through white chairs.

It helped that Shane could stand next to Ilya as the music started playing. They had reached an odd tipping point now where they weren't trying to hide, but there hadn't been anything announced publicly either. They could sit together, knees touching, and make no comment about it either way.

The ceremony was nice, Shane supposed. They certainly said nice things to each other and both got a little choked up. There was no entourage of grooms and bridesmaids, only Carter Vaughn next to Scott more teary eyed than the grooms and a beautiful woman next to Kip, who surveyed the entire event with a regal calm.

There was a kiss and applause. Then they all poured into a room for tiny foods and the first drink of the night.

"What do you want?" Ilya asked Shane. "Soda or liquor?"

"Soda for now," Shane said. "Is that Barrett? I didn't know he was coming."

"Hunter invited him," Ilya shrugged.

"Why didn't he come to lunch?"

"He took a late flight. Someone had apple farm things to do."

"I'm going to go say hi."

"Okay, I will bring you drinks."

As soon as Shane got close enough, Harris zeroed in on him and gave him a broad smile, "Hollander! Wasn't that sweetest ceremony?"

"Yeah, really moving," Shane said.

"I was telling Troy that my sister got married in the orchard. I thought she was nuts, but it turned out nice. Lots of fairy lights in the trees."

"That would look good," Barrett said. "White or colors?"

"White. It's a wedding, you know?" Harris' put a lot of fondness in it as if Barrett had asked a very smart question. Then he turned his attention back to Shane. "How are you doing with the hockey withdrawal?"

"I'm all right. Still hitting the gym every day."

"Troy does that too. Very admirable. I could never. And you're reading hockey books? You have to get a stockpile going. People love your reviews."

"I don't know why," Shane sighed. "I never know what to say."

"People appreciate you being honest about your passions," Harris said. "They talk about the books in the comments."

"No, they don't. It's all thirst comments, don't lie to him," Barrett said with half a grin. "Sorry, Hollander, but it's true. Harris thinks it'll upset you or something that people think you're hot."

"I didn't say that," Harris groaned. "But yes. It is a lot of thirst comments. People think it's hot that you're a hockey guy that reads books."

"The bar is in hell," Shane said and that sent both Barrett and Harris off laughing which was nice.

"You are being funny without me?" Ilya asked, brandishing a glass of ginger ale in Shane's direction. "Harris, I am so sorry you have to settle for worse date. Barrett will be terrible wingman."

"Why would I wingman him? I am his wing. Person. Thing," Barrett stumbled through that so poorly that even Harris looked a little sad for him. "Boyfriend."

"There we go," Ilya said. "Good work."

"How are you worse in the off season?" Barrett asked him. "Hollander?"

"Don't look at me, I get the same shit every day regardless" Shane said. "He's just not being paid to deal with you right now."

"This is true," Ilya said, taking a sip of something clear. Could be water. Could be pure vodka. Hard to know until Shane smelled it on his breath. Ilya never looked drunk until it was far far too late. "But you make a better boyfriend for Harris than I would, so all is well, maybe."

"Oh," Barrett blinked rapidly. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome," Ilya said with beatific smile. "Shane, you want tiny hotdogs?"

"Yes, please."

"I will get."

Then he was off again. That was probably going to be most of the night. Too many shiny things to catch Ilya's attention and Shane left behind with whatever social bomb Ilya had detonated before leaving.

"You guys are cute," Harris declared.

"Don't say that," Barrett winced. "They don't want us to think they're cute."

"Who said that?" Shane asked, taking a sip of ginger ale. Wrong brand, but it would do.

"Just…the vibe?" Barrett said vaguely.

Shane had no idea if he wanted people to think they were cute together. Worrying about what other people thought of them had ruined years they could've had. Then again, they wanted people to know now and think things about them. And being cute wasn't the worst thing in the world. A little emasculating maybe. But they thought he was hot in the comments. He really had to actually read those at some point.

"If you broke him, Rozanov is going to go ballistic," Harris stage whispered to Barrett.

"Sorry?" Barrett floated.

"It's fine," Shane decided. "Think whatever you want, Harris. It's fine."

"That's the spirit!" Harris grinned at him.

Ilya returned with a small plate that he held out to Shane to pick over. They shared the food while Ilya got Harris to tell Shane the story about the skunk in his sister's car on her first date with her husband. It was a good story and halfway through, Shane realized he didn't actually have to mingle. This was only tangentially a work event. He was here as a friend to the grooms and he could talk or not talk as much as he wanted.

Thus freed, he let Ilya take over socializing for awhile, pleased when the predicted cutting and running didn't occur. Instead, Ilya got an arm around him and led him to wherever his attention got caught. It wasn't so bad to follow along in his wake, occasionally introduced, but mostly saying hello to people that he actually knew and at least tolerated. The hour went quickly and then they funneled into the reception hall which threw all previous tasteful restraint rather forcefully out the window.

"What the fuck," Ilya said under his breath.

"Do you think there are any roses left in the entire city?" Shane asked him.

"No. Maybe none in the state."

The entire ceiling was a full of clouds made of white roses. In the center of the dance floor the unrelenting fluffy whiteness was disrupted by a gigantic glass sculpture of the sun. Each table boasted ridiculously large center pieces with still more white roses and a few other flowers that Shane couldn't idenitfy. The band, already playing, had to be at least twelve pieces and there were two singers, a man and a woman in matching shiny black cat suits, singing something low and sultry to welcome everyone in.

"Isn't it something?" Kyle stepped in next to Ilya, surveying things. "Scott's Pintrest board was off the charts. Kip couldn't whisper about something he might want three states away without Scott hearing, taking it to heart and finding him five different options for it. Kind of romantic."

"It's terrifying," Shane said.

"That too," Kyle nodded. "But Kip never lets Scott spend money on him, so I think maybe he lost his mind a little when he was allowed to go ham."

"Yeah, you think?" Shane took his seat next to Ilya. "We're not doing any of this."

"Oh no," Ilya said so sarcastically that it almost looped to sincere again. "My hopes and my dreams. Broken."

They were barely through with that banter when one of the singers announced, "Friends and family, let's stand to give a warm first welcome Scott and Kip Hunter!"

"Kip took his name?" Shane whispered to Ilya. "Did you know that?"

"Why would I know this?" Ilya applauded along with everyone else. "We cannot do this. I cannot yell my own name across the ice."

"Who says I'd take yours? You don't want to be a Hollander?" Shane snorted.

Ilya gave him a sidelong look as Scott and Kip waved to everyone like they were being papped. "Of course, I do. Not in name, but everything else, yes."

"Oh," Shane blinked. "I mean- oh."

"Process," Ilya said, not without warmth. "But you already knew this."

"I didn't," Shane said.

Or maybe he had. Ilya liked Shane's parents. He was never upset about how much time Shane wanted to spend with them even though Shane had spent years hearing other guys complain about any amount of time with their in-laws.

Under the ridiculous glass sculpture, Scott and Kip took up their spots and the singers launched into a song that Shane was fairly sure was Frank Sinatra. He was not going to ask anyone and deal with the usual chirps about his lack of musical education. Instead, he watched, a little impressed as Scott spun Kip out and back in, then dipped him into a kiss. It was all very smooth and coordinated.

Everyone applauded them lightly when they came back up for air.

"They definitely took lessons," Fabian whispered to Ryan, but his whispers were loud.

"People do that?" Shane asked, bemused. "For one dance?"

"Some people," Ilya said amused. "Who are not very good dancers might do this. If they have to dance in front of many people. Do not worry, I will teach you."

It would be nice to defend himself, but Shane had never thought much about dancing and preferred to avoid it all costs.

"You can't do that," Shane gestured at the dance floor, as Scott and Kip pulled off a few more flourishes.

"I can't?" Ilya set his chin on Shane's shoulder and whispered in his ear, "You do not know all my talents yet."

Shane planted his hand on Ilya's face and pushed him off. "Stop that."

Maybe Ilya would've pressed his luck, but the dance ended and Scott was given the mic.

"We can't thank you enough for coming tonight," he said. "I know a lot of you traveled from far and wide and it means a lot to us that you'd do that to be here. We talked a lot about traditions leading up to this and we've done away with a lot of them. Some for obvious reasons and some for more personal ones. But we were ordered from powers higher than ourselves to do some kind of bouquet toss on penalty of a slapping."

"Damn right!" Kip's best woman called out.

"But after that, I promise we'll cut right to the food, the booze, and the dancing. So thank you from the bottom of our hearts. You want to say anything, babe?"

Kip took the mic, surveyed the crowd and said sternly, "If anyone gets a black eye over this, we don't want to hear about it."

"They know us," Ilya said fondly.

"Elena?" Scott called and Kip's best woman tossed her bouquet to him. He snatched it out of the air.

"All right, all you hopefuls, regardless of gender, let's get it together in an orderly fashion," Kip said. "No pushing, no shoving, for the love of god, no chirping. Nice and civil."

Shane managed to stay fairly close to Ilya despite the throng. Maybe this Elena enjoyed blood sports because it seemed like half the attendees were interested in this little ritual and many of them were professional athletes or rabid Manhattan women, who had cut their teeth on crowded subways.

"You know," Kyle said seemingly to thin air. "I have regrets about backing her on this one."

"Maybe you should sit it out," Shane suggested. Kyle did not look up to the competition even a little.

"Oh, I'm not trying to catch it," Kyle waggled his phone at him. "I'm on the ground reporting."

That seemed ominous, but Shane didn't have time to focus on it. He was watching Kip and Scott have a playful tussle over the bouquet until Kip very firmly pushed it towards Scott's chest.

"All right," Scott said, turning his back on the crowd with a distinct air of fear. "Count of three! One, two, three!"

They made the lunge at the same time. There was no reason that Shane couldn't have been to one to get it. The trajectory went right for him. And if not him, it should've been Ilya, who had a better sight line. Right when they both reached for it though, they both bounced off a broad back.

Nine years of playing the part of a brick wall had given Ryan all the experience he needed for this moment. That and being six inches taller than both of them. He caught it without even making an effort. His hand went up and he plucked it right out of air. Shane and Ilya's collision with him didn't even make him blink. Instead, he took his prize, walked off the floor to Fabian, plucked one of the roses out of the bouquet and pulled what must've been a bobby pin out of his pocket. Fabian titled his face up in delight as Ryan secured the rose over one ear and pinned it into place, before kissing him.

"What is back up plan for this?" Ilya asked. The look he was giving Ryan's back was not resentful, but soft all over. "We fistfight for it?"

"No," Shane said. "We'll figure something else out. You good?"

"Years ago, I talked to a very sad man on a very sad day. We were a pair that way," Ilya turned to Shane with a half-smile. "A man I knew a little bit and liked very much. Now it is a happy day and we are a pair in being happy. I'm very good, Hollander. Maybe even excellent."

The music started up again, an invitation to dance. Couples all around them took the floor. It was still mostly straight couples, but there were more queer couples than Shane had ever seen in one place before. In the center of them all, Kip and Scott were dancing again, less showy now, but no less entangled with each other.

Shane watched from the side for a long moment, then he turned to Ilya, who already had his hand extended to him.

"I suck at it."

"Good. One thing I can be better at than Shane Hollander that he will admit to," Ilya scoffed. "No one here cares."

"I don't want to look ridiculous."

"You will not. I step forward, you step back, but bring me with you. You know how to do this already. We dance all the time."

Shane smiled despite himself. "We do?"

"Oh, yes," Ilya said. "I will show you. Come here."

Taking Ilya's hand felt natural as breathing these days. There had been years where even imagining it had filled Shane with a sickly concoction of desire and fear. When they had still been seeing each other, it was the sure knowledge that the world would turn on them for it. When they'd been apart, it was the certainty that he would never touch Ilya Rozanov again. One fear had won over the other in the end.

Shane would choose Ilya over the world, any time.

Ilya led him to a free spot on the dance floor, far away from the center of things. His other hand slid around Shane to rest at the small of his back.

"Put your hand on my shoulder," Ilya commanded.

Shane did. It brought them close together. Close enough that Shane could see every tiny detail of Ilya's face that he adored. The mole, the small traces of long gone acne, the spot in his left eyebrow that wasn't totally filled with hair, and the familiar terrain of his lips, down to the almost invisible scar from some long ago punch, lost to time and memory. All the small things that made up Shane's favorite face.

"Like this," Ilya took a step forward with his right foot and Shane took one back with his left instinctively. "Yes, perfect. Again."

Step by step, they moved in a slow circle together. Shane had no idea what song was playing, only grateful that it was syrupy slow. It let him study Ilya's face and keep track of his feet. Anyone looking would be able to read him, he was sure of it. To know his every thought was of the man in his arms.

"Ilyusha."

"Shane," Ilya murmured. "We are dancing. No talking needed."

"A little talking," Shane insisted.

"Yes, fine. A little talking. What?"

"Ya lyublyu tebya. I love you. Je 'taime."

"You have to add a third to show off," Ilya chided, but he was smiling, the tiny scar stretches a little with his perfect crooked grin. "I love you too. Do weddings always make you like this?"

"No," Shane said. "Honestly? I kind of hate them."

"We can skip it then. Sign some paperwork and run away to a beautiful island. Forget everyone else for a week or two."

"We can do that at the cottage," Shane said.

"You want to honeymoon at the cottage?" Ilya considered that, still moving them around the floor with perfect time.

"We could have Anya with us. We can't take her to a tropical island," Shane said.

"Low," Ilya laughed. "But yes. We can do this. I would like that. So no wedding."

"Maybe a little one," Shane conceded, and ticked his eyes up to Ilya's for a moment. "Something much smaller than this."

"I would never do this to you," Ilya said emphatically. "You will be comfortable at our wedding. So will I. Your parents. Sveta. Some of the team. Only people you like."

"What about people you like?" Shane asked.

"Eh. I don't like any of them as much as I like you," Ilya spun them a little, the room shimmering in a blur of white and gold. "So. In this deal, I propose."

"I didn't agree to that," Shane said, his heart pounding a little harder in his chest. "I have a plan."

"So do I," Ilya said. "Mine is better."

"You don't even know what mine is!"

"You can tell me after I do mine."

"For fuck's sake," Shane groaned and dropped his forehead to Ilya's chest. Somehow they kept dancing, caught in the movement now. "Is this going to be the rest of our lives?"

"I hope so," Ilya said, bringing their joined hands to his lips and kissing each of Shane's knuckles. "Don't you?"

Shane picked up his head and kissed him. Ilya kissed him back.

"Yeah," Shane said between their barely parted lips. "I really do and that's why I'm going to propose."

"Of course," Ilya mocked. "I will definitely let this happen."

"You're going to run if you think I'm about to propose, aren't you?"

"And I am very fast. You will have to catch me. Best of luck," Ilya sing-songed.

"Challenge accepted," Shane said and as they moved through the other dancers, becoming part of the crowd, he started planning.

Shane was very good at many things, but he was unarguably the best at chasing down Ilya Rozanov. And the best at getting caught by him. Maybe it wasn't a chase at all. Maybe it was a beautiful endless dance.

Or maybe it was both.

After all, two things could be true.

Either way, Shane got to hold Ilya close and move with him from here on out, spinning together under the sun.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for coming with me on this journey! It's been so overwhelming to see the response this story has gotten and I'm so grateful to every single one of you.

You'll notice this is now part of a series. I intend on writing a few 'missing' scenes that didn't fit within the main plot and maybe a few fun things that might come after.

You can find me here in the comments and also on Tumblr as dragonmuse. 

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