Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Same Team Au, Pre tuna-melt, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-11 Updated: 2026-03-12 Words: 36,510 Chapters: 17/40

Boston Boys

Summary

When the unsentimental financial imperative of the NHL sees Shane traded to the Boston Raiders, he and Ilya are thrown into closer extended proximity than ever before. As they adjust to life as teammates, they are forced to contend with the nature of their relationship -and must answer for themselves: is it even a relationship at all?
____

Sliding down the wall, Shane hunched over his untied sneakers, shoved on hastily when Coach had called him in for a meeting after morning skate.

“Boston wanted you specifically. I’ve already spoken to their GM. You’re flying this evening or tomorrow morning: I’ll confirm once the paperwork clears.”

“Mom,” Shane managed.

“Oh sweetie. I know, okay. Those fuckers, how dare they do this! Two fucking cups! Now all of a sudden they decide they want a reset and you’re going to fund it.”

Shane put his head between his knees and tried to breathe. God, Boston. They hated him there; it was so far away; he was fucking their captain.

Notes

I'm still writing my other HR fic! This idea just took hold of me and wouldn't let go at least until I had the first chapter down.
Summary and beta by my partner in fandom related crimes IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou
Set in January 2016, I've shaved a few years off how long the NHL requires before a player becomes a free agent

Chapter 1

Shane staggered out of the meeting into an empty corridor, sweat sticky and uncomfortable at his back, already answering his phone.

“Mom.”

“Okay, listen honey. The trade is completed so there’s no appeal process here. So we’re not talking about whether it happens, we’re talking about what happens next.”

Sliding down the wall, he hunched over his untied sneakers, shoved on hastily when Coach had called him in for a meeting after morning skate.

“Boston wanted you specifically. I’ve already spoken to their GM. You’re flying this evening or tomorrow morning: I’ll confirm once the paperwork clears.”

“Mom,” Shane said again.

“Oh sweetie. I know, okay. Those fuckers, how dare they do this! Two fucking cups! Now all of a sudden they decide they want a reset and you’re going to fund it.”

Shane put his head between his knees and tried to breathe. God, Boston. They hated him there; it was so far away; he was fucking their captain.

“Shane? Baby? Can you hear me? I need you to breathe, okay? With me, one, two, three, four. That’s it. Come on.”

He was hot, burning up. It was hard to breathe over the tightness in his throat. There was a terrible pressure just behind his eyes, like he’d taken a hit to the bridge of his nose. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. He’d been following instructions since he was five years old.

“Shane?” It was Mike. Mike who’d been Assistant Coach when he’d been a rookie, now Head Coach for the last three years. He’d continue on, it was only Shane who they’d decided to cut away, like a dead root in winter. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Shane made himself stand. “Let’s talk later, Mom,” he said with as much steadiness as he could manage.

“Two cups,” she told him. “Walk out with your head high.”

He cut the call and looked at Mike, tucking away everything he felt behind the expression he wore when he was facing the media after a bad loss.

“Let’s get you to your car, okay?” Mike said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Mohammed has gone to get your stuff.”

He wasn’t even going to get to speak to his team. It wasn’t his team, that was why: not anymore. He wasn’t covered by the Metros’ insurance—the best thing they could do was get him off the property as fast as possible.

The side exit Mike led him to was one he’d never seen before. Why would he have? He’d always come in and out of the front entrance, security greeting him by name each time. Lauren had been on shift this morning: she’d shown him a picture of her new kitten.

He was supposed to go to the new smoothie place downtown with Hayden that afternoon. Hayden had been so proud when he’d shown Shane the place on Google: he’d even rang them and it sounded like he’d put the management through some pretty intense questioning to make sure they sold something that Shane could drink.

God, he hoped they gave him the captaincy.

Mike shook his hand when they reached his car. He’d done the same after the GM had broken the news, his face grainy on a bad connection from head office. Shane got in and hesitated, his hand on the ignition—he’d left his favourite water bottle in his cubby. He started the car and drove out of the parking lot, merging into midmorning traffic.

It was a two-hour drive from Ottawa to his Montreal apartment, longer at rush hour. So basically, he was on his own for packing—his dad would have come if he’d known. He was getting his big suitcases out of the den when his mom rang again, her picture crowding out a multitude of notifications.

She dived straight into logistics, which he listened to while checking all the zips and locks were working.

“Your flight is at 6pm and someone from player services will pick you up. Rozanov offered for you to stay at his house, if you can believe it, but—”

“Yes,” Shane interrupted.

“...You’re okay with staying with Rozanov. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I need to fit in with the team: I can’t be saying no to offers like this.”

“Well, if you’re sure, honey.”

“I am.”

“Okay, let me go give Joanna a call back. You just keep packing and call your dad if you need anything.”

The group chat was lighting up and his own messages were buzzing away. Hayden’s name flashed, the phone dancing across the table as it rang. Shane left it where it was, going into his bedroom, the suitcases banging awkwardly against the door frame.

Clothes were first, underwear after that. He went through his laundry and bundled anything he needed into a plastic bag he fished out from under the sink. His laptop, iPod, and chargers went into his backpack. He remembered his dildo with a jerk of horror—the cleaner, his mom could have found it—and shoved it in a sock, along with a half-full bottle of lube.

Back in the kitchen, he stared at his blender for a few minutes before unplugging it and wrapping it in a heavy sweatshirt. His kitchen scales fit as well, along with an unopened pack of freeze dried kale and some spirulina. Rozanov probably didn’t have spirulina in his apartment.

Fuck, he was going to have to have someone come clean out his fridge. All that wasted food. He’d just bought a new grill. He was going to have to sell his apartment. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he scrolled through his messages, ignoring everything to open Lily.

There was a text from about the same time as Shane had been finding out he wasn’t a Montreal Metro anymore: I didn’t know

Then, a few minutes later: You can stay with me

The last was from about five minutes ago: Late game, help yourself to anything. Aija will pick you up: she’s from Latvia so ask her about song and dance festival. You won’t have to talk for whole journey.

It was probably the longest text he'd had from Rozanov that didn't include any mention of sex.

Okay, he sent back, then added, thanks

His mom’s picture popped up, along with a time for the car that was coming to pick him up to take him to the airport. Trudeau airport was big enough that there was almost no chance of reporters catching him. He had another hour to kill so he went through the fridge and freezer, double bagging everything so it wouldn’t smell. The trashcan needed a clean so he did that as well, leaving it to drip-dry in the shower, writing a note so the cleaning service would know where to find it.

For the last fifteen minutes he wandered through the apartment, unplugging everything and then just touching furniture and pictures. He’d been moving around for hockey since he was sixteen, he should be taking this hit the same as he’d taken all the others.

When his phone buzzed with a message to say his ride was there, he was already standing in the entrance way, all the shades drawn against the weak winter light.

Aija had put her name on the sign rather than Shane’s, which was smart. She was also very proud of Latvia’s song festival, which actually did sound pretty cool. When they arrived she insisted on helping him with his suitcases, but left him alone to figure out the locks, Rozanov’s spare keys cold in his hand.

The house was massive and much warmer than outside, though that wasn’t hard when talking about Boston in January. Taking his shoes off, he wandered through the house in socks, his feet cooling on the hardwood floor. It was a beautiful house, all open plan with big windows overlooking a landscaped garden. It wasn’t a million miles away from the cottage he was having built in Ottawa, but a darker cousin, all deep grays and blues with modern art on the walls. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, though he didn’t go beyond the doorways, even when he was sure he could guess which one was Rozanov’s. He went back downstairs and stared at his two suitcases, sitting ready in the entranceway. Was he supposed to unpack? He wouldn’t be skating tomorrow, even if he’d probably have to go to morning skate.

He went back into the main room and sat down in the corner of one of the massive black leather sofas. His phone was mostly quiet now: the team having given up on contacting him. He sent a text to the group chat he had with his parents and then managed about three minutes of Twitter before he started to feel the familiar creep of panic set in. He turned his phone face down and took two deep breaths before opening up Google and going directly to the team's websites.

The Montreal Metros have completed a trade with the Boston Raiders, sending forward Shane Hollander to Boston in exchange for six early round draft picks.

Shane has been an integral part of our organisation and played a key role in our recent success. We thank him for his contributions on and off the ice and wish him and his family the best in the next chapter of his career.

It was so bland it was actually almost comforting. Like reading the back of a cereal packet.

The Boston Raiders have acquired center Shane Hollander from the Montreal Metros.

Shane is an elite player with a proven track record, and we are excited to add him to our group. We look forward to welcoming him to Boston.

Acquired. God, he could almost forget he was the equivalent of a show horse when he was grinding away the corners with his whole team behind him.

It was already 11pm. Rozanov could be home anytime, but likely not for at least a half an hour: he was sure there would be a scrum of reporters waiting for him after the game. He could be grateful that no-one would be letting him anywhere near the media for the next few days at least. He scrolled through his contacts and hit Hayden.

“Shit, Shane! Are you okay? Are you in Boston?”

Shane took a shaking breath, but couldn’t seem to get any words out.

“Shane?”

He didn’t know what sound he made, but something must have gotten through the hundreds of kilometers between them.

“Shit, buddy. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Putting his hand over his mouth didn’t seem to help: he could feel ugly noises breaking free. He curled forward, phone still pressed to his ear. He didn’t even have it in him to startle when a familiar hand curled over the back of his neck, taking the phone away from him.

“It’s okay,” Rozanov said. “I have him.”

He couldn’t hear what Hayden said in reply, but Rozanov snorted. “He's my teammate now, and we look after our own.”

Shane went where he was directed, tucked against Rozanov’s side, his head on his shoulder. He wasn’t even crying, just dry sobs that shook him even as he tried to claw back control.

“Shhh,” Rozanov comforted, murmuring in Russian against his hair. He rubbed circles on his back, warming Shane when he hadn’t even realised he was cold.

He should be counting his breaths, listening for sounds in the room, working through any of the hundred or so grounding techniques he’d read about over the years. What use was it though? He hadn’t been good enough for the Metros and he wouldn’t be good enough now. No matter how fast he was, he’d always be chasing the Shane Hollander that everyone seemed to want. Someone who was calmer, who had his fucking shit together.

That was the thought that shook him out of his self-pity spiral and he was able to quiet down finally, painfully aware that he was now cuddling with Rozanov. His captain.

“Fuck, I’m—”

Rozanov made a deep sound of disgust. “No Canadian apologies, please. You only just arrive and already with the apologies.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh. “Still an asshole.”

Rozanov kissed his hair again. “Always.”

He smelt so familiar, felt so familiar against him. Six years of fooling around once in a while had built up muscle memory and he splayed one hand flat on Rozanov’s chest, as if they were coming down from the high of sex instead of whatever the fuck they were doing right now.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, not even sure which part of this shitshow he was referring to.

He looked up when Rozanov didn’t answer to find him looking back with a soft smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

“Play hockey.”

Chapter 2

Shane was in the kitchen by 06:45 am, texting Hayden and then his parents one-handed while he drank his smoothie. Rozanov did have a blender, actually, but he’d been right about the spirulina. He’d need to reply to the group chat at some point, but he couldn’t bring himself to read through it yet. Hayden replied instantly, assuring him that everything was fine and he was glad Rozanov hadn’t murdered Shane in the night.

There was a home game that morning. For the Metros that was. Philly would be brutal: without him taking defensive-zone draws, they’d lean hard on the Metros’ second line—especially on the right side.

Wish Hayden good luck or not? Not, he decided, drinking the rest of his smoothie.

Rozanov came down into the main living space at 7am, just as Shane was about to call player services for a ride. He mumbled something that might have been a hello and turned on the coffee maker, his sweatpants showing a line of pale skin at his hip.

“It’s twenty minutes to the rink from here,” he said, once he’d had a draft of what must have been boiling hot coffee.

“You don’t need to—” Shane cut himself off as Rozanov gave him a look. “Thanks. You’re really not a morning person, huh?”

Rozanov said something in Russian that sounded nasty. Japanese didn’t really work for swearing so Shane did the next best thing and told him he was annoying.

“You speak Japanese?” Rozanov asked, coffee cup in midair.

“Not fluently. My mom didn’t want to confuse me when I was learning French at school. I think my grandparents were pretty mad about it, but I learned enough just being around them that I could tell them about my school day and stuff.”

“They still here?”

Shane cast around for the dishwasher, opening a door that Rozanov pointed to. “No, they had my mom when they were in their 30s, so.”

Rozanov hummed in acknowledgment, set his cup in the dishwasher, and checked his phone.

“We should go,” he said, already half-way out of the kitchen.

The drive to the rink was accompanied by some truly terrible dance music that Rozanov tapped his fingers to all the way there. They were ushered into the locker room by a no-nonsense woman from ops called Marie-Anne who narrowed her eyes at Rozanov’s attempt at a winning smile.

“Okay, off with you, Ilya. Go skate, I hear you’re good at that.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Rozanov replied, clapping a friendly hand on Shane’s shoulder before retreating.

His nameplate was already up on his cubby: between Marleau and Laine, one away from Rozanov. He stared at it, jerking his attention away when Marie-Anne continued.

“The equipment manager, Terrence, is running a few minutes late but he’s going to walk you through everything. Your gear should be here this evening and you’ll go watch morning skate after this.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Shane agreed, taking a leaf out of Rozanov’s book.

“You’re sweet,” she told him. “After morning skate we’ll hide you from the media so you can go for lunch with the team, then you’ll have a medical check in, then player services. Any questions?”

“Do you know roughly when I’ll be skating?”

“Tomorrow. Assuming medical clears you today and your gear arrives tonight,” she smiled and it softened her whole face. “Don’t worry, we want you out on the ice as much as you want to be there.”

Terrence showed up just as Marie-Anne disappeared, breathless and apologetic, clipboard tucked under his arm. He walked Shane through the cubby, the gear order, where his skates would go once they arrived, tapping nameplates and hooks as he talked. When the team started filtering towards the ice, another staffer appeared and politely asked Shane to follow him. They went down the tunnel together, the air turning colder with every step, the sound of blades and pucks echoing ahead of them. Shane took a seat in the stands just as the first line jumped over the boards.

It was mostly watching Rozanov apparently flirt with every member of his team. He was a menace, winking at whoever scored on him during drills; chirping everyone who flubbed a pass; making every single one of his own passes flashier than they needed to be. Half of the bench seemed determined to encourage him, some cheering wildly whenever he completed a drill perfectly, which was most of the time. It was overwhelming and loud and very, very different to the Metros.

The head coach, Dan McAdam, introduced him briefly as the team headed back to the locker room—we’re happy to have him: let’s make sure he feels welcome—and then Shane was led to the lounge where a buffet lunch had been set up. He wandered over, eyeing the portions and trying to guess approximate weights.

He heard the team before he saw them: someone shouting in French, maybe Marleau or another Quebecois guy. An arm wrapped around his shoulder before he’d gotten up the courage to go meet them. “Don’t worry,” Rozanov said, low in his ear. “There is boring food for you.”

He turned Shane to where the rest of the team were starting to get plates and complain about who was first in the queue.

“This is Shane Hollander! Just called up from the AHL to play on my line. You don’t know him but don’t worry, he’s good.”

“Oh yeah?” Someone replied. “From which team?”

“Laval Rocket,” Shane said, naming one of Montreal’s affiliates, which thankfully got a laugh.

Rozanov dragged him to the front of the line and handed him a plate before finally letting him go. His heart was racing from the proximity. How the fuck was he going to do this every day?

Once he’d loaded up with plain rice and chicken, he sat down at the table Rozanov was beckoning from. He didn’t even bother trying to join in the conversation that was happening between Marleau, Laine, and a new call-up whose name Shane hadn’t caught. Rozanov was inhaling his food, yet more coffee steaming in a paper cup balanced on his knee, completely at ease. Shane chewed slowly, eyes wandering over the team and matching faces to names where he could.

He was just about finished when yet another person from player services came over—Michael, according to his lanyard. “Shane, you ready for Medical?”

“Yes, let me just—”

“Leave it,” Rozanov said, gesturing lazily at Shane’s plate. “Go get cleared for skating.”

Shane nodded his thanks and went, the corridor outside the player’s lounge cool and quiet. Medical was quick but thorough: vitals, mobility checks, a concussion baseline, and a few questions about his sleep and stress. Player services handed him a stack of forms to sign and a welcome pack with everything from gym codes to a dentist’s address. The woman at the desk offered to help him find an apartment, but Shane just shook his head and thanked her for the offer. The thought of apartment hunting right now made him want to crawl under the covers and never come out.

Rozanov’s phone rang the second they were through the door and he answered in Russian, flopping down on the sofa, one foot on the floor. Shane made some gesture to indicate that he was going to go upstairs but Rozanov didn’t see, a small smile touching his lips as he listened to whoever was on the other line.

Shane took a quick shower in the main bathroom, calling his parents as he tried to find the socks he wanted. The room he’d slept in last night was spacious, with deep blue sheets and off-white walls. Outside the large window a manicured garden rolled away into the distance. Shane started to put away his underwear in a drawer as the phone rang out at his parent’s house. They were probably out with friends somewhere, lingering over a late lunch. He’d ring them later.

When he went out into the corridor he could hear laughter from downstairs. Maybe Rozanov had a Russian girlfriend.

He went back into the guest room and closed the door. Sitting on the floor with his back to the bed, he finally scrolled through his messages, going through his teammates' individual messages and answering as best he could. No, he hadn’t known. Yes, it did suck. Yes, he hoped Hayden would be made captain. He probably had been already, but there was no way Shane was going to go on hockey Twitter. Hayden had sent pictures of fans at their at home game this morning: it was just a sea of signs—a lot thanking him, some about the Metro’s two cups. Shane’s eyes started to blur so he put the phone down next to him.

After a moment he picked it up again and just sent thanks without looking at the rest of the pictures.

The latest message was from JJ: you’re staying with him??

Yes

Shane stared at the screen for a while, but what else could he add to that?

He scrolled back up but couldn’t see the group chat. He scrolled down his messages again, more slowly. It was usually at the top because it was so active.

It wasn’t there.

Of course it wasn’t there. Shane turned his phone completely off and reached up to put it on a side table. He wasn’t a member of the Montreal Metros any more: he was the enemy, they would have had to remove him from the chat. It had been more of an annoyance than anything else, fast paced and full of half-incomprehensive memes. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to being added to Boston’s group chat. If they bothered, that was.

A knock sounded at his door. “Yeah,” he called.

Rozanov poked his head around the doorframe. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to nap.”

“Sure, me too. Come here first.”

“Come where?” Shane asked, getting up and following Rozanov out into the hallway and then into his room. “What—”

Rozanov pulled him into a heated kiss, one large hand framing Shane’s face. Shane let him deepen the kiss, pulling him closer by his sweatshirt. They kissed for long minutes, Shane slightly out of breath when Rozanov finally pulled back.

“We should—” he tried, but Rozanov bit down hard on the muscle of his neck and Shane moaned instead, his cock twitching in his sweats. “Fuck.”

“That is the plan, yes.”

This was definitely a bad idea. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might just keep on fucking, that Rozanov would be a good captain—offering a room to the new recruit—but also not immediately want to stop whatever this thing was between them.

Rozanov bit down again, harder this time, and Shane pushed his hands under Rozanov’s hoodie, desperate to get at his naked skin.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes. Yes, please.” He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more, in fact.

“So polite,” Rozanov murmured, and then just picked Shane up by the backs of his thighs before depositing him on the massive bed.

They had prep down to a fine art at this point, but Rozanov seemed intent on taking his time, kissing and kissing as he opened Shane up, lube smeared wet and sticky on the inside of his thighs. He was too careful entering Shane, shallow rocks of his hips when normally he was fucking Shane inches up the bed with each thrust.

“Fuck, Roz. Harder, come on.”

“Don’t need to fuck you hard,” Rozanov told him, his mouth against Shane’s ear. “Can fuck you every day. Can suck your cock, fuck your thighs, hold you down and come down your throat.”

Shane whined high and loud, his arms locked around Rozanov’s neck. He wasn’t going to survive this: he didn’t need to worry about skating with a team that hated him because their captain was killing him right now.

“Please, please,” he begged.

“Please what? Hmm?” Rozanov kissed him. “Please make you cry on my cock every day?”

“Yes! Please. God, please.”

Rozanov growled something out in Russian, his thrusts finally becoming hard and fast. Shane wished the condom wasn’t there: he wanted to feel it, wanted Rozanov to come inside him, to feel it dripping out from his hole.

He was being loud but so was Rozanov, who propped himself up on one arm and got a hand on Shane’s dick. Thankfully Shane was beyond embarrassment because that was all it took for him to come all over them both, Rozanov panting into his mouth as he came too, his thrusts almost too much.

“Fuck. You’re too good,” Rozanov told him, still catching his breath.

Shane kissed him rather than reply, his hands winding into Rozanov’s hair. When he pulled back, Rozanov kissed the end of his nose and then rolled away, going into the en suite but leaving the door open.

“You want to shower before nap?” he called over the sound of the tap running.

“No, I’m good,” Shane replied, taking the warm cloth that Rozanov offered him. He wiped himself down while Rozanov shut the blinds, startling a little when he got back into the bed and flipped the comforter over them both.

“Give,” he demanded, and Shane looked down at his outstretched hand in confusion before giving him the cloth.

Rozanov dumped it on the floor then directed Shane with touches at his shoulder and hip, much the way he did when they fucked, until Shane was lying down with his back to Rozanov who, still naked, tucked his knees behind Shane’s and put an arm around his waist.

“Didn’t you want to nap?” Shane asked, hesitating before putting his hand over where Rozanov’s rested on his stomach.

“Yes,” Rozanov kissed his shoulder. “I set an alarm for 3, okay?”

Shane blinked. “Yeah. I mean. Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Good.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation and, before long, Rozanov’s breaths lengthened, his exhales stirring the hair at the back of Shane’s neck.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I'm haven't abandoned my other HR fic, this one is just eating my brain right now

At practice Shane pulled on the same black jersey as Rozanov and Marleau and tried not to read too much into it. First line colours, or perhaps just convenience. Warmups told him quickly where the problems were going to be: his body kept wanting to slide back into the middle, curling low out of habit, and he had to keep reminding himself to stay wide, to hold the boards, to let the play come to him instead of driving it. The puck felt right on his stick but everything else was half a beat off. An assistant coach murmured something about spacing to him and Shane nodded, eyes down on his skates.

Once the drills sped up he started arriving where the puck was going to be instead of where it was, stealing it clean or popping free at the edge of a defender’s vision. Rozanov carried the puck on a rush drill and Shane cut across without calling for it, a move that would have been stupid on any other line. The pass came anyway, not to his stick but to the space in front of it, and Shane sent it back blind, one touch, right into the slot. Marleau scored. There was a short, strange silence after that, the coaches watching carefully.

They did it again. A delay here, a give-and-go through traffic, a pass that should not have made it through but did. Rozanov grinned at him, tapping his stick, asking for more. Shane finished practice breathing hard, sweat dripping under his helmet, aware of the looks from the bench but too tired to try to make anything of them.

In the locker room Rozanov burst in ten minutes after everyone else, fairly bouncing off the walls with energy.

“You tell them, Cap?” Benny, possibly the second line left-winger, asked.

“I tell the media nothing, they’ll see at the game tomorrow,” Rozanov announced with glee, leaning across Marleau to lightly punch Shane’s shoulder.

“Wanna swap with me?” Marleau asked Laine who was sitting next to Shane, drinking a recovery shake.

“Nope.”

“What is this bullshit?” Rozanov demanded. “I’m a delight! Of course you want to be next to me.”

Shane continued to re-tape his stick, half-listening to their comfortable chirping, unsure how to deal with Rozanov’s enthusiasm. Yes, it had been a good practice, way better than it’d had any right to be, but that was never any guarantee of success.

Once he was done he showered and changed, as he’d done a thousand times before in dozens of different locker rooms. He was halfway across the room when Rozanov caught his wrist, fingers warm and careless, stopping him without breaking stride in whatever story he was telling.

“Where you going?” Rozanov asked, shirtless and grinning, still half-turned toward two rookies.

“Just to talk to Terrence about my sticks,” Shane said.

“Okay, I’ll come find you after.”

Shane nodded and kept walking, heart thudding a little too hard. Rozanov touched everyone, no-one would think anything of it: he was just another member of the team.

Rozanov’s front yard was mostly tall, pruned hedges backed by taller scrolled fences. Rozanov drove them into the massive garage, past a collection of tiny, brightly coloured sports cars. He was currently driving something slightly more sane, thankfully, but the Audi’s matt grey paint job still got them appraising looks when stopped at the lights.

“Thanks,” Shane said automatically as they parked.

“You going to thank me every time I drive you somewhere?”

“Yep.”

He should really get his Jeep driven down here, now that he thought about it. He glanced around the spacious garage. There seemed to be room for it, but maybe Rozanov was saving that space for friends. Or more sports cars.

“Your car in Montreal?” Rozanov asked as they grabbed their bags.

“Yeah. Is it cool if I get it driven down here?”

“My casa is your casa,” Rozanov replied with a shrug, searching his pockets for something.

“Cool.”

They were quiet then, negotiating the smaller back entry way that led into the mud room. Shane needed to call his parents but he needed a drink first. He went into the kitchen and Rozanov followed him, filling an odd double teapot with boiling water.

“Montreal don’t understand what they did, do they?” Rozanov asked, pouring tea from the smaller pot first, dark and bitter, then diluting it from the larger one without looking.

“What do you mean?”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “You were on the ice today, no? We’re going to do that tomorrow, and then every time we play from now on. Montreal wouldn’t give you to me if they thought it would be like that.”

“They didn’t give me to you, Jesus,” Shane spluttered, his face hot. “They wanted a reset, that’s all, and I was the funding.”

“You’re on my line,” Rozanov said, somehow making it sound dirty. He put down his tea and came over to Shane, bracketing him against the counter.

Shane let go of his water glass when Rozanov took it off him, leaning in as Rozanov kissed him, slow and heated.

“They gave you to me,” he repeated, sucking a kiss just under Shane’s jaw.

“No marks,” Shane warned him, then yelped as Rozanov bit him.

“Say it.”

“What?”

Rozanov had his hand in Shane’s sweats, rubbing against his hardening cock.

“Say they gave you to me.”

“No—ah! Fuck you.”

Grinning, Rozanov only stepped back, pushing his pants and boxers down far enough to show his cock, half hard against blond curls.

Shane gave him an unimpressed look, but probably undermined it completely by dropping to his knees on the kitchen tiles and swallowing Rozanov’s cock down. Guys had been making jokes about cocksuckers his whole life but he was pretty sure that was just because they’d never tried it. He moaned as Rozanov pushed his hands through his hair, holding him still as he started to thrust, shallow and slow. He was fully hard now, keeping his hands on Rozanov’s thick thighs and drooling a whole lot as Rozanov got closer to the edge. He’d thought he’d hate having him come in his mouth—everyone always painted it as an amazing thing when their girlfriends or hookups did it—but fuck it was so good. He moaned again, his hips twitching, but not as loud as Rozanov as he came.

“Get up here,” Rozanov demanded, wiping away a line of spit leading from the tip of his cock to Shane’s mouth.

Shane stood up unsteadily, kissing Rozanov back and bucking up into his warm hand. He was already so close.

“Say it,” Rozanov murmured, twisting his hand in a way that made Shane cry out.

“I—uh,” Shane tried, eager to give Rozanov whatever he wanted, once he understood what that was.

“Say that they gave you to me.”

Shane repeated the words without hearing the meaning. “They gave me to—to you.”

Rozanov brought up his other hand to grab Shane’s pec hard and Shane came, going up on his toes to get as close as possible, his head buried in Rozanov’s shoulder.

“You fucker,” he panted, his brain starting to come back online.

Rozanov grinned, unrepentant before leaning in for a soft kiss. Shane stroked a hand through his curls, rubbing a thumb across the delicate skin under his ear. Smiling quietly now, Rozanov placed a kiss at the centre of his palm.

Down in the den, it was dim even in the late afternoon. He'd come down to speak to his parents as somehow even the guest room next to Rozanov’s seemed inappropriate: like his parents might guess what they were doing together.

“How was practice?” his mom asked, almost before he'd finished saying hello.

“Good, they had me playing on the first line.”

“Left-wing?”

“Yeah.” Shane put his socked feet up on the ottoman.

“Did you stay wide?”

“Yes, Mom. I stayed wide: it was a good practice.”

“And Rozanov, did he make an effort?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, leaning back to look up at the spotlighted ceiling. “He did. He was—Rozanov was good.”

His mom hummed, clearly about to ask a follow-up, and then his dad’s voice cut in from somewhere nearby. “Are you still calling him Rozanov? You can’t live in someone’s house and call them by their last name, son.”

“It’s rude?” It didn’t seem rude: they were hockey players—no-one used anyone’s actual name. The rules could be different for living with someone though.

“It seems a little impolite.”

“Okay, that’s good to know.”

His mom immediately pivoted to logistics, asking about cleaning schedules and whether Rozanov was pulling his weight in the kitchen. Shane did his best to answer, which mostly meant admitting he didn’t know. The place was spotless. He’d assumed there was a cleaning service and hadn’t asked, because that felt like a strange thing to bring up on day three. Or any day he was living with his hockey rival of the last six years, actually.

“Should I be doing anything? Like for Reebok or Rolex?”

“No, don’t worry about that for now, sweetheart. Let me deal with them and I’ll let you know what happens.”

That didn’t sound good but he wasn’t sure if he had it in him to be posting on Instagram right now, so he just accepted that.

“The team treating you okay?”

“Yeah, they’ve been pretty quiet, but Marleau and Laine seem alright.”

And Rozanov keeps touching me in front of other people. He was going to have to get used to that one on his own.

“You’d tell us, if you were having any problems?” his dad asked, in the same way he had when Shane had been a kid and already better than everyone else on his team.

“Yeah, Dad. I’d tell you, I promise.”

“You're a great kid and you were a great captain, you didn’t deserve what Montreal did to you.”

Shane put his fist against his mouth and closed his eyes. “Thanks, Dad,” he managed.

“Have you looked at any of the reporting?” his mom asked.

“No, no I haven’t even been on Instagram.”

“Probably for the best,” his dad said.

“That bad, eh?” Shane tried a laugh, but it sounded flat.

“Honey, people just don’t understand what Montreal was thinking. There’s a lot of disappointed fans out there.”

“Disappointed with me?”

“No!” both his parents said, their voices perfectly in sync. “No, honey,” his mom continued. “They’re disappointed with the front office, that’s all.”

Shane nodded, even though they couldn’t see him. He’d really wanted to speak to them but now, guiltily, he wanted this phone call to be over already. It wrapped up soon enough with Shane promising to call them after the home game tomorrow.

His first game in Boston colours. He couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

Staring at the wall did nothing to ease his anxiety so he got up, intending to see what grocery service Rozanov used when his phone buzzed. Opening up messages, he smiled to see Jackie’s name at the top: she’d sent some pictures of the twins, Jade and Ruby holding ice cream cones with no ice cream in them as they seemed to be wearing most of it. It was their birthday in a couple of months: the first he wouldn’t be there for.

He pressed down on the pictures one by one until a heart appeared under each.

That night he stretched next to the bed. Well, his bed, he guessed, at least for the next little while. Rozanov was still downstairs by the sound of it, speaking to someone in low, clipped Russian.

Holding the stretch for thirty seconds, counting slowly under his breath, he released it and moved into a spinal twist, the carpet thick enough that he only had a towel under him. He’d done these stretches so often he no longer had to think about them, so he listed his game day clothes in head, laying them out like he would a play.

Once he’d finished with child’s pose, he got up and folded the towel, placing it on a chair. He’d got his clothes out already, but he didn’t think these were the right socks. They were black with the soft ribbing he liked, but there was something different about the texture of one of them. Going to the dresser, he got all of his black socks out and unpaired them, feeling the weave and holding them up to the light. None of them seemed right.

He didn’t pay any attention to the sound of Rozanov coming up the stairs, only turning when he knocked on Shane’s open door. Rozanov’s curls were dishevelled, as if he’d been running his hands through his hair over and over.

“Come sleep with me?” he asked, one hand hooked in his sweats, the other rubbing at the cross he always wore.

Shane looked down at the odd socks on the bed, the lines of the ribbing at the top warping in his tired vision.

“Yeah,” he decided. “Sounds good.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Edit: thank you to Laziall1999, CissyNoir and LadyGuts for reminding me about Hayden's existence as Shane's bff.

Shane was dressed in his base layers when Rozanov burst into the room, grabbing a naked rookie—maybe Tiz—in a headlock and starting a conversation with Marleau while the rookie tried to squirm out of his grip.

It was ridiculous and Shane smiled at the ground while he rolled his socks up.

“He’s in a good mood,” Laine commented.

Shane stilled, but there was nothing suggestive in his tone. “Isn’t he always like this?”

Laine snorted. “Moodier than my teenagers, that one.”

Rozanov finally let the rookie go when a trainer rolled a whiteboard into the room, lines and positions written on in neat, blocky handwriting. Shane put his jersey on, straightening the number 21 on his arm. He glanced up to find Rozanov looking at him, something hungry in his gaze before he smiled, tilting his head.

“On my line,” he said quietly, leaning across Marleau’s cubby to do so.

Shane looked at the board then: first line, left wing. He really was going to go out onto the ice on Rozanov’s wing. He bent down under the guise of putting on his skates, but he just closed his eyes and breathed slowly for a count of ten.

There was a buzz to the locker room, a kind of noisy chaos that looked ungoverned until you noticed how often the team looked to Rozanov. The rookies in particular seemed to have someone older assigned to them, maybe formal, maybe informal, but everyone was standing and ready a minute before the trainer came in: no phones in hands, no helmets off.

The tunnel opened up to cold and noise, Boston fans screaming like they’d won already. Shane went straight over to what would be his usual place at home, stretching first then taking shots when they were passed his way. Marleau drifted over, catching Shane’s eye and nodding up at the stands. Shane looked up and saw the signs: Hollander Home Ice, read one. Welcome to Boston. Don’t Suck, read another. There were others too, less welcoming and Shane pointed them out to Marleau with a raised eyebrow. Marleau snorted and clapped him on the shoulder before skating off.

The horn sounded and they all went back into the tunnel, the sound of the crowd waning to something manageable. Shane re-laced his skates in the locker room, sitting up as Dan came in to give what was apparently the standard NHL pre-game talk. It could have been Mike saying those words in the Metro’s locker room: matchups and first line reminders, with a hockey cliche tagged onto the end.

“Pittsburgh don’t fucking know,” Rozanov told them, fierce and proud, and Shane hoped he wasn’t talking about him.

Out on the ice again. Shane could barely hear the anthem over the sound of his heartbeat, the words unfamiliar. The Boston fans cheered throughout, sometimes reaching scoring-levels on certain words or phrases. Helmet and gloves back on, he had half a minute to feel Rozanov and Marleau standing close. His line. Then they were going over the boards and skating into place. Anderson was facing Rozanov, having replaced Williams who was out with an upper-body injury. He had his head down, but the line of his shoulders was unsure.

Shane had time to think that they were going to win, then the puck dropped.

The final horn cut through the noise and Shane coasted to a stop, lungs burning, sweat cooling fast under his gear. Rozanov was on him almost immediately, pulling him in to kiss his helmet, Marleau closing in from the other side, laughter and noise and motion collapsing into something warm and loud. Shane smiled because it would have been strange not to.

6-2: they’d won.

But Pittsburgh hadn’t been ready for them. They’d overcommitted on Rozanov through the middle; assumed Shane would drift harmlessly wide; left the weak side open one too many times. Their defence had chased the puck instead of the pattern. That wouldn’t last: anyone watching the tape would see it. Teams would start holding the lane instead of stepping up, forcing Shane lower, pinning him to the boards.

Shane tipped his helmet back, taking in the crowd, the noise washing over him again. This had worked because it was new and fast and no-one had solved it yet.

Rozanov skated over to the boards, bumping fists with everyone as they headed towards the bench. Shane went towards the vaguely organised huddle, losing his helmet and looking longingly at his water bottle a few feet away.

“I love you, good game,” Rozanov said to Tommy, who was in front of Shane.

Looking up, he caught Rozanov’s wide eyes as he hesitated for a split second. “Love you, good game,” he mumbled, like he was embarrassed.

Shane almost stumbled over the boards, suddenly hot under his pads. Had Rozanov thought that Shane would take him seriously? Hockey players said all sorts of shit to each other, both on the ice and off it. Last year, Hatsy had come into the locker room with a ring and proposed to Wheels, going down on one knee to do so. It had been dumb and kind of uncomfortable, but pretty much the whole team had laughed until they’d cried.

He forgot about his water until he was herded into a conference room and sat down in front of a scrum of reporters.

“Have you heard anything from Montreal?” someone asked.

Shane nodded once. “Yeah. A few guys reached out. They wished me luck.”

“And from the front office?” another voice cut in. “Did tonight feel like a message?”

Shane shook his head, careful. “No. It was just a hockey game.”

“What clicked so fast on that line?” a reporter asked. “It looked like you’d been playing together for years.”

Shane glanced down at his hands, wishing he’d brought his water bottle as a shield. “We kept it simple. They draw coverage through the middle, I stay wide, we move the puck quickly. Pittsburgh chased instead of holding structure.”

“You don’t think teams will adjust after seeing the tape?” someone pressed.

“Of course,” Shane said immediately. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

There was a beat of quiet, pens scratching.

"Have you congratulated Pike on his captaincy?" another voice asked.

Shane opened his mouth then closed it again and swallowed hard. He was so happy for Hayden, he really was.

There was a small flurry of activity and then Rozanov was sitting next to him, shirtless and sweaty. "I spoke to Pike,” he announced. “Told him Holly is ours now."

If that nickname stuck, Shane was going to kill him.

“Is that the kind of confidence you want from your captain?” someone asked, half-amused.

Rozanov grinned. “We won 6–2. I think it is correct confidence.”

“And Shane,” another reporter said, turning back to him, “how are you feeling about your new linemates after a night like that?”

“They’re great,” Shane said, a little too fast. “Their captain needs a shower, though.”

That got a laugh, thank god. Rozanov was so close, a line of heat down his left side. He smelt of sweat and ice, familiar in a way that made Shane’s gut clench. He fixed his eyes on the floor, willing the flush out of his face.

“Okay,” Jen said briskly, stepping in before anyone could ask another question. “That’s it, guys. Thanks.”

Shane was so relieved when Rozanov pulled up next to his candy-coloured sports cars. They had to be up at 6:30 to get their morning flight. He’d already got most of his stuff ready, he just had to eat and pack and then he could fall face first into bed.

He got out the car with his phone in his hand, scrolling past a message from Hayden to read:

Congratulations! You all must have practiced hard to be clicking so well! That blind backhand slip looked impossible. We’ll need a whole run-down when you have some free time. Much love, Mom and Dad xx

Thanks will do, he sent back.

Looking up he took his garment bag off Rozanov who, instead of letting go, used it to reel Shane in for a kiss.

“That was amazing,” Rozanov told him. “I’m tired now but I owe you a blowjob.”

Shane spluttered out a laugh. “You’re getting old.”

“Fuck you, I’m not old. Take off your pants! I will give you the best blowjob!”

Taking a step back, Shane shook his head. “No, no. You can owe me a blowjob.”

Rozanov relented, smacking Shane’s ass as he passed him.

He was aware of Rozanov watching him as he took out his scales and pre-made pasta, scooping it into a bowl until he hit 550 grams exactly. He ate it cold, sat on a remarkably uncomfortable bar chair while Rozanov inhaled a cup of tea, two glasses of water, and a bowl of steaming hot rice, with what looked like chicken thighs in some kind of sauce.

They put their plates in the dishwasher and worked together to turn off all the lights downstairs. Rozanov followed Shane into the guest room, flopping onto the bed just behind where Shane had put his folded clothes for the trip.

“Did you pack already?” Shane asked.

“No, I will do it in the morning.”

Shane looked up at him, but Rozanov was on his phone, scrolling through what looked like Twitter. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Of course I have packed. You know I’m the captain, yes?” He leant on one elbow so he could show Shane his phone. “Look, highlight reel is all you.”

Glancing away from where he was checking his clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in black, an unfamiliar number on his shoulder.

“There,” Shane said, pausing the video with a finger. “I shouldn’t be there yet. I get away with it because they chase, but if the weak-side D holds his lane I’m boxed out.”

Rozanov looked at the phone and then Shane in disbelief. “You didn’t look! You passed to empty space!”

Shane shrugged. “I knew where you’d be.”

It had been a good pass, but it wasn’t going to work so well next time. He took half a step towards a wardrobe before remembering where he was.

“Shit.”

“What is it?”

“I—” Shane looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t have my small suitcase here. It’s in Montreal.”

Along with every fucking thing I own. Everything would be shipped soon, it was just taking a while for the movers to finish packing everything. Even then, he wasn’t 100% sure what his mom had marked to be sent down: he’d told her to pack light.

“It’s okay, I can lend you one.”

Shane nodded, hoping Rozanov would just get up and go fetch it. The bed springs complained behind him, but then Rozanov’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him around.

“Okay?” he asked.

Shane nodded again, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just looking forward to having my shit here. I mean—” he looked up. “If it’s still okay for me—”

“It’s good,” Rozanov cut him off. “I already say you can stay here, I didn’t change my mind.”

“Sorry, it’s just a fucking suitcase.”

Rozanov brought his hands to Shane’s hips. “This isn’t easy, I know okay?”

“You moved to an entirely different continent where you had to learn the language. I need to fucking suck this up and deal with it.”

“Not the locker room,” Rozanov kissed his forehead. “Don’t need this bullshit. It’s okay to be sad about your lame friends and your terrible team and your very boring apartment.”

Shane half-smiled. “Good job it’s not the locker room,” he joked, then froze as he realised what he’d said.

But Rozanov just smiled back and dropped a sweet kiss on his lips. “Yes, good job. I’ll go get you a suitcase.”

Sitting on the end of the bed, Shane put a hand over his wildly beating heart. He was tired and a little sad, yeah, but he needed to keep a better watch on what he was saying. This thing between them was fine, but it needed to stay where it belonged and joking about doing anything in the locker room was not the way to do that.

Rozanov came back in then, wheeling a small suitcase and Shane couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. It wasn’t just that it was a branded Boston Raiders suitcase, it was that it was covered in the logo, overlapping canons into infinity.

“Thank you, Ilya,” he said, touching one finger to the ridiculous thing, and looked up to see Rozanov’s expression brighten into something like wonder.

“You’re welcome, Shane.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm going to update my other HR fic and then I'll come back to this ☺️

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Okay. Hear me out: I've written half of chapter 5 of late to my own self, but I was answering comments and this one just kept wanting to be written.

“Two assists!” someone yelled in his direction and Shane tilted his still-full tonic towards them.

He’d had fourteen assists in the last fourteen games, but his scoring average was down from where it had been in Montreal. The Boston coaches didn’t seem worried, but Shane couldn’t help but calculate it after every game.

“No, but seriously,” Taz said, leaning over the sticky table, eyes wide. “That thing you did in the second. You passed it through the guy. I thought it hit his skate.”

“Taz, how are you drunk already?” Marly asked from Shane’s left and the table guffawed, as this was the best chirp they’d heard in years.

Columbus was cold in February but the sports bar they’d found themselves in by default was nice enough. They were in some booths at the back and so far no-one had even looked their way.

Shane checked his phone. He’d sent Hayden and JJ and congratulations texts: they’d won their game against Minneapolis in overtime. Boston was playing Montreal next week and Shane was excited to see them both but dreading the game itself.

Montreal had picked up a second-pair defenceman from the West who was doing okay, but he kept stepping up too early at the line, getting caught flat-footed when plays turned over. Shane could see it even without watching the games closely: the gaps were wrong, the timing half a beat off. He’d do better if he just held the lane and trusted his partner instead of trying to force the play. Shane was still avoiding Twitter, but from what his mom had said fans were desperate for someone tangible to be angry at, and this poor guy was bearing the brunt of it.

“Where’s Roz?” Willis asked.

Shane turned in his seat, leaning to one side far enough that he could just about see the bar.

Ilya was talking to a woman there. He was laughing, in fact, his hands moving as he spoke. She was tall with long brown hair, dressed all in black and she looked like the models he worked with on ads sometimes. Ilya spoke and she searched in her purse for something. Her phone? Were they exchanging numbers?

She looked away from her purse and put a hand on Ilya’s arm, smiling. Shane stood up.

“Hey, you okay?” Marly asked.

Shane looked down into his concerned expression.

“I don’t feel great,” he replied, which was the absolute truth. “I’m going to go back to the hotel.”

Marly, maybe Taz, said something after that, but Shane kept walking, past the bar and out into the cold night. He’d left his jacket on the back of his chair. Someone would pick it up.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver the name of the hotel they were staying at. It was a good job that he and Rozanov were at an away game: their rooms were on different floors. In Ilya’s house the bedrooms were all on the same floor, so maybe Shane would have had to sleep down in the den to give him some privacy.

Shoving some bills at the cab driver, he got out and went up to his room, shivering slightly. It was dim inside, the white bed almost glowing in the lamp light. Shane took off his shoes, stared at the bed for a moment, then walked into the bathroom where he threw up into the toilet, coughing against the acid burn. When he was done he sat on the floor, using some toilet roll to wipe his eyes and his mouth.

He was having a panic attack. He hadn’t vomited with anxiety since school.

Shaking hard, he got up and flushed the toilet, running his hands under the hot tap and concentrating on the sensation, the sound of the rushing water. He felt well enough after a few minutes to brush his teeth, though he had to fight against his still-unsteady hands.

He got into bed when he was done, still in his slacks and shirt, wrapping the comforter around him.

Was Rozanov back already? Was he in his room, even now, kissing that woman with his hands in her hair. He bent forward on the bed, his breathing coming fast again. This was the most pathetic he’d ever been. He shouldn’t be having a meltdown over Rozanov—famous womanizer—taking a woman back to his hotel room to fuck. He conjured some images: Rozanov with his hands on her ass, kissing her. Holding her down while he fucked her, his cock pumping in and out of her pussy.

Gasping now, Shane fought to slow his breathing, counting to four over and over until he felt less like he was going to faint.

I love you, Ilya told him after every game, but he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it and he wasn’t ever going to and Shane shouldn’t care anyway. He didn’t fucking care because he wasn’t—

A knock sounded at the door.

Shane ignored it. It was probably Marly, making sure his star teammate wasn’t dead in a ditch or anything.

“Shane!” Ilya’s voice. “Open the fucking door!”

Shane wiped at his eyes and got up, unlatching the door and standing back as Ilya barged in, his jacket in one hand.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane shrugged. “I just didn’t feel great.”

“So you just took off,” Ilya said, flatly. “Without your jacket.”

“Thanks for bringing it back.”

Ilya dropped the jacket over the back of a chair and took a step forward. Shane took a step back, staying out of his personal space.

“What are we doing? Are we dancing?”

It could have been a joke, but there was an edge of annoyance to Ilya’s voice.

“Don’t you have—I mean, what about that woman?”

“What woman?”

“At the bar. I thought—” Shane looked up at the shadowed ceiling, folding his arms over his chest. “Did you—” he swallowed hard, then tried again. “Did you kiss her?”

Ilya looked at him like he’d grown another head, before puzzlement shaded to anger. “You really do think I’m an asshole? Think that I would pick up the first pretty girl that smiles at me.”

“Well, you could. You could do that, if you wanted to.”

Again, he seemed to have made Ilya speechless. “What are you talking about?” he asked, finally. “You think I would do that to you?”

“Do what?”

“Fuck this.” Ilya turned and took a step towards the door, then wheeled back around. “What do you think we are doing? Hmm? We live together, sleep in the same bed!”

“I don’t know.” Shane shook his head, and collapsed on the nearest chair, his breath coming short again. “You never said and I didn’t even fucking know I could be jealous of you. Shit. This is so fucked.”

A hand, cool and firm, settled on the back of Shane’s neck. “Hey, come on. Everything is okay. We are fine: first fight, eh?”

“Fuck,” Shane swore, unsteady. “We’re together, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Ilya kissed the top of his ear. “I think so.”

Pretty much everyone had slept on the way home, wiped out after six days on the road. Shane was jittery, desperate to touch Ilya but now more aware than ever of the dangers of even then most casual intimacy. They’d collapsed into Ilya’s bed when they’d got home and had fucked slowly that morning, unbearably tender.

Ilya had somehow managed to dodge PR for the whole day but Shane wasn’t so lucky, speaking to Sports 104 at midday and then taking some Instagram pictures for Underarmour.

He should probably take a quick shower and get a snack, but he was putting off calling Hayden. It was a shitty feeling, not wanting to call his best friend, but they’d both been too busy to chat and he really didn’t know what to expect.

It was late afternoon. He really did have to call Hayden: he had a day off as well but he was taking the kids out later.

He hit video call and waited. Hayden appeared, pink-cheeked and smiling, wearing a Metro’s branded hoodie that looked like it had yogurt on one shoulder.

“Shane! How are you, buddy?”

“I’m good. How are you and the kids? And Jackie?”

“We’re all good. Ruby snuck three extra cookies somehow and was up until 2am with an upset stomach.” A voice called out in the background. “Hayden! He doesn’t want to hear about that!”

“Hi Jackie,” Shane added.

“Hi Shane!”

“How’s things? Is that your apartment? Looks nice!”

“Ah, no. I’m staying with Il—Rozanov,” Shane caught himself just in time. “I thought you knew?”

“Yeah,” Hayden agreed, surprised. “I just thought, you’ve been there a month, right?”

“It’s a big house.”

“For sure. Listen, I’m glad if you’re getting along with your teammates, you know? Everyone was worried about you.”

“They’re just hockey players.”

“Well, good.”

“How is everyone?”

Hayden’s smile dipped a bit. “Man, I have no idea how you did this captain sh—” he looked off screen for a second. “Stuff. Captain stuff for so long. The meetings! So many meetings, man. I just want to be on the ice.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot, you’ll get the hang of it,” Shane reassured him. “Is JJ okay?”

Shane had sent a couple of dumb animal videos to him but hadn’t gotten any reply.

Hayden winced. “Yeah. I think he’s just spent a bit too much time on Twitter, you know?”

“No? I haven’t really been on much.”

“Well, there’s a lot of videos of you and Rozanov being buddy-buddy and I know it’s just PR shi—. Just PR, but that with the way you are on the ice. I don’t know, he’s just gone down a bit of a rabbit hole. He’ll come round.”

Shane didn’t even know where to start with that. What the fuck did buddy-buddy mean? What kind of rabbit hole?

“How are we on the ice?” That seemed like the safest question to ask.

“Well, you know-” Hayden made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “You keep doing impossible shit that you didn’t do here. I mean, you didn’t do so much of here. And you seem to have a lot of friends on the team already. Some people—” he stopped and there sounded like there was a whispered conversation going on. “He’s going to find out at some point,” Hayden said to Jackie, before turning back to the camera. “Look, some idiots are saying you asked for the trade.”

“I—” Shane didn’t even know what to say to that.

“I know it’s not true, okay? I spoke to you that night: you were devastated.”

He’d almost forgotten about that, about not being able to even form words, Ilya coming in and speaking to Hayden. He wanted to be upstairs with Ilya now, to be lying on the sofa with his head on his shoulder, dozing while Ilya scrolled Instagram or Reddit or watched Russian TV with the sound low.

“And JJ thinks it’s true?”

“You just need to talk to him, okay? Maybe we can hang out after the game next week?”

“Sure,” Shane agreed, despite his misgivings. He had a horrible feeling Boston was going to trounce Montreal, which wouldn’t endear him to JJ.

“Not going to be past your bedtime?” Hayden joked.

Shane just rolled his eyes at him. “Tell me about the kids,” he requested, and Hayden’s eyes lit up.

He could hear the sound of some kind of racing game as he came up from the den, revving engines filling the living room. Voices too, and he stood on the top stair until he was sure it was only Marly up there with Ilya. Laine would have been fine too, but any of the rookies would have been a little too much. They were endlessly starstruck by Ilya and just a little too interested in his personal life. Marly and Laine just came over to play video games or watch Daredevil.

“Hey,” Shane said, sitting down a respectable distance from Ilya.

“Hey Holly,” Marly greeted him and Shane rolled his eyes.

Thankfully only Marly called him that. “Are you losing again?”

“Only—” Marly gritted his teeth and turned his whole body with the controller. “Because Roz is cheating.”

“Is Mario Cart!” Ilya replied, jumping to his feet and leaning towards the TV. “How can anyone cheat at Mario Cart?”

“You kept speculating about Coach’s sex life during the first lap!”

“Big word,” Ilya replied, throwing a bomb behind him on the screen. “Too difficult.”

Marly opened his mouth to reply but Ilya’s turtle passed over the finish line, confetti raining down on the screen.

Ilya collapsed back on the sofa, turning so he was lying down with his head in Shane’s lap. Shane lifted his hand to run it through Ilya’s hair, but abruptly remembered they had company and put it down again.

Thankfully, Ilya was pretty tactile with everyone so Marly didn't blink, instead slapping Ilya’s ankle so he could sit down. Ilya promptly shoved his socked feet under Marly’s thigh.

“You guys coming to Will’s BBQ next week?”

“Sure,” Ilya agreed. “But Shane will only go if Joanne is there.”

Joanne Laine was Shane’s favourite WAG. She was from Yorkshire originally, which seemed to be a place where half the words were optional, so Shane only caught every second thing she said but she had a kind smile that always put him at ease. She also treated Ilya like he was the same age as her kids, which was alternately sweet and hilarious.

“I’m sure Lainy can be convinced to bring his wife.”

The conversation turned to the TV show Marly and Ilya watched together on flights sometimes and Shane lent back, letting his eyes half-close. It was nice, sitting here with one teammate and one teammate who was also his boyfriend. Extremely strange and something he was trying not to think about too much, but nice.

Marly got up to go, searching for his jacket while Ilya tried to get Shane to be the one to walk Marly to the door.

“It’s your house.”

“You live here,” Ilya whined, his head still in Shane’s lap.

“I know my way out,” Marly told them, his eyes creased with amusement.

“It’s rude!” Shane told Ilya, who sighed expansively and stood up.

“Mr Marleau, please follow me,” he said to Marly, with what he probably thought was a fancy accent, but just made him sound more Russian.

Marly held out his fist and Shane bumped it with his own. “See you at skate tomorrow.”

“See you, good luck with this dude,” Marly replied, in French.

“Thanks, I’ll need it.”

When he came back into the living room, Ilya climbed into Shane’s lap. “What did you say about me in French?”

“Marly said you smelled bad and I told him you never brush your teeth.”

“Never brush your teeth,” Ilya repeated, shaking his head. “Such terrible chirps, like a small child.”

Shane knew he was grinning but couldn’t hide it. “You need a haircut,” he said, running a hand through Ilya’s unruly curls.

“I need a kiss.”

“Do you?” Shane asked, his eyes flicking to Ilya’s lips.

Ilya hummed, and leaned down.

Chapter End Notes

Finally! I wanted to write this fic because I wanted to write about them being together while being on the same team, so now it's taken me FIVE chapters to get them together I can finally start writing about that 😅

Also, I'm replying to all your comments it's just taking me a while, but I'm loving chatting in the comments, thank you (and of course much love to everyone who kudoes, bookmarks, recs and reads as well. Lurkers are equally loved 💜)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Morning skate had been optional, but Shane and Ilya always went: Ilya because he was captain and Shane because he was, according to Ilya, a goody-two-shoes. Marly had taught him that one.

Afterwards, Ilya was telling a story about a game from before Shane’s time to Taz and Remy, sitting in just his compression shorts and one sock. Shane was half listening while he dried off, Laine sitting his cubby beside him, tapping away on his phone. Starting to turn around, Shane stopped as he felt a touch on his elbow.

“Maybe cover those up, eh?” Laine said, nodding down at Shane’s arm.

He looked down at his forearm: he had bruises in the perfect shape of five fingerprints.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, face burning. He shoved on a sweatshirt, pushing his arms through quickly.

“You’ll be chirped into next month if anyone sees them,” Laine told him.

Shane nodded, glancing over where Ilya wasn’t any more dressed than before. He was torn between remembering how good it had felt to be held down last night and wanting to murder him for leaving a mark.

Laine had gone back to his phone and Shane felt a swell of affection for him. He was so lucky Laine was so uninterested in anyone’s personal life, even Hayden and JJ would have been desperate to get the who and the how out of him.

Skate was optional but tape wasn’t. By the time Shane had showered and eaten, the video room was filling up with players who hadn’t been on the ice that morning, many with Dunkin’ coffee cups from the place around the corner, jokes overlapping as the lights dimmed, the first clip frozen ready on the screen.

“Watch their F3 here,” Coach said, indicating the screen with a laser pointer as the clip paused. “They’re high, they’re patient. If you force it through the middle, you’re giving them exactly what they want.”

He nodded with everyone else, even though he’d already clocked it. Tampa funneled play wide, collapsed late, waited for mistakes.

Montreal came up next.

Shane felt it before anyone said anything, the faint shift in the room as the logo filled the screen. Keeping his eyes down on his notebook, Shane wrote Montreal Metros across the top of the page and underlined it twice.

“Same structure as always,” Coach said, neutral. “But watch how aggressive their D are at the blue line.”

The clip paused. Shane could see it immediately, the familiar problem showing up right on time. The defenceman stepped up early, shoulders squared, stick extended, trying to kill the play before it started. Coach paused and explained, then moved on.

With every point Dan made Shane’s stomach wound tighter: excitement and fear, excitement and fear. He could see three moves ahead each time—every place where Montreal would try to compensate and every place where it wouldn’t be enough.

“He did not,” Shane was saying, following Ilya through the back door.

“He did! I swear to you! He came down out of the bathroom naked and tried to get into a cupboard. You ask Joanne when you see her, she was there, she knows her husband’s mistakes.”

Shane shook his head: he wouldn’t believe such slander of Laine until he had a secondary witness. Ilya was—

A woman appeared at the top of the stairs and Ilya swore.

“Ilyusha!” she said with a smile, and Ilya blinked at her for a second before replying in tense Russian. Shane took one uneasy step back, as if he could disappear back into the mud room and then out away from whoever this person was.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new teammate?” she asked, in perfect American English.

Ilya sighed. “Shane, this is Svetlana Vetrova, my friend who does not know how to call ahead. Sveta, this is Shane Hollander, as you already know.”

“A pleasure! It’s so nice to see Ilya spending time with his new teammates.”

“He lives here,” Ilya told her, flatly.

“Does he now?”

Ilya said something sharp in Russian, but Svetlana simply smiled. “Why don’t you be a good host and offer me something to drink? Surely you have some black tea in here somewhere.”

With that she turned around and disappeared into the house.

Ilya turned to look at Shane. “We have known each other since we were children. Don’t listen to anything she says.”

And with that he took the stairs that led up to the main floors. Shane messed around with his shoes for a bit, making sure everything was tidy. He went directly upstairs, going into the guest bedroom where he never slept and dumping his bag on the bed that housekeeping must have made recently. He messed it up a little so that it looked slept in. Should he move his shampoo out of Ilya’s en-suite? Probably not. Why would Svetlana go into Ilya’s bathroom?

He sat on the edge of the bed. Maybe he should just stay out of their way for a while: let them catch up.

Svetlana was probably one of the most beautiful women Shane had ever met. Even in plain smart pants and a soft-looking sweater, she’d looked like she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. He’d seen her somewhere before, he was sure. It clicked all at once, unpleasantly sharp. Not where he’d seen her, but how. A Twitter fan account he’d almost scrolled past, Ilya in a club somewhere, laughing, an arm slung around a woman who looked effortless in the way only certain women did: it had been captioned with something speculative and winking and Shane had spent too long looking at the slant of Ilya’s smile.

He stood up and went downstairs, towards the sound of Russian conversation coming from the kitchen.

“Hello again, Shane Hollander who has lived here for a month without me knowing about it.”

Ilya said something in Russian to her and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Ilya said you’ve been friends since childhood and not to believe anything you say.”

Svetlana laughed. Even her laugh was sexy.

“Oh, I have so many stories to tell you, but first, you can’t call him Ilya. This is for Americans and you are Canadian. You must call him Ilushenka.”

“Ilushenka,” Shane repeated.

Behind Svetlana, Ilya was looking down at the tea he was making, using the double tea-pot Shane had since learned was called a zavarnik. He didn’t look up at the new name, but there was something deliberate in the way he was concentrating.

“Can you teach me some more Russian?” he asked Svetlana, who took his arm and steered him towards the living space.

“Of course, Shane Hollander. In exchange you must explain the pass you made to empty air against Pittsburgh: the one everyone is pretending was intentional. Ilya doesn’t look where he’s going, so how did you know where he would be?”

In the end Svetlana only stayed for two hours. She was on her way back to New York after skiing in Vermont and had taken a layover in the hope of surprising Ilya. Ilya had threatened to take her spare keys off her a number of times, but didn’t seem to have followed through.

He came back in from seeing her to the door, bringing a burst of cold air with him.

“Brr,” he shuddered, burying into Shane’s side.

“She seemed nice.”

“No, she is terrible.”

“And you’ve known her a long time?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever—,” Shane hesitated. “I mean, were you two—”

“Yes, but not anymore. Svetlana is always my best friend first.”

“How old were you when you met her?”

Ilya shrugged, still burrowed against Shane's side. “Eight, I think. Our parents were friends.”

That was probably enough questions. Ilya got skittish if he asked too many questions in a row: he said they were boring or he suddenly remembered something he had to do. Even Shane could take a hint that obvious.

“She knows about me,” Ilya added.

“What about you?”

“That I like men as well as women.”

Shane's heart skipped a beat before starting up again, double time. “Does she know about us?”

“I didn't tell her but she is not stupid.”

“Would she ever—”

“No,” Ilya cut across him. “No, never. She has protected me always. She can be trusted.”

“Okay.”

He wasn't sure it was okay, but what else could he say. Hayden was his best friend but he wouldn't be telling him any time soon. Possibly ever, if he could help it.

Ilya kissed the underside of his jaw, once, then twice, and Shane's eyes fluttered with pleasure, happy for the distraction.

“Hmm,” he agreed with nothing in particular. “No, wait.”

Ilya propped himself up on an elbow. “I told you a million times, this couch is wipe-clean."

“What? No, not that.” He pulled up his sleeve. “This!”

Ilya peered at his arm. “That is your arm, yes. Needs more muscle so your back hand is better.”

Shane huffed a sigh. “No, the bruises.”

Ilya put his hand over Shane’s forearm, fitting his fingers gently over the bruises. “Oh, yes,” he replied, his voice gone deep. “I remember now. I held you down last night while I fucked you.”

“That’s—” Shane licked his lips. “That’s not the point. Laine saw them in the locker room.”

“What did he say?”

“That I should cover them up before anyone else saw.”

Ilya laughed: a loud, happy sound. “Ah, he is a good man. See? No problem. I can mark you up and Lainy will make sure no-one sees.”

“That’s not the—” Shane cut off on a moan, embarrassingly high as Ilya sucked hard just under his jaw. “No marks,” he said, but it didn’t sound very convincing even to himself.

“No marks people will see,” Ilya agreed.

Shane wanted to remind him they showered naked with twenty-odd other men most days of the week, but Ilya was stripping him of his hoodie and t-shirt, his mouth going to Shane’s nipple. He bit down, lightly at first, then harder and harder. Shane’s hands flew to the back of Ilya’s head, keeping him there even as he squirmed against the feeling.

“Fuck,” he panted, when Ilya pulled away. His eyes were very dark.

“Again?” Ilya asked. “Think you can take it?”

“Fuck you,” Shane breathed, already arching up against Ilya’s hot mouth.

God it was so intense: like the physical sensation of white noise. He came back to himself panting, grinding up against Ilya’s thigh.

“Tabarnak, fuck,” he swore. “Please.”

“Must be good if you’re swearing in French,” Ilya commented between tender kisses under his jaw.

“Come on,” Shane absolutely didn’t whine.

Ilya huffed a laugh, his breath tickling against Shane’s skin. Then finally his hand was on Shane’s cock and he forgot his annoyance. This time, when Ilya bit down on his nipple, Shane lost all control of his volume as he came, shoving his heels into the couch to try to get more friction, more everything.

Reality started to filter back in as Ilya muttered something in Russian, pushing his sweats down and kicking them off. Still dazed, Shane watched as he began to jerk himself off, fast and rough. He came quickly enough that Shane should’ve chirped him for it, but he was still trying to find his brain cells. He’d likely regret all this when he was putting on his compression gear tomorrow, but that was a problem for future Shane.

Ilya collapsed to the side of him, fishing for something then coming up with a t-shirt and wiping them both off. Shane put one arm around Ilya’s shoulders and snagged a throw off the back of the couch to spread over them. It was from his old apartment in Montreal: his mom had packed it with his clothes and the few books she’d sent.

They lay like that, breaths slowing. There was no-where they needed to be.

“Say it?” Ilya asked, his voice quiet.

“Say what?”

“What Svetlana taught you.”

Shane kissed the delicate skin by the side of Ilya’s eye. “Ilushenka,” he whispered.

Ilya turned his head so that Shane couldn’t see his expression. “Again.”

“Ilushenka,” Shane murmured, dropping first one kiss onto his hair, then another. “Ilushenka.”

Chapter End Notes

So. How we all doing?

Chapter 7

Warm-ups were fine. Ilya stayed with him the whole time, but that was pretty normal: they usually stretched together, then skated slow laps or passed a few pucks. At some point Ilya would kiss his helmet, which was originally just the signal for Marleau to do the same, but Ilya was captain so of course it had caught on.

He tilted his head as Laine came up to him, then Taz, and then Wills. He caught Ilya’s grin as he got to his feet, and discovered Pez, Sebs, and Cade all patiently waiting for their turn to kiss his helmet. Shane laughed, shaking his head. There was something sweet about how the Raiders followed Ilya’s lead: if he hugged Shane after a goal, then first Marleau and then Laine had to do the same. Ilya always handed Shane his water bottle before taking his own when they got to the bench. So now if Shane got there before Ilya, someone was always ready with it.

As a kid he’d struggled with big groups: both at school and on teams. He’d found strategies to help over the years, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d genuinely felt popular. He had no illusions: it was all about his skills on the ice and Ilya’s lead, but it was still nice.

He caught a few of the Metro’s watching him once or twice, but they were too far away to see their expressions. He’d nodded at Hayden from within the scrum of Raiders that seemed determined to accompany him everywhere, but that was all he managed before the horn let them know it was time to go back to the locker room.

There was enough time to tie and re-tie his laces, then out to O Canada, followed by the Boston crowd doing their best to sing louder than anyone had ever sung the Star-Spangled Banner.

Ilya was already in position when he skated up and he could tell from the referee’s flat, unimpressed stare that Ilya was chirping Taylor relentlessly. He was a solid centre and he’d been a decent teammate: he’d certainly done nothing to deserve Ilya’s undoubtedly gleeful shit talking.

Ilya won the faceoff. The Metros were half a step behind the Raider’s every move, Marly scoring on Shane’s assist. The crowd threw themselves against the glass, faces pressed up against it in roaring delight. Shane was so grateful for them, they’d got behind him almost instantly and hadn’t let up since.

They came off after the goal and Shane kept his eyes forward on the bench, Ilya’s bare hand warm on the back of his neck as he talked over Shane’s shoulder to Laine. Shane caught his name but ignored them, watching Berkes finish a hit on Taz that drew a brief crowd before the refs waded in. No goals, but only because Mitty was stepping up to cover where the Metro’s were more concerned with getting choppy.

By the third, the game had stopped being about hockey and turned into attrition. Montreal kept scoring just enough to stay visible, but every shift Shane took came with a price, a shoulder driven through him at the boards, a stick across the ribs, a mouthful of abuse when the refs weren’t close enough to hear. Boston answered every time: someone always arrived after the hit, always stepped in, and the penalties stacked up on both sides as the Metros got choppier and the Raiders stopped pretending they wouldn’t respond. The only reason it didn’t get out of hand was Mitty, standing on his head while his defence burned energy trying to hurt Shane instead of stopping the puck.

They won 5-2. Shane watched his old team as they skated off the ice, Boston screaming like they’d just won the cup. He’d be having dinner with Hayden in an hour or so: almost impossible to imagine after that game.

Media was relentless. Jen had to step in twice and Shane could feel Ilya’s annoyance from across the room. He’d been banned from crashing Shane’s media about ten games back, so there was no hope of a rescue. Just a regular game; they’re a good team over there; we just came out the right way; it’s hockey, stuff happens. He put on his blandest smile and grinded all the way through five terrible minutes of questions.

Standing in the hallway, hair damp from a quick shower and a draft coming from under a fire exit, Shane felt every one of his hits. JJ had landed a couple of clean hits, not even looking at him. Hayden had passed him on the ice, head down. Schneider had gone low with his stick, catching Shane across the shin. Gagnon had gone for a cross-check and Roy had chosen a stick ride across his forearms. Comeau had driven him into the boards twice, calling him a traitor, a cocksucker, a faggot. He was going to have bruises all down his side that would take a while to fade.

The first time they’d won the cup, Roy had screamed into his ear that he was a beauty. He’d gone with Schneider to sign off on his equipment order a couple of times because he’d kept putting it off.

Shane put the back of his hand to his mouth.

He wanted to go back into the locker room and sit in his cubby, listening to the rookies ask increasingly stupid questions about the in-flight food tomorrow. He wanted to go home.

“Shane!”

Hayden was coming down the corridor, smiling brightly in the overheads, with JJ trailing just behind.

Shane took them to South Street Diner. He’d been with the team a couple of times and none of the servers ever blinked at a group of NHL players, shoved tightly into a corner booth.

“Hey, pancakes!” Hayden exclaimed, plastic menu in hand.

JJ was quiet, seemingly engrossed in deciding what to order.

Shane didn’t even need to look: pretty much the only thing he could eat was scrambled eggs on wholewheat toast, but that was fine. Hayden ordered something with churro in the name and JJ went for a wrap and chocolate milk.

Once the server left, Shane opened his mouth to say something, he had no idea what, but it would be better than silence. Hayden held up a commanding finger.

“No hockey, Jackie’s rules, don’t blame me.”

“You’re so whipped,” JJ muttered, the first thing he’d said that wasn’t hi.

“How are you doing?” Hayden asked Shane, brightly.

“Good. I, er, I’ve got to be up early tomorrow though. We’re flying to—”

“Ah!” Hayden interjected, eyebrows raised.

Shane rolled his eyes, but he could feel a smile tugging at his lips. There was no way they were going to be able to avoid even mentioning hockey. What else did they do with their time?

“Okay fine. How’s Jackie and the kids?”

“Great!” Hayden began, launching into a story about Ruby emptying a jar of honey behind the washing machine that even had JJ smiling into his drink.

Their food came and taking the edge of their post game hunger carried them past the forty-five minute mark. Shane could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. One text would be from his parents, but the rest would all be Ilya. He put his hand over it but didn’t check.

Hayden finished his mound of pancakes first, the sickly smell of sugary syrup thankfully dissipating.

“How’s the diet going?” Hayden asked.

“Hockey-adjacent,” JJ said, without looking up from his food.

“I didn’t ask for the trade,” Shane announced.

That got him a betrayed look, but he had to make sure JJ believed him. “We know you didn’t, buddy. Right?” Hayden asked JJ.

“Yeah. I know, I’m just—” JJ made an expansive gesture. “I’m pissed at everyone right now. What the fuck were they thinking?”

“They were thinking that you’d tank,” Hayden said to Shane, all good humour gone. “They’d be able to buy whoever they wanted but you’d fail in Boston so who gives a fuck?” Shane didn’t think he’d ever sounded so bitter.

“Their fucking mistake, and now we’re paying for it,” JJ spat. “God, the fans… You seen any of it?” he asked Shane, anger sharpening his accent.

“No. I’ve posted some sponsor stuff on Instagram, but that’s it apart from ESPN. My mom tells me if there’s anything important.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t go looking,” Hayden agreed. “I’ve seen way too many edits of Rozanov kissing your helmet three hundred times.”

Shane blinked. God, he hoped that wasn’t actually a thing.

“Are you still living with him?” JJ asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I guess he’s your captain.”

“And my friend,” Shane added, firmly.

JJ looked down at his half-empty glass. “Well, I’m glad you’re making friends,” he allowed. “Even if that friend thanked Taylor for giving you to Boston every time you scored or got an assist.”

“Christ.”

“Still an asshole then?” Hayden asked, but he was smiling.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

JJ finished the rest of his drink with an obnoxious slurp and pushed the glass aside.

“You playing Buffalo tomorrow?” Hayden asked, apparently fully given up on his own rule.

“Yeah.”

“You going to steamroll them?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Rozanov and Hollander on a line,” JJ shook his head. “Who the fuck thought that would be a good idea?”

Shane kept silent, sipping the last of his water. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a real question, anyway.

“Well, you’ll make playoffs for sure,” Hayden said, sounding at least fifty percent happy for him.

Glancing across the table, JJ’s phone showed a clock glowing upside down reading 01:30am.

“Thanks,” he replied, absently. “We better get the cheque, yeah?”

Hayden snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Outside in the cold February air their breath plumed white while they waited for the taxi that would take Hayden and JJ to their hotel. JJ was leaning against the railings outside the diner, looking up at the old office building across the street.

“Call me if you need anything,” Hayden told him, sincere.

“Yeah, same,” Shane agreed.

“Don’t get hurt,” JJ ordered, clapping him on the shoulder.

Shane waved them off and cut east towards South Station. The parking lot was so bright that he wished he was the type of guy to walk around in sunglasses at night. He pulled his hood tighter instead, trying to cut down the glare. In the car he finally looked at his phone, replying to his parents and scrolling through the cascade of messages Ilya had sent before starting the engine and backing out of the narrow space.

It was nearly 2am when he got in, the downstairs dark except for a lamp, glowing dimly next to the couch. Shane flicked it off, climbing the stairs in the semi-darkness. The ensuite light was also on, a wedge of brightness falling across the bottom of the bed. Ilya was a huddle under the comforter, only the outline of his head visible against the pillow. He was asleep, snoring softly.

Shane went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He brushed his teeth for the whole two minutes despite his exhaustion. He turned away from the mirror as he stripped, not wanting to see the bruises starting to bloom across his skin.

As he got into bed Ilya, still mostly asleep, rolled over and clumsily pulled him close. Shane turned his face into the warm skin of his shoulder, so familiar now. They slept together almost every night. Even on the road, Shane would go over to Ilya’s room, waking early to go down to breakfast before almost everyone else was up.

He breathed deeply, his heart clenching with some emotion—trembling and full. He should have made more effort with JJ, he should have thanked Hayden for believing him, but all he’d wanted all evening was to be here, in Ilya’s house, in his bed, in his arms.

“Okay?” Ilya mumbled.

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “I’m okay. Go back to sleep.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Shout out to shackleton2 and alastcrescendo for reminding me of plot points I needed to come back to.

This chapter is brought to you by the Japanese proverb「出る釘は打たれる」(the nail that sticks up gets hammered down)

Shane lay sprawled on the bed, Ilya’s pillow under his head, his phone tucked against his cheek. They’d got back late last night and had gone to morning skate that morning, then they’d been dragged to Row 34 for lunch: only because half the team had complained that their captain was getting old and never went out any more.

“Front office has only been giving me positives,” his mom was saying. “Good line chemistry, teamwork, you know the drill.”

“Cool.”

“How are you feeling? Think these guys are going to support you long-term?”

“Yeah? I don’t know. I thought the Metros were going to re-sign me so maybe my opinion counts for nothing.”

“Honey, I’ll tell you and your dad will tell you until you believe us, but that had nothing to do with you, okay? I never heard a bad word about you from them.”

That made it worse, not better. “The team seems good,” he offered.

“And you’re feeling more settled?”

“Yeah, I guess. The people here don’t seem to give a fuck there’s a group of NHL players getting coffee next to them, which is nice.”

“Okay, and how are you feeling about finding an apartment there? Signalling you want to put down some roots?”

Shane rolled over onto his front, burying his head in Ilya’s pillow for a moment.

“Shane?” his mom sounded worried. “If you’re not ready, that’s fine too.”

“I’m good here,” he mumbled. “Staying here, I mean.”

“And Rozanov? He’s okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “I mean—” They hadn’t actually talked about it, but he figured he could just stay and see if Ilya got annoyed. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“Okay, well, I just want you to be mindful of how closely you’re being associated with Rozanov right now.”

Shane sat up. “What?”

There was a pause on the end of the phone. “Shane, honey. I don’t have anything against him: he’s doing a lot for you. He just has a very different image to you and probably not one Rolex is looking for. He has own sponsors.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Or, nothing bad. Just, I worry about you getting into the party scene he seems to be part of.”

Party scene? The last time they’d gone out was the week before last, when they’d had dinner with the team and Ilya’d had two beers before they’d headed home.

Shane flopped back down. “There haven’t been any parties, Mom.”

“That’s good to know. Now, we were thinking of coming down to see a home game, maybe against Detroit. I know you said you wanted some time to settle in, but by then it’ll be two months since we last saw you.”

“Sounds good. I’ll ask around for hotel recommendations.”

“Okay, we also were hoping we’ll get to see where you’re staying? It would be nice to meet your captain as well.”

“Sure.” Absolutely not.

Ilya would do something perfectly normal like put his head on Shane’s shoulder or tuck his thumb into Shane’s back pocket and none of the team even blinked, but his parents would ask questions.

“Let’s talk about it next time, I’m sure you need a nap.”

“Yeah, thanks mom. Give my love to Dad.”

Ilya was lying full length on the couch, listening to something pop-rocky in Russian. Shane crawled up so that he was lying half of Ilya, half on the back cushions, and waited for the song to end.

“Did I hear you talking to your brother before?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it like, 1am there?”

“Yes, he was drunk.”

Shane turned and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “How’s your dad?”

“I don’t know. Worse maybe? Alexei won’t take him to the doctor, so who knows?”

Getting Ilya to talk about any of this was usually like pulling teeth: all he knew was he had an older brother, a forgetful father, and he’d never mentioned his mother.

Shane slipped a hand under Ilya’s hoodie and put it against the warmth of his t-shirt on his side. He stroked a comforting thumb back and forth while he tried to think of the right thing to say.

“He says that all people get old and forget,” Ilya continued, folding a hand absently into Shane’s hair. “That he will come out worse; that they might lock him up. He always has an excuse and I’m not there so I can do nothing about it.”

Ilya’s accent was sharper after he’d been speaking to his brother.

“Do you need to go back?”

“No: the problem will be waiting for me in summer.” He blew out a breath and pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple. “How were your parents?” he added.

“Good. Fine. They want to come visit.”

“Oh yes?” Ilya pushed himself up onto an elbow. “How long for?”

“Just a night.”

“They can sleep downstairs. Or they can have the master bedroom.”

“Ilya, they can’t stay here.”

“Why not? I can promise not to fuck you for one night.”

“Because they’ll know. The second they see us together: they’ll know.”

Ilya looked down at him, his fingers still tangled at the back of Shane’s head.

“They don’t know about you?”

“They don’t know anything.”

“And you don’t want them to know?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, but he took his hand back, tucking it into the pocket of his sweatpants as he lay back down.

Shane sat up, his ass shoved between Ilya and the back of the couch, his legs over Ilya’s stomach.

“Look,” he started, then paused to gather his thoughts. “My mom, she had a hard time at school. Like, really hard, because she looked different, because her packed lunch was different, just everything. And she told me she thought about—” Shane took a breath. “She thought about hurting herself a few times.”

Ilya’s easy breaths froze for a second and Shane looked over at him: his expression was one of horror.

“She never did anything! She just had some dark times. But yeah, because of that she worked hard so I’d fit in. Like, she made sure my sneakers were the same as everyone’s, that I did the right after-school classes. She even—” Shane hesitated again, embarrassed. “She’d practice conversations with me so I would know what to say to my classmates. Like asking about weekends and music and stuff. Dumb stuff that other kids just seemed to know, but I couldn’t get.”

“And now I’m fucking that up. Being—Being this, with you. It’s like I’m throwing that all back in her face.”

Ilya was watching him carefully. “She never hurt herself?” he asked, voice quiet.

“No,” Shane assured him. “She just felt really bad at the time.”

“I think she would understand. She is a good mom: she loves you.”

Shane rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know I’m so lucky. I just can’t right now. Is that okay?” He couldn’t look at Ilya.

“Is okay. They stay in a hotel, I will go do something for PR. It’s no problem.”

Lying back down, Shane laced their fingers together.

“She also said you have a party image.”

That made Ilya laugh, his stomach shaking. “A party image! Oh, yes: every night, I’m dancing on the podium at the clubs.”

“You're ridiculous”

“You like it.”

He did, but he wasn't about to tell Ilya that so he leaned over and kissed him instead. He'd meant it to be nothing, just a way to get the last word, so to speak, but Ilya splayed his hand across Shane's face and deepened the kiss.

They kissed for long moments, Ilya turning so he could push first Shane’s hoodie, then his t-shirt up and off him. He pressed sweet, closed mouth kisses down Shane’s still-bruised side. “I will kill Comeau.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “You already tried that, remember? You got a penalty for it.”

Ilya muttered something in Russian but went back to stripping Shane. He then fumbled in his pockets, coming up with a smaller version of the tube they kept upstairs.

“You’re carrying lube now?”

“Yes?”

Shane snorted, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable,” he half-laughed.

Ilya continued to search his pockets, then swore in Russian.

“What is it?”

“No condom: I’ll go get it.”

“No,” Shane blurted. Ilya looked startled and Shane could already feel himself turning red. “If you want. We could. Without.”

“Hmm, yeah?” Ilya asked, leaning back in for a filthy kiss. “Is that what you want?”

“Maybe.”

“I think you do. I think you want to feel me come inside you.”

“Jesus,” Shane muttered.

Ilya kept up a near-constant commentary while he fingered him open, shit about how he was going to fuck him and put a plug in before practice that was way hotter than Shane would ever admit out loud.

“Are—are you done?” he panted.

“Hmm, yes, I think so.” And with that he pushed into Shane, hands on his thighs to hold him open.

He absolutely couldn’t tell the difference in the feel of it, but he knew Ilya wasn’t wearing a condom and that made it ten times hotter. For Ilya as well he guessed, by the way his control kept slipping, fucking Shane hard enough to pull bitten-off moans from him.

“Okay?”

“Yes, fuck,” Shane panted. “Like that.”

Ilya gave up any pretence of holding back, fucking him up against the arm of the couch, one hand tight in his hair.

“Fuck, going to come in you.”

“Ye—yes.”

Shane could feel it. He could feel Ilya’s cock pulsing inside of him, everything getting wetter and hotter. He got his own hand on himself and came almost instantly, making a mess of them both.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed against Shane’s lips, kissing his slack mouth. “Fuck that’s hot.”

They lay there longer than they normally would, kissing until Ilya was soft enough to slip out of him. He was sticky where he wasn’t usually sticky and whatever he was lying on—hopefully Ilya’s t-shirt—would need a very hot wash, but it had been worth it.

“Can’t do that on a road trip: the whole hotel will know.”

Shane blinked his eyes open. “I wasn’t loud?”

It came out more of a question than a statement.

“I am deaf. I need a—” Ilya made a vague gesture towards his ear.

“A hearing aid?”

“Yes! I need a hearing aid: you screamed.”

“I did not.”

“Did.”

“Did not.”

“Did.”

Shane bit the closest part of Ilya he could reach, which happened to be his ear. Ilya actually shrieked, which meant that Shane was laughing too hard to properly defend himself from the tickling attack that Ilya launched.

They stopped when they rolled off onto the floor, Ilya kicking the coffee table on the way down.

“You okay?” Shane demanded.

“Yes. Ow. Maybe we are too old for this.”

Shane propped himself up, looking down into Ilya’s blue eyes as he reached up and brushed his thumb along Shane’s jaw.

“I also talked about something else with my parents,” he admitted.

“Hmm?”

“I told them I didn’t want to look for a new apartment.”

“Well, that works.”

“It does?”

“Yes. I don’t want you to look for an apartment either.”

“Well, I guess that does work then,” Shane said with a smile, turning to place a kiss on the tip of Ilya’s thumb.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya is listening to Земфира

Chapter 9

Shane saw Ilya peel off first, the familiar flick of his stick toward the bench as his shift ended a half-second early. Shane stayed out one more stride because the puck was still loose and he was already wide. Then the play went the other way, sudden and sharp, bodies collapsing towards the middle. He cut back through traffic, legs burning, aware of skates crossing his path, a stick rapping his shin, a shoulder crowding his space. He caught a glimpse of the other player’s head down, eyes still tracking the puck, already turning away.

He clipped Shane. Not a hit, not really: just bad timing and too much speed. Shane’s edge went and his weight pitched forward before he could recover. His face hit the ice with a sickening crack. White burst behind his eyes, pain blooming hot and immediate, followed by warmth, fast and wet, flooding down over his mouth and chin. He pushed up to one knee, then both, bringing one inexplicably gloveless up uselessly as the ice beneath him streaked red. The whistle screamed and somewhere nearby someone was shouting, but Shane was still trying to get his bearings.

Hands were on him almost immediately, steering him toward the boards and through the open door. Shane let them, head tipped forward because that was easier than trying to look up. The tunnel swallowed the noise of the arena, sound dropping away into a dull roar behind him. Someone pressed a towel into his hands and he held it there, more out of instinct than instruction and it soaked through red almost instantly.

“Okay, easy,” a trainer said, voice calm and practiced. “Keep pressure.”

They stopped just inside the medical room. Shane caught his reflection in a mirror over a sink, dark hair plastered to his forehead, blood smeared liberally across his mouth and chin, dripping from his nose and a deep cut he couldn’t even feel down onto his jersey. His nose already looked wrong, swollen and crooked beneath the towel. He swallowed against a sharp, unpleasant pull behind his eyes.

“Oh,” he said faintly. He hadn’t realised it was that bad.

The trainer guided him toward the table. “Sit. We’re just going to take a look.”

“Wait,” Shane said, breath hitching as another wave of warmth spilled down his face. He adjusted the towel, pressing harder. “I’m fine. I’m not dizzy.”

“We still need to—”

“I need to go back to the bench,” Shane said, more urgently now. “Just for a minute. Please. I need to talk to them before they go back out.”

The trainer hesitated, eyes flicking to his face, assessing.

“Two minutes,” he said finally. “You don’t step on the ice.”

“Thank you.” Shane was already turning back towards the tunnel.

They walked him partway, the cold air biting at his damp jersey. The bench was chaos when he emerged, Ilya at the end, mid-argument with the head trainer, hands cutting sharp shapes through the air. Shane couldn’t hear the exact words, just see the intensity of them. The trainer stood his ground, palms up, shaking his head.

Then Ilya saw him.

His eyes went wide, the anger breaking open into something raw and startled. Shane stepped up, still clutching the towel to his face, blood seeping through it again. They met over the boards, close enough that Shane could see the tension in Ilya’s jaw.

“I’m fine,” Shane told him, low so only he could hear. “I promise.”

Ilya’s gaze flicked over him, hands tight on the rail. Shane shook his head. “It wasn’t dirty. Just bad timing.” He wasn’t 100% sure of that but sure enough. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he added

Ilya nodded, sharp and jerky, but he wasn’t doing a good job of hiding how upset he was. His hands were still clenched, knuckles white. Shane glanced past him and caught Marleau’s eye, holding it for a beat. Marleau gave a small nod back, already edging closer to Ilya’s shoulder.

A hand closed around Shane’s elbow. “Okay,” the trainer said. “That’s enough.”

Shane let himself be pulled back towards the tunnel, the cold air closing around him again. He really needed to call his parents.

He got back to the hotel at midnight, a trainer whose name he didn’t remember and was too tired to feel guilty about escorted him up to his room. He stood just inside the door for long enough to hear the elevator beep, then went down the corridor to Ilya’s room and knocked. Even in the low light his eyes were red. Shane took him into his arms, running a hand through his hair.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He sounded as congested as Shane did.

“I’m fine, it’s just a fracture,” Shane told him. The medical staff should have kept him up to date. He’d told them to call Ilya the second he’d come out of the CT scan.

“I know, Tom called me.”

“I’m fine,” he told him again, just in case it wasn’t clear. “I can play the game tomorrow.”

Ilya nodded, his face buried in the crook of Shane’s neck. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, Tom brought me something at the hospital. Did you?”

Ilya shrugged.

Shane had no idea what a shrug could mean in this context. “Let’s go to bed, eh?”

Pulling away, Ilya turned slowly and started stripping, dropping his clothes haphazardly on a chair. Shane folded his quickly, going over and pulling down the heavy comforter and getting in, lying on his back, propped up by pillows. Ilya turned off the lights and crawled in, half on top of Shane with his head on his shoulder.

“Okay?” Shane asked.

Ilya hummed, pressing a hand against Shane’s side.

Columbus was brutal. Early in the first, Shane took a hit he normally would have absorbed and spun off. With the cage he went down awkwardly, Ilya there within a second.

“I’m fine!” Shane snapped.

On the power play, Ilya threaded the cross-ice feed, but Shane was half a step slow and the lane closed before he could get his stick on it. They lost 2–1.

The low hum of the plane on the way back made his headache worse. Laine, in the seat next to him, was watching a movie with his headphones on. In the row ahead Marleau and Ilya were asleep, a tuft of Ilya’s blonde curls just visible from around the side of the wide chair.

Shane closed his eyes but couldn’t sleep, his head a dull, inescapable pressure. It was a short flight, but Shane was more than ready to get off and get home. Ilya had driven them, as he usually did, but he was so quiet that he nearly offered to drive them back.

He was glad he hadn’t when he woke up with a start, the garage dim around them as Ilya turned off the engine.

“Shane?” he said, quietly.

“I’m awake.”

“I can make you pelmeni,” Ilya offered, picking up Shane’s bag while Shane was still climbing out of the car.

“The frozen dumplings you eat?”

“Yes, they’re good when you’re sick.”

“Oh, no. I can’t. I’ll just have some of the pasta I made yesterday.”

He followed Ilya into the house and up the stairs. Back-to-back games were part of the job, but for once he could understand so many of his teammates complained about them. He just wanted to sleep for ten hours, not get up at 07:30 to be prodded by the medical staff. He tried to remember the tape session they’d had yesterday on Detroit: they stacked the neutral zone for sure. Looking over at where Ilya was slowly eating what looked like a convenience store sandwich he decided to ask about it tomorrow instead. He followed Ilya up to bed and fell asleep before the lights were even out.

By the time he surfaced again he was aware only of light and pleasure, a dream blurring into reality as he thrust up into the heat of Ilya’s mouth.

“Fuck! Fuck, Ilya.” He sounded terrible, congested and raspy, but fuck he felt so good.

He put his hands into Ilya’s hair, digging his heels in so he could get the leverage he needed to fuck into Ilya’s mouth. He wasn’t going to last long but morning blowjobs were never about anything except getting off as quickly as possible before they had to go to the rink. Coming down Ilya’s throat was a pretty good start to the day and he lay there panting, watching through narrowed eyes as Ilya’s fucked into his own fist, his mouth open as he came all over Shane’s rucked up t-shirt.

“Good morning,” he said, pulling Ilya down so he could kiss his forehead.

“Morning,” Ilya mumbled, placing a soft kiss on Shane’s lips.

“Do we take our shoes off?” his mom asked from just inside the door.

“Yeah, there are some guest slippers,” Shane told them, pointing them out.

“Oh, these are from your apartment!” His dad sounded inexplicably pleased by the discovery.

“Where are you on the pain scale, honey?” his mom asked as she gave him a careful hug.

“Two, two-and-a-half,” Shane admitted, hugging his dad before leading them into the main living space. “It’s annoying more than anything.”

“You got used to the cage pretty fast: it barely made a dent in your passing this afternoon."

“Detroit thought they were playing dump-and-chase, grind-it-out hockey.”

“Well, more fool them. They spent sixty minutes chasing the puck,” his dad said, briefly pulling him in and kissing his head.

“Dad!” Shane complained, smoothing his hair down, but he knew he was smiling.

“Nice house!” His dad had stopped to peer out of the floor to ceiling windows and the massive garden beyond.

“Are the trainers being careful with you?” his mom asked, settling herself onto a bar stool. “Oh honey, do you have any tonic water? I’m so dry after the plane.”

“Yes and yes.”

“Where’s Rozanov?” his dad asked, coming over to the kitchen island.

“You can call him Ilya, and he’s got some PR thing to do this evening.”

“We were hoping to meet him.”

“Next time,” Shane reassured them.

“We’ve got some updates about your house, if you want to see some pictures?”

“That’d be great,” Shane told his dad, though he assumed his mom was the one with the pictures. He’d had to explain the concept of copy and paste to him the last time he’d asked him to do anything technology-based.

His mom walked him through build progress while his dad decided what to order. He couldn’t believe how quickly it was coming together: with any luck it would be finished and even decorated by the summer. His mom was the best project manager.

“You having salmon, Shane?” his dad asked.

“Yeah, on quinoa.”

“Okay, I’ll give them a call.”

Wandering down the hall slightly, his voice echoed as he made the order, Ilya’s address written on a scrap of paper in one hand.

“So,” his mom started, in a tone of voice that instantly made his heart speed up. “A coaching assistant mentioned that you and Ilya have been friends for a long time?”

Shane turned his glass around so the side with the most condensation was facing outwards. He’d known Ilya had told the team they’d been friends since they were rookies and he’d known that his mom would be talking to a lot of the staff, but somehow he’d missed this particular eventuality.

“Well, I mean. Yeah, we’ve played together a lot,” he hedged.

“That’s true,” she replied, her words slow. “But that’s very different from being friends.”

“Yeah, it is,” Shane agreed.

His mom sighed. “Please don’t use your media training on me, sweetie.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“What are we apologising for?” His dad asked, coming to sit next to him.

“Nothing,” Shane replied quickly, hoping saying it out made it true. He could see his mom looking at him from the corner of his eye, but he just asked his dad how long the food would be and like that the conversation moved on.

The delivery came in the middle of a heated conversation about Montreal’s new defenceman: he was positive they were going to trade him in summer, his parents were sure they’d keep him just to save some face. They moved to the couch after they ate, ESPN on in the background while his mom showed him pictures of the house in Ottawa: looking so complete Shane felt he could drive up tomorrow and cook some burgers on the back porch as the cold night crept in.

His parents lingered over a coffee and Shane tried very hard to give the impression of being relaxed. Ilya was going to text when he was on his way back and he was pretty sure he hadn’t felt his phone vibrate.

Finally, when the clock on the kitchen wall was edging close to 9pm, his dad announced he was tired.

“You are?” his mom asked.

“Yes, it was a long day and I’m sure Shane is tired.”

“Yeah, a little,” Shane agreed.

His dad stood up and stretched, yawning loudly. His mom sighed and got up as well. “Okay then, we’ll leave you to it. Let us know what the doctors say about your nose. And get some Neosporin on that cut when it’s closed up: you don’t want it to scar.”

Shane said his goodbyes and locked the door behind them. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood as he checked his phone. There was one text from Ilya from ten minutes ago that just read: can I come home yet?

Yeah, come home, Shane sent back, then went down to the mud room to wait for him.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

It's possible the comments have gotten away from me. somewhat. I do plan to answer everyone (I know I don't have to, but I want to ☺️) but it's going to take me A While. Also, I was kinda wondering where 70k readers appeared from and I think I have vicjokerera to thank for that 🥰 - I'm not on Twitter so if someone could send them my thanks I'd be most grateful 💜💜

Content warning for depression and disordered eating

The atmosphere in the locker room was sour. It felt like being back in the Metros when they'd lost a game, everyone full of ugliness Shane had never known how to reach. It was his fault this time as well.

Ilya had been quiet on the way to the rink. He’d been late up and hadn’t eaten breakfast—Shane had assumed he was just tired from the game and then having been out all evening, but now he was starting to wonder if he was ill. That was the only explanation for how badly he’d done in practice, missing pretty much everything Shane had sent his way.

He tried not to watch too obviously as Ilya disappeared into the showers. His gait was fine and his weight was about the same as it usually was in the middle of the season.

“What the fuck was that?” Marleau hissed at him in French, leaning over Shane’s cubby. He’d only taken off his skates, the sleeves haphazardly pushed up to reveal freckled forearms. Shane was down to his compression pants and top, one sock balled in his hand.

“I don’t know, he’s been in a shitty mood all morning.”

“Not that. Practice: what the fuck were you doing?”

Shane met his eyes head on, aware of Marleau’s size. “I was skating,” he said tightly.

“Listen, we don’t do that. When the captain is like this, we help him, not fucking show off!”

“Like what?” Shane asked, baffled. He’d been accused of showing off so often it didn’t even register as an insult any more. He was good: he couldn’t help that.

“He always brings everything to a game: everything. So when he can’t bring everything to practice, you simplify, you fucking help, you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Shane agreed, mainly to get Marleau to back the fuck off.

“Good,” Marleau said, back in English. He took Shane’s stick and slotted it neatly into place and turned to take off his gear just as Ilya came out of the shower, a towel knotted around his waist and his hair dark with damp.

Shane watched him out of the corner of his eye as he began to get dressed.

“You showering?” Laine asked and Shane snapped his head around.

“Yeah,” he agreed, reaching for his other sock. Ilya was slowing down, likely having noticed that Shane wasn’t even undressed yet. He finished stripping and went to the showers, sluicing sweat and soap suds off in the hot water, someone laughing two stalls down.

When he got out Taz and Cade were chatting to Marly, Ilya nodding occasionally. Shane got dressed and threw his bag over his shoulder, his hair still dripping into his collar. He nodded goodbye to whoever caught his eye, Ilya standing and following him out.

“Your hair is still wet,” he told Shane, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“It’s a one minute walk to the car, I’ll be fine.”

Ilya didn’t reply, silent all the way as he drove from the rink to the river.

“What was up at practice?” Shane asked, scrolling through his phone without really looking.

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “Tired.”

He’d seen Ilya tired—seen him when his knees gave way as he stood, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he’d never seen him miss a tape-to-tape outlet pass.

“I will be better for the game tomorrow,” he added, as if that was the thing Shane was worried about.

“I know,” he agreed.

Shane’s black eyes looked ugly, but he could pretty much breathe through his nose well enough that eating wasn’t such a chore. He’d eat after sorting out food for the week though: he hadn’t had a chance to do it yesterday with his parents there and it was nagging at him. His spreadsheet was on his laptop, but he could take notes on his phone and copy them over later. Starting with the chicken, he weighed each portion before putting it in tupperware to freeze. Rice came next. He opened a drawer, looking for the neon orange lid he used when washing his rice and caught Ilya standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring blankly at the line of tupperware along the side.

“Hey, want me to make you something?”

“No.”

He turned and opened the fridge and Shane went back to his rice. When he’d been young his grandma had made zosui for him when he’d been sick, using the last of the soup from nabe to cook the rice, adding some grated ginger and warning him to be careful because it was hot. Ki o tsukete, atsui yo!

Ilya got a pizza out of the back of the freezer, something with sausage on it, and flicked the oven on. Shane ran the numbers automatically, effort versus intake, and knew the pizza didn’t come close to meeting Ilya’s needs.

“Want a protein shake with that?” he offered.

“No, I want to eat real food.”

“I eat real food,” Shane replied, stung. The Metros had always joked about his birdfood, but Ilya had never mentioned it: none of the Raiders had.

“Not food for when sick, not food for when in pain.”

“I’m fine,” Shane insisted. He jumped at a sharp noise behind him, turning to see the oven off again, the pizza abandoned on the side and Ilya already heading towards the stairs.

Shane put the chicken in the fridge and the pizza back in its box and in the freezer before following Ilya upstairs. He was lying on the bed on his side, the light of his phone reflected on his face. Shane sat by his knees, but Ilya just kept scrolling.

“I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya replied, his tone making it clear he was parroting Shane.

He half turned, bringing a leg up and putting a hand on Ilya’s thigh. “Ilushenka,” he tried. “Please.”

Ilya sat up, pushing himself up to standing so fast his phone fell to the floor. “Nothing!” he snapped, throwing one arm out to one side. “Nothing is wrong. Except you have two black eyes and you don’t let me help! No, I can’t give you nice food; no, I can’t stay with you while your parents are here. I can’t come to the hospital with you, can’t even get on the fucking ice when you’re bleeding. Fuck!”

He dropped back against the wall, sliding down it as quickly as he’d stood, bent over with his head bowed, his breathing ragged. Shane was already moving, crouching next to him to place a hand over the vulnerable bend of his neck. He didn’t know what to say, what words would make everything better.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I didn’t know you were upset. I—I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t stay.”

“Shouldn’t stay where?”

“With me. You shouldn’t stay with me, you should get your own apartment.”

Shane hooked a hand into the bottom of Ilya’s sweatshirt, worrying at the ribbing along the edge. “I want to stay with you.”

Ilya shook his head. “I’m no good, don’t you see? Lazy and selfish.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

He got only silence in reply. “Come on,” he urged, easing Ilya up. Ilya went with him without resistance. Shane lay back on the bed and pulled him close, his weight a comfort against the idea that he might want Shane to leave.

Ilya buried his head in his shoulder, his breaths stirring as wetness gathered at Shane’s neck. He felt sick with sadness, like he could feel what Ilya felt, like their hearts were beating in the same painful rhythm. It made sense: he always knew where Ilya was on the ice, maybe he was learning to know where he was off it as well.

“Don’t go,” Ilya breathed.

“I won’t.”

Ilya was fine for the game. They lost, but not for lack of effort. Plenty of chances, but New York’s goalie was a brick wall. They clawed it back to one-all, pulled the goalie late, and watched it slide into their own empty net.

Media was predictable: there was something to be said for not being captain. No-one expected him to have an original thought in his head, though for once he wished he could go crash Ilya’s media, if for no other reason that to stop him being asked the same question about finishing plays six different ways. Thankfully Jen stopped them early, while Shane was just heading out to get iced.

Laine caught up with him in the corridor, falling into step at his shoulder. “How’s the captain?” he asked.

“Fine,” Shane replied, but Laine’s silence felt loaded.

“Next month I’ll have been playing for the Raiders for eight years.”

“Congratulations,” Shane told him, unsure why this was a conversation they were having.

Laine touched a hand to his arm and Shane stopped. “I don’t think Roz is fine.”

First Marleau then Laine: everyone was lining up to tell him he was fucking up this week. “You all know him better than me, I guess.”

“Will you listen to me or do you want to sulk some more?”

Shane opened his mouth then closed it. “I’m listening,” he allowed.

“It is depression, I think. He gets like this sometimes, but he can always play. You didn’t know?”

Shane shook his head, trying to place what Laine was saying with the Ilya he’d known all these years. Or not known, perhaps. “No, he’s always so—”

“Loud? Annoying?”

A laugh fell out of Shane before he could stop it. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That.”

Laine tilted his head, considering. “Not an easy thing. Not everyone could live with someone who struggles like that.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Laine clapped him on the shoulder. “Need you to beat Cade at Fifa later.”

Shane turned the word over while the trainer iced the bridge of his nose. Depression was something for writers and artists—Van Gogh, battling to paint. Ilya was so bright, so full of energy and motion, it was hard to imagine him being so sad it would need a name. He’d have to Google it, find out the right things to say, how to help.

At the hotel, Laine made good on his threat. He claimed the biggest room, stole Taz’s PS4, and told Shane to bring Ilya along.

Ilya didn’t want to play, instead sitting on the floor in front of the seat Shane was on, leaning against Shane’s leg with one hand wrapped warm around his ankle. Cade was sitting on the sofa with Laine next to him, Cade leaning forward so that both of them would fit. He was also probably leaning forward in a desperate attempt to prevent Shane from trampling his team into dust, but that wasn’t going to happen.

He grinned as he scored again, Cade swearing at him while Laine laughed. “Kid, you’re playing Shane Hollander, did you think you would win?”

“Is there anything you’re bad at?” Cade asked, pressing X repeatedly in an effort to get the ball out of his own half.

“He is very bad at chirps,” Ilya offered. He wasn’t even watching the game, instead he had his eyes closed, his head resting against Shane’s knee.

“I’m not,” Shane countered. He scored again.

“What?” Cade yelled, standing up.

“That’s true, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Hollzy chirp anyone.” Laine leaned forward to peer around Cade.

“I called you old man last week!”

“Was that supposed to be a chirp?”

“Yes!”

On the screen Cade’s goalie flung himself left, a full second too early, leaving the right side of the net yawning open. Shane sent the ball to the right.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Shane got his stitches out after practice. He’d asked Ilya if he’d wanted to come along, so he was sitting on a chair, refreshing Twitter with his cross in his mouth while Shane tried to stay still.

“Anything?” he asked, the second the doctor turned to put down his tweezers.

“Tampa Bay’s Lindström got pulled off the ice,” Ilya told him, without looking up from his phone.

“Sixty-two games, four goals, sixteen assists. Plus-eight. Plays twenty minutes a night, second PK unit, left shot. Starts more in the D-zone than O-zone. Clean first pass,” Shane paused then shook his head. “Can’t remember his first name.”

Both the doctor and Ilya looked up at him. “You are insane,” Ilya told him, but he sounded fond.

“Okay, looks good,” the doctor said—he was also smiling. “That scar is going to be pink for a while. Keep it clean. No picking. No scratching. If it splits open again, you’ll be playing in a cage.”

“Yes, Doc,” Shane replied.

He hopped off the table and followed Ilya out of the door. “Anyone from us?” he asked. Even with his back turned, he could tell Ilya was rolling his eyes.

“We are playoff team. We’re buying, not selling.”

Shane kept his hand on his phone anyway, waiting for the three-beat vibration of his mom’s ringtone. He’d spoken to her last night and she’d reassured him that Boston was still full of praise for him, but she hadn’t known about the Metros trading him either.

The whole team was still in the locker room, glued to their phones.

“Two minutes,” someone called, just as Shane zipped up his bag and sat down.

His phone buzzed with a text from JJ.

Everything okay?

Yeah, all good here. You?

Lost Simms yesterday

Sucks

Yeah

JJ sent the gif of Ilya kissing Shane’s helmet that he’d been using as a reaction to everything for the last month.

“Three o’clock,” Ilya announced, his voice commanding. “We stay.”

Taz leaned forward in his cubby, Cade going over and talking to him in a low voice.

Dan must have been standing just outside the door. He came in and clapped his hand twice, the room going quiet. “Okay, we have Lindström from Tampa Bay. He’ll be joining us for Buffalo tomorrow. That’s it, get out of here. Don’t you have homes to go to?”

A few people laughed or said yes, Coach, but everyone started to move, packing up or conferring with friends.

“Good,” Laine said. “Someone to clear the net front for me.”

“You tired, old man?” Ilya asked.

“Yes.”

Laine’s comment earned a snort from half the room, but Ilya only smiled and went back to packing up.

Shane had googled depression and a lot of the symptoms didn't match up. He'd taken notes on what to do anyway. He wasn’t supposed to try to fix anything, he needed to listen and not take it personally if Ilya was irritable. WebMD had also said professional help was a good idea, but they had team doctors so he was pretty sure that point was covered. The team seemed to know what to do: there had been a revolving door of teammates turning up to hang out, or bring Ilya some cheese covered bread that Ilya would complain wasn’t real Russian food, all the while tearing off pieces and dipping it into egg yolk before stuffing it into his mouth.

The other stuff had been harder. He couldn’t introduce Ilya to his parents, but he had gone into the trainer’s room, palms sweating, and asked if Ilya could ride along if Shane got taken to hospital again. Tom, the head trainer, was an affable guy with a sharp low fade and a habit of meeting your eyes when he spoke. Shane hadn’t been able to look at him while he’d asked. Tom had told Shane they could make Ilya his emergency contact and that had been that. He just needed a way to mention it to Ilya that wasn’t weird.

It was apparently Marleau’s turn to hang around, so he’d come back with them after practice and made himself comfortable on the floor. They were playing a card game Shane had never seen before: Ilya tossed down a six and tapped the table. Marleau frowned, then covered it with a queen.

Ilya’s phone rang about ten minutes into the game and he looked at it with a grimace that meant it was his brother.

“Shane, guard my cards,” he directed as he got up and walked down towards the den.

Shane nodded, still reading through Tampa’s game notes from last week.

“So, we’re going to Buffalo again tomorrow,” Marleau said. He was sitting on the floor on the far side of the couch, the coffee table askew to accommodate him.

“Uh-huh,” Shane agreed. It would make sense for Lindström to go second pair, moving Sebs down: better timing on wide exits and late trailers would open up again if Buffalo chased.

“Yeah, so the walls at the Marriott are pretty thin.”

Shane took a second to understand what he’d said. He looked over at Marleau, who was still shuffling his cards.

“You—” Shane couldn’t quite get a full breath. “You know?”

“Know what? That you get pretty loud? I mean yeah. We’ve been playing on the same team for over two months.”

Shane put his phone down and leaned forwards, the rug on the floor full of irregular shapes in grey and black.

“Hey, you okay?”

He could see a square and what he thought was a hexagon: he counted the sides, slow and steady. Ilya was there then, calling his name.

“Marly knows. The team—fuck.” Shane pressed his fingers against his eyes, bright lights sparking against his eyelids.

“Shane, sweetheart,” Ilya said, very close. “No-one knows anything dangerous, I promise.”

“Dangerous?” Shane half-laughed. “They know we fuck.”

“Maybe,” Ilya agreed, still calm. “Maybe not. They see us coming out of each other’s rooms, maybe we’re watching tape; they see me kiss you, well just hockey stuff, no big deal. They cover for us, but they don’t know.”

“God, it would just take one person to talk to the media and that would be fucking it. We’d never skate again.”

“Hey,” Marleau said, incredulous. “You think we’d do that to you?”

“Is okay Marly, I have this.”

“Okay, I’ll head out. Love you and your boy here.”

“We love you too.”

There was a brief impression of a hand on his head, then steps receding down towards the garage.

“See? The team don’t know: they don’t want to know.”

Shane scoffed. “Just because they’re jocks doesn’t make them fucking stupid.”

Ilya took a sharp breath in through his nose. “Did I say they were stupid? No, they’re smart. They see me do something that maybe gets too much attention so they do it too; they see something they can’t explain, they look the other way. Marly and Laine shut anything down in the locker room. Is as safe as we can be.”

“Fuck,” Shane leaned back and rubbed his hands over his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew. Metros must do the same for you, no? You had a bad day, they covered. This is the same, just—” Ilya shrugged. “Different reason.”

Maybe they had, but Shane had never seen any evidence of it.

“Marleau can’t be the only one who’s heard us fucking.”

“Yes, most likely, but no-one wants details. They see me with women for years; they see us play well on ice: that is the story they prefer.”

“Not Marleau.”

“No, not Marly and not Lainy either. They know me for a long time, they took care of my shit when I was a rookie. They are svoi. Ours. No—not ours like possession,” he threw up his hands. “Too much English: they would never tell.”

Shane believed him. He had to—he’d never be able to step inside the locker room again if he didn’t. He couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t noticed how easy the team was around them but now, knowing they knew but were only choosing to look away… He could make it easier. He could stop: no more helmet kisses; no more hands at the small of Ilya’s back. No more anything that needed covering.

Ilya came and sat next to him on the couch, pulling Shane down so that his head was against his shoulder. He ran a hand down his back and pushed it under his sweatshirt to rub a thumb back and forth over the ridge of Shane’s spine.

He's read that in order to support a partner with depression you couldn’t withdraw when they seemed distant: you had to continue to show affection, no matter what.

“Fuck, Marleau knows I’m loud.”

Ilya’s hand stopped its movements.

“What is it?” Shane added.

“And knows you’re my Montreal girl. I thought maybe you wouldn’t like the joke so I told him not to say.”

“Montreal girl,” Shane repeated.

“Loud Montreal girl.”

A sound that was something like a laugh escaped him: half-humiliation, half-humour. He turned so that the late-afternoon light was blocked out, surrounded by Ilya’s smell and warmth. They’d fucked the day before last: Ilya had eaten him out. He’d been loud then for sure. Ilya slipped his hand under his t-shirt and Shane shifted further up the couch.

“You want?” Ilya asked, his voice low.

Shane nodded and Ilya pushed his hand under his sweats and boxers to knead his ass. He was half hard when he turned his head for a kiss, Ilya rubbing a dry finger against his hole.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“No,” Shane shook his head. “I want to use my mouth on you.”

It had been over a week since he’d been able to suck Ilya’s dick, his fractured nose making breathing too difficult.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Ilya pushed up, taking Shane’s weight as he pushed down his sweats and underwear, pulling just one leg out and settling back down. Shane gave him one more kiss before moving down the couch. Ilya was only half-hard, the skin just under the head of his cock silky smooth under his tongue. Shane breathed deeply through his nose as Ilya got harder, moaning encouragement but keeping his hips still.

Shane pulled off him, wiping spit from his mouth.

“You can do it,” he said, his voice already beginning to rasp. “I’m fine, I can take it.”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed. “Put your hand under my thigh and squeeze if you need me to stop.”

With his right foot now planted on the couch and his knee bent, Ilya started to thrust into Shane’s mouth, his hand first gentle on his head, gradually tightening his grip on Shane’s hair as he became rougher.

Shane moaned and drooled around Ilya’s cock. It was so good he felt like he could come just from this, just from making Ilya lose control like this: all he had to do was concentrate on breathing and take it.

Ilya pulled him off at the last moment, dragging him up into a desperate kiss as he finished himself off with his hand. He pulled back, panting, pressing light kisses along Shane’s eyebrow.

“I wanted to swallow,” Shane complained and wow, he really did sound terrible.

“Mmm,” Ilya agreed. “And I wanted to kiss you. But we can do both.”

He brought his fingers to Shane’s mouth and Shane swallowed them automatically, moaning as Ilya spread the salty taste of his come across his tongue.

“Good, so good for me,” Ilya crooned, his praise running briefly into Russian. “Come on, on your knees: my turn to suck cock.”

Shane just moved as Ilya directed him—a touch on his knee or his ass—untill he was kneeling over him, his dick wet at the tip. At the insistence of the hands on his ass he moved his hips forward, pushing his cock into the perfect heat of Ilya’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, bracing an arm on the back of the couch. “I’m not going to last long.”

Ilya hummed, which didn’t help at all. Shane thrust gently, more out of a desire to last for more than three seconds than any politeness. A wet finger against his hole made him drive his hips forward, harder than he’d meant to.

“Fuck!”

One, then two fingers pressed into him, pinning him between two points of pleasure. He lost some time then, fucking himself back onto Ilya’s thick fingers and forwards into his plush mouth. He was definitely loud when he came, bent over and panting against Ilya’s sweaty curls. Collapsing back on the coach, he couldn’t form the words to offer to help and Ilya wiped them both off with a t-shirt, before lying back with Shane and pulling him close.

Shane shifted closer, sliding a leg between Ilya’s and tucking his face into the hollow of his throat.

“I like it,” he told him, his voice muffled. “I like sucking your cock.”

“Yes, me too. I like sucking your cock and fucking you.”

“And—And I like being fucked.” He tipped his chin up so he could see him properly.

Ilya smoothed his thumb over Shane’s brow. “I’m glad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Shane told him.

“Nothing at all,” Ilya agreed.

Chapter End Notes

Marleau and Ilya are playing a Russian card game called Durak and the concept Ilya was trying to explain was свои and, as I understand it, refers to them as ‘one of us’ inside the circle / trusted / not an outsider, so the implication is that betraying them would mean you were betraying your own.

Chapter 12

Shane was up early, running a couple of kilometers on the machine downstairs then stretching so his hips wouldn’t seize up on the plane. He’d packed the night before, but unpacked it all just to double check. He added another pair of socks and swapped out one t-shirt for another. He hadn’t slept well; all the ways the team could slip up unspooling like a never-ending list every time he closed his eyes.

“Hey,” Ilya rasped from behind him, coming up to wrap his arms around his middle, his cheek warm against Shane’s neck.

“Hey,” Shane replied, folding the edge of his socks over each other.

“You had breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Come on then,” Ilya encouraged, letting go and swatting him on the ass before retreating.

Shane followed him into the kitchen, starting on a smoothie while Ilya made tea and porridge.

“Did you run?”

“Just jogged,” Shane replied, adding another banana.

“I heard the machine,” Ilya said, stirring his porridge with his back to Shane. “I came downstairs: you weren’t just jogging.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Ilya shrugged and Shane turned back to the side and switched on the blender, the sound filling the space between them. He poured out the resulting sludge into a tall glass and went to take it over to the dining table.

“You regret it, don’t you?” Ilya asked as he passed him.

“Regret what?”

“This—us. It’s too much trouble for you, too much stress.”

“No,” Shane said at once, horrified. He took in Ilya’s hunched shoulders, the way he was turned away. “No,” he repeated, setting the glass down on the counter and stepping in behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist.

Ilya was stiff at first but then turned and folded into him just as Shane was starting to think he’d made a mistake. He chewed on his lip, trying to get his words in order. “I don’t regret us. I really don’t. These few months have been—” he hesitated, not wanting to go too far. “They’ve been good. Better than good. I don’t regret them, I just. I don’t know, I wish things were different, that’s all.”

“Me too,” Ilya admitted, his voice thick. “Wish everything was better for you. Wish I was better for you.”

“What?” Shane pulled back, but Ilya wouldn’t look at him. “You’re a great boyfriend,” he told him, his heart beating hard enough he felt sick.

That got Ilya to look at him. “Boyfriend?” He sounded so hopeful that Shane had to pull him in close again.

“Yeah. If that’s okay?”

“Yes, is okay.” Ilya added something in Russian, placing a soft kiss at the corner of his eye.

“What did you say?”

“My boyfriend, my good one.”

“And in Russian?”

Ilya said the words slowly and Shane silently repeated them to himself as he drank his shake, as Ilya drove them to the rink, on the bus and then on the plane. Moy paren, moy khoroshiy. Moy paren, moy khoroshiy.

Lindström coasted over during warmups, his stick tucked awkwardly under one arm like he wasn’t sure where to put it.

“Hollander,” he said, voice low and careful.

Shane glanced over. “Yeah?”

There was a beat—Lindström looked faintly pained.

“I’ve been informed,” he said, very formally, “that I’m required to kiss your helmet.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

Lindström shifted his weight. “Told it is bad luck not to.”

From somewhere to Shane’s left, Marleau snorted.

“Oh my god,” Shane muttered.

Lindström leaned in, clearly wanting to get it over with, and pressed a quick, deeply awkward kiss to the side of Shane’s helmet before skating off.

Marleau, Ilya, Laine, and Cade all exploded into laughter. “I fucking hate you guys,” he told them. “Which one of you told him?”

“Not me,” Ilya claimed, still chuckling. The rest shook their heads but Shane wasn’t sure if he believed them.

Lindström took a defensive-zone shift late in the first, staying low instead of drifting. He absorbed the hit cleanly, shoulder checked once, and slipped a simple, flat pass into the middle. Two touches and the puck was out.

Shane turned and caught Ilya’s eye: that would do.

The game settled into a grind after that. Five-on-five was tight and ugly, Buffalo stacking the neutral zone and daring them to force it wide. The breakthrough finally came on the power play: Ilya dragging two defenders high, Shane slipping into the soft seam on the weak side. One clean touch, a quick snap through traffic, and the red light flared. They added another with the extra man late in the third: 2-1.

The second Lindström stepped into the showers Ilya cupped his hands around his mouth to shout. “Hey! Which one of you dipshits told the Swede about our most sacred of rituals?”

Taz, very hesitantly, put his hand up. “Was it a secret?” he asked.

“Taz, you idiot,” Laine interjected. “You can’t make a dude kiss another dude on his first day at the office.”

“We don’t work at an office?” Taz replied, a lilt at the end making it sound like he wasn’t sure.

Shane bit the inside of his lip in an effort not to laugh.

“Bad luck not to,” Sebs put in, apparently serious.

Taz pointed at Sebs. “Yes! Exactly! I had to tell him. You’ve got to have good luck for your first game. Anyway, he can help us win the—”

Everyone started yelling at the same time. “Don’t say it!”

“Bad luck!”

By the time Lindström came back in the room had quieted down, though Taz was still trying to find the owners of half the socks and the two foam rollers that had been thrown at him.

Ilya went past him towards the showers, a towel thrown casually over one shoulder. Shane resolutely stared at the floor and thought about nothing at all.

“You going to shower in your skates?” Laine asked.

With a start Shane started to unlace them. He knows, he knows, was all he could think.

“So we have to study Swedish in school in Finland,” Laine continued, conversationally. “I don’t speak it well but I understand a lot. You know Berntsson in New York?”

“Yeah: eighteen goals but eleven are on the power play. Doesn’t see much defensive ice.”

“You are way more petty than anyone gives you credit for, kid.”

Shane smiled as he peeled off his shin guards.

“So,” Laine continued. “Berntsson kept muttering about how he should have taken a dump before the game and eventually I had to say, you know maybe I don’t need to know the exact shade of your shit. My point being, do you think I should tell Lindström I speak Swedish?”

“Well,” Shane offered. “You can only tell him once.”

Laine laughed and clapped him on the back. “I like the way you think.”

Down in the den, Shane ran his finger over the tight ridge of his healing cut. Everyone had promised him it wouldn’t scar but he didn’t actually care either way. Upstairs he could hear faint music and possibly Russian lyrics coming from the shitty speaker Ilya connected to his phone sometimes. He really needed to buy him a new one.

“Yeah. Okay,” he agreed, pulling the lever at the side of the chair so that it opened up into a recliner.

“You need to post for Reebok next week for their Spring training push.”

“Okay.”

“And Under Armour wants two more stills before the end of the month.”

“Sure,” Shane said, putting his phone on speaker so he could make a note. He’d have to do it on their next two-day break: they had a six-day road-trip after that. “And Rolex?” he asked, catching sight of his bare wrist. His watch was upstairs in the ensuite.

“Nothing for now.”

He looked up at the cream ceiling of the den, as if he’d be able to see his mom’s expression. “Why?”

“Your current deal runs through August,” she explained. “They’ve decided not to extend past this term.”

Shane put his phone down on his lap.

“They’re not terminating,” his mom was saying. “It just won’t renew.”

“It’s because I lost the C.”

“You didn’t lose anything. You were transferred to a team where they expected you to fail and instead you increased their merchandise sales, their national broadcast slots, and their playoff odds.”

Shane said nothing. There was a tiny hole in the stitching along the inside edge of the armrest: he couldn’t fit his index finger in it, but it gave a little around his pinky.

“Do you want a letter in Boston?” his mom added.

“No.”

He couldn’t imagine anyone better than Ilya and Marleau to lead the team. He watched Ilya disappear sometimes to do media or into meetings and didn’t know how he’d ever managed at the Metros. He was starting to think maybe he hadn’t, maybe that had been part of the reason they’d jumped at the chance of a trade.

“Well, no-one’s talking about it so I won’t bring it up. And how do you feel about PR pushing the ‘best friends’ narrative? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not.”

“Good, they seem like a good team: I’m really proud of how you’ve integrated with them. Dad is too.”

“Yeah, they’re good guys.”

“Are you still okay rooming with Ilya?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“No need to ‘yes, Mom’ me, I’m allowed to check on my favorite child.”

“I’m your only child,” he pointed out, but his mom would be able to hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, we’re looking forward to you being in Montreal in two weeks.”

“I’m not. Shit, I mean—”

“I know what you mean, honey. I've already spoken to team services and we’ll have lunch in the hotel so you won’t need to leave.”

“A prisoner in my own country,” he tried to joke.

“It won’t be like this forever,” his mom replied, answering his anxiety instead of his joke.

“I know,” he said. I hope.

Ilya turned off his music, leaving only the low hum of the speaker on the coffee table in the abrupt quiet. "You done?" he asked.

“Yeah.” Shane sat down at the end of the couch, then looked over at where Ilya was lying and crawled up to flop down over him, burying his face between his side and the couch. “Rolex dropped me.”

“Fuck them.” Ilya ran his hand through Shane’s hair. “No need to worry: I will look after you, make sure you don’t starve.”

Shane huffed a laugh. It wasn’t like Ilya let him pay rent, so it wasn’t far off the truth. The rhythm of Ilya’s fingers in his hair was hypnotic. He closed his eyes and put a hand under Ilya’s t-shirt, just to feel his bare skin. They lay like that for a while, Shane half-dozing before the rumble of Ilya’s voice under his ear pulled him back to full consciousness.

“I was serious,” he said, quietly. “I want to be able to feed you sometimes.”

“Feed me what?”

“Good food: Russian food.”

Shane couldn’t break his diet, not when he was still on his old contract. He needed to be signed this summer. “Is there something you can make me that isn’t, I don’t know, isn’t dumplings?”

“Yes: Grechka. It is buckwheat with butter and salt. A little butter.”

He didn’t eat a whole lot of butter, he preferred olive oil or avocado for his fats. “Can I weigh it?”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, curling over to kiss his ear. “Yes, you can weigh all of it. You will like it, I promise. My mother made it for me when I was little.”

Ilya never mentioned his mother. Was that an invitation to ask now? Shane had no idea, but maybe it was better to ask and then Ilya would just change the subject if he wanted to. And anyway, Shane wanted to know. “You don’t usually talk about her.”

Ilya was quiet for long enough that Shane doubted he would answer. “It is difficult.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

Fuck. He wished he wasn’t so bad at things like this. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“It just means I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Ilya shook his head, his hair rasping against the leather of the couch. “English is very stupid. Do you say this in French as well?”

“No, I’d say c’est dur, like ‘that’s difficult.’”

“Yes, less stupid then. And Japanese?”

“I don’t know the formal phrase. I think my grandparents might’ve said something like ‘that’s difficult’ or ‘you must be lonely now’.”

“Teach me the last one.”

“Sabishiku naru ne.”

Ilya repeated it, his accent horrible but endearing. “Now you have to learn some Russian.”

“Moy khoroshiy,” Shane said, probably fucking up the pronunciation. He couldn’t remember the boyfriend one.

There was no reply and when Shane looked up Ilya had his head tilted back, one hand covering his eyes. “Hey.” Shane pushed up onto one arm. “Hey, Ilya.”

Ilya shook his head, his throat working.

“Come here?” Shane asked. “Please?”

He didn’t move for a few seconds, but then he shuffled nearer and pressed his face into Shane’s shoulder. Shane kissed his hair, holding him close.

“Did I say it wrong?”

“No, it was perfect,” Ilya mumbled, his voice muffled against Shane’s sweatshirt. “You are good, moy khoroshiy. We are good.”

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

I can’t even begin to tell you how approximate that chapter count is. Basically, I know what I want to happen in this story but I’m not clear on how we’ll get there (happy ending, of course!) but I did want to give people an idea of how long I think this might be.

I put the occasional chapter/writing update on my Tumblr with the tag #boston boys if anyone wants to follow me there (fair warning: my Tumblr is total chaos - no unifying theme whatsoever). Hope everyone is having a good Sunday and I promise I'm reading all your comments <3

The plane was dark except for the thin line of blue light along the aisle and the occasional flicker of a movie screen three rows up. Laine had folded himself into the seat beside him, headphones still on and mouth slightly open as he snored. The engines hummed low and steady under the floor, the vibration like something pressing at the back of his skull.

Shane had the tablet propped against the tray table, the same few shifts looping in silence. A hesitation at the line, a pass made half a beat too early, a backcheck where he’d angled instead of committing. They were ordinary plays, the kind that disappeared into the flow of a game. He’d still finished the week with points. The coaches weren’t worried, but he kept pausing on tiny frames: there was a sharper version of him hidden somewhere between those seconds, and if he could just find it, maybe their last three losses would be worth something.

He could do better, he just knew it.

His eyes were gritty by the time they landed, Ilya following him with his hand fisted in the back of Shane’s sweatshirt, still half-asleep. On the bus Ilya swore in Russian, the first thing he’d said since he’d woken up. Looking out the window with everyone else, Shane caught a glimpse of twenty or so people just outside the vehicle exit. All were dressed for the wet weather and a few held signs in gloved hands.

Merci pour les Coupes.

Tu nous manques

Shane turned away, his stomach churning. He’d somehow forgotten how intense Montreal had been: people had stopped him in the grocery store or while he was filling his car, talking to him about third line minutes.

He wanted to go into Provigo and hear the bilingual announcements, the comforting lilt of two languages soft on his ears. He wanted to go to his old apartment and wipe two and a half months of dust from everything, to sit on his couch and hear nothing but the tick of the kitchen clock. But fuck, he also wanted to go home. He wanted to be in Boston, in Ilya’s house, feet tangled together as he read and Ilya scrolled on his phone, laughing at Russian memes that made no sense even when he translated them. Did that make him the traitor people seemed to think he was? Had he betrayed those people who’d stood in the cold wind to thank him?

Someone at the back of the bus whistled loud and long. “You see that? Hey! Marly, they do the same for you when we go back to Minnesota?”

Marleau snorted. “Media still couldn’t spell my name after a year. So no.”

“C’est compliqué, Marleau. Trop de voyelles pour eux,” Shane said solemnly.

“English!” Half the bus shouted at him in weirdly beautiful unison.

Shane waited in the private dining room, scrolling through the team chat and watching the animal videos that Ilya often contributed. The table he was sitting at could seat eight, but only three places were set up for lunch, with way too many wine glasses between the white placemats. There was a soft knock at the door and a server came in, followed by his parents.

“I’ll be right back,” the server said.

His dad hugged him first, then his mom. “Let me look at you,” she said, leaning back with her hands framing his face. “Oh, that’s going to scar, isn’t it?”

“Mom,” Shane complained. “I’m a hockey player.”

“No, Ilya?” his dad asked.

“I’m not bringing my teammates to lunch,” Shane replied, putting some disbelief in his voice. “It’s been ages since I last saw you, anyway.”

“Yes, it’s difficult to get used to you not being just down the road,” his dad commented. He was also inspecting the wine glasses, taking the three smaller ones and moving them further down the table.

“We brought you two peanut butters,” his mom said, passing him a heavy tote bag.

“Great, thanks.” It had been disconcerting buying what he’d thought was regular Kraft Peanut Butter and discovering it tasted completely different. How could anyone fuck up peanut butter?

“Are you settling into the city?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s weird but good. People just say things to you and mean what they say? I don’t know, it’s kinda nice.”

“Less people asking about the power play?”

“None,” Shane corrected.

“None?” his mom repeated.

“Yeah, it's amazing. Even when I’m out with Ilya. People might nod and I’ve had a couple of requests from kids for signatures, but that’s it.”

“You go out together often?” his dad asked. He had a certain tone that meant it was his mom’s question but he’d been designated the one to ask it.

“Not really,” Shane replied, his heart beating double time.

“Who do you hang out with on the team then?”

That was an easier question and he smoothed his crumpled napkin out. “Marleau comes over a lot. Taz and Cade sometimes, and Laine and his wife are nice. Their kids too.”

“How old are they?”

“Oskari is 14 and Elias is 12.”

The server came back then with another soft knock, the door whispering over the business-ugly carpet. Shane ordered salmon as usual and his dad started a conversation about deck stain for the cottage that kept them going until the food arrived. It was always clear when his parents had chosen a subject to avoid with him. When he was a kid it had always been problems at school, then later the shitty parents at practice in Atom and then Novice. This time it was clearly playoffs, but they were all topics he was happy to avoid, so.

His dad paid the bill and they gathered their coats. Shane held on when his mom hugged him and she made a soft sound of surprise, holding him tight once more. He wished Ilya could have been here. His mom had always been so kind to his few friends when he’d brought them home. She couldn’t be Ilya’s mom but she was a mom, and maybe that would help.

Shane spun clean out of a hit and walked their top pair in a tight arc, sliding a pass through a seam that barely existed, and for half a heartbeat the building made the wrong sound, a ripple of noise before it twisted back into boos as people remembered themselves.

On the bench there was never a gap on either side of him, even during TV timeouts. He hopped the boards after one shift and two rookies reached to pass him his water bottle at the same time, shoulders knocking. Just behind the glass near the bench, a cluster of black and gold jerseys were on their feet, banging mittened fists against the boards. Their homemade sign read OURS NOW. On a line change he glanced up at them and pressed his fist briefly to the glass in front of them. The cheer that came back was small compared to the rest of the arena, but he carried it with him as he swung back over the boards.

They won 4-2.

“They can’t have you back,” Ilya said, instead of his usual post-game good game, love you.

Shane leaned in. “They gave me to you,” he replied, then he was down the tunnel to the unfamiliar guest locker room and it was just another locker room. His team was here and he was determined to be grateful for that.

They were playing Rocket League which was dumb but fun. Ilya was still at the rink doing media but Hayden and JJ were on their way up.

“How are you an elite hockey player?” Shane asked in genuine confusion as Cade completely missed a stationary ball. Taz nearly fell off his chair laughing.

“This. Isn’t. Hockey,” Cade ground out as he drove his car up a wall and then just stayed there, wheels spinning uselessly.

“Jesus, kid. Give me that,” Laine said, holding out his hand for the controller.

“Fuck you, I’m going to destroy him.”

Shane held out his controller instead and Laine took it, immediately trundling toward Cade’s goal while Cade mashed every button at once.

A polite knock at the door meant Hayden and JJ had arrived and Shane got up to greet them, Taz having already scrambled off his chair to throw the door open. “Oh. Hi. Sorry, thought you were the Captain. Our Captain, I mean.”

Shane pulled Taz back from the door with a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, come in and don’t mind Taz.”

He hugged Hayden and JJ, who both looked a little worse for wear. Hayden’s shoulders were tight under his arms and JJ had a nasty bruise blooming on his jaw.

“We’re playing Rocket League,” Shane explained, probably unnecessarily. “Well, we’re watching Cade fail at Rocket League.”

“I hate you so much,” Cade put in.

“Enough to give him back?” JJ asked.

“No fucking way, finders keepers.”

“Can you guys not talk about me like that?” Shane half-complained.

“But the Captain says—” Taz started, cutting off with a squawk as Marleau stood up and pulled him down on the couch in one quick move, sitting down on his back.

“Er, anyway,” Shane continued, trying not to laugh: Taz was squirming and complaining he couldn’t breathe. “Have a seat.”

There wasn’t really enough room for all of them, even in Ilya’s suite, but Shane sat on the arm of the couch, tapping Taz’s ankle with one finger, while Hayden and JJ sat on the floor. Marleau let Taz up when he promised he’d go get them drinks and snacks from the bar and JJ picked up a controller, playing Marleau while Cade tried to get Laine to teach him Finnish swear words.

“Hollzy will help me out: how do you tell someone to fuck off in Japanese?”

“Otvali,” Shane told him.

“Otvali,” Cade repeated confidently. “Fuck you, old man.” He pointed at Laine. “Who needs Finnish when I speak Japanese?”

“That’s Russian,” Laine said flatly.

Hayden and JJ both turned to him. On the screen, Marleau stole the ball and started towards the goal.

“You speak Russian now?” JJ asked.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “I can say fuck off, idiot, goal, pass, shoot, and power play.”

Also other, less-hockey appropriate things. He glanced over to the wardrobe, where his bag was inside, sitting next to Ilya’s. He’d checked his phone a few minutes ago, sliding it half out of his pocket and glancing down while Cade was being loud, but there were no new texts.

Taz came back with diet coke for everyone else and a ginger ale for Shane. He drank it slowly in what he hoped was companionable silence with Hayden. He couldn’t talk about the game and last time Hayden had banned him from talking about hockey anyway.

“Did Ruby and Jade have a good birthday?” he eventually asked.

“Yeah,” Hayden smiled warmly at him. “Thanks for the drums. I mean, I hate you, but the girls love them.”

They’d been Ilya’s idea and, now that he thought about it, perhaps the suggestion hadn’t been purely altruistic.

When Ilya arrived Hayden was winning against Cade in Fifa. JJ was telling a story about the most beautiful woman he’d rescued from drowning the week before, with interjections from Hayden to explain it had been a puddle and that she hadn’t even given him her number.

Shane had Ilya’s keycard so he scrambled up when he heard his familiar knock.

“Heya,” Shane said as he opened the door, which meant don’t kiss me there are people here.

Ilya’s hair was all over the place and he was too pale. He’d taken a hard hit in the second from Comeau but the trainers had said his ribs were fine.

“You eaten?” he added, following him across the room.

Ilya hummed something that might have been agreement, flopping down on the couch next to Marleau. “Pike! Have you come to try to steal back your left-winger?”

Hayden rolled his eyes. “No, no. You made it very clear to Taylor who he belongs to.”

“Taz, pass me the room order menu,” Shane asked. He scanned it quickly, looking up to see Cade holding the phone receiver and Taz poised to dial.

“Tomato soup and grilled cheese,” he told them. “And gatorade. Orange.”

Cade’s polite, speaking-to-non-hockey-players voice was quiet and Marleau had paused the game.

“Okay,” Laine said, standing. “I’m off to bed.”

“Yeah,” Hayden agreed, also getting to his feet. “We’d better get back.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Shane offered.

“Tell your boys thanks for the two points,” Ilya called, just as the heavy hotel door closed behind them.

“He’s such an asshole,” JJ grouched. “How do you live with him?”

Shane shrugged, looking back down towards the corridor to see if there was any sign of Ilya’s food.

“Hopefully he’s less of a dick to you,” Hayden told Shane, squeezing his shoulder.

“No, yeah,” Shane agreed. He waved for a beat too long as the elevator doors slowly closed, then turned back to see a server heading down the corridor, Marleau waiting at Ilya's door.

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

I don't know how this got written so fast, especially as I spent half of yesterday reading frequently, secretly fond of each other. which is another Shane Hollander, Boston Bear fic that I highly recommend if you haven't read it already.

Edit: Russian correction thanks to leksiss 💐

On their second day off they did nothing. Well, Ilya played Mario Kart and played Russian dance music while Shane threw a reaction ball against the gym wall for an hour, catching every wild bounce. His phone was flashing with notifications when he picked it up and he scrolled past Taz’s name—he’d probably sent an excitable text about playoffs filled with emojis—down to Hayden’s.

You got time to chat soonish?

Shane dithered. He wanted to speak to Hayden, and maybe say hi to the girls, but tomorrow they’d be in with Coach watching tape all day and then they’d be running lines and doing playoffs media.

No, sorry, he replied. Catch up soon though?

JJ had started a thread which he’d called ‘white people bullshit’ that he couldn’t read in the locker room because it made him laugh enough that he’d have to explain and just no. He’d been trying to make an effort with both of them after they’d come to hang out with the team in Montreal, so he opened their messages and tapped out:

Quebec outlet in media day before yesterday. Boston beat writer complimented me on how quickly I’d picked up French in Montreal.

JJ was clearly online and instantly sent back two crying laughing emojis. You speak good for an immigrant!

You’re so articulate, Shane replied, which got him more crying laughing emojis.

JJ sent another gif: this one was Taz and Cade both trying to give Shane his water bottle, the quality so shit it must have been filmed on a phone from half-way across the stadium.

Where are you getting these from??

Twitter

He shook his head and put his phone in his back pocket. In the shower he cursed as he hit his elbow on the soap rack. He'd gotten used to the massive shower in the ensuite with its double shower heads and enough room for the entire first line and a D pair.

By the time he came upstairs Ilya was lying on the largest section of the leather sofa, his phone on his chest and Svetlana’s voice spilling rapid-fire Russian into the room.

Shane went into the kitchen and leaned against the marble counter as he made himself a smoothie, adding half an avocado, spirulina and a measure of creatine. He opened the dishwasher but couldn’t see any sign of Ilya eating anything since breakfast, so he put the honey granola Ilya liked in a bowl with yogurt and berries, stirring in a measure of whey isolate and hoping he wouldn’t notice. He hated all of Shane’s ‘pencil shavings’, as he called them.

He heard his name as he passed Ilya his yogurt. “Sveta wants to speak to you,” Ilya said, holding out his phone.

Shane took it and set his smoothie on the coffee table, sitting on the couch in the small amount of space Ilya wasn’t taking up.

“Hi,” he said, still a little unsure about speaking to Svetlana on the phone, even though she insisted almost every time she called.

“Ah, Shane Hollander, who lives in my best friend’s house. Congratulations on top seed in the Eastern Conference. How does it feel to have missed out on the Presidents’ Trophy by two points?”

Shane smiled and put on his best talking-to reporters voice. “We’re proud of what we accomplished, but the regular season doesn’t mean anything now. Our focus is on Game 1.”

“And fuck Florida,” she replied.

“Exactly.”

“Ilya says your Russian is getting better.”

Shane lifted an arm so that Ilya, who’d changed sides of the couch and was now lying mostly on him, could put his head on his shoulder. “Well, I can say more than just hockey words now.”

“Tell me.”

“The bear drinks milk. Er, and the engineer is in the bathroom.”

“What the fuck has Ilya been teaching you? Put him back on: I need to yell at him.”

“No, no. It’s from an app. It’s cool, it’s like a game.”

“Tell me you can say something useful.”

“I'm Shane Hollander. I love—” he stopped. Surely sucking cock wasn’t the only thing he knew how to add to the end of that sentence? “Bathroom,” he decided on, and Svetlana yelled with laughter.

“Sucking cock,” Ilya muttered.

Shane swatted him on the ass.

“How is he?” Svetlana added. “He says he’s fine but he always does.”

He looked down at where Ilya was curled into him, his head half on Shane’s chest. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly.

“Well, let me tell you what you can’t do: you can’t punch him.”

Shane huffed out a laugh. “He’s not that annoying.”

“He can be. Maybe he'll be a petty piece of shit; maybe he’ll tell you he doesn’t deserve you and you should leave; maybe he will try to make you jealous. Whatever he does, you can’t punch him, okay?”

“I’m not going to punch him.”

Ilya tilted his head up at that, a frown pulling his eyebrows down. Shane dropped a kiss on his forehead and he lay back down again.

“Good. And you’ll need to make sure he eats during playoffs: he doesn’t feel like it sometimes so you’ll need to make him: emotional manipulation or sexual favours work best.”

“I’m not going to emotionally manipulate him!” Shane spluttered.

“Then it’s a good job you love sucking cock. Now,” she continued briskly. “If you let a bottom-six line score first in Game 1, you’ll spend the whole series chasing.”

Shane stared at the geometric prints on the wall for a second. God, he was just going to pretend that was a locker-room joke. “Yeah,” he managed. “We need to take the first two at home.”

“Your second pair is giving up the line too easily. Lindström is fine, but Sebs backs in too far.”

“He’s adjusting, we’re working on his gap control.”

“Good, now talk to me about F3 support.”

Shane did, taking his hand out of Ilya’s hair occasionally so he could sketch a play in the air. Ilya made a small sound of discontent each time, like his childhood dog had when he’d stopped petting him. Eventually Svetlana had to go to her yoga class, but she sounded genuinely regretful that she couldn’t continue talking to him about left versus right zone entry denial percentages. He promised to text her with up-to-date numbers after Game 1.

“Goodbye Shaynechka, make sure to look after my best friend.”

“I will. Goodbye Sveta.”

Shane was dying. He was hot and dizzy and his skin felt too tight for his body, fighting to keep his hips still as Ilya’s clever tongue wormed up beside the two fingers he had inside him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his balls tight against his body. “Fuck, Ilya, please.”

Somehow Ilya’s tongue moved deeper, his fingers thick and touching everywhere, sending off sparks of pleasure that just seemed to build and build. Ilya withdrew his fingers an inch then pushed them back in. He put his mouth next to them and sucked, making Shane writhe against the bedsheets.

He needed another finger. He needed to be fucked, or for Ilya to somehow suck his cock while still forcing his tongue into his ass.

“Please,” he tried again.

Ilya bit down hard on the inside of his thigh and Shane lost any control he had, coming with a shout against the sheets.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya said, his voice thick.

His last name sent a shiver up his spine: a call back to their hookups, to all the times they’d fucked in hotel rooms in a stolen hour or two. Now they had all the time in the world.

“Fuck me,” Shane told him.

A warm hand ran over Shane’s back and down to his ass cheek, squeezing hard.

“You sure?”

“Yes, yes. Come on, fuck me, please,” he added in Russian and Ilya swore.

He shifted up over Shane, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Shane had no idea if he’d made a mistake or not: the push of Ilya’s cock inside him was bad, good, bad: overwhelming in a way that wiped out all higher brain functions until he was just made of sensation. There was no way he was going to come again so quickly, but Ilya was pressing against his prostate with every hard thrust, pushing sounds out of Shane that made him glad they were at home and not on the road. Ilya was being loud as well, his hips snapping in the irregular rhythm that meant he was close.

When he came Shane bowed his back, desperate for everything he could give him.

Ilya did a semi-controlled fall onto his side, Shane rolling with him so his back was against his chest. Ilya finally muttered something in Russian that Shane was pretty sure meant something along the lines of holy shit.

“You alive?” he asked.

“No,” Ilya replied, his breath stirring the hairs on the back of Shane’s neck. “I’m dead. You killed me and now you have to go to the Raiders and say: I’m sorry, I killed the Captain with my asshole.”

“Shut up.”

“It was too good: too tight and too good and now the Captain is dead.”

“You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“Hold on,” Ilya told him, serious again. “I’m moving.”

Shane held his breath as Ilya, still half-hard, slid out of him. The sensation of jizz dripping out of him made him squirm: half-horror, half lust. He turned over to face Ilya who welcomed him with a kiss.

“Oh,” he said in a surprised voice. “You are losing something you need.”

Shane had no idea what he was talking about. He rolled onto his back, pulling Shane with him, and hooked Shane’s leg over his hip.

“Wha—” Shane started, but got no further as Ilya started to push his own come back into him, using just the tip of one finger. “Oh. Oh fuck.”

“Is that good?”

He could hear the smugness in Ilya’s voice but couldn’t think of a way to respond. It was cold and wet and absolutely disgusting and he didn’t want it to stop. He shifted his leg higher.

Ilya hummed. “Yes, I think you like that. I think I should push it all back inside you and put something in you to keep it all in.”

No, he thought, but his cock was thickening up again and he was pushing back against Ilya’s finger.

“Always need something of mine in your hole,” Ilya murmured before kissing Shane, open-mouthed and hot.

He felt sore and loose: exposed with the dark duvet kicked down to the bottom of the bed. Ilya urged him up so he was straddling him. “Come on, I know you’re more flexible than that,” Ilya told him, pushing down on the top of his thighs, spreading his legs wider.

Shane put his head down next to Ilya’s, pressing his face into the cool pillow. Ilya’s blinds were open. It was the middle of the day. Of course, they were also in a secure house on a private street and the only thing outside of the window was a high-fenced yard, but it didn’t feel private. He felt like he was on show—being shown off.

The pleasure built slowly in his gut, Ilya doing nothing more than gathering up the wetness down his thighs and pushing a finger just inside him now and then. His cock rubbed up against Ilya’s abs, Ilya’s dick soft against his stomach so soon after his own orgasm. Shane opened his legs wider, slipping down so he could get more friction.

“So eager for everyone to see you,” Ilya breathed in his ear. “You want people to know how desperate you are for this, hmm?”

“Fuck,” Shane gritted out and came messily all over Ilya’s stomach.

They showered together, kissing occasionally as they soaped themselves down. Ilya pulled the blinds down while Shane changed the bottom sheet, which had gotten the worst of the mess on it. Back in bed, Ilya settled under Shane’s arm, placing a brief kiss on the side of Shane’s chest. Turning his head, he brushed his mouth against Ilya’s curls then closed his eyes.

Another brush of lips against his chest and Shane bent to press his mouth into Ilya’s hair once more.

Ilya kissed his chest again.

“Stop it,” Shane said, laughter in his voice.

“Stop what?”

Shane brushed his lips into Ilya’s curls and got another in return.

“It’s my turn to have the last kiss,” Shane grouched, knowing he sounded ridiculous.

“Last kiss?”

“Yes: you kissed me last when we took our nap yesterday. Now it’s my turn.”

Ilya didn’t reply. Shane looked down at where he’d propped himself up on an elbow. His expression was blurred by the dim room, the shades pulled down, just letting in small shafts of light from their edges. He looked so serious that for a moment Shane thought he might be mad.

“Well in that case,” he said, then bent and placed a feather-light kiss on the tip of Shane’s nose. He let Shane have the last kiss, his eyes already closed as his breathing evened out into sleep.

Chapter 15

Shane was staying off the internet completely, having deleted Twitter and Instagram from his phone. Still, he hadn’t been able to avoid the whispers of inevitable after they’d destroyed Tampa Bay in four games. He’d spent his days off icing every part of his body and shovelling steamed chicken and whey isolate into his mouth at every opportunity, sleeping deep with Ilya curled up under his arm.

Toronto were playing like they were in the finals though. They were forcing him wide, closing lanes, and making Boston pay for every touch. Their signs were full of personal vitriol and Shane was glad to be back at the Garden, exhausted, where the crowd banged on the boards every time he skated past.

In the gym Tommy was leaning against one of the bikes behind the one Shane was on, one skate up on the rubber bench, telling some story about eating pussy on the bus that sounded like bullshit. Usually Marleau shut stupid shit like that down before it got this far, but he was off with the trainers and Ilya was on the treadmill, walking slow and staring at nothing, headphones in.

“Nah, Roz did it first,” Tommy went on, louder now, glancing over. “Hey, Captain! What was the name of that model you got caught with in the player’s lounge?”

Ilya pulled one earbud out, blinking like he’d just resurfaced. “What?”

“The model,” Tommy repeated, grinning. “In the player's lounge?”

“Don’t remember,” Ilya said flatly, already sliding his earphones back into place.

“I swear,” Tommy said, turning back to Sebs and Taz. “He was tongue deep in her when—”

“Tommy?” Laine said: he’d just come in from the hallway with a towel slung over his shoulder, half-dressed for warmups.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up, eh?”

Sebs, who’d been stretching on the mat, reached up and hauled Tommy backward into a loose headlock. “You just got told, man.”

Tommy spluttered protests, laughing. Shane put his head down and pumped his knees in a steady rhythm: up and down to the beat of his heart.

He had to keep to his forty seconds on the ice and trust the second line. Dan had talked to him about it earlier and he’d admitted those extra five seconds were him trying to hang high in the zone instead of getting off. Svetlana had said the same when he’d texted her about it, and they’d both clocked that Toronto’s top-line defenseman was overcommitting on backhand dekes.

Shane planned to make him regret that.

“Hollzy?” Laine asked, and Shane looked up. “You going somewhere fast?”

He was out of breath. He was out of breath and his heartbeat was tripping over itself like he was at the end of a third-shift. Shaking his head he got off the bike and tried not to stagger.

“Going to beat Toronto,” he joked and Taz laughed, bless him.

Laine gave him a long look and the treadmill behind him was quiet. After a beat Laine clapped him on the shoulder and Shane slipped into the bathroom where he splashed water on his face. Ilya came in behind him and Shane flicked a glance at the stalls; all the doors were open and empty.

“Okay?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. They were never alone at the rink. They’d never talked about it but this was the first time in months they’d been alone outside of hotel rooms and Ilya’s house and Shane wasn’t sure what the rules were.

“Okay,” Ilya said again, and went back out again, the door swinging a few times before settling in its frame.

Shane didn’t hear the final horn. Only knew the crush of his team as they threw themselves into him, everyone holding each other up. They’d have to do this again in two days and already he was racing ahead to that future ice, to the Metros in Boston—the vulnerability of their neutral zone forecheck and how Mitty played deep in the crease towards the third shift.

All the ways they could win and all the ways they could lose piled on top of him as he made himself meet the defeated gaze of every one of Toronto’s team in the handshake line, the Garden singing hey, hey, goodbye at the top of their lungs.

Equipment guys were already collecting gloves when he sat down in his cubby. Media was bound to ask about Montreal and Shane went over his lines in his head: it’s a short turnaround, they’re a good team, we haven’t earned anything yet. Jen gave them a five minute countdown and then the reporters descended.

Shane smiled a closed-lip smile that he’d had to practice in the locker-room bathroom before he’d gotten drafted. Now he could call it up on demand. Media was thankfully predictable and Shane kept to his sound-bites, making sure to pay attention and meet the eyes of everyone who asked him a question.

The next time he was able to look over, Ilya was most of his way into a dark suit—his hair still damp from the shower. Shane put his hands on his thighs and relaxed his fingers, taking a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.

They’d both been too tired for anything other than lazy post-nap blowjobs for the few weeks before, and then too tired for even that for the last three games. He wished they’d found the time to fuck though. He wanted to be wincing every time he sat down, Ilya glowing with smugness two cubbies over.

Fuck Tommy anyway: as if anyone could get away with having sex in the player’s lounge: they’d be fined for sure.

In the shower he soaped up, careful over the green-yellow bruises down his right side and darker, purple ones at his ankles. Sometimes someone called out a joke over the sound of the spray, but they left Shane alone, apparently noticing far faster than any other team he'd been on that he hated being spoken to when showering.

He got a lot of pats on the back on his way out, Cade coming over to thank him for his assist: weirdly formal. Everyone was in that no-sleep phase that felt almost like being drunk.

“No partying,” he told Taz and Sebs as he passed them, and got identical salutes in reply.

The parking garage was cool and quiet, Ilya’s Audi unlocking with a soft click. He got in the passenger side and opened his messages, replying to his parent’s embarrassingly heartfelt praise with thanks and some emojis. He got a text from Ilya saying he was on his way down just as the driver’s side door opened and he slid into the seat, a leather jacket over his suit shirt.

The door shut with a solid clunk and Ilya just sat there, his eyes closed.

“Hey,” Shane said, risking putting a hand on his leg.

“Hey,” Ilya replied, his eyes still closed.

“You want me to drive?”

“No, I’m good.”

He started the car and backed out. The security guard waved them through, then they were on the chaos of Causeway Street, people honking their horns at each other and at the spill of fans still outside. The traffic thinned once they were on Storrow Drive, the river dark on Shane’s right.

“I was just kissing her,” Ilya said.

“Who?” Shane asked, turning sharply in his seat.

“The model Tommy talked about. And it was a long time ago.”

Shane shrugged, ruling his thumb over the seam of the leather seat. “It’s no big deal.”

“And Tommy didn’t eat any pussy on the bus, either. He fell asleep on Seb’s leg once and drooled a lot. Marly said that was nearly the same thing.”

That sounded about right. He’d had to explain to more than one 19-year old how to use their washing machine, sending instruction manuals he’d downloaded from the internet to them via email, then fielding questions that were clearly answered in the manual. He could ask Ilya: he was sure he’d have better stories than Shane about his rookies, but when he looked over Ilya was pale in the wash of brake lights, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Shane turned to watch apartment buildings pass, counting down the exits until theirs.

“Fuck!” He slammed the fridge closed, leaning forward with his head against the cool surface of the door.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“I can’t even fucking count.”

Shane hit his head on the door twice, the small sharp pain enough to get him up and moving. He’d have to defrost some chicken and then weigh it out. Where the fuck were his scales?

“Can’t count what?”

Ilya had pasta in the fridge so at least he’d be in bed before 2am. “My fucking food portions. I was sure I had enough for this evening.”

He opened another drawer, closing it with a bang when no scales appeared.

“You can have some of mine.”

“No. I can’t.”

Ilya knew he couldn’t so how was offering helpful? Where the fuck had he put his scales? Ilya had some but they weren’t chef’s scales and were only accurate to two grams.

“Okay,” Ilya agreed in that tone he used sometimes when he thought something was bullshit. He took the kettle over to the tap to fill it.

Shane turned to the cupboards where he kept his dry pasta. “I have to be fucking signed in summer, you know that right?”

“You’re going to be signed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And is weighing your dried pasta related?”

“Yes! Of course it’s fucking related! This is my regimen, okay? It helps me be the best I can be.”

“Okay,” Ilya said again.

“Goddamnit I’m trying to stay on the team!” He crouched down on the floor, his back to the solid weight of the kitchen island. Seven fucking games: seven fucking meals. It wasn’t a high number to count to.

Ilya sat down next to him, his legs stretched out against the grey tiles.

“You’re not going to get traded, but if you do, I’m a free agent too: I will come with you.”

Shane laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Fuck you, don’t joke.” He rubbed his hands over his face and listened to the clock tick on the wall above him.

“Come on,” Ilya finally said, standing and offering a hand to Shane. “Come sit with me.”

He led them over to the couch and Shane slumped down next to him, the leather creaking. He had to do better than this: they only had two days until they played Montreal and he needed to ice his hips, watch their last two games, and get some fucking sleep.

“I’m hungry,” he admitted.

“Let me make you some of my pasta, yes? It has all the things you need, I promise.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He was just so tired.

He closed his eyes, jerking awake what felt like only a second later when Ilya sat down next to him. He only had one, massive bowl—probably a serving bowl—pasta in a tomato sauce with what looked like grilled chicken mixed in. There was a thick layer of parmesan on top, already mostly melted.

Ilya took up a forkfull and held it out. Not the fork, but the food, like Shane was a child who needed to be fed. Shane swallowed hard. This wasn’t his food, it was Ilya’s. And he wasn’t even eating it, not really, Ilya was just letting him try some.

He leaned forward and took a bite. It tasted so good—his mouth flooding with saliva.

Ilya ate some himself then did the same thing, holding out his fork like it was the most natural thing in the world. They ate the whole bowl like that, quiet except for the sound of chewing and the heating system softly clicking on.

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

I hope it’s clear from both my writing and update schedule how much I love these boys and the journey they’re going on together 💜 I also love your comments! I’m reading them all over and over and trying to reply to as many as I can 🥰

Ilya had stick marks up his forearms and the vulnerable bones of his wrists were bruised dark. Shane rubbed arnica gently into his skin, the rasp of his arm hair pleasant under his fingers.

“I bruised my cock as well, you know,” Ilya said.

“Fuck off,” Shane laughed. “No you didn’t.”

“Think this would make good lube?”

“It’s a numbing cream.”

“Maybe it will mean you come less quickly.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Give me your other arm.”

The hotel room was dimly lit by two beside lamps, Ilya’s bag open at the ottoman at the end of the bed and an empty protein shake on the side table. Shane worked on Ilya’s right arm, pressing his thumb along the tight tendon all the way up to his elbow. Ilya hissed but didn’t pull away.

“You want to nap again?”

Shaking his head, he concentrated on not using too much pressure. “No, I’m going to shower then I’ll go down to say hi to my parents.”

“They won’t be mad you’re not having lunch with them?”

“No, they’re used to this: they know I need to keep my head in the game.”

Ilya hummed agreement, shifting a little against the pillows he was propped up against. “Speaking of head,” he said, adding a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle.

“Shut up,” Shane grouched, but he was smiling. “You’re too tired.”

Morning blowjobs had turned into morning handjobs, which had tapered out somewhere around game six of the last series.

Ilya lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug. “For me, maybe, but if you want I don’t mind.”

Shane took a second to parse that into something understandable: Ilya wasn’t usually so oblique. “Yeah, no. I’m good.”

Outside voices rose and then faded as a couple of people—probably teammates—passed by. The team had the whole floor to themselves, with the top line having suites. It seemed like such a waste for both he and Ilya to have a suite when they only ever used one, but he’d yet to think of a believable reason for sharing. Ilya had laughed when Shane had told him, then had spent an evening coming up with increasingly unhelpful reasons.

“No more,” Ilya winced, pulling his arm away. “You should get ready to see your parents: you smell like locker room.”

“Yeah, okay. You going to nap?”

Ilya hummed something that may have been yes, unlocking his phone and opening the cat game he’d downloaded on a roadtrip a month ago.

“You got any new cats?” Shane asked as he sorted out clean underwear and socks.

“Just one.”

Going around the bed, Shane dropped a kiss on Ilya’s curls before heading into the bathroom. His playoff beard was a few weeks old now, darker along his jaw where it filled in best. He hated it: it was itchy and it made him look more tired somehow, but he couldn’t even admit out loud that he hated it because he couldn’t hate any part of playoffs: he couldn’t hate any part of hockey.

He washed quickly, finishing the way the trainers liked it: turning the water cold for the last few seconds and standing there until his skin prickled.

By the time he came out of the bathroom Ilya was asleep, his phone next to him and one hand curled under his chin.

Out in the corridor, he passed Marleau who hooked two fingers into the back of Shane’s hoodie and gave it a quick tug as he went by. “You suck,” Shane told him, and Marleau snorted.

The elevator down was empty and Shane chewed absently on one of his hoodie strings until he spotted himself in the mirrored doors and stopped.

There was a family waiting in front of the elevator when it arrived at the lobby and Shane edged his way through their luggage and children, mumbling apologies to his feet. He wished that the NHL was big enough that they could book out the entire hotel instead of just a couple of floors. Raiders security was dotted around, casual in polo shirts and earpieces. Still, a couple of people did double-takes as he walked towards the sitting area where his parents were waiting.

“Don’t win!” Someone called as he walked past but Shane pretended he hadn’t heard.

His dad spotted him first, reaching forward to squeeze his mom’s hand to get her attention. They still held hands when they were walking. Had he ever held Ilya’s hand? He didn’t think so.

“Hey,” his mom said, pulling him in for a tight hug. “You look like someone dragged you through a hedge backwards,” she added, ruffling his too-long hair.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, hugging his dad. “Haven’t had time to get it cut.” And Ilya liked it longer.

The hotel lobby was quiet for mid-morning, a few business travelers scattered across the low armchairs with coffee cups and laptops. Outside the tall windows the street was grey with spring rain. Shane’s parents had claimed a small table near the wall, his mom’s tablet open in front of her like she’d been studying tape.

“How you holding up?” his dad asked as they all sat down in the overstuffed chairs.

Shane shrugged. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound like a sound-bite.

“Montreal’s second line was slipping behind your D on the rush a little too easily.”

“We’ve got tape later: Coach is good with stuff like that.”

“You need to speak up when you see something they don’t though, honey.”

“I will, Mom.”

“I’ve already booked us into the Liberty for Wednesday.”

“I won’t be able to see you,” Shane warned them.

“We know, son-” his dad put an arm around his shoulder, gentle against his bruises. “You just concentrate on the game.”

He nodded. “How was the drive?”

“Everyone drives like an idiot once you hit the island.”

“Your mother was swearing in French and Japanese,” his dad told him.

“Come on Dad, what did she say?”

His dad had tried to learn Japanese to impress his mom when they first got together, but his pronunciation was so horrible that she’d banned him from ever trying to speak it in front of his grandparents.

“I’m not falling for that,” he replied with great dignity, and Shane shared a grin with his mom.

In the locker room the atmosphere was heavy with expectation, everyone caught up in their rituals and reassurances. Ilya didn’t seem to have any, other than sometimes touching a hand to where Shane knew his cross lay under his layers. Shane concentrated on taping his stick just right; lacing his skates to the right tension; his phone off and in his bag. He hadn’t heard from JJ or Hayden since the beginning of the series—they’d only exchanged the odd nod before the puck dropped.

The Bell was loud from warmups onwards and it never let up, every touch of the puck met with a wall of noise that seemed to press down on the ice. It had always buoyed him up in the past, pushing speed out of his aching muscles, but now it wasn’t for him.

Boston tied late, the third line making it happen when no-one else could, but the Metros got it back in the third off a messy rebound Shane couldn’t quite reach before it was shoveled away from the crease. Back in the impersonal cream of the guest locker room everyone was quiet, their towels over their heads.

Media was waiting just outside: better and worse in Montreal. Better because he missed speaking French; worse because no-one asked questions this stupid in Boston. How different does it feel playing in this building now? Is it strange being on the other bench? Did you say anything to Hayden after the game?

Game 4 was both uglier and stronger. The crowd was just as hostile but somehow that became its own motivation: the snarling, hate-filled faces behind the glass pulling a little more speed out of the first and second lines. Ilya scored on the power play late in the second, snapping one through traffic, and after that Boston locked it down. The last few minutes were nothing but blocked shots and clears off the glass. When the final horn went the Bell was almost quiet, seething with resentment. Ilya grinned at Shane from across the ice, blood on his teeth and sweat curling his hair dark.

Four hours after the final horn they were flying home, the smell of their last meal—dinner or midnight snack, Shane wasn’t sure anymore—still hanging in the recycled air.

Cade was crouched in the aisle, his hand on Shane’s seat arm to steady himself. They were sharing earbuds, quiet as they watched the Metros’ top pair work the puck up the boards on the breakout. Next to him Laine was watching a movie with the sound off, subtitles scrolling across the bottom of his tablet and in the aisle opposite Taz was inexplicably eating dry cereal out of a paper cup.

“I think Comeau is rushing the breakout a little,” Cade commented without looking away.

Shane paused the video. “No. Watch his right hand.”

Cade squinted but shook his head when Shane ran the video back. “He’s not gripping the stick,” Shane tapped the screen. “Something’s wrong with his wrist.”

He rewound first one clip then another until Cade whisper-yelled: “Yes! I see it. Fuck that’s subtle.”

“Show me,” Laine said with a sigh, pausing his movie and watching closely as Shane ran it back once more. “Got it, we’ll lean on him.”

Cade reached over Shane to Laine for a fist bump, then clapped Shane on the shoulder before heading back to his seat.

Shane moved onto the second D pair, looking up when Marleau shoved most of his face between the seats in front of him. “Hey, what are you doing, Holly? You trying to take our jobs?”

“Well,” Shane replied, guiding the video back a few seconds. “I am better at hockey than you.”

“Ah, ferme ta gueule, dude.”

Dude. Shane shook his head in mock disappointment. “Tabarnak, t’as appris ton français où, à Toronto?”

Marleau actually stood up, theatrically pushing up his sleeves. There was the sound of movement from the seat next to him and whatever he was going to say was cut off with a yelp. “Roz! What the fuck?”

“What did he do?” Laine asked.

“He bit me!”

Shane snorted in tandem with Laine.

“Not true,” Ilya said, his voice quietened by the bulk of the seats. “I would never do this.”

“You just fucking bit my leg! I bet there’s a mark.”

“Why are you dickheads being so loud?” Someone, possibly Wills, complained from further back.

Marleau did something out of sight that made Ilya call him an idiot in Russian. Laine went back to his movie and towards the back of the plane someone started snoring. Shane rewound the clip: Comeau’s right hand slipping on the stick again.

The only sound at morning skate was the sharp scrape of blades cutting into fresh ice. Pushing off from the boards, Shane felt the familiar give beneath his skates.

Tadaima, he told the rink in the quiet of his own head. I’m back.

Okaeri, came the answer he imagined. Welcome back.

JJ and Hayden were in a hotel somewhere, probably the Westin in the Seaport. His parents were at the Liberty. They liked the breakfast there and his dad would be doing the cryptic crossword in the Globe and Mail while his mom answered emails. He looked up at the empty stalls while he did a slow lap of the ice: his parents would sit near the benches later, wearing his name and Raiders colours.

By the time he stepped back onto the ice that night, the Garden was anything but quiet—instead loud in that tight, restless way that meant everyone in the building knew what this game was. The first period was frantic, Montreal threw everything forward, but Boston matched them calmly, taking advantage of every hesitation, every exhaustion-fueled mistake. Late in the second the power play went out and the building got louder, a rolling chant starting somewhere high in the balcony. Ilya dragged two defenders with him across the blue line and snapped one through traffic before Mitty ever set his feet. The red light flared and the sound that followed lifted the whole bench in a roar.

Shane endured the third period, the same as everyone else. Montreal pressed hard, throwing pucks from anywhere they could get a lane, bodies crashing the crease. Shane’s shifts blurred together: chip it out, change; tie someone up along the boards; clear the puck off the glass and chase it the length of the ice.

By the last thirty seconds the Garden was already on its feet. Towels spun white above the glass, the noise rising higher and higher until the clock hit zero. Shane caught sight of Hayden near the Montreal bench, standing motionless, then the ice was swarmed with black and gold jerseys and Shane opened his arms for Ilya and Marleau to crash into him.

They were conference champions. One more series to go.

Chapter 17

Shane ran his tongue over the cut on his inner cheek, the taste red and metallic. Ilya had one too, though his seemed worse, opening up every time he ate anything. Marleau had a bad ankle sprain that he was grimly playing through and they'd lost Tommy to a concussion in the first game of the series. Shane’s own ankle throbbed now he was standing still, even with his sneakers unlaced.

He had one of Ilya’s baseball caps on in an attempt to keep his unruly hair out of his eyes. He was going to have to get one of those dumb zigzag hair band things if it got any longer. Texting slowly with one hand, he pushed the other deep into the pockets of his sweats.

Think he took it from 44 along the wall. Crosscheck maybe. He said ribs

Yes, he looks tired and his English is shitty

There was a sixty second delay between the live feed Svetlana was watching and the faint questions Shane could hear from the corridor. They were winding down, or at least he hoped so.

He flicked to a message from Hayden—Rozanov looks like he got murdered along the wall, replying with a short he’s good thanks. You all doing okay?—before scrolling back to where Svetlana had already replied.

The altitude is going to suck in Denver

Yeah, we’ll take shorter shifts and we’ll have oxygen ready on the bench

Do that insane seam pass from the third again while you’re at it

Yes boss, Shane replied and got a laughing emoji and some hearts.

And look after my boy, yes?

Of course

There was the sound of footsteps then and Coach came out followed by Ilya, who was already shedding his jacket.

“You taking him to medical?” Coach asked.

“Yeah, we’re going now,” Shane replied, ignoring Ilya’s muttered I’m fine.

In the trainer’s room Shane tried not to hover while Nora pressed two fingers against the red, angry skin along Ilya’s ribs. He’d picked up Ilya’s jacket and had it draped across his lap to stop it wrinkling.

“Does that hurt?”

“Fuck,” Ilya hissed in Russian.

“He said ‘fuck’,” Shane told her.

Nora smiled at him. “Funnily enough that is the one Russian word I know.”

“Don’t swear in front of the lady,” Ilya told Shane.

Nora said something in Spanish that sounded rude and Ilya looked at her hopefully. “Does that mean I can go?” he asked.

“Absolutely not, I’m going to put ice on that: stay still and take these for the swelling.” She handed him two small pills.

“Can you give him anything for the pain?” Shane asked.

Nora gave him a quick smile as she went over to rummage in some drawers. “I’ll give him some ibuprofen and then another for him to take before the flight tomorrow.”

“I’m fine.”

“Please,” Shane replied, as please take your meds was beyond his language skills.

It worked anyway, Ilya taking his drugs with a little cone of water Nora gave him.

“Okay,” Nora said to Shane once Ilya had an ice pack strapped to his side. “Hop up, let’s have a look at that ankle.”

“It doesn't hurt,” Shane told her, but caved under her and Ilya’s combined looks of disbelief.

He sat on the table next to Ilya while she ran her fingers over the yellow-green bruise, pressing against the ligaments. The vinyl of the table squeaked under his weight and Ilya was a warm line up his right side.

“You loosening your skates on the bench?”

“Yes,” Shane said, just as Ilya said no. Nora looked between them, an eyebrow raised.

“I don’t always have time,” Shane explained.

“Well, it’s looking better. Come see me if it gets any worse.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The days moved over him—light, dark, then light again—like sped-up footage from the nature shows his dad watched. His parents had flown out to Denver as well but he couldn't see them, couldn't even think about seeing them until after… just after. He only texted them to let them know he was okay, or to acknowledge that he'd seen his mom's razor sharp insights into who was injured and how.

In the fluorescent lights of the corridor, he adjusted his jacket then clasped his hands in front of him instead of adjusting Ilya's as well. Coach Dan was wearing a crisp blue suit, Shane was pretty sure he looked like he'd slept in his.

“You want to grab something after or get something at the hotel?” Shane asked, leaning his shoulder next to Ilya’s.

Ilya shrugged, head tilted back against the wall.

“They had pizza in the locker room,” Shane added.

“You'll have something too?”

“Yeah, I'll have some rice and something.”

“Deal,” Ilya agreed.

Jen came out of the media room just then, tapping away on her phone one-handed and beckoning them with the other. “We’re ready for you.”

In the low-ceiling room there were forty or so reporters in uncomfortable looking chairs, with cameras set up at the side and back of the room. Shane sat behind a long table beside Coach with Ilya on his other side. Jen adjusted the microphones until finally they seemed to be ready. In the short silence that followed Shane fiddled with his water bottle. They should choose who went first instead of everyone shifting in their seats like this was their first day as sports journalists.

“Coach,” someone at the back braved. “You come out of Denver with the split. How do you feel about where the group is at through four games?”

Dan had already drawn a breath to answer before the journalist had even finished speaking. It was one of the things Shane liked about him: he gave the impression that every question he was asked was not only a good question, but he'd already considered it.

“We knew this was going to be a long series. They’re a good team, we’re a good team. We liked our game in Game 3, tonight we didn’t manage the puck quite as well. But coming out of here tied, we’ll take that and get ready for Game 5.”

“Shane, it looked like Colorado closed the neutral zone a bit more tonight. Did that make entries harder for you guys?”

Shoving together hockey clichés was something he'd practiced at the dinner table with his parents since he was a kid, but he still tried to give a somewhat interesting answer.

“Yeah, they were tighter through the middle. We turned a few pucks over there that we normally handle better. That’s on us. We’ll clean that up.”

“You and Ilya seem to create chances almost every shift. How difficult is it for teams to defend that connection?”

Shane shrugged and very carefully didn’t glance at Ilya. He always forgot how often teammates who weren’t together looked at each other. “We’ve played on the same team for nearly six months. We just try to read off each other. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Ilya, how did you feel about the pace tonight? Colorado seemed to push pretty hard in the third.”

“They play fast in this building. Crowd gives them energy. We were little slow in some shifts. But series is two-two. That’s fine.”

The stop-start of Ilya’s English was a sure sign he was ready to fall face-first into the table with exhaustion.

“Did you feel the altitude at all in these games here?”

That was probably still directed at Ilya, but Shane jumped in. “It’s there, yeah. You keep shifts short. Both teams deal with it.”

“Game 5 back in Boston. How important is that one?”

“They’re all important,” Coach said, his voice strong and confident. “We’ll reset, get home, and get ready. That’s really it.”

“Shane, that play in Game 3 where you found Ilya across the slot: did you know he’d be there?”

Shane shrugged again. He tried to keep his shrugs to once per session, but he was just too tired. “I hoped.”

“Okay,” Jen said, stepping forward. “That’s it folks. Thank you so much.”

He had read somewhere that the body couldn’t remember pain, that those experiences faded with time. He could believe it: he was sure his legs had never been heavier, his feet pushing his skates through wet cement with every stride.

Wait. Wait. Now go.

His thighs burned, fire licking up from his calves.

Ilya was over the blue line and Shane matched his speed. He was so fast—it felt like they were the only ones on the ice, racing forwards, strides matched.

He’d done this before: the Metros had reached Game 7 in the finals last year. This was survivable.

Eyes forward, he felt the puck hit his stick where Ilya had slid it through a seam that hadn’t existed half a second ago.

His head pounded, eyes stinging with sweat.

The goalie was shifting his weight, settling for a shot from Ilya that would never come.

On the next stride forward Shane sent the puck snapping across the ice, into the bottom left of the net.

The horn went off, the Garden so loud Shane couldn’t hear Marleau or Cade over the wall of sound. Laine and Ilya joined them, half hugging, half holding each other up.

Over the boards. Four and a half minutes left on the clock. Taz handed him his water bottle and he drank and breathed, drank and breathed. Ilya was leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Okay?” he asked in Russian.

Ilya nodded. “Okay,” he agreed.

A minute and a half and an eternity later, his legs carried him over the boards at the Coach’s demand. The bottom-six had kept their one-goal lead and Colorado was pressing hard.

They cleared the zone over and over, like an endless play that stretched out every second into a screaming jumble of pain and concentration. They were called back to the bench by habit alone: there was no way to hear the coaches shouting for a line change or the tap of sticks against the bench.

Two minutes and ten.

Taz took a bad hit from behind and everyone found their energy, on their feet and shouting. Two trainers went out and Taz skated slowly off under his own power, his helmet dangling from one hand.

Shane and Ilya had their legs over the boards, waiting for their signal.

Ilya won the face-off. Cade to Laine then back to Cade and down to Shane. Three white jerseys coming towards him and Shane cut towards the goal line, the goalie drifting into the crease. Carrying the puck behind the net, Shane passed it back towards where he knew Ilya would be. He didn’t even see Ilya score: just saw the crowd leap high, felt Cade and Laine and Ilya crash into him, the smell of their sweat strong and familiar.

Back on the bench. Water and helmet taps.

A minute and fifty-five seconds.

Colorado pulled their goalie. Cade and Laine were still on the ice, Cade leaning on his stick on the blue line while Laine hovered lower in the zone, knees bent, stick flat on the ice to block the seam.

Behind the boards everyone was on their feet. Nothing got through to the net. Colorado swarmed, desperate and forceful. Shane was screaming with everyone else, one hand fisted into the back of Ilya’s jersey. Glass and out, clear, then change as Laine shot the puck down the ice, giving time for Sebs and Tommy to go over the boards.

One minute ten.

Sebs instantly hammered the puck down the ice, burning seconds. Then they were back and sticks clashed and struck, almost too fast to follow.

Forty seconds.

No change, too much traffic in the crease.

Twenty seconds.

Shane and Ilya both had their skates on the boards, ready to go over, leaning in the direction of the fast moving puck.

Ten.

The Garden was chanting.

Eight.

We want the Cup! We want the Cup! A roll of sound that rose and fell at every touch on the puck.

Five, four, the Garden screamed. Three, two.

Everyone had a leg over the boards, their sticks abandoned on the bench.

One.

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