Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Rape/Non-Con

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Assault, Non-Graphic Description of Sexual Assault, Shane Hollander is NOT a rapist, Don't worry, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, all of the other hockey players suck though, except Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike is a good friend, Yuna Hollander is a hockey mom, Victim Blaming, Personal Growth, all of the smut is consensual, there's a lot of smut because these men are horny for each other in every universe, i don't make the rules, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Homophobia, Misogyny, Rape Culture, Hockey culture, Boys In Love, Idiots in Love, kink dynamics, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Group Sexual Assault, really trying to tag this thoroughly, the legal system is also the bad guy, Hockey Canada Trial, the girl who is sexually assaulted by other hockey players is an OC, the focus of this fic is very much Shane's journey to unlearning hockey culture and all the associated bullshit, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Happy ending for the characters with a hopeful ending for the world at large, What is happiness really, if not queer love and setting the world on fire, author actively hates hockey irl and it's not subtle

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-17 Completed: 2026-03-07 Words: 56,808 Chapters: 23/23

swear I was born right in the doorway

Summary

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov says in his deep, thick accent.

“Rozanov,” Hollander nods. His voice cracks embarrassingly so he keeps talking, hoping the other man won’t notice. “Just came up here to get some air. I didn’t see a sign saying not to so I think we’re allowed. It’s chilly, eh? But a beautiful view,” he rambles.

“Ah yes,” Rozanov says flatly. “London, Ontario. Famous view.”

Shane can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic. He probably is. He’s kind of an asshole, Shane thinks to himself, not for the first time. But an asshole who makes Shane’s stomach do weird things. Things that he wants to experience again so that he can properly label them. For science.

OR

What if last year's Hockey Canada sexual assault trial happened in the Heated Rivalry universe, not with the 2018 gold medal team but with Shane Hollander's 2009 team? A nearly decade-long situationship with consent king Ilya Rozanov makes the Hollander who walks into the courtroom in 2017 a very different man from the boy who ran out of the hotel room all those years ago.

Chapter 1: we live such fragile lives

Chapter Notes

Wow lots of big feelings in response to this, which I guess I should have expected. I appreciate the respectful feedback and I've made some edits, but I also want to provide some clarifications:

1. Survivor's stories are so important, and absolutely someone else's experience is not mine to tell. This is not a fic about a/the survivor. This is a fic about bystanders, about the so-called "good guys" and the role they play in the fight against sexual violence. Because sexual violence doesn't just hurt the survivor, it causes ripples of harm throughout communities. So yes, I pulled elements from an irl case. You're allowed to think that's fucked up. But this case sparked an international conversation, it impacted so many people, and we all need to grapple with that.

2. With so much love: *you do not know who I am or what my experiences are.* I do not owe you my trauma, my history, or my connections to this case. I love the fierce advocacy on behalf of survivors, and I hope you take that energy offline too because God knows we need it. But again, with so much love and compassion: this isn't the place, and I'm not the one.

3. The characters in this fic are flawed! Shane makes a bad fucking choice. Part of what I'm working through here is how imperfect people can learn how to find their brave and do their part, even when it's hard and scary. Yes, there's also smut and sex and love, because queer joy is magic and transformative and so deeply intertwined with all of the other things.

4. You're allowed to think this is wrong, or distasteful, or fucked up, or whatever! The internet is free and I certainly don't like everything people use their free will for. But I've tagged it thoroughly and you can stop reading whenever you want. A huge part of survivor-centred care is trusting survivors and believing in their capacity to choose appropriately for themselves, and I trust that the people who aren't in a place to engage with this fic will be able to see themselves out ❤️

So! With all that being said, if you would like to hold virtual hands as we work through some tough stuff with a healthy dose of big gay feelings, feel free to join me on this journey. It's a long and winding road.

December 2009

“And Canada wins the 2009 Junior World Championship!”

Shane barely hears the announcement as his teammates crash into him, the sound of cheers deafening. 

“Let’s fucking gooooo!”

“Fuck yes, Hollander!” 

“That’ll wipe the grins off the Russian’s fucking faces!”

Hands clap his back, padding knocks padding, helmet taps and stick taps and tidal waves of noise assault his every sense. They did it, they won Worlds. Shane thinks back to the embarrassing defeat last year and lets it further fuel the pride in this victory. His final game as a junior before he joins the NHL; the Metros were right to recommend he stay in the OHL for his final year, his skills feel sharper than ever. 

Lining up to bump fists with the opposing team, his eyes sweep the line looking for a certain pair of striking blue ones. 

“See you in October,” he says to Russia’s Ilya Rozanov. Cocky even in defeat, Rozanov winks at him in response. The swoop in Shane’s stomach is just a result of adrenaline. His mind flashes back to the night of the draft and the similar rush he felt when Rozanov hopped onto the bike beside him. The electricity when their fingers touched as he took the Russian’s water bottle. When Rozanov whispered “more” and Shane found himself obeying without hesitation. That was less of a swoop and more of a freefall; as though a trap door had opened in his stomach and acid began eating his intestines, tingly burning heat moving lower and lower until– 

“Hollander!” Shepherd shouts, snapping Shane’s attention back to his current presence in their dressing room. “We are going out tonight, my guy!” 

Shane nods, smiling blankly as he strips out of his jersey and gear. 

“We fucking did it, boys!” Hunt hollers as the team cheers once more. 

Back in his hotel room, Shane relishes the silence. He keeps the lights off, lying on the bed and absorbing the peace in order to bring his nervous system back down to baseline. He ignored the earlier texts from his teammates inviting him to dinner and out for drinks, choosing instead to sit in the quiet dark and simply be.

His phone alights as it buzzes on the nightstand. When he sees the message, his nose crinkles in revolt. His teammates can be so fucking crude. It’s not that he’s not into girls, obviously, it’s just that he spends so much time living and breathing hockey that he doesn’t think about girls all that often. A problem his teammates don’t seem to share. They share everything else though, he thinks to himself. 

A little while later there’s a knock on his door. He opens it, and his teammate Jeremy Acosta is standing there excitedly. “Dude you’ve gotta come down to Nick’s room, there’s this girl and she’s literally giving it away. You’re single, right?” 

Shane pretends to yawn. “I dunno, I’m pretty tired man,” he lies. 

“Come on, Hollander!” Jeremy insists. Shane sighs, grabs his wallet and follows. His mind wanders briefly back to those icy blue eyes that have appeared in so many of his dreams the past year. Before his conscious mind is able to wonder what Rozanov is up to right now, they arrive at Shep’s room and Jeremy swipes the key card. 

The small room is packed, easily eight other guys from the team all sitting and standing around an empty spot in the middle. Hollander stays back as Jer pushes into the crowd, and as bodies part Shane sees a naked girl lying on a sheet by the foot of the bed. He immediately averts his eyes; this feels so intrusive. 

“Hollander! You came!” his teammate Ballsy shouts. 

“Now you can come!” Hunt guffaws, apparently thinking his pun quite clever. Shane wishes he could disassemble himself atom by atom and sink through spacetime itself to get out of this fucking room. He’ll settle for looking at the wall.

Some of the guys are shouting orders at her, and Shane remains steadfast in his admiration of this wall. It’s the colour of cardboard. Unfortunate choice, really.

“You wanna blow me?” someone asks. He focuses in on a tiny bump near the sconce, perhaps a speck of dust that was painted over; he tries to tune out the whoops and hollers from his team mates as she presumably acquiesces. 

“Hit it!” Hunt yells, right beside Shane. It's disgusting to think that she’s the “it” they’re talking about. He can’t understand how anyone could think this was hot or fun or… anything other than completely overwhelming and totally gross. 

The impact of the sharp slap forces his eyes to dart to where the sound emanated. That had to sting so fucking bad. Jeremy rubs his own hand, apparently having smacked her ass so hard he hurt himself too. At this, Shane turns on his heel and heads out the door. Too much, way too much. This is why he doesn’t socialize. He loves hockey but hockey players? They’re fucking animals. Trainable, sure, but shouldn’t be left unattended. 

He walks past his own room towards the stairwell, deciding to get some air. His muscles ache as he climbs several flights of stairs. It’s a good ache though, grounding him to here and now.

After several minutes of standing on the rooftop breathing in the sharp chill, he hears the door open and close behind him. He turns to apologise (surely he’s not supposed to be up here), but falls silent as he watches the slow approach of those damn blue eyes, half covered by golden curls pushed tightly against the man’s forehead by his black toque.

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov says in his deep, thick accent. 

“Rozanov,” Hollander nods. His voice cracks embarrassingly so he keeps talking, hoping the other man won’t notice. “Just came up here to get some air. I didn’t see a sign saying not to so I think we’re allowed. It’s chilly, eh? But a beautiful view,” he rambles. 

“Ah yes,” Rozanov says flatly. “London, Ontario. Famous view.” 

Shane can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic. He probably is. He’s kind of an asshole, Shane thinks to himself, not for the first time. But an asshole who makes Shane’s stomach do weird things, things that he wants to experience again so that he can properly label them. For science.

“S’not the worst,” Hollander replies, looking back out over the cityscape. Low office buildings mottled with a few highrises, not a tree in sight despite being downtown in so-called Forest City. It’s not the best, either, he thinks to himself. Or even very good, honestly. Quite crap, now that he’s really thinking about it. Why the fuck did he say that?

“You travel? See many views?” Rozanov asks, moving closer, hand reaching into the front of his jacket.

“Oh yeah, all over for games and stuff.” Shane keeps looking out at the low-slung skyline, blocks of buildings and headlights all around, peripheral vision barely making out what the other man is doing in the darkness. 

A lighter clicks, and he realizes. “You really shouldn’t be smoking.”

Rozanov inhales deeply on the lit cigarette, and Shane can feel the man's eyes boring into the side of his head as he continues watching cars pass below. 

“I like trouble,” the Russian says in that flat affect that Shane finds so hard to read. “You see real London?” 

“Yeah, no,” Hollander laughs, not sure why he’s so nervous. It’s that stomach thing again. Not butterflies but not <i>not</i> butterflies. “Mostly just North America. We went to Iceland once, on vacation. I guess you’ve been all over Europe?” 

“Da,” Rozanov nods. 

“Do you have a favourite spot?” 

Rozanov turns his full body to face Shane and Shane returns the stance. They’re so much closer than an acquaintanceship's distance, Shane can feel as well as see the other man’s warm breath as he looks Hollander up and down. His jaw in the moonlight is particularly stunning, cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucks in carginogens from that fucking cigarette. Shane wonders if all Russians hold their faces so tightly. The gaze feels hot– Shane’s skin prickles and burns as though he’s been out in the sun– despite the frigid temperatures of mid-Canadian winter. 

“Maybe Berlin,” Rozanov answers as a cloud of smoke spills from his lips. He blows it off to the side so that Shane doesn’t get it right in the face. “Good scene. You dance?” 

“D-dance?”  

“Da, you know.” Still completely straight-faced, Rozanov does a little wiggle. “Party, woo hoo?” 

A laugh shoots out of Shane’s body like a bullet and his next inhale sends shards of frosty smoke-tinged air deep into his lungs. “Not-not really, no.” He coughs a bit and shakes his head, extremely aware of how loud his laugh was and how big his smile is and how he’s completely unable to control either of these things. “I guess I’m not very sociable.” 

“Da, I hear. ‘Shane Hollander, not very sociable’” The Russian man seems to have attempted a… Canadian? Accent? His face loosens slightly into the half-cocked smile that makes Shane’s stomach do that disorienting swoop thing. “Yet you come say hi last year, outside rink.” He leans in as though he’s sharing a secret. “I say sociable.” 

Shane’s cheeks are burning and it’s not from the cold. “I’m better one-on-one.” He’s not sure why it feels like an admission. 

“Lucky me, have you alone.” 

Their eyes meet and that trap door in Shane’s stomach opens again. The tingling burning heat feels like tendrils wrapped around his core, shooting downwards to his pelvis. His body is frozen despite the inferno burning within and he isn’t sure what to do, doesn’t know how to respond. His breath hitches and the shiver he makes is uncontrollable.

Rozanov, seemingly amused, breaks eye contact and takes a step back. “You are cold, Hollander.” He takes another drag from his cigarette.

“I’m fine,” Shane responds defiantly, still feeling that mystery swoopy-tingling-heat but not wanting to stand down. His body, ever the traitor, shivers again. 

“You freeze, shaking like kitten”. 

Shane’s eyes trail down the other man’s arm as his finger taps the ash off his cigarette. Smoking is objectively disgusting and terrible for you, so why is it so fucking hot when he does it? “I’m not a kitten!” he argues, trying to focus and regain control over his mind. 

Rozanov chuckles and Shane can feel the bass of that sound rumble through his core. “Angry kitten.” The infuriating Russian makes a cartoonish mad face and claws at Hollander’s arm; Shane takes the opportunity to shoulder him. 

“I’m going inside because you’re an asshole, not because I’m cold,” Hollander says with as much venom as he can muster (barely any) as he heads for the door. 

“Myau myau,” the deep voice chuckles behind him.

“You suck,” replies Shane over his shoulder, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. 

“Vskóre, Hollander,” Rozanov calls from the roof as the door slams closed. 

Chapter End Notes

As a Canadian who lived through a years-long gay situationship from 2009-2014ish, this show was a personal attack and I will never recover. Also it means I have my own playlist from back then and I am assigning each chapter a song from my own tortured youth based purely on ~vibes~. The title of this chapter is from Dirty Little Secret by All American Rejects.

Chapter 2: they’re gonna eat me alive if I stumble

Chapter Summary

This has been a weird fucking day for Shane. Since getting back to his room after that insane locker room… situation… he has already showered again, moisturized, put on a suit, changed out of the suit, sat naked on his bed for a while, pulled on his normal clothes, taken off his normal clothes, settled on pajamas, showered once more because he was getting sweaty from changing so much, and is currently sitting in an uncomfortable hotel chair in the dark staring at a digital clock that reads 9:06 PM. Had Rozanov said AT 9 o’clock, or around nine? He can’t believe he doesn’t remember, it’s an extremely important distinction!

Chapter Notes

Hello, hi, happy to be back; here's some autistic porn representation because we don't see ourselves enough in smut lmao

July 2010

At the CCM endorsement shoot months later, Shane finds himself chatting easily with his so-called rival while the crew sets up cameras on the rink.

“It’s so cool that we both got signed as brand ambassadors,” he says. “It’s like, a really big deal. Since we’re so young, and not even rookies yet.” His mom’s voice is in his head, reminding him how exciting this opportunity is and how important it is for kids to see themselves represented in Shane. Not that he thinks about stuff like that– identity politics, or whatever. He’s mostly excited because it’s a clear affirmation of his skill, like a reward. 

“When they tell you, we two shooting today?” Rozanov's English is a bit clumsy, but Shane doesn't have trouble understanding it.

“A couple days ago, I think?” Shane smiles. He’s not used to sharing the spotlight, he’s usually the best in the room. But there’s something about sharing the top spot with Rozanov that doesn’t seem so bad. It pushes him to be better, having this type of competition. “When did they tell you?”

“They tell me nothing, was my idea,” Rozanov says simply. 

Wait, his idea? But why? Before Shane can ask, Rozanov continues.

“You say you like one-on-one. Myau.” 

“Shut up!” It’s Shane’s go-to line when he thinks he’s being teased. Not the most devastating by any means, but better than nothing. He doesn’t know what else he could say in response anyways, since he isn’t quite sure how he’s being insulted. “What does myau mean, anyways?”

Rozanov meets his eye with that cheeky half-cocked grin. “Sound kitten make.” 

“You mean meow?” Shane replies. Is this an accent thing or do Russian cats sound different? “Also I’m not a fucking kitten!” he adds in his defense, realizing he’s probably focusing on the wrong thing.

The smile drops, replaced by what Shane hopes is faux-offense. 

“What me-ow?” the Russian asks, apparently incensed. “Cat no say me-ow, two word parts! Say myau, smooth like water. Myau myau, das you, choosing like cat but tiny like kitten.”

Shane doesn’t know where this kitten thing came from or why Rozanov keeps bring it up, so he focuses on clarification. “What do you mean choosing like cat?”

“My English, not so good. Choosing, like,” the man’s hand reaches into the air as though he’s trying to snatch the right word from the ether. “Picking?”

“You think I’m picky?” He is, but he didn't think it was that obvious.

“Da. You know dog, love everyone. Not cat, is more quiet and choosing of company.” 

Shane isn’t sure what to say. He's always had an affinity for cats; they were sleek, fast, natural-born hunters. He’d never had one, but he liked them, and he couldn’t quite figure out how this was supposed to be insulting. 

“Thank you?”

“You are welcome. Face is kitten also.”

“Fuck you!” 

“Okay.” 

Before Shane can even begin to comprehend the intonation, head tilt, and barely-there eyebrow raise orchestrated flawlessly by the other man during those two short syllables, someone calls for them onto the ice. He thinks he’ll probably be dissecting this moment for hours. 

Hours later, waiting in his hotel room, his mind is swirling with even more interactions to parse through. 

“Fuck you.”

“Okay.”

“I might open.”

“I might knock.”

This has been a weird fucking day. Since getting back to his room after that insane locker room… situation… Shane has already showered again, moisturized, put on a suit, changed out of the suit, sat naked on his bed for a while, pulled on his normal clothes, taken off his normal clothes, settled on pajamas, showered once more because he was getting sweaty from changing so much, and was currently sitting in an uncomfortable hotel chair in the dark staring at a digital clock that reads 9:06 PM. Had Rozanov said at 9 o’clock, or around nine? He can’t believe he doesn’t remember, it’s an extremely important distinction! He turns on the clock radio, trying to distract himself. Mindlessly he finds himself pressing his thumb hard into his bicep, his brain automatically beginning to recite Ottawa, New York, Boston, Montreal, Montreal, Toronto, New York, Chicago…

When the knock finally comes, he trips over the corner of the bed in his rush to open the door. 

“I thought you might chicken out,” the Russian teases. Shane pulls him inside and quickly closes the door.

“I’m not a chicken.” And he’s not. Not about this, anyways. It’s an objectively bad decision, but Shane can’t say he’s never been curious. He had been with girls before and it was fine, good even, physically anyways. Orgasms always feel good, obviously. Except when they’re sad, but that’s not very common for him. Those types of release usually happen alone, and only when he gave in to his imagination of a certain Russian hockey player. Which wasn’t very often. Hardly at all, really.

After seeing Rozanov in the shower this afternoon though, he suspects those fantasies might become a bit more frequent. The sight made Shane’s entire body tingle, every nerve ending buzzing with possibility, hockey and everything else suddenly wiped from his mind. The other man had been solid and muscular and Shane had watched as water droplets splashed and hypnotically rolled down his powerful curves as Rozanov turned under the spray. Usually Shane kept his head in the game, showering with his teammates as mechanically as possible. He hadn’t gotten inappropriately hard in years, not in a locker room, not since Bantam when it happened to everyone at least once and that was just because of raging hormones. But this time was different. Given the other man's response to his arousal, Shane thinks he might not be the only one feeling curious about what might come next. 

“This is a terrible idea,” he feels the need to say, despite his already-decided commitment to the experience. For science, of course.

“I like trouble, remember?” Rozanov murmurs against Shane’s ear, kissing down his neck before wrapping a hand firmly under his jaw. 

Whatever thoughts and memories and wishes had been swirling around Shane’s mind a moment ago are suddenly gone, dropped from his plane of existence as though an airliner had unloaded its cargo at 10,000 feet. No longer a brain in a body mech, Shane is now entirely body, all instinct and desire and heat. Arms bumping together as they fumble to undress, Rozanov trying to take his shirt off while Shane tries to remove the other’s pants. 

Lips press together as his hands wander and he’s sinking to his knees before he can even think of what happens next. He’s pulling at the man’s pants and his brain goes static as Rozanov’s cock springs out of his underwear. Shane dives on it like its oxygen and he’s drowning. No idea what he’s doing, he follows the instincts that are screaming at him to lick and suck and consume.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Rozanov says and Shane’s pulling off before he’s even really understood the words. 

Getting up to his feet, his brain flicks back on and suddenly he’s full of nerves. “Was that bad?” Am I bad, he manages to keep in his head.

“No, no,” Rozanov smiles, mouthing him gently and nuzzling his cheek with his nose. “Too much, too good.” 

Shane breaths a sigh of relief as Rozanov takes his hand and guides them over to the bed, kissing all the way. 

“Did you like sucking my cock?”

“Oh, so those English words you know.” 

Rozanov laughs and Shane feels his shoulders release tension he didn’t realize he had been holding. 

“I want to see you,” the Russian says simply. 

Shane just nods, removing his clothes and folding each piece carefully on the desk. They were still clean, afterall, and could be worn again. He leaves his socks on though; he doesn’t want to touch the ground with bare feet and he still has to walk back over to the bed.

Once he’s naked, he sits on the bed next to his companion. With girls he knows the script: make out, hand stuff, oral, penetration, finish. He’s not sure what the rules are with two guys. 

“What do you want to do?” Rozanov asks softly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you want me to let you suck my dick again?” 

“Let me?” Shane laughs, elbowing the other man. “I’m sure you’re so hard-pressed.” 

“I am hard, and I can press. But I think you want to suck my dick.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, smiling. He really, really does. 

Taking Rozanov in his mouth again feels incredible. Shane doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he tries to imitate what he’s seen in porn and what’s felt good when girls were doing this to him. He bobs his head up and down, sucking and slobbering and pressing his tongue under the ridge of the head as he pulls back the skin. If he had a single functioning brain cell left he’d probably be worrying about technique, but all he can think right now is yes and more and this. He briefly considers giving up hockey and everything else so that he can live and die between this man’s thighs. He never wants this to end.

“Hollander I’m– I’m,” Rozanov stutters a few minutes later, and Shane pulls off to let him tug himself through his release. He watches as the come paints Rozanov’s stomach, thick and shiny. He wonders if he should have swallowed. He got scared right at the end, a bit concerned about the texture and taste, although seeing it now he has to resist the urge to lick it off Rozanov’s stomach.

Rozanov, still breathing heavily, grabs tissues from the bedside table to wipe himself up. “That was fun,” he sighs, slumping back onto the bed. 

Shane’s own cock is rock hard and actively leaking and would really love some fucking attention, but again he’s not sure what the rules are. With girls you have to reciprocate, even if you don’t want to. Not that he didn’t want to with girls, just that he didn't like to. Well it’s not that he didn’t like it, it was just such a chore. “Um…” he starts, not quite sure what to say. 

“Something you want?” Rozanov asks, and Shane can’t tell if he’s joking. 

“Are you serious?” Isn’t it obvious what he wants?

Rozanov smiles, moving to kiss him again. As soon as their lips touch, Shane feels his muscles relax. “I would not leave you like this,” the Russian murmurs, hand running the length of Shane’s thigh. “I am asking, how you want me to take care.” 

Oh. 

“Oh. Um, the same please?” It’s so awkward having to ask. 

“So polite,” Rozanov purrs, and Shane shivers at the approval. 

“Holy sh–” That tendril-y coiling hot grabby something is back as soon as he watches his dick sink into Ilya Rozanov’s mouth. Shane realizes the name of this mystery feeling is desire. The orgasm hits him like a tsunami out of the blue; he tries to warn Rozanov but the other man just sinks deeper, sucks harder, and Shane shoots his release straight into the back of his throat and feels the squeezing gulps as the man swallows it down. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” he breathes, eyes still closed. “How are you so fucking good at that?”

The other man chuckles deeply. “Is not first time.”

Shane sits up. “It’s not?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, smiling slyly. “Is yours?” 

Shane just nods. “Who, another hockey player?” Questions flood his brain. How could this not be his first time? Who else is he finding to do this with? Isn’t Russia like, bad for gay people? Not that he’s gay. Obviously. Unless. “Wait, are you…” he can’t even bring himself to say it. Neither of them are gay.

That damn sultry laugh again. “Not hockey player, no. Coach’s son. And I am just… curious.” 

“Yeah,” Shane nods again. “Curious.”  That’s a good word for it.

“I saw you,” Rozanov continues, “be curious. About me.” 

He can feel the heat rising up his neck as he flushes in embarrassment. This type of heat is not a mystery to him at all. It's a feeling he’s all too familiar with.

Rozanov brushes Shane’s hair off his forehead. His touch is so gentle. 

“Is nothing for feeling bad about. Is normal. Nature, da?” 

“Da,” Shane repeats without thinking. 

Rozanov smiles. “You speak Russian also? I wish I know sooner! Save me translation.”

“Sorry,” Shane smiles, still blushing but feeling lighter. 

“You being curious,” Rozanov continues, pressing a soft kiss onto Shane’s cheek, “is not just you. I am curious also, da? Allowed to be curious.”

He appreciates Rozanov’s attempts at making him feel better. And he feels less awkward for sure. But Shane’s still not convinced that being curious like this is actually normal. And it’s definitely not allowed. Especially not being “curious” about a fellow hockey player on a competing team. At the NHL level. Which they’re both about to start, where they’ll be very much in the public eye as the first and second picks from the draft. The fear of anyone finding out has reared up like a beast, and suddenly Shane is overwhelmed with panic. 

“You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” Why did he do this? How did he not stop himself? If anyone finds out, they’re so fucking fucked, curiosity be damned! 

He turns to look at Rozanov and Rozanov rolls his fucking eyes. “Da I tell everyone. Of course I tell no one, Hollander. Be for real.” There’s a sharpness in his voice now.

“Well you’re the one saying curiosity is okay!”

“Da! Is okay! In this room, where door locks!” Rozanov is standing, gathering his clothes and quickly pulling them on. Once he’s dressed, he turns to Shane and takes a deep breath. “This,” he points between the two of them, “is nothing wrong. There,” he points at the door, “is, how you say? ...Fucked! Much wrong out there. You know this, I know this.” Rozanov sighs and Shane can tell he’s angry, but isn’t sure who he’s angry with: Shane or the world. 

“Is nice to have fun in rooms where is allowed, you know?” Rozanov finishes, softness returning to his voice. 

Shane’s mouth feels dry. He’s nodding again as he considers what the other man is saying. He’s afraid to ask the question that’s on his mind, but then again Rozanov seems to like when he asks for what he wants. Shane decides to be brave. 

“Do you want to… have fun again? Some other time?” 

The Russian smiles. “Da.” He walks back over to the bed, leaning down to give Shane another kiss. “See you in October, Hollander.” Rozanov turns, squaring his shoulders and stretching his neck before heading out the door. 

“Bye.” 

After he’s gone, Shane falls back into the tousled hotel bed. He reaches up to touch his lips, still feeling the ghost of that final kiss. There’s much to think about.

Chapter End Notes

The song that’s playing on the radio as they fuck is Help I’m Alive by Metric, which is also where the chapter title is from. Honestly my biggest criticism of the show is the lack of Metric in the soundtrack. That shit was on fucking repeat for me as a baby gay. I had a very t.a.t.u. moment with my person (lover? No that’s gross) at a Metric concert in 2010. Anyways, Ilya POV next chapter.

Chapter 3: the cross that I bear (bear with me)

Chapter Summary

Ilya has to prevent his face from grimacing. Every time one of his teammates speaks about women, Ilya regrets ever having learned the English language. Russia isn’t any better, but at least he doesn’t have to waste brainpower translating the disrespect when it's spoken in his mother tongue.

Chapter Notes

I updated the author's note in Chapter 1 to explain a bit more what the vision is, but here's a reminder that if you think what I'm doing is beyond fucked up then, lovingly, I encourage you to use your free will to block me <3

The title for this chapter comes from Barenaked Ladies “What a Good Boy."

Also I don't know what the tag would be for this but FYI there's a consensual blow job in this chapter and cum accidentally leaks out of someone's nose? The character is chill about it but just want to give you a heads up.

October 2010

Ilya punches in the code to his front door and walks into his dark apartment. He always crashes after hook ups. If he could ever stay the night, maybe the drop wouldn’t be so rough. But he can’t, of course. Beyond the famous-hockey-player of it all, he doesn’t want to leave his companions with the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to give them any false hope that their time together could ever be more than what it is. 

Because all it can be is just… fun. Release. The opportunity to let his guard down, a chance to step outside the suffocating box of Cocky Russian Superstar that he’s been living (drowning) in since he was 15 years old. When he’s fucking someone he’s allowed to be tender, to take care, to lay down his armour if only for an hour or two. Ilya relishes that freedom and seeks it out as often as he can. Sometimes he wishes he could find it in other places, bubbles of safety and softness where he’s allowed to just exist. But he knows that’s not in the cards for him. It hasn’t been for years, probably not since his mother died. Maybe not even before then. He’s long since made peace with the fact that his life will be lived in stolen moments, and he works hard the rest of the time to earn those flashes of peace.

He takes a water bottle from his fridge, chugging it down as he looks at the calendar on his wall. Their first game with Montreal is in a few days, and his stomach flutters thinking about the possibility that he may have another moment of reprieve right around the corner. 

Seeing those freckles opposite him in the faceoff only throws Ilya for a second.

“Shane Hollander. You are looking very pretty today.” The other man gives a small smile but won’t meet Ilya’s eye. Ilya’s trying to think of what to say next when the puck drops, and Hollander gets it. Fuck. 

After the game, Ilya is surrounded by reporters clamouring for their soundbyte. 

“Rozanov how does it feel to lose to Montreal? Are you still feeling confident about scoring 40 goals this season?” 

Taking a moment to translate what the reporter asked, and then another to find the English words for how to respond, he doesn’t let himself feel rushed. He knows that his face is schooled in such a way that oozes a bravado he doesn’t have to actually feel. 

“Is more fun this way, no? They win, feel good, feel worse when we beat them next time.”

“And what about Shane Hollander? Any words for him?” 

“Who?” Ilya winks directly into the camera. He hopes Hollander sees the interview and knows the wink is for him. 

Because of course the words Ilya actually wants to say to Hollander are “where are we meeting, I want to see you again, I need us to be alone behind a locked door so that I can finally fucking breathe” but he doesn’t think the reporters need to hear that. 

Having given them their soundbyte for the night, Ilya is allowed to head back into the locker room. He strips his gear and checks his phone, which he knows is stupid since he hadn’t had the foresight to exchange numbers with Hollander last time they met. Tossing the Blackberry back onto the shelf, Ilya notices a matchbook from the hotel his team is staying in. Glancing around the room to make sure no one is looking (why would they be), he flips it open and sees a room number written inside. He sucks in his cheeks to prevent himself from smiling. Maybe Hollander is as smart as everyone says. 

Back at the hotel, Ilya’s roommate Cliff Marlow thunks down onto his bed. Ilya can’t stand this neanderthal of a man. He can’t stand most of his teammates. He loves the game but the whole culture sucks. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” Marlow suggests. 

“I’m going out.” 

Marlow laughs and Ilya wonders if he’s ever experienced a moment of actual joy in his entire life, or if this man’s laugh is just a practiced imitation of the joy of others. He has often thought that Marlow’s skull is so thick that there’s not any space for an inner world, and he’s yet to see the man do anything to disprove Ilya’s suspicions. 

“Love the initiative, kid, but I don’t think there’s any French pussy in this town that’s going to open for a Boston player after a loss. After a win, sure, but trust me the puck bunnies are only dripping for their hometown boys tonight.” 

Ilya has to prevent his face from grimacing. Every time one of his teammates speaks about women, Ilya regrets ever having learned the English language. Russia isn’t any better, but at least he doesn’t have to waste brainpower translating the disrespect when it's spoken in his mother tongue. 

He quickly changes out of his suit into more comfortable clothes as Marlow flicks on the TV and begins channel surfing. Making sure he has his phone and room key, he walks out without saying goodbye and heads for the elevator. Hollander seems to have booked them a room several floors above, which works perfectly well for Ilya. His mind wanders back to the last time he had been riding an elevator up to meet Hollander. The doors had opened early, and Hollander’s mother had been standing there. Ilya can't remember her name, but he distinctly remembers feeling like his heart might shit out of his ass at the thought of her stepping into the elevator. Fortunately she hadn't. 

When he reaches Hollander's room, the door flies open before he has a chance to knock. The other man must have been waiting at the peephole for him, but before he has the chance to chuckle at that idea he finds himself being pulled inside by his shirt and slammed into the wall just inside the room. 

Hollander wastes no time pressing wet, needy kisses into Ilya's mouth, over his jaw, onto his neck. Winning makes Hollander horny.

Ilya returns the enthusiasm, happy to be in the company of someone who also doesn't want to pretend for a moment. 

He remembers their first meeting, outside the rink at the 2008 World's. He had assumed that the other man was coming to psych him out, to chirp him or otherwise claim his territory. The game was on Hollander's home soil, after all. But instead Hollander had been so polite. Awkward and kind and open in a way that was all too rare in the hockey world. And then when Ilya saw him again during the draft, he could see from across the room how uncomfortable Hollander was in his skin. So different from the confidence and skill he had on ice. Ilya sensed there was something inside Hollander, like there is in Ilya, that didn't quite belong. 

As Hollander drops to his knees and pulls down the front of Ilya's pants, he can't help but smile as he rests his head back against the wall. He is so glad to have found someone who needs this too. This reprieve from the rest of the world, this space to be tender and needy and giving and soft. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 

Once again Hollander’s enthusiasm is nearly bringing Ilya to the brink before they’ve even gotten to the bed. “Hollander…” he manages to breathe out, “bed.”

“Right yeah, sorry,” the smaller man says from the ground at Ilya’s feet. The blush under his freckles looks delicious. Ilya makes a mental note to kiss it later. 

They make quick work of getting undressed, Hollander once again pausing to fold up his clothes as he goes. Ilya’s heart swells watching him, so orderly and particular. Wound up so tightly Ilya wonders how the man doesn’t burst at the seams. Then again, perhaps these moments are what Hollander lives for too. The ability to let go. His armour is so different from Ilya’s, and yet still the same. 

“I want to take my time with you tonight,” Ilya purrs when Hollander returns to their embrace. 

“Don’t you have an early flight?”

Ilya shrugs. “I sleep on plane.” 

They tumble into bed, kissing and giggling, legs twisting together as Ilya flips them so that he can be on top. “You like…” he starts, trying to find the right words. He hates his clumsy English.  “I take control. You let go. Would you like?” 

Apparently he doesn’t need to be any more eloquent than that, because Hollander’s pupils blow out spectacularly and the flush under his freckles spreads right down his neck. 

“I like…” Hollander repeats dreamily. 

“Da?” Rozanov confirms. 

“Da.” They haven’t even begun and Hollander’s eyes are already looking glassy. This man must need this bad. 

Ilya sits back on his heels as he straddles the smaller man. He loves getting to play like this, and his mind spins with possibilities. 

“You win tonight, so you get reward,” he says, moving to lay beside Hollander and kiss along his collarbone. “For others, coming is reward. But I see how you love sucking my dick–” 

Hollander’s breath hitches and Ilya watches as the man’s chest stills, waiting. Ilya continues. “I think for you, playing so hard tonight, winning against me…” He drags kisses down Hollander’s chest, licking across his nipple and giving a little bite. Hollander twitches. “You deserve relaxing. Nothing more relaxing than dick in your mouth, yes Hollander?” 

Hollander gulps and nods. 

“You will go slow, Hollander. Is reward for you. Naslazhdát'sya.” He doesn’t bother translating, he just stands beside the bed. Hollander crawls towards him and lays down on his stomach, taking Ilya in his mouth. Ilya feels the heady rush of the man’s unquestioning obedience and his vision blurs. Ever a rule-follower, Hollander is absolutely savouring this experience. Ilya wonders if the man has a single thought in his smooth little brain other than his cock. 

Hollander hums, sinking deeper onto Ilya’s length, and Ilya has to clench to maintain control. He said Hollander could take his time and Ilya was going to last until Hollander had his fill. 

Several more minutes pass and Ilya thinks Hollander’s neck and shoulders must be aching. The man had not picked a good position for this; Ilya had assumed he would climb back in bed once Hollander had moved out of the way, or else that Hollander would drop to his knees again. Ilya needs to relieve him of this unintentional stress position. 

“Hollander,” he says, and the man’s ink-black, watering eyes look up at him. “Velikolepnyy,” he murmurs at the sight, temporarily forgetting himself. “You are so good,” he tries to translate. He knows it’s not quite right. The other man hums on his dick and Ilya moans. “Your shoulders, are hurting?” He focuses again on his role; he doesn’t want Hollander to strain himself. 

“Mmhappy,” Hollander slurs, barely letting Ilya out of his mouth before resuming the job he’s been assigned. 

What he lacks in skill he certainly makes up for in enthusiasm, Ilya thinks, watching the man bob his head and hump the bed. Most girls would be bored by now, happy for the excuse to change position. Hollander seems to have melted into the mattress and perhaps has no desire to ever leave. Ilya pets Hollander’s head, fingers stroking his hair lightly. He doesn’t want Hollander to feel forced, just contained. Ilya’s got him and he doesn’t need to worry about anything else. The touch is all the encouragement Hollander needs to suck hard, and Ilya feels his hand clasp at Hollander’s head just to ground himself from the sudden change in tempo. 

“Hollander, I–” Ilya tries to warn, remembering that Shane didn’t want it in his mouth last time. Hollander seems to have decided otherwise tonight, because he swallows Ilya even deeper as release shoots down his throat. 

He gags, coughing, and Ilya pulls back concerned. “Hollander, you okay?” He crouches to be at face level with the man on the bed. Cum leaks out of Hollander's nose and Ilya feels sick. “I am sorry,” he wipes it away with his thumb, “milyy mal’chik.” 

“Happy,” is all Hollander says, smiling through his watery eyes. He coughs and wipes his nose with the back of his arm and rests his head against Ilya’s shoulder. “I breathed bad. My nose.” He giggles, and the sound is enough to thaw the panic that had been creeping across Ilya’s chest. 

“You are supposed to swallow, not breathe it. Or not swallow, you choose. But not breathe it. Is not what lungs are for.” Ilya gives a shaky laugh, relieved he doesn’t seem to have done any damage. 

“Was excited,” Hollander responds. He sounds sleepy. “Wanted to taste you.” 

“Come to bathroom, we clean you up.” Ilya stands, pulling gently on Hollander’s hand. Hollander follows, leaning heavily on Ilya. “You have not even finished yet and your bones are made of water,” Ilya teases. 

Hollander giggles and Ilya’s heart squeezes at the sound. He wonders how often Shane relaxes enough to giggle. “Came on the bed,” the smaller man admits. Ilya looks back to see the evidence clearly laying on the blanket. 

“Milyy mal’chik, you are very easy man to please,” Ilya says as he leans the man against the sink and walks over to the shower. 

When the water is warm, Ilya holds out his hand to help Hollander into the shower. He lets him stand under the hot stream, gently wiping his face again with a clean washcloth. Then he adds some soap from the dispenser on the wall, and swipes softly down Hollander’s stomach, along his thighs, around his hips. Hollander sighs sweetly, still a bit zonked. 

Ilya takes time to towel him off, bringing him back over to the bed and pulling back the sheets. He makes sure to toss the top cover off the bed, tucking Hollander in before going to the closet for what he hopes is a spare blanket. Thankful to find one, he drapes it across Hollander’s body as the other man curls onto his side, cozy in bed. 

“I can’t sleep here,” Hollander says, looking like he’s most of the way to dreaming already. “Gotta go home, people will know.” 

Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, brushing the hair off his forehead. “We have early flight. Bus leaves 7am, I will text when is safe for you to check out.” He presses a kiss onto Hollander’s head. Hollander’s breathing has already slowed. 

Not wanting to rely on matchbooks for future communication, Ilya walks over to where Hollander’s belongings are neatly folded on the table. His phone, wallet, and keys lay beside the pile. He opens Shane’s phone and enters his own number, saving it as Lily. He sends a text to himself from Hollander’s cell. 

00:07 

Nice to meet you, Lily! 

Then he pulls out his own phone and responds. 

00:08

I hope you sleep well, Jane.

Chapter End Notes

Marlow catching stray bullets in this fic with my genuine feelings about hockey players.

Also for The Youths who do not remember the days of old, we didn’t have passwords on our phones back then. Absolutely just rawdogging security, praying we didn’t lose them, finding grainy selfies that our friends took when we went to the washroom.

Chapter 4: karma’s gonna get me

Chapter Summary

The bolt on the door is out, keeping the door from closing so that anyone can walk in. As Ilya heads in he looks around the dim, large suite, hoping there’s a drink table or something. He moves around the perimeter, finding some bottles of liquor and red plastic cups on a sideboard. As he pours himself some vodka, he sees Hollander finally stepping into the room.

Chapter Notes

CW: There’s another SA in this chapter. I don’t know what to tell you, hockey culture is fucked, shit like this happens so fucking often I can't even tell you. It’s very similar to the one in chapter 1, OC character, non-graphic description, Ilya interrupts it because he knows how to use his privilege for good and I needed to see a version where someone fucking stopped it because it was so fucking preventable. Anyways, let’s hold hands and jump back into the abyss together.

October 2010

Jane 00:07 

Nice to meet you, Lily! 

Lily 00:08

I hope you sleep well, Jane.

Lily 7:13

On bus now

Jane 7:46

I can’t believe I slept so late! I don’t even remember sending that text lol

Lily 7:47

I sent from your phone. You were like spjáščaja krasávica, I do not know English name. I did not want to wake you.

Jane 9:23

I looked it up, are you saying Sleeping Beauty?!

Lily 11:49

Yes, from ballet. Poked your mouth on my cock and asleep. Like magic. 

Jane 12:21

Fuck you!

Lily 14:10

Home now. Next time, da? 

November 2010

Jane 20:47

Super cool fake out!

Jane 21:25

Congrats on the win :)

Lily 21:39

Easy to win when other team sucks

Jane 21:41

Didn’t look like an easy game lol

Lily 02:50

Remember how easy you come from sucking my cock

December 2010

Jane 07:01

Merry Christmas :) Are you home with family, or staying in Boston?

January 2011

Jane 18:56

See you at the All-Star Game

Lily 01:19

Looking forward to beating you

Jane 08:31

It would make for an interesting change ;)

Lily 12:18

Lulling you into false sense of security

Jane 12:22

You pick up the weirdest English sayings

In Nashville at the start of the All-Stars weekend, Ilya finds himself fussing with his tie in front of the mirror in his hotel room. He has to give a press conference soon and they won’t give him the questions in advance, which feels pretty rude. He’s already on a backfoot since English isn’t his first language, but he’s also a rookie who got voted in as an All Star and the pressure is huge. He doubts Hollander is feeling much better, even if he does have the benefit of the language. 

Ilya feels a bit guilty about not texting Hollander much. He knows Shane is reaching out for connection and Ilya wants more than anything to reach back, it just hurts too much. Stolen moments, he reminds himself, not ongoing threads that are woven throughout his daily life. It’s not that he doesn’t want it. It’s just that if he were to start weaving that thread and it broke, Ilya knew he would unravel. Better to keep it safely tucked away, buried deep enough to protect. 

At the press conference their supposed-rivalry is on full display, by design. He and Hollander enter from opposite sides and nod briskly before taking their seats. 

“How does it feel as a rookie to be voted into the All-Star Game?” someone asks. 

Hollander says something about how honoured he is. When it’s Ilya’s turn to talk, he knows what’s expected of him. 

“Would not be All-Star Game without biggest star,” he says with a wink. He wishes he was anywhere else.

Eventually a reporter asks an unnecessarily long and complicated question, as Ilya knew they would. He follows along trying to translate, but he doesn’t recognize some of the words and he forgets to listen to the second half of the question. He knows his face looks confident because that’s how he’s trained it to look, but inside he feels like screaming. 

There’s a tap on the side of Ilya’s foot, under the table where no one else can see. He pushes his foot back into the touch. 

“With Rozanov’s permission,” Hollander starts, and Ilya nods. He breathes a sigh of relief as he listens to Hollander start to answer far more eloquently than Ilya ever could.

“So yeah, it’s my job to take that personally.” Hollander finishes. Ilya wishes he could smile at him, but he settles for another knock of their shoes. 

The reporter turns back, “and for you, Mr. Rozanov?” 

Ilya clears his throat. “What he said.” He’s grateful for his armour of bravado.

The assembled crowd laughs and Ilya feels the armour glint under the bright lights. 

Another reporter moves to the front to ask their question. “Typically you would be on the same side at this game as two players from the Eastern Conference, but the league has mixed things up this year with Team North America vs Team Europe. Anything either of you want to say to your rival before the game?” 

Hollander laughs and Ilya can hear the years of practice just below the surface. Not like the giggle Ilya has heard before behind locked doors. “Not a chance,” Hollander says cheerfully, his media training shining through. 

Reporters turn their gaze to Ilya and he realizes it's his time to speak. He, too, had received media training before joining the NHL, but he also has a hard time passing up the opportunity to secretly flirt. “What I have to say to Hollander, I will say on ice.” It’s a promise he plans to make good on. 

After an afternoon of practicing and an evening spent drinking with his team-for-the-weekend, Ilya can’t help but wonder what Hollander is doing as he returns to the hotel late at night. It’s been taken over with hockey players for the weekend, and he sees people still lounging around the lobby and spilling out of the bar. 

In the elevator, he has a moment of peace. He’s been told there’s a room party raging and he doesn’t really want to go, but he figures he should. It’s important to keep up appearances, and he’s curious about what an All-Star room party is like.

The elevator stops and the doors open before his destination. 

“Rozanov?”

Hollander looks quickly from side to side, and then steps in. “I’m going to a room party,” he says, almost apologetically. 

“Same,” Ilya says simply. 

“DuBois?” 

“Da.”

“But he’s a Voyageur.”

“From Rouen. Playing for Europe this weekend.”

“No yeah, I know. Sorry.” 

He’s not sure why Hollander sounds sad. Ilya wants to kiss him right here in this elevator. Pull the emergency stop and thank him for the press conference bail out this morning, apologise for being such a bad texter, explain how much he wants him… all nonverbally, of course. 

Before Ilya can do any of that, Hollander asks “is it weird if we go to the same room party? Like, since we’re rivals or whatever?” 

Ilya considers this for a moment. “We are both invited, I think is normal. We did not plan to show up together.” 

“Yeah,” Hollander responds, but Ilya can tell he doesn’t really mean it. “I kind of hate room parties,” he continues. “I hate all parties, but room parties are the worst. They’re so crowded and loud and–” 

The elevator doors open at their floor and Hollander falls silent. 

Ilya waits for him to step out, realizes he isn’t moving, and steps out first instead. Maybe Hollander doesn’t want to be seen getting off the elevator together. He’s not using his words and Ilya’s not a mind reader, so he walks down the hall to the room where it’s happening. 

The thumping bass of music and noise is practically shaking the walls. Ilya hopes no one booked a family vacation here this weekend, he can’t imagine being a neighbour and trying to sleep through this. 

The bolt on the door is out, keeping the door from closing so that anyone can walk in. As he heads in he looks around the dim, large suite, hoping there’s a drink table or something. He moves around the perimeter, finding some bottles of liquor and red plastic cups on a sideboard. As he pours himself some vodka, he sees Hollander finally stepping into the room. 

“Rozzy, boy-o!” O’Reilly yells over the din, opening his arms to embrace Ilya in a hug. 

“Would never miss party,” Ilya shouts in return. 

“Some of the boys have a girl in the next room, if you’re looking for some fun!” O’Reilly says. “I’ve got the ol’ ball and chain so keeping a respectful distance, myself!” 

“One girl for how many guys?” Ilya asks, a switch flicked in his mind and he’s now on full alert. “Which room?” 

“You horndog, you! Just over there!” 

Ilya smiles and claps a hand on O’Reilly’s back as he moves swiftly towards the adjoining door leading to the next suite. Despite what O’Reilly thinks, “horny” is not the thought Ilya has when he hears of one drunk girl in a room with a bunch of hockey players. 

Just as he reaches the door it opens, and Hollander is on the other side of it looking like he’s seen a ghost. 

“I wanted some quiet,” Hollander says, “but it’s–” 

Ilya quickly squeezes the man’s forearm as he pushes through the doorway. 

“Rozan–”

As he suspected, this is not a good scene. The young woman is on the floor naked, with two guys standing over her. The music isn’t as loud here, but the roar of the men’s laughter booms all the same. 

“What is this, gentlemen?” Ilya asks as he moves towards the grouping. 

“Rozzy, my man! You wanna have some fun?” 

The woman looks up at Ilya, eyes bleary and lipstick smudged. “You want?” she slurs and his heart sinks. He pulls off his jacket, lightly shouldering one of the guys out of the way. 

“Roz man, what the–” 

“Your dicks are so boring she’s falling asleep,” he says, gesturing to the girl. 

“Fuck you! We-”

“I think we are done now,” Ilya interrupts. “Go fuck your hands if you want more, at least they are willing.” He crouches, wrapping his jacket around the girl. “Milaya,” he murmurs in Russian, wanting to offer comfort and finding gentle English beyond his grasp.

The men start sharing profanities before another voice cuts in.

“If even Rozanov is saying it’s a bad idea, you know you’ve fucked up,” Hollander announces firmly while holding the door open for the men to file out. 

Huffing, one of the guys pulls up his pants and heads towards the door. “Rookies used to know their fucking place,” he mutters under his breath. The man grumble something about “fucking faggots” but thankfully follows suit.

Ilya looks over his shoulder as Hollander shuts the door behind the last of the men. 

“Hollander–” Ilya doesn’t quite know what to say. He was very possibly about to get punched for walking into a group of guys with a smart mouth and no plan. 

“What the fuck, Rozanov? Those guys could have beat the shit out of you! They still could tomorrow, Dwayne’s not an enforcer I’d want to piss off!”

The woman slumps into Ilya’s body and Hollander shuts up. 

“She is not okay. I could not let them…” Ilya tries to explain, his English faltering. He takes a deep breath to centre himself. He knows how to do this. “We need to find her clothes.” 

Hollander nods and starts looking around the room, turning on the overhead lights to aid his search. Ilya stays with her on the ground, not wanting to move her without her awareness. When Hollander comes back to Ilya’s side, he just has a chevron pencil skirt and a helpless expression that in any other circumstance Ilya would find adorable. 

“What’s wrong with her?” Hollander asks. Ilya looks at him like he might be the stupidest man on the planet. Then he remembers that the man lives for only hockey, occasionally dick, and not much else. 

“She is sick. Maybe drunk, maybe drugs,” Ilya explains. “You were not kidding about not being social, Hollander.” 

“I’m mkay,” the woman murmurs, rubbing her eyes and sitting up again. 

“You are safe now,” he says softly. 

Her head lurches to the side and Ilya instinctively reaches to hold her hair back as she vomits onto the sheet. When she’s done, he guides her up and over to a chair to get away from the mess. Crouching down in front of her, he says “my name is Ilya. What is yours?” 

She looks around the room, pulling his jacket tightly around her body. “Gisele.”

“I am sorry to meet you like this, Gisele. Do you know where you are?”

“Hotel. Hockey guys?” 

Ilya nods. “Yes. You remember coming back with them?”

She considers the question. “I think we were at a bar? Do you have water?” 

Ilya smiles and nods, careful not to touch her as he stands. Asking for water is a good sign. He turns around to get it and sees Hollander tidying the room. The man has removed the dirty sheet from the floor, and there’s a small pink shirt and black underwear folded neatly at the end of the bed. Hollander is currently holding up a bra as though he’s never encountered one and isn’t sure how to fold it. 

“First time seeing one?” Ilya can’t help but ask.

“What?” Hollander stutters, “no, I’ve– fuck you, I’m helping!” 

“Gisele needs water please, Mr. Helper,” Ilya smiles back. Turning again to face Gisele, he asks “would you like us to wait in bathroom while you get dressed, or you go to bathroom and we wait here?” And then, because he wants to make sure she knows she’s in control, “or we leave. Or you leave. Many options, up to you.” He might have said too much.

She’s looking around as though she dropped her memories on the floor and is hoping to retrieve them. Hollander, having abandoned the bra on the pile of clothes, comes back with a bottle of water. 

After he gives her the bottle, Ilya nudges the other man and gestures with his head to the other side of the room. Give her some space, he wants to say, except it would be rude to speak in front of her as though he’s not there. 

Hollander thankfully takes the hint and follows, saying to her from a distance “I didn’t find a purse, I’m not sure if you had one?”

Ilya looks away, trying to give her some privacy as she processes what’s going on. 

They stay like that for some time– Ilya and Hollander standing guard beside the adjoining door, and Gisele in the chair staring blankly into space. Eventually Gisele stands up, a bit more steady now. “I, um,” she starts, looking between the two of them. “Thank you. Um. No purse. I’m good actually, so I’ll just… ” She walks over to the bed, slips into her skirt and picks up the other clothes, holding them close to her body as she walks over to the door. “Thanks, again. Um.” She looks around as though not quite sure how to end this interaction, finally settling on a quick “okay, bye,” before she grabs her shoes and leaves.

“Should we follow her? Make sure she’s okay?” Hollander asks.

Ilya just shrugs, lost in his own memories. Visions of his mother’s frail body after his father finished with her, the pills she took to make her life bearable, her hollow eyes and small smile and bravery in spite of it all. The day he couldn’t save her. After a long moment, he finally says “I need to smoke.” 

Hollander doesn’t even bother to reprimand him. 

Chapter End Notes

Woof. Sorry ‘bout that, y’all. The chapter title comes from “Break Your Heart” by Taio Cruz, but if it was a Gisele POV it probably would have been from “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia (which was on fucking repeat for me when I was the girl on the floor in 2010). This is the last we see of Gisele, but my headcanon for her is that she goes to therapy and gets all the support she needs and ends up becoming a fierce survivor’s advocate who’s surrounded by love and care.

And poor sweet Ilya, he is who he is for a reason and I am so sorry.

Chapter 5: when everything’s made to be broken

Chapter Summary

Shane lets the quiet linger. It’s nice, just being together like this. His brain keeps spinning on the same question though, and eventually he just has to ask it. He has to understand how he keeps missing what Rozanov seems to have immediately understood.

“How did you, like…” he gulps, “know? That she needed help?”

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.

Hollander is getting ready for the game but can’t stop thinking about the night before. He had no way of knowing whether Gisele had gotten home safely, if she was okay, if she had people to help her through whatever she must be going through. Rozanov had left to go smoke and hadn’t responded to any of Shane’s texts since, so Shane was worried about him too. Shane himself had stayed at the party for a little while longer, not wanting to be seen leaving with Rozanov and honestly just not sure what else to do with himself. 

Neither of the players that had been in the room said anything when Shane came out, and Shane didn't say anything to them either. He kept bracing for the fallout though; they must be mad at him. His first All-Star Game – as a rookie, which is crazy impressive – and he’s wishing he wasn’t here at all. Maybe this is one of those “if we don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen” things, he tries to comfort himself. But he never understands when that applies and when it doesn’t, so it doesn't do anything to settle him.

Sitting on the bench during second period, Scott Hunter leans over and gives him a tap. “You okay, kid?” 

“Yeah, sorry,” Shane replies, realizing he must have been staring off into space. “Keep my head in the game, I know.” 

Hunter laughs, “I mean yeah, ideally, but also All-Star Games aren’t that serious. What’s up?” 

Shane looks over at him. Scott Hunter is a seasoned player. No cups under his belt, but he’s been in the NHL for as long as Shane can remember. He’s probably experienced a room party or two in his time. 

“Have you ever–” Shane starts, and then stops. How can he even finish that sentence? Have you ever walked in on a girl being hurt by a bunch of fellow players and then you were going to leave because you were so overwhelmed but then the guy you’ve been blowing walked in so you stayed and then he nearly got punched so you backed him up in front of the other players so the other guys left but then you were left there alone with your blow job friend taking care of a naked girl who then runs away and you're not sure if she made it home okay and oh, also, your blow job friend isn’t a friend at all but is your professional rival and he hasn’t responded to your texts since? Obviously he can’t say any of that, so instead he shuts down the conversation with “never mind, I’m sure I’m overthinking.” Which is also the truth, at least. 

Hunter smiles at Shane in a way that Shane is sure is meant to be reassuring. “You’re a good player, rook. Smart, likeable, hard-working. Just keep your head down and keep scoring goals and you’ll be golden. And uh, if you want to talk more privately, I’m in room 1222 tonight.” 

“Yeah,” Shane tries to smile back as though that advice helps at all. “Thanks.” 

Going into the third period, Shane is finally placed into a faceoff with Rozanov. Their first chance to talk, except of course there isn’t a chance at all.

“Rozanov,” he says, but the ref skates up with the puck so he stops. 

“1221,” Rozanov responds, winning the drop as Shane tries to compute that he’s inviting Shane up to his room after the game and also that his room is right next to Scott fucking Hunter. 

Standing in the hotel hallway after the game, he texts “here” rather than risk knocking. It’s taking Rozanov ten thousand years to open the door and Shane feels the bile of panic creep up his throat. 

Finally the door opens and Shane rushes inside. “Did you know you’re right next door to Scott Hunter?”

“I am?” Rozanov looks rough. 

“Did you sleep last night? I had a hard time.” Shane can feel a ramble coming on so he shuts himself up. 

“A little,” Rozanov replies. He steps towards Shane and all of the urgent buzzing inside Shane’s brain fades away. The larger man reaches his hand up, thumb brushing along Shane’s cheekbone with such incredible softness. Shane closes his eyes. 

He forgets to feel embarrassed as a satisfied little sigh escapes from his throat as Rozanov kisses him. It’s gentle, just a press of the lips, and Shane turns his head to the side automatically to deepen the contact. 

Rozanov takes the invitation, moving his hand to the back of Shane’s head to pull him closer. Shane grasps at Rozanov’s chest in return, and then his hands scramble under the fabric to feel the other man’s skin. The kisses turn messy, each breaking away only to remove a piece of clothing before crashing back into each other. 

Shane knows he wants to talk about last night but this, this is now and urgent and necessary and he feels he may die if he doesn’t get these clothes off faster and isn’t soon relieved by the full weight of this man’s body on his. 

Rozanov pulls them over to the bed, pushing Shane down and then bending to remove his own socks as the last thing that would come between their skin. He topples over in a controlled fall onto Shane, and Shane reaches up for him with his hands and his hips, needing to touch every part. 

As the frantic rush of reuniting finally eases, their kissing slows and they’re able to breathe together. Rozanov’s hand traces down his side, over his hip, under his ass. He moves his mouth so that it’s right beside Shane’s ear. 

“Can I fuck you tonight?” 

Shane gasps, his already-hard cock twitching at the thought of being even closer to Rozanov. And then his stupid brain reminds him of stupid Scott Hunter in the stupid room next door. 

“Hunter,” is all Shane actually manages to say, which causes Rozanov to pull back. 

“You want Scott Hunter to fuck you tonight?” Rozanov makes a face of consideration and then says “he might. You could ask.” 

Shane huffs out a laugh and grabs the pillow next to him to smack Rozanov over the head. “That’s not what I mean and you know it! Also your English is getting way better.” 

Rozanov takes the pillow hit and dramatically crashes beside Shane on the bed. “I offer sex and you say other man’s name, is not crazy to think you want other man.” He kisses the hinge of Shane’s jaw, right below his ear. “And thank you, surrounded by stupid Americans and boring Canadians is good practice.” 

Shane breathes in the kiss and then rolls onto his side, elbow propping himself up. “I do not want to fuck Scott Hunter.” 

Rozanov smiles, readjusting so that they’re facing each other. “I am much better lay than him. He is 100 years old.” 

Shane laughs. “He’s not that old!” They lay like this for a moment, looking at each other and smiling, not saying anything else. Shane doesn’t want to break the magic, but thoughts of last night keep swirling unbidden into his brain. 

As though sensing the shift, Rozanov pulls Shane onto his chest so that they’re cuddling but not making eye contact. 

Shane feels him press a gentle kiss into the top of his head. 

“Last night,” Shane finally says, “it was sort of crazy.” 

He feels Rozanov take a deep inhale, slowly releasing the breath. “Was a lot,” he agrees.

“Have you ever,” Shane has so many questions but he’s scared to overwhelm the other man. “Have you seen something like that before?” 

Rozanov stays quiet for some time. “Yes,” he finally admits. 

“In Boston?” 

Another minute of silence. “No.” 

Shane lets the quiet linger. It’s nice, just being together like this. His brain keeps spinning on the same question though, and eventually he just has to ask it. He has to understand how he keeps missing what Rozanov seems to have immediately understood.

“How did you, like…” he gulps, “know? That she needed help?” 

He’s kept thinking back to the World Juniors win, that girl was on the floor just like the girl last night. Shane hadn’t done anything to help. He wouldn’t have helped last night, either. He had already turned to run away. It was only Rozanov going in there that kept Shane’s feet planted and eventually forced him to face the room again. 

Rozanov shifts slightly and Shane lifts his head to look at him, but the other man guides him back down. Shane wonders if Rozanov doesn’t want to make eye contact for this conversation. He doesn’t always like making eye contact either. Sometimes it’s just too much. 

Another moment passes, and Rozanov finally speaks. “She did not look happy.” 

Shane ponders this, wondering if it’s as much of an answer as he’s going to get. 

“Sometimes,” Rozanov continues, “people say yes with words but no with eyes.” He’s speaking so softly. Shane is used to people teasing him when he asks questions like this, supposedly-obvious questions about how people know things that aren’t at all obvious to Shane. But Rozanov has no edge in his voice.

“Is hard,” Rozanov continues, “to say what it is you want. Sometimes what you want is not… what others want. Not what they want you to want. Is very hard… to go against that. Scary. Can be dangerous, you know?” 

Shane gulps again. Yeah, he knows a thing or two about how scary it is to not want what other people think you should want. And to want what others think you shouldn’t. 

“You’re really brave.” It’s all Shane can think to say. 

Rozanov huffs out a little laugh, and it sounds slightly wet. As though he’s perhaps been weeping. Shane keeps his head where it is, not wanting to intrude. 

“Am not brave,” Rozanov admits. He sounds small. “I am scared like, all the time.” 

“Really?” Shane asks automatically, immediately forgetting that he was giving privacy and sitting up to look at his companion. 

“No,” Rozanov responds, his voice suddenly deep again. “Am very brave. Fight bear. Is mandatory in Russia, is why we are best.” 

“No I just mean,” Shane tries to bring them back to the tender moment they just shared, “I’m scared too.” And he is. He’s scared of the world and other people and what they think and what they know. He’s scared he’s messing up, that he’s failing to live up to his potential, that he’s disappointing the people who love him most. 

“Have you tried fighting bear? Might help.” Rozanov boops him on the nose. “Kitten versus bear, who will win?” 

Shane crinkles his nose in response to the boop. “I’m not a kitten! Why do you get to be a bear, that’s not fair!” 

“I not bear, I fight bear. And win every time. You can fight bear too. Or Canadian animal, maybe. Moose?” 

“Shut up!” Shane looks around for the pillow to thwap Rozanov with again. “I’m not fighting a moose, they’re fucking huge! Have you seen them?” 

“Beaver then maybe. More your size.” 

Finding the pillow and trying to hit Rozanov, who successfully dodges it, Shane says “moose are literally no one’s size, they’re the last surviving North American megafauna! They’re way bigger than bears!” He aims again, landing this time with a satisfying thump. 

Rozanov is laughing and grabs a pillow of his own. “Much too big for kitten then!” He gets Shane right in the face with the down pillow. “Maybe one of your gooses, those are smaller da?” 

Shane gives up and collapses back onto the bed. “I would rather fight a bear than a Canada goose. Those things are fucking dinosaurs.” 

“Ah, like Scott Hunter,” Rozanov says before diving in to cover Shane in kisses. 

Chapter End Notes

Have a pillow fight to soothe the emotional damage this story is causing (I say, to myself, as I am writing this fucking story).

Also my headcanon is that there’s a Canadian teammate of Ilya’s in Boston who’s trying to teach his kids their heritage and Rozanov buys them books about Canadian animals and traditions, and he reads the books first so that he can learn too. The animal book does not adequately describe the sound a loon makes, in his opinion.

Chapter 6: trying to fight when you feel like flying

Chapter Summary

“Vaughn’s got the other rooks already, where’s your boy Rozanov?”

“My… what?” Shane hopes he isn’t blushing. Prays his voice sounds neutral and normal and doesn’t give anything away. “He’s not like, mine.”

Hunter laughs. “Not like that, just, you know. It’s always Hollander and Rozanov.”

“Yeah,” Shane tries to laugh casually. “I don’t know where he is. We’re not like, friends or anything.” Except behind locked doors when we suck each other’s dicks and kiss like we mean it. He pushes that thought away.

Chapter Notes

Title for this chapter is from Unsteady by X Ambassadors.

June 2011

“Mom stop fussing, my tie is fine,” Shane whines quietly as they mingle before the NHL Awards.

“We want you to look perfect, it’s your big night!” She cheerfully responds, not giving up her microadjustments. 

“You don’t know that, I might not even win.” Shane is still disappointed that they didn’t make it to the playoffs. He felt like his rookie year had been cut short, not getting to experience the whirlwind of playoff season. Boston hadn’t made it either, which also meant that Shane had had no excuse to see Rozanov since their last game in Boston at the end of February. 

Which is fine, obviously. It’s just hard to date as a professional athlete, what with all the long days and away games and the lack of privacy that comes with this level of fame. It was nice to have someone who gets it, that’s all this is with Rozanov. Casual. That’s why they haven’t texted in the last few months, Shane tells himself. 

His mom brushes his lapels with her hands, apparently satisfied with the tie. “If everything goes well tonight, I’ve got a contact at Rolex that will be thrilled to hear from us.”

Shane looks at his dad and makes a silent plea. His dad just gives him a soft smile. They both know better than to fight the force of nature that is Yuna Hollander.

“Alright, David,” Yuna says to her husband, “let’s make the rounds. Shane, make sure not to spill anything on yourself before the show.”

“That was one time! When I was twelve!” He walks off to the bar to get himself a drink. Ginger ale, hopefully, since he’s still not legal in the states. Twenty-one is a stupid, random age restriction and he can’t wait to be beyond it soon. 

“Rook!” Scott Hunter calls from the bar. “Congrats on the nomination, very well earned.”

“Thanks,” Shane smiles politely as he approaches.

“Do you and the other nominees want to do some shots with us old fucks?”

“Oh I’m not… I’m still 20.” It feels childish. American laws suck.

“I think we can overlook that just this once,” Hunter smiles. “Vaughn’s got the other rooks already, where’s your boy Rozanov?”

“My… what?” Shane hopes he isn’t blushing. Prays his voice sounds neutral and normal and doesn’t give anything away. “He’s not like, mine.” 

Hunter laughs. “Not like that, just, you know. It’s always Hollander and Rozanov.”

“Yeah,” Shane tries to laugh casually. “I don’t know where he is. We’re not like, friends or anything.” Except behind locked doors when we suck each other’s dicks and kiss like we mean it. He pushes that thought away.

“No worries.” Hunter is already flagging down the bartender to order a round. 

The guys are all cheersing and Shane tries to join in but he feels like there’s a thick glass wall between him and everyone else in the room. It’s so loud that his brain just stops processing noise entirely and it’s as though he’s been plunged into an icy lake. The silence is suffocating and when he takes the shot it burns all the way down his throat. Another one is placed in front of him and he downs that one too before his senses catch up to him. Someone’s handing him a slice of lime and he bites into it, the juice surprisingly soothing his mouth. 

The rest of the show is a blur. He’s on stage and he hopes his mouth is making good word sounds, and then people are clapping so he thinks he maybe succeeds. There’s more alcohol, champagne toasts to celebrate his win and the bubbles feel angry on his tongue. Everyone is shaking his hand and he can’t tell who they all are but he knows who they aren’t. The one face he’s been longing to see is the one that eludes him and it’s fine because it’s casual and he just wants to casually collapse into that man’s arms and casually let go of control and casually obey whatever that man casually says, safe in the knowledge that this casual man would never be casual with him in the space that they carve behind locked doors, in rooms where they’re allowed to be more-than-casual together. 

He goes up to the roof to get some air and sees his rival. The man who lost. The man he lost. The man looks lost. 

“Rozanov,” Shane says as he approaches, only tripping on his own foot once. 

Rozanov doesn’t turn around. “Hollander. Big night for you. Congratulations.” The heavily accented words sound tight. 

“It could have been either of us.” Shane looks out into the Vegas skyline and the world spins dizzyingly under his feet. 

“It was you.” Rozanov lights a cigarette. 

“Smoking is bad for you,” Shane can’t help but say. He hiccups. You’re so pretty when you smoke, he somehow manages to keep to himself. 

The Russian finally looks at him. “You are drunk.” 

“European.” Shane laughs at his funny joke. “Like you're-a-peein’. Get it?” He would do almost anything to see Rozanov smile. Not his fake smile, the one he does for the media and for fans and on the ice. His real smile, the one that possibly only Shane gets to see, and only sometimes.

“Very drunk.” Rozanov doesn’t smile. 

“I asked for ginger ale but there were shots instead. And champagne. Champagne is like angry ginger ale that tastes bad. Like you. You’re angry. But you don’t taste bad.” Shane knows he’s rambling and the alcohol makes him unable to stop himself. “You taste good, even after smoking. Smoking doesn’t taste good. Well I haven’t actually tried it. I’ve tasted you after you’ve smoked and it’s very good, but in a bad way where it makes me want to smoke which would be bad probably. Are you mad at me?” It all comes tumbling out of his mouth so quickly. 

Rozanov watches silently as Shane unloads this all at his feet. “Do not smoke, Hollander,” he finally says, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Is bad for you.” 

Shane feels like he’s been handed two pieces to a puzzle that don’t fit together. They stand together in silence for a while, Shane trying to steady himself. It’s like his body is on a roller coaster that his brain didn’t sign up for. He’s dizzy and nauseous and tired and he’d really like his vision to go back to full speed instead of this delayed blur that seems to happen every time he moves his head.

“I go back to Russia soon.” Rozanov finally breaks the silence. 

“That’ll be fun,” Shane replies, not sure what else to say.

Rozanov stares at him again, and Shane wishes he could read his mind. 

“Russia is fun like smoking is good for you,” Rozanov says, taking another long drag.

“But smoking’s not…” Shane doesn’t get it. He’s really trying to make it make sense, but it’s like pushing through sludge in his addled state. Smoking isn’t good for you. So is Russia not fun? But it’s his home. Isn’t home supposed to be fun? 

Suddenly Rozanov’s lips are on him and they’re kissing and Shane is kissing back and everything makes sense again but then Shane remembers where they are and forces himself to pull back. 

“Someone could see!”  He looks around frantically to survey the damage. No one is on the roof other than them, but the door leading inside doesn’t lock so anyone could walk out on them at any time. 

“No one is looking.” 

Shane’s world is flipped upsidedown. They’re only allowed to do that in rooms where it’s safe. They’re not safe here. “You don’t know that!” He pushes himself off the other man and stumbles away. There are rules.

“Hollander!” Rozanov calls after him as Shane heads for the door, tripping over his feet but determined to get away. Only in rooms where it’s safe. They’re not safe up here. Only inside, not under starlight. He has to stay safe. 

Chapter End Notes

“Hollander you are having pAniC aTtaCk” in a thick Russian accent has rapidly become my most frequent vocal stim.

Our poor baby is not doing well, I’m sorry :(

Chapter 7: here comes the breath before we get

Chapter Notes

Featuring texting and time jumps. Chapter title is from Closer by Tegan and Sara, which wouldn’t have existed when these time jumps start but definitely would have been playing on repeat for both of them by the end of the chapter.

August 2011

Lily (23:09) You still mad about Vegas?

Jane (6:01) I’m not mad about anything! I just like to follow the rules.

Jane (6:02) You still making terrible choices?

Lily (9:25) Looking forward to it ;)

October 2011

Lily (21:49) What’s a girl to do on a lonely night in Montreal?

Jane (22:03) 1312

Lily (22:04) What street?

Jane (22:04) Your hotel.

January 2012

Lily (12:24) Want to come in Boston?

Jane (12:27) That doesn’t even make sense. 

Lily (12:29) Read it again ;) 

Jane (15:06) 1822

April 2012

Lily (14:38) Playoffs are fun

Jane (15:07) Fuck you

Lily (15:13) You could be, if you were here

Jane (15:14) Next season I’m coming for you, asshole

Lily (17:22) Next season I’m coming for your asshole

August 2012

Lily (11:52) They are hosting big parade for you, congratulations.

Jane (11:55) What are you talking about

Lily (11:56) I saw on news, Ottawa is hosting a “Slut Walk”

Jane (11:56) ?

Lily (11:58) You are slut for my dick.

Jane (11:59) That’s not what it is!

Lily (12:00) Is for being proud to be slut, no?

Jane (12:02) It’s from a thing that happened in Toronto last year, a cop told some York students not to dress like sluts in order to avoid being raped. 

Jane (12:02) My mom has been talking about how crazy it is, because the cop was just trying to help keep students safe. And now it’s become this whole thing.

Lily (12:10) I did a Google. Would be better to tell rapists not to rape.

Jane (12:12) Oh. I guess, yeah

Lily (12:13) I am glad Canada is embracing sluts. Is good news for me. 

Jane (12:14) You’re not Canadian?

Lily (12:15) Canadians famously good influence on America.

Jane (12:16)  If you say so

Lily (12:17) I do. And you always listen to what I say, because you are so good. 

Jane (12:17) Shut up

Jane (12:18) Do you really think I’m good?

Lily (12:19) Very good. 

Lily (12:19) Not at hockey, to be clear.

Jane (12:20) Fuck you

Lily (12:21) Is what I am saying you are good at, yes.

October 2012

Lily (22:24) What room are you in?

Jane (22:25) I’m rooming with Hayden tonight

Lily (22:26) They put the best Voyageur with worst one? Are they hoping he will improve, just by breathing same air?

Lily (22:26) Because if that worked, it would have worked by now.

Jane (22:27) You think I’m the best Voyageur?

Lily (22:28) Is not hard to be best Voyageur. Bar is so low. 

Jane (22:29) Go fuck yourself

Lily (22:30) More fun when you’re here.

Jane (22:30) Where’s “here”

Lily (22:31) 2842 Beacon St.

Jane (22:34) Be there in 30

January 2013

Lily (15:36) Where are we meeting?

Jane (15:36) We’re not

Jane (22:04) 713

June 2013

Lily (20:39) 2034

Jane (20:45) Coming

Lily (20:46) Not yet you’re not.

October 2013

Lily (22:26) Door code is 1991

Jane (23:03) Where the fuck are you?

Lily (23:07) Had to come out to celebrate.

Jane (23:07) Fuck you

Lily (23:08) Is what I normally do after a win, don’t want people asking questions.

Jane (23:09) I hate you

Lily (23:10) You love my dick though, is why you are waiting so patiently.

Jane (23:10) You’re the actual worst

Lily (23:11) I am best. Remember how we won against you tonight? Wish you had been there.

Jane (23:15) I’m going to leave.

Lily (23:17) :(

Jane (23:48) Hurry up!

Lily (23:50) On my way

Chapter End Notes

Time jumps are hard to write, y’all. Back to normal prose next chapter.

Other than Metric, Tegan and Sara were definitely the soundtrack of my gay youth and it is crazy that they weren’t in the show. Queers really know how to yearn.

Chapter 8: something better left unknown

Chapter Summary

Ilya folds the shirt and lays it carefully on the foot of the bed, and then removes his own and does the same. He kisses Hollander’s neck and shoulder as he fumbles with the button and removes the man’s pants, folding them too. Each piece of clothing he removes from Hollander and folds, he copies for himself, pressing gentle kisses as he goes. When they’re left in just their socks he guides Hollander onto the bed and then removes those too, not wanting anything in between them. As Hollander settles onto the bed, Ilya moves the two carefully folded piles of clothes over to the side table and then joins his companion in the sheets. He hopes Hollander understands everything Ilya doesn’t know how to say in any language other than this.

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from "Gimme Sympathy" by Metric.

December 2013

Ilya gets out of the cab, double checking the address Hollander gave. If Hollander was capable of pranks, he might think this was the set up for one. 

Hollander had been to Ilya’s place in Boston a few times now, over the past couple years. Ilya always wanted to be invited back to Hollander’s, but the other man typically booked hotel rooms when they were playing Montreal. Their time together was always so brief, wet mouths and messes and soft kisses goodbye before returning to the rush of everyday life and expectations. Tonight though, tonight Ilya will finally get to see where Hollander lives. Where he makes his boring meals and reads his boring books and lives his boring life. Ilya wonders often about that boring life. The life that Ilya’s not a part of. That he can’t be a part of, because there are rules. Hollander isn’t a rulebreaker. They agreed to only doing this thing they do behind locked doors, and that was that. 

Ilya’s not much of a rule-follower, but he understands why Hollander is so uptight about security. It really would ruin their lives if this got out. Ilya has known for a while now that he’s bi, but he rarely indulges in men because of how risky it is. He actually hasn’t been with a man other than Hollander for over a year now. He just hasn’t felt the need. Even so, Ilya’s life isn’t boring like Hollander’s is. He works hard and plays hard, finding a different woman to go home with after every win and a different craft beer to drown out every loss. It isn’t particularly filling, and sometimes it isn’t even fun, but it’s definitely never boring. 

Looking around at this back alley and these seemingly-abandoned buildings, Ilya struggles to picture perfect Mr. Hollander here. Surely they pay him better than this?

A door suddenly opens, making Ilya jump. 

“Get inside!” Hollander growls. 

Ilya’s rarely wanted to do anything less. “You will murder me.” 

“Maybe!”

Ilya scurries inside, hoping it’s at least a nicer kill site than this empty street.

“You were just standing out there!” Hollander complains. “Anyone could have seen!”

“No one lives here,” Ilya points out. “Is abandoned building on abandoned street in abandoned neighbourhood.” 

“Big word for you.”

“My team pays me well enough I can afford things like English lessons. Do you play for free?” He looks around. The inside of this building is not much better than the outside. 

“I own this building,” Hollander replies, turning to walk up the stairs. “I’m going to lease it out, I just haven’t finished renovations yet.” 

“Mr. Landlord,” Ilya says, following him upwards. 

“It’s a good investment.”

“Mr. Real Estate.” 

“Fuck you, just because I don’t spend my money on cars and girls,” Shane huffs as he continues to climb. 

Ilya’s legs are aching by the second flight. They played a game earlier and he took a lot of checks into the boards. “Technically I do not buy the girls,” he stupidly feels the need to clarify.

Hollander finally stops in front of a door on the third floor and opens it, gesturing Ilya inside. 

It looks like a construction site. 

“I was making joke about the murdering, but–” Ilya doesn’t get to finish the sentence before Hollander silences him with a hard kiss. “Damn, Hollander…” he manages to say as the man kisses over his jaw and bites Ilya’s ear. “Is there bed or you want to get wall dust on your knees?” Ilya’s only half-joking. He loves how much Hollander wants him.

Hollander stops as though a new command code was entered into his computer of a brain. He walks further into the unit and Ilya follows, realizing as he looks around that Hollander doesn’t actually live here. Ilya won’t get to see a slice of his boring life tonight afterall. 

“I, um,” Hollander starts as he turns on the light in a different room. “I’m still renovating, obviously. But the building is going to take a while to finish, so in the meantime I figured, you know…”

Ilya valiantly refrains from pointing out that Hollander has actually not explained anything at all with that sentence. As he walks into the new room though, it becomes a bit clearer. 

There’s a fully made bed with probably 20 throw pillows, designer side tables, a beautiful chandelier, and a large cosy area rug pulling the space together. 

“Did your mother decorate?” Ilya resorts to a chirp because he can’t say “did you buy us a love nest?” 

“I hired someone,” Hollander shrugs. “Figured we might as well make use of the space, while the renovations are going on. There’s a fully functional bathroom, too.” 

“Do you think there are enough pillows?” Ilya tries to process that Hollander bought them a fucking condo. For fucking. A Fuck Condo. 

“Shut up, it’s like staged or whatever.” 

It’s not a slice of Hollander’s life; it’s a whole separate box just for them. Ilya can’t help but laugh out loud. 

“Shut up!” Hollander says again. He’s blushing and it is so cute Ilya might die. 

“No no, is nice. Cosy.” Ilya’s smile feels like it’s breaking his face in half but he can’t contain it. He reaches for the other man, pulling him into another deep kiss. His hand moves up Hollander’s back until it gets to the base of his neck and Ilya curls it into a fist around the soft, dark hair. He feels the smaller man moan into his mouth as he tugs and whatever animal lives in Ilya’s chest purrs in satisfaction at how deftly he’s able to pull such sounds out of Shane fucking Hollander. 

Hollander pulls back enough to breathe, pressing his forehead into Ilya’s. “It’s safe here,” Hollander murmurs, and Ilya presses kisses along his freckles and into his hair and squeezes him into a crushing hug. 

“I know we’ve talked about, like…” Hollander continues from where he’s nuzzled into Ilya’s chest. “I haven’t been ready to do more than what we’ve done because my brain is kind of loud and even with the locks hotel rooms still don’t feel…” 

“Is okay,” Ilya comforts, “I like what we do, we never have to do more.” 

Hollander pulls back enough to make eye contact. “I want more, though.” 

Ilya swallows, heart fluttering. 

“I want to, like…” the other man takes a breath and Ilya sees him steady himself. “I want you to fuck me. Like, really fuck me.” His chocolatey eyes look like pools that Ilya could drown in. 

Ilya bites back the snarky retort that rushes to the front of his brain, knowing this isn’t the time for armour. “I would love to fuck you,” he manages to admit. 

“I have, um, supplies?” Hollander looks to one of the fancy side tables. “And before you got here I, like…” The blush manages to deepen, which Ilya did not think was possible. “Prepared?” 

Ilya’s mouth is dry. He swallows again, it’s a fruitless effort. He doesn’t know how to translate his thoughts into English right now, so he takes Hollander’s hand and walks them over to the bed. He softly kisses the man’s face, pulling up on the bottom of his shirt to remove it. Hollander lets him. 

Ilya folds the shirt and lays it carefully on the foot of the bed, and then removes his own and does the same. He kisses Hollander’s neck and shoulder as he fumbles with the button and removes the man’s pants, folding them too. Each piece of clothing he removes from Hollander and folds, he copies for himself, pressing gentle kisses as he goes. When they’re left in just their socks he guides Hollander onto the bed and then removes those too, not wanting anything in between them. As Hollander settles onto the bed, Ilya moves the two carefully folded piles of clothes over to the side table and then joins his companion in the sheets. He hopes Hollander understands everything Ilya doesn’t know how to say in any language other than this. 

Straddling Hollander and reaching into the other side table, Ilya pulls out a big bottle of lube and a string of condoms. He looks at the man beneath him. “You think this will be enough?”

Hollander giggles and squirms. “That’s just how it comes!” 

Ilya dips down to kiss him. Of course Shane Hollander is ambitious, even in this. 

It doesn’t take long before he’s got Hollander panting, hard and leaking as Ilya strokes him and presses kisses across his stomach. “I love how wet you get,” he murmurs as he nips at Hollander’s hipbone. 

“Please fuck me,” Hollander whines and Ilya’s own hard cock twitches at the thought of what’s to come. 

Ilya shuffles back and taps Hollander’s hip. “Flip,” he instructs. Hollander obeys immediately and Ilya has to blink through the heady rush. 

“Legs under chest, spread knees out,” Ilya continues, wanting to ensure Hollander is comfortable as he works him open. “You want pillow?” 

“I want you,” Hollander says and Ilya’s brain flashes static for a moment before he regains control. 

“You have me, Hollander,” he says softly, moving into position behind the other man and kissing down his back. “We take our time tonight, da? I am gentle. No rush.” 

He presses into Hollander with his hips as he reaches to grab the lube so that the man continues to feel his presence, warming the slick substance on his fingers before reaching his other hand down to spread Hollander open. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs as he presses a finger against his rim. He bends to kiss Hollander’s back again, maintaining the soft pressure with his hand but not pushing further than he’s welcomed. “Breathe, dorogoy.” The exhale allows him entrance. 

He takes his time, as promised. When one finger becomes two he waits until he feels the muscles relax before exploring further, searching for that soft bundle of nerves. 

“Fuck… more, please… ” Hollander’s voice is muffled by the bed and Ilya’s free hand squeezes at the man’s hip. He presses in up to his third knuckles and scissors his fingers. Pulling out to add a third finger, Ilya once again waits for the subtle release that tells him the burn has passed. 

“This okay?” he asks, double checking, and Hollander just moans enthusiastically in response. He’s tight but so pliant, opening beautifully as Ilya fucks into him with his fingers. 

“Please,” Hollander whines, “m’ready, please Roz.” 

Ilya slowly removes his hand and grabs a condom, sliding it over his length and adding more lube. He curses himself for not bringing a towel over and then, not wanting to mess up Hollander’s sheets, wipes his hand onto his own thigh to remove the worst of the slick. 

He lines his cock up and puts his hands on Hollander’s hips, pulling him onto his length. “This okay?” he asks again, and Hollander mumbles something Ilya can’t quite catch.

“Fuck yourself back onto me,” Ilya instructs. “This way you control speed. I do not want to hurt you.” He tries to maintain a steady breath as Hollander pushes onto his dick. The sight is incredible, but the sound Hollander makes is absolutely filthy… Ilya has to clench so that he doesn’t come before they’ve even started. 

It doesn’t take long for Hollander to bottom Ilya out and continue making frantic little pushes backwards still, nonverbally begging for more. Ilya takes the invitation and squeezes his hips, letting him know he can relax now. Ilya will take control. 

He begins to thrust in earnest and realizes after a minute how much he wants to see Hollander’s face. How, as incredible as this is, Ilya feels something is missing. “Flip,” he commands, pulling out and grabbing one of Hollander’s legs to expedite the request. 

Hollander squeaks like the air has been pushed out of his lungs but Ilya’s pushing up behind his knees and folding him in half to resume before the man has a chance to complain. He sits back on his heels and yanks Hollander’s loose body up onto his dick, thrusting with gusto now that he can see the stars in Hollander’s eyes. 

The man’s mouth is hanging open and his gaze is locked on Ilya, arms flopped out to the side with nothing to do as Ilya pounds into the smaller man again and again. Hollander starts to reach for his own dick and Ilya swats his hand away. 

“You come on my dick or not at all,” he says with another sharp thrust. 

“Rozy I, I’m–” Hollander’s eyes roll back and his face scrunches and Ilya increases his speed, desperate to fly off this cliff together. 

The noise Hollander makes sounds almost inhuman as he clenches so tightly Ilya can’t help but burst too, ropes of come shooting onto Hollander’s chest and into the condom inside him almost simultaneously. 

Ilya controls his collapse onto the man below him, not wanting to pull out too soon but also not able to hold himself up any longer. 

“I am dead,” he huffs. “You killed me.” 

Hollander giggles and Ilya’s heart sings. It's the special giggle, the one Hollander usually keeps under lock and key. 

Ilya kisses his face, his hair, everywhere he can reach. He pulls out gently, careful not to spill. He tries to be quick, running to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and wash his hands, running the water until it’s warm so that the damp cloth he brings back won’t be unpleasant. 

When he crawls back into bed, Hollander looks up at him in a way that Ilya can only describe as love drunk. He wishes he knew the English word. He wonders if there’s a direct translation at all. 

“I came hands free,” Hollander giggles. “‘ve never done that before.” 

“Such a pretty trick,” Ilya purrs, leaning down to kiss him as he wipes him clean with the cloth. 

Hollander takes the cloth and does a more thorough job, tossing it off into the corner when he’s done. He pulls Ilya onto his chest and Ilya allows it, resting his head over the man’s rapidly beating heart. 

“Thank you,” Hollander murmurs before pressing a kiss onto Ilya’s crown. Ilya’s never experienced such tenderness after a hook up before. There’s a part of him that wants to flee, to run away from this place and these feelings and the man at the centre of it all. He doesn’t yet, though. He knows this can’t last, so he tries to let himself have it just for the moment. 

They cuddle for a while longer, Ilya not wanting Hollander to drop after such an intense experience. He wishes he could always be here to catch him, but he knows that’s not what this is. Glad, almost, that he can’t actually have this man. If Ilya Rozanov could have Shane Hollander, then he’d have to face the fact that he doesn’t deserve him. That it’s not homophobia, or Russia, or the NHL, or whatever keeping them from being together. It’s the fact that Hollander deserves more, deserves better than Ilya could ever hope to be. 

They take their time getting dressed. Slowly walk down the stairs. Hollander looks so fucking cosy all wrapped up in his hoodie. Ilya wants to be snarky but can’t bring himself to do it. This man is such a fucking gift. So precious. 

Of course, Ilya knows he can’t be trusted with precious things. He’s too clumsy, too lazy, not good enough to keep them safe. 

“I think the next time we’re going to be in the same place is Sochi,” Hollander says lightly, sitting on the step inside the building as Ilya waits for his cab. 

Ilya’s heart clenches tightly. “We can’t…” he needs to explain. “In Russia, this–” 

“I know,” Hollander saves him from having to translate. “No doors in Russia lock safely enough for this, I know. But it’ll be fun, right? The Olympics? I’m really excited.” 

Ilya feels his armour clink into place unbidden. “Excited for what, bronze?” 

“You wish,” Hollander laughs easily. So easily. Ilya can’t stop himself from dipping down for one more kiss. 

“Good bye, Hollander.” 

Sitting in the cab on the way back to his hotel, images from their time together that night flash before his eyes. Ilya visualizes putting each moment into a silk-lined box in his mind, pouring on top of each memory the gush of feelings associated with them. He shuts the lid and imagines wrapping a ribbon around the box, placing it gently on a shelf and closing it behind the big locked door of the vault in his mental palace. It’s good, he reminds himself, that they can’t be together. That Shane hasn’t realized yet how much Ilya doesn’t deserve him. Ilya needs to break this off before he gets the chance. He turns to look out the window of the cab, not seeing anything as he blinks away tears. 

Chapter End Notes

Me: I can’t write angst, I’m too soft and tender
Ilya fucking Rozanov in my mind: I too am too soft and tender for this world, and it is a secret, and I would rather die than have that secret revealed.
Me: What if you just told him you—
Ilya: Would. Rather. Die.

These characters have me in a fucking chokehold, honestly.

Chapter 9: the guilt in me is the hurt in you

Chapter Summary

So Rozanov doesn’t want to talk any more. So what. Their last time together had been… different, Shane can admit. More intense, more… intimate isn’t the right word. Deeper, somehow though. Not just physically. But it’s obviously over now, Rozanov probably heard the news break about Hockey Canada and the rumours that swirled afterwards and he just cut his losses. And that’s fine. Better, probably. Now Shane can get back to focusing on hockey and not daydreaming about stupid stuff that could never happen anyways. 

By the time June rolls around and he's informed that he’ll be presenting an award with Rozanov at the NHL Awards, it barely even stings. Shane hardly even remembers whatever fleeting curiosity had led to their arrangement. And it’s not like they were ever actually friends. 

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Shake Tramp by Marianas Trench. A Canadian anthem that activates people of a certain age like sleeper agents. My apologies for… all of this, honestly.

CW: rampant victim blaming/shaming, Yuna Hollander is a rape apologist and I’m sorry in advance but I have met Hockey Moms and you can’t convince me otherwise. She says things in this chapter that are just fundamentally wrong, and I need you to know before you read it how wrong she is, okay? The wrongest. You are so brave and important and your feelings matter and Yuna is representing a bunch of voices that should not be listened to. She’s going to go on her own growth journey but I need you to remember as you read this, she has bad opinions here.

January 2014

“Mom I don’t really have time for a call right now,” Shane pants as he answers the phone during his run. 

“Well, I wanted to make sure you’re alright.” 

“I’m fine, it was just a cold. I didn’t even miss my game.” His mother can be so overbearing. 

“No, about the news!” his mother replies emphatically. “You have read the news, haven’t you?” 

Shane slows to a stop, pressing his free hand onto his knee and taking a moment to get his breathing back under control. He’s in the middle of his 6k warm up. 

“What news, mom?”

“Oh Shane,” Yuna tuts. “Honestly you need to stay more informed, it’s important to stay updated on the state of the world, especially given how many young people look up to–”

“Mom,” Shane interrupts, feeling annoyed. “What specific news did you call me about?” 

“Well it’s all over the internet,” she says, not answering his question. “They didn’t send you an email or anything before this all went to press?” 

“Before what went to press?!” Only his mother can make him feel this flavour of insane.

“Some people are upset because it turns out that Hockey Canada has, well… You know I think it’s silly to be surprised, I’m sure most large organizations are prepared for this type of thing, especially in sports, not that hockey is particularly bad, I’m sure all sports struggle equally with this sort of thing…” she rambling and Shane does not have the energy for this. 

“Mom, Mom! You still haven’t told me what you’re talking about. Prepared for what type of thing?” 

He can hear her click her tongue, as though she’s biting back what she really wants to say. “Well, it turns out Hockey Canada has something of a… well, a fund. To settle lawsuits quietly with women who, you know, claim they’ve been assaulted or whatever.” 

Shane’s mind is reeling, flashes of memory crowding to the front of his brain trying to win top spot. Surely his two experiences aren’t the only girls who… but he hadn’t heard about any… 

“Are lawsuits public?” he asks rather dumbly. He would have heard, surely he would have heard. 

“Well, technically yes, although they can be settled out of court and there are all sorts of rules, nondisclosure agreements, you know. And there are protections for the women, of course. They can publicly accuse anyone from behind rape shield laws, it’s very unfair.” 

“Mom!” 

“I’m just saying!” she defends. “Obviously for actual victims, the laws are important. But with athletes, you know, I’m sure there are girls who are just looking for a quick pay out. And all of this is terrible timing, honestly, with the Olympics coming up. Embarrassing on the world stage.” 

Shane takes a deep breath. Usually he and his mom agree on everything, but he feels like he’s hearing the words of a stranger. How can this woman who raised him be so wildly, loudly, thoroughly wrong.

“I think if Hockey Canada is paying to keep them quiet and making them sign NDAs then it’s probably more serious than just someone making a claim,” he lands on as a response. 

“Please,” she responds and he can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Athletes are easy targets and girls are smart. Like that girl from your World Juniors win.” 

Shane freezes. His heart stops. His lungs forget how to function. 

“Wh…?” he can’t even form words.

She tuts again. “Well, no one believed her, obviously, maybe I forgot to even tell you. But yes: After that win, we got a call from a police officer who was doing an investigation. He wanted to talk to you. I consulted a lawyer who handled the response. It was a pretty crazy claim so I’m not surprised I didn’t mention it. But it’s girls like that, that’s what I’m saying!” she finishes and Shane is surprised to find that a sinkhole has not opened up in the ground and swallowed him whole.

“I didn’t,” he finds himself saying, “That girl, I wouldn’t–” 

“Of course you wouldn’t! These things get so blown out of proportion, a girl wakes up with regrets and all of a sudden police are involved!” 

“No, mom, I mean, I wasn’t the one who… other guys… there were…” he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to communicate.

“It was years ago, sweetie, I’m sure it’s long-since been forgotten. But this fund Hockey Canada apparently has, it’s not a good look.” 

“Right,” he nods, his mind blank. “Gotta look good.” He feels like he might throw up. 

The next week they’re supposed to play a game in Boston, but the weather sucks so planes are grounded and the game is cancelled. 

Three weeks later, Shane is representing Canada on the world stage. 

Six weeks after that, his season ends when Montreal loses game five and their spot in the play offs. 

More news keeps breaking about the Hockey Canada fund. The registration fees parents paid for their kids to play timbit up through AAA,  some of it was siphoned into this account. For years, when lawsuits were filed Hockey Canada responded, often without even telling the players involved. John Doe and Jane Doe, no legal names required. Not for the documents that could be publicly accessed, anyways. 

And wow, are those documents being accessed. Freedom of Information requests keep rolling in from journalists across the country, all wanting to connect the dots and break the biggest story. It’s only a matter of time before the case from Shane’s World Juniors night comes out. He isn’t explicitly named, but everyone knows he captained the team that year. His phone rings off the hook for weeks, and his answer is always the same: no comment. He thinks about speaking out, but he doesn't know what he could even say, and the lawyer his mom hired strongly advises against it.

When Shane thinks back on that night, all he feels is an overwhelming sense of regret. Shame for being so focused on himself, guilt for leaving her in that horrible room. Anger at his teammates, and his mom, and so many of the comments he’s seeing online. It's all so fucking fucked.

In early May, he watches in a daze from his parents house in Ottawa as Rozanov hoists the Cup over his head. Shane’s happy for him. Really happy. He played hard, earned that spot, earned this victory. Shane doesn’t know why it makes him want to cry. He hasn’t cried about losing a hockey game in years. There’s a niggling thought at the back of his mind that maybe these tears aren’t about hockey at all, but Shane pushes that away. There’s nothing else the tears could be about when it comes to Rozanov. Definitely not about the months of silence, his unanswered messages marked as Read in their secret text thread. It’s not about that incredible night they’d shared in December, the unexamined feeling blooming again in his chest at the memory and then shrivelling away as Shane clicks over to scroll Twitter and immediately sees #CutHockeyCanada trending right below the #BostonBearsWin. 

So Rozanov doesn’t want to talk any more. So what. Their last time together had been… different, Shane can admit. More intense, more… intimate isn’t the right word. Deeper, somehow though. Not just physically. But it’s obviously over now, Rozanov probably heard the news break about Hockey Canada and the rumours that swirled afterwards and he just cut his losses. And that’s fine. Better, probably. Now Shane can get back to focusing on hockey and not daydreaming about stupid stuff that could never happen anyways. 

By the time June rolls around and he's informed that he’ll be presenting an award with Rozanov at the NHL Awards, it barely even stings. Shane hardly even remembers whatever fleeting curiosity had led to their arrangement. And it’s not like they were ever actually friends. 

As the time ticks down to when they’re supposed to be on stage presenting the Most Sportsmanlike Award and Shane still hasn’t seen Rozanov at all, not even at rehearsals, he’s actually so annoyed with the man that he can’t remember any feeling but frustration when he pictures Rozanov’s face. The guy is objectively an asshole. 

So when Shane’s stomach swoops as he smells Rozanov appear behind him, he schools his body back into a calm composure. His stomach just needs to catch up. “You’re late,” he whispers fiercely, not bothering to turn around.

“Miss me?” 

Shane doesn’t need to see the stupid half-cocked grin he knows is waiting for him. The light backstage turns red and he walks out, calm, cool, and collected. 

He stays calm, cool, and collected as they read their stupid script. And when Rozanov pulls out his phone for the stupid planned picture. And when he reaches his stupid arm up behind Shane’s shoulders and…

Wraps his fingers around the back of Shane’s neck. 

Like he’s in control. 

Like Shane is safe to let go because Rozanov has him and won’t let anything bad happen to him, and his mind is allowed to rest now because Rozanov is in charge and Shane doesn’t have to keep balancing all his mental lists and rules and expectations and his knees go weak and Rozanov squeezes and he straightens his legs because somehow Shane knows that’s what Rozanov is telling him to do even though the stupid Russian is still reading the stupid script and…

He manages to maintain his composure as he reads the name, hands over the award, and walks calmly off stage. He holds it together as he veers towards the nearest bathroom, smiling and nodding as people acknowledge him backstage. 

As soon as he’s in the washroom, his mind splits open and he feels a silent scream rip through his chest. He keeps it in, not making a sound, looking deeply into his own eyes in the mirror to ground himself and regain control. 

He sees in the reflection Rozanov slip into the room and lock the door. Feels the man pull him by the neck again and spin him around so that all Shane can see are those icy blue eyes. 

He opens his mouth but no words come out and it doesn’t matter because Rozanov is kissing him, pressing their bodies together and tugging Shane’s hair and suddenly Shane remembers how to breathe. He wonders how long he hasn’t been breathing for; it feels like it’s been months. Maybe since the day the news of the Hockey Canada shit first hit the fan. Maybe before that. The kiss is wetter than normal and Shane realizes he’s crying. 

Rozanov pulls back, frowning. His eyes are saying something Shane can’t translate and it makes Shane sob harder. Roznov pulls him into a hug and Shane melts into the embrace; they stay like that for some time, he doesn’t know how long, until the sobbing subdues and the tears are spent and his breathing finally returns to normal. 

“Sorry,” Shane snuffles, shuffling his foot and looking at the floor. 

Rozanov puts a finger under his chin and lifts his head, forcing eye contact once more. 

“No sorry.” 

Shane nods. It feels like a command, he’s not sure why. 

“Always allowed to cry,” Rozanov pulls him back into the hug, “in rooms where it is safe.” He feels the taller man nuzzle into the top of his head and press a kiss onto his crown and there's a sense of warmth and security that spreads down Shane’s body from that point of contact. 

“You didn’t respond to my texts.” He feels dumb for saying it but it’s all he can manage right now. He lets himself breathe in the comforting scent, relaxing his head against Rozanov’s chest and listening to the steady beating of his heart. 

Rozanov takes a deep inhale and releases it slowly. Shane doesn’t interrupt. 

“You remember when I told you,” the Russian man murmurs into Shane’s hair, “that I am scared like, all the time?” 

Shane nods without changing their position. 

“Is not you that I do not respond to. Is everything you, how you say… represent?” 

Rozanov tilts Shane’s head up again and Shane meets his eyes. 

“You are good, Shane Hollander. Best, probably. Not at hockey, obviously–” Shane scrunches his nose and punches Rozanov in the arm, and Rozanov continues, “Your heart, it is best I have met. And mine is… is no good. Broken, I think. Or maybe made wrong.” 

Shane reaches up and brushes a curl away from the other man’s eyes. “You weren’t made wrong.” How could Rozanov even think such a thing?

“Broken, then. Beyond fixing.” He sighs and Shane feels his own heart break at the thought of this man feeling so low. 

“No, you–”

“Hollander, I am good at hockey and sex and nothing else. I am bad son, bad captain, bad friend. When I do not respond to you, is not because of you. You do nothing wrong. I am just bad.” 

Shane feels his brow knit and his lower lip quiver and if he didn’t know better he’d say his body has been taken over by someone else. “No!” He stomps his foot and it surprises them both. 

“No?”

“No! You’re not bad!”

Rozanov blinks, his face unreadable. “I have angered the kitten.” 

Shane knows it’s a joke, but his brain doesn’t feel joke-y right now. He feels mad and the madness is so big it’s exploding out of his body in really weird ways. He finds himself pulling back and crossing his arms and deepening his frown and he stomps his foot again. “I’m not angry!” he hears himself say, ridiculously, and he wishes he could control himself but the feeling overwhelms him. “You’re dumb if you think you’re bad! You pretend to be bad for other people but you let me see inside the bad and your insides are the best I’ve ever seen and you’re not allowed to argue because I’m right and you know it!” 

Rozanov bites the inside of his cheeks. Shane thinks he might be trying to stop himself from laughing. Shane would probably laugh too, if he hadn’t been possessed by the ghost of a stroppy child who didn’t get a second scoop of ice cream. 

The Russian checks his watch and it makes Shane want to scream. Is he waiting for something??

“It is too early for us to go upstairs,” Rozanov says. “You are very mad, I see this.” 

Shane huffs. “Only because you’re being an idiot.” 

Rozanov nods. “Yes kotyonok, you are right. I am being stupid.”

Shane feels his frown lessen slightly. He narrows his eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Rozanov never just admits to being wrong. 

“I left you alone for too long and then I am here, saying these silly things. It makes sense for you to be so angry.” He opens his arms and holds up his hands, tilting his head as though he’s inviting Shane back into the hug. Shane considers the offer, sighs, and then steps into the embrace. 

“I am sorry, kotyonok. I would like to make amends. Do you think we could get through the rest of this boring show, and do our boring jobs mingling with these boring people, and then, after all that, do you think you could come to my room and let me make it right? Let me take care of you?” 

The raging inferno lessens a little in Shane’s chest. That does sound quite nice, actually. He blinks heavily as Rozanov rubs soothing circles on his back, and he feels himself come back to his body. 

“Sorry, that was…” he doesn’t know quite what to say. 

“Is okay, Hollander. My fault, for leaving you alone so long with your own brain.” 

“I have other friends?!” It’s not like he’s alone.

“Is not what you are needing tonight.” Rozanov looks into his eyes. “We will get through this evening and then I will give you what you need. Behind locked door.” 

Shane blushes. He can only imagine what that might be. 

Chapter End Notes

I am truly speechless. I promise I have an actual plot I am trying to get through and these fucking characters are going to lead me to an early grave. I tried to make them communicate their feelings like fucking adults and what do I get?? Brat!Shane in the middle of a fucking awards show. Honestly, I cannot take these men anywhere.

Chapter 10: I know what you scream about

Chapter Notes

Chapter title once again taken from Shake Tramp by Marianas Trench because honestly this might as well be Chapter 9 Part Two and I am but a humble servant to the whims of these horny homos (/inclusive).

Still June 2014

Shane’s breathing feels heavy as he gets off the elevator and walks over to the penthouse door. They had made it through the rest of the evening, separately, and he had received the text a few minutes ago that he’s expected here. Now. He never got sent to the principal’s office when he was in school, but he imagines this is what it feels like. 

Rozanov opens the door and Shane steps inside. 

“Hi,” he says meekly. 

“Kitten calmed down?” Rozanov smirks. 

“I’m not…” he stops himself, takes a breath, and tries again. Focus, Shane. “That was weird, I know. In the washroom. I felt like I was possessed.”

Rozanov leans casually against the back of the enormous couch in this massive suite. “Do you know why?” 

Shane shakes his head, pushing out a breathy laugh. “Just stress, I guess? I don’t know.” He takes another grounding breath. “I didn’t like hearing that you think you’re bad. Because you’re not.” 

Rozanov nods, lips pressed together. “Was about me being bad? Or me saying how good you are.” 

It’s not a question. Shane’s stomach flutters and flips. “I mean I, I try to be good, obviously.” He gulps. “I like to follow the rules, I like to win. So what?” 

“Hard to win when I leave you, what is it? Hanging, da? When I change rules and not tell you. You are left trying to hold it all, figure it all out on your own,” Rozanov says, his eyes soft. “Is not fair of me. Makes you angry.” 

“I mean, yeah.” Shane nods. “It was pretty shitty. Especially after like, what we shared last time? It was, I don’t know. It felt special. Different. I know we’re not like, a thing or whatever. We’re not friends. But I thought–” he closes his eyes, knowing he needs to push through and just admit it. “I thought I did something wrong. That I was bad or that you hated me. And so to hear you say that you think I’m good and you’re bad? It doesn’t make sense. It pisses me off, honestly. Because even though we’re not friends, I like to think that we respect each other enough to like, communicate. If you want to end this thing we do that’s fine, we can end it, but just don’t like–” he can feel the tears building but he needs to get this off his chest. “Don’t just disappear. I can handle you hating me, rejecting me, whatever. But I can’t handle a vacuum.” 

“Vacuum?” Rozanov asks. “Like a…” he makes a motion with his hand as though he’s vacuuming the floor and Shane remembers that everything he says, Rozanov has to translate in his head. 

“No, no, like,” he flaps his hand, trying to think of a better word to describe it, “like a blank space, empty. I can handle hatred but I can’t handle emptiness with no explanation, no reason, nothing.” 

Rozanov nods. “I was very unfair. Gave you space to be safe and then I disappear, no word. No saying when you will be able to be safe again.” 

“Yes exactly!” Shane feels he might burst into tears again, having his experience heard and reflected back so earnestly. “I don’t have anyone else who I can… be like this with. Curious about, or whatever. And it’s okay if you don’t want to do it anymore because you think I’m a rapist or whatever but please just tell me. I can handle anything as long as I know what it is I have to handle.” 

“I do not think you are rapist. I read news, does not name names, but… I remember what you are like in situation like that. Panic. Is this right?”

Shane feels the familiar flood of shame for how he acted back then. “Yeah,” he admits. “I was in the room for a minute and I got overwhelmed and left. I didn’t touch her, but I didn’t stop the guys either. It was shitty. Selfish.”

Rozanov nods. “Yes, selfish. Hard to act when brain freeze. Girl was hurt, might have been hurt less if you say something.”

“I know, it was really bad.” 

“Da, was bad situation. But not of your choosing, you understand?”

Shane takes a moment to consider this. He wasn’t the one who brought her back to the hotel room, or invited guys over, or participated in the actual act. But he didn’t stop it either, and that’s where his mind keeps coming back to. “You don’t, like… blame me?” 

Rozanov stretches his neck from side to side. “Not blame, no. Is not good, you know, to run. But I know what is like, to see something and not help. To feel frozen.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

Shane feels hope flutter in his chest for the first time in months. Maybe he’s not a monster after all. Maybe he’s just a person who made a bad choice, a mistake. It doesn’t erase the guilt, but the shame shifts a bit in his gut, easing ever so slightly. “So you don’t hate me?”

“I could never hate you, Shane Hollander.” Rozanov pulls him into another hug. They’ve been doing a lot of that tonight.

“Do you want to like, stop? This thing we do?” Shane asks again, hoping that maybe the answer will be no. That maybe he still deserves some small piece of goodness, despite his imperfections.

“I do not want to stop this thing we do,” Rozanov says seriously, rubbing his hand up and down Shane’s back. “I do think it’s… bad, maybe. Stupid, probably. Reckless. I worry about you. About this. But when I see you tonight, I know for sure I cannot stop. Not unless you want me to stop. If you say so, I will go, but–”

“No!” Shane interrupts. “I don’t want that. I want to keep doing… whatever this is. With you. Please.” Besides his time on the rink, these brief reprieves with Rozanov are the only moments Shane feels like he has permission to be himself.

Rozanov brings a hand up to Shane’s cheek. He thumbs away a tear Shane didn’t realize he had spilled. “I think I have ruined you,” he murmurs, accent thick. “Ty tozhe menya razrushil.” 

Shane reaches up to grasp the hand that rests on his face. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. “I need you to ruin me tonight.” If this is what it means to be ruined, he’ll let this man take him apart piece by piece. 

“Please, Ilya.” He says his name like a confession. 

“For you I will do anything, Shane.” It sounds like a prayer. 

Rozanov sighs, continuing, “I cannot leave you alone for so long with that brain of yours,” he brushes his thumb across Shane’s cheekbone. “You spin and spin until you are wrapped so tight you cannot come undone. Need someone to unwind you. Make you come undone.” 

Shane nods. He really does need that. 

Ilya moves his hand to the back of Shane’s neck, gripping tightly.

“What do you need tonight?”

“You. I need you.” He lets his head lull. He’s safe now. 

“Strip.” The hand releases him. 

Shane clumsily unbuttons his shirt and lets it drop. Toes off his shoes and steps out of his pants, dropping his underwear and even peeling off his socks. He doesn’t pick up his clothes to fold them. That wasn’t what he was told to do. God it feels good to let go of control.

“Good. Now bed.” 

Shane walks to the bed, climbing in and waiting for the next command. It’s nice, not having to wonder. Knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about what comes next. 

Ilya pours himself some vodka and sips it, still fully dressed beside the bed. “Touch yourself,” he orders, so Shane does. 

Stroking himself to hardness and not being able to finish the job is exquisite torture. Ilya keeps watching him, not saying a word, and Shane’s brain is so beautifully quiet now. 

The man walks over to the side table and retrieves a bottle of lube. He holds it out for Shane, and Shane looks at him. 

“Take.” 

Shane takes it. 

“Slick your fingers and open yourself for me. I like to watch you.” 

Perfectly reasonable. Not a single worry crosses Shane’s mind as he dutifully does as he’s told and works himself open, angling his spread legs so that the other man can watch. 

“Stay right there.” 

Shane pauses. Ilya leaves and returns quickly, towel in hand. “Do you like being watched, kotyonok?” 

Shane shivers at the Russian word that he doesn’t know, but has heard several times tonight. 

“Do you want me to tell you what to say, so you don’t have to think a single thought?” Ilya asks. 

Shane feels himself smile. He nods. That sounds perfect. 

“I like being watched. Say.”

“I like being watched,” Shane repeats. 

“I open so easy for you.”

“I open so easy for you.” 

“I am slut just for you.”

“I am slut just for you.”

“What do you want?”

“What do you want?” 

Ilya grabs hold of Shane’s face. His touch is firm. 

“I need one more thought from that smooth brain before you turn it off for good. Tell me what you want me to do with you, Shane.” 

Shane doesn’t understand most of those words but he really wants to be fucked into this mattress and possibly into next season, so he says so. 

Ilya flips him over like a ragdoll. Shane never wants to be anything else.

He loses track of time; there’s nothing but fullness and thumping and delicious zinging zowies shooting through every nerve ending across his entire body. His brain is completely empty and his ass is absolutely full and there’s nothing better in life than being used like the flexible fuck doll he is. He has no bones in his body except the one that matters and his jelly limbs make him easy to flop around and Ilya seems to take great pleasure in doing so with surprising ease. 

Shane comes and the Russian keeps going; the pain of overstimulation is the best pleasure he’s ever felt. He whites out with sensation while screaming Ilya’s name. 

When he finally regains consciousness, some timeless time later, Shane finds himself curled up on Ilya’s chest. He’s sucking his own thumb. He’s not sure what year it is. He’s absolutely certain he’s good and precious and loved, although he doesn’t know how he knows that.

“Mr. Sleepyhead,” Ilya says with a chuckle. “Are you coming back to me?” 

“Rozanov?” he blinks.

“Good morning, Shane.” His smile is so gentle. So unlike the ones he gives everyone else. A real smile, just for Shane.

“Ilya,” he smiles softly, remembering. “What time is it?” 

“Is early. Or late, depending. Here, drink water.” 

Shane slowly sits up and takes the glass being handed to him. He didn’t realize how thirsty he was. 

“How did you sleep? Okay?”

Shane shakes his head, squinting. “I’m good.” 

“You are very good,” Ilya affirms. Shane’s stomach flutters and he feels so safe.

“You also snore,” the other man laughs. “Like cartoon. Honk shoo.”

“I do?” He can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed.

“Da. Is cute.” 

Shane laughs too. His body feels weird. It’s light and limber like after a deep tissue massage. Also very sore, but in a pleasant sort of way. The soreness extends deep within him and he clenches to feel the full effect. It’s very satisfying. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I’m s–” 

“No,” Ilya interrupts, putting a single finger over Shane’s lips.

“What?” he asks around the finger.

“No sorry. Is banned now. You like rules, this is rule.” He removes the finger, pressing it to his own lips, and then raises his eyebrows like he’s checking that Shane understands.

Shane’s brain is slowly coming back online. “We don’t usually do sleepovers.”

Ilya shrugs. “No one around, no early flights. No reason to run away.” He leans in for a kiss and Shane pulls back, covering his mouth. 

“I haven’t brushed my teeth!” 

“My face has been worse places,” the Russian laughs, but doesn’t push it. “There’s spare toothbrush in bathroom, thanks to fancy hotel. Go brush.” 

Shane rolls out of bed and stretches, and then looks back at the man solidly not moving. “You have to brush yours too!” 

“Mr. Bossy!” He gets up.

Shane starts walking to the washroom. “It’s gross otherwise!?”

“Mr. Hygiene!” Ilya catches up, hugging Shane from behind.

“Shut up, I’m normal!”

“Mr. Normal!” He chomps Shane’s shoulder.

Chapter End Notes

Ty tozhe menya razrushil = You have ruined me too.

These men, istg. Incorrigible. At least we’re doing first names now; I just couldn’t handle a tuna melt situation.

Also I have this weird pet peeve with both the books and the show, that the female characters only exist to emotionally support the men? To be their sounding boards and the push they need to be brave and figure things out and communicate. And I’m like, fuck that noise?? Do your own work, gentlemen. And then, actually, UNO-reverse! Get Yuna to catch up! That’s right, how about a male character support a woman’s fucking growth for once. Not for his own betterment, but for hers. The opposite of “Daddy I can fix him.”

So anyways, no Rose or Svetlana in this work. But Yuna will grow and learn too, don’t worry, we don’t have to hate her forever. I’m handing out growth arcs like I’m god damn Oprah.

Chapter 11: I hope you see right through my walls

Chapter Summary

“Did you hear about Hockey Canada losing a bunch of sponsors?” 

“Da,” Ilya nods. “Does this include you?” 

Shane shakes his head. “Not yet, but it could. My mom has been freaking out, texting all the time about which brands are cutting their losses. I think they maybe deserve it?” 

“What about you?” Ilya asks. “Do you deserve it?”

“I don't know,” Shane sighs. “My mom is always going on about how I'm such a role model but I don't feel like one.”

“No?”

The smaller man shakes his head and water droplets fly. “Hockey I can do, the rules make sense. But other stuff? Life, or whatever? Kids should find someone else to look up to.”

“Yes,” Ilya says seriously. “They should look up to me. I am much better role model.”

Shane laughs and elbows him. “Not you! Other people, I mean, not you.”

“But I am so sexy, I make so many good moves on ice–”

“Didn't the ref put a sign with your name on it in the penalty box, to save your seat?” 

Ilya beams, proud of himself for making Shane laugh so freely. “Even ref look up to me!” 

“I think kids can do better.” Shane rolls his eyes fondly.

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from “arms” by Christina Perri. We’ve taken a sharp left from canon now, fully carving out our own path from here on out.

CW: at the end of this chapter there’s some “locker room talk” that is as homophobic and misogynistic as you’d imagine. Take care <3

October 2014

Ilya looks at his phone, smiling. He’s back in Boston now after returning to Russia for the summer and burying his father. He should probably feel sad about it, but he doesn’t. 

Ilya never forgave his father for what he did to his mother. An early grave for an evil man is the only justice she’ll ever get. He tried to explain to Shane, who frequently checked in on him over the summer, that he didn’t need to worry. It was an easy loss. But then he’d have to explain why he hated his father so deeply, why he understood so intimately the way Shane froze in that hotel room. How many times Ilya had frozen in his childhood. How he took care of his mother afterwards, because he was never able to take care of her in the moments it really mattered. 

It was far too much for Ilya to contemplate in Russian, let alone translate. So instead he always returned the focus back to Shane. How he was holding up. How the renovations were going in Montreal, how the construction of his new cottage was going on Lac Joly. Their messages back and forth were playful, sometimes charged, but always fun. 

Lily

Three weeks and I’m coming for that ass

Jane

The ass you can have, the puck you’ll have to fight me for ;)

After the game, Ilya waits patiently at his home for Shane to come over. It’s always easier to slip away when his team loses. 

He opens the door and stands aside to let Shane in. The other man dutifully slips off his shoes in the front hall. Ilya once tried to tell him not to bother, but Shane wouldn’t hear of it. Outdoor shoes cannot be worn inside, obviously. Ilya loves his fussiness. 

Twenty minutes later when they’ve finished properly greeting each other, Ilya flops backwards on the couch and pulls Shane on top of him. They stay like that until both of their breathing has returned to normal. 

“I’m all sticky,” Shane murmurs. 

“Napkin on table,” Ilya huffs. He’d get up, but he’s so comfortable with the weight of this man resting on top of him. 

Shane looks at him and frowns, silently communicating his message with crystal clarity. 

“Okay, we shower,” Ilya surrenders with a sigh. 

The kissing heats up again as they stand under the waterfall showerhead. “You are insatiable!” 

Shane pulls back and laughs. “Big word!” 

Ilya chomps his shoulder playfully. “I look up translation, just for you. Insatiable kitten, always ready to play again.” 

Ilya loves watching the microexpressions that play across Shane’s face. Sports analysts call him inscrutable, but Ilya’s always found him impossibly easy to understand. Shane’s eyes scream what his mouth swallows; good Canadian boy, eyes dark with the spilled ink of every word he’s never allowed himself to admit. Ilya reads him like a book.

Laughing, Shane says “if I’m a kitten you’re a pupp– ow!” Ilya bites him again. “Did you flunk out of training school?” 

“So you admit you are kitten. ‘Yes Ilya, you are right always, I never doubt you again’ is what you are saying now?” Ilya smiles. 

Shane rolls his eyes, choosing to ignore that comment. “Did you hear about Hockey Canada losing a bunch of sponsors?” 

“Da,” Ilya nods. “Does this include you?” 

Shane shakes his head. “Not yet, but it could. My mom has been freaking out, texting all the time about which brands are cutting their losses. I think they maybe deserve it?” 

“What about you?” Ilya asks. “Do you deserve it?”

“I don't know,” Shane sighs. “My mom is always going on about how I'm such a role model but I don't feel like one.”

“No?”

The smaller man shakes his head and water droplets fly. “Hockey I can do, the rules make sense. But other stuff? Life, or whatever? Kids should find someone else to look up to.”

“Yes,” Ilya says seriously. “They should look up to me. I am much better role model.”

Shane laughs and elbows him. “Not you! Other people, I mean, not you.”

“But I am so sexy, I make so many good moves on ice–”

“Didn't the ref put a sign with your name on it in the penalty box, to save your seat?” 

Ilya beams, proud of himself for making Shane laugh so freely. “Even ref look up to me!” 

“I think kids can do better.” Shane rolls his eyes fondly. “Than either of us, honestly. I feel like I'm just making it all up, you know? Like I'm so full of shit and just pretending to have it together.”

“I tell you secret?” Ilya leans in, whispering, “I think everyone is maybe making it up. All pretending. Not just you.”

Shane looks up at him as his face shifts into a painfully tender expression. Vulnerable. Ilya wonders if anyone else gets to see Shane Hollander look at them with such openness and trust.

“Even you?” 

Ilya bites back his armoured response. “Even me,” he answers honestly, pulling Shane in to kiss his head.

Ilya wonders if now is the right time to ask about what he saw on the news. He probably won’t get another chance. “I saw about the investigation. Hockey Canada investigating itself?”

The other man’s shoulders slump slightly as he presses his body into Ilya’s. Ilya wraps his arms around him, reaching up to squeeze the back of his neck. He doesn’t want to push but he wants Shane to know he can hold this weight with him. Ilya wants to share this load. 

Shane takes a deep breath and lets it out forcefully. “Yeah,” he gulps. “Public pressure, I guess. Some people have been advocating pretty hard. I have a meeting with a lawyer next week, we haven’t heard anything yet but my mom thinks the investigator will want to interview me. They say it’s not to get anyone in trouble, they just want to see ‘what went wrong’. I don’t know.” 

“What went wrong is rapists rape, no?” Ilya can't imagine what else they would find. 

“Yeah but I guess it's like… why did they think that was okay? How did it get so bad? And like…” Shane seems to be deciding whether to say what he's thinking or swallow it down. “It was me too, you know? I didn't touch her, but I didn't stop them. It didn't even occur to me that she didn't want to be there. That's pretty fucked, right?” 

Ilya considers this. “Is not good,” he starts to say, wanting to choose the right words, to be supportive without minimizing the harm caused. “Someone was hurt, this is bad. You did not help, could not help… but also, this was then. Now, knowing more, you can make different choice. It does not change past, but, you know…” he shrugs, hoping he's made himself clear enough.

“Maybe it can change the future?”

Ilya nods. “Maybe you can change future.” He knows this is so hard for Shane, and wishes he could do more to support. “You will text me after? Tell me how it is.” 

Shane nods against Ilya’s chest. 

“You did not help then but you help now, kotyonok.”

Shane looks up at him again. Ilya can see the shame, the doubt, the fear in his eyes. The worries swirl and Ilya kisses along each of his eyebrows to slow the storm. 

“You know what the most fucked up part is?” Shane whispers.

“Tell me.” 

“I’m scared for me. She went through all that, through a fucking lawsuit, and now all of this is happening in the media, and all I can think about is me. My reputation, my embarrassment, how I fucked up that night, how I’m going to get through this. I’m so scared and it’s fucking pathetic. I hate myself.”

Ilya takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Is a lot to think about. We are always hardest on own self, easy to see flaws in mirror. But maybe… you can do both?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe there is… English, sorry.” He wants to make sure he gets his words right. “Seeing the bad things we do, our mistakes, it is first step to doing better, yes?”

Shane nods, “I guess, yeah.”

“So you do not like how you ran that night. And now, you do not like how you worry first for yourself. Maybe this can be, what is it, motivating? Brain say ‘what about me’ and you say back ‘what about her, and then what about me’. Both. Practice makes better, yes?” 

“You’re talking about like, reframing my thoughts?”

“I do not know reframe, but maybe yes. Like in hockey, you have weak backhand, you practice backhand. You do not say ‘oh my backhand so bad, I am so bad, I will never be good’ You say this is not good, I will do better. Over and over, as long as it takes.”

Shane sighs. “I’m just so fucking scared.”

“Da,” Ilya nods, intimately familiar with that feeling. “So do it scared. Scared and brave, same time.”

Ilya doesn’t like the sound of the self-deprecating laugh that huffs out of Shane’s body as the smaller man looks down. He takes his finger under his chin and brings his face up again. “You are brave. Say.” 

Shane’s squirms almost imperceptively. The water droplets from the shower run down his face. “You are brave,” he repeats with a bratty glint in his eye. 

Ilya smiles at his sass. “I have idea,” he says. “You can say no.”

“What is it?”

“I think you need help, so that you do not forget. Need the brave to be louder than the scared.”

“Okay?”

“I could,” he reaches for Shane’s ass, grabbing him close, “help you not forget.” 

He feels Shane’s dick twitch against his thigh.

“What do you have in mind?” Shane’s voice already sounds halfway to wrecked.

“You say ‘I am brave’, I give you something to remember.” He shifts his thigh to press it between Shane’s legs.

“Is that, like,” Shane starts, blush spreading fast under his freckles, “is that fucked up?”

Ilya shrugs. “If it helps you and hurts no one, who cares if is fucked up? We do not have to, though. You choose.”

“I want to.”

Ilya lowers his voice, knowing the impact his tone has on the man in his arms. “I am brave. Say.”

Shane gulps. “I am brave.”

“Again.”

“I am brave.” 

Ilya presses his body against Shane until the other man is backed against the shower wall, and then the Russian sinks to his knees. “Again.” 

“I am bra–oh fuck,” he gasps as Ilya wraps his hand around his dick.

“Again.” 

“I… am… brave.” The words are slow, and with each one Ilya rewards him with a stroke. His cock begins to fill.

“Repeat.”

“I… am… brave. I am… brave. I am brave. I am brave. I am brave. I am–” Ilya basks in the obedience, increasing the speed of his fist with the frequency of the words. He drops his head to take the other man in his mouth, continuing the rhythm of his hand and adding a swirl of tongue and steady beat of suction. Shane doesn’t stop repeating the mantra even as he comes into Ilya’s mouth, grasping hands in the Russian’s hair to steady himself as he continues chanting.

Ilya swallows and eases himself off. 

“I am brave. I am brave. I–” the man keeps whispering even as he’s spent. 

“Rest now, brave boy” Ilya purrs, kissing his thigh and then his hip. “So good.” 

He stands, knees crackling, and pulls Shane into a wet embrace, allowing the water to wash away any remaining stress. 

When they finally step out of the shower, Shane lets himself be wrapped up in a big fuzzy towel that Ilya left on the heated rack before they hopped in. 

“How long can you stay?” Ilya asks quietly as he dries Shane’s hair with a cotton shirt. 

“Early flight,” Shane sighs. “I should probably go.” 

“You will remember what we discussed.” Ilya kisses his forehead. “When this brain starts doubting, you say you are brave, also.” 

“Ilya…”

“And if brain too loud,” Ilya continues, “you text me. I remind you.” 

Shane nods. “Thank you,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. 

“This brain very good,” Ilya reaffirms. “Very smart, much to like. But needs help sometimes too, and this is okay. Allowed to need help.” 

“Allowed,” Shane repeats softly. 

“Allowed.” 

In the weeks that follow, Ilya watches the news closely. Men from Shane’s Juniors team who went on to be professionals start releasing statements, including Shane. They all say variations of the same thing: 

“The allegations are deeply troubling, and I will cooperate with investigations as best I can.”

No admissions. No blame. All very professional, all clearly written by someone else. 

January 2015

As the new year rolls around and the season wears on, rumours continue to swirl. Someone talked. Some players start taking leaves of absence, stepping away due to “family situations.” No one on Ilya’s team is implicated, but they all know who had been on the Canadian Juniors team the year it went down.

“Maybe this’ll finally knock Hollander off his high-fucking-horse,” Marlow laughs in the locker room after practice one day. Others join in his delight at the possibility of something bad befalling the Canadian Golden Boy. 

Ilya tries to focus on getting dressed, slipping into his sweats.

“I heard he was in the room,” someone says. 

“Yeah but he’s way too much of a pussy to do anything, even if a slut is literally begging for it.” 

Guffaws and profanities. Ilya pulls his shirt over his head.

“Does he even date girls? I never see anything about it.”

“He’s probably a faggot.” 

Ilya’s throat tightens. He should say something, but he doesn’t know how to shut them up without it sounding like he’s defending his rival.

“He sure loves getting fucked by us, eh boys?” A raucous cheer.

“We’re in Montreal next week, let’s show him how to take it like a man!” More cheers, clapping, laughter. Ilya’s brain stops functioning. He thinks he might be sick. He stuffs his feet into his boots, grabs his coat and shoulders his bag. He needs to get out of here.

“Roz’ll fuck him, won’t you?” Hands are clapping his back as he tries to make his way out. 

“Fuck Montreal, yeah,” Ilya manages to choke out. The team accepts it as a full-throated endorsement of everything they said. 

Ilya vomits in the parking lot. 

Chapter End Notes

Being scared and brave is easier said than done.

I’m sorry. I promise it’s going to be okay though? I don’t know if that helps. I'm like "I don't write angst" and then I do this and now I'm having an identity crisis. I'll fix it though, don't worry.

Also, related to one tiny line earlier in the chapter, taking your shoes off when you go into someone’s house isn’t fussiness, it’s basic manners. I do not understand the rest of y’all, how many times a day are you cleaning your floors if people are always tracking in dirt and grime from outside?? I am baffled. Shookth, even. It’s unfathomable.

Chapter 12: with the door wide open, no one can leave

Chapter Summary

“Osti de cave!” JJ’s voice, usually booming, sounds far away.
“Is he okay?” Ilya’s shouting. 
Shane tries to blink away the white light. Something is cold. 
It’s ice. The ice is cold on his back. 
He’s on his back. Why is he on his back?
“Fucking tell me!”
“M fine,” Shane murmurs. Hands are on his body, he’s being rolled and people are talking. 
He’s lifted off the ice. The white light is blinking with black. 
“We really need you to keep your eyes open, Shane.”
“Tell him I’m fine, he’ll worry.” 
“Tell who?”

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Collect Call by Metro. Ugh, so much queer yearning.

CW: Shane gets his canon Big Bonk, maybe medical inaccuracies but let's just roll with it.

February 2015

In the locker room before their game with Boston, Shane tries to focus on getting dressed but can’t help replying every time a message buzzes through from his opponent who is currently supposed to be getting changed in the locker room opposite. 

“So is she one of their social media people?” Hayden Pike, Shane’s closest friend and teammate asks. 

“What?” Shane’s not really listening. 

“Boston Lily!” 

“I…” The building feels like it’s crashing down around him. Possibly the entire world. 

“At first I thought she was just a girl in Boston, but you’re just as happy when they play here as you are when we play there, so I figure she must travel with the team, right?” Hayden is still talking even though surely Shane has already been atomized and dispersed into the atmosphere and no longer present in this plane of existence. Surely. 

“There’s no Boston Lily,” he tries to lie. 

“Okay so the Lily you’ve been texting for literal years isn’t from Boston?” Hayden laughs. “And it’s not her ~womanly touch~ that always makes you play better?” 

“I–” Shane stammers. “Shut up?!” 

Hayden puts his hands up in defeat. “I’m just saying! Feel free to invite her around some time. She can join us after we win tonight, if she’s not too busy wiping the tears of her own team after we destroy them.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shane replies tersely, and Hayden drops it. He quickly checks his phone again; “Lily” has been particularly flirty in the lead up to the game today, even going so far as to suggest they both call out sick and play their own private game instead. Shane knows he’s blushing, both from the increasingly filthy texts and from Hayden’s clocking of whatever this is, so he shoves his phone into his locker and actually tries to get his head in the game. 

“They’re burning an effigy of Rozanov outside right now, wanna see!” Someone shoves a phone into Shane’s face. 

“Oh I’m– I’m good, thanks.” Shane tries his best to maintain a neutral expression. He’s not sure how well he succeeds. “That stuff doesn’t really help me focus.” 

“I wanna see,” another teammate chimes in. “I’m always down to watch that cocksucker burn.” 

“Maybe focus a bit more on your fuckin’ defense and our fans wouldn’t have to pray to an effigy for us to win,” Hayden chirps at the two holding the phone.

Once the team is all geared up and ready to go, their boisterous teammate JJ gets them amped en français. "Alors la on va sortir, et on va jouer dur! On va les enculer tellement fort qu'ils vont brayer!"

“Olé, olé, olé!” they all shout together.

As they skate out onto the ice, Shane breathes in the cold air of the rink. He loves this place. Any rink feels like home to him, but this one is special. He wants so badly to hang another Cup banner from the rafters, to have his name added to the history of this place. It’s so easy to get distracted when he’s out in the world or even in the locker room but here, on home ice, his mind narrows to the blades on his feet, the stick in his hand, and the movement of the puck. 

Facing Rozanov at centre ice, Shane can’t help but smile. He loves competing against the best. Proving himself, both for and against the man opposite him. 

If Ilya isn’t matching his intensity with the full force of his typical cocky attitude, he doesn’t notice. The puck drops and Shane gets it, sweeping it away to Pike on his wing. He weaves around one of Boston’s defence and Pike shoots it back his way. Shane’s racing towards the net, goal in his sight, when suddenly…

“Osti de cave!” JJ’s voice, usually booming, sounds far away.

“Is he okay?” Ilya’s shouting. 

Shane tries to blink away the white light. Something is cold. 

It’s ice. The ice is cold on his back. 

He’s on his back. Why is he on his back?

“Fucking tell me!”

“M fine,” Shane murmurs. Hands are on his body, he’s being rolled and people are talking. 

He’s lifted off the ice. The white light is blinking with black. 

“We really need you to keep your eyes open, Shane.”

“Tell him I’m fine, he’ll worry.” 

“Tell who?”

Ilya.

“Ilya, where are you?” 

“I am right here, kotyonok.” 

“I can’t see you.” 

“I’m just on the other side of the door.”

As Shane’s eyes adjust to the dark, a door appears in front of him. He pushes through. 

Another door. 

He keeps going, door after door. He opens one to be immediately met by another.

“Which door?” he calls out. His voice echoes even though the room he’s in feels tiny. Suffocating.

Looking down, he sees ice beneath his feet. When he looks up again, the room has vanished. He’s skating on a frozen lake, stars twinkling brightly overhead. It’s beautiful here.

There’s a cottage with the lights on in the distance and he skates towards it. Ilya must be there. Eyes locked on his destination, he doesn’t notice as he starts to run. The vast frozen lake is a forest now and he’s running along this path as fast as he can but the cottage has disappeared and he suddenly realizes he doesn’t know what he’s running towards. He stops to catch his breath, hands on his knees as he heaves, eyes squeezed shut to stop the pounding in his head. When he opens them again he’s standing on the edge of a drumlin back home. Overlooking wilderness with the cityscape twinkling far far away. He recognizes the trail, it’s a hike he’s taken many times. 

Someone is holding his hand. 

“I’ve always loved this view,” Shane murmurs. 

He squeezes the hand holding his own, closing his eyes to enjoy the fresh air and the moonlight and the feeling of this hand in his. When he opens them again, he’s faced with a door in the middle of the woods, strange and out of place.

“You don’t belong out here.” He pushes on the door and it doesn’t budge. He jiggles the handle. It’s locked. 

He walks around it to see what’s on the other side. It’s just an empty frame, the steep drop off the drumlin and neverending vista on the other side. 

For the first time, he realizes he’s scared. He traces his steps back around the frame, not crossing through, wanting to get back to the safety of the locked side of the door but it’s gone. Only the open frame remains. 

The sun begins to rise over the horizon and he looks out towards it, framed perfectly by the mysterious doorway. He feels the presence of a warm body behind him and he lets himself lean back into the broad chest. Strong arms wrap him in a tight embrace and his body settles; he knows he’s safe. The sun rises beyond the doorway and he realizes he wouldn’t be able to see this view if the locked door remained.

Turning around, away from the sun, he’s on the shore of the frozen lake again and the cottage is right in front of him. The sun warms his back as it continues to rise. A soft breeze blows gently through the trees and the leaves rustle and sing as he walks hand in hand with the person next to him. They walk towards the open entrance, stepping through, only to be blinded by white light. People are grasping at him, his hands, his shoulders, reaching out to touch every part of him. Why are they here inside the cottage? They shouldn’t be here; they’re not allowed. He must have left the door unlocked. He blinks, trying to adjust to the light, trying to see who’s here in this space.

As he opens his eyes, the light is still bright but different now. Blink blink. 

“Shane, honey you’re awake! We were so worried about you!” 

His hand is being held, his shoulder pat, his head pet. His throat is dry and scratchy. He blinks again. He’s in a hospital room. 

“Shane, sweetheart?”

“I’ll go get a nurse.” The hand touching his shoulder leaves.

“Shane.” 

“Mom,” he whispers. “What...” He’s trying to remember. 

“You took a hit, sweetie. You’re in the hospital, but you’re okay.” His mom brushes the hair off his forehead with one of her hands and squeezes his hand with her other.

The room is yellow like butter. Shane wonders if he’s melting, or if it’s just his brains. 

“You’re not melting, Shane. You’re on some pretty heavy drugs.” 

Oh. His mom can read his mind. That explains a lot, actually. He tries really hard to not think about Ilya. 

“Who?” 

“Mr. Hollander, I’m glad to see you decided to join us.” A person in scrubs is in the room. 

“Hi?” 

“How are you feeling?” 

Shane’s feeling like his head really hurts but it sort of doesn’t matter. Like he can feel the pain but it doesn’t affect him. Like it’s good pain, but bad. 

“Pretty typical response to the morphine he got in the ambulance. We’re going to keep him overnight just to monitor, but there are no broken bones or bleeds we can see so that’s all good news. As the painkiller wears off his head will likely start hurting, but it shouldn’t be anything that rest and Tylenol can’t cure. I’ll have the nurse go over the concussion protocols with you but I’m sure you’re familiar. Any questions?” 

Shane wishes Ilya was here to lock the door. 

—

David and Yuna look at each other. 

“Is he saying Lillian?” David whispers. 

“I’ve never heard him talk about a Lillian before,” Yuna quietly responds. 

“He’s never talked about any girls before,” David points out. “Why would they need to lock the door?”

Yuna tightens her lips. “Probably just the drugs talking.”

—

After his parents have gone home for the night, Shane finds himself staring out the small hospital window, mentally trying to organize his memories from the day. He wishes he had his phone. No one else knows to tell Ilya that he’s fine, that it’s mild, that he’s going to be okay. He can’t remember the hit but he’ll never forget hearing that wrecked voice crying out “fucking tell me!”

He thinks about the dream he had. The lake, the forest, the sunrise over the drumlin. Those damn doors. He wishes he didn’t know what his mind was trying to show him, wants to go back to ignoring it, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep swallowing the facts– or, more accurately, the feelings– that bloom in his chest every time he lets himself breathe. 

The light changes as the door to his room cracks open. Ilya walks in, closing it behind him. 

“Ilya!” Shane’s so happy to see him, to tell him he’s alright. 

“Shh, shh,” the man comes over to his bedside. “I am breaking rules, sneaking like Canadian house hippo.” 

Shane giggles. “I thought those were real, when I was a kid.” He sighs. “You came.” 

Ilya gently caresses the back of the hand not currently sporting an emergency port. “I need to see you are okay.” 

Shane feels himself smile, despite the circumstances. The drugs are slowly wearing off but he’s still a little loopy, and he decides to take advantage of his own lowered defenses. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.” 

Ilya’s thumb keeps rubbing comforting circles. 

“It’s less of a question and more of an answer, I guess.” Lowered defenses are only helpful if his brain pulls itself together enough to make some fucking sense. He tries to regain the sense of security he had in his dream, being held in front of the open doorway and feeling safe and relaxed and allowed. 

“What do you need, kotyonok?” 

“I need to tell you something.” He takes a deep breath. He just needs to do it. It’s not real until he says it, but he also knows it’s very real despite him never having admitted it, so he might as well bite the bullet and say the fucking words that have been rattling around in the back of his brain for… years, probably, if he’s being honest with himself. And he is ready to be honest with himself. And with Ilya. “I think I might be…gay?” 

Ilya’s laugh is sudden and loud, and then he quickly clamps a hand over his own mouth and looks towards the door to see if he’d been heard. 

“Ilya!” Shane whispers a reprimand. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya says through his fingers. “You think you might… be gay.” 

“It’s serious, Ilya!” 

“Yes yes, of course. Okay. What, um… what gave you that impression?” Ilya’s trying so hard not to laugh and it makes Shane laugh even though this isn’t funny!

“Shut up! This is a big deal!” Shane pleads through his smile. 

“It is problem, yes.” Ilya’s words don’t match the glint in his eyes. “Big problem, actually. I only fuck straight men.” 

“Ilya!” Shane feels like a kid at camp who’s up sharing secrets past curfew, and whose secret-sharing-buddy is about to get them caught breaking the rules. 

“Sorry, kotyonok, I did not know.” Ilya’s smile turns soft. He presses a kiss into Shane’s forehead. “I mean I knew, but I did not know you did not know.” 

Too many knows for Shane’s scrambled brain. “Wait, what?” 

“Shane, you are smartest idiot I have ever met. Most beautiful moron. Knowing so much and so little, how you get through a day, I will never understand.” Ilya’s ghosting kisses across Shane’s cheeks and brows and head as he says this, and it’s almost gentle enough that Shane forgets to feel insulted. 

“Wait, so are you… too?” Shane asks. He had genuinely never considered the possibility that Ilya might be gay too. He sleeps with so many women. 

Ilya looks over his shoulder, checking the door again. No locks in hospitals. “I am uh, both, how you say? I thought you knew.” 

“Bisexual? How would I know that?” Shane isn’t a fucking mindreader. 

“Bisexual, yes. I fuck women, I fuck men, I do the chaos. This is classic bisexual behaviour, I am told.” Ilya kisses his cheekbone and Shane closes his eyes.

“Oh.” So his curiosity for Shane is really just that. He’ll be able to settle down with a wife, to live a life beyond the locked doors and carved out spaces that are all Shane can hope for.

“I don’t think I like women like, at all,” Shane admits. “Not the way I’m supposed to.”

“Okay.” Ilya squeezes his hand. “This is allowed, kotyonok. To not like women like that. There is nothing wrong with you.” 

Shane eyes the door. He doesn’t know how much time they have left. “I wish I was different.” His eyes well up with tears and he swallows them down.

“There is nothing about you I would change, Shane Hollander.” 

They both hear distant wheels on linoleum and Ilya steps back on instinct. Shane gives a little nod and Ilya blows a kiss before disappearing back into the hallway. 

Chapter End Notes

“So Smart and So Dumb: The Story of Basically Every Gay Person” (aka me)

Also if you don’t know about Canadian House Hippos, you’re missing out.

Also also: I have a headcanon that Ilya used to escape for weekends to more liberal places in Europe as a teenager, and there is a very specific vision I have of him at an underground rave somewhere in Berlin with Svetlana and Sasha, and he’s wearing a fishnet crop top and glitter and kandi and he’s just feeling so free and safe and allowed, and he’s lowkey been chasing that freedom ever since. Do I need to write a oneshot? Ugh I think I might. I love this fictional traumatized Russian man more than I have words for and I’m genuinely furious about it.

Chapter 13: if I could find a way to see this straight

Chapter Summary

“Alright well you two francos have fun,” Hayden says to Shane and his new living-room-small-talk companion. “I’ve just gotta run to the dép. Jackie and Daniel drank the wine they were supposed to be cooking with, and we’re also running dangerously low on baby wipes.”

“That man is incorrigible,” Marc says as Hayden leaves.

“Hayden? He’s alright.”

“Hayden is fine, my husband is an absolute menace,” Marc shakes his head fondly, looking in the direction of the kitchen. Shane can now hear two distinct pitches of giggles coming from the other room.

“Your husband?” Shane asks dumbly. He feels his cheeks turning red for no reason and tries desperately to use mind control to close the capillaries in his face, hoping foolishly to reverse the unnecessary blush.

“I guess I’ve done a terrible job at introducing myself,” Marc laughs. “I’m Marc, married to Daniel, brother of Jacqueline, with whom you’re familiar. I thought Hayden would have told you.”

Shane feels like his heart might beat out of his chest and his lungs have forgotten how to expand. “He didn’t mention.”

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Cough Syrup by Young the Giant

March 2015

“I don’t care, man, you have to come. Jackie says so,” Hayden says sternly over the phone. 

Shane has been recovering at home for a few weeks now and is starting to get a bit stir crazy. The only thing keeping him from doing anything impulsive is the doctor saying that he might still have a chance at the playoffs, as long as he focuses on rest and healing right now. 

“Now we both have to do what your wife says?”

“If you want her to keep my house stocked with your ginger ale then yeah, we do.”

Shane sighs. “Fine, I’ll come for dinner.” Through the phone he hears Hayden yelling something about how butts aren’t for poking. 

“Sorry about that,” Hayden says as he returns. “So you’re a yes for Friday then?”

“Yes.” Shane is grateful it’s not a video call as he rolls his eyes. 

When Friday comes, Shane pulls into the Pike driveway at quarter to 6. 

“Ruby I swear to god– Shane! Hi!” Hayden says as he opens the front door. He has what might be vomit on his shoulder.

“I brought wine.” Shane holds out the bottle. 

“Do you even drink... what is this? Sparkling wine?” 

Shane shakes his head no, and Hayden takes the bottle with a laugh.

“Come on in, I’ve just gotta finish wrangling the kids but you know where to go,” Hayden pulls him inside and then disappears.

Shane toes off his shoes, lining them up with the others in the hallway. When he walks into the living room, there’s a man he’s never seen sitting on the chesterfield. 

“Um, hi?” 

The man stands to greet him. “Good evening! My name is Marc, so nice to meet you.” 

Shane takes in the appearance of this stranger as he politely shakes the foreoffered hand. The man is big– at least six inches taller than him, and probably twice as wide. He’s got dark skin, a shaved head, and an accent that feels familiar but Shane can’t quite place.

“Shane, hi.” 

“I’ve heard so much about you!” 

They sit down opposite each other. He wonders what this is all about; Shane hates small talk and isn’t sure why Hayden would do this to him. Trying to make conversation and thinking the accent might be a flavour of French, Shane starts to say “your accent sounds so familiar but I can’t quite…” 

“Ah yes!” Marc nods, “I came to Quebec from Haiti as a child. Good ear!”

“Oh nice, yeah, thanks,” Shane says politely. “So it’s like French and Creole?” 

“Exactly, yes. I grew up speaking Haitian Creole at home, and French at school. These days I'm working on my Nunavimmiutut, which is a fascinating language, and I manage in English when I travel. Do you speak any other languages?” 

Shane switches languages easily. “Yeah, just French and English for me though,” he says with a small smile.

“Oh perfect, this is much easier if you're comfortable with it,” Marc laughs, continuing their conversation in French. “Are you francophone?” 

“On my dad’s side” Shane nods, “I grew up in Ottawa and went to a French First-Language school, which I'm grateful for.” 

“Hollander isn’t a French name though, is it?” Marc asks. 

“His mom, my grand-mère, was francophone, my grandad was anglo. My dad grew up in the Sault but wanted me to stay connected to that part of my heritage. My mom also thought it would open doors for me, so I guess that was a reason too,” Shane explains. 

“It certainly can’t hurt, playing for the Voyageurs.” 

“It’s definitely come in handy,” Shane laughs politely. 

Hayden pops his head through the door. “He’s not making you speak French, is he?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Shane answers en français. 

“Alright well you two francos have fun,” Hayden says, “I’ve just gotta run to the dép. Jackie and Daniel drank the wine they were supposed to be cooking with, and we’re also running dangerously low on baby wipes.” 

“That man is incorrigible,” Marc says as Hayden leaves.

“Hayden? He’s alright.” He can't remember the names of all of Jackie's siblings; she might have a sister named Danielle. 

“Hayden is fine, but my husband Daniel is an absolute menace,” Marc shakes his head fondly, looking in the direction of the kitchen. Shane realizes he can hear two distinct pitches of giggles coming from the other room. Daniel, not Danielle. Damn French. 

“Your husband?” Shane asks dumbly. He feels his cheeks turning red for no reason and tries desperately to use mind control to close the capillaries in his face, hoping foolishly to reverse the unnecessary blush. 

“I guess I’ve done a terrible job at introducing myself,” Marc laughs. “I’m Marc, married to Daniel, brother of Jacqueline, with whom you’re familiar. I thought Hayden would have told you.”

Shane feels like his heart might beat out of his chest and his lungs have forgotten how to expand. “He didn’t mention.” 

“Ah well, there we are,” Marc continues chatting easily. “We don’t get to come as often as we’d like, what with living up north. But I had a work conference in town this week, so we leapt on the chance for a visit. We’ll be at the game tomorrow, too. Hayden said you won’t be playing though, you’re injured?” 

“Mild concussion,” Shane replies. “I’m fine, as long as I don’t fall and hit my head again I’ll be back before playoffs.” 

“Playoffs is with the beards, yes? I don’t follow much hockey, I’m embarrassed to admit,” Marc says cheerfully. 

“Yeah, some guys grow playoff beards,” Shane responds, mind still reeling. Why would Hayden invite him over for dinner when they had family visiting from out of town? And why wouldn’t Hayden mention it? 

“Not you though?”

“No, not me. Could hardly be considered a beard, what I grow,” Shane smiles robotically. He’s trying to do the mental math. Hayden had been asking about Boston Lily before the game where Shane was injured. He was suggesting Shane bring her around some time, and Shane had denied her existence. 

Could Hayden be… no, that would be insane. He hasn’t… he wouldn’t… Shane’s mind can’t even think the thought. He’s just being paranoid. His leg starts bouncing. How rude would it be to run away?

Just then, Jade and Ruby come running into the room. 

“Uncle Marc! You said you’d play with us!” one of them shouts. 

“Weren’t you girls supposed to be having quiet time in your room?” Marc asks. 

“Daddy said until the rainbow timer beeped and it beeped! The rainbow is all gone!” 

Marc looks at Shane and smiles. “Uncle duty calls, if you’ll excuse me,” he says in his accented English, allowing the girls to lead him away. 

Shane’s left alone, eyeing the exit but knowing it would be incredibly bad manners to just walk out.

“Hayden, can you–” Jackie starts shouting from the kitchen. By the time she enters the living room, her volume has decreased to only slightly too loud, “–check on the… oh, hi Shane. You’re not Hayden.” 

“I am not.”

She holds up a baby monitor, on which Shane can hear crying. 

“You wouldn’t mind, would you? Just pat his back until he settles.” She’s already walking out again. 

Shane takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. He nods to no one and starts marching upstairs to the nursery that he’s only been in once, when it was first painted while Jackie was still pregnant. 

Leaving the door open for light, he walks over to the crib and sees Arthur crying. He picks up the nuk that the baby had lost right beside his own face, and puts it back into his mouth. Arthur immediately settles as he suckles it. 

“You just needed a little help, eh buddy?” he murmurs. “I have a favourite thing to suck too, so I get it.” He rests his hand on the baby’s chest, gently rocking him back and forth. “I hate it when mine is out of reach, too.” 

Arthur’s body makes a noise so sudden and violent that Shane jumps back in surprise. That could not have come from a tiny baby. Shane peeks back over the crib and sees the baby fast asleep, nuk hanging out of his mouth. He doesn’t know enough about babies to know whether that was gas or something more, but the smell suggests that someone with more expertise is needed in the room, so he wanders downstairs to look for Jackie. 

Jackie and her brother are whispering when he gets to the kitchen, but they look up when he rounds the corner. 

“Get the baby settled? Jackie asks lightly. 

“I think he needs more help than I can provide,” Shane says. “In the diaper department,” he adds for clarity. 

“Honestly, you boys are all such babies,” Jackie says, rolling her eyes as she starts towards the bedroom. 

“I got it, you stay,” Daniel cuts in en français. “I’ve been slacking on uncle duties, you deserve a break.” He heads off. Shane knew Jackie spoke French but hadn't realized it was her mother tongue.

He’s left standing in the kitchen with Jackie, his hands shoved in his pockets because he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. He wishes Hayden would hurry back. 

She goes to the fridge and silently hands him a cold ginger ale, which he takes with a grateful nod. 

“How’s your head?” she asks in English. This is how they normally speak, and Shane's realizing it's probably for Hayden's benefit. 

“No complaints.” 

Jackie raises her eyebrows. 

“Not like– no, Jackie, I mean–” Shane stumbles, embarrassed by his double entendre. 

She laughs. “Sorry, I spend too much time listening to smutty audiobooks on my headphones to tune out the constant stream of Caillou and Doc McStuffins. Mind’s in the gutter but I’m staring at the stars, I promise.” 

Shane’s still flushed. “My brain is all good,” he tries to get the conversation back on track. “If my job didn’t involve continued risk of further head injury, I’d be back to work by now. Hoping to be back for playoffs.” 

“The boys have been scraping by without you, but I know they’ll all feel better once you’re back,” she smiles. “That was a dirty hit by Marlow, I don’t care what the ref said.” 

“I think it was just a bad angle.” 

“It was bad alright. Even Rozanov was shaken, and he usually lives for that stuff.” 

Shane looks at her, examining her face for any microexpression that might tell him whether she’s just casually chatting or whether she’s hinting at something more. He’s terrible at reading people though, so he’s left wondering. 

“Was he? Weird,” Shane tries to laugh. He knows it sounds off, and he’s once again weighing the pros and cons of simply just running out of this house and transferring to a team out west. Vancouver is nice. Or maybe the KHL. Literally anywhere would be better than this kitchen right now.

“Rozanov’s an absolute asshole,” she mouths the curse word, “but I don’t know, I’ve always kind of liked him. He seems like, annoyingly charming. Like you don’t want to like him but he wins you over through sheer strength of sass, you know?” 

Shane wonders if he fell coming back down the stairs from the nursery and his healing brain had an aneurism at the foot of the Pike’s stairs and he’s currently in Hell being punished for the sin of lying and this is how the Devil has decided to torture him for the rest of eternity.

He gulps despite the fact that his mouth is dryer than the Sahara because all the moisture left his body when he died, probably. “I think he just sucks,” Shane says. This is definitely Hell because he can feel the flush spread across his face once more as his brain unhelpfully reminds him of exactly how much Ilya sucks. And how well.

“Hayden can’t stand him, but I think he’s just jealous. It’s sort of cute.”

“Jealous?” Shane wishes he could spontaneously combust. 

“Rozanov is such a player,” Jackie muses, “a different girl in every city, always out clubbing, just really living up the bachelor life. I think Hayden misses that, sometimes.”

“Hayden loves being a dad,” Shane rushes to comfort her, glad for this new avenue to change the conversation. “And he’s like, so obsessed with you.” 

She laughs again. “As well he should be, I’m amazing. And I know he loves being a dad, just like I love being a mom, but sometimes I miss the days of freedom too. I’m sure you’ll understand once you’ve settled down.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” He sighs, his mind flooding with visions of all the futures he’ll never be able to have. 

“You ever think about that?” Jackie asks. 

“What?” 

“Settling down?”

He thinks of his cottage, which will be finally ready for him by the time summer rolls around. The view from his deck, the adirondack chairs he’s having painted in red and yellow. Perfect colours for summer and fall, definitely no deeper meaning there. Except for when he imagines being alone with Ilya and they’re allowed to kiss and cry and fuck and laugh and cuddle and breathe, and then maybe the chair colours mean something more. But that’s the best he can hope for, secret symbols hidden in plain sight, nothing more obvious than something that can be easily explained away. 

Certainly no home together. No wedding rings, no declarations of love, no shared photo albums or finances or meals or plans. No date nights out, no dinners with friends, no plants or pets or kids. No comforting touch in public, no mouthed check-ins from across the room at parties, no my side and his side of the bed. The only future Shane can hope for will be whatever moments he can steal away and keep protected at all costs. 

“I don’t really know,” Shane finally answers. “I guess I haven’t thought about it that much.” 

“Maybe one day,” Jackie smiles. 

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Chapter End Notes

Okay, I know I said no women are used to exclusively help in the male character’s development, which I stand by, but also I love the idea that Jackie actually likes Rozanov and probably mentions it to Hayden all the time just to piss him off. So I needed her to have this dumb little moment with Shane.

Also Shane is just wildly paranoid, there’s no secret conspiracy. Being closeted is exhausting and the amount of brain space it takes up at any given moment is enough to make anyone fearful and suspicious about the perfectly normal behaviour of others.

Also also, just some Canadiana for you: in Ontario we have public schools and Catholic schools, which are both publicly funded and open to anyone. Both school boards across the province typically also have French Immersion schools and/or programs, which are different from French First Language schools. Anyone can register their child to attend French Immersion, in either public or Catholic schools, but only kids who have at least one parent fluent in French can attend FFL schools. French Immersion is like, the classes are in French but you can speak English if you need help clarifying things, and the teachers assume your parents speak English (or at least don’t speak French). In FFL schools it’s all French all the time, with the assumption being that you’re culturally French/francophone and the curriculum is taught accordingly. I feel like this would explain not only why Shane is fluent in French (most Canadians are not), but also why his mom is so overly involved in his hockey career (overcompensating for not having been able to be super involved in his schooling). I also feel like it explains a lot about David, growing up with a working-class, tough-as-nails francophone maman in the Soo? That man would have been raised on hockey, hard work, and a steady diet of Women Are Badass Juice. No wonder he fell for Yuna.

Chapter 14: teenage hopes are right at your door

Chapter Summary

Lily (22:32) Doorman Steve says hi. Did you know he is from Boston?
Jane (22:59) You’re joking, right?
Lily (23:00) Da I am obviously joking.
He is not from Boston.
Is okay though, I distracted him with small fire so that he did not see me come in.
Sneaky like house hippo, remember?
Jane (22:06) You lit a FIRE in my BUILDING???
Lily (22:11) No, this would be insane. I lit fire just outside building.
Small fire.
In trash can.
Nothing to worry!

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from 1234 by Feist.

More time jumps and texting. Just some snapshots of gay banter to get us to 2017, when shit really heats up.

Also the chapter count is going up because apparently these guys have things to say.

April 2015

Jane (11:24) Doc cleared me to play and I am so ready to get back on the ice!

Lily (12:03) No one would blame you if you rested longer

Jane (12:46) And let you get another cup? Dream on

May 2015

Lily (21:06) Lucky

Jane (21:22) The luckiest

Lily (21:23) Injury knocked some hockey skills into that brain of yours, who knew such miracle is possible

Jane (21:24)  Fuck off. Now that the cup is mine, it’s going to stay that way

Lily (21:25) Next season only cup you’ll get is the one you take off me with your mouth

June 2015

Jane (20:12) What’s my reward for winning MVP?

Lily (20:17) Is award not enough?

Jane (20:18) I can think of one thing that would be better

October 2015

Lily (21:09) Feels good to be back!

Jane (21:11) You won by one point, asshole

Lily (21:12) Oh is that not win? Is it tie unless we wipe floor with you? I will keep this in mind for next time.

Jane (21:19) I can think of something else you could do with me on the floor tonight, if you’re not too busy celebrating

Lily (21:57) Night is long, time for many celebrations

January 2016

Jane (18:51) This time it’ll be my celebration

Lily (18:52) Only if you keep your head in game and do not get distracted with thoughts of my dick pounding into you

Jane (18:53) I’m not talking to you before games ever again

Lily (18:53) We will see

Jane (22:16) Who’s the one who got distracted? Because 5-3 says it wasn’t me.

Lily (22:19) Gloating is not good look on kitten

Jane (22:23) I think you like it when I beat your ass before you beat mine.

Lily (22:24) Too much talking, is not what that mouth of yours is for

February 2016:

Jane (9:36) The police are formally reopening the investigation into the 2010 World’s situation

Lily (9:46) Can they do this, after so long?

Jane (9:50) There’s no statute of limitations on sexual assault in Canada so… yeah. They can.

Lily (9:51) And this is different from other investigation?

Jane (9:53) Yeah, that was just internally for Hockey Canada. This is the police. It’s like, criminal. People could go to jail, depending on what happens.

Lily (9:54) Are you okay?

Jane (11:13) I don’t know

April 2016:

Jane (13:33) I’m meeting with the police investigators on April 22.

Lily (13:59) How are you feeling?

Jane (14:05) Freaking out a bit

Lily (14:06) You want me to come?

                    Not to the meeting, of course

                    But I could wait at home for you.

Jane (14:07) I guess you won’t be doing anything else, since you’re out of the playoffs

Lily (14:07) Oh so you are the asshole now?

Jane (14:08) No, it’s still you!

Lily (14:08) I am being so nice, I offer comfort?

Jane (14:08) You just want to get laid

Lily (14:09) Two things can be true at same time, no?

Jane (14:10) You’re an asshole and you want to get laid?

Lily (14:10) Three things

May 2016

Lily (19:54) I think our meetings are giving you unfair advantage

Jane (20:10) We haven’t seen each other in almost a month?

Lily (20:10) Yes, but I am sure you are still feeling our last time together even now. This is why you are playing such good hockey.

Jane (20:11) Definitely wouldn’t be because I’m an amazing fucking hockey player??

Lily (20:11) No we know it is not that. Must be my dick. 

Jane (22:09) If your dick was magic, wouldn’t you be the one holding the cup for the second year in a row?

Lily (22:10) I give you all my powers and this is how you thank me?

Jane (22:27) If you were here in Montreal, I’d be thanking you in a different way. Alas…

Lily (22:29)

 [image: Shane’s living room, Ilya’s feet up on the coffee table]

Jane (22:30) Is that my fucking house?!

Lily (22:30) You did not change passcode

Jane (22:31) You’re a fucking stalker!

Lily (22:32) Doorman Steve says hi. Did you know he is from Boston?

Jane (22:59) You’re joking, right?

Lily (23:00) Da I am obviously joking.

                    He is not from Boston.

                    Is okay though, I distracted him with small fire so that he did not see me come in.                

                    Sneaky like house hippo, remember?

Jane (22:06) You lit a FIRE in my BUILDING???

Lily (22:11) No, this would be insane. I lit fire just outside building. 

                    Small fire. 

                    In trash can.

                    Nothing to worry!

Jane (22:18) You’re incorrigible!

Lily (22:19) I do not know this word but I assume it means sexy and smart, yes?

Jane (22:19) I’m going to kill you

Lily (22:20) Go celebrate with team first, would be rude for captain to miss afterparty. I fly out day after tomorrow so there is time for murder later. 

July 2016

Lily (11:38) What is “Junior Hockey Bible” and why is it secret

Jane (13:03) What are you talking about?

Lily (13:15) News is saying it leaked, so it must be secret to be leaked, yes? Why secret? Is it not just boring hockey tricks?

Jane (13:23) I take it Russia didn’t have shit like this being passed around?

[link: http://juniorho…]

Lily (13:30) This… is not hockey. It is just sex things and bad words about women

Jane (13:31) I know

Lily (13:31) You talk like this?

Jane (13:31) Not me! You know I don’t!? 

Lily (13:32) Do these men even like women? They do not speak as though they do. 

Jane (13:33) I don’t like women and I don’t talk like that. 

Lily (13:33) You still respect them, that is why

Jane (13:34) I mean yeah, why wouldn’t I?

Lily (13:36) The men who talk like this, they do not like OR respect women

Jane (13:39) I guess I always thought it was just gross locker room talk. You’re saying the guys in Boston don’t talk like this?

Lily (13:39) I thought it was just disgusting Americans. Canadian on my team a few years ago was always nice, you are nice. I did not know Canada is also like this?

Jane (13:40) I think it’s bad everywhere, honestly. I always tried to ignore this shit and just focus on the hockey

                     You think I’m nice?

Lily (13:42) Maybe it is the ignoring that is the problem

Jane (13:43) I notice you ignoring my question.

Lily (13:44) I cannot hear you, I am having deep conversation about disgusting hockey book

Jane (13:45) Do you think all sports are like this, or is hockey particularly bad?

Lily (13:46) I do not see soccer or rugby having this problem. Not in news, anyway

August 2016

Lily (23:57) I saw news. You okay?

Jane (6:34) Charges formally laid against five of the guys. I can’t talk about it, but I’ll likely be called as a witness

Lily (12:29) When is trial?

Jane (12:47) We don’t know yet, next year some time probably

Lily (12:51) Would it help to see my dick?

Jane (12:54) Your dick doesn’t magically fix everything you know

                      But yes

Lily (13:12) [image: tastefully lit dick pic]

November 2016

Jane (18:46) see you soon ;)

Lily (18:59) I thought we were banned from texting before game?

Jane (18:59) Only you, because you have no self control

Lily (19:00) We will see who has control tonight

Jane (19:00) That’s why you’re banned

February 2017

Jane (15:18) Early flight tomorrow, any restaurant recommendations for dinner in Boston?

Lily (15:19) Come over

Jane (15:21) That’s a terrible idea

Lily (15:21) I will make food for us, make sure you are fed and rested for game.

Jane (15:22) Why does this feel like a trick?

Lily (15:22) After all these years, you still do not trust me?

Jane (15:23) You lit a fire in my apartment

Lily (15:23) It was outside apartment!

Jane (15:23) Same difference!

Lily (15:25) Big difference! Difference bigger than my dick! Enormous difference!

Jane (15:26) Did you use a thesaurus just so that you could better describe your dick?

Lily (15:26) What does dinosaur have to do with dick?

Chapter End Notes

The irl case of Crown v. McLeod et. al. took 7 years from incident to trial, so while the timeline in this fic may feel stretched it’s unfortunately fairly close to reality. Typical SA trials in Ontario take upwards of two years from charges being laid to actual trial (although the vast majority never make it that far). This one was different because the case was initially closed in 2019 and then reopened three years later due to intense public pressure after the settled lawsuit came out. It then took another three years from reopening to actually make it to trial, which is slightly longer than normal due to the complexity of the case prior to laying charges and then the five teams of defense attorneys all filing various pretrial motions which needed to be settled before a trial date could be set. In this fic we'll spend Shane's day of testimony in court, and then see the verdict and what happens next.

Culturally-speaking, in 2016 in Canada we had the Ghomeshi sexual assault trial, which was the first trial here to be live tweeted by a reporter. It was the birth of the #WeBelieveSurvivors hashtag in Ontario, before #MeToo really took-off globally the year after. This all coincided with a huge social push for broader consent education, including a re-vamping of Ontario school curricula to explicitly include consent (as well as other changes). The OHL even hired two sexual assault centres to create a workshop that would become mandatory for all of their players: OHL Onside. All of which to say, the public pressure in this fic is very grounded in real life events despite the fact it takes place “pre-MeToo”.

The fact that all of this was happening prior to the irl 2018 World Juniors assault really says a lot about how fucked it was; that most of those players received consent training through the OHL’s partnership with local sexual assault centres and yet they still did what they did.

Oh also, the Junior Hockey Bible is real and leaked in 2020. It would have been in circulation during the 2018 season when all that shit went down, although there’s no Proof(™) those particular players had seen it. It wasn’t mentioned in the trial, but if you followed the case you’ll know there are some ~interesting similarities~ between what’s described in that document and what was alleged to have occurred.

So yeah, hockey is fucked. Why do I love these fictional men so much? I could not tell you. Why am I trying to resolve my hockey trauma through smutty gay fanfic? I wish I knew. Here we are!

Chapter 15: when your tears are spent on your last pretense

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Beside You by Marianas Trench. Another absolute classic.

CW: Ilya makes Shane a tuna melt in this chapter, but do not fear. No one leaves. We are rewriting our trauma together. Trust in me, as the song says.

February 2017

Ilya is feeling anxious as he putters around, waiting for Shane to arrive. This thing that they’ve been doing for years now, they’ve still never labelled it, and he’s constantly waiting for it to suddenly end. For Shane to walk out one day and never come back. For him to finally realize how much more he deserves, and how little Ilya truly has to offer. 

Their time together always feels like they’re playing an elaborate game of make-believe. Stolen moments and occasional sleepovers where they’re allowed to pretend to be something more than what they are, play-acting a relationship they can’t actually have. It’s beautiful and it’s horrible. Ilya lives for it and it kills him. If he thinks about it too deeply or for too long, he feels as though a black hole may swallow him alive. 

And so he fills his time between visits with whatever he can. Hockey, parties, women, cars, travel. Anything to keep his mind busy enough to forget how empty he is in rooms full of people he’s supposed to adore, and how content he feels locked away with the one he’s supposed to hate.

When Shane arrives they embrace in the foyer and it feels like peace. The frantic physical yearning from their earlier days has faded over the years; not because the attraction has waned, but because their connection has deepened. They take their time now, breathing each other in, letting their nervous systems sync and settle and rest. 

“I missed you,” Shane mumbles from where his face is buried in the crook of Ilya’s neck. 

“I missed you too, kotoynok.” 

Shane’s stomach grumbles. “Food,” Ilya decides, leading him to the kitchen. 

The smaller man sits at the counter and Ilya gets him a cold ginger ale from the fridge. “You like tuna melt?” 

“You’re going to make me a tuna melt?” 

“No, I am just asking if you like them,” Ilya rolls his eyes at this beautiful idiot. “Da, I’m going to make you a tuna melt if you are okay with that.” 

“I thought we’d just like, order in.” Shane’s eyebrows knit together ever so slightly. “You’re going to cook for me?” 

Ilya looks at him once again surprised that this man is so smart and yet so fucking stupid. “I say I make you food and you are still surprised I make you food. Do you not read texts I send, or?”

“No I just,” Shane shakes his head as though he’s erasing the etch-a-sketch plan he had in his mind and is attempting to draw a new one on the fly. “Do you like, actually cook?”

“Is tuna melt, Hollander, is not hard.” He wants to bite him; Shane is so adorable and infuriating. Instead he waits, giving the man time to finish the new vision Ilya knows he’s frantically sketching in his head.

“I like tuna melts, yeah,” Shane eventually confirms with a small smile. 

“Hokay,” Ilya nods, setting to work. They make small talk as Ilya gets their food ready and it’s boring, being together like this. Ilya doesn’t think he could stop grinning if he tried.

They take their plates to the couch and pretend to watch something on TV. Ilya is really watching Shane, who seems to be focused on his phone.

“Hayden says I play better after seeing you.” 

Ilya’s heart rate increases exponentially. “You told Hayden about–”

“No!” Shane’s eyes spread wide in terror. “No, never, no no no. Boston Lily, he thinks you’re a girl named Lily.” 

“Ah,” Ilya exhales sharply, his muscles unclench. “See this is why I name us this, all those years ago. I am smart and Pike is dumb.” 

Shane laughs. “He’s not dumb, but I’m definitely glad he’s not smarter. Every time he mentions you or Boston Lily I feel like my heart is going to fall out of my ass, but I don’t think he’s actually connected the dots.” 

“He would have to see dots to connect them. He cannot even see puck when is right in front of his face, so I do not think we have to worry.”

Shane puts his phone down and leans into Ilya’s side as though he belongs there, and Ilya wraps an arm around his shoulder. He loves playing house with this man. 

“Do any of the guys on your team know? Or like, suspect? About ‘Montreal Jane’, or whatever?” 

Ilya huffs out a little laugh. “Da, they chirp me about girl in Montreal. But they see me with so many women, I do not think they think anything more. They are not brightest tools in box.” 

Shane shifts a bit, not making eye contact, and Ilya pulls his head in to kiss his crown and let him rest on Ilya’s chest. “I like girls.” 

“I know.” 

“But I like you too. You know this?” 

Shane sighs. “I guess, yeah.” 

Ilya kisses his head again. “What are you, Pike trying to figure out where puck goes? No guessing. I like you, Shane. Is not maybe. I do.” 

Shane looks up at him. “Really?” 

Ilya takes a breath. Those damn eyes. He does not need his armour here. “Yes really. Is why I invite you over and light fires outside your house and give you endless orgasms. These are not things I do with people I do not like.” 

“I dunno, seems like you give orgasms to lots of people.” Shane is still looking uncomfortable, and Ilya tries to pull him out of his head with a joke.

“Yes because I am excellent lover, would be cruel to deprive world of this gift, but they do not get endless orgasms. That is only you.” 

Shane almost smiles. Ilya’s getting closer to his goal. 

“You’ve got a strict one orgasm only policy with everyone else?” 

Ilya laughs. “I said I am not cruel; women get at least two.” 

The almost-smile shifts almost imperceptively. “What about men?” Shane asks. 

Ilya’s smile falters. His armour clanks, ready to protect him. He takes another slow, steady breath, and chooses vulnerability instead. “There are no other men. Not for long time.” 

Shane sighs, his face drops for some reason. “Yeah. Men are pretty dangerous. Hard to find safe ones for hook-ups.” 

Ilya feels his heart stop. “Have you… did a man hurt you?” He holds his breath. 

Shane shakes his head. “No, not like that. I just mean it’s hard, you know… not being out. Trusting a stranger to not like, sell your secret to a tabloid. It’s scary.” 

Ilya nods. He hopes Shane isn’t just choosing him because his options are so limited, even though he knows that’s a possibility. The urge to run is strong, but his urge to stay is stronger. He needs to be brave, because Shane needs to know that this isn’t like the other ways Ilya spends his time. He’s not a filler in Ilya’s empty life; he’s the thing that’s missing. 

“Scary, yes,” Ilya gulps. “There is another… that is not… uh, this thing that we do,” Ilya reminds himself to breathe, he can do this, even in a foreign fucking language that still feels clumsy on his tongue after all these years. “The time we spend together, it is… I do not do this with anyone else. Man or woman. It is different, this. You are different, from others, you are… I know we cannot be more than this, but… You are more than them, Shane. To me.”

“I am?” Those damn trusting eyes. Always double checking, confirming, trusting Ilya to be clear when he knows Shane’s whole life has been spent trying to translate riddles. What a terrible honour it is, for a man who’s been trusted with so little in his life. To be trusted like this.

“Yes.” 

Shane’s eyes blink up at him and it’s Ilya’s turn to look away. This is more sharing than he’s used to and he knows he loves Shane so he’s fucked if Shane doesn’t love him back but he’s also really fucking fucked if he does and it’s all so overwhelming.

“Would you want to be more?” Shane asks. “If we could?” 

“We can’t.” His bravery has suddenly run out. Besides the professional repercussions and the fact he could literally never go home again, Ilya doesn’t get more. He’s never been able to have more. That’s not what he deserves. That’s never been in the cards for him, that’s not… 

“I would want to be, if we could.” 

Ilya stares at him. He desperately wants to be strong enough to carry anything Shane needs him to hold, but this… this hope for more might push him over the edge. 

Shane crawls into his lap, straddling him, wrapping his arms around him as Ilya’s face begins to crack. Fuck. He’s not strong enough for this. He’s supposed to do the caring, not be taken care of.

“Hey, heyyy,” Shane kisses across Ilya’s forehead, cradling his face so gently. “I got you, Ilya. I got you.” 

Ilya crumbles. Wracked sobs rip through his body. A dam has burst and a lifetime of tears are pouring out and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

Shane stays firmly planted in his lap and Ilya grasps at him like a buoy in an ocean of grief that’s threatening to consume him. He thinks he’s lost it and he’ll surely drown but he keeps clinging to this beautiful man, this lifeline in a hurricane. When Ilya finally succumbs to the current and lets the waves crash over him, dragging him below, Shane just… stays. Silent, solid, present. He doesn’t pull away or try to fix it or do anything at all except stay with Ilya in the middle of this storm. 

After several minutes, or possibly several sunlight days, ever so slowly, he begins to feel the weight of this grief shift. 

The tide retreats. The clouds begin to part. Ilya realizes he survived. 

They stay like this as Ilya’s breathing returns to normal, Shane sat solidly in his lap. Ilya’s heart rate slows once more; he inhales fully and pushes out the remaining stress with a forceful exhale. Sniffling, he slowly lifts his head off of Shane’s chest and risks looking up to survey the damage. 

“You’re safe,” Shane murmurs with the softest smile, wiping away the tear streaks along Ilya’s cheeks. “I got you.” 

“Sorry,” Ilya snuffles. 

“I thought we banned that word.” Shane kisses where the tears had formed rivers down his face. 

“I am supposed to be strong one,” Ilya whispers. Confesses. 

Shane puts his finger under Ilya’s chin and tilts his face up to look him in the eyes. “I’m strong too, asshole.” He smiles and Ilya’s heart flutters. Maybe not all hope is lost. Maybe Ilya’s more than just a caretaker. Maybe he’s allowed to be taken care of, too.

“You are,” he nods. “I know this. You are.” If anyone could do it, it would be Shane fucking Hollander.

“We’re allowed to cry in rooms where it’s safe, remember?” Shane kisses his lips so gently. 

“You are,” Ilya repeats. Other people, not me, he thinks to himself. 

“You’re allowed too, Ilya. All of you is… welcome. With me. Allowed. I… I want it all. Your chirps, your digs, your smiles, your fury, your tears. Everything.”

Ilya sniffles again. It’s all too much. “Fuck you, Hollander.” 

Shane grinds down on him playfully. “Whenever you’re ready, Rozanov.”

Ilya chomps him. 

Chapter End Notes

Me: this is going to be a happy tuna melt chapter.
The traumatized Russian man who lives in my brain: yes, happy. I will crash out, as treat.
Me: no, it’s– this is supposed to be like a cutesy little reprieve before we get into the trial.
Ilya fucking Rozanov balancing a lunch tray full of traumas: oops I drop something, let me just– whoopsie! here I will– ah, oh no! *whole tray crashes* I have, how you say, “reached my limit best-ie?”
Me: *grumbles*

This chapter was really not in my notes but the Bisexual Fucking Menace insisted so here we are I guess? Witness prep and trial coming up next, folks.

Chapter 16: balance on these eggshells you tell me to tread

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Wild Things by Alessia Cara

March 2017

“And you heard what your lawyer said–”

“Mom, it’s going to be fine.” 

Shane and his mother are on their way to meet with the Crown attorney for witness prep before the trial begins. Yuna also hired a lawyer to consult with Shane prior to this meeting, and Shane had thought the guy was a dick.

“I’m just reminding you, you can always say you don’t recall as an answer to any question you’re asked,” his mother continues. “It was years ago and you were only in the room for a moment, they can’t expect you to remember much!” 

“I remember enough,” Shane says through gritted teeth. “And they have the statements I gave to the Hockey Canada investigators, which I’m allowed to review to jog my memory.” 

“Yes, but you don’t have to,” she pushes back. “You’ve had a brain injury since–”

“It was a mild concussion.” Shane is regretting allowing his mother to come on this trip.

“I’m just saying, you–”

“Mom, enough,” Shane finally snaps. “I’m a grown-ass man and I want to help this case in any way I can. I didn’t help her then, but maybe I can…” he finds himself overcome with emotion.

“Oh Shane!” Yuna frets, pulling him into a hug. “You are such a good boy.”

“I’m really not,” he huffs, allowing the embrace for the minimum amount of time so as not to be rude. “This is literally the least I can do. Like, actually. The legal bare minimum. I wish I could do more, honestly.” 

His mother makes a face that’s so painfully adoring it makes him angry. 

“What happened that night was fucked, Mom. I’m sorry to swear but it’s true. And stuff like that happens all the time, you don’t even know! You talk about these things like women are just liars who are going after innocent men, but these men aren’t fucking innocent! Most of the guys in hockey, even on my team… shit is really bad. Way worse than even the news makes it seem. Worse than you can imagine.” 

She looks at him like she’s maybe seeing him for the first time. “Have you… have they…? Has someone hurt you?” 

“What?” Shane can’t believe she still doesn’t get it. “No, I’m not talking about me! I’m talking about how guys talk about girls. The things they do, the stuff they say, the way they think about them! Even their girlfriends, their wives… it’s really really gross.” 

“Oh.” 

Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen his mother speechless before. 

“You’ve never said.” 

He laughs and he knows it sounds cruel. “What the fuck am I supposed to say? ‘Oh yeah practice was good, except for when the guys were betting how many swamp donkeys they could bag on camera to laugh about later?’ Or maybe ‘hockey camp was fun, until they found out I could do the splits and started asking how many sluts I teabagged?’ I’m sure you would have been chill about the team folder they had in AAA filled with all the nudes that guys received, because ‘a picture for one is a picture for all.’ Be serious, Mom, it’s not the kind of stuff I can talk to you about! Hockey? Sure, but hockey culture?? Locker room culture? Absolutely not, no way.” 

Yuna stops walking and looks at him. Really looks at him. His gaze drops to the pavement beneath their feet, he doesn’t want to make eye contact. He wonders if he said too much. If he should have let her continue being delusional, continue seeing her beloved sport through rose-coloured glasses, a lifetime spent on the sideline and never in the rooms where violence was laughed about and people –women– like her were assaulted, abused, silenced, and forgotten about. 

“I’ll admit,” she begins slowly, “I don’t actually understand some of the words you just used. I can guess, of course, but…” she looks down to the ground for a moment. Then, raising her head again in an attempt to meet his eye, she continues. “I was always glad, you know, that we had a son instead of a daughter. Not so much to worry about.”

“Okay? Mom, I–” 

“Let me finish, Shane.” Shane shuts his mouth. 

“Growing up, I loved hockey. But my parents wouldn’t let me play. Not even ringette. It wasn’t ladylike, they said. My brothers got to play, but not me. And then when I was older, I had curfews while my brothers had freedom. I hated it. It felt so unfair. I was always desperate to prove I could be just as good as them, just as smart, just as strong. And then I had a son and I thought, here’s my chance. I can support him the way I wasn’t supported. And maybe he’ll do all the things I never could.” 

She takes a deep breath. There’s a glimmer of tears in the corner of her eyes. “I think I’ve spent so much time trying to support you to get into those rooms that I was never allowed in, that I never stopped to think that… that maybe things in those rooms weren’t so good.”

Reaching for his hand, she grasps it in both of her own, much smaller hands. “You know something your father said when all this news came out? He said he hoped it wasn’t you.” 

Shane frowns slightly, trying to absorb all of this information, knowing he’ll be processing it for some time. “Not me what?” 

Yuna sighs. She has the same look on her face as when she had to tell him – at age 12 – that actually no, Santa isn’t real. It had never occurred to him to doubt it. 

“I was going on about how ridiculous it all was and he said he believed it. He believed that girl. He said he hoped it wasn’t you who hurt her, but that it might have been, and that we still needed to believe the girl even if you were one of the boys who did it.” 

Shane doesn’t know what to say. His dad believed he was capable of that? His face must have belied his surprise, because Yuna continued. 

“He didn’t mean it in a judgemental way, it’s not that he assumes you’re a terrible person. But he and I have had a number of conversations since then and, well, you know your dad. Still waters run deep. Like you.” She reaches up and touches his face. “Even though things have come a long way since he was playing at McGill in the 80s, hockey is hockey and he says some things never change. The way men in hockey talk about women hasn’t changed. It’s quieter now, probably. People have the media training and good sense to not be so vocal about their beliefs. But, as you say, in locker rooms and places where they think they won’t be overheard… well. It’s been quite the learning journey for me, to listen to your dad’s old stories.” 

“You… but…” Shane stammers, trying to make sense of everything she’s just said.

She checks her watch. “Alright, enough of this now. You’ve got a meeting to get to, right?” 

Leave it to his mother to drop a bomb like that and keep on power walking. Shane knows he’ll have to emotionally sort through all of that later, so for now he just files it away and follows her lead. 

When he arrives at the Crown office, he’s led into a private room to wait. He’ll text his mother when he’s done; she’s not allowed to be here for this. As he’s waiting, his phone buzzes. 

Lily: You are brave.

He smiles, typing back “I am brave.” It’s a needed affirmation. 

When a middle-aged woman walks into the room, he stands to greet her, shaking her hand. 

“Hello Mr. Hollander, nice to meet you. My name is Lauren Connors, I’m one of the Crown attorneys and I’ll be the one leading your initial testimony.”

“Hi,” he says, his mouth suddenly feeling a bit dry. “Shane, please.” 

“Shane,” she nods, taking a seat opposite him at the table. “So, am I right in assuming you’ve never testified in a criminal trial before?”

“Yeah, no,” he laughs nervously. 

“Well, I’ll walk you through what’s going to happen, but there’s really nothing to worry about.” She smiles, perhaps trying to make him feel more comfortable. 

“You’re a Crown witness, which means your testimony helps us in our attempt to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the crimes alleged actually occurred. I’ll ask you a series of questions about what you witnessed that night, and I just want you to answer honestly. Don’t embellish or feel the need to fill in any blanks, just the facts of what you saw or heard. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” he nods. 

“So today, we’ll be going through that testimony. This isn’t to prepare you for what to say, but rather to help me so that I know what the facts are and can ask the right questions so that you can share those facts. At the trial, after our time together, the defense will also get a turn to ask you questions.”

“Cross defense, yeah.” His lawyer had talked to him about that already.

“That’s right. And this case is a little different, because there are five accused who each have their own team of lawyers. So you could be cross-examined by up to five different people, depending on what each team elects to do for their client.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she continues, “Each team of defense lawyers is only there to represent their specific client. So if your testimony doesn’t relate to what one of the men has been accused of– say you weren’t in the room during their alleged role in the events– then their lawyer is unlikely to have anything to cross you about, although technically they could choose to as part of a broader strategy. Does that make sense?” 

“No, yeah, no, I get that. But what’s the broader strategy?”

“The defense doesn’t have to prove anything, right? That’s my job. Their job is just to present possible alternatives, to create reasonable doubt about what happened and their client’s role in it. So they may ask you about the complainant’s behaviour or demeanor, or that of their client, if that’s the narrative they’re presenting.”

His frown deepens. He doesn’t like the sound of that. “So they can just like, make stuff up?”

Connors smiles and shakes her head. “Not make stuff up, no. But they can ‘suggest’ just about anything and frame it as a question for you to answer. One of their goals will be discrediting the witnesses that testify against their client, so that the jury will then discount that testimony.” 

“So they could suggest like, that it looked like she was into it? But then I would just say no, right? If that’s not what it looked like to me?” 

“Well yes, they could, but they’ll have a sense already from how you’ve answered my questions whether or not you seem to be a benefit or a liability to them. They’re pretty smart, so they’ll have ways of asking their questions that sort of… walk you down a garden path, as it were, agreeing to things that seem reasonable, and then they’ll use that to sort of flip the script. Change the narrative to one that benefits their client.”

Shane just sits there scowling. Change the fucking narrative? This sounds like bullshit. “But you can just object or something, right?”

“Under certain circumstances I can object, yes,” she gives another small smile. “But objections need to be grounded in legal precedent, not just a personal distaste for what they’re suggesting. There’s a strategy there, too. Too many objections and juries can get annoyed or feel like we’re trying to prevent the truth from coming out. So it’s all a bit of a balancing act.”

Connors continues. “Trials can feel scary, and this one even more so because of the media circus that’s sure to surround it. But your only job is to answer the questions asked of you honestly. You’re not there to prove anything one way or another, leave that to us.” She smiles again, another attempt to reassure him. 

He nods. He’s doing that a lot today. “Okay,” he says. This sounds like a dumpster fire, but alright. “Whatever you need.” 

When he finally gets home from the trip, Shane's mind is reeling. His testimony will mostly focus on only one of the guys, because that's all he can remember witnessing. There were other witnesses though. Maybe if they're all honest, they’ll be able to make a difference. Maybe. 

And if they're not, well… Shane is brave. Brave and scared and angry enough to finally fucking do something about it.

Chapter End Notes

Alright folks, we're getting to the trial now. Not the whole thing, just Shane's time on the stand and then what happens after. We're brave and scared and pissed the fuck off, let's goooo.

Chapter 17: in the same ship, we’re sinking

Chapter Notes

Chapter title comes from “Dead Men Don’t Rape” by Delilah Bon. Did not exist yet in the timeline of the fic, but it was what I blasted damn near every day of that fucking trial. Hell of a banger.

CW: Rampant victim blaming, misogyny, and homophobia in a gc of hockey bros, plus snippets of Shane’s testimony via Twitter reporting, where he’s recounting what he witnessed that night (SA). It’s a rough one, I’m not gonna lie. I purposefully kept the details fairly light here because: 1. I already wrote it in ch1, 2. it's a real case and is extremely searchable if you're desperately curious, and 3. my focus in this chapter is Ilya’s experience of Shane’s examination-in-chief and all the deeply profound insights he has on toxic masculinity that he’d never be able to articulate in English but fortunately we can see into his brain. Next chapter is Shane’s POV of his cross, so you’ll get into the courtroom for that.

Just a reminder that no one is forcing you to read this fic and that you're welcome to leave at any time. As I've said multiple times now, I'm working through some shit and I'm moderating comments to protect both my peace and that of other readers. If you think the entire premise of this fic is super fucked and you're still reading it, that's frankly on you and I don't need to hear about your masochistic life choices ❤️

May 2017

Ilya has been refreshing the CBC Twitter account all day, reading every update from the courthouse. He offered to be there, but Shane thought it would be too suspicious for Ilya to travel to London Ontario for seemingly no reason during such a huge hockey-focused case. 

Shane hasn’t been following the trial at all – he’s not allowed to, as a witness, and of course he’s a rule follower. Ilya has been reading the recaps once court adjourns every day though. It makes his stomach twist in knots to read what that young woman went through. It’s made all the worse by what she’s being put through now, in court. Nine days on the stand, seven of those spent in fierce cross-examinations. 

Ilya thinks that whoever she is, she is so incredibly brave. He hopes she’s surrounded by so much love, support, and comfort. That no matter what happens during this trial, she can find healing and peace and be able to move on with her life after so many years spent waiting for justice that may never come. 

@cbc Court is back in session after the morning break, and Shane Hollander is expected to be called as the next witness.

Ilya feels his chest clench. There are no cameras allowed inside the courtroom, but Shane had sent a selfie that morning. He was adorable in his well-fitted charcoal suit. Shane looked good no matter what he wore, but Ilya knew a stylist had helped him with this choice. 

@cbc Hollander did not go out drinking with teammates that night to celebrate their big win, despite being of legal drinking age.

Hollander hates going out drinking, Ilya wishes he could shout at this reporter. He was probably in his hotel room, alone, reading a book about hockey or else just staring out of a window. Shane needs his window time, Ilya thinks to himself. Time to just exist without stimulation and engagement and pressure. These people don’t know anything about him.

@cbc “I received a text saying… ‘anyone up for a gummer’” - Hollander. He goes on to clarify that a gummer is slang for oral sex.

Ilya might otherwise laugh at the idea of Shane having to explain sex slang to a room full of strangers if the circumstances weren’t so horrific. As it is, he just feels nauseated instead.

@cbc Hollander testifies he was brought to the room by one of his teammates. On the video of B.A. played earlier, a man can be heard saying he would “go get Holly.”

Ilya was glad they were only showing the videos to the actual court, and not livestreaming them on the internet. One of the defense lawyers had asked a previous witness whether it was normal to take “consent videos” of girls, and the man had said yes. Ilya was enraged– he’d never felt the need to take a video of a girl saying that their sex was consensual. Such videos were, in his opinion, extremely suspicious. The kind of thing someone would only do to cover their ass if they knew they hadn’t actually gotten enthusiastic consent throughout the encounter. No proof of anything at all, except that the person taking the video knows how to coerce someone. 

He continues refreshing the page on his phone, reading each update as it comes, while he makes himself a sandwich. The description of how many full-sized hockey players were in this small hotel room, all watching, towering over this poor girl… it’s so beyond fucked. Ilya has to take some deep breaths to calm himself. 

@cbc “The slap looked like it really hurt” Hollander testifies. He did not hear the complainant request to be spanked, he says.

Ilya needs to take a break from the live tweeting. 

He pulls on his shoes and heads out the door, deciding to go for a run. Perhaps it’ll help him burn off some of the rage he’s feeling. 

The trial has been infuriating to follow, right from the start. It was meant to be a trial by jury, but they were dismissed two days in. Something about a juror overhearing one of the defense lawyers saying something inappropriate at lunch time. Then another jury was brought in and they had listened to the survivor’s whole testimony before there was some sort of note passed to the judge and then defense moved to have them dismissed as well. 

There was an article about “jury tampering” by the protestors outside, but Ilya had listened to them on the news and didn’t think chants of “Justice Now” would be enough to sway a jury. Didn’t everyone want justice in this situation? The note said that the jurors felt one of the defense teams had been mocking them. Given the attitudes of the defense during cross-examinations, Ilya can only imagine how low they’d be willing to sink to get their rich clients off.

As it was, the case is now going to be decided by a judge alone. One woman, whose opinion will determine everything. He's not sure whether he's glad it's a woman or not– men suck, undoubtedly, but women can be just as bad. Internalized oppression is a bitch, and he’s seen all too many women dutifully act as shills for the patriarchy in their futile attempts of clinging at proximity to power as though that were the same thing as power itself. 

Ilya’s feet rhymically hitting the sidewalk helps to ground him. Despite all the problems in hockey– and there are many– he’s glad to be an athlete rather than a lawyer. He doesn’t know how they stomach it, having to defend such horrible people. Even the so-called good lawyers still have to work in such a flawed system, it must be exhausting. What he has to do is exhausting too, but at least goals are goals and the refs are mostly fair. 

His phone buzzes and he slows to a walk as he pulls it from his pocket. It’s his team group chat; the guys have clearly been following along with the trial too

Marlow: u guys watching the fags day in court? he’s such a fucking pussy lmao

Carmic: “it looked like it hurt” not as much as your gonna hurt next time we play you bud

Dibs: Marley’s last hit didn’t keep the cocksucker down for long, we just gotta keep trying

Vanny: bet he’s just jealous it wasn’t his ass getting smacked

Hammer: prolly wishes he’d been the one on the floor

St Si: you think he begs for it too?

Ilya’s free hand curls into a fist. He knows better than to punch a brick wall, but fuck if he isn’t tempted. Maybe he’ll shatter his hand and it’ll be a career-ending injury and he’ll never have to see any of these fuckers ever again. 

Maybe he should light their houses on fire. He knows where they live, after all. 

You think he begs for it too?

Their glee in the suffering of others, their desire to overpower and conquer and control those whom they regard as lesser, their hatred of women and their hatred of gays and their hatred of anyone, everyone, different to them, it’s all the same. These sad little men need losers in order to feel like winners, they need others to be small so that they can feel big, others to be weak so that they can feel strong. It’s disgusting. Dangerous. As though deep down they know they’re powerless little maggots and so they weaponize their dicks and their mouths and their fists in an attempt to brutalize those they can’t otherwise coerce into worshipping their fragile fucking egos. 

Ilya tries to control his breathing. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and holds it. 

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 

Release. 

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 

He opens his phone again and flips over to Jane’s chat automatically. Shane is busy doing important work. Ilya won’t interrupt. 

He scrolls through his contact list until he finds his agent’s number, and calls before he finishes formulating a plan. 

“What is the penalty for breaking my contract early?” he ends up asking by way of greeting. 

“Well, hello to you too, Rozanov,” his agent chuckles. “Contracts aren’t easy to end early, my boy. What’s going on?” 

“I wish to leave this team,” Ilya says simply. 

“You lose a bet or something?”

“No, it is… what if I need to move. For personal reasons. What happens?” He tries to be vague enough that his agent won’t connect the dots, and then realizes there is literally no way in hell anyone would be able to connect what he and Shane have so carefully hidden for so many years. 

“You get a girl into trouble? Need to make an honest woman out of someone back home?” 

“No no, not Russia,” Ilya says. He swallows, hoping this isn’t too reckless. “Canada. And no one is pregnant.” 

“Wouldn’t it be easier for her to join you in Boston?” 

Ilya takes a deep breath. “There is nothing tying me to Boston other than contract. My… the situation, um… Canada is home,” he finishes weakly. He really didn’t think this through. 

“Well Roz, if there’s not a nine month deadline, as it were, I’d say your best bet is to finish out the last year of your contract and look to be traded to a Canadian team once you’re a free agent next year. Where’s she located? Not Montreal, I hope.” 

“No, of course,” Ilya says. “Not Montreal.” He’s not sure why he feels so deflated. Obviously he can’t get traded to Montreal. He wouldn’t even want to, if he’s honest. Shane is the only good thing about that team.

“Ottawa’s looking for a star centre. Calgary, Winnipeg,” his agent continues. “Toronto probably can’t afford you with their current roster, but that could change by next year. Got any preferences?” 

“Ottawa, maybe. Toronto would be okay,” Ilya admits. 

“Neither of them are Boston, Roz. I hate to say it, but are you sure this girl is worth it? This kind of move, it could be a career killer. You’re great but you can’t carry a whole team on your back, kid.” 

“I will finish my contract but… yes,” Ilya decides to lean into his accent, “is worth it.” 

“I’ll make some calls, see what might be possible.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Anything you need, son. You just let me know, alright?” 

“Da.” 

There are more texts in his team’s group chat. All disgusting. He types back:

Rozzy: Maybe keep sexual fantasies about Hollander in diary, girls. Weird to have circle jerk about man in gc

He knows he’s using the very stereotypes he hates. Calling them girls, implying that they’re gay as though either of those things are negative. He hates himself and he does it anyways, because he needs them to stop fucking talking about Shane like that and he doesn’t know how else to end this. He'd rather hate himself for the way he shuts them down than hate himself -again- for saying nothing at all. 

He starts running again, and his pre-frontal cortex finally catches up to the rabid squirrel that God put in charge of his impulse control. He suddenly has to stop in order to panic. Then he forces himself to keep going; maybe he can outrun the panic. 

Several minutes later he is sprinting faster than is medically advisable for someone whose body is insured for millions of dollars, and the panic has managed to keep pace. Despite the tenderness of their last visit, they haven’t actually talked about the future, or planning for the future, or whether Shane would actually want to plan for the future with Ilya, which he probably doesn’t because Ilya is the human embodiment of three sexy squirrels in a trenchcoat and Shane is literally God’s gift to this world. 

Except, Ilya reminds himself, Shane had said he would want more, if they could, and maybe that means he would want to plan a future. Maybe Ilya doesn't have to listen to that critical voice in his head, constantly reminding him he's not good enough. Maybe he gets to have more after all…

But even still, without further conversation, Ilya impulsively calling his agent and asking about moving to Ottawa was probably not the wisest move. Nor was him getting involved in the fucking group chat. 

At least the stupid brain squirrel hadn’t called his coach to quit. 

The likelihood that he and Shane can ever be anything more than what they are is slim to none, regardless of their feelings for each other. There are no out hockey players in the NHL. Certainly not on opposing teams. And definitely not ones who have spent their entire career in a very public and heated rivalry. 

Not in men’s hockey, anyways. Or any men’s sport that Ilya can think of. Women’s sports are miles ahead in that department, with lesbians really doing a lot to advance the gay agenda. God bless the lesbians, honestly. 

Ilya lets his body slow to a gentler pace, eventually coming to a stop. His chest is heaving, lungs burning, muscles aching– every ounce of his body screaming for his attention, and all he can think about is Shane. Shane, in that courtroom. Shane, being so brave. Shane, who is currently the topic of at least one group chat, if not many more. 

You think he begs for it too

These men wouldn’t know a gift if it kicked them in the face like a horse. Or whatever that English saying is, Ilya thinks to himself, turning to jog back home. 

When Shane texts during the lunch break, Ilya immediately hits the call button. 

“I’m in the bathroom at the courthouse,” Shane says quietly when he picks up. 

“More this afternoon?”

“Yeah, still gotta get through cross examination.” 

Ilya lets out a deep breath. “I am so proud of you.” 

Shane just huffs.

“What about after? You go back to Montreal?” 

“Nah, season’s done for me so I’m headed to my cottage. I’ll watch the playoffs from there, stay away from the craziness of this trial. The coverage was wild outside the courthouse this morning, people holding signs and yelling chirps, so many news cameras… it’ll be nice to escape.” 

Ilya nods and then, remembering Shane can’t see him right now, adds a “yes.” 

“Are you headed back, um, home, this summer? Or staying… where you are?” 

“Staying, probably,” Ilya sighs. “Have not been back since funeral, no reason.” 

“Any big plans?” 

“You know me,” Ilya deflects. 

“Would you ever want to, like…” Shane’s voice sounds tighter, as though he’s girding himself against some possible bad outcome. “You can say no, obviously. But if you ever wanted to visit my cottage, it–”

“Yes.” Ilya’s never wanted anything more. 

“-’s super private, and, wait did you say yes?” 

“Yes,” Ilya repeats. 

“You want to come to my cottage? Really?” 

“I want to come to your cottage.” Ilya thinks he can hear the stupid grin on Shane’s face. He wonders if Shane can hear the stupid grin on Ilya’s. 

“It’s private so we won’t have to worry about anything, we can just be together and relax,” Shane continues. 

Ilya’s heart feels like it’s floating. “I would like this very much. To relax. With you.” 

Shane releases a breath and giggles. Ilya loves that giggle. 

“When can you come?” “When do you want me?” They ask simultaneously. More laughter. A brief reprieve from the weight of what’s coming this afternoon.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya is three Russian squirrels in a trenchcoat and he lives in my brain and it is infuriating.

Also the complainant's initials B.A. stand for Bad Ass, because that is what all survivors are.

Chapter 18: ever felt like you were beaten but they left no bruises?

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Not All Men by Morgan St-Jean, another one of my trial bangers.

None of the actual hockey witnesses who weren’t on trial physically turned up in court, they all testified virtually because they had better shit to do or something. One of them was in a fucking hoodie, one of them cried on the stand because of how hard this was for HIM, and one of them was apparently fucking illiterate because he couldn’t even read the notes of his own interview from three years prior. A motion was made to read parts of his interview into court because he was so fucking noncompliant, and then the judge ended up striking it all anyways because he wouldn’t confirm if what he said then was true and he wasn’t under oath when he said it, so like... suffice it to say, the whole thing was a fucking shitshow.

Since I’m making Shane do what none of those fuckers had the balls to do, this testimony is very fictional. The attitudes of the defense are unfortunately very real. I hate them more than words.

CW for all the things. The legal system is bad, friends.

Same day, May 2017

As Shane walked into the courthouse that morning, he heard one of the protestors outside yell chirps at a lawyer. “Those barrister robes come in a child-sized medium, Whitehouse!? They get you a booster seat in the court?” Shane kept his face schooled, but internally he thought he would not want to faceoff with that tiny young woman in centre rink. 

He eats his lunch in a side chamber, not wanting to go through the hassle of security again. The courtroom was overwhelmingly orange-tinged, with ugly wood panelled walls and red carpets and bad fluorescent lights. It was also windowless, as is this room, and he wonders what the weather is like. Hot, probably, at this point in the day. This morning there had been only the slightest breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. 

He makes a mental note to never mention to Ilya that he thinks about the weather, even when he’s not making small talk. Shane doesn’t need to give the Russian any more ammunition for the ‘boring’ accusations. 

The courtroom seems strange to Shane, although he’s never spent much time in them so he doesn’t really have anything to compare it to. The room is long and narrow, with only about 40 seats in the gallery at the back. Most of the room is taken up by five huge tables lined up like school desks down one side of the room, each defendant and their legal team with their own space. The Crown team on the other side only has the one large desk, beside the first of the five tables closest to where the judge sits at the front of the room.

After he’s led back in he resumes his seat in the witness box beside the judge and she turns to speak to him. 

“As a reminder, Mr. Hollander, you are still under oath. Are you ready to continue?” 

“I am,” he nods. 

“Crown, your witness,” Justice Caillouet says. 

Lauren Connors stands up from behind her desk. “We’re finished with our examination-in-chief, your honour.”

“Very well,” the justice nods. “Mr. Davenport, would you like to cross?”

A defense lawyer, presumably Mr. Davenport, stands up. “Mr. Hollander did not say anything during his testimony about witnessing my client engaged in any wrongdoing, so I will waive my right to cross examine him at this time.” 

The judge nods. “Ms. Giovanni?” 

A woman from the table behind Davenport stands. “I’ll also waive cross examination at this time, your Honour.” 

“Mr. Whitehouse?” 

The small middle-aged man from this morning stands, bringing a folder to the podium near the front of the room. “Thank you, your honour. Hello, Mr. Hollander. I’m Mr. Whitehouse, representing your former teammate Mr. Acosta. How are you today?”

“I’m okay,” Shane says, because he can’t say he had a lunchtime anxiety shit so epic it may as well have been directed by Peter Jackson.

“You mentioned during your examination-in-chief that, on the night of December 30, 2009, you saw Mr. Acosta slap the complainant’s buttocks so hard that, and I quote, ‘it looked like it really hurt,’ end quote, is that right?” 

Shane nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Did the complainant yell out in pain?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she stop what she was doing and turn around to say ‘don’t spank me’?”

“I don’t recall.” 

Mr. Whitehouse smiles, looking to the judge and then back at Shane. “You don’t recall if she said to stop? If it really hurt, she would have, right? That’s what most people do when something hurts.”

“Objection," the Crown says. "Relevance, your honour. What ‘most people’ would or wouldn’t do is not at issue, Mr. Hollander is here only to say what he did and did not witness."

“Sustained.”

“I’ll reframe,” Mr. Whitehouse continues, “Mr. Hollander, do you remember the complainant telling my client to stop?” 

“I don’t recall,” Shane says again.

“So the answer is no then,” Mr. Whitehouse smiles. “You don’t recall her telling my client to stop. That’s what you’re saying, correct?” 

Shane grits his teeth. “Yes.” 

“So she didn’t cry out, she didn’t tell him to stop. Are you aware, Mr. Hollander, that some people enjoy spanking during sexual activity?” 

Shane looks at the Crown. She gives the smallest nod; she’s not going to object. He just needs to answer the question he’s being asked, no elaboration. 

“I am,” he says tersely. 

“And so isn’t it possible that what you’re calling a ‘hard slap’ was actually just a playful spank?” 

“It wasn’t playful,” Shane says. “Jer– Mr. Acosta– he rubbed his hand afterwards, he hit her so hard he hurt his own hand. It was a hard slap.”

“You’re a hockey player, isn’t that right Mr. Hollander?” Whitehouse suddenly changes topics. 

“Yeah?”

“A good one, too, I’ve heard. Two Cups under your belt, congratulations.” The smarmy smile is still plastered across the man’s face, and Shane cracks his knuckles between his knees, below the wooden partition in front of him. Whitehouse continues. “So you’ve had your fair share of knocks and bruises, correct?” 

“I guess?” Shane responds. 

“How would the impact compare with what you’re saying you witnessed Mr. Acosta engaging in with the complainant?” 

“Um, well,” Shane’s not quite sure how to answer. “I mean in hockey we’re all wearing padding so like, I don’t think it’s really a comparison?” 

“So not as strong, then?” 

“I mean it wasn’t a body check, no. As I said, it was a very hard slap on her bare, um… bum.” 

“That she didn’t object to or pull away from. And when Mr. Acosta supposedly did this ‘very hard’ slap, how did you stop him?” 

“What?”

“Well you say that you witnessed a young woman being hit so hard it was painful, so I’m asking what you did to protect her from the supposed assault?” 

Shane feels the panic rising in his chest. He knew this question would be raised, he can do this. He takes a steadying breath. “I got so overwhelmed that I ran out of the room. It was not my proudest moment.” 

Whitehouse’s smile gets, if possible, even slimier. “Mr. Hollander, you expect this court to believe that you, a two-time Cup winner and medal-winning Olympian, the Canadian hockey superstar who thrives under pressure, you saw a woman being hurt and simply ran away?” 

Shane’s collar feels too tight, his pants are itching his skin, and a bead of perspiration rolls down his back. He swallows the saliva that’s rapidly accumulating as though even his mouth is sweating. “I wasn’t any of those things back then. I was just a kid.” His heart is pounding, stomach twisting.

“Just a kid,” Whitehouse recites back. “You were one of the oldest members of the team. The captain, in fact, were you not?” 

Blinking, his breath hitches. “I-I was the captain, yeah, but–” They were all young, of course, but yeah he was the fucking captain. He should have been the responsible one. He should have done more, done anything. But he hadn’t, he couldn’t, he…

“You expect us to believe that the gold-medal-winning team captain and number 2 draft pick overall saw a woman being hurt and ran out of the room?”

His collar feels like it’s getting tighter even though he knows that’s not possible, but somehow the shirt that fit perfectly fine this morning is threatening to choke him now. “I– it wasn’t– I did,” Shane stutters, guilt and shame rising up his throat. If he doesn’t die of asphyxiation then he might just drown in his own fear. “The whole scene was so chaotic– I’m not much of a partier– and it was so loud and guys were shouting things at her, telling her what to do, and then the slap, it was just– yeah, I ran, I mean…” he tries to catch his breath, tries to regain control, he can do this, he owes her this, he needs to pull himself together and lock the fuck in. “Yeah. That’s what happened. I ran. I wish I hadn’t. I saw a girl being hurt and I ran. You can think whatever you want about me for that, but I’m telling the truth about what I saw.”

Whitehouse just lets him sit in his admission for a moment. Shane wishes he could hop the board and run over to deck the man in his stupid ugly face. For all hockey’s problems, at least you're allowed to drop gloves if someone else throws the first punch. Surely this would count as a verbal assault, at the very least. 

Whitehouse is practically glowing in his cheap polyester robes. “Do you typically find parties to be overwhelming, Mr. Hollander?”

Shane swallows. Is the garden path that Connors had talked about? “I guess?” 

“And is it true, then, that you often do not go to parties as a result?” 

Flowers bloom all around at this softball of a question and Shane knows there’s trouble ahead but he might still be able to avoid it, maybe, if he just keeps his answers short enough. “Yes.” 

“So this party, that you were not going to attend until your teammate personally came and dragged you to it, it was already a lot for you, even without the additional factors of the complainant’s activities. Correct?” 

It’s a trick, it’s got to be a trick, but it’s also true and he’s supposed to tell the truth. Fuck. “Yes.”

“I will ask you then, Mr. Hollander: is it possible that you would have left this party, even if you had not seen Mr. Acosta do anything to the complainant?” 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. There’s a sharp corner up ahead in this stupid fucking garden maze, he can see it coming but he doesn’t know where it will lead and he can’t turn back now. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t typically attend parties, you’re not very social, you’ve already testified that this particular gathering was quite loud and overwhelming for you. It’s not a stretch to say that you might have left regardless.” 

"Objection, your honour, relevance," Connors interrupts. Hope blinks like sunlight through greenery above. 

"I do have a point, your honour," Mr. Whitehouse replies. 

"Get to it, Mr. Whitehouse," the justice responds. Light evaporates as the hedges close in around him. No way out but through. 

Whitehouse continues, “it’s possible that you left, not because a girl was being hurt, but because you were overwhelmed?"  

The flowers wilt, the garden path is made of dead roses and the thorns prick Shane's skin as they ensnare him. “It was both. I was overwhelmed and I saw her being hurt.” 

“Did you get security after you left?”

“I– no.” The ground has opened up; the path led to a ditch. 

“Did you call 911?” 

Down, down he goes, six feet underground. “No.” 

“Did you call a parent? A friend? Your coach? Anyone at all, who could have gone to the room and stopped the so-called assault without you having to personally return yourself.”

Shane’s mind flashes to icy blue eyes and clouds of smoke on the rooftop that night. Back in the courtroom, he realizes he wasn't on a path at all; he’s been digging his own grave all along. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“You didn’t tell anyone,” Whitehouse quotes, “because there was nothing to tell. It was just another party that you didn’t enjoy, and so you left.” 

Shane just stares at the man. He feels tears building in the corners of his eyes, but he will not cry here. He may be underground but he will not be buried, not all the way, he will not be entombed in this shame and grief and helplessness. There’s nothing more he can say here because this lawyer just keeps coming back to his own twisted story. He’s forcing Shane to become part of the topiary even though he knows it isn’t right. Acosta hurt that girl. They all did. But Shane ran, he ran and he didn’t get help and so his word isn’t good enough here. It’s useless. He’s useless.

“I made a mistake,” he says. It sounds small, even to his own ears. 

“Memories fade over time, Mr. Hollander. Actions in the moment paint a far more honest picture. So I ask you again: isn’t it possible that the reason you didn’t call for help, the reason you didn’t stop your teammates from their activities, was because at that time you did not actually witness any wrong-doing?”

Shane’s mind is swirling. The wall, he had been staring at that wall, there was a fleck, it was safer to look at the paint than the chaos of everything else and so that’s what he had focused on. 

“There was a lot going on,” Shane replies. Everything feels foggy. 

“I hear you, Mr. Hollander. It was loud, hard to make out what was being said?”

Shane nods. 

“Please answer verbally for the transcript, Mr. Hollander,” the judge says. 

“Yes.” 

“It’s possible that with so much going on, the sudden sound of a consensual spank sound might be the final straw for someone who’s not used to such activities. Right?” 

He feels like it’s in a daze. “He rubbed his hand. It hurt, he hurt his hand.” 

“Consensual spanking does that sometimes, Mr. Hollander. But as you’ve already testified, you did not hear her object or make any indication that she wasn’t enjoying it. Correct?” 

"I don't know."

"You've already testified to such, that you don't remember her objecting."

"Okay." 

"With so much going on, so much sound and chatter and noise, isn't it possible that she did consent, and you just didn't hear her?"

He was trying not to pay attention to her at all. There was a fleck in the paint on the wall. 

“Mr. Hollander?” 

“I don’t remember.” 

"So it's possible?"

Shane stares at him. Smarmy smile, beady eyes, the ugliness inside seeps through his scarred pores and Shane hates him. He hates this man.

"If you can't remember one way or the other," Whitehouse continues, "then you must admit it's possible. Like the Guardians winning the Cup next year. It's possible. Right?"

Shane sighs. "I guess."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes." It sounds like venom, but tastes like poison. There's nothing just about this so-called justice system.

After a beat of triumphant silence, Whitehouse turns to the judge. “I think that’s all the questions I have for this witness, your honour,” he says smugly, collecting his folder from the podium and returning to his seat. 

Connors stands. “Redirect, your Honour?” The judge nods. “Mr. Hollander, it is your testimony that you saw Mr. Acosta slapping the complainant’s buttocks so hard that it looked painful, is that correct?” 

“Yes,” Shane nods. 

“And you did not see or hear her positively affirm consent for such a strike through her words or actions, in any way?” 

“That’s right.” 

“Thank you.” Connors sits. 

When Shane gets back to his hotel room that night, he feels numb. He thinks about calling Ilya, but can’t bring himself to even look at his phone. He failed. He failed then and he failed now and he’s just a failure. No amount of winning will ever change that. 

The phone rings and Shane ignores it. He’s lying on this hotel bed, still in his outdoor clothes, utterly untethered to the world. He hasn’t checked online yet, too scared to face the music. He knows he will eventually though. He won’t be able to help himself. Just like he wasn’t able to help her, then or now. 

The phone rings again. He’s not ready yet. 

Time passes strangely as he floats through this endless void. He’s not sure if it’s been five minutes or five hours, but the phone is ringing once more and he realizes he can’t avoid it forever so he accepts the call. 

“Are you alone?” the Russian man asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“How are–”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Okay,” Ilya breathes a sigh. “We will not talk. But do not hang up.” 

Shane can hardly bring himself to care, but the little spark of curiosity that still flickers in him asks, “why?” 

“I cannot be there with you, but I am here with you. Even with no talking. I can just be here, with you, in this. Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya briefly switches to Russian. “Please, let me,” he adds in English, and Shane assumes it’s the translation.

I love you, Shane almost says. I wish you were here. You always know how to quiet the storm in my head. You’ve inspired me to grow into a version of myself that I didn’t know was possible, and even when my brain is screaming I remember how you look at me and know I can’t be so bad. I know I can be scared and brave and allowed, just as I am, all at the same time. Being with you is a terrible relief and I don't know how to put into words everything you mean to me.

Instead Shane says “okay.” He puts Ilya on speakerphone, rests the phone on his chest, and finds himself feeling slightly less alone. He remembers back to the summer when Ilya’s dad died; they had sat together on the phone then, too. Not together, but there. In some ways that’s how their relationship has always been. Just… presence. Breathing with each other when they couldn’t breathe with anyone else. Not together, but not alone. Something more than nothing, even if it’s never quite enough.

Eventually, after a long silence, Ilya murmurs “I am proud of you, kotyonok.” 

Shane huffs. “I sucked.”

“They suck,” Ilya counters. 

The shame he’s been stewing in, drowning in all afternoon boils away just enough for his rage to breach the surface. It flickers, floating at the front of his brain, small but bright and hot and strong. “This can’t be it,” Shane says with more conviction than he feels. “We can’t… we’ve got to change the fucking narrative.” 

“If anyone could do it, it would be you.” Ilya’s voice is impossibly soft. Comforting, like a blanket or a well-laced pair of skates. Grounding. Secure. 

“You’re still coming to the cottage?”

“I cannot wait.”

Chapter End Notes

Say it with me: the! legal! system! is! bad! This fictional cross, as written, probably would have taken around 20 minutes. The survivor in the real case withstood seven days of cross examinations that were far more aggressive, belittling, victim-shamey, and frankly traumatizing. Not just re-traumatizing (although that too), but a whole new trauma. From so-called professionals, as the victim of a crime. Her resiliency under fire was extraordinary and never should have been necessary. Survivor advocacy groups & legal associations across the country continue to push for reforms in no small part due to the atrocious way she (and all survivors, honestly) are treated on the stand. Canada's affirmative consent laws are great in theory but imo laws really only matter to the extent people can be successfully prosecuted for breaking them, which makes our consent laws next to useless.

Here are some depressing stats for you (feel free to stop reading now if you don't want to feel sadder): out of every 1000 sexual assaults in Canada, only around 60 are reported to police. Of those 60, only about 6 will end in a guilty verdict and only half of those found guilty will be sentenced to jail time (ie only 5% of SAs reported to police end in jail time for the perp). So yeah it's pretty fucking grim over here. And I'm not even pro-incarceration, like I'm an abolitionist at heart, but I also think if society is going to commit to something then we need to fucking do it well, you know?? Anyways. Let's go to the cottage, fuck this shit.

Source: Statistics Canada, Canadian Centre for Justice and Community Safety Statistics, Uniform Crime Reporting Survey, Integrated Criminal Court Survey, General Social Survey on Canadians’ Safety (Victimization); Cotter, A., 2024, “Criminal justice outcomes of sexual assault in Canada, 2015 to 2019”, Juristat, Statistics Canada Catalogue no. 85-002-X.

Chapter 19: we've both been very brave

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from I’ll Believe in Anything from Wolf Parade. Let's take a breath and get these boys together-together, making plans to set the world on fire. We’re going to the cottageee <3

CW: mention of domestic homicide towards the end of the chapter (Ilya’s lore is slightly different from canon and maybe possibly (probably) worse, I’m sorry)

End of May 2017

Lily: I cannot believe I am about to watch Scott Hunter win Cup.

Jane: He’s played amazingly this year

Lily: He is 100,000 years old. Older than thesaurus 

Jane: I told you, a thesaurus is like a dictionary, it’s not a dinosaur

Lily: Unlike Scott Hunter

Lily: What is he doing?

Jane: I don’t know? 

Jane: Oh my god?????

Jane: Did you see that???

Jane: That’s fucking crazy, holy shit!!

Jane: Ilya??

Shane tosses his phone down and resumes watching Scott Hunter make history by kissing a man in the middle of the ice after winning the fucking Cup. 

When his phone rings, he expects a deep Russian accent on the other end. Instead he hears his mother. 

“Did you see that, Shane?”

“Yeah, Mom, I think the whole world just saw that!” 

“It’s incredible, isn’t it sweetheart?” 

Shane is beaming and he doesn’t care. “Yeah. Amazing, honestly.” 

“He’s very brave,” Yuna says. "It's a big deal. For him, and... maybe for other people too?"

Shane, still watching the clip play over and over again on his screen, hardly hears what his mother is saying. "Yeah," he agrees.

“Oh Shane, your dad wants to say something to you.” In the background he hears a muffled voice say “no I don’t?” and his mother whisper “just talk to him!”

“Wow, Shane, big moment for hockey,” his dad says when he gets on the line.

“Huge.” He’s still in shock. 

“Alright well, I’ll leave you to your evening.” More murmurs, something about “just let the boy be!” 

“Mom, Dad, I’m going to call you back, I’ve got another call coming in.” 

He doesn’t. He just wants to savour this moment. Maybe the world isn’t so bad after all. Maybe there’s a place for him, for them, for people like them. Maybe he’s not as alone as he thought.

His Instagram feed is full of screenshots of the moment. Twitter is losing its collective mind. People are adding rainbow frames to their Facebook profiles. Shane loses himself in scrolling, soaking in the warm embrace that Hunter is receiving as though it’s Shane’s own. As though he really does belong in hockey after all. As though the reactions to his testimony aren’t the end of the road, and maybe there’s hope for this sport after all. Eventually he falls asleep on the couch, phone right beside him still playing the clip over and over. 

He wakes with a start to loud banging on his door. It’s pitch black outside but all his lights are on, so he can’t see what’s out there but feels very exposed in his currently well-lit fishtank of a cottage. Why hadn't he closed the blinds before it got dark? God, he hates being exposed like this, even in the middle of nowhere. It just feels wrong.

“Shane!” a familiar voice calls from outside. He runs to the front door and pulls it open to see Ilya standing in the pouring rain. 

Before he can say anything Ilya is crowding into him, their mouths locked, his body solidly pushed up against the wall in the foyer. The kisses are deep and messy and so very, very welcome. 

“I thought you weren’t flying in for another couple weeks, after the awards,” Shane pants as Ilya kisses down his neck and across his collarbone. 

“That was before, this is now,” Ilya growls, kicking the front door closed behind him as he claws at Shane’s torso, pinching his nipples, grabbing and squeezing and touching wherever he can reach.

“Did you drive here?” Shane can hardly process it. 

Ilya suddenly stops what he’s doing and sighs, resting his forehead against Shane’s shoulder. “No, I swim.” He then looks Shane in the eyes. “Yes, I drive. Three more stupid questions, Hollander, and then we are going to bed or else I will fuck you right here in doorway.” 

“You didn’t answer my text.”

“Correct. Two stupid questions left.” He grinds sharply with his hips.

“Did you just like, see the kiss and get in your car?” 

“Yes,” he bites at Shane’s neck. “One more.” 

Shane decides to say the thing he’s been thinking for ages, a big, brave, terrifying leap of faith out of this newly opened door. “Can we try… while you’re here, can we be honest with each other? Say what it is we’re really thinking and feeling?” 

Ilya looks at him, a million thoughts seemingly flashing across his eyes. “Yes. We can try.” 

“I don’t want to fuck here, it’s muddy.” 

Ilya picks Shane up and tosses him over his shoulder. “Bed is left or right?” 

Shane lets himself flop like a noodle. A safe, happy noodle. “Left, then up the stairs and straight down the hallway.”

A puff of air is pushed from his lungs as Ilya drops him onto the bed and he barely has a chance to breathe before the man is climbing on top of him, kissing and nipping and licking every bit of skin he can reach. 

“It’s been a while,” Shane pants, “so I might not last long.”

“Same, but we have time.” 

Shane pushes on Ilya and the Russian immediately stops what he’s doing, sitting up and tilting his head questioningly. 

“Same?” Shane asks. “You haven’t… with anyone else?” 

“Is not big deal,” Ilya says sheepishly. 

“But it’s been–”

“Months! I know! So can we please fuck now?” 

Shane smiles stupidly, gazing up at this gorgeous man. A world of possibilities sprawl across the horizon.

The sex is messy and joyful and, as predicted, over very fast. As they lay together, panting, sticky, and still partially dressed, Shane can’t help but giggle. 

“You came.”

“We both did, Shane, is why there is mess all over.” 

Shane looks over at him, still grinning like an idiot. “To the cottage. You came to my cottage.” 

Ilya smiles back, pressing a kiss onto Shane’s forehead. “I said I would.”

“You just got in your car and drove here.” 

“Da.” 

“You’re here,” Shane says. I love you, he thinks.

“Did I suck your brain out your dick and now this head is empty?” Ilya chuckles. “Da, I came. I see old man kiss boyfriend on TV and now here I am. Hunter cannot be only one getting laid tonight. Is like gay Christmas, but with hockey. All hockey gays fucking tonight, we cannot be left out.” 

Shane just keeps grinning. Ilya rolls his eyes fondly, and continues, “Hokay Hollander, I fucked your brain out and now you are stupid. We clean up and sleep and maybe brain is back in morning, we will see. Maybe I have to fuck it back in. Come on, where is bathroom.” 

When Shane wakes the next morning, it takes him a moment to remember whose chest he’s laying on and how he got here. He inhales deeply, breathing in Ilya’s scent. It still feels like a dream. 

“Did tooth mouse bring brain overnight?” Ilya mumbles, voice still sounding sleepy. “Check behind bed.” 

“Are you talking about the tooth fairy?” 

“What the fuck is fairy?” 

“What the fuck is a tooth mouse? Mice steal children’s teeth in Russia!?” 

“They do not steal,” Ilya explains, stifling a yawn. “They take baby tooth and leave coin and magic for growing big tooth. It is very fair trade. What is Canadian fairy nonsense?” 

“It’s not Canadian; it’s a thing from lots of places!” Shane giggles, swatting at him.

Ilya huffs. “You still have not said what this is. I think maybe you do not know. Mouse did not leave brains for you after all.” 

“Shut up!”

They take their time getting up. Shane goes to brush his teeth and rummages around in the cupboard under his sink, finding a new toothbrush in case Ilya needs it. He’s not sure if he packed anything at all before driving here in the middle of the night. 

He finds Ilya in the kitchen, searching in his cupboards. 

“Looking for anything in particular?” Shane smiles. He still can’t believe Ilya is here. 

“Coffee?” Ilya asks. 

“Ew,” he shudders, “coffee is basically just hot bitter bean juice, I can’t even stand the smell of it, uck.” Shane softens at Ilya’s horrified expression and decides to throw the man a line. “I have a French press and bean grinder for when my parents visit so like, I’m not saying it’s banned. But I don’t have any actual coffee here right now.” 

“Ya lyublyu tebya, no ty sumasshedshiy,” Ilya murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What does that mean?” 

“You are fucking crazy, Hollander,” he says smirking. 

“Well if I had known you were coming I would have bought groceries, Rozanov!” Shane begins to defend himself as they walk towards each other, pulled by invisible magnets. “But nooo, you see Hunter macking with some guy on TV and you get so horny that you–” 

Ilya cuts him off with a hard, deep kiss. Shane can’t remember what they were talking about. Moving towards the couch while maintaining contact with their lips, they manage to only knock over one lamp on their way. Ilya pulls Shane down on top of him and Shane goes gladly. 

Once Ilya is settled horizontally on the couch, Shane shuffles downwards, kissing across the man’s bare chest, licking along his abs, tugging at the waistband of his underwear. He frees Ilya’s length and immediately consumes it, sucking softly as it fills. This is one of Shane’s favourite things to do in the entire world. If he couldn’t play hockey, he would want to do this. Not professionally; just for Ilya. Maybe professionally for Ilya. 

Shane basks in the wonderfully filthy noises he can pull out of this gorgeous man. When Ilya starts murmuring in Russian, Shane knows he’s getting close. He increases his suction and reaches up a hand to twist Ilya’s nipple, happily swallowing the spill that soon follows. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya breathes heavily, “you are so fucking good at that.” 

Shane beams. “Learned from the best.” 

Ilya growls and grabs Shane’s hair, pulling him up roughly for a kiss. Shane lets it happen, happy to serve and to be rewarded for his service. Ilya’s free hand snakes down Shane’s side, slipping under his shorts. He lifts his hips to facilitate access, and Ilya begins tugging swiftly. This man is infuriatingly dexterous and does this fucking thumb thing and Shane is soon moaning into their open-mouthed kisses, cursing as the coiling heat rips through his pelvis and shoots into the hand of the man beneath him. 

He rests his weight down as soon as Ilya removes his hand and just breathes for a moment. God, he missed this. 

“Shane, I have fist full of your come, why you flop like dead whale?”

Groaning, Shane nips one of Ilya’s abs and then pulls himself up to get a napkin. 

“I’m hungry and dead and you don’t have your stupid bean juice because I didn’t know you were coming.” Shane pouts as Ilya wipes his hand clean with the proffered kleenex. His brain is finally catching up to the reality of this surprise visit and he does not like that he’s not better prepared.

Ilya snorts. “Was plan to starve before I arrive? You must have food, no?” 

“I have food but I don’t have coffee and you want coffee.” I love you.

"Shane, I can survive one morning without coffee. Is okay.” 

“But you always have ginger ale for me when I visit.” Please let me love you.

“Da because I know you are coming. You did not know. I did not know. Hunter rudely did not send out notice to all secret hockey gays before kissing man on TV and causing the thing, you know…”

“The thing?” 

Ilya grasps at the air trying to snatch the right word. “Da, the falling down thing, what do you call it, you know, the thing goes boom and they all go boom boom boom all in row, the thing!” 

Shane laughs. “Dominoes?” 

“Yes! Hunter did not say he is planning gay dominoes after winning Cup, so you do not know to buy coffee. Though really Hollander you should just have coffee, is insane not to. Is like very basic. Like not having water.” 

“Coffee isn’t water.” 

“Basically same thing.” 

“I assure you it’s not.” 

“Is.”

“Isn’t!”

“Is!”

Shane bites him. He can see why Ilya likes winning arguments this way. 

Early June 2017

Settling into a daily routine with Shane is so easy. Too easy. Even with all his fussiness and rules, Ilya finds himself slotting right into Shane’s life like a piece that was made to fit here all along. 

Shane cooks and then Ilya cleans. He reads, Ilya scrolls. They share memes and jokes and thoughts and orbits and it never feels like too much or not enough. Ilya doesn’t find himself wishing for solitude or wanting to escape. He doesn’t need to perform or prove or earn anything here. He’s allowed to just rest. Breathe. Be.

As he scoops sugar into his steaming mug of coffee and absentmindedly stirs, Ilya scrolls Twitter. One of the defendants had taken the stand the previous afternoon, and was due to continue his testimony this morning. 

Walking into the living room, Ilya asks “you following trial? One of the guys is on stand.”

Shane shakes his head from where he’s lying on the couch. “I had to take a break. I checked online after my testimony and it was like… really rough.”

Ilya crouches down in front of him, placing his mug on the side table. “You did your part. Is all you can do.” I love you.

“I didn’t do it very well.” Shane grimaces at the memory. 

“I am very proud of you.” Please let me love you.

“I think I hurt more than I helped, honestly.” 

Ilya kisses his forehead. “No, still better to speak than not. You did more than these other assholes, that is for sure.” And it’s true. Shane had done more than anyone, and it was infuriating that it wasn’t enough. He knows that people online are saying terrible things, and he’s glad that Shane isn’t obsessively following it like Ilya is. If it were up to him, he’d find the addresses of every single person who’s calling Shane a liar, who judging him for running that night, who think that he doesn’t deserve to wear the C he’s painstakingly earned time and time again. They don’t know anything about this beautiful, boring, dedicated man. They don’t deserve to.

“I hate their fucking lawyers,” Shane murmurs quietly. 

“Da,” Ilya nods. 

“The one who crossed me had the vibe of like… you know those weeny little kids who don't hit puberty until like 12th grade and spend all of high school getting shit for it?” 

This is the first time that Shane has really opened up about his experience on the stand; when he said he didn’t want to talk about it Ilya had respected that and hadn’t asked again. But now Shane is volunteering information and Ilya wants to make sure he understands all of it, but sometimes Shane drops vocabulary that he’s never had any reason to learn.

“What is weeny?” 

“Like small and sad, the type to always get picked last in gym, weeny, you know? This lawyer was like a grown-up weeny kid who’s been bullied by jocks his whole life and now his entire self-worth comes from defending assholes in court, because getting a whole-ass law degree was cheaper than all the therapy he actually needs.”

Ilya startles himself with his own laugh. “Damn, Hollander. You should chirp more on ice, could really make boys cry.”

“I don’t need to chirp, I just fucking win,” Shane huffs, small smile playing on his lips. They sit in silence for a moment, breathing together. “I’m still hoping the judge will make a good call, but even if she doesn’t… there’s gotta be more we can do, right? Maybe…I don’t know,” he sighs and roughly rubs his face as though the solution is right in front of him and he still can’t quite see it. 

“We will change narrative, yes?” 

“Yes, yeah. Somehow. I hope…” 

Ilya leans in to give another forehead kiss. “I believe in you, kotyonok.”

Shane sighs, his eyes gazing into the distance. The sentiment hangs in the air and Ilya decides to let him drop it for now. He knows that Shane moves at his own pace, processes slowly, and then executes flawlessly. He hopes Shane will share more when it’s right; a blind leap of faith that Ilya is willing to take for the man who always looks before he leaps. 

That afternoon, Ilya splashes around in the chilly water while Shane sits atop a boulder near the shore. Ilya swims towards him, kissing his foot and shin and craning his neck reaching for more. 

“Gimme kiss.” 

Shane does. Of course he does. 

“You’re cold,” the Canadian complains. 

“I thought you like cold, is like your culture no?” 

Shane laughs and Ilya finds himself beaming. “I don’t think Canadian culture is liking cold, it just is cold and we live here, so…”

“So Canadians just suffer? Culture is suffering?” 

“Well we were colonized by the British and live next to America so, kind of, yeah,” he chuckles. “We come by it honestly, at least.”

Ilya decides to casually shoot his shot, choosing to be brave. He said he’d try to be honest, after all. “I think I want Canadian passport.” He dives backwards into the water to buy himself time before having to check Shane’s reaction. 

“Not American? With working in Boston, aren’t you able to apply for PR– permanent residency– or whatever?” 

He shrugs. “Maybe. Better than Russian passport, any way. I could marry American, get green card that way.” 

Ilya sees every single muscle in Shane’s body freeze. Not a single movement. Faith, he’s taking a leap of faith, they’re trying to be honest.

“You’ve certainly got lots of options.” Shane’s still so stiff.

Ilya tries a different route. “I am free agent after next year, I could transfer to Canadian team…” 

The smallest quirk of an eyebrow. He really isn’t picking up what Ilya’s trying to put down. Leap of faith, he can do this, he can be brave for this man who’s been so brave already.

“Not Montreal, but, you know. Would make it easier…” he needs Shane to get what he’s trying to say. 

“Easier?”

This beautiful fucking moron. Please let me love you! Ilya wants to scream. “Ottawa is looking for star centre, my agent said–”

“You talked to your agent about this?” 

Uh oh. Ilya forgot that he wasn’t going to mention that. He steps back from the metaphorical edge; he’ll try the leap of faith later. 

“Is just idea, Hollander.” He splashes him to end this conversation. 

Later that night, Shane insists on making a campfire. 

“It’s fun, you’ll see.” 

They cuddle together on the padded bench Shane has near the firepit, and Ilya watches the flames dance. 

“You just sit and look at it?” he asks. 

“Yes, you just sit and look at it.”

“Canada is fun.”

“We love suffering, remember?” Shane elbows him and Ilya allows himself to be silenced.

“Did you ever hear the story about how fire came to the First People here?” Shane eventually asks. 

Ilya shakes his head. 

“The Iroquois say that there was a boy on his dream fast, which is like their coming of age ritual, who had been fasting for days in the wilderness, waiting for his Spirit Guardian to come to him and tell him what his future would be,” Shane begins to explain. “No vision came, day after day, and he thought he had been abandoned. On the last night though, a Great Bear appeared and said he needs to listen carefully, because he’s going to uncover a mystery that will help his people.” 

Ilya listens closely as Shane speaks. The wind shifts, and the smoke blows towards them. His eyes water but the scent is comforting, as though some deep evolutionary trench in the back of his mind knows this smell means safety and home. 

Shane continues. “A great storm brews that night, with thunder claps that rock the cave the boy’s sleeping in. He walks outside and sees two trees thrashing together in the wind, with sparks starting to fly. He’s scared but he remembers his dream and watches as these branches seem to fight together, but the fighting is like a dance, and they rub and rub and suddenly alight.”

“It’s terrifying; he’s never seen fire up close, but he knows this must be the mystery that his vision told him about. The next morning he takes two of the branches from those trees and tries to recreate it. He rubs them together quickly, over and over, wondering if he’s strong enough to recreate the magic.”

“He thinks about giving up but he doesn’t want to return to his village having failed to listen to the vision of his Guardian Bear, so he keeps trying. Rubbing them together fiercely, fighting until the sparks alight again. The Bear was right, he’d unlocked the mystery, and he shares fire with the world. And we’ve all benefited ever since.” 

Ilya watches as Shane finishes his story. He’s staring deep into the flames, apparently lost in the ancient tale. Then he shrugs, shaking his head. “That’s what they say, anyways.” 

“You know a lot,” Ilya says. I love you, he thinks. He wishes Shane could read his mind. Or maybe that he could read his. Sometimes he feels fluent in Shane, but then he doubts his own translation skills. Ilya doesn’t want to fuck this up. 

“One of my cottage friends when I was a kid was Mohawk, his grandfather used to tell that story when we had campfires. I always liked it. I’m not sure why.” 

Ilya nods. “Imagine seeing fire for first time in world and not running away? Very brave.” 

“Well he wanted to run, but something told him not to. He was scared and brave.” Shane looks at Ilya, nudging him. “Like you taught me.” 

“Scared and brave, yes.” 

There’s a glint in Shane’s eye and Ilya thinks it might be a tear. “Don’t marry an American,” Shane says.

“Okay.” Easiest promise Ilya’s ever made. 

Shane shifts and Ilya sighs, deciding to shuffle down and rest his head on Shane’s lap. Shane pets his hair and Ilya breathes in the comfort. He’s allowed to rest here. He never wants to leave.

“Are there Russian stories about the invention of fire that you heard growing up?” 

Ilya’s mind flashes to his oldest memories of flames. He certainly didn’t grow up sitting around campfires. Fire, for him, was the flick of a cigarette lighter. Not enough for warmth, just enough to be useful.

“Only fire was lighter,” Ilya admits. “I learned to use one when I was small. My hands were more steady than my mother’s.” 

After a moment of silence, Shane says “I’ve never heard you talk about your mother.”

“She died when I was young.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

The petting continues. Ilya’s grown around his mother’s absence, walled it off from the rest of his mind. It’s a door he rarely opens, to a room he’ll always have. He knows Shane is safe enough to peer inside with him, though. Ilya wants him to know the blueprints of his mind as well as Shane knows the architecture of every building he takes interest in. Better, even. 

“My father was… very mean to her.” Ilya takes a deep breath. “She was not weak, I do not want you to think that… she was strongest person I know. Protected me, from him. For as long as she could.” 

“That’s awful.” 

“Yes,” he agrees. “He was awful man. She was so beautiful. So brave. He hated her for it, I think. He did not want brave wife. Did not think that is what woman is for.” 

Shane breathes deeply, giving Ilya space to continue talking if he wants. He’s not sure what else to say. It’s been so long since he ventured into this room in his mind palace, even he’s not familiar with the contours of the space. 

“How did she die?” Shane eventually asks.

“By accident.” Ilya repeats the lie he was taught. “He accidentally choked her until she stop breathing.” He still remembers overhearing the fight, ear pressed against the unlocked door, too scared to open it for fear of what might happen next. It broke him and it made him who he is. He would do anything to make it different, and there’s nothing he can change. 

“Jesus fuck!” Shane exclaims before quickly returning to his softer tone. “Sorry! Sorry, fuck. What, um, what happened to him? Like he went to jail right?” 

Ilya huffs. Shane is so beautifully naive. “He is police. His friends are police. Government. Powerful men do not let powerful men go to jail.” 

Shane scoffs. “I wish they were all in jail.”

“Da,” Ilya nods. “I wish many things were different.” He remembers the hospital room two years ago, when Shane said he wished he was different. “Not you, though,” Ilya clarifies. “I like you just as you are, Shane Hollander.”

They sit in silence watching the fire for some time before Shane speaks again.

“Ilya I… I love you.” 

Ilya sits up. “Bozhe moi,” he murmurs to himself. “I mean– I love you too.” 

Shane looks like he might burst into tears. “Really?” 

“Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you so much.” Ilya can’t believe it. Except maybe… he can. Maybe this makes perfect sense. Maybe he’s allowed to have this. He quiets the voice in his head that says this can’t be happening, and lets himself be here now. His stomach swoops like he’s falling, but he’s not afraid; this must be what flying feels like. 

When the tears spill, Ilya kisses them, kisses Shane, repeating it in Russian again and again. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“What the fuck are we going to do,” Shane laughs through his tears. 

“We are very fucked,” Ilya admits with a grin. 

“You’d really move to Canada for me?” 

“I told you: for you I would do anything.”

Chapter End Notes

Me: "Canada" is a violent colonial state built on genocide and suffering, it's our home on Native land, bitch.
Also me: kicking my feet and giggling at the opportunity to make Canadian culture inside jokes. I contain multitudes.

Also that is a real Iroquois legend about the invention of fire and I always think of it whenever I sit by a campfire and marvel at the bravery of that young boy. Imagine not running away from fucking *fire* when you've never seen it before?? The layers and symbolism felt so aligned with this story and Shane’s journey, it makes me want to fucking scream.

Also also, not to be a bummer (but I am, it’s actually kind of my whole thing), but did you know that choking is one of the biggest red flags for future domestic homicide? Even consensual choking-- which obviously Irina's was not-- can cause accidental death.

The rise in "choking" (it's strangulation) as a sexual activity concerns me and so I'm standing on my lil soap box to remind everyone that there's no safe way to play with strangulation! Both windpipe and/or arterial pressure are inherently extremely high risk activities, and I'm saying this as a deeply perverted kinkster who's all about RACK (risk aware consensual kink). Delayed fatality from strangulation can occur days or even weeks after the event, and repeated experiences increase risk significantly. So like yes, yay boys in love in this chapter, but also maybe don’t fuck around with choking/strangulation and if you have experienced it (consensually or otherwise!) please get checked out by a doctor after.

Okay I love you next chapter soon byeee <3

Chapter 20: a boy at an open door

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from We Are Golden by Mika

"Wow I'm so surprised and disappointed in the US men's hockey team for disrespecting women like that" bestie I fear you have not been paying attention we've BEEN SAYING hockey fucking sucksssssss this is not a surprise to anyone!

Ugh, here have some cleansing smut, as a treat.

Still June 2017, later that night

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, shaking Ilya awake.

“Wha? Shane you okay?” He was fast asleep. 

“We could have it be a hockey school!” Shane continues excitedly. 

Ilya blinks. It is still dark outside. What the fuck is this man talking about.

“Hockey school?” 

“Yes! And the funds we raise could go to gender-based violence prevention! It would be two birds with one stone!”

“Birds?” His sleepy brain tries to catalogue the English idiom: Canadians apparently stone birds, not hares like they do back home. Okay, good to know. He still doesn’t understand what the fuck this man is talking about though.

“To change the fucking narrative!” Shane is way too animated for the middle of the fucking night. 

“God give me strength,” Ilya murmurs in Russian. Shane turns on a lamp and Ilya winces at the light. “Hollander, you had conversation in your brain while I was sleeping,” he tries to explain. “Start at beginning for me.”

“No yeah sorry,” Shane starts again with a shake of his head and the softest smile. “Okay so I was thinking about the trial, and what a shitshow everything is, and how it all ties into us too and our problem.”

“What problem?”

“Being in love.” 

Ilya huffs out a laugh. “Terrible problem, yes, okay. What is solution?” 

“We start a charity…”

Ilya listens as Shane lays out this whole five-year plan with multiple contingency sub-plans to get them geographically closer and soft launch their relationship in carefully curated stages. He must have stayed up thinking all this through. Ilya’s surprised he hasn’t pulled out a slide deck, although maybe he’s not at that point in the presentation yet. He’s making plans. For their future, the two of them. The man with the plan, who always looks before he leaps… Ilya feels the tears building and he lets them fall. Shane is planning a future together.

“... and then by that point we can– Ilya, hey!!” Shane notices the emotion streaming down his face. “Heyyy, it’s okay!” 

Ilya buries his face into Shane’s chest and Shane wraps his arms around him, kissing his head. 

“Allowed to cry,” Shane murmurs. 

Ilya sobs softly. “I did not know–” he sniffles, “–did not imagine we could have future. But here you are…” 

“The only future I want is one with you in it,” Shane murmurs into Ilya’s crown. “Not just behind locked doors. I’ve been trying to figure it out for ages. I didn’t think it was possible, but with the reception to Scott Hunter, it feels like maybe…”

“I am so mad that Hunter made this possible,” Ilya snuffles. “Idiot dinosaur man with hot boyfriend on ice. Changing our whole life. Very rude.” 

“You think his boyfriend is hot?” 

Ilya looks up at Shane to double check the vibe of the question. Nervousness. Ilya knows how to fix that. “Do you not have eyes? Da he is hot, could do way better than Hunter honestl–”

Shane playfully shoves Ilya off his chest. “Okay never mind my plan.” 

Ilya rolls back on top of him. “No I love plan, tell me more! Show me spreadsheets, I know there are spreadshee–”

“Fuck you!” Shane giggles. 

“Tax return, numbers, charity status, I know you do research!”

“Go back to Boston oh my god!” 

“But then who will teach hockey to charity children!” 

“Literally anyone else, you’re the fucking worst!”

The next morning, Ilya wakes before Shane. He wasn’t the one who had been up all night researching charity registration processes, after all. He showers, quickly and quietly, and then heads to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. 

He’s been here for over a week now and in many ways he’s still getting used to it, but then there are moments when it feels like they’ve been doing this for years. There are some things they’ve been doing for years, of course, but Ilya making himself coffee in Shane’s cottage kitchen is definitely not one of those things so it’s strange how familiar it already feels.

Ilya debates whether to drink it here or to bring it back to bed. The idea of cuddling a sleeping Shane does sound quite tempting, although Ilya’s not sure if the fussy man’s rules about no food or ‘outdoor clothes’ (whatever the fuck those are) in bed also extend to drinks. He’ll have to double check. Until he can clarify, he’ll take his mug down to the water and enjoy the sunrise. 

“I found my person, mama,” he murmurs in Russian. “He is incredible. Brave, like you, and so beautiful. He is funny and smart and kind and boring. Perfect. Like you were perfect. I wish you could meet him. Know him. You would have loved him… like I love him. I miss you mama, but I feel you here, always.” He rests his hand on his chest, over her cross, and watches the sunrise over the horizon.

After some time, Shane joins him with a blanket. They cuddle as the sky turns from orange to blue, and it’s the most at-peace Ilya’s ever felt. 

Shane’s phone buzzes and he briefly checks it before stowing it again in his pocket. 

“My mom,” Shane offers as an answer to the question Ilya didn’t ask. “Closing statements are starting, so the trial will be wrapping up soon.” 

“How are you feeling about it all?” Ilya hopes it sounds like an open door, an invitation rather than a demand. 

Shane sighs. “I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about it. I thought that I could make a difference, but with fumbling the cross and other witnesses all saying she seemed to be into it… I don’t know how much sway my testimony will really hold.” 

“Even if other people say bullshit, if judge makes bad call… you saying the truth, that still matters.” Ilya wishes he could offer more comfort, but he knows that the so-called justice system is anything but just. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Shane murmurs. He takes a deep breath. Ilya gives him space to share more or not. It feels less like faith and more like trust. 

“It’s all tied together, isn’t it?” Shane continues. “Have you noticed? The way they talk about women, about faggots, being Asian, being different, the shit I’ve heard… basically anyone who isn’t white and straight and super bro-y/caveman/whatever gets such fucking shit, you know?”

Ilya nods, not wanting to interrupt his flow.

“When they talk about cocksuckers they’re talking about us. And maybe they’re don’t even know that but like… all of it, the whispers and slurs and posturing and taunts and threats and punches and rapes, god, in hotel rooms and locker rooms and on the ice and online, it’s all the same fucking thing. Or comes from the same place I think, obviously some things are worse than others, I’m not trying to compare–” he shakes his head, re-gathering his thoughts, and Ilya rubs his hand soothingly up and down Shane’s back. He wants to give him space to pour out everything he’s been holding inside.

“It’s like there’s this twisted rotten root system underneath it all and I…” Shane takes a stuttering breath, “I fucking love hockey,” he exhales with a fragile laugh, “and I thought this shit was just part of the package… but it shouldn’t be. It doesn’t have to be, maybe? I don’t know. Hunter kissed his boyfriend on the ice at the same time as guys are on the stand spewing bullshit and the internet is full of rainbows while this girl is getting crucified and I just need to fucking do something, you know?”

“So we do something,” Ilya nods, pulling Shane even closer with his arm wrapped around his waist. “You are right, is all the same thing. Nasty infection, poisoning everything. So we do something.” 

“Yeah,” Shane nods, taking another steadying breath. “That’s where the charity comes in. Not just as a plan to let us be seen together in public, but I think it could do some real good, donating to causes that are working to end this shit. And with the hockey camp, maybe we can create a new normal for the next generation, you know? One that doesn’t involve drowning in a fucking cesspool just to play the game. It feels important.”

“Very important,” Ilya kisses the top of his head. 

“And I thought,” Shane pauses, breathing, building towards something. “Maybe we could name it after your mother?” 

Ilya’s overcome, eyes prickling with tears that seem to have been called forth from the depths of a dark hole within him that hasn’t seen light in many years. 

“If you… if you would want that?” Shane adds tentatively. When Ilya still doesn’t speak, because his mouth has forgotten how to work, Shane gently asks “what was her name?” 

“Irina,” Ilya murmurs. It’s been so long anyone asked. 

“That’s a beautiful name.” Shane does Ilya the courtesy of not trying to look at his face. 

“Yes,” Ilya whispers.

They sit there for some time, staring into the smooth water, cuddled and safe and steady and warm. The sun continues rising and the wind is gentle in the trees and birds chirp and squirrels frolic and everything is peaceful and nothing hurts.

Shane’s phone buzzes again and he checks it quickly and then puts it back into his pocket. “I know the internet is full of bad takes but have you…” he starts to pick at a seam on his shorts. “On your team, or like friends from other teams… have you heard any reactions? About the trial or my testimony or anything?”

Ilya’s mind travels back to his horrible group chat. “Have you?” he deflects, buying himself some time, wanting to know more about where the question may be coming from. 

“Our team chat has been weirdly quiet. Like, silent. At first I thought I was just being paranoid, but after hearing the other guys’ testimony… I don’t think it’s paranoia. I kinda think I stuck my neck out and they maybe want to chop it off? I asked Hayden what was up. He just had a baby though, so he hasn’t responded yet. I don’t know.” 

You are not crazy, your terrible team probably started a new GC talk shit about you behind your back, Ilya thinks to himself. He doesn’t say that, though. He’ll wait to see what Pike says. 

“Is Hayden good guy?” Ilya asks. “I know he is terrible hockey player, but…” he nudges Shane gently, trying to lighten the mood ever so slightly, wanting to remind Shane of the goodness that still exists in this world. 

Shane rewards him with a small raise to the corners of his mouth. “He’s a good guy, yeah. My best friend, honestly. He’ll tell me the truth, I trust him.” 

“Does he know about you?” 

“That I’m gay?”

“Da.” 

“No. I haven’t told anyone.” 

“Would he not be cool about it?” Ilya’s trying to get a read on the situation but it’s hard to separate Shane’s justified fear from his regular overthinking anxiety. 

“He’d probably be fine. His brother-in-law is like, well… has a husband, I guess I don’t know if he’s gay or bi or whatever. I had dinner with them a few years ago and it was normal, I guess? Hayden didn’t even tell me Jackie’s brother was coming, let alone it would be him and his husband. I thought maybe he knew about me but I think he just didn’t think I would care. Which I don’t, obviously, but…” 

Ilya kisses Shane’s shoulder, giving him time to sort through his thoughts. 

“I don’t know, the gay thing is one thing, and then the trial is a whole other thing, but then there’s the you-and-me of it all. You know, Rozanov and Hollander? And it feels like an even bigger thing, which is fucking crazy because that should be the least of our worries.” 

Ilya considers this. “I think you could probably come out without saying who you are fucking, Shane. And if he does not like what you said in court, he is bad guy. Which you say he is not, so…”

Shane chuckles a bit, but it doesn’t sound joyful. “Yeah I know that, it’s just… I don’t know. I feel like it doesn’t matter. If I can’t say I’m with you then like… why bother.” 

Ilya tries to break through the sadness of that with a joke. “I am very sexy so I understand why you want to shout us from roof.” 

“You have no idea,” Shane admits quietly. 

“I think I do,” Ilya nudges him. “It is very hard for me to not shout from roof either. If I could, I would tell everyone that I am with Shane Hollander, bravest man and almost-best hockey player.” He’s not lying. He thinks this relationship is probably his greatest achievement, although he would never admit that part out loud. 

“Yeah?” That sly smile is back and Ilya knows he succeeded. 

“Yes,” he confirms. “I would stand up and yell ‘Shane Hollander is mine’ and everyone would be very jealous that I won such a prize.” 

Shane takes Ilya’s hand and moves it into his lap, where Ilya can immediately feel the stirring response that his words are having. 

“Bed,” Ilya tries to command, perhaps slightly undermined by how enthusiastically he immediately scrambles to his feet.

Shane stands up more carefully, dusting off the back of his shorts. “Carry me again?” 

Ilya feels the growl escape from the back of his own throat and he quickly bends to take this man over his shoulder and bring him inside to where he belongs. 

Once he’s roughly tossed Shane onto the mattress, Ilya decides to confirm his suspicion. “You want to let go?” 

Shane looks up at him, nodding shyly. 

Ilya stretches his neck from side to side. He loves playing like this. “You are mine. Say.” 

“I am yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours.” 

“Again.

“Yours.”

Ilya leans over the man, grabbing his chin and licking the side of his face. “Mine,” he affirms with a possessive snarl. “I am going to get supplies from bathroom. Get naked, but do not start without me.” 

Shane begins removing his clothes, and Ilya walks slowly to the washroom, trying to control his own desires so that he can give Shane what he needs right now. He grabs some hand towels, lube, and the baby wipes that Shane had finally bought after Ilya convinced him how practical they are for cleanup. 

When Ilya steps back into the room, he quietly gasps. Shane is completely naked, kneeling on the floor with his palms up and his head bowed. He looks as though he could be in prayer. Ilya wants to spend the rest of his life worshiping him. 

He walks over and stops to stand right between Shane’s spread knees. The head remains bowed, and Ilya pets it gently before wrapping his fingers into a fist around the hair and tugging it back to force eye contact. “Mine,” he rumbles. 

“Yours.” Shane’s pupils are already blown. 

“Take out my cock,” Ilya orders. 

Shane pulls down the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants, and then looks up again for further instruction. 

Ilya gives the smallest nod, and Shane envelopes him with his mouth. With his tongue flat and throat relaxed, he messily swallows the length again and again. Ilya can see the mixture of saliva and precum leaking from the corners of Shane’s mouth; he’s making no attempt to keep his desire contained. 

Ilya loves how much Shane loves this. He loves watching him release control and let himself want, wild and messy and pure. He knows the man on his knees spent so many years trying to convince himself he shouldn’t want what he does, shouldn’t get what he needs, shouldn’t shouldn’t shouldn’t, and Ilya loves nothing more than to give him everything he desires. He wants to let him have it all, forever. He briefly considers letting Shane finish him like this, and then taking Shane with his fingers and mouth in return. But Ilya knows what he really needs is to be filled, fucked beyond conscious thought, and fingers just won’t quite cut it. 

“What a beautiful sight,” Ilya murmurs, softly dragging a thumb across Shane’s cheek. Shane sighs happily at the praise and then picks up the pace of his ministrations. Ilya knows he needs to move them along if they have any chance of following his current plan. 

“Bed now, kotyonok,” he says gently. Shane looks up at him with those big, beautiful doe eyes and Ilya knows he’s begging to continue his current activity. Ilya pulls his hips back, sliding softly out of Shane’s open mouth. “Bed,” he repeats. 

In a fluid movement Shane is off the ground and up onto the mattress, quickly resuming his kneeled position and awaiting the next command. 

Ilya slowly considers him. He likes how being observed makes Shane squirm. The internal battle of wills, years of needing to hide melted away by the burning desire to be seen. There’s something so intimate about Shane letting Ilya see him like this, his most vulnerable and messy inner self. The utter surrender to his animal body, releasing his carefully practiced control and handing the reins over so that he can truly lose himself in the safety of this space, knowing that Ilya won’t let him drown. It’s a gift, really. An honour Ilya doesn’t take lightly. He walks slowly around the bed and Shane stays put, following Ilya’s movement only with his eyes until he’s past even the periphery. Then, slowly, Shane bows his head once more. The absolute trust makes Ilya dizzy. 

“Face into the sheets.” Ilya barely has to speak above a whisper. Shane presents his ass beautifully, arms stretched loosely over his head, and Ilya once again finds himself marvelling at the sight. He climbs onto the bed behind him and ghosts a finger under the swell of his ass where it meets his thigh. Shane shivers, but maintains his position. Ilya smiles to himself as he spreads Shane open with both hands and uses his tongue to drag a long line from tip to tail. 

“Oh fu–” Shane seems to bite the sheet to stop himself.

“I want to hear you, my love,” Ilya says quietly before returning his tongue to its work. He laps and licks, circling gently, sweeping back and forth and up and down. His thumb presses on Shane's perineum as he starts to tease the prostate externally, knowing it won't be nearly enough. 

“Fuck,” Shane mumbles into the mattress. 

“Louder,” Ilya instructs. He thrusts the tip of his tongue into the entrance. 

“FUCKINngh…” Shane groans. 

Ilya continues moving his tongue in and out while using his hands to knead the thickly muscled ass in front of him. When the entrance seems relaxed enough, he uses the spit-slick to work a single digit in. 

“M-more.” 

Ilya fucks his pointer finger in and out. 

“Please more, need more, please,” Shane begins to whine. 

Ilya continues with one finger. He wonders how long it will take Shane to catch on to the game. 

His hips jut back in demand and Ilya holds the digit steady, no longer moving it at all. 

“Ilya,” Shane whines. “Please more, I need you, please, please!” 

“Feeling needy, kotyonok?” 

Another hip thrust. “Please.”

“Who gives you what you need?” Ilya asks, his tone low and sultry. 

The hips still. Shane sighs. “You do.” 

“Who?” 

“You give me what I need, Ilya.” 

“And do you want me to give you what you need, or do you want to keep trying to take it for yourself? Who’s in charge, kotyonok.” He watches as the muscles across Shane’s back relax ever so slightly. The hips sag. The breathing slows. Shane’s giving control over to Ilya. Completely. 

Ilya kisses Shane’s ass as he leans over to get the lube. “Good boy,” he murmurs. 

Shane shoulders slump even further into the bed. 

Muscles now relaxed, Ilya is able to work efficiently to get the man ready. It helps that they just did this yesterday. And two days before that. Shane probably doesn’t even need the prep, but Ilya likes to do it anyways. It’s part of the ritual, and ritual is important. 

He reaches to the side table and pulls out a condom, sliding it down his length and adding more lube. He wipes his hand on the towel and lines himself up, pressing against Shane’s hole with not nearly enough pressure to enter. Ilya just wants to see what the other man will do. 

The muscles across Shane’s back ripple for a moment and then still again. He’s accepted that Ilya’s in charge. Trusting him to give Shane what he needs.  

With that knowledge pushing Ilya closer to his own edge before even getting in there, he finally lets himself fuck into Shane with purpose. Half his length at first, in and out a few times, giving a chance to adjust, and then with a single thrust he bottoms out and the gasping groan from the man beneath him is exquisite. 

Ilya focuses all of his attention to Shane’s back. He loves watching how the usually tense muscles soften, how loose he can get this man as he does this beautiful act of service. Shane’s whole chest is now flat against the bed; he’s allowing himself to sink deeper into the mattress as Ilya drives into him again and again. 

The moans are delicious and Ilya listens carefully for a change in rhythm or pitch; likely the only warning he’ll get for Shane’s climax. The Canadian is well beyond words at this point. 

Ilya squeezes tightly on the hips in front of him, wanting not only to deepen his impact but also maybe even leave the ghost of a mark. Shane’s pain of choice is usually overstimulation, but summer is a rare chance to leave something more than loosened muscles behind without questions being asked in the locker room after. 

The groans turn breathier and Ilya knows he’s close. He keeps up his pace but doesn’t increase it, knowing the build-up will be deliciously frustrating and the final result will be explosive. 

Shane’s arms are still above his head and Ilya smiles knowing he’s about to make this man come untouched once again. He loves when Shane relaxes enough, trusts enough to let this happen. 

Ilya’s hope of fucking Shane into overstim is quickly dashed when the contractions from Shane’s orgasm force Ilya’s own almost immediately. He grunts as the waves of pleasure crash over him, stuttering to a stop and leaning forward to kiss Shane wherever he can reach. 

He pulls out slowly, holding onto the base of the condom with one hand while squeezing Shane’s hip gently with the other. Once he’s out Shane immediately collapses onto his side, and Ilya makes quick work of disposal so that he can cuddle into Shane as soon as possible. 

Shane’s subspace is beautiful to witness. His glassy eyes, flushed face, and fucked-out smile fill Ilya’s chest with pride and affection. He knows that when the other man is this far gone, he won’t be verbal for a while. Ilya uses the time to whisper affirmations into Shane’s ear, sealing each one with a kiss. 

“You are so precious, kotyonok. So good, just as you are. So allowed. I love you more than words. I hope you know how deeply I care.” 

And then, finding English too much, he continues in Russian. “The goodness in you is never lost or diminished. It is woven into your being, your very core is made of it. More precious than a diamond, more valuable than gold, your worth is beyond wealth and has been with you since your first breath. Your vulnerability is a beautiful gift to this world, I am forever grateful to witness you in every part of your life that you share with me. I will treasure you always. You are my sun, my stars, my guiding light. Thank you for choosing me. If you let me, I will choose you every day for the rest of my life. It is an honour to love you, and to be loved by you…”

He continues sharing all the thoughts and feelings he usually hides, knowing that Shane can truly receive them in this state. He’s beyond overthinking and intellectualizing, which is usually what prevents him from being able to hear such truths. Knowing too that Ilya can share these things freely because his own defenses are down as well. It’s a gift that’s given and received in both directions, just like all expressions of their love. 

Once he’s sure that Shane has moved from subspace to slumber, Ilya ninja rolls off the bed and pads to the kitchen to get water and prepare a snack for Shane’s inevitable hunger when he awakes. 

He prepares a plate of crackers, cheese, and veggies, and holds up a knife to an apple, debating whether to cut it now or wait until Shane’s awake. He won’t like it if it turns brown, but he’ll also probably tell Ilya not to fuss about cutting it if Ilya leaves it whole, and Ilya wants to cut it for him. Cut fruit is love, after all. He’s not always good with his words, especially not in English, but cut fruit is cut fruit in any language and Ilya’s pretty sure everyone knows that means love. 

He lets his eyes wander out the window as he continues pondering this conundrum. He expects to see trees. He expects to see water. He does not expect to see Yuna and David Hollander standing on the back porch, mouths agape, eyes oscillating between the knife in his hand and his bare chest. At least they can’t see through the counter. Unless they’ve been there long enough to have watched him walk out of Shane’s bedroom naked. Fuck.

Chapter End Notes

22 chapters? No is lie, liar told you that.

Look, this chapter really got away from me. I don’t know who’s in charge of these characters but it’s certainly not me. I had to break the chapter up and this is such a funny pause that I’m not even sorry about it. I’m uploading the next chapter right away though because I don’t want to leave you hanging (Ilya’s hung enough)

Chapter 21: we are not what you think we are

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from We Are Golden by Mika (again)

“Shane?”

Shane feels his face frown. He does not want to wake up yet. He reaches up grabby hands, wanting to pull his man back into bed for more cuddles. 

“It’s wake-up time, kotyonok.” 

“Cuddles!” Shane demands, eyes still closed, hands still empty despite his desperate little gestures. The bed used to be warm but now it’s all empty on one side and he does not like it.

“Shane your parents are here.” 

“Not funny,” Shane huffs, pulling the blanket up over his head. “Homophobia.” 

“Homo-what?” 

“Homophobia! Why no snuggles! Why do you hate meeee,” Shane whines. He’s never like this, except when he is, and it’s only around Ilya and only when Ilya fucks his brains out which Shane just needs sometimes because his brains are so fucking loud and–

“Hollander, wake up now.”

Shane opens his eyes at the change in tone. Ilya is fully dressed, standing above the bed, and he keeps glancing over his shoulder. Shane sits up, rubbing his eyes. Ilya hands him a glass of water, and puts a pile of folded clothes on the bed. As he drinks deeply, the Russian speaks again. 

“Your parents are on the back porch.”

Shane gags, water spilling down his front and also down his windpipe. 

“They saw me,” Ilya continues softly. “Your mother looked me in my eyes and sat down at the table outside. I think they are waiting for you.” 

“No,” he coughs out, trying to recover.  His brain refuses to hear this. This isn’t happening. Maybe he can drown himself with this water and not have to deal with anything else.

Ilya shifts awkwardly, looks over his shoulder once more, and then takes a deep breath. He squares up and gently takes the glass from Shane’s hand, placing it on the side table. “Okay step one, get dressed.” It’s his command voice. The one that always helps to quiet Shane’s brain, which is good because his brain is about to go 0 to 100 and he might just crash the fuck out.

Shane pulls a shirt over his head, and then slides into underwear and shorts. Looking down, he points out that “this is a Boston shirt.”

“What, they don’t know I play for Boston?” Ilya says with only a hint of a tease as he turns around to get another shirt for Shane. “I thought was just black, sorry.”

Shane sighs. This is fine. His lungs know how to work and everything is normal and so they saw Ilya, so what. He has friends here sometimes, Ilya could just be a friend. “I think me wearing your clothes would be a bit obvious.” He takes the proffered Voyageurs shirt and changes quickly and he doesn’t even need to remember how to breathe because his body is still working normally and everything is fine. 

Ilya’s eyes dart around the room. 

“What?”

“I think this is one of those, uh, what you say? The ship is sailing?” 

Shane doesn’t understand. “The ship?”

“Probably in Fiji by now.” 

“Ilya what are you talking about?” Why is this man speaking in fucking riddles. Shane was just awoken from an epic subspace nap and his brain is not fully online yet and talking about ships and Fiji and his parents being outside is not fucking helpful.

“I was not, uh,” Ilya winces with this quiet admission. “Wearing clothes. When they saw me I was… naked. In kitchen. Cutting fruit.”

“No,” Shane says again. Because that didn’t happen. There’s no way his parents saw Ilya Rozanov cutting fruit, naked, in Shane’s kitchen. Because why would he be cutting fruit! And why would he be wandering around naked! And why are his parents even here, what the fuck! Shane refuses to believe it. His brain will literally not process it. It. Did. Not. Happen. 

“Shane…”

“Ilya…” 

“Shane I know I fucked your brain out but I need your brain to come back now because your parents saw my dick and your papa maybe was going to run away but your mama looked into my soul and sat down and is for sure waiting out there,” Ilya says very quickly. “So like no rush but also maybe tiny rush.” 

Shane laughs again but it’s not a funny laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that comes out when your body doesn’t know what other sound to make. When your nervous system is so overloaded that all the signals get crossed and everything starts malfunctioning. “Ilya my parents didn’t see your dick because that would be insane!”

“Was not great.” 

“Ilya!” 

“Okay reframe, yes? Maybe seeing my dick answered all their questions and we can just have casual chat. They are probably saying ‘yes I get it’ and it is all chill now.” 

Shane’s laughter gets closer to real but oh my god and what the fuck. “You are the fucking worst I swear to– is there literally nothing that phases you?” 

Ilya shrugs. “I would not have picked this, but I cannot make it not-happen now. Past is past so now we just… do next best thing. Yes?” 

The next best thing. What’s the next best thing? Probably not hiding in his bedroom forever. Probably just going out there and talking to his parents. Probably telling them what he’s been meaning and wanting to tell them, which is that he's gay and he and Ilya are in love and happy and want to have a future together. But what if they don’t want him to be with Ilya. What if they can’t see past the Ra-Ra-Rasputin Russian Menace And All-Around Fuck-Boy Thing? What if they don’t approve, oh god–

“This is my nightmare,” Shane admits. 

“Yes,” Ilya nods. He puts his hands on Shane’s shoulders, bracing him. “So maybe it is time to wake up.” 

Shane takes a shaky breath. “Scared and brave,” he mutters, mostly to himself. 

“Scared and brave,” Ilya repeats.

“Will you, um…” Shane wants Ilya to hold his hand. He thinks he can do anything if this man holds his hand. “Will you come with me?” 

“For you, I will do anything.” 

—

“That was Rozanov, right?” David says out of the corner of his mouth as they watch the very muscular and extremely naked man scurry towards Shane’s bedroom after an awkwardly long and deeply unintentional staring contest. 

“Why would Rozanov be…” Yuna is still staring at the spot where his apple bottom disappeared up the stairs. 

“Honey, I think we should go.” 

“We are not going anywhere.” 

David knows better to argue when his wife has already made up her mind. 

“Well, at least we know Shane’s not lonely,” he offers. 

“David!”

“What?!”

“Rozanov is an absolute menace!” Yuna’s whisper-yelling despite the fact that the door is shut and the two of them are very much alone on this porch in the middle of nowhere.  “He’s rude, aggressive, careless, crass, I can’t imagine what Shane sees in him!” 

“I don’t think we need to imagine,” David chuckles, “I mean did you see his–”

“David James Hollander I swear to God–”

“Oh come on Yu, our boy is happy! It’s nice that he found someone who understands him, who cares if it’s Rozanov.” David loves hockey as a sport but he’s not nearly as obsessed with stats and records and gossip as his wife. “It makes sense he would be with a hockey player, if you think about it.” He wraps his hand around hers, giving a soft squeeze. 

“Of all the hockey players in the league, I just don’t know why he had to pick that one,” she huffs, and then softens ever so slightly. “Were there no nice men in Montreal?”

“I don’t know if anyone else on his team is exactly playing for his team, dear.”

“Why couldn’t he have picked Scott Hunter? He’s always seemed nice.”

“Scott Hunter is already taken,” David points out. “And is the only man Shane has ever punched on ice. Do you reckon Hunter insulted Rozanov?”

Yuna releases a small gasp. “Do you think it’s that serious?” 

David raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “I don’t remember ever making an after-sex-snack-plate with cut fruit for a one night stand back in my day. And Shane doesn’t exactly give this address away. If Rozanov is here, it’s probably something more than nothing.” 

“He didn’t cut the apple though, David. Cut fruit means something but he didn’t cut it.” 

“Well, I think we might have startled him.” 

Yuna groans. “Shane and Rozanov?”

“Give him a chance, maybe he’ll surprise you. He’s the second-best player in the league, isn’t he? Shane must see something in him.” 

She gasps louder this time and David turns quickly to look at her. “Oh my God, imagine their babies!” 

“Yuna, I think we’re a bit–” 

“The two best hockey players in the world combining their DNA??” She pulls out her phone.

“Sweetheart I don’t think–” 

“There was an article, I know there was an article. Was it in The New Yorker? Did you send it to me? You know the one I’m talking about right?”

“When I said give him a chance I just meant–” 

“Look!” She holds her phone in front of his face. “They’ve successfully created babies from same sex parents!” 

David holds the phone back in order to read what she’s found. “Yuna, this says it’s from two females.”

“Well you have to start somewhere.”

“And they were mice.” 

“I’m just saying, you’re the one who thinks we should be supportive,” she huffs again, pulling back her phone to return it to her pocket as they see movement inside the cottage. 

“Let’s be supportive without talking about their future babies just yet, hmm?” David pats her hand and she rolls her eyes.  

When they join Shane’s parents on the porch, his Dad stumbles to stand but his mother stays seated, staring, glaring. 

“Hi,” Shane says awkwardly. Ilya squeezes his hand. “Um. I wasn’t expecting company.” 

“We’re sorry for intruding,” David says quickly. “We were just worried about you, with the closing statements and everything.” 

“Right.” 

His mother glances at the empty chairs across the table, and Shane takes it as permission (instruction) to sit. Ilya pulls out the chairs for both of them and doesn’t let go of his hand the entire time. 

“So…” Shane starts, because apparently his mother isn’t going to. “I’m gay. Which I was going to tell you…”

Yuna looks at Ilya and then back at Shane. David moves his hand to squeeze her shoulder and she closes her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “Shane sweetheart, we love you just the way you are.” Her voice is softer than he’s heard it in years. 

“Oh.” 

She clears her throat. “I just… sorry, I’m just unclear where, um, how Rozanov, uh, fits. Into this.” 

Shane feels a flush spread across his cheeks and down his neck even though he’s sure his mother doesn’t mean what it sounds like she means.

“Ilya,” the Russian gently corrects. 

“Ilya,” Yuna repeats as though it’s a word not typically shared in polite company. 

“I think what your mother means to say is that we’re just wondering when you got so… friendly. With Ilya.” David manages to say the name a bit more naturally. “The being-gay-thing though, that’s great, son. Or not great, I mean hard, probably, I assume, but you know. Normal, that’s the word. It’s normal, being gay. We love you no matter what.”

Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand again and he knows he should probably say something. “Normal…” is all he manages, as his brain rapidly sorts through 26 years of every experience he’s ever had with his parents in an attempt to find every example of them ever being normal or not normal about the whole being-gay-thing, so that he can sort them into a mental chart. The phone call after Hunter’s Cup, normal, supportive. The offer to buy pride tape during his rookie season, which Shane loudly rebuffed, normal, supportive. His dad mentioned walking through the Ottawa Pride festival just last week but Shane thought he’d stumbled through it on his way home from work or something… 

He shakes his head, trying to re-focus on the question he was asked. “It’s been… a while, I guess, with Ilya,” Shane finally confirms. Ilya’s thumb rubs soothing circles over the back of his hand under the table. 

“Lillian!” Yuna startles, looking back and forth between them. “From the hospital, do you remember, David? Ilya, Lillian, Lillian is Rozanov!” and then she adds, “Ilya, sorry.” 

“Wow,” David nods, “Two years, I mean that’s… wow.” 

Shane isn’t sure what they’re talking about, but he was certainly doped up enough after that concussion that he can’t really be surprised. “Yeah, it’s been… longer. Than that.” 

“Longer?” Yuna asks, the celebratory smile on her face for connecting those dots quickly fading. “So… when?” 

“Um.” Shane looks over to Ilya. He’s not sure what counts as when they got together. They’ve never really defined it. 

Ilya raises his eyebrows slightly and Shane nods, encouraging him to answer. He doesn’t want to make Ilya uncomfortable by counting way longer than the Russian. 

“CCM photoshoot?” Ilya shrugs, still looking at Shane, whose eyes widen. That is a lot longer than he thought he would say.

“Which CCM photoshoot?” Yuna asks. “You’ve done so many.” 

Ilya looks at Yuna. “Summer before rookie season.” 

“Before…” Yuna starts saying as David just laughs “holy shit.” She swats at her husband’s chest and can’t help but smile ever so slightly. 

David’s laughter is bright and easy, and Shane feels something in his chest lighten. “Maybe your baby dreams aren’t so far off,” his dad whispers out of the corner of his mouth.

Shane frowns. “Baby…?” He and Ilya look at each other, confused. 

“I wasn’t… I was just saying!” Yuna defends herself as though this was a conversation they had all been a part of. “Obviously I thought we hated Ilya, but from a purely hockey skills perspective, I mean… you can’t deny the genetics.” 

“Genetics,” Ilya whispers, barely concealing a grin. 

“Do not,” Shane murmurs from the corner of his own mouth. He knows this man can’t resist being an absolute menace if given half the chance. 

“Shane,” Ilya smiles broadly and Shane already knows he’s lost the battle, “if you get me pregnant then we can have anchor baby for citizenship, problem solved.” 

Shane looks to the clear blue sky and wonders what the chances are that a bolt of lightning will strike him dead. 

“Are you trying to get citizenship?” Yuna asks, straightening her back. Shane can see her Momager Mode Activated. “Here, not in Boston?” 

Ilya nods. “I am free agent next year, if I move to Ottawa we would be closer.” 

“You would leave Boston? For Shane?” 

“You would rather have them raise their hockey-royalty-super-spawn in Boston?” David asks his wife. 

“No! No, but loyalty is important, that’s all I’m saying.” 

“He’s trying to be loyal to me, Mom.” Shane rolls his eyes. This is going better than expected but if they could stop talking about spawn that would certainly be an improvement. 

“So it’s serious, then? The two of you. You’re not just…”

“Just?” Shane asks for clarification, immediately regretting it. 

“Lovers,” his mom answers casually as though that’s not the worst word she could have picked.

“Ew!” Shane cringes, while at the same time Ilya says, “Yes.”

Shane looks to Ilya, horrified, and then realises the connotation of lovers if one were to translate it to Russian probably sounds a lot less gross than his immediate association. 

“Lovers, we, I–” Ilya takes a steadying breath, looking to Shane for clarification and comfort. Shane squeezes his hand in three small bursts, and Ilya continues. “I have only been in love with one person.” 

“Me too.” The small smile on Shane's face betrays far more than he means to give. “Only one.”

Yuna takes a breath and Shane thinks they might have stunned her into silence, but of course he can’t be that lucky. The inhale was just to support her full-speed launch into What’s Next. “Well, we don’t have anchor babies here, even if science caught up and you could, but spousal sponsorship would work, it's not the quickest of course but–” she suggests fucking marriage and then keeps on talking. And she says it way too casually, in Shane's opinion. As if getting married is the obvious and natural and super chill next step for the man she just found out her son has been sleeping with for almost a decade. Which, okay, that’s a pretty long time. But still! “–of course if you sign with Ottawa then a work visa will get the process started, which might be better because the wait times for sponsoring from outside the country can be–” 

Shane puts his head down on the table. Marriage and babies and hockey royalty and…

Ilya puts his hand on the back of Shane’s neck and Shane lets himself melt into it a bit. He prefers plans. He likes knowing what’s going to happen in advance and being able to prepare and plot and practice and none of this is going according to any type of script he ever would have imagined. 

“Shane,” Ilya leans in, speaking softly. “We’re safe here. The sun is shining, your parents are here, your boyfriend is here, we are making plans together. You’re safe.” 

One word in particular makes his brain go all fizzly. “Boyfriend?” He looks over to Ilya. 

“I think so, probably, yes. Before husband and then baby mama, if your mama gets her way.” 

“Oh my god,” Shane groans quietly. Underneath the layer of mortification, he notices that his chest doesn’t feel tight any more. Like he can breathe again. Because his parents know, and even though the Rozanov-of-it-all was a surprise, they’re making jokes and plans and no one is running away. They’re outside, in his favourite place in the entire world, not a locked door in sight. And maybe locked doors have their place sometimes, too. Or maybe just curtains. Or pants. Or calling ahead and knocking politely instead of wandering around back and staring in windows. That’s probably the solution instead of more locked doors, just basic common courtesy. He’ll have a chat about boundaries later, but right now he’s just breathing in the peace of it all. For the first time ever, they don’t need to hide. They’re allowed, just as they are.

Chapter End Notes

Did this chapter maybe sorta kinda veer slightly towards crack territory? Perhaps. But did I, personally, need this levity and warmth and easy acceptance? Abso-fruitly. The world is hard and scary and sometimes we just need to be seen and held and bullied about mpreg from the people who love us the most.

Also I deeply believe that Shane learned bullying-as-a-love-language from his parents and I will die on that hill. I will also die on the hill of Yuna googling “male/male baby making” because think of the hockey genes. Also also, my boy David was raised in the fuckin’ Soo and played hockey for god damn McGill so you best believe he swears like a sailor and thinks like a perv (/aff) when he’s not cosplaying as an Adult Professional Treasury Man Person.

Also also the XX mice thing is real, it happened in 2018 and when I went to google it to find the paper for y'all, I learned that they did it successfully with male mice in 2023 and you just know Yuna was losing her fucking mind about it in the family gc.

Chapter 22: I guess this just got kinda drastic

Chapter Notes

Chapter title from Desperate Measures by Marianas Trench. Seriously, this band is a Canadian staple and I am shocked that they’re not more well known elsewhere.

The Next Day

The ringing phone interrupts their kissing and Ilya looks at Shane as though the phone personally betrayed him. 

“It’s Hayden,” Shane says, checking the caller ID. “I need to get this, I–”

Ilya blows a raspberry and pulls back to give Shane space. 

“Hey man, how are you, how’s Jackie and the baby?” 

Ilya shuffles down on the couch and starts kissing just above Shane’s knee as he listens to the murmurs on the other end of the line. 

“Yeah no, I’ve been good, stressed obviously but…” 

He moves his kisses higher and then stops when Shane plants his hand on Ilya’s forehead. Ilya looks up and sees the man staring off into the middle distance; this isn’t a playful call. Sitting up, Ilya turns his head to the side questioningly. 

“They have.” It’s a statement. “Yeah, I guess I kinda figured.” 

Ilya feels his blood start to boil. 

“No man, it’s not your fault–”

It’s not not his fault, Ilya thinks. New baby or not, he should have noticed if a new fucking group chat started talking shit about his supposed best friend. 

“No yeah, that makes sense, I’m sorry, I–”

Shane and his god damn apologies. Ilya can’t sit still any longer, so he decides to be useful. He goes to the kitchen to get some water. 

“Really? Wow, that’s–” 

Coming back, he puts the glass in front of Shane on the coffee table and stands off to the side, still in Shane’s periphery so that his presence is felt but not suffocating. 

“No I mean he doesn’t have t–”

Shane’s eyes mist and he swallows hard. Ilya wishes he could fix this, but he’s long since known not everything is fixable. Some things you just survive. He waits.

“Thanks, man. I love you too.” When Shane hangs up, he sits in silence for a moment. His breath quickens, and he tosses the phone on the couch.

Ilya waits. 

Shane stands, fisting into his hair, and begins to walk in laboured silence. He strides along the perimeter of the space, huffing and groaning and not saying words yet. Around and around, orbiting ever inwards where Ilya waits, in the middle of the room, a lighthouse in the storm. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Shane murmurs, dragging his fingers across his scalp and down his face. His speed increases as he paces like an animal trapped, circling, searching for an exit as he moves closer to the centre, eyes scanning but not ready to land. 

Ilya waits. He keeps his own breath steady, inhaling slowly and visualizing the oxygen fill his body past his lungs and down his legs right into the floor. When he exhales, he pictures roots from the earth well below his feet are being pulled upwards and into him, anchoring him solidly to the ground. The sharp, sizzling rage he feels at the pain he’s witnessing is dulled as he narrows his focus into only what Shane needs right now. 

Shane is currently a pot boiling over, and Ilya will not add more of his own anger to the mix. He breathes in calm, and breathes out peace. He knows that his anger lives in his chest and that when he feeds it, it grows down his arms and into his fists. So he unclenches his fingers, stretching them out and rolling his wrists. In calm, out peace. His feet are flat, his knees unlocked, his back straight, his shoulders dropped. He will have time to feel his own feelings later. Right now, his only goal is to make room in his body to hold whatever it is Shane needs him to carry. 

Shane drops to his knees at Ilya’s feet, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s hips. Ilya’s fingers are soft and ready, carding through the man’s hair, gripping just enough to let Shane know he’s got him. Shane sobs. Ilya stays. Steady, strong, flexible. There’s nothing to fix right now. He lets Shane find his comfort here on his knees, for as long as he needs.

“Can we…” Shane eventually says as the crying dissipates. His voice still wrecked, “bed?” 

“Da, bed.” Ilya pulls him up, placing a hand firmly on each hip as he directs the man to the safety of their sheets. 

Shane pauses at the edge of the bed and looks at Ilya with bloodshot eyes and a pained face that Ilya does his best to interpret. “Clothes off?” 

Shane nods. Ilya helps him out of his shirt, slides down his shorts, and folds each piece with meticulous care. He takes off his own shirt as well, not wanting to further affront Shane’s senses with more fabric than necessary. They crawl into bed in their boxers and Shane curls into him, no longer crying but still clearly overwhelmed. Ilya rubs a firm hand up and down his back, grounding, careful to not overstimulate. 

“My team,” he eventually murmurs. Ilya kisses the top of his head, letting him take his time. 

“Hayden wasn’t in the new group chat,” he continues. “He didn’t notice the silence, he’s so busy taking care of Jackie and the kids. They’ve got too many kids, it’s just too many, I don't know why they don't stop. He’s with them all day and then changing diapers all night so that Jackie can sleep as much as possible between nursing sessions. I don’t know, that’s not the point, it’s just too many fucking kids…” 

Ilya breathes in calm, breathes out peace. He’ll have time to feel his feelings later.

Shane continues. “When I texted him, he reached out to JJ, who I guess was added to the chat and has been feeling fucked about it but didn’t know what to do–”

In calm, out peace. In calm, out peace.

“– he didn’t want to say anything because then they’d probably just start another one without him, too, and so he’s just been staying quiet. Didn’t want to tell me because it fucking sucks, and didn’t want to tell Hayden because, you know, new baby. But Hayden says JJ cried on the phone–” 

In calm, out fire. In violence, fuck Montreal– wait, no, calm. Peace. Calm. Peace.

“I guess they’ve been feeling betrayed or something, by my testimony? I don’t fucking know. I haven’t seen it yet, obviously, but it sounds like a lot of name calling and slurs and like, they’re basically planning a mutiny? Which is fucking insane, I don’t even...”

Ilya makes a mental note to double check what the word mutiny means. In the meantime, he’s ready to go into battle for this man.

“JJ’s been taking screenshots, and he told Hayden to tell me that he’ll back whatever play I want to make. Hayden will too. I’m just so…” Shane heaves a sigh that feels like the weight of the world is still resting on his shoulders. 

Ilya shifts slightly, looking down to see if Shane is ready for eye contact yet. He plants a kiss into the black hair he’s met with, waiting to see what else Shane needs to get off his chest. 

“Scared and brave, yes?” Ilya murmurs into the lingering silence.

“No,” Shane says, finally pulling back to meet Ilya’s eyes. “Pissed off and furious.” 

Ilya can’t help but smile as he sees the flicker of war in Shane’s dark brown eyes. 

—

When Ilya goes to Vegas for the awards later that week, Shane decides to use the time to start strategizing. He knows he’ll have to thread the needle carefully, but he can’t just stay quiet, and he also can’t captain a team that’s openly planning to sabotage him. He calls his agent, Farah Jalali, wanting to let her in on everything that’s been going on. 

“Shane, hi!” Farah says brightly. “Did you get my email?” 

He hasn’t really been checking his emails since the trial, since his season is over and his mom handles his brand stuff. “No, sorry, should I…”

“Oh! It’s okay, I wanted to arrange a call to talk about it anyways. How’re you doing?” 

Well fuck, he doesn’t know where to begin with answering that question. The happiest he’s ever been and simultaneously the worst he’s ever felt? Deliriously in love and also ready to riot? “I’m okay,” he lands on. “How about you?” 

“Not bad, busy season for me with contract negotiations in full swing. Which is what I wanted to touch base about, actually,” Farah says. “Montreal has put you up for a trade.” 

The birds stop singing as Shane plunges into a vacuum at those words. “They… what?” 

“It came out of nowhere on my end, and they’re really cutting it close with the deadline so I’m assuming it was a last minute decision,” she says with a kindness in her voice that he doesn’t think the Voyageurs deserve. 

Shane laughs. Big, breathy gaffaws escape his mouth as his torso rumbles and his shoulders shake. It’s not funny but it’s all he can manage. He’s more humble than most but even he knows he’s Shane Fucking Hollander. This might otherwise be devastating news if it wasn’t so fucking stupid.

“Not… not the typical reaction to trade news, I gotta admit,” Farah says after his hollow laughter fades. 

“Sorry, I just–” he’s still trying to wrap his mind around it. They must not know about the group chat, must not realise they’ve set themselves up for a massive PR problem and probably a fucking lawsuit if he felt so inclined. He still hasn’t really processed it yet, he knows the fear will come but right now it all feels… juvenile. Like he’s been picked last in gym class, despite being the most talented guy in the room. God, Ilya’s bravado must be rubbing off on him. 

Shane fills Farah in on what’s been going on. The bullshit in court, the screenshots from JJ, his desire to speak out. He doesn’t tell her about Ilya or the charity, not yet, not until he gets Rozanov’s permission. But in a thrilling moment of bravery towards the end of his schpeel, he finds himself saying “I don’t know if this matters in the grand scheme of things and I haven’t really told anyone but like… I am actually gay. So…” And with that, he finally runs out of steam.

Farah listened patiently during his entire monologue, not interrupting once. When it’s clear he’s finished speaking, she says, “Thank you for telling me.” She probably learned that as a canned response in agent school. Shane finds it comforting nonetheless. 

“All right,” she sighs, her brain clearly kicking into gear. “So that’s a lot, but I am with you 100% and we’re going to figure this out together. First things first: we gotta deal with the trade. It’s within their right to do it, but these screenshots definitely give us some leverage. I’m not sure that we could talk them out of trading you entirely, certainly not indefinitely, but if you’ve got some top choices for where you want to land then I think we have a hand to play. The cap limits us a bit, but no one in their right mind would turn away Shane Hollander if he actively wants to play for them. We could also go the lawsuit route and then they’ll have to keep you so that it doesn’t look like retaliation, but I’ve gotta warn you that that’s a very unpleasant road.”

“Yeah no, I don’t want to go back to court ever again. Fuck them, they can trade me if they want, I don’t want to win them any more cups.” 

Shane thinks about Boston, but immediately knows it’s not going to work. From what Ilya’s said over the years, their locker room isn’t any better than Montreal’s. It might even be worse. Plus, he’s always wanted to stay in Canada if he can. There’s a weird vein of national pride that runs through him, playing on a team in his home country, and he doesn’t want to lose that if he can help it. 

“What about Ottawa?” he asks. Ilya said they’re looking for a centre. They’re not exactly good, but he’s never heard of any obvious issues there either. They don’t tend to start fights in games but they know how to finish them: solid defense, decent wingers, admittedly bad goalie… maybe they could get a new one, though. 

“Ottawa is definitely doable,” Farah replies. “But they’re not exactly, well… being honest, we could aim higher, Shane.” 

“I get that, I just…” Shane takes a deep breath. He wishes Ilya was here for this conversation, but he knows his boyfriend will back his play no matter what. “I think I want Ottawa. It’s my hometown, and if I can’t be a Voyageur…” The weight of those words wash over him, finally sinking in. 

Oh fuck, he’s being traded. It’s an objectively stupid move strategically, and suddenly that makes it even worse. His brain catches up to what this actually means. For all the talk about ‘just playing hockey’, it’s clear that that was never true. The team doesn’t avoid Pride Night and eschew social issues because they want to focus on the sport; if the sport was their actual priority, they wouldn’t be so quick to throw away their best fucking player. 

It’s not about fucking hockey. Maybe it never has been. It’s about power: getting it, keeping it, and destroying anyone who threatens it. Shane’s testimony made him a liability, and they want to wash their hands of him as quickly as possible. 

They’re expecting him to go quietly. Polite, rule-following Shane Hollander. A good guy, if a bit naive, who’s never had any scandal except for telling the truth under oath when legally required. Doesn’t fight, barely chirps, just scores goals and beats records. They think he’ll walk out the door and close it quietly behind him.

They’re wrong.

Chapter End Notes

Oh they think mild-mannered Shane Hollander isn’t going to rock their shit? Good thing autistic people with justice sensitivity are famous for going quietly, right? Lmao get so fucking fucked, gentlemen.

Chapter 23: fired up and tired of the way that things have been

Chapter Notes

Chapter titles from Believer by Imagine Dragons

Fic title from First Day of My Life by Bright Eyes

All my love from the bottom of my gay little heart <3

Shane and Ilya visit Shane’s parents for dinner two weeks before the verdict is to be delivered. It was scheduled for a month after the trial ended to give the judge time to consider all the evidence and write her reasoning. 

“So,” Yuna says as David pours drinks for everyone. “What’s the plan?” 

Shane huffs out a laugh. Ilya says “kill the Voyageurs” with a deep look in his eyes and Yuna smiles softly, which throws Shane for a moment. Yuna Hollander, World’s Biggest Voyageurs Fan, had already offered to burn her jersey as soon as she heard what was being done to her son.

“Taking murder off the table just for the moment,” David suggests, “and keeping in mind that we don’t actually know the verdict yet but we do have some pretty damning texts, we should talk about strategy.” 

“Has the trade been finalized?” Yuna asks. “That’s step one.”

“Signed the digital papers this morning, I’m officially a Centaur,” Shane says flatly. It still feels weird. “I haven’t met with the manager or coach yet though, I don’t know if that factors into stuff.”

“We should probably get a read on the team before we make any big decisions,” Yuna replies. 

“We’ve got to do something no matter what.” Shane’s anger flares. “Legally, obviously, and like I’ll give them a head’s up or whatever. But I’m fucking sick of playing by rules that no one else seems to follow.”

“That’s understandable,” his dad nods. “If the texts ‘leak’ though, the Cens couldn’t exactly blame you. Might be a good way to handle it? It would embarrass the Voyageurs, at least.” 

“I don’t want to make this about me,” Shane clarifies. “I mean the texts are, obviously, and being traded feels pretty personal, but it’s also not. It’s bigger than me, all of this is so much bigger.” 

Ilya nods, this has been a frequent topic of conversation between the two of them since his return from the NHL Awards. “Texts and trade are part of bigger system, power protects itself. Shane is– what is it? The goat?”

“Scapegoat.”

“Yes, scapegoat. Silence him, nothing changes,” he concludes. 

“So we need to make it so that it’s not just you,” Yuna responds. “One person can be silenced, but lots of people, different voices from different places, that’s harder to squash.” 

“Have you reached out to Scott Hunter?” David asks. 

“I did,” Ilya says. “At NHL Awards. Not about Shane, just thanking him for being brave.”

“You thanked Scott Hunter?” Shane didn’t know that. He hadn’t gone to the awards this year, didn’t feel like seeing anyone, but Ilya was nominated for something so he had to go. He came right back to the cottage after, not wanting to leave Shane for any longer than necessary.

“Was very annoying but yes, right thing to do.” 

“Maybe you could call him, Shane? Get his thoughts?” 

“I mean, I don’t just have his number,” Shane says, looking at Ilya. 

Ilya stares back and makes a face. “I thank man one time and you think I have his number? It was thank you, not marriage proposal.” 

“I think you can get someone’s number without proposing marriage,” Shane points out. “You got mine.”

“What if he thinks I want to have his babies and then I have to say no, sorry, I do not have babies with old men, only with young man who has second-best hockey genes,” Ilya retorts, straight-faced. “I cannot say that, he would know it is you and that your mama is bullying scientists so that she can be babushka to best hockey babies ever made.” 

“I’m not bullying scientists–”

“You did send that email, sweetheart.”

“I was just asking if they could explain why they’ve only done it with XX chromosomes because the explanation in the article didn’t make sense!”

“Enough about the gay mice babies,” Shane groans, a sentence he never imagined himself saying but which has quickly become one of his main refrains. “I’m sure I can get Hunter’s number and call him, Hayden and JJ are on board with whatever I want to do, and I also reached out to Max Riley from the PWHL because he’s been doing some really good work on inclusion in sports and also married a teammate so I thought he might have some ideas.” 

“I can get in touch with the advocates from the trial, unofficially of course and without using my name, but we do want to make sure that whatever we do feels supportive for the young woman, she’s been through enough.” Yuna says this matter-of-factly as though she’s always been a fierce survivor advocate and did not used to say horrible things about golddigging girls. “And Farah is a godsend, getting things finalized with Ottawa so quickly. Did she tell Montreal about the texts in order to get leverage?”

“She didn’t have to,” Shane says. They’d been willing to, if necessary, but apparently Ottawa was more than happy to take him on, and the Voyageurs didn’t care where he went as long as it was off their roster. 

“But we could still leak them, which would certainly turn the press in your favour,” David says. 

Yuna nods. “You wouldn’t even have to comment, you could just say something classy about wanting to focus on hockey with your new team. They look like the idiots they are, and you come out on top.” 

Shane takes a deep breath. “Yes, that’s one possibility, but remember that this isn’t just about me. We want to lay the groundwork for the charity, and we want the public to focus on the bigger problem which is that hockey culture is fucked.” 

“Okay, I hear you,” Yuna replies. “We can keep the texts in our back pocket for now, and in the meantime we’ll keep building more alliances.” 

“I know some other players that might help,” Ilya adds. 

“You think Boston players are going to help me?” 

“Ah, no. Boston sucks,” Ilya casually confirms. “But I see things, people talk, I know who might be friendly to us. I can text them, see if they want to say more.” 

“Who?” Shane asks. He’s never heard of Ilya being friendly with players on other teams. Or with anyone, honestly. He’s kind of famously an asshole to literally everyone. 

“People,” Ilya deflects. 

“So you can’t get Hunter’s number but you have numbers for other people?” 

“Hunter was surprise, did not think he had it in him. Some people,” Ilya shrugs, “less surprising.” 

“Ilya are you saying you know other…” David doesn’t finish his question, apparently unsure what to call hockey players who are stickhandlers in their private lives as well. 

“I am just saying I have eyes and ears, this is all. I can try to collect people who might want to help but we still need actual plan, yes?” 

“Multiple plans,” Shane admits, nodding. 

Yuna nods too, pulling out her phone. “The most pressing is the trial. Should we prepare two statements, do you think, or three?”

“One if they’re found guilty, one if they’re found not guilty. What’s the third?”

“One for a mixed verdict, if some are found guilty and some not guilty. I don’t think they’re all going to be found guilty, no offense sweetheart,” Yuna rattles off not looking up from where she’s typing. “And we’ll need to consult with a lawyer to make sure whatever we say won’t get us sued, maybe less about the verdicts and more about the bigger picture–”

“The need for change in hockey culture more broadly,” Shane nods, “not focusing on those guys in particular but about how fucked up things are even besides that one night. Maybe that’s where the texts come in, if we want to leak them. But also the NHL is the only professional league without a policy for sexual and domestic violence, so there’s honestly enough to criticize even without the texts.” 

“An open letter, do you think? Or something more?”

“Do we want to do it quickly or work it into the charity plan?”

“We could do both, lay the groundwork for the charity while also pulling together a statement for after the verdict?”

“Not a statement though, that would be just me alone again, but maybe an open letter people can sign on to and share?”

“We’ll need calls to action–”

“Things every day people can do but then also the big things–”

“Changes that Hockey Canada needs to make but also the NHL–”

“Policies, procedures, education, god–”

“Funding too, so much of this comes down to money–” 

“Sponsors are going to be pissed–”

“I’ll handle sponsors, I think safety on and off the ice is a pretty solid branding–”

“Anyone who doesn’t like it can go fuck themselves–”

“My thought as well. Oh what about the–”

“Code of conduct–”

“Doesn’t go far enough–”

“Exactly but we could–”

“Yes, absolutely–”

Ilya watches Shane and Yuna bounce off each other, synergizing as their plan comes together without even finishing their sentences. He looks to David, who gives him a soft smile and gentle shrug as if to say ‘yeah, this is what they’re like’ and Ilya’s never felt more at home. He’s so fucking proud of Shane, proud of himself, heartened by the open arms of Yuna and David, even begrudgingly grateful for the support of Hayden and JJ (though he wouldn’t say it out loud). He knows his final year in Boston is going to be tough, but maybe next year he and Shane could be playing on the same fucking team. Something that he’d never thought possible before. So many things he’d never hoped to wish for, all suddenly available to him. Making these plans soothes a deep ache in his heart. 

“Shane, you said you haven’t met Ottawa yet? The Voyageurs already–” Yuna stops herself, although her eyes betray a flash of something darker. “The trade announcement is going to be a circus, and then this will be like throwing a match into a powder keg. I just want you to be prepared.” 

Ilya watches as Shane straightens up, stretching his neck from side to side. A shadow creeps across his eyes, as though all the things he’s never said have been carefully kept and catalogued, waiting for their moment in the sun. 

“What’s that thing they always say?” Shane asks with a quirked brow and upturned lip. “Some people are just asking for it, right? Well maybe if they didn’t want to get burned, they shouldn’t be so fucking flammable.”

The power of his conviction hangs in the air, settling slowly as they all contemplate the possibilities.

“Even if is just us,” Ilya clears his throat, “with our reputations, we are kind of big deal. They can not ignore us completely.”

“Canada’s Golden Boy and his rival agreeing on anything is sure to make headlines,” David nods. 

“And if we can get Scott Hunter, Max Riley, and a few others on board? It could be quite powerful,” Yuna adds. “I just worry, you know me.”

“I know, Mom,” Shane tries to let his rage retreat in order to soothe his anxious parents. “This sucks, all of this fucking sucks. I know. It’s kind of insane, I get that. I just… I need to do this. I don’t know how to explain it.” 

Ilya rubs a hand up and down Shane’s back. “Sometimes doing insane thing is the only way to survive. Like the boy who found fire.” 

“He would have survived without discovering fire,” Shane gives a small smile. 

“He did not know what would happen, but he listened to voice inside and did insane thing,” Ilya says. “He did not run from the flames, scared and brave, he changed the world. Lit it on fire. Like actually for real.” 

Shane feels his smile spread. He will be forever grateful for the love of this crazy man.

“Okay, it’s decided then,” Yuna says firmly. “So we need an open letter about Hockey Canada failing its young athletes, maybe a petition for the NHL to create a new policy on sexual and domestic violence, plus we’re making connections, getting the charity ball rolling, and fuck anyone who isn’t on board with this. That’s the plan?” 

“That about sums it up,” Shane nods. It really is insane. But he’d rather go down in flames than suffocate in silence, and those seem to be the only two options right now. He’s already contemplated quitting more than once, which is even crazier because he doesn’t know who he is without hockey. He also doesn’t know who he is with hockey either, not really, not anymore. He’s finally brave enough to find out, though. 

“We need more straight men,” Ilya adds. “People think we are straight and that is good for now but when our relationship comes out…” 

“When?” Shane gulps. Oh fuck he hadn’t even thought about that piece of the puzzle. Of course that’s going to change how all this other stuff is received.  

“If it comes out. Before we are ready,” Ilya corrects with a slight flush. “Hunter’s speech about being closeted was very important, made people think, I hope, about other players who are maybe not out. But for change to happen it cannot just be the people getting hurt who push for change, yes? We need allies, straight men also saying this is not okay. The bad words, hurting women, all of it. Is all connected, is all… what is word?”

“Gender-based violence,” Shane supplies. He’d found the term while researching potential donation opportunities for their future charity, and it connected all the pieces he’s been trying to sort through. Misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, sexual assault, domestic violence, it’s all rooted in fucked up gender norms and pressures to perform the roles you’re assigned at birth. For all his hockey IQ, it’s taken a lot of learning from Ilya over the years to get Shane to a place where he’s finally starting to make sense of it all. He never used to think about things like identity or social norms or whatever, and now he can’t help but see it everywhere. 

“Given what’s being said about me for my testimony…” Shane sighs, closing his eyes for a moment as he grapples with this. He misses when his life was as simple as puck in net. Maybe it never was, though, and he just didn’t notice.  “I mean, guys are saying homophobic shit just because I supported her. When they find out I’m actually gay…” He’s not quite sure how to articulate his thought. It shouldn’t matter who says shit, but he knows it does. It all matters. The world is fucking complicated, and it doesn’t come with a rulebook to memorize. Not like hockey. Maybe that’s why he avoided all this for so long. Hockey was easier to make sense of. 

“This is why we need straight men too,” Ilya says softly. “People will listen more. Is unfair but true.”

“It’s like when you were a kid,” David says, looking between Shane and Yuna. “Do you remember,” he asks his wife, “you were on top of everything, but sometimes you’d tap me in–” 

Yuna nods knowingly. “Sometimes they needed to hear it from a white man. I knew no one would take me seriously if I called complaining about racism.” 

“You did?” Shane didn’t know that. “Wait, when?” His mother had always talked about how important his identity was, how kids looked up to him, but he hadn’t really considered where that came from for her. 

“Oh, lots of times,” Yuna sighs. “The older you got the less I heard, and I guess I thought things were getting better. When you were little, I’d overhear it from parents or coaches and send your dad in. I don’t know why I thought those parents wouldn’t be teaching their children the same awful things, I guess… I don’t know. I thought the world was progressing. I think I was just getting shielded, though.” The admission weighs heavily in the room. 

Shane tries to swallow the guilt that’s rising in his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, mom. I tried… I thought I could just ignore it all. Just focus on hockey, not make waves. I tried really hard…” 

“Oh sweetheart,” she reaches her hand across the table to squeeze Shane’s. “It’s not your job to tell me, to, to… educate me on how things are. It’s my job as a parent to learn about your world. To stay informed, involved. I thought I was but I… I was missing the mark. I’m sorry, Shane, for making you feel like you couldn’t tell me.” 

“It’s okay,” Shane murmurs. “You didn’t… we’re all just figuring this stuff out as we go.” 

“Parenting doesn’t exactly come with an instruction manual,” his dad huffs, and Shane realizes his eyes are misty too. “Especially not parenting a neurotic, biracial, closeted hockey prodigy with a soft heart and a strong backhand.” 

“I told you I have a strong backhand,” Shane says to Ilya, his mirth entirely artificial, because any more tender confessions are going to send him spiraling into a full-fledged freak out and he simply does not have the energy for that right now.

“Eh, mediocre at best.” Ilya must know he’s at his limit, smoothly leading them back to what’s familiar. Ilya’s hand comes to the back of Shane’s neck. Comforting. Grounded.

“Record breaking shot accuracy doesn’t happen with a mediocre backhand,” Shane snipes, taking a shaky breath.

“Was lucky shot.” Gentle squeeze on Shane’s neck, ruffing his hair before leaning in for a quick kiss. 

“Oh fuck off.” They’re safe here. He can do this.

“Shane.”

“Listen to your mama, Hollander, I know she taught you better than to be rude to guest.” 

“Sorry Ilya, I think you lost the guest status when you started walking around the cottage naked.” 

“David!” Ilya gasps in faux-surprise. “I thought we agreed this did not happen!” 

“Tell that to my eyeballs.”

Shane wishes he could stay in this moment forever, loving chirps being flung across the dining room table, his parents in his corner, his boyfriend by his side. But even if he could stop time, he wouldn’t keep them locked in this bubble of contentment. Not while the world burns outside. Not while people are being harassed, assaulted, abused, silenced… right on the other side of that door. 

Safe spaces are important, Shane knows. They’re crucial, even, to survival. But life is about so much more than just survival. No one thrives while locked inside. People weren’t meant to live in shadows; we were built for sunshine. We were made to expand, to grow and build and love and laugh and scream, outside and out loud and together. 

It’s not always perfect, and that’s okay. He’s learning he doesn’t have to be perfect. He doesn’t have to be technically flawless and beyond reproach and above it all. He’s allowed to be messy. He’s allowed, and finally brave enough, to stick his neck out and put his elbows up and to drop his fucking gloves when there’s a fight that needs to be had. 

What’s coming next might be a bench-clearing brawl, but he’s ready to skate directly into the fray. Fuck the penalties. Some things are more important than hockey.

Shane smiles, watching the people he loves banter easily back and forth. He can’t believe it took him so long to really realise that: some things are more important than fucking hockey. He laughs out loud as it settles over him like a gentle breeze off the lake at dawn. Some things are more important. This feeling, safety and integrity and peace, is more important. It’s fucking everything, and not just for him. Everyone deserves this, and that’s worth fucking fighting for.

Chapter End Notes

This is where we leave our boys! I know that some folks will want to see all the fall out, to follow them through this right until the end, but I’ve realized that that’s not what I need from this story. I needed to write a world where these men decided to lock in and gear up, regardless of the outcome, and so that’s what I’ve done. Maybe there’s an epilogue in our future, I don’t know, certainly no promises. You’re welcome to imagine whatever you need to happen next, though. My faith in institutions is less than zero, but my faith in queer love despite it all is 100%.

Approximately a million years ago when I was in university, I had a(n elder queer) prof who said that pessimism doesn’t mean giving up because things are hopeless. Pessimism can mean continuing to fight, knowing you won’t win, maybe can’t win, but doing it anyways. She thought it was much more motivating than optimism. More resilient, to be stubbornly pessimistic in spite of it all. I’ve carried that with me throughout my life and I see Shane and Ilya believing that too. Some fights are worth having because even if we lose the battle at least we won’t lose ourselves.

So thank you for following me along this crazy journey; it’s well outside of my usual brand of fluff and smut, but being able to write this arc has meant so much to me. Love and fear and joy and rage all co-exist, woven into/throughout the fabric of our lives, and we’re here just doing our fucking best to survive. I am so glad you are surviving this dumpster fire of a world we’re living in, too. You (yes you, reading this, hello) are so important and precious and loveable, mess and all. Elbows up, gloves off, etc. etc. <3