Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Background & Cameo Characters

Additional Tags:

POV Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slice of Life, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Established Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Friendship, Family, Angst, Happy Ending, Depression, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Press and Tabloids, Intrusive Press, being outed

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-25 Words: 59,887 Chapters: 14/14

A Year In The Life

Summary

Ilya watches as, with shaking fingers, Shane presses something on his phone and turns it to him.

There is an article open. Ilya sees… a photo of him at Shane’s house in Montreal. A side by side comparison of them, wearing—sharing—the same shirts, and hoodies. Shane’s car driving through the gates at Ilya’s new house.

Shane hiccups, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“They figured us out.”

A year in the life of Shane and Ilya, if they had been outed earlier.

Notes

Hello!

Here's another fic because we're all obsessed out here and words just keep on happening.

This time, we're doing a sort of slice of life thing, where they get outed a little earlier than in canon and deal with the fallout of it. There will be happy, there will be sad, there will be a weird mix of stuff from book canon and show canon, and a timeline that is obviously different to both! The timeline makes sense, I think. At least, I hope it does.

Full disclosure, I don't know enough about hockey 'behind the scenes', so there are a couple of things in here you'll either have to suspend disbelief at, or reach through the screen and pet me gently on the head for, while whispering, oh dear, no, it doesn't work like that. You could do other things too! Let's not though, hmm? This is fanfic, not a how-to-hockey guide (luckily for us! I wouldn't put me in charge of anything so sensible).

There will also be some things about Ilya's depression mentioned, and some examples of homophobia that they experience; please be reassured that while it's obviously awful, it's nothing graphic, and I'm not going to make them suffer too much. I'll tag, of course, and if there are specific things that feel like they might need it, I'll put chapter note warnings too. I do promise a happy ending!

The fic is written in full, and has worked out in a first proof read at 13 chapters, about 45k words. I plan on posting a chapter a day until it's finished, if I can.

That's it!

Happy reading!

Chapter 1

July 2018

“Are you checking on the house?” Shane says, kissing the back of Ilya’s neck in passing, where he’s sitting looking at his laptop on the cottage’s kitchen island.

House selling is stressful. That’s why he gave his brother his apartment in Moscow, so he didn’t have to deal with it. That’s why he gave up his penthouse in Boston, furniture and all, to a Boston teammate. All Ilya had to do was write a couple of emails, sign a few papers for it, and then it was all off his hands. He even had someone do the hard work of buying his previous apartments on his behalf. How Shane finds any of this even remotely interesting or exciting is a mystery to Ilya.

This time, though, for his move to Ottawa, it’s important to Ilya for a lot of reasons that he does most of this himself. With Shane’s help, of course, and some amazing support and advice from Shane’s parents. It is still stressful, Ilya constantly checking for emails, stomach knotting whenever he gets a call, because what if this perfect house that he’s fallen in love with doesn’t work out for him?

It’s not a big deal. He’ll find somewhere before the start of the season, and Yuna and David have already said he can stay with them if anything falls through. But Ilya wants this to work, he needs… some sense of control over this, some further sign from the universe about what a good idea this all is. Which it is, of course, and even if he had to give up everything tomorrow just to be with Shane, he would be okay. He wants this all to work out though. He wants to get to that point that feels like the happy ending on the final page of a book, and start living the life that’s on the other side of it.

He wants his whole life with Shane. This move feels like the official start of it.

“Yes. No news,” Ilya says, hopping down from the stool and helping Shane as he starts to fold their laundry.

“We weren’t expecting to hear anything yet, though, right? The realtor said it would be a couple more days, at least.”

“Yes.”

“I get it though,” Shane says, smiling in encouragement. “I’d be checking every five minutes, too. It feels like you’re holding your breath for this kind of thing, right? Like you physically can’t do anything else until you know what is happening.”

Well, no, it’s not quite as rigid as that for Ilya, sure that for as much as he is nervous, Shane’s the one who has been losing more sleep.

“Something like that,” Ilya says, placatingly, snapping the corners of a sheet together, so Shane can fold it into the perfect little rectangle he always does.

Even fitted sheets. That he makes a perfect rectangle out of the tangle Ilya usually makes himself of those is endlessly endearing to Ilya. Also, strangely, kind of hot. Because he’s weird like that. Because Ilya loves everything about Shane, especially all the little domestic moments he gets to share with him.

God, he can’t wait to live with him properly one day.

Shane’s silence says there are more words he is processing. Ilya waits him out, watching Shane’s face as he debates with himself.

Then…

“You aren’t looking at Instagram, or anything, are you? No socials?”

Ilya’s chest clenches, heat flushing up the back of his neck. “No.”

“Good.”

Shit.

“Is it bad?”

“It’s… you know,” Shane says, giving him an awkward smile.

“No better?”

“No worse?” Shane says, that smile now a question that is also an apology.

Ilya closes his eyes, then shakes his head, refusing to let any more worry set in than it already has. “It will be better.”

“Of course it will. It’s just, you know. Early days.”

It is early days. Yesterday, it was announced that Ilya was leaving Boston for Ottawa. The league, the media, the fans, the noise from it all is completely overwhelming. Absolutely no one understands, and absolutely everyone has an opinion about his choice. Most of them aren’t favourable, aren’t polite, are pretty nasty, actually. In fact, Ilya has seen a handful that he can only describe as threats. Ilya made himself go online for ten minutes last night after avoiding doing so for hours, and since then has deleted all the apps from his phone. He has set his calls so only a few people can contact him, and only has his emails open on his laptop. That’s enough contact with the outside world for now, Ilya is sure of it.

Even his agent is pissed at him. Ilya wishes he could start working with a Canadian agent already, and he will, eventually. He’s heard nothing but good things from Shane about his agent, Farah Jalali. Ilya just can’t face the conflict right now of severing ties with his current agent before the date they agreed to discuss their partnership.

If his agent drops him before then, though, Ilya will not be complaining about it.

“Yes,” Ilya says, really wanting to change the subject, “maybe by the end of summer, everything will be calm. Maybe, the start of season.”

“Maybe,” Shane agrees, even if his eyes show some doubt.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Ilya says, really, really wanting to change the subject. He folds the last towel and stacks it on the pile then takes Shane’s hand, pulling him closer for a kiss.

“It’s summer. Nothing else is important right now,” Shane says, immediately coming to him.

“Just us.”

“Just us,” Shane says, looping his arms over Ilya’s shoulders.

Just them. Nothing outside of this cottage matters.

He can hear Svetlana’s disapproval on their call without her saying a single word. It’s always been like that between them, so used to knowing each other’s mood that sometimes they can spend hours together without saying a word out loud. Before Shane, Ilya would say no one knew him better than Svetlana does.

Of course that’s changed, because it’s had to, and deep down, at least on a good day, Ilya knows Svetlana will understand. It eats at him, though, that he is carrying this big secret, and can’t even share it with his best friend.

One day, though. One day, someone other than Shane’s parents will know about them, and Ilya will be proud to be known as Shane’s boyfriend. Husband, even.

Maybe he shouldn’t get carried away with those sort of thoughts yet. That’s something that is years away for them.

“Make me understand,” Svetlana says for the second time, traces of anger, but also concern reaching Ilya through the phone.

At least they can have this entire conversation in Russian so he doesn't have a fight with difficult words.

Not too much of a fight, anyway.

“There is so little in Boston for me,” he says, wincing before he gets all the words out, and not at all surprised that Svetlana sounds so pissed about it.

“Oh, so not even your best friend?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You said there is nothing in Boston—”

“I said so little. I said there is so little in Boston for me. We can be best friends anywhere, can’t we?” Ilya says, hearing the pleading in his own voice.

“I don’t understand you. You helped take Boston from a nothing team, to Cup winners, and what, now you’re bored? You want a new challenge doing the same thing somewhere else?”

The thing is, a part of him does want that. Sure, the main reason Ilya is moving to Ottawa is Shane, but the thought of getting to help shape a whole new team is appealing to him.

“Yes. Exactly,” he says, “I need a new challenge.”

“In Ottawa of all places?”

“Why not Ottawa?”

“Because you could literally go anywhere,” Svetlana shouts.

Screwing up his eyes Ilya looks over to where Shane is doing yoga, both to check Svetlana’s yelling didn’t reach him, and because, for all he teases him, watching Shane do yoga is soothing to him.

“I like Ottawa,” Ilya says, which is actually true, even if the reasons for it—Shane, and Shane’s parents—is not what he will say in future interviews, if he’s asked about it.

“What, were you missing the cold?”

“Boston isn’t much different.”

“So why the hell are you moving to play for the fucking Centaurs?” Svetlana yells again, making Ilya’s stomach knot.

“It’s… a good deal for me,” Ilya says, closing his eyes when Svetlana scoffs in dismissal.

He wants to tell her about Shane, he really does, but they have a plan, and though he trusts Svetlana with almost everything, this is one secret he has to keep to himself. For at least a little longer, anyway. If there is no fallout from what they plan for the next couple of months, maybe he can tell Svetlana, and Shane might test the waters with Hayden.

It’s going to be a weird couple of months, once the season starts.

In October, Shane plans on coming out to the Metros. He’s terrified, understandably. Ilya and Shane have spent so much time trying to plan how he’ll do it, and predict how the team will react, constantly thinking about best and worst case scenarios. It’s impossible to know what they will say, what the consequences might be, but Shane is determined to do it. It is an important step in their plan.

In November, they are announcing the Irina Foundation, something they are both incredibly proud of, excited for, and determined to make work. They have put so much work into it. Ilya just hopes that once they start talking about it, the press will be far more interested in the foundation and far less in his decision to sign with the Centaurs.

After that? They have nothing definite in mind, only the vague plan to keep an eye on things, monitor what people are saying and try to figure things out from how the hockey world reacts. But in order to get to that point, the other steps of their plan have to go perfectly.

“Ilya,” Svetlana then says, a little softer, though with a catch in her voice like she is trying not to curse. “I love you.”

Well. He can’t help smiling at that.

“I love you too,” he says, glad that Shane is wearing headphones, because although he knows Svetlana is Ilya’s best and childhood friend, those words are kind of just for him.

In a different way, obviously.

“So? You know you can tell me anything.”

“I know.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Ilya says, pressing his phone to his temple, really just trying to breathe as he figures out what he can tell her.

“Did something happen back in Moscow?” Svetlana presses.

“No. Nothing.”

“You haven’t heard from your brother?”

“No. Not a thing.” Ilya doesn’t want to. He’s relieved, more than he can put into words, that his brother listened when he said to stop contacting him.

“Where are you now?” Svetlana says.

“Just… around.”

“Where, though? You aren’t in Russia.”

“No. I just wanted some time. Just for me.”

Svetlana scoffs. “So you’re telling me you’re spending the summer alone, and won’t even tell me where, or why you’re suddenly playing for a shitty team—”

“They are not shitty. At least, any team can change, right? Boston did.”

Ilya swears he can hear Svetlana growling under her breath, imagines her hands bunched in fists and her hair bouncing in that way it does when she’s particularly irritated.

“Okay,” she says, and yes, there really is a tone of a growl in there, “I am going to be your friend.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to be your friend, and say some things, make some connections that you, for whatever reason, don’t trust me enough to say out loud to me.”

“Svetlana. It’s not that I don’t trust you—”

“Number one,” she says, talking over him. “You never want to go back to Russia again.”

Ilya sighs. “No. I don’t.”

“Two. You want to get rid of your Russian passport.”

Oh, fuck, she really does know him. Ilya’s heart clenches, fearing what else she might have figured out.

“I would like that.”

“Three, if you really wanted to get rid of your Russian passport, you know I would have helped you. We could have gotten married, and divorced as soon as you had an American one.”

See? Ilya thinks at Shane, though is sure he won’t be repeating much of this conversation to him.

“I know,” is all he says to Svetlana, sweating for whatever else is to come.

“So. I think, you chose a Canadian team, because you want to get Canadian citizenship. Which, I accept, is probably better than American citizenship right now. Maybe always.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you think Canada is better than America, or yes to the citizenship thing for you?”

Ilya wants a drink. Badly. “Citizenship,” he gets out, still watching Shane in the hope of finding some peace.

“Four. I think… you have a lot of freedom here, that you can’t have in Russia. Not easily. Not if you don’t want to risk getting into trouble.”

Fuck. “Maybe.”

“Don’t 'maybe' me, Ilya. I know you too well. I know you have this reputation of being a ladies man, but that there have been plenty of men in there too. I know there have. And I’m not talking about Sasha.”

Fuck. Does she know? Does she suspect him? Ilya stares at Shane hoping his face isn’t showing the panic that he feels like it is.

“And I know,” Svetlana adds, more gently, “that if that gets back to Russia, somehow, you could… we both know something could happen to you.”

“I don’t want to find out what,” Ilya whispers.

“No, I know. And I don’t blame you—I don’t want anything to happen to you either. I’m just trying to understand. You can talk to me, Ilya. You can tell me anything, always. You know that, right?”

Great. Now he wants to cry. Ilya schools it in, makes himself breathe deeply until he can trust his voice.

“I know that. I’m sorry.”

Sorry for not telling you, sorry that he’s not better at keeping secrets, sorry for not being a better friend? Sorry for so many things.

Svetlana sighs hard. “Okay. For now, I will be nice, I will be patient, and wait for you to tell me what is really happening. Not forever. But for now. Maybe I’ll let you settle in in Ottawa for a few months first.”

“Oh. Thank you,” he says, in the most sarcastic voice he can manage.

There’s that’s better, she’s laughing. And when they eventually end their call, there is a little less guilt churning in Ilya’s stomach.

He still interrupts Shane’s yoga for a long, long hug, though.

Shane doesn’t seem to mind.

Shane’s dad is happily occupying himself at the grill, as Ilya gets the table ready. It’s a perfect summer afternoon, hot but not uncomfortably so, with a little cloud cover to give them the occasional reprieve from the sun. Inside, Ilya can hear Shane and Yuna putting away the last of the groceries that she and David brought over so him and Shane wouldn’t need to go grocery shopping.

Well. Ilya never really goes grocery shopping when he’s here, because having to explain his presence wouldn’t be that easy. Shane sometimes goes, if they run out of something they really need, but this summer, they have relied on his parents. It’s barely a week since it was announced that Ilya was leaving Boston, and the anger is still out there. Press, players, managers, and of course fans; is it worse because nobody can find him?

No, it’s worse that the media are, because they can’t reach Ilya, reaching out to everyone, absolutely everyone who might have contact with him. Even Shane, which is alarming, considering as far as the rest of the world still knows, they aren’t even friends. They’re announcing the Irina Foundation soon, yes, but that’s still some months away.

So. Shane doesn’t go grocery shopping, and as luck would have it, being alone in this cottage is their favourite way to spend their time anyway. It still feels a little like their already small world has closed in even closer around them, adding a layer of worry to their lives that they normally escape out of season. It’s in these peaceful moments with the love and support of Shane’s parents making everything feel comfortable, that Ilya can tell himself his gut isn’t twisting for all that’s been speculated about him.

“Hey. Ilya,” David stage whispers, getting Ilya’s attention back from the edge of spiralling.

When Ilya looks, David tilts his head for Ilya to join him, pointing to something on the grill.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Ilya says, peering over David’s shoulder towards the cottage while grabbing a plate, holding it closer to him.

They are having chicken steaks, a ton of grilled vegetables, and, one of Ilya’s favourites, David’s stuffed potato skins. What he likes even better are the extra crispy skins that are just that little bit too thin for stuffing. David always accidentally does a couple extra potatoes this way, so Ilya can have a treat, and they can have this little moment.

“Good?”

“Incredible. This has some spice, yes?”

“Only a little.”

“They are perfect. Thank you,” Ilya says, echoing David’s smile.

When Ilya has just put the last of his crispy potato skin in his mouth, he hears a commotion inside. He and David both turn their heads, as Shane sprints out towards them with Yuna trailing behind.

“Your phone,” Shane says, wide-eyed as he shoves it into Ilya’s hands.

Oh. One look at the phone screen and Ilya completely understands Shane’s reaction. His knees are weak as he raises the phone to his ear, slipping a shaking hand into Shane’s.

“Hello,” he says to his realtor, trying not to hold his breath as he listens, not to think about how his knees are trembling.

It’s good news. The best news ever.

“The house. It’s mine,” he whispers in shock to Shane, hearing a blasted yell from him and then feeling strong arms thrown around his neck.

“Ah, that’s amazing! Ilya; you got the house!” Shane shouts, laughing joyfully and carefree when Ilya scoops him up and spins him around.

Yuna and David join them in celebration, and there are more hugs and kisses all round. The relief Ilya feels almost outweighs how happy he is. He’s signed with the Centaurs. He’s moving to Ottawa. He actually has a house.

“When can you pick up the keys?” David says, as Shane thumbs away Ilya’s happy tears, and Yuna jogs back inside.

“Mm. Three weeks. It is mine in three weeks,” Ilya says, hearing the disbelief, the shock, the joy in his own voice as he does.

“This calls for a celebration,” Yuna says as she appears again, clutching three glasses and a bottle of champagne.

Shane laughs first, squeezing an arm around Ilya’s waist and kissing his shoulder before he pulls away to help her.

“Mom. When did you buy champagne? How did I not see you put it in the fridge?”

“Oh, I just had a feeling you would be hearing about the house in Ottawa,” she says, passing the champagne to Shane to open.

“She’s a witch,” David whispers as he so often does in moments when his wife’s intuition seems, well, unnatural.

“Congratulations,” Shane say softly to Ilya before kissing him, apparently not paying attention to anyone but him.

August 2018

“Well. It’s a good thing Mom insisted on getting you some groceries in,” Shane says, peeking out the window towards the gate sealing off Ilya’s new driveway from unwanted visitors.

Ilya looks too, feeling an uncomfortable weight building in his chest.

How the fuck have the press found his house so quickly? What the hell do they think they’re going to get from sitting there, basically blocking his exit? He’s not that interesting. He hasn’t given any interviews or anything aside from that one statement released when the news about him leaving Boston was announced. Can’t the press take the hint that he hasn’t anything else to say about it?

“We have a little food,” Ilya says, resting his hand on Shane’s back. “Not too much, though.”

“It’s enough for a day or so, right? Not like we’re gonna starve.”

We. Well, that’s comforting at least. It had been Ilya’s suggestion that he try staying here alone tonight, to get used to his new house. Shane’s car is at his parents’; Ilya was supposed to drop him off there already but has been delaying them leaving for over an hour. He’d already changed his mind, and was hoping to find a way to convince Shane to stay. In truth, he never wants to be without him. Not like this, though.

“You think maybe if I talk to them, it will finish everything?” Ilya asks, already knowing the answer.

Shane’s apologetic nose wrinkle says he knows too.

Why is anyone still talking about him joining the Centaurs? It’s been almost a month now and so many other things have happened in the hockey world. What’s so fascinating about him? On the surface, yes, Ilya gets it, to go from Boston to Ottawa is a weird, unfathomable choice. There have been equally weird changes throughout the league, though, right? Weirder, even. Why can’t they leave him alone?

Why has that news van been parked out there for three hours now, if his security cameras aren’t lying to him?

“You okay with me staying here tonight?” Shane asks as they step away from the window.

At least that’s something. Some of the tension leaves Ilya’s chest.

“Yes. Always. Any time,” Ilya says, instead of any of the teasing he might have considered saying but would never mean.

He’s getting so soft. Only for Shane, though. So that doesn’t really count as anything.

He takes Shane’s hand, leading him back downstairs, passing the very few bags and boxes that contain his various possessions, that he was intending to unpack tonight. He leads Shane straight into the kitchen, and over to an envelope on the end of the island. He takes a key out, knowing a flash of excitement for it, and pushes it into Shane’s outstretched palm.

Shane studies the key, runs his thumb over it, his smile making his cheeks so big and kissable that Ilya can’t resist.

“This feels sort of… unreal,” Shane says softly, looping his arms around Ilya’s neck.

“A little. But, it is.”

“I, uh… I was thinking about finding a way, to ask, to stay tonight, anyway. First time in forever that the paparazzi have ever helped me out.”

Ilya’s heart skips. He’s so head over heels helplessly in love with this man.

“Please stay. Please use this key. Like I use yours.”

“We have keys to each other’s places,” Shane says, pressing against him, the glint in his eye making Ilya’s heart skip again.

“Yes.”

“That feels pretty important. Pretty big.”

It does. It feels monumental, and like something Ilya never thought he’d get to experience. It’s overwhelming, actually. Right now, he doesn’t want to be feeling the huge emotions that he is.

“Something else can be pretty big,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear, letting his fingers drift down his back to his ass.

Shane snorts against his neck. “That was the worst.”

“Yes. You like anyway, I think?”

Judging by the way Shane simply drops to his knees, Ilya is pretty sure he does.

Ilya feels sick, nervous energy making his stomach churn. Should he keep staring at the TV, or Shane’s profile? Either option doesn’t help him much. They are both standing here, kind of stranded, in Ilya’s living room. The tension is palpable. Ilya is convinced his heart might stop.

“So, we’ll ask again; what is Shane Hollander doing in—”

“My parents live in Ottawa,” Shane growls at the TV looking incensed, and, if Ilya isn’t projecting, at least as scared as him.

“They are stupid,” Ilya says.

He can only hope the press are stupid, and aren’t really connecting dots.

“How can they be doing a whole news segment on me, shopping, in Ottawa? It’s not that interesting.”

“Thank you for my gift,” Ilya says, sure Shane regrets going out to get it for him now.

Or, not. Shane’s face splits into a smile, and despite shooting daggers at the TV screen, comes closer and kisses him.

Shane has been back to Montreal just once since Ilya moved into his house, and that ended up just being to get more clothes, pick something up that his mom had left there. They are getting the house ready, slowly unpacking Ilya’s few things, rearranging furniture, planning any changes he needs to make. Fucking in every room, naturally. It’s been a great week.

But Ilya is ready to go to the cottage now, they both are, and were planning on leaving tomorrow. This stupid news programme speculating about Shane being in Ottawa is, on the surface, no big deal, but what if they start making connections? What if others start questioning why he is here?

“You’re welcome," Shane says. "It’s tradition. A housewarming gift? I know I’m a week late, but…”

“I love it. We can set it up now?”

“I’m not sure either of us really need an espresso right now, but, sure,” Shane says, picking up the very fancy espresso machine and bag of coffee that he just presented Ilya with barely ten minutes ago, leaving Ilya to follow behind him.

“We could make espresso martinis,” Ilya says, catching up to Shane and pressing his hands to his waist.

Shane did buy him a whole ton of coffee and a really good bottle of coffee liqueur. And there will never be an occasion when there is no good vodka in Ilya’s house.

“Now, Brad, I, and am sure plenty of other people, can’t help but notice that a certain Ilya Rozanov, who has shut down, refused to talk to anyone since his shock decision to leave Boston, very recently purchased a house here in Ottawa,” the news person is saying, bringing Ilya and Shane to a stuttering stop before they even make it out of the living room.

Brad, the other news person laughs; why does it sound so cold, and mocking?

“Ottawa is Shane Hollander’s home town; maybe he’s putting aside that rivalry, and showing him around?”

“Not that we’ve seen Rozanov go anywhere in Ottawa yet. Our news crew have footage of him moving in to a…”

“We could go back to the cottage right now,” Shane says quietly.

On the TV behind them, the news is showing video of Ilya’s new house through the gate that he never thought he’d be so grateful for. That sick feeling only gets worse for him.

What if someone else starts snooping right now, after seeing this stupid news piece, and some security camera somewhere recognises the plates on Shane Hollander’s car driving in his neighbourhood?

Ilya looks at the bags they already have packed for leaving tomorrow. Maybe they can be out of here in about ten minutes?

“Right now,” Ilya agrees, tapping his fingers against Shane’s waist.

Shane turns, trying to smile. Ilya only sees the worry on his face.

September 2018

Summer is passing too quickly.

Training camp starts in just over a week, and then the season starts, and Ilya will have to remember how to sleep alone again. Every time he imagines waking up to a bed that’s cold beside him, a lump forms in his throat. Another fucking year of only seeing Shane every few weeks, for a couple of hours, spending all his time thinking about when they can be alone again? Can he do it?

They will do it, of course, because there is no other choice. It’s also true that some of it is still fun, the sneaking around, the keeping things private. The thought of every year getting harder doing all this, though, how much it hurts to be apart, how awful he feels when he is alone, it’s pressing down on Ilya. It’s making him want to drag Shane back inside the cottage, and have them never leave again.

“...Ilya?”

Ilya hears the quiet urgency in Shane’s voice and squeezes his eyes shut tight. Let them stay lost in this moment, with his head in Shane’s lap, and only the fire in front of them to concentrate on. This has become one of his favourite things to do here at the cottage, even if he’d tried to be skeptical about it in the beginning. They are safe here, the fire providing just enough light and heat. If Ilya fell asleep in this moment and didn’t wake again, he doesn’t think he would mind it too much.

“Put your phone down,” Ilya says, turning his head to kiss Shane’s thigh.

They have both been online a little more over the last couple of days, easing themselves in to seeing all the usual stuff that gets posted about them in the lead up to the season. Ilya is adjusting to the idea that he might agree to one, maybe two interviews about moving to play for the Centaurs when training camp starts. Maybe. And absolutely not before.

“But—”

Shane’s phone starts ringing. Ilya looks up, sees terror on his face that has him sitting up immediately, also hearing his phone vibrate against the wood of the bench.

Svetlana is calling him? When she is back in Russia for a month? Ilya hovers his thumb over to accept the call, only then noticing all the notifications on his phone. He also can’t help glancing over at Shane’s phone; what is Rose calling him for?

Why the fuck is Shane rejecting the call? He never rejects calls from anyone, much to Ilya’s sometimes-annoyance. Ilya’s stomach is really starting to knot.

With his fingers shaking, Shane presses something on his phone, the symbol for do not disturb lighting up. His breath catches in his throat, making Ilya’s heart start to pound, and it only gets worse when Shane presses another icon and turns his phone to him.

There is an article open. Ilya sees… a photo of him? Putting trash out at Shane’s house in Montreal. A grainier photo, that looks like a zoomed in image of the two of them smiling at one another at All Stars last year. A side by side comparison of the two of them, wearing—sharing—the same shirts, and hoodies. Shane’s car driving through the gates at Ilya’s new house.

“Shane…”

Shane hiccups, his eyes wide with fear, tears starting to stream down his cheeks.

“They figured us out,” he croaks out, as he collapses into Ilya’s arms.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Hello! A little headsup for you if you want it before you read, not particularly spoilery.

Warning

Ilya's internal thoughts are very unkind to him and he is spiraling a bit. It is not a fun time in his head. Which is relatable, right? If you've been through similar, hugs, it sucks, I hate it too.

The fire crackles. Over the sound of it, Ilya can hear tear-filled heavy breathing, and he can’t tell if it’s coming from Shane or him.

Both, probably.

The blood in his veins has turned ice cold, the fire’s flames doing nothing to warm him. This is the nightmare they have both been holding their breath against, bracing for it happening, and, maybe foolishly, hoping it never would.

“I love you,” Ilya whispers into the back of Shane’s hair, his heart breaking for the choked out shudder he feels against his neck.

“I love you, too,” Shane says, though it’s mournful, and desperate.

Ilya wants to tell him that everything is okay, and that even if it isn’t, that they will fix it. Right now, though, Ilya doesn’t know how to do anything.

Shane pulls back, just far enough to rest his forehead against Ilya’s. His grip is still tight on him but has slipped down to Ilya’s arms. Shane kisses him, sweet and soft, and for a few moments Ilya can forget everything that might now be crumbling around them.

“What do we do?” Shane asks eventually, teary-eyed but determined looking when he takes Ilya’s hands.

Ilya wishes he’d found an answer already. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly.

The truth is, that now this is out, maybe…

No. He won’t think about it. It’s fine.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Shane says, watching him.

“Maybe it is not so bad? Maybe… I don’t know.”

“You saw that article, right?”

“Just some pictures.”

“We should read it. Shouldn’t we?”

It’s the last thing Ilya wants to read, but he can’t help be curious about what other kind of evidence they have found about them. So he slings an arm around Shane once he sits back beside him on their bench, and passes him his phone, kissing Shane’s hair when he tucks firmer into his side. “Okay,” he says, nodding at the phone expectantly, and filled with dread.

He can’t help holding his breath again.

A waitress. A gas station worker. A hotel porter. An old neighbour of Ilya’s back in Boston. A ton of insignificant stories, sightings of them, little moments that have been fixed together like the puzzles Ilya enjoys doing with Shane’s dad. He doesn’t like this picture, though, this distorted image of them.

“They think we’re…”

No wonder Shane can’t finish that sentence. Whoever put this thing together about them must be rubbing their hands with glee for this relentless vendetta. Ilya wishes he knew the English for the words bouncing around his skull, so he could strike them out, replace them with betters ones that actually have some meaning to them. He and Shane aren’t depraved, they aren’t disgusting, they aren’t anything this article is trying to portray.

Slowly, and without his permission, tears start to pool in Ilya’s eyes. He tries to hold them in, but there is so little fight left in him, and in seconds they are streaming down his cheeks.

“Oh. Ilya,” Shane says softly, up immediately and straddling Ilya’s lap.

Fear grips Ilya’s heart, despite the comfort Shane's closeness brings. He needs to keep his thoughts to himself, because letting them out would make all of this even worse, but Ilya is terrified. Terrified and without any clue what he’s supposed to do next.

He’s also desperately, completely, utterly in love. And if Shane decides this is now all too hard, too real, too something—

“Will you leave me?” he blurts out, hating himself for it, and hating even more how his tears continue to fall.

Shane goes stiff in his arms. Ilya is convinced he isn’t even breathing.

“What?” he says, probably only a few seconds later, but to Ilya right now it feels like a million years. Then, Shane’s voice turns angry. “You want me to leave?”

“No, Shane. No.”

“Because—”

“I am asking, if… if…”

Fuck. He knows in difficult moments that Shane needs him to be direct, choose his words more deliberately, but right now Ilya can barely form a sentence that makes sense.

“Please don’t leave me,” he gets out in a shuddery voice, wishing he had the strength to stop himself from bursting into tears again.

Shane's face crumples. He shakes his head sharply, then drops his forehead against Ilya's. “I’m not gonna leave you. Why would I leave you?”

“Maybe you think this is too hard now.” Maybe I really am not good enough to have anyone love me unconditionally, and you realise that now.

No. That isn't true. It can't be. Can it?

So many emotions race across Shane’s face when he sits back up, and all Ilya can do is watch. If he closes his eyes, maybe he can fall asleep, and this nightmare won’t be happening. But it is, it really is happening, and it’s happening now. He has to be brave, even if he feels like he is anything but. So Ilya makes himself take in a big breath letting the cool air fill his lungs, and then waits for Shane to figure his own words out.

“Ilya.”

Shane holds Ilya’s face in his hands. Will this be the last time he feels this? Is Shane going to tell him to go home, say this has all been fun but is now over?

Shut up, brain. For fucksake, shut up.

“Ilya,” Shane says, more forcefully.

Ilya’s heart is breaking, but he makes himself look Shane in the eye, because that's something Shane struggles with but is making himself do anyway. For him. Because he loves him.

Maybe, Ilya considers, still watching Shane's face, he doesn't suddenly hate me out of nowhere. Maybe these words mean nothing, because our lives just turned into a giant mess. Maybe I can ignore them. For now, anyway.

“Yes,” he says, instead of all of the nonsense screaming in his head.

“I’m fucking scared.”

“Yes. The same.”

“But that doesn’t mean… I’m not going anywhere, okay? Unless you want me to.”

“I don’t want that. I never want that,” Ilya says, digging his fingers into the back of Shane’s hoodie.

“Good. Why would you think I would?”

“I don’t know…”

“I love you, Ilya,” Shane says, both affectionately as he so often does, and while glaring at the same time. “So don’t you fucking dare start acting like… thinking that… I love you, okay? You’re it for me. You always have been. This is absolute bullshit that this is happening, but we’re doing this thing. Right? You. Me. Together. That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?”

Now, Ilya feels awful, because Shane is crying as hard as him. All the stupid, pointless words in his head have only made them both more upset, and for what? Ilya knows how much Shane loves him. How could he let himself doubt that, even for a second?

Fuck, he's stupid. So Ilya tugs Shane closer, gasping into his shoulder, petrified of absolutely everything aside from how Shane feels about him, because that is a certainty.

It is so, so exhausting, having to listen to himself sometimes.

“I love you,” Ilya chokes out, closing his eyes and trying to pull Shane closer still.

“I have no idea how we deal with this, or even what we do first,” Shane says, pulling back to look at him better, and cradling Ilya’s face between his hands again. “But we will deal with it. And we’re dealing with it, together, on our terms. Probably with my parents interfering.”

Ilya allows himself a smile at the slight grimace on Shane’s face, and has to kiss him.

“They will probably be coming here now, yes? If this news is, um. Out there?”

Shane closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, keeping himself from slipping by gripping on to Ilya's arms. “I’m only surprised they aren’t already.”

“We have scared your parents. They never arrive before texting, anymore,” Ilya says, surprising himself now by managing to make a joke, even a small one, about anything.

Even Shane’s lips curve up in a smile, and then he’s leaning in to kiss Ilya again, gently wiping tears from his eyes.

“I guess I should check my phone?” he says, like this is the last thing he wants to do.

Absently, while contemplating throwing his own phone into the fire, Ilya adjusts Shane's shirt collar. “Probably.”

“Only for them, though," Shane adds. "Everyone else can… can we just have tonight, not dealing with any of it? Just you and me.”

Will Shane change his mind by the morning, tell Ilya he doesn’t want any of this?

Ilya tells the horrible voice in the back of his head to fuck off once more, and kisses him deeply.

“Yes.”

“Hey. Wake up. I have an idea.”

Mm?

It’s not the first time Shane has woken him up in the middle of the night, and, now the words are sinking in for Ilya, not even the first he’s woken him up with an idea.

The first time was the best idea he’d ever heard in his life, and his life has only gotten better since then. Though his brain then catches up to what has happened, why Shane has probably been sitting up thinking, and…

“You didn’t sleep?” Ilya says, turning on to his front, and, because he is still half asleep, dropping his chin against Shane’s chest and closing his eyes.

“I couldn’t.”

“Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? No,” Shane says, smacking a kiss to the top of Ilya’s head in a vigorous way that tells Ilya he needs to be more awake for this. “You don’t need to be sorry. I just needed to think about things.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Shane says, fidgeting; Ilya knows that particular wriggle means he needs to sit up, so he does. “I love you. Okay? Whatever else is going on, whatever else happens, you know that, right? You’re everything to me.”

Great, now Ilya is tearing up, marginally more awake, and very aware of the shift in their world.

“Yes. You are my everything too.”

Shane’s smile is beautiful. Ilya leans in and kisses him, humming against his lips. “I know.”

“Good.”

“So. I meant it when I said before, that we'll deal with whatever’s coming—“

Even in his enthusiasm, Shane can’t help grimacing. Ilya doesn’t blame him.

“—together. I don’t think they can do anything to us in the league—not legally anyway. Not officially. But, we need to speak to our agents.”

“I should have changed mine already.”

“You literally just got your house, did all your permanent residency paperwork. You can’t do everything at the same time.”

In truth, Yuna organised so much of that for Ilya, talking him through it, and guiding him when the weight of all the English felt far too much. For a second, Ilya thinks only of how wonderful it is to know he’s been accepted by Shane’s family. One second later, and the reality of everything hits him like a wall.

“Yes. In five years, I must be here for… three years in days, and—”

“Which you will be. That’s fine. That’s not gonna be a problem.”

If the Centaurs don’t want him anymore because of all this, that would be a problem. If he doesn’t have work then his permanent residency is at risk. And now it’s out there, that… not that he’s acknowledged to himself fully, exactly what this news about them really means… he can’t risk going back to Russia, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t.

It’s all just such a mess, every part of it.

As he has done so many times in the past, Ilya curses himself, that he didn’t look into this properly before, when he was in Boston. Who was he kidding back then that he didn’t want to leave Russia far behind him? Who was he kidding? The same idiotic part of himself absolutely certain he wasn’t in love with Shane.

“So. I think, we speak to our agents tomorrow. Before we do anything else. And if yours isn’t, uh… helpful, like you think he might not be, sign with Farah. She’s amazing,” Shane says.

“Okay.”

“I’ll call her first, if you want, with you there, so you can talk to her, and figure out what we need to do with you working with her. I’ll tell Mom we need a couple of hours before they come over.”

Ilya is not sure Yuna will listen to that. He just smiles, both because he doesn’t know what to say, and because he knows Shane will have prepared this whole speech already.

“So, we do that. Then, we read any emails we need to, from our teams, or the league, or—I guess, Farah can tell us what to do with those.”

“I hope so.”

“Yes. And, we deal with… whatever we need to, with our teams,” Shane adds with another grimace.

Ilya is mildly confident that the Centaurs will be, if nothing else, okay with this news about them. He has no reason to think otherwise, because honestly, he doesn’t know a damn thing about them at this point. Going by his few meetings and calls with the owners, though, Ilya likes to think he is a good judge of people, and they do seem great. So he’s hopeful. At least trying to be.

The Metros, though? Ilya has the urge to go to whatever first meeting Shane will have with the coach, the managers, the team, protect him from every awful thing he knows they will sling at him. Not that his presence there will be all that welcome or do much to help, Ilya is sure.

“I think, we do some research, speak to Mom, speak to our agents, and we figure out which, like, news outlet, is best. Or, not the worst. I don’t know who, exactly. But I think we agree to one joint interview about all this. Just one. Together.”

Ilya imagines a wall of questions crashing down on him and suffocating him with too many difficult English words. It’s so frustrating, to know exactly what he wants to say, and have this block on everything. A block that only gets worse when he’s frustrated, or upset.

Or terrified. Like he is right now.

“They will ask for more,” he says, imagining the hell it will now be to leave this cottage, go out there in public, have cameras and microphones shoved in their faces, and for what? Because they fell in love? There are so very many worse things.

“I know,” Shane says, his face falling. “I’m not saying any of this is gonna be easy, and we’re not gonna go through, like… so much. But we’re here now, right? We have to… we have to deal with it.”

“I did not think you would be like this,” Ilya says quietly, watching him.

“Like what?”

“So… accepting, so quickly. So… calm. Maybe not calm. But, not so… not more scared, maybe. That this happened.”

Shane snorts, fury taking over his face momentarily. “I am. I'm terrified, and I fucking hate it. I hate we even have to worry about any of this. I’m terrified that we get up tomorrow, and that’s it. Our careers are finished, and we lose… everything.”

“Not everything,” Ilya says, knowing some relief when immediately Shane slots his fingers through his.

“No,” Shane agrees, kissing him. “Not everything.”

“It will be hard.”

“Yes. I can’t see any way it wouldn’t be. But I think, before anything else happens, we get a safety net, okay? Just in case the worst happens, and… you need your citizenship, here, Ilya,” Shane says, quietly, and for a moment, the sheer terror of all of this washes across his face.

Ilya’s heart clenches. All the worst case scenarios that have always played in his head about having to go back to Russia if he was ever outed fight to replay for him again.

“What is, safety net?”

Shane is particularly hyped up about this part, judging by how he’s sitting up so straight, looks so determined.

“You know I want to spend the rest of my life with you, right?”

Great, now Ilya’s eyes are stinging.

“Yes,” he says, hating how his voice breaks.

“And, we know we want to get married some day, yes?”

“Of course.”

“I think we should get married. Now. Like, not now, now, but yes. Now.”

“Shane—”

“Because if we apply for a marriage licence right away, we can, I think, maybe get it in about a week or something. And we can get married pretty quickly. Maybe even before the season starts.”

If that even matters. What if the season starts, and they are no longer playing in it? Ilya can’t imagine it. Especially when Shane seems to be talking about a rushed wedding, when that’s not what Ilya ever daydreams about for them at all. And he’s daydreamed about marrying Shane a lot.

“We’ll need witnesses, one for you, one for me. I’m pretty sure we’d be okay if it was both my parents, but, if not, we’ll figure something else out. So, I’m not worried about that part of it. And,” Shane says, in full flow now, “then, we’re married, and I can sponsor you. For citizenship, permanent residence, whatever we need.

“Then, if the worst happens, and we can’t play in the league, we have that part of all this figured out, while we figure out everything else. I feel like, if I know that you’re okay, that you’re safe here, that we don’t have to worry about you having to go back to Russia, then, we’ll be okay. We’ll have, I don’t know. Time to think. Properly. About whatever else happens with this.”

Shane Hollander not playing hockey, not in the league, not following the plan he’s made for his life? Ilya can’t imagine it. He can’t have it come to this, he’d rather remove himself from the picture altogether, so Shane can get on and live his life.

...where the fuck did that thought come from?

Ilya’s heart thuds. He swallows hard, shakes his head to clear it of those awful words, and gives Shane all of his attention again with a sharp nod.

“Then,” Shane says, and kisses him again, “after a year, maybe two, maybe… I don’t know exactly. But after all this, when we’re settled, and okay, then, we can do it again. Get married, I mean. Or, recommitted? Renew our vows? I can’t remember what it’s called right now.”

Ilya can’t think, can’t process anything; maybe he’s still fast asleep in the middle of a really weird dream.

“You stayed awake to think about how you can marry me? For citizenship?” he says, when no, that’s not what Shane was doing at all, he was trying to fix everything.

“Not for citizenship. For everything. I hate that there are people out there who know absolutely nothing of us, thinking that we’re just… that we aren’t anything,” Shane says, scowling.

“Ah. You want to marry me to make a point?”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes. You do. Everybody knows that now.”

Shane’s cheeks are pink. They are both exhausted. There is probably no easy answer to any of this. But Shane wants to marry him. And if Ilya can stop thinking about everything else, why this is even a conversation they are having, then he can focus on that.

“I want to marry you. For real. And I want to make sure you can stay here. That you're safe. This is all just…”

Oh. Now Shane’s panic is resurfacing. Ilya can see it rising up in him and covering his face.

“This is all just very much. We must sleep. Tomorrow, we will be very busy,” Ilya says, coaxing Shane until he is lying back down with him, tucked into his chest.

“So busy.”

“Probably, yes.”

“Hey. You do want to marry me, right?” Shane asks then, lifting his head to look at Ilya with a cautious smile.

“Yes. More than anything,” Ilya says immediately, because he can’t have Shane think differently about that.

“Good,” Shane says, then wriggles to get comfortable.

Ilya smiles for the kiss against his chest, gets his fingers into Shane’s hair, and tries to go back to sleep.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Hello! Headsup! The implied/referenced homophobia tag is relevant for parts of this chapter.

Mildly spoilery headsup

It's clear from a conversation that Shane has had with Montreal that they're a bigoted bunch of *insert your own words here*.

“Your Montreal girl is Shane Hollander?”

Closing his eyes, Ilya presses the edge of his phone against his temple. How much longer he can keep doing all this talking for, before his voice gives out?

A busy day? When they talked last night about today being busy for them, it was the most understated way to describe what they are currently experiencing. It's been nonstop chaos since the moment they woke up, and it's barely three o'clock in the afternoon. Still plenty of time for more people to want to talk to them before the day is out.

Once this call is over, Ilya promises himself a long, long drink. Probably a couple of them.

The day started with Ilya’s agent cutting ties with him. By email. Just like that. A final invoice emailed, something about releasing him from their agreement, and that was it. No conversation about why, or anything. It was a relief to Ilya, having one less bit of conflict to have to deal with, until his mind starting goading him with the reasons his agent might want nothing to do with him now. Then, he just felt gross for it.

Luckily, Shane’s agent—and now his agent—Farah, welcomed him immediately, put some of Ilya's panic at ease. She congratulated them, even, smiling at Shane and Ilya sitting practically on top of one another on the couch for needing the closeness more than ever, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Which it is. The rest of the world might need to catch up to the idea of him and Shane, but for Ilya, this is his normal. He wants his whole life with him.

Next, Ilya had a call from the Centaurs owners, who were as okay and supportive with all of this as Ilya had hoped they might be. After that, he was answering another text, this time from the new Centaurs coach Brandon Wiebe, who is starting the season out with him. He’s young, maybe younger than any other coach in the league currently, and has a history of being difficult, apparently. But, judging from their brief text conversation, Ilya thinks things will be good with him. They have agreed to talk about all of this properly once training camp starts. If there aren’t any… difficulties preventing that from happening.

While having that text exchange, Shane had been clinging on to Ilya’s hand, because the coach, the management, and everyone at Montreal descended on him like a tornado. It took Shane almost an hour in between choked out angry tears, to tell Ilya all the awful things they said to him. Ilya hates how hurt Shane is by their words, more than anything all of this is doing to him personally.

The Metros have meant everything to Shane. Everything. He's put his whole self into being the best he can for them, doing everything they have asked, and so much more besides. They would be nothing without him, everyone in the league knows that. But now, they are talking to him like he is nothing, like Shane is at best an unruly child needing to be scolded and punished, and at worst, a disgusting man polluting their beautiful game.

They still expect him to play, though, to push himself to his limits, and then keep going. Theriault in particular it seems took great pleasure in telling Shane he needed to score them more goals this season, make them look good. This was, from what Ilya can tell, all said with the most condascending attitude, and came with the understanding that Shane is being watched now. One wrong move, one toe out of line, one sign that he is behaving anything less than perfect, and his entire career is on the line. The haunted look in Shane's eyes ever since that call is going to keep Ilya awake for many nights to come, he is sure of it.

At lunch, Yuna and David arrived with hugs and comfort and food that Ilya devoured to fill the hollowness in his gut, while Shane picked at it, looking dazed at everything in front of him. Shane called Rose back, and Hayden called him, and everything is okay with both of them. That JJ hasn’t even answered one of his texts yet, and that those he’s received from his other teammates have been either cold, or cruel, have drained what was left of the colour from Shane’s cheeks.

About an hour ago, Shane received a FaceTime from Roger Crowell, the league’s commissioner. The absurdity of it, Ilya is sure they will find reason to laugh about later, when the sting of today has calmed. The image of a red-faced Crowell—part rage, part sunburn—calling from some exclusive-looking hotel suite apparently on a beach vacation, to yell at them, to threaten them, to say how he would force them out of the league, is going to play on Ilya's mind for days. Just another thing for the insomnia pile, then.

Shane telling Crowell to fucking try it and then ending the call might be one of the hottest things Ilya has ever seen, though, but that’s something else he’ll have to dwell on later.

Svetlana yelled at Ilya when he finally returned her call. Yelled and cursed at him and then burst out laughing. How dare he keep something like this from her? How dare he think he could? She’s his best friend; of course she suspected the Jane in his phone was Shane Hollander. Apparently Ilya is nowhere near as subtle as he thinks he is. But she loves him still, is excited for him, and so, so happy. Though she did say something about Shane’s hands that had Ilya squirming in his seat, absolutely not blushing when they finally ended the call. Ilya won't be looking at Shane's hands again until his parents have left as a result.

And now, after all of that, and everything in between that he’s already forgotten, here is Cliff Marleau.

Ilya isn’t sure he’s ready for this conversation.

“Yes. Montreal girl is… Shane,” he says eventually, glad that he came up to Shane’s bedroom for this call, as Shane’s parents keep him company downstairs while he speaks to other members of their family.

Cliff bursts out laughing. “Fuck, Rozy.”

What is he supposed to say to that? Ilya has nothing, so waits for Cliff to keep talking.

“I mean, I knew there were a couple of guys in there, in between all those girls,” Cliff says.

Ilya’s stomach knots, for multiple reasons. “You did?”

“More like, I suspected.”

Well. He doesn’t sound grossed out, like so many other people already have today. That’s something, isn’t it?

“Okay.”

“So. You and him, this whole time?”

“Yes. No. Yes—before, we were just… it wasn’t serious,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes at himself. When hasn’t he felt serious about Shane? He’s been kidding himself about that since the first time he met him. Before, even. Ilya has long tried to ignore the strange pull he’d felt in his chest forever ago, when he used to follow news about Shane Hollander long before drafts, and junior championships, and everything.

There is no reason to ignore it now, though, or keep this information to himself. Shane would absolutely get a kick out of hearing about it.

Maybe Ilya will tell him later, when some of this mess feels less devastating.

“But now it is? Serious, with you two?” Cliff asks.

“Yes. For some time.”

Since Ilya’s first visit to the cottage.

Since a long time before that, actually. Again, who the hell was he kidding? Definitely not himself.

Cliff lets out a low whistle. “Can’t say I saw any of this coming.”

“No.”

“Happy for you though.”

Ilya’s heart thuds. “Yes?”

“Fucking of course,” Cliff says, laughing again. “Shane Hollander? Of all people? He’s fucking… he’s Shane fucking Hollander.”

Ilya smiles at that, lets a little bit of pride trickle in. “Yes. He is.”

“How the fuck did you make that happen? I know it wasn’t your wit and charm.”

Ilya can’t help laughing, even allowing himself to breathe a little easier than he has all day. “I don’t know.”

“Hey. He’s why you chose the Centaurs, right? To be in Ottawa? To be nearer to him?” Cliff asks then.

“Yes. It is one reason, but yes. The main reason.”

He could talk about the foundation they are launching soon—fuck knows how that will go after all this—and how he wants to become a Canadian citizen. How he wants his life here, with Shane, because he loves him, and because Ilya has never felt the weight of all that Russia is pressing down on him more than it is currently.

What if it’s all taken away from him? He can’t go back there. He won’t—Farah already offered several suggestions that make so much sense, that Ilya feels like an idiot for not having thought about them already—but he knows it’s going to take a while before that fear entirely leaves him.

“Rozy,” Cliff says again, with something like awe in his voice. Is he impressed with him? “You’re a legend. An actual fucking legend.”

Ilya has no response to that, either.

“Hey. Are you good?” Cliff asks, his voice shifting to something softer now. “I can’t imagine any of this has been a fun time for you. For either of you.”

Understatement of the century. But it's still nice to be asked. Possibly.

“No. Not easy.”

“I saw some of the stuff. I didn’t go looking for it,” Cliff adds, hastily, “but you know. It’s pretty much everywhere.”

Ilya knows. Unlike Cliff, he has gone looking for it, not that he had to try too hard to find anything. There are opinion pieces everywhere, and more people giving interviews about seeing them together. More than half are lies, sensationalised stories that Ilya is sure these random strangers are being paid well for, but then there are a few moments when things fit, and him and Shane look at one another, silently asking, how the hell did we get away with this for so long?

Farah suggested the possibility of suing for slander should they want to. Ilya and Shane both know that will only fan the flames. It wouldn't stop the media from searching for worse stories either, or, from the looks of some of the articles, making shit up out of thin air. Why would the press care, or try to be truthful when gossip sells so well? Why would the press care about cheapening the life they are building together, when they can get more views, gain more money, at their expense?

“Maybe you can do something. Make a new story,” Ilya jokes.

“What, you want me to go moon Roger Crowell, or something?”

“He is on vacation. You will need to find him.”

“He spoke to you already?”

“Oh yes.”

“Shit. I bet that wasn’t fun either?” Cliff asks.

“No. Not fun at all.”

“Sorry, Roz.”

“Is okay.”

“No. It’s not. It’s really not; I can’t believe people are having whole fucking debates about this. You just found each other, you know? That’s it. You watch them go through footage of every single game we played against Montreal, try finding any fucking second when you two being together made a damn difference on the ice. They won’t find anything.”

Another chunk of ice dislodges in Ilya’s throat. Cliff can’t understand just how much it means to him, how much relief it brings, to hear him say that. Even if, at the same time, Ilya can picture clear as day, a news segment they saw earlier, mocking Shane for getting knocked out by Marleau because he was looking back at Ilya in the neutral zone.

Apparently, the entire hockey world is fixating on this one moment, as evidence that their rivalry has been nothing but a joke. That they are a joke. It is gutting to hear, and read about it.

Cliff is right, though mostly. Aside from that one thing, that one momentary loss of focus, there is absolutely nothing out there that would suggest they've let each other win, or anything.

“Yes. We always played like rivals. Always.”

“Fuck,” Cliff says, and bursts out laughing again, though this time there is a whine to it. “Fuck, Rozy.”

“What?”

“Roz. The whole fucking rivalry thing. That was like, weird, extended foreplay for you two, huh?”

Ilya feels his neck and cheeks heat up. He also doesn’t answer quick enough, because Cliff is off, cackling again.

“You know we didn’t consent to be a part of that,” Cliff says, but he’s laughing even harder now.

“We don’t need your help.”

“Oh. I’m sure.”

Ilya can’t help it. Hearing Cliff absolutely losing it on the other end of the call sets him off, too.

“Seriously, though,” Cliff says, when his laughter has calmed into the occasional snort and hiccup. “Are you doing okay? Of course not, but, are you?”

“It is… not good. Not easy. But, yes. I think so.”

“And it’s the first full day of it. Probably the worst one. After this? Piece of cake.”

Ilya knows there is an entire chocolate cake being baked right this minute in the kitchen downstairs, by Shane’s dad. How rude would it be if he ate the whole thing by himself? He probably could right now.

“I hope so,” he tells Cliff, overwhelmed for the weight of it all for a few seconds, then doing his best to push it all away again.

"Also," Cliff says, sighing heavily. "You should know that, everyone at Boston, we've been contacted by all kinds of press, wanting interviews, and statements, and all that shit."

Ilya feels sick. "To talk about us? Me and Shane?"

"Yeah. Listen. I won't pretend that there aren't a couple—maybe more than a couple—of the guys who, uh, don't get this thing. With you and Hollander."

Ilya doesn't even have to ask who. He knows his team—former team—well. It still hurts his heart a little. "Okay."

"I can't even say if I'm sure or not if they'll eventually come around to it. But. Not a single person has said a single word to anyone. Okay? None of us are speaking to the press about you. We all agreed. None of us are giving anyone else an opinion about it. I can't say I know who will, or won't, reach out to you personally, but. None of us are gonna add to any of that noise. Okay?"

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Ilya tries to get himself under control. He really doesn't want to start crying yet again. "Okay. Thank you."

“No problem. So… How’s Hollander doing? Shane?”

Ilya closes his eyes, which doesn’t help him, because all he can see is the warring emotions on Shane’s face. It’s surprising, though, that so many of those emotions aren’t based in fear, or panic. They are there too, of course, but a lot of what Ilya thinks he is seeing is Shane’s determination, and planning. Processing, of everything. Ilya is still terrified, of course, but watching how Shane is reacting, and thinking about the support they have received, gives him reason to hope they can deal with all this.

They will deal with this. Even if it takes a while.

“Not bad. Not good, too. Like you said, is the first day,” Ilya says.

Cliff sighs. “Yeah. And I bet you still have a shit ton of stuff to handle before the end of it.”

“Probably.”

“So. I’ll leave you to it. But. I got your back, okay? I mean it. If I can do anything, if you need anything, if you just want to call me up and bitch out the world, I’m here, okay?”

Tears prick in Ilya’s eyes. He won’t let them out, not right now. Though he can’t keep the tremble from his voice when he says, “Thank you.”

“Chin up. Head strong. You got this. You both do. And you did nothing wrong,” Cliff adds.

That’s not helping Ilya hold back from crying. He screws his eyes shut again, making a valiant effort to anyway.

They end the call. Ilya is trembling everywhere. He falls back on the bed, needing a few minutes just to cool off, calm down.

He won’t object, though, when a few minutes later, he hears Shane walk in the room, and knows the comfort of him straddling his lap.

“Hey,” Shane says, bracing himself over him.

“Hi. How were your calls?”

“Mom did most of the talking. They’re all fine with it. Mostly.”

“Good.”

“How was Cliff?” Shane says, and bends down to kiss him.

Ilya curls his fingers through Shane’s hair, keeping him close.

“Good. Really good. I did not expect it.”

Smiling, Shane rearranges on his forearms, nuzzling against Ilya’s jaw. “Good. I’m so glad you have him. And Svetlana.”

“And you have Rose. And Hayden.”

Ilya still thinks he will know a flare of jealousy about Rose from time to time, but for now, all he can be is happy that Shane has some friends to lean on.

Shane screws his face up, and there is blush across his cheeks. “Hayden wants to come with Jackie and the kids. To visit.”

Well. Ilya isn’t the biggest fan of Hayden, but for how supportive he seems to be of Shane, he can be on better behaviour than he usually is. Possibly.

“Soon,” he says, hoping Shane understands.

“Oh, I’m thinking we wait, until a week or so into training camp at least. If that even happens. It will happen,” Shane says in that determined little way he’s been talking about so many things over the past few hours.

“Yes.”

Shane groans then, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe all this fucked up our last week of summer.”

“I know.”

“But, it’ll be easier now, right? I mean, we’ll still spend a lot of time apart, but, it will be better, with everything.”

Ilya’s heart soars in hope for that. Yes, they are still living apart, still incredibly busy, and will definitely have entire weeks when they can’t see each other. But, there will be no more hiding. They can visit each other, if they get the time, if there are breaks, or anything. It no longer matters if people overhear them making calls to one another. They don't have to pretend anymore.

“Yes. Everything will be… easier. Eventually,” Ilya says.

“And,” Shane says, kissing him, then giving Ilya the biggest smile. “My mom just did the application thing, for our marriage licence.”

Ilya’s heart skips. “Oh, yes?”

“Yep. She thinks we’ll have it pretty quickly.”

“Good.”

“We’re getting married. Like… actually married. And soon,” Shane says, looking so happy, that Ilya can’t help feel it too.

It’s not how he thought they would get married. In fact some days, Ilya hasn’t let himself trust they would get married at all. Now, it’s happening. He is still terrified of what the fallout of them being outed will bring, but he can’t help being hopeful, too. About so many things.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Hello!

So... I am dumb. I had this all chaptered up in Ellipsus, all ready for proof reading, all organised. And then I look at all the individual chapters I've made on there and realise, there are in fact 14, not 13. Oops? I've added a chapter now, and promise there WILL only be 14, no more surprise additions!

Also, this is a pretty happy chapter, so, um. Enjoy!

October 2018

“Ready to do this?” Shane says, giving Ilya a nervous though excited smile.

Yes. More than ready. Also terrified. A little pissed that it’s happening like this. Mostly just happy, though. How can he be anything but happy, when in literally under an hour from now, they will be married, and he can officially call Shane his?

“Yes,” Ilya says, leaning in for a kiss, smoothing a hand down the front of the blazer of the very nice suit Shane picked out for their wedding.

His suit is pretty good too. Shane’s been looking at him like he’s planned several fun ways of getting him out of it the moment they are alone. That won’t be too much longer, Ilya doesn’t think.

They are getting married in a private room at a small restaurant in Ottawa, with security on the doors closing it off to anyone but their family and friends. Ilya wishes the security was just a precaution, but no, someone has leaked that they are getting married here today, so there were several news crews waiting already when they arrived.

Why? So many people have decided their relationship is both disgusting and against some unwritten hockey law. So why the hell would anyone want to see footage of them making that relationship official? The journalists and photographers their security had to shove back just so they could get into the interest sure weren't there to say anything congratulatory.

Because of, well, everything, there are only four people attending their wedding, aside from him and Shane, and the licenced officiant who just arrived. Under different circumstances, Ilya would be offended about how small this is, even if in his most extravagant dreams, he’s only ever wanted a small, simple wedding for them. It’s necessary, though, to do it this way for now. They can make up for it later, with renewed vows, a honeymoon, absolutely anything.

Hockey season starts next week. Ilya feels pretty good about it for himself; the Centaurs might not exactly be a winning team, but he has met everyone now, and everyone is incredible. It’s a whole different vibe to Boston, but already, Ilya thinks he feels more at home.

The same can’t be said for Shane and Montreal. Ilya isn’t a violent man, but the need to storm into that Metros locker room and attack everyone is growing by the day. How else is he supposed to feel, when every day since they were outed, Shane’s team have made him feel like the most disgusting, problematic thing they have ever dealt with? Ilya knows real fear, real concern, about how Montreal will treat Shane when they are on the road. He’s dreading it. Not as much as Shane is though.

Ilya hates, hates, that Farah has had to advise them both to keep a record of any abuse, any threats, any crap that comes their way. Hates that it's necessary. Hates that it feels inevitable some of these things will happen. Hates that they can't protect one another, and that they won't be coming home to each other at the end of what are sure to be some difficult days ahead.

At least they both still get to play hockey. Ilya is holding on to that, if not a lot else. If this had all happened mid-season, maybe they would have been benched for a bit, so the teams are probably happier this all happened over the summer. Ilya isn’t, hating that their precious extended time together has been marred by all of this. He is relieved, though. Even if the constant opinions about their relationship have made him want to throw his phone in the river behind his house—or the lake at the cottage—more days than he can count.

“One day, we’re doing all of this properly,” Shane says, playing with Ilya’s fingers.

“Yes. This is good, too. It’s just…”

“I know,” Shane says, giving him a sorrowful smile.

It feels wrong, that either of them should be feeling sad, or even just looking it, on their wedding day. Ilya promises them both they will make up for it, in as many ways they can. They deserve that to look forward to, after all of this.

Even the one interview they agreed to and arranged, after such careful planning, didn’t feel like it was on their side. Ilya had sat there stunned at question upon intrusive question, right up until the moment Shane had ripped his microphone off, thrown it on the floor, and stormed out of the studio. Ilya had been right behind him, and the abbreviated news piece their words had gotten manipulated into didn’t help things at all.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. The people who love them, and support them, they know this thing is real, and it’s been heartwarming, really, all the people who have reached out. Scott Hunter was one of the first, which was kind of humbling. He had a whole pep talk ready about them keeping their heads up, which helped, but also made it clear how uneven the road has been for him since he came out.

“Are you ready?” Yuna says, popping her head around the doorway, and smiling proudly at both of them.

Shane takes Ilya’s hand, squeezing it. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, wishing he was aware only of the warmth of Shane’s fingers, and not how his own heart is fluttering erratically in his chest, as well as a million other things.

Shane leads him into the private room they have booked. It’s so small, but it’s nice, old wooden furniture and cream, draping curtains that match the material over the backs of the few chairs, and along the edge of the table where, presumably, they will sign all the paperwork for this. There are flowers too, little white bouquets in small vases, so it does feel a bit like a wedding, even if it is all so rushed. Their officiant, Helen, smiles at them when they approach, and Ilya pats his pocket making sure the ring he put in there and has checked a million times hasn’t fallen out.

He can’t wait to see that matching black and gold band on Shane’s finger in a few minutes. Ilya has bought Shane a chain to put the ring on when they are playing hockey too, so they will never have to leave their wedding rings elsewhere. It’s surreal, that he’s so excited that he gets to have all of this, while the circumstances leading up to it have been devastating. It shouldn’t surprise Ilya that his head is spinning for all these conflicting, overwhelming emotions, but it does.

Yuna and David are towards the back of the room as they approach, looking on with pride. Ilya even thinks he sees tears in their eyes, which puts a lump in his throat; how lucky is he that he’s been welcomed into this family, and been surrounded by their love?

Their witnesses stand to the other side, and they too both look pretty happy for them. The sight is still jarring though, and pretty weird. Hayden is here to be witness for Shane, and Cliff all but invited himself to do the same for Ilya when he mentioned the wedding was happening. Cliff has had to leave training camp, come up here over the weekend, give up time for this. That’s a sign of a really good friend, and Ilya is still processing just how much that means to him.

The words the officiant is saying, the vows, they seem so empty, so full of nothing. Ilya still catches himself tearing up, and a sneak glance at Shane shows he is doing the same. This is real. It’s their real wedding, no matter how rushed, how small it is. That they will be husbands before the day is out is the most important thing, but Ilya finds himself overwhelmed by the simple fact that here Shane is, marrying him.

“I love you so much,” Shane whispers, his voice cracking halfway through, when the officiant says they can celebrate their union with a kiss.

It’s not the best kiss, because they are both crying, and smiling way too hard, but Ilya is still euphoric for it. He gets a quick dip of Shane in at the end of it, loving how he laughs, and their small party cheers for them.

The paperwork is signed. The officiant leaves. They have wedding rings on their fingers, and Ilya can’t stop staring at his. Throughout their celebratory lunch he keeps on looking at it, catching Shane do the same every time he looks over.

All in all, they are in the restaurant for just under three hours. The pleasant numbness of champagne has Ilya feeling soft around the edges, and convinced there is no one as lucky as him.

“So… you said we could plan a surprise for you, right?” Hayden says, when they are starting to think about leaving.

Yes, they did agree to that. Ilya isn’t even worried about what it is. Not too worried, anyway.

“We did,” Shane says.

Uh oh. Why does he sound more cautious than Ilya feels?

“Yes,” Hayden says with a sharp clap of his hands, ushering everyone up and away from the table.

Apparently, Yuna, David, and Cliff are in on this thing too, whatever it is. In minutes, Cliff is climbing into Hayden’s car with a cheer over his shoulder, and they are driving off, as Shane and Ilya climb more sedately into the back of David’s.

“Where are we going?” Shane asks, as he puts on his seatbelt.

Yuna turns around and smiles at them. “Oh, you’ll see.”

“Is it… good?”

“You’ll see,” Yuna says again.

Shane sighs. Ilya slips his hand into his. Shane immediately squeezes his wedding band, and grins at him.

Ilya certainly isn’t expecting Shane to peer out the window, then laugh, announcing they are pulling up outside Hayden’s house. Ilya has met Hayden’s family exactly once, completely by accident at a game when Montreal were hosting Boston, so this suddenly feels a lot. Is he really going to have to climb out of this car? Properly meet Hayden’s wife Jackie, and all their kids?

Ilya sees a curtain twitch.

“You’ll need these,” Hayden says, approaching Shane and Ilya when they climb out, with… are they blindfolds?

“What?” Shane says, sounding as doubtful as Ilya now feels.

“Just… do it, okay?”

Shane looks to Ilya for guidance. Ilya can only shrug, because he doesn’t have a clue what this is about, either.

Blindfolded, Ilya lets Cliff steer him into the Pike house, aware that Hayden is doing the same to Shane right behind him. He feels sun on his face, telling him they are probably now in Hayden’s backyard. Ilya hears giggling. That has to be the kids.

Their blindfolds are taken off. Ilya’s stomach gives an uncomfortable flop, as Shane’s hand slips into his. In front of them there is a little… altar? Arch? Display? Ilya doesn’t know if it has an official name, but does know the little arch in front of him is making him tear up again.

The kids, with Jackie’s help presumably, have decorated an archway in the backyard with streamers, balloons, tissue paper, and, Ilya thinks, about a million fairy lights. To both sides there are stacks upon stacks of stuffed toys laid out like they are an audience, waiting for something.

Arthur, the middle Pike kid, is wearing the cutest firefighter costume, one that Ilya thinks he remembers Shane showing him a photo of him wearing for last Halloween. Ruby and Jade, the twins, are in princess dresses, Jade’s covered in glitter, and Ruby’s with bright purple wings. And Amber, the baby, is in Jackie’s arms, happily taking it all in, with a tiny flower ring on her head.

The lump in Ilya’s throat is ridiculous. Shane’s eyes are glassy with tears he is probably trying to hold in.

Arthur makes an impatient noise. As though this is a cue for something, Hayden throws his arm around Jackie’s shoulders and beckons Cliff to join them on one side of the archway aisle thing, as Yuna and David drift over to the other.

"Wait. Pike. You any good with this technology shi—stuff?" Cliff says then, waving an iPad.

Where did that come from? Ilya didn't see him with one earlier. He does smile for the thought of Cliff maybe taking some photos for them, though.

Hayden looks startled when Cliff shoves the iPad in his hands.

"Uh…"

"Swap," Jackie says with an eye roll, handing Amber to Hayden and taking the iPad from Cliff. "Okay. What are we doing?"

"I have a Skype thing. Or maybe it's that FaceTime group thing. I don't know…" Cliff says, then drops his voice, which Ilya tries and fails to strain his ear to hear.

Minutes later, Cliff is grinning at the iPad, and waving. "Okay. Ready?"

"Who's he talking to?" Shane whispers, to which Ilya can only shrug.

"Can we start, Mom?" Ruby yells, as Cliff, holding the iPad up, moves a little closer to Ilya and Shane, sweeping it around as if taking in the view of everyone, then turns it back on them.

"Ruby. Wait," Jackie says, earning herself a sigh.

"Okay. I think I'm ready. You ready?" Cliff asks his iPad, then is flipping it around.

A tear-filled burst of laughter leaps from Ilya, as Svetlana waves frantically at him from one half of the iPad screen.

"Hi," she shouts, still waving. "You didn't think I'd miss your wedding, did you?"

"Or me. Hey," Rose says, from the other half of the screen.

"Oh my god…" Shane says, his own voice a little thick with tears. "Hi."

"Sveta…" Ilya manages to get out, glad for Shane's hand in his to steady him.

"Marleau is not so bad. He messaged me on Instagram to ask if I was angry he was taking my place there with you. This is the next best thing. Then," she adds in English, "I follow Rose, I messaged her—"

"And I messaged back, and now everyone's here," Rose says, to which both Cliff and Svetlana whoop and holler.

Now Ilya is looking properly, it looks like Svetlana is in a hotel room somewhere, and Rose in a make up trailer. And they're at their wedding. What a weird but wonderful day this is turning out to be.

"I'm sorry, man," Hayden then says to Shane, with an apologetic look for Ilya. "I, uh… I tried to get JJ to come to this thing, but…"

"It's okay," Shane says in a slightly trembling voice, smiling when Ilya squeezes his hand, "everyone who matters is."

"Okay. Now can we marry them?" Ruby says with her hands on her hips, to a round of laughter.

"Okay. Yes, you can do it now," Jackie says, poking Hayden when he scowls at their daughter.

“Finally. Move,” Ruby says, as she and her sister jab Ilya and Shane in their backs, sending them down the aisle.

Arthur hits play on a toy.

“Is that Moana?” Shane whispers, and is immediately, and loudly, shushed by Ruby.

The music plays for around fifteen seconds, and Ruby and Jade dance up the short aisle in front of them with Rose and Svetlana cheering them on. Then Arthur shuts the music off, and Ruby is giving an exaggerated clearing of her throat.

Jade vibrates with excitement, then takes a big breath. “This is the wedding of Shane Hollander and Ilya…”

“Rozanov,” Ilya says, getting choked up.

“Rose-noff?”

“Yes. Shush, Shane,” Ilya says when Shane snickers.

Shane drops his head forward, so obviously fighting the urge to laugh again. Failing. Especially when Svetlana is laughing even harder.

“Shane,” Ruby says, in the most adorably serious voice. “Do you promise to love Ilya and be his husband forever?”

“I do,” he says softly.

Ilya sees tears in Shane's eyes when he looks. Good. Not just him getting sappy, then.

“Ilya,” Jade says, bouncing on the balls of her feet, “do you promise to love Shane and be his husband forever?”

“I do,” Ilya says, laughing when his own voice cracks. “Forever.”

“We have rings,” Ruby suddenly yells, charging by them and back into the house.

Everyone else is just standing there, smiling at one another, aside from Amber who has fallen asleep on Hayden’s shoulder.

Ruby runs back out, breathless, pushing a plastic ring into each of Shane and Ilya’s hands.

“Okay,” Jade says, “you can do the rings now.”

Ilya’s hand are shaking as he pushes the child-sized purple heart ring he is holding on to Shane’s pinky. He looks up to see Shane giving him a tearful smile. Then Shane takes his hand, and there is now a pink ring wedged on to Ilya’s pinky. It’s one of the best things Ilya thinks he has ever seen.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband,” Ruby says.

“No,” Jade says, elbowing her sister harshly, “I was supposed to say that!”

“No you weren’t! You say the kissing thing.”

“Oh yeah. You may now kiss.”

Ilya leans in and kisses him quickly, feeling Shane’s lips trembling under his.

The back yard erupts into cheers. Shredded paper, confetti, and who knows what else, flies up in the air around them, raining down into the grass. Arthur presses the toy to play Moana again, and Ruby and Jade rush forward, insisting on giving Shane and Ilya big hugs. Over their shoulders, Ilya sees Svetlana on the iPad popping a champagne bottle, then holding it out in toast to him.

Ilya is so, so happy right now, he really could sob his heart out.

“The girls were pissed—mad—“ Hayden says with a quick glance at Jackie, “that they couldn’t come to the wedding. I tried telling them you’d have a whole big thing later, when you redo your vows. They were having none of it.”

“This is perfect,” Shane says, sounding as choked up as Ilya feels. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Hayden says with a grimace, “you haven’t seen the glittery disaster that is your marriage certificate yet. There is cake though. Jackie made it.”

The cake is incredible, actually, two layers, one vanilla and buttercream, and the other all chocolate. There is more champagne, and later, more food, a real celebratory atmosphere out here in the yard. It’s the perfect wedding, Ilya thinks, forget about fuss and planning. It really doesn’t get better than this.

“I can’t believe we got married twice in one day,” Shane says, later, when Rose and Svetlana have said their goodbyes, and Yuna insists they have a wedding dance.

Hayden almost loses his mind that they didn’t expect to have to have one.

“Yes. We are lucky,” Ilya says, happily turning Shane in his arms. “This is the real wedding, though.”

“I know. Ruby told me,” Shane says, laughing.

“Yes. She is… bossy.”

“Very. I kinda love it.”

“I love you.”

“That, too. And I’ll love you even more when we get back home, and can consummate this thing,” Shane adds in a whisper, with a look of intent that so does not match the sweetness of his tone.

Not that Ilya is complaining. He has actually loved every minute of this day, but he really can’t wait to be alone with his new husband. He loves even more that, though they have two houses, they aren’t separate anymore. They are married, and live together, even if it is between properties, and there is so much unknown about so many things.

He knows that he loves Shane, and that Shane loves him, so really, all those other things? They don’t really matter at all. Not in this moment, anyway, not on the day of their wedding.

“Soon,” Ilya whispers back with a wink, leading Shane in another turn.

Chapter 5

Hockey season, day one.

Ilya stretches out in his hotel bed in Los Angeles, sulking already for the cold space beside him. It will be just over a week before he gets to see Shane again, and oh, does it feel impossible right now. They already did a year like this, more even, since they were it for one another long before they ever said it out loud, so a part of Ilya insists he should be used to this feeling. He’s not at all. It might be worse than ever, actually, feeling the weight of that wedding band on his finger and imagining Shane staring at his own. Lonely. Just like he is lonely. And unlike him, Shane’s team probably didn’t go out of their way to make sure he felt welcome. Ilya’s still a bit astonished by how the Centaurs have embraced him, such a stark contrast to Shane and Montreal.

Shane will probably be leaving for the airport already, having played in Denver last night with Montreal winning 6-3. It’s a good win, something that Ilya isn’t convinced his team will be seeing any time soon, but he’ll take whatever comes their way over everything about Montreal currently. That defeated, forced smile on Shane’s face over FaceTime last night is one Ilya has only seen once or twice, but he’s sure he’ll be seeing it a lot in the future now.

Montreal have taken away Shane’s captaincy.

It’s a temporary measure, management said, just until things settle down. Whatever that means. They could have told him before the first game of the season at the very least, give Shane time to get used to it a little, but of course they didn't, adding one more insult to the long, long list of ways they have insulted him so far. Ilya had to go to his hotel gym after Shane told him because he was so close to punching a hole through the wall in frustration. How dare they treat Shane like they are treating him?

Shane put a brave face on this news, because of course he did, telling Ilya that it’s for the best, really. At least this way, no one can accuse him of biased decisions when it comes to Ilya, which might be true, but they both know people are going to try saying that anyway. JJ Boiziau, the new Metros captain, sure won’t be biased about Ilya, or, who knows? Maybe he will. He's never liked Ilya, that's always been obvious, so this might be the perfect opportunity for… fuck knows what. Will he make his dislike of him more obvious now on the ice? God, Ilya hopes not.

No, Ilya tells himself, JJ won't do that. As much as personally, Ilya doesn't think JJ has earned the right to call himself Shane's friend, Shane still feels that he is. And, to give JJ credit, he did tell Shane yesterday that this wasn't the way he ever wanted to become captain, that the captaincy should have stayed with him. So, Ilya will try to forget the angry phone call between Shane and JJ early on in them being outed, for Shane's sake. He just hopes this renewed friendship is genuine on JJ's part.

Ilya still wishes he was there with Shane anyway, both to comfort him, and to stop feeling like the best parts of himself are missing. He could easily fall back to sleep, get a couple more hours in. They aren’t playing until the afternoon and he isn’t needed for anything. No one will miss him if he stays here, right?

Sighing, Ilya reaches for his phone on the nightstand, seeing first, a couple of texts from Shane, and then noticing the time in surprise. It’s late already, far later than it feels, far later than he was just debating sleeping in until. How did that happen?

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes Ilya rolls on to his back, opening his messages from Shane.

Hey husband, he reads, helplessly smiling immediately, it is way too fucking early to be at the airport already. Can it be summer again please? Also. I guess we don’t need to delete things now, right?

Heat starts to coil in Ilya, as he enjoys the very nice photo Shane has sent him. Maybe he’ll just lie here for a little longer so he can enjoy it properly.

The Centaurs are… not good.

They could be, Ilya thinks, going over the strengths of everyone on the team, sure collectively they are no worse than so many others. It’s far too early in the season for Ilya to try to understand what isn’t working, but he finds himself thinking about it anyway.

Is it because they haven’t connected as a team yet, that magical click that just happens sometimes putting everyone on the same page? Ilya doesn’t know, but suspects that might be all it is.

He does know that Coach Wiebe is the most laid back, encouraging coach in the whole league, judging by his experience with him so far. Everyone on the team seems to love him already, and works just as hard for him, possibly even harder, than they might do with a stricter coach. So. At this stage, Wiebe is definitely not the problem.

The entire management structure, that is good too, with so much support behind the scenes that Ilya feels comfortable with everyone at the Centaurs like he never has in his life—and that’s after just a really short time. So… it is the team that is the problem, and the team is not really a problem, it’s about working together, waiting for everything to fall into place. Once it does, Ilya is adamant they will be successful.

It’s really hard to wait, though.

Montreal are having an amazing start to the season. Ilya isn’t biased when he says that Shane is responsible for so many of their wins. Right now, Shane is trying to prove himself even more than usual, anyone can see that. But only Ilya thinks Shane could give them everything—even more than he already did—and it still wouldn’t be enough.

And tonight, it’s the first game between their two teams, at home to Montreal. Ilya wants to think only of how many minutes it will take them to get home after the game is finished, but the spectacle that is them is meaning this whole game has become something else.

“It must be strange for you, Ilya, knowing you’re going up against Montreal—your partner—for the first time this season,” the interviewer says.

Ilya hates the tone of their voice already, the sickly smile, and the laughter he sees in her eyes.

“No. It's not strange.”

“Not even a little?”

“No,” Ilya says, giving his most nonchalant shrug. “My husband is professional. I am professional. We have played opposite each other for many years.”

“As captains,” the interviewer says, her smile flooding with glee.

“Yes.”

“This year, you’re going up against a team that isn’t captained by your partner. That has to change things for you, doesn’t it?”

In his head, Ilya can hear Shane telling him to keep calm, like he can feel how his blood is boiling.

“This year, I am with a new team. There are many changes. This is just one more change. Teams change every year,” he adds, because that’s true, has always been true, nothing has to be any different about all of this.

“But your partner—”

“Husband. He is my husband,” Ilya says, just about stopping himself from growling the words out. “He is an important player for Montreal. Nothing changed with that.”

“What will it take for the Centaurs to win tonight, do you think, Ilya? It’s obvious Montreal’s new captain isn’t your biggest fan. The dynamics have shifted, for that, if nothing else. You must feel some way about it?”

How can they say this, when the rivalry between him and Shane has been the focus for years? What the fuck do these people even want from them? Whatever he says, or doesn't say now, will absolutely be wrong.

“I feel… many things. Thank you,” Ilya says, cutting the interview short and not looking back as he storms away.

What the hell kind of questions were they, anyway?

Head in the game, though. It’s a relief to see Shane across from him on the ice, and it’s even better that they can smile at one another, not pretend to scowl, or something. They can’t be too friendly, obviously, Ilya acutely aware of how many eyes and cameras are trained on their every move. As far as he is concerned—and judging from the look on Shane’s face, he agrees—they play against one another no differently than they have done in previous years. No one can say anything different, and if they do, they’re making something of nothing. They will find nothing but professional behaviour from them both here.

Montreal wins, 7-2. Not a shock in the slightest. Ilya still thinks the Centaurs played pretty well. He grits his teeth through another awful interview before taking the quickest shower possible, and giving an even more hurried goodbye to his team.

He jogs through the car parks, speeding up when he sees Shane is already by his car, just putting his bag in. Ilya sprints the last few feet, matching Shane’s huge smile when he turns for hearing him. He grapples him into a tight hug tucking his face into Shane’s neck, sure this is the best he’s breathed since he last saw him.

“Hi,” Shane says softly, relief in his voice too as he cuddles in even closer, and for a moment, absolutely nothing else matters at all.

“I missed you,” Ilya says, turning enough to get a kiss to his cheek.

“I missed you so much,” Shane replies, his eyes falling closed in relief when Ilya cups his face in his hand, and kisses him properly.

He needs to be alone with him. Ilya forces himself to pull back, take Shane’s hands, and breathe deeply. “Can we go home?”

Shane nods, his smile still wide. He even opens Ilya’s door for him.

“Let’s go,” he says, before slamming the door closed once Ilya is in the car, and jogging around the front of it in a hurry.

“Is it weird that it already pisses me off when people call you anything but my husband?” Shane says later that evening, when they are curled up in bed, and spent, and so happy to finally be alone.

Ilya kisses his shoulder, and shakes his head, reaching out to stroke a finger over Shane's wedding ring. “No. Is same for me. The interview tonight, they kept saying anything. Anything but husband.”

“Coach told me to forget it was my boyfriend on the ice and that he’d be watching me to make sure I played hard against you.”

Scowling, Ilya drops his face in Shane’s neck, and tucks his leg between his. “They do not know us.”

“Not at all.”

“You must kiss my hip better later. You checked me. I think I can tell your coach it was very hard.”

Snorting, Shane makes Ilya move, kissing his way down his torso and then lavishing attention to his hip. “Sorry.”

“Now, you are sorry. Not when we played.”

“Exactly!”

“They do not know us. They do not know anything,” Ilya says, playing with Shane’s hair as he watches him.

“Honestly, I don’t really want them to know us, after how it’s all been.”

“No,” Ilya agrees, smiling softly when Shane hoists himself back up the bed, cuddling in close once again.

“This is pretty nice, though, right? Us, together, after the game, no sneaking around?”

If only Ilya could put into words just how excited, how grounded it makes him feel that he could openly climb into Shane’s car outside the arena, drive home with him. He can only kiss him sweetly, continue to feel put back together just for having his arms around him.

“And, I’ll take you to the airport when you need to go,” Shane adds, letting out his own contented sigh.

It’s the last thing Ilya wants to think about, having to leave again. So he only responds with a hum, allowing the press of Shane’s skin against his own soothe him.

November 2018

Ilya is sure he has never been so glad to be in a hotel room. He kicks his shoes off by the door after locking it, drops his bag on to a chair, staggers a couple of steps forward and lands face first on the bed.

He’s exhausted. So thoroughly, utterly exhausted. Eyes sore from staying awake for hours, body aching everywhere after some rough games, heart miserable, because it’s been almost two weeks since he was last in a room with Shane, and will be two more days before he can see him again.

None of this got easier, for them getting married. In some ways it's so much worse, because now they’re allowed to be together, to be themselves, and are being denied it—by their jobs. In his heavier moments Ilya toys with the idea of quitting, having nice ideas of doing nothing forever. Sleeping a whole lot more. This wouldn’t work for him, of course, because Ilya needs to be busy, both because he gets bored easily, and will avoid being alone with his own thoughts as much as he is able to.

But he’s so, so tired right now. Groaning, Ilya pushes himself up just enough to shrug out of his jacket, then curses himself for being lazy and gets up, stripping down to his boxer briefs. He grabs his phone, wincing as he drops on to the bed and rolls on to his back. Then, he sends a FaceTime request, knowing relief the moment Shane’s smile fills his screen.

“I miss you,” is the first thing he says, watching that beautiful smile dip into one more wistful.

“I miss you. So much. How are you feeling?” Shane asks, his eyes filled with concern.

Ilya does his best not to roll his eyes, not to shrug it off. He even lets his hand come to rest protectively over his hip. Though he could do the same for his shoulder, his ribs, and, now that he’s scanning his body, maybe even his knee.

“I want you, and a bath, and many blow jobs, and much sleep.”

There, Shane’s smile is a little stronger now. “We are having all of those things in like… not even 48 hours from now.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Me, too.”

“I need you,” Ilya lets slip out, not that this will be a revelation to Shane.

“I need you. And I need to hear how you are,” Shane insists. “That game was awful to watch.”

“To play, too.”

Brutal, is another word for it. Though it’s not as if tonight’s was the only brutal one.

It’s been a horrible week.

First, it had been a game against Boston. It’s always good to see Cliff in person even though they are messaging regularly now, but the rest of Ilya’s former team aren’t quite ready to forgive him yet. They aren’t as awful as Montreal are still being with Shane, but then Ilya is convinced no team is as awful as the Metros. He's aware he is biased and absolutely does not give a fuck. Also, his former team's anger at him is almost entirely to do with Ilya leaving, and barely about his and Shane’s relationship at all. Still, there are one or two people he used to captain that apparently have no problem with being rough with him either way. The ache in his shoulder is because of a particularly rough check in that game.

Then, it was Anaheim. Slurs from some fans, he’s heard plenty already, leaving his heart heavy, but his head still held high. At least in public. No one else needs to know how it keeps him awake sometimes, replaying some of the things yelled his way. But the slurs from the fans that night came accompanied by weirdness from a couple of the team, and one memorable slashing that ended with a hard jab in his side. His ribs. Which is never comfortable. He’s been telling himself a good night’s sleep would take the ache away, but hasn’t had one since that night.

And tonight, maybe the worst of it all, a jeering crowd that no longer amuses him like it used to when back playing for Boston, and a defenseman who checked him so hard, that Ilya’s hip is still stinging. He’ll have so many bruises, glad only that they have a rare day off tomorrow. Nowhere near close enough to where Shane is unfortunately, otherwise Ilya would happily make the trip this minute.

He also resents that they couldn’t fly straight back to Ottawa tonight, because there are press events here tomorrow afternoon. Which of course will be a great time.

“I’m sorry, Ilya,” Shane says softly.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know. I hate that people are being like they are with you?”

“They are similar with you.”

It’s true. For as much as Shane is fussing over his various injuries, it’s not as though some other teams haven’t been equally rough with Shane. Or, almost as rough at least. It’s their words that get to Shane more than anything, though, Ilya is sure.

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Shane points out.

“Maybe not. But I don’t need sorry from you. I am happy. I am… glad, that we do not have to hide anything.”

“Me, too. And it’ll calm down eventually, right? They can’t all be mad at us indefinitely? I mean, look, some people are fine with us already. The rest just need to, I don’t know. Catch up?”

Ilya hopes so. When he’s better rested, Ilya is furious about how they are both being treated, told in one breath how important they are to the league, and how disposable they are the next. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the amazing people Ilya is getting to know at the Centaurs, and the few other players elsewhere who have gone out of their way to be friendly, he really would be thinking more about stepping away from it all.

Not that he can right now. For numerous reasons. Including how, in his heart, he doesn’t really want to. Ilya wants to play hockey, have his husband play hockey, and to live his life with him. That isn’t too much to ask, surely. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

“You will be in Ottawa before me, yes?” Ilya says, instead of attempting to answer Shane’s question.

“Definitely. I’ll get groceries, maybe get dinner started?”

What a nice thought. Ilya only bites his tongue to stop himself from requesting literally anything to eat that isn’t healthy.

“Yes. That would be good.”

“And, fuck it. I’ll drive straight to practice when I need to leave, instead of leaving the night before,” Shane adds, absently running his fingers through his hair and inspecting the longer-than-usual strands.

Ilya's heart skips hopefully. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says, smiling at him. “I sleep better with you anyway. And there’s no need to go home first, pretend I just came from there or anything.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” Ilya says, hit with a wave of sadness, and loneliness, and missing Shane so hard it’s a wonder he can still speak.

“Me, too. And I am kissing all those bruises better. Every single one of them.”

“Maybe, I will have more of them.”

“I’ll kiss you anyway. No more bruises needed.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Shane agrees, his eyes all crinkled.

God. Ilya loves him so, so much.

Shane: I think I'm drunk

The message makes no sense. Ilya stares at it for several seconds trying to guess if the English is misleading him in some way, then decides that no, he really is reading what he's reading.

It still doesn't make sense, though. Why would Shane be drunk when he's on day three of a week long road trip, a couple of hours after the Metros just lost their game?

Why is Ilya's first thought about this disbelief, and his second, panic? Why the hell is Shane drinking alone? Before he can spiral into worst case scenarios, Ilya sends a FaceTime request and sits up straighter on his hotel bed.

"Hey," Shane says just seconds later, beaming at him through the phone screen very obviously at least a little bit tipsy.

He's not sitting on a hotel bed. From the looks of things, he's on the floor of his hotel room, with his back up against the bed. What the fuck?

His freckles are adorable, though, standing out proudly on pink cheeks. Ilya admires the view, and can't help smiling.

"Hello. Are you okay?"

"He's fine, Rozanov. Chill."

Ilya's stomach drops. That sounded like—

The image jumps, and the next thing Ilya sees is JJ crowding in to Shane's left side, while Hayden shoves his way into his right.

Um…

"Shane? Are you… having a party?"

"No. I am having a party. He is in my room," JJ says, sounding proud. Loud, too.

"And me. Hello," Hayden says, waving, and absolutely looking the drunkest of the three.

Ilya is… so lost for what he's supposed to say now.

"And you are celebrating… losing?"

"We're celebrating friendship," JJ says.

"They got me drunk," Shane says, just smiling at Ilya and not really seeming to pay much attention to his friends.

"You were willing."

"…okay."

"That was a fucking terrible game," Hayden says.

"My arms are tired," Shane says, pouting; this conversation is an entire mess. He rearranges so his phone is balanced on his knees, now at an angle where Ilya can only partially see JJ and Hayden either side of him. Which is… fine.

"So… what the fuck, Rozanov?" JJ says.

He is definitely the most sober in the room.

"What?"

"You married my best fucking friend."

"Yes," Ilya says, narrowing his eyes. "You weren't there."

"Yeah," Shane says, shoving at JJ. "You weren't."

"I was," Hayden says, holding his hand up to high five him.

Shane does this in slow motion; Ilya can't tell if it's intentional or not but it's really hard not to laugh as he watches.

"Yeah, that was a dick move on my part," JJ says, his confident grin dropping.

Mm. Maybe he's asleep and having a weird dream. Ilya thinks to pinch himself to check, but doesn't want to look away from the screen.

"…yes," he settles for saying, because what else is there to say?

"I'll be at the next one. When you do your vows again."

"Okay. Good?"

"I… don't like you much, Rozanov," JJ says then, which is not a surprise to hear, isn't exactly the most devastating news, and still manages to leave Ilya fighting back laughter because Shane's drunken scowl turned on JJ is incredible.

"Fuck you, JJ. You just don't know him. If you're gonna be an ass—"

"No. No, I'm not," JJ says, looking startled for Shane's words.

Ilya isn't. He's kind of proud. Also kind of horny. Wow. It doesn't take much, though, honestly, especially when they've been apart for more than five minutes.

"I don't not like you," Hayden chimes in with, smiling almost fondly at Ilya.

"…thank you?"

"And my kids love you. So does Jackie. So, you know. You can't be that bad."

"I love him more," Shane adds, giving Ilya a drunken wink that makes him snort with laughter.

"Yep. Yep," Hayden says with a serious nod. "You should do. He's your husband. That's kind of your job."

Shit. What the hell have they been drinking? How much? How the hell are they facing their coach tomorrow for practice? Ilya tries to send Shane some sober thoughts.

Nope. From the look on his face, that didn't work.

"Look," JJ says then, mostly looking serious. "Shane's right. I don't know you. I never thought I'd want to know you—"

"Can you fucking stop?" Shane says, glaring at him.

"I'm trying to say. I probably would hate you less—"

Shane shoves JJ, hard in the chest, and Ilya can no longer see him. But he can hear JJ laughing.

Then, Shane turns the phone, and all Ilya can see is JJ sprawled out on the carpet.

"I swear, JJ. You talk to him like that again, and—"

"Okay, okay, fuck," JJ says, holding his hands up. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Say sorry to Ilya."

"Seriously?"

"You fucking—"

"Okay," JJ says, yelping as he throws himself to the side; did Shane just pinch him? "Rozanov. I'm sorry I wasn't… you know."

"You should say sorry to your friend," Ilya says.

"Oh my fucking god…" says JJ, covering his eyes.

"This is what they're always like," Hayden says, sighing.

"How the fuck would you know that? You've had dinner with us once?" Shane says.

"And the wedding!"

"Fine. And the wedding," Shane admits, smiling a little.

"Rozanov," JJ says, snatching Shane's phone from him and slapping his hand away. "Next time you are in Montreal, we're having dinner. You. Me. Shane—"

"And me."

"And Hayden," JJ says with an eye roll that quickly morphs into a more affectionate smile. "I should get to know you better. A little bit, anyway."

Because Ilya loves his husband as much as he does, he bites his tongue before saying the first thing on his mind. "Yes. That will be nice," is what he actually says, catching JJ's relieved smile before Shane snatches his phone back from him.

"Hi," Shane whispers at him, like there is no one else in the room.

"Hello. Maybe I should leave you to your party."

"Mm. Maybe. It would be better if you were here, though."

"Yes. I know."

"See?" Hayden says, off screen, "That was cute? They're cute!"

Shane grins at Ilya. "Practice is gonna be… so not fun tomorrow?"

"Drink lots of water before you sleep," Ilya says, wincing.

"I will. I want your eggs."

"What the fuck?" JJ says; Ilya fights, and fails, to stop himself from laughing.

"Oh, I know."

"If you were here, you could make me eggs tomorrow. Like that morning after we—"

"Okay," JJ calls out, "goodnight Rozanov."

"Goodnight," Ilya replies, not taking his eyes off Shane.

"Night, Ilya!"

"Goodnight, Hayden."

"Love you," Shane calls out, then waves, and either ends their call, or drops his phone.

Ilya keeps staring at his phone for a few seconds more, then bursts out laughing in his empty hotel room.

"What the fuck was that?" he says out loud, groaning as he imagines Shane's hangover in the morning.

He sprawls out on his bed, then sends a text to Shane reminding him again to drink some water before he sleeps.

Maybe he'll send an image of a glass or bottle of water, in case Shane is too drunk to read.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Hello!

No warnings as such for this one, just the press being absolutely the worst; is it any surprise that Shane and Ilya are over it by now?

"Shane Hollander, no longer masculine enough for the manly game of hockey, stuns in head to toe sequins at… wait," Shane says, screwing up his face in concentration, then shakes his head, laughing. "I don't even know what the figure skating tournaments are called? Or… when they are? Should I know that? I should know that, right?"

Ilya's sides hurt from laughing. He tries to keep his focus on the road, instead of listening to Shane giggling, actually giggling beside him. It's one of his favourite sounds, though, so no one could blame him for being distracted by it. "I don't know. But, I think you would look very nice in sequins."

"I know you would, but, you look good in anything," Shane says, patting Ilya's leg. "And besides. That's no fucking better. It's so full of shit. As if male figure skaters aren't masculine. Those legs. Those arms. Their shoulders? Have you seen their fucking shoulders?"

"Oh, I have seen them…"

Ilya turns his head just long enough to see Shane scowling at him. "Stop looking at handsome figure skaters, Ilya. You have a husband."

"A husband who would look very nice in sequins if he would try. Stunning. What colour? Red? Blue? Purple, maybe?"

"Idiot."

"Your idiot."

"Yes," Shane says, leaning over and kissing him on the shoulder. "Okay. Your turn again."

It's the morning of their announcement of the Irina Foundation, and neither of them have slept. Some of it is nerves; even without the attention there is on them and their relationship, neither are exactly fond of press conferences. The thought of having to give a carefully prepared speech and then answer questions is never what either of them would consider a good time. Ilya thinks he has the better deal, because Shane will do most of the talking, but he's still terrified.

Shane practiced his speeches on him last night for almost two hours, and Ilya isn't sure he absorbed a single word. Even if he, Shane, and Yuna wrote the speeches together. Right now, Ilya isn't sure he knows any words, only knows that his tie feels a little too tight at his throat. Maybe there is no air left in the car?

No. It's probably not that.

So. They are sleep deprived, uncomfortable, nervous, and… trying to cheer each other up, by making up their own headlines. The press have been having a field day ever since this press conference was announced, trying to guess what might be said. It's a good thing they only announced it yesterday morning, because the speculation is already ridiculous. Any longer, and who knows what shit they would have come up with?

No better than him and Shane are trying to imagine currently. Though the press have given them plenty of stupid ideas to work with, because the things they have been saying about them? Ludicrous. Awful. Horrendous. Insulting. So many other words. This was not the way Ilya wanted to expand on his English knowledge, but, oh well. Here they are.

Shane is surprisingly good at this sort of thing, though. Well, not really surprising to Ilya, because if there is one thing he both wishes the world could know, and wants to keep just for himself, it's that his husband can be absolutely hilarious. When he's tired, when he's relaxed, when he's trying to make him feel better, Shane can make Ilya laugh like nobody else.

Still. It is his turn, and he's been keeping Shane waiting for several minutes now.

"Um…" Ilya says, trying to come up with something good. "I am leaving hockey to play with balls."

"What the fuck."

"No, no, is good, right? All these years I am playing only with the puck. The puck doesn't bounce, doesn't roll, doesn't do anything. It is very boring. I need to play with balls."

"Well…"

"Big. Bouncy balls," Ilya says, laughing because Shane has slipped down in his seat for how hard he is laughing.

Nothing they are saying is probably even that funny, it's just that everything is so intense right now.

"So, are we talking, what, basketball? Golf? Baseball?"

"No, no. Handball," Ilya says, reaching over and running his hand down Shane's inner thigh, much to his delight.

"I don't think I've ever seen handball being played."

"Because you only watch the Olympics when there is ice."

"Oh, and you watch the regular Olympics? When?" Shane demands, taking Ilya's hand.

"It does not need to be the Olympics to play handball."

"And it doesn't need to be handball for you to play with balls," Shane points out, and that's it, they are both snorting and giggling again.

Ilya sees a sign for the hotel they are giving their press conference at then, all the silly laughter dissolving and forming a knot in his stomach. He hits the indicator for their turning, smiling sadly when he hears Shane sigh.

"We could just keep driving. Go somewhere. Forget about all of this," Shane says, ducking to look the hotel over.

"Everything?"

"Sure."

"Even hockey?" Ilya says squeezing Shane's hand.

It kind of breaks his heart to hear how hard Shane sighs.

"I don't know. Maybe? Maybe we should just keep driving. A never ending road trip," Shane says, letting his head thump back against the headrest.

He doesn't mean that, Ilya knows he doesn't, but does hate that it's come to this, that Shane would even joke about it.

"We can do this," Ilya says softly, with far more confidence than he feels, covering Shane's hand with his own when he slides it into his lap.

"I know we can. And, we are. This is important."

"It is."

Shane sighs again, but when Ilya looks this time, he is smiling, even if it is traced with nervousness. "Ready?" he says, glancing at the hotel again as Ilya pulls them into a parking spot.

No. Not even close. But, also yes, he is. "Ready," Ilya says, and raises Shane's hand to kiss it.

Ilya walks into the bathroom down the hall from the conference room, locking the door behind him. He hates to see Shane nervous, hates how nervous he is himself, but there will never be a more soothing sight than his husband. Even if Shane is bracing against the counter staring down at a sink as though it might have some answers for him.

Maybe it will. They have been here in the hotel for about 20 minutes now, checked the set up for the press conference, and peeked at the overwhelming number of press waiting to attend. It already feels like enough. Ilya is actually grateful that the audio system stopped working when they did a test run, because it's given them both a moment to breathe.

“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya says, coming to stand behind him, running his hands softly over Shane’s shoulders as he admires the fit of his new blue suit.

His husband always looks gorgeous, whatever he wears, but Ilya won’t pretend he doesn’t love the slowly shifting change in his choices of clothes.

“Okay, Hollander,” Shane retorts, catching Ilya’s eye in the mirror as he straightens up, their smiles both ridiculous.

It’s true. They are still Hollander and Rozanov on the ice, and there won’t be a day people refer to them as anything else, but officially, on government documents, utility bills, and every sensible bit of paperwork in between, that’s who he is now. Mr. Hollander. Ilya Hollander. Ilya can’t help get a kick out of receiving letters in that name, and Shane? Is there anything that doesn’t make him horny?

No, luckily for him.

Shane’s smile dips in their reflection. “I’m nervous,” he says quietly, sinking back into Ilya’s arms and resting his head on his shoulder.

“I know. Me, too.”

“We’ve been planning this for more than a year now. I hate that we had to push it back. But I’m still… I don’t know. Terrified.”

“Yes. Same,” Ilya agrees, kissing him on the temple.

The Irina Foundation has been more than a year in the making, it’s true. Ilya is so proud of it already, sure he feels his mom’s approval every time they open an email about it, sign a new contract, come up with a new idea. They were planning on announcing it after the first game of the season between Ottawa and Montreal, but the obsession by the media and everyone else over their relationship meant the foundation probably wouldn’t get the attention it deserves.

It’s difficult, either way.

Yes, they have only pushed it back a couple of weeks, so the interest in them isn’t really all that less. There are still think pieces, snide opinions, even reaction videos online to their every interaction. It’s like being hunted, Ilya thinks, which is a weird feeling to have alongside how incredible it feels to finally be out in the open.

How many people after the announcement today are going to accuse them of setting up this foundation as some kind of PR stunt? Ilya can hear it now, all the unkind commentary, all the things people will say that takes away from how important the foundation is.

They can’t win. Ilya is torn between saying, fuck it, and caring far too much. But. He’ll take all the comments, all the derision, all the things thrown their way, because he got to wake up with Shane this morning, and that makes everything feel more manageable. He even drove them here in his very sensible new Mercedes SUV—that, unfortunately, is actually perfect in the snow—which is such an ordinary, every day thing to do, but still feels monumental.

Ilya won’t think about how a couple of hours after their press conference, he’ll be taking Shane to the airport.

“Hey. Open up.”

Grumbling, Ilya kisses the back of Shane’s shoulder before letting go of him, unlocking the bathroom door to let Hayden in.

Hayden gives Ilya his usual I don’t know what to do with my face smile, an awkward pat on the arm, and then steps around him. Ilya schools his own smile in. He can’t let Hayden know that he is warming towards him, for how supportive he’s been, and because, unfortunately, he’s kind of fun to be around.

Yes. It might be years before Ilya can tell him that.

“Your mom’s looking for you,” Hayden tells Shane’s reflection, standing between the two of them looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “They fixed the audio problem. You can start when you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Shane says like he would happily hear literally anything else. “Thanks. We’ll be out in a minute.”

Hayden uncomfortably clears his throat. “You aren’t gonna start anything, right here, before you go out there and—”

“Why? Do you want to watch?” Ilya says, catching Shane’s smile in the mirror before he ducks his head, and loving how Hayden’s eyes get really wide.

“No. No, no, no, I do not need to see that.”

“Because—”

“Okay,” Hayden says, throwing his arms up as he spins on his heel, “I’m going. See you out there. Be quick.”

“Oh, we will,” Ilya calls after him, laughing when he hears Hayden’s mumbled gross.

When he turns to look at Shane, he’s just grinning at him.

“Stop winding him up.”

“No.”

“...okay.”

“Shane,” Ilya says then, taking his hand and pulling him close, “I want to tell you, before we do this, that I am… very happy today. My mother would have really liked this. And I know she is with me today, watching. I think she would be proud.”

Shane’s eyes glisten. He reaches up, cupping Ilya’s face in his hands and kissing him. “She has so many reasons to be proud of you, Ilya.”

There are tears in Ilya’s eyes too now, for a multitude of reasons. He has to keep it all pushed down. Which is easier said than done, when Shane is looking at him so lovingly, and Ilya is all too aware that in a few hours from now he will once again be alone. So he does the only thing he can, which is to Shane’s face off until they are both panting, and grinning at one another stupidly.

“Are you ready to do this?” Shane says, still a little breathless as he slots his fingers through Ilya’s and squeezes his wedding band.

“Yes,” Ilya says, and allows himself another kiss.

The room is uncomfortably packed when they walk in, Ilya trying to focus only on not tripping over his own feet. There is a weird rumble of… whatever noise that is, when, without making a big thing out of it, Shane pulls out Ilya’s chair for him. Something he does at home all the time. For being so aware of all the eyes on him, Ilya sits down immediately, and, fuck it, pats Shane’s thigh beneath the table before resting his forearms against the table edge.

They can do this. They are doing this. Without all of the noise, the fuss, the awfulness surrounding them, this is something they are excited for, and proud of.

The room falls deathly silent when Shane clears his throat, and taps his microphone.

Aware that he is holding his breath, Ilya watches Shane in profile as he explains what the Irina Foundation is. He flits so easily between English and French, that Ilya knows language envy. Which he’s let slip just once to Shane, who pointed out how hilarious that is, considering Ilya spends pretty much every moment of his day communicating only in his second language.

It’s pretty hot listening to Shane speaking French, though. Ilya schools in his smile thinking about it, knowing it’s very much not the time or place for feeling like that.

The room is still silent when Shane indicates that he’s finished talking. Ilya’s stomach gives an uncomfortable twist, because now that’s over, here will come the questions, and as much as he braces for those questions to be about anything but the foundation, he’s not sure that he’s ready for it.

Also. There is something he really wants to say.

“Ah, I can only say my part in English,” Ilya says, holding his hand up, relieved, a little, that that only gets a small laugh.

“Or, in Russian,” Shane says, turning his head and smiling at him.

“Or, in Russian,” Ilya repeats back to him in Russian, getting himself a stronger, admittedly more confused laugh. “No, no. Only English today.”

Shane nods in encouragement, but understandably looks curious.

“This is not in the notes,” Ilya says, gesturing at the papers in front of them, “but, I wanted to say that, the Irina Foundation is named for my mother. She battled depression for many years, without help. She had no support, no medical treatment, nothing. When she…”

Can he get these words out? Ilya tells himself he has to, comforted when he feels Shane lean against him, sling his arm across his lower back.

He won’t look too hard at how the press in front of them are reacting to that.

“My mother died when I was twelve years old. She lost her battle. This foundation is for her. It is to help people like her, so they do not have to fight alone.”

No, he will not look up at all these faces, he will not let their eyes see his tears. Somehow, the room is even quieter now, and this moment feels like it is stretching out indefinitely.

“I’m proud of you,” Shane whispers, just loud enough that the microphone picks it up, and when Ilya lifts his head, sees tears in his eyes as well.

He swallows back the lump in his throat, makes himself take a couple of deep breaths, and then sits up straighter. Everything feels that little bit easier, when Shane slips his hand into Ilya's in his lap.

“Okay,” Ilya says, “you have questions.”

This gets them a response of awkward laughter, too.

“Ilya. When did you decide to set up this foundation? Was it in response to being made to go public with your relationship?” asks the first journalist.

It’s obvious from the murmur in the room that this is the question every one of them has been desperate to ask, and are now holding their breath to hear the answer to. Ilya opens his mouth to speak before he even has his words organised.

“You know, you could start with, I’m sorry for your loss, Ilya,” Shane says, glaring the journalist down.

Oh. Ilya wasn’t expecting that. He’s grateful for it though. Smug, even. A little bit pleased that there are uncomfortable noises all around them now. Good. Let these bastards know a slice of the discomfort they have been feeling because of them.

Also. Seeing that journalist pale under Shane’s gaze is amazing. Ilya gives a sharp nod at his muttered apology then stops looking at him.

“As to when we came up with the idea for the foundation, we started talking about it last summer,” Shane says. “I always wanted to set up a charity, and Ilya did, too. Doing one together made sense. Even more so, with him coming to Ottawa.”

“So, you were planning on signing with Ottawa over a year ago?” asks another journalist, to more murmurs.

“Can we keep these questions to ones about the Irina Foundation?” Yuna says, immediately, which is not what the waiting journalists want to hear.

“You don’t think these questions are just as important?” another journalist asks, the sneer obvious in her voice.

“No. Next question. About the Irina Foundation. Nothing else,” Yuna says, with a glare just as vicious as Shane’s.

“Shane,” says the same journalist, with a nasty glance over at Yuna where she is standing just off to Ilya and Shane's side. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest having your own mom as the director and treasurer of your new foundation?”

“I don’t see how?”

“Well—”

“Conflict with what?” Shane asks, angrily. “She resigned her position at the Bank of Canada. Being director and treasurer of the Irina Foundation is her only job now.”

“Yuna Hollander is the perfect person for our foundation,” Ilya adds, not daring to look at Yuna now, because he knows she’ll have an affectionate smile for him, and he is already fighting to keep himself together.

“You said you want to teach tolerance, and inclusivity, create a safe space at your camps. Does that mean you only want gay hockey players coaching?”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up as he stares at the journalist asking the question. He can’t hold in his snort of laughter, having to duck his head to keep it under control.

He has to peek at Shane, though, because he hasn’t said anything yet. Ilya watches him frown, tilt his head like he is studying something.

“Okay,” Shane says, sitting back and dragging his hand from Ilya’s lap. “That might be the dumbest question anyone here has asked so far. Well done,” Shane says, kind of blowing Ilya’s mind as he gives this journalist a slow, scornful clap.

“It’s only because—”

“The whole point of teaching, and practicing tolerance and inclusivity, of creating a safe space for everyone, is to make it a safe space, for, you know. Everyone?”

“But you are gay, right?” asks another journalist, clearly wanting to compete for dumbest question of the year.

“I am. He’s not,” Shane says, nodding at Ilya.

“Bisexual. Hello,” Ilya says, giving a little wave.

Also. How good does it feel to say that word out loud? Powerful even. Bisexual. Wow.

It even earns him some laughter. Look at that. Maybe not every single person in this room is awful.

For whatever reason, the questions then become a little more thoughtful, and a lot more focused on the foundation itself. Good questions. Good questions that are easy to answer, because of all the work they have put into this. By the time the press conference is over, Ilya is feeling pretty good about everything. He feels even better when Shane drags him back to the bathroom they were in earlier and kisses him senseless.

“That was incredible. I can’t believe you said all that. I’m so proud of you,” he gets out in between kisses.

“I can’t believe it, too. I did not plan it.”

“Ilya, it was perfect,” Shane says, with so much love in his eyes when he drapes his arms over Ilya’s shoulders, that it’s hard to think about anything else.

Ilya wants to stay in this moment, in this bathroom, forever, maybe. He begs the seconds to stretch out longer as he kisses Shane, forcing thoughts of their impending drive to the airport out of his mind.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

So.....

This chapter is going to end on a cliffhanger, because I'm mean like that 😬 if cliffhangers aren't your thing please come back tomorrow, because the 'issue' will get resolved in that chapter.

I promise no one is dying! I've written exactly ONE MCD in my life and hated writing it and probably never will again, so, don't worry, that's not happening here.

Um. Hugs all round? 🧡

December 2018

It’s two weeks before Christmas. Before, when Ilya looked around him at the mayhem that is the lead up to this holiday, he would roll his eyes, only half get it, then think about something else. Try to, anyway. At first, he really hadn’t understood, and hated explaining to teammates why Christmas wasn’t the same big deal back in Russia—what Christmas in Russia actually was.

Over the years, he’s got a little taste of it, a few years of being alone in his apartment, and one horrible, desperate hookup in a hotel when he was fighting his feelings for Shane. Ilya tries to not think about his worst Christmas memory, which was that Christmas after Shane got together with Rose, briefly, because that one had been truly awful. He’d spent most of the day rejecting calls and ignoring messages while scrolling through every single thing he could find out about them together. Awful? Awful isn’t a big enough word for how he'd felt at the time, but if he tries to find one that fits better, that will mean he’s thinking about it, and Ilya really doesn’t want to.

Last Christmas, though, that was great. Easily the best in his life. Because Ilya got to experience his first real, family Christmas. He’d been welcomed by Yuna and David with open arms, played boardgames with them, eaten delicious food, and more importantly than anything, got to see Shane being soft and relaxed all day. Also, though, it was, without anything else, a humbling, almost surreal day for Ilya. Nobody demanded anything from him, or asked anything of him apart from if he wanted second helpings. In fact the biggest requests of Ilya that day had been how do you say Happy Christmas in Russian? (David), please put on this Santa hat for a photo (Yuna), and kiss me under this mistletoe right now (Shane). Ilya had kind of gotten the big deal about Christmas then.

To be honest, though, just a simple meal with his in-laws and husband, an evening watching a movie together, or an afternoon just existing in the same space with them still feels magical to Ilya, no matter the time of the year. He’s never had this kind of family life. Ilya is convinced he must be dreaming sometimes, for how incredible it feels.

This year, Christmas will be different again, being his and Shane’s first as a married couple. They will still spend it with Yuna and David, though Shane is insistent they have their own little Christmas first on Christmas Eve. They’re still pretty new to being married, and it’s been a weird but wonderful adjustment given the outside shit of everything, but Ilya loves being Shane’s husband. Loves being able to call Shane his. Loves all the little things, like watching TV, doing laundry, making decisions together, and all the mundane bits in between. Ilya loves, loves, loves every minute of it. Being married is the most incredible thing he’s done in his life.

The idea of indulging his new husband for the holidays has, perhaps, got a little out of hand as a result of how happy he is. Ilya is still filled with utter glee every time Shane sees photos of, or comes to Ottawa, and there are more Christmas decorations covering the house. Just watching Shane's reactions to all of his additions might be one of his favourite things ever. As a result of all this, Ilya is developing a real fondness for fairy lights. Who knows? Maybe he’ll keep some of them up in January.

He’s also gone overboard on gifts, even though they both said they wouldn’t, because he knows, Ilya fucking knows, Shane already has a ton of gifts for him as well. Ilya has been good, resisted the urge to peek at the various packages in the back of Shane’s closet in Montreal where he knows he’s been storing them, and has divided his own gifts for Shane into two piles; one, parent friendly stack for Christmas Day itself, and the rest, well. Just for them and their own Christmas, and eyes.

This gift, though, the one squirming in his arms and letting out the sweetest, cutest little meow, this one Ilya knows is going to be Shane’s favourite. And he won’t be able to keep him hidden until Christmas Eve.

“Hey. My parents are happy to keep him here at the farm until you’re ready,” Harris is saying, reaching out to stroke the soft brown and black fur between the kitten’s ears.

Harris is the social media manager for the Centaurs, and has rapidly become one of Ilya’s favourite people.

This kitten is for Shane, because Ilya knows he has a soft spot for cats, and he has a whole joke in his head about how it’s the Viking in him, giving kittens as a marriage token. Ilya isn’t sure the joke will land how he means it, or if he’ll ever say it out loud, but he does know Shane will absolutely melt with this kitten in his arms. Ilya is already desperately in love.

“No. Is okay,” Ilya tells Harris. “He must stay one more week here anyway, yes?”

“They can be between eight and twelve weeks when they’re ready to leave their moms, but, yeah. Next week will be twelve weeks for him.”

Shane’s new kitten—their new kitten—is a domestic longhair, according to Harris, with fur that ranges in colour from red through brown to black. He has yellow eyes, incredibly long whiskers, and will be a huge cat one day, judging by the size of his paws. Ilya has been to visit him three times since agreeing to adopt him for Shane, and is more smitten every moment he spends with him.

“I think one more week to get everything ready will be enough time,” Ilya says, delighted when the kitten flops over on his back and stares up at him.

“Might take more than a week to kitten-proof your whole house, but, sure.”

“I can start. And I bought so many toys already. And blankets, and beds, and everything.”

“This little guy’s gonna be so spoiled,” Harris says, tickling the kitten’s belly, and every bit as besotted as Ilya is when the kitten grabs his hand.

“Yes. I already told Yuna and David—Shane's parents. They have already bought him presents, I think. They will take care of him when Shane and me are not here.”

Honestly, Ilya doesn’t know which of his in-laws will love this kitten more. Yuna does so much of her work from home now, so she will have the time to spend with him, but David only goes to his office twice a week, so he has time, too. Ilya does know that David will bombard them with photos when they are away. He really can’t wait for that.

“That’s good. Get him a pet carrier he can grow into. This guy isn’t going to be little for long,” Harris says, playing with the kitten’s back paws.

“I have one. Too, too big, now, he will get lost inside it, probably. Now, anyway.”

“That’s perfect. Any ideas what you’ll call him, or are you leaving that for Shane to decide?”

“Shane can name him.”

Ilya has a whole plan, actually, for how he’s going to do this.

He will pick the kitten up from the Drover farm next week when he is exactly twelve weeks old, which just happens to be the day Montreal fly in from a game in Colorado to play Ottawa that night—the last meeting between their two teams before Christmas. By then, Ilya will have stopped being pissed that Montreal decided they would have their free day in Colorado directly after their game, instead of flying to Ottawa to do that here. He won’t stop thinking it’s deliberate, though, even if it’s unlikely that it is.

He’s going to put the kitten in one of their spare rooms, surround him with food and toys and everything he needs. Then, he’ll pick Shane up from the airport, casually mention he has a gift for him as they head to the game, and keep him guessing after it, for the entire drive home. Yuna is in on this with Ilya, of course, and she’s put David in charge of keeping the kitten company at Ilya’s until the game is over, leaving just before they are due home.

He might only have Shane with him for just about a day until he has to leave again for yet another game, but Ilya will take what he can get and make the very best of it. And he really, really can’t wait to see the look on Shane’s face when he sees his gift.

“I think this little guy is gonna be a complete blanket hog when you get him home,” Harris says as he lowers their future kitten back into his pen with his siblings.

“We have lots of blankets. And I bought more for him.”

“Good. He’ll probably steal yours too.”

Ilya lets himself have one last look at the kitten then leaves the room, knowing otherwise he’ll try to find a way to take him home right now.

“How’s Shane?” Harris asks as they leave the room that’s become a kitten nursery, stepping back into the main farmhouse where Harris’ parents live.

“Good,” Ilya says, knowing a moment of desperately missing his husband. “They are in Detroit tonight.”

“That’ll be quite the game.”

“Probably.”

“And how are things? With you two, and…”

Harris’ words trail off, but he doesn’t really need to say it anyway. Ilya knows already, and has both a standard answer on the tip of his tongue, and the real one.

“We are good. Me and Shane, just us, together. It feels… very good. That we are married. Maybe, a little, like we were already married,” Ilya says, smiling for how true that is.

“That’s really nice,” Harris says with a soft smile.

“Yes. And I think… people are adjusting to us. Slowly. Some, anyway.”

“They’ll come around. The ones who are worth knowing, anyway. Anyone else isn’t worth anyone’s time.”

Ilya knows this to be true, but can’t help seeing the sneered faces of some fans of opposing teams, remembering the cruel shoves on the ice. The awful commentary from press. He has to stop himself from reading comments about him and Shane when he’s in a bad mood.

Things have improved a little bit for Shane with the Metros, though. The majority of the team still don't approve of him and Ilya, but JJ and Hayden have made sure they don't say a word about that out loud. It's mostly management, and their head coach, who are still treating Shane like a problem.

“Yes,” is what Ilya says instead of any of that.

“You know. I heard that, you know, Ryan Price?” Harris then says, opening another door for Ilya.

“Of course. He was with Boston for one season.”

“I heard, he stood up to Dallas Kent for being homophobic. In the Toronto locker rooms. Apparently, Kent looked scared out of his mind. I would have loved to have seen that,” Harris says, laughing.

Ilya has heard this rumour too, from Cliff, because it turns out Cliff knows pretty much all the gossip throughout the league. Ilya is never going to ask him how.

“I heard, that Troy Barrett is less friendly with Dallas Kent now,” Ilya says, sharing his own gossip. “When we last played Toronto, he was… nice to me. Very strange.”

Harris clears his throat. “I like to think the best of everyone, before I meet them. Maybe he’s not quite in Dallas Kent’s league of… awful. You know ?”

Ilya elbows him playfully. “You just think he is pretty.”

He knows he’s right, because Harris’ cheeks immediately light up.

“Anyway,” Harris says, pretending to glare at him. “Are you hungry?”

“Um. Maybe?”

“Because my parents will not let you out of this house unless you’ve had a good meal first. How does pot roast, followed by apple crumble sound?”

Incredible. Ilya was thinking about maybe a baked potato with tuna mayo, or something. This is a way, way better offer.

“Amazing. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Also, you haven’t met all the dogs yet,” Harris says, gesturing for Ilya to follow him into the living room where Ilya can hear various voices drifting out from.

Ilya smiles. “There are more dogs?”

“So many more dogs. Stay for dinner?”

“Okay. Thank you,” Ilya says, then lets himself be introduced to everyone.

The snow flurries hitting the arena’s gym window seem to get heavier, the longer Ilya pedals on his exercise bike. It’s so dark outside, too, barely two in the afternoon and already looking like it’s the evening. Ilya doesn’t mind the snow, is so used to it, having spent his childhood either playing in or dodging it, and experiencing it in various cities over here ever since. He’s not a fan of how this weather looks though, the news talking about snow storms and icy conditions that are far outside what is normally expected at this time of year.

“I think I’m gonna head home before we get snowed in here,” Bood jokes as he comes to stand beside Ilya’s bike, also looking outside.

If only. Ilya doesn’t really think they will get snowed in, but he’d rather be at home now than stuck here waiting for their evening game. He won’t risk it, because the last thing he wants is to be late getting back to the arena tonight. They might as well hunker down, keep busy until then.

All Ilya is really worrying about, is how bad the forecast for the next few days is. Shane left Winnipeg for Montreal’s game against Colorado earlier, and is due to land sometime soon. If the flight hasn’t been delayed by the snow. God, he hopes not.

What will be worse, is if the Metros get snowed in, in Colorado, and all Ilya’s careful plans with Shane’s kitten will be wrecked—as will he, if he has to wait even longer to see him. With very worsening flurry, every hard gust of wind, every wet thud against the window, Ilya’s gut churns. Please, let the weather not be as awful as they are predicting.

“You think we will still have the game?” Ilya asks, slowing, and then stopping his pedalling altogether, rolling his shoulders back.

Bood glances out again. “We’ve had way worse than this. And, the Panthers already landed, so, the team’s already here, in their hotel. It’s not so far from the arena.”

“It will be a shock to them,” Ilya says, smiling for the thought of the handful of Floridian players who have absolutely no tolerance for anything but sun.

Surprisingly, maybe, both teams in Florida have been great about him and Shane, so Ilya has at least a little soft spot for them.

It would still be great to beat the Panthers tonight, though, but he doesn’t really see it happening.

Snorting, Bood leans against the bike’s handlebar. “Works in our favour. You done? Just looking at that snow is making me cold. I need coffee.”

“Yes. Coffee will be good.”

After a quick shower, Ilya joins Bood in the player’s lounge, more than happy to share the packs of cookies he’s put on the coffee table in front of him. Ilya makes his coffee, drops in relief to the couch and lets his eyes close briefly, sure he could easily fall asleep right here and nap until the game.

“Colorado are hosting Montreal tonight, huh?” Bood asks around a cookie.

Ilya reaches out to snag one. “Yes.”

“Pity they couldn’t have their free day back here instead.”

Ah, so he isn’t the only one thinking it. Good. “I hope the snow is not so bad, they can’t leave.”

Wincing, Bood picks up a pack of cookies, shaking a couple more into Ilya’s hand. “Me, too. It takes a whole lot for them to cancel flights, though.”

Ilya knows that. He’s torn between wanting no flights to be cancelled, and wanting to keep Shane safe where he is if that is what needs to happen. Is it selfish to hope for the former? Ilya doesn’t know, but the thought of not having Shane with him for even longer is making his entire body ache, and absolutely everything feel impossible.

It won’t come to that, though, he’s sure. Mostly.

An hour passes. They are pretty early for their game, but it seems most of the players had the same idea as Bood and Ilya, of getting here early, getting warm and warmed up, and having some relaxing time with no risk of getting stuck in bad traffic. Wyatt Hayes, their new goalie, is amongst the first to join them, adding another packet of cookies to Bood’s haul. Ilya likes him already. He’s funny, known throughout the league for being a rare genuinely nice guy, and a fantastic goalie who has already saved them from far bigger loses than they could have experienced. He also made a point, on his first day practicing with the Centaurs, to talk to Ilya about his incredible sister, and her wife.

The Centaurs really have proved to Ilya that coming here was his best move, even if he takes the decision about being closer to Shane out of the equation. He looks forward to playing, and practicing, even on the days when his brain whispers cruel things at him, or tries to keep him in bed. There is always someone here with a joke or story that manages to lift his mood, even a little bit.

In fact, the Centaurs are proving themselves to Ilya in all kinds of ways, their pro-queer stance feeling particularly special. Wyatt, and every other person here who isn’t queer themselves, they are allies in the true sense of the word, without even trying to be—they’re just good people.

That they’re good people, Ilya thinks, is the secret of the relationship the Centaurs have with their fans. Sure, the fans would love them to be winning more, and never fail to voice their disappointment when they lose, but there is such a feel of camaraderie, that it’s impossible not to get swept up by their excitement. It helps, probably, that their brilliant social media manager Harris, who is gay himself, is playful, and fun, and so good at making everyone look and sound their best online.

Really. Ilya is convinced no other team is doing it like them.

He might be biased, though.

“Not too many,” Coach Wiebe says with a smile when he walks in to find all those cookies out on the table, but is also tucking in, with a pleased little, “Ooh, a white chocolate chip one. That’s mine.”

Ilya smiles as he watches him. He can’t imagine for a moment that Shane’s coaches would even let a cookie inside the building, let alone sit around with the team eating them.

Ilya likes their coach a lot. He has such a comforting way of coaching, such a way of making the team believe in itself. Even when they play terribly, Ilya never dreads the locker room like he once did. Wiebe, who admitted to Ilya privately during the Centaurs training camp that he is bisexual, doesn’t seem to have a bad word to say about anyone. Which doesn’t mean he is only nice, it’s just that he is one of those clever people who saves talking shit about someone for only when they deserve it, and even then does it in a way that sounds friendly—unless they know Wiebe better, in which case, his words are hilariously cutting.

Coach Wiebe is regaling them with tales of the time he and his old team in the AHL had to dig their cars out of the snow after a game, when a pale looking Harris rushes in.

“Ilya…”

Oh, no. Ilya’s heart sinks, sure he’s about to hear that there is something wrong with the kitten he’s due to pick up just two days from now. Shit.

“Oh, damn,” one of the other players say; Ilya isn’t sure who.

“Fuck,” Bood says, looking up from his phone at Ilya with a worried look about him.

Slowly, panic starts to rise in Ilya, for the realisation that the reactions of those around him are nothing to do with the kitten.

“Harris,” he growls out, while sliding his phone from his pocket, suddenly desperate for a message from Shane. “What is it?”

“The, uh… the bus taking the Metros from the airport to the hotel in Colorado, it… it just hit an ice patch. It’s in a river.”

In a daze, Ilya watches Coach Wiebe put on the TV, digging his fingers into fists for the news footage that immediately appears. The bus is down at an angle, half in, half out the water, looking crumpled, with sharp shards of metal sticking out.

Shane is in there, Ilya thinks, his stomach in knots.

His hands are shaking so badly that he can barely get his thumb against the call button on his phone screen. He presses the phone hard against his ear as though if he gets it close enough, he can guarantee Shane is safe.

Shane doesn’t answer.

The room is eerily silent as the Centaurs watch emergency crews starting to approach, the bus slowly slipping further down.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Hello 😅 um.

Well.

This chapter does not have a cliffhanger! Promise!

Here is a little headsup if you want to prepare yourself for the chapter 🧡

Headsup!

1) The Metros are stuck on the bus for a good chunk of this chapter. Naturally, Ilya - and Yuna and David - are distraught
2) There are some injuries mentioned, though not too graphically
3) Theriault is, quite honestly, A Shit, while Wiebe, is very much not

Call, no answer, tell himself he’ll wait five minutes before trying again, and barely making it to two.

Call, no answer.

Repeat.

This is how Ilya spends the next hour, openly crying when they see an emergency crane move in on the TV screen to secure the bus in place so it can’t sink further into the river, which it has been doing. Slowly, slowly. Taking Ilya’s heart with it. There is no other movement, no news about the people inside, no actual details about anything.

The press are on one side of the river, the other entirely cordoned off, the bright lights of emergency vehicles casting an eerie glow over the bus. It’s getting dark there already, even darker than it is in Ottawa, and Ottawa is two hours ahead of Denver. The rescue effort seems non-existent, even if Ilya keeps comforting himself that things must be going on behind the scenes. It’s that, or he does laps of this room trying to keep his heart calm, but Ilya doesn’t really trust that his knees would keep him up right now.

At least Shane’s phone is still ringing, right? That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?

Wouldn’t Ilya know in his heart for sure, if there was something actually wrong?

He would, wouldn’t he?

“You aren’t playing tonight, llya.”

It’s hell to look anywhere but the TV, but Ilya forces himself to glance up at Coach Wiebe, who is watching him with a mixture of sympathy and concern.

“No,” Ilya says, not even hesitating, not even pretending to.

He wants to run to the airport, take the first plane to Denver, but what if he misses some detail about what’s happening while he’s travelling? He can’t risk it, even if he wants to, even if he wants to be outside that damn bus and clawing his way into Shane with his bare hands.

Is this really happening? Ilya can’t believe it actually is.

Yuna and David arrive at the exact moment Shane’s phone starts going straight to voicemail. Bood, and the rest of the Centaurs are long gone now, getting ready for the game, only Harris hovering and keeping Ilya supplied with coffee.

“I’ll leave you to it, but I’ll be back in a bit,” he says, with apologetic smiles for Yuna and David after introducing himself.

“He won’t answer,” Ilya says tearfully, collapsing into Yuna’s lap the moment she sits beside him on the couch.

“It’s probably just his battery,” she says, already running a soothing hand through his curls.

David doesn’t add anything, only perches on the sofa arm beside Ilya, resting a hand on Ilya’s back.

In grim silence, the three of them continue watching the TV. The snow is so heavy there now, so there are few glimpses of any progress with the rescue. Ilya sees the sparks of metal on metal, which must mean someone is cutting their way in. There are ropes, and wires, and what looks like a makeshift ladder, or something, placed down around the bus for the emergency workers to walk on so they don’t slip.

There is one person, possibly a firefighter, frantically waving other people forward, just before the bus gives a violent shudder. Yuna’s grip on Ilya’s hand tightens as the bus judders, slips a little, then judders again, before coming to a stop.

The crane is adjusted; Ilya begs whoever is operating it to keep the bus steady, not caring about the tears streaming down his face. All three of them are on the couch now, Ilya wedged between Shane’s parents, their presence the only thing preventing him from losing himself altogether.

“We won’t be able to see much of anything; not with it being dark, and snowing like it is,” David says, when the journalist speaking to the screen announces they are finally, finally, able to gain access to the occupants of the bus.

David is right. A gurney appears suddenly at the back of the bus, and there is a person carefully lowered on to it, with various drips and wires and fuck knows what else being held up by various people solemnly walking alongside. Between the snow, the dark, and everyone wearing the same team colours, Ilya has no idea who it is, can't even begin to make a guess.

Next, comes somebody wrapped up in those silver blankets emergency services use, propped up on either side by rescuers but apparently able to walk by themselves. More people are taken out, agonisingly slowly. Every gurney has Shane on it, every person walking is him too, at the same time as none of them are him, and he’s still stuck in there, probably freezing, probably injured, definitely terrified. Ilya curses his brain when it whispers other options to him.

“No,” Ilya whispers with a strangled gasp, when they get a brief, closer glimpse of a gurney that appears to have a body bag on it.

“It’s probably just the light,” Yuna says, but even her voice is breaking.

Hold on, Ilya thinks out to Shane, please, please hold on for me. Just a little longer.

At some point, the Panthers beat the Centaurs 3-2. Ilya only knows because various team members come in to check on him, to see if there is any news. Ilya, Yuna, and David, they haven’t moved since the team left for the game, haven’t even considered going home. There is no point; anywhere they are is not with Shane, and any movement from here means they might miss something.

Harris comes in then, with fresh coffees for the three of them. “Ilya. I just heard from Montreal’s social media manager. Everyone is out. They’re okay. I don’t know how okay, because it sounds like there are some injuries. But they’re okay. They’re all on the way to the hospital.”

As though the news crew can hear Harris there is then a shot of someone being loaded into an ambulance, before the news cuts away altogether. Ilya wants to scream, almost already up on his feet, only knowing a little relief when the next shot is of another reporter outside the hospital.

Please let them give him something. Anything.

Ilya’s phone starts ringing. It's Hayden, who has never once called him, only sent the occasional text. Ilya stares at the screen, now aware that he’s had a ton of messages too, but he can’t think about them right now.

“Hello?” he says, his voice shaking as he answers, holding Yuna’s hand tighter still.

“He’s fine,” Hayden says immediately, sounding utterly exhausted. “Shane’s good. His phone broke, so he saw you calling but he couldn’t answer, and I couldn’t get to mine because we were pinned.”

Ilya bursts into tears. “Thank you.”

“He’s fine,” Hayden repeats, like he knows Ilya needs the extra reassurance. “He’s absolutely got some cuts and bruises, and he looks like he’s been sitting in an ice bath for a week, but he’s fine, Ilya. I promise you he is.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says again, letting his head fall against Yuna’s in relief, as David rubs a soothing hand over his back. “And you? Are you okay?”

“Not bad. Fucking freezing, but, I can’t complain. I’ve got scrapes up my whole left side, and a headache, but that’s it. There are a couple I think are way worse, but… we don’t know much else yet for sure.”

“Okay.”

“Listen,” Hayden says then, sounding apologetic, “I only got a quick call in to Jackie before calling you, so if it’s all the same—”

“Call her back,” Ilya says, cutting him off. “Thank you, Hayden. I… owe you.”

“No, you don’t. We’ll talk later, okay? Shane will call as soon as he can.”

Ilya stares at the phone for several seconds after Hayden ends the call, then once again collapses into Yuna’s arms.

Amazingly, there are no fatalities from the bus crash, so that body bag Ilya feared he had seen really was just a trick of the light. Adam, one of Montreal's managers, is pretty battered, though, having a collapsed lung and several broken bones. The driver is being treated for hypothermia since he was pinned in his seat and stuck in the water for far too long, but by some miracle doesn’t have all that many injuries. This is true to a varying scale for the majority of the team, actually, more bruises and cuts, with some stitches needed, than anything else.

Ilya scowls when Coach Theriault appears on the screen—on the TV at his house, since he, Yuna, and David finally left the arena—hating he has to rely on him of all people for an update.

Theriault confirms there are no casualties, then announces that Harbolt, a defenseman, has a broken arm and shoulder. It’s a surprise to hear that JJ has broken his leg, and an even bigger one when Theriault immediately announces Shane is the team captain again.

“We have every intention of playing Ottawa as scheduled,” Theriault says next, which has Ilya really cursing.

He wants Shane home, immediately, but isn’t it more important that the whole team has some time to recover?

“We have a free day tomorrow, so, that will be ample time for the team to rest up,” Theriault adds, like he can hear Ilya.

“It’s not enough,” David says, sounding dazed, and even Yuna, who thinks hockey first, everything else second, is narrowing her eyes at the screen.

“Stay here tonight,” Ilya says without thinking, but now hating the idea of David and Yuna driving home in this awful weather, when they’re as shocked as he is.

Also, he needs them now.

“Of course,” Yuna says, patting his leg.

They make dinner together, David happily exploring Ilya’s vodka collection, while Yuna starts trying to arrange everything for Shane coming home. Ilya understands, and it’s nice to share this burden of worry with the people who love Shane as much as him, but at some point between them leaving a pan in soak and sitting down to dinner, he knows a stab of frustration.

“Yuna,” David says quietly, discreetly shaking his head.

Ilya glances over at him; is that frustration written all over his face, or something?

Yuna’s fork knocks against her plate. “What?”

Again, David shakes his head.

Ilya takes a long sip of vodka to steady himself with.

“Yuna. I love you, both, very much,” Ilya makes himself say, hoping his voice isn’t trembling as much as he thinks it is. “You are my family.”

“And you’re ours,” David says immediately, as Yuna starts to smile.

“Yes. I know,” Ilya says, wishing he had bigger words for what he feels about the two of them. “But Shane is my husband. If he needs something—his new phone, maybe some paperwork sending if they lost their bags; I don’t know. Anything—I will be the one to do it.”

For a moment, Yuna stares at him, and Ilya fears he has said too much.

“Yes. Of course. Sorry, Ilya,” she then says softly, “I wasn’t trying to overstep. It’s just… habit.”

“No, I know that.”

“Sometimes, I think we forget that Shane has someone else to lean on, aside from us,” David says, running a soothing hand over Yuna’s back.

“It’s okay.”

“Just tell us if you need anything, okay?” Yuna adds, stretching across the table to hold Ilya’s hand. “You can lean on us, too. You don’t need to do anything alone, if you don’t want to.”

There is a lump in his throat, and probably tears in his eyes as well. Ilya doesn’t even bother trying to hide it.

“I know,” he says, hearing his voice tremble again, shaking his head and then doing his best to change the subject.

There are cameras on him. Ilya doesn’t give a fuck. He lets the noise of the airport disappear, only letting himself be present for two things. One. Jackie Pike standing rigidly beside him, the warmth of her arm continually bumping against his as they both fidget, comforting. Two. The doors that, any minute, Shane—and the rest of the Montreal team—will step through.

They have a game tonight. It’s fucking stupid, but never let team health get in the way of points and potential profit. The Centaurs already said they would gladly rearrange the game, but the Metros are having none of it, saying it would mess with their schedule too much. The Centaurs might not be doing all that well, but Ilya knows he has the better team. Their management would never put their players through a game so soon after what has just happened.

“I think I see them,” Jackie says then, clutching on to Ilya’s arm and standing on tip toe, though also ducking, trying to get a good look through the doors.

Then, the doors swing open, and a broken-looking Montreal team come limping out. Ilya is already crying, waiting only long enough for Shane’s eyes to lock on his before he is charging forward.

“Hi,” Shane says in a broken voice just one second before Ilya has him tight in his arms.

Shane grips him just as tight, burying his face in Ilya’s neck.

“I love you,” Ilya rasps out, kissing over his neck repeatedly before tucking his face there again.

He's here. He's safe. He's whole. He can take care of him now.

“I love you. So much. I’m sorry I scared you," Shane says, the words muffled because there is no way in hell they are letting go of one another yet.

Ilya gives a sharp shake of his head, and clings on even tighter.

Tomorrow, probably even later tonight, there will be photos of them embracing, kissing right there in the airport in front of everyone, crying their eyes out in relief. Ilya could not care less. He has his husband in the car with him, his hand in his lap, and he’s safe. He’s safe, and whole, looking like he really might sleep for a week, but okay. Ilya still intends to fuss over him thoroughly when they get home.

“You could sleep a little,” Ilya says, since they are already stuck in traffic because of the snow, and there will probably be another twenty minutes or so before they get to the arena.

“I don’t want to,” Shane says, moving to drop his head against Ilya’s shoulder with a sigh.

“Okay. How do you feel?”

“I’m okay. Not the best, but, I think I was pretty lucky, all things considered.”

Shane has a neat line of stitches over the back of his shoulder, probably from a shard of window glass. There is a large scrape across his right elbow and upper arm, that Ilya thinks will itch like hell when they play hockey later. His lower legs have some gashes, and his hips and thighs are bruised, and he just generally looks like he’s been beaten—and terrified. Ilya has catalogued every one of Shane’s injuries over FaceTime already, but a part of him won’t be completely reassured he’s okay until he sees them all for himself.

“I hate that we have to play,” Ilya says, smiling when Shane hums against his shoulder before sitting back up.

“Can’t miss a game. The whole world might end.”

If even Shane is finding something sarcastic to say about the Metros and their management, he really must be pissed. Under different circumstances, Ilya might revel in this.

“Is stupid. If we win, they will say, is because your team is injured, and we are not so nice. If you win, they will say, Centaurs are so bad they cannot beat the injured team.”

“Ilya?”

“Yes.”

“The only thing I care about right now, is about fifteen minutes after we leave the arena, when it’s all over, and we’re almost home.”

Wow. Shane really must be upset about all this. Ilya takes advantage of the crawling traffic to beckon him closer, getting in a quick kiss.

“I know. Me, too.”

“Good. I don’t care if we don’t get out of bed at all tomorrow.”

“We will see.”

If nothing else, Ilya is getting Shane in a long, hot bath, and thoroughly pampering him.

“Mm,” Shane says, and sighs, playing with Ilya’s fingers.

“Are you sure you are okay?”

“I’m really tired. And I’m pretty pissed we’re still playing after everything. I can’t believe they made me captain, just like that, either.”

“You are a good captain.”

“Can’t be that great if they pushed me out of doing it so easily.”

They both know it was nothing to do with Shane’s abilities as captain, but neither say anything about that.

Maybe Ilya should try to change the subject?

“Your new phone is at home. I picked it up this morning,” he says, smiling when Shane squeezes his hand.

“Thank you.”

“I had an early Christmas present for you, too, but… I think is better now, we wait.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re gonna make me wait after all of this?” Shane teases.

“Is better for you. Maybe I can give you a different present, if you really want.”

“No, no. I can wait. I think.”

Ilya laughs softly, tapping his thumb against the back of Shane’s hand. “Okay.”

“But, when I went shopping today—”

“You were supposed to be resting!”

“I needed clothes, Ilya,” Shane says, laughing too. “And I needed something to put clothes in, so, like, a bag?”

Shane is lucky, really, that he keeps his passport and other important documents on a bag belt he always wears when travelling. Ilya has teased him about it a couple of times, but it’s meant only Shane and a couple of the other players had all the important stuff on their person when the bus crashed.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

“And, I saw, like… three things I just had to get you.”

“For Christmas?”

“Yes. No, you can’t see them before, so don’t you dare look in my new bag,” Shane insists, poking Ilya in the leg.

“I will try.”

“Good.”

“Shane…”

“Yeah?”

Ilya’s vision blurs. No, he can’t let fresh tears overwhelm him now, not when it’s already so hard to drive.

“I am glad you are okay. I was so scared,” he says, hating how his voice cracks.

“I know. Me, too,” Shane says, leaning over to kiss him on the shoulder. “We can talk about it all properly later?”

“Yes, okay.”

“Come here,” Shane whispers, already leaning in, and when there is a lull in the traffic, kisses him.

Ottawa wins 2-1.

It's a nothing kind of game, no one on the ice even pretending they want to be there, and it's the first game this season that Montreal fans haven't yelled any jeers in Ilya's direction. In fact, there is a quiet kind of weirdness from all the fans, like they too can't understand why this game is even happening, when so many of the Metros are visibly injured.

The fan reaction isn't even the weirdest part of the night for Ilya.

In the locker room before the game Ilya had come to the sudden, horrible realisation, that both him and Shane would be expected to give the usual pre-game interviews. He had frozen in the middle of putting on his jersey, absolutely certain every English word he'd ever learned had gone right out of his head. Honestly, the only thought he had was that a journalist would shove a microphone in his face, and he would just burst into tears.

That never even came close to happening, though. Coach Wiebe, proving he really is the best coach in the whole league, announced he was giving the only pregame interview for the Centaurs tonight. Ilya is convinced that his comment about it being a coach's responsibility to look out for their team is the only reason that Theriault didn't make Shane do the Metros interview. The disgusted look Theriault gave Wiebe just now kind of proves that for him.

Or, maybe it's something else?

Normally when a game is over, the two captains—two teams—are on opposite sides of the rink, giving their own interviews before going to shower and change. Tonight, though, Coach Wiebe all but escorted Ilya off the ice and called for Theriault to follow too, leading them around the side of the rink and coming to a stop outside an office Ilya has never been in before.

"No, this is for captains only," Coach Wiebe says, blocking Theriault's path as he goes to follow Ilya in when Wiebe holds the door open for him.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" Theriault says, menacingly.

Coach Wiebe grins at him, a dangerous kind of smile that Ilya has never seen on his face before. It's clearly not what Theriault is expecting either, because for the first time ever, Theriault looks uncertain of himself.

That uncertain look turns to fury just seconds later, when a confused looking Shane comes up to join them.

"Uh… I was told to come this way?" he says, with a brief smile for Ilya, but wary looks for everyone else.

"Shane," Coach Wiebe says easily, holding out his hand. "It's really good to see you. I'm glad you're okay. How are you feeling?"

The look on his face says stunned, bewildered, but he manages to stutter out an, "Okay, I think?" as he shakes his hand.

"Good. We won't keep you long, then you two can get home. In you go," Coach Wiebe says, then, gesturing for Ilya and Shane to step into the office—where Harris is standing there smiling at them—quietly closing the door behind him.

"He's our fucking captain!" they hear Theriault yelling just seconds later.

"Should've thought of that a couple of months back then, maybe," Coach Wiebe shouts back. "Or, hell, maybe when your whole team were trapped in a fucking sinking bus in a river barely 48 fucking hours ago? What are you gonna do? Sue me? Sue the Centaurs? Fuck off, Theriault. You're just making yourself look stupid."

"Wow," Ilya says, wide eyed, "I did not know he knew how to curse. Or shout."

"So… what's happening?" Shane says, looking absolutely exhausted, and, Ilya thinks, he's possibly even shivering.

He really has to get him home.

"Sorry," Harris says, crossing the room and offering Shane his hand. "I'm Harris. The Centaurs' social media manager. We thought that… we knew there would be press out there, wanting some kind of interview from you two after the crash—how are you, by the way?"

"Uh. Good? Okay. I think."

"Good. Sorry," Harris says, and laughs, "kind of ambushed you then. Both of you. Anyway. We thought, maybe if we put out a little video of just you two, just a quick thing, then get it posted, maybe that'll keep the worst of the press at bay. Or, you know. Piss them off just enough that they didn't get this first interview after, you know. The bus."

Have the press been reaching out for interviews about that? Ilya hasn't seen anything, or received anything. Or, maybe Harris means the Metros themselves have been bombarded with requests?

As he thinks about this, Ilya gets pissed off himself. Why wouldn't someone want to ask him about his husband being injured, maybe almost—

"What—what would we have to say?" Shane asks.

It's the half-terrified tone of his voice that pulls Ilya back from wherever his thoughts were headed. He is by Shane's side immediately, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

"Look," Harris says, looking between the two of them then down as he scrolls through his phone. "I don't know what the Metros fans are saying, or, honestly, what fans elsewhere are saying. But I do know the Centaurs fans have been sending nothing but good wishes to you—mostly to you, Shane, but some of the other Metros—ever since we heard about what happened with the bus."

Seriously? It's been a while since Ilya looked at any social media. Or, maybe not that long, but he hasn't let himself look since the bus crash at the very least. He takes Harris' offered phone, turning it so Shane can see it as well. Harris is right. The Centaurs' Instagram post wishing the Metros team a quick recovery after their accident, is filled with comments from fans wishing them well, too. There are even some—a lot, actually—sending kind messages to Ilya hoping he is doing okay.

It's a little overwhelming. Ilya has to wipe tears from his eyes, and when he looks, Shane is struggling too.

"It's okay," he whispers, thumbing away an escaping tear on Shane's cheek.

"Hey, if this is too much—"

"No," Shane says, patting Ilya's chest and smiling at Harris, "this is probably a good idea."

Harris already has a camera set up. He gets them settled, Ilya keeping his arm around Shane's shoulders and Shane gripping hard around his waist. Leaning on him pretty hard, actually. He must be utterly exhausted. Ilya really needs to get him home. So Ilya kisses him on the forehead, and nods for Harris to start. Let's get this over with.

Harris gives them a silent countdown on his fingers, three, two, one, which is just enough time for Ilya to think about his words.

"Hi, hockey fans," he says, in a hopefully far more enthusiastic, cheerful voice than he's actually feeling. "Shane and me, we just wanted to say thank you to the fans who have said nice things, after the accident. It was very scary. I am very happy everyone will be okay, and that Shane is here with me."

"Thank you," Shane says quietly, then adds, "and thank you to all the emergency services who got us out. Took care of us."

Shane squeezes him tighter. Ilya understands; he doesn't have anything else to say. So he only smiles at him, then looks at the camera again.

"Anyway. Thank you. We will go home now, and sleep. Thank you for your messages. Thank you… if you watched the game tonight. We will see you again, soon."

Harris nods, holding a finger up telling Ilya to wait, then smiles when he's shut the camera off. "Perfect."

"Was that okay? Enough?" Ilya asks, feeling Shane sag against him.

"Yes. Perfect. I'll get it online in a minute. You two; go home," Harris says, already packing things up.

Ilya doesn't need telling twice. "Thank you, Harris."

"No problem. Get going!"

"Okay, okay," Ilya says, laughing, as Shane takes his hand and leads him out of the office.

"Can we just get our stuff and go straight home, shower there?" Shane asks the moment they are alone, looking even more exhausted now.

"Yes. Go get your things. Meet you at the car?"

"Race you," Shane says, probably predictably, even if he looks like he has no fight in him at all.

"Okay," Ilya says anyway, kissing him quickly, then nodding for them both to get going.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Hello! A little headsup for this chapter (don't worry, nothing awful, it's mostly floof!)

Little warning

Shane talks a little bit about what it was like when they were stuck on the bus, and some of the injuries.

It’s Christmas Eve, and the snow has calmed to something more picturesque, less lethal. Shane had his stitches taken out a couple of days ago, and his cuts and bruises are mostly gone. They both played games yesterday, getting to their house in Ottawa within a couple of hours of one another in the early hours of the morning. They have a little over three days together now, before their teams fly out anywhere. Ilya isn’t above a little praying, or a lot of it, to let the snow ramp up again and keep them here.

Which probably won’t happen. The Metros management have proved they would expect Shane to play regardless of how bad the weather is, or any other problem at all. This doesn’t surprise Ilya, both because Montreal are a demanding, unwavering team behind the scenes, and because they haven’t lost a game under Shane’s renewed captaincy. They won't want to lose that streak, and in theory, he gets it. It does infuriate him though.

At least the rest of the players are behaving a little better towards Shane than they were previously. Things aren't back to normal, not by any means, and Ilya is convinced it is management that is keeping things stilted. It was still a relief to him that, when he watched the highlights of the Metros last game, Shane was very much being treated as part of the team, instead of outside of them.

The fans throughout the league have responded even more enthusiastically, with so many likes and well wishes on Ilya and Shane's video on the Centaurs account that it's almost like they all forgot how horrible they were to them before now. There are even sweet comments, and bizarrely, reaction videos set to all kinds of music, good and bad, to their reunion at the airport after the accident. Cliff takes great pleasure in sending them to Ilya and giving them marks out of ten.

The press are still the press, unfortunately, though it does seem to be the outlets who are almost purely about hockey who still parrot their pathetic bigoted views, in the form of their ridiculous jokes and mocking. Which makes no sense to Ilya, but then what has about any of this?

One entertaining thing that has come out of all of this is the ridicule Theriault is facing. Not for making the Metros play when injured, not even for being shown up by Coach Wiebe, not even, really, the dramatic fuss he's made about rescheduling the Colorado game the Metros missed. No, the mocking aimed at him is because he hadn't been travelling with the Metros when their bus hit that ice, having taken a private, chauferred car, like he is too good to travel with his own hockey team. That, for some reason, is a worst offence than anything else he's done.

Who cares about Theriault, or even hockey, though, when his husband is a little tipsy, bobbing around their kitchen in a Santa hat to a Christmas playlist that Harris put together for Ilya last week?

“Hollander. You’re drunk,” Ilya says.

“Not yet, Rozanov. Soon, maybe. This cider is so good,” Shane says, looking into his refilled glass.

Harris’ sisters are working to open a cidery on the land of their parents’ farm; at the moment they are perfecting and testing their ciders on everyone they know. Harris gave everyone crates of the stuff after their last home game, so Ilya already had a sample, and knows it’s good. It’s even better getting to watch Shane enjoy it.

“Oh, I am no longer Hollander?” Ilya asks, taking Shane by the waist.

“Only for me. You can be Rozanov too, though. I like both of them.”

Shane’s eyes are a little glassy. It’s probably mostly to do with the cider, but Ilya is still on alert for him getting sick. The day after that last game between Ottawa and Montreal he had woken up to Shane shivering, and it had taken a hot bath and several hours under blankets to get him to warm up. All Ilya can picture is Shane trapped in that damn bus, slowly sinking, slowly freezing in that water. He’s been having enough trouble sleeping, but this has made it so much worse—when he isn’t sleeping beside Shane, at least.

The look of fear in Shane's eyes whenever he replays that crash might keep Ilya awake forever. All he can do is hold him through it, be on alert for whenever he is ready to talk about it.

And, enjoy, and appreciate, every single moment he has with him even more than he already did.

“We should eat,” Ilya says, helplessly smiling at his husband, especially when he gives him a scowl.

“I told you. I’m not drunk.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Ilya says, smacking a kiss to his cheek, “but, I’m starving. We need to eat.”

Shane tilts his head, considering this. “I am pretty hungry.”

“Good. Maybe they are ready.”

They’ve made pizzas, or at least, bought the crusts and pizza sauce separately, along with a ton of toppings. Shane’s looks far healthier than Ilya’s, but Ilya is pleased to see there is at least some sausage and ham on there, along with a good amount of cheese.

Ilya’s own is a big cheesy mess, a little crispier on the top when he takes it out of the oven, because he’s layered his toppings up so high.

“Oh. That looks amazing,” Shane says, eyeing up Ilya’s pizza already.

Predictable.

“We can trade a slice.”

“Maybe… two?”

Ilya will take Shane eating freely without overthinking it any day, already brandishing the pizza cutter and cutting slices.

“We can eat on the sofa,” Ilya says, now their plates are piled high, and he has a roll of kitchen towel tucked under his arm. “Take the cider.”

“I love the tree,” Shane says, for what must be the third time today, once they are comfortable, happily eating their pizza.

The tree was up before, so he’s seen it already, but Ilya keeps adding extra things, and put a last handful of decorations on it while Shane was still asleep this morning. It’s huge. The whole house smells of pine, and the floor is covered in pine needles, but Ilya wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if he is repeatedly picking needles out of his socks.

“I like the fairy lights,” Ilya says, as he looks over the long streams of them covering every surface he could hang them from.

“We should definitely keep some up. Maybe the white ones. You know? All year round.”

“I think so too.”

“I love this house,” Shane says, almost to himself as he looks around the living room.

Ilya does too, he loves this place, it’s his second favourite place in the world, next to the cottage. Although, that’s not really true, is it? In his sappy heart Ilya knows the only place he ever wants to be, is wherever Shane is.

“Montreal is nice, too,” Ilya feels like he needs to say.

Shane screws his face up. “It’s okay. It’s fine, as a base there. It doesn’t feel like home, though. Not like here.”

Ilya agrees. Their house in Montreal suits them perfectly for when they are there, and at face value is a very comfortable space. It doesn’t feel like here, though, no matter what soft furnishings or trinkets or other things they both try to fill it with.

Even the fairy lights they put up there don't have the same sparkle that they do here.

“Is better than a hotel,” Ilya points out around a mouthful of food, watching Shane nodding enthusiastically, not answering because his mouth too is full of pizza.

After they eat, Ilya discreetly checks the time, telling Shane he needs to use the bathroom and instead creeping into the spare room furthest from theirs. Maybe he went overboard. He has everything. So much litter, so many toys, so many packets of treats, so many blankets. Two litter boxes—three, if he counts the one he already took to Yuna and David, along with dishes, and even more food. So, so much. Ilya looks over all of his purchases, wanting to be sure he has enough. Which he does, far too much, actually, now he's taken everything out of its hiding place and it's all spread out. He’s just so, so excited to see Shane’s reaction.

Harris is bringing the kitten over soon, having offered when Ilya was planning when he could come to pick him up. Ilya appreciates the offer more than he can say, knowing Harris is doing this both because he’s great, and also because he knows how little time Ilya and Shane have together.

Harris already texted to say when to expect him. Ilya has rehearsed several excuses for somebody visiting, so Shane won’t suspect anything. He’s going to meet him by the gate, just to make things a little easier, so maybe he’ll go with his idea of having to check something on the security panel out there. If he kisses Shane until he’s got that blissful look about him that Ilya likes to see so much, who knows? Shane might not even notice him slipping out.

“Mom said, we can get to them for ten tomorrow,” Shane says, the moment Ilya is back downstairs.

“Oh. Good. We can sleep a little more.”

“I’m just surprised I didn’t have to talk her out of making it seven.”

Ilya already did that, pointing out to Yuna that they would want a little time figuring out a morning routine with their new kitten. Shane doesn’t need to know that though. And Yuna doesn’t need to know about the way Ilya intends waking his husband up tomorrow.

Ilya tops up Shane’s glass, keeps him busy with kisses, hoping Shane doesn’t feel how hard his heart starts thudding when the bell chimes for the gate.

“I will check,” Ilya says, already up and running, screwing his eyes up for Shane’s confused, uh…? behind him.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Neighbours,” Ilya lies, and fights to get his sneakers on, not bothering with a jacket as he dashes outside. He sprints towards the gate avoiding patches of snow and ice as he does, echoing the huge smile on Harris’ face.

Oh. Look at that. There does appear to be something from his neighbour. There is a bag in the usual spot Ilya sometimes finds handmade things from the neighbouring kids.

“Hi,” Ilya whispers to Harris, not that he needs to out here.

A little face is peeking out of the pet carrier; Ilya can’t stop himself from giving a little wave.

“Hi,” Harris says, still grinning at him. “Having a good Christmas so far?”

“The best. Even better now. You?”

“Amazing. Ready?”

Nodding quickly, Ilya opens the gate, loops the bag from the neighbours over his arm, then takes the crate from Harris’ arms.

“Thank you, Harris.”

“No problem. I want pictures, though. Later. When you’re ready.”

“Of course. Happy Christmas.”

“You too,” Harris says, then is shrugging into his jacket collar and shuffling towards his car.

Ilya waits just long enough to make sure Harris has turned the car around okay then heads back to the house.

“Are you ready to meet your new dad? Your other dad?” Ilya whispers to the kitten, who must be picking up on Ilya’s excitement for how they are fidgeting.

“Ilya?” Shane calls out the moment Ilya gets in and shuts the door.

“Something from the neighbours.”

“Willa and Andrew?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, shushing the kitten pointlessly as he lowers the crate to the floor, then peeks in the bag. “They made a card for us. Another one.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

Trying hard not to show his excitement Ilya takes the card in to show Shane, leaving him to pick a spot out on the wall to display it. He waits until Shane gets settled again, then jumps up, saying he wants to get them more cider.

“You forget where the kitchen is?” Shane calls out when Ilya heads in the opposite direction.

Ilya doesn’t answer him, only scoops up the crate.

“Close your eyes.”

“...what? Why?”

“Is a surprise.”

“From the neighbours?” Shane asks; when Ilya peeks around the corner, his eyes aren’t closed at all.

“No. From me. Your Christmas present. One, anyway. We can open everything else next. Close your eyes.”

Sighing, but smiling, Shane sits up straight, closes his eyes. “Happy now?”

“Cover them.”

“Seriously?”

“Please?” Ilya says, opening the crate door as quietly as possible and reaching in to take the kitten out.

He’s so soft. Big inquisitive eyes stare up at Ilya then around him as he carries him around the table. Ilya lowers the crate to the floor out of sight.

Waiting until Shane presses his hands over his face, Ilya then sits beside him. He takes a deep breath, then gently lowers the kitten into Shane’s lap.

“Okay. Open them now.”

Shane’s mouth falls open, his hands suspended mid-air. He looks at Ilya, then at the kitten, then back at Ilya again. He stares at him, hands already down and carefully cradling the kitten in place, suddenly smiling so hard it puts tears in Ilya’s eyes.

“You got me a kitten?” Shane says in awe, slowly starting to stroke him.

“Yes. For me too, of course, but, yes. For you,” Ilya says, reaching out to stroke between the kitten’s ears.

“Hello,” Shane says to the kitten, absolutely besotted already from the looks of things. He leans back on the couch so only his head rests against the back cushion, laughing delightedly when the kitten clambers up and stands on his chest.

Ilya tells him everything then, his original plan to surprise him with the kitten, how he’s already arranged everything with his parents to take care of him when they are away. How he’s got hundreds of dollars worth of stuff for their new kitten waiting up in a bedroom. How it’s up to Shane to give him a name.

“Puck,” Shane says, after a moment to consider, whispering to the kitten asking if it’s okay with him. Ilya groans, he can’t help it, but he’s also laughing. Shane pretends to pout at this, and asks, “What?”

“Of course you would choose that.”

Shane tries and fails to school in a smile. “Look,” he says, pressing his fingertip against one of the kitten’s tiny paws and gently wiggling it. “I think he likes it. Hi, Puck!”

The kitten is purring, so Ilya is sure he approves.

“Okay. Puck,” he agrees, and curls himself into Shane’s side, playing with the Puck’s tail. “Perfect.”

“Look at us,” Shane whispers; when Ilya looks, there are tears in his eyes.

“What?”

“You. Me. Puck. We’re a little family.”

Tears spring in Ilya’s eyes instantly. He leans in for a kiss, then drops his head against Shane’s shoulder, happily watching Shane playing with Puck.

"Okay, okay, I'll leave you to your midnight kiss," Hayden says, pressing his flushed face against Shane's, grinning at Ilya.

Shane's face is less flushed, but even more adorable. Because of course he is always adorable to Ilya.

"Okay. Happy New Year, Hayden," Ilya says, laughing when Hayden blows him a kiss, kisses Shane on the cheek, and then headbutts him, before shouting a Happy New Year at Ilya off the screen.

Ilya waits, watching Shane watching Hayden leave, smiling when he looks back his way.

"Where is the party?" he asks, waiting as Shane settles back against his hotel room headboard.

"It's just the hotel's thing, so, downstairs."

"Will you go?"

Reaching to the side, Shane raises a bottle of cider. "I'm all set here."

"Harris will be jealous you aren't drinking his sisters' cider."

"Yeah, well. They'll have to start stocking it here. Their cider is way, way better than this, but, this isn't so bad. Anyway," Shane says, taking a sip of his cider, "how about you? Where's your team party?"

"No party. We were watching movies in Bood's room, but, everybody was sleepy. I think maybe nobody will be awake for midnight."

"We will," Shane says, raising his bottle. "It's only about ten minutes away anyway. Besides. Maybe… this is our New Year tradition now?"

Maybe. The thought makes Ilya sad. It's New Years Eve, and the best they can have is being in the same time zone—which is an improvement on last year, at least. The Metros have a game tomorrow in Pittsburgh, and the Centaurs just played—and won—against the Washington Capitals. Tomorrow Ilya and his team will be heading to Salt Lake City, and will be even further away from Shane.

He hates it.

"Maybe," is all he says though, because he is not bringing down this moment, this new tradition of theirs.

"Did you see that photo Dad sent?" Shane asks, smiling.

Ilya doesn't even need to ask which photo. The image of their new kitten Puck happily tucking into a piece of the mackerel that David had made for his and Yuna's dinner is the most adorable one he's seen yet, and that's saying something.

"Of course. He will think he needs fish every day."

"He can have it. He can have everything," Shane says, who is, as Ilya knew he would be, absolutely besotted with their kitten.

It was hard to leave him after Christmas, even knowing he was in the very best hands, and it was harder still having to leave Shane. Harder than ever. It's been getting steadily worse since they got married, because fuck, they are married now, they are supposed to be together. But since the bus crash, Ilya feels like if he isn't within reach of getting to check Shane's pulse, check he's still breathing, then it's barely possible to breathe himself.

It's horrible.

"I miss you so much," Ilya blurts out, not managing to keep his words in, and hating himself for how he now has to watch Shane's face fall.

"I miss you. Fuck, I miss you."

"You aren't sleeping very well, I think."

Ilya knows he isn't. He can see the dark smudges beneath Shane's eyes, the slightly washed out look of his skin when it's normally so bright.

"I never sleep well when I'm not with you. Not anymore."

"No, I know. Is the same for me," Ilya says, "but, I think it is not just that for you?"

Shane sighs. Ilya thinks he's going to deny anything is wrong. Then—

"I keep remembering the bus…"

Ilya's chest tightens. He tries not to show any change of emotion on his face, only nodding in encouragement. "Tell me."

Ilya knows, mostly, because he coaxed the words out of Shane the day after he got him home. But if there are specific things on Shane's mind, things he is still replaying that are upsetting him, Ilya wants to hear about it.

"I can't believe the driver was okay," is the first thing Shane says after a pause.

Ilya can't believe it either. From the sounds of things he was immersed in water up to his chest, because the bus slipped front first and dipped to the left. How the hell he didn't drown is a miracle, really. It's incredible that he only needed a few days in the hospital because of his hypothermia, and basically didn't have so much a scratch. Not that the hypothermia couldn't have been devastating, obviously.

"Me too," Ilya says.

"I think the worst thing, was the sounds?" Shane says in a small voice, frowning. "That's what I keep, I don't know, hearing, when I'm trying to sleep? Like… me, and Hayden, we were so, so lucky, because how we slipped, we were halfway down the bus, and like, pinned in our seats, but, we didn't start getting wet or anything for… you know. A while."

Joining the tightness in his chest is a knot now forming in Ilya's stomach. "Yes."

"But, we could hear the bus creaking, as it was slipping. Any time anyone tried to move, to help, or get out, or whatever, it was louder. We… all got as far back as we could. I mean, anyone who could move, did, which, I don't know, probably didn't help with the bus slipping."

"You were all trying to keep safe. Dry. Maybe get out."

"I know. So then we were all sitting there, basically in silence, basically just sitting there listening to each other breathe. Adam—you know, one of the team managers—all you could hear was him kind of… I don't know. Like this weird, long, raspy sound. Harbolt was just kind of whimpering, the whole time, a—and he was just… when someone shone their phone torch around, you could just see him at this really weird angle, and… fuck. I'm surprised he wasn't more hurt."

"I am surprised, too. I am surprised more people weren't hurt. Happy, though."

"Yeah," Shane says, letting out a long sigh, with his eyes closed. "And JJ, he didn't wake up for ages. I think he must have passed out."

Ilya wouldn't be at all surprised if the pain alone didn't knock JJ out, because that break looked disgustingly painful. He kind of wishes the photo of it had never gotten out, that he'd never seen it.

"Maybe is for the best? If he wasn't awake, maybe he didn't know about the pain for a little while."

"Yeah. I think so, too. Fuck," Shane says, dropping his head back, "the way he screamed when he woke up…"

Ilya gets the urge, as he so often does, to crawl into his phone and wrap Shane up in his arms. It's kind of killing him right now that he can't.

"And I kept seeing your name on my phone, when you were trying to call me, and it was on silent, and nothing was working, I couldn't press anything, there was this crack right across the screen, and—"

"Shane—"

"And I was trying to answer anyway, and trying not to move too much because I was stuck, pressing Hayden against this… already ripped up seat, and—"

"Shane—"

"And when I sleep," Shane says, with tears in his terrified eyes, "that feeling, of that fucking freezing water slowly creeping up my legs, as we're still sinking, it… I hate it."

"Sweetheart…"

Every time Ilya thinks he can't feel more useless, he does. He wants to rip the world apart and get on a plane right now, get to Shane. Say fuck to everything else.

Shuddering, Shane roughly wipes over his eyes, then lets out a groan. "Sorry."

"No, you don't need to say sorry."

"This is our New Year tradition, Ilya," Shane says, wiping his eyes again and smiling sadly. "I don't want to think about that right now."

"You can talk to me. You can tell me anything."

"I know I can," Shane says in a shaky voice. "And I just did. Thank you. For listening to all that."

"Always. Any time."

Shane gets that look about him then, the one that says he is changing the subject. Ilya doesn't know whether to push him to keep talking, or not.

"I'm telling you, that you, and me, we're gonna have an amazing year," Shane says, clearing his throat. "I don't know why, or what's happening, but, you and me, whatever else happens… we're gonna be amazing."

Some of the tension in Ilya drops, even if his mind is still trying to conjure images of Shane trapped. Fuck his mind right now, honestly.

"Yes. We will have the best year."

"Hey. Maybe we don't get New Year together, but, you know what we do?" Shane says, looking happier, suddenly.

"What?"

"Our first wedding anniversary. We should go somewhere. Do something. Even if it's just, I don't know, a weekend or something."

"I want you on a beach in very, very tiny swimming shorts…"

Snorting, Shane smiles, and starts to nod. "I mean, I guess there is absolutely no reason we can't do that. Maybe we should plan something?"

"Yes. We can. We will."

"We will," Shane agrees, his eye flitting up the screen before he adds, "oh, look at that. We have a minute left until midnight."

Somewhere in his hotel, Ilya can hear people singing already.

He reaches for the bottle of beer on his nightstand, balancing it beside his leg. Neither of them say anything, just smiling at one another as the time ticks away. Then, clocks start chiming, people start shouting, and out of the hotel window the sky lights up with fireworks.

"Happy New Year, Shane," Ilya says, his heart fluttering as he watches Shane kiss his fingertips then hold them up to the screen.

"Happy New Year. I can't wait to spend every minute of it I can with you."

January 2019

“He likes the curtains,” Ilya says, laughing as he watches Shane on FaceTime trying to untangle Puck’s claws.

“More than we do,” Shane says, successfully getting Puck and cradling him to his chest. “You. Behave. Please?”

“Impossible.”

“Probably. I’m seriously thinking about sneaking him into my luggage tomorrow.”

Ilya fights to keep his smile on his face, thinking about how when he gets home to Ottawa—and gets a little time with their new kitten—Shane will already be flying out for a game.

“I think your mom would not be happy.”

“She’s getting way too attached.”

“I know. Is good, though.”

“She made this whole point about coming to pick her grandkid up from here after her meeting in the morning. I think my dad is worse, though,” Shane says, finally sitting on the couch and letting Puck climb all over him.

“Oh, yes. David loves him very much. When I was there two days ago, he made him a little bed in his desk.”

“In?”

“Yes. You know. The…”

Ilya demonstrates what he means, scolding himself for forgetting a word.

“The drawer?”

“Yes.”

“No way,” Shane says, laughing. “He keeps, like, a million pens and notebooks in there. He made room for Puck?”

“Of course. Because he is the best.”

Shane’s smile is teasing. “My dad, or Puck?”

“Maybe both.”

“I wish you were here right now,” Shane says, his smile dipping a little.

Ilya’s heart sinks, as he nods in agreement. He has always missed Shane desperately whenever they are apart—even before he could acknowledge that he did. Now, though? Since they got married, since the bus, since Puck came into their lives, it’s so much worse. It’s painful now.

“I miss you,” Ilya says, forcing himself to smile.

“This next few weeks will suck,” Shane says, grimacing.

It’s true. Scheduling is appalling for them, one of them always flying home the day the other is flying out, or on completely opposite sides of the country. Time zones will mess things up even more. It will be hell—it is already.

“Yes. Horrible. We have All Stars?”

Shane’s smile is pinched, and says that’s almost three weeks without him having to say it out loud.

“God, I hope people are less weird about us by then,” is what Shane eventually says, as Puck tries to climb up his chest.

Unlikely. Ilya tells himself he should be surprised some people are still being weird—and weird is a kinder word than the reality sometimes—but he’s not even a little. There are still sneered comments in interviews, and the comments on social media they have learned to avoid like the plague. To try to, anyway. But, in fairness, Ilya knows that even during a perfect season doing everything right, there will always be people being awful online. He’s learned to tune it out, mostly, except on the days when it’s like he needs to prod at a bruise.

Overall, though, it does seem that there are many more fans on their side than against them now, a lot of sweet banners appearing in the crowds at games, and kind words shouted if they are ever spotted in public. A good amount of the teams seem okay with them too, it’s just the usual hockey players who Ilya always would have expected that are predictably awful.

Though even those players are less likely to get rough with him and Shane now, because, they’ve both reached their limit with that, and have spent way more time in the penalty box as a result than they have throughout their entire career. Shane more than Ilya, which Ilya is endlessly amused by—and other things—if he can put aside the reasons why Shane ends up there in the first place.

“We will see,” Ilya says, and really has to change the subject now. “I looked at our schedules for next month.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. You are home, but, I am in Dallas for Valentines Day.”

“...I think so? Yes. Probably.”

“We have never had a Valentines Day.”

“No,” Shane says, his face falling. “Never.”

“We will be together two days after Valentines Day. Maybe we can do then?”

Ilya had debated surprising Shane with a late dinner for Valentine’s, but, right now it feels like they both need something to look forward to.

“That would be nice. Yeah, let’s do that.”

“Yes.”

“At home, though,” Shane says, scrunching up his nose. “I know. It’s not like we have anything to hide. We can go anywhere we want together now. But I still want—”

“We have very little time alone,” Ilya finishes for him, agreeing completely.

“Exactly. Just us is always better.”

“And Puck, now.”

“For some things,” Shane says, with a smirk that leaves Ilya giddy.

Not that Shane needs to do much to make Ilya feel like that.

“Yes,” he says, laughing because Puck just fell off Shane’s lap and is on his back on the couch, now, apparently startled to see his own tail.

“I found him trying to climb the kitchen island earlier.”

There are so many kitchen surface wipes in Puck’s cupboard in Ottawa, but Ilya knows without a doubt that Shane would have brought a whole other supply there to Montreal. Their kitten is adventurous, into everything and going everywhere. Shane is rigid about so many things—and Ilya loves him for it—but apparently Puck can get away with pretty much anything.

Well. Maybe not get away with, but Shane dutifully follows him around cleaning places he probably shouldn’t be walking, like kitchen surfaces, without a single complaint.

“Every place is his,” Ilya says.

“He’s the best thing about this place,” Shane says, which Ilya takes to mean the house in Montreal.

“Maybe our bed.”

“No, that’s only the best place when you’re in it, too.”

“Soon,” Ilya says, even though the next time he is in Montreal is weeks away.

“Soon,” Shane agrees with a sad smile, then starts tickling Puck’s belly, making baby talk at him that Ilya knows is purely to make him laugh.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Hello! A little headsup for this chapter (just a little one I think).

Warning

1) some stuff about the bus is discussed
2) there is a news segment with idiotic/homophobic/asshole presenters

Also, since AO3 is down for maintenance all day tomorrow I'll wait until Thursday to post the next chapter 🧡

Oh, this might be a terrible idea.

Ilya tells himself this for the hundredth time and, not for the first, considers turning the car around. He's driven all this way now, though, and just pulled over to talk himself into doing this. It will make Shane happy, if nothing else, and for that thought alone—also because, contrary to some beliefs, he's not actually a monster—Ilya glares at himself in the rearview then pulls back out into the road.

He is at his destination anyway, glancing over the house now in front of him with a knot in his stomach. Maybe he can leave his bag on the doorstep, ring the bell, and then drive away before he has to talk?

No.

Groaning, Ilya parks on the drive, carefully applies the handbrake, grabs the bag from the passenger seat, and climbs out. For courage, he presses his thumb into the back of his wedding ring then strides up the path, and with more confidence than he feels rings the doorbell. Then waits; probably no more than a minute, but as the door cracks open it feels like an hour has passed.

On another day, the absolutely shocked, confused, and maybe even horrified look on JJ's face might actually be hilarious, but today it is anything but.

"So…"

"What the fuck are you doing here, Rozanov?" JJ says, frowning, and even more alarmingly to Ilya, smiling at him.

Even if it is a really, really confused smile.

"I brought grapes?" Ilya says doubtfully, holding his bag up.

No. That's not at all what he was planning to say.

"Okay… uh… come in?" JJ says, making it sound like a question he is asking both himself, and Ilya.

Nodding, Ilya waits for JJ to adjust on his crutches making room in the doorway then steps inside, closing the door behind him.

"Nice place," Ilya says immediately, sure that Shane has already given JJ's house a real estate once over.

"Thanks. You want, uh… coffee, or something?"

"Do you need me to make it?"

"I broke my leg. Not my fingers. Sit," JJ says, gesturing at a very plush-looking armchair that is by the kitchen window.

Ilya does as asked, then stands, puts the bag he's brought beside JJ's coffee machine before returning to sit back down.

"How are you feeling?" he makes himself ask, on alert in case JJ can't make it around his own kitchen without, what, falling down?

What's he going to do, scrape him off the floor? Carry him somewhere? He really should have thought this visit over a whole lot more than he has done, apparently.

"I think the drugs are giving me some fucked up side effects."

Well. That doesn't sound good.

"Oh?" Ilya says.

"Ilya Rozanov is in my fucking house," JJ says, and laughs, like he still can't believe it. "So, I must be hallucinating or some shit."

That makes two of them. Maybe he should try to explain himself?

"Ottawa were at home last night. The Metros are away for more than a week. I don't know you very well—at all—so, I know you have friends, maybe family here, probably, but… I think Shane would like to visit, if he could."

JJ blinks at him, eyes wide, before he is frowning deeply again.

"So, what, you're coming on his behalf because he's your husband now, or something?"

"…something," Ilya agrees, and gives a helpless shrug since no, he doesn't have anything better to say.

"So. Let me get this straight," JJ says, leaning back against his kitchen counter. "You drove, all the way from Ottawa, which is about, what, two hours?"

Ilya nods.

"To come visit someone who you hate—"

"No, I don't hate you."

"And who, for the longest time, pretty much hated you?" JJ continues. "And you're probably flying out again tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"So, you're driving all the way back today, on your day off, and… what the hell, Rozanov?" JJ says, laughing. "How the fuck am I supposed to be mad at you when you do something like that?"

"Is not that far."

"It's far enough. Especially on a day off."

"If it is easier for you, I am doing this more for Shane, than for you," Ilya says, though is, actually, starting to relax.

"Well. That doesn't help. Can't argue with that either. Fuck. Who the hell are you, anyway?"

Ilya shrugs again. "Just me."

"Okay, just me, let's see what you brought me," JJ says, and starts going through the bag.

There are grapes. There is a large bar of chocolate from the chocolatier that Harris introduced him to last month. There are three magazines, and, because Ilya is Ilya, a Centaurs jersey, which JJ pulls out with a look of disgust, and then bursts out laughing.

"Hayden told me what magazines to buy. So, if they are wrong—"

"Hayden told you?" JJ says, still glaring at the jersey.

"Yes. Hayden gave me your address, too."

"You didn't ask Shane?"

"No."

"…Shane doesn't know you're here?" JJ says, nodding slowly.

"I…"

"You didn't want to ask him for my address, in case you came here, and I slammed the door in your face," JJ guesses, correctly, and to which Ilya again shrugs.

"Something like that."

Shaking his head still in disbelief, JJ turns awkwardly, and finishes their coffee. Ilya stands, and without asking, picks up the mugs. JJ watches him, laughs again, then points towards what Ilya assumes is the living room.

"Damn, Rozanov."

"Ilya."

"Ilya, then. Fuck, that feels weird to say."

"Then, don't say it. Tell me how is your leg," Ilya says, following a hobbling JJ.

JJ doesn't answer immediately, taking his time to lower himself on to his couch, with such a look of discomfort on his face that Ilya struggles not to try to help.

"It doesn't hurt much anymore," JJ says, with an expression that says the opposite. "It's just so uncomfortable. Itchy. My calf cramps because it's stuck in this stupid thing."

The cast is pristine-looking, though Ilya thinks he can tell from its edges that JJ has been trying to scratch any itches.

"I am glad it is not too painful. It looked terrible."

"You saw that, huh?"

"Yes," Ilya says, letting himself sit properly now he can see JJ is settled.

He's not settled, though, not for the way JJ is now staring at him, and how there is now silence stretching out between them, sucking up all the air from the room.

"I can't believe you two have been together all these years," JJ says, when Ilya is convinced he isn't going to say a word.

He could get into the nuance of what together might mean, but doesn't want to, doesn't want to rehash all the ways they were both once kidding themselves.

"Yes. It was not an easy secret to keep."

"So did you, like… was it some kind of love at first sight shit, or…"

"Not quite." Not exactly. Not in any way he would have admitted to himself back then.

"But you do love him. I mean… I see that you do," JJ says, and frowns, immediately making Ilya uncomfortable again.

"Yes. Very much. More than anything."

"That's how he feels about you, too. I mean… fuck," JJ says, and throws his hands up. "I keep looking back, over all these fucking years, thinking about all these little signs. It's so obvious now."

"What is?"

"You two. I think at some point, I figured, maybe he had a crush on you, or something, or… I don't even know. He was never interested in anyone I tried setting him up with. Then, Rose Landry came along."

Ilya tries not scowl, then scolds himself for doing so.

"But that was never… I mean… it was always you, wasn't it?" JJ continues, really studying him. "It's always been you for him. And it's always been him for you. Even with whatever else."

"Yes," Ilya says, honestly, and doesn't add anything else.

JJ is still watching him, and silence fills the air again. Then—

"How's he doing? After the bus?" JJ asks in an unexpectedly small voice.

"He is okay. He had some stitches here," Ilya says, gesturing at a spot on his shoulder, "and many scratches, and bruises. He was very cold, maybe for a few days. I think… he is mostly okay. But, sometimes, it is still very much in here."

JJ's eyes follow Ilya's fingers as he raises and presses them to his temple, his own lips pinching into a thin line.

"I don't remember too much—I'm probably lucky with that," JJ adds, and grimaces. "I remember waking up in so much pain I thought I was gonna throw up on myself. It was so weird, like, so silent, like, everyone was holding their breath like that might make the bus stop moving."

Ilya shudders. It's not a new reaction for him when talking about the Metro's bus accident, but it is one he's tried very hard to school in and keep from Shane.

"I don't even know how long we were stuck there for," JJ adds, folding his arms across his chest.

Ilya closes his eyes, tries to focus on the heat of the coffee in the mug on his leg keeping his hands warm, and not what his mind is conjuring. "Almost six hours."

"No. What? Seriously?"

"From the bus hitting the ice, to falling in the river, to when they made the bus safe so they could open it… that was almost five hours. When they cut it open, it was quite quick, getting everybody out. I think your manager was out first."

"Adam," JJ says, nodding. "Damn. I didn't realise it was so long."

"Is for the best, maybe."

"And you saw all that?" JJ asks, now looking at him more intently, "I mean, you were watching that on, what the news, or something?"

"Yes."

"That… can't have been easy," JJ says, to which Ilya can only shake his head, wide eyed. "Fuck. I… I don't know if I could've watched, if it was someone I loved trapped in there."

"I could do nothing to help. So, I could not look away. I needed… to know," Ilya says, then studies his coffee, because there is no way in hell he is shedding any tears in front of JJ.

Also. He didn't come here to talk about any of this. "So. How are you feeling?" Ilya says, determined to change the subject back around.

"Tired. Pissed off. Itchy. Lucky, I guess," JJ adds with a frown, though thankfully doesn't object to the change of subject. "I hate thinking about how long I'll be out, and just thinking about all the physio I'll be doing in a month or so is really, really fucking with me. Maybe fucking with me more, because I can't train or anything now."

"You must rest. It will be better for your leg."

"You think you'd happily sit here doing fuck all waiting for an injury to heal?"

"Nope," Ilya says, which earns him what he thinks is JJ's first real smile for him.

"No, I didn't think so."

"Shane would be worse."

"He'd be so, so fucking bad at being made to do nothing," JJ says, and lets out a full belly laugh like he's picturing just that.

"Hayden would be fine."

"Hayden would love it. Jackie, not so much," JJ says, and is off laughing again.

"Jackie would have five children then."

"No, he's at least two kids just by himself, on a good day. Maybe that's why he's such a good dad?"

"Maybe," Ilya agrees.

"I can't believe you came to see me," JJ says then, back to staring at Ilya like he is trying to figure him out.

"I wanted to. Mostly for Shane, but… I am glad you are okay now. I am glad everybody is mostly okay. You are all important to Shane, even if…"

Even if the Metros were awful to him for so long, made Shane feel like an outsider, and it took that damn bus crash for them to get over themselves. But Ilya doesn't need to say any of that out loud. JJ knows.

"I'm… happy. That he has you. You make him happy," JJ says slowly, like this is something he is working out, right now, in front of Ilya.

"Is the same for me," Ilya says, then sips at his coffee, hoping JJ will be the one to change the topic of their conversation to something else.

They are in San Jose for All Stars, and for the first time in the history of their careers, Ilya and Shane are openly sharing a hotel room.

True. They booked and paid for it despite being assigned separate rooms already, wanting somewhere away from the other players and their opinions. It still feels like a win, though, not having to whisper room numbers to one another in passing or via text, not having to sneak through the halls checking no one is looking.

It’s also true, probably, that they are using this hotel room to avoid being around anyone. Normally by this time they are at the bar, or doing something with other players, but it doesn’t feel like they have a single friend in this building right now. Which isn’t true—there are a handful of people they are still close to, and plenty more who are mostly fine with them now—but it’s so, so tiring, having to put on big smiles and act casually when there are so many eyes on them.

Not that alone time with each other isn’t their favourite thing.

“You have to give it to the organisers this year. They had some tough choices to make.”

“Why are you watching this?” Ilya says, nodding at the TV as he comes back into the bedroom now the bath is filled.

Shane scowls at the TV, nods at it for Ilya to watch, too.

The second presenter is laughing, bellowing actually. What’s so funny?

“Yeah. Do they hope that Hollander and Rozanov will actually put any effort into playing against one another, or do they risk having them on the same team, just making out on the ice?”

“What the fuck?” Ilya says, his blood pounding in his ears.

“Have we not been playing against each other all season? All our seasons?” Shane says, looking utterly furious.

Asshole presenter number one actually wipes his eyes, apparently so amused by this conversation. “Well. It seems they’re going with the latter. This year’s All Stars will have four teams, each representing a division.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t put them on the same line.”

“Under other circumstances, that would actually be incredible to watch.”

“Can you imagine the fight?” asshole presenter number two says, “how they’d settle who was center, who was wing?”

“The poor other guy.”

“Talk about a spectator sport.”

Both presenters are now cackling. Hot tears form in Ilya’s eyes.

“Hey. Let’s just hope their game doesn’t go to overtime. It’s a 3-on-3 play, and I doubt either of them would share—”

Shane points the remote at the TV, shutting it off, the remote pinging off the screen seconds later.

“Why the fuck are we even here, Ilya?” he says, jumping up from the end of the bed.

“Shane—”

“No. Seriously. Why the fuck are we here, when we’re nothing but a joke? We’ve given them years—”

“Shane,” Ilya says again, closing the gap between them and taking Shane in his arms, frustrated tears immediately wicking into the neck of his shirt.

“It’s not fair. It’s not.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“You know what the worst thing is?” Shane says, snatching away from him suddenly, looking almost angrier than Ilya has ever seen him.

No. It’s not hot. Well. Yes, it is. But Ilya knows Shane needs a different kind of attention from him right now.

“What?”

“If I’d known how petty? How stupid? How fucking… awful everyone would be about us?”

Uh oh.

“Yes?” Ilya says, cautiously.

“Ilya,” Shane says, practically growling out his name as he takes his hands. “We could have been together for fucking years already. We spent so much time, sneaking around, trying not to offend anyone, and thinking only about playing the best hockey. Being the best players.”

“...maybe, we were together anyway,” Ilya suggests, because it’s true for him. All the years pretending he was only fooling himself, and he knows the same is true for Shane.

Shane exhales slowly, doing that thing he does when he’s glaring at Ilya, and smiling at the same time.

“That’s not the point. It’s true, but. Don’t try to cheer me up. I’m happily angry right now.”

“And, very cute.”

“Stop.”

“No,” Ilya says, dropping Shane’s hands and instead taking him by the waist, starting to back him up. “We have this nice hotel room. We have nothing to do for three, maybe four more hours, before we must leave for the Skills Competition. The bath tub is very nice, and big, and full of hot, soapy water. If you want to still be angry, we can do it there, yes?”

Sighing, Shane pokes him in the chest, though he is still walking backwards, just crossing the threshold into the bathroom. “You are way too good at that.”

“What?”

“Making me not angry?”

“I am good at making you angry, too.”

“I’m almost angry that you’re making me not angry,” Shane says, grinning at him.

“I have had a lot of practice with this,” Ilya says, kicking the bathroom door closed behind him, and yanking Shane’s shirt off.

They take part in different things for the Skills Competition, stuck in that horrible in-between feeling of not knowing what is better; should they be friendly, be them, when they see each other on the ice or while they’re watching, or should they avoid eye contact altogether? Either way, people will have an opinion about it, so, fuck it. Ilya cheers, loudly and proudly as Shane wins Hardest Shot, and Shane winks at him when Ilya skates by lining up for the Accuracy Control.

“You are not sneaking away to your hotel room,” Cliff says, appearing out of nowhere as Ilya and Shane are about to do just that, slinging arms over both of their shoulders.

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“No. You aren’t. You’re not hiding yourself away from all these assholes. I’m giving you 15 minutes to get changed and then I’m coming to collect you if you don’t already have your asses down here.”

Cliff leaves them without waiting for an answer.

Shane just laughs, nudging Ilya’s arm as they head for an elevator. “I guess we’re going for drinks.”

“You want to?”

“You know what? Why can’t we?”

Ilya loves Shane’s boldness, wishes there were reasons for it coming out beside all of this.

He kisses him anyway, because why wouldn’t he?

Because Cliff is relentless, Ilya and Shane change quickly and are already back down in the lobby as Cliff walks in, arms open wide.

“There you are. C’mon. I need beer. And food. I’m starving,” he says, falling into step beside them.

There are lots of eyes on them when they walk through the bar looking for a table. Ilya glares some of them away, not even hesitating to rest his hand on Shane’s back knowing it will be comforting for both of them. They are about to head to a corner table, a booth, really, when Scott Hunter stands up from where he is and waves them over. He is already seated with Carter Vaughan and Eric Bennett, but there seems to be plenty of room for them, too.

Eric nods at them, while Carter stands up more enthusiastically greeting all of them, before everyone sits.

"Are you fully recovered now? You know, from the crash?" Carter asks Shane.

Does everyone else at the table see the flicker of fear cross Shane's face before he schools it in, or is it just Ilya?

"Yeah. All fine now. I barely had anything," Shane says, which might be true physically, but emotionally? Ilya knows he is still having some dreams about it, and just now isn't the first time he's seen fear in Shane's eyes. Shane doesn't want to talk about it all that much, but there have been a couple of nights where it's felt like he was reliving it, and couldn't stop talking about it. Ilya can only be thankful that he was right there in bed beside him for most of those moments.

He hates the image of Shane suffering in silence, alone, replaying the crash when they are apart, which has also happened a least a couple of times. Never has he ever felt so helpless, staring at Shane's tear-covered face through a phone, knowing he can't get his arms around him.

Ilya presses his leg against Shane's, offering him a wink when he looks. He seems okay right now, at least.

"How's everyone else? Hayden? JJ?" Carter asks, apparently oblivious to all the things Ilya isn't.

"Hayden's okay. He had some stitches on his side, but, everything is healing up fine. And, JJ, he's, uh, pissed that he's out for a bit. It was a pretty nasty break, but… I guess it could have been way, way worse. Ilya went to see him," Shane adds with a smile for Ilya like he still can't believe that happened.

Neither can Ilya, really. Nor can anyone at the table, apparently, judging by the looks they are giving him. Ilya fights to hold steady, not fidget under their gaze.

"And everyone else? They're doing okay?" Cliff then asks.

"What was it like in there? In that bus?" Eric asks Shane in blatant curiosity.

Ilya glares at him, feeling Shane press firmer into his side.

"Fucking cold, Bennett. And terrifying. What the fuck are you asking dumb questions for?" Ilya growls out.

Eric's eyes get really wide. "Oh. Yeah. Uh… sorry—"

"It's okay," Shane says quickly. "It's just… I don't know. Still pretty, uh… I don't know."

"It's okay," Ilya whispers, kissing Shane's temple, and glaring at Eric when he does.

He knows Eric doesn't mean anything by his questions, in fact, he—and everyone at this table—were amongst the first to reach out after the bus crash to see how both Shane and Ilya were doing.

Ilya reserves the right to be mad at him for a little longer, though.

“So? How’s it going? Here, I mean,” Scott says after an awkward silence, changing the subject with an arched eyebrow and a knowing smile.

“Oh. So fun,” Ilya says.

“Uh, yeah. Fun,” Shane retorts, deadpan, glancing up for the snorts of laughter around them.

“I have to say. It’s pretty sweet not having everyone staring at me for once. Not for you, though,” Scott adds, when Ilya scowls at him.

“No.”

“Honestly, I don’t know how you did it, without wanting to, I don’t know. Punch everyone,” Shane says, reaching for Ilya’s hand and dragging it into his lap.

“Oh, I had that. Still feel it, actually. Worse thing? I don’t think half of them give a crap, actually. They’re just parroting things a handful of dumbasses are saying.”

“Yes. We need way, way less Dallas Kents in our world,” Eric says, to a murmur of agreement.

“And, we need something to drink,” Cliff says, to which Carter slaps the table in approval.

In minutes, there are beers on the table and a ton of side dishes and snacks for everyone.

“We ordered already. Eat,” Scott says, already digging in.

Ilya gives Cliff a pointed look. “You arranged all this.”

“No. I just invited myself along.”

“You saved me dragging them downstairs myself,” Scott says, as Carter pushes a dish of fries towards Shane.

Shane doesn’t hesitate, which is good to see, actually seeming to relax.

Good. He deserves it. They both do.

“You can’t hide yourselves away just because we’re surrounded by dickheads,” Carter says.

“We weren’t hiding. We were just… not… being here?” Shane says after much hesitation, screwing up his face.

Ilya winks at him, patting his leg beneath the table.

“Believe me. I get it,” Scott says, “and I was terrified for so long, to do anything. But it’s harder not doing anything. Right? Keeping all this stuff inside?”

“It is better now, yes,” Ilya says, as Shane smiles at him in agreement.

“I just… I think I thought, or, I hoped, maybe, that… people would be better than they have been,” Shane says quietly.

“Fuck ‘em,” Carter says. “You look happy. You still play great hockey. Fuck them all if they can’t see it.”

Eric raises his bottle in agreement.

“I’m still kinda pissed you beat me to getting married, though,” Scott adds, though is smiling as he says it.

“Hunter. Are you taking vows? Without telling us first?” Carter says, putting a hand to his chest pretending to be offended.

“No. Not yet. But…”

“What?” Carter says.

Scott looks around the table, then around the bar. “Nobody can say anything, okay?”

There is a round of agreement.

“I’m thinking about… proposing. To Kip. Later in the year. Maybe at the start of next season. I’m not sure yet. Trying to plan the perfect thing, you know?”

Congratulations—hushed ones—fly around the table. They order more drinks, talk a little about Kip, and work their way through the food.

“Hey. You can’t be mad that Ilya and Shane got married before you,” Cliff says, a long time after this first came up.

Scott raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No. How long have you been with him? Kit?”

“Kip.”

“Right.”

Sighing, Scott grabs one of the mini egg rolls that Ilya wants to eat about a hundred of because they are so, so good.

“If you ask me, since January 14th, 2017.”

“And if we ask Kip?” Shane asks, smiling.

“...maybe February. Also 2017.”

“These two idiots have been together since way, way, way before that,” Cliff says. “So. You can’t be mad about them being married already. Maybe you should just catch up.”

Everyone laughs at this. Scott even raises his bottle in defeat.

“December, 23rd, 2008,” Shane says then, with a proud smile.

Everyone stops eating and drinking, aside from Ilya, who just grins around his egg roll triumphantly.

“What’s that?” Eric asks.

Shane nods at Ilya. “That’s when we met.”

“But not—”

“No. That was June. 2009,” Ilya says.

Shane just keeps on smiling at him.

Carter lets out a whistle. “That’s insane. That’s so long.”

“What’s insane, is that anyone could look at their track record, how they played opposite each other all these years, and somehow think there’s been a problem,” Cliff says, to a murmur of agreement.

“I can’t believe they stripped your captaincy,” Scott says to Shane, with fury in his eyes.

Maybe a little fear too? Relief? That could have been him, Ilya thinks, giving Shane’s leg a comforting squeeze.

“And then they have the nerve to put you back just like that,” Carter says, snapping his fingers.

“You showed them, though. Montreal’s been on a winning streak since you became captain again,” Eric adds.

Shane lets out a big sigh, leaning more into Ilya, but not saying anything. He already knows this, is a bit too humble about it to say much out loud, and Ilya is more than happy being pissed off on his behalf. It’s maybe too early to be sure, but Ilya has no doubt that Montreal will make it to the playoffs. They don’t deserve another Cup, but the problem is that Shane does. Ilya won’t know whether to cheer or not if that happens.

“The Centaurs are coming together, slowly,” Scott says; Ilya gets the impression he sees that Shane is uncomfortable and is trying to change the subject again.

He’s not sure what to say to Scott’s comment, though, so gives a maybe gesture.

“He’s right. They are,” Shane says, and Cliff says something that is probably agreement, though it’s a little hard to tell for the food in his mouth.

“Slowly, maybe. We need one, probably two more seasons, before we can be anything.”

“You’re turning them around, Roz,” Cliff says, when he can. “You have decent players there. And you’re a great captain. I would know.”

“And everyone knows how Boston are doing without you,” Carter adds, ducking his head and laughing at Cliff’s protest.

“That was nice,” Ilya says, much later when he and Shane are back in their hotel room away from everyone.

“Yes. No. You know what that was?” Shane says, later, slipping his hands up the front of Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya starts unbuttoning the shirt immediately. “What?”

“Normal. Easy. Like we were just, you know. Regular people.”

“We are that. Regular people.”

“You know that. I know that. Plenty of the people down there, don’t,” Shane says, nodding at the floor.

“Not everybody,” Ilya points out.

Sighing, Shane nods. “I know. Tonight just… kind of felt like the first time with… you know. Other people in the league. Where we got to be just be us.”

He’s right. If Ilya is honest, those couple of hours spent around people he will now consider friends have made him greedy for more moments like that. He wants to be himself, and he wants to be with Shane, and he wants everybody to see it. There should be no good reason they don’t get to have that now.

“When we are back—probably, now, the summer, you must come to Monks with me. Meet the Centaurs. They are good people, and you will like them similar to tonight.”

Shane smiles, leaning against him, sweeping his hands up Ilya’s chest to cup his face. “I can’t wait,” he whispers, then kisses him sweetly.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Hello!

No particular warnings to speak of this chapter I don't think! 🧡

February 2019

“Ilya,” Coach Wiebe says as the team step off the ice after their morning practice in Dallas. “Head back to the hotel straight away, okay? Get showered there, instead of here. Don’t wait for us.”

Ilya’s stomach clenches. “Something is wrong?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I… think there was a mix up with your room key? Nothing bad, though. It’s all sorted,” Wiebe says, clasping Ilya on the arm.

Oh, okay then. Ilya will ignore the fact that he’s sure their coach is being really weird. He mutters confused goodbyes to his Centaurs teammates, and is slumping into the back of a taxi in relief just minutes later.

It will be nice, anyway, to have a decent shower, instead of the luke warm trickle he always remembers it being in the opposing team's locker rooms here in Dallas.

They won’t win tonight, Ilya is sure of it. He does think, however, that the team might not lose too badly. Ilya doesn’t mind, not too much anyway, but sometimes can’t help wondering sometimes if he would be playoff-bound if still in Boston.

Probably.

Though as Shane likes to remind him, Ilya was a big part of turning things around at Boston, making the team as successful as it was. The Centaurs can achieve the same, and though Ilya got on well with all his old teammates, his new ones feel like an extended family to him already. The only things he genuinely misses about Boston are, occasionally the view from his apartment, and Cliff. They speak every week, so he doesn’t really get to miss him all that much anyway.

The receptionist has a giddy smile on his face when Ilya walks in the hotel lobby. Should he make sure his room is okay with him before going up there? Ilya decides not to, nodding at the receptionist and keeping an ear out for them calling him as he waits for the elevator.

There, he thinks, as he steps into it, if there had been any real problem, they would have stopped him.

Relief hits Ilya the moment he unlocks his hotel room door, already thinking about catching up on a little sleep once he’s had his shower. An idea that he forgets immediately, when the first thing he sees when he pushes the door open is Shane.

“Surprise,” Shane says, with the cutest shrug of his shoulders, arms flared out to his sides as he steps towards him.

Ilya’s bag hits the floor as he stares at him, probably open-mouthed. Then, without the slightest idea it’s about to happen, he bursts into tears.

“Hey. Hey, this is supposed to be a happy surprise,” Shane says with an affectionate laugh as he closes the gap between them and wraps Ilya up in his arms, shoving the door closed behind him.

Ilya falls into his embrace, burying his face in Shane’s neck and digging his fingers into the back of his shirt.

“Best surprise,” he manages to say, before tucking even closer.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Shane whispers into his hair, making fresh tears stream down Ilya’s cheeks.

“How are you here?”

“Husband privileges.”

“...okay?”

Snorting softly, Shane pulls away, holding Ilya by the waist. “I told Coach I had family stuff to do—which is true.”

Ilya’s heart thuds for hearing this. He nods for Shane to continue.

“I found the number for your coach, told him I wanted to surprise you with a quick visit between your practice and game. Then, I called the hotel reception and talked them into letting me wait in here. For a minute there, I thought I was gonna have to, like, ambush you in the lobby, or something.”

“You play tomorrow afternoon,” Ilya says, despite being deliriously happy to see him, and so in love that he knows he won’t stop crying—or smiling—for a while, yet.

“I know,” Shane says, kissing him quickly. “I’ll fly out when you head to your game later.”

“It will be late. You will be tired.”

“Don’t care. This is more important,” Shane whispers.

Ilya’s lip trembles. The only, best way to stop that from happening, or at least to stop Shane from seeing it, is to kiss him hard.

“I need to shower,” Ilya says, already pulling at Shane’s shirt.

“Oh, no. That’s the worst,” Shane replies, shoving at Ilya’s jacket to get it off.

It’s as they tussle to get each other out of their clothes that Ilya notices the desk off to the side of the room. There is a heart shaped balloon bobbing in the air from the neck of a bottle of champagne—

“Non-alcoholic, because you’re playing later.”

—a box of chocolates, a small stuffed bear, and, a wrapped gift, about the size of a hardback book.

“Shane. I don’t have anything for you,” Ilya says, pausing from pulling at Shane’s jean button, watching as Shane takes his hands.

“You don’t need to. This isn’t about that.”

“But—”

“Let me spoil you for once, okay?” Shane says, looking at Ilya so lovingly.

Ilya clears his throat, knowing if he doesn’t it will be crackly with yet more unshed tears. “Okay.”

“And… this. This is for… we never got to keep stuff like this before,” Shane says, taking one of Ilya’s hands and stretching out for the package on the desk. “I was speaking to Hayden. They lost a bunch of photos of when the twins were born. I think Hayden was more upset than Jackie.”

Ilya smiles at this, and takes the parcel when Shane offers it to him.

“Did you know, that you can recover data, and other things, from old phones, old memory cards, and everything? Not easily—I hired someone to do it for me. But I think… you’ll see,” Shane says, excitedly tapping the gift again.

Heart thudding, Ilya unwraps the gift and lets the paper fall to the floor as he takes off the lid of a box.

“Fuck, Shane,” he says, now crying even harder.

It’s photos. Specifically, the photos that they used to send to one another and then immediately delete, along with tons they took together but also couldn't keep. Ilya hated knowing he’d never see them again at the time. But, here they are, all those memories back, and right here in his hands. How did he get so lucky to be loved as much as Shane loves him?

Shane kisses him on the temple, guiding Ilya to sit on the bed with him. “I thought, we could go through them either now, or when we get home, and maybe get copies of the ones we really like to put on the wall, or something. Then, the rest, we can get a photo album for. Just for us.”

He’s too happy. Too in awe that his husband has planned all this for him, and too excited for this surprise few hours they’ll get to share. Ilya cups the back of Shane’s head, loving the triumphant, proud little smile on his face, and leans in to kiss him.

March 2019

It’s the anniversary of his father’s death and Ilya is alone. Montreal is playing in Tampa, and the Centaurs are in Edmonton, so Shane is about as far from him as it’s possible to get. Which might be a good thing. Ilya’s mood feels like it is at an all time low, bad enough that if he had company, he probably wouldn’t be able to keep it hidden.

It comes out of nowhere. One moment he is happy, appreciating all the good there is in his life, and the next, Ilya is empty. The world is empty, and no amount of happy can fill it. Shane doesn’t need to see Ilya when he’s feeling like that.

If only his mood could be attributed to the date it is today, that he felt anything about his father being gone. It’s possible, Ilya knows, that it does contribute something to it and he’s just not acknowledging that, but mostly what he feels about his father is nothing. Nothing at all.

He should thank him, really, for dying when he did. His passing snapped the final tether to Russia for Ilya, allowing him to experience freedom like he never actually had before. It also marks the first time Ilya told Shane he loved him; admittedly it was in Russian, but back then it had felt so overwhelming carrying that secret. That Shane is now learning Russian so he can speak it with him is the biggest I love you Ilya thinks he could ever hear.

He wishes he could miss his brother, and maybe, deep down somewhere, he does, but mostly Ilya is relieved that Andrei is no longer present in his life. There is nothing there for him, not one thing. Not even, really, his mother’s grave, since his father made it as plain as possible, an ugly memorial that means nothing, and forbid Ilya from visiting for most of his teens.

Any time he thinks of Russia now, it is like viewing an old, faded black and white photo. There are memories he has that he cherishes; so many of his mother and a handful more of long forgotten friends, a couple of places he once enjoyed visiting, and some dishes he is sure he will never replicate successfully here. That’s it, though. Now, when he remembers something good, he shares it with Shane, and the two of them hunt down ingredients to try recreate Russian recipes with, invariably making worse versions of their own.

Ilya even has a memorial of sorts for his mom now, a tree that Shane quietly bought for him, and they planted together at the cottage. So, he has all he really needs; a husband who loves him, a new family he belongs to, and a memorial to his beloved mother so she still feels close to him. A team he’s excited playing for. A home he looks forward to going to. A future that looks so good for him that sometimes it’s unbelievable.

Ilya still feels empty. Sometimes he wishes he knew why, other times he suspects he knows the answer and is too afraid to embrace it. Most of the time, he feels great, normal, himself, it’s just when this mood hits, it feels like he’ll never know happiness again. Ilya digs his thumb into the back of his wedding band and curses himself for being so ungrateful, for not appreciating everything he has.

And how dare his father pop into his head today, make him feel guilty for not feeling sorrow for his passing?

Ilya’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He sighs, leaning to the side on the bench he found close to the team hotel and takes his phone out, knowing a little relief for seeing a message from Shane.

Shane: Love you. Just wanted to tell you. Feels like it’s been way too many hours since I last told you.

Sap, Ilya thinks, and loves it, loves Shane for it. It’s such a fucking head trip that his life is like this, and he still can’t control his mood.

Love you too, he writes back immediately, adding a ton of hearts.

Shane: Also. Maybe something for your collection?

Oh? Ilya waits, sees a photo loading, and breaks out into a smile, a real one. Shane is shirtless and sweaty in grey shorts, and nothing else, clearly post-workout in the hotel gym. The smile on his face is everything, and the wave of pride and possession that surges through Ilya for how this is all his, well it can’t fix whatever is wrong with his brain today, but it is the perfect distraction from it.

Ilya: More.

Shane: Greedy

Ilya: For you, always

After the game? Shane replies with, along with a second photo, this time of him palming himself through his shorts.

Ilya: Can’t wait.

“Hey. Ilya. You feel like coffee?” shouts Wyatt from just outside the hotel lobby, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s freezing.

Ilya likes Wyatt. He’s a great goalie, a great addition to the team, and as well as that, just a good guy to be around.

Okay. His mood still isn’t great, but maybe company isn’t such a bad idea.

I miss you. Good luck later, Ilya sends to Shane as he nods at Wyatt and forces himself off his bench.

Shane: you too, both things. Can’t wait to see you in a couple of days.

Me, too, Ilya says, smiling sadly for thinking of how many hours there are between now and then, before putting on a more normal smile as he walks towards Wyatt.

“How were you out there without a jacket?” Wyatt says the moment they are both inside heading for the hotel’s cafe area.

“I didn’t notice.”

“That it was freezing? Or that you didn’t have a jacket?”

“I don’t know. Both?”

“You’re making me cold, just looking at you,” Wyatt says, actually shuddering.

Ilya tells himself he has to make conversation. There isn’t a single word in his head. He orders coffee, and a brownie, then yells at himself to be more normal, forcing a smile on his face by the time they find somewhere to sit.

“How’s Shane?” Wyatt asks, peeling back the wrapper of a blueberry muffin.

Oh, that’s a relief. Shane happens to be Ilya’s favourite subject to talk about, even when he doesn’t particularly want to talk. “Good. Warmer than we are. They are in Tampa.”

“Nice. We’re there next week, right?”

“Yes. Their game is in… three hours,” Ilya says, checking his watch. “Then, they are flying to New Jersey.”

“How are you doing?” Wyatt says then, giving Ilya a hesitant smile when he looks.

Shit. Is that stupid awful mood showing on his face? Ilya really hopes not.

“I am okay.”

“Yeah? It’s been pretty rough, the way some people have been with you. To me, it seems like it’s calmed down a good amount, but, I’m not in the middle of it. You’re doing okay?”

Oh. Maybe he’s not being obvious, then. That’s something.

Ilya stills a moment to consider what to say. “Is better now. Much better. Sometimes, it is horrible. Sometimes I think I am more upset for Shane, and he is more upset for me.”

“That’s how marriage works,” Wyatt says with a more confident smile. “I hate that you two have to deal with any of this stuff, though.”

“Me, too. But… is not so bad now. Is not every day, at least.”

“No. That’s true. What about the Metros?” Wyatt asks, picking at his muffin. “I can’t imagine they’ve been the best with Shane? Never got the best impression from them for stuff like this.”

A surge of anger rises up in Ilya. “They are awful, " Ilya says, then immediately shakes his head. "They are not so awful now."

Wyatt nods in understanding. "Since the bus."

"Yes. The players, they are better now, with him. I cannot forgive them so easily, but…"

"Hey. I get it. One of Lisa's colleagues upset her one time, and I still hold a grudge."

Oh. Well, that helps Ilya feel better about himself.

"The managers are the same as always. Shane is always working so hard to be perfect for them, to do nothing wrong. If he does any small thing, it is like he is… maybe a traitor to them, or something.”

Wyatt’s face falls. “Yeah. Sad to say, that’s kind of what I expected it would be like.”

“Yes. But. Shane is happy that the players are… better. Some were okay anyway. JJ is… not so bad. Not that he is playing right now."

"That break looked disgusting," Wyatt says, grimacing around his muffin, though still happily chewing it.

"Yes. Hayden Pike is okay too. He is Shane’s best friend. He is… not bad.”

“Best of a bad bunch or actual decent guy? Sorry,” Wyatt says, when Ilya raises a puzzled eyebrow. “I just mean, is he the best of an already awful group of people, or, is he, you know, actually nice?”

“Nice. He was very good to me, with Shane, when the bus crashed.”

Wyatt closes his eyes. “God, that was hell to watch. I can’t even think how I’d feel if I was you.”

Ilya is still having the odd nightmare about it. He knows Shane is too, because a couple of times they have woken each other up to talk about it. It is getting easier now, but the thought of Shane stuck on that bus slipping further into freezing water does linger on his worse days. It’s probably why he dreamt about that whole thing again last night.

Or maybe that dream is the thing behind his mood?

“His kids, they made us a second wedding,” Ilya adds, both to change the subject, and because it’s a far sweeter memory than the one that just tried to invade his brain.

Wyatt’s eyes light up. “Oh, they did?”

“Yes. Our wedding was very, very small. The kids wanted to come, for their Uncle Shane—maybe now too, for their Uncle Ilya.”

“Aww.”

“So, they made a second wedding in their backyard, with cake, and princess dresses, and… these rings,” Ilya says, taking his phone from his pocket and quickly scrolling through his Instagram so he can show the rings to Wyatt.

“Okay. That’s officially the most adorable thing I think I’ve heard ever.”

It is pretty sweet. Ilya smiles, scrolling through a couple more photos to show him, more relieved than he can say that he’s starting to feel a shift in his mood.

April 2019

It’s the playoffs. Of course the Centaurs didn’t get anywhere near to participating. A part of Ilya is disappointed, but mostly he’s actually relieved his hockey season is done with. Now, he can sleep in, and cuddle Puck, and spend time with Yuna and David here in Ottawa, and pick Shane up from the airport whenever he can get back. He will watch any games Montreal play, obviously, though he will only give a shit about Shane.

Is it selfish to hope Montreal get knocked out of the playoffs early? Probably. Ilya doesn’t care. Why should Shane be with them when they don’t give a damn about him, when instead he could be with Ilya here?

Anyway. Ilya will not sulk over that just yet, because the arrivals board just announced Shane’s flight has landed, and there is no room in his head or heart for anything else.

Shane is the first one through the sliding doors, immediately seeking Ilya out and a smile blossoming on his face.

“Hey,” Shane says, shoving his bag further over his shoulder and taking Ilya by the waist as he kisses him.

“Hi,” Ilya says, cupping Shane’s face between his hands and resting their foreheads together in relief. “Good flight?”

“Better now. Two whole days before I need to be anywhere.”

“Only home with me,” Ilya says, slotting his fingers through Shane’s and leading him through the airport to the car, ignoring the camera flashes that follow them out.

On the drive home, they talk about the Irina Foundation, both of them excited and nervous in equal measure about the first one this coming July. Shane makes Ilya laugh so hard when he impersonates his mom after a call they had that there are tears in his eyes.

“What? Why are you laughing? You know you’ll be having this same exact conversation with her, but face to face,” Shane says, though he is laughing too.

“I am surprised only she didn’t try already.”

“You only got home yesterday,” Shane points out, squeezing Ilya’s leg. “She’s easing you into it, probably.”

“Mm. Maybe when we watch your first game together.”

“Mm,” Shane says with a grimace.

Ilya drags his hand up to kiss the back of, winking when Shane looks his way.

Puck is, predictably, somewhere he shouldn’t be when they get home.

“How the hell did you get up there?” Shane says in wonder as he carefully extracts him from a tangle of fairy lights that he’s brought crashing to the floor.

“Last night, he had the thing. The… zoomies?”

Shane hugs Puck to his chest, laughing when he headbutts his chin. “Was the litter box very exciting?”

“Maybe,” Ilya says, reaching out to scratch Puck’s ears. “I was in the shower. He was too fast, I think he couldn’t stop.”

“He ended up in the shower?”

“Yes. My fault. He told me. He told me very hard, when he scratched my leg.”

“Oh, no,” Shane says, grinning at Puck and then smacking a kiss on his head before turning him to Ilya. “Say sorry.”

“Sorry, Puck.”

“No,” Shane says, bursting out laughing. “He should be saying sorry to you. Do I need to check your leg?”

“No, no. Is fine. You have laundry? I was waiting before I started the machine.”

“A little, but, I’ll do it.”

“Is fine.”

“Then… I’ll make lunch?” Shane says, tucking his fingers into the pocket of Ilya’s hoodie and pulling him closer.

“Okay,” Ilya says, and claims a quick kiss.

“You know something. This house never feels like it’s home, unless you’re in it,” Shane says to Ilya a week later when they are dozing in bed in Montreal, a couple of hours after Shane gets home.

Ilya smiles, thinking about teasing Shane for being sweet, then realises the tone of his words.

“Oh, yes?”

“Definitely.”

Ilya circles his chin over Shane’s shoulder. “You don’t like this house?”

“I’m trying to,” Shane says, wrinkling his nose. “I mean, yes. It’s fine. Normal. But it’s like, the cottage, it’s ours. The house in Ottawa, it’s ours. Here? I don’t know; maybe there’s just not enough of you in it?”

“Then you will not be angry if my jeans are on the floor and not in the closet.”

“Ilya. You will be angry with you if you do that. You’re the one who always likes your clothes looking nice.”

“...okay. Maybe,” Ilya says, rearranging so he can rest his head on Shane’s shoulder, and draping an arm across his waist.

He won’t even comment about how neatly Shane always folds his clothes, or anything. Even if it was one of the first things that endeared him to Ilya when they were new, so many years ago.

“I was just thinking, that, sure, it’s great that we have this place here, so we have somewhere to be, away from everyone else. It’s far more private than a hotel.”

“Yes.”

“But. I’ve had this place, what, about a year? Almost? It still feels like it could just be a hotel room,” Shane says.

He isn’t wrong. The house is beautiful but there is no soul in it, no matter what they bring here or try to change. In Ottawa, the house might be state-of-the-art and behind a heavy gate, but it is homely. The moment Ilya saw it, it felt like home.

“What are you thinking?” Ilya asks, knowing there are thoughts whirling around in Shane’s head.

Shane sighs, taking a while to answer. “I don’t know. It was different, before, you know? Important, that we both had places we could be alone in, away from everyone. But, now, I mean… we’re married.”

Ilya lifts his head, just having to see the smile that he’s just heard on Shane’s face. “Yes.”

“We don’t have anywhere near as much time together as we want, but, when we can, we’re always together. I don’t know. I just… maybe it feels a bit excessive, having three places? When we spend all our summer in one, and, only one of the others feels like home?”

“You would sell this house?” Ilya asks, kind of surprised even if it’s probably obvious where this conversation has been heading.

“I mean, we could downsize, I guess? This place doesn’t have any real meaning to me, to either of us. Any place could feel like that. If it’s impersonal, it doesn’t matter much.”

He can’t help it. Ilya’s stomach churns for the thought of house sales and real estate, right before reminding himself that Shane actually enjoys stuff like this, and all he would really have to do, is watch.

“Maybe. If you think it is a good idea.”

“I don’t really want to have to book a hotel here, every time we play at home, but… I don’t know. I’m not convinced a hotel room in Montreal would feel any different to this house.”

“Mm.”

“No hurry, though,” Shane says then, turning on his side and spreading his hand on Ilya’s hip.

“Maybe we can talk more about it over the summer,” Ilya suggests.

“Maybe,” Shane agrees in a whisper, pressing against Ilya’s hip until he is on his back.

May 2019

Montreal get to the second round of the playoffs, crashing out spectacularly in the first week of May with a 9-1 defeat. Ilya watches the game with Yuna and David, all of them silent, because it’s a disaster from start to finish.

It’s not Shane’s fault. Anyone who knows anything knows it takes an entire team to win or lose a game. Ilya has been conditioned to expect the blame to be put on Shane by the Metros anyway. Like Shane has any control over all of the injuries and sickness issues that seem to have plagued Montreal in the fast few weeks. Who knows? Maybe that awful bus crash is finally catching up with them and this is all delayed sickness, or shock?

“Oh, I don’t think I can watch this,” Yuna says, shrinking back into the couch and David’s side when they see Shane getting ready to talk to press.

Ilya doesn’t know if he can, either.

It has taken a long, long time for any news featuring either him or Shane not to turn Ilya’s stomach. The vaguely homophobic—or not so vaguely—jokes, the ridiculous innuendo, the way it feels like the whole hockey world questions their professionalism or is just laughing at them; this has been the roughest season of their careers, and that has barely anything to do with the hockey itself.

Also, Ilya doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand the way the press works at all. There was no sympathy shown to him, when Shane had been trapped in that bus, from anyone but his own team and a few players who reached out from others. No thoughtful comments after it from the press, no well wishes for Shane or asking how he was doing. Not a damn thing, aside from the snide remark by several journalists that at least Ilya had a good reason to be playing badly after it happened.

At All Stars, every news report mocked them in some way or another, no one corrected themselves when they were the epitome of professionalism when they played on the same team. It was awful. The only reason All Stars wasn’t a complete waste of time for them as far as Ilya is concerned, is that they had a small group of people standing up for them. Making them feel normal, instead of a spectacle.

All season long it’s felt like him and Shane have held their breath, grit their teeth against the worst of the media commentary and suffered for it when they couldn’t. Then, some time around April, all of that shit just sort of… faded out. There was no rhyme or reason for it, no single event Ilya can point to that got everyone to learn to hold their tongue. One day, it seemed like the press were incapable of getting through a segment without at least one stupid comment about them. The next day, they stopped being mentioned altogether. Mostly, anyway.

Ilya still feels his chest tighten every time either he or Shane has to speak on camera, though. He hates that he can’t even be relieved that the spotlight seems finally off of them. Diminished, at least.

Luckily, Shane’s interview is short, bordering on polite, and then he’s disappearing from the TV screen, and Ilya can breathe knowing it will only be hours until he’s with him again.

His phone buzzes just minutes later with a FaceTime request. Ilya jumps up from the couch, pets a snoozing Puck in passing, and jogs out to the dining room.

“Hello,” he says, feeling tension drop from his shoulders just for seeing Shane’s smile.

“God, it’s good to see you,” Shane says looking absolutely exhausted but beautiful all the same.

“Rough game.”

“Yep. It’s over now, though.”

Shane doesn’t even look disappointed that they aren’t going further in the playoffs. That’s what this season has done to him.

“Yes.”

“So… my plan was to fly back tonight with the team, then catch the first plane to Ottawa from there,” Shane says, while rolling his neck.

“I will pick you up,” Ilya says. “Text me when you know the time.”

“But,” Shane says, sighing hard, “now, apparently there’s some meeting at the Montreal offices first thing tomorrow.”

Fuck.

“Do you have to?”

“Apparently.”

A surge of anger hits Ilya. That team have taken so much from Shane this year, and now they want to eat into his summer as well? He hates it.

Ilya still wants to give Shane his support, though.

“Okay. So… I can come to Montreal,” he says, catching Shane’s eyes lift hopefully before he schools it in and shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay. That’s not fair to you.”

“Shane. I drive to Montreal all the time, is no problem for me. Puck likes the car.”

Shane smiles at this, at least, sucking his lip into his mouth. “Really? I mean… you wouldn’t mind coming there?”

“Of course. I will pick you up from the airport, too.”

“No, it’s okay, I’ll take a cab, because honestly, I have no idea what time we’ll be leaving here tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It would be amazing to have you there, at the house, when I get back.”

“Then, I will be there.”

Shane’s smile is beautiful. “You’re the best.”

“Only for you.”

“I should hope so,” Shane says, his smile faltering a little when he looks over his right shoulder and nods at someone. “Okay. I guess I have to go. I’ll text you later?”

“Yes. Love you.”

“Love you too. I can’t wait to see you,” Shane says softly, then rolls his eyes when someone in the background—Ilya thinks it’s the general manager—yells at him to hang up the phone.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Hello!

Let's all start a little circle of hugs for Shane, hmm?

Ilya tries to hide his laughter, pressing his face into the pillow beside Shane’s head, broken by Shane’s half-hearted shoving at his shoulders.

“Get. Off,” Shane says, even less enthusiastically.

Pressing in even tighter, Ilya shakes his head, moving only enough to smack a kiss to his temple. “No.”

“Is your plan to keep me pinned here in bed all day?”

“Is a good plan.”

“You want me to FaceTime Theriault, tell him my husband said I can’t come to the meeting?”

“Maybe they will enjoy the view…”

Snorting, Shane turns his head, resting it against Ilya’s with a soft sigh.

Ilya was already in bed by the time Shane got home last night, but was far too excited to see him to sleep. They stayed up for far too many hours considering Shane is supposed to go to this stupid Montreal meeting at 9am. Ilya already tried shooting daggers at Shane’s phone when the alarm went off, and that didn’t change anything. Maybe he can piss off Theriault in person and invite himself to this meeting?

“C’mon,” Shane says softly, though first gives Ilya a long hug that says just how much he really doesn’t want to move.

“Okay. Breakfast?”

“Just coffee—fine. Maybe a bagel as well,” Shane says when Ilya hoists himself up to glare at hm.

They don’t have that long before Shane needs to leave, so Ilya reluctantly pulls himself off of him then shoves Shane’s shoulder for him to take a shower. Ilya runs downstairs, finding Puck fast asleep on Shane’s bag that he dropped by the couch when he came in last night.

“I will not have two people not eating breakfast,” Ilya says, scooping up Puck and dropping him in his litter tray.

Puck grumbles in complaint, then seems to realise where he is, does what he needs to do, and is twirling around Ilya’s ankles asking for food before he even gets the coffee on.

“I really hope this meeting doesn’t go on too long, but, we can head back to Ottawa as soon as it’s done, right?” Shane says when he joins Ilya and Puck, giving both of them kisses.

“Of course.”

“Did you need to go anywhere here today?”

“No. I don’t need to do anything. Maybe look for more clothes,” Ilya says, aware that there is less and less of everything here in the house in Montreal, making it feel even more like a shell.

“So… stay here, then. I mean, can I take your car?”

Laughing, Ilya finishes buttering Shane’s bagel and takes his car keys from the bowl on the end of the kitchen counter, putting both in front of him when he sits. “You don’t need to ask.”

“I kind of do, if you were going somewhere.”

“No. Nowhere. Just home, when you are back.”

“Good,” Shane says, taking a bite of his bagel and humming around it in approval.

Ilya smiles, watching him bend to chatter at Puck, hoping this stupid meeting Shane has to go to doesn’t waste too much of their day.

By nine-thirty, Ilya has found a shirt he thought he’d lost in a hotel at the foot of his closet, packed a small bag of Shane’s clothes, and cleaned out the fridge. Not that he needed to, really, because it’s always pretty immaculate, but what’s the point of the scrape of butter in the tub or the jar of pickles that has been there for probably six months untouched? They can always buy more groceries the next time they need to be here.

Ilya makes more coffee, keeps Puck entertained, even scoops him up in his arms and takes him for a look around the yard. His phone doesn’t buzz once, making Ilya frown when it gets to ten-thirty. Surely they have said enough shit to Shane throughout the season already; why the hell is this meeting taking so long?

Just after eleven, Ilya gets a text from Coach Wiebe.

Ilya, are you busy? he reads and immediately starts thinking of excuses he can give.

A little he sends back, watching his phone for a reply.

Coach Wiebe: might be worth watching the press conference there’s about to be

Suspiciously, Ilya picks up the remote from the coffee table and turns on the TV.

Well, there are about a million people llya would rather see on screen than Montreal’s general manager, but as he watches him getting set up with a microphone, Ilya catches up to the realisation that if he is on TV, Shane’s meeting must be finished, and so he will be on his way home.

Happy with that, Ilya sits on the couch, absently stroking Puck’s back when he jumps up to join him.

“Good morning,” Montreal’s GM then says, the mumbled conversation of waiting journalists immediately stopping. “I have a statement prepared. No questions until afterwards, okay guys?”

A knot begins to form in Ilya’s chest.

“This morning, after much negotiation, we are pleased to announce the trade of Shane Hollander from the Montreal—”

“What the fuck,” Ilya says out loud, startling Puck when he leaps up from the couch.

He doesn’t hear the rest of the words, because it’s then that he hears Shane’s key in the door. Ilya doesn’t even get to the living room doorway before Shane is walking in, looking dazed.

“Shane?”

Shane’s eyes swivel to the TV screen. He says nothing but continues to watch it as he walks around the couch, sits down, pulling Ilya with him.

Ilya doesn’t know where to look, the blank stare on Shane’s face or that damn TV that just announced the upending of their world.

“… hasn’t lived up to expectations… crucial to our rebuild… creating space on the cap… exciting draft pick opportunities…”

Ilya hears a bunch of things, but can’t process a word of it. His phone is buzzing, but there is no way he can speak to anybody else right now. There is fury and fear in his heart for Shane, as well as a mix of nervousness and anguish about what comes next for them. And that Shane is still looking dumbstruck is actually starting to terrify him.

“I gave them everything,” Shane whispers eventually with a cracked voice, his eyes wide and starting to redden.

“You made that team what it is. The fucking—”

“And I’m sitting in that fucking meeting hearing how they’re disappointed I didn’t take them all the way through the playoffs. That I’ve let my personal life interfere with my game. That it’s impacting the team, and that it will be best for everyone if they trade me,” Shane says, tears silently falling down his cheeks.

Ilya hears something about waivers on the TV, right before it seems like every journalist is asking a question at the same time. Then, he hears the Centaurs mentioned, and that’s when his ears really start ringing.

“Wait. They traded you to The Centaurs?” Ilya says, not daring to believe it, not convinced any of this is happening, not knowing what the fuck to think about anything at all.

Shane nods slowly, and there is a flicker of a smile on his face before he bursts into tears. “We’ll get to play together. And live together, properly. And I know you tell me how great your team is, the management, the owners, everyone. But I just feel like… I didn’t meet up to their expectations?” he says, his voice getting higher, and his eyes now wild. “I did everything, every fucking thing they asked of me, and more, a—and I stopped myself from… I did everything…”

It’s then that real defeat sets in over Shane’s shoulders, and Ilya can’t stand it, turning off the TV and wrapping him up tight in his arms.

“I gave them everything,” Shane cries into Ilya’s neck, as Ilya’s tears also start to fall.

They leave for Ottawa not long after, Shane suddenly wrenching himself from Ilya’s grip and demanding they get out of Montreal immediately. Ilya keeps sneaking glances at him on the drive home watching Shane stare out the window, only comforted by the fact that his hand is firmly in his.

The car is painfully silent. Ilya hears the muted sounds of traffic, and perhaps his own heart beating erratically, but barely anything else. Even Puck is subdued in his crate on the backseat, when normally this is when he likes to start a conversation. Ilya wants to say something, provide distraction, do something to stop his own thoughts from spiralling, but for once there isn’t even a funny word on his tongue.

There will be so many calls and messages to answer later. Ilya turned both of their phones off just for a little peace. He hasn’t even processed the idea that Shane is joining him at the Centaurs, because what kind of wish-fulfillment would that be? It’s too incredible a possibility for him personally, for Ilya to believe it.

“I have a meeting tomorrow,” Shane says out of nowhere when they are about half an hour from the house.

“...with the Centaurs?”

“Management. Owners. I think they said your coach—Wiebe—will be there. Others.”

“They are all good people.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“You want me to come with you?” Ilya asks, smiling cautiously when Shane looks his way for the first time since they got in the car.

“Please,” Shane says softly, giving him a grateful smile, before turning back to stare out of the window again.

“Shane… I know the Centaurs are not… good. The team is not… successful, like Montreal, but—”

“You know what fucks me off most about all this?” Shane says, frowning deeply, and confusing Ilya entirely with his aggressive kiss to the back of his hand.

“What?”

Thud, goes Shane’s head back against the headrest, a heavy sigh erupting from his mouth. “I can’t even… enjoy the fact that we get to play together. That this is actually fucking… perfect for us. Because I’m so… angry. Humiliated—”

“You do not need to feel that.”

“But I do,” Shane says, frustration seeping into his voice. “It’s not about coming to the Centaurs, not about… like you said, right? We helped Montreal and Boston become way, way better teams. I don’t have a single doubt about us doing that again. You already are. Look how much better the Centaurs are now, at the end of this season, than they were at the start of it.”

Everything that has happened this morning means Ilya can’t even enjoy the pride he feels for this small achievement. He keeps monitoring Shane, waiting for him to say other things, not sure if him adding anything will help or make things worse.

“It’s humiliating—I am humiliated, and embarrassed, and every single feeling in between—because even after everything this year, how they were with me, how they stripped me of my captaincy only to throw it back like, I don’t know, like I should be grateful for it. And then, after that, to still act like it’s my fault, alone, that we didn’t go all the way in the playoffs, that I'm the problem with literally everything that went wrong with that team this year—I’m pissed off,” Shane says, breathing heavily, “because I still spent this whole season giving them everything, putting up with all stuff they said and did, what everyone did elsewhere in the league, and for what? I still wasn’t good enough for them. I don’t even really care that I wasn’t good enough for them. I just… I thought… I feel like I pretended to be, acted like this perfect version of me, hid so much away—denied myself so many—fuck, Ilya…”

Ilya’s heart breaks as he watches Shane angrily swipe fresh tears away.

What the hell can he say to help? He doesn’t know, so says nothing, and kind of hates himself for it.

“I should probably call… I don’t know. My parents. Hayden. People,” Shane says after a while, closing his eyes.

“Not yet. Later. You need some time.”

“You know what I need?”

“No.”

“Well. You, obviously,” Shane says, and for the first time since this morning gives Ilya a proper smile, like he means it.

“You have that. Always.”

“I know. But I need… that damn vodka. The one that makes my eyes water.”

“Shane. That is all of them…”

“No. You know the one. And, I want chicken parmesan.”

“Okay—”

“We can make it, right? We can try, anyway.”

In his head, Ilya quickly goes over what they have in to eat at home. “Yes. We will need a recipe.”

“Dad. He’ll tell us.”

“He likes to pretend is a special secret recipe.”

“A secret family recipe,” Shane agrees, giving a soft laugh.

“Yes.”

“We’re family,” Shane says, raising Ilya’s hand to kiss again.

“Yes.”

“So. He can give us the fucking recipe. I think we’ve earned it after today.”

“Maybe he will offer to cook?”

“No,” Shane says, tugging Ilya’s hand up for another kiss as he shakes his head. “No. Not today. Today, I need it to be just me and you. They can come over, or we can go to them, tomorrow.”

Ilya won’t say just how relieved he is to hear that, but he thinks Shane gets it, for the look he gives him when Ilya is the one to raise and kiss his hand.

“Oh, fuck…”

It’s bad enough that they’ve spotted three news crews who immediately clocked and are now following them. Ilya already had the remote for his gate in his hand ready to drive right in and escape. But as they get a little way down their street, all they can really see is news vans all the way along it. In the distance, in front of their gate, more of them are blocking neighbouring drives, ready to swarm in on them.

Shit. The neighbours have to be sick of this already.

Shane curses under his breath, glaring out the window as Ilya slowly edges the car forward. But then a bark of laughter bursts from him.

“Look,” he says, pointing.

Ilya follows the point of his finger, immediately laughing too. Kate is outside her house with the kids and her husband, and the neighbour opposite is out too. In fact, on either side of the street there are several of their neighbours standing there waiting, and they all just… turned water hoses on the assembling paparazzi. Ilya can’t help shrieking in delight, when Willa lobs a water bomb and it hits one of the reporters square in the chest.

He’s slowed the car, almost stopping as he tries a way to weave through. Kate spots him, waving at Ilya frantically and then beckoning him to head closer to her. She sprints out of sight once he stops where she has kept a spot on the road clear for him, and then appears again with an umbrella that she brandishes until several paparazzi stumble and get out of the way. Then, she and other neighbours are in the road, clearing a path that is just wide enough to get the car to the gate.

“Thank you,” Ilya shouts through the closed window seeing that Kate is absolutely drenched but has the biggest smile on her face.

“Get in there!” she yells back, pointing at the gate.

Ilya does just that, both him and Shane laughing as the neighbours start swarming closer so the waiting news crews can’t follow in before the gate closes behind them.

In the garage, they climb out, grab Puck and their few things, run through to the house, and happily lock the door behind them.

“Come here,” Shane says, mid kicking off his shoes, and cupping Ilya’s face between his hands.

“Hi,” Ilya says, dropping their foreheads together.

“What a fucking day,” Shane says in the worst Russian accent Ilya has ever heard.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, then starts to back Shane towards the kitchen.

Bood’s backyard is full to bursting, with just about everyone from the Centaurs present, and probably twice as much food as they can eat. There are three patio heaters since the weather didn’t get the message about getting warmer any time soon, though the atmosphere alone is already cosy, so much welcome surrounding Shane that he looks a little overwhelmed by it.

Happily, though.

The day of his trade he cried on and off, yelled obscenities at the TV several times, and got a little drunk. Ilya confiscated his phone just once when Shane declared he was calling Coach Theriault to give him a piece of his mind, because he’s not worth that much effort. Nobody from Montreal is.

Except for maybe JJ, and definitely Hayden, who for today at least is an honorary Centaur, him and Jackie happily piling up plates of barbecue as they chat to everyone.

What a whirlwind these past couple of weeks have been.

Day one, Shane got traded. After the initial shock, and a lot of angry tears, they went through their phones, ignoring the far fewer shitty messages and comments in favour of the supportive ones. Svetlana, Rose, Hayden, Cliff, JJ, Carter, Eric… so many more. Scott Hunter even invited them both to visit him in New York over the summer if they wanted. They probably won't, but, considering Scott coming out was what gave him and Shane the courage to really pursue their own relationship, it does feel good to Ilya, that he is so blatantly on their side. His message of support to Shane that night, as a result, meant a lot to both of them.

Day two, Shane went to meet the Centaurs managers, owners, and coaches, with Ilya right by his side. They had all been so welcoming, so supportive, so accepting and easy and human with them, that it’s made the worst parts of the last year feel like a particularly stupid nightmare. Especially when they ended their day with Shane’s parents and his dad’s burgers, and Yuna, after three glasses of wine, saying the most unpleasant things about Montreal that Ilya has ever heard. It was hilarious.

Day three, Ilya and Shane went out to a dinner which was gifted to them by the Centaurs owners. They flipped off reporters when they had to, and posed for a couple of photos with other diners when asked, but mostly just indulged in a date night filled with delicious food.

Days four through ten were a chaotic mix of plans for the start of the Irina Foundation camps, speaking to realtors about selling Shane’s house in Montreal, hosting Jackie and Hayden one night, getting very, very tipsy on cider at the Drover farm while playing with a million dogs, and plenty of other things.

Day eleven, Shane insisted they go shopping. They strolled casually hand in hand through the streets, in and out of malls and stopping for lunch, and then coffee, heads held high. A lot of Centaurs fans stopped them in the streets, so excited that Shane was joining the team, asking for selfies and autographs, and wishing them a good summer.

Day twelve, they turned off their phones and indulged in a day in bed, and that sort of merged with day thirteen, doing much of the same.

Today is day fourteen, and Ilya aches in some very nice places, and is so hungry he is ready to devour everything. Even better, Shane is right by his side, looking relaxed and happy. It really is the best thing to see.

“I know you kept on telling me the Centaurs were great, but, this is something else,” Shane says quietly, as they go up for a second plate of food.

“Is not just for you. They are always like this.”

“I know. That’s what makes it even better.”

“I am very happy that you are okay. With this,” Ilya says.

“The team? Or this backyard and everything?” Shane says in tease.

“Maybe both things.”

“Best thing about all this?” Shane says, resting his hand on Ilya’s waist and turning him towards him.

“What?”

“This,” Shane whispers, then kisses him sweetly, openly and carefree, not even breaking their kiss as he flips off Hayden’s half-hearted dude, get a room.

“I still can’t believe Montreal traded you,” Wyatt says later when everyone is seated, having just finished their third or even fourth plates of food.

There is a murmur of agreement around Bood’s backyard, loudest of all from Hayden. Ilya tenses, on alert for Shane’s reaction, but trying to keep his expression neutral.

Shane doesn’t say anything at first, lips pinched together and frowning. Then, he exhales hard, and relaxes into Ilya’s side.

“There have been… worse trades?” he says, screwing his face up, and actually laughing. “I don’t know. I guess I was no longer Montreal material.”

“How, though?” Wyatt says, like he is really trying to figure it out.

“Because they’re fucking stupid,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane to him and receiving a playful nudge.

Everyone around them agrees with Ilya, though. Collectively, they try to figure out how the trade even came into being, all the stuff that must have happened behind the scenes, and how long it might be before Montreal regrets their decision. If they ever admit it out loud, that is.

“I wanna know exactly who was the one who put this whole thing together. Like, who had the big idea?” Wyatt says, still looking genuinely puzzled.

“Uh, that was mostly the GM over there, but, Theriault had a lot to do with it,” Coach Wiebe says, giving Ilya and Shane a guilty smile. “I was told two weeks ago that there might be a controversial trade coming our way. That’s I all knew until the trade happened. Honest,” he says, holding his hands up in defence when Ilya can’t stop himself from glaring at him.

Ilya is clearly not schooling in his emotions well enough, because Shane clasps his thigh and squeezes, and when Ilya looks, winks.

“I mean, I guess at least, they told me in person? I got the impression when I went to that meeting, that they’d have preferred just to call me, or send a text.”

“They can’t seriously think they benefit from this,” Bood says.

“I don’t know what they think. Aside from that I wasn’t good enough, obviously.”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Hayden says, to which Shane shrugs.

“Can’t change anything now. And I wouldn’t want to. I feel like… I don’t know,” Shane says, turning a soft smile on Ilya. “I feel like I can look forward to playing next season, without…”

“Without feeling like no matter how hard you train, or work, what you give up, how much you give, it’s not good enough? And it never will be?” Hayden says for him.

Shane raises his bottle of cider in toast.

“Seriously, though. I mean, I can’t wait to play with you in October,” Wyatt says to Shane, with yet more murmurs of agreement. “I just don’t get it. I know, we all know, that the league is full of bullshit. Homophobia. Misogyny, Racism. All of it. But this? Montreal have this rep, of being the toughest team to please, players working the hardest, and everything. Keeping personal stuff out the game. This feels like… it feels like they’re literally cutting off their noses to spite their own faces, and, for what? Because they couldn’t put the team above their own homophobia? Prejudice? Bigotry?”

“...noses? Face? What is this?” Ilya whispers to Shane, who bursts out laughing but is interrupted from explaining by Coach Wiebe clearing his throat.

“Not that it matters now—and I’m sure that had some part to play in this, but, from what I’ve heard—from what I gleaned from what I heard about all the negotiations—I get the impression it was less about their outdated views, and… more the realisation by them, that you were no longer a player they could have total control over,” he says to Shane, looking apologetic.

He’s right. As Ilya listens to Wiebe he knows how right he is, replaying all the ways Shane has stood up for himself throughout the season, all the times he’s said no to things, been far curter with the press than he is known for being. How, despite everything, how hard it's all been, how free Shane has let himself be. It’s been beautiful to watch, and if Ilya wasn’t already head over heels, then this would have been it for him. Ilya could not imagine being prouder than he is, to have Shane as his husband.

"Also," Wiebe adds, now with an apologetic look at, well, everyone else here in the backyard, "let's just say that, the Metros making a trade agreement with us, is… I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? It was a strategic decision."

Ilya's, heart starts to thud. He isn't sure why.

"Strategic, how?" Wyatt asks, before Ilya can.

Wiebe gives Shane a rueful, kind of mischievous smile. "You, uh… you don't seriously think we were the only team with an offer sheet for you. Right?"

Shane's eyes, get really wide. "Uh…"

"You don't think half the league wouldn't try to snatch up Shane Hollander, of all people, if given the chance?"

Fuck. Of course not. Now Ilya's heart is really racing. He knew this of course already, had feared it the second he heard about the trade, but it's been such a whirlwind since then that he'd kind of put it to the back of his mind. Now, he's really imagining it, and sweating for it. Where else could Shane have ended up, instead of here?

Shane's cheeks are pink. He frowns, ducking his head, like he has no clue what he's supposed to say. Ilya holds on to him tightly.

"So…" Ilya says, needing Wiebe to keep talking.

"So. The Centaurs are not what the Metros consider to be a viable threat. In the playoffs. Other teams, with undoubtedly better offers, they think are."

"So… if Hollander goes to a bad team, it is better for the Metros, because he cannot easily help that team win next season?" Ilya says, sure he understands everything now.

Wiebe only nods, and raises his bottle in agreement.

Shane seems to be absorbing Wiebe’s words, concentration on his face like he’s trying to rearrange this new information and fit what he already knows. Then he laughs, and shakes his head, a little more blush lighting up his cheeks.

"We are fucking winning next season," Ilya growls out, furious for Shane, and really, everyone here.

How dare they treat Shane like they have? And how dare they dismiss the abilities of every person sitting here? This is his team, these are his people. Nobody is going to overlook them ever again, not while he is captain.

Everyone around them mumbles in agreement, all looking as though they are thinking the same things Ilya is. Shane looks up as this happens, and smiles.

“All I know, is that I can’t wait for next season. I can't wait to play with all of you," Shane says, raising his bottle in toast as those angry mumbles turn into more excited cheers. "So long as this summer goes really, really slow,” he adds, and laughs when Bood starts a round of go, Centaurs echoing around the yard.

Even Hayden gives a rueful smile at this, raising his bottle in toast.

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Hello!

How are we so close to the end already?!

This chapter is mostly happy, but, there is an overdue conversation about Ilya's depression in it as well.

🧡

June 2019

There are no league awards for either of them this year, not that either of them particularly care. Ilya makes a mostly joking suggestion that they go to Vegas anyway, so Shane can recreate one of Ilya’s favourite memories from 2014—from any time, actually. Somehow, because Ilya is helpless but to give into him, Shane instead convinces him to recreate that entire evening here at the cottage, just with the roles reversed.

Okay. So maybe Ilya was way more into it than he’d expected to be, particularly when Shane insisted they do it outside, and as for Shane? Shane is passed out beside him in bed now, worn out, after riding him as hard as he just did for getting so worked up. Ilya even thinks he sees a smile on his face in his sleep.

Ilya loves all the moments they have like this. They are just as special now when they have all the time in the world, as they were back when they snatched hours together with long weeks in between.

What a year it has been for them. What a year it is still being. The fuss about them has died down, mostly because their seasons are long over, but also in part because they have been happily hidden away here at the cottage since the last week in May, and will stay until the start of the Irina Foundation camps in July. Nobody is getting an interview out of them here, and no opinion can reach them aside from the ones they read online. Ilya makes himself check every couple of days, which is why he is so confident that they are so much less interesting to people than they were even just a month ago.

Metros fans are making the most noise online now, but it's not even really about them. No. They are pissed that Montreal traded Shane, being loud and awful and vindictive and every other thing they can possibly be all over the internet. It's a little too late for them all to collectively give a fuck about Shane, but what would Ilya know? To him, Montreal fans care about Montreal winning, and that's as far as their care goes; they seem more upset that one of their best chances of winning no longer plays for them, instead of caring about Shane himself. So. Fuck them all right now, honestly. Ilya has no time for their complaining when they were so slow to give Shane any kind of support.

Centaurs fans, on the other hand, have Ilya's heart. They are being loud in their own way, all of them excited that Shane is now playing for them and welcoming him, looking forward to the start of the season, and giving so much love to all of the team. There are a smaller number of them gleefully mocking Metros fans for their loss every chance they get. There are a smaller number still who are, it seems, obsessed with him and Shane's relationship. They have created a #hockeyhusbands tag that is filled with videos and edits and all sorts of other things about him and Shane, all of it positive if not a little… much. Ilya has now added several songs to his workout playlist just from some of the songs used in those videos, though.

Honestly, none of this should be as entertaining to Ilya as it is, but he kind of loves it.

Things will be different in October of course. Ilya can already see headlines about rivals turned husbands turned teammates, with some clever spins on words and a lot of dumb ones in between. He doesn’t think he will mind any of it, because him and Shane getting to play hockey together, to wake up every morning together, to just be together freely? Absolutely nothing else matters to him.

Soft footfall across the floor is followed immediately by a pressure against Ilya’s lower legs, as Puck jumps up to join them on the bed. His purr is loud, his biscuit making adorable, and the way he flops down against Shane’s forearm utterly melts Ilya’s heart.

“Shh. He is sleeping,” Ilya whispers, adjusting the arm he has slung over Shane so he can stroke Puck’s back.

“Not all the way…”

Smiling, Ilya kisses the back of Shane’s ear. “Not all the way, what?”

“I’m not all the way asleep. Just a little bit.”

“Do you… want to be more? Or less?”

“This is good. Cosy,” Shane says, definitely sounding more asleep than he is awake.

So Ilya only keeps snuggled in behind him, bracing for claws in his fingers when Puck rolls on to his back.

Or, maybe not. Puck only stretches his paws out against Ilya’s hand, resting it there.

Shane’s right, this is cosy, and it isn’t long before Ilya’s eyes are closing, all other thoughts gone as he drifts back off to sleep.

When Ilya next wakes Shane is on his back with Puck standing on his chest, both of them looking very alert.

“I think he got bigger while we were sleeping,” Shane says, sensing the moment Ilya opens his eyes.

“Maybe.”

“He was trying to wake you up, so, I put him on me here instead.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You were tired. You were busy out there,” Shane says with a glint in his eye when he looks at him.

“Very busy. So very busy.”

“Maybe you should get a reward,” Shane says, smiling so very smugly.

“Yes, yes,” Ilya whispers, leaning in for a kiss, then dropping his forehead against Shane’s on the pillow. “This is a good reward.”

“Mm. I was thinking about maybe a bath, maybe a massage. Maybe that cookie dough ice cream Mom snuck into the freezer when she brought over groceries.”

Ilya pulls back, watching the smile growing on Shane’s face. “We have cookie dough ice cream and you didn’t tell me?”

“They only came here yesterday.”

“Yes. That was yesterday,” Ilya says, and takes advantage of Puck scampering off by taking his place sprawled across Shane’s chest.

Shane’s look for him is full of triumph, because of course it is. “I was thinking of offering an alternative serving suggestion,” he says with a look of pure intent, slowly trailing his fingers up Ilya’s sides.

Ilya grins, leaning down to kiss him. “Tell me your idea…”

“Can’t sleep?”

It’s funny. When Ilya was first getting used to the cottage—first getting used to sharing it with Shane—he would jump out of his skin when Shane suddenly appeared behind him while standing out here. All those years ago, Ilya was so wound up tight and braced for bad things that anything out of the ordinary could put him into a spin. Back then, Ilya had always felt a sense of urgency, a need to be on alert.

It’s a miracle he hid how he was feeling back then about so many things, from everyone.

Now, though, after years of practice, it’s almost like Ilya can feel wherever Shane is, like a sense of calm is winding out and curling around him, several seconds before warm arms do the same.

“No. Sorry,” Ilya says, leaning his head back against Shane’s and sweeping his fingers over his forearms before slotting their fingers together.

“Don’t say sorry. It’s okay.”

“I think today will be very hot.”

“Mm. Probably.”

When it’s not hot, whenever Shane seeks him out, he always does it with a blanket in hand. There really is no need right now, though, when it’s already warm enough to be out here in a t-shirt, and it’s probably still a while before the sun will start to come up.

“Hey,” Shane says, kissing Ilya’s shoulder. “Tell me.”

He could lie. He could pretend he doesn’t know what Shane is talking about, but that black cloud that sometimes descends on Ilya came visiting last night, and it was hard to hide it. Ilya could feel Shane’s concern coming off of him in waves, and in the end had pretended he had a headache, going to bed alone and early so he didn’t have to talk about it.

Which seems stupid now that he’s had time to think about it, and not the way he wants things to be with Shane at all. They are married, aren’t they? Learning to share every aspect of their lives together, and deal with whatever life throws their way?

How to say what is in his head, though? Ilya has tried planning out a conversation like this many times,and it’s never come to anything.

“This year sometimes has been very hard,” he says, trying the obvious thing to say first.

Shane smacks another kiss to his shoulder. “Definitely.”

“But I think, maybe, if it was hard, or not so hard, probably I would still be feeling like this.”

Does Shane already anticipate his words? He holds him tighter, pressing his chest firmer against Ilya’s back. Then, he proves how well he really does know Ilya better than anyone, because instead of asking the obvious, impossible to answer question, feeling like what?, he only whispers, "Keep talking."

So Ilya does.

“Most of the time, I think I am fine. My life is so good, I am so lucky. I have so many things I was never thinking I would have. I have so much love in my life.”

“You do,” Shane whispers with another kiss to his shoulder, “so, so much.”

Smiling, Ilya takes a moment to check his words before continuing.

“So many times, I am happy. Sometimes I am so happy I want to cry because it is so, so much, but, then it is good tears. But. Sometimes… sometimes I am… I don’t know why. Sometimes, I am sad. Very sad,” Ilya says, and wraps his hand around two of Shane’s fingers to raise and press against his temple. “Sometimes, in here, there are many bad words for me. I am not so nice to myself, maybe. I am angry, and I hate myself, and I am so, so tired, listening to everything in my head, like I am… fighting me. Sometimes I want to sleep and stay sleeping. Not very much, but, sometimes. I don’t understand it. I wish I could find a thing that can tell me when I am going to feel like that. It’s impossible.”

“I love you,” Shane whispers, wrapping both arms around him again, and gently swaying him. “Keep going.”

“I think sometimes I am similar to my mother,” Ilya blurts out, hating that his voice cracks, and his heart pounds for his words. “Maybe not so bad—I hope so, anyway. But, sometimes I think—sometimes, I am scared, that maybe, sometimes, I could be like that.”

If he keeps saying sometimes, will that scare Shane less, make light of this thing, because it isn’t happening every day? Ilya doesn’t know.

He’s also run out of things to say now.

After a minute or so, Shane moves and turns Ilya towards him, cupping his face gently as he gives him a kiss. Then, he hugs him, one hand secure against his back and the other playing with his hair, and for a long time, they only hold one another in silence.

After a soft kiss into Ilya’s neck, Shane pulls back, taking both of his hands.

“Okay,” he says with a bright smile that does nothing to hide how upset he is. “First thing. I love you, Ilya. I hope you don’t think you telling me all this changes anything about that, because it doesn’t. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Ilya can’t trust his voice too much, so only whispers, “Okay.”

“Second. Thank you. For telling me that. I can’t imagine that was easy to get out?”

“No. Not really.”

Sighing, Shane turns their hands up, kissing the back of one of Ilya’s. “I hate that you feel like you have to fight yourself.”

“I know.”

“I hate that there is anything in your head trying to tell you you’re anything but amazing. Because you are amazing.”

Ilya bites back the automatic response in his head that disagrees with him, which feels like a win.

“Third,” Shane says, getting a determined look about him. “I don’t know what to do about this.”

“Maybe there is nothing to do. Maybe it is something I cannot fix.”

“Not fix, no. But something that would help, maybe? We could look into something. We will look into something—together. I don’t know what the answer is, but we’re doing this together, okay? You’re not alone in this, Ilya.”

He doesn’t want to cry, but Ilya’s tears fall without his permission anyway, and he finds himself back wrapped in Shane’s arms.

“I don’t know why I am sad today,” Ilya eventually says when he can get his words out.

“I don’t think there has to be a reason, does there?”

“It feels very stupid, if there is no reason.”

“If there is a reason every time, that makes things easy, right? Since when do you like to make things easy?” Shane says, kissing Ilya on the cheek in reward when he laughs a little.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to talk some more? You can say everything in Russian if it helps?”

“You know a little too much Russian now.”

“Then, use big words,” Shane says, his face lighting up when Ilya smiles at him.

“I don’t think I know any small words right now.”

“Okay. So, let’s go to bed. We don’t have to sleep, we don’t have to talk, we don’t have to do anything. And then tomorrow, or the next day, or another day, we’ll talk about this again, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

Tension drops from Ilya’s shoulders. He nods his head, taking Shane’s hand when offered and following him into the house. His mood isn’t magically better, of course it isn’t, but as Shane leads him back to bed, Ilya knows in his heart that things will probably be okay. Eventually, anyway.

That sounds like Shane's serious voice, Ilya thinks, rounding the corner from where he's just retrieved Puck from a pool table pocket to find Shane on a kitchen stool with his laptop open.

"I think maybe we could make that work," Shane says into the phone while waving his hand for Ilya to come closer.

Ilya comes to stand behind him, hands resting on Shane's shoulders, Puck already scampering away to, no doubt, more mischief making. Shane has an email open from Rolex.

"I think so. I think it could be good. Yes. Yes; I'll speak to my husband and get back to you. Give me maybe... an hour?"

Shane finishes his call. Ilya drapes himself over him pressing kisses up the side of his neck.

"Speak to your husband," he says, feeling the usual quiet roar he always feels when he hears such a thing.

"And how is my husband?" Shane asks softly.

He's been doing that a lot over the last few days, asking that same question in the same soft, sweet voice; ever since they had their conversation about Ilya's possible depression. One of the reasons Ilya had held off on telling him for so long was because he had dreaded hearing such a thing, knowing he'd made Shane worry about him, and had revealed his own weakness in the process.

Now, he isn't really any closer to figuring out what would really help him, but Ilya doesn't feel weak at all. He doesn't feel fixed either, because this thing will never be as easy as that, but what he does feel is so, so loved. Maybe powerful, even, because Shane is right there beside him for it, willing to be strong for him in the moments when he's feeling anything but.

Right now, though? Ilya feels strong.

"Today, I feel really good," Ilya says, pressing a long kiss to Shane's cheek.

Shane hums, sighing in what sounds a little like relief.

Ilya feels that relief too. He also feels pretty curious about the call Shane just took, though. Will he have to wait patiently for Shane to tell him, or should he coax it out of him?

"So... Rolex want me to do a sponsorship thing," Shane says, stroking his hands up Ilya’s forearms.

No coaxing needed, then. Also, not exactly the sort of news Ilya really wanted to hear. "Oh."

"I know," Shane says, leaning his head against Ilya's.

Personally, Ilya has a love-hate relationship with Shane’s numerous sponsorship deals. He has a good amount of his own deals but none of them are demanding like Shane’s. And Ilya's all know better than to try and interrupt his summer.

Rolex, it seems, have no such problem doing that.

"They want us to—”

“Us?” Ilya says, checking.

“Well. Me. But, I said I wouldn't be interested if you weren't with me, so. Yes. Us. They want us to go… to represent Rolex at Belmont Stakes."

“What is that?”

“It’s a horse race?” Shane says with a doubtful little shrug.

"…Why?"

"The usual reasons?”

“Shane. What do we know about horse racing?”

“Absolutely nothing?” Shane says, laughing, and patting his arm. “I don’t think we have to know anything about it, though? Usually with these things, we show up, have photos taken, maybe get told what to say about the event.”

Ilya knows exactly what this type of thing is, he’s done enough of them himself. He’s never liked them much, though has happily put on a smile and appreciated all the food and drink put in front of him. Danced at the parties. Had photos taken with a million guests.

Hmm. How much more fun would something like that be, if he got to do it with Shane?

“Do Rolex make watches for horses now?” Ilya says, loving how this makes Shane snort with laughter. “What do you think? Do they wear their watch on the front leg? The back? Right? Left?”

“Maybe they should make watches for Puck,” Shane says, just as they hear Puck doing a battle roar.

“I think he found his mouse,” Ilya says, nuzzling Shane’s shoulder.

“Sounds like it. So… what do you think about this Rolex thing?”

“...Shane.”

“Yes.”

“You hate these things. You do them sometimes, because you are nice, but you don’t enjoy them very much.”

“No,” Shane agrees, and reaches back to pat Ilya’s hair. “But. If I was doing it with you, I think it would be better. Different, anyway.”

“They want to feed us, have our faces at a horse race, so they can sell more watches?”

“That’s generally how these things go, right? More, or less horses, depending on the event,” Shane adds, taking his turn to make Ilya laugh. “It sounds like there is a little more to it, though."

Ilya watches Shane scroll through the email and then starts to read where he points. Huh. Well, that is a surprise. They want to show their support for the LGBT community? By having them attend a horse race? That makes no sense at all, to Ilya. But then when do these things ever make that much sense?

"We don't have to go, obviously," Shane says, "it's a pretty last minute request. I get the impression someone else dropped out. But, they invited us both. You know. As a couple."

Which is, Ilya knows, the only reason Shane didn't turn them down immediately. Their summers together are just as important to him.

"They would like to use us for promotion. For their image. To make them look more… tolerant," Ilya says, pointing out the obvious.

"Yes. But, look at this place, Ilya," Shane says, clicking on the link for a very fancy looking hotel suite. "We've never gone anywhere for something like this. As a married couple, I mean. It would be for three nights, and we'd only have to be at the fundraiser event the first night, and the race the next day. There is some kind of brunch thing the last day, but that would be it. We wouldn't need to do anything else, and could check out late the next morning."

"Mm. It will probably be very nice food, yes?"

"There usually is at these things, right? Also. There's a private pool we could use, and a… there looks like music. Displays. All kinds of things. And… we'd have to get all dressed up, at least for the ball, the fundraiser ball thing."

"Mm. We could go shopping for new suits," Ilya says, kissing Shane behind the ear and loving that particular idea already.

"Exactly. So... I don't know? What do you think?"

An all expenses paid few days where he can show off his husband, proudly be photographed by his side? Even if he has absolutely no interest in horse racing?

There are worse ways to spend their time, probably.

"It could be for my birthday," Ilya points out, kissing Shane’s shoulder.

"Oh, I already told them that. He said he was going to see if there was anything else they could add to this package for us, because it's so close to your birthday."

Ilya’s heart thuds, and he has to hide his smile in Shane’s shoulder.

“Can we pet the horses?”

“Ilya. They’re athletes. Or, I guess, the jockeys are?”

“I don’t want to pet the jockeys.”

“Oh, good.”

Pulling on the back of the kitchen stool Ilya slides Shane away from the island then spins him around to face him.

“We should go to watch the horses racing,” he says, leaning down over him, resting his hands on Shane’s thighs as he kisses him.

“Yeah? I should call him back?” Shane says, excitement evident in his eyes.

Ilya tilts his head, pretending to consider his question, before kissing him again. “Maybe in a few minutes...”

The Belmont Stakes turns out to be pretty much as Ilya pictured it being; a lot of excess and luxury that feels weird to be a part of, and only parts of which are interesting.

Their hotel suite is ridiculously stunning, the views incredible, and the staff there seeming to anticipate their every need. The fundraiser itself is actually a lot of fun, in part because the alcohol really is flowing and the food absolutely delicious, but mostly because of Shane being there right beside him. Looking fucking incredible. Looking free and relaxed. Looking like he can't wait to get Ilya alone again at just about every minute, and rip his lovely new suit right off.

The horse race itself is not really Ilya's thing at all, but the atmosphere is good. He has always enjoyed seeing other people enjoying themselves, so his entertainment mostly comes from that. He does get to pet two horses, though, or at least, he pets them before anyone can stop him from doing so, and that kind of makes his day more than anything else.

Since Shane made a point to Rolex that attending this event would be around Ilya's birthday—they left for it the day after, in fact, after a lovely dinner with David and Yuna, and a million messages from friends—Rolex gifted Ilya one of the nicest watches he's ever seen in his life after the race, and donated money to the Irina Foundation. There is also a six-tier birthday cake which of course is a little too excessive, but it is delicious, and it is fun to share it with others. They then enjoy the last of it in their hotel room, just the two of them. Ilya thinks he can still feel buttercream in various places, even a day later.

The best part about all of this though? Ilya can't stop grinning at the tons of photos of the two of them proudly together at the fundraiser and race, scrolling through Instagram and liking every one he comes across. While Shane is downstairs somewhere in the hotel talking to a Rolex representative, Ilya is happily sprawled on their bed, posting a handful more photos. Fuck, does his husband look good, and fuck, does it look like his husband is showing him of.

Fuck, does Ilya love that feeling.

He is just enjoying a short video of the two of them draped around one another at the fundraiser, smiling and swaying together, when a notification pops up on his screen.

It's a photo that Shane took of him, petting the winning horse. Though it's the caption that makes Ilya's entire head flush.

@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: considering a new career as a jockey. don't want to ride the horse, though…

What. The actual. Fuck?

Ilya is still laughing, still trying to come up with a suitable response, still trying to make himself believe Shane would say such a thing so publically, when he hears their hotel room door open.

Is it possible for a smile to step into a room before the person it belongs to does? Because that's what Ilya is convinced he is seeing. And that smile on Shane's face is something else, particularly when he marches straight over to the bed where Ilya is still lying, and climbs right on top of him.

"Too much?" Shane says in the most innocent voice, so in contrast to the mischief on his face.

Ilya tackles him, their laughter ringing out around the room as he pins him to the bed, tickling him.

"You must let me post something now," Ilya says when they are breathless and still laughing at each other, smiling like they might not stop.

"Uh oh…"

"No, no… a nice photo," Ilya whispers, then finds his phone and holds it up above them.

Pretending to protest with a sigh, Shane kisses him on the cheek, tucks into Ilya's side, and throws his arm across his waist.

"Okay."

It is a nice photo. Ilya posts it immediately, along with the caption, Husbands. He sees people starting to like it barely seconds after it goes up, then slides his phone on to his nightstand.

"So… did you want us to do anything here tonight?" Ilya asks, rolling over so Shane is beneath him.

Shane arches, looking very happy to be where he is. "Not really. You?"

Mm. Ilya is a little nervous about making the suggestion he wants to, even if there is no real reason to feel that way. So he delays his question, by kissing Shane slowly, until he is all soft and happy-looking, and smiling up at him.

"You know, Scott Hunter said before, we should visit him. If we were in New York."

"…right. Yes. He did. When he messaged, when I was—"

"Traded. Yes," Ilya says quickly, really hoping he's not making Shane's mood dip. "I looked on Google…"

"Oh?" Shane asks, absently playing with one of Ilya's curls.

"We are about… one hour, twenty minutes, from, you know. That bar Hunter mentioned."

"That bar?"

"The Kingfisher."

Shane nods slowly. "The bar his boyfriend works at?"

"Yes," Ilya says, kissing him quickly.

"It's a gay bar, right?"

"Yes."

Again, Shane nods slowly, before a smile lights up his face. "We just did our first, like, public thing together, huh? This whole Rolex thing?"

"Yes," Ilya says, his heart skipping, "we did."

"So," Shane whispers, stretching up for a kiss, "maybe we should go get another first in, before we go home."

"Our first visit to a gay bar together?"

Wrapping his arms around Ilya's shoulders, Shane hugs him tightly to him. "Exactly. Message Hunter. Make sure he's free, or around, or… you know."

"Really?" Ilya says, hoping his surprise isn't too obvious on his face.

Shane rolls his eyes, but is still smiling at him. "Really. Message him."

"…okay."

"Maybe in a minute, though," Shane adds, and without warning, flips them so Ilya is on his back.

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

Hello! We are at the end already! How did that happen?

No warnings for this one, just some fluff and some good times for them 🧡

“I just assumed you’d stay at the cottage until the last minute possible; especially with you going to do that thing with Rolex,” Yuna is saying as they sit down to lunch at her and David’s house.

They were going to. They got back to the cottage after the Belmont Stakes visit, intending to do absolutely nothing at all. Then, sunbathing out on the decking a few days ago, Ilya and Shane talked about the possibilities of Ilya looking for a therapist. Ilya is taking it as a good sign—a sign that he’s doing the right thing—that one of the first therapists that came up for him here in Ottawa happens to be Russian speaking.

So, they’ve come back to Ottawa early, and Ilya will have his first therapy session on Friday morning. It’s all come around far too quickly, Ilya originally thinking he’d look into this closer to the hockey season starting. It makes sense though, doesn’t it? If he can start therapy now, over the summer, that has to be better for him?

Especially if the therapist thinks he needs to start some medication. Ilya hates the idea, but he’ll do it if he needs to, and already knows Terry, the team’s doctor, will support him through it. The sooner this all starts, the sooner he might have some clue how to handle everything. Get used to feeling like this, maybe, and know how to help himself.

Something like that.

“There’s a team night out on Friday. We thought we’d come back, stock up on groceries and anything else we need. We won’t have all that much time next week, when camp starts,” Shane says saving Ilya the trouble of having to come up with a reason.

Ilya loves his in-laws so very much, has felt so welcomed by them since the first day they met, but he isn’t ready to share his news yet. He will do, and Ilya knows they will be nothing but understanding, but this thing for now needs to be just between him and his husband. At least until he gets used to the idea of it, anyway.

“Oh. A team night out sounds fun; you never had many of those before,” Yuna says, smiling, and kind of scowling a little at the same time.

Not at them, though. She is so happy that Shane is happy about joining the Centaurs, but her words about Montreal when he was traded were the angriest Ilya has ever heard from her. Which he doesn’t blame her for. It’s just that Yuna is a lifelong Montreal fan, and, well, if anyone is more offended by Shane being traded than Yuna is, Ilya is yet to meet them. She still twitches a little, when he teases her about her divided loyalties between the two teams, and she did chase Ilya around the yard with the hose when he brought her a Centaurs jersey. That had descended into a water fight of epic proportions between the four of them, and turned into one of Ilya’s favourite memories made at this house.

“Monks is a nice bar, I think you will like it,” Ilya says, smiling when Shane taps his foot beneath the table.

David frowns as he passes a dish over to Ilya, tilting his head as though in deep thought. “Do we know Monks?”

Yuna shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Is it a sports bar?”

“No. Not really,” Ilya says, piling up his plate.

“We can have Puck overnight if you’d like,” Yuna says, excitedly.

“Mom,” Shane says in that patient though exasperated way of his that never fails to make Ilya smile. “We’re only going out for a few hours. Puck will probably enjoy having the house to himself.”

“But—”

“You are not catnapping our cat.” Shane says, a little more seriously.

Ilya pats his leg, earning himself a sweet smile, while he fights to school his own in.

“I saw this incredible thing today online,” David says, now handing over the bowl of salad to Ilya. “I think it’s called a… cat gazebo? No. A catio. Can you believe that? A whole patio, but for cats.”

Again, Ilya pats Shane’s leg. “We could do that.”

“It would need a million heaters. You know he doesn’t like being cold.”

“We could get him sweaters.”

“I think he would leave home if we tried that,” Shane says, snorting. “But. Maybe another cat tower in the house won’t be such a bad idea for now, instead of a whole catio.”

“Or, we can get some high shelves for him to climb.”

“So he has places to hide, when we eventually get a dog?” Shane teases.

“Wait. You’re getting a dog now?” Yuna says, her eyes lighting up again.

For someone who doesn’t want their own pets, she is very enthusiastic about theirs.

“Ilya likes dogs. Me too—I don’t think I knew that until we went to the Drover’s farm. That’s Harris’ parents,” Shane says, smiling when Ilya winks at him. “He’s the social media manager for the Centaurs.”

“Nice guy. Really good guy,” Ilya adds.

“And, after seeing all the pets they have there, I think Puck would like a friend at some point. Maybe not right away, or anything, but, definitely some day, right?” Shane says.

“Mm,” is all Ilya can say because his mouth is full of delicious food again, and he’s trying not to laugh for the look on Yuna’s face.

How many dogs is she imagining them having?

He does bump his forehead against Shane’s shoulder, though, squeezing his hand when it’s offered.

After lunch, they talk about the upcoming camp, and all the things they hope for it. Ilya is still pretty stunned about the number of people so happy to help them with coaching, and even more so for the interest shown in it by those wanting to attend. It would be overwhelming, if he wasn’t so excited for it.

“I’m just glad that we aren’t so interesting to the press anymore; maybe anyone who interviews us will actually ask about the foundation,” Shane says as he drags Ilya’s hand into his lap.

It is bizarre—infuriatingly so—that they spent most of the last hockey season having to deal with stupid questions, opinions, and accusations about their relationship. It’s absolutely bewildering that Shane’s shock trade only seemed to stay newsworthy for a couple of weeks. Though Ilya does get a lot of entertainment out of some of the things Cliff sends him links to about it, like the number of Montreal fans who have turned on their own club for getting rid of Shane. Some of them have even started petitions and online campaigns to get him back. Not that they will get anywhere with that.

The thing is, between the backlash against them and then the backlash from the fans about Shane being traded, it really does feel like nobody wants to speak about him and Shane now. Though the press do seem to have some interest in the Irina Foundation camps; perhaps they want to try to benefit from being associated with such a good cause?

Ilya will never understand the media’s reasoning. He hopes he never has to.

“Oh, they will absolutely ask only about the foundation,” Yuna says, transforming instantly into their camp director. “Every interview I’ve set up and arranged, they have a brief about what questions they can and can’t ask. They’ve been told. A single word about anything off topic and the interview is cut.”

“If only you’d been in charge of all the interviews for the league all season long,” David says affectionately, earning himself both an eye roll and a small smile.

“I just need five minutes. Just five minutes alone in a room with Theriault,” Yuna growls out.

Shane groans, but is laughing, because she’s said this at least a hundred times since the trade. “I think you’re about the only person who could make him cry.”

“Oh, I know so,” Ilya agrees, winking when Shane looks at him, then slotting his fingers through Shane’s when he drops his head on his shoulder.

“Rose?” Ilya asks Shane the following day as he walks into their living room with coffee, seeing Shane sitting cross legged on the couch with a big smile on his face, looking at his phone.

Rose is nice. Rose is lovely, actually. It’s only that thinking of her reminds Ilya of a moment in his life when he’d thought he’d lost Shane for good. Which wasn’t her fault, was on him and Shane entirely for being so bad at saying what they needed to back then. They have gotten better at talking since, but Ilya thinks this is something they will always be working on.

He might also have to work on the roar of not-quite-jealousy he feels every time he sees what he’s taken to calling Shane’s Rose smile light up his face.

Shane looks up at him, his smile even bigger as he shakes his head. “Nope.”

Okay. So maybe he doesn't know everything, then.

“Okay. Something happened?”

“Maybe,” Shane says, turning his phone for Ilya to see the moment he sits.

Oh. The logo at the top of the email Ilya recognises for being Shane’s realtor in Montreal. “You are checking on the house?”

“No. I’m reading an email with an offer—a really good offer—for the house,” Shane says, and scrolls down for Ilya to read.

“Woah,” Ilya says as he reads, “somebody wants to pay so much to live in Shane Hollander’s house?”

Shane pretends to elbow him in the ribs. “His old house. The only person I want living with me, is you.”

“Good.”

“Besides. It’s a decent house. Good location. The realtor was the one that valued it. I don’t think this person is making an offer because of me.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says, throwing his arm around him. “Will you accept this offer?”

“Seems good, right?”

“I think so.”

“And the money from it can go straight into the foundation.”

“Yes.”

“So… yes?” Shane says, his thumbs hovering over the screen as he waits for Ilya to answer.

“Of course. If you want to.”

“Ilya. It’s about if we want to.”

“Oh, my opinion is important?” Ilya teases, getting a kiss to Shane’s cheek when he shoves at his leg.

“Maybe, I’m just enjoying getting to share everything with you. Including, decisions about selling a house.”

Oh. Well, there is that, too, and it’s one of Ilya’s favourite things as well. It’s unbelievable just how good it feels being someone’s husband. The sense of belonging it brings him is indescribable.

“We should accept. Sell the house,” Ilya whispers against Shane’s temple, smiling there when Shane sits up straighter and does the happy wiggle that he insists he never does.

“We’re selling the house,” Shane says, quickly typing and then hitting send, then tossing the phone to the cushion to his side before turning to Ilya. “I love being married to you.”

Nothing is perfect in their world, not even the world as a whole, but in this moment? Ilya can believe that it is.

“I love being married to you, too,” he says, laughing when Shane rearranges them so they are lying down.

Yes, Ilya thinks, as they settle, things really don’t get much better than this.

“Okay. You have not smiled at your email like that since… I don’t even remember the last time,” Shane says when he returns from the bathroom to join Ilya on the couch.

“Come here,” Ilya says, patting the space beside him anyway like that isn’t where Shane is already heading, throwing his arm around his shoulders the moment he sits.

He turns his laptop for Shane to look, kissing his cheek, and waiting for him to understand what he is looking at. Also watching him, because Shane already reached for his glasses, and Ilya will never reach his fill of seeing that.

On the screen are several photos of them from their first ever photo shoot together, taken forever ago. An even more memorable first happened a few hours after that, one of a million memories Ilya cherishes, but this one is special. Ilya had worked hard to make it happen, maybe worked harder still to make it seem like his suggestion for a joint commercial was a casual suggestion, instead of a calculated move just so he could see Shane again.

If only he could speak to his younger self for a moment, let him know how life would work out for him. Would it change any of the sometimes-mess in his head now? Ilya isn’t sure.

He is sure that the sweet look on Shane’s face as he reaches out to scroll through the photos is everything he imagined it would be.

“I didn’t even know these existed,” he says, softly. “How did you get them?”

“I found out who the photographer was that day. Then, I found his email. I wasn’t sure if he would keep them, but, we are lucky. There are eight of them.”

Shane leans his head against Ilya’s. “Look at us.”

“So young.”

“So absolutely clueless about what was gonna happen for us.”

“With hockey?”

Shane turns for a kiss. “No. I mean, sure. But no, I meant for us.”

Looking back now, Ilya doesn’t think things could have ever gone any other way. What would his life be without Shane in it? It’s a horrible thing to try to imagine, so he doesn’t.

“I think this one is my favourite,” he says, scrolling back to a photo that captures them mid laugh, with Shane’s nose scrunched up and his own eyes crinkled. Even back then, it had felt like he could never look away from Shane, and this photo is evidence of that.

“Definitely. We’ll get it printed for here? Maybe make it a little bigger?”

“Okay.”

“Hey. Can you believe, it’s almost ten years since these were taken?” Shane says, turning to Ilya with a look of quiet awe.

“Yes. Because it is ten years now, since we were drafted.”

Shane seems to consider this, then shakes his head with a smile. “Wow. It really is.”

“More importantly,” Ilya says, closing his laptop and leaning forward to put it on the coffee table, “it is ten years since I found you in that gym after the drafts.”

“Oh, that’s definitely more important.”

“Yes.”

“Were you looking for me?” Shane asks, grinning at him.

“Not really. But, maybe. I don’t know,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane to him. “I know, I wanted to find you.”

“You were curious,” Shane teases.

Ilya thinks of several other words that better describe what he was feeling back then, but yes, curiosity was amongst them.

“You still make me curious.”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up when he turns to him. “How? You know everything about me. You know me better than literally anyone.”

“Only you know me. Nobody else. But, you still surprise me. I am still learning things. I think maybe we will always be learning new things about one another.”

With a slow nod, Shane tucks back into his side. “You’re probably right.”

“Yes.”

“I mean… I think it’s fair to say that we’ve both changed—had to change—quite a bit this year.”

There are days when all the situations they’ve been forced into over the last year overwhelm Ilya, make him angry, and heartbroken, and want to scream at the unfairness of it all. Then, he only has to see the wedding band on his finger, and the whirlwind in his head calms a little. That’s the thing that makes it all bearable on the worst days, and a blessing on the best. Being married to Shane.

“I like being your husband,” he says, softly, smiling when Shane cuddles in.

“I like being your husband.”

“Sometimes I think maybe… this year has been very hard,” Ilya says, knowing frustration that he can’t even put the words he wants to say in order in Russian, let alone English.

“This year’s been a lot,” Shane agrees, “but, I wouldn’t change anything. I’d prefer people weren’t so… you know.”

“Yes.”

“In some ways, I’m glad it happened. Or, that it’s already happened. That we don’t have to go through all of this again.”

“Yes. That is very good.”

“We’re getting married again, though,” Shane says, nuzzling Ilya’s neck and then climbing into his lap. “Or, you know, renewing our vows.”

“Yes. We will plan everything. Maybe still a small wedding—”

“That’s perfect for us.”

“Yes. But. Next time—maybe before next time—we need a honeymoon,” Ilya says. "And, we need to plan something for our wedding anniversary."

"We do," Shane says, then his eyes light up. "Oh. Also. Maybe, before we renew our vows, we can have some, I don’t know. Practice honeymoons? Even if it’s, I don’t know. A weekend somewhere, maybe? A few weekends?”

Oh. Ilya really likes that idea. “Yes. Many, many practice honeymoons,” he whispers, sliding his fingers beneath the hems of Shane’s shorts, as Shane leans down to kiss him.

July 2021

Their backyard is full of people, fuller than Ilya has ever seen it, and that’s with him and Shane hosting some pretty great parties at their house. They’ve done team dinners, two Halloween parties, and Ilya’s favourite so far, New Years. None of them were quite as celebratory as this gathering, though.

Today, they are renewing their wedding vows.

They could have waited until later in the year, made a thing of it being their three-year wedding anniversary, but decided the summer made more sense for them. More people can attend, the weather is good, and doing this after their summer camps are finished means two days from now they can set off for their overdue honeymoon with no other obligations. Yes, the ceremony is still small, or, Ilya thinks, looking at the crowd of their family and friends, if not small, then simple. Perfect for them, in other words. So he wouldn't have it any other way.

Yuna and their neighbours have worked magic in the backyard, with fairy lights and decorations that have transformed the space into something beautiful. Puck is snoozing on a high shelf in his catio, ignoring the people intruding on his home with the occasional dismissive flick of his tail. Anya, their beautiful new dog, is lapping up all the attention she is getting from the Pike kids and the neighbouring kids, as well as all the kids of various Centaurs players who aren’t already crowded around the freshly-won Stanley Cup that is sitting in pride of place on a table by the back doors.

That had been Yuna’s idea. And who are Ilya and Shane to argue with her about something like that? She’s right, it is something to be proud of.

What an incredible year it has been for them.

It goes without saying that Ilya and Shane are more in love than ever, but there are still days when Ilya wakes up absolutely stunned to see the beautiful husband he’s bagged right there in bed beside him. Valentines Day this year was one of those days. They woke up in a very lush penthouse hotel suite in Tampa because they had a game there that night, very unprofessionally opting out of practice—though completely with Coach Wiebe’s approval. Shane’s sleepy smile and soft Happy Valentines Day is a memory Ilya often replays, something so small and yet perfect meaning absolutely everything to him.

They recreated their joint commercial shoot for CCM earlier in the season, which was hilarious, the two of them somehow more giggly this time around than the first. The photos came out beautifully, and actually led to requests for joint photo shoots, sponsorship offers from various fashion houses, and a couple of smaller requests that they picked because they were far more important to them. Ilya has such a better understanding of mental health now—not that he knows everything—that getting to head a campaign with Shane about it feels like an incredible achievement. He’s also proud of how far he’s come with his own therapy, slowly discovering all sorts of things about himself; like, for instance, that he’s not the waste of space his father and brother had convinced him he was.

Those photo shoots and the mental health campaign led to Ilya and Shane’s first proper joint interview, with a journalist who asked thoughtful questions and had them laughing so much they were wiping away tears. The interview was well received, and though they have come to expect the usual stupid, senseless, and bigoted takes flooding the comment sections these things invite, they’re both so better equipped now to handle it—mostly by ignoring it.

Scott Hunter is slowly starting to build a group for hockey players, with the aim of making things easier for everyone in the league that doesn’t fit the perfectly sculptured image the league would prefer them to have. It’s been incredibly rewarding to be a part of it, and the friendships they had already formed with various players and others around hockey have been some of the most important things to Ilya in recent years. Most of those friends are here in their backyard right now, to help them celebrate. They are surrounded by the most incredible people.

The Centaurs are, it feels, unstoppable. Ilya loves every person on the team both on and off the ice, and it is testament to how well the team has come together that they have that Stanley Cup on display here at their vow renewal. Ilya had worried that the addition of Troy Barrett, who came to them earlier this year from Toronto, might ruin everything, but Troy has proven himself in about a million different ways, and he is another person that Ilya is now proud to call a friend. It’s also been hilarious watching him trying to hide his crush on Harris, and fun to tease the pair of them now they are together. Having another queer couple to go on date nights with is another added bonus to all of this.

Montreal are doing… terribly. Theriault got fired last year, they didn’t make playoffs, and Hayden moved the moment his contract was up, leaving all that chaos behind him. He signed with the Maple Leafs, which is a choice, one Ilya doesn’t have a hope of even attempting to understand, but at least he got away from that damn team, and the Pike family, while having to move, aren’t having to relocate some terrible distance.

Montreal's new head coach is in over his head, and no one will be surprised if he too is fired before the start of the season. JJ is off to Tampa now his contract has ended, and several others appear to be considering leaving too. So much for a rebrand, and exciting draft picks, and whatever other bullshit they spoke about when they decided to get rid of Shane.

It’s been so satisfying watching Montreal slip further down the standings and get nothing but mocking and derision everywhere they turn. On his phone, Ilya has bookmarked a segment from a podcast show called Man In The Crease, who are absolutely ruthless about failing players and teams. This segment on how far Montreal has fallen and how it’s all their fault he might know perfectly by now, and has taught Ilya his new favourite idiom; revenge is a dish best served cold. Which is true. He especially agrees, and knows a special sort of smugness for it, that every game they’ve played against the Metros this season, the Centaurs have made fools of them.

On top of all of this, there are rumours out there that Roger Crowell is about to be replaced, that he’s kicking and screaming and clinging to his desk, and probably will end up in a shouting match before he is carried out. The league hasn’t become perfect, there is still bigotry rife throughout it, but there is a huge wave of people fighting back against it, too. Replacing Crowell will probably be a big help with that.

And after all of that, more exciting than any of it, they are renewing their wedding vows today. They are going to Spain in two days from now for their honeymoon. There is no one in the world more in love than Ilya feels right now; except, maybe, for his husband.

“Ready to do this?” Shane says, approaching him then in a perfectly fitting light gray suit with a pale blue tie that Ilya thinks might look very nice around Shane’s wrists some other time.

Maybe even on their honeymoon. He’ll sneak it into their luggage just in case.

Ilya breathes the sight of him in, taking Shane by the waist and kissing his cheek, and once again thinks about how lucky he is.

“Very ready,” he says, holding steady as Shane smooths down the front of the blazer of his burgundy suit with heat in his eyes as he looks him over.

It’s taken a while, getting used to Shane adjusting his collar, or shirt, or whatever, and not expecting some sort of critique, because Ilya’s mind likes to drag him back in time to far less loving inspections. In his head, his dad’s critical gaze flits over his hair, face, clothes, everything about him. In his reality, Shane is just touching him because he wants to, and loves him, and is most likely imagining all the ways he wants to get him out of his clothes.

Ilya’s reality feels a bit like a fairytale sometimes, at least in his sappier moments.

“You look amazing,” Shane says quietly.

“You, too.”

“Anya looks better than both of us, though,” Shane says, as their dog is scooped up by Harris for a photo.

Her little burgundy bow, which matches Ilya’s suit, is beyond adorable.

“It's true,” Ilya says, laughing when Anya surprises Harris by licking his face.

“So…” Shane says, wriggling his fingers for Ilya to take his hand. When Ilya slots his fingers through and looks up, Shane grins at him. “Let’s go?”

“Let’s go,” Ilya repeats, letting Shane lead him through the crowd of their family and friends, over to the spot in the yard where Nancy, their justice of the peace, is waiting.

Chapter End Notes

And... we're done!

I don't know how these past two weeks went so quickly, but thank you for coming on this little adventure with me! You've been great company 😊

I have... four fics in progress 😅 no idea if any of them will see the light of day but I hope they do, or at least some of them! Especially the one that's almost 10k in already. Someone come prod me and keep me writing or something.

Hugs all round! 🧡