Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, J. J. Boiziau & Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter & Carter Vaughan, Shane Hollander & Jackie Pike, Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Hayden Pike, Ilya Rozanov, J. J. Boiziau, Rose Landry, Jackie Pike, Carter Vaughn, Kip Grady, New York Admirals - Character, Luke Gillis

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shane Leaves Montreal, Stanley Cup Playoffs, Stanley Cup, shane hollander learns emotional intelligence, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Scott Hunter, english grammar as an expression of love, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Scott Hunter, gillis is mentioned literally once in game changer, i gave him a first name and made him shane's child, Accidental Child Acquisition, the child is a 19 year old professional hockey player, THIS IS NOT AI YOU FREAKS, Autistic Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, but they are doing their best to help themselves and each other!!, Found Family, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of back and forth from new york

Collections:

Subscriptions:Tracking, Emeralds_Late_Night_Reads, Hollanov cure for sadness, thiccboimork's reading list, Hollanov 🥰, hollanov for the heart <3, HR Updating, Verywell, Hockey Boyfriends, My Close and Personal Friends Shane and Ilya, These are the stories and series that I have at least reread twice., a library of only the BEST FICS TO EVER EXIST ✨, le mie fic in corso, AHHHHHHH*forehead kiss*, tHReads Collection, HR, moonlitmagda’s favorite works, Prongs_Antlerz favourite hockey yaoi, Fragments of Ice, Happy Fluffy Hollanov<3, e's good shit, ♫ We Are Family ♪, ella's hollanov hall of fame 🏒, AnnaSong, In this glass house we are free, ♡⁠˖⁠꒰⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠⑅⁠꒱HOLLANOV ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡, Shane/Ilya playing in Boston/NewYork AU, the reason i'm an insomniac, In Which Hollanov Adopt a Rookie, Read & Loved Heated Rivalry Fics, Gems in Progress, where’s shane hollander?, game changers cinematic universe, Heather rivalary Fics, Boston/New York AUs

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-23 Updated: 2026-02-20 Words: 194,689 Chapters: 44/?

back and forth from new york

Summary

After coming out to Rose, Shane decides he doesn't want to lie anymore, even if he isn't sure coming out will mean he gets happily ever after with Ilya. When coming out to the Voyageurs leaves him wondering what his future in Montreal might look like, he lets himself be a little selfish, he lets himself wonder if there might be somewhere else he might be happy. If Montreal wants to get rid of a generational player, he's not about to stop them, especially if it means he can get a little closer to joy.

--

Or: Shane Hollander leaves Montreal in search of something better.

Chapter 1: honesty

Chapter Notes

January 2017

Shane honestly couldn’t tell you the series of events that had led to this moment. Well, he could, but it’d be convoluted and confusing and possibly another adjective starting with ‘C’ that might just explain how much of a goddamn shit show he’d found himself in.

All this to say, Shane was starting to wonder if there might be some service out there that’d allow him to hire someone to make decisions for him; not quite a cult, but maybe something cult adjacent.

“Are you sure about this?” Hayden whispered, looking just as nervous as Shane felt. Shane was well aware that some people (Jackie) might (lovingly) describe his friendship with Hayden as ‘clinically co-dependent’, but at this very moment he wasn’t going to look too far into the psychology of it all. The simple knowledge that his best friend was clearly as nervous as he was acted as some sort of nerve soother, some sort of indication that he wasn’t entirely insane for feeling this way.

“No,” Shane answered, then stood up anyways. He clapped his hands twice and cleared his throat and delighted just a little bit in the way the locker room fell silent. He was a well-respected Captain, he played a good game and did his best to be there for his teammates, people listened when he spoke, even if he wasn’t the sort of effortlessly charming, charismatic captain that some teams (*cough* Boston) might get to enjoy. “I have something I want to tell you all.”

“Finally gonna explain how you fumbled Rose Landry?” Mitty asked, elbowing Renaud in the stall next to him and shooting Shane a grin that was probably meant to be friendly teasing but came across as something more akin to a shark scenting blood.

Shane carefully swallowed down the biological instinct to turn tail and run and simply shot a teasing smile back, deciding that if he just acted like this was no big deal it’d simply be no big deal. He was well aware that this was wishful thinking, he’d very much like you all to refrain from pointing that out.

“Sort of,” he said, forcing out a half laugh that had J.J. visibly cringing to his left. Hayden and J.J. knew what he was about to say and the fact that they’d both immediately hugged him and reminded him they were best friends was the only thing pushing him forward. In another life, another time, he might’ve been able to hold onto the knowledge that sharing this with his team might lead to a day where he could live openly with the man he loved but in this life, this time, all he had was the knowledge that letting go of this secret, sharing this piece of himself, might just let him feel a little less like the walls were falling down around his ears at every moment of every day.

Telling Rose had loosened something in his chest, telling his parents had reminded him that he was so stupidly lucky to have that sort of love in his life, and telling J.J., Hayden, and Jackie had shown him that he’d still have a support system even if this all went pear-shaped, had told him that the relationships he’d spent nearly a decade building wouldn’t crumble overnight.

“I’ve been keeping a piece of myself locked away for a long time,” Shane said, forcing himself to keep breathing, he was nearly certain the action was manual at this point when it very much should’ve been automatic, but he refused to allow himself to think too much about that. “Rose and I broke up because we weren’t compatible, we’re still great friends and she’s an incredible person, but I couldn’t be what she needed and, more than that, she couldn’t be what I needed because I’m gay. I know this isn’t something you want to hear,” he said, pushing through the silence that sounded a little like abject terror (and maybe a little like a brewing hate crime) with the sort of hell bent determination that’d allowed him to become the number two overall draft pick, rookie of the year, an Olympic medalist, the captain of an NHL team, and a two-time Stanley Cup champion. “I know that this is shocking, and I know that this will change your perception of me. I just couldn’t keep lying to myself and when I stopped lying to myself I realized that I couldn’t lie to my team. It didn’t feel right to ask you to trust me to lead you on the ice if I was lying to you off of it. Feel how you need to feel, hate me if you want to, but please keep this amongst the team, I don’t feel ready for this to be shared with the world, but I wanted to share it with you. With the people who’ve been my home and my brothers for so many years.”

He felt Hayden’s hand wrap around his right forearm as J.J.’s hand landed on his shoulder and forced himself to breathe again. That was, almost certainly, the most words he’d ever said at once in any speech to his team. It was also, almost certainly, the last thing they’d ever expected to hear from him.

He’d prepared for anger, even possibly violence. What he hadn’t prepared for was absolute fucking silence.

The spell was broken by Comeau breathing out a snort of laughter.

Shane looked up and realized that several of his teammates were looking at him like they were hoping he was about to say this was all an elaborate prank. A couple of the younger guys, rookies he’d mentored and supported, were simply watching him for a reaction; not tense, not scared, not angry, simply watching. Somehow, Shane could tell that he hadn’t lost their respect, and that was enough to make his shoulders drop back down and his spine straighten out. The kids were alright; they simply couldn’t speak their support in this weird, vaguely (chronically) homophobic hierarchy. He nodded once to the group of 19 and 20-year-olds that made up their third line and let the soft smiles he got in response calm him just that much more.

“I’m not pulling a prank,” he said, turning back toward the room at large, his coaches were leaned against the door frame, looking like they wanted to tear him limb from limb, and Shane got the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t be spending the rest of his career as a Voyageur and, somehow, that didn’t feel like dying. “I’m not joking, I’m simply choosing to be honest with my team.”

The room fell back into silence, only broken this time by Theriault clearing his throat, looking at Shane like he wanted him to walk into oncoming traffic, and saying, “my office, now.”

Shane nodded, shook off J.J. and Hayden, and walked across the padded floor and chose to stop thinking about how it felt like he was walking to the gallows.

* * *

“How’d it go?” Rose asked the moment Shane opened the door.

Shane couldn’t help it, he laughed.

Somewhere around the 30 second mark, tears sprang up, the laughter turned hysterical, and the next thing he knew he was sliding down the wall near his entry way, his ribs aching and his throat burning with the force of his sobs. Rose dropped down next to him immediately, not a care in the world that they were sitting on a floor that was ever so slightly grimy from snow covered shoes and Shane had the ridiculous thought that everything that’d gone wrong with Ilya was worth it if it ended in him having a friend like this.

Well, maybe not everything seeing as he was still absolutely, desperately in love with Ilya Rozanov, but having Rose as a friend was a rather good consolation prize, even if it didn’t necessarily soothe every aching shard of his fractured heart.

“Awful,” he finally choked out. “My rookies didn’t seem pissed, but everyone else was. Coaching staff and management want to keep me locked away but they can’t bench me without good reason and the only thing keeping me on the team right now is my no trade clause because if they use the morality clause they’re opening themselves up to lawsuits.”

“Can you waive your no trade?” she asked, her voice gentle and her arms wrapped around him like she could hold him together by sheer force of will; she was doing a pretty good job of it, honestly.

Shane paused and thought back to that moment in the locker room where it’d started to feel like retiring as a Voyageur was no longer in the cards, thought about how he’d always assumed that would feel like heartbreak. But now he knew what heartbreak felt like, he knew that there was more to life than hockey even if hockey was so much of what made him him. He didn’t want to give it up, that was for damn sure, but he might just be able to stomach giving up Montreal.

“I could,” he admitted quietly, thankful that the look in Rose’s eye communicated that she understood just how insane of an admission that was for him. She smiled, something warm and comforting and knowing and Shane would’ve kissed her if he weren’t incredibly gay. “But if I waive it now and they can create a narrative I honestly might get pushed out before playoffs, we’re still a month away from the trade deadline.”

“Would that be so bad?”

Shane paused once more; paused and tried to imagine a world where he was playing somewhere else in April, where he wasn’t leading the Voyageurs toward the Cup that’d make them a dynasty. It hurt, honestly. It felt a bit like a stab wound to the chest to realize that the versions of his teammates he’d seen today would probably rather get rid of their gay Captain than win that third Cup. It wasn’t about hockey anymore; it was about him.

He hated that, he hated when it became a game of politics and optics, when people forgot the love of the game that’d pushed them to this level. But if they were going to make it about him anyways, he might as well be a little selfish, he might as well do what he could to get something like joy out of the hellscape he’d created simply by choosing to be honest.

I mean, really, he hadn’t even told them he was gay for Ilya Rozanov. Well, he’d told J.J. and Hayden but that blow had been lessned by the fact that all three of them had been piss drunk, hiding from Jackie so she wouldn’t tell them it was time to go to bed. It was probably the fact that they were acting like 14-year-old boys who’d gotten their hands on their first sip of stolen beer that had the pair of them simply looking at him like he was insane before Hayden decided that the whole rivals situation made even more sense when framed as years of suffocating sexual tension. J.J. had laughed so hard beer had come out of his nose and all the sudden everything was fine. He knew, though, that it’d take his two best friends time to actually process the fact that he’d spent so long pining for Ilya Rozanov, he also knew that he could never tell the rest of the team. Their reactions wouldn’t be anywhere near as charitable.

All this to say, he’d been kind. He could’ve gone far more nuclear.

“You’re already locked in for the All Stars, right?” Rose asked after he didn’t respond.

“Yeah,” Shane answered, pulling in a deep breath and forcing his nerves to let go of the constant buzz of anxiety that’d been following him since the week prior when he’d sat across from this wonderful woman in a restraunt in Old Montreal and finaly admitted that he was gay. “I could have my agent drop the clause right before All Star Weekend and it’d get lost in the hype, it’d give Montreal the break to decide what they want to do and I’d be in a place where I could subtly talk to other Captains, see what’s out there, see what teams might need depth at center right now.”

“You could always play wing, too,” Rose said, settling fully on the floor next to him and wrapping both her arms around one of his now that it was clear she didn’t need to quite literally hold him together any longer. “You’re fast, a versitle player, you see the rink like no one else. Don’t limit yourself.”

Shane felt his lips tug into a smile almost against his will as he listed a bit to the side and rested his head atop Rose’s, “why do I feel like you’re not just talking about hockey.”

“Cause I’m not,” she teased, poking his side before cuddling closer. “I’m really proud of you,” she said, her voice slipping back into something serious, even as her tone remained warm. “You did an incredibly brave thing, Shane.”

“All because of you,” he said quietly, “you let me be honest and helped me be brave so thank you.”

The smile she sent him was blinding.

Chapter End Notes

i've written a couple chapters so far and i'm planning to post one chapter every 2-3 days. this fandom has absolutely taken over my life. i'd forgotten what it was like to be in a fandom *as the thing was happening* and it's like free basing heroin (to loosely quote john mulaney) so i'm really looking forward to writing this, hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 2: waived

February 2017

“Alright, that’s all I need,” Farah said, sending Shane a kind smile that honestly did quite a lot to soothe his frayed nerves. Despite the fact that he’d officially waived his no-trade clause, it wasn’t a sure thing that Montreal would trade him in the next month, but he was certain that, one way or another, this’d be his last season as a Voyageur. He was still Captain, still the starting Center, but the only people who talked to him were J.J., Hayden, and the third line kids who still weren’t able to actually speak out in his favor (not that Shane would ever want them to put themselves in that position … he simply hated the environment that hockey seemed to produce where speaking out in support of a teammate became something negative).

Montreal still had a little over a month before the early March trade deadline to come up with some sort of story that would explain trading Shane motherfucking Hollander while they were in such an uncertain place regarding playoff standings, but Shane had long since decided that he was going to do fuck all to help them come up with the narrative.

He was simply going to put his head down and play hockey and if all these dumbasses (he really needed someone to come up with a stronger word than dumbass … something that’d encompass the sheer idiocy, bigotry, and downright stupidity of Montreal’s management) wanted to get rid of a generational player, the sort of player that made dynasties, they could do it on their own.

Shane smiled back at Farah, ever thankful for what an incredible agent she was, and let himself shift his focus to the next thing: All Star Weekend.

* * *

Ilya Rozanov was a lot of things and, apparently, one of those things is a fucking coward.

He hadn’t texted Shane since that moment he fled his home in Boston like the hounds of hell were at his heels, no matter how much he’d wanted to say something, anything. Anything from hello, how are you to great goal against Vancouver to you are the love of my life and I genuinely think I’ve forgotten how to breathe without you by my side. The spectrum of things he wanted to say to Shane Hollander was genuinely mind boggling so, instead of sorting out his thoughts like an emotionally mature adult, he’d opted for radio silence.

It certainly hadn’t helped that Shane had gone and picked a stupidly hot, stupidly famous movie star as his very public rebound and now here he was in Florida wearing the world’s worst floral shirt because he committed a bit too hard to the bit, waiting for his ex-something and the Captain of his All Star team to show up with an A-List Celebrity hanging off his arm.

There had been rumors that the pair had broken up, but then they’d been photographed together several times, including another appearance of Rose Landry in a Hollander jersey at one of their home games, and Ilya had lost all hope.

He was well aware that he was staring at the entrance to this hotel bar looking like a kicked puppy, but he hadn’t yet found it within himself to look away. He was going to, he really was, but then he heard the echo of a familiar laugh from the hall and realized that a bomb could’ve detonated behind him and he still wouldn’t have been able to tear his eyes away from the spot Shane Hollander might just appear.

He had been expecting Shane and Rose to walk in, maybe alongside J.J. Boiziau, the other Montreal player who’d be playing this weekend, and his girlfriend. What he hadn’t been expecting was for Shane to step into the room between Boiziau and Hayden Pike, looking unfairly adorable while holding the youngest of the children he could vaguely recognize from Pike’s Instagram (he’d been looking for pictures of Shane, sue him) with Boiziau looking more like a bodyguard than a friend. Ilya had no clue why Pike was here when Shane had been Montreal’s pick with Boiziau being selected by the fan vote, but, posted up next to Shane, he looked a little like a tiny guard dog and Ilya didn’t want to get bit so he decided then and there that he wouldn’t ask.

His eyes were only torn from the confusing scene by movement to Pike’s left and Ilya watched in likely poorly concealed horror as Rose Landry appeared, holding hands with Pike kids One and Two, a bright smile on her face as she looked over and met Shane’s gaze.

There was something there, though, something that he might’ve been able to fully understand if he’d been paying more attention and hurting less, something that looked a little more like encouragement than love. But, as it was, he was stuck in Florida in a dumb shirt and feeling a little like his heart had been torn out and stomped on and the only thing he wanted was Shane, but Shane was with Rose and Boiziau looked like he’d genuinely kill the first person who so much as looked in Shane’s direction so Ilya resigned himself to drinking alone at the bar.

At least he’d get to see Shane tomorrow, at least they’d finally get to play on a line together. It was something; something even though what Ilya wanted was everything.

* * *

“No one knows, everything’s fine,” J.J. said for about the seventh time, it’d become something like a mantra in their walk from the hallway where each of their rooms were down to this bar. J.J. and Shane were going to be forced to mingle while Hayden and Rose took the Pike kids out to the beach to soak in the last little bit of sun before bedtime. Shane was immeasurably grateful that the two of them were here considering the fact that news was very likely going to break that his no-trade had been waived sometime in the next 72 hours. Jackie had wanted to come, too, but she was nearly seven months pregnant so after getting Shane to promise he’d call her twice a day and reminding him that she’d be watching every minute of coverage on TV, she’d finally agreed to staying back in Montreal with her sister.

They’d brought the kids, though, and Shane was more than happy to have something like a family to be spending the weekend with.

“Everything’s fine,” he repeated back to J.J., tightening his hold on Arthur just a bit and smiling softly when Arthur simply tucked his head under Shane’s chin and wrapped his hand around the unbuttoned collar of Shane’s short-sleeved linen shirt. He’d been about four seconds away from hiring a stylist when Rose had simply shown up to his apartment and dragged him out, telling him it was about time that he used his ‘crazy NHL money’ to buy proper clothing. It felt more like him, the things she’d chosen. More personal than pieces that would’ve been selected by a stylist who didn’t know him.

“Everything’s fine,” Rose repeated, sending him a smile that was all warmth and encouragement.

“I’d agree but for the fact that Ilya Rozanov is staring at us like we killed his dog,” Hayden said, dry as ever.

The laugh J.J. let out at Shane’s affronted expression had the entire room turning to look at them in near comical sync.

“Hollander!” Scott Hunter called, a bright smile on his face as he darted through the room, either entirely ignorant of the odd tension in the room or simply choosing to plow on ahead.

Shane smiled back and adjusted his grip on Arthur so he could shake Scott’s outstretched hand, “Hunter!”

Scott tugged on his hand and pulled him into a quick hug before stepping back to greet J.J. and Hayden in kind and then looking between Shane and Rose with a not even sort of subtle raised brow.

Shane smiled and bit back a laugh as he complied with the silent request, “Hunter, meet my friend Rose who very kindly agreed to spend her free weekend helping us wrangle Hayden’s kids. Rose, meet Scott Hunter, my All Stars teammate for yet another year and the only man I’ve ever fought.”

Scott barked out a bright laugh, clapping Shane on the shoulder before turning and offering Rose his hand. In the moment she dropped Ruby’s hand to shake Scott’s, Ruby fully glued herself to Rose’s leg and Shane couldn’t help but smile at how quickly these pieces of his family had meshed together. There was genuinely only one thing that could make this all better, but he didn’t dare hope.

“Let’s take this party outside,” Hayden said, reaching out for Arthur. With only a little grumbling, Shane unhanded his godson and watched Rose and Hayden maneuver their way through the crowd, greeting a couple people as they went, before making their way toward the beach. Hayden turned over his shoulder just before stepping out the door and met Shane’s eye and nodded once; silent encouragement, a reminder that they were in this together, and a ‘good luck’ all rolled into one.

“Hollander,” Scott said, pulling his attention. Shane and J.J. both went slightly rigid, a miniscule shift but visible to anyone standing close enough, a shift clearly visible to Scott. “Would you be willing to talk sometime this weekend? I feel like we never actually cleared the air and I’ve heard a thing or two that have made me realize that I was deeply in the wrong.”

J.J. looked like he was about 0.2 seconds away from asking Scott what are your intentions with my best friend? so Shane decided to step in before this turned into a bad 80s movie, “yeah,” he said, smiling what he hoped was an actual smile rather than a grimace. It’d been a while since that fight, but if Scott had heard any sort of rumor that’d made him think back to what he’d said that’d set Shane off and he was still here, smiling at Shane like an old friend and looking genuinely apologetic, Shane had to assume that Scott was as good a guy as he’d assumed. “Yeah, we’ll find some time to talk, I just need to say hi to a few guys here.”

“Alright,” Scott said, looking genuinely relieved, “I’ll see you later?”

“Later,” J.J. agreed for the pair of them before moving further into the room, nudging Shane’s shoulder so he’d follow along.

Shane shot Scott one last smile and then followed his friend, whispering in French and hoping no one was near enough to properly overhear, “I need to talk to him, at least tell him Rose and I broke up, can you cover?”

J.J. looked around the room quickly before nodding and meandering closer to the bar before starting up a loud, entirely distracting conversation with Marlow and some defender from Detroit Shane couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of right now.

He slowed his steps, just enough to take in everything he could about Ilya, about the way he was hunched over the bar, his shoulders raised and jaw clenched. He looked almost like he was bracing for a strike, like if he simply made himself small and held it all in he could avoid getting hurt. Shane hated knowing that he’d made this happen, hated that he was among the things that could make Ilya this closed off, this deep into his own head.

He wasn’t self-centered enough to believe that this was all about him.

There had been a harsh conversation entirely in Russian that Shane had overheard in the moments before disaster, a harsh enough conversation that Shane could guess there was something wrong at home. Ilya always tensed up when someone mentioned his father and he’d mentioned a brother once and never again. Shane knew that he wasn’t the only thing that was hurting Ilya in this moment, but he shouldn’t be amongst the things that hurt him at all, not when all he wanted was to be a safe place for Ilya to land, no matter how that might look.

“Rozanov,” he greeted, stepping up to the bar and leaning his side against it, his hands in his pockets as if he needed to physically stop himself from reaching out. He saw Ilya flinch and immediately corrected, dropping his voice lower and putting as much emotion into three simple syllables as he could, “Ilya.”

He watched as the fight seeped out of Ilya almost immediately; his shoulders dropping back down, his jaw relaxing, and his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned more of his weight against the bartop and whispered, “Shane.”

Shane could tell that Ilya wanted to put on a front, wanted to snap back into that mask of snarky indifference that he so often wore, but something had thrown him off enough that he couldn’t, something was keeping him vulnerable, and Shane had a pretty solid guess as to what it was, “Ilya, she’s here as my friend. We broke up a month ago. A lot has happened, a lot that I really want to tell you, if you’d be willing to listen.”

“Of course I’ll listen,” Ilya admitted quietly, sounding like the words had been dragged from his core without his permission. Shane watched as he took a deep breath before he looked up, his eyes meeting Shane’s for the first time in months. It felt like a gut punch, like he’d been knocked against the boards and had the breath stolen from his lungs. They just stared at each other, eyes flitting everywhere like they were trying to memorize every line of each other’s faces, and the longer they stood, the longer Shane could feel the subtle warmth emenating from Ilya’s body, the easier it became to breathe.

“So,” Ilya said after a moment, his lips tugging into a smirk that was just this side of fond, “Captain, ready to play for same side?”

Shane couldn’t help but smile. The fact that Ilya had dropped the article was evidence enough that he was flustered, even if he was refusing to show it on his face. His English had gotten so much better in the years they’d known each other, and not only in his vocabulary. He was clearly studying grammar, or at the very least reading or listening to books in English. He understood the structure better now and tended to take great care in speaking ‘properly’ unless he was playing up his accent for the camera or his mind was distracted by other things.

“Yeah,” Shane said, just knowing he looked far too fond to be someone looking at his rival, or even someone looking at a friend, “I think we’ll make a great team.”

The smile Ilya sent him was worth it, though. It was worth people looking back on this moment when the rumor inevitably made its way past Montreal’s lockerroom door and wondering just what it was that Shane felt for Ilya. Comeau could’ve walked in the door right now and shouted that Shane was gay for everyone to hear and it still would’ve been worth it, simply to see the way Ilya’s cheeks dimpled and his eyes lit up when he was truly happy, simply to see that smile, the real one, the one the cameras never saw.

Ilya took a breath and turned around, leaning back against the bar, both of them staring out over the room, a couple feet apart, but if anyone really looked, the space wouldn’t matter. The pair of them were like magnets. It was cheesy, honestly, how much Shane bought into every stupid romantic trope now that he knew what it was like to love someone like this; even though it’d taken him this long to admit what he was feeling was love, even though he hadn’t yet told Ilya and likely wouldn’t until they were in a much more stable place.

“Why is Pike here?” Ilya asked after they’d fallen silent for a moment, after Shane had let himself enjoy simply existing in Ilya’s space without cameras shoved in their faces or sexuality crisises sufficiently ruining the vibe.

Shane considered telling Ilya he’d explain later, considered just brushing it off, but the entire room was distracted by whatever (likely exaggerated) tale J.J. was telling and no one was close enough to overhear, so Shane chose honesty, “news is probably going to break this weekend that I’ve waived my no trade clause days before the trade deadline so we’re presenting a united front.”

Ilya laughed, genuinely laughed, and the sound of it made Shane wish he were joking. It made him wish that he could simply preserve that joy instead of dragging it down with the truth; the truth that Shane had been so fucked up mere months ago that he’d run out on the realest thing he’d ever known, that a few weeks with Rose Landry and her blunt kindness had shown him the truth, that J.J. and Hayden’s acceptance had let him believe that the truth might not be life ending. He didn’t want to tell him that his coaches had stopped talking to him, he didn’t want to admit that he’d been spending extra time on the ice simply so he could avoid getting in the showers with the rest of the team because the one time he’d tried to pretend it was all normal Comeau had been minutes away from burning him at the stake.

When Shane didn’t react, Ilya turned toward him, eyes wide as the realization set in, “you are serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Shane.”

“Yeah?”

“Why?” Ilya asked, his voice dripping with pain, almost like he could feel everything Shane felt, almost like he personally understood just how imperative it was that Hayden, Rose, and J.J. were here, with him, waiting for the fall out.

“It’s a long story,” Shane said, forcing a wry sort of smile onto his lips and avoiding meeting Ilya’s eye. He knew that whatever expression was on Ilya’s face right now would be enough to break him and breaking wasn’t something he could afford in this moment, but lying wasn’t something he was willing to do for another minute, especially when it came to this beautiful whirlwind of a man who’d defined a third of his life, so he forced himself to say, “I broke up with Rose because we weren’t compatable, I told my team the reason we broke up, the honest reason, and they didn’t appreciate it, but management can’t fire me without backlash.”

“But you will not play for team that treats you like shit,” Ilya said, either accurately summing up Shane’s thoughts or giving a direction, Shane wasn’t sure which. “You deserve more,” he added, sounding more genuine than he ever had, “you are Shane Hollander.”

He forgot, sometimes, that he wasn’t just Shane; that Shane Hollander was already a living legend in the hockey world. He was standing next to the only person who could beat him, the only person he’d ever met who was an even match.

“J.J., Rose, and Hayden know,” Shane said, hoping Ilya followed his train of thought because saying about us aloud in this room felt a little like testing fate. “J.J. and Hayden are entirely bewildered but they’re not mad, Rose thinks its hot.”

Ilya blew out a laugh through his nose, a huff that made Shane’s heart feel too big for his chest. It was such a small noise, a minor action on the whole scheme of things, but it was soft and warm and, more than anything, familiar. It was Rozanov being Ilya in this room full of people who could ruin their lives if they found out, it was Shane’s Ilya dropping the pretense of Big Scary Russian for just a moment. It was everything.

“We will talk more later, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane agreed easily, forcing his smile into something just friendly as he spotted someone approaching to say hello.

For the first time in all this mess, all this chaos and pain, he felt like he might just get everything he wanted, even if they had to walk through hell to get there.

He’d do it, though, he’d do all of this again and he’d continue this trek through hot coals and walls of flame if it meant he still had Ilya.

Because no matter how much the journey hurt, no matter how much all of this hurt, Ilya never did.

Even when they fought, even when they made misteps and went too far to hide affection, this thing with Ilya was still overwhelmingly good and Shane would do anything to keep it.

Chapter 3: scott hunter

Chapter Notes

timeline wise, i'm largely going off the books because i feel like the parallel between the drawn out hollanov situationship versus the five-month speed run of skip is hilarious. for general reference, the shane x scott fight was sometime during the fall of 2016 in this timeline i've created out of thin air.

February 2017

It’d been a while since Scott had heard Ilya Rozanov whisper the words one two two one to Shane Hollander as he skated past their bench, it’d been a while since he’d watched raw terror flood Shane Hollander’s eyes when Scott had referred to Ilya Rozanov as ‘his boy’ during the NHL awards his rookie year. It’d been so long, with such little further confirmation, that Scott had started to wonder if he simply had an overactive imagination.

But then he’d responded to a (in hindsight) incredibly tame chirp with the equivalent of a hydrogen bomb and there was simply no other explanation for Shane goddamn Hollander getting in a fight. Scott had to conclude that he’d been jumping on the metaphorical grenade by getting Scott to shut the actual fuck up before he said something loud enough for the broadcast to pick up.

But after that fight, it’d all gone silent. He hadn’t seen them interact, he’d watched them continue to snark about each other in interviews, he’d seen the rivalry marketing, and he’d assumed that the longing look he’d seen Rozanov send Hollander’s retreating back while hidden in the shadows of the stands in Sochi all those years ago had simply been a trick of the light.

Now, though, he’s pretty sure he has to stop denying it because Rozanov was looking at Rose Landry like she’d stolen everything important to him before burning down his house and ordering a hit on his family and J.J. Boiziau was scanning the room like he was looking for a threat and Hayden Pike was here, despite the fact that his wife was very pregnant and he hadn’t been selected as an All Star, standing a half step too close to his best friend almost like he was staying ready to catch him if he fell.

Scott hadn’t wanted to believe the whispers he’d heard from Admirals management that Montreal’s star center might be trade eligible in the next couple of weeks, he hadn’t wanted to believe the rumors that an unnamed member of one of the Canadian teams had come out to his team and gotten a more than frosty reaction. But looking at the open pain mixed with aching love on Ilya Rozanov’s face, looking at the clearly protective stance the Voyageurs' Alternate Captains had taken around their Captain, looking at the friendly smile shared between Rose Landry and Shane Hollander when the tabloids have been saying it should be a smile full of heat, Scott was pretty sure he couldn’t ignore any of this anymore.

And if comforting a friend whom he’d wronged in the past brought the possibility that New York picks up depth at center or a player who could shift to wing for a first line or, at the very least, in a pinch on the power play right before playoffs, he was simply being a good captain.

When he’d walked up to greet the Montreal group, he hadn’t expected Shane to agree to talk so easily, and he very much hadn’t expected to watch Shane and J.J. wander off before splitting up so J.J. could make an incredibly obvious (if you were even sort of paying attention, which none of these other players were) distraction while Shane, in front of God and the NHL’s 44 best players, cozied up to his longtime rival at the bar.

Scott watched from a distance as two simple words from Shane’s mouth changed Rozanov into an entirely different person. It was almost as if Scott could physically see the difference between Rozanov and Ilya. The way he was looking at Shane could only be described as soft and the way his entire body was tilted toward Shane could only be described as loving. He looked far more like an over-sized teddy bear than the wall of muscle he was known to be. It seemed, to Scott, like Ilya wanted nothing more than to tuck Shane into a hug and never let him go.

Scott had honestly expected a relationship born from years of rivalry and vitriol to be full of fire and hate sex (which it honestly, probably, still sort of was) but this was nothing short of soft, all-encompassing love. He could tell, even from across the room, that they had a language all their own, that they’d known each other long enough to speak without speaking. Honestly, if the idea weren’t fucking insane, Scott might’ve guessed that they’d been together as long as they’d known each other. The sort of comfort and silent communication Scott was watching right now didn’t happen overnight, especially when you were dealing with two people as emotionally repressed as Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.

There was something different about Shane, though, something a little more open, a little less repressed. He was dressed differently, for one. But it was his whole ‘vibe’ (yes, contrary to popular (Ilya Rozanov’s) belief, Scott was not too old to know modern slang) that really had Scott believing something had shifted. He didn’t look awkward; he wasn’t watching the exits like he needed to know the best way to escape. Shane had looked something close to ‘at peace’ when he’d stepped into the room alongside his three friends and the three children that, according to Hayden Pike’s Instagram, called him ‘Uncle Shane,’ but that was nothing in comparison to the total calm that’d come over his body when he’d stepped into Rozanov’s orbit.

Scott, now certain he wasn’t reading too far into this, pulled out his phone and quickly plugged in the Apple Maps directions between Montreal and Boston before typing in the directions for New York to Boston, committing the distance to memory just in case he needed an extra selling point. It was only an hour closer, but the option Scott was planning to pitch didn’t involve crossing an international border with a Russian visa in Trump’s America, so he was choosing to count that as a win.

He was about to put his phone away when it pinged with a new notification from Shane ‘Rook’ Hollander, a name he had yet to change from the first time they’d played on an All Star team together, despite the fact the man had won two Stanley Cups and was decidedly no longer a Rookie. The message simply included a room number and Scott got the weird sensantion that he should never, ever tell Ilya Rozanov that he’d received this text, no matter how innocent the circumstances may be.

* * *

“Who are you texting?” Ilya asked, leaning slightly closer to Shane as the room started moving around them again, their colleagues no longer distracted by J.J.’s antics.

Shane noticed the careful structure of his sentence, the type of ‘proper’ English Ilya really only used when he was calm enough to allow himself the time. It was also, Shane had noticed, the type of English he only used around people he seemed to trust and Shane had to wonder if it had something to do with the fact that he knew those people would correct him with kindness rather than as a tease. Shane had never hesitated to gently correct Ilya’s phrasing or structure and, thinking back on it, it felt like a greater show of trust than something so simple should be; it felt like he was telling Ilya he was safe to make mistakes, that Shane would catch him if he fell, and it felt a little like Ilya telling Shane he trusted him enough that simple mistakes didn’t feel like failure.

“Scott Hunter,” Shane answered, a smile tugging at his lips as he easily anticipated the next words out of Ilya’s mouth, and then immediately realized that Scott had been 100% correct when he’d told Shane he was starting to sound like Ilya.

“He is fossil, why are you texting fossil?”

“He asked if we could talk,” Shane said with a shrug, “I’m betting he’s heard rumors and might have an offer to make.”

“New York, it is not so far from Boston,” Ilya said, just about out of nowhere. Shane clocked the slightly panicked look in his eye immediately; Ilya hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It was simply a case of loose lips in a situation where he felt comfortable enough to drop at least part of his filter and that alone made Shane smile.

“No, it’s not,” Shane said, quickly saving Ilya from embarrassment. “It’s also not a divisional rival, might just be enough to get the League to leave us alone.”

He watched the cogs turn in Ilya’s mind and delighted in the spark of hope that lit up those gorgeous hazel eyes when he realized what Shane was saying, “we could maybe admit we’re friends.”

“Right, friends,” Shane teased, “we’ll talk more later, I’m going to go talk to Scott now, see if I might have some path forward when this all comes crashing down.”

“See you at practice, Captain,” Ilya said, tapping two fingers to his brow before pointing them at Shane in a loose salute, a crooked grin on his lips that made Shane want to throw all caution to the wind and kiss him right here, right now.

“See you at practice, teammate,” Shane shot back, sending him a grin of his own and watching Ilya’s eyes go soft in a way they so rarely did; it was a look that had become more common in the months leading up to Shane fleeing the scene of Ilya’s home in Boston, a look that – if he were about 38% more unhinged – Shane might argue looked a lot like love.

* * *

Despite having literally just decided to stop ignoring the Hollander/Rozanov of it all, Scott was fucking dumbfounded.

He looked up from his phone which was still displaying Shane’s text with his room number, to see Shane himself stepping away from the bar while Ilya looked at him like he’d personally hung the stars in the sky. It wasn’t just soft, simple love; it was outright devotion. Scott had very little experience with that level of emotion; he knew he was entirely smitten with Kip, but it’d only been a month, and while it’d certainly been an intense month, it really hadn’t been all that long on the whole scheme of things. Shane and Ilya, on the other hand, had been building this love for years. Scott couldn’t even imagine what it must be like having to hide this thing that’s so clearly a massive part of their lives. After a mere month with Kip he was already considering throwing all caution to the wind simply to be seen with him in public.

“Might as well walk up together,” Shane said, a crooked sort of smile on his face as he walked up to Scott, effectively yanking him out of his introspection. Scott was a little shocked with how calm Shane seemed, but the shock was quickly replaced by concern because it was only this close that Scott could finally see the exhaustion in Shane’s eyes. He’d seemed calmer, less anxious, a little more steady throughout the night, but he clearly wasn’t entirely alright and some odd sort of protective instinct, something left over from that first All Star Weekend, something linked to the way the Admirals always had the senior members of the team room with the younger guys or new members on roadies, was pushing him to find a way to make it all better.

“Lead the way, Captain.”

Shane huffed out a light laugh, rolling his eyes in a way that somehow still seemed fond despite the odd strain in their friendship over the past few months, in these weeks since Scott had nearly detonated the fragile safety Shane had built for himself.

He trailed behind Shane through the hotel, watching as he effortlessly darted through the small crowd of people in the lobby in a way that made it seem like he’d spent his entire life learning how to avoid contact with strangers, in a way that made it seem a little like he’d long since learned how to make himself smaller so he wouldn’t be noticed. It was so different from the Shane Hollander that took the ice each game, a confident set to his shoulders and a steely glint in his eyes, that it threw Scott for a loop.

It honestly reminded him more of one of his friends from boarding school, one of the few friends he’d made who didn’t play hockey, he’d darted through crowds with this same skill, he’d avoided eye contact and confrontation, he’d hated the way their school shirts pressed against his neck and had always left his tie just a little too loose to mitigate the sensation. Scott couldn’t help but wonder if there was some greater similarity between that friend he hadn’t thought of in years and the generational talent stepping into the elevator in front of him; he couldn’t help but wonder if there was some extra layer to the anxious fog that seemed to cling to Shane Hollander’s every move. Now didn’t necessarily feel like the time to ask, but Scott tucked the thought away, deciding it might be good to remember if things went his way, if Shane ended up in New York. It might be something to pay attention to; some lens through which he could view the best ways to help Shane adjust to a major change and a new city.

Shane pulled him out of his thoughts once more as he pushed open the door to the suite he appeared to be sharing with Pike and his kids. It was one of those suites meant for families with a sitting room at the main entrance and actual doors in front of two rooms, one of the doors was open and Scott could spot one of those fold-up cribs he’d seen his teammate’s wives cart along for their younger children if they travelled for an away game. Two Voyageurs duffels, one with #35 and the other with #24 embroidered on the face, were placed at the foot of each of the double beds with the crib set up between them. It was such a simple show of friendship, something so sweet and genuine, that Scott was genuinely at risk of tearing up.

He’d heard, somewhere through the grapevine, that Hayden and Shane still roomed together for roadies like they had since their rookie year, despite the fact they wore the C and A and could easily request individual rooms, but seeing it was something else, especially on a weekend like this when Hayden didn’t even have to be here. But he was, he’d shown up for his best friend and brought his kids along for the ride.

“Pike’s a good friend,” he said out loud and watched as a smile spread across Shane’s face.

“The best,” Shane agreed as he opened the mini fridge and pulled out two bottles of water, tossing one to Scott and then taking a seat on the couch and nodding his head toward the spot next to him, “what’d you want to talk about?”

“I need to apologize for that fight,” Scott said, slumping onto the couch and deciding to just bite the bullet. “It was wrong of me to throw that in your face, to even sort of insinuate that I knew anything. Which I didn’t, by the way, not for certain. I honestly wasn’t even certain until tonight when I watched you somehow tame the rabid, angry bear that goes by the name of Ilya Rozanov in five seconds flat.”

Shane breathed out another laugh through his nose, this one even more fond than the last, “he’s not as angry as he lets the world believe,” he said before the soft smile was replaced with something more like guilt, “and it was my fault he’s been angry recently, it’s a long story that hasn’t necessarily fully resolved but it’s better now.”

“I still want to apologize,” Scott said, forcing himself to stay on track rather than dig for information on what the fuck Ilya Rozanov could be if it wasn’t a pile of anger and cocky bravado. The fact that Scott had seen Ilya go soft with his own two eyes wasn’t quite enough to make him believe it had been real. “It was wrong of me, especially when I know what it feels like to hide that part of yourself.”

Shane didn’t look anywhere near as shocked at the admission as Scott might’ve wished.

He honestly looked a little annoyed.

Scott’s face must’ve shown some sort of discomfort at Shane’s reaction as he quickly smiled, shook his head, and said, “I owe Roz money.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” Shane said, starting to look more amused than annoyed. “I panicked after our fight and called him. The panic wasn’t just about you, it was also things with me and Ilya. We were becoming more serious, something real, and I wasn’t in a good place about any of it. But, yeah, I called, he talked me down, made some joke about how you’d be the least likely to out us because he had his suspicions, we made a bet on it.”

“I don’t know whether or not to be offended.”

Shane let out a real laugh at that, one that made his eyes crinkle and the freckles that dotted his nose scrunch up. It’d always been clear that Shane was attractive – the hottest guy in the NHL according to some magazine that’d led to an absolute treasure trove of chirps directed at the poor guy – but this Shane, this person who was relaxed and laughing and free, was something else entirely. If Scott weren’t hopelessly falling for Kip and if he weren’t dead certain that Ilya Rozanov would murder him in cold blood, Scott could’ve easily been convinced to make a move.

“Shane,” Scott said, smiling just a bit even as he tried to get back on track. He didn’t know when the Pikes would be back and he didn’t want to steal Shane’s entire night and they had practice bright and early before the skills competition, so he needed to stop getting distracted, “what’s going on? Management has been talking about a star center becoming trade eligible, Boiziau hardly left enforcer mode all night, and Pike’s travelling with you when he has a pregnant wife at home. I know we’re not, like, super close or whatever, but I hope you can count me amongst your friends even though I fucked up in our last game and I want you to know I’m here for you.”

It maybe wasn’t the most eloquent phrasing, but Scott was tired, he missed Kip, and he just needed Shane to know that someone outside his Alternate Captains and his league-mandated archrival had his back.

“I came out to my team,” Shane admitted, looking a little bit shocked that he’d been so honest. He paused a moment before plowing on ahead, apparently deciding that since he’d said that much he might as well just keep talking, “it didn’t go great. Hayden and J.J. are clearly on my side, most are apathetic, my third line is supportive but they’re too young to really speak up and I wouldn’t want them to risk it. The real problem is the coaching staff and management, though. Like bad enough that I ended up waiving my no trade. They want to get rid of me as soon as possible but they can’t scratch me and strip me of the C without backlash and they can’t admit why they’re scratching without opening themselves up to law suits and they can’t trade me for the same reasons so we’re just stuck at an impasse unless something happens that would give me a media-ready reason to leave.”

“So, like long-term injury reserve or some sort of public fight?” Scott said, thinking faster now that they were talking about hockey rather than the more personal aspect, “or a family thing?”

“My parents live in Ottawa and they’re, thankfully, young and healthy so there’s no reason I’d need to move to take care of them and, also, I don’t really want to go to Ottawa right now. Having the pressure of building Montreal back up to a playoff contender was stressful enough, I don’t think I could handle the pressure of being expected to do the same for Ottawa right now with everything else going on. I don’t have any other close family, or really any family in any major market city, so, yeah, we’re left with injury reserve or a public fight which, honestly, Comeau might take care of soon enough.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Not necessarily,” Shane hedged, clearly not telling the whole truth. When Scott leveled him with a look that was about half Captain, half protective older brother, Shane relented, “the real danger is that they won’t protect me on the ice. They’re keeping their distance, in practice and in games, and it’s going to end with me getting hit because I don’t have eyes in the back of my head and they’ve decided to stop watching my back.”

“But you’re not in danger in the locker room?”

“I’ve been avoiding the locker room,” Shane said, a sharp sort of sadness flickering across his face, “putting in extra time on the ice so that most everyone has cleared out by the time I go in.”

“Have you talked to your agent about trade options?”

“Yeah, nothing too specific, though. I don’t want to take a massive pay cut, not because I care about the money, but because I want to be paid what I’m worth. Taking a cut feels like admitting that I’m worth less because I’m gay. I don’t know if that’s rational, but I also don’t know if I have to be rational.”

“I think you can be as irrational as you want,” Scott said, meaning every word. “You’re Shane fucking Hollander, never sell yourself short.”

“Now you’re the one who’s starting to sound like Rozanov.”

Scott couldn’t have stopped the laugh that escaped his throat if he tried. When he caught his breath he leaned his head back against the couch and turned just enough so he could meet Shane’s eye, “I hope you’ll consider New York,” he said, packing his tone with as much earnest conviction as he could as plans and options started to swim through his mind. In a perfect world, they’d get rid of an asshole defender and a weak third line winger and Shane Hollander, the guy with the highest hockey IQ in the league, the guy who could probably play any position on the ice if you gave him decent enough instructions and about five minutes to practice, could slot into their first line along with Scott and Carter and they could carry the Admirals right to the Cup. “Management has been whispering, they’re interested. If the space opens up, if the narrative unfolds, I hope you’ll consider New York.”

Shane nodded once, looking like he was genuinely considering Scott’s offer, but before he could respond, the key pad on the door beeped and the room was filled with the overlapping chatter of Pike’s daughters and Pike’s voice raising over the din to tell his sniffling son, “I checked his location, Uncle Shane is in the room, it’ll be okay, promise.”

“Aww,” Shane cooed, immediately climbing off the couch and heading toward the door, “what’s wrong, buddy?”

“Here,” Pike said, passing his son over. Shane took him easily, wrapping the toddler into a hug, one strong arm wrapped around his body and one big hand cradling the back of his head. It was an oddly domestic scene, like Shane was simply part of the Pike family, no question about it. It made Scott think of the truly frightening corner of the internet that Kip had introduced him to where teenage girls ‘shipped’ hockey players. There was an honestly concerning number of so-called ‘Shayden’ shippers and Scott was about half-motivated to post a video of this little scene just to see what sort of reaction it’d get. He held himself back purely because the absolute last thing Shane needed right now was any comment about his sexuality making it into the mainstream media.

“Oh, hey, Hunter,” Pike said, finally noticing him on the couch amidst the chaos of young children. He turned to look at Shane and they held the type of silent conversation that Scott had only ever seen happen between married couples and linemates who acted more like a pair of bonded kittens than grown men. Shane nodded once and Hayden visibly deflated, looking just beyond relieved. Scott looked a little closer and realized Arthur had fallen asleep in the mere minute Shane had been holding him and decided it was time to take his leave.

“Hey, Pike,” he greeted in return, tossing his empty water bottle into the nearest trashcan as he headed toward the door. “Cute kids.”

“Thanks,” Pike said, a genuine smile on his face. “You ready for the weekend?”

“Some idiot put Rozanov, Hollander, and I on the same team. What could possibly go wrong?”

Shane shot him a smile as Hayden laughed and as Scott said his goodnights and made his way out the door, he let himself believe that, despite the uncertainty, despite the pain and confusion, everything might just be alright.

Chapter 4: practice

February 2017

Scott hadn’t been kidding when he told Hayden it was an idiot who’d put Rozanov, Hollander, and himself on one team. They weren’t even five full minutes into practice and Hollander looked to be about three seconds away from murdering Rozanov where he stood and Scott honestly wasn’t sure whose side he was going to take (that was a lie, he would absolutely be taking Hollander’s).

Scott didn’t know why he was here. If they’d just divided the 44 players into 4 teams of 11 based on Division, he’d be happily playing with other players from Metro. Instead, because this League was apparently still planning to milk Hollander and Rozanov for all they were worth, they’d divided them between Eastern and Western Conference and drafted from there to make it look like finally putting them on the same team was a choice rather than a matter of conference. This team was clearly stacked but the near certain win didn’t really make up for the fact that Scott was positive he was about to witness a crime.

He watched as Rozanov came to a sharp stop, the edges of his skates sending a spray of snow directly into Hollander’s face where he was stretching on the ice, his mouth opening to either chirp or make some innuendo that’d scar anyone who thought about it for too long and Scott was about ready to step in to prevent the impending homicide when Hollander’s voice cut straight through the chatter, “Ilya, stop.”

Rozanov shut his mouth so quickly there was an audible snap.

“Sorry,” he muttered after a moment, ducking his head slightly and sending Shane what could only be described as puppy dog eyes. The man was actually pouting.

Shane, like some freak of nature, didn’t even flinch at the expression as he pointed over Ilya’s shoulder, “give me a lap and when you’re done we can split into lines and scrimmage. Quit fucking around.”

The rest of their team watched in awed silence as Rozanov turned around and started skating with no further complaints or hijinks.

“What?” Shane asked as he caught sight of their shocked expressions.

“Sorry,” Brophy, a giant defenseman from New Jersey, said, somehow finding his voice first, “I simply wasn’t aware you could walk Roz like a dog.”

“He cannot -” Ilya started before Shane cut him off, “skate.”

Ilya went silent and continued to skate.

Scott didn’t know whether he should be repulsed or impressed; then he clocked the heated look Ilya shot Shane and landed on repulsed.

It was honestly a wonder these two hadn’t been found out. They were not subtle.

“Hunter,” Shane called, climbing to his feet and gliding in Scott’s direction, a look in his eyes that Scott usually only saw in the face-off circle. Shane had a plan.

“Hollander,” Scott replied, skating a few paces closer and ducking his head in case Shane didn’t want everyone to overhear. Behind them, the rest of their teammates had started chatting again as they finished warming up and Rozanov was finishing his lap around the rink, clearly taking his sweet time.

“I want you, Ilya, and me to be our first line. He’s probably most comfortable at center or right, but he’d play left if I asked. I mostly just want the two of us to move around until we find the right configuration. It’d be nice if Vaughny were here, but Ilya could probably mimic his play if we want.”

“Did you talk to your agent this morning?”

“I’m supposed to rank trade options by noon. New York is the only team on the list where I’d possibly have to move to wing to play on the first line.”

“I want you on the left first, let’s see if Roz can mimic Vaughan on the right then, in the second scrimmage, you and I swap.”

Shane nodded once and looked over his shoulder, his eyes immediately landing on Ilya like he’d just known where he was even with the sounds of a busy rink and a conversation with Scott drawing his attention, “Rozanov! Can you come here?”

Ilya changed directions immediately, coming to a much more tame stop at Shane’s side and throwing an arm around his shoulders as he asked, “what do you need?”

“Can you mimic Carter Vaughan on the right? Scott’ll play center and I’ll play left.”

Ilya paused a moment, his eyes going distant even as they darted around, like he was seeing something no one else could, “shorter passes and more control in neutral zone, right? A little like Pike but maybe quicker?”

“Exactly,” Shane agreed, leaning into Ilya’s side a bit more like it was entirely natural, like the rest of their team hadn’t stopped talking simply to stare at the historical event that was Hollander and Rozanov getting along. God, if only they knew. “Just for practice, for the game we’ll swap around and play as ourselves.”

“You should play center for game,” Ilya said immediately, “I play right, Hunter on left. You are best defender, best two-way forward of us three. You at center for a 3 v. 3 makes most sense.”

“Why am I left?” Scott asked, genuinely wondering what plays Ilya was seeing in his head and happily ignoring the way their teammates were watching this conversation as if it were network television.

“You have a stronger forehand,” Shane answered as Ilya nodded in agreement, “his backhand is the strongest of us three.”

It was stupidly simple in the grand scheme of things, honestly more of a signal that they were great captains rather than a great couple, but Scott couldn’t help but be shocked at how easily they’d read each other’s minds.

“Right,” Scott forced himself to say aloud. They only had so many minutes on the ice and he really couldn’t be spending all of them having an existential crisis over Shane and Ilya. “Let’s practice.”

Shane grinned and turned toward their team, moving carefully so he didn’t dislodge Ilya’s arm around his shoulders and somehow sounding commanding even as he was essentially being cuddled by his rival as he spoke, “right, let’s scrimmage, defenders should probably play center since we’re 3 v. 3, if you want to practice face-offs, yell and we’ll pause to run drills, sound good?”

He got shouts of general agreement from the rest of the players and the next thing Scott knew they were lined up and ready to play.

The following hour of practice was some of the most fun Scott had ever had on the ice and by the end of it he’d decided he wasn’t above begging to get Shane to New York. Any combination of a forward line with the two of them on the ice was incredible. Hell, Scott would play goalie if it got Shane on the Admirals. But that last line up, the one they’d be playing for the game, with Scott at left, Shane at center, and Ilya at right was the stuff of dreams. It made him wish that the salary cap didn’t exist solely so there could be some world out there where they could play that line in an actual game.

The first combination they’d played, with Ilya mimicking Carter on the right, was near lethal and just a glimpse of how great it could be had Scott nearly salivating. He felt, quite dramatically, like the heavens had opened up and shone a light on the way hockey was meant to be played. For the first time, in a season characterized by slumps and highs and nothing in between, Scott felt steady. He felt like he could taste the Cup. He was certain he could do it even without Hollander at his wing, but the path to victory would be so much clearer if he could just make this all shake out in their favor.

He didn’t know how to shape a narrative that would allow Montreal to drop their Captain weeks before the playoffs, but Scott was starting to consider the merits of convincing someone to injure Shane just enough that he had to spend a couple weeks on IR but wouldn’t miss playoffs.

Maybe he could goad one of the idiots on the Voyageurs into starting a public feud.

Maybe he needed to touch grass.

“Great practice,” Shane called, a massive grin on his face as they crowded into the locker room and started stripping out of their practice gear. Scott could almost feel the joy radiating off of Shane and had to wonder how long it’d been since he’d felt safe in a locker room, since he’d felt good after getting off the ice. “We’re absolutely going to win this thing. Have fun and be back here a little before the skills competition, it’d be nice if we could do media before the competition starts to help the comms team out, give them the option to space the teams out instead of having to deal with all four at once.”

“Smart,” the young kid from D.C. said. Scott really needed to learn these kids’ names. It was getting a little embarrassing. “Our media team back home appreciates when we do that.”

Shane shot the kid a smile (that had him blushing at being openly acknowledged by Shane Hollander, not that Shane would ever realize that) and yanked his jersey off before sitting down on the bench to unlace his skates. Ilya settled into the stall next to him and started talking under his breath, low enough that Scott couldn’t even hear him from Shane’s other side. Shane was nodding along, a half-smile on his lips, looking a little like he couldn’t believe his luck.

They were interrupted by a shout of, “Uncle Shane!” from the hall that had all eleven of them snapping their heads up as Pike’s daughters opened the locker room door with a bang and ran straight for Shane like they’d been tracking his scent.

Shane tossed his skates aside and leaned down on instinct stretching his arms out just in time for the twins to latch on, wrapping their arms around his neck and talking over each other at a speed Scott couldn’t even begin to understand.

“Sorry,” Pike said from the doorway, holding onto his son and sending Shane a sheepish smile. “They got away from me.”

“It’s okay,” Shane responded immediately, resting his head against whichever twin was on his right, his smile turning a little gooey. “I did promise ice cream when I was done with practice, it’s my fault for taking too much time to get out to the lobby.”

“You took forever,” the twin on Shane’s left said with a clearly exaggerated pout.

“I know, Ruby,” Shane said, sending her a pout in return that had no business being that cute. Seriously, this was a fully grown man. He should not be able to be adorable. Scott was a little incensed, honestly. “I’m sorry. Do you think I could shower quickly before we leave? Ten minutes, promise.”

“Can I start a timer?” the twin Scott could now identify as Ruby asked.

“Sure,” Shane agreed easily before turning back to Pike, “Hayd, can Ruby use your phone to time me?”

“Why can’t she use your phone?” Pike asked.

“I don’t think you want her using my phone.”

Pike’s eyes shot toward Ilya so quickly you would’ve missed it if you weren’t paying attention and a blush spread across his cheeks, just barely visible in the half-lit locker room, “right, yeah. Ruby, come here, you can use my phone to time Uncle Shane.”

Scott didn’t even sort of want to know what might be on Shane’s phone.

“Ten minutes?” Ruby repeated, looking up at Shane.

Shane nodded seriously and untangled his arm from the other twin to offer his pinky, “promise.”

Ruby linked their pinkies together and nodded in return before grabbing her sister’s hand and walking toward the door, she looked over her shoulder as she took the phone from Pike’s outstretched hand, the clock app already open to the timer tab, “ten minutes.”

Shane nodded seriously once more, his voice entirely earnest as he echoed, “ten minutes.”

The door swung shut once more and Scott breathed out a light laugh, nudging his shoulder against Shane’s, “they’ve got you wrapped around their little fingers, don’t they?”

“They sure do,” Shane agreed, standing up and quickly finishing getting undressed before heading toward the showers, grabbing a folded towel off the shelf as he went, “they’re also vicious so I better hurry up.”

The locker room started moving again, all of them smiling just a little at the peak into Shane Hollander off the ice. Well, most of them were smiling, Ilya looked a little like he’d just been checked against the boards as he stared after Shane’s retreating form; breathless and more than a little awed.

“Rozanov!” Shane called, his voice echoing out of the shower stalls and into the room, “get a move on, you’re coming with.”

“Right,” Ilya said, snapping back into action and apparently not even questioning the fact that he’d been invited along for ice cream with Pike’s kids even though everyone else in the room, once more, looked so shocked it looked a little like they’d been electrocuted.

Ilya tossed his gear into his stall, putting it in some vague sort of order that’d eventually be sorted out by the equipment managers and then all but ran into the showers just as Shane was coming back out. Shane walked right to his own stall and started getting dressed, moving methodically, calmly, like he wasn’t fully aware what sort of chaos he was causing simply by being friendly with Ilya in public.

He was sitting on the bench again, tying the laces on his sneakers, when Ilya stepped out of the shower and started getting dressed next to him.

They were both out the door, Ruby’s voice happily announcing, “that was only eight minutes, good job, Uncle Shane!” before anyone else moved.

“Are they … friends?” the same D.C. kid who’d complimented Shane’s idea to help out the comms team asked.

“Yeah,” Scott said after a moment, wondering what would be too much to reveal but deciding that he might just be able to help with this narrative, even if he was struggling to find a way to help with the other. “I mean, I think they always sort of have been. They got shoved to the top of the game so quickly, I think they relied on each other a bit. I think it was nice for them to have someone else who understood the insanity even if they weren’t always super friendly, even if they were mostly just competitive. But they’ve been friendlier recently, maybe they’ve just finally matured.”

“That makes sense,” Brophy mused, looking thoughtful. “Good for them, I can’t imagine how crazy their lives are. It’s good they have each other.”

Scott smiled as the relief flooded his chest; he hadn’t fucked it up, he hadn’t said too much. He’d helped, and he’d helped other people realize that Rozanov and Hollander being friendly wasn’t world ending.

* * *

“Who’s that?” the second twin, the one that Ilya was pretty sure was named Jade asked, peeking over Shane’s shoulder and pointing at Ilya after Shane had picked her up when she’d started trying to climb up his arm like a kitten. Ilya had no clue what he was doing here, but Shane had asked (read: told) him to come so here he was.

“This is my friend Ilya,” Shane answered, “he plays for Boston. Ilya, meet Jade, Ruby, and Arthur.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Ilya said, knowing he sounded painfully earnest and feeling a little shy. He smiled and watched Shane’s eyes go soft. They still needed to talk, still needed to sort through the insanity and figure out what this was, but Ilya almost didn’t want to. Sorting all of this out meant admitting to things that scared him senseless, it meant opening up and telling Shane what was happening at home. He wished they could just live in this; in the warmth of the Florida sun in winter and the softness of Shane’s smiles without having to make it real.

“Rose is ditching us to hang out by the pool, but we can meet her there later,” Pike said, seemingly easily adjusting to the fact that Ilya was joining them. Ilya was certain that this calm, easy going demeanor would only last so long but he was going to enjoy it while it was here. He had half a mind to start antagonizing Pike but decided to choose peace … at least for the time being. “What time do you guys have to be back?”

“Around five,” Shane answered, adjusting his grip on Jade as he shouldered the arena door open, Ilya lengthened his steps to catch the door before it closed, holding it open for Ruby to follow Shane and her sister out and then for Pike and his son to follow after. “Skills competition starts at seven but we’re going to make the comms team’s life easier and space out media. I think the two of us are on a panel with Scott tomorrow.”

“When are you going to call your agent?” Pike asked.

“I already texted.”

Pike looked sad and Ilya almost felt bad for him. The pair had played together since their rookie season. They played the same line, had stalls next to each other in the locker room, and all but lived in each other’s pockets off the ice. Ilya was certain that Shane wouldn’t even be thinking about leaving Montreal if it weren’t dire, if he weren’t convinced that there was nothing he could do to make it better.

“Did you rank or just give one choice?” Pike asked.

“I ranked, but I made it clear that there was one choice I’d prefer.”

“New York?”

“New York,” Shane affirmed. “The flight’s only an hour and a half non-stop.”

“You think you’ll play out the season?”

“Probably,” Shane said after a minute. Ilya wasn’t sure what to make of his tone. It was some painful mix of hope and resignation; like he wanted to get out because it hurt but he wanted to stay because it’d been home. Ilya understood that, maybe more than Shane could possibly know. It was how he felt about Russia, on a greater scale than simply the team that’d drafted him. It was his home, even if his family thought him worthless and his government thought him a disgrace. He hated the idea of leaving Russia behind, but he knew that there might come a day where he had to, where the only way to be safe and happy would be to turn his back on the place he’d called home. “It’d take something big happening to get Montreal to let me leave mid-season, even if they want to get rid of me.”

Ilya needed this conversation to end. If they continued, if the tears that were crowding the corners of Shane’s eyes started to fall, he’d follow him right off the cliff into a breakdown and that wasn’t something that could happen in broad daylight.

“So, what has been your favorite part of Florida?” Ilya asked, gently tapping Jade’s arm to get her attention.

Pike and Shane both looked relieved at the re-direction and the broken look on Shane’s face was replaced by an easy smile that made Ilya feel a little like he’d won a prize.

They spent the next couple of hours that way, existing in the fragile peace and living and dying by the Pike kids’ smiles and laughter and when Arthur yawned one time too many and Pike announced naptime, Ilya found himself feeling sad that the time was over. He wanted to follow them and this domestic bliss into the afternoon, he wanted to continue to exist in this simple joy where trade deadlines and sick fathers and the terror of realizing you’ve stumbled into love didn’t exist.

Shane must’ve read it on his face because he simply squeezed Ilya’s forearm, a fleeting touch but a point of contact that felt a little like finally seeing shore after spending months adrift at sea, and said, “I’ll help get them tucked in and then why don’t we grab lunch out on the pool deck? They can meet us down there when they wake up and we can all have a little more fun before heading back to the arena.”

“Lunch?” Ilya asked, attaching to the offer for some reason, holding onto the hope that, despite how insane it might seem, it might be something like a date.

“Lunch,” Shane echoed, nodding like he understood what Ilya was really asking. “I’ll text when I’m on my way down the lobby.”

“Alright,” Ilya agreed, doing all he could to stop himself from smiling like an idiot as he turned back toward the Pike kids, “it was nice to meet all of you, I will see you later.”

“Bye, Rozanov,” Pike said, smiling like he still couldn’t quite believe how civil of a morning they’d had. Ilya could relate. This weekend wasn’t even sort of going how he’d imagined it.

* * *

Once the kids were all tucked in and peacefully asleep, Shane pulled swim trunks and one of the shirts Rose had talked him into buying out of his duffle. He got dressed quickly, leaving at least two more buttons undone than was probably socially acceptable and then tucked his phone and wallet into his pockets before grabbing his sandals and sunglasses.

“I don’t think you have to run,” Hayden teased, lounging back on his bed with his phone resting on his sternum as he looked at Shane, clearly holding back laughter, “I’m pretty sure he’ll wait.”

“He’s waited long enough,” Shane said, knowing that Hayden understood he meant more than just the half hour it’d taken them to get the kids settled after a morning full of excitement and sugar. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Hayden said, kindly not commenting further on Shane’s slightly mad dash out of their suite. “We’ll come down when they’re all awake, text if you need anything before then.”

“I will,” Shane promised, thankful once more that life had blessed him with Hayden as his best friend.

He pulled out his phone as he made his way into the hall and shot off a quick text to ‘Lily’ to say he was on his way to the lobby and found he wasn’t exactly surprised when the reply came almost instantly: I am already downstairs.

The Ilya of even a week ago never would’ve been that honest, he’d have walked up a flight of stairs and then come back down to perfectly time his entry to Shane’s arrival and then act like it’d just been happenstance. He never would’ve admitted that he was already waiting, that he was excited to see Shane. But somewhere between Rose showing up and a morning spent with Hayden’s kids, Ilya had apparently decided to drop the mask.

Shane didn’t know what to do with it. He almost wanted the mask to go back on. He almost wanted them to go back to existing in that weird in between where nothing got too real and they could pretend that they weren’t risking everything; where they could pretend they both weren’t more than ready to risk everything.

Shane pushed that thought away and forced himself to remember all the nights he’d spent wishing for more, all the times he’d let his fear overwhelm everything good. He stepped out of the elevator and decided he was done letting fear run his life. He’d come out to his team and nearly the worst had happened. He hadn’t been injured or kicked out, simply pushed toward the door. But, nonetheless, he’d done the scary thing and something bad had happened and he was still here, still standing. He could keep doing scary things and the laws of the universe said that eventually something good might come out of it. He could only hope that the something good would be life with Ilya at his side.

Ilya was already sitting at one of the tables between the little bar and restaurant and the poolside, clearly trying to appear nonchalant but for someone who knew Ilya as well as Shane did, it was clear that he was nervous. Something about that made Shane calm down. He wasn’t alone in this and if all went well, he wouldn’t ever be alone in this.

“Hey,” he greeted, taking the seat next to Ilya at the square table rather than the one across. He wanted to be as close as publicly acceptable, as close as Ilya would let him.

“Hey,” Ilya responded. “How are you?”

Shane blew out a breath and forced himself to actually think before answering. There was only so much he could say in public, but he still wanted to be as honest as possible. He’d decided on honesty in that restaurant with Rose and even though honesty had made things harder, he still felt more free. He felt more stable, less like he was balancing on an increasingly precarious cliffside.

“I’m alright,” he said after a moment, meeting Ilya’s eye so he could see the truth in the statement. “Things are crazy, I feel a little shaky, but over all I’m alright.”

“Good,” Ilya said after a moment, offering Shane a small but genuine smile as a waiter dropped off a Coke and a ginger ale. The simple fact that Ilya had ordered for them both before Shane had even showed up made Shane’s heart feel about three sizes too big for his chest.

“I’ll give you a couple minutes to look over the menu,” the waiter said, a polite smile on his face before he moved on to the next table.

“How are you?” Shane asked once the waiter was out of earshot. He picked up the menu and averted his eyes, somehow just knowing that Ilya was more likely to speak honestly if he didn’t have the full force of Shane’s attention directed at him.

“I am …” Ilya started before trailing off with a huff, “I am okay, tired. I missed you.”

Shane hadn’t been expecting that admission.

He looked up and met Ilya’s eye and saw just how much he meant it; just how much complex emotion was living in Ilya’s eyes.

“I missed you too,” Shane said softly.

Ilya smiled again before ducking his head to study the menu. Shane watched him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly before he took a conscious breath, “things back home are … not great. I will tell more, if you want to listen. Just not here.”

“Later then,” Shane agreed easily, diverting his attention back to his own menu and scanning for something that at least sort of fit the parameters of his diet. He, oddly enough, didn’t feel the need to be quite as strict as usual. Whether it was the Florida sun, a good morning practice, or the fact that Ilya was sitting next to him, he wasn’t sure, but he decided to take the break his brain gave him and go with it as he mulled over the options. “What are you competing in tonight?”

Ilya breathed out a barely audible sigh of relief at the out from the more serious conversation and after another moment of reading the menu, leaned back in his chair and started chattering about the skills competition.

Shane just let it all wash over him, let the comforting tone of a voice he’d come to love soothe the anxious edges of his mind. The conversation only paused when the waiter came back to take their orders and again when their food was delivered. Ilya kept chatting, chirping about different players and asking Shane’s opinion, throughout their meal and by the time they’d finished and charged the bill to their rooms, Shane felt like they were back on somewhat even ground.

Chapter 5: something real

Chapter Notes

i was gonna be responsible and bank chapters and post them on a schedule but that went out the window like immediately so here's another chapter. i'm just gonna post them as i write. made myself cry writing this one. hope you enjoy.

February 2017

By some actual goddamn miracle they got through the skills competition media pool and the Saturday morning presser without anyone mentioning the fact that Shane’s no-trade had been waived and now, existing somewhere between euphoria and an adrenaline crash, Shane had nothing but time before the games start at 3.

He liked this switch to the 3 v. 3 tournament from the traditional 5 v. 5. It was only the second year they’d be playing this formation, but he was actually looking forward to it, even though there’d been some grumbling over the change the year before. The games are quicker, the play is fun, faster paced and more competitive. And he gets to be on the ice with just Ilya and Scott.

It was almost like if he were allowed to play a regular season game with only Hayden and J.J., with two people he knew he could trust inherently who also happened to be able to keep up with him.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Ilya knocking their shoulders together as they filed out of Florida’s press room and into the hall, “could you talk now?” he asked, keeping his voice pitched low as he started to loosen his tie.

Shane was a little shocked. He hadn’t expected Ilya to follow through on his promise to explain what was going on at home until after the game that evening, but he didn’t want to leave Ilya hanging now so he quickly agreed, “your room? Mine’s full of kids.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said, smiling a little though the nervous pinch of his brow remained, “1217.”

“See you soon,” Shane promised and watched as just a little tension evaporated from Ilya’s shoulders, just enough to tell Shane that he’d made the right choice.

Ilya made his way down the hall and Shane hung back, simply taking a moment to breathe. He felt a hand land on his shoulder and somehow knew it was Scott without having to look. It might’ve been odd, how quickly they’d fallen into each other’s orbit after reconciling, how quickly they’d become actual friends rather than colleagues or acquaintances who were friendly enough, but Shane didn’t really feel like questioning it. Scott felt safe and Shane was in sore need of safety.

“You two alright?” Scott asked, his voice pitched low as well. The hall was empty, but Shane appreciated the gentle way Scott was preserving a secret he still only really half knew anyways.

“We will be,” Shane said, and he found himself genuinely believing it. “We’ve been at it too long to let complications ruin it.”

“Good,” Scott said, sounding genuinely relieved. “Well, I’m around if you end up needing someone to talk to but if not I’ll see you both tonight.”

“See you then,” Shane responded, thankful for Scott’s offer even though he was truly hoping he wouldn’t need it. He decided he’d let Ilya have enough of a head start and made his own way down the hall, leaving Scott and safety behind in favor of chasing everything he wanted, no matter how dangerous it might be.

* * *

There were approximately 4,000 things that Ilya needed to tell Shane but they really didn’t have that much time so he decided to narrow it down to two: (1) my father is dying and home doesn’t feel like home anymore and (2) this thing between us is so far beyond casual and I am scared out of my mind but I’m sick of running away.

He was still trying to decide which one he’d start with when he heard the light knock on his door and realized he was out of time.

He took a breath and stood to open the door. He couldn’t help but smile at how impossibly soft Shane looked with his dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned to reveal the tank top he wore as an undershirt, his tie folded neatly and tucked into his back pocket.

“Hi,” he said, knowing he sounded at least a little dumb.

“Hi,” Shane responded, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. Ilya was relieved to hear that Shane sounded a little dumb as well.

The pair of them, idiots, really.

Ilya wondered if there was another world out there where he’d be standing here, staring at Shane looking at him like that, and still pretending that this meant nothing. He wondered if there was a world where he hadn’t been so thrown by Rose Landry’s appearance that first night, where he hadn’t watched Shane go all soft with Pike’s kids, where Shane himself was still hiding behind some misguided armor. He wondered how long he would’ve forced himself to keep all of this hidden in a world like that. He wondered how much longer it would’ve taken for him to show Shane just how much he cared.

But he wasn’t in that world, now, he was here, with Shane. He was here, standing inches away from the man he loved, from the man he’s been loving for years.

So instead of keeping it all hidden, instead of tucking tail and running scared, he reached out and ran his thumb along Shane’s cheek, along those freckles that caught his eye outside that dingy rink in Regina, and said, once more, “I missed you.”

Shane leaned into his touch like it was the only real thing in this world, his eyes going soft in that way that made Ilya want to hide him away and keep him forever, and responded, “I missed you too, Ilya.”

He pronounced Ilya’s name correctly, the same way Ilya did, with that slightly clipped second syllable before his tongue formed the third. He said it like it meant something, like it was precious. Ilya wondered if he could steal Shane’s phone and pull up a webpage on the diminutives of Russian names for him to find the next time he opened his browser just so there might be a chance of someday hearing Shane’s lips form the word Ilyusha.

Shane’s brown eyes, always so expressive, were near molten with how soft they’d gone. There were tears forming in the corners that Ilya almost hoped would fall, solely so he could kiss them away.

“I don’t want to miss you anymore,” Ilya said quietly, keeping his hand cupped gently around Shane’s jaw, his thumb still resting on his cheek. “The world is loud, my life feels messy, but you are solid and I do not want to give you up.”

Shane looked shocked at Ilya’s admission. This moment, somehow, was more intimate than any they’d shared and Ilya could feel the importance of it, could feel the weight of it pressing down on his chest.

“I don’t want to keep pretending that this means nothing,” Shane said, his voice just as quiet, just as soft as Ilya’s. Ilya genuinely wasn’t sure when they’d spontaneously learned how to communicate, but he wasn’t about to do anything that might break the spell, so he simply kept his mouth closed and waited for Shane to continue. “You mean everything to me, Ilya. I’m sorry for running away when things got real, I was scared. I was hiding from myself, I was lying to myself, and I hurt you because of it. I’m really sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Ilya said easily, finding that it was the truth, finding that forgiveness came far easier than he’d ever imagined.

He’d pushed Shane too far too fast, he’d made a massive change in their routine without actually consulting him and, even though he didn’t know what, exactly, made Shane’s brain act the way it did, he knew him well enough to know that big changes like that would send him into overdrive. He should’ve known that his actions would’ve made him panic, he should’ve explained where he was coming from, he should’ve met Shane where he was instead of attempting to yank him forward. There were a lot of should haves, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. All he could do was be here, be stable and solid and understanding.

“Thank you,” Shane whispered, genuine gratitude clear in his tone. “Ilya I want to be with you, properly. I know we can’t be out, I know you can’t be out and still be safe in Russia and I’d never ask you to choose between your home and me, but I want to find some way we can be together and be safe and the only way we can do that is by actually talking about it and the only way it can happen is if you want it too. If you don’t, I won’t blame you, I just need to know.”

“I want it,” Ilya said quickly, not letting Shane spend even a second believing that he was alone in this. “I just don’t know how to have it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Shane promised and Ilya couldn’t help but believe him. “It’ll be hell, but we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” Ilya breathed. He leaned forward and used his grip on Shane’s jaw to tilt his head so he could press a lingering kiss to his forehead. They’d kissed so many times, his lips had mapped nearly every inch of Shane’s skin, but something about this kiss, this chaste press of lips to Shane’s forehead, felt monumental. Shane breathed out a sigh that sounded a little like he was coming up for air after a minute too long under water; shaky and nearly heart shattering in its relief.

Ilya reached down and took his hand, pulling him further into the room until they were sitting at the foot of the bed. He didn’t let go of Shane’s hand as he gathered his thoughts and then started on the second thing he’d decided he needed to tell Shane, “you mentioned Russia, it is not good at home. My father, he is sick.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane said gently, letting go of Ilya’s hand for a moment before taking it with the other so he could use the hand closest to Ilya to softly run his fingers through Ilya’s hair, he paused as he reached the back of his head and scratched gentle fingers against the base of his skull.

It was so soothing, so deeply comforting, that Ilya let himself continue speaking, “he is getting old, his mind is not all there. I pay my brother to take care of him, but my brother does not do his job. He disappears and then my father calls me, confused and scared. He asks when I am coming home from school, he forgets who he is married to, and I am here, where I cannot help. It is awful and it makes me feel awful because I do not like my father, even if I love him, even if I miss him and wish he could be better father, I do not like him. He was not kind man, he was not good father, not good husband. But I still love him, I still wish I could help.”

“That’s a lot,” Shane whispered, his fingers still gently running through Ilya’s hair. The contact was enough to keep him tethered, to keep him from feeling like he needed to run and hide from the vulnerability. Shane had said he wanted this, that he wanted them to be together even if it felt impossible and this thing with Ilya’s father was part of what would make it so hard. This constant push and pull that made Ilya feel like he couldn’t ever find his footing was part of what would make it so hard for him to build something real and Shane deserved to know and, honestly, Ilya deserved to share the burden. He never imagined he’d have this, have someone who sat with him in his sadness, who looked at him with love even when he was weak, but he’d somehow, inexplicably, found it in Shane Hollander. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Shane asked, “even just sitting here and listening while you talk?”

“It is hard to find words,” Ilya admitted, hating himself just a little bit for how much he still stumbled over English even after so many years living in America. He wanted to be better; he wanted to know every single word so he could perfectly describe how he was feeling. But he didn’t even know how to describe these feelings in Russian. It was less the lack of vocabulary and more the lack of any real understanding of his emotions, though the lack of vocabulary certainly didn’t help.

“Then tell me in Russian,” Shane suggested. “I won’t understand you, but I’ll be here and I’ll listen.”

Ilya thought about that for a moment but eventually shook his head, “no, I might do that some other time, but right now I need you to understand.”

“Okay,” Shane agreed easily, his grip on the back of Ilya’s neck tightening for a moment, like he just subconsciously knew that Ilya needed to be grounded. “Then tell me however you can and I’ll listen, we have time.”

What a concept, time.

They never had time. It was always stolen moments and quick texts and hidden feelings. They’d never had time, but they had some now. They had a few hours before they needed to be at the stadium and they apparently had time even after that if they were both actually serious about letting this become something real, so Ilya let himself believe it, let himself live in a world where he and Shane had time.

He leaned back into Shane’s touch, silently letting him know that he needed it, that he needed the point of contact. Shane’s fingers started moving again, gently twisting through the curls on the back of Ilya’s head as his thumb ran a soft path across the skin behind his ear.

“This is enough,” he said eventually, “this helps, you being here, being honest. I have been afraid to ask too much, but right now it feels like I can ask anything and you will give it.”

“I’d give you the world,” Shane said, his voice hardly above a whisper, and Ilya believed him.

“I know,” he responded. His throat felt tight and his eyes felt warm and every atom in his body was telling him to run and hide, to never let someone see him this vulnerable. But this wasn’t just someone, this was Shane. “I am scared,” he admitted, surprising even himself with how honest that had been. “I am scared of what will happen if my brother keeps failing, I am scared of my father dying, I am scared to go back to Russia and realize that it does not feel like home. I am scared of letting us be real and someone finding out before we are ready, I am scared of you getting hurt. I do not like not being able to control these things, but I know I cannot.”

He could feel the tears starting to spill and the next thing he knew Shane was on his lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders, surrounding him with the type of warmth that felt safe, a warmth that Ilya instinctively leaned into. He tucked his head under Shane’s chin and wrapped his arms around his waist, holding on as tightly as he could, attempting to anchor himself in reality. Shane kept one hand on the back of Ilya’s head, his fingers still scratching gently against his scalp.

The sob that wrenched its way out of his throat snuck up on him but once it started he couldn’t stop.

Shane just held on tighter and Ilya took that as permission to cling.

He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting there, tangled up in each other, before Shane’s voice finally filtered through the noise in Ilya’s head, soft and soothing and so full of love that Ilya felt his heart shatter and stitch back together, “I’ve got you,” Shane said, his voice achingly gentle, “shh, Ilya, baby, it’s alright.”

It was the first time he’d ever used any sort of pet name, any term of address other than Rozanov, Roz, or Ilya, and Ilya felt like he was floating.

“Say that again,” he whispered, his voice sounding choked with tears which might’ve been embarrassing if anyone else were in the room but with Shane he simply couldn’t care less.

“Baby?” Shane asked, sounding a little nervous.

Ilya nodded, tucking himself impossibly closer to Shane and hoping that was enough to make him understand just how loved that made Ilya feel, just how much he’d loved hearing it, because he couldn’t seem to find the words.

“Ah, but there’s so many other things I could call you,” Shane teased gently, his arms wrapping just a little more securely around Ilya’s shoulders. “Baby is a good one but there’s always mon amour or mon chéri or, ah, this would be good, mon ours.”

“What is that last one?” Ilya asked, feeling steadier now in the comfort of Shane’s hold and with the anchor of Shane’s voice.

“My bear,” Shane said and, this close, Ilya could feel his light laugh in the stuttered rise of his chest more than he could hear it. No matter how impossible it might be, Ilya wanted to spend the rest of his life right here, pressed against Shane with no space for the world to get in the way.

“Accurate,” Ilya huffed. “I still like baby best.”

“Alright,” Shane agreed easily, “though I do kind of like mon amour.”

Ilya knew what it meant, he asked anyways, “what does that one mean.”

Shane pulled back slightly and Ilya couldn’t have stopped the pitiful whine he let out if he’d tried. Shane didn’t pull all the way away, though, he stayed firmly in Ilya’s lap and placed his hands on Ilya’s cheeks so he could look him in the eye when he said, soft and sticky sweet, “it means ‘my love,’ Ilya.”

“Моя любовь,” Ilya echoed. He watched the understanding settle in Shane’s eyes before a soft smile spread across his face. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s lips that felt a whole lot like coming home.

It wasn’t the three words Ilya wanted to say, but it was enough for now.

* * *

They woke up hours later to an alarm Shane had somehow remembered to set after Ilya had fallen asleep. They were still half dressed from the presser, but Shane had never felt more comfortable. He didn’t care that the button on his dress pants was digging into his stomach, he didn’t care that he felt a little overheated in the Florida humidity. He was with Ilya, with Ilya who’d agreed to trying for something real no matter how scared he was, with Ilya who’d opened his heart and showed Shane just how much he cared, with Ilya who’d finally admitted just how much stress he was under. Nothing else mattered in the face of all of that.

“Five more minutes,” Ilya grumbled, tightening his grip on Shane’s waist. He was wrapped around Shane like an octopus, half sprawled on top of him with their legs tangled together and both arms wrapped around his torso. Shane was certain that one or both of his arms must be asleep by this point, but Ilya didn’t seem to mind.

“Alright,” Shane agreed easily, tightening his own grip around Ilya’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “but then we need to head out.”

“Can we go together?” Ilya asked, tilting his head up and resting his chin on Shane’s chest. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” Shane said, reaching one hand up to run through Ilya’s hair. His curls were a total mess that’d need to be sorted out before they were on camera heading into the locker room but that was a problem for later. Right now, Shane was content to just look at him, to memorize every line of his face and soak up every moment of warmth. He felt a little insane, like every ounce of sense and logic had left his body. But he felt giddy with it, almost buoyant with the overwhelming love he felt. So, if pushing the schedule and running a little behind made Ilya happy, made him feel more comfortable, Shane would do it, at least just this once.

If he had to choose between running late and Ilya’s happiness, he’d choose Ilya’s happiness every time.

Chapter 6: all stars

Chapter Notes

i have zero self control ... i have written 12.5K words *today*

also shout out to my high school boyfriend (i am 25 now ... we broke up seven years ago) who dragged me to all of his hockey games for two years and apparently taught me something about how hockey works somewhere along the way

February 2017

Brophy hadn’t been kidding about Shane being able to walk Ilya like a dog, but this was honestly a new level.

Scott watched as Ilya wandered into the locker room, trailing behind Shane like a lost puppy, and wondered, once more, how no one else had caught on.

They tossed their bags into their stalls and then sat down on their benches, every action almost entirely in sync and Scott couldn’t help but marvel at it, couldn’t help but wonder if he’d have the chance to reach that point with Kip, that point where they existed nearly in tandem, where they just knew where the other was without having to look, where they spent so much time together that every shared action felt instinctive.

“All good?” Scott asked, leaning over to nudge his shoulder against Shane’s. He’d decided this morning that he wasn’t going to read into how quickly they’d fallen into this more genuine form of friendship, one that actually meant something rather than simply being friendly in passing. His coach had texted an hour before to tell him that management had heard from Shane’s agent, that they had confirmation that New York was his top choice whenever a trade became available, and Scott knew that having this friendship, this genuine connection, would make the eventual move so much easier. He couldn’t help but hope that the move would come now before the season ended, even though he knew a mid-season move would be far more tumultuous. He hated that the thing he wanted might hurt Shane, but he hoped that if it did happen, Shane would at least know that he had Scott to lean on.

“Yeah,” Shane said, a genuine smile on his face that was almost immediately echoed by Ilya. Scott caught Ilya’s eye and hoped that his face said everything he couldn’t say out loud; I’m sorry for throwing this in Shane’s face on the ice, and I’m here if you need me, and I’m happy for you but if you hurt him you die.

Ilya nodded once, the soft look in his eye remaining, and Scott knew he’d been understood.

They eventually made their way out onto the ice for warmups; they were playing the other Eastern Conference team first and Scott drifted toward the center line and just waited for Carter to make his way over.

“How’s it going?” Carter asked once he’d finally spotted Scott and abandoned whatever odd game he’d been playing with a young guy Scott was pretty sure played for Tampa. He’d gotten really bad at learning who went where in recent years. Maybe if he figured it out he’d stop calling Shane ‘Rook’ in his head.

“Good, I think we’re getting Hollzy.”

“Really?” Carter asked, eyes wide in almost comical shock. “How’s that?”

“I’ll tell you more later, just wanted to tell you now so you could avoid being an asshole and driving him off before we even get a chance to play with him.”

“I’ll be nice,” Carter promised, rather dramatically placing his hand over his heart. “How’s it been playing with him and Roz?”

“It’s been incredible,” Scott said, knowing he sounded near euphoric. Carter wouldn’t make fun of him for it, though, he was well aware of how insane Scott could get about good hockey. “It’s like a fantasy team, honestly.”

“Good, I’m glad you’re having fun,” Carter said with a genuine smile before his eye caught on something in the background and his brows pinched in confusion, “what are they doing?”

Scott knew who he was talking about before he even looked.

With a sigh that probably wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming from a mother of five or an overworked kindergarten teacher, Scott turned around to find Shane and Ilya, notorious rivals (ha), draft picks one and two, and two of the highest paid players in the NHL playing an honest to god game of keepie uppie with a puck in front of a dozen national media outlets and several hundred fans.

“I think they sometimes forget they’re not twelve,” Scott answered dryly.

“Are they friends?”

“Yes,” Scott answered, huffing out a laugh. He’d leave it up to Shane if he wanted to tell his (potential) new teammate the truth or not. “I think they’re taking the opportunity of being on the same team to finally actually show that they’re friends.”

“Is the league going to like that?”

“They can market a different rivalry,” Scott shrugged, “or they can find a way to market unlikely friends, like those YouTube videos of puppies playing with tigers.”

“Okay but that’s like the cutest kitten you’ve ever seen playing with a goddamn grizzly bear.”

“You’d be shocked,” Scott said, letting his amusement bleed into his tone, “Hollzy’s got claws.”

“Hollzy also walks Roz like a dog,” Brophy said, appearing out of goddamn nowhere at Scott’s left. “Which I’ve said already, but Vaughny wasn’t there so I’m repeating it.”

“There’s no way,” Carter said, an expression on his face that Scott could only really describe as ‘dumbfounded.’

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it either.”

“He’s right,” Scott said, finally overcoming his shock at Brophy fucking teleporting. He really needed to pay better attention to his surroundings. “Hollzy’s got him on a leash.”

“I kind of want to start a fight with him just to see Hollander pull him back,” Carter mused.

“You’re not starting a fight at an All Star game just to observe Hollzy and Roz for science.”

“Why are we observing Shane and Rozanov?” J.J. asked, appearing at Carter’s other side. Scott almost slipped when he jumped in surprise. He was really glad Ilya wasn’t watching. This absolute lack of spatial awareness was simply fuel for the endless ‘Scott Hunter is Old’ fire.

“Their mass marketed dynamic is falling apart before our very eyes,” Carter said, his tone of voice sounding more like he was narrating a nature documentary than observing his colleagues. Scott honestly didn’t think that was too far off base.

Before anyone could respond, the buzzer letting them know their warm-up time was over went off and Scott realized he hadn’t even stretched. It was a good thing these games were only 20 minutes long. God he hoped he didn’t pull a muscle. If Ilya called him old one more time he might just have to hit him.

* * *

They breezed through the first game with Shane, Scott, and Ilya scoring two goals each along with one from Brophy right at the end of the second ten-minute half to bring the score up to 7-3.

Now they had an hour before the final against whichever team won the Western Conference game and Shane was planning to spend it staring into space in an attempt to process everything that had happened that weekend, but his plans were interrupted by a giant Russian sitting directly in his lap the moment he’d sat down on the bench in front of his cubby.

“Ilya, what the hell?” Shane asked, honestly less shocked than he probably should’ve been.

Ilya had been clingy since the second Shane had said he wanted them to be something real and Shane really wasn’t complaining but, at the same time, they were currently in a locker room … in public … and Ilya finding a way to sit on his lap while still wearing full gear was harder to explain than a friendly arm around the shoulder or a pat on the back.

Ilya just shrugged, looking over his shoulder to shoot Shane a crooked grin, “you are good seat.”

“You are crushing me,” Shane shot back.

“Ah,” Ilya huffed, waving a hand dismissively and leaning back against Shane’s chest, forcing Shane to lean back against the wall of the locker. “You will be fine.”

“You say that,” Shane grumbled, though he made no move to either dislodge Ilya nor finish his sentence. “Can you at least take your pads off so I can see over your shoulder?”

“Is not my fault you are short,” Ilya said, despite the fact that they were essentially the same height, though he did sit up and pull off his jersey and shoulder pads without any real complaint. He even stayed sitting all the way up long enough for Shane to tug off his own jersey and pads. Ilya was thankfully wearing a compression shirt, something he normally forewent, otherwise Shane would’ve been subjected to having a fully shirtless Ilya on his lap which wasn’t something he thought he’d be able to withstand without facing a criminal charge for public indecency.

“Smile,” Scott said, appearing in front of them with his phone already out and a shit eating grin on his face.

Shane decided arguing would be futile and simply smiled.

Ilya behaved until the shutter clicked once and then, like he simply couldn’t help it, he turned his head and smacked a wet, over-exaggerated kiss to Shane’s cheek just as the shutter clicked a second time.

Shane’s nose wrinkled on instinct. Ilya knew how much Shane hated that sound, especially so close to his ear, and had clearly done it to get a reaction out of him.

“You’re the worst,” Shane grumbled, wiping his cheek on the back of Ilya’s shoulder as Scott started laughing.

“Can I please post this on my Instagram?” Scott asked, sticking out his lower lip in a pout that wasn’t nearly as cute as Ilya’s as he turned his phone around to show a photo of Ilya, somehow exuding unholy glee even in picture form, kissing Shane’s cheek as Shane grimaced. Shane’s knee jerk reaction was to say no, but he also knew that Scott wouldn’t do anything that would harm Shane or Ilya. He forced himself to actually look at the picture and realized that it just looked like Rozanov being Rozanov; antagonizing Hollander and being a general menace to society.

“Fine by me,” Shane agreed, doing his best to sound put out. Scott saw right through it, but he didn’t say anything as he pulled his phone back and waited for Ilya’s permission. Shane’s phone dinged in the second it took Ilya to respond and he didn’t need to look to know it’d been Scott texting him the photos.

“Sure,” Ilya said, after only a second’s hesitation, where he’d likely come to the same conclusion as Shane. “As long as you say something about how handsome I am.”

“Not happening,” Scott huffed as he flopped down on the bench next to Shane and opened the app.

He tilted the screen their direction before pressing post and Shane couldn’t help but smile just a little at the caption: @ilyarozanov finding new and horrifying ways to antagonize his enemies #AllStarWeekend2017

“You need to change your handle,” Scott said as he typed in Shane’s name to tag him in the post once he and Ilya had both nodded their approval. “Did you make this in middle school or something?”

“No, I was fully in the NHL when I made it,” Shane admitted, not commenting on the fact that Instagram hadn’t existed when he was in middle school and knowing full well that the fact he’d been an adult while creating that handle only made it worse.

“Gimme,” Ilya said, holding out his hand.

Shane breathed out a huff but dug his phone out of his locker and handed it over anyways.

Ilya slid off Shane’s lap and, instead, sat pressed fully against his side as he opened Shane’s phone and navigated to the Instagram app.

“How did you know my password?” Shane asked, actually a little confused.

“Guessed,” Ilya shrugged, the tips of his ears turning red which was a sure sign he was seconds away from full on blushing. “Is same as mine.”

“Oh,” Shane breathed, thankful that Scott was pretending to be entirely engrossed in his Instagram feed even though he was clearly eavesdropping. He really didn’t know how to react to the fact that Ilya’s passcode was also 1410 so he simply leaned a little more into his side and let the physical contact speak for him.

Ilya nodded slightly like he’d understood and then passed Shane’s phone back over, “I do not know this password, though.”

Shane was dead certain he was the one blushing now as Ilya watched him type in Hockey2481! before handing the phone back over.

That had been his password the entire time.

Yet, somehow, he’d only admitted to himself that he loved Ilya, like, a month ago.

He needed psychological help.

Ilya, kindly, didn’t comment on it.

“Good?” he asked after a moment, showing Shane the settings screen with a new handle typed in. “Somehow, just shanehollander was not taken. I do not know why you did not just use this from beginning. You are strange, strange man Hollander.”

“Whatever,” Shane said, “thank you.”

Ilya patted him on the cheek in a condescending manner that was also, somehow, fond and Shane just rolled his eyes as he saved the change to his handle and then let his feed refresh.

Scott’s post appeared right at the top and Shane immediately went to share it to his story. The Voyageurs’ comms team had been telling him he should be more active on social media. Voyageurs management probably didn’t picture him being active on social media as him sharing pictures of a man sitting in his lap and kissing his cheek, but Shane would happily light Voyageurs management on fire rather than comply with their wishes so he simply toggled the screen until Scott’s caption was visible, typed “horrifying is right” and clicked post before he could think too hard about it.

“The Shayden shippers are going to go into mourning,” Scott said, sounding genuinely regretful.

“The who?” Shane asked.

Scott’s smile wasn’t even a little comforting.

* * *

Ilya was convinced he was in the middle of a fever dream, maybe an acid trip. There was simply no way this was his life. He very happily tuned out Scott and Shane’s conversation about whatever the living fuck a Shayden shipper was in favor of staring down at the picture, posted for all the internet to see, of him sitting on Shane’s lap and kissing his cheek.

Sure, to anyone outside the three of them, Hayden and Jackie Pike, J.J. Boiziau, Rose Landry, and, probably, Svetlana, it looked like Ilya being a menace with no romantic undertones. But for those very few people in the know, it was an actual, public picture of a couple who’d spent nearly an entire decade denying themselves joy while they hid in the shadows.

Ilya knew full well that it’d be quite some time before they were both comfortable letting the world know what they truly were, but things like this, them allowing the world to see them being friendly, friendly enough that they could be silly together, was enough to tide him over. Shane wasn’t ready for the world to know the truth and Ilya sure as shit wasn’t ready for the world to know the truth, but the world knew something and that was enough to make it feel real.

He wasn’t dreaming, he wasn’t tripping; this was his life and the beautiful man sitting next to him discussing the ethics of fanfiction with Scott Hunter was the person he got to spend his life with. Ilya honestly could not believe his luck.

The hour of waiting for their next game went by faster than Ilya had expected, though he should’ve guessed time would start moving in that odd way it did when he was overwhelmed by emotions.

Shane must’ve seen something in his face because he rested a hand on the back of Ilya’s neck and squeezed once, a grounding touch, just like he’d done earlier when Ilya was telling him about some of the darkest things he’d kept hidden out of some misguided ploy to avoid vulnerability. It worked now, like it had then, and Ilya felt the seconds slow back into their normal pattern. He patted Shane’s hip twice in response and pouted a little about the fact that his pads were in the way of him touching actual skin. Shane just smiled and shook his head as he started to pull on his shoulder pads and jersey, nodding at Ilya in a silent direction to do the same.

Ilya stood and collected his pads from where he’d tossed them while sitting in Shane’s lap (which he still couldn’t quite explain why he’d done he couldn’t help but feel giddy over the fact that Shane hadn’t pushed him off, he’d simply settled in and let Ilya take whatever comfort he needed) and pulled them on before pulling on his jersey and grabbing his helmet.

“One more game,” Shane said, his voice easily cutting through the din of the locker room. He was much more subtle than Ilya, but no less effective. Ilya kind of hated that him moving to New York, to another competitive team where he’d be welcomed and taken care of, would mean that he’d lose the C. Shane was meant to be Captain and as much as Ilya called Scott old, he still had some good hockey left in him. It’d be a while before Shane would be offered that C again and Ilya wondered just how much that stung. “Let’s try and run that scoreboard up even higher, give the West no chance of coming back. Focus on control rather than speed. Speed does us no good if we’re losing the puck and leaving them with an open goal. Other than that, just have fun. Put on a show.”

That last bit was directed at Ilya and seemed like permission to be his most unconstrained self. Shane, of all people, knew what insanity he’d just unleashed but instead of taking it back, he simply smiled wider and Ilya had to actually bite his tongue to stop himself from saying those three little words out loud. Now really didn’t feel like the time.

* * *

The second game was so much more fun than the first. By the time the first half ended, Shane had a hat trick, Ilya had scored twice, and Scott once. The three of them were like a line coach’s wet dream; their passes sharp and plays almost textbook. Shane felt like he was flying as he cut across the ice to line up for the second half. He hadn’t had this much fun playing hockey in years and this, more than anything else, made him realize just how long he’d been at least half miserable in Montreal.

He’d thought that was just how hockey was, that the teasing and pressure were normal. But this was proof enough that it wasn’t. His teammates were other captains, other guys in charge of locker room culture and, sure, there was certainly bigotry, racism, and homophobia everywhere, but there were very few places where it was as pervasive and allowed as it was in Montreal’s locker room. There was only so much Shane could do as a Captain when the issue was so deeply rooted in the organization. He’d done what he could with the rookies he’d mentored, as evidenced by their silent support in the wake of Shane’s coming out, but he couldn’t change the entire beast.

He hated, just a little, how it felt like giving up to cut and run. But, at the same time, he was well aware that he wouldn’t survive in that environment for much longer. Hockey had started to feel less like something he loved, like something that defined his life because of the joy and exhilaration it brought, and more like an onerous task. He needed to get away, he needed to find somewhere that made hockey feel like this again.

Thirty seconds into the second half he caught a pass from Ilya and hit a perfect one-timer. He’d started his backswing before he’d even seen where the puck was going to land. It was as if his body just knew where Ilya would aim.

The puck smacked into the back of the net with a satisfying snap and Shane couldn’t help but grin as the goal light blazed red.

Ilya skated toward him and before he could think, Shane had thrown his arms around Ilya’s shoulders in a tight hug.

Ilya let out a bright laugh and hugged him back.

He pulled away after a second only to smack another exaggerated kiss to Shane’s cheek, “nice goal.”

“Nice assist,” Shane responded, clapping Ilya’s shoulder before turning toward the bench for a shift change.

He wanted to linger, he wanted to knock off their helmets and kiss Ilya full on the lips right there on the ice, but he held himself back. Everything that’d just happened existed well within the line of friendly. Everything that’d just happened was something Shane had done with Hayden or, really, any other teammate back in Montreal. Everything that’d just happened wasn’t something people would read into (well, except for that scary corner of the internet Scott had decided it necessary to tell him about before the game … Shane needed to ask Jackie if she’d heard of Shayden … he was certain she’d get a kick out of it). But if Shane let himself drift back into Ilya’s orbit, something distinctly not platonic was going to happen and that just wasn’t something they could afford right now.

* * *

They won the game.

Of course they won the game, their team was stacked. But they would’ve won the game even if only Shane had been on the ice which made Ilya want to march up to Montreal and tell every single member of that organization how fucking stupid they were for letting Shane goddamn Hollander go. He also wanted to look into a mirror and tell himself how goddamn stupid he’d been for even imagining a world in which he could let Shane goddamn Hollander go but thankfully Shane had been emotionally mature enough for both of them so that was no longer an issue.

The post-game press was full of good-natured teasing and Ilya was more than happy to make several quips about his new ideas for torturing his opponents all while watching Shane’s fondly amused smile out of the corner of his eye.

When the press finally let them go, Ilya trailed after Shane and Scott into the locker room, tossing an arm around each of their shoulders and hearing the telltale sign of shutters snapping behind them. That’d be a great picture; Scott Hunter, Ilya Rozanov, and Shane Hollander being friends. God, Ilya hated how much the media thought they knew about their lives.

Hockey was such an insular sport, these were just about the only people he saw all year, of course they were friendly with one another. It really shouldn’t have been so much of a shock that Shane and Ilya were friendly despite the way their ‘rivalry’ had been marketed. It really wasn’t uncommon for people from the same draft class to at least stay in touch, especially when – like Shane and Ilya – they’d known each other since Juniors.

They were changing the narrative, though, step by step. And eventually, when they finally reached that day where Shane and Ilya were both ready for the world to know the truth, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so shocking.

* * *

Hayden wasn’t even sort of surprised when Shane ducked out of the room after helping put the kids to bed.

He was really going down to the bar, but they were both well aware that he wouldn’t be staying there for long.

Shane smiled through conversations with guys he only knew from their stats and had no real desire to know in any personal way before he was finally pulled from his misery by the honestly frightening duo that was Carter Vaughan and J.J. Boiziau. Shane wasn’t sure when they’d become friends, but he was wondering if it might be worth it to invent time travel in order to go back and stop it.

He let himself relax into the insanity of the clearly embellished story the pair were telling about their team practice that morning until he saw Ilya make his way out of the room. He waited five more minutes before making his excuses and starting the process of leaving the room when all he really wanted was to Irish goodbye. Thankfully, most everyone was drunk enough that very few people stopped him on the way out and, if they did, it was simply to shake his hand or pat him on the back before turning back to whatever conversations they’d been having.

It was only a few minutes later, though it’d felt like hours, that he found himself at Ilya’s door for the second time that day.

The door swung open before he’d even been able to knock and Ilya was yanking him inside by the front of his shirt and into an almost desperate kiss before he’d even been able to open his mouth to say hello.

Instead of asking if Ilya had been watching through the peep hole, waiting for him to show up, Shane simply wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and melted into the kiss.

They’d kissed briefly earlier, a few chaste presses of their lips that served more as reassurance than anything else, but it’d been months since they’d kissed like this and the overwhelming heat of it felt like a missing piece was slotting back into Shane’s core.

Ilya pulled away only far enough to rest his forehead against Shane’s. He looked soft in the lamp light, softer than Shane was used to him being. He honestly looked almost nervous.

“What is it?” Shane asked, unwrapping his arms from Ilya’s neck in order to cup his face.

“I just,” Ilya started before pausing, his nose scrunching slightly before he let out a huff and closed his eyes, “I just want to sleep next to you, just hold you.”

“Can we shower first?” Shane asked, feeling the sticky, almost psychosomatic lingering touch of every person who’d clapped him on the back or shook his hand downstairs living on his skin like a layer of grime.

“Of course,” Ilya agreed easily, looking both fond and relieved.

Shane smiled and pressed one last soft kiss to Ilya’s lips before making his way into the bathroom. Ilya kept a hand on him the entire time they showered, not to start anything, not to escalate or arouse, simply to touch, to know that Shane was there.

Shane leaned into it, letting himself enjoy the soft touches he’d been depriving himself of for so long, letting himself drop gentle kisses across Ilya’s chest and shoulders simply because the skin was in reach and Shane wanted to kiss it.

Once they were both dry, Ilya tossed Shane a clean pair of his boxers, already knowing that Shane wouldn’t want to put the ones he’d been wearing back on, even if he’d only been wearing them for a couple of hours.

Shane smiled softly and pulled the boxers on before crawling into bed and opening his arms. Ilya’s smile was bright and warm and soft around the edges as he crawled in after Shane and wasted no time in falling into Shane’s arms, his head pillowed on Shane’s chest, an arm slung around Shane’s waist, and their legs tangled together.

Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, “goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya whispered back, tilting his head up to press a kiss to Shane’s lips before pressing a soft kiss to his chest and settling back down.

Shane waited until his breathing had evened out, until every line of stress had faded from his perfect face, before pressing one last kiss to his forehead and letting his own eyes drift shut.

Chapter 7: down on that icy ground

Chapter Notes

don’t mind me, just fucking with the timeline to meet the trade deadline

February 2017

It’d only been a week, and Ilya felt a little like he’d gone insane with the force of missing Shane.

They were on the rink for morning practice and he should’ve been focusing on his team, on their plays and strategy, or even just on properly aiming the puck at the net, but all he could focus on was the clock currently displayed on the scoreboard, counting the minutes until Montreal’s plane landed. It was a short enough flight that they’d practiced at their own rink for morning skate and would be going straight to the hotel from the airport rather than coming to the rink, which meant that Shane would be at Ilya’s house by the time he got home after his Captain’s meeting.

He’d be there, just waiting for Ilya to get home.

The simple domesticity of it was nearly enough to make Ilya black out.

All he wanted was Shane safe in his arms, all he wanted was to comfort Shane after a week spent surviving his teammate’s vitriol and his organization’s ire.

They’d called every single day since leaving Florida and it wasn’t enough; he wanted Shane directly by his side every minute of every day.

He knew he was being clingy; he wondered when it would become too much, when Shane might push him away, but in spite of Ilya’s self-deprecating thoughts, it didn’t seem like Shane was planning to. Shane seemed more than happy to keep Ilya close, to the point that he’d let Ilya sit on his lap in the middle of a locker room and he’d let Scott Hunter post a picture of it.

Ilya had spent far too long staring at those two pictures, zooming in to analyze the way Shane’s freckles bunched together when he scrunched his nose, looking at the way Shane’s eyes lit up when he smiled, memorizing the way Shane’s fingers curled around Ilya’s waist, his grip somehow both friendly and possessive. He’d also spent long enough reading the comments under the post to discover ship wars which, in a fit of insomnia and what might’ve been a psychotic break, had led him to creating a secret Twitter account tied to a new email and a fake phone number from some slightly sketchy app he’d found in the App Store.

He’d initially been planning to just use the account to scroll through fan posts without the risk of accidentally liking a tweet with his official, verified handle, but then he’d seen someone saying that Shane should so clearly be with Hayden and that anyone who shipped ‘Hollanov’ was insane and, really, no one could blame him for starting a fight over that immediately.

Ilya needed to make sure Shane never found out about that account because he would never let him live it down.

Apart from the Twitter insanity, Ilya had also nearly made the cheek kiss his lock screen but had eventually talked himself down to one from their final All Stars game that had himself, Shane, and Scott hugging in celebration. He’d gotten pretty good at pretending Scott wasn’t there every time he looked at it.

Christ, he needed this practice to end.

* * *

Ilya got home an hour later to find Shane asleep on his couch. He was apparently exhausted enough that he didn’t even stir until Ilya laid down directly on top of him.

Seemingly on instinct, Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and arched his back enough for Ilya to wrap his own arms around Shane’s waist.

“Hello,” Ilya said, his voice muffled against Shane’s neck.

“Hi, baby,” Shane breathed out, turning his head to press a kiss to Ilya’s temple, his voice thick with sleep in a way that made Ilya fall in love all over again. He still hadn’t said it out loud, but that voice alone made him want to. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Ilya responded, pressing his lips to Shane’s pulse point before tilting his head up enough to give him a proper kiss and then settling back down.

He wanted to live here, safe in Shane’s arms with Shane feeling safe under his weight; it was like they could protect each other from the world so long as they stayed like this, pressed together from head to toe, breath mingling in the miniscule space between them, close enough to press soft kisses to whatever skin was in reach.

“It’s going to be weird playing against you now,” Shane said, grumbling slightly as his hold on Ilya tightened. “I liked playing with you better.”

“I like both,” Ilya decided after a moment. He’d loved playing with Shane, sure, he’d loved getting to celebrate goals and assists without having to hide his pride, but he loved the competition, he loved playing against someone who could actually keep up, could actually challenge him. It was so rare, to find someone who could match him step for step, but he’d found that in Shane.

“Yeah,” Shane said after a moment, his voice breaking slightly on a yawn. He pressed his nose into the hair above Ilya’s ear and looked to be about 30 seconds away from falling back asleep.

“When do you have to go?” Ilya asked softly, not wanting to disturb the peace they’d built.

“Need to be back by three,” Shane answered, “so we have a couple of hours.”

“Sleep, then, lyubimiy, I will wake you.”

“You’ll stay here?” Shane asked, his hold on Ilya tightening even further, as if he could even imagine a world in which Ilya would leave.

“Of course,” Ilya soothed, untangling them only enough to grab a blanket before laying back down and tugging Shane closer until his head was tucked below Ilya’s chin and he was ensconced entirely by the soft blanket and Ilya’s arms. He rested one of his hands on the back of Shane’s head, tangling his fingers into soft black hair, and felt Shane go boneless in his hold. Less than a minute later he was asleep again and, somehow, it felt like an incredible show of trust, like Shane felt safe enough in Ilya’s arms to sleep peacefully even as his world continued to crash down around him.

Ilya couldn’t help it, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a quick selfie, angling it so his own face wasn’t visible and then adding it to his ‘boring’ folder and using every ounce of self-restraint he possessed to stop himself from sending it to everyone he knew, posting it on his main Instagram feed, and emailing it to every major news outlet simply to tell the world that Shane Hollander was his.

Shane was beautiful like this, soft with sleep and nearly glowing in the afternoon sun. The possessive beast that lived in Ilya’s chest wanted to show the world, but an even more overwhelming part of him just wanted to keep this all to himself; wanted to remember that he was the only one who got to see Shane like this.

He pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead, set an alarm to wake them up in an hour, and then let himself follow Shane into peaceful sleep.

* * *

Scott knew he should be paying attention to Kip right now, but something in him, some base instinct, had told him he needed to watch the Boston v. Montreal game.

The Admirals had played at home that night with the 7:00 puck drop but the Boston and Montreal game hadn’t started until 7:30, so Scott’s game and press had been over with just enough time for him to pull up the live stream of the game in the car on the way back to his apartment. They were a little over halfway through the third period, 7:58 left on the clock, and Kip had taken one look at the concerned pinch to Scott’s brow and had simply gone quiet, letting him do what he needed to do. Scott would thank him just as soon as he figured out why his instincts were screaming at him to pay attention.

He felt it before it even happened.

Shane and Ilya were against the boards, in a clean battle for the puck, even matched in a way only they could be. Shane pulled away after a few seconds, finally beating Ilya, and took off down the ice with Ilya hot on his heels.

Marlow came out of nowhere, blindsiding Shane entirely.

Scott sucked in a breath in the moment before the hit landed, just knowing what was coming.

His heart was in his throat, he could feel his pulse in his teeth, he felt almost like it was happening to him as Shane slammed into the boards, the impact audible even through the tinny quality of Scott’s phone speakers.

His shoulder hit first but didn’t absorb enough impact and his head followed right behind.

“Fuck,” Scott breathed out.

They played in Boston tomorrow, the 8:00 start. If he left now, he could be there in five hours, and he’d have the whole day to sit by Shane’s bedside and make sure he was okay. Visiting hours would be over but he could sit in the waiting room until someone let him in to see Shane, he could go to Rozanov’s house and stop him from blowing their cover entirely. He could do something if he just left New York now.

His thoughts were derailed when the broadcast switched to a close up of Ilya’s face.

He looked shattered, like the very ground beneath his feet had been torn away.

The talking heads were saying something about how even Rozanov doesn’t want to see an opponent injured and Scott nearly laughed out loud. If only they knew. If only they knew just how little Rozanov wanted to see this specific opponent hurt, if only they knew the lengths Rozanov would go to in order to keep this specific opponent safe.

Before he could even question it, Scott was calling his coach.

Murdock picked up on the second ring, “did you see that?” he asked before Scott even had a chance to say hello.

“One of us needs to be there,” Scott said, answering the question without actually answering it, “I don’t trust the Voyageurs to be there for him, and Shane’s parents wouldn’t have travelled with and there are storms up north, so they probably won’t be able to get there as quickly as they’d like.”

“I’m sure Pike’ll stay with him until the last possible minute but they’re in Jersey tomorrow and he’s the Alternate so he’ll have to travel with the team.”

“He’s friends with Roz and I’m sure he’ll be there, but I doubt they’ll let him in outside of visiting hours,” Scott said, hating just a little that the public still believed they were the ultimate rivals. It’d only been a week since the All Star game, a week since they’d started acting like friends in public, so it really wasn’t that much of a shock. But the players had adjusted quickly, most everyone Scott had spoken to wasn’t even surprised. It was normal for players from the same draft class to stay in touch and when you’d been rocketed to stardom like those two had, it made sense to befriend the only other person who could understand the insanity. “Boston flies to Nashville Sunday morning to start a roadie so he won’t be able to stay.”

Murdock took an audible breath, clearly sorting through several plans and trying to figure out which would be best while also figuring out which would look the least like trade interference.

Scott hated to think it, but if Shane was injured enough, if he were going to be out for more than a week or two, this would be the perfect opportunity for Montreal to release his contract. Scott knew full well that while Shane sat in a hospital bed, injured and probably scared out of his mind, team management would be using the time to decide his future as if he were a commodity rather than a person.

“Go home and pack your bags,” Murdock said eventually, his words drawn out as if he were picking each one with purpose. “Normal hospital visiting hours start at 9, generally. You and Hollzy are friendly, that’s well known. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for you to show up to Boston early to check in on a friend and fellow Captain. I just mapped it, if we leave at 5:30, we’ll get to Mass General by 9:00. Get a couple hours of sleep, I’ll be outside your building at 5:15.”

“You’re serious?” Scott couldn’t help but ask, feeling oddly relieved that he wasn’t being left alone in his panic. He wanted to leave now, he wanted to be there to do what he could to hold Ilya together because, despite all odds, he’d become quite fond of the guy, but he understood the merits of waiting, of not driving like a bat out of hell in the middle of the night while in a state of raw panic.

“I’m serious,” Murdock responded. “The rest of the team can travel like normal, we’ll meet them at the rink after you check on Hollander. I can’t go in, it’ll look bad alongside the buzz that he waived his no trade, and it’ll look worse when Montreal inevitably releases his contract in the next couple of days. The kid needs friends, Scotty. I don’t know if he told you why he’s leaving, but management told me and let me just tell you, I hadn’t realized people could be so goddamn stupid. He’s a grown man, he doesn’t need protection, but he does need friends, so I hope I’m right in my assumptions about you, I hope you’ll be his friend even when you know the truth.”

“I can nearly guarantee I know more of the truth than you do,” Scott said, huffing out a laugh even as he felt his chest expand with the knowledge that his coach, a man he hadn’t had the courage to come out to even though he knew he’d need to if he wanted a future with Kip, was still protecting Shane. “I know the truth, all of it, and I’m still his friend.”

Murdock paused for a moment, clearly mulling over Scott’s words, before he said, so quietly it was hardly audible over the crackle of the shoddy cell service they got in MSG where he had to assume Murdock was still hiding out, “you’ll check on Rozanov?”

Scott paused, genuinely shocked that Murdock had clocked what the rest of the truth Scott knew might be, but Murdock didn’t sound shocked, he didn’t sound disgusted. He’d clearly guessed, and he was still talking about taking on Shane’s contract, he was still talking about leaving before the sun rose just to drive up and let Scott check on him in person, so Scott answered, “I’ll check on Rozanov.”

“Good,” Murdock breathed out. He sounded burdened and Scott didn’t envy the choices and meetings he’d be faced with in the coming days. Even if New York was Shane’s top choice, they still had to wait for Montreal to release him, they still had to come up with a media spin, they still had to coordinate with agents and the League and, through all of that, they had to keep Shane’s secret because letting the truth get out while he was stuck in a hospital, likely hopped up on pain killers, would be just about the shittiest thing any of them could do.

“I’ll see you at 5:15,” Scott said after a moment. Kip was looking at him in clear concern, and he could see his building coming into view out the window, he needed to wrap this call up and give himself a moment to actually process. “Thank you, Coach.”

“See you then, Scotty,” Murdock said and Scott listened as the line clicked, signaling the end of the call.

He held his phone up for another moment, just forcing himself to breathe, and then he turned it off and let his head thump back against the seat rest. His throat felt tight and his eyes felt warm and the panic that’d ebbed in the face of Murdock’s steady voice was clawing its way back into his chest.

“What happened?” Kip asked gently, his hand landing on Scott’s knee and squeezing once, his grip warm and grounding and Scott wondered again what he’d done to deserve someone so wonderful.

“Shane got hurt,” Scott said, his voice sounding rough and choked in the way it only did when he was moments away from breaking down. “Bad, he was unconscious on the ice, hit his head against the boards hard enough that his helmet came off.”

“Oh my god,” Kip whispered, his grip on Scott’s knee tightening.

They pulled up in front of Scott’s building before he could respond and he climbed out, grabbing his bag and thanking the driver before making his way inside.

He didn’t speak again until they were behind the closed door of Scott’s apartment.

He dropped his bag and just stared out the window for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts before he turned back toward Kip.

“Harv and I are going to drive up in the morning, check on him. This’ll probably be enough for Montreal to release him, so I hope you’re ready to make a new friend. I haven’t had the chance to tell him about you yet, but he knows about me. He’ll be excited to meet you and I’m excited to introduce you to someone from my world.”

It wasn’t really the most pressing issue at the moment, Shane meeting Kip, but for some reason the thought had burrowed into Scott’s head, and he couldn’t get it to leave. He was one of the few people who knew about Shane and Ilya, and it felt right for Shane to be one of the few people who knew about Scott and Kip. He wanted Shane to see this side of Scott, the domestic side, the soft side. Scott wanted Shane to feel comfortable in his home, he wanted Shane to have a friend in the city who wasn’t contractually obligated to see him every day for practice.

He wanted Kip to know that Scott didn’t want to keep him hidden, that he was simply doing it to keep him safe. He wanted Kip to have someone in the hockey world outside of Scott who was safe for him to know, safe for him to talk to.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Kip said gently, pulling Scott into a hug that he fell into like his strings had been cut. He tucked his head against Kip’s shoulder and wrapped his arms as tight as he could around his waist. “I’m sure he’s great, especially if you like him so much. Let’s pack and then you need to get some sleep. You won’t be any use to anyone if you’re exhausted.”

“Okay,” Scott agreed, his voice muffled against Kip’s neck. He was certain that if the circumstances were any different, if Shane weren’t injured, if he weren’t worried about how Ilya was reacting, he would be panicking about the mere thought of introducing Kip to anyone from the hockey world. But, as it were, he simply felt relief.

Scott waited until he’d showered and packed his bag to pull his phone back out. He paused only a moment when he saw the clock had ticked past midnight but then decided there was no way Ilya was asleep and toggled over to his contacts.

Ilya answered on the second ring, his voice sounding broken and almost childish as he said, “Hunter?”

“Roz, hey,” Scott breathed out, overwhelmingly relieved to hear Ilya’s voice. At some point, much much later, Scott might grumble about how easily the giant Russian asshole had weaseled his way into his heart. “How are you?”

“I don’t -” Ilya started before cutting himself off. He drew in a ragged breath that seemed to echo through the space between their phones and Scott had never had a more visceral urge to give someone a hug. “He was awake, before he left ice,” Ilya said, his English getting choppier and his accent thicker as he started to lose whatever tentative hold he might’ve had on his emotions. “Said my name, but I … I could not go with. Christ, Hunter,” he said, his voice cracking on the second syllable of Scott’s name. A mere week ago, Scott never could’ve imagined a world in which Ilya Rozanov had emotions, let alone let anyone see them. But it wasn’t a week ago, it was now, and Scott was among a select few who knew how much Ilya cared for Shane and Shane was hurt, badly enough that he hadn’t been able to walk off the ice himself. “Pike texted, he is stable, I can visit in morning, but I want to go now.”

“I know,” Scott said, trying his best to be soothing even as he felt his own heart breaking, “I know you do, man, I do too. Coach Murdock and I are driving up in the morning to see him. Do you want us to come get you? Give you a ride?”

Ilya paused to think about that for a moment, seemingly actually considering the offer before he blew out a breath and said, “no, thank you. I will go early, Pike is there. He promised to get me on approved list when he could, I might not have to wait for visiting hours.”

“You need to get some sleep, Roz,” Scott said gently. “Just a couple of hours.”

“My father died,” Ilya said, out of nowhere, like he’d just remembered, like the thought had hit him and he couldn’t help but spit it out.

Scott didn’t know what to say.

Ilya continued talking before Scott could come up with a response, “my brother, left me voicemail, saying father is dead. I found it after game. I have to go back to Russia, I have to plan funeral and pay for everything and be perfect son, but I do not want to, I want to stay here, with Shane.”

“Ilya,” Scott said, the name more a breath than a word. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was sick,” Ilya said, clearly trying to brush it off. Scott couldn’t imagine the absolute emotional overload Ilya was suffering through right now.

“So was my mother,” Scott responded, “doesn’t make it easier.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said after a moment. His voice sounded genuine, like a few simple words from Scott had been enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone. Scott wished he could say more, wished he could explain the lifelong process of grief, wished he could put it into words in a way that might make Ilya feel better, but he was too tired, too strung out. “I will sleep,” Ilya promised. “Shane slept on my couch this morning, still smells like him, maybe will help.”

Scott wasn’t so sure it would, but he kept his mouth shut.

* * *

Ilya didn’t sleep.

He’d told Scott he would, but sleep wouldn’t come.

He stayed on the couch, his face pressed into the cushion just for the barest hint of Shane’s smell, the sensory reminder of Shane’s warmth, and stared at the picture he’d taken just that morning.

Shane safely asleep in Ilya’s arms, his freckles standing out against the winter afternoon light, his hair soft and silky and tangled up in Ilya’s fingers, his face peaceful and relaxed and so damn beautiful.

He didn’t think about his father, didn’t think about the fact that he would have to go home, would have to pretend that the place still felt like home when home had long since become Shane Hollander.

He just laid there in silence, staring at Shane’s sleeping face, trying not to count the minutes until morning.

Pike had said he could call at any point, but Ilya didn’t want to feel like a burden.

He didn’t want to feel like he was begging Pike for information, he wanted to be there, by Shane’s side, holding his hand.

A concussion and a broken collar bone, out for 4-6 weeks. It would’ve been longer, but Shane had somehow tucked his shoulder between the hit and the impact, just enough that he’d hit the boards with his shoulder blade rather than his upper arm. He’d moved just enough to allow the force to hit a wider surface area meaning the impact had only slightly fractured his collar bone when it easily could’ve shattered it.

The concussion was bad, but not as bad as it could’ve been.

Pike had said that one of the nurses mentioned she thought he might’ve actually passed out from the pain rather than because he’d hit his head hard enough to lose consciousness. It wasn’t for certain, but just the guess had been enough to calm Pike down which had been enough to calm Ilya down, if only slightly.

But Shane was still out for at least a month, in March.

It was enough that Pike was almost certain Montreal would release his contract and Ilya didn’t know whether to be pissed or pleased.

He hated that the team Shane had given some of his best years of hockey to, the team he’d won two Cups for, was leaving him in the dust. But, at the same time, he wanted Shane to be somewhere he was appreciated.

Really, all Ilya wanted was Shane.

He should be here right now, tucked safely in Ilya’s arms. They should be here together, living in their shared peace and pretending the world outside didn’t exist. Instead, Shane was in the hospital and Ilya was on his couch trying not to think about the fact that the man he loves is hurt and that his father is dead.

He also didn’t want to think about the fact that the only person who knew his father was dead was Scott goddamn Hunter.

He hadn’t even told Svetlana yet, but when Scott had called, when he’d been so gentle and caring and had done what he could to make it seem like everything would be fine without actually saying the words in that placating way that most everyone said them, Ilya’s mouth had made the decision for him before his brain could catch up.

Scott had made him feel less alone and Scott had told him to sleep; the least Ilya could do was try.

He turned on his ringer and made sure Pike’s number would make it through any automatic Do Not Disturb, then he set an alarm for 6:00 and pulled the blanket he and Shane had been using up until he was cocooned in it and let the warmth and the lingering scent of Shane lull him into a few short hours of restless sleep.

Chapter 8: broken and blue

February 2017

Ilya woke up to his phone vibrating once, the sound followed quickly by his ring tone.

He blinked his eyes open just as the text notification from Scott telling him he and his coach were on their way to Boston disappeared and then he focused on the reason his phone was ringing.

He saw Pike’s name and immediately swiped his thumb across the screen to answer, “Pike?’

“Hey, Rozanov,” Pike said. He sounded exhausted but steadier than he had the night before which was enough to slow the frantic beating of Ilya’s heart. “I made friends with the night shift nurse, she’ll help me sneak you in before visiting hours start and then she’ll sign you in as a visitor at shift change so come whenever and just text me when you’re in the parking lot and I’ll come get you, alright?”

“Thank you,” Ilya breathed out, not caring how rough his voice sounded, not caring how weak he must sound to Pike. None of that mattered right now. It might’ve mattered if he lived in a world where Pike didn’t know the truth, where Shane hadn’t been brave enough for both of them and forced them to admit that this was something real. But it didn’t matter now. “Scott Hunter is on his way,” Ilya added, having forgotten to text Pike to tell him that the night before. “He will probably wait for visiting hours, though, in case media shows up.”

“Security has kept media out of the hospital, but they might be outside,” Pike warned him, “just try not to draw attention to yourself. It’d be hard to explain why Shane’s pal Ilya Rozanov was invested enough to break hospital rules to show up at 5:30 in the morning.”

“Right,” Ilya said, nodding to himself. “I will shower and then come. Thank you, Pike.”

“You’re welcome,” Pike said easily. “He’s asleep again now but he woke up a half hour ago and asked about you. I waited to tell you until I knew whether or not I’d be able to get you in. He’ll be excited to see you.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Ilya promised and hung up the phone before Pike could say anything else that might cause him to have a breakdown.

Christ, he hoped Shane was at least sort of coherent when he woke up. Ilya didn’t want to hide it from him that his father had died, and he needed to call his coach to get out of the game against New York that night and get out of the next week of road games. He needed to book a flight back to Russia and figure out his packing list and start researching funeral homes and make sure there was still a plot in the graveyard next to his mother. These were all things that needed to happen today, but he had no plans of leaving Shane’s side, so Shane would need to know.

And Shane, his perfect Shane, would want to help, no matter what state he was in, so it’d make Ilya’s life a whole lot easier if he was coherent enough to string a sentence together.

Ilya dragged himself off the couch and into the bathroom. He forced himself to properly shower instead of just rinsing off, he used the soap he knew Shane loved the smell of and properly conditioned his hair so he wouldn’t look like he’d wandered through a wind tunnel. When he got out he brushed his teeth for the full two minutes with Shane’s voice muttering about proper dental hygiene echoing through his head. He pulled on a pair of jeans that were worn in enough to be soft but not ratty and then, after a moment’s consideration, selected an old Team Russia t-shirt that’d seen better days and pulled on a plain black Nike crewneck to cover up the worn shirt. He put on socks even though his brain was screaming at him to just shove his bare feet into sneakers and run out the door and then took the time to actually tie his shoes before putting on his winter jacket and grabbing the keys to his least showy car.

Pike had said not to draw attention.

Arriving in a bright orange Porsche and sprinting into the hospital looking frazzled would absolutely draw attention.

Arriving in a black, far more practical car wearing jeans and a sweater and walking like he still had a handle on his emotions was far less conspicuous.

He made the drive to Mass General in silence. He parked his car in the parking garage designated for short-term visitors, made sure his keys and wallet were in his pockets, and then texted Pike that he’d arrived before walking down the street and making his way into the building through the main entrance.

The lobby was oddly quiet, just a janitor and a pair of security guards who simply nodded in Ilya’s direction as he walked in.

Pike’s head appeared around the corner a moment later and Ilya followed behind him, neither of them speaking as they walked a twisting path through half lit hallways and doors to stairwells that’d been propped open in direct contradiction of the posted signage.

Eventually, they came to a stop outside a private room somewhere near the Emergency Department where a nurse was standing guard. She smiled at Hayden and winked at Ilya before pushing the door open wide enough for them to slip in and then pulling the door shut behind them.

Ilya felt his world tilt on its axis as he laid eyes on Shane.

His face was bruised on the right side from the impact, the bluish tinge spreading beneath his freckles from his temple to the bridge of his nose. His right arm was in a sling, and he looked so small in that hospital bed; not small in the way he looked small in Ilya’s arms, but small in the sense that he seemed young, fragile, delicate. Ilya wanted to wrap him up and protect him from the world but, at the same time, he was afraid to touch in case he pressed somewhere it hurt.

He felt frozen in place, almost paralyzed with the lingering fear from the moment he’d watched Shane hit the ice and the complete confusion over how to proceed.

Shane stirred slightly and Ilya’s brain was screaming at him to step forward, to stroke his hair and try to soothe him, but his feet felt stuck, like they’d been sunk in concrete and left to fossilize.

And then Shane’s eyes blinked open and Ilya stopped breathing.

Shane blinked once, twice, like he was trying to clear his vision, and then eyes landed on Ilya and his whole face lit up. His eyes went soft and his nose scrunched up with the force of his smile and his voice when he said, “Ilya,” was just about the sweetest thing Ilya had ever heard.

He felt tears well in his eyes and, somehow, still didn’t know how to move but then Shane held his left hand out and repeated, “Ilya,” and time finally started moving again.

Ilya crossed the room in three quick strides and wrapped Shane’s hand in both of his, his eyes darting across Shane’s face, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort.

“Ilya, baby, you’ve got to breathe,” Shane said, his voice rough from disuse and honey thick with sleep.

It was only then that Ilya realized; even though time had started moving, his lungs hadn’t started working.

He kept his eyes locked on Shane’s and forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose. On the exhale, he couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. He felt them slipping down his face, carving warm paths in his skin, and hated that there had ever been a time where he’d feared that Shane would shun him for showing emotion.

Shane’s face went even softer and he tugged on Ilya’s hand until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Ilya watched Shane’s lips press together lightly in concentration as he moved himself just enough to be pressed against the right railing of the bed. Ilya wanted to stop him, to tell him not to hurt himself, but Shane had done it too quickly for Ilya to react and then Shane was patting the spot on the bed next to him and Ilya found himself tossing his jacket onto a chair, kicking off his shoes because he knew Shane wouldn’t want shoes in his bed even in the hospital, and somehow folding all 6 feet and 200 pounds of himself into the narrow space at Shane’s left.

He laid on his side and pressed his face against Shane’s neck as he tucked his right arm against his own chest and wrapped his left around Shane’s waist and just let the tears fall.

Shane rested his head against Ilya’s and simply let him cry his silent tears as he started speaking softly with Pike, somehow just knowing that all Ilya needed right now was Shane, knowing that asking questions and expecting answers would send Ilya over an edge he wasn’t sure he’d be able to crawl back up.

* * *

“You alright?” Hayden asked, pulling a chair over to the right side of Shane’s bed and pillowing his head on his arms where they were crossed on top of the sheet by Shane’s right hip.

He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes were darker than Shane had seen them since Arthur stopped teething, but he was still here. They’d sent J.J. back to the hotel because they couldn’t have the C and both As hiding out at Mass General when the team was getting ready to travel, but he’d only agreed to go back on the condition that Shane let Hayden stay behind.

“Yeah,” Shane answered honestly. His head hurt but it was less fuzzy now that the pain meds had started to wear off and it wasn’t pounding with the lights dimmed and the shades drawn. He was grateful his collar bone was only fractured. They hadn’t had to reset it meaning he wasn’t hopped beyond belief on pain meds. He hated the way they made his mind slip, hated the way they made his thoughts refuse to find any real order. “I honestly think the bruise on the back of my shoulder hurts worse than the collar bone.”

“You want ice?”

“Not right now, maybe in a bit.”

“Alright,” Hayden agreed easily, his eyes staying closed for longer every time he blinked.

Shane twisted his torso as much as he could without jostling his shoulder and without dislodging Ilya so he could rest his left hand on top of Hayden’s head for at least a second, “sleep, Hayd. I’ll be alright. Your new nurse friend is standing guard, and I’ve got both of you here with me.”

Hayden pressed his head up against Shane’s palm for a moment, like a cat seeking attention, before he slumped back down and pressed his head gently against Shane’s hip, “okay,” he agreed, “wake me up if you need me.”

“I will,” Shane promised as he settled back against the bed. He watched Hayden’s eyes slip closed and waited until his breath had evened out before turning his head and pressing a kiss to Ilya’s temple, the only place he could reach from this angle, “thank you for coming.”

“I wanted to come last night,” Ilya said, his voice cracking.

“I know,” Shane said softly, leaning his head a little more against Ilya’s, hoping that little extra pressure might soothe him.

Ilya tucked himself somehow closer to Shane, his nose pressed against Shane’s jaw. His curls were still damp from the shower he must’ve taken after Hayden called to tell him he could come, he smelled like the soap Shane had told him he liked the smell of; it was subtle, not the strong scent of the sports 3-in-1 they all used in the locker room or the overly perfumed soaps some guys thought were a good choice, it smelled clean, like fresh air and honey and maybe something like pine. It made Shane think of summer nights at the cottage and the sort of warmth only Ilya’s presence could bring. He’d taken his shoes off before getting into bed because he knew Shane would complain. He was soft and cozy and warm and so stupidly perfect Shane felt a little like his heart was going to burst.

“My father died,” Ilya said so quietly Shane wouldn’t have been able to hear him if Ilya hadn’t been speaking directly into his skin. “I think during game, Alexei called and left voicemail. I have to go back to Russia for funeral, but I do not want to leave you.”

“I’d offer to come with, but I’m not supposed to fly,” Shane said, knowing that wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t go with Ilya but giving them both the chance to pretend that it was; to pretend that post-concussion travel restrictions were the only reason he couldn’t be there for Ilya. “I’ll be here until my parents get here to sign me out and then we’ll drive back to Ottawa. I won’t be alone, now we just have to figure out how to make sure you’re not alone.”

Ilya paused a moment, pressing a kiss to Shane’s jaw before snuggling down and resting his forehead against Shane’s neck, “Sveta would come with me if I asked.”

“Then ask,” Shane said gently, moving his left hand until it was resting on the inside of Ilya’s thigh and squeezing softly. “You shouldn’t be alone, you deserve to have someone who’s there just for you.”

“When will your parents come?”

“I don’t know,” Shane answered honestly. He could remember snippets of conversations between Hayden and his parents the night before, but he wasn’t sure anyone had ever reached a real answer. Several flights had been grounded throughout the Northeast, and then the doctor had said it wasn’t a good plan for him to fly and his parents had switched to planning a drive, but it wasn’t just flight paths that’d been disrupted by snow, it was roads as well. “It’ll probably be another day.”

“Would you come home with me if I signed you out today?” Ilya asked, his voice soft and so full of nerves Shane sort of wanted to cry. “So you do not have to wait here?”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t you have a game tonight?”

“I’m not playing,” Ilya said, shaking his head slightly. “Family emergency, two of them.”

Shane really tried not to cry at the simple way Ilya had just called him family, but he was tired and in pain and his nerves felt frayed, so the tears slipped out anyways. He pressed his nose against the top of Ilya’s head and tried to just breathe in the comforting scent of his conditioner and the underlying smell of Ilya until he felt like he was standing on even ground again.

“Okay,” he whispered, “sleep now and when Hayden’s nurse friend whose name I absolutely cannot remember comes in during shift change we’ll wake up and start making plans. We’ll call your coach and get your flight booked and start a packing list, alright? But, for now, just sleep.”

Ilya nodded again and pulled away from Shane just enough to kiss his unbruised cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips and then settling back down. Shane turned his head to kiss Ilya’s forehead and then rested back against the pillows.

Ilya was tucked against his side and Hayden was pressed against his hip and it was quiet except for the soft sounds of three people breathing and the steady beeping of one of the monitors Shane was attached to and after the fear of waking up disoriented and the emotional turmoil of watching Ilya’s obvious panic and the news of his father without knowing how to fix either, Shane was exhausted. He focused on the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest against the outside of his left arm and, within a few short minutes, he was fast asleep.

* * *

Scott left a note on the counter for Kip to tell him he’d left and to thank him for being there for him the night prior as well as a reminder that he was welcome to stay in the apartment while Scott was on the road and, after a moment’s thought, he doodled a little heart and then picked up his bags and headed down to the lobby.

Murdock was already parked outside when Scott made his way downstairs, so Scott tossed his bags into the trunk and then climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV.

“Here,” Murdock said, handing over an Admirals branded travel mug, “the wife made coffee, I couldn’t remember how you took it, but she insisted you liked cream and sugar, so I hope that’s right.”

“Of course she knows that,” Scott said, huffing out a fond laugh. “I’d bet she knows the entire team’s coffee orders.”

“I’m sure she does,” Murdock said, a fond smile on his face as he connected his phone to CarPlay and plugged in the directions for Mass General. It’d take them 3 hours and 20 minutes if they didn’t hit any traffic and Scott sent a brief plea to the universe to keep their route clear.

He fell asleep before they’d even reached Norwalk and only woke up when they stopped for gas shortly after crossing the Massachusetts border.

“Do you want me to drive?” Scott asked, climbing out of the car to stretch his legs while Murdock filled the tank.

“Nah,” Murdock said after a moment, he was staring out at the rising sun like it’d offer answers and Scott decided not to comment on how odd it was to see his usually rather gruff coach looking so introspective. “I like driving, gives me time to think.”

“Okay,” Scott agreed easily, “I’ll at least try to stay awake for the rest.”

Murdock shook his head and shot Scott a distinctly fond smile, “alright, Scotty.”

They didn’t talk during that final stretch. They simply sat in companionable silence and listened to whatever eclectic playlist the car had selected from Murdock’s Spotify.

Scott thought about texting Ilya again, just to make sure he didn’t want a ride, but he decided against it. Scott’s message had been marked as read but Ilya hadn’t responded and Scott had to assume that meant he was already awake and on his way to the hospital where Hayden Pike had more than likely charmed some nurse into letting him sneak Ilya in before visiting hours started.

It was quiet and nice and Scott had started to settle into the brief moment of peace before they reached the hospital and he had to face whatever state Shane might be in and then Murdock opened his mouth and the peace shattered in the way it only could when Ilya Rozanov was involved.

“You know,” Murdock started, his gaze locked on the stretch of road in front of them, his casual tone not even sort of hinting at the insanity he was about to spew, “until I saw the clip of Rozanov reacting to Hollander going down, I’d been betting you and Rozanov were together.”

The water Scott had been drinking came up through his nose and he, for the barest moment, genuinely wondered whether or not his coach had been replaced by an alien.

“Explain,” Scott choked out, so beyond bewildered that he felt like he’d accidentally slipped into a parallel universe.

Murdock just shrugged, the corner of his lip tugging into a grin he was clearly trying to suppress, “there’s just no other player that can get under your skin like Roz can.”

“I’ve never even fought Roz,” Scott argued.

“But you’ve fought Hollzy.”

“I’ve been shoved by Hollzy, that wasn’t a real fight. Also, that was entirely my fault. We talked it out. All’s well now.”

“So, you’re not dating, nor have you ever dated, Roz or Hollzy?”

“No,” Scott said, putting as much emphasis into the single syllable as he could. And then he caught the expression on his coach’s face. It was almost soft; he was giving Scott an opening. “I do have a boyfriend, though. His name’s Kip.”

“Is he good to you?” Murdock asked.

“The best,” Scott answered easily and immediately.

“Good,” Murdock said, nodding his head once as if that were all he needed to know, “thank Christ it’s not Rozanov, I don’t think I could handle that circus.”

“You do realize you’re about to pick up Hollander’s contract, right?”

“I have a feeling he’s less of a circus where Hollzy’s concerned.”

Scott had to give him that. It wasn’t just the fact that Ilya clearly respected Shane enough to listen when he asked him to stop screwing around, it was that he trusted Shane enough to stop putting on a show. He was still a total ass, to be sure, but he was also genuine and earnest and could clearly separate his on-ice personality from the way he interacted with the world in a way he normally didn’t.

“We’ll be there in about 15,” Murdock said after Scott had fallen silent. “We’ll be there before 9, maybe text Pike now if you want to be snuck up before visiting hours start instead of waiting.”

Scott considered waiting, just in case media was there to capture him getting pulled into some dark hallway by Hayden Pike, but then he thought about how desperate he was to see that Shane was okay with his own two eyes and pulled out his phone.

By the time they pulled into the parking garage down the street from the main entrance, Scott had a list of detailed directions from Pike including an instruction to come in quietly because he was going back to sleep and if Scott woke him up, he’d find the nearest scalpel and stab him with it.

Scott had never really viewed Hayden Pike as a threat before, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to test it out.

Once the car was in park, Scott confirmed with Murdock that he was good to wait here and then pulled on a plain sweatshirt, one that wasn’t covered in Admirals branding, and made his way down the street.

The lobby was still pretty quiet, with a half hour to go until visiting hours started, and Scott easily followed Hayden’s instructions until he found the nurse he’d described who quickly confirmed that he was, in fact, Scott Hunter and then quietly let him into a private room.

The lights were dimmed and the curtains were drawn but there was enough light to see a scene that might’ve just been in the top five cutest things Scott had ever witnessed.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of all three of them before taking a step closer and taking one without Hayden in the frame.

Shane and Ilya were both somehow tucked into the bed with Ilya wrapped around Shane like he had no plans of ever letting go and Hayden was passed out with his head pillowed on his arms against Shane’s hip, one of his hands wrapped up in the fabric of Shane’s hospital gown like he was subconsciously afraid his best friend might disappear while he was asleep.

Scott settled in the chair next to Hayden as quietly as he could, really not wanting to risk being stabbed with a stray scalpel and simply watched Shane sleep.

His face was lax and peaceful, not pinched with pain. There was a pretty intense bruise spreading across his right cheek and his arm was in a sling, but it didn’t look like he’d needed any stitches and the only bag hanging from his IV was saline, so he probably wasn’t on any intense pain meds and Scott felt himself start to actually calm down for the first time since he’d gotten off the ice the night prior.

Ilya’s eyes blinked open first and they landed on Scott almost immediately. He cracked a half smile before tipping his head up to press a kiss to Shane’s jaw, the movement was enough to make Shane stir. His nose scrunched up as he yawned and Scott couldn’t help but compare him to a kitten.

“G’morning, baby,” Shane mumbled, turning just enough to kiss the top of Ilya’s head. His eyes were still closed, and he clearly hadn’t realized Scott was in the room. If it were any other day, Scott probably would’ve taken the chance to make fun of the blush spreading across Ilya’s cheeks, but the man’s boyfriend (?) was in the hospital and his father had just died so Scott decided to give him a break.

“Dobroye utro, lyubov’ moya,” Ilya responded, pressing another kiss to Shane’s jaw and ignoring Scott entirely.

“Duolingo just taught me that one,” Shane said, a smile spreading across his face even as his eyes stayed closed.

“Ah, you are learning Russian now?” Ilya asked and Scott was seriously starting to feel like he was intruding.

“I’m really bad at it,” Shane muttered, apparently disappointed that he hadn’t somehow just mastered the Russian language on his first try.

“You will get better,” Ilya said gently as he disentangled himself from Shane.

Shane let out what could only be described as a whine as he grabbed onto Ilya’s sweatshirt so he couldn’t get away and Scott had to bite down on his lip to stop from laughing.

“Shh,” Ilya soothed, also clearly trying not to laugh. He ran his fingers through Shane’s hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “is okay, moya lyubov’, I am not leaving, just sitting up. My arm fell asleep.”

“Okay,” Shane sighed, tilting his head up to press closer to Ilya’s hand. “You have to call your coach.”

“Only awake for a minute and already planning,” Ilya said fondly, kissing Shane’s forehead again before moving so he could sit back against the headboard. He reached down and intertwined his fingers with Shane’s, resting their linked hands on his thigh as he leaned his head against the top of Shane’s. “I will call Coach at 9 and then we will make our plan.”

“Call Svetlana now,” Shane directed, “and Scott, someone should tell Scott I’m okay.”

“Aw,” Scott cooed, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Shane’s calf, squeezing once and then just letting his hand rest there, “so nice of you to think of me. It’s nice to know I rank right up there with the Duolingo owl, the Bears’ coach, and whoever the hell Svetlana is.”

“Oh,” Shane said, his eyes finally blinking open, “hi, Scott.”

“Hi, Shane,” Scott echoed, “you alright?”

Shane shrugged his uninjured shoulder, “better than I could’ve been. I somehow reacted fast enough to tuck my shoulder when I hit the boards, so the collar bone is only fractured not broken or shattered.”

“How long are you out?”

“4 to 6 weeks.”

Scott had no clue what his expression did, but Shane laughed and shook his head slightly and before saying, “long enough that Montreal will release my contract to bring up a new center for the end of the regular season.”

Scott’s grip on Shane’s calf was tight enough now that it must have been painful, but Shane wasn’t complaining and Scott was simply doing everything he could to not burst into some sort of celebratory song right here in the middle of the hospital, so he just kept holding on.

“You have to meet my boyfriend,” Scott finally burst out. Of all the things he could’ve said, he had no fucking clue why that was the first thing out of his mouth but there was no going back now. “His name’s Kip, you’ll like him.”

Scott just stared at the nearly identical looks of amusement on Shane and Ilya’s faces and willed himself to not be embarrassed.

“I look forward to it,” Shane said eventually, his eyes almost literally twinkling.

“Good,” Scott nodded, “good, okay. Now, what plan do we need to make and how can I help?”

Fifteen minutes later, when Hayden’s night shift nurse friend came in to sign Ilya and Scott in as visitors and let them know that the shift was about to change over, she walked in to find Hayden still passed the fuck out surrounded by several sheets of paper filled with half-formed plans jotted down in Scott and Ilya’s increasingly messy handwriting.

She just smiled and passed the clipboard to Scott who filled out his information, taking care to actually make the letters legible, and then passed it over to Ilya who then passed it back to the nurse with a kind smile and the sort of earnest tone in his voice that Scott was finally starting to get used to as he said, “thank you for letting us in.”

“Of course,” she said easily, a kind smile on her own face, “happy to help and, I already told Mr. Pike this, but just so you know, I’m bound to keep my patient’s secrets, so I promise to keep my mouth shut. I’m just glad Mr. Hollander is alright and that you two were able to be here for your friend.”

“Thank you,” Shane said, sending her a soft smile and not even sort of dislodging himself from where he was tucked against Ilya’s shoulder. Scott was pretty sure he would once a new nurse, one they weren’t sure they could trust yet, came in, but for now he seemed pretty damn comfortable.

She smiled once more and then made her way out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“Right,” Scott said, picking up the sheet of paper he’d discarded when the door opened, “so Shane’s parents will probably be here tomorrow or, at the very latest, Monday morning so if we book Ilya and Svetlana’s flight for Monday afternoon that gives them enough time to pack and for Ilya to start making whatever arrangements he can from here without having to deal with his family breathing down his neck. Shane can’t look at screens, but he could help make lists and help Ilya pack. Hayden needs to go back to the team hotel before the bus leaves for the airport and then he’ll be on a roadie so all he has to do is keep sleeping and then wake up and order an Uber. I’m missing morning skate, so I just have to be at the hotel like an hour before the team is getting ready to leave for the rink so I can help get Shane checked out and into Ilya’s car or whatever. This is a total side bar but, Shane, you should post something on Instagram or Twitter to let the world know you’re okay, check with your agent or manager first on what information you should include but I’m going to drag you kicking and screaming into this decade if I have to and that starts with social media.”

“Fine,” Shane grumbled, though he looked more amused than anything, “Ilya can you grab my phone and text my mother.”

“Your mother is your manager?” Ilya asked.

“Yes,” Shane said. He looked a little like he couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed or proud.

“You are telling me Yuna Hollander is person who has been slutting you out to brands?”

“Who taught you the phrase ‘slutting you out’?”

“I have lived here long time,” Ilya said imperiously as he typed in Shane’s passcode and navigated to his messaging app, “I know things. Now, what am I saying to Yuna?”

“Just press the voice note button,” Shane said, rolling his eyes and then clearly immediately regretting the action as he squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath through his nose.

“You okay?” Ilya asked softly, setting the phone down on his lap and turning to run his fingers through Shane’s hair.

“Fine,” Shane said after a moment, resting his head back against Ilya’s shoulder, “thank you.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, picking the phone back up and pressing the button Shane had indicated before holding the phone slightly closer to Shane’s face, though he was obviously being incredibly careful with keeping the screen angled away from Shane’s eyes.

“Hi, mom,” Shane started, “I’m fine. Hayden’s still here, Scott showed up, and Ilya’s here. We’re making plans. Long story, I’ll tell you more later. Scott has decided I need to be better at social media which means telling the masses that I’m still alive, can you tell me what I should say? And if I should include a picture? Thanks, love you.”

Ilya pressed stop on the recording and sent it off before setting the phone back down and resting back against the pillows again. His left leg was hanging off the bed and he was squished up against the railing because the bed absolutely wasn’t made for two full grown men, but he didn’t seem to have any plan to move any time soon, no matter how uncomfortable the position must be.

Shane’s phone buzzed a few seconds later with a voice note from Yuna in response.

“Hi, Shane,” she began, “good to hear your voice, you’ll have to call later and explain whatever master plans you four are coming up with. You’ve got good friends, honey, it’s very sweet,” Scott had to bite back a laugh at the blush spreading across Shane’s cheeks. He looked like a kid at middle school drop off whose mother had just kissed them on the cheek and yelled I love you before driving away. “Scott’s right, you should post something. I’ll type something short and you can have one of them copy and paste it for you, maybe include a picture on Instagram? Get one of them to take one of you and Hayden or take one of all four of you, I don’t think you’d want just you and Rozanov or you and Hunter right now with the trade rumors. Have whoever’s operating your phone text Jackie back, she’s worried about you and Hayden must be asleep because he’s not responding. Love you, honey. See you as soon as the roads are safe.”

By the time the message finished playing, the phone had buzzed again with the message Yuna had come up with. Ilya turned the phone toward Scott and he nodded his approval. It was short, to the point, and the exact sort of thing every athlete posted after getting injured because it worked.

Thanks for all the love and support, I’ll be out for the next few games, but I’ll be doing everything I can to be back before the season ends. Thank you to the trainers and EMTs at @tdgarden and the staff at @massgeneral for everything.

“Hand it here,” Scott said, making a rather juvenile grabby hand toward Shane’s phone. It got a laugh out of Shane, though, so Scott deemed it worth it. He looked at the bed and flipped over any paper that had anything incriminating on it and shot Ilya a look until he disentangled himself from Shane enough to be platonic and then swiped over to the camera app and snapped a couple of selfies that had Scott grinning in the foreground with Shane and Ilya smiling in the background and Hayden, still entirely dead to the world, just visible over Scott’s shoulder.

He then kicked Ilya off the bed entirely, much to the disappointment of both Ilya and Shane, moved all of the papers out of the frame, made Shane pretend to be asleep, and took a picture of just Hayden and Shane before he forced Shane to smile for a picture like it was his first day of school.

The media team back in New York would be so proud of Scott’s knowledge of Instagram’s new multi-photo feature. They’d also be so proud of the fact that Scott had made Ilya open one of the curtains to let in sun from an angle that wouldn’t shine directly into Shane’s eyes but would still let in enough light to make Shane look less like a ghost in the dark hospital room. The moment he had a decent enough picture, he let Ilya close the blinds again and very kindly ignored the muttered insults Ilya sent his way as he climbed back into the bed next to Shane.

He opened the Instagram app, put one of the solo shots first, one of the four of them next, and one of Shane and Hayden last before copying over Yuna’s caption, tagging himself, Ilya, and Hayden, and then getting Ilya’s approval before hitting post.

That taken care of, he pulled out his own phone and shared the photo of the four of them to his story with an added caption wishing Shane well and hit post before picking his discarded paper back up again and opening Google Flights to figure out what options Ilya and Svetlana had for booking international flights so last minute.

“You’d get along with my mother,” Shane said after a moment, looking at Scott like he’d never seen him before.

“I’m honored,” Scott responded, sending Shane his best grin before turning his focus back to flight plans. They had shit to take care of; Shane could tease him another day.

Chapter 9: stay a couple more days

Chapter Notes

don't mind me, just blasting change your ticket by one direction on repeat

February 2017

Shane had dozed off again sometime between Hayden finally waking up from the near coma he’d fallen into in time to head back to the team hotel and Scott finding flights that didn’t include 12-hour layovers in Amsterdam or somehow bypassing Russia entirely by putting their connecting flight in Seoul.

Ilya was still crammed into the bed at Shane’s side, not at all worried about the fact that he’d long since lost feeling in his left arm or the fact that his hip was absolutely going to be sore by the time he stood up. None of that mattered, he could stretch and take an Advil, he, however, could not find it in himself to move more than an inch away from Shane’s side.

He really wasn’t sure how he was meant to go to Russia for a week and leave Shane behind. He wasn’t sure how he was ever meant to leave Shane behind.

Scott had gone out to his coach’s car to tell him Shane was fine and to grab his backpack and send Murdock on his way to whatever hotel New York was staying in before coming back up to the room. Now, he had his team iPad propped up on the foot of Shane’s bed playing episodes of The Office that he’d apparently seen several times over. He’d initially pulled up game tape but after about five minutes he’d decided that was boring and had swapped over to something ‘more entertaining.’

Ilya was barely even watching, only really half listening; most of his attention was focused on Shane’s sleeping face.

“Did Svetlana reply?” Scott asked into the quiet, his voice barely louder than the low volume he’d set his iPad speakers to.

“Yeah, she went to my house and got my passport information,” Ilya answered, tearing his gaze away from Shane to meet Scott’s eye, “she booked flights, too. Thank you for finding them.”

“Of course,” Scott said easily, shrugging his shoulders like it was entirely commonplace for an opposing team’s captain to wake up before dawn to come check on an injured player, like it was something casual for that same captain to help another sort out details for his father’s funeral and book international flights. Ilya sort of hated it, but with each passing minute he was starting to actually like Scott Hunter.

It was just the three of them in the room now. Hayden had made his way back to the team hotel after reminding Shane about six times that he could call whenever he needed and tacking on another three reminders to text Jackie every day because she was worried and she wanted to know Shane was alright. If Ilya didn’t know Shane was into him, he honestly might’ve assumed Shane had somehow accidentally tripped his way into joining a throuple with the Pikes.

Scott had gone quiet again and was paying far too much attention to an episode of TV he’d probably seen a dozen times so Ilya pulled out his phone and opened Twitter.

It was still opened to his second account so the first thing that popped up when his feed loaded was a screenshot of the picture of Hayden sleeping with his head on Shane’s hospital bed, posted by an account called @haydenhollander with a caption that included about nine too many heart emojis.

“You broke Twitter,” Ilya muttered, turning the phone toward Scott when he looked over.

Scott just grinned, looking like that’d been his plan all along, and then went back to watching The Office.

Ilya sort of wanted to tell him he was a menace, but he was pretty sure Scott already knew.

They fell into silence again, the low tones of a well-loved sitcom and the light sound of Shane’s breathing filling the space around them. It was maybe an hour later when the doctor came in with discharge paperwork. It was, quite honestly, far too easy for Ilya and Scott to sign Shane out of the hospital. Sure, it made sense for Ilya and Scott, boyfriend (?) and friend of Shane to sign him out. It did not, however, make any sense for Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, and Scott Hunter, Captain of the New York Admirals, to be taking responsibility for Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs.

Ilya decided not to question it.

Shane woke up and went through the paces of one last neuro check, listened to the doctor’s instructions for icing his shoulder and keeping his arm immobilized, and had Scott type out a message to Yuna including a list of referrals for doctors in Montreal and Ottawa for follow up appointments.

The doctor kindly didn’t ask why Shane was wondering about private physicians when he had access to the Voyageurs’ team doctor, he simply listed off several physicians he knew that either specialized in or had a good amount of experience with sports injuries and the rehab process.

That taken care of, Scott gathered up the loose sheets of paper and whatever else had been scattered around the room, stuffed it all into his backpack, and went to wait in the hall while Ilya helped Shane change out of his hospital gown into the clothes Hayden had brought with the night prior.

“Ouch,” Shane muttered, biting his bottom lip as Ilya helped him thread his arm through the t-shirt’s sleeve.

“Do you want to just wear the hoodie?” Ilya asked, pausing his movements and nodding toward the plain gray zip-up hoodie still in the pile of folded clothes.

Shane thought about it for a minute and then nodded.

His cheeks were red and the corners of his lips were turned down, and Ilya just knew he was embarrassed.

“Shane,” he said, moving one of his hands to gently grab onto Shane’s chin and tilt his head up, “is alright, we can try shirt again later, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane said, his voice soft as he studied Ilya’s face. Ilya just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead before moving back to pull the shirt off Shane’s arm and toss it back onto the bed. He picked up the hoodie and had much greater success slipping that on without causing Shane anymore harm. He zipped it up and used his grip on the zipper to pull Shane forward just enough to smack a kiss to his lips that had him smiling which Ilya silently counted as a win.

They secured the sling back into place before Ilya moved onto sweatpants, socks, and shoes.

“Thank you,” Shane said softly, his left hand reaching out to run through Ilya’s curls as he knelt down to tie Shane’s sneakers.

Ilya leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Shane’s knee before propping his chin there and gazing up at him. Shane’s hand came down to cup his cheek, his thumb running across the skin below Ilya’s eye.

“Of course,” Ilya replied, staying there a moment longer, simply to look at Shane’s face, at the way his eyes had gone soft and bright. “Come on,” he said after a moment, patting Shane’s calf before standing up and carefully tucking the rest of Shane’s belongings into his team backpack Hayden had brought his clothes in and slinging it over his shoulder before holding out a hand to help Shane stand.

He expected Shane to grumble that he could do it himself but, instead, he took the offered hand and let Ilya help.

Shane dropped his hand as Ilya pulled the door open and Ilya tried not to flinch at the loss of contact, but Shane must’ve seen something because his hand settled on Ilya’s lower back, warm and soft and sure. His thumb ran a gentle path for a moment before he pulled away again. It was enough to tell Ilya that Shane didn’t want to let go either, enough to remind him that he still had to.

Ilya took a breath and stepped fully into the hall, holding the door open behind him for Shane to step through. Scott pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on and they made their way through the halls and out into the February cold.

* * *

Shane fell asleep on the drive between Scott’s hotel (which had thankfully been the same hotel Montreal had stayed at, so they’d been able to pick up his stuff from reception without having to drive somewhere else) and Ilya’s house and only grumbled slightly when Ilya came around to the passenger door to wake him up.

Ilya looked to be about six seconds away from deciding he needed to carry Shane into the house so, before that could happen, Shane climbed out of the car himself. He did, however, let Ilya carry his bag and hold his hand all the way to the door.

“What’s that?” Shane asked, pointing to the plastic bag Ilya was carrying.

“I stopped for food,” Ilya said and Shane was honestly a little impressed that he’d somehow slept through that. “Do not worry, I got you salad. Lots of vegetables. But I did get chicken on it, and you are going to eat it because you need protein, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane agreed easily. He’d honestly eat whatever Ilya fed him at this point, partially because he might as well treat the weeks on IR as an opportunity to pack on weight before playoffs and partially because the little voice in his head that told him he needed to maintain control often went quiet in Ilya’s presence, but he was still stupidly grateful that Ilya had remembered his diet and had done what he could to work within Shane’s parameters. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Ilya said, tugging Shane through the kitchen and gently shoving him into a seat at the dining table. “Wait here.”

Shane wanted to roll his eyes but knew full well it’d make his skull feel like it was splitting open, so he simply settled back in the chair and waited.

Ilya came back a minute later with the takeout containers, silverware, and drinks for both of them. He dug Shane’s pain meds from the hospital pharmacy out of his backpack and set them on the table before taking his seat.

Shane wanted to talk, wanted to ask Ilya how he was really doing, wanted to ask Ilya what his favorite color was simply to hear him speak, but they were both exhausted and his head was starting to hurt and he knew he was going to get nauseous if there was too much sensory input so he focused on eating and let the silence exist.

Once he’d finished most of his salad, Ilya opened the pill bottle and handed Shane his dose before walking it into the kitchen and tucking it away into a cabinet. The action felt purposeful, like he needed to hide the bottle away from plain sight, but Shane didn’t have it in him to ask why and Ilya honestly didn’t seem to have it in him to offer an answer so he swallowed his pills and bit down the impulse to pretend he could do everything on his own and, instead of asking about pills or emotions, asked, “could you help me shower?”

“Of course,” Ilya agreed easily, smiling at Shane like he was proud of him for asking for help. It made Shane’s chest feel warm.

He did what he could to help clean up the trash left behind by their lunch and then followed Ilya down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom and let Ilya carefully undress him. Shane’s eyes felt heavy, like he might fall asleep standing up, so he leaned on Ilya more than he normally would, but Ilya didn’t complain, he simply adjusted and took Shane’s weight and maneuvered them into the shower.

Shane let out a sigh of relief that was very nearly a moan when the hot water hit his back. He hadn’t been able to properly shower after getting off the ice and, despite the fact that Hayden had tracked down a washcloth and deodorant to at least help him smell less like an old shoe the night prior, he felt disgusting from the sweat and the hospital germs.

Ilya breathed out a laugh that was sickeningly fond and then picked up his body wash and gently scrubbed the previous day off Shane’s skin before lathering up his hair with shampoo and washing away the oil and sweat. Ilya’s fingers scratching along his scalp was about the closest thing to heaven Shane had ever experienced and he decided he wanted to live in this moment forever. Ilya seemed to read his mind and spent far longer washing Shane’s hair than he probably needed to.

Once Shane was clean, he stepped out of the way so Ilya could rinse off too and then he happily let Ilya wrap him up in a fluffy towel. He waited in the bathroom while Ilya went to unearth his shave kit and then he fumbled through brushing his teeth with his left hand.

“Sleepy?” Ilya asked as he combed Shane’s hair. The action was so gentle and tender that Shane nearly broke down in tears, but he held it together enough to simply nod. “Alright,” Ilya said, ducking his head to kiss the back of Shane’s neck. “Clean boxers and then into bed with you.”

Shane stepped into the boxers and let Ilya pull them up. He patted Shane’s hips and leaned in for a quick kiss before leading the way back into the bedroom.

“One second,” Ilya said, darting out of the room. Shane listened to his footsteps pound down the stairs before they receded entirely. Ilya returned a minute later hugging several throw pillows from his living room, “lay down, we will prop up arm so you do not have to wear the sling.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, his voice breaking on a yawn. He hated how tired he was. He felt like he’d been sleeping for days, and he knew he’d be this tired for the next couple of weeks. Head injuries were tricky like that, and he knew he needed to listen to his body, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t hate how lethargic he felt.

Once he was situated in a veritable mountain of pillows, Ilya pulled the covers up and kissed his cheek and then his lips before resting their foreheads together for a moment, “sleep, I am going to get my computer and then I will sit with you, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane agreed, tilting his head up to capture Ilya’s lips in another longer, lingering kiss. “Thank you for this, Ilya.”

“Anything for you, lyubimiy.”

Shane was exhausted, his head was pounding, his shoulder was starting to hurt like a bitch even as the pain ebbed just a little as the effects of the medication set in, but he forced his eyes open, forced his gaze to clear as he looked up at Ilya. Ilya seemed to sense the shift. He went quiet, like he was waiting for something, but he wasn’t yet sure what.

Shane didn’t know if Ilya was ready to hear it, but he needed to say it.

He was scared, though.

Scared of driving Ilya away, scared of feeling too much too soon, scared of ruining this incredible thing.

So, he took the coward’s way out, “je t’aime, Ilya. Je t’aime tellement.”

Ilya went still, tears building in the corners of his eyes as they darted around Shane’s face, searching for something, some sign that Shane hadn’t been completely serious.

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” he breathed out. Duolingo hadn’t taught Shane that one yet, but his heart understood it anyways. “Ochen’ sil’no.”

Shane wrapped his uninjured arm around Ilya’s shoulders and pulled him down against his chest. Ilya tucked his head under Shane’s chin and wrapped an arm around his waist and let out a shuddering breath that sounded like it’d held years of pent-up emotion.

“So much, Shane,” he whispered, turning his head to press his lips to the hollow of Shane’s throat.

“I know,” Shane whispered back, tangling his fingers almost desperately into Ilya’s hair and pressing his lips to the top of his head as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back tears. “Does it feel like agony to you too?”

Ilya started to nod before pausing a moment and then shaking his head, the movement tucking him closer to Shane’s chest and his grip on Shane’s waist tightening as he sniffled slightly and said, “not anymore.”

Shane fell asleep safe in Ilya’s arms and secure in the knowledge that he was loved.

* * *

Ilya watched Shane sleep, memorizing every line of his face as he tried to convince himself that this was real.

Shane had just said he loved him.

In French, sure, but he’d said it.

It didn’t matter that neither of them had said it in a language they shared, they’d said it anyways. And, really, spoken language hadn’t ever been something they needed. It was good that they’d been communicating better recently, that they’d been sharing their feelings and actually talking about how to make this whole thing work after nearly a decade of running from anything that might make it too real, but sometimes talking was exhausting, sometimes all Ilya needed was the press of Shane’s lips against his or a reminder of how Shane’s nose crinkled when he was really smiling to know that they were okay.

Ilya had known that Shane loved him, long before he’d ever said the words.

He’d known when Shane had kept coming back even when Ilya was an absolute ass, he’d known when Shane had agreed to stay when Ilya asked even if he’d ended up running in the end, he’d known when Shane had walked up to him at that bar in Florida and told him, right away, that Rose wasn’t there as his date.

He’d known that morning in the hospital room when Shane had made room for him in the bed, when he’d let them both imagine he would’ve come to Russia with him if it weren’t for the concussion even though they both knew there was so much else holding him back from being at Ilya’s side. He’d known when Shane had stayed tangled up with him even when the nurse had stepped into the room. He’d known when Shane had agreed to eat a salad that might not have fit the exact parameters of his diet simply because Ilya was worried about him and Ilya had asked.

He’d known when Shane’s gaze had cleared, when he’d seemed more alert than he had in hours as he met Ilya’s eye.

He’d known Shane loved him for quite some time, but that didn’t make hearing it any less special.

Eventually, he forced himself to get up, leaving the bed only long enough to find his laptop before settling back against the pillows at Shane’s side. Shane shifted in his sleep, just enough to rest his head against Ilya’s arm and then settled again.

Ilya, again, couldn’t help it.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo and, after talking himself out of immediately making it his lockscreen, saved it to his ‘boring’ folder.

He’d seen Shane’s phone earlier.

His lockscreen was one of the pool photos of himself, Ilya, and Scott walking away after post-game press, one of the photos that’d been captured just after Ilya had slung his arms around their shoulders. His arm around Scott’s shoulders was loose, friendly. His arm around Shane’s was visibly possessive and Shane’s responding arm around Ilya’s waist was very nearly not platonic if you knew what to look for.

They were lucky, honestly, that no one expected two hockey players to be both queer and dating each other and, more than that, no one expected Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander to be queer and dating each other.

He knew they’d agreed to delete photos in those early years of their situationship (as the kids on the internet were apparently calling that sort of arrangement), but he also knew that Shane, like him, was no longer deleting them. Honestly, if Ilya had to bet, he’d guess that Shane had an album of his own full of photos of Ilya to look at when he missed him. The thought made Ilya smile. He turned his head to press a kiss into Shane’s hair before re-focusing on the task at hand.

He opened the messaging app on his laptop and waited for it to catch up to the messages on his phone before opening his thread with Scott and clicking on each of the links they’d sent back and forth.

By the time Shane had woken up from his nap, Ilya had put a deposit down on a burial plot, had traded emails with the hospital, morgue, and funeral home, and had received an email from the priest at the church he hadn’t gone to since his mother died with a checklist of things that needed to be selected for the funeral. It was a helpful list, honestly. Detailed in a way that was necessary when a person’s brain was clouded with grief and emotions even more complex. It was kind in a way he honestly hadn’t expected; that type of diligence, the care for his parishioners. Ilya knew full well that the priest would hate him if he knew who Ilya loved, he knew full well that he probably preached about things Ilya would never, in his life, agree with, but he did seem to care when it came to this, and that felt like enough for now.

Ilya was clued into the fact that Shane was awake by him pressing a little more firmly into Ilya’s side and then muttering, “packing list.”

The laugh that escaped Ilya’s throat was just this side of hysterical. He felt crazy with how much he loved Shane. That was the second time today he’d woken up and immediately started planning and Ilya could just tell that it wasn’t out of the ordinary. This absolute Type A monster with probably undiagnosed OCD was his to love and Ilya had never felt luckier.

“Right,” he said once he’d calmed down. He turned his head and grinned at the very angry kitten frown on Shane’s face. “I am not laughing at you, kotenok, I am just very happy and very, very lucky to love you.”

Shane’s whole face turned red with the force of his blush. He turned and tried to tuck his face against Ilya’s side to hide but he couldn’t do anything to cover up the fact that his ears had turned red too. Ilya simply kissed the top of his head and wrapped an arm around him, careful not to jostle his shoulder.

“You are right, I need packing list,” Ilya said, keeping his voice soft and very carefully adjusting his tone so Shane wouldn’t even think Ilya was trying to tease him. He knew Shane was exhausted and that his brain was all but fried, he didn’t want to add to his hurt in any way by making him think Ilya was making fun. “I’ll be gone for one week and the only things I know I need are my good winter jacket and a suit.”

Shane turned his head, so he was no longer hiding and settled more comfortably against Ilya’s side before reaching out his left hand and navigating to the notes app and then immediately closing his eyes. Ilya had switched the laptop into night mode and turned the brightness as low as possible, but he wasn’t shocked that it was still too much for Shane’s tired eyes.

“You talk, I type,” Ilya said gently.

“Okay,” Shane agreed, taking a steadying breath. Ilya was sure he’d gotten nauseous or at the very least slightly dizzy, so he just waited patiently for Shane to find even ground again before he started talking. “Okay, type down coat and suit so you won’t forget. Then let’s start with your travel documents.”

* * *

Shane was asleep for the night after dutifully eating dinner and taking his meds when his phone rang with his mother’s contact lighting up the screen. Ilya hesitated for a second before answering. Yuna and David knew that Ilya was the one checking Shane out of the hospital, he’d sent them his address that morning, so they knew where to drive to pick Shane up once they made it to Boston, but he still didn’t know if they knew why Ilya had been the one to sign Shane out.

Finally, he decided to just bite the bullet and pick up the phone, “hello, Mrs. Hollander,” he greeted, wanting to make sure she knew from the start that she wasn’t talking to Shane in case she’d called about something that she didn’t want other people to hear.

“Rozanov,” she responded, only sounding about half shocked. “How is Shane?”

“He is asleep,” Ilya answered, “ate lunch and dinner, took his meds. He showered after lunch and took a nap and then helped me make the most detailed packing list I have ever seen and then he ate dinner and now he is asleep again.”

Yuna’s voice was nothing but fond as she said, “that sounds like Shane. I was just calling to check in and to tell him that we think the roads will be clear enough for us to drive tomorrow but we’ll get in late, so we were planning to get a hotel in Boston and then leave early Monday morning, does that work for you?”

Ilya wondered if he should offer one of his guest rooms but eventually decided against it. He didn’t know how late they’d get in or how comfortable they’d feel in his space, and he could admit that he was in a bit of a fragile emotional state, so he wasn’t sure he’d be a great host to anyone other than Shane; to anyone other than one of two people he felt entirely comfortable showing his true emotions to.

“That works,” he said, “I will make sure he is ready to go Monday morning. I will text you my gate code so you can come whenever.”

“Thank you,” she said, sounding just as genuine as Shane always did. “I will say, I was shocked to learn that you two didn’t hate each other, but I’m glad Shane has you. It must be nice to have someone who understands how crazy your lives are.”

That really didn’t answer the question of whether or not the Hollanders knew who Ilya was to Shane, but it was good enough, “I am lucky to have him,” Ilya said honestly. “And I am happy to take care of him.”

“That’s very kind of you. We’ll see you on Monday. Thank you again.”

“See you Monday,” Ilya responded, smiling a little to himself as the line clicked and the call ended. He crawled into bed next to Shane and pressed a kiss to his temple before snuggling into the sheets, “goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispered, “ya tebya lyublyu.”

* * *

Shane was a little slower through Sunday. His shoulder was sore and his head was pounding more than it had been, but he ate when Ilya told him to, took his meds when Ilya handed them over, and used his one functional arm to help fold the clothes that Ilya had laid out on the bed to pack.

By the time the sun had started to set and they were showered and cuddled up in bed, Shane was beyond exhausted, but he was forcing his eyes to stay open, forcing himself to stay awake and treasure the time he had with Ilya before he was carted off to Ottawa and Ilya had to go to Russia. He wasn’t sure when they’d see each other next and Shane knew his life was about to get crazy even though he was on IR and he just wanted to treasure every spare second he had in Ilya’s presence.

“Shane,” Ilya said gently, he had a look in his eye that told Shane that Ilya knew exactly what he was doing. “I will call you from Russia, okay? I will send voice notes so you don’t have to get headache reading screen or ask your parents to read my texts out loud. And when I get back we will figure out next time to see each other, okay?”

“I’m gonna miss you,” Shane mumbled, knowing he sounded young and weak, but he couldn’t help it. He finally had Ilya and he didn’t want to walk away for even a second.

“I will miss you too,” Ilya said, running his fingers through Shane’s hair and kissing his forehead. He’d been doing that a lot lately, letting himself indulge in soft touches and chaste kisses and Shane absolutely was not complaining but he wanted a real kiss, the type of kiss Ilya had been giving him for years. He was injured and far too exhausted for anything else, but he was well enough for a proper kiss, so he tilted his head up and locked his lips with Ilya’s and waited, just a moment, for Ilya to relax into it before pressing forward just a little harder.

Ilya’s hand that’d been gently running through Shane’s hair paused before his fingers slipped to the back of Shane’s head and gripped onto the hair there, pulling just enough to tilt Shane’s head back so Ilya could adjust their angle and then he was really kissing him, nipping at his bottom lip and slipping his tongue into Shane’s mouth, and holding onto him in that way that always made Shane feel like he was floating.

It was stupid, really, how good of a kisser Ilya was. Shane wished there were something he was bad at, it’d make the world seem a little more fair.

Ilya pulled back after several minutes and Shane just grinned. Ilya chuckled quietly and pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s nose and then settled back against the pillows, “sleep, Shane, I will wake you with a kiss in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Chapter 10: to build a home

Chapter Notes

February 2017

Shane was groggy when he woke up the next morning to Ilya placing gentle kisses across his nose and cheeks. He tilted his head up just enough to press a soft kiss to Ilya’s lips before pulling away. Part of his brain wanted to kiss him harder but he was stopped both by the need to brush his teeth and by the pounding in his temples.

“Your parents will be here in one hour,” Ilya said softly. “I packed your bag but left outfit out. Do you want to shower?”

Shane shook his head and then regretted it immediately. He felt dizzy and disoriented and he honestly wasn’t sure if he could stand long enough to shower.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya whispered, his voice gentle and soothing as he ran his hand along the top of Shane’s head and pressed another kiss to his cheek, “bath?”

“I don’t think I can stand,” Shane said, his voice sounded rough. He felt worse than he had the prior two mornings and he would just like it on record that he fucking hated head injuries.

“Is okay, I will carry you.”

“Okay,” Shane agreed, really not in a place to argue. Ilya crawled out of the bed and Shane could hear him walking toward the bathroom followed by the sound of the tap being turned on.

He came back a couple of minutes later and pulled the covers down and pulled off the boxers Shane had worn to bed while he was still laying down instead of having to do it while Shane was trying to help in the bathroom which was both considerate and vaguely embarrassing. Shane kept his eyes shut as Ilya picked him up and carried him into the bathroom, he didn’t think watching the lighting change or his surroundings pass by would help much with the pounding headache.

Once he’d settled Shane down into the tub, which was already half full with perfectly warm water, Ilya stripped off his own boxers and climbed in behind Shane, his legs bracketing Shane’s on either side and the comfort of his still sleep warm skin soaking into Shane’s back.

Shane let out a slow breath and relaxed back into Ilya’s hold, resting his head against Ilya’s shoulder and pressing his forehead to the side of his neck.

Ilya let him stay there for a few minutes before directing him to lean forward. He gently soaped up Shane’s back with the body wash Shane loved and started rubbing his shoulders and the back of his neck, careful not to press too hard on the mottled bruise on Shane’s right shoulder as he gently worked out the knots that’d built up over the past couple of days of attempting to hold himself so he didn’t jostle his collar bone.

Minute by minute, the headache that’d been making his vision go foggy started to recede and Shane started to feel far more stable.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the quiet as Ilya ran a cloth over his shoulders to wash off the soap.

Ilya simply pressed a soft kiss to his spine in response.

By the time Shane’s parents pulled into the driveway, he was dressed in his own sweatpants, a t-shirt that’d only taken them two minutes to get on without fucking up his collar bone, and one of Ilya’s hoodies that Ilya had claimed was the better option because it was a size bigger than Shane’s, meaning the looser sleeves would be easier for him to put on. Shane thought that was bullshit, but he kept that opinion to himself because he certainly wasn’t going to screw up the chance to be surrounded by the soft fabric of one of Ilya’s favorite hoodies and the comforting scent of Ilya’s detergent and something that was just Ilya.

He finished his toast and took his pain meds and kissed Ilya softly, savoring the last couple of moments where it was just them in this bubble before the world came crashing back in.

“Text me when you get to the airport, when you get on the plane, and when you land,” Shane reminded him, “for every flight, and call if you need me. You’re not alone anymore, even if I’m not physically there.”

“I will,” Ilya promised, smiling softly and a little indulgently as he kissed Shane’s cheek. Shane wasn’t sure how he was meant to survive weeks without Ilya’s constant presence, without those soft kisses and even softer touches. He wondered, distantly, if he should be confused by this new side to Ilya, but he was simply too in love to question it and, honestly, Ilya had always been at least a little soft with him, more and more in recent months. This was just him finally being able to be as soft as he wanted without being afraid it’d push Shane away.

“Good,” Shane said, nodding once and delighting just a little bit in the fact that the action didn’t send his head spinning.

A quiet alert sounded from Ilya’s front door and Shane pouted just a little, “that’s the gate,” Ilya said, confirming Shane’s suspicions. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Shane really wanted to say that Ottawa wasn’t home, that nowhere was home without Ilya there, but he knew Ilya understood that and he knew, without Ilya having to say anything, just how much he was struggling with the concept of home right now and the last thing Shane wanted was to somehow say something that’d make it worse, so he just nodded again and let Ilya mother hen him through the house and toward the door.

They stepped outside just as Shane’s mom was climbing out of the passenger seat and she all but ran toward him to wrap him into a hug, only slowing down slightly to be careful of the early morning ice.

Shane easily accepted the hugs and smiled as he repeated that he was fine several times over. His parents had all the medical information, all they wanted now was to physically see and hear that he was alright, so he didn’t need to go into specifics, he just had to stand here and hopefully not look like he was at Death’s door.

Ilya put his bags into the car when his dad popped the trunk and then dutifully shook his dad’s hand and accepted the only slightly awkward hug from his mom and repeated several times that he’d been happy to take care of Shane.

They never asked who Ilya was to Shane, but Shane was certain they knew. He wondered how this meeting might go if it hadn’t come on the coattails of Shane getting badly injured and Ilya easily volunteering to take care of him for two days before his parents could get there through the weather, but he didn’t spend too long thinking about what-ifs, not when his parents had naturally fallen into fussing over Ilya, not when Ilya’s eyes were widened in shock even as he was smiling one of his smiles that Shane knew was real, a smile that said he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

“We should head out,” David said eventually, clapping Ilya on the shoulder once before taking a step back, “thank you again.”

“Of course,” Ilya said for what must’ve been the twelfth time. His eyes caught Shane’s and his smile turned fond and just a little sad, “it was my pleasure.”

Shane stepped forward and wrapped his good arm around Ilya’s waist, tucking his head beneath Ilya’s chin. Ilya’s strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he rested his cheek against the back of Shane’s head.

“I’ll see you soon,” Shane said softly.

“Soon,” Ilya agreed, turning his head to press his nose into Shane’s hair for a moment before stepping back, “text when you are home safe, yeah?”

“I will,” Shane promised, “text when you land.”

“I will,” Ilya promised in return.

Shane took a breath and then turned around and climbed into the back seat of his dad’s car and watched as Ilya stood on the doorstep, hands in his pockets, simply watching as the car drove away.

“He’s such a nice boy,” Yuna said once they’d pulled onto the interstate, “I didn’t expect it.”

“He’s still an asshole,” Shane said, knowing he sounded far too fond but deciding he really didn’t care. “But, yeah, he can be nice.”

Yuna looked over her shoulder and smiled knowingly but didn’t say anything else and Shane was grateful for the fact that she was holding her tongue even though he was sure it was torture for her to not ask a million questions. He fell asleep a few minutes later and only woke up at the border before falling asleep again only to wake up when they pulled into the driveway of his childhood home in Ottawa.

“We detoured and stopped by your place in Montreal on the way down,” David explained, walking around the car and grabbing several duffels out of the trunk, looking a little like someone who’d gone overboard at the grocery store but was still convinced they could carry every bag inside in one trip. “Just grabbed enough clothes for the next couple of days.”

Shane nodded his thanks and used his good arm to pick up one of the lighter bags just to feel like he was at least somewhat helpful.

He had no clue what was going to happen after he was given a couple of days to rest and even though that scared him to no end, it also, somehow, excited him. He was ready for a change in a way he couldn’t ever remember being.

* * *

Ilya slept nearly the entire flight. He was exhausted in more ways than one, he felt a little like someone had tied a cinder block to his ankle and thrown him into a lukewarm pool, the sort of temperature that lulls you into a false sense of a security before you realize that you can drown even in comfort.

Ilya texted Shane the moment the wheels touched down and received a response half a minute later that said good, I miss you, be kind to yourself followed by a second message that was simply a red heart. It was short, simple, and sweet and it made Ilya feel like he might just be able to make it through the week without losing his mind.

They made their way through customs and climbed into the car Ilya had ordered and headed straight for the condo he still kept in Moscow so he wouldn’t have to stay at home. He found himself wondering, idly, as the city rushed past the windows, how much longer he’d keep that condo. He wondered, less idly, if this might just be his last time coming home.

He thought it might be and, somehow, that didn’t feel catastrophic.

It was Tuesday morning with the time difference, so they grabbed coffee and breakfast from a place down the street and brought it back up to Ilya’s condo where they ate and then went through Ilya’s notes for what needed to be done that day.

After that, Ilya existed somewhere between present and total dissociation. It wasn’t dissociation, not entirely. He knew what that felt like, he could remember the fog settling in the moment he’d seen his mother’s limp arm hanging off the sofa, and this wasn’t quite that, but it was something close.

Arrangements were made, services were paid for, meals were ordered, and conversations were had and Ilya barely registered any of it.

By Thursday, the day of the funeral, he was starting to genuinely consider the merits of finding a therapist when he made it back to the states because he was dead certain that this wasn’t a healthy way to process grief, especially grief as complex as this.

The thought had hit him out of nowhere, but it’d settled in, wormed its way into his conscious mind until he was forced to actually reckon with it. He didn’t know if he was depressed but he was damn certain he was sad, angry, and maybe a little untethered from reality. He left a note to himself, below his constantly shifting to do list, to search for Russian-speaking therapists in the Boston area.

He wasn’t sure, yet, whether or not he’d follow through, but making the note, letting the thought exist somewhere outside of his head, brought something like comfort.

The funeral and following burial happened to someone else.

Ilya knew he was there, knew his feet had walked into the church and then through the cemetery, but he couldn’t help but believe that the being living in this body he was operating was someone else entirely.

It wasn’t until he was half way through a shouting match with Alexei that his conscious slammed back into him, it wasn’t until his brother was right in his face trying to make him believe that he wasn’t the one holding this entire shit show of a family together, trying to make him believe that he was worthless, that Ilya started to feel like himself again.

And it wasn’t the good version of himself, the version that had tucked Shane into bed and kissed his head and carried him to the bath when he’d felt too dizzy just a few short days ago, the version that visited Boston Children’s and spent hours talking to sick kids because he knew it’d make them smile, the version that held his niece’s hand every time they walked anywhere just because he could.

It was the version of himself that existed in the moments before his gloves hit the ice and he punched someone hard enough they had to be pulled from the game. It was the version of himself that’d fucked Shane into submission in a Las Vegas penthouse before sending him away without a kiss or an even half-kind word. It was the version of himself that existed in darkness, that lived on those emotions that felt like sludge settling over your heart and like a switch flipping in your brain.

He hated it, the way he let outside influence cloud his judgment and turn him into the worst possible version of himself but he was too far gone, too deep in the well of emotions and too hopped up on his brother’s vitriol to pull himself back so he simply shouted louder, got meaner, drove the wedge deeper until it felt like he was standing on an island, lost at sea and his brother was on a different planet all together.

When it was over, when they’d finally shouted themselves out, the only thought left in the frayed remains of Ilya’s heart and mind was Shane.

He pulled on his coat, shot Svetlana a smile that he hoped was even sort of reassuring, and disappeared into the night.

* * *

March 2017

Shane was sitting on the floor of his bedroom in Montreal late on Thursday morning, staring at a pile of Voyageurs gear and wondering if he should donate it, return it, or use it to host a ceremonial bonfire when his phone rang.

He’d been on and off the phone for two days and he’d just, finally, gotten a moment alone after suffering through an exit meeting with Voyageurs management. He hadn’t even had time to process yet, hadn’t even texted Scott to tell him the news even though he was sure Scott already knew. He hadn’t told Ilya yet because today was Ilya’s father’s funeral and he didn’t need to be bugged with Shane’s shit. He was planning to text him soon, to tell him that as of 9:00 EST Friday morning he’d officially be a New York Admiral.

He didn’t want to pick up the phone, didn’t want to hear another word about salary caps and bonuses and fucking work visa paperwork from his agent, didn’t want to hear his mom say she was proud in the same breath she’d remind him he needed to contact New York’s trainers to talk about rehabbing his shoulder or tell him to look at the real estate listings she’d been genuinely kind enough to print out so he wouldn’t have to look at a screen. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to handle Scott’s voice right now, no matter how excited he was for the chance to play with him outside of an All-Star game.

He nearly let the phone ring, but then he caught sight of the name and every ounce of left over panic and anger faded.

Ilya.

His contact had been changed only the day prior when Shane had realized that the world knew they were friends, that it wouldn’t be so weird for him to have Ilya’s actual contact information in his phone. He’d even added a contact photo, the one Scott had taken of them both smiling in the locker room, the one that hadn’t been posted on Instagram for all the world to see.

He’d also, in a moment of total genius, gone into his phone’s settings and turned off message previews.

The fact that it wouldn’t be weird for a notification from Ilya to pop up on his lockscreen absolutely did not mean that it wouldn’t be weird for someone to see a text from Ilya with a detailed list of filthy things he planned to do to Shane after a game. He was going to have to talk to Ilya about moving his raunchier messages over to the relative safety of Snapchat, but that was probably a conversation for another day.

He picked up the phone immediately and swiped his thumb across the screen to answer, “Ilya, hi.”

“Shane,” Ilya breathed out and, God, he sounded wrecked.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Ilya responded almost immediately, it sounded almost like his mouth was outpacing his brain and Shane had no clue how to fix it. “I feel like I am not a person,” he said, his words choppy and his accent thick. “I don’t know how to describe.”

“Like the world is just happening around you but you’re not really part of it?” Shane asked. It happened to him sometimes, when the lights were too bright and there were too many different sounds happening, no matter their volume, when he could feel the tags on his clothes rubbing against his skin and every time another person brushed past him he felt like his nerves had been lit on fire in the most unpleasant way. Sometimes, there was just too much, too many inputs, and his brain simply went offline, factory reset.

“Exactly,” Ilya breathed out. His voice was a little steadier already even though it was still filled with slightly frantic emotion. “Like someone else is operating my body.”

“That happens to me sometimes,” Shane offered. He heard Ilya suck in a deep breath and Shane took that as his cue to keep talking. He wasn’t sure if it was the knowledge that he wasn’t weird or different for feeling that way or simply the sound of Shane’s voice that had his breathing returning to a normal rhythm, but Shane figured that, either way, it’d help if he continued to speak. “It feels almost like my brain shuts off to protect itself, like if I can’t feel the sensations or emotions at all it’ll be better. But that’s not always the case. Sometimes, when my brain shuts off, it’s so much worse when it turns back on. It’s exhausting.”

“I cut my brother off,” Ilya said, a little bit apropos of nothing. “My brain was, like you said, shut off and it came back on while Alexei and I were fighting and he was trying to make it seem like I was bad brother, bad son, like I was worthless and I told him I was done giving him money. I do not think he deserves my kindness and I do not think it was kind to myself to keep listening.”

“I’m proud of you,” Shane said gently. He heard Ilya’s breath hitch and knew he was moments away from breaking down. “Do you want to talk more or do you want a distraction?”

Ilya’s slightly ragged breathing was the only sound for a moment before it steadied just a little and he said, “distraction.”

“I’m no longer a Voyageur,” Shane said.

“That is quite the distraction, Hollander.”

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane said, huffing out a laugh as he pictured the way Ilya was probably smirking even as his eyes betrayed his real emotions; probably a little bit shocked, but overwhelmingly relieved. “Do you think I should return my team gear, donate it, or burn it?”

“Burn it.”

“That’s where I was leaning,” Shane said, moving back just a little so he could rest against the footboard of his bed, his bed that’d be packed up and moved to New York sometime in the next week. “Do you want to help me pick out a house?”

“You are the real estate expert,” Ilya teased.

Shane let his eyes close as he smiled, “right, I’d forgotten. You know, I finally put those condos on the market, decided I might as well make some actual money off of them if they weren’t going to be of use to me anymore.”

“So, you are finally done lying about the sex condo needing to be renovated?”

Shane couldn’t help but laugh at that. He still couldn’t believe he’d panic bought an entire building just for a hook up.

“Yes,” Shane said softly. He couldn’t help but think about how much more it meant than simply leasing out property. He wasn’t hiding Ilya away anymore, even if they still couldn’t be as open as they wanted to be, even though the fact that he was gay was still merely a rumor and a mostly contained secret. “Hey, Ilya?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, you know?”

The line went silent for a moment before Shane heard Ilya take in a breath that went shaky on the exhale, “I know. I love you too, Shane.”

“Good,” Shane said simply. “Still need a distraction?”

“I just want to hear your voice.”

Shane smiled and happily complied. He kept his voice even and his tone soft, he made sure to keep his pace slow and to enunciate words so Ilya could understand him even over the slightly choppy international connection. He talked about hiring movers and about the fact that he hadn’t been dizzy since Tuesday, he talked about visiting Jackie that morning for breakfast before going to the GM’s office while her sister watched the kids, he talked about how his locker at the practice facility had been cleared out for him but that his game day locker had been left as it was by the equipment managers, about how one of the equipment managers had cornered him before he left the building that morning to tell him he’d be missed and that the staff would let him on the ice one last time when he went to clear out his locker at the arena.

He talked about how he was trying to decide between finding an apartment in the city near MSG or finding a house out in the suburbs closer to Tarrytown so he wouldn’t have to drive as far for practice.

Ilya interjected every once in a while; asked if he’d been able to switch to over the counter pain meds from the prescription shit which Shane happily informed him he had, expressed how glad he was that Shane wasn’t waking up nauseous anymore, asked after Jackie and grumbled about the fact that they hadn’t let Shane clear out his own locker while, at the same time, praising the equipment managers who’d protected his game day locker.

“I think suburbs,” Ilya decided eventually.

“Why’s that?”

“You like space,” Ilya said. “Fresh air, room to move around. I do not think you would like living in the city.”

“I think you’re probably right,” Shane agreed, he’d been thinking the same thing. His mom had found a house that was only a fifteen-minute drive from the Admirals’ practice facility and a forty-minute drive to MSG. It was on four acres of land and sat at the top of a driveway that was separated from the main road by a full tree line. There was a gated entrance and a private guest suite and enough room in the house to build a home gym without taking up too much space. There was a massive back yard and enough tree cover that Shane was sure he’d feel more like he was at the cottage than stuck in the hustle of a city in the type of close quarters that always felt a little claustrophobic. It was a bit funny, honestly, that he’d decided to move to New York when he was a much bigger fan of wide-open spaces.

This house felt like a compromise, though.

He was near enough to the city to experience it, but he could go home at the end of the day to a place he’d be able to breathe.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and put it on speaker so he could open the group message with his mom and the real estate agent she’d somehow found with about twelve hours’ notice and sent one simple text: Let’s put an offer on the house in Irvington.

It was that, more than contract discussions and empty lockers, that made him realize he was actually doing this.

“Send pictures,” Ilya said, “I want to see this new house.”

Shane scrolled up and copied the Zillow link and pasted it into his thread with Ilya before setting the phone down and closing his eyes. He could handle screens and light for longer now, but it still wasn’t exactly comfortable.

“Sent it.”

Ilya went quiet for a minute and then let out a low whistle, “wow, Hollander, this is very nice house.”

“You think?”

“It has a pond.”

“Does that make a house nice?”

“I sure think so,” Ilya said with a light laugh. “I like the yard, and the stone. It is a very pretty home, Shane.”

“It’s almost exactly three hours from yours.”

“You already looked?” Ilya asked and just from the tone of his voice Shane could tell how soft his eyes had just gone, could tell how sweet his smile was.

“Of course I did.”

Ilya took a deep breath, and then another, and then said, “thank you, Shane. I needed this.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know, but I am anyways.”

“You’re adorable.”

Ilya blew a raspberry right into the speaker that had Shane laughing almost on instinct, “I am not adorable, I am big and strong and Russian. Russians are not adorable, we do not do this.”

“I think that’s a lie,” Shane laughed, “I think you can be both Russian and adorable.”

“Fine, whatever,” Ilya said, as if he were put out before his voice sobered, “really, Shane, thank you. I am very excited to visit you in the new house, and I am proud of you for leaving Montreal to find something better. You deserve the best.”

“Thank you,” Shane said softly. His parents had told him that, Hayden and Jackie had told him that, he’d told himself that but hearing it from Ilya was something else entirely. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Ilya answered honestly, “but I am better now, lyubimiy.”

“Good,” Shane said.

“I should go,” Ilya said after they’d fallen silent for a moment, “I left Sveta alone with the wolves. I will text when I get back to my condo, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane agreed. “I love you, Ilya, keep being kind to yourself.”

“I love you too,” Ilya replied, “I will do my best.”

Shane stayed sitting there long after the line went dead.

* * *

On Friday afternoon, Ilya woke up from his nap and, for some godforsaken reason, opened Twitter for the first time in days.

He was immediately assaulted by the news breaking that Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, Back-to-Back Stanley Cup Champion, was being traded to the New York Admirals a mere 36 hours ahead of the trade deadline.

The theories for why this was happening ranged from the absurd (he broke up with Hayden Pike and needed to run away to heal his broken heart, a real fucking thing that someone had actually written, re-read for spelling errors, and then decided to share with the internet) to the almost concerningly accurate (there’s a pervasive issue with inclusivity in the Montreal organization and Hollander must’ve finally gotten tired of it).

Thankfully, no one had guessed the whole story.

No one had said they thought Shane had come out to his team, his team he’d spent his entire career with, his team he’d won two Stanley Cups for, and they’d responded by icing him out, checking him too hard in practice, and making him feel unsafe in the locker room.

No one had guessed that Shane Hollander had been emotionally compromised from the minor disaster that was his long term situationship with Ilya Rozanov and had decided to do a full 180 and get into a very public, high profile relationship with A-List Movie Star Rose Landry who’d almost immediately clocked him as gay and then had stood by his side while he told his friends and family before spending a rare weekend off in Florida at All Star Weekend just so she could be nearby if he needed her.

No one had guessed that Shane and Ilya had reconciled, that Shane had found a kindred spirit in Scott Hunter and it’d been enough for him to tell his agent where he wanted to go, to make the fact that his no trade had been waived something that mattered.

Montreal fans were in a state of outrage, though Ilya was incredibly pleased to find that about 98% of the vitriol was aimed at the Voyageurs and the 2% who were aiming their anger at Shane were having the figurative shit kicked out of them by anyone with a brain in the replies.

He also found that the news of Shane’s trade had entirely eclipsed any mention of the fact that Ilya wasn’t travelling with his team and that he hadn’t been so much as spotted in the general vicinity of Boston in a week.

Ilya wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He hated that this amount of attention might be hurting Shane in some way, but he also knew that Shane would’ve expected this attention, that there was no way he could’ve expected anything else and that he’d honestly probably be happy that the attention was keeping the press away from Ilya’s scent, that Shane’s life blowing up was protecting Ilya somehow.

He exited out of the app and opened his messages and fired off a text to Shane, a contact he’d changed in the short while he’d been awake on the flight over now that people knew they were friends. He’d even added a contact photo, one Scott had taken that hadn’t made it onto Instagram where Shane was sitting in his hospital bed, glaring at the camera like an angry kitten while Scott muttered about the exposure and bossed Ilya around like he was the PA on a Rolex campaign.

You’re trending, he typed. He almost deleted it to type something kinder, but he knew Shane would understand him, would know he was being a little funny while still actually checking in.

I sure am, Shane replied almost immediately. A second text came a moment later, my dad is having a great time reading the more unhinged theories about why I’m leaving.

Has he found the Shayden break up rumors yet?

No, Shane sent back, and I sure hope he never does. Jackie is bad enough.

Then a photo came through.

It showed a massive bouquet of roses, like a truly obnoxious number of them, and Shane’s hand holding one of those little cards they have at the florist. The message said: So sorry to hear about your broken heart, sending my love -Hayden’s Mistress.

And then another text came in, and Ilya could almost hear Shane’s voice as he read it: She ordered these online. She typed in this message and submitted the order with her full government name and her credit card information.

Ilya let out a laugh that echoed through his empty condo as he typed back: you have weird friends.

I do, Shane sent. Three little dots appeared at the corner of the screen before disappearing for a moment. Ilya was about to start typing a reply, maybe some actual question about how Shane was doing, and then another text appeared, thank you for checking in, everything is alright here, I promise.

Ilya breathed out a sigh of relief.

He knew Shane wouldn’t lie, he wasn’t really capable of lying, not directly, not to Ilya.

He hid things, sure, but he very rarely lied. If he said things were alright, they were alright. Maybe they weren’t good, maybe he was still anxious, still scared, but he was alright and that was enough.

Ilya set his phone down and looked around the blank walls of this condo he’d bought right after his rookie season and started to feel like he’d overstayed his welcome.

It was Friday afternoon, their flight back to Boston was Sunday morning.

Ilya took a breath and slung his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up. He rested his elbows on his knees and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and decided that by tomorrow evening, this place would be truly empty.

His father was dead, buried next to what remained of his mother, but he didn’t feel tied to that spot like some might, he didn’t feel like he was missing anything by not being able to visit her grave. She was with him, always, in the crucifix around his neck and in the instinct to be kind instead of awful. She lived in the songs he hummed under his breath and in the meals he’d learned to make when he needed comfort.

The place she was buried wasn’t all that was left and forcing himself to stay here, to continue to call this place home simply to be close to that spot felt almost like a disservice.

She hadn’t been able to leave; she’d been young and sad and stuck.

Ilya wasn’t stuck.

He may be young, he may sometimes be sad, but he didn’t need to be stuck. He had the means to find somewhere that made him happy, he had a job that allowed him to leave, he wasn’t tied to his father any longer. There was nothing keeping him here, but there was everything telling him he was allowed to leave.

Moscow wasn’t home anymore, hadn’t been for a long time.

Home was Boston and a rowdy locker room and music playing far too loud. Home was yelling at the TV with Svetlana while she threw popcorn at him and told him to calm down before starting to yell at the TV herself. Home was driving an extra 40 minutes to go to the grocery store that had the ingredients he needed for the soup his mother used to make him when he had a cold. Home was the trees in New England changing color in the fall and the decent weather sticking around long enough that you actually got to enjoy them.

Home was brown eyes and freckles and a smile that felt like the sun breaking through winter fog.

Ilya had a home, one that made him feel warm and wanted, a home his mother would want him to run toward instead of push away out of some misguided notion that he needed be close to her grave.

He wrapped his hand around her crucifix and felt the peace settle in his bones.

It was time to go home.

Chapter End Notes

this is the zillow posting i'm basing shane's house off of btw - https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/5-Belmont-Dr-Irvington-NY-10533/33024494_zpid/?utm_campaign=zillowwebmessage&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=txtshare

i had way too much fun house shopping like i had NHL & Rolex campaign money

Chapter 11: long live

March 2017

This was, without a doubt, one of the best days of Scott’s life. He wandered into the locker room that Friday afternoon before their home game against Minnesota, grinning like mad with his phone pressed to his ear, and was met by a wall of raucous sound, “hear that, Hollzy?”

“What the fuck is that noise?” Shane asked, his voice coming through Scott’s phone barely even audible over the chaos.

“Your new team,” Scott responded, his grin growing even wider. His cheeks were starting to hurt. He felt honestly a little crazy with how happy he was; like the emotion had seeped into every corner of his being instead of simply living in the neurons of his brain.

The team had, apparently, gone entirely insane, cheering and singing and spraying each other with – thankfully - water instead of champagne. Someone walking into this room might genuinely think they were celebrating winning the Cup.

Less than a month ago this locker room had been rife with tension and then Zullo had gotten arrested and they’d released him and traded for Matti Jalo who was both a better player and a better person and now news had just hit that they’d gotten Shane fucking Hollander whose injury report said he’d be back on the ice for practice by the end of the month and back into games in early April while they were smack dab in the middle of a generational run that would only get better with, again, Shane fucking Hollander on their team.

“What?” Shane asked, clearly confused. Scott could somehow picture the face he was making, the way he’d cock his head just slightly to one side and, for once, look more like a puppy than a kitten. Scott probably needed to find some way to describe Shane’s expressions that wasn’t comparing him to tiny, baby animals but that was a task that could wait for another day.

“Listen,” Scott said, stepping fully into the room and turning his phone on speaker.

* * *

Shane had to pull his phone away from his ear as the sound crashed through the speakers.

It took a second for his brain to organize the words and when their shouting became clear, he nearly started crying.

Most everyone was chanting WE GOT HOLLZY! at the top of their lungs with the sort of fervor you normally ever heard after a massive win and a voice he somehow recognized as Carter Vaughan was simply screaming along to the song blasting through the locker room speakers which even Shane wasn’t offline enough to not recognize as Taylor Swift’s Welcome to New York.

Hearing his new team cheer for him like his trade was the equivalent of a Cup win was such a stark departure from the exit he’d made from Montreal that morning that it felt like his head was spinning and for the first time in a week it wasn’t in a bad way.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

He didn’t know how to react, how to properly emote in the face of that level of excitement, of support.

“Boys!” Scott shouted, his voice somehow cutting through the noise and Shane felt a strange sense of pride as the volume decreased immediately; that was his new Captain, the person Shane was more than happy to follow toward victory, the person who could cut through the insanity of a locker room in the midst of chaos with a single shout because his team respected him enough to listen.

“Scotty!” Carter shouted. If Shane didn’t know they had a game in an hour, he honestly might’ve assumed Carter was drunk.

“Can I switch to FaceTime?” Scott asked, his voice closer to the speaker now.

Shane paused for only a moment, taking stock of his head, of the pounding that sometimes existed behind his eyes, and decided that seeing his new team would be worth having to sleep off a headache, “yeah.”

Scott let out a whoop that seemed almost involuntary and then the call cut out. It was silent for only a second before Shane’s phone started ringing again. He picked it up and was met with the faces of about a dozen of the Admirals, half dressed for warmups and quite literally climbing over each other to make it into the frame as they crowded around Scott.

“Hollzy!” one of them, Shane was pretty sure it was Brisebois, shouted.

“Breezy!” he shouted back, ignoring the way the volume made his eye twitch and deciding to take the risk that his assumption was right.

He was met with a cheer that told him he had, in fact, guessed correctly.

“Can I just say,” Carter called, his voice cutting through the chaos almost as effectively as Scott’s, “Montreal is fucking stupid for letting you go.”

Shane didn’t necessarily want to start off his time with his new team by complaining about his old one so, instead of saying anything directly incriminating, he just grinned a little and said, “Roz thinks I should light a ceremonial fire with all my old gear.”

“Someone write down the date!” Carter crowed, the smile on his face turning almost manic with excitement, “I actually agree with Ilya Rozanov! This is a historical event!”

Shane couldn’t help but laugh at that. A real laugh, one that came from his chest and made him feel genuine joy, one that made his stomach shake with the force of it, “what a feeling, right?”

“Yes, yes,” Scott said, laughing too. Not as loudly or as freely as Shane and Carter, he seemed, to Shane’s eye, to be more focused on Shane’s reactions than his own. “We all remember the first time we agree with Roz, it’s a distressing experience.”

Shane smiled and decided he needed to change the subject before his expression slipped into something unmistakably fond, “Minnesota tonight, you guys ready?”

“Absolutely,” Wagner yelled, popping up at the bottom of the frame and forcing Scott to adjust his hold on the phone so he wouldn’t drop it, Shane quickly adjusted his grip on his own phone so he could take a screenshot, just needing to have something to remember this moment by. “We’re winning this one for you, Hollzy!”

The Shane of about three weeks ago might’ve protested, might’ve said something about how they should win the game for themselves, might’ve made some comment brushing it off and downplaying just how appreciated that made him feel but the Shane of now had blown up his life and it’d all shaken out in his favor anyways, so, instead of playing it down, instead of blushing and ducking his head and trying to make himself small, he tipped his head back like he was swooning and said, “oh, my heart, I’m honored. I expect whoever scores the winning goal to blow a kiss at the camera, really seal the deal.”

“You got it,” Carter called, laughing in an open sort of way that made it easy for Shane to understand that he was laughing with Shane instead of at him.

“I’ll watch the third period then,” Shane promised.

“Oh, shit,” Scott said, his voice nearly a yelp as he flinched, his arm holding the phone shaking slightly as he nearly dropped it and then pulled it closer to his face. “You’re not supposed to be on screens, young man.”

“Sorry, dad.”

“Enough of that,” Scott said, pointing his finger at the camera like he was attempting to scold Shane, “put your phone down, take whatever meds you’re supposed to take, and if you don’t have a headache you can watch the third period.”

Shane just smiled, “alright, Scotty. I’ll see you all soon, kick the shit out of Minnesota.”

He was met with a resounding cheer that cut off as Scott shook his head and ended the call. Shane just sat there, staring at the now blank screen, and let the feeling sink in.

* * *

Ilya woke up Saturday morning and, once again, opened Twitter.

His feed was full of hockey which wasn’t much of a shock.

What was a shock was the fact that New York had beat Minnesota in a 5-0 shut out.

Ilya navigated over to New York’s page to check for game highlights because any game with that sort of score would’ve certainly been entertaining to watch and, instead, found a compilation of all five goals where each play ended in the shot cutting to a close up of whoever had scored the goal who then, each of them, for all five goals, blew a kiss straight into the camera.

Ilya didn’t understand what was happening until the last goal, a beautiful shot straight into the top shelf rounding out Scott’s hat trick.

He turned toward the camera, winked, and then blew a kiss right as Carter Vaughan slammed into his back, threw an arm around his shoulders, pointed at the camera, and yelled HOLLZY loud enough for the broadcast to pick it up.

Shane hadn’t even put on the jersey yet and they were already treating him like he was an integral part of the team.

Ilya knew he was grinning like an idiot as he exited out of the app and opened Instagram. When the page loaded, the first circle in the line of stories was Scott’s. Ilya clicked on it and found the team’s highlight of Scott’s hatty, followed by the compilation of all five team goals, and then a FaceTime screenshot that Shane must’ve taken where Shane was grinning in the top right corner of the screen, the bruise across his face clearly visible but looking far better than it had a week ago, and most of the Admirals crowded around Scott who was holding the phone, all of them either grinning or in the middle of cheering.

It looked like screenshots Ilya had seen of players calling their families after they’d won a playoff series on the road.

Scott had simply written: welcome to New York.

It was simple and stupid and Ilya was half certain Shane wouldn’t understand the reference, but it was perfect, nonetheless.

And, honestly, if a 5-0 game against a solid playoff contender was how New York was playing after simply hearing the news that Shane had been traded to their team, Ilya wasn’t sure he wanted to experience how they’d play once Shane was actually on the ice.

Ilya exited out of Instagram and shot a text off to Shane to tell him good morning (even though it was the middle of the night in Montreal) and then moved over to his notes app, to the to do list he’d made himself the day before in an attempt to channel Shane.

He had some clothes that’d been left here over the years that could be donated and a few belongings he wanted to bring back home meaning he needed to go out and buy a second suitcase.

The list helped, the knowledge that all he had to do was follow the next step stopped him from slipping into that foggy state where time simply passed around him without his knowledge.

Just 24 more hours, just a short list of tasks and he’d be on a plane flying home.

* * *

It was Monday morning, Montreal had the day off practice, and Shane, Hayden, and J.J. were standing on the ice staring up at the two banners they’d put up in the rafters together.

It’d been just over a week since Shane had been injured in Boston and he probably shouldn’t be in skates just yet, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t step onto the ice in the Bell Center for the last time as a Voyageur in sneakers. He’d let Hayden lace his skates for him and they’d only skated out to center ice before stopping, but that was as much of a concession as he’d been willing to make.

They were in home game jerseys that’d been cleaned and left hanging in their stalls by the equipment managers, a note folded next to Shane’s telling him the jersey was his to keep along with a card full of messages from dozens of people who worked in the building or out at the practice facility wishing him well and thanking him for always being so kind.

This was the last time he’d ever wear this jersey.

After he got off the ice, he’d hand it to his mom and it’d end up being sent somewhere to be framed and, probably, once this departure stopped feeling like an open wound, it’d be hung in his trophy room next to the one he’d received on draft day.

Hayden’s hand landed on his lower back and J.J.’s rested on his shoulder and Shane heard the shutter of a camera and found himself torn between wishing the team’s media staff weren’t here and grateful that someone was documenting this moment.

“You ready?” Hayden asked, his voice soft even as it echoed slightly through the empty rink.

“No,” Shane answered honestly.

He’d felt good this past week, excited for change, excited to see what happened next. He’d already been added to group chats and invited to someone’s birthday party the next week and he’d been talking to the Admirals training staff about rehab and they’d made a timeline that’d have him back on the ice before the end of the regular season if all went well and everything was working out in ways he’d thought he could only dream of but now, standing on this ice, on the ice he’d called his home rink for seven years, he stopped feeling so ready for change.

He felt his eyes well up against his will and before the tears could even fall, he found himself sandwiched in a hug between his two best friends.

“I’m gonna miss you guys,” he said, knowing his voice sounded wrecked.

J.J. sniffled behind him and buried his face in Shane’s hair as Hayden tucked his head against Shane’s uninjured shoulder, “we’re gonna miss you too, Capitaine.”

“You’ll visit,” Hayden said, like it was simply a fact of life, which it absolutely was. “There’s always a room in my house for you, you know that.”

“I know,” Shane whispered, the emotions clogging his throat making it hard to speak any louder. “It won’t be the same.”

“It won’t,” J.J. agreed, “but maybe it’ll be better.”

Shane just nodded. He knew it’d be better, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to leave.

Eventually, once each of them had steadied, they untangled themselves and, by some sort of unspoken agreement, started to skate back toward the boards. Shane looked up at that banner once more, the memories of hoisting the Cup into the air flooding his senses, and then turned around and followed Hayden and J.J. off the ice.

They waited for him at the gate and Shane knew why without needing to be told.

He slid to a stop and then held out his fist. It’d normally be the right, but the left would half to do seeing as his right arm was very much still in a sling.

As always, J.J. was third to last off the ice.

He tapped his fist to Shane’s and then knocked their foreheads together lightly, being careful both because of Shane’s concussion and because they’d normally be wearing helmets. Instead of good game, Shane whispered, “thank you.”

J.J. nodded once and replied, “thank you,” before stepping off the ice and through the gate.

Hayden, as always, was the second to last off.

He skated that last stride forward, tapped his fist to Shane’s, and kissed the side of his head where he’d normally give an exaggerated smooch to Shane’s helmet after a win. Shane breathed out a laugh and returned the gesture, “love you, man.”

“Love you too,” Hayden replied, his nose twitching slightly as he tried to hold back tears.

Shane watched as Hayden stepped off the ice and then took a breath and followed.

* * *

On Monday afternoon, Scott’s phone lit up with two notifications, almost in sync; a text from Ilya that said Boston was all but forcing him to take an extra week of bereavement leave that was in response to Scott asking if he’d be playing that night and a push notification letting him know that @shanehollander had posed on Instagram.

He ignored Ilya’s message for the time being, knowing that if anyone was going to be able to convince him that caring for his mental well-being wasn’t a form of torture it’d be Shane, not Scott, and opened Instagram.

It was ten pictures, a full carousel.

The first was a shot of Shane, Hayden, and J.J. in jeans and their game jerseys standing at center ice, Hayden and J.J.’s arms wrapped around Shane with back-to-back Stanley Cup banners hanging above their heads.

The second was a video of Shane standing at the boards, his arm still in its sling as he held out his left fist.

J.J. stepped off the ice first after thanking Shane, the same ritual they’d do after every game. Hayden stepped off second. There was no sound, but Scott could see Shane’s lips form the words love you, man after they’d exchanged helmet-less helmet smooches. It was adorable and bittersweet in a way that made Scott feel immeasurably guilty about how happy he’d been about Shane’s upcoming move.

The third slide was Shane with the first cup Montreal had won while the fourth slide showed all the Voyageurs with the Cup on the ice after their second win.

The fifth slide showed Shane and Hayden in what must’ve been either their first or second year, considering the fact that neither of them had an A stitched into their sweater. They had their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders and were grinning at the camera like mad, their hair sweaty in that post-game way that made them look boyish and full of life.

The sixth slide was Shane standing between his parents. He was in an away jersey and Scott could just make out the corner of the Centaur’s logo on the wall in the background meaning it’d been a game in his hometown. David and Yuna were in matching Hollander jerseys, and they looked so damn proud it made Scott’s heart hurt, just a little.

The seventh, eighth, and ninth slides were action shots; one of Shane in the faceoff circle against Ilya, one of Shane in the midst of knocking a pass over to Hayden, and the last of him on a breakaway with Vancouver’s goalie barely visible on the edge of the screen. Scott had a feeling it was a shot of Shane’s first career goal.

The final slide was what made the tears fall.

It was from Shane’s draft day.

Ilya was holding his Boston jersey, holding up his finger to show he’d gone first and he was grinning over at Shane in a way that was clearly meant to be teasing but had failed spectacularly. Neither of them had ever told Scott the timeline, but looking at this picture, Scott somehow just knew this was the beginning.

Shane was holding his Montreal jersey, two fingers held up, and his media smile plastered across his face.

He looked so young, younger than Scott could ever actually remember him being. He’d just been drafted second overall to a team only two hours away from his hometown, a team that needed to go through some rebuilding, but a team that had wanted him, had started to build a legacy around him even before he’d stepped on the ice. He had probably assumed, when he’d been handed that jersey on that stage in Ottawa, that it’d be the jersey he’d retire in, the jersey that, maybe, someday, after a career well played, would hang up in the rafters of the Bell Center.

That Shane probably couldn’t have even imagined a world where his team would turn their backs on him so thoroughly, a world where he didn’t retire as a Voyageur.

The comments were filled with well wishes, with Montreal fans talking about the games they’d had the chance to see Shane play, with old teammates from Juniors saying how proud they were of how far he’d come, with New York fans saying how excited they were for his next chapter.

It was only after Scott had spent far too long scrolling through other people’s words that he went back and read Shane’s:

Montreal has been my home for seven years and I never thought I’d be leaving it behind. I have had the time of my life playing on this ice, for this team. I always imagined spending my entire career as a Voyageur, but sometimes plans change. I am incredibly grateful for the years I spent with this organization, with these fans and this incredible community.

Thank you, Montreal.

Love always, #24.

Chapter 12: your eyes look like coming home

March 2017

Shane startled awake as his phone rang.

It was pitch black outside, even the streetlights were turned off outside his parents’ house in Ottawa meaning it was almost certainly the middle of the night. They’d driven back to Ottawa after dinner with Hayden and J.J., leaving Shane’s Montreal apartment empty for the movers that’d be coming Thursday morning.

Shane’s dad had driven his car back, filled with his personal gear and a couple of suitcases full of clothing and belongs he didn’t want to leave at the movers’ mercy and now Shane was in his childhood bedroom, yet again, just waiting for the news that he could move into his new house in New York. It was empty, had just been sitting on the market after the previous owners had decided to move into their vacation home somewhere down South full time, so Shane would be able to move in as soon as the deed was properly filed.

It was all moving way too quickly, faster than Shane could even process, but he found himself not actually wanting it to slow down.

He ran his hand across his bed before rolling over, reaching for his nightstand where his fingers finally wrapped around his phone. He cracked an eye open just enough to press answer seeing as anyone who could get through his Do Not Disturb wouldn’t be calling him in the middle of the goddamn night if it weren’t important.

“Hello?” he said, trying not to yawn which only made him yawn harder.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice responded.

Shane sat bolt upright, ignoring the way it made his head spin and his shoulder twinge. It had only been one syllable, one measly syllable carried across phone lines and international borders, but it was enough to make alarm bells go off in Shane’s head.

Ilya sounded off, nervous almost, and the slight crack in his voice clued Shane into the fact that he’d either been crying or was trying not to cry now.

“Ilya, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya whispered and now Shane was dead certain he’d been crying. His voice was rough around the edges and sounded like it’d been stretched thin.

“What can I do? What do you need?”

“You.”

“I’m here,” Shane responded immediately, trying to keep his voice soft even as his mind started to spiral, running over every possible reason why Ilya could be this sad. It wasn’t at all comforting to realize that was a pretty lengthy list.

“No,” Ilya said before cutting himself off with an almost annoyed huff. Shane got the feeling it hadn’t been directed at him. “I need you, Shane.”

Shane took a slow breath and let it out, hoping that Ilya might at least follow his breathing subconsciously if he made it obvious, that he might use it as a way to ground himself while Shane tried to get his injured brain to formulate an actual thought.

It took a minute, a minute of silence and shared breaths crackling through the phone, but Shane finally clawed his way toward an idea, a thought that’d form and stick around instead of disappearing with a throbbing pain in his temple, “Boston gave you this week off?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “I do not have to be back until practice Monday morning. Well, I was told to not be back until practice Monday morning.”

“Okay, come to Ottawa.”

“What?”

“Come to Ottawa, you can drive my car to New York with me when I move. That way my parents can fly instead of having to make the drive round trip or booking a one-way flight. I’m still not cleared to drive, so you’d be helping me out. It’d give you something to do and you could be here, with me.”

Shane had sort of taken a stab in the dark with the whole you’d be helping angle, but he was pretty sure that it’d work.

“It would help?” Ilya asked and even though Shane had assumed that he’d be more comfortable taking what he needed when it also helped Shane, it still sort of broke his heart to actually hear.

“Yes,” Shane said. “It would be a huge help. I’m staying at my parents in Ottawa right now but you’re welcome here, Ilya. It’s Tuesday right now, right?”

“Yeah,” Ilya answered, huffing out a little self-deprecating laugh that made Shane’s chest ache. “Early Tuesday, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Shane said, “please don’t apologize, you can call me anytime, I promise. I was just asking so I could give you a timeline. I think the deed on my house will be filed this morning, the movers are packing up my apartment in Montreal on Wednesday, and I was planning to drive to New York on Thursday. You can come whenever and I’ll either have a car ready for you at the airport or one of my parents and I will come get you, okay?”

Shane heard a slight rustle, like Ilya had sat up in his own bed.

“Okay,” he whispered after a moment, his voice slightly distant like he’d switched to speakerphone. “There is a flight at eight,” Ilya said, sniffling slightly and Shane had honestly never wanted to hug a person more. “One and one half hours non-stop, so I would be there at 9:30. Is that okay?”

“That’s perfect,” Shane said. “My mom works from home and I don’t think she has any meetings scheduled in the morning so she’ll be free to drive. Send me your flight info and we’ll be there.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m entirely sure, Ilya.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispered again. He sounded steadier now but no less choked up. “I love you, Shane.”

“I love you too, pack a bag and get a couple hours of sleep, alright? I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

Ilya hung up, booked his flight, sent Shane a screenshot of the confirmation, making sure to copy and paste the flight information into their texts as well, and then turned off his phone and stared into the darkness of his bedroom.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting when he called, but it certainly hadn’t been for Shane to immediately tell him to fly to Ottawa and then offer a plan that was clear enough for Ilya to latch onto. He knew Shane knew that telling Ilya he’d be helping was the right way to get him to agree but instead of feeling annoyed, Ilya simply felt seen.

Shane had this way of seeing the world that constantly amazed Ilya.

He could read the ice and every player’s every move like a book, and he was the same in conversation. He often struggled to come up with responses or proper emotions when the conversation was personal, but in a professional or smaller social setting he was a master. He could read the barest change in a person’s expression, and he could see through even the hardest of masks, he listened to changes in tone like he was listening to plays being called. It was impressive, honestly, and Ilya hated that he had a sinking suspicion that it was a learned behavior; that Shane had figured out how to read people, how to react properly, because he hadn’t just naturally known how.

But with Ilya, it was different.

Shane didn’t study him the same way he studied other people, he simply watched and listened.

And he had known, the moment Ilya had said his name, that something was wrong.

Ilya barely even knew what was wrong, only that he’d needed to hear Shane’s voice. But Shane had known, and he’d found a solution.

Ilya rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes and then dragged himself out of bed, flicking on the closet light as he made his way across the room.

He pulled out a duffle bag and then carefully packed enough clothes for a week, a combination of jeans and sweatpants, hoodies and nice sweaters. He counted out socks and underwear and found himself thinking in Shane’s voice, found himself counting and sorting in that methodical way Shane had when he’d helped Ilya pack for Russia.

Once the duffle was packed, he moved into his bathroom and put together a shave kit with only travel sized things. He didn’t want to waste time checking a bag, didn’t want to stand around at baggage claim in the Ottawa airport when it was a precious few minutes he could be spending with Shane.

He double checked the airline policy, making sure he could bring both a carry on and a personal item, and then packed his backpack with an extra hoodie, his laptop, his team iPad, and the little bag Shane had organized with his headphones and chargers. He made sure his passport was still in the front pocket and then put both bags by his counter and opened his car service app to schedule a ride in a few short hours.

All he needed to do now was sleep until his alarms went off and then he’d be on his way toward Shane.

* * *

Shane felt distinctly like he’d been chosen as the representative of the cousins to ask the adults if they could have a sleep over after a family gathering.

It was an experience he’d assumed he’d grown out of somewhere around his 12^th birthday but here he was, two and a half months away from 26, having war flashbacks to every time his cousins had decided that his ‘puppy dog eyes made him the best option’ (and yes, that is a direct quote) while he tried to figure out how to tell his parents that his boyfriend (maybe, they still hadn’t used a word which maybe felt like something they should’ve done by now but, really, a lot had been happening so you’re gonna have to give them a break) was currently en route to Ottawa.

He decided to just bite the bullet.

“Good morning, I’m dating Ilya Rozanov.”

His dad spit out his coffee.

Maybe Shane could’ve eased into that a little better.

But Shane wasn’t anything if not determined, so he simply kept talking, “Boston gave him the week off for bereavement leave, he called me last night and something was wrong and I didn’t want him to be alone, so I invited him to Ottawa. His flight leaves in,” Shane paused, glancing down at his watch, “30 minutes and lands at 9:30. He’ll drive my car to New York with me so you two can fly and -”

“Shane,” his mom said, cutting him off. She looked amused which Shane was deciding to count as a win. “Thank you for telling us. Do you need me to drive you to the airport to get him?”

Shane blew out a deep breath and slumped down into his seat at the kitchen table with a slightly sheepish smile, “could you?”

Yuna simply nodded and turned back to her breakfast.

Shane was starting to wonder how long she’d let the fact that he was injured stop her from conducting the impending interrogation.

He decided that could be a problem for later Shane and stole a slice of toast off his dad’s plate, “sorry about your coffee.”

“It’s alright, bud,” David said, patting him on the shoulder. “I look forward to meeting Ilya properly.”

And what a concept that was.

They’d met him in passing at NHL events and had spoken to him briefly in his driveway a week prior, but they hadn’t really met Ilya. But they would, and Shane was certain they’d love him.

* * *

The moment the seatbelt sign was turned off, Ilya was out of his seat.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder, pulled his duffle down from the overhead storage, and became one of those annoying people who waits in the aisle of an airplane as if standing there will make the deboarding process go any faster.

He didn’t care how irrational it was, how annoying the behavior was, Shane was outside and that was the only thing that made sense, the only thought flitting through his mind that he had any desire to hold onto.

When he finally made it off the plane and then through customs, it took every ounce of self-control in his body to not run through the airport at a dead sprint.

He pulled his hat down slightly and threw on a pair of sunglasses and pretended that’d be enough to keep the Captain of the Boston Bears from being recognized in the Ottawa airport as he checked his phone for the 6^th time since they’d landed to read Shane’s text telling him to come to the second level of the parking garage, all the way at the end of the row.

Ilya followed the directions dutifully and very nearly cried in relief when he spotted Shane - bundled up in a jacket with only one sleeve properly on because his arm was still in that stupid sling, a Team Canada hat on his head, and a massive goddamn smile on his face – leaning against the outside of a black mid-sized SUV.

“Hi,” he said, and Ilya fell in love all over.

“Hi,” Ilya breathed out, lengthening his strides and dropping his duffle next to the car before pulling Shane into a hug, not sparing a single thought for the fact that they were still very much in public in Canada and were two of the most well-known hockey players in the league. He didn’t care, he needed Shane in his arms.

Shane’s left arm wrapped around Ilya’s waist, underneath his coat, and he burrowed himself into Ilya’s chest, tucking his face against Ilya’s shoulder, his cold nose pressing to Ilya’s neck.

“You’re here,” he said softly, sounding awed.

“I’m here,” Ilya whispered back, “thank you.”

Shane didn’t ask why Ilya was thanking him, he didn’t need to, he just tilted his head and pressed his lips to Ilya’s neck and then stepped back to open the car door.

Ilya, against his will, detangled himself from Shane and tossed his duffle and backpack into the back seat before crawling in himself, “good morning, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Yuna, please,” she responded, turning around and giving him a warm smile as Shane climbed into the passenger seat. “Did you eat breakfast before you left or do you want to stop somewhere?”

“I ate at the airport,” Ilya answered which was about half true. He’d had a coffee from Dunkin that had enough sugar and caffeine to make him feel like that little rabbit that advertised batteries and half a Cliff bar he’d found in his jacket pocket, but he was too nauseous to eat properly, so he stuck with his half-truth.

Shane looked over his shoulder and shot Ilya a look that said he didn’t believe him for a second and Ilya just grinned. Shane grinned back, like it was automatic, like Ilya smiling instinctively made him smile too.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” Ilya said after a moment, after he realized he’d been staring at Shane’s smiling face for at least three seconds too long while in the presence of the man’s mother.

“You’re my son’s boyfriend,” she said, shrugging like that was the only reason she needed.

Ilya’s eyes snapped back to Shane at the word boyfriend. Shane’s cheeks were bright pink, Ilya’s favorite shade and Ilya could’ve teased him, could’ve said oh, so I’m your boyfriend now? but he didn’t, instead he said, “yeah, I am.”

Shane’s grin went so soft Ilya was at genuine risk of cardiac arrest.

“Let’s get home,” Shane said, finally tearing his eyes away from Ilya and turning forward in his seat, “my head hurts and I want to take a nap.”

* * *

Shane’s head didn’t really hurt. Well, not any more than usual. He just wanted an excuse to force Ilya to lay down with him and sleep.

The bags under Ilya’s eyes were nearly as concerning as the shaky edge to his voice on the phone the night before and Shane was certain it’d been a number of days since Ilya had an uninterrupted night of sleep. Ilya was here now, though, he was with Shane, in a place Shane could actually do something about it, and he was going to get some restful sleep if it was the last thing Shane did.

Yuna pointed out several ‘landmarks’ as they drove North toward the city proper and Ilya seemed to be hanging on to her every word.

He asked questions about what ages Shane had been when he played at different rinks, about where David had lived as a child after Yuna had mentioned it was David’s hometown, about what school he’d gone to and whether or not people swam in the river.

He seemed more like himself than Shane had been expecting, more settled.

He still looked exhausted and his shoulders were a bit too rigid to be entirely casual, but his voice was steady and his smile was real.

But as the drive dragged on, as they got caught in a brief spot of traffic caused by a blockage on the road, Ilya’s energy started to ebb. Shane noticed it immediately and started to pick up the conversation where Ilya was trailing off, pointing out things that Ilya would find even remotely interesting that didn’t require him to ask follow-up questions. He told stories about his cousins climbing too high into a tree near a playground they passed and having to be coaxed back down like scared cats, about the first pond he’d skated on during winter break, about the trails he ran on in high school.

By the time they made it home, Ilya had gone almost entirely silent and Shane realized that it was something like an adrenaline crash.

The chaos of booking an international flight six hours before getting on it and seeing Shane again after a week apart that felt far longer than a week and meeting Shane’s mom properly were fading, leaving behind exhaustion and grief and whatever else it was that had him calling Shane well past midnight.

“Come on,” Shane said gently, holding out his hand as Ilya climbed out of the car. Ilya slipped his backpack over his shoulder and then grabbed onto the handles of his duffle, shutting the door behind him before taking Shane’s outstretched hand. “I need a nap,” he said, looking toward his mom, “can you wake me up for lunch? The alarm sound makes my brain short circuit.”

“Of course,” Yuna agreed, her voice raising slightly over the sound of the garage door rumbling across its tracks as it shut behind them. “Are you sure you don’t need anything to eat now, Ilya?”

“I’m sure,” Ilya said, his smile was real if only a little small, a little pained. “Thank you.”

Yuna just nodded and patted Shane’s cheek before wandering off toward her office. She’d been doing far more work than normal in the past couple of weeks, managing Shane’s life in a way she normally didn’t have to when he was able to actually look at a screen for long enough to send an e-mail and, also, when he wasn’t moving countries in the middle of the season.

Shane kept ahold of Ilya’s hand as they made their way upstairs and down the hall, “this is it,” Shane said, pushing the door open.

His room was a bit messier than he’d normally keep it with bags from his apartment in Montreal stacked in front of the closet, but it was decorated exactly as he’d left it when he moved to Montreal seven years prior.

The shelves were full of trophies and medals, and the walls were covered in evenly spaced, properly hung posters and framed photos. The closet that was thankfully being blocked by a decent portion of his belongings was still full of whatever clothes high school Shane Hollander had thought were fashionable and his bed was made with the Pottery Barn Kids sports-themed sheets and throw pillows that he’d used in elementary school that his mom had decided were sentimental and simply could not be replaced by either the plain navy sheets he’d used in high school or anything else made for an adult.

Ilya wandered over to the bookcase, a smile on his face that Shane was genuinely shocked to realize was fond rather than teasing as he picked up a framed photo of Shane from his Timbits team. He was tiny, grinning at the camera and absolutely swimming in his pads and jersey.

“Baby Shane,” Ilya cooed, pulling out his phone and snapping a picture before Shane could even attempt to protest. “This is my new favorite photo, I will cherish forever.”

“You’re not allowed to show that to anyone,” Shane said, trying his best to sound anywhere close to strict even as he felt a little like he was turning into a puddle at the mere mention of Ilya cherishing a picture of him.

“No,” Ilya promised, clutching his phone and the frame to his heart as he turned to look at Shane with what could only be described as puppy eyes, “all mine.”

Shane just shook his head and turned around in an attempt to hide his smile. He draped his coat over the back of his desk chair and pulled off the jeans he’d worn to the airport, leaving him in just his boxers and a t-shirt as he climbed into his bed, unmaking it even though he’d only just made it an hour prior.

“I should shower before getting in bed, yes?” Ilya asked, placing his coat over Shane’s and putting his duffle bag and backpack perfectly in line with Shane’s own against the wall between the desk and the opened bathroom door. It was a Jack and Jill bathroom, shared with the guest room, but they rarely had guests, so it was pretty much just Shane’s.

“You don’t have to,” Shane said, “just don’t get in my bed with your airplane clothes.”

“I will shower,” Ilya responded, pulling off his hoodie and stepping over to the bed to drop a kiss into Shane’s hair, “and then we will nap.”

* * *

Just like Ilya had been well aware that Shane knew telling Ilya he’d be helping if he came to Ottawa would get Ilya to agree to coming to Ottawa, he was well aware that Shane wasn’t really in need of a nap but had simply noticed how exhausted Ilya was and knew this was the best way to get him to actually sleep.

Again, instead of being annoyed or feeling like he was being manipulated, he simply felt seen.

There were a towel and a washcloth already folded on the counter and Ilya set his shave kit next to Shane’s, doing his best to follow the order that Shane had made for himself. It was almost unconscious by this point, adhering to the way Shane moved through the world. Shane knew what he needed to say to get Ilya to take care of himself and Ilya knew what he needed to do to keep Shane from stressing over a change in pattern.

He showered quickly, just wanting to get the feeling of airport air off of his skin and out of his hair and then dried off before brushing his teeth and stepping back into Shane’s room. Shane was half asleep, a throw pillow tucked between his ribs and arm as he laid on his back. Ilya knew his head was doing better, that his shoulder had been hurting less, but it was pretty clear he was still lethargic, and as much as Ilya wanted him to get better immediately, he was quite alright with sleepy Shane. He was soft around the edges, with big brown eyes blinking slowly and a sweet smile on his lips. His voice got rougher, the syllables stretching out and his tongue heavy around the vowels.

Ilya pulled on a pair of clean boxers and wasted no further time before crawling into bed next to Shane.

“Hi,” Shane whispered, his left hand immediately coming up to run through Ilya’s hair, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Ilya whispered back, leaning down and pressing his lips to Shane’s.

Shane sighed into the kiss and Ilya could feel the tension bleeding out of his own muscles more and more as each second passed. Part of him wanted to take it further, wanted to deepen the kiss with intent, but Shane was still injured no matter how much he’d been pushing the boundaries of what he was meant to be doing, and Ilya was exhausted and Yuna was right downstairs so he kept the kiss sweet, let it stay gentle and full of love rather than lust. He let the feeling wash over him, the feeling of safety and belonging, the feeling of coming home.

“Sleep, mon amour,” Shane said, pulling back and pressing a kiss to Ilya’s cheek before using the hand in Ilya’s hair to guide him to lay against Shane’s chest. Ilya went willingly, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and pressing as close as humanly possible. They were pressed together head to toe and it still wasn’t enough. He slipped his hand under the hem of Shane’s t-shirt and grumbled, hoping Shane would get the idea.

Shane just huffed out a laugh and sat up, dislodging Ilya and settling back against the pillows.

Ilya took that as his cue to carefully pull off Shane’s shirt, untangling it from the sling and moving slowly so he wouldn’t tweak Shane’s shoulder. It took a minute, but it was worth it to feel Shane’s skin against his; it felt like his warmth was seeping directly into Ilya’s bones, thawing him from the inside out.

Shane snuggled back down into the bed, tucking the pillow back beneath his arm and arching his back enough for Ilya to wrap his arms fully around his waist, “can you sleep now?”

Ilya just nodded, tucking his face against Shane’s neck, pressing a kiss to the soft skin at the base of his throat as he let his eyes slip closed.

Shane used his free hand to pull the covers up until they covered Ilya’s shoulders. The sheets were soft in that way sheets could only be when they’d been well loved, when they were old and had been washed time and time again. The duvet was heavy and Shane was warm and they were deep enough in the suburbs that the sounds of cities Ilya had always lived amongst were absent, leaving only the low hum of heated air pouring out of the vents and the steady rhythm of Shane’s breathing.

It was the closest thing to peace that Ilya had ever felt, and within that simple peace, sleep came easily.

Chapter 13: i'll make this feel like home

Chapter Notes

title from home by one direction which is a seriously underrated bop

March 2017

Shane dozed, never actually falling asleep as Ilya slept holding onto Shane like he was afraid he’d wake up to find Shane had disappeared. His sleep was mostly peaceful, interrupted only briefly by a twitch followed by a soft whine that was immediately soothed by Shane pressing a kiss to his head and murmuring soft words.

He was awake when his mom pushed the door open around noon, her eyes caught on Ilya’s sleeping form and softened immediately, “is he alright?”

“Yeah,” Shane whispered back, running his hand up Ilya’s back to tangle gently in his hair. His curls were wild; he’d climbed back into bed before his hair was dry and Shane just knew they’d look even more disheveled when he actually sat up. It was stupidly endearing and Shane had never been more in love. “Just needed some sleep.”

“I think he mostly needed you,” Yuna said softly, studying Ilya a moment longer before turning her attention back to Shane. “What are you thinking for lunch?”

Shane had suffered without proper comfort food for too many years under the guise of a performance diet and Ilya deserved comfort food, so Shane asked, “do we have tonkotsu broth?”

Yuna’s eyes lit up as a clearly delighted smile spread across her face.

Shane’s performance diet had been partially her idea, a way for him to plan out his days and follow a pattern, but Shane knew she thought he’d been taking it too far, he knew that she’d been trying to get him to eat more, both in volume and variety, but hadn’t known how far to push.

For him to be asking for something as rich and full of flavor as tonkotsu broth, for him to be asking, without having actually asked yet, for a proper bowl of ramen full of pork and eggs and real noodles, was big, and she knew just how big.

“We do,” she answered, clearly trying to stifle her excitement, at least a little. “I have some in the freezer and I just bought the good ramen, too.”

“Can we make that?” Shane asked, already knowing the answer, “I’ll help.”

“Of course,” Yuna said, her grip on her excitement wearing thin as the seconds passed. She was almost bouncing on her toes. “I’ll go get all the ingredients out and start thawing the broth.”

“Thanks, mom,” Shane responded, talking to nothing seeing as Yuna had already took off back down the hall. He huffed out a laugh to himself and then turned his attention to Ilya.

He ran his hand through Ilya’s hair again, putting a little more pressure against his scalp, and pressed soft kisses into his hair and across his temple and cheek, “Ilya, baby, time for lunch.”

Ilya let out an incoherent grumble and tightened his grip around Shane’s waist, ducking his head and tucking his face against Shane’s neck.

“C’mon, love,” Shane said softly, “we’re gonna make ramen, you’ll love it.”

Shane wasn’t entirely sure that was true but from what he’d seen, Ilya ate anything that was put in front of him so he really wasn’t all that worried.

“Don’t wanna move,” Ilya grumbled, “just got you back.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be by you the whole time, promise.”

Ilya let out a sigh and then nodded softly, “okay.”

“Okay,” Shane echoed. He waited patiently while Ilya disentangled himself and sat up on the side of the bed.

“You get dressed first and then sling, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane responded, yawning slightly. The sleepy look on Ilya’s face was making him want to forget the whole concept of lunch and simply stay in this bed forever, but he was hungry and he was excited to spend time with his mom and Ilya and he was excited to introduce Ilya to a dish he’d loved as a child that he hadn’t had in years, so he sat up and moved to the edge of his bed himself.

Ilya leaned over and pressed a kiss to Shane’s cheek and then stood up and made his way over to Shane’s duffle, “t-shirt or sweatshirt?”

“Hoodie,” Shane answered, pointing to the one that was folded on top of his desk. It was Ilya’s that he’d worn to drive from Boston to Ottawa, it was plain black as a lot of his clothes tended to be, but Ilya’s number was embroidered into the shoulder. It was, Shane would guess, locker room merch from a few years prior. The fabric was thick but worn in, soft with use and time.

Ilya’s whole face softened as he realized what Shane was pointing at but, because he was Ilya and had apparently met his softness quota, he said, “wearing your boyfriend’s hoodie, Hollander? Very high school girl of you.”

“Shut up,” Shane shot back, laughing despite himself. It was weak in the grand scheme of Ilya’s chirping, but Ilya was smiling like he was proud of himself and his eyes were still so soft as he picked up the hoodie and walked toward Shane and Shane was so stupidly in love with this man that he’d laugh simply if Ilya asked him to.

“I don’t think I will,” Ilya responded. He was so careful as he helped Shane into the hoodie that Shane didn’t have it in him to tell Ilya that the swelling in his shoulder had gone down enough that he could do it himself. He even let Ilya secure his sling even though he could absolutely do that alone too. Ilya dropped a kiss on top of his head and Shane let himself tip forward just enough to rest his head against Ilya’s stomach.

“Thank you,” Shane said, lips pressed against Ilya’s skin.

His lips were about three inches above the waistband of Ilya’s boxers and, oddly enough, Shane didn’t really feel the need to go lower.

That’s not to say that he didn’t want to, he was pretty sure he’d be 95, dementia ridden, and terrorizing the nursing home staff if they dared to change the channel while he was watching hockey, still wanting Ilya’s dick in his mouth. But Ilya was his boyfriend now. He wasn’t some hook up where Shane walked away each time wondering if that might’ve been the last time. He didn’t need to rush; he didn’t need to take everything he could get in a few short hours. He could simply stay here, resting gently against the soft skin of Ilya’s stomach, and let it simply be that.

He stayed there a minute, just enjoying the feeling of Ilya’s skin pressed against his and Ilya’s fingers running gently through his hair before he stood up. He dug a pair of soccer shorts out of his duffle and slipped them on, his balance much better now after a week of getting dressed one handed than it had been that first morning he’d woken up in Ottawa without Ilya there to help him get dressed. His parents would’ve done it if he’d asked, but he hadn’t wanted to. There was something different about asking Ilya for help, something easier.

“Look at you,” Ilya teased lightly, standing there with his hands on his hips as he watched Shane pull his shorts on himself, a proud sort of smile on his face. Shane smiled back and held out his uninjured arm as if to say ta da which just made Ilya huff out a fond laugh as Shane sat back on the bed to pull his socks on.

“C’mon, get dressed and we’ll go make lunch.”

* * *

Ilya complied easily, pulling on a hoodie and pair of shorts of his own. He felt far better now after a few hours of actually restful sleep, and he already felt oddly comfortable in Shane’s childhood home. He followed Shane down the hall and back down the stairs, his hair was a little longer than he normally kept it, probably a couple weeks past the point he’d usually go get it cut and it was perfectly messy, both from sleep and Ilya running his fingers through it. Ilya sort of wanted to beg him to keep it longer, to let it grow even more just to see how it might look.

They headed toward the kitchen where Ilya could already hear someone moving around.

Yuna turned around as they stepped in, a bright smile already on her face as she pointed toward the side of the little island opposite the oven and stovetop where there was already a small pile of ingredients along with a large cutting board and two knives.

Shane settled onto one of the barstools and nodded toward Ilya to do the same.

“Shane, honey,” Yuna started, turning back toward the stovetop, she seemed to be almost vibrating with energy and Ilya had no clue what had made her so excited, but the joy was infectious so he was grateful for whatever had, “can you show Ilya how to cut everything up? I’ve got the broth thawing and the eggs boiling and once the broth heats up I’ll do the noodles and then -”

“I know, I know,” Shane cut her off, laughing slightly. The corners of his eyes were crinkled up, and he was so goddamn cute Ilya kind of wanted to bite him. He had no clue where that instinct had come from, but it was taking a whole lot of willpower to hold himself back. “You need the bok choy first, right?”

“Right,” Yuna responded, “thank you. The pork is cooking, I cut it into smaller pieces so it’d cook faster. It won’t be the same as when we have all day to make it but it’ll be close enough.”

“That’s fine, mom, thank you,” Shane said, picking up a green vegetable Ilya had never seen before, but he deduced must’ve been bok choy and setting it on the cutting board before picking up one of the knives, “these just get cut in half,” he directed.

Ilya was honestly impressed by how smoothly Shane cut the plant in half while only having use of his non-dominant arm. He picked up a plant of his own and followed Shane’s instructions. They did the same for the scallions and mushrooms, though Shane left the ginger to Ilya after carefully explaining how to use a microplane and reminding him about six times to stop before he accidentally shredded his fingers.

They stuck to mostly talking about food and the weather and whatever game had been on the night prior as they worked and Ilya felt himself settling into the simple peace of it all. The kitchen smelled incredible and Shane and Yuna both easily adjusted to Ilya being part of the conversation, part of their lives.

As she put the noodles into the boiling broth, Yuna turned around and leaned back against the counter with a soft smile on her face, “I used to make this for Shane whenever he was sick when he was little, he hasn’t had it for a long time.”

“I’m sick of limiting myself,” Shane said simply and Ilya knew he wasn’t just talking about his diet.

Ilya leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, not needing to actually say anything to tell Shane that he was proud of him.

Shane turned toward him with Ilya’s favorite smile, the one that he now knew meant I love you, no words necessary.

“So,” Yuna said.

“Oh no,” Shane muttered.

Yuna just grinned, “when did this start?”

“I knew it was too good to be true,” Shane sighed, resting his chin on his hand as he propped his elbow on the counter and looked over at Ilya, talking to him as if Yuna weren’t even there, “she’s been so nice, holding off on her questions while I was injured. I thought maybe she’d just let it go entirely, alas, no such luck.”

“If you thought I was going to let this go entirely, you were sorely mistaken.”

Shane huffed out a laugh that was enough to let Ilya know that they weren’t in any sort of danger, that he was more amused than concerned.

“We’ve only been properly together since All Star Weekend,” Shane answered, “that’s when we talked and decided to stop acting like we weren’t anything real, when we decided that we wanted to find a way to make this work properly. But we’ve been something for a lot longer. Since our rookie season, really.”

“No,” Ilya said, his eyes locked on Shane’s, “summer before.”

“Right,” Shane responded, nodding slightly, his smile turning so incredibly fond Ilya felt it in his chest. “Summer before.”

“The entire time?” Yuna asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

Shane and Ilya both snapped back toward her, having nearly forgotten she was there all together.

“Yeah,” Shane said, clearing his throat, “the entire time, but we only met up sporadically those first few years, we were barely even talking to each other between games, but for the past couple of years, since, like, 2015?” he said, turning toward Ilya for confirmation. Ilya nodded in agreement. “Yeah, around 2015, we started texting more, actually talking, and it started to become more serious, less of something that we could brush off and pretend wasn’t happening.”

“What about Rose?”

“That was me panicking,” Shane answered, darting an apologetic glance toward Ilya who easily waved him off. He was over it now, he understood and he had Shane back, properly this time. “I was afraid of admitting how much I cared for Ilya, afraid of admitting that I was gay, afraid of admitting that both of those things would stop me from living the life people expected with a wife and kids and a golden retriever. But Rose helped me realize that lying to myself wasn’t good for anyone involved and Ilya was kind enough to hear my apology and, even though it’s terrifying, it’s been good, incredible, really. I’d do it all again if it meant having Ilya at the end.”

“Me too,” Ilya said softly, resting his hand on Shane’s knee and squeezing gently, “all of it. All the pain and jealousy and confusion and fear. Anything is worth it to have Shane.”

“Well,” Yuna said, clearing her throat. Ilya looked toward her and was surprised to realize she was tearing up. “I’m glad it’s not painful anymore, even if it’s still scary, and I’m glad you have each other.”

Ilya felt like they’d pretty much bypassed the whole awkward meet the parents stage when he’d checked Shane out of the hospital in Boston, but he still felt the need to say, “I love your son, Mrs. Hollander, more than anything. I know I have reputation, not a good one, but Shane is the only person I have ever loved, the only person for me and I promise to take care of him.”

“Ilya,” Shane whispered.

Ilya didn’t need to look at him to know he was tearing up, to know his beautiful brown eyes had gone soft and awed. He kept his own eyes on Yuna, needing her to understand how serious he was. He’d marry Shane tomorrow if Shane would let him. Shane was it for him, always had been now that he let himself actually think about it.

“That’s all I could ever dream of for my son,” Yuna said after a moment, smiling softly at Ilya in a way that made his heart warm in a way far different than Shane’s smile did. It was a warmth he hadn’t felt in years; familiar and beautiful as much as it was painful. “Welcome to the family, Ilya. We’re happy to have you.”

* * *

Shane knew he’d gone totally ‘doe-eyed’ as Jackie liked to call it, but he couldn’t help it.

Ilya finally turned away from Yuna and met Shane’s eye. He was smiling already, big and real and so, so beautiful. He leaned forward and kissed Shane’s forehead and then his nose before pressing a quick kiss to his lips, chaste and sweet and absolutely perfect.

“I love you,” Shane whispered when Ilya pulled back.

“I love you too,” Ilya responded, easy as breathing.

They fell back into easy conversation after that, chatting about hockey like they hadn’t just changed the very foundation of their family in a single afternoon.

And when his mom passed him his bowl of ramen, Shane realized he’d never been happier. Ilya was here, in his home, with his family, eating Shane’s favorite childhood meal and chatting animatedly with his mother and nothing outside of this mattered. His father would be home from work that evening and his mother would tell him what Ilya and Shane had explained and he’d accept it like he accepted every other bit of chaos Shane threw his way and then they’d all sit in the living room and watch a movie and trades and homophobic teammates and impending moves wouldn’t matter.

He was home, the world couldn’t reach him here.

Chapter 14: maybe it's all part of a plan

Chapter Notes

title from thinking out loud by ed sheeran :)
the titles of these chapters serve as subtle reminders to harris drover that there are better options out there than diamonds by rhianna

March 2017

Late Wednesday afternoon, after an evening spent on the couch watching movies with Shane’s parents and a full night of sleep that had Ilya feeling far more like himself than he had in days, Ilya was sitting on the couch with his iPad out watching game tape while Shane laid spread out across the cushions with his head in Ilya’s lap when Shane’s phone started ringing.

He let out a grumble before digging it out of his pocket to answer.

Ilya sort of wanted to laugh but he knew how much time Shane had been spending on the phone over the past couple of days and he knew how tired he was of it, so he simply continued running his fingers through Shane’s hair, hoping to provide some modicum of comfort.

“Hello,” Shane greeted, his voice surprisingly pleasant for how annoyed he’d just been. Ilya was impressed by how quickly he’d been able to switch it up, it was probably why Shane was so much better at media pools than Ilya was. Ilya normally just went for the humor and the chirps while Shane actually answered questions.

Shane went quiet for a moment while he listened to whoever was on the other side and then a small smile spread across his face, not big enough for the other person to be a friend but big enough to tell Ilya that he was happy about whatever they were saying.

“Thank you,” Shane said, “I really appreciate it, have a good day.” He hung up and let out a light sigh before looking up at Ilya, “that was the moving company, all my furniture from Montreal is now in the house in New York, the real estate agent was able to let them in just like we planned. Now I just have to fill the other four rooms and a living room, but that can happen later. At least I have a bed now.”

“So, we are good to drive tomorrow?”

“Yep,” Shane said, his smile turning more real, “we can leave in the morning, get settled in. My parents will fly Friday evening when my dad’s done with work and we’ll do shopping and whatever Saturday and Sunday morning, so tomorrow and Friday it’s just us.”

Ilya had loved being with David and Yuna, had loved spending time in Shane’s childhood home, but he was beyond excited to spend time with just Shane.

He smiled and leaned down to press a kiss to Shane’s lips, not needing to say anything else.

When David got home from work an hour later, Ilya helped him carry everything from Shane’s room back down to his car. Shane trailed behind them, carrying some of the lighter bags and ignoring them every time they told him he didn’t need to help.

“I know Montreal sucks, but they did pay you, yes?” Ilya asked as he shoved Shane’s gear bag into the back seat.

“Yes?” Shane answered, sounding earnest, which was a real shame.

“Then why are you driving shitty car?”

Shane pouted, genuinely pouted. Bottom lip sticking out, puppy eyes out in full force and Ilya just stared back, pretending that expression didn’t turn his heart into a puddle. David was standing just behind Shane, his shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh.

“It’s not a shitty car,” Shane argued, “it’s a Jeep! It’s a nice car, it’s good in the snow.”

“Good in the snow,” Ilya echoed, doing his best to sound unimpressed. It was incredibly difficult when Shane looked that adorable.

“Yeah!”

“There are many cars that are good in snow,” Ilya argued. “I live in Boston, there is snow in Boston, and I do not drive shitty car.”

“You drive obnoxious cars,” Shane shot back, “this is a practical car.”

“Practical,” Ilya tsked, “exactly what all the ladies want to hear from pretty millionaire hockey stars.”

“Lucky for me I don’t give a shit what the ladies think,” Shane grumbled.

“Lucky for me,” Ilya corrected, patting Shane’s cheek gently. He wanted to kiss him, but it was still light outside - even though the winter sun was well on its way toward setting - and they were in the Hollander’s driveway in plain view of their neighbors.

Shane’s pout finally disappeared in favor of a smile.

“Come on, boys,” David said, walking back toward the open garage door, “dinner time.”

* * *

They woke up early the next morning and Ilya dutifully got out of bed and got dressed for the day. He wanted five more minutes cuddled up with Shane, warm under the duvet and snuggled up in the little kid sports-themed sheets that Ilya was absolutely going to make fun of him for forever. But he knew Shane was getting antsy, that he needed to keep moving or he’d have too much time to think about everything that’d happened, so he got out of bed and went into the bathroom to get ready for the day while Shane did an overly thorough scan of the room to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything.

Soon enough, they were dressed for the day, and Ilya had convinced Shane to let him carry their backpacks down to the car which he’d only agreed to because Ilya had agreed to drink one of Shane’s stupid protein smoothies which Ilya had only agreed to because Shane had agreed that they could stop at Tim Horton’s on the way out of town.

There was a whole lot of compromising going on for 5:45 in the morning which was sort of making Ilya’s head spin but all he really cared about was the fact that he got to carry Shane’s backpack and he was going to get a chocolate dip donut.

Ilya checked the road conditions while Shane made their smoothies. Ilya wasn’t even sort of surprised to learn that there were several containers in the freezer with the ingredients pre-portioned. Even if Shane was starting to expand his diet, there were clearly certain habits that were going to die hard.

Ilya was planning to talk him into eating a donut, anyways.

It involved a multi-step plan, part one of which he’d already achieved by simply getting Shane to agree to going to Tim Horton’s (even though Ilya was the one driving the car and could just go wherever he wanted), and part two of which mostly just included Ilya pouting and asking Shane nicely.

Yuna and David wandered downstairs in time to hug them goodbye and tell them to travel safely and then they were in the car, just them, with a seven-hour drive ahead of them.

“You are eating a donut today,” Ilya declared as they turned right out of Shane’s neighborhood.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate a donut.”

“You deserve donut,” Ilya said, nodding his head seriously. He could almost feel Shane’s eyeroll. “You are professional athlete, Shane. You spend many hours every week working out, you can eat one donut, I promise. I eat many donuts and am still faster than you.”

“I literally just beat you in the speed skating competition.”

“Ah,” Ilya waved him off, pulling up to a stoplight and flicking on the blinker, “barely.”

“Still beat you.”

“And to make me feel better about such devastating loss, you will eat donut.”

“Fine,” Shane sighed, sounding genuinely put out about the prospect of eating a donut. Ilya did not understand this man. He loved him anyways.

They pulled into the parking lot of the nearest Tim Horton’s and Shane stayed in the car while Ilya ran inside, far more excited about the prospect of stupid Canadian donuts than he probably should be and also far too recognizable as Ilya Rozanov to be openly inside a stupid Canadian coffee shop, even at 6 in the morning. He simply got his coffee and donuts and hurried back out to the car, hoping that, at the very least, none of the several patrons had taken a picture.

He’d almost gotten Shane a hot chocolate but had decided that would be pushing it a step too far. He had his smoothie and a water bottle, and he couldn’t drink coffee quite yet without it making his head pound, so Ilya simply got himself a coffee and got at least three too many donuts for two people and headed back into the freezing morning.

“Donut time,” Ilya cheered as soon as he opened the car door, grinning like mad and delighting in the way Shane’s eye roll was distinctly fond.

“Fine, fine, what kinds did you get?”

“All of them,” Ilya answered happily, opening the box to show a variety of literally every kind of donut they had. What was NHL money for if not buying a dumb number of donuts? Honestly.

“You’re insane,” Shane laughed, though he didn’t actually complain as he picked up the honey cruller and tore it in half. Ilya started to complain before Shane cut him off, “I’ll eat half now and maybe the rest later, it’s been a long time since I had sugar, and I don’t want to get a headache.”

Ilya had to concede to that argument as he selected the chocolate dip for himself and then set the box carefully on the floor behind Shane’s seat.

“You took medicine this morning, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane responded, leaning across the center console to press a quick kiss to Ilya’s cheek. They were parked on the far side of the lot, not even under cover of the streetlights, but it was public enough to make Ilya’s heart race. He was shocked to realize it was in the good way. There was so much to lose if they were found out, so many reasons to keep this private, but he still delighted by the little ways Shane pushed the boundaries, by the little ways they found to show the truth to the world without risking everything. “Thank you for the donut, and for driving seven hours through Canadian and upstate New York winter with me.”

“Of course,” Ilya responded, turning his head and pressing a quick kiss to Shane’s lips before he could settle back into his own seat.

Shane pulled away smiling, his blush just barely visible in the early morning light.

“Now, driver gets to pick music, correct?” Ilya said, plugging his phone into the cord in Shane’s car and going through the steps to connect it to CarPlay. Why it was so difficult to connect a new phone to CarPlay, Ilya would never know. After a full minute, the screen finally loaded and Ilya let out a slightly obnoxious whoop in victory, but it made Shane laugh so Ilya decided not to feel embarrassed.

Ilya scrolled through his playlists until he found one Shane wouldn’t immediately object to, one that didn’t have much, if any, rap … or really any songs that would essentially possess Ilya and force him to turn the volume far higher than advisable. He really didn’t want to blow out the speakers in this boring Jeep and, more than that, he really wanted to avoid giving Shane a headache.

“There’s no way this is the music you actually listen to,” Shane said as the first song, Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran, started playing.

“It’s what I listen to on long flights,” Ilya explained, “calmer music, not so loud.”

Shane looked at him like he knew exactly why Ilya had chosen this playlist, but he was smiling so Ilya simply put the car in reverse and made his way out of the parking lot, following the directions back toward the highway.

Once they were on open road, Ilya reached across and took Shane’s hand, running his thumb gently along the outside of Shane’s and smiling just a little too hard at the fact that this was something he could do now. He could hold Shane’s hand and know that Shane wouldn’t question it, wouldn’t wonder why Ilya was being so soft.

Shane lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s knuckles before resting them back against his thigh, and Ilya wondered whether he was thinking the same thing.

They drove in silence until the sun properly rose, both of them keeping their eyes peeled for black ice or stupid drivers but when the sun started to warm the air around them and the slight rush of early morning traffic cleared, Shane broke the quiet, “how do you say car in Russian?”

“Ah, mashina,” Ilya answered, a little bewildered but deciding to just go with it.

“Mashina,” Shane repeated, perfectly, barely an accent. “How about road?”

“Doroga,” Ilya translated.

Again, Shane repeated the word, his tongue curving almost naturally around the syllables.

“Alright,” Ilya said before Shane could ask another word, “what are you doing?”

“Learning Russian,” Shane said shrugging like Ilya was the one who was crazy.

“Word by word?”

“Why not?”

“Because that is insane.”

“It’s easier to remember words in context,” Shane explained, looking a little sheepish and now Ilya felt bad for calling him insane. “I’m good with patterns, especially auditory ones. Like when I hear songs I can remember them almost perfectly after one listen and I can memorize speech patterns so I usually know what people are going to say before they say it and with languages, like when I learned French, I started by memorizing words and then by recognizing the pattern of grammar and all the sudden it just made sense.”

“It just made sense?”

“I know it’s weird,” Shane murmured, looking almost scared that Ilya would make fun of him which simply wouldn’t do.

“Is not weird, moya lyubov',” Ilya said, squeezing Shane’s hand gently before running his thumb over Shane’s again, “is interesting, you are very smart.”

“I just have a good memory.”

“No, smart. Highest hockey IQ in the league, I have heard that many times and they are right. You are very smart, Shane.”

“Alright,” Shane agreed, his cheeks that perfect shade of pink in the early morning light.

“When did you learn French?”

“In school,” Shane answered, “Ottawa is a bilingual city. It’s the only language other than English I can actually write in. I’m a heritage speaker of Japanese but I don’t speak it as often anymore now that my grandparents have passed away. I really only use it when I’m with my cousins in public and we’re talking shit about someone and don’t want them to overhear.”

“You know three languages?”

“Kind of.”

“And now you are learning Russian?”

“It’s your language,” Shane said simply, like that wasn’t completely absurd. Like Shane Hollander using his minimal free time to learn a fourth language simply because it was Ilya’s native language wasn’t the most romantic thing Ilya had ever heard of, let alone experienced.

“You are incredible,” Ilya whispered, feeling something a lot like awe as he darted his eyes over toward Shane before focusing back on the road.

“I want to learn,” Shane said earnestly, “now tell me the word for snow.”

They went back and forth like that until they reached the border an hour later, Shane saying a word in English and Ilya repeating it in Russian.

They crossed the border at Johnstown and thankfully had very little issue with their car full of bags and Ilya’s Russian passport. Apparently, they’d found one of the only chill border agents employed by the U.S. government. Ilya sent a brief word of thanks to the universe and then continued on across the bridge into upstate New York.

Shane dozed off once they’d passed the border which really didn’t shock Ilya. He’d seemed a little sleepy since shortly after they’d left Ottawa, but he was clearly nervous about Ilya crossing the border safely, even if he hadn’t admitted that out loud.

Ilya simply kept ahold of his hand and continued driving.

They stopped in some town Ilya had never heard of called Utica to top off the tank and stretch their legs and Ilya took the opportunity to house two more donuts while Shane ate the other half of his, clearly delighted by the taste of sugar and by the fact that the first half hadn’t given him a migraine.

As they pulled back onto the highway, headed South toward New York, Ilya felt the shift in Shane’s energy.

He’d been steady the past two days, simply being there as a shoulder for Ilya to lean on. The only time he’d gotten serious was when Yuna had asked about them and Ilya could tell he was getting serious again. Ilya truly appreciated the fact that Shane had held off on having any real conversation until Ilya was no longer clearly distraught and beyond sleep deprived, so he let Shane make the shift instead of attempting to deflect before Shane could even say what he was clearly working up the nerve to say.

“Can we talk about how we’re going to move forward from here?” Shane asked, clearly nervous. Ilya reached out and took his hand, both for the point of contact and to stop Shane from chewing at the skin around his thumb which he tended to do when he got antsy. “Like, obviously we want to be together, but we need to figure out how to do it safely, we can’t just keep going with the flow and hoping for the best while you still have a Russian passport.”

Ilya took a deep breath at that.

That was exactly what he’d been avoiding thinking about.

He was still a Russian citizen and if he were seen promoting this ‘lifestyle’, it wouldn’t be that he couldn’t go back; it’d be the opposite. The government would do what they could to force Ilya to return to Russia so they could properly punish him. He would never be able to come back to the United States, he would never see Shane again.

One solution would be marrying Svetlana for a green card but one look at Shane’s face told him that suggestion would not be taken well.

Shane wanted them to do this together, not together with Ilya’s fake wife.

And U.S. citizenship wasn’t the solution he wanted it to be.

The political climate was divisive at best and there was no guarantee that Ilya would be protected even if he was on the pathway toward legal citizenship. He needed to find some way to protect himself while still working on building a real relationship with Shane and keeping his job with the NHL, so he had a reason to stay in the U.S.

One solution would be asking for a trade to a Canadian team and going through the citizenship process from there, but Shane had just been traded to New York, they would be living three hours apart and playing in the same conference without the added pressure of being divisional rivals. It was the perfect team placement for them at the moment and Ilya moving would mess it all up.

“Can I suggest something fucking insane?” Shane asked after Ilya had been quiet for a minute too long.

Ilya just nodded, genuinely intrigued to hear whatever Shane was about to say.

“We could get married,” Shane said and Ilya almost crashed the goddamn car. “On paper,” Shane continued, his words coming out rushed as he tried to explain himself. There was a low buzzing in Ilya’s ears that hadn’t been there thirty seconds prior and Ilya found himself wondering if he’d finally lost his mind. “For now, at least. We’ve only properly been together for like a month so getting married now would be crazy but if we were married in Canada, we could list your permanent address as my cottage or our condo in Montreal,” and Ilya almost crashed the car a second time.

“Our condo?” he choked out, interrupting Shane’s spiral.

“Yeah,” Shane said, looking genuinely confused about what Ilya could possibly be confused about. Ilya, once again, did not understand this man. Ilya, once again, loved him anyway. “The place you so lovingly call the sex condo. I kept the fourth-floor unit open, both so I’d have a place to stay when I visited Montreal and because I kinda started to see it as ours, you know?”

Ilya’s vision went blurry and he decided it was probably about time he pull over lest he kill them both before they could follow through on Shane’s insane plan.

He pulled off at the next exit and parked in the first open lot he found.

“Okay,” he breathed out once the car was safely parked and no longer hurtling down the interstate while Ilya was in the midst of an existential crisis. He turned fully toward Shane and kept ahold of his hand, both because he needed the point of contact to convince himself this wasn’t a fever dream and to stop Shane from thinking Ilya was mad. “I started to think of it as ours, too. Now, can you tell me your plan?”

Shane smiled, a little sheepish, a lot in love and lifted their hands to kiss Ilya’s knuckles lightly before he started speaking again, “we could list one of those as your permanent address and, if we were married, I’d be able to sponsor your permanent residency in Canada which leads to full citizenship after five years.

“If you’re a permanent resident, the government will protect you if anything goes wrong, if we’re outed or even if just you were outed somehow. In that awful scenario, you’d even be able to claim political asylum which would give you even greater protections.

“Canada is a better option than the U.S., even if it might seem like it takes longer. The system is standardized; it’s always going to take the same amount of time whereas U.S. citizenship is varied.

“There are requirements for how many days you have to spend in Canada over that five-year period but there are waivers for work or travel, you just have to communicate openly with the officer assigned to your case. We could spend summer and breaks at my cottage or in Montreal or at my parents’ house and you play enough games in Canada that you’d end up being there for a good part of the year and we could figure out waivers for the days you’re not. A lot of players have permanent addresses outside of the city they play for, so it wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary.

“We also don’t have to do it now, we could wait a year, wait until we’re on more even footing in our relationship. It’s just an option. I’ll also wait to come out to the public until we know that you’re safe, just on the off chance that you associating with me, even as a friend, could be framed as you promoting homosexuality. I want to come out to my team. The GMs and coaching staff in New York already know and they’ve been supportive so it’s clearly a safer environment, but I’m not ready to tell the world and even if I were, I’d happily wait until you were safe.”

“You want to get married?” Ilya asked.

There were so many other things he could say, other questions he could ask, but that was what his mind was stuck on; not just that Shane would do that for him, but that it almost seemed like it was a solution Shane would be happy with, almost like it could be something Shane could want.

“I love you, Ilya,” Shane responded, like that alone answered every question.

And maybe it did.

Maybe loving someone meant that solutions that should be completely insane felt rational; maybe loving someone meant you’d do anything so long as it kept them safe.

“I love you too,” Ilya said, reaching out and cupping Shane’s cheek. Shane leaned into the touch like he couldn’t even imagine another option, like leaning into Ilya was entirely natural even when they’d spent so many years pulling away.

“We don’t need to do this now,” Shane said, his voice softer now, less strained now that the nerves had bled away. “The earliest we’d both be back in Canada is this summer, anyways. It’s just an option.”

“You already did all the research, though, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Shane murmured.

“Of course you did,” Ilya said, breathing out a light laugh as he leaned across the car and pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s lips.

He meant to keep it soft, chaste, but Shane had other plans.

He surged forward and dropped Ilya’s hand in favor of clutching onto the front of his hoodie and tugging Ilya closer. Ilya went willingly, ignoring the odd way he had to twist his spine in order to crowd into Shane’s space. He brought up his now free hand so he could cradle Shane’s face properly as Shane bit down softly on Ilya’s lower lip.

It was a good kiss, one of the better ones they’d ever shared despite the center console digging into Ilya’s hip and the fact that Shane only had use of one of his arms. Ilya poured every ounce of love into the kiss, needing Shane to understand just how much it meant that he’d been worried enough for Ilya’s safety that he’d spent time researching the citizenship process when he wasn’t supposed to be spending time looking at screens, that he loved Ilya enough to suggest marriage and actually mean it; even if what he was saying out loud was that it’d only be on paper, Ilya could see the truth of it in his eyes.

Shane pulled away slightly, their foreheads still pressed together and the air between them filled with shared breaths, “we can also file a petition to keep the records private,” he said, sounding breathless and Ilya loved him so much in that moment. This was so perfectly Shane. Kiss drunk and panting and still talking about logistics. “Marriage certificates are normally public record but if there’s a reason it would be unsafe, we can apply for a confidential marriage license.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispered, pressing another soft kiss to Shane’s lips, and then a second simply because he couldn’t help it. “Shane I want forever with you, I don’t care how we get there.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered back. His eyes were closed but Ilya could see the tears that’d gathered in the corners, a clear sign that Shane was as overwhelmed by this as Ilya was. But they were in it together, no matter how insane the circumstances may be.

“I will do some research too,” Ilya said because he felt like if he were going to be properly, thoroughly responsible about anything in his life it should probably be this, “we will talk more, figure out together how to keep me safe and keep us together, yes?”

“Together,” Shane echoed. He settled back in his seat and finally let his eyes flutter open and Ilya would’ve given him anything he asked for in that moment.

His brown eyes looked almost amber in the bright winter sun. They were shining with unshed tears and so full of love that Ilya felt himself start to tear up on instinct alone.

Ilya reached across and reverently ran his thumb across the skin below Shane’s eye and simply looked at him.

They sat there for a minute, just looking at each other in a way Ilya would’ve called disgustingly cheesy a few short weeks ago but now he understood; when you loved someone this much, when you had someone in your life who made you feel like this, you simply couldn’t help but stare.

Ilya took a deep breath and pulled his hand away as he put the car in drive once more and navigated back toward the interstate, “so this is your plan to keep me safe, what else is going on in that head?”

Shane laughed, soft and beautiful as he reached over and ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair, his hand settling at the nape of Ilya’s neck, “we’ve gotta come up with more ways to make it seem like we’re friends in public that don’t rely on Scott Hunter.”

Ilya laughed at that, a real laugh that punched out of his lungs in a way that shocked him just a little, “do you have ideas?”

“Well, there’s the little stuff,” Shane started, “agreeing to more joint interviews, going to the same events and actually speaking to each other instead of just trading room numbers, properly saying hello on the ice before games and getting our teams to go out to the same place after. But there’s bigger stuff too. We could start a charity, maybe. I’ve been thinking about doing that and it’d be cool to do it together. We could start summer hockey schools, maybe get some other players involved so we can hold them in more cities. We could ask our agents and managers to book more joint campaigns, let the league actually market us as friends like they’ve been marketing us as rivals.”

Ilya wanted all of those things, every last one, simply because each of them meant he’d get to spend time with Shane.

But something about the idea of starting a charity, of giving back to their communities alongside Shane, felt right.

“We should start charity,” Ilya said, “build up to it some, like be friends in public so is less weird that we are suddenly starting foundation.”

“We could have the camps be a fundraiser,” Shane suggested, “and it wouldn’t be weird for us to hold them in Ottawa because it’s my hometown and that way you’re in Canada for the summer, working and filing taxes and everything in Canada.”

“I like that idea,” Ilya said, taking his eyes off the road for a moment so he could smile over at Shane.

“I like you,” Shane responded and Ilya couldn’t even attempt to deny the way that made him blush.

The last three hours of the drive were spent discussing who they’d want to ask to coach at their theoretical camps, talking about Shane’s rehab schedule, and making a comprehensive list of everything Shane needed to buy for the house and in that little bubble, in Shane’s boring Jeep with just the two of them, nothing felt too scary, nothing felt impossible.

Ilya could see it all stretching out in front of him; a life with Shane where he wasn’t subjected to the whims of the Russian government, where they could be actual friends in public, where they could start a foundation they cared about and spend parts of their summers playing hockey for fun instead of as a job.

A life full of road trips and hard conversations that they worked through together, mornings full of the perfect balance of Shane’s smoothies and Ilya’s donuts.

Ilya wanted it.

Every little piece.

Good, bad, scary, or wonderful, it didn’t matter so long as it happened with Shane.

Chapter End Notes

i am absolutely stretching the definitions of permanent residency per canadian law but i’m a lawyer in america, not canada so i don’t actually care. in other news, check out the second work in this series. it’s the media reaction to each chapter & i may eventually add in some texts/group chats. thanks for all the love on this work!!

Chapter 15: it's brighter now

March 2017

When they got to Irvington around mid-afternoon, they stopped at the real estate office first where Shane was able to pick up his keys, the garage button, the remote for the main gate between the road and the driveway, and the instructions for setting the code on the second gate at the top of the driveway along with the instructions for arming the house’s security system.

Ilya stayed in the car and just waited, letting himself process the past couple of days.

Shane was holding it together remarkably well.

For anyone, really. But Shane was someone who was not good with change. He loved patterns and thrived on routine and absolutely nothing in his life right now was following any semblance of a pattern. It was like someone had planted a pipe bomb in his routine and in the middle of it detonating, had dropped a hydrogen bomb right on top for good measure.

But here Shane was, smiling, eating donuts, and proposing marriage.

Ilya didn’t buy it for a second.

That didn’t mean that he didn’t think Shane’s expanded diet and his offered solution to Ilya’s immigration issue weren’t genuine, it simply meant that Ilya was concerned about how well Shane was actually handling this.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by his phone ringing, the noise far too loud over the car speakers. He scrambled forward to answer it simply to make the noise stop, barely even pausing to check who was calling.

“Roz,” Scott greeted, trying to sound casual and failing by a mile.

“Hunter,” Ilya responded, “what’s up?”

“Just calling to check in,” Scott said, “hadn’t heard from you in a couple of days and I was starting to get worried.”

“I’m good, Hunter, promise.”

“Really?” Scott asked, sounding like he believed Ilya even less than Ilya believed that Shane was fine with all this insanity.

“Really,” Ilya said, a smile breaking out across his face as Shane stepped through the door of the office and started heading toward the car, “I’m fine.”

“I don’t mean to pry, Roz, but I’m not sure if I -”

He was cut off by the passenger door opening and Shane greeting Ilya with a, “hey, baby,” as he leaned across the center console to give him a quick kiss.

“Ah,” Scott hummed, starting to sound more amused than concerned.

“Oh,” Shane said, his shoulders going rigid before he saw Scott’s name on the screen and relaxed, “hey, Scott.”

“Hey, Rook,” Scott replied, “taking care of our boy?”

“My boy,” Shane corrected with a laugh. It was so casual it made Ilya’s cheeks go warm. “And, yeah, I think so. Trying to, anyways. We just got to New York, by the way. Just picked up my keys.”

“You already got a house?”

“Yeah, the real estate gods were on my side, apparently.”

“I was planning to text you tonight to ask if you wanted to stay at my place while you found one of your own, but I guess I’m not needed.”

“I might still take you up on that if I end up having to be in the city late for any meetings,” Shane said, picking up on the way Scott sounded genuinely put out that Shane wasn’t going to need to stay with him, “I ended up getting a house out by Tarrytown.”

“That makes sense,” Scott replied, his tone turning excited again at the prospect of Shane still needing his help. “Get away from the noise of the city a bit. But, wait, Roz is with you?”

“Yeah,” Ilya answered, swiping across the screen so he could see the map again as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Flew up to Ottawa on Tuesday morning, met the parents. I was very well behaved, the perfect boyfriend, you would be proud.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“He really was,” Shane said, looking over at Ilya with that lovesick smile that made any bit of insanity and struggle worth it. Ilya was once more overwhelmed with the urge to bite him. Apparently it was called cuteness aggression. He’d googled it. It was a genuine biological phenomenon which was nice because that meant Ilya wasn’t actually insane. He still held himself back from giving into the urge. At least while he was driving. “Helped my mom cook, answered all her questions, gave the whole ‘I love your son’ speech, even did a puzzle with my dad.”

“Oh my god you’re in love,” Scott said, as if it were some great revelation.

“Uh, yes?” Shane answered.

“No, like, actually in love.”

“Yes,” Ilya answered that time.

“Like real love. Like forever, marriage love.”

Shane genuinely snorted at that before he broke into laughter that Ilya couldn’t help but echo.

It was absurd.

After everything, after knowing, to at least an extent, that they’d been together (in some fashion) for the better part of a decade, after watching Ilya react to Shane getting injured and then watching how they interacted while Shane was in the hospital, after listening to the way they talked about each other, it was the fact that Ilya had met Shane’s parents and not been a total dick that had Scott realizing they were genuinely in love.

“I knew you were old,” Shane said once he’d caught his breath, “but I didn’t realize you were senile.”

And that simply made Ilya laugh harder.

“Cheap,” Scott said, huffing out a laugh, “it makes sense, I guess I just hadn’t really processed how big this was, how much it meant.”

“It’s big, Scott,” Shane said, his voice sobering up, “Ilya’s it for me, always has been.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said, reaching over to take Shane’s hand, “Shane’s it for me, too.”

“Well,” Scott said after a moment, clearing his throat, “good, I’m happy for you.”

Shane checked his phone and then looked over toward Ilya and Ilya knew what he was asking without him needing to speak. Ilya nodded once and Shane smiled softly as he said, “you’re free tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, why?” Scott responded. Ilya had thought Shane was going to ask about that night but was rather glad he’d asked about the next. He wanted Shane alone, when they weren’t in a car, when they could just be together and talk or not talk as much as they needed. He had a feeling that it was all going to hit Shane once he stepped into his new house and he didn’t think that Scott Hunter necessarily needed to witness that, he didn’t want Shane tempering his emotions because someone else was there to see.

“Why don’t you come over? I’ll send you the address, we can do lunch or dinner or just hang out, doesn’t matter. You could even bring Kip if he’s free.”

“Yeah, alright,” Scott said, his excitement bleeding through his tone, “sounds good, send the address and I’ll check with Kip and see what his schedule looks like.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Ilya said, “thank you for checking in, Hunter. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Roz. I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

“Bye,” Shane said as Ilya ended the call. He was smiling, eyes lit up, he was clearly excited to have someone over, to make this real in a way it wouldn’t be if only he and Ilya and his parents were in the house. Ilya wanted that for him; wanted him to know what it felt like to be a part of a team that’d support you no matter what, wanted him to be able to feel like this home could be permanent even though the last one hadn’t been.

* * *

Shane felt a little like he’d been possessed by someone with about 85% less general anxiety and possibly an entirely different personality.

He’d been far too chill about all of this, and he knew, distantly, that pretty soon the calm would disappear and he’d turn into a monster, possibly a small natural disaster, but for now he was simply going to roll with it.

They pulled up to Shane’s driveway and he used the remote he’d been given to open the external gate. There was some snow sticking to the ground as they made their way up the slightly twisting drive, but it’d mostly melted, leaving behind trees that were just starting to grow new leaves, and Shane just knew it’d be beautiful come fall.

If he hadn’t looked at a map, he never would’ve guessed how close they were to the insanity of New York City or even to the mere existence of other humans. The property seemed almost closed off from the world around it, private and protected and Shane knew he’d made a good choice. The gate at the top of the hill was open because Shane hadn’t yet set a code, so he simply used the other remote he’d been given and opened the garage.

It felt so simple, like he and Ilya were just coming home from a visit to his parents instead of arriving at this house for the first time, instead of recognizing the fact that moving into this house meant he was truly leaving Montreal.

“Is beautiful home, moya lyubov',” Ilya said, reaching over and squeezing Shane’s hand softly before climbing out of the car. “Should we go look around?”

“Yeah,” Shane responded, taking a deep breath before getting out of the car himself.

Inside, the house was beautiful even though it was almost entirely empty. The furniture from Shane’s guest bedroom, that had pretty much only ever been used by his parents, had been put into the private guest suite since that was where his parents would sleep and the furniture from his own bedroom had been put in the master while the furniture from his living room had been put the den next to the office on the third floor. The small amount of exercise equipment he’d kept in his apartment had been put into what’d become the gym down in the basement, but every other room in the house was essentially empty.

Including the kitchen.

Which was a problem because they’d never actually stopped for lunch so all they’d consumed that day were donuts and smoothies.

“Let’s order dinner,” Shane said as they stood in the middle of the mostly empty foyer.

“Right,” Ilya agreed, pulling out his phone and opening Uber Eats, “what do you want?”

“I have not one single clue.”

“I pick restaurant and then you pick your food?”

“Sure,” Shane agreed, thankful to have Ilya at least make half the decision for him. He wandered back down the hall toward the garage and started pulling bags out of the Jeep. He left most of it piled next to the door between the garage and the house, knowing that Ilya would gripe about him carrying it even though he felt fine. Everything that’d been in the Jeep was in bags which were much easier to carry one handed than boxes so Shane was managing just fine, thank you very much.

He brought their backpacks and duffle bags all the way into the house before carrying the half empty donut box into the kitchen and putting their empty smoothie cups into the sink.

He needed dish soap.

And a sponge.

But he really did not want to leave this house until he was physically forced to do so, so he wandered into the dining room where the little four-seater table from his Montreal apartment looked far too small and more than a little dumb and sunk down into one of the chairs as he took out his phone and opened Instacart.

He was switching between the list he and Ilya had made earlier and the app (where after a decent amount of deliberation he’d selected Target) filling up his cart when Ilya wandered into the room and passed over his phone.

Shane had no clue what restaurant Ilya had picked but it had a decent number of options and Shane quickly picked out a salad and a sandwich, adding chicken to the salad when Ilya glared at him, and then passed the phone back over.

“Good,” Ilya declared, planting a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, “where are you ordering groceries from?”

“I’d forgotten you could do groceries,” Shane murmured, realizing that meant he needed a whole new list which was enough to make him start to spiral, just a little. He knew you could do groceries, obviously. This was how he made sure he had food in his apartment after a roadie. He didn’t know why he’d forgotten about groceries.

Ilya’s hand landed on his shoulder, big and strong and warm, and Shane felt the spiral slow down before it came to a full stop, “I was just going to ask you to get Coke, this place only has Pepsi, which is crime if you ask me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Shane responded, navigating over to the grocery tab and adding 12-packs of Coke and ginger ale. He thought about adding groceries for breakfast but decided they could just order food again in the morning instead of having to attempt to unpack the kitchen boxes now after they’d spent seven hours in the car or in the morning while they were sleepy and hungry and far more likely to get annoyed.

“Get snacks, too,” Ilya requested, dropping another kiss on top of Shane’s head and setting his phone on the table. It was on the last screen of Uber Eats, with the ETA and the little tracker to show you where your driver was. Shane spared a brief thought for the question of whether or not that was invasive and then focused back on the task at hand.

“Snacks?”

“Yes, we can have movie night, eat snacks, not think about crazy outside world. Will be fun.”

“Alright,” Shane agreed, leaning back against Ilya’s chest. He added microwave popcorn and a few different candies he knew Ilya liked to his cart and, after a moment’s hesitation, tacked on a bag of mini snickers. He felt Ilya’s grip on his shoulder tighten, just slightly, just enough to tell Shane that he’d noticed, that he was proud.

Shane scrolled through the cart once more and decided it was good enough for now before pressing order and setting his phone down next to Ilya’s.

“Let’s go see how they set up everything else,” Shane said, standing up from the chair with more effort than he would’ve liked. He was half exhausted and his joints were sore from sitting all day after spending two weeks just laying around.

Ilya took hold of his hand as they started wandering through the house.

It was giant, bigger than necessary for one person, but Shane liked the space and, if pressed, he had a half-formed dream of sharing this house with Ilya, properly. Maybe after they were both retired, maybe after Ilya’s contract with Boston ended and he moved to one of the three teams in the area … maybe the dream was more than half-formed.

The yard was massive, big enough for the dog he knew Ilya wanted and for the kids they could maybe talk about a few years down the line. The space was big enough to host team gatherings or to host friends who’d come into town to visit. Shane could almost hear the Pike kids laughing and running around. The thought made something sharp and painful dig in between his ribs, cutting deep and aiming for his heart.

He missed them already, missed nights at the Pike’s after practice, standing in the kitchen and helping Jackie cook which mostly meant intercepting her children before they could interrupt her, laughing over dinner and then helping put the kids to bed before spending an hour on the couch just talking with Hayden.

It didn’t help that they’d just stopped in front of one of the guest rooms, the one that’d had three twin beds in the listing photos Shane had seen, the room he’d seen and immediately thought would be perfect for Ruby, Jade, and Arthur, when he was a little bit older.

It was that, more than anything, that made him hate Montreal.

It wasn’t just that the organization had written Shane off because of who he loved, it was that they’d torn him away from his family.

He’d been with the Pikes the entire time, he’d been there the night Hayden met Jackie, and he’d listened to weeks of Hayden pining and then months of Hayden expounding on the many incredible things that made Jackie Jackie. He’d been the best man in their wedding, and he’d been at the hospital hours after the births of the twins and Arthur and now Jackie was pregnant again and Shane was in New York.

Shane wanted nothing more in that moment than to be in their house, surrounded by the sounds of happy children and the warmth of a family home full of love. He wanted to call Hayden and tell him he missed him and ask to talk to the kids, but he knew that if he did he’d start crying and he honestly wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

It hadn’t hit him in the moment, standing on the ice and watching Hayden and J.J. walk into the tunnel, but it was hitting him full force now.

Not being a Voyageur anymore was one thing, never playing with his brothers again was another.

“Hey,” Ilya said, noticing that Shane had stopped moving. Shane was sure that he was staring unseeing, unblinking into the empty room, he was sure he was probably scaring Ilya with how still he’d gone, but it was like his brain had gone into overdrive, like he’d told Ilya about over the phone that day after his father’s funeral. “Hey,” Ilya repeated, “moya lyubov', Shane, what is it?”

“Hayden,” Shane whispered, his voice sounding distant to his own ears, “I’m never gonna play with him again, I’m gonna miss his next kid being born.”

He felt Ilya’s arms wrap around him and he instinctively tucked his head against Ilya’s shoulder, pressing his face to Ilya’s neck, but it felt like his whole body had gone numb.

“I know, sweetheart,” Ilya whispered, his lips pressed against Shane’s temple, “I’m sorry.”

Shane felt his breathing hitch at the softness in Ilya’s voice, at the gentleness of the pet name and the way Ilya simply held him and said he understood instead of trying to rationalize it.

“I needed to leave,” Shane said, not entirely sure if he was talking to Ilya or himself, “that doesn’t mean I wanted to.”

Ilya’s fingers tangled into the hair at the back of Shane’s head; it was longer than he’d let it grow in years and he didn’t know how he felt about it. He didn’t know how he felt about any of this. Well, any of it but Ilya.

He knew how he felt about Ilya, he’d known for a while.

It was a feeling strong enough to bring sensation back to his limbs, strong enough to drive away the icy depths his mind had slipped toward.

“I know I said on paper earlier,” Shane said, pulling back just enough to meet Ilya’s eye, “I didn’t mean it.”

“Shane, what?” Ilya asked, looking the perfect mix of bewildered and hopeful.

“I didn’t mean it,” Shane repeated, “marrying you could never just be something I did for paperwork. The fact that it’d keep you safe is simply an incredible bonus. I want a life with you, Ilya, however we can have it. Even if we can’t live in the same city ten months out of the year, even if we have to keep it a secret and deal with immigration paperwork and muddle through the fear of being found out before it’s safe, before we’re ready, I don’t care. I’d go through all of that for you, happily.”

“What are you saying?”

“Even if we come up with some other way to keep you safe, I still want to marry you, Ilya. I want us to take every step from here until the end together.”

“Really?” Ilya asked, his voice breaking as his hands moved to cup Shane’s cheeks. His eyes were so soft, glistening with unshed tears and so incredibly blue. His lips were curved into an awed sort of smile and his grip on Shane’s face was perfectly toeing the line between reverent and possessive.

“Really,” Shane confirmed, “I’d marry you tomorrow, Ilya. Now that I have you I’m never letting go.”

“Maybe not tomorrow,” Ilya hedged, huffing out a slightly disbelieving laugh, “even though I’d want to, we should do it in Canada, easier for paperwork.”

“You’re saying yes?”

“Of course I am,” Ilya said, like he couldn’t even imagine another answer, “Shane I will never let go either, never. Not now that you are mine.”

“Yours,” Shane whispered softly, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Ilya’s.

Every single kiss, every single time, felt like coming home.

It didn’t matter if it was a soft press of lips like this, chaste and sweet, or a heated kiss as Ilya backed Shane up against a hotel door. Ilya was his home.

Ilya pulled back and rested their foreheads together, his hands still cradling Shane’s face with so much love it threatened to shatter Shane’s heart and stitch it back together, “I love you, Shane.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilya,” Shane replied. He watched Ilya’s expression melt, a single tear finally slipping free from his right eye that Shane gently kissed away.

Ilya pulled him back into his arms, into a hug strong enough to hold Shane together even when the world was falling apart and in the halls of an empty house that Shane had suddenly started to think of as theirs, Shane caught his first glimpse of forever.

Chapter 16: i only see daylight

March 2017

Ilya had no clue how to properly express everything he was feeling so he simply stood in the hallway of Shane’s empty house and hugged him until his phone buzzed to tell him their delivery driver was almost there.

He pulled away slowly, pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s forehead as he went and reaching down to tangle their fingers together so they wouldn’t have to actually separate entirely, “food is almost here,” he said, his voice softer than it’d normally be, far softer than anyone other than Shane could probably even imagine it being, “how about we eat and then we put away the things you ordered and then we get your TV set up and watch movies?”

“Alright,” Shane agreed, squeezing Ilya’s hand as they headed toward the stairs, “all my bedding and blankets are in one of the bags we brought in the Jeep, so we won’t even have to dig through boxes.”

“You didn’t let the movers move your blankets?”

“I did laundry before packing and didn’t want everything to get all gross,” Shane explained with a shrug and, really, Ilya should’ve guessed that’d be his answer. Jesus Christ, he wanted to leave right now and find the closest place to buy rings. He wanted to get in the car and drive them back across the border they’d only crossed that morning so they could get married now without having to go through the process of getting their marriage license verified by the U.S. Secretary of State (who, as far as Ilya knew, was possibly Satan) in order to get it properly filed in Canada. He wanted Shane to be permanently, legally his with such incredible fervor that he felt drunk on it.

Instead of saying any of that, Ilya simply leaned over and kissed Shane’s cheek, deciding it’d been far too long (read: 30 whole seconds) since his lips had touched Shane’s skin and said, “smart.”

Shane used the control near the front door to let the Uber Eats driver through the gate and then they both made themselves scarce as the driver left their order on the front porch.

Ilya had already been recognized in the Tim Horton’s in Ottawa and they’d both talked to a border patrol agent who had no legal imperative to keep the fact that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had been crossing the border together a secret and they’d absolutely been spotted at the gas station they’d stopped at in Utica but they’d also apparently come to the silent joint decision that an Uber Eats driver seeing the two of them standing in a clearly newly purchased house together was a step too far.

Ilya’s account used a fake name so the driver couldn’t even say they’d delivered food to Ilya Rozanov at a house suspiciously close to the Admirals’ practice facility which was an added bonus.

Shane’s Instacart delivery showed up only five minutes later, just as they were laying their food out on the dining room table and Shane made quick work of unearthing glasses from the meticulously labeled boxes, washing them with his newly acquired dish soap, and filling them with ice so they wouldn’t have to drink lukewarm soda with their dinner.

Shane was mostly silent as they ate, simply focused on his food as his legs stayed tangled with Ilya’s beneath the table and Ilya let him sit in his silence. He needed time to think, to process. Ilya had no doubt that every declaration Shane had made about their relationship had come from a place of total honesty, but he sincerely doubted that Shane was thinking clearly about anything else. He needed to decompress; he needed to just exist for a minute without anyone talking about contracts or rehab or optics.

Ilya watched as he finished up his sandwich - some monstrosity of whole wheat bread with about six too many vegetables for Ilya’s taste - before pausing for a moment and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his new house keys and carefully slipped the second set off the ring, fumbling slightly with his right arm still secured in a sling, and passed it over to Ilya, “this is your house too,” he said, simple as anything, like that declaration didn’t make Ilya’s heart stop with even greater power than Shane saying that he wanted them to get married for real, not just for Ilya’s passport.

Marriage was something they’d do together, and it was something that’d help keep Ilya safe which was a benefit to them both; Shane welcoming Ilya into his space with such gentle ease felt different, somehow.

And then Shane stood up from the table and walked over to his backpack in the corner of the room. He dug through the front pocket for a moment before returning with another set of two keys that he set on the table next to the first, “and those are for our condo in Montreal. It’s yours as much as it’s mine, Ilya. I don’t have a copy of the cottage keys right now, but I’ll get a set made before the next time we see each other.”

Ilya sniffled slightly and carefully picked up the keys, looking down at the simple metal instead of at Shane when he said, “the spare keys for the house in Boston are in Boston but they are yours. My home is yours, too.”

“I don’t have a ring for you yet, so I guess the keys will have to do.”

Ilya looked up at Shane then and found him already smiling. He looked steady again, like thinking about Ilya made everything else fall away.

“The keys are perfect, lyubimiy,” Ilya promised, reaching across the table to squeeze Shane’s hand, “we can pick rings together, this summer maybe?”

“Summer works,” Shane agreed and Ilya could see his mind nearly split in two; part of him still caught up in the simple joy of starting a life together and the other half already focused on paperwork and planning and if Ilya had ever thought he couldn’t possibly love Shane any more, he’d been dead wrong.

After dinner they cleaned up the few dishes they’d used and finished putting away Shane’s grocery order before deciding to finish exploring the house. Ilya could already see how incredible it’d look once it was fully decorated and even after a few short hours and a few shorter minutes of Shane saying this house was also, somehow, his, Ilya felt at home.

He could picture them here, years in the future, with a dog running around and kids playing in the yard. It was the sort of life he’d never let himself imagine; a life he couldn’t help but imagine now.

After they finished their little tour, Shane identified the two bags that had his freshly washed blankets, sheets, and towels and let Ilya carry them up the stairs to his bedroom where they made the bed and hung two of the towels in the bathroom and put the extras in the cabinet next to the sinks.

“Shower and then movie?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded, yawning slightly. Ilya was pretty sure Shane was going to fall asleep before whatever movie they picked hit the halfway point, but Ilya was quite alright with that. He’d simply keep Shane cuddled against his side and then carry him to bed.

Ilya might’ve suggested watching a movie in their room, but he wanted snacks and he was well aware that Shane would never let him eat in a freshly made bed.

They unearthed soap and shampoo from the box labeled ‘bathroom’ and then Shane spent a minute figuring out the shower controls before letting Ilya help him take off his sling and shirt even though Ilya was pretty certain he could do it himself at this point.

Shane’s lips were on him the moment they stepped under the stream and Ilya was surprised for only the barest of seconds before he reciprocated, letting his hands settle on Shane’s hips and pressing closer.

After days of kissing just to kiss, Ilya could tell the difference immediately.

Shane seemed almost desperate as he buried his fingers in Ilya’s hair to tug him even closer and Ilya had half a mind to slow down, to remind Shane that he had an injured shoulder and lingering concussion symptoms but then Shane’s lips were on his neck, then his chest, and then Shane was on his knees, water dripping from his silky hair, running rivulets down his perfectly muscled torso, looking up at Ilya like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to worship him or eat him alive and every protest Ilya might’ve raised died on his tongue.

* * *

Shane felt properly blissed out as Ilya turned off the shower and grabbed their towels off their hooks.

He’d been expecting Ilya to stop him, to remind him that he was injured and tell him that they didn’t have to do anything, but Ilya hadn’t, he’d happily let Shane suck him off before enthusiastically reciprocating and Shane was more than happy about it. He was pretty sure that letting the day they decided to get married and started moving into this new house that was theirs (no matter how much Ilya tried to skirt around calling it that) go by without a proper celebration would’ve been a minor tragedy.

Shane pulled on boxers and then had Ilya help him into the compression brace the Admiral’s trainer had recommended he start using while he slept starting this weekend (while also moving into using it for part of the day instead of the sling to slowly increase his range of motion and then continuing to use it for practices and games for the rest of the season) before slipping into one of Ilya’s hoodies. Ilya just put on a pair of boxers and called it a day. Shane decided to not question it and simply enjoy the view.

Shane headed upstairs to attempt to connect the TV to the wifi that’d supposedly been set up while Ilya went down to the kitchen to pop popcorn and gather their snacks.

Ilya walked into the room just as Shane had successfully gotten the TV working and they cuddled up in the corner of the plush sectional Shane had spent far too long choosing back when he’d picked it out in Montreal. He let Ilya pick the movie because he knew he wasn’t going to stay awake through the whole thing and pulled the soft blanket Ilya had found up over their laps.

“I love you,” he whispered, stretching his neck to press a kiss to Ilya’s cheek before snuggling back down against his chest.

Ilya’s arm around his shoulders tightened just a bit, tugging Shane even closer as he kissed the top of Shane’s head, “I love you too.”

* * *

Shane woke up the next morning, safely tucked into bed with Ilya wrapped around him like a koala, not quite sure how he’d gotten here but willing to bet that Ilya had carried him.

The pink light of sunrise was streaming through the windows, making everything look vaguely gilded, and Shane thought, not for the first time, that this was how he wanted to wake up every day for the rest of his life.

He felt more like himself than he had in weeks.

It wasn’t just the couple of weeks he’d spent injured; it was the weeks he’d spent at the edges of the Voyageur’s locker room, weeks spent making himself smaller when all he wanted was to be the truest version of himself. But he was on the other side of all of it now. His shoulder was healing, his head had stopped hurting, he had a new team with management who knew exactly why he’d left Montreal and supported him anyways, and he was here with the love of his life.

Doing the scary thing had paid off.

* * *

“Explain this to me one more time,” Kip said as they drove North, the city fading into the horizon behind them.

Scott had explained twice.

But he loved Kip and he’d probably (definitely) kill someone for him if he asked nicely enough so explaining the Hollander-Rozanov saga a third time was pretty low on the list of things he’d do for the man. As such, he explained again, “they’re the same age, same draft class. Played against each other twice in the Prospect Cup which set up the rivals narrative that the League has been milking for a decade. I don’t know the exact timeline, but they’ve been into each other, at least in some sense, since their rookie year. Rozanov is an asshole and he’s marketed as an asshole. Shane is marketed like I am, as a golden boy of hockey who doesn’t drink or swear and never starts fights. Anyone who doesn’t know them would assume they were polar opposites but they’re really not. They complement each other well, they balance each other out, and they’re far more alike than I would’ve guessed. You’ll like Shane and you’ll probably think Ilya is funny and I can almost guarantee you’ll end up seeing a side of them that the public never has and probably never will. It’s also absurd to be around them because, other than you, they might just be the prettiest people I’ve ever seen. It’s, like, unfair.”

“And Shane is really going to be on your team?”

“Yes.”

“How’s that going to work out? Don’t you play the same position?”

“He’ll probably end up taking Wagner’s spot as the left wing on the first line and I doubt he makes it through a week of practice without being given the A,” Scott said as he turned onto the highway that’d take them to Shane’s place. The route was familiar, just a turn short of how he’d get to Tarrytown. “The team’s rallied around him already and he hasn’t even gotten on the ice with us.”

“Do they know why he left Montreal?”

“Management does,” Scott hedged, he could see Kip’s concerned frown out of the corner of his eye. Scott could guess he was thinking along the same lines Scott had; what happens if Shane comes out and the same thing happens again? “But some of the guys have guessed it was a culture problem, and they’re mad at Montreal, not Shane and if Shane decides to come out to the team or even just a few players, I’m doing it with him. I’m not letting him fall on that sword alone this time around.”

Scott didn’t know how to even begin to describe the expression on Kip’s face.

It was some mix of love and pride and maybe a little fear for how this could go wrong.

Scott was afraid, too. But he was less afraid now than he had been before Shane had come out, before he’d had someone to confide in, before he knew he’d have at least one friend if this all went wrong. He knew Shane wasn’t ready to come out publicly, especially if it’d create any danger for Ilya, but Scott was starting to think he might be. Shane had gone first in the locker room in Montreal, and he’d probably go first in the locker room in New York, so Scott could return the favor by going first in public.

He hated thinking about it from an optics standpoint but if Scott came out, he’d be doing it with Kip, with a nice college-educated guy from Brooklyn who had nothing to do with hockey, who was sweet enough to make friends with all the WAGs and charm the media but strong enough that he’d be able to stand up for himself.

They were palatable in a way Shane and Ilya simply couldn’t be.

Scott and his relationship could be pointed at as a symbol of tolerance that’d do well in Middle America. Shane, already a symbol of tolerance from a race standpoint (no matter how much he seemed to despise it), coming out as gay and then admitting to a decade-long secret affair with his arch-rival who also happened to be a womanizing, Russian, asshole probably wouldn’t be appreciated in the Bible Belt or by the League in general.

Kip reached across the car and rested his hand on Scott’s thigh, squeezing gently as he said, “I’m proud of you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kip said, shaking his head lightly, “you’re thinking about it, you’re planning for it, and I’m proud of you.”

Scott took a breath and let the feeling of having someone in his corner, someone who sometimes seemed to be proud of him simply for existing, wash over him and then said, “thank you.”

They thankfully pulled up to Shane’s gate before they could have any more emotional conversations which was good because Scott didn’t think he’d be able to hold it together much longer.

As they drove up to the house, Kip seemed to be slightly mesmerized by the truly ridiculous home Shane seemed to have purchased on a whim while concussed but Scott was more focused on the scene happening outside the front door.

He’d spotted them as soon as he turned the corner toward the space in front of the house that seemed to be designed for visitors to park in, but he hadn’t been able to sort out what was happening until he opened the car door and could hear their voices.

Shane and Ilya were standing in the little grass circle at the top of the driveway, looking up at the front of the house. Ilya was gesturing wildly while Shane stood there with his hands on his hips.

The first thing Scott noticed was that Shane was no longer wearing a sling.

The second thing Scott noticed was that Ilya seemed to be mid rant about landscaping.

“No, no, Hollander,” Ilya said, sounding genuinely distressed, “you cannot just have hedges and one stupid tree, you need color, you need whimsy!”

“Who taught you the word whimsy?” Shane asked. Somehow, neither of them had noticed that Scott and Kip were out of the car and standing behind them.

“The internet,” Ilya said, waving him off, “you need whimsy, Hollander and, right now, you have no whimsy.”

“Okay, okay,” Shane conceded, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, “you’re right. I’ll make sure to request whimsy when I talk to a landscaper.”

“And you will let me approve of plans,” Ilya said. Shane shot him a look and Ilya immediately amended, “can I please approve plans?”

“Of course you can,” Shane said, rolling his eyes slightly even though his whole face was lit up with a fond smile that seemed to be reserved entirely for Ilya. He was in jeans that were just a little too loose on his frame meaning they sat low on his hips and an old Team Canada t-shirt that had the bottom hem cut off; not quite enough to make it a crop top but enough that when he raised his left arm to ruffle Ilya’s hair Scott could see the dimples at the base of his spine. From the way Kip shifted next to him, he’d noticed too. Scott might’ve undersold how pretty Shane Hollander was. But, in his defense, it was difficult to describe and saying that he’d been named the Hottest Man in the NHL several times over only went so far.

“Hey guys,” Scott called before they could start an argument about shutter colors or brickwork, also before he ended up getting decked by Ilya because he’d been caught staring at Shane.

They both whipped around, clearly surprised by Scott and Kip’s presence which was a little concerning because it’s not like Scott’s car was silent, nor had the car doors closing been silent. It really shouldn’t have been that easy to sneak up on them, but it did make Scott feel better about the way he kept getting surprised during warmups on the ice at the All Star games.

“Hey,” Shane said, a bright smile spreading across his face as the shock disappeared, “sorry about that.”

“You’re fine,” Scott said, waving him off as he stepped forward. He ended up meeting Shane halfway and pulled him into a hug, trying his best not to squeeze too hard and hurt his still healing shoulder but he couldn’t help but squeeze just a little. He hadn’t seen Shane in person since he was still deeply bruised and mostly groggy leaving the hospital and, though it’d only been two weeks, it seemed like a lifetime had passed.

Ilya clapped him on the upper arm in greeting as Scott stepped away from Shane and back to Kip’s side, “guys, I want you to meet my boyfriend, Kip Grady. Kip, this is Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shane said, holding out his hand with a kind smile on his face and that specific softness in his eye that Scott recognized as the look Shane likely gave rookies and new acquisitions to make them feel welcomed. Scott found himself eyeing the way Shane moved his right arm probably a bit too closely, but he decided he could waive it off as a combination of both personal concern and professional interest as his new Captain instead of what it probably actually was; a rather severe case of being overprotective.

Shane was moving slowly, a little stiff, but he didn’t seem to be in pain which was a great sign. The bruising on his face had almost entirely faded, leaving behind just a slightly yellow patch on his otherwise flawless skin.

Scott maybe needed to stop waxing poetic about Shane Hollander in his head.

“Nice to meet you,” Kip echoed, shaking Shane’s hand and smiling right back. He looked relaxed and maybe a little awestruck which Scott decided not to take personally considering the aforementioned waxing poetic.

“Is good to meet you,” Ilya said, slinging his left arm around Shane’s waist as he held his hand out toward Kip and, alright, maybe Ilya had noticed Scott and Kip’s staring.

Scott was going to have to watch his back the next time they played Boston.

“Good to meet you,” Kip said, shaking Ilya’s hand, looking slightly wary but not wary enough in Scott’s humble opinion. He turned back to Shane as he said, “thanks for inviting us.”

“Of course,” Shane replied easily, leaning a bit into Ilya’s side, “it’s still a bit of a disaster inside, we only got here yesterday but there’s at least a dining room table and couch, so it’ll do.”

“We can order food,” Ilya said as he turned Shane around and started walking toward the front door, Scott and Kip falling into step behind them, “we have not gotten groceries yet so only food in the house is donuts and candy.”

“Shane bought donuts and candy?” Scott asked, genuinely shocked.

“I bought donuts,” Ilya corrected, “and Shane bought me candy. Shane also, apparently, bought me a house even though he already bought me whole building, right, Shane?”

“Quit,” Shane shot back, pinching Ilya’s hip with one hand as he pushed the door open with the other, “I bought myself a house, you just happen to have a key.”

“No, no, this is not what I remember,” Ilya teased, “you said, very specifically, that this is our house, Hollander, you cannot take it back now.”

“I heard no denial over the purchase of a building,” Scott found himself saying, really not sure why he was saying it or if he even wanted to know why Shane had bought Ilya a building. He was starting to wonder just how much Rolex was paying the kid, though.

“I might’ve purchased a building in Montreal a couple years back,” Shane said, looking a little embarrassed even as he tried to keep his face impassive, “I rented out the ground floor to a baking supply store but kept the condos empty. They’re on the market now, but we did keep the top floor for ourselves.”

Scott couldn’t help but notice the way they were both using we and our like they were making real estate decisions together.

“Mr. Real Estate,” Ilya said, his tone of voice suggesting it was a pet name which was just odd, but Scott didn’t really have it in him to question anything Ilya Rozanov did, so he let it slide.

“Are you going to be living here too, then?” Kip asked, looking more than a little confused which Scott happened to understand on a soul deep level.

“Sometimes,” Ilya shrugged, “I still play in Boston, but I will be here some and in Canada some.”

Shane smiled up at Ilya at the mention of Canada and Scott narrowed his eyes. He was missing something, he could feel it, he just didn’t know what.

He watched them interact, probably a bit too closely, as they showed Scott and Kip around the house and by the time they all settled onto the couch upstairs, Scott was no closer to making a guess as to what, exactly, he was seeing.

He knew they were in love.

The type of love where you flew to a different country and met the parents and drove seven hours just to spend time together under the guise of helping out, the type of love where you casually talked about cohabitation and purchased entire buildings for each other. But there was something else, something bigger, and Scott was driving himself just a little crazy trying to figure it out.

He wanted to pry, wanted to figure out what was going on, but he had the odd feeling that he wouldn’t get an answer, so he decided to let it go, at least for now.

Scott zoned back into the conversation while Kip was in the middle of telling Shane about what he’d studied in college and he realized that Ilya was looking at him with that stupid little grin that made people want to punch him on the ice and Scott realized that Ilya knew Scott knew he was missing something and Scott realized that Ilya absolutely wasn’t going to tell him what it was that he was missing.

He was starting to feel like a conspiracy theorist with a cork board and a ball of red string.

Every one of the nice thoughts he’d had about Ilya Rozanov in the past month were starting to crumble, just a little, in the face of that grin.

“So, wait, when do you start practice again?” Kip asked and Scott forced himself to look away from Ilya so he could pay attention to Shane’s answer. He hadn’t heard anything specific from the trainers, and he hadn’t wanted to bug Shane about it, but he’d been wondering (more like obsessing over it) himself.

“I’ll be at practice on Monday but not back on the ice yet,” Shane answered and Scott felt himself grin. Having Shane in the facility, even if he wasn’t going to be on the ice, would be big for their team. They’d been on a winning streak, sure, but there were still some players who seemed to be worried it wouldn’t stick, worried that it was all too good to be true, but Shane was steady in a way very few players were. He took losses in stride and was mild as he celebrated wins, he rarely overreacted to anything when it came to hockey, and his presence would almost certainly go a long way in making the rest of the team feel steady as well.

“You will be back on ice very soon,” Ilya said, turning and pressing a kiss to the top of Shane’s head and, just like that, Scott forgot why he’d been annoyed with him. Watching him like this, soft and comfortable in his own home with Shane, made him so much more likable that it was actually fucking mind boggling.

“I know,” Shane said, squeezing Ilya’s knee in a silent thank you. “Hopefully in time for New York’s next game against Boston.”

“Ah, but you will not be center, I will win every face off because I am so much faster than that old man and it will be very sad night for you.”

Shane started laughing as Scott sputtered out an incoherent protest, feeling a little like he was suffering from whiplash, before finally landing on, “I’m only seven years older than you!”

Ilya tsked, his tongue clicking against the back of his teeth as he shook his head in a mockery of concern, “I do not think so, I think you are forgetting things in your old age, Hunter. I am very concerned.”

Kip, the absolute traitor, was laughing.

Hard.

Scott could feel him shaking with the force of it and he wanted to be mad but Kip looked so delighted to be a part of Scott’s life - even if, for now, that only meant watching him get made fun of by Ilya Rozanov in person after only getting to hear Scott gripe about it second hand - and Scott realized that he simply couldn’t find it in himself to be offended that his boyfriend hadn’t taken his side.

“Be nice to Scott,” Shane said and Scott felt the barest moment of hope before he saw the glint in Shane’s eye and preemptively sighed, “you could get charged with elder abuse if you’re not careful.”

Kip’s laughter hit a new pitch, Shane looked so damn smug, Ilya was eying Shane like he wanted to pin him down, and Scott found himself, inexplicably, wondering how he’d gotten this lucky.

Chapter 17: one last kiss, then catch your flight

March 2017

They spent the few spare hours between Scott and Kip leaving and the time they needed to leave to pick Yuna and David up from the airport unpacking the kitchen. Ilya had simply declared it to be the most important room after the bedroom when Shane had been stuck in a moment of decision paralysis after Ilya had asked what they should unpack first.

He let Ilya play his music while they worked and only complained twice about how he didn’t understand why people liked that sort of music (and, honestly, the complaints were mostly just to make Ilya laugh, Shane didn’t really have a problem with the music) and they talked aimlessly about landscaping and paint colors and whether or not Shane would actually stop Ilya from getting a dog (answer: he wouldn’t) and then it’d shifted into a debate over the perfect dog breed.

The discussion over the hypothetical dog continued as they got in the Jeep and drove the 45 minutes to Laguardia and by the time they made it to the arrivals door they’d ruled out German Shepherds, Labrador Retrievers, and Border Collies because the internet told Shane they were likely to develop separation anxiety which made Ilya frown because he was adorable and considerate and cared deeply about things like dogs’ mental health. They’d also ruled out several breeds that shed like crazy (except for Golden Retrievers, which absolutely shed like crazy, but Ilya had looked so sad when Shane tried to put the breed on the ‘no’ list that Shane had folded immediately).

They only had to wait a couple of minutes before Shane’s parents were walking out of the airport and toward the car and the moment they were both settled in the back seat Ilya asked, “what kind of dog should I get? Shane said he will not stop me.”

And David, because he’d spent 25 years getting used to Shane asking random questions at all hours of the day and because he was a wonderful father, simply frowned a little in consideration and said, “well, do you want a dog that could run with you?”

And then they were off, rambling back and forth as they drove back through the city and out into the suburbs like Yuna and Shane weren’t even there.

Shane looked over his shoulder and caught his mom’s eye and found her wearing the same look of fond exasperation that Shane knew was on his own face. They shared a private, commiserating sort of smile that made Shane’s chest feel warm. This was his family now. The family he’d known and loved his entire life had expanded by one and it simply worked.

It was like Ilya had been the missing piece; the person who’d been in the wings just waiting to fill the empty seat at every four-top table in every restaurant they’d ever eaten at.

About fifteen minutes from the house, Yuna finally interrupted Ilya and David’s conversation that had somehow devolved into a genuine debate over whether a puppy’s paw size actually correlated to how big they’d be when they were a full-grown dog.

“David and I had an idea.”

Ilya and David both went quiet and Shane looked over his shoulder again to see his mom looking determined and his dad looking almost nervous.

“What is it?” Shane asked.

“I went down a rabbit hole reading about Russian politics and immigration issues, and it made me worry about Ilya, so I started looking into ways to get him a different passport.”

“What is rabbit hole?” Ilya asked, glancing over at Shane.

“It means like a spiral, like you read one thing and then kept reading more and more because you couldn’t stop.”

“Ah,” Ilya hummed, “I do that on Wikipedia, you learn very strange things.”

Shane couldn’t help but smile, letting himself feel the full force of his affection for just a moment before turning his attention back to his mom, “and what did you decide on?”

“If you two got married you could sponsor his Permanent Residency,” Yuna said. She then entirely misinterpreted the look on Shane’s face and started scrambling in a rather uncharacteristic manner, “it could just be on paper, at least for now if you’re not ready to actually be married or if you don’t want to be married, but you clearly care about him, Shane, and this could keep him safe and -”

“Whoa,” Shane said, cutting her off. Ilya’s shoulders were shaking lightly as he clearly tried to hold himself back from laughing. He was doing a pretty poor job of it. “We already talked about it.”

“What do you mean.” Yuna said, more a demand than a question.

“I suggested we get married on paper and Ilya agreed and then we talked again a couple of hours later and I admitted that I didn’t want it to just be on paper, which Ilya also agreed with.”

“What are you saying?” David asked, far more gently than Yuna probably would’ve.

“I asked Ilya to marry me, properly, he said yes.”

“I did not get ring though,” Ilya said, sending a rather exaggerated pout in Shane’s direction, “just a house key.”

“And a condo key, come on, Ilya, don’t sell me short.”

“Right, and condo key,” Ilya said, nodding seriously before holding up his finger like a detective realizing something in a bad procedural, “and the promise of a cottage key. Many keys, no rings.”

Shane counted down from three in his head and was quite proud of himself when the moment after he got to one his mom nearly screeched, “YOU’RE ENGAGED?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, feigning nonchalance in a way that had his dad cracking up immediately. His mom did not look impressed.

“Congratulations, wonderful, very happy for you. I did all this research though, so I am going to help with the paperwork.”

“Wow,” Ilya whispered, looking amused in a way that had Shane’s eyes narrowing on instinct, “you are very like your mother, Hollander.”

That was far more tame than Shane would’ve guessed but he imagined that Ilya would’ve been more of a dick if Shane’s parents weren’t in the car.

“Thank you,” Shane and Yuna said almost in sync.

Shane let himself live in the moment for a minute, let himself catalogue the way Ilya was grinning, the way his dad looked so proud while his mom was split between excitement and planning mode, and then he took a breath and focused on the more serious aspects, “we have to keep it a secret to keep Ilya safe until he has full citizenship. We’ll talk to each other and decide who we want to tell but we can’t advertise it or promote it in any way. We need to find people we trust, everyone from the clerk we pick up the marriage certificate from to the immigration agent assigned to our case needs to be someone who won’t sell the story to the press for a payout.”

Shane honestly wasn’t all that worried about the world at large. He knew he and Ilya were incredibly famous in the hockey community but being famous for a hockey player didn’t necessarily translate to being famous. He was a little worried about how the League would react, a little more worried about how their locker rooms would react. But he was mostly worried about the story getting out and becoming a massive deal about a queer hockey player trying to defect from Russia in the middle of what could only be described as a political shit show.

The sociopolitical implications really made Shane wish he’d paid closer attention in his high school government class. The fact that he’d gotten an A really didn’t matter anymore because doing well on tests didn’t mean he actually understood the reality.

All he knew was that it would be really fucking bad if word got out and the real damage wouldn’t be to something as simple as their careers.

“I can handle that,” David said, his eyes going distant like he was already running through lists of everyone he knew, handpicking people who could be trusted to either help them themselves or identify others who could.

The car went quiet after that, and Shane could see the turn for his road coming up in the distance, so he just let the silence settle.

Just as they pulled up to the gate, Yuna said, “I think you two should hide in plain sight.”

Shane was already nodding before she finished explaining. He’d been thinking the same thing.

Ilya looked at him in question, either too overwhelmed or too tired to parse through the idiom and the underlying meaning.

“Keep being friends in public, make it seem totally normal that we’re together all the time,” Shane explained in broad strokes. He was glad to have his parents on their side, but he also didn’t want to keep this conversation going at this very moment. He wanted to enjoy a night in his new house with his family and leave all the serious stuff at the door. “Make it so no one wonders why we spend time together. Like they’d see us and just think, oh yeah, Hollander and Rozanov are friends, why wouldn’t they be running a summer camp together and why wouldn’t they go get drinks after a game.”

“I like that idea,” Ilya said, reaching over to squeeze Shane’s hand before putting both hands back on the wheel to maneuver into the garage.

Just like Shane had hoped, they left the conversation at the door and instead spent the evening making lists of things to shop for, researching interior designers, and, yes, discussing dog breeds and Shane went to sleep that night feeling just that much more settled.

Saturday was spent with Shane and Yuna running between stores at the whims of their various lists while Ilya and David finished unpacking the rest of the boxes the movers had left behind. Between the pair of them, they’d been able to guess where Shane would want certain things which, when he got home that afternoon and noticed, had made Shane smile like an idiot. They spent the afternoon and evening putting away everything Shane and Yuna had purchased and adding the delivery dates for the few pieces of furniture they’d picked out into Shane’s calendar.

They talked a little more then, about Shane and Ilya, about how they were doing with all this change, about how Ilya was handling his father’s death (a conversation that hadn’t wrapped up without Yuna and David both reminding Ilya no less than twelve times that they would always pick up the phone when he called) (it had taken Shane explaining later, after his parents had gone to bed, that they were showing their love for Ilya for him to finally believe they meant it).

And on Sunday afternoon, Shane ordered a car to take his parents to the airport because he wasn’t yet cleared to drive and none of them wanted to ask Ilya to drive another hour and a half round trip, even though he would’ve done it happily.

Boston had Monday off of practice after a three-day run of away games, so Ilya wasn’t flying back until the next day and, even though this was, by far, the longest amount of time they’d gotten to spend in each other’s presence, Shane was thankful for that last extra night with Ilya by his side.

He was thankful that when he woke up Monday morning, his first official day as an Admiral, it was in Ilya’s arms.

“Good morning,” Ilya whispered, his lips pressed into Shane’s hair.

“Good morning,” Shane echoed, wrapping his arm tighter around Ilya’s waist and not at all ready to let go. He tilted his head up, silently asking for a proper kiss and Ilya easily complied. Shane never wanted to leave this moment. Ilya’s skin was warm from sleep, and he was relaxed in a way he so rarely was, holding onto Shane with something like devotion as he kissed him, sweet and slow. Shane rolled slightly, pushing himself up before settling back down, draped entirely over Ilya so they were pressed together from head to toe, barely even breaking the kiss as he moved. Ilya’s arms wrapped around him, one around his waist with his hand splayed over Shane’s hip and the other around his ribs, holding him close with his fingers tangled in Shane’s hair.

Shane pulled away from the kiss after a minute and tucked his face against Ilya’s neck, delighting in simply being held.

“You are ready for today?” Ilya asked gently, his fingers scratching softly against Shane’s scalp in the way that always made him go boneless.

“I think so,” Shane answered, his voice muffled against Ilya’s skin. “I’m going early to work with the trainer and then I’ll watch practice, I think. I might have to do some media. I’m nervous, to be totally honest. But I think I’m ready.”

“Is okay to be nervous, you will be wonderful anyways and they will love you because you are Shane Hollander.”

Shane stopped himself from saying his first thought: Montreal didn’t love me.

Because that wasn’t true.

The city loved him desperately. The fans were up in arms about his trade and Shane had a feeling that even if the reason he was traded got out, most of them would still be on his side. The city didn’t care about optics like the GMs did, they cared about hockey and Shane was objectively good at hockey. Shane was objectively fucking great at hockey.

It was the Voyageurs who hadn’t loved him.

Or maybe they’d stopped loving him, which was somehow worse.

If they ever even had, they hadn’t loved him enough to stay by his side.

New York would be different though, it already was.

Shane wasn’t in charge of the locker room here. He would, at best, be an Alternate Captain. Scott was the one in charge and he’d made it quite clear that he was protective of Shane in a way that bordered on over protection, but Shane wasn’t going to complain. Coach Murdock was protective too, in his own way. He’d given Scott the opening to come out to him and Scott had only been met with genuine care. He knew the reason Shane was being traded and, if Scott was to be believed, even knew about Ilya and he’d still fought for Shane’s contract.

So, it was going to be different, it was going to be better, and Shane was done making himself smaller to be more likeable. He was going to let everyone see the side of himself that rarely showed its face; the side that could joke and tease, the side that openly fought tooth and nail for what he wanted instead of acting like it all came naturally. He was going to show this team just how much work he put into being the best, he was going to make damn sure they appreciated just how much he gave to build a legacy, and he refused to shove himself back into the closet in the process.

They were going to get Shane fucking Hollander, whether they wanted him or not.

Ilya must’ve seen something in his eye because his soft smile, the one meant just for Shane, transformed into that grin that usually meant he was about to get punched. His fingers dug into Shane’s hip and his grip on Shane’s hair went from soft to suggestive in the space of a second, “you will show them who you are,” he said, his voice low in the way it only ever got when he was saying things like on your knees, Hollander.

Shane met him with a grin of his own before he leaned forward and nudged their noses together, his lips brushing against Ilya’s as he spoke, “Shane fucking Hollander.”

* * *

The car the Admirals had sent to bring Shane to the practice facility because he still wasn’t cleared to drive reached the gate shortly before nine and Shane felt torn. He was ready now, after a morning of being fucked into the mattress while Ilya reminded him exactly who he was. He was ready to show his new team that he was even more than anyone thought. But, at the same time, he didn’t want to leave Ilya’s side.

It felt so much worse now, the knowledge that he’d come home to an empty house.

“I know,” Ilya said softly, pulling Shane into a hug when he hesitated near the door. “I will miss you, sweetheart.”

“I miss you already,” Shane responded, tucking himself against Ilya’s chest and wrapping both arms around his waist, his grip with his right noticeably weaker than with his left but it was progress all the same. He felt Ilya’s lips against his temple and then his cheek and he tilted his head up to catch them in a proper kiss. Ilya’s lips lingered against his for a moment, almost searching, like he was waiting to see what sort of goodbye kiss Shane would want. It was stupid and sweet and Shane loved this man with every fiber of his being. So much it was actually ridiculous.

Shane pressed forward and let his lips part on a sigh and Ilya groaned in relief, his arms wrapping tighter around Shane as he kissed deeper, harder, pouring every emotion he couldn’t quite articulate into the press of his lips and the warmth of his tongue against Shane’s.

Shane felt breathless as he stepped away. He could hear tires crunching across the gravel of his driveway which made him wonder how the hell they hadn’t noticed Scott and Kip’s arrival on Friday morning, and he knew he needed to leave but he let himself stand in this little bubble with Ilya for a moment longer. He let the peace they’d built here, in this house, settle into his bones so he could carry it with him when he walked through the door.

“I love you,” Ilya said, every syllable filled with meaning, “so much, Shane. And I feel very proud of you. You deserve good things because you are good.”

“I love you too,” Shane responded, tilting forward to kiss Ilya once more, soft and sure. “Thank you for being here with me, thank you for helping me move, for all of this, Ilya. You made it all so much easier.”

“Thank you for letting me.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Shane said, his voice almost a whisper, like if he kept quiet the goodbye somehow wouldn’t become real, “text me when you get leave and when you get home, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed. He kissed the bridge of Shane’s nose, his lips featherlight against Shane’s skin. “Call me tonight, I want to hear all about your first day.”

“I will,” Shane promised, finally taking a full step back. He reached out and squeezed Ilya’s hand gently and then picked up his bag before opening the door, “I love you,” he said, again, just because he could, because he wanted Ilya to hear it and he wanted to say it.

“I love you too,” Ilya responded, smiling like he knew exactly why Shane was saying it, like he understood and felt the same.

Shane took a deep breath and stepped through the door, his gear bag, the smaller one that only really fit his skates and a few other random things, slung over his shoulder as he walked toward the car. He could feel Ilya’s eyes on him through the tinted glass of the windows set into the front door, but he didn’t look back. He didn’t think he could look back now and keep walking forward.

He felt dramatic and a little dumb, but he was also dead certain that if he looked back now, if he saw even the outline of Ilya’s shadow still waiting just inside, he’d turn back and ignore the world entirely.

So, instead, he stepped forward and opened the back door of the town car, putting on his best media smile as he climbed in and greeted the driver and, as they headed back down the driveway, Shane remembered that even though he’d be coming home to an empty house, it’d still be a house that knew Ilya, a home that was already becoming theirs.

Chapter 18: new york state of mind

March 2017

Shane stepped out of the training room to find Carter Vaughan grinning like a mad man standing next to a woman who, by the jersey draped over her shoulder and the slightly frantic energy, Shane pretty quickly placed as either a comms director or a social media manager.

“Hollzy!” Carter greeted, clapping Shane on his uninjured shoulder in greeting, “good to see you, man!”

“Yeah, good to see you too, Vaughny,” Shane replied. He couldn’t help but smile in the face of Carter’s joy. He was a little sore from physical therapy, but it hadn’t tempered how excited he was to be here. He wasn’t necessarily looking forward to doing media but based on the fact that Carter was dressed in jeans and his home jersey, Shane was guessing he at least wouldn’t be doing media alone.

“This is Christina,” Carter said, gesturing broadly, “she’s our social media manager and she’s in charge of us this morning, we’re just waiting on Scotty.”

“This is your home jersey,” Christina said, passing Shane the bright red sweater with a smile, “the equipment team got it finished early so you could wear it for media today, the rest of your uniform should be ready by the end of the week. Oh, also, it’s great to meet you. We’re really excited to have you here.”

“I’m excited to be here,” Shane said earnestly.

She grinned a little brighter and then headed down the hall, calling over her shoulder to tell Shane to put the jersey on and keep the sling off if it was alright by the training staff before disappearing around the corner.

“She’s got a lot of energy,” Shane observed, honestly pretty impressed. It wasn’t like it was super early in the morning, but it was still a Monday.

“She does,” Carter agreed. He then scanned the hall quickly before turning back to Shane and Shane felt something like dread settle in his stomach as Carter opened his mouth and closed it before pausing for a moment, taking a breath and then saying, “I heard a rumor about a player in Canada telling his team something personal and it not going well.”

Shane studied his face, trying to figure out how Carter felt about it, trying to figure out if he knew what the ‘unnamed player’ had told his team. He didn’t know how to feel, but he knew Scott trusted Carter as much as Shane trusted Hayden and Shane trusted Scott’s judgment so he just nodded.

“The rumor’s true?” Carter asked, his voice dropping into almost a whisper and Shane couldn’t tell if it was because he was shocked or because he was trying to protect Shane.

“Yeah,” Shane said, clearing his throat and trying to pretend like he wasn’t in the middle of a cardiac event, “I, uh, came out to my team. It didn’t go well in the locker room, it went even less well with management.”

“Jesus Christ,” Carter spit out, his eyes lit up in fury and Shane took an unconscious step back, “no, no, no,” he said immediately, waving his hands like he was waving a white flag, “not mad at you, mad at your team. You don’t treat a teammate that way. Even if you don’t agree with them, you don’t treat them badly. Also, is Montreal actually fucking stupid? Who the hell gets rid of Shane Hollander just because he likes to suck dick?”

Shane couldn’t have stopped the laugh that burst out of him if he tried. Carter grinned, clearly glad that he’d made Shane laugh before he sobered just a little, just enough that Shane could tell he was serious when he said, “I’m glad you’re here, man, and I don’t care who you love. Well, I care if they’re good to you, but I don’t care if they’re a guy. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Thanks, Carter,” Shane said, feeling the need to use his actual name rather than a locker room nickname. “That means a lot.”

Carter nodded once and then his face split into a grin again as he pulled out his phone, “put on that jersey and then let me show you what I found on Twitter.”

Shane unfolded the jersey to comply and felt his breath catch in his chest when he laid eyes on the A already stitched into the fabric. It’d been a few years since he’d had an A on his chest, and this one somehow felt more significant; it was a sign that the Admirals trusted him, before he’d even stepped onto the ice. They trusted him to be a leader, to show up and play hard and lead this team both on and off the ice.

Carter’s smile softened just a bit as he watched Shane run a finger over the white letter, like he knew what Shane was thinking. But he didn’t point it out, didn’t say anything else, he simply let Shane have his moment.

It felt odd putting this jersey on for the first time in an empty hallway with only Carter Vaughan as a witness instead of on stage in L.A. in front of a ballroom full of people and several major media outlets, but it felt right, somehow. He was coming into this team as a player instead of as a young kid who was already being talked about like a legend. He didn’t need the pomp and circumstance, he just needed a team that welcomed him, and that was exactly what Carter was doing.

They wandered down the hall toward the locker room so Shane could change into the jeans he’d arrived in before he’d changed into shorts and a t-shirt for PT and Shane realized the facility was already starting to feel like home.

* * *

Scott could feel the energy shift when he walked into the practice facility Monday morning.

It felt like the walls were buzzing, like every atom in the brick had been electrified.

He heard him before he saw him, that laugh Scott had only ever heard in the privacy of Shane’s home was ringing through the air, loud and real and contagious.

Scott rounded the corner, putting far too much effort into continuing to walk rather than dropping his bag and taking off at a sprint just to see Shane in the building with his own eyes sooner, and found Shane leaning against the wall outside the locker room with Carter, both of them slumped over with the force of their laughter. Shane looked like he belonged there, like he’d always just been there and Scott felt fucking giddy.

Shane was in jeans and the bright red Admirals home jersey, Hollander across his shoulders, the number 24 stitched into the back and arms, and the A already stitched over his chest.

Carter was dressed the same and Scott was starting to wonder if he’d missed some sort of memo.

“Get dressed, Cap,” Shane called, still grinning, his shoulders shaking just a bit with lingering mirth.

“Scotty!” Carter greeted, smiling wider than Scott could genuinely ever remember seeing. “Jeans and your away jersey, we’re doing media.”

“Why am I wearing away if you two are wearing home?” Scott asked, finding it somehow easier to just slip into this conversation like it was a normal day instead of wondering how these two had become such fast friends or asking what spirit had possessed Shane Hollander to turn him from the ever-serious hockey robot into this guy who was slouched against the wall, grinning like a mad man.

Actually, Scott didn’t need anyone to answer that second question. Scott had met the spirit, and it was simply Shane Hollander under the influence of Ilya Rozanov. Or really, as Scott was starting to realize, the Shane Hollander no one except Ilya Rozanov (and probably Hayden and Jackie Pike) had ever had the pleasure of seeing until now.

“So there’s some variety,” Shane answered, drawling just a bit, and Scott got the feeling that he’d asked the comms team the same question Scott just had. “Also, it might’ve been nice of you to mention that this was gonna be here when I saw you Friday,” he said, pointing to the rather prominent letter on his chest.

“I didn’t know,” Scott shrugged, “but I’m not surprised, Hollzy. You deserve it.”

“I haven’t even played a game with you guys yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Scott said, “you’re you. You’re a leader on and off the ice and you were a great captain in Montreal, you deserve the A.”

Shane’s expression went soft for a second, like he was actually listening to Scott’s words, actually believing the truth of them, and then he was grinning again, turning back to Carter, “you’ve gotta show him what you found.”

“Oh no,” Scott said, a little bit worried about what the hell Carter could’ve found that had made them both laugh like that.

“What do you know about fanfiction, Scotty Boy?” Carter asked with the air of someone giving a goddamn TED Talk.

“I know there are a lot of teenage girls who think Shane is getting up to some crazy shit with Hayden Pike in hotels across America.”

“And Canada,” Shane amended, conversationally.

“And Canada,” Scott agreed, matching Shane’s tone even as he felt his lips twitching with the force of keeping back his grin.

“Well, the teenage girls have switched gears,” Carter said, and the light in his eyes was genuinely concerning. “They can’t agree on a ship name, though.”

“Yet they’ve already written such interesting things,” Shane said, and now they were doing a joint presentation and Scott started to wonder if bringing Shane to New York had actually been a smart decision. He was starting to realize that he would never know another day of peace.

“I know,” Carter said, nodding seriously, “such interesting things, but still no ship name!”

“My personal favorite is Shott,” Shane said, his nose twitching as he tried to keep his composure. Carter’s face was starting to turn red, like he was literally holding his breath to stop himself from laughing.

“Shott,” Scott echoed, already seeing where this was going and just knowing that Shane had already sent whatever Carter had found to Kip. Scott would really never again know peace.

“Shott,” Carter repeated, like it simply needed to be said by all three of them to be real. “I’m feeling a little left out, honestly.”

“Oh, I’d bet there are some where you get to join,” Shane said, leaning over Carter’s shoulder to look at his phone, “you’ve just got to filter the tags.”

Carter tsked, as if he were disappointed in himself for not realizing that, and held his phone a little closer to Shane while Shane tapped the screen a couple of times and then they both let out a whoop, “victory!” Carter yelled, pumping his fist while Shane started laughing again, hard enough that he was slumped entirely against Carter’s side. Carter started laughing too, tilting forward and nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground which only made them laugh harder.

Scott just watched for a second before taking out his phone, opening the camera, sliding over to video, and pressing record.

The two of them were far too busy trying to find their footing to notice Scott recording. Eventually, they gave up entirely and just sat on the ground which was about the point Scott realized they were the only three players here. They must’ve scheduled time for media which probably had a buffer for Captain bonding which Scott didn’t imagine the coaching staff had pictured as Scott recording Shane and Carter giggling on the floor like children, but what the coaching staff didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

Shane was cross legged on the floor leaning back against his good arm with his right arm resting on his leg. He must’ve been wearing the compression brace he’d shown Scott on Friday which was good to see. Scott wondered, briefly, if they’d put him back in the sling for media or if they’d leave him without it as a subtle clue that he wasn’t anywhere near as injured as Montreal was pretending.

Carter was pressed entirely against Shane’s left side, his legs splayed out in front of them as he held his phone so they could both see it. Carter was a tactile guy and Scott honestly would’ve assumed that Shane would be uncomfortable with it, that he wouldn’t want strangers touching him, but he seemed entirely at ease and Scott wondered how much of that was Shane letting the team see the real him and how much of it was Shane simply being far more comfortable in small groups than in crowded rooms.

“Oh my God, Hollzy, read this,” Carter said through his laughter, pulling Scott’s mind away from the odd sort of psychoanalysis he’d slipped into.

Shane squinted a little until he found what Carter was pointing to and he let out an honest to God cackle, his head thrown back with the force of his laughter for a moment before he looked back down at the phone, his eyes bright with unshed tears and a massive smile on his face, “I’m sorry, does that say you, oh my God I can’t say that out loud. Christ these people are creative.”

“How’s Pike gonna feel about you moving on?” Carter asked, tilting his head back to look at Shane and holding up his phone toward Shane’s face as if it were a microphone.

“I think he’s gonna be really broken up about it,” Shane said, putting on his best big brown puppy eyes as he frowned just a bit and if Scott weren’t the one holding the camera, he might’ve thought they knew they were being recorded. But, as it were, Scott knew full well that this was just them. Somehow already acting like best friends when Shane probably hadn’t even been in the building for a full hour. They weren’t even putting on a show for Scott, let alone for some audience. “I’m just thankful Jackie’s there to comfort him.”

“But what about J.J.,” Carter asked, somehow sounding entirely earnest, “he has no Jackie to go home to and now you’ve left him for Scott Hunter.”

Shane let out a wistful sigh, fluttering his eyelashes, “J.J. will always hold a piece of my heart but I simply couldn’t help it. I have a thing for much older men.”

“Hey!” Scott cried as Carter fell over sideways, laughing so hard sound stopped coming out as he curled almost into the fetal position. Shane just looked up to meet Scott’s eye and instead found a camera pointed in his face. Scott expected him to glare, maybe to tell Scott to stop recording Shane saying anything that even hinted at him liking men. But, instead, Shane stared right down the barrel and fucking winked.

Scott wanted to ask who the fuck are you and what have you done with Shane Hollander? But instead, he just ended the recording, stuffed his phone in his pocket, tossed his bag on the ground and then dropped down onto the floor and wrapped one arm around Shane’s waist, careful not to actually tackle him so he wouldn’t accidentally slam his shoulder into the ground, and pinning Carter entirely with his other arm and half his body weight.

“Gerroff!” Carter yelled, thrashing slightly in a way that told Scott he didn’t actually care and was simply being a menace which Scott took as his clue to put more of his weight on top of Carter while Shane just laughed, the sound free and bright as it echoed through the hall.

That was how the media team found them, in a dog pile on the floor laughing their asses off like they’d stayed up way too far past midnight at a sleep over.

Scott was pretty sure a video of it was going to end up on the team’s socials and he hoped it made people realize how different Shane could be in an environment that actually supported him.

He had no clue what they had planned for media that day, but if they were just going to sit at the table and answer questions he was certain Shane would slip back into his perfectly media trained smile, but that moment, with Scott and Carter on the hallway floor, was a glimpse of Shane when the world only ever got to see Hollander.

“Finish getting dressed and then come to the media room, boys,” Christina ordered, “we’ve got two hours scheduled before the rest of the team gets here and we’ve got a surprise.”

“What the hell would we need two hours for?” Carter asked as Scott climbed up off the floor and offered Shane a hand to pull him up as well. Shane took it, only stumbling slightly when Scott yanked him back to his feet a touch too quickly, having somehow forgotten the man had recently suffered a head injury. Shane shook his head in a silent indication that he was fine, Scott squeezed his shoulder slightly in apology anyway and then grinned like a lunatic when he realized that he and Shane had just had an entire conversation silently.

He needed to get it together. He was starting to feel crazy.

“It’s a surprise,” Christina said, a little singsongy as she led the comms team back down the hall.

* * *

Ilya was half asleep on the couch upstairs, pretending that if he ignored the clock it wouldn’t move and he could simply stay in this house forever, when his phone started ringing. He looked down and saw it was Shane FaceTiming him.

He answered quickly, more than a little nervous that something had gone wrong, but instead of coming face to face with a somehow injured Shane, the call connected to show Shane grinning in an Admirals jersey, the A already affixed to the chest. Ilya was so proud of him he thought his heart might escape his ribs.

Carter Vaughan was right behind Shane, his chin propped on Shane’s shoulder like they were already the best of friends.

“Roz!” Vaughan greeted.

“Vaughny!” Ilya greeted back, “Shane, why are you calling?”

“Gotta show you something,” Shane answered.

“Is it your new jersey?”

“No, better,” Shane said, and then the camera flipped around to show Scott Hunter in the middle of a literal dog pile.

He was laying on the floor of what looked like a media room in his away jersey with five dogs attempting to climb on top of him.

“Oh my God, no fair,” Ilya said, shooting upright on the couch and putting his face way too close to the phone screen, “now I want to come visit!”

“Tell your media team to copy us!” he heard a female voice call from the background. Ilya guessed it was probably New York’s social media manager or comms director.

“I will,” Ilya responded, already thinking of all the ways he could beg the media team to copy … whatever the hell it was the three Admirals captains were doing. “Hollander, go closer to Hunter, I want to see dogs better.”

“You do realize that’ll mean you can see Scott better, too, right?” Shane asked.

“Is necessary sacrifice.”

“Hey,” Scott protested, rather weakly right as a massive lab licked his face.

The camera flipped again and Ilya almost protested the fact that Shane had taken the dogs away but then the shot steadied and his phone screen was filled with Shane’s perfect smiling face right next to a little golden retriever. Not quite a puppy, but not full grown either.

“You have to steal that dog, Shane,” Ilya said, 100% serious.

“I can’t steal a dog, Ilya.”

“Then give it a treat so it will follow you home and you can say you didn’t steal it, it just followed you, not your fault.”

“Or he could properly adopt the dog,” Scott suggested.

Ilya huffed in annoyance, waving him off even though Scott couldn’t see him, “boring solution from boring old man, Hollander, find way to bring that dog home.”

Shane’s grin turned soft in a way that couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than completely and utterly besotted. Ilya took a screenshot and briefly contemplated having the photo enlarged and printed out so he could hang it up in his living room in place of the giant modern painting he had above his couch.

Ilya knew that Shane was smiling like that because Ilya had said home. To anyone else, they would think Ilya was telling Shane to get a dog and bring it to his own home, but Shane knew that Ilya meant bring the dog home to me, to our house.

“I’ll think about it,” Shane said and Ilya could tell he meant it which made his heart do something funny. Three days ago, Shane hadn’t wanted a dog at all but then he’d seen how much Ilya did and now he was actually considering it. “We’re ripping off the Buzzfeed puppy interview with dogs from the Westchester SPCA, by the way.”

“That is how you are being introduced to New York fans?” Ilya asked. “By playing with cute dogs?”

“Yup.”

“Hollander, the whole world is going to fall in love with you, this is unfair.”

Shane laughed and Ilya realized right away that it was his real laugh, the one that Ilya had never actually heard in public before this very second. Shane was happy, genuinely happy.

Shane shot him a smile, then, a smile that Ilya easily interpreted as I don’t need the whole world, I have you.

“I’ll see you later, Rozanov, we’ve gotta go actually shoot this video, I just wanted to show you the dogs.”

“Bye, Hollander,” Ilya said, having to actually bite his tongue to stop himself from saying I love you.

Shane smiled once more and then the call cut out.

Ilya let his phone fall against his chest as he leaned back into the cushions, a smile on his face that was big enough to make his cheeks hurt.

He didn’t understand how only a week ago he’d been in his house in Boston, trying to argue against his coach telling him he needed to take an extra week before coming back and trying to tell himself that he didn’t need Shane’s help to feel better and now he was sitting in New York, engaged and talking about getting a dog.

His life was insane. He loved every second of it.

* * *

Shane shut his phone off and slipped it into his back pocket, turning all his attention toward the little golden retriever that’d climbed into his lap and didn’t appear to be planning to leave. She was an adorable little thing named Sunday and Shane was actually in love.

When they’d talked about getting a dog, Shane had sort of assumed the hypothetical dog would live with Ilya, now he wasn’t so sure.

Shane really didn’t see himself making it to Friday without driving out to the shelter and adopting this dog. He wasn’t sure if that was a responsible decision to make but he’d already bought a house, moved countries, and gotten engaged this week, he might as well adopt a dog too.

They’d already filmed their introduction and then released the dogs on them and now they were just sitting on the ground, playing with the dogs while the comms team got B-Roll footage before they started asking them questions.

“You should FaceTime Jackie,” Scott suggested, his head popping up from the pile of dogs still surrounding him like a meerkat, “show the kids the puppies.”

“She’ll kill me,” Shane said, already pulling out his phone and opening his contacts.

Scott just laughed as he laid back down and Carter picked up one of the other dogs and came to sit by Shane, apparently excited at the prospect of showing puppies off to children he didn’t even know.

Jackie answered on the second ring.

Well, Ruby answered on the second ring.

“Uncle Shane!” she yelled and Shane could see one of Christina’s co-workers who’d introduced herself as Amanada moving closer with her camera. Shane was pretty sure this shot, two objectively attractive hockey captains holding puppies and FaceTiming an adorable little kid, was going to go triple platinum.

“Ruby Bear!” Shane responded, “did you steal your mom’s phone?”

“Noooo,” she said, jumping up and down in the frame, “I’m on the iPad!”

“Ah,” Shane said, nodding seriously. That actually made sense, Shane was on the list of about six people the girls could contact using their iPad that was attached to Jackie’s iCloud account. “I want to show you something, is Jade there?”

“One second,” Ruby said, picking up the iPad and running down the hall. Shane was starting to feel a little motion sick by the time she stopped moving. She set the iPad down on the kitchen table and clamored up into a chair and Shane smiled when Jade and Jackie appeared on his screen.

“Hi there, Jade. Hello, Jackie,” Shane greeted. She narrowed her eyes at him like she could smell hijinks from five and a half hours away.

“Shane, I don’t trust that grin.”

“Look,” Shane said, tilting the camera down so Carter and both puppies were in view.

Jackie’s glare intensified even as she was clearly trying not to smile as both girls shouted PUPPIES at the top of their lungs.

Shane laughed and Carter held his puppy, a little pitbull mix named Lucy, up to the camera.

“Are you getting a puppy, Uncle Shane?” Jade asked, only her eyes and forehead visible as she pressed in close to the screen to see better. It was exactly what Ilya had done a few minutes earlier which was both hilarious and ridiculously adorable.

“I might be.”

“Wait, really?” Jackie asked, popping into frame over Jade’s head. “I didn’t think you liked dogs.”

“It’s not that I didn’t like dogs, I just wasn’t sure I could handle the disruption to my routine but I’d say my routine has been pretty well disrupted and I’m still standing,” Shane said, hoping the comms team would cut that admission out of the final video, “also, look,” he said, pulling his phone closer so Sunday’s face filled the screen.

“Oh my God you have to get that dog,” Jackie decided, “babe, that is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. Also, wait, is that your new jersey, let me see!”

Shane let out a huff as Carter stole his phone and gestured for Shane to stand, “give us a spin, Hollzy.”

Shane scooped up Sunday, who he was already affectionately calling Sunny in his head, with his left arm and then dutifully stood, giving Carter and Jackie a spin. Jackie let out a wolf whistle that was loud enough the sound crackled slightly as it echoed through Shane’s phone speakers, “are those the jeans I made you buy, babe? They look good!”

“I think so,” Shane said, lifting up the hem of his sweater to check the label, “yes, they are indeed the jeans you said I should purchase because they ‘make my ass look edible.’”

“I stand by that declaration,” Jackie said decisively, “I also hope my children don’t repeat that tomorrow at kindergarten.”

“They’ve watched hockey with Hayd and me, they’ve heard worse.”

“Fair,” Jackie admitted. “Call me when you get home, Hollander, I want to hear about your first day.”

“I will,” Shane promised, “I’ll call before bedtime so I can say goodnight.”

“Good,” Jackie said as Shane took his phone back from Carter. She was smiling happily, just a tinge of nostalgia around the edges and Shane returned the expression, his eyes feeling just a little warm at the reminder that he had to call to say goodnight instead of just being there. “Arthur was asking for you to read him a story last night, so he’ll be really happy if you call.”

“I’ll call,” Shane said, scrunching his nose slightly to try to stop himself from tearing up. “Bye girls, I’ll talk to you later.”

He hung up the phone after a chorus of bye, Uncle Shane and tucked it back into his pocket once again before sitting back down next to Carter.

“I’m sorry,” Scott said, sitting up properly for the first time in a while and turning toward Shane, “did Hayden’s wife just call you ‘babe.’”

“I believe she also said his ass looked edible,” Carter said.

“Yes, she did,” Shane agreed, offering no further explanation. There really wasn’t one. Jackie didn’t really come with an explanation which was part of why she was one of Shane’s favorite people. She was just Jackie.

* * *

Scott looked at the nostalgic, edging on sad, expression on Shane’s face and wanted nothing more than to make it better so he turned toward Christina and nodded, hoping she’d take that as a cue to start asking them questions.

She stepped in immediately, directing them to sit closer together with Scott in the middle, Shane on his left, and Carter on his right.

Shane tried to set Sunday down, but she immediately turned around and climbed back into his lap. Scott was about 95% certain that Shane was going to be a dog owner by Wednesday.

They started with easy questions: where’d you play Juniors? What was your favorite All Stars location? What’s your favorite arena to play in as a visitor? What’s your pregame ritual? Does it matter which skate you put on first?

Then they started asking slightly harder ones: what was your most meaningful fan interaction? What would you be doing if you weren’t in the NHL?

Scott expected the questions to veer into even more difficult territory, he expected them to ask Shane how he was feeling about having to play his old team or how New York was different from Montreal, but they kept just asking all three of them the same question, they kept just acting like it wasn’t odd that Shane was here.

It was after they asked what their favorite part about New York was and Shane answered, “how welcoming everyone’s been,” that Scott finally figured out their strategy.

It was the perfect combination of Canadian politeness, and a massive NYC fuck you.

They were just going to act like Shane had always been here.

They weren’t going to openly shit on Montreal and the closest they were going to get to saying Shane was a new acquisition was him saying people had been welcoming. They were just going to subtly show the world that Shane was perfectly fine; that he was comfortably playing with dogs with almost no visible bruising left on his face and no sling in sight as he talked about himself with an ease he’d never once shown in Montreal with the A already stitched into his New York jersey.

They were going to include a clip of him showing the dogs to Rozanov as a reminder that this was Shane Hollander, second overall draft pick and absolute terror on the ice, they were dealing with and a clip of him talking to Pike’s kids as a reminder that Shane was also the sort of person you’d bring home to meet your parents.

It was fucking genius.

No one would be able to say they’d taken the low road, and no one would be able to claim that Montreal had been justified in letting Shane Hollander go when he was clearly already fine only two weeks after his injury.

The messaging was clear without being explicit: Montreal’s fuck up is New York’s gain.

Chapter 19: sunday

March 2017

Shane’s phone started ringing as he trailed Carter and Scott back toward the locker room so they could get changed for practice.

“Hey, mom,” he greeted after sliding his thumb across the screen to answer the call.

“Shane, please tell me you’re adopting that dog.”

“How do you even know about the dog already?”

“Jackie and Ilya both sent screenshots. Now, please tell me you’re adopting that dog.”

Shane wasn’t all that surprised that Ilya had taken and sent a screenshot, but he was a little surprised Jackie had, mostly because he wasn’t sure how she’d taken one while Ruby had been holding the iPad with an iron grip the entire time. He was a little concerned it’d been while he was ‘giving her a spin’ and that he was going to open Instagram to find a picture of him holding a puppy showing off the back of his new jersey that Jackie would somehow find a way to not-so-subtly make about his ass because she was a threat to Shane’s peace.

“I’m considering adopting the dog,” Shane said.

“Oh good,” his mom sighed, clearly relieved, though Shane wasn’t quite sure why. It sounded like it was about more than just having access to an objectively cute dog. “I just worry about you alone in your house. Not that I don’t think you can handle living alone, obviously, I just think you’ll be happier coming home to a dog instead of empty rooms.”

Shane couldn’t argue with her there, but he didn’t really want to get into how much he’d been dreading walking back into an empty, Ilya-less house while standing right outside his new locker room so, instead, he said, “I’ll do some research tonight but I’m leaning toward yes. I’ll send you the pictures I took, they’re probably better quality than FaceTime screenshots.”

“Please do,” Yuna said, her smile almost audible, “have a good day, honey, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Love you.”

“I love you too.”

Shane smiled a little to himself as he hung up and tucked his phone back into his pocket. Scott and Carter had stepped into the locker room already and Shane could hear people milling around. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The room went silent for exactly three seconds - Shane counted - and then hit a decibel henceforth unknown to the human ear.

Shane was pretty sure his bones were rattling with the sheer volume of their shouting. He smiled, even though it felt a little like his brain was starting to melt.

Carter wrapped an arm around his shoulders in what was clearly meant to look like a brotherly embrace, but Shane could tell that he’d noticed Shane flinch at the noise; that he’d decided to take it upon himself to ground Shane, to shield him – at least a little – from the team’s excitement. Carter’s arm remained a grounding weight as the team crowded around to introduce themselves and welcome Shane to New York.

After a couple of minutes, Scott’s voice finally cut through the noise, “alright, alright, leave the man alone and get dressed for practice!”

His direction was met with a chorus of groans, but everyone moved to comply and Carter led Shane back toward their stalls. They were placed on either side of Scott, exactly how Hayden and J.J. had bracketed Shane back in Montreal. Cale Wagner, the current first line leftie, was on Shane’s other side. Shane was pretty sure he’d been moved over to accommodate for Shane’s acquisition; both in his locker placement and, eventually, in his line placement. But he didn’t seem to hold any ill will, he was grinning as Shane settled down onto the bench next to him.

Cale reached out and clapped Shane’s shoulder, much more carefully than anyone else had, “we’re excited you’re here, Hollander.”

Shane smiled back and felt the gentle, earnest welcome settle in his chest, different than the raucous yelling or Scott and Carter’s easy camaraderie, “I’m excited to be here.”

“Good,” Cale said with a decisive nod, “also, tell me if I’m overstepping, but I’ve heard you follow a pretty strict performance diet. I know it’s not the exact same, but my daughter has a lot of different allergies, makes shopping and eating out pretty tough. My wife has a whole list of grocery stores and restaurants around here that we’ve found that always have things she can eat if you’d like me to send it over.”

“That’d be great,” Shane responded. He wasn’t sure if he was going to follow the same exact diet, he needed to talk to the team doctors and training staff and probably a nutritionist, but he did like the way whole foods made him feel so it’d be good to have recommendations either way. The offer also felt a little like the first time Jackie had invited him over, teasing lightly about his ‘bird food’ but never once complaining about Shane’s restrictions. “Thanks, Wagner.”

Cale smiled and went back to putting on his gear for practice. Shane looked around the locker room and realized it’d already fallen back into a rhythm. They’d made a big deal about Shane showing up, they’d made it clear how excited they were he was here, and now they were simply existing with Shane already woven into the fabric.

He took off his jersey and folded it carefully, setting it on one of the shelves for the equipment team to collect and then pulled on his sweatshirt - a plain, navy CCM branded hoodie – and carefully secured his arm back into the sling. The compression brace was great for PT, for sleeping, and felt fine for a couple of hours, but Shane had been getting jostled around and he was starting to feel a little careless. He didn’t want to ruin any of the progress he’d made in healing, so he went with the safe route.

“You okay?” Scott asked, immediately clocking the sling and turning toward Shane with concern shining in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Shane assured him, “just not supposed to be out of the sling for more than a few hours a day yet.”

Scott studied him for a moment, “the shoulder is bugging you, not your collar bone, isn’t it?”

“How the fuck did you know?”

“I was in the hospital with you, Shane,” Scott said, rolling his eyes. “I saw the bruise. Sure, your collar bone was fractured, but your shoulder got it the worst. I’m honestly shocked you didn’t crack your shoulder blade or even your upper arm.”

“The swelling’s gone down, it’s just sore.”

“You’ll ice it when you get home?”

“Yes, dad.”

“I’m only seven years older than you.”

“Mmm,” Shane hummed, wondering just a little how many more times he could call Scott old before the man snapped.

“Stop,” Scott said before Shane could even get a word out. “I know what you’re thinking, stop.”

Shane just grinned, unrepentant.

Whatever complaint Scott was going to make was cut off by Coach Murdock stepping into the room and letting out a sharp whistle that had everyone turning toward him immediately, “I hope you’ve all introduced yourselves to Hollander. The coaching staff decided to make him our second Alternate Captain based on his incredible record with Montreal, so I expect each of you to listen when he talks and respect his opinions. Hollander, you’re with me for practices and games until we can safely get you back on the ice, let’s go.”

Shane, smartly, took that as his clue to get up and follow Murdock out of the room.

“How was your morning?” Murdock asked as they made their way down the hall, toward the door that led to the practice rink’s bench.

“Great,” Shane answered honestly, “the plan I made with the trainers over the phone is looking like it’s going to work out so I should be back on the ice for practice in about a week and for games by the beginning of April.”

“Good to hear,” Murdock said with a genuine smile as he shouldered the door open. Shane followed him through and then jumped up to sit on the low wall behind the bench as Murdock set his team iPad next to Shane, leaning back against the wall to Shane’s right. “And how was media? Not too crazy I hope.”

“Crazy in a good way,” Shane laughed, “the puppy interview was genius, far more fun than just sitting at a press table.”

“Do you have any pets?”

“Not yet, but I was recently convinced to consider getting a dog someday and then the media team goes and drops the cutest dog I’ve ever seen in my lap this morning, so it feels a little like fate.”

“Which one?”

“The little retriever,” Shane answered, “Sunday, she kept following me around, wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“I think you’ve been chosen, Hollander. That’s your dog now.”

“I think you might be right.”

Murdock smiled and then reached out to turn on his iPad, navigating over to the app Shane knew coaches used to plan out shifts and plays, “we’re gonna scrimmage today and I want you to watch closely and give me your thoughts. We’ve been playing great offensively and better defensively now with Jalo, but I want better consistency which is what you’re known for so don’t hold back, alright?”

“I can do that,” Shane agreed.

“Good man,” Murdock said, patting Shane’s knee as the team spilled out onto the ice.

* * *

Scott found Shane in Murdock’s office after practice. He was a little worried Shane had already left seeing as he hadn’t needed to go through the whole process of getting out of gear and showering before leaving the building but, apparently, it was Scott’s lucky day.

“Need a ride home?” Scott asked, leaning against the door frame. Shane’s house was placed pretty perfectly between Tarrytown and Scott’s apartment and, selfishly, Kip was at work and Scott didn’t really want to go home to an empty apartment quite yet. He also sort of wanted to see if he could goad Shane into going to the SPCA with him and adopting that dog, like, immediately.

Maybe Scott could adopt a cat and give it to Kip as a late birthday present.

Maybe Kip would like that better than a check for 50 grand.

Maybe Scott should ask Shane for advice before he did something objectively insane … again.

“Yeah, sure,” Shane agreed, “I hadn’t called a car yet so that works.”

“Well, I’m done with you,” Murdock declared, “see you both tomorrow for morning skate and, Shane, you’re in the press box for the game tomorrow night. I don’t want you on the bench until you’ve cleared post-concussion protocol, alright? I don’t want to risk it.”

“Works for me,” Shane agreed easily, slinging his bag over his good shoulder as he stood, “see you tomorrow.”

Scott waved and led the way out of the building toward the parking lot.

“Hey, should I get Kip a cat?”

Shane paused, looking at Scott like he was trying to figure out whether or not he was being serious, and then asked, “does Kip like cats?”

“I think so.”

“I think you should probably make sure.”

Scott was glad he’d asked.

“I think we should go to the SPCA right now and you should adopt Sunday before someone else gets there first.”

“That’s insane, Scott, I can’t just adopt a dog on a whim. I need to do at least a little research first.”

“Research in the car,” Scott argued, “it’s probably like a 30-minute drive, that’s more than enough time.”

Shane walked in silence for a minute and then let out a sigh that immediately told Scott he’d won, “we’d have to go to a pet store, too, and you are going to help me carry whatever random shit we buy into my house.”

“Deal,” Scot agreed quickly.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Shane found himself standing in a PetSmart in Yonkers with Scott Hunter and the whole ass dog the Westchester SPCA had pretty much just handed them, no questions asked.

Well, they’d asked a couple of questions like ‘are you over 21’ and ‘can we make a copy of your ID’ and ‘the NHL pays you enough to properly care for a dog, right?’

They hadn’t actually asked that last one with that exact wording but that was the general idea.

“We need a leash,” Scott said, reading from the list he’d found on some sort of Mommy Blog while Shane was filling out paperwork. Shane really hoped no hockey fans were around that’d recognize them and take pictures and/or videos. They really were not giving the vibe of two people who had a handle on their lives.

“Makes sense,” Shane agreed. Sunday was thankfully still light enough that he could carry her with one arm seeing as Scott had put himself in charge of pushing the cart and, as previously mentioned, they didn’t yet have a leash. “Probably a collar too.”

Scott snapped and pointed at Shane, nodding as if acknowledging the fact that Shane had just made a groundbreaking observation, “and a bed, are you going to kennel train her?”

“I think I’ll probably have to,” Shane decided, that was at least one thing he’d thought about over the weekend while his dad and Ilya had been talking about dogs. He needed to research more and read some reviews to pick out the right kennel, so he said, “that’s a problem for a different day, though. We just need the basics right now.”

The ‘basics’ ended up being a bed, a leash and collar, dog shampoo, a brush, treats, food, bowls, and about $200 worth of toys that they, for some reason, had decided were absolutely imperative.

Shane was pretty sure they looked insane.

Scratch that, Shane was dead certain they looked insane.

“I can’t believe you agreed to this,” Scott said as they (Scott, Shane was mostly just supervising) loaded everything into his car.

“Me neither.”

“I like this version of you,” Scott decided, “you seem far more sure of yourself, it’s nice to see.”

“I like this version of me, too.”

* * *

Ilya was sitting on his couch in Boston wishing he could go back to New York. His house was too big and far too quiet and walking into it after a week of being in Ottawa with the Hollanders and then in New York with Shane was more than a little disorienting. He’d been coming home to an empty house for seven years and after one week of knowing something different it, all of the sudden, felt wrong.

He was pretty sure Shane would be in the same boat which made him feel a little better. But based on the last text he’d gotten, a vaguely worded message about old men having insane ideas, Shane at least had Scott.

Ilya didn’t really know how to ask for what he needed, but he knew he needed to learn so he unlocked his phone and called Cliff.

They hadn’t actually spoken since Shane went down on the ice a little over two weeks prior and Ilya only felt a little bad about that. Cliff was his best friend on the team, but Shane was his everything and even though it’d been a clean hit, it’d been hard for Ilya to compartmentalize, especially considering the added emotional whiplash of his father’s death.

Cliff answered on the second ring, “Roz, hey buddy, good to hear from you.”

He sounded about half nervous, half relieved, and Ilya felt good about his decision to call. It seemed like they both needed it.

“Want to come over and watch whatever game is on tonight?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Cliff agreed without any hesitation, “should I bring anything?”

“Maybe grab food, I have been out of town for two weeks, there is nothing here.”

Cliff laughed through his agreement, and they said quick goodbyes before ending the call. Ilya felt better having a plan, knowing that he wouldn’t be entirely alone in this giant empty house while he attempted to adjust back to this new normal where he was actually letting himself admit that he missed Shane like a limb. He’d thought it’d be easier at first, like how loving Shane had stopped hurting so much after admitting it aloud, but this felt different. He used to be able to shove the thoughts down, to pretend like the ache he was feeling was simply exhaustion or simple sadness.

Now, though, now he knew what it felt like to fall asleep and wake up next to Shane, he knew what it felt like to cook with him and spend evenings watching movies cuddled up on the couch. He knew what it felt like to be a part of Shane’s orbit, how it felt to let themselves be domestic.

But Cliff was coming and even though he wouldn’t fill the hole in Ilya’s heart, his presence would make the quiet less suffocating.

Ilya turned his phone back on and opened Instacart. Boston had a string of home games this week, so he needed actual groceries instead of just relying on team meals on the road and he really didn’t feel like getting in his car and actually going somewhere.

He dozed a little after that, only waking up when he heard a knock at his front door.

He opened it to find Cliff, holding a takeout bag from a sandwich shop Ilya recognized as the one Cliff frequented near his house, standing beside several grocery bags that must’ve been left by the Instacart shopper without Ilya noticing.

Cliff helped him put the groceries away and waited until they were on the couch, ESPN on, and their first beers opened, to say anything real, “have you heard from Hollander?”

Ilya almost choked on his sandwich.

“Yes,” he landed on.

It felt like the safe answer. Much safer than, yes I heard quite a lot from him while he was writhing under me this morning or, yes he texted me an hour ago and I think he’s hanging out with Scott Hunter which I am trying very hard not to be jealous about.

“How’s he doing?”

Wonderful, Ilya thought, very happy, newly engaged.

“Good,” Ilya said, “he is healing faster than I think many people thought he would. He likes New York. Called me this morning because they did Captain’s interview with a bunch of dogs from the shelter near their practice facility, I think I am going to annoy our media team until they let us copy them.”

“They did a puppy interview?” Cliff asked, looking nearly as excited as Ilya had been. “Lucky bastards.”

“There will probably be pictures up soon,” Ilya guessed, “I think they probably want to introduce Shane as a Captain before their game tomorrow, even though he isn’t playing.”

Cliff pulled out his phone and immediately opened Instagram, navigating to the Admirals page with honestly impressive speed. Ilya leaned over a little bit so he could see the screen and there, at the top of their feed, was a brand-new photo of Shane, Scott, and Carter.

Ilya took out his own phone so he could look at it himself and genuinely almost started crying as he was overwhelmed with affection.

The picture was taken from behind Carter who, based on the fact the FaceTime screen was showing a slightly blurry Jackie Pike, was holding Shane’s phone while Shane stood holding Sunday against his chest with one arm. He was turned about halfway away from the camera and Ilya would bet good money that Shane had called to show the girls the puppies, and it’d ended with Jackie forcing him to show off his new jersey.

The A was right above Sunday’s head, and you could read most of the HOLLANDER where it stretched between his shoulders with nis number clearly visible on his arms and back. He was smiling and his hair was just a little messy, just enough to give him that stupidly endearing boyish charm.

Scott was in the background, still on the floor in a pile of dogs just like he’d been when Shane had called Ilya.

There was no ‘welcome’ in the caption, no indication that it was odd for them to be posting New York Admirals’ Alternate Captain Shane Hollander; just a note about the captain’s puppy interview premiering on their YouTube an hour before Tuesday’s game against Calgary.

“Oh my god,” Cliff whispered. He sounded genuinely stunned and Ilya’s thoughts immediately started spiraling, imagining the absolute worst. Then Cliff tipped his phone toward Ilya, showing him a picture of Shane and Scott sitting on a linoleum floor with Sunday licking Shane’s face. Shane was in a hoodie and jeans, his arm back in the sling, his eyes scrunched shut as he laughed. Scott was next to him in jeans and an Admirals crewneck, smiling over at Shane with rather obvious affection and if Ilya hadn’t seen the precise difference in the way Scott smiled at Shane and the way he smiled at Kip, he would probably be texting Scott a very detailed threat right about now. The photo had been posted by the Westchester SPCA and shared to the Admirals’ story along with a second slide featuring information on how to support the shelter. “Is this why Hollander chose New York?”

It took Ilya a full ten seconds to process what Cliff was asking and, when it clicked, he burst out laughing.

“What!” Cliff said, sounding genuinely offended, “it’s not a wild jump. I’ve heard some rumors about how shitty Montreal’s locker room was treating Hollander and how backwards their management is, it’s really not that crazy to think he left because the culture was bad and he’s clearly clicked with New York pretty quickly. It’s not insane to assume it’s because he was already close with Hunter,” the way he emphasized ‘close’ made it clear what he was actually saying. “Twitter agrees with me, by the way.”

“Twitter also thinks Hollander is fucking Hayden Pike.”

“Is Hollander not fucking Hayden Pike?”

“No, and I can assure you that he’s not fucking Scott Hunter, either.”

“Hunter looks pretty smitten,” Cliff argued, clicking on the story again and all but shoving his phone in Ilya’s face.

As if on cue, Ilya’s phone started ringing with a FaceTime request from Scott himself.

Cliff’s eyes widened with panic and he started shaking his head as Ilya just grinned and answered the phone, “Hunter!” he greeted, “tell Marlow you’re not fucking Hollander.”

“What the actual fuck?” Shane’s voice asked from somewhere off camera.

“Yeah, that’s a good question,” Scott said, looking at Ilya like he’d lost his mind, “what the actual fuck?”

“Marlow here thinks that Hollander moved to New York for you, he claims Twitter agrees,” Ilya informed them, genuinely delighted.

“They’re calling us Shott,” Shane added, still of camera which simply wouldn’t do.

“Hunter why am I still looking at you when I could be looking at Hollander?”

“I called to show you Shane but then you answered like a crazy person so now I’m not so sure I want to,” Scott said, frowning slightly.

“Shane, make him be nice to me.”

“Scott, be nice to Ilya,” Shane sighed. “Also, why are you calling Ilya? I was going to do that.”

“You’re a little occupied,” Scott said which, to Cliff’s credit, did sound a bit suggestive.

Cliff looked at Ilya as if to say see! and, again, Ilya just grinned.

Finally, the camera flipped around to show Shane laying on the floor of his living room surrounded by dog toys with Sunday fully asleep on his chest. He looked tired, worn down enough that Ilya could spot the beginnings of dark smudges under his eyes, but he was smiling softly and he didn’t seem visibly anxious, so Ilya forced himself to calm down and remember that it’d been a long day and that Shane was still healing.

“You got the dog!” Ilya said which he probably should’ve realized when he’d seen Shane and Scott in street clothes with Sunday in a photo posted by the shelter rather than the team but he’d been pretty damn distracted by how cute Shane looked when his whole face scrunched up with laughter.

“Yeah,” Shane responded, smiling down at Sunday, “Scott’s idea, we went on very fun adventure to Briar Cliff and then to the Yonkers PetSmart and now he refuses to leave my house.”

“I’m not refusing to leave, I just don’t want to,” Scott argued. The video went blurry for a second before the camera flipped to show him now laying on the floor next to Shane, the phone held up above them.

They really were not doing anything to disprove Cliff’s theory and Ilya was finding far too much humor in the way Cliff’s eyes kept getting wider and wider.

Shane just shook his head, looking far more fond than annoyed, and then looked back up at the camera, “Ilya, you can tell Marlow why I moved.”

“Can I also tell him why I know you are not fucking Scott Hunter?”

“Why do you keep saying my full name?” Scott asked.

“It’s a good full name,” Shane rationalized, “flows well. Also, yes, you can tell Marlow why you know I’m not fucking Scott Hunter.”

“Oh, good,” Ilya said, grinning in a way that made even Shane look nervous, “I know he is not fucking Scott Hunter because Hollander is a good person, he would not cheat on his boyfriend with an old man, he would at least pick someone young and attractive.”

Shane and Scott were locked in some sort of staring contest that, to the untrained eye, really did look like they were gazing lovingly at each other. Ilya had no clue what that was about, well he could maybe guess that Shane was trying to silently communicate that Cliff was safe and that this was extremely unlikely to go sideways, so he turned his focus back to Cliff.

“Hollander has a boyfriend?” Cliff asked, clearly having no goddamn clue what was going on, “does he live in New York or something?”

“Boston,” Shane answered, finally looking away from Scott, “total asshole.”

“Asshole, maybe,” Ilya agreed, “but very good at hockey.”

Ilya watched the realization hit Cliff, he watched as his eyes went wide and could almost hear the gears working in his head, “Hollander’s boyfriend plays for Boston?”

“Yes.”

“You stopped talking to me after I injured him.”

“I did.”

“I forgive you for that, by the way,” Shane cut in.

Cliff ignored him, still staring at Ilya, “your Montreal girl.”

“He lives in New York now, keep up Marly.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes, Marlow,” Scott said, “he’s not joking.”

“Well fuck,” Cliff muttered, flopping back against Ilya’s couch cushions, “now I feel even shittier about that hit. Also, Hunter, you’ve gotta stop looking at Hollander like you want to bend him over, people are gonna get the wrong idea.”

“I do not look at Shane like I want to bend him over!” Scott argued.

“You kind of do,” Ilya mused.

They very quickly devolved into one of the more insane arguments Ilya had ever been a part of and all of the sudden his house didn’t feel quite so lonely. He had someone in his corner now, someone in Boston who knew the truth.

* * *

Scott left later than he probably meant to, but Shane was more than alright with it. They’d talked to Cliff and Ilya for nearly an hour before hanging up and deciding to order dinner and then they’d spent another hour just sitting outside in the early spring evening watching Sunday run around the yard until the sun set while Shane iced his shoulder under Scott’s watchful eye.

It was comfortable and it made the house feel warmer, less quiet and empty.

After Scott left, Shane decided to try his hand at giving Sunday a bath which was far easier than he’d expected. He’d read that golden retrievers liked water, but he hadn’t been certain that would apply to baths. Shane dried her off and left her to explore while he showered himself, then he took her out once more before climbing into bed to call the Pikes.

Sunday spent about 45 seconds in her bed on the floor before taking a running leap onto Shane’s bed. She snuggled right up next to him, her head pillowed on his stomach, and almost immediately fell asleep and he really couldn’t find it in himself to complain.

Shane paused a minute, just running his hand over her head and realized that the anxious thoughts that usually ran through his mind when he got into bed for the night were quiet in the way they’d really only ever been when he’d shared a bed with Ilya.

That was enough for Shane to justify the impulse dog adoption.

He picked his phone up off his nightstand and called Hayden and every remaining bit of anxiety and first day jitters bled out of him as he read Arthur a story. Hayden was holding the pages near the camera, but Shane didn’t actually need to see them to know what they said given the sheer number of times he’d read Goodnight, Moon between all three kids.

After that he said goodnight to the girls and then Hayden wandered downstairs and propped his iPad up on the coffee table and Shane told him and Jackie everything about his day. It wasn’t quite the same as being there in person, but the familiar pattern of it all was like a balm on his still frayed heart.

He hung up and checked his messages, finding a text from Kip telling him to please never stop sending the insane shit he and Carter found on the internet, a text from Scott reminding Shane that he’d pick him up for morning skate so he wouldn’t have to call a car, and a text from Ilya thanking him for saying he could tell Cliff.

He liked Kip and Scott’s messages and then sent Ilya a text saying, I’m glad Cliff knows. You should tell Svetlana too, I want you to have people in your corner. Goodnight, I love you so much and I miss you already.

Ilya texted back not even a minute later, I love you too. I will tell Sveta when I see her next.

Shane smiled to himself, made sure his alarm was set, and then let himself fall into a peaceful sleep.

Chapter 20: can't wait to go home

Chapter Notes

title from castle on the hill by ed sheeran :)

March 2017

Shane woke up on a Friday, three days short of two weeks after his first day as an Admiral, with a smile already on his face.

He’d cleared post-concussion protocol the day prior meaning he actually got to get on the ice today. The team was leaving for a five-day roadie, but Shane would be staying behind so he could work with the trainers on the ice alone before getting thrown back into everything with the team on Wednesday morning.

Sunday, who everyone had started calling ‘Sunny’, had been coming to the rink with him every day because Murdock had happily declared her the Admiral’s new mascot for the remainder of Shane’s time on IR (and, honestly, probably long past that seeing as Sunny had effectively converted the media team into a cult in her name and they would be more than happy to take over ‘mascot duties’ once Shane was back on the ice).

She was suspiciously well-behaved for a three-month old puppy, but Shane wasn’t about to complain about that. So long as she got a long walk or a decent run in the morning and a sufficient amount of love throughout the day she was perfect. She rarely barked, she was house trained, and she barely even chewed on Shane’s furniture.

The team would be on the road for five days and by the time they got back, Shane would be cleared to practice. And two days after that he’d be back on the ice properly.

According to the schedule the trainers had set, his first game back on the ice would be at home against Pittsburgh the final day of March meaning he’d get to play the final five regular season games before launching into playoffs.

New York’s spot was already secured; it just came down to seeding now.

Shane climbed out of bed and smiled as Sunday immediately followed, “c’mon, Sunny,” he said, “run, breakfast, rink.”

Shane’s driveway was a half mile long and Sunny’s legs were still tiny, so they only went down and back. After their quick mile, Shane set her up with breakfast before heading down to his slowly expanding home gym to go through the exercises he’d been assigned for PT. His range of motion was almost entirely normal and so long as he stretched properly and didn’t fuck around, his shoulder was only sore instead of painful.

As he moved through the now-familiar motions, he thought through the next few days.

New York played L.A. on Saturday, Anaheim on Sunday, and San Jose on Tuesday before coming back to New York.

He’d be back on the ice by the time they played Pittsburgh at home on Friday.

Shane was ready, and he would make damn sure that when he stepped onto the ice in Madison Square Garden for the first time as an Admiral he would show everyone just how much being homophobic assholes had cost Montreal.

He already knew it was going to be an incredible feeling. The reaction to him simply being in the press box for the past couple home games had been absurd and the number of Hollander jerseys just kept multiplying.

Shane was also giddy because Boston played in Brooklyn Saturday night. The team was flying down the morning of the game, but they had Sunday and Monday off practice, and Ilya had already somehow gotten his coach to agree to him flying back separately from the team, so Shane was looking forward to two nights with Ilya back home.

His phone buzzed as he finished up his workout and he checked it as he made his way up to the kitchen to make his smoothie.

Ilya: dobroye utro, lyubov' moya, i will see you soon. be safe on ice today, please. take care of yourself. ya tebya lyublyu.

Shane smiled to himself as he texted back: Good morning, I can’t wait to see you. Promise to be careful, I love you too.

He then took a picture of Sunny who was asleep, sprawled out on the ground, halfway between her food bowl and her bed in the living room and sent it to Ilya along with a second message that said: Your daughter is excited to meet you.

His phone started ringing a half second later with a FaceTime request.

Shane smiled harder as he answered, “hello.”

“My daughter?” Ilya said, grinning wide with his hand very dramatically over his chest. “You did not tell me she was mine!”

“I assumed it was implied,” Shane laughed.

“Was not,” Ilya argued, “she is your dog, Shane.”

“She’s our dog,” Shane said, “she just lives with me in one of our several houses. We can get a dog that lives in your house, too.”

“I want to. I am trying to convince media team to copy your interview. They are trying to find shelter to work with, but I don’t know if it will happen before playoffs. Everyone is getting very focused, too intense for cute puppies.”

“We can go to a shelter this summer, maybe. Or maybe there’s somewhere in Ottawa we can look when we’re up at the cottage, it’d give us the summer to train them before life gets busy again. I think I lucked out with how well-behaved Sunny is, I doubt that’s the norm.”

“Oh, I have question about summer.”

“What is it?”

“I normally train in Russia, but I am not going back to Russia, so I need to find trainer. Sveta’s father could connect me with someone, but his contacts would be in Boston and in Moscow.”

“I have a plastic rink at the cottage and normally just got training schedules from the Voyageurs’ staff and I’m planning to do the same here. But I’ve also gone down to the Centaurs’ practice rink a few times to train with whoever stuck around for the summer. They’re nice guys, you’d like them and it wouldn’t be weird if we were seen training together a few times over the break.”

“You train with the Centaurs?”

“Sometimes,” Shane shrugged before he set his phone down, propping it up against the lip of the kitchen island as he pulled his pre-portioned smoothie ingredients out of the freezer. He understood Ilya’s shock. Ottawa’s team was pretty shit, but it was really an issue with the coaching staff, not the players. The guys trained hard, they just didn’t have leadership who knew how to put together a cohesive unit.

“I liked Boodram when I met him in Florida,” Ilya said before pausing for a moment to think, “alright, I like your training plan. I will ask Boston staff for schedule before we leave. We will drive up together, yes? Or do we need two cars?”

“We can go together,” Shane agreed easily, knowing from Ilya’s tone that going together was what he preferred and he was simply offering Shane an out by suggesting two cars, “hey, can I call you back later? I need to eat and get ready to go to the rink.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, just wanted to yell at you for not telling me I had child face-to-face instead of over text.”

“You are insane,” Shane said, his smile unmistakably fond.

“You love me anyway.”

“I do.”

“I love you too,” Ilya said softly, “I will talk to you later, lyubimyy.”

“Talk to you later,” Shane promised, “love you.”

* * *

Ilya hung up and opened his texts, his thumb hovering over his messages with Svetlana.

He’d been dodging her since Shane had said Ilya should tell her about them. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she’d approve. In fact, he was pretty sure she already knew. It was that he was worried how she’d react to the extent of it. He had no clue how she’d react to finding out that Ilya had been in love with Shane Hollander since the moment his eyes had landed on freckle dusted cheeks and big brown eyes behind a rink in Saskatchewan. He had no clue how she’d react to finding out that Ilya was engaged, that he was going to get married that summer and start the process of becoming a Canadian citizen with a long-term goal of publicly coming out meaning he’d be leaving Russia behind forever.

But she was his best friend, his closest thing to real family, and she deserved the truth.

But, at the same time, Ilya didn’t feel like he could have a sit down, coming out conversation. With Cliff, it’d just happened to work out that Scott called to show him Shane and Sunday and Ilya had been able to joke about how he knew that Shane couldn’t possibly be with Scott. The slight humor in it, the ability to deflect before it got too earnest, had made it easier.

He couldn’t orchestrate the same situation with Svetlana, but he could make it so he at least had something else to occupy his mind as he told her and as he answered her questions.

He opened the text thread and hesitated only a moment before typing: come hang out while i pack for new york?

She replied only a minute later, liking his message and telling him she’d be there in 20.

Ilya forced himself to breathe and, instead of panicking, went into his mud room where a small (read: excessive) collection of toys and other dog-related items had been growing over the past couple of weeks and started working on deciding what he was bringing to New York to give Sunday now and what was going to stay in Boston for when she visited with Shane.

Scott had posted a picture the day before of himself and Shane on the floor of the team’s weight room, both of them grinning and sweaty enough that it was clearly post-workout, with Sunday sitting on the floor between them wearing a backwards Admirals baseball cap that was far too big for her tiny head, looking up at the camera with her tongue lolling out. Ilya had seen it because Hammersmith had audibly cooed at his phone while they were all changing after practice.

Shane’s dog (their dog, Ilya’s mind corrected itself in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Shane’s) was cute enough that she had 20 full grown professional hockey players fussing over her picture, not even her actual presence. And then Carmichael had remembered that Ilya had been in a clip of the New York puppy interview on FaceTime with Shane and he’d gotten to show off screenshots he’d taken on the day, along with several pictures Shane had sent him since.

Nobody questioned why he had an entire album of photos of Shane Hollander’s dog, they’d been far too busy fighting each other to get closer so they could see her adorable little face better.

Ilya smiled as he remembered that moment, feeling oddly proud of how cute their puppy was, and decided she deserved a whole backpack full of dog toys instead of just limiting it to two.

He wasn’t really letting himself think about getting a dog of his own (or, as Shane had said, a second dog for them that just happened to live with Ilya) quite yet, he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Sunday had sort of just appeared in Shane’s life at the perfect time with the perfect temperament. Ilya didn’t think that happened all that often and, call him pessimistic, he really didn’t think it would happen to him.

Ilya pushed that thought away as he dropped his armful of dog toys onto his bed. He heard his front door unlock as he was pulling his duffle off its shelf in his closet and steeled himself for the conversation to come.

At least, he thought to himself, I get to explain in Russian. No floundering for English vocabulary.

“What is going on with you?” Svetlana asked, walking into his bedroom and climbing up onto his bed without so much as a by your leave.

“Hello to you, too,” Ilya huffed, dropping the empty duffle on the foot of his bed. He opened his phone to the packing list he’d made three years ago after spending an entire year making fun of Shane for having one and then finding himself on a weeklong road trip with fourteen pairs of socks and exactly zero pairs of underwear and deciding that Shane might’ve had a point.

“You disappeared, Ilyusha. What is going on?”

“I was in Canada. After we got back from Russia I went to Canada and then I was in New York and then I came back here.”

Svetlana just stared at him for a second before taking a deep breath, her lips pursed as the air rushed out of her nose, “you were with Jane?”

“Shane,” Ilya corrected, his eyes locked on the t-shirt he was folding so he wouldn’t have to look up, wouldn’t have to see whatever reaction she might have. “I was with the Hollanders in Canada and then at Shane’s new house in New York. Well, our house. He said it was our house.”

“So, you met his family and now you are buying too many toys for his dog?”

“I love him,” Ilya whispered, setting the stack of folded t-shirts carefully into his duffle before picking up a pair of jeans to fold as well. It felt like his arms were moving on instinct, like he just needed to keep moving so he wouldn’t shut down. “I have loved him for a very long time, Sveta. Longer than I even realized. He asked me to marry him, I said yes.”

“You’re getting married?”

“No one knows. Well, a couple of people know we’re together but only his parents know about us getting married but you’re my family, you should know.”

“And you’re just going to keep it a secret? What, for forever? Until you retire?”

“At least until I’m safe,” Ilya said. It felt like his emotions were filling his lungs with tar, making it difficult to breathe. He had no clue how to even begin parsing out what he was feeling, but he knew he needed to keep talking. He knew that this was the root of why he’d been so nervous to tell Svetlana. “Until I am a Canadian citizen and will not be in danger of being extradited by the Russian government and imprisoned.”

Ilya heard the sharp intake of breath; felt the moment she understood.

“You aren’t going back to Russia.”

“No,” Ilya answered, finally daring to look up. There were tears in Svetlana’s eyes, clinging to her lower lashes but they hadn’t yet fallen. She looked almost stricken, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, but she didn’t look angry and she didn’t exactly seem surprised. “My home is here now, with Shane.”

Svetlana wasn’t a public figure.

She wasn’t at risk of punishment for supporting Ilya after this all came out, but she may be at risk with her family back home. Her father might not be openly supportive, but Ilya had never gotten the indication that he shared the same views as Ilya’s father had. But Ilya wasn’t sure about the rest of Svetlana’s family, he didn’t know if her supporting him would make it difficult for her to return home.

He hated how much of a risk this was, he hated how every step he took to be closer to the future he wanted felt more and more like having a gun trained at his unprotected chest.

“Okay,” Svetlana said after a full minute of silence. She nodded slightly, her face set like she’d come to a decision. “Okay, what can I do to help?”

Ilya was stunned.

He’d expected her to be quietly supportive, maybe to tease him and say she’d already figured him out, but this was different.

It wasn’t just support; it was an offer of active involvement.

Ilya knew there must be ways she could help, things he could ask for that she would be happy to do just like she’d immediately agreed to fly home with him for his father’s funeral, just like she’d helped him box up his Moscow condo without asking a single question as to why. But he didn’t know what he needed yet, he didn’t know what step came next, so instead of asking for anything real, he said, “help me get all those toys into this bag.”

She smiled at him like she knew exactly what he was really saying and hopped off the bed, pulling him into a tight hug and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before dutifully helping him shove the pile of presents for Sunday into his duffle.

* * *

Shane was more than a little nervous about getting back on the ice. He was excited, certainly, but he almost felt like he was pushing his luck.

His anxiety was starting to eat away at him, living as a little voice in the back of his mind telling him that things had been going too well recently. The voice kept reminding him of all the incredible things that’d happened to him over the past month and a half and then twisting it all until Shane started to believe that he didn’t deserve good things, that he’d tricked the universe somehow and it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

He kept trying to remind himself that it hadn’t all been good; that he’d been unceremoniously shoved out of Montreal and that he’d been badly injured and Ilya’s father had died and Ilya was clearly struggling despite the fact that he seemed happy. It hadn’t all been good, even though things had been working out.

Usually, that type of rationalization worked. That reminder that life was rarely ever all good or all bad made him remember that consistency was key, that taking it day by day and reacting to things as they happened instead of spending hours spiraling over what ifs was the far healthier way to go, usually kept him steady.

But, sometimes, when there were external factors making him anxious, rational thought stopped working.

And right now, he was getting on the ice in full gear for the first time since he went down in Boston and it was becoming increasingly difficult to quiet the voice that felt like a parasite, eating away at everything good.

“Just drills,” he reminded himself. There would literally be no one else on the ice. No one was going to blind side him; no one was going to check him too hard and rebreak his clavicle. He was fine.

He kept muttering to himself as he made his way down the hall, extra thankful he was alone because he knew he sounded like a crazy person, and then he shouldered open the door, took the last three steps across the padded floor, and stepped onto the rink.

The moment his skates touched ice, everything fell away.

He ran through every drill the trainers shouted, answered their questions about if turning too fast was making his head spin (it wasn’t, thank god), talked about range of motion and took their tips for compensating for any remaining stiffness in his right shoulder and the next thing he knew, two hours had passed and Sunny was barking while Amanda and one of the other social media people who hadn’t traveled with the team named Riley - both of whom had wandered down from their office with Sunny to watch Shane practice - were cheering. The trainers were smiling and Shane knew he was ready to be back.

* * *

Boston’s plane landed at Laguardia on Saturday morning and Ilya felt like he was about to vibrate out of his own skin.

He needed to get it together. They’d done morning skate back in Boston before boarding the plane in Bedford and now they had several free hours before they had to meet for team dinner before leaving for warmups. Ilya wanted to go to Shane’s house, but Shane had made the very intelligent and well-thought-out argument that the hockey world knew he wasn’t traveling with the Admirals and, if they wanted people to stop thinking it was so weird that they were friends, they needed to be seen in public together.

Ilya hated it. He wanted Shane alone.

But he was also well aware that Shane was right so, instead of going out to Irvington, Ilya, Cliff, and Victor St-Simon (who’d decided he liked Hollander because he spoke French unlike the ‘heathens’ in Boston) would be meeting Shane for lunch near their hotel. It was warm out with spring finally sticking around in the final days before April and Shane had suggested grabbing take out and going to eat at the park between the hotel the Bears were staying at and the Aviator Sports Center where the Brooklyn Scouts played.

Ilya knew he’d be with Shane after the game and for the next two days, but he wasn’t exactly feeling rational at the moment. He just wanted to go home.

By the time they made it to the hotel, Ilya felt a little like a feral racoon that’d been captured by animal control and from the concerned looks Cliff kept sending him, he was pretty sure he looked at least a little feral, too.

Ilya had his own room which was good because it gave him a second to calm the fuck down without anyone watching.

He set his bags down but left them packed knowing he was just going to be sneaking out that night and telling his coach he’d called a car in the morning to go to the ‘hotel he’d booked’ so he could ‘take meetings with his agent’ so he ‘wouldn’t be distracted during playoffs’. It was a bad lie, and he was nearly certain LeClaire had seen right through him, but he hadn’t actually questioned it, so Ilya was just going to take the win.

He checked to make sure he had his phone, wallet, and hotel key and then pulled on a hoodie because it’d seemed a little windy when they were driving over and he could be responsible sometimes and then made his way down to the lobby, feeling at least 60% less insane than he’d been when they’d arrived.

Cliff and Victor were already waiting, standing just through the front door but still visible from the lobby. Their backs were turned and Ilya wasn’t sure why until he saw a flash of golden fur by Cliff’s calf. Ilya jogged across the lobby, ignoring the several people who shot him glares, and then burst through the front doors just knowing he was smiling like an idiot.

“Shane!”

“Hey, Roz,” Shane greeted, leaning to the side so he was visible over Victor’s shoulder. He was smiling wide even as he was clearly trying to temper it and Ilya decided he didn’t give a fuck. He wasn’t going to kiss Shane on the street in broad daylight or anything, he wasn’t suicidal, but he was absolutely going to give him a hug without caring about how odd it might look.

Ilya darted around his teammates and wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, tucking his face against Shane’s neck and felt himself settle. One of Shane’s arms wrapped around Ilya’s shoulders as he breathed out a fond little laugh that made Ilya’s heart race.

Ilya held on for a few more seconds than he probably should’ve and then stepped back and crouched down.

Sunday was quietly sitting by Shane’s side, looking up at Ilya with her head cocked in interest, just studying him. It was a very Shane look which made Ilya smile even brighter.

“Hello, there, pretty girl,” he greeted, holding out his hand - palm up - and waiting for her to approach. She studied him for a second longer and then stood up and rested her whole head in his hand. Ilya let out a slightly disbelieving laugh and then scratched under her chin as his other hand came up to scratch behind her ears. She clearly loved it; her whole body was wriggling with the force of her tail wagging.

“You can pick her up if you want,” Shane said, crouching down and unclipping her leash. He folded it up and tucked it in his back pocket as Ilya wrapped his hands around Sunday’s torso behind her front legs and picked her up, cradling her to his chest as he stood.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and absolutely fell in love as she looked up at him with big, sweet puppy eyes, “yes, hello, Solnyshko.”

“Sun?” Shane asked, reaching out and scratching Sunday’s head as he stepped a little closer to Ilya’s side. Ilya could see Cliff taking a picture out of the corner of his eye and made a mental note to ask him to send it to him later.

“Sort of, yes, Solnyshko is like pet name, calling someone ‘sunshine’, is affectionate. The actual word for sunshine is solnechnyy svet.”

Shane repeated it under his breath and nodded before looking up at Cliff and Victor, “one of Scott’s buddies from college plays for Brooklyn and told me about a good sandwich place around the corner that does take out, that work for you?”

Ilya kept ahold of Sunday as they made their way down the street. Shane and Victor were chattering back and forth in rapid French. They were speaking so quickly that Ilya probably wouldn’t have even been able to follow if he’d known the language, but they were both laughing and it warmed Ilya’s heart to see Shane bonding with his team. Cliff fell back into step next to him and reached out to pet Sunday who seemed to be struggling to decide between cuddling closer to Ilya’s chest or leaning into Cliff’s attention.

“She’s a really cute dog,” Cliff complimented.

Ilya just grinned and kissed the top of her head again.

Every time Ilya had seen her on FaceTime or gotten a picture of her she’d been wearing a pretty light blue collar but now, Ilya noticed, she was wearing a bright red harness. It could’ve just been red, but Ilya knew Scott and Shane had picked it out which meant it wasn’t just anything, “Hollander,” he said.

Shane paused his conversation with Victor and looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Why is she wearing Admirals red?”

Shane smiled, the edges of it just a little sharp and his eyes bright with humor, “not sure if you’ve heard, Rozanov, but I’m the Alternate Captain of the New York Admirals. Why shouldn’t my dog be wearing my team’s colors?”

Cliff let out a laugh that Ilya would’ve punched him for if he wasn’t cradling his dog with both arms and entirely unwilling to let go of her for even a second.

Ilya narrowed his eyes at Shane, knowing that he couldn’t argue that it was his dog too in front of Victor and whoever might be listening in as they walked by. He watched Shane’s smile grow and wondered when his sweet Shane had turned into a total menace.

“Let’s make a bet,” Ilya said.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Ilya decided, nodding to himself, “if I score hat trick tonight, I get to post picture of Sunny in a Bears jersey.”

“You’re not even playing my team tonight.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ilya argued, “we won’t play you until playoffs, so take the bet now.”

“Fine, fine,” Shane sighed, as if he were actually put out about the prospect of Ilya getting to post a picture of their dog, laying some sort of claim to her in the public eye even if no one would know that it was anything more than a stupid bet. He also kindly didn’t comment on the implication that Ilya had already purchased one of the tiny little Bears jerseys they made for dogs. “But I’ve got another one.”

“Oh?” Ilya said. “What’s that?”

“If the seeding works out and we’re matched up for a playoff series, whoever loses has to wear the other’s jersey for the first game of the winner’s next series.”

Ilya had a brief vision of Shane in a Rozanov jersey and nodded far too quickly to be casual, “deal.”

It was far more likely that Ilya was going to end up in the stands of Madison Square Garden in a Hollander jersey given how New York had been playing recently, but he wasn’t about to admit that in front of two of his teammates and he was well aware that Shane would glare at him if he made a statement like that.

The only reason Shane’s overly superstitious mind was letting him even make a stupid bet on a playoff series was that Boston and New York were already both locked in, it just came down to seeding within the Eastern Conference at this point.

Ilya also knew that thinking about stupid bets and trading jerseys was probably distracting Shane from the fact that New York was almost certainly going to be seeded first and it was currently looking like Montreal was going to nab the wild card slot.

Ilya kind of hoped they did.

He wanted to watch Shane, Scott, and Carter systematically destroy any lingering hope the franchise had left. He wanted to watch Scott and Matti Jalo go feral protecting Shane from whatever players were left on the ice after Ilya and Cliff were through with them on Saturday. He wanted to show up to Shane’s first game at MSG on Friday and be able to report that the only people left standing were Hayden, J.J., and Shane’s Rookies.

He mostly wanted to get checked over the boards in front of Montreal’s bench so he could ‘accidentally’ smash Theriault’s head in with his stick.

Ilya zoned back in when Shane emerged from the sandwich shop Scott’s friend had apparently recommended. He had no clue how long he’d been zoned out, silently plotting the demise of the Montreal Voyageurs, but Shane, Cliff, and Victor had apparently just left him to it while they went in to order. Between Shane and Cliff they would’ve been able to guess what Ilya wanted to eat so he decided he wasn’t annoyed that they hadn’t snapped him out of it to ask.

“You good?” Shane asked softly, nudging their shoulders together and subtly steering Ilya down the sidewalk toward the park.

Ilya blinked a couple of times, trying to force his brain to come back online. He felt Sunday stir slightly in his arms and looked down to find her peacefully asleep. The cloying anger and biting need for revenge sputtered out, replaced by a gentle peace and overwhelming love, “yeah,” Ilya whispered back, “perfect.”

Chapter End Notes

next chapter shall feature: kip and shane in the kingfisher, ilya winning a bet, and a sickening amount of fluff
the chapter after that shall feature: hayden and j.j. looking away and whistling so they have plausible deniability while cliff and ilya actually murder the montreal voyageurs. stay tuned.

realized after i posted this that, in universe, the islanders were replaced by the Brooklyn Scouts so i changed the long island/nassau references to brooklyn/marine park ... the Aviator Sports and Events Center is where the now defunct Brooklyn Aviators played when they existed for like four years in the early 2000s

Chapter 21: hanging on holy days

Chapter Notes

title from diamonds & roses by kingfishr because 1. kip and shane are in the kingfisher and i love a good pun, 2. its a great gd song and you should all go listen to it, and 3. i am painfully irish and will promote irish artists & irish culture at *any* opportunity

March 2017

After Ilya, Cliff, and Victor headed back to their hotel, Shane walked Sunny through the park for a little while longer and then headed to his car and programmed in the directions to Scott’s apartment.

The drive from Brooklyn into Manhattan was slightly stressful but, by the grace of God, he made it to Scott’s building without accidentally committing vehicular manslaughter.

He typed in the code Scott had sent him and pulled into the garage, navigating his way through the maze until he found Scott’s empty parking spot. Sunny happily followed behind him on his quest through the fucking labyrinth to find the goddamn elevator and then, like the wonderful dog she was, simply sat down at his feet as they took the elevator up to the penthouse level.

Shane hadn’t exactly told Scott that he was leaving Sunny in his apartment while he and Kip went to some bar called the Kingfisher to watch the game, but he’d told Kip and Shane decided that was good enough.

Kip opened the door only a few seconds after Shane knocked with a bright smile on his face that only got brighter when he spotted Sunny.

Shane happily played second fiddle to his adorable puppy as Kip greeted her. He’d fed her and walked her before leaving Brooklyn and she’d spent a few hours at a time alone while Shane was at practice since he didn’t bring her to the rink every day, so he really wasn’t concerned about leaving her in Scott’s apartment. Maybe if she acted more like a normal puppy he’d feel bad about it, but Shane was about 95% certain she’d just find a corner near a heating vent to curl up in and they’d find her there, peacefully asleep, whenever they got back.

“Okay, sorry, hi Shane,” Kip said, from where he was now fully laying on the floor while Sunny licked his face.

“Hi, Kip,” Shane replied with a laugh, “how was work?”

Kip spent the next several minutes ranting about some guy named Jeff who was apparently incapable of doing his job. Shane started by just nodding along but, by the end of it, he was actually pretty pissed off at Jeff, too, even though he had absolutely no goddamn clue who Jeff was.

Kip took a breath and then smiled as he climbed back to his feet and brushed off his pants. Sunny trotted across the floor toward Shane and nudged her nose against his shin until he leaned down to scratch her head. Once she was appeased with his attention, she made her way to the corner where, as Shane had guessed, she found a heating vent and curled up, her head resting on her little paws as she let out a giant yawn.

“Ready to go?” Kip asked.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, taking one last look at his now sleeping puppy and then heading for the door, “can I just say, this apartment is great but the parking garage was designed by a masochist.”

* * *

Kip needed to discover something negative about Shane Hollander sometime in the next five minutes or he was going to start a religion in the man’s name.

He was smart, funny, insanely good at hockey, incredibly kind, and almost offensively attractive.

Also, he made enough money to purchase a house in Westchester County on a whim and still drove a Jeep that he’d probably paid off as soon as he could because he seemed like the sort of person who cared about his credit score. This was actually fucking ridiculous.

The fact that he was the new owner of the cutest golden retriever puppy Kip had ever had the pleasure of seeing was not helping matters.

Kip loved Scott. He really did. He did not want to leave Scott for anyone, including Shane Hollander. He was also well aware that he would be found dead in a ditch, murdered by Ilya Rozanov’s bare hands, if he so much as thought about leaving Scott for Shane Hollander.

All of these things were true.

It was also true that Kip wasn’t fucking blind.

As they drove toward the Kingfisher, Kip tried to get to know Shane a little better. They’d met already and had been texting back and forth, but everything was rather surface level. Shane sort of seemed like the type to keep things under lock and key until he could tell you could be trusted and then he’d let you in, layer by layer. They were almost exactly the same age, Kip was actually only two months older than Shane, and it was a little strange to think about how different their lives were. But even then, even though Kip had several self-deprecating thoughts about how far behind he felt in life that he was trying not to dwell on, they were still similar in a lot of ways.

By the time they pulled up down the street from the bar, he knew a few more things about Shane, nothing that seemed all that personal, but still enough that Kip felt like he knew him as more than just Scott’s friend and teammate.

Shane turned around and reached into the back seat to grab a hoodie before climbing out of the car. He’d been in jeans and a plain t-shirt but it was definitely getting chillier as the night wore on so the hoodie was probably a solid choice.

He clearly hadn’t checked which hoodie it was, though, because as he pulled it on right before approaching the door, Kip was the first to notice the slightly cracked white ink across the back of the bright red sweatshirt spelling out PIKE 35.

“Are you aware you’re wearing Hayden Pike’s sweatshirt right now?” Kip asked, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

Shane’s steps stuttered slightly as he looked down at his chest. He laughed quietly and shook his head, the fond smile on his face becoming visible as he turned back toward Kip. The front of the sweatshirt had the big red and white McGill ‘M’ with the school crest in the middle and ‘HOCKEY’ spelled out below it in white, block letters.

“Didn’t even realize I still had this,” he said, his voice pitched low, almost like he was talking to himself, and Kip was simply close enough to overhear. “I thought it was one of my new Admirals ones when I grabbed it, same color.” He sniffled slightly and Kip realized rather suddenly that he shouldn’t be laughing.

Just because the corner of the internet that liked to ship hockey players was objectively crazy and Scott, Shane, and Carter happily made jokes about it didn’t mean that the connection between Shane and Hayden was entirely made up.

Obviously they weren’t off doing whatever teenage girls thought they were doing, but they were best friends and Shane had been rather unceremoniously ripped away from home.

Shane shook his head again and blinked quickly before he looked back up at Kip, smiling again, “come on, puck drop’s soon.”

* * *

Hayden sat next to J.J. in the visitor’s locker room in Toronto sort of wishing the building would light on fire so they wouldn’t have to play.

He hadn’t told Shane shit about what was happening in Montreal, and he had absolutely zero plans to do so.

It’d only gotten worse since Shane left.

The quiet anger had gotten loud until it turned into something untenable. People were saying horrible things just because they thought they could – and with only J.J. and Hayden fighting back, it certainly seemed like the truth - and the fact that they were on a pretty impressive losing streak and were probably just going to barely grab the wild card slot after back-to-back Cup wins was not helping. It was becoming increasingly clear that they were a franchise built around one player and that player was gone. Not because he’d wanted to leave, but because they’d made him.

Hayden’s contract was up and he knew Montreal wasn’t going to pick him back up if they didn’t absolutely have to. He had no clue where he was going to end up or what sort of contract his agent might be able to get him. He wasn’t a franchise player like Shane even though he was a solid winger and had consistently good stats. He couldn’t just pick a team and go like Shane had, he had to wait and hope that it’d all work out. Jackie was, as always, incredibly supportive but Hayden needed his best friend.

It was a shitty balance, knowing he needed Shane but not being willing to disturb the peace he’d found in New York by dropping his shit on Shane’s shoulders.

His phone buzzed in his stall, and he almost didn’t look at it, didn’t want it to be another call from his agent with updates that meant nothing or a string of texts in the team group chat that made his blood boil.

But something made him look and when he saw Shane’s name he nearly cried.

Hayden picked up his phone and all but ran into the hallway, sliding his thumb to answer the moment he was through the door.

Shane’s smiling face filled his screen, and he immediately felt about ten pounds lighter.

“Hayd!”

“Shane!”

“I wasn’t sure you’d pick up but I had to show you something,” Shane said, he was really smiling, the one that normally only showed up after he’d been laughing too hard. His hair was a little messy and longer than Hayden had ever seen it. He looked good, happy. His cheeks had filled back out which was a clear sign he’d finally started properly eating again. His eyes were bright, especially compared to those last few months in Montreal where Hayden could now recognize they’d been nearly devoid of life.

Then the camera panned down and Hayden felt some mix of a laugh and a sob bubble out of his throat.

Shane was wearing his sweatshirt.

An old college hockey hoodie from the two years he’d played at McGill before being drafted. He’d played another year of AHL after that. He’d been frustrated back then, that he hadn’t been good enough to be drafted right away. But now that he looked back, he was so incredibly grateful because if it weren’t for those years, those years he’d thought were unnecessary detours, he wouldn’t have been a rookie the same year as Shane. And then maybe he wouldn’t have been out at that club the night he met Jackie.

That time that felt like a pause before he was ‘allowed’ to start his life had led him to his two best friends.

“Are you in a bar in New York wearing a Pike hoodie right now?” Hayden asked, laughing and pretending Shane wouldn’t be able to see the way his eyes were watering; pretending he couldn’t see the way Shane’s were watering in return.

“To be totally fair, I thought it was an Admirals hoodie,” Shane justified. Hayden just looked at him for a minute, feeling stupidly grateful for the change to simply see Shane’s face before getting on the ice. “Hey, I’ll let you go. Just wanted to say good luck. I’m proud of you.”

Hayden felt a tear escape the corner of his eye, felt it cut a warm track down the side of his nose, and wished with everything he had that he could be in New York right now, that he could just be wherever Shane was, “thanks, man. I’m proud of you, too.”

“Love you, Hayd.”

“Love you too, bud.”

Shane shot him one more grin and then the call cut out.

Hayden let himself stand in the quiet hallway feeling the aching absence of Shane for a full minute before he pulled up his agent’s contact and sent one text: Can we find a way to get me to New York?

Then he walked back into the Montreal locker room and tried not to think about how playing for this team felt like betrayal.

* * *

About half the TVs in the Kingfisher were set to the either the New York Admirals v. Los Angeles game or the Brooklyn Scouts v. Boston Bears game except for one in the corner that was playing Montreal v. Toronto.

Shane wasn’t sure where to look.

The puck dropped in Brooklyn first with Ilya easily winning the faceoff against the Scouts’ first line center, a guy around Scott’s age who really wasn’t anything to call home about.

Ten minutes later the puck dropped in Toronto and Olsson, Montreal’s brand new first line center, immediately lost the puck to Dallas Kent which wasn’t even sort of shocking. Shane watched that screen for about three minutes before catching glimpses of Comeau with the C on his jersey became too painful. He knew there was something Hayden wasn’t telling him, something beyond the way that Hayden and J.J. were clearly attempting to avoid telling him how much it sucked to be in Montreal. He wanted to pry, but he knew Hayden would come to him eventually. Hopefully after Shane got back on the ice and he could see that Shane wasn’t about to fall apart.

Ten minutes after that, just as the clock was ticking down to the end of the first period of the Boston v. Brooklyn game, the puck dropped in L.A.

Scott won the face-off and immediately shot off a pass toward Carter who easily caught it and started up the ice. They had a good momentum right off the bat and Shane had a good feeling about the game. They looked strong, they’d been more and more consistent recently with shots landing and passes connecting where they were supposed to nearly every single time instead of just relying on bursts of energy that somehow ended in a goal.

As the clock on the first period of Ilya’s game ended, Shane turned his attention back to that game, just wanting to see if Ilya would be interviewed in the break. Boston was up 2-0 and Ilya had scored one of the goals and assisted the other so there was a good chance he would be.

And, sure enough, he was stopped by a reporter about ten steps into the tunnel.

The sound wasn’t on, but the TV was close enough for Shane to read the subtitles without his glasses if he squinted a bit.

The reporter essentially pointed out that Ilya was playing like a man possessed and asked why. Ilya looked directly into the camera, grinning broadly, his face flushed from both exertion and the cold, and said, “Hollander bet I could not score hat trick, I said if I did he had to let me put Bears jersey on his dog. He took the bet because he is stupid.”

And then he walked away before he could be asked any follow-ups.

In the relative privacy of a loud, crowded bar, Kip leaned into Shane’s side, mirth clearly shining in his eyes, and asked, “did you seriously make a bet over him putting a Boston jersey on his own dog?”

“To be totally fair, St-Simon was there when we made the bet and he doesn’t know that she’s not just my dog. We also made a bet that if we meet in playoffs, whoever loses has to wear the winner’s jersey to the first game of the next series.”

“That’s incredible,” Kip laughed. It was a good sound, warm and full. It made Shane feel like he was allowed to laugh too, like he didn’t have to just smile in response and hope no one realized how out of place he felt.

The bar was nice, big enough for people to spread out but still cozy. It wasn’t too loud like the few clubs he’d been dragged into against his will. It was a little crowded for his taste but, then again, any room with more than ten people in it was a little crowded for Shane’s taste.

He was having fun, though. Genuine fun. No one had really recognized him and if they had they’d simply nodded or shouted a quick ‘welcome’ or ‘hope you’re back on the ice soon’ and then moved on with their night. He was just one of a crowd here and that was a feeling he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

* * *

Montreal beat Toronto in an incredibly scrappy game that ended 1-0 with Hayden scoring their only goal. Boston beat Brooklyn 6-2 with Ilya getting his hat trick. He’d grinned straight into the camera after that third goal and Shane could tell it was meant for him.

Now they were just waiting for the New York game to wrap up. The Admirals were winning 4-1 with two minutes left on the clock and Shane sort of wanted to leave because he knew how it was going to end but he’d gotten to watch the end of his boyfriends game, and he wasn’t going to stop Kip from watching the end of Scott’s.

Also, of lesser importance to him at the moment, it was his team.

Finally, the clock ticked down, they shook hands, and both teams filed off the ice.

Kip turned to Shane with a bright smile, and Shane had the sudden thought that he was pretty sure he’d successfully made a friend.

“Ready to head back?” Kip asked.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, draining the last of the beer he’d been nursing literally the entire night and setting the empty bottle on the table. He closed out their tab, waving Kip off when he tried to pay, and left at least double what he should’ve for a tip before following Kip out of the building and down the street.

Shane turned his car radio to the post-game coverage as they made their way back to Scott’s building, but he wasn’t really listening. He was tired, his social battery was fucking shot, and he just wanted Ilya.

But he was pretty sure he was now officially friends with Kip instead of just being a friend of Scott’s and Hayden would attest to the fact that Shane was a good friend so, instead of just grabbing Sunny and taking off as soon as they walked into Scott’s apartment, Shane took a breath, pulled together every last bit of his currently frayed social skills, and said, “you’re from Brooklyn, right? Are you staying here tonight or were you planning to go back home?”

“Probably home,” Kip said after he paused to think for a second, “I don’t work in the morning so there’s no reason for me to be here when Scott’s not home.”

“Do you want a ride? I’m driving back out to pick up Ilya.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kip agreed, sending Shane a slightly surprised smile that told him he’d made the right choice, “that’d be great, thanks Shane.”

“No problem,” Shane shrugged, holding a slightly hyperactive Sunny to his chest even as she tried to wriggle out of his grip, “I just need to take her out and then we can go, do you need to grab anything here?”

Kip ducked down the hall and came back with a backpack and a jacket and then they made their way back down to the garage and out to the street for Sunny before trekking back through the - again - fucking labyrinth to find Shane’s car.

By the time they reached his Jeep, Kip was openly laughing at Shane’s constant muttering about mazes and fire safety and Shane felt himself smiling almost against his will.

It was properly dark outside so Shane put on his glasses, knowing he’d need them to safely see and, after he realized Ilya had never seen them, really hoping Ilya wouldn’t make fun of him.

Kip typed in the address to his parents’ house and then they were off again. Shane was starting to consider forcing Ilya to drive back up to Irvington because he was getting a little sick of being behind the wheel. Luckily, it didn’t take all that long to get to the Grady’s.

“Thanks again,” Kip said as he grabbed his backpack from the back seat, “I had fun.”

“Me too,” Shane said, and he found himself actually telling the truth. It shouldn’t have been a surprise but after so many years of doing everything he could to avoid social situations, it honestly was. “Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too. Drive safely!”

“I will,” Shane promised, giving Kip what he hoped was a warm smile and not a grimace that gave away how exhausted he was.

Kip waved again as he reached the door and Shane - because his mother had once told him it was the right thing to do and she tended to be correct - waited until Kip was fully inside with the door shut behind him before pulling away from the curb and heading toward Ilya’s hotel.

He texted Ilya after he put the car in park and really wasn’t all that shocked when he appeared less than 30 seconds later, speed walking out the front door of the hotel and clearly trying to stop himself from straight up running.

Shane smiled like an idiot.

He was so in love with Ilya it was absurd.

“Hi, baby,” he greeted as Ilya pulled the door open. Sunny had fallen asleep in his lap as he drove, but her head popped up at the sound of the back door closing after Ilya had stashed his backpack and duffel. She scrambled out of Shane’s lap toward Ilya the moment she spotted him when he opened the passenger door.

“Hello, lyubimyy,” Ilya responded, picking Sunny up before she fell out of the car in her attempt to climb the front of his shirt. He sat down, pulled the door closed, and then leaned across the center console and pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s lips. Just there and gone. Shane wanted more but they were right outside the Bears’ hotel and even that quick of a kiss had been insanely risky. “And hello, moyo solnyshko.”

“You can take your picture of her in the Bears jersey I know you’ve already bought her tomorrow,” Shane said, laughing as Sunny started licking Ilya’s face. He was grinning and attempting to kiss her face in response, but she was moving far too quickly for him to have much success.

“Ah, yes,” Ilya said, laughing (to be totally honest, he was straight up giggling but Shane knew he’d never admit to that) in the face of Sunny’s excitement. “Is only right, all the other guys have pictures of their kids in Boston jerseys.”

“Of course,” Shane agreed. He forced himself to look away from the scene so he could start driving. He wanted to get home. He wanted to shower and crawl into bed with Ilya with Sunny curled up next to them and he wanted to pretend like they had all the time in the world to just exist like that instead of only a short couple of days.

“Glasses,” Ilya said about fifteen minutes later when Sunny had finally calmed down and was sitting peacefully in his lap, watching the world go by out the passenger side window. Shane had just gotten through the traffic that always built up around JFK and turned onto the Expressway. They were still 45 minutes from home, and he wanted to go to sleep but at least his fiancé’s attention was finally back on him instead of their dog, even if he was about to get made fun of.

“Yes,” he answered. “I know they’re nerdy, but I need them to see because it’s dark and I don’t want to get a migraine.”

“No, no, not nerdy,” Ilya said quickly. He reached over and ran his thumb along Shane’s cheek; his touch was so soft it was almost reverent. And when Shane risked a glance over at him, he found Ilya gazing at him like Shane was the single greatest thing he’d ever seen.

“You…” Shane started before trailing off. He felt his cheeks warm up as Ilya’s fingers slipped into his hair before his hand settled at the nape of Shane’s neck, just resting there. Soft and warm and solid. The simple touch started to eat away at the stress that’d been building up behind Shane’s sternum, it was enough to pull him back from the brink of the sort of exhaustion that tended to set in when he was overstimulated and he’d pushed his social battery too far. “You like them?”

“I love them,” Ilya amended. His voice was gentle and earnest in the way it only ever got around Shane. “They look very good on you, sweetheart.”

Shane felt his blush deepen at the pet name and all of the sudden he wanted to get home for reasons other than exhaustion.

He forced himself to take a breath and remember that he was driving a car very quickly down a crowded expressway. He leaned his head back against Ilya’s hand and decided to change the subject, “tell me about what the fuck went wrong with your powerplay in the middle of the second, that was abysmal.”

Ilya let out a startled laugh that somehow morphed into a huff of irritation, but he answered the question anyways.

* * *

Ilya had a lot of favorite things about Shane Hollander but somewhere near the top of that list was the way he seemed to inherently trust Ilya.

He’d been able to tell that Shane was somewhere in the realm of overwhelmed when he got into the car. He looked tired and like he’d been stretched too thin, so Ilya had decided to focus on Sunny instead of bugging Shane, but then he’d looked up and properly noticed Shane’s face for the first time since getting in the car and he simply hadn’t been able to stop himself from pointing out the, frankly, incredibly sexy glasses.

Shane’s shoulders had gotten somehow more rigid and Ilya’s heart had sunk when he’d realized that Shane was bracing for Ilya to make fun of him which was the exact opposite of what he wanted to do.

Then Shane had immediately relaxed when Ilya touched his face and he’d relaxed further when Ilya’s hand settled on the back of his neck and Ilya had felt a sense of peace settle over his own body. It felt like, after all this time, they’d become attuned to each other’s touch. Ilya always felt calmer when his skin was pressed against Shane’s, when they were close enough that it was like he could feel Shane’s warmth seeping into his bones.

Shane was always beautiful but at that very moment he was almost hard to directly look at. It was like staring into the sun and Ilya felt overwhelmed with how much he felt for Shane.

His hair was getting longer, long enough that it could get a little messy instead of seemingly just existing in a perfectly combed style. His eyes could never hide how he was really feeling and right now they were relaxed, making it clear that he felt comfortable and content. His freckles were just visible under the streetlights and against the tailights of the cars traveling in front of them. He was in a red hoodie which was a great color on him. He looked so soft, so incredibly relaxed, and then Ilya realized the number 35 was printed on Shane’s upper arm and he was, quite tragically, forced to disturb his peace.

“Are you wearing Hayden Pike’s sweatshirt right now?”

“Yes,” Shane answered, offering no further explanation.

“Why?”

“I thought it was mine,” he said, shrugging in a way that would’ve infuriated Ilya if he weren’t so in love it made him stupid.

“How?”

“It’s Admirals red,” Shane pointed out, “I thought it was my hoodie when I grabbed it out of the closet, didn’t notice it wasn’t until I got to the bar with Kip.”

“Why do you even have it?”

“I think I accidentally stole it on one of the several nights I spent at his house.”

Ilya just stared at Shane, waiting to see if he’d realize how that sentence could be interpreted. But his beautiful fucking fiancé just kept staring out at the road, perfectly content and not at all concerned about the way it sounded like he’d just admitted to fucking his best friend. Ilya was well aware that that wasn’t what Shane had meant, but he was a little concerned that Shane was going around telling people that he spent a significant number of nights at Pike’s house.

The teenage girls Ilya spent his evenings fighting with on Twitter did not need more ammunition.

“I called him before their game to show him I’d accidentally put it on,” Shane continued and Ilya bit back a sound that might’ve come out as a whine as the stone dropped and he realized that Shane was saying he’d just spent several hours in a gay bar watching hockey while wearing Hayden Pike’s name and number. “He seemed pretty beaten down when he answered, I don’t think things are good in Montreal.”

Ilya really wanted to say, ‘no fucking shit,’ but he was a nice person, sometimes, so, instead, he said, “he scored though, won the game for them.”

Shane smiled, clearly pleased that Ilya wasn’t be a dick to Pike and Ilya wanted to keep that smile on his face so he forced himself to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn’t say ‘apparently even the worst player has to score sometimes,’

It wasn’t a kind thought; it also wasn’t even sort of true. But Ilya was hardwired to hate Hayden Pike and the fucking cult of people on the internet who thought his fiancé was in love with Hayden Pike certainly did not help improve his opinion of the man.

That thought made Ilya come to the unfortunate realization that his years of hating Hayden Pike might’ve just been really, really poorly concealed jealousy.

Ilya absolutely was not going to sort through that right now, though, so he shoved that horrifying epiphany straight into a mental abyss.

“He deserves better,” Shane said, the end of the phrase getting cut off with an almost defeated sigh. “I’m sure he’s still standing up for me when people talk shit even though I told him he should just put his head down and not put a target on his back.”

That was one thing Ilya could appreciate about Hayden Pike.

He didn’t give a shit if the target was on his fucking forehead, he’d still stand up for Shane.

Hell, he was at least a half foot shorter than Cliff and he’d dropped gloves immediately when Shane had gone down.

Ilya scoured his mind for something kind to say because he knew that pointing out the fact that Pike would take an actual bullet for him wouldn’t bring Shane any comfort and finally landed on, “isn’t his contract up this year?”

“Yeah, but he was already in extension talks and the girls just started Kindergarten. They’ve built a whole life in Montreal, I doubt he’ll leave if there were any way he could stay.”

Ilya just nodded. He didn’t want to stress Shane out by putting the thought into his head that Pike had probably either backed out of extension talks on his own or been pushed out for taking Shane’s side. He was nearly certain that Pike would be somewhere else by the end of the summer, but Shane didn’t need that stress and if Pike hadn’t brought it up, he clearly wasn’t ready to talk to Shane about it.

“He’ll be okay,” Ilya said, scratching gently against Shane’s scalp for a second before squeezing the back of his neck. He watched the tension that’d started building back up melt from Shane’s shoulders and begged the minutes to move faster so he could get Shane into their house, into the shower, and then into bed.

Shane took a breath and nodded before glancing over at Ilya again. It only lasted a second before his eyes were back on the road, but it was enough for Ilya to see just how much Shane appreciated his words, just how much Shane loved him.

They made the rest of the drive in silence, only the sound of the car radio playing some sort of post-game coverage filling the air. It was comfortable, peaceful in a way so few things in Ilya’s life had ever been. It was something he might’ve called boring when he had no other vocabulary to describe it, but now he knew what it truly was;

Stability.

It was Sunday’s puppy snores and the warmth of Shane’s skin beneath his palm and the feeling that he was, and always would be, welcome in this space. It was the knowledge that they were driving home, together. That he would get to walk into their house and immediately feel safe when he’d spent so many years walking into his house with his shoulders set and his jaw clenched; a body and mind prepared for pain. He’d get to open the fridge and find it stocked with things Shane knew he liked because he’d done a grocery order the day before and he’d known Ilya would be home. He’d get to go up to shower and find a clean towel already hung up for him and the body wash, shampoo, and conditioner he liked already in a line for him to use. He’d get to go to bed with Shane in his arms with the knowledge that he’d still be there when he woke up.

Some people might call it boring; Ilya might even call it boring. But it was boring in the most incredible way.

They pulled into the garage and Ilya felt his throat get tight with the emotions flooding his chest.

Shane put the car in park and then turned to him with a soft smile already on his face and if they weren’t already engaged, Ilya would’ve asked him to marry him then and there.

“Hi,” Shane whispered, like he knew Ilya didn’t want to break the spell that’d fallen over their little family in Shane’s stupid, boring Jeep that Ilya loved so much he felt crazy.

“Hi,” Ilya responded, his hand that’d been settled on Shane’s neck sliding around to cup his cheek.

Shane leaned across the car and pressed his lips to Ilya’s and it was the sweetest kiss Ilya had ever experienced. It would remain the sweetest kiss he’d ever experienced until the very next time Shane kissed him just like this.

He pulled back after a moment and kissed Ilya’s cheek before climbing out of the car, “come on, she needs to go out and then we can shower and go to bed.”

Ilya smiled and followed Shane through the garage and out into the yard.

* * *

Shane woke up to Ilya pressing kisses across his shoulders and the back of his neck and smiled as he turned over in Ilya’s arms and tilted his head up for a proper kiss. Ilya’s tongue slipped into his mouth, warm and insistent and Shane just relaxed and let himself be kissed.

It was the perfect Sunday morning. The sun was up and the air was warm when they ran Sunny down the driveway and back up. Ilya did his own work out while Shane went through the exercises he’d been assigned by the trainers and then they made breakfast. It was peaceful and wonderful and so, so perfect, and then Ilya opened his backpack and Shane realized he was engaged to a crazy person.

Ilya had traveled from Boston to New York with more toys for Sunny than Shane and Scott had purchased in what they’d both been referring to as their joint fugue state in the Yonkers PetSmart.

“You’re bribing her.”

“Am not,” Ilya argued, looking almost offended, “I am just spoiling our child, Shane. She deserves all of the toys.”

“The entire house is going to be covered in dog toys.”

“Good,” Ilya said, nodding decisively. Shane didn’t even know where he’d found that many different toys and Shane was dead certain there were even more back in the house in Boston. He must’ve bought out every pet store in a ten-mile radius. It was absurd and so fucking adorable Shane just gave up on trying to rationalize with him. He had about a snowball’s chance in Hell of winning a fight when Ilya was like this. “Come here, malyshka,” Ilya said, patting the floor in front of him. Sunny immediately trotted over, dragging her new stuffed bear that was about the same size as her over as well. “There’s my girl,” Ilya cooed and Shane felt a little like his heart was actually fucking melting. “You want to wear papa’s jersey?”

“Oh, you’re ‘papa’ now?”

“Of course,” Ilya said, not even looking Shane’s way. He’d officially been demoted, and he really couldn’t find it in himself to be offended. “You are dad, I am papa, keep up, Hollander.”

Ilya then dug into the front pocket of his backpack and pulled out a tiny little Bears jersey and Shane found himself feeling genuinely surprised that he hadn’t somehow found a way to get a customized Rozanov one.

And then Ilya said, “she will get one with my name when she is done growing, or when I have enough time to order one before seeing her.”

“Right,” Shane said, realizing that made far more sense than Ilya simply deciding their dog having a custom Rozanov jersey wasn’t a necessary purchase.

He watched as Sunny sort of just flopped over when Ilya tried to put the jersey on her and tried really hard not to laugh. It wasn’t like she was fighting him, it was just that she wasn’t helping at all which seemed to almost make it harder than if she’d stayed on her feet and tried to push him away. Eventually, Ilya got her into the little jersey and then spent an entire minute smoothing both the jersey and her fur out before taking a picture.

He then decided that the living room didn’t have good enough lighting and after trying out seven different locations and a few dozen different angles, all of which Sunny happily put up with, they ended up in the yard where Ilya decided he needed to put his sunglasses on her so she wouldn’t hurt her eyes.

Shane genuinely couldn’t decide if he was exasperated or endeared.

Ilya sat down on the porch, his legs hanging over the edge and Sunny cradled in one arm, sunglasses abandoned now that they were back in the shade and opened up Instagram. Shane watched as he carefully selected his favorite photo of Sunny before scrolling past the dozens of pictures he’d taken of her that morning, both in her jersey and before that, to find a downloaded clip of him talking about their stupid little bet in the tunnel the night before.

He typed out a caption and hit post before Shane could see what he’d said but the little smirk on his face made Shane sigh in advance.

Shane took out his own phone and opened Instagram. Ilya’s post was right at the top when his feed loaded and Shane had to admit that the picture was really fucking adorable even though it’d taken Ilya thirty full minutes to take.

The caption read ‘@shanehollander lost … again. at least his dog is cute.’

It was, sadly, accurate.

Shane opened the comments and found that several people had already seen it and commented in the few seconds since it’d been posted and typed, ‘@ilyarozanov, I’ll win the next one.’

Ilya looked down and read the notification and when he looked back up at Shane, he was smiling.

the inspo for the sunny in a bears jersey bet:

Chapter 22: bad blood

Chapter Notes

one of you people just recommended this fic on tik tok and it high key made me tear up. the response to this has been so wonderful and has very much filled the gap in my life that has been missing since i was in the elementary school gifted program and got pulled out of class twice a week to be told i was smart. much appreciated.

March 2017

Boston played Montreal on Thursday.

The Admirals were back from their road trip and didn’t play again until Friday at home against Pittsburgh and everyone, for some unknown reason, had invited themselves to Shane’s house to watch the game.

It’d started with just Scott because Kip had a catering job and he didn’t want to sit in his apartment alone. Then Carter had asked if Shane wanted company which had been an easy yes. Then Eric Bennett had somehow been invited which led to Greg Huff and then Cale Wagner and the next thing Shane knew, his (finally furnished) living room was full of nearly every single one of his teammates.

Shane was in the corner of the sectional between Scott and Carter. Scott had an arm thrown across the back of the couch behind Shane and Shane was tucked rather comfortably against Scott’s side. He’d decided to ignore the fact that this was absolutely going to turn into a joke about the Twitter girls being right because, at this very moment, he needed the point of contact. Sunny was wedged into the space between Shane and Carter’s thighs and their legs were stretched out on the ottoman Scott had dragged over. It was comfortable, he had two people who had very quickly become some of his best friends on either side of him, his dog was cuddled up next to him, and he was in the comfort of his own home.

He should’ve felt relaxed.

He was anything but relaxed.

Both teams were on the ice for warmups and Shane watched Ilya hug the center line until Hayden skated toward him. Hayden nodded, a bit tersely, in greeting and then ducked his head as Ilya started talking. Shane leaned forward as if he could hear what they were saying simply by changing his proximity to the TV. A minute later Cliff skated over and 30 seconds after that, J.J. appeared. When they skated away, Hayden looked like he wanted to be genuinely anywhere else, J.J. seemed almost resigned, Ilya’s face was contorted with obvious rage, and Cliff was grinning.

Shane slumped back into Scott’s side and braced for impact.

* * *

Scott had never actually been afraid of Ilya Rozanov. He’d been annoyed by him, genuinely pissed off at him. He’d even been a little wary of getting checked by him simply because the guy tended to commit. But he’d never actually been afraid.

That is, until the moment he watched Ilya skate away from the center line after talking to Pike and Boiziau.

Shane’s eyes were locked on the screen but he looked almost defeated. It was the first time since he’d come to New York that Scott had seen Shane look like his old self, like the version of him Scott hadn’t even realized was struggling. His shoulders were slumped and he was chewing on his bottom lip and Scott wanted to change the channel, wanted to just put on the Carolina v. Toronto game and pretend Montreal wasn’t even playing, pretend that Shane’s boyfriend wasn’t about to commit several acts of violence that’d result in criminal charges if they happened anywhere outside of a hockey rink.

Scott let his arm slip down from the back of the couch and wrapped it firmly around Shane’s shoulders, not giving a shit if it resulted in some locker room teasing.

Shane seemed to relax, just a little, but then he straightened up and leaned forward, clearing his throat, and Scott felt something like dread settle in his stomach.

Every head in the room turned toward Shane and Scott knew what was about to happen with an aching sort of certainty.

“I think it’s probably time I told the truth about why I left Montreal,” Shane started. Shane had told Scott, quietly and without prompting, almost like he’d had the thought and simply needed to speak it aloud, that he knew Montreal wouldn’t actually tell anyone why he left because it was mutually assured destruction. Even if there were rumors, Shane was certain none of his teammates and none of the staff who knew would tell the actual truth. Shane wouldn’t tell the world why Montreal had pushed him out because it’d mean admitting to the world he was gay, and Montreal wouldn’t tell the world that Shane was gay because it meant admitting to the world why they’d pushed Shane out.

Scott watched as Carter’s hand landed on Shane’s knee, squeezing once before simply settling there and realized that Carter knew. Probably had known the entire time and he hadn’t told Scott. He’d protected Shane’s secret. Even if he probably could’ve guessed that Scott knew as well, he’d left the actual telling up to Shane.

Shane took a breath, his nose twitched once, and then he said, “I came out to my team and they abandoned me. They stopped protecting me on the ice, stopped speaking to me in the locker room, refused to shower at the same time as me, started checking me in practice harder and harder because they knew the coaching staff wouldn’t stop them. It was worse with management. The GMs built a franchise around my name. They took an 18-year-old kid who had no clue how to exist in the world and shoved him into the spotlight and the second I stopped being exactly what they wanted they showed me the door. Murdock knows, the GMs know, Scott and Carter know and I want to tell you now, before I get on the ice with you tomorrow night, that I’m gay. I’m not planning to come out publicly, there are personal reasons not related to hockey that’d make it unsafe for me to do so, but I want my team to know. I don’t want to start off my time as one of your captains by lying to you.”

Scott scanned the room, waiting for the disgust Shane had described experiencing in Montreal. He trusted his team, he did, but part of him still expected this to be met with anger.

It never came.

A couple people looked shocked, several looked supportive, and a few had turned toward the TV with bitter anger on their faces like they could jump through the screen and fight Montreal.

Eric Bennet was staring at Shane like he’d never seen him before.

It was a look Scott recognized viscerally.

This was his moment, he’d promised himself that he wasn’t going to let Shane do this alone, no matter what the reaction might be.

Scott leaned forward, his shoulder brushing Shane’s as he pulled his feet off the ottoman and set them on the floor, like his socks touching the rug might be able to ground him somehow. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at his hands. He could feel every single eye in the room trained on him but he didn’t look up. Shane had looked them in the eye but Scott wasn’t quite that brave. Not yet.

“Me too,” he said quietly, before clearing his throat slightly. His eyes felt warm and his chest felt tight and he felt a little like jumping over the back of the couch and fleeing the scene but he powered through. “I’m gay. Murdock and Shane were the only ones who knew.”

He felt Shane’s hand land on his shoulder and the steady touch and the subtle warmth of his palm seeping through the back of Scott’s t-shirt went a long way in pulling him back from the brink of panic.

“Oh my god, wait,” Huff said, sounding almost excited and Scott braced himself for whatever insanity he was about to hear. He chanced a look up and realized every single eye in the room was trained on Shane’s hand resting - comfortable and familiar - on Scott’s shoulder and realized what was about to happen. “Scotty, is this why Hollzy came to New York? That’s fucking sick. Well done, man.”

That was followed by a general chorus of agreement with several people reaching over to clap one or both of them on the back or ruffle their hair. There was at least one comment of ‘I’m straight and even I know they’re hot together'. And when Scott looked over at Shane, he could physically see him fighting against the urge to cause total mayhem.

Scott shot him a look that he truly hoped translated to: I swear to God, Hollander, do not do something that’s going to get me murdered right now.

Shane read the look right, but then he pouted and Scott realized that he’d spent so long feeling like he might die buried beneath the weight of keeping himself hidden that he might as well have a little fun. He’d also do just about anything in the face of those big brown eyes. He wasn’t sure how Ilya ever won a fight without folding immediately, those things were fucking lethal.

He kept his eyes locked on Shane’s and put on his best flirty smile, the one that’d worked on several nameless men in dark bars across Europe, and watched Shane’s eyes light up with unholy glee.

“Well,” Scott drawled, “I do have a boyfriend.”

“As do I,” Shane responded, and then he simply leaned back into the couch cushions and let his hand slide diagonally across Scott’s back until it was wrapped around his waist.

Scott leaned back as well, snuggling into Shane’s side. Shane’s hand gripped onto his shirt in what Scott was certain was a physical attempt to stop himself from losing it. Scott wrapped his hand around Shane’s thigh, at least two inches too far above his knee to be interpreted as friendly, and then turned and buried his nose in Shane’s hair, pressing a quick kiss to his head before lingering there a moment until he was sure he wouldn’t start laughing.

This was one of the dumber things he’d ever done. It was stupid and juvenile and he was going to talk about it for the rest of his life because it was also incredibly fucking funny.

He turned back toward their team and rested his head against Shane’s.

The entire room was staring at them with identical expressions of open-mouthed shock.

Well, except for Carter who was looking at them like he was well aware it was bullshit but he was going to go along with it anyways.

“God,” Carter said after a second and Scott felt Shane twitch and just knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep a straight face for much longer. “I bet Hayden Pike is just heartbroken.”

They really did make a solid team of captains.

The Admirals should remember how lucky they were.

“What.” Huff said.

“Left him behind for Scott,” Carter sighed patting Shane’s knee. Shane’s entire ribcage was spasming now as he choked back his laughter and Scott was pretty sure he was about to burst a blood vessel with the force of holding back his own. “Makes sense, though. What was it you told me, Shane? You have a thing for older men?”

The laugh that burst out of Shane would be seared in Scott’s memory for years to come.

It was hysterical and a little wild and so full of the sort of happiness that felt like relief that Scott felt like it’d infused the entire room with joy.

“Oh my god,” Eric groaned, catching on to what was happening first, “you’re fucking with us, what is wrong with you two?”

Scott was smiling so wide it hurt and Carter was cackling, clearly proud of himself for making Shane laugh and Eric was starting to laugh, seemingly despite himself.

“I do have a boyfriend,” Scott felt the need to specify, needing them to know that he hadn’t been joking about being gay, that the only joke was that there could possibly be a world out there where Shane and Scott were gay for each other, that there could possibly be a world where Shane didn’t love Ilya and Scott didn’t love Kip.

Scott couldn’t imagine a world like that; he didn’t even want to.

“I also have a boyfriend,” Shane said, catching his breath. “He’s the reason I can’t come out publicly, at least not yet, it’s not safe for him at home. It wouldn’t even be safe for him to be platonically friendly with me if the world knew I was gay.”

That sobered everyone up pretty quickly, like they’d finally remembered that there were real world implications to their captains being gay, implications outside of friendly ribbing and Twitter conspiracies.

“They really pushed you out of Montreal?” Huff asked, his voice almost soft even as it was edged with an angry sort of disbelief.

“Yeah,” Shane said on an exhale, his shoulders slumping as reality crashed back down around them, “if I hadn’t gotten injured, I probably would’ve played out the season there. But I’ve known since January that I’d be gone by next season, if not sooner.”

“I fucking hope we play them in April,” Matti said, his voice nearly a growl. The force of it made Scott recoil slightly. Matti was rarely violent even if he was intense on the ice.

Scott sort of hoped they would too.

He could imagine it now; sending them home in a four-game shutout, humiliating them so thoroughly they knew for a fact that they were nothing without Shane.

“They might not make it to April,” Shane hedged.

“They’re the favorites for the wildcard slot,” Huff pointed out.

“No, I mean, they physically might not make it,” Shane said, nodding toward the screen where Ilya was skating toward the faceoff circle for puck drop with an intensity generally reserved for hostage situations, “Marlow and Rozanov know why I left.”

“Oh fuck,” Eric whispered, like keeping his voice quiet would somehow keep them all safe from the wrath of Ilya Rozanov.

Scott almost felt bad for Montreal. Almost.

* * *

For the first time in his entire life, Ilya was thankful he’d inherited his father’s anger.

He’d always hated moments that made his veins boil enough that his anger was brought to the surface, he hated losing sight of himself while he was lost in the blood red haze, but the moment he’d seen Gilbert Comeau with a C on his jersey that was meant to be Shane’s, he’d felt the anger rush in and he hadn’t done anything to stop it.

He knew Shane was watching this game, he knew that Shane was planning to come out to his new teammates because he felt they deserved to know the truth before Shane got on the ice for the first time as an Admiral tomorrow night.

Ilya had no clue how that was going to go. He hoped it would go well and he trusted Scott enough to believe that he’d protect Shane from any fallout, but Ilya wasn’t there, he couldn’t protect Shane while he was vulnerable. But he could make Montreal wish they’d never even been given a team charter. He could play like the machine Russia had bred him to be instead of a guy who genuinely loved hockey and just happened to be good at it.

So when he stood in front of his team in the locker room between warmups and puck drop, he let the anger wrap around his heart like a vice, he let it show on his face so every person in the room knew he meant it when he said, “we send them home crying.”

Ilya stepped out onto the ice and let the anger flood every cell in his body, let it turn him into the version of himself he hated because he knew that as soon as this game was over, he’d get to go home to their Montreal condo. He’d get to shower with Shane’s soap, get dressed in whatever clothes Shane had left behind over the years, and fall asleep on the phone with Shane while sleeping in sheets that smelled like his detergent. He could detach from himself now, he could let the anger overwhelm him, because he knew that simply existing in a space he’d shared with Shane would pull him back from the edge.

He let himself fall into the darkness where nothing mattered except for the complete and utter annihilation of his opponent. And when the red light went off only 30 seconds into the first period, Ilya knew he’d succeed.

* * *

Shane felt a little bit bad about the fact that he’d been shocked to realize Ilya was channeling his anger into playing like a fucking mad man instead of into violence.

But by the end of the first period Boston was up 3-0 and Montreal was starting to get angry. Ilya had scored the first goal of the game 30 seconds in and hadn’t slowed down once. Boston was moving quickly, changing their lines with greater frequency than they normally did. The frequent shift changes had them coming off the bench with explosions of power that easily broke through Montreal’s defense.

Montreal came onto the ice for the second period like they had a score to settle (which they literally did) but their anger wasn’t focused on the puck, it was focused on the Boston players. They got scrappy almost immediately, pushing the boundaries of legal play and seemingly attempting to literally beat Boston into losing.

It wasn’t working.

Marlow hit a perfect snap shot three minutes into the second because apparently they hadn’t been embarrassing Montreal enough and needed to up the ante with a defensive goal and then, about six minutes and two line changes later, he broke Comeau’s nose.

Comeau had just checked Ilya against the boards, hard enough that he’d be lucky if his ribs were only bruised. Shane had found himself flooded with a thirst for violence more intense than he’d genuinely ever felt before when, through the fog of anger, he saw Marlow’s right glove hit the ground before his fist connected with Comeau’s face so hard he quite literally crumpled.

“Oh. My. God.,” Carter whispered, sounding almost awed.

Shane didn’t give a fuck about Gilbert Comeau. His attention was focused entirely on Ilya as he twisted his torso, testing his pain level and range of motion. Ilya grimaced slightly but he took a breath and shook out his arms before looking down at Comeau and Shane could tell he was fine enough to play. Shane watched a slow smile spread across Ilya’s face before he looked back up at Cliff and nodded once, like a god accepting tribute in the form of violence.

He looked like an apex predator and Shane wanted to bite him.

“Is there like a sign-up sheet somewhere to get a massive Russian guard dog as a best friend?” Breezy, one of their younger guys, asked. “That was fucking hot.”

“What, Marly knocking him out with one punch or Rozanov looking like a mob boss confirming a hit?” Tommy Andersson, their backup goalie, shot back.

“Both? All of the above? Man, I don’t know.”

Shane couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange and then Tommy and Breezy both turned to him as if he’d be able to offer an actual answer and he just shook his head in amusement, “my Russian guard dog was assigned to me by the League, I’m not quite sure how to find one in the wild.”

“Damn,” Breezy muttered, turning his attention back toward the TV where Ilya was almost single handedly decimating Montreal’s power play while Cliff spent his two minutes in the box. Shane was honestly a little shocked that he hadn’t gotten a five-minute major, but, Shane guessed, he hadn’t technically fought. He’d just very efficiently knocked Comeau out cold.

Ilya scored with about three seconds left on Cliff’s penalty on what almost looked like an assist from Hayden that Shane was choosing to believe had simply been a very, very unfortunately timed turnover from his best friend.

And then Cliff skated out of the penalty box and nodded in Hayden’s direction just as Ilya clapped Hayden’s shoulder as he skated toward the bench to receive his congratulations and Shane realized they were all in fucking cahoots.

To literally anyone else, anyone who hadn’t spent hundreds of hours playing with Hayden Pike, it would’ve looked like a genuine accident.

But Shane had spent hundreds of hours playing with Hayden Pike. He knew exactly what it looked like when Hayden lost track of the puck, exactly what it looked like when he was pissed at himself for a turnover. This was not that. He’d kept the puck loose. He’d, Shane was just now noticing on the replay, tapped the puck toward Ilya as he’d come in for the steal.

Hayden had just helped Boston score while they were man-down because Cliff had laid out Montreal’s new Captain and he didn’t look even sort of sorry about it.

Shane felt the overwhelming urge to kiss him on the mouth.

In a friendly, entirely platonic way.

The last few minutes of the second went scoreless and Shane decided to take Sunny out into the yard to force himself to breathe during the intermission. His phone vibrated three times in quick succession about five minutes before they were due back on the ice and he pulled it out, wondering who would be texting him right now when pretty much everyone he talked to was either in his house or currently in a locker room in Montreal.

Ilya:   my ribs are just bruised, i am fine.

            i will call you tonight, lyublyu tebya.

Hayd: It was an accident. You saw nothing.

Shane sent an ‘I love you’ back to both of them and then opened his texts with Jackie and typed: I want to kiss your husband on the mouth.

She responded less than thirty seconds later: I knew that wasn’t an accident.

Shane huffed out a laugh under his breath and tucked his phone back into his pocket before opening the porch door and letting himself and Sunny back inside.

* * *

If the first and second periods had been a humiliation, the third was a fucking massacre.

Ilya scored twice in his first shift bringing the score up to 7-0 with four of those goals credited to him. He played less in that last period with the coaches using the buffer to give their 3^rd and 4^th line a little more ice time leading up to playoffs.

Hammersmith scored ten minutes in bringing them up to 8-0.

And then Ilya’s line got put back in with 58 seconds left of regulation play. They were at the face off circle to the right of Montreal’s goal and Ilya waited as Victor crouched in front of Pike. Pike won the face off because he was better than Ilya gave him credit for but his pass to Olsson was easily intercepted by Connors who tapped it back to Ilya who immediately chipped it over Drapeau’s shoulder right into the top shelf for his fifth goal of the game and Boston’s ninth.

The buzzer sounded and Ilya felt the anger that’d been strangling him all night let up just a bit, just enough for him to become an asshole rather than a robot.

He skated toward Drapeau and spoke low, quiet enough that no one else could hear him but loud enough that he knew the goalie could, “if you spent as much time practicing as you do being a bigot you might get better, no?”

He smiled, a sharp nasty thing, and then turned and skated away just as his words sunk in and Drapeau’s eyes lit up with bitter anger.

* * *

The Admirals were sitting in stunned silence as the buzzer sounded.

A 9-0 loss wasn’t just rare. It was an embarrassment.

Shane watched as Ilya skated toward Drapeau and whispered something that had Drapeau screaming after him but too weighed down with goalie pads to be able to move fast enough to catch up and fight him.

Ilya just skated away with an almost pleasant closed-mouth smile on his face.

He was a fucking psychopath and Shane got to marry him.

He was the luckiest man alive.

Chapter End Notes

did anyone watch new jersey get the shit kicked out of them by the islanders the other night? bc i did. and i used the score sheet to space out boston's goals.

Chapter 23: i'll make a brand new start of it, in old new york

Chapter Notes

changed my mind on what game would be shane’s first game back (i’m fully using the rangers actual schedule from march/april 2017) because i miscounted how many games were left in the regular season and i like multiples of five.

March 2017

Shane woke up slightly before his alarm on Friday morning to Sunny pressing her cold little nose against his neck as she seemingly attempted to crawl into his skin.

He wrapped his arms around his cuddly puppy and forced himself to take a breath.

Today was the day. After five weeks on IR, a mid-season trade, moving countries, and working his ass off with the trainers to come back better than he’d been, today was his first game as an Admiral.

His gameday routine looked different now, but he could follow the same pattern.

After a short run with Sunny, thirty minutes of yoga, a shower, and a breakfast that included both a smoothie and actual food recommended by the team nutritionist, Shane got dressed, gathered his suit bag and gear bag, and then loaded himself and Sunny (who’d be sitting in the press box with Christina for the game because the entire media team had ganged up on Shane when he’d said she’d be fine at home if he hired a dog walker) into the waiting town car.

He’d always driven himself to games in Montreal but MSG didn’t have parking the way the Bell Center did. It was a change to his routine that he wasn’t all that bothered by because it was measurably less soothing driving through Manhattan than it’d been driving through Montreal.

They had coaches meetings and captains meetings scheduled throughout the morning and Shane was doing everything he could to convince himself this was normal, that this was just another game.

He’d been doing walk throughs with the team for the past two weeks and he’d run through a full practice with them on Thursday afternoon. It didn’t feel like enough, it felt a little like he was running in blind. He wanted to be on the ice in Montreal as starting center with Hayden to his left and Wilson to his right, with J.J. and Comeau behind him and Drapeau in the goal. He wanted the security of the line he’d known pretty much his entire career. What he really wanted, if he let himself think about it, was for that line he’d spent so many hours playing with to still feel like family.

But it wasn’t, not anymore. Maybe it never had been.

Tonight, he’d get on the ice to Scott’s left with Carter across the rink and Matti and Breezy behind them with Bennett in the goal.

He’d get on the ice with an entire shift who knew his secret and hadn’t turned their backs.

The car pulled up in front of the player entrance and Shane shouldered his gear bag, picked up his suit bag, and made sure Sunny’s leash was properly secured before thanking the driver and heading into the building.

* * *

Ilya was pacing a hole through the floor of his hotel room in Ottawa. They didn’t play until the next day but it hadn’t made sense, travel wise, to return to Boston for a single day when Ottawa was only two hours from Montreal.

Montreal was playing in Newark the following day and Ilya knew that J.J. and Hayden were directly defying management to drive into the city and watch Shane’s first game in New York. Shane didn’t know that. Hayden had only told Ilya the day prior right after the pair had happily agreed to turn a blind eye to Boston kicking the shit out of their teammates.

They were both in deep shit with Montreal management and Ilya now knew for a fact that Hayden had withdrawn from extension negotiations himself before they’d had a chance to step back. J.J. wasn’t much better. The only benefit he had that Hayden didn’t was that there was still a year left on his contract so Montreal either had to put him on waivers or find a trade. Hayden was sort of just existing in the ether until his agent secured a solution.

He was a solid player, though, and a good person to have tied to your franchise. He didn’t create scandals and he didn’t talk back unless it was in protection of a teammate or because he had a genuine issue with whatever was going on. He’d find a place; Ilya just hoped it was somewhere close to Shane. He hated to admit it, but Hayden was a great friend and Shane deserved to have his best friend back.

But back to Ilya pacing in Ottawa.

He wanted to be in New York, he wanted to be watching Shane, he wanted to be there to welcome him home after the game and tell him how incredible he was.

He was interrupted from his pacing by his phone ringing.

His brow scrunched in confusion when he saw ‘Yuna Hollander’ on the Caller ID. His first thought was that Shane had been injured but that didn’t make sense because, at this point in the day, Shane would be sitting in an office under MSG either with Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughan or with the coaching staff. Or, if he were really unlucky, the media team.

“Hello?” he said.

“Ilya, hi,” Yuna greeted. She sounded happy, relaxed, not like the mother of someone who’d just been mysteriously injured while they were safely ensconced in an office. “You’re in Ottawa, right?”

“Yes, we just got here but I have nothing to do so I am pacing and thinking about Shane’s game.”

Ilya didn’t know why he’d directly admitted that. He was starting to become convinced that the Hollanders had some sort of magical power that forced him to actually speak about his emotions. It was a little distressing.

“I’m doing the same thing,” she said with a fond laugh. Ilya could tell it was fond because it was the same tone as Shane’s. “How about I come pick you up and we can stress over Shane’s game together? Maybe you could watch the game from our house?”

Ilya looked at his watch and realized it wasn’t even noon. Shane’s game wasn’t until 7:10. If Yuna was calling now, she was offering to spend something like ten hours in Ilya’s presence when he’d barely ever even spoken to her without Shane there. Ilya really wasn’t sure what to do with the knowledge that it seemed like she genuinely wanted him to accept the offer; that she seemed to want to simply spend time with him, even if it was under the guise of watching Shane’s game.

“Yes, okay,” he agreed, trying his best to keep his voice steady, “I would like that.”

“Good,” Yuna replied, sounding almost relieved that Ilya had agreed which sort of made his head spin. “Text me which hotel you’re at and I’ll let you know when I’m almost there.”

* * *

“If you had to be a sea creature, which one would you be?” Carter asked. He was in a spinning office chair, tilted probably a little too far back with his feet up on the conference table in the room they were hiding out in (Scott would probably argue they weren’t hiding out, they were simply strategizing, but Shane was willing to admit that they were absolutely hiding out) (the media team had gotten them to agree to doing bits for the team socials once and since then they’d been hounding them like dogs) (they were absolutely going to give in … again … eventually … they just needed a minute).

“Does it have to be a real sea creature?” Scott asked and Shane wasn’t even surprised to realize that it’d been an entirely genuine consideration. Scott was actually entertaining Carter’s line of questioning.

Carter thought about it for a minute before deciding, “no, it can be fake.”

“How would you define fake?” Shane, for some godforsaken reason, found himself asking. “Like, mythological?”

“Sure, or like a creature from a movie or a book or whatever. Just a sea creature, which would you be?”

“I love a good whale shark,” Scott said and Shane stared at him, wondering how the fuck the people of New York thought this man was cool. “Don’t look at me like that, Hollander. Whale sharks are great.”

“I’m sure they are,” Shane said, really trying not to laugh at how earnest Scott sounded. “I think sea turtles are cooler, though. I think I’d like to be a sea turtle, specifically an olive ridley turtle. They use the Earth’s magnetic field to navigate which is pretty sick.”

And, hey, Shane had never once claimed he was cool. Nor had anyone who’d ever met him.

“I’d be the kraken,” Carter decided, just staring up at the ceiling with a small frown on his face like he was trying to figure out a way to make that happen for himself.

“You want to be a massive, mythical Norse sea monster?” Shane asked.

“Why not?” Carter said with a little shrug.

“Sure, of course, why the hell not.”

* * *

Ilya panicked for a moment about what to wear to meet Shane’s parents and then remembered that he’d absolutely already met them and that they were two of three people who knew Shane and Ilya were engaged and that they’d actually, for some reason beyond Ilya’s understanding, been happy about it. Yuna had even suggested they get married as a way to keep Ilya safe before she knew. She’d liked Ilya enough to not only be worried for his safety, but to suggest a solution to the danger that legally tied him to her son.

He pulled on jeans and the only nice sweater he’d packed and called it a day.

Yuna was in the lobby, talking to Cliff Marlow of all people, when Ilya stepped out of the elevator.

She was smiling up at Cliff as he talked, his hands waving in the way they usually did when he was at least a little stressed out and trying to make a point.

“Ilya!” Yuna called when she spotted him. Her smile turned from something almost like Shane’s media smile to something genuine and Ilya was once more hit with a wave of emotion when he realized she was actually happy to see him.

“Hi, Yuna,” he responded, forcing himself to say her name instead of Mrs. Hollander given the fact that she’d told him to call her Yuna no less than a dozen times. “Is good to see you.”

She patted his arm as he approached and then seemed to mentally say ‘fuck it’ and pulled him into a real hug. It wasn’t as good as a hug from Shane, but it was good enough.

“Good to see you too,” she said, squeezing his waist twice as they let go and stepped away from each other. He’d watched her do the same thing to Shane every time he’d seen them hug and the fact that she was seemingly unconsciously doing the same to Ilya felt important in a way he didn’t quite have the words to express. “Cliff, do you have any plans today? We’re going to go get lunch and you’re welcome to join. Shane’s father is meeting us there.”

“Oh,” Cliff said, eyes widening in surprise and Ilya finally realized what he’d been talking to Yuna about. He’d clearly been apologizing for injuring Shane and Ilya wasn’t sure whether to laugh at how earnest he was sure Cliff had been or cry just a little about how much of a gentle giant his best friend was. “I, uh, don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing,” Yuna assured him, “Hayden always comes with Shane when we get lunch before Ottawa games, it’s only right that Ilya gets to bring a friend too.”

That simple sentence made Ilya feel more emotions than were feasibly sustainable.

It wasn’t a smile he recognized as genuine or a hug he recognized as the same hug she gave her son; it was an explicit statement that she put Ilya at least somewhat equal to Shane in her mind.

Cliff was looking at Ilya like he was starting to figure something out and Ilya wasn’t quite so sure he was ready for Cliff to jump to conclusions so he nodded and forced himself to speak, “come on, Marly, you should join us. You can tell her all about how it felt to break Comeau’s face.”

“Absolutely,” Yuna agreed, nodding a little furiously, “I’d like to live vicariously through you.”

Cliff laughed a little and his shoulders relaxed, “alright, alright, I’ll join. Thank you, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Yuna,” she corrected, patting him softly on the forearm before turning and heading toward the door, “call me Yuna.”

* * *

After their mid-day coaches meeting, they ended up wandering down the street to get lunch and Shane was very happily eating his chicken sandwich, wondering why he’d ever limited himself to only eating fish, when Scott burst out laughing.

“What?” Shane asked as Carter simply grabbed Scott’s phone out of his hand to see what’d made him laugh like that. Scott didn’t put up any sort of fight so Shane relaxed a little from his immediate nerves over Carter just grabbing Scott’s phone. Scott’s phone that had evidence of Kip’s existence when he hadn’t yet told the team about him in any sort of detail. Scott’s phone that had evidence of Shane and Ilya’s relationship.

Carter started laughing too and Shane’s nerves were officially overrun by curiosity so he reached out and grabbed the phone for himself.

And there on Scott’s Twitter feed was a photo of Shane’s parents out for lunch with Ilya Rozanov and Cliff Marlow.

Ilya’s arm was thrown over the back of the booth behind his mom’s shoulders and Cliff was sitting across from them next to Shane’s dad telling some story that seemed to involve a lot of hand gestures. Ilya looked delighted and Yuna was leaning forward like she was hanging on to every word Cliff was saying. Shane couldn’t see his dad’s face from the angle the photo was taken but he was sure David probably had the same look as Yuna.

“Hollander, what the hell,” Carter said, catching his breath.

Shane just blinked a couple of times, trying to see if that might make the photo make any more sense. They were in the restaurant Shane, Hayden, and his parents always went to when Montreal played in Ottawa. The restaurant his parents always took their son and his best friend to and Shane got the odd (and overwhelmingly giddy) feeling that taking their son and his best friend out to lunch was exactly what his parents were doing.

“Roz was on bereavement when I moved to New York,” Shane explained, knowing Carter was going to see right through the half lie and somehow not feeling all that anxious about him drawing the correct conclusions, “he flew up to Ottawa to drive my car down so my parents wouldn’t have to make the drive again after they’d just driven to Boston and back. He’s a real charmer when he’s not trying to knock your teeth out on the ice, I think my mom’s considering the merits of adult adoption.”

His mom had actually been considering the merits of marriage for citizenship before finding out that Shane and Ilya were already engaged, but Shane absolutely wasn’t going to say that part out loud.

Carter just stared at him for a second before smiling softly, his eyes a little full of wonder, “you guys really have been friends this whole time, haven’t you?”

“The rivalry was a marketing ploy,” Shane shrugged, “I mean, we’re absolutely competitive and I promise you I find a whole lot of joy in kicking his ass, but we were never really rivals.”

* * *

Scott thought back to the day he and Kip had gone to see Shane’s new house, to the way Ilya kept smiling at him like he knew something Scott didn’t. He looked at the picture of Ilya entirely comfortable with Shane’s parents, the picture that looked eerily similar to ones Scott had seen before of Shane and Hayden out to lunch with Shane’s parents, and started to draw some pretty wild conclusions.

He wasn’t going to ask about it, especially not here in a restaurant where anyone could overhear, but he was absolutely going to add ‘Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Married???’ to his mental conspiracy board.

* * *

The day after lunch passed by in a bit of a blur.

They’d wandered around Midtown for a while just enjoying the early spring weather that hung on for a few weeks between the winter chill and the way summer always got a little too muggy. Then they’d made their way back to MSG to change into their suits and move through the paces of pre-game media and last minute meetings and a team meal and Shane’s brain didn’t slow down enough to actually process the passage of time until he was sitting in his stall in the Admirals’ home locker room in his dress pants and shirt, his tie undone and his jacket already hanging up, staring down at his new jersey.

And then his brain sped right back up.

It felt like his first regular season game his rookie year. He remembered the way his mind had gone fuzzy and his vision had started to tunnel; he remembered the way his heart had sped up and his lungs had felt too tight. He remembered the way he’d gone quiet and no one had noticed except for –

“Hollander,” a voice called from the door, cutting through Shane’s spiral just enough for him to look up in question, “someone here to see you.”

Shane’s eyebrows furrowed, trying to figure out who could possibly be here. His parents and Ilya were in Ottawa, Rose was stuck at some event in L.A., Scott was sitting right next to him, Kip wouldn’t be down here for Shane, and then he had a wild thought.

He nodded to the security guard who’d come to get him and set his jersey down in his stall before heading into the hall, pulling his tie all the way off and tucking it into his back pocket as he went.

And there, standing just outside the door to the family room, was Hayden. He was dressed in jeans and a bright red Team Canada sweatshirt that Shane recognized as one of his own that Hayden must’ve stolen at some point. It had the maple leaf on the front, #24 on the shoulder, and HOLLANDER across the back.

“J.J.’s on his way,” Hayden said, his hands tucked into his pockets like he was nervous about Shane’s reaction, “got stuck in traffic, Wilson covered for me but the kids were creating a distraction for J.J. and I think they might’ve done a little property damage but I’m sure it’s -”

He cut himself off with an “oof” as Shane crashed into him, wrapping his arms around Hayden’s shoulders and feeling his lungs finally draw in a full breath. Hayden’s arms came up a half second later, wrapping around Shane like a vice, one arm locked around Shane’s torso with hand spanning over Shane’s ribs and the other across Shane’s upper back with his fingers clutching onto the fabric of the shoulder of Shane’s shirt.

Shane wanted to ask what the fuck Hayden was doing here when it’d required a multi-person distraction to get him and J.J. out of the team hotel in Newark, he wanted to ask why they were risking it, but he already knew the answer. He knew that Hayden, specifically, would do anything for him. He knew that J.J. wouldn’t listen to directions from management that he thought were bullshit. So instead of asking, instead of forcing Hayden to admit that it hadn’t gotten better in Montreal even though Shane had left, Shane just tucked his face into Hayden’s neck and ignored the fact that he could feel a damp spot forming on his shoulder.

“Where are you sitting?” Shane asked.

“Your seats,” Hayden answered, his voice muffled against the fabric of Shane’s shirt, “Hunter told the box office we were coming.”

Of course Scott was involved. Shane wasn’t even surprised.

Shane held on a minute longer, the two of them just standing in silence as the world moved on around them, and then he took a deep breath and stepped back, clapping his hands onto Hayden’s shoulders, “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

“I miss you too, bud,” Hayden said, leaning forward and knocking their foreheads together before grabbing the sides of Shane’s head and yanking him down so he could smack a kiss into his hair.

Shane let out a light laugh that had Hayden grinning and for just a second it all felt normal again.

“Alright,” Hayden breathed, ruffling Shane’s hair and then stepping back, “I’m gonna go sit down. I love you, I’m proud of you, kick some ass.”

“I love you too, Hayd,” Shane said.

“And when you score your first goal I expect you to blow me a kiss in the audience. Jackie said it’d be alright.”

Shane laughed for real that time, loud and carefree and Hayden’s grin only got bigger, “that’s probably because I texted her last night and told her I wanted to kiss you on the mouth after you ‘accidentally’ assisted Boston.”

“Are you trying to get me killed?” Hayden asked, looking around like Ilya might pop out from the shadows.

“Shut up,” Shane said, the words barely even audible through his laughter at Hayden’s theatrics.

“I’m not kidding, Shane, he’s fucking scary.”

Shane just physically turned Hayden around and shoved him lightly down the hall, “go sit down, you drama queen.”

“Love you!” Hayden yelled again without turning back around.

“Love you too!” Shane called back just as he disappeared around the corner.

Shane blew out a breath and then headed into the locker room with a smile still fixed on his face that he couldn’t quite tamp down. He was more than ready to get back on the ice.

* * *

Scott skated out for warm ups a couple paces ahead of Shane and knew the moment Shane hit the ice, not because he could hear blades scraping behind him, but because every sound in the entire damn arena, the music, the sounds of players skating and line mates talking, was drowned out by the absolute cacophony of noise coming from the home crowd.

There were so many people screaming, so many front row fans banging on the glass, that it almost sounded like static. Scott was genuinely concerned he’d lost his hearing for a moment before the sound filtered through and he could finally make out the chants of, “HOLL-AN-DER! HOLL-AN-DER!”

He turned back around and looked at Shane who’d stopped about three paces onto the ice and was simply turning in a slow circle, his left foot planted as he used the right for momentum, taking in the crowd.

This wasn’t even as loud as it would get. The seats were only about a third of the way full with the fans die hard enough to come for warm-ups. It was a Friday night game in the final stretch of the regular season and the Admirals were on a winning streak; those seats would be full by puck drop and Scott couldn’t even imagine how loud it’d get when Shane stepped out with the first line.

* * *

Ilya sat on the Hollander’s couch, cuddled up in a blanket he’d stolen from Shane’s room after dinner, and watched as Shane stepped onto the ice for warmups to the sounds of thousands of fans already chanting his name. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture, leaving enough of the living room visible that Shane would be able to tell exactly where he was, and then texted it to him saying, i’m so proud of you, i love you.

* * *

Shane went through warm ups feeling excited about hockey for the first time in a long, long while. He went into the locker room and listened to Scott’s pregame speech, hanging onto every word and feeling like a rookie all over again; but this time, it was in a good way.

Everything felt new and exciting in a way it hadn’t since his rookie season. It felt like every moment brought new possibilities.

He checked his phone one last time as the team started lining up to head onto the ice and found a text from Ilya with a photo of the TV in Shane’s parents living room showing Shane waving at the crowd during warmups. The little reminder that Ilya was family now, that his parents had accepted him with open arms and invited him into their home when Shane wasn’t even there, was enough to settle the remainder of Shane’s nerves.

He stepped into line in front of Carter and let the sound of 18,000 fans cheering wash over him as they skated out under the red and blue lights. He listened to the announcers call out their names and stood in the second row beside Scott and Carter for the Star-Spangled Banner without hearing O Canada played either before or after for the first time in his career.

And then he skated to the left side of the ice and watched Scott settle in for puck drop.

Everything sped up after that.

The puck hit the ice at exactly 7:10.

At 7:13 Shane scored his first goal as an Admiral, turning toward the seats a couple rows above the home bench to blow a kiss to Hayden as the light turned red.

At 10:00, the final whistle blew on yet another Admirals victory.

Chapter End Notes

fair warning people the next ones gonna be stupid fucking long bc i want to get their whole playoff run v montreal into one chapter so we can be done with the homophobes and live our lives in peace

Chapter 24: don't get sad, get even

Chapter Notes

i fucking lied ... this is only game one of playoffs v. montreal. this shit ran away from me. the next chapter will be the rest of this series.

also, fun fact, the new york rangers actually beat montreal in round one of the stanley cup playoffs in 2017. they then lost round two to ottawa. that will not be happening here, so sorry to the centaurs.

April 2017

By the grace of whatever god was out there looking out for losers and bigots, Montreal won their last four games of the regular season and grabbed onto the wild card slot by the skin of their fucking teeth.

New York had also won their last stretch of regular season games with a victory over Philadelphia at home, D.C. and Ottawa on the road, and one more against Pittsburgh at home.

Now they had two days of practice before Montreal landed in New York for Game 1 of the first round of playoffs.

Shane’s entire team was playing through a scrimmage like they were preparing for actual fucking war and Shane really wasn’t sure how to get them to calm down but he needed to figure it out because someone was going to get injured if they kept going like this.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered as he watched Breezy launch Carter through the air with a check that seemed like it’d been powered by one too many energy drinks and an unsustainable craving for revenge. “Hey!” Shane yelled, putting on his best captain’s voice and really not giving a shit if Scott felt like he was stepping on his toes, “all of you, cut it the fuck out. We’re going to beat Montreal because they suck and are incapable of playing as a unit. We do not suck but we’ll only be capable of playing as a unit if we don’t kill each other before Wednesday, alright?”

He got a rink full of blank stares in return, like not a one of them could figure out why he was concerned.

“Breezy you almost just hospitalized Vaughny, Carter twelve seconds before that you stole the puck from Scott like you were thinking about ripping his throat out with your teeth. You two are currently playing for the same team. I don’t want to show up on Wednesday and be forced to play like I’m the only person on the ice because we’re all in our own heads bottling shit up until everything detonates around us. I played all of January and February like that. I’m fucking over it. So, let’s stop playing like we’re in a fight to the death and start playing like we know for a fact we’re good enough to win this in four.”

That finally got a reaction.

From the volume of the cheers and the crashing of sticks against the boards, Shane knew they were ready and when they pulled it together and started up the scrimmage again, Shane could tell they’d listened.

* * *

Shane walked into the tunnel Wednesday night like it was any other game.

His parents were in his seats directly behind Scott’s where Kip was sitting with his friend Elena. Scott still hadn’t introduced Kip to anyone other than Shane and Ilya and Shane could feel a fight brewing from a mile away but that wasn’t something he needed to think about right now.

Maybe after they sent Montreal home crying he could remind Scott that Kip had introduced Scott to several of his friends and maybe he could return the favor. And, if that didn’t work, he could maybe bring up the fact that half of Twitter thought Shane was dating Kip because they’d been spotted at a gay bar together and the world hadn’t yet imploded so maybe, just maybe, it’d be alright if Scott introduced him to the team.

Just a thought.

A thought that could wait another few hours to be shared.

Shane was in a suit Rose had picked out that she, for reasons beyond Shane’s understanding, called his ‘Princess Diana Revenge Dress.’ Yes, the title caps were apparently imperative. He’d made that mistake once. Never again.

It was all black and, unlike the suits he’d been wearing most of his career, actually properly fit him. He’d also spent nearly an entire hour messing with his hair on FaceTime with Rose before leaving his house so she could educate him on the fine line that existed between ‘artfully tousled’ and a bird’s nest.

He’d hired a dog walker (who’d come recommended by a couple of the guys who had dogs) to stop by his house to feed and walk Sunny during the game and then his parents would be at his house to take care of her after if this game went how Shane wanted and he ended up going out to celebrate with his team.

The locker room moved in an already familiar pattern.

A pregame playlist run by one of the equipment managers that was full of songs the team had requested be added throughout the season was playing over the speakers, players were moving in and out as they met with trainers or got pulled aside by coaches, Scott was in his stall pulling on blue banana printed socks while Carter sat next to him leaning back against his locker with his eyes closed meditating but refusing to call it that.

Shane methodically took off his suit, folding his pants over the hanger before adding his shirt and jacket, his tie untied and draped over top. He pulled on his compression layer and his first pair of socks and then waited, joining Carter in his non-meditation while Scott sat between them staring off into space.

Just before the coaches came in to read off the line ups, all three of them got up and started pulling on their pads and guards. Shane got dressed in the same order he had since the first game he’d declared he didn’t need his dad to help him anymore.

The lines were read, the team cheering louder and louder at every name until the room was so full of energy Shane swore he could feel it reverberating in his spine.

They moved through warmups like it was an exhibition match. Shane got pulled into a game of keepie uppie with Carter that had both of them laughing as their fans started counting for them like it was a practiced chant. Breezy and Gillis had moved closer to them to stretch so they could egg them on. Every bit of it was unplanned, every bit of it was simply the way they interacted as a team, and every bit of it was a reminder of how much Shane Hollander had changed since leaving Montreal.

When they returned to the locker room, Shane settled into his stall and waited for Scott to start his speech but Scott simply stared at Shane until he got the idea.

Shane nodded and took a breath to steel himself before standing.

The room fell into an almost eerie hush as he rose to his feet and Shane felt the weight of it all settle on his shoulders. But instead of pushing him down, instead it making him feel like Atlas holding up the world, it settled over him like an aegis. Every eye turned his way, every ear tuned in to listen to his words felt like armor. These people weren’t going to hang him out to dry on the ice, these people weren’t going to turn their backs or hit him when he was most vulnerable. This team was different, and it was his.

“This game isn’t for revenge,” Shane said. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. “This game isn’t going to be a blood bath because we’re playing violent or because we give into their violence. Because we’re not gonna do that. We are going to go out there and play a clean game of hockey, a flawless game of hockey that no one, even our harshest critic, will be able to criticize. If they get violent, let them. Don’t fall to their level. Because I can tell you for a fact that rising above it, acting like their vitriol and violence is beneath us, is only going to make them angrier and when they get angry they get sloppy. Let them get angry, let them get sloppy and for every mistake they make, we get more precise, more lethal. We stay consistent, we make our plays, we let them destroy themselves. We send them home crying not because we’ve caused them physical pain, but because we’ve destroyed them mentally. We are going to go out there and play such great fucking hockey that they don’t even want to show up to Game 2. Let’s get this done.”

* * *

And thus marked the first time Scott Hunter had ever been afraid of Shane Hollander.

They lined up in the tunnel and skated out onto the ice to the cheers of a packed house and Shane didn’t make a sound. His face didn’t change the entire time, not when the crowd started chanting his name, not when O Canada was played in MSG for the first time since he returned from IR, not when he tapped gloves with Hayden as the Captains stepped forward.

The happy, smiling version of Shane that everyone had seen during warm ups was long gone and in his place stood Shane fucking Hollander.

And Montreal didn’t even have the sense to look afraid.

* * *

From the moment the puck dropped, Shane knew Montreal was going to play a violent game.

Scott won the face off and shot a pass off to Carter who blew through the neutral zone and knocked it over to Shane. Before the puck hit his stick, Comeau was across the ice and crashing into him from behind.

He checked Shane into the boards hard enough Shane honestly worried it’d knocked a couple teeth loose but Shane didn’t go down and he didn’t fight back. He simply stared at Comeau as the absolute fucking dumbass got called for charging fifteen seconds into the first period. He stood impassive and watched Comeau’s face, still bruised from where Cliff had decked him two weeks prior, twist in anger as the tape was reviewed and the refs doled out a 5-minute major for charging and a match misconduct for checking from behind and attempt to injure.

Not even a minute into the game and New York had a power play.

The refs dragged Comeau off the ice where he’d spend the balance of the game in the locker room and Theriault, who was quite clearly livid, pulled Wilson off to serve the 5-minute major.

Play resumed and Scott scored off an assist from Shane 45 seconds later.

Their shift got pulled off right after that and Shane watched as the second, third, and fourth lines spent each of their 50 second shifts running circles around Montreal while Montreal did exactly what Shane had said they’d do; got messier and messier.

When Shane’s line jumped back in, there was still a minute left on the penalty clock and Shane decided he wasn’t going to let it tick down without taking his revenge.

The moment Carter passed to him, he tore down the ice, using every ounce of speed he had and, just to prove Ilya and his constant needling about Shane’s shitty backhand wrong, transferred his weight to his front foot and snapped the puck directly between Drapeau’s legs before he even realized Shane was shooting.

New York was up 2-0 and the period wasn’t even a quarter of the way over.

By the end of the first, Montreal had been called twice for roughing (one against Shane and the other against Wagner on the second line), once for tripping, and once for holding. And somewhere in the power plays Montreal just. kept. handing. them., Shane scored a second time and Luke Gillis scored his first playoff goal in the first playoff game of his rookie season.

New York was up 4-0 after twenty minutes of play.

Shane really didn’t think they’d be able to pull off a 9-0 win like Boston had. That’d simply be insane. But he decided he’d like to get close.

The locker room was buzzing during the intermission. Everyone had realized that Shane had been entirely correct; that playing really fucking good hockey would piss them off more than fighting back.

The second period went scoreless until the very last minute when Breezy broke the fucking sound barrier as he rocketed up the ice, sniping the puck right below Drapeau’s glove to bring the score up to 5-0 with their first defensive goal.

By the third period, Montreal was falling apart at the seams; they were getting increasingly violent and were whispering threats and slurs to Shane that would probably haunt him in his dreams every time they had him up against the boards. But he refused to let any of it get to him while he was still on the ice. He just kept his head down, kept his face set, and kept playing like the guy who’d taken their failing franchise and turned them into back-to-back champions.

Actually, he played better than that guy.

Shane felt stronger than ever before, he felt faster and smarter and just a little unhinged and, on top of all that, he was playing like a guy who had something to prove.

On his fourth shift of the third period, Shane rocketed a pass straight between J.J.’s legs that Carter smacked into the back of the net on a one-timer. Fifteen seconds later, Carter returned the favor and Shane scored his third goal of the game.

They got a break, then, as hundreds of hats were cleared from the ice.

The game ended five minutes later in a 7-0 shutout with Montreal one minute short of breaking the record for most penalty minutes racked up by a team in a single game. Truly impressive.

* * *

Ilya stood shirtless just outside the visitor’s locker room in Philadelphia after Game 1 of their series and put on his best cocky smile while he watched in amusement as their comms director attempted to corral the press pool.

Boston had played a great game, they’d won 4-2 in a rather evenly matched match-up and he, specifically, had played a really great game.

He was expecting questions about how they’d played or what he thought their prospects were for the rest of the series, if not the playoffs at large.

He was not expecting the representative from Sportsnet to ask him if he’d seen the score of the New York v. Montreal game.

He hadn’t, much to his dismay.

He’d wanted to look but he’d been immediately dragged into this hallway so he was left uninformed to how his fiancé was doing after playing his old team. His old team who Ilya hated with the fury of a thousand suns, just in case you were wondering.

“No,” he said, instead of saying any of that out loud, “I have not.”

He was then told that New York hadn’t quite pulled off the 9-0 shut out that Boston had two weeks prior but they had pulled off a 7-0 shut out with a Hollander hat trick and Ilya didn’t even attempt to stop himself from grinning.

He knew he needed to say something to make it seem like he was teasing, say something that made it seem like he was still an asshole and not desperately in love with Shane Hollander. So, he did his best impression of the caricature of Ilya Rozanov and said, “but I bet he did not score with backhand like I did tonight, he may be great player, second best in the League, but he has very weak backhand.”

“He did, actually,” the guy from ESPN said. He then held up his phone with a clip already loaded like he’d expected Ilya to make that comment and Ilya was forced to stand there on a live goddamn broadcast, and watch Shane score one of the sexiest fucking goals Ilya had ever seen.

Jesus Christ. Ilya got to marry that man. His life was insane.

* * *

Shane was out of the shower and getting dressed while the entire New York Admirals roster discussed going to the Kingfisher to celebrate their first official murder of the Montreal Voyageurs (Carter had announced that it felt fitting to celebrate their demise in a gay bar) (everyone had immediately agreed) when his phone started ringing.

He didn’t pick it up, expecting it’d probably be someone calling for a comment or some other bullshit that could wait until tomorrow.

And then it rang again.

And again.

On the fourth time, Shane looked at his phone.

He saw Ilya’s name and his adorable grinning face from the All Stars locker room looking up at him and declined the call just to see how pissed he’d get.

He knew Ilya was fine, he’d checked their score sheet before showering, so he wasn’t concerned that this was a call saying he’d been injured and that someone, for some reason, had thought to call Shane about it.

Shane watched as three texts came through in rapid succession.

Ilya:   pick up the phone hollander.

            now.

            sorry, that was mean. please pick up the phone.

And then the phone rang a fifth time.

Shane picked it up because, after all, Ilya had said please.

“Rozanov,” he greeted and the shouting in the locker room cut out entirely. Shane turned around to look at his team as if to say, ‘what the fuck’, and they all just continued to watch in interest. Shane felt a little like an animal in a zoo.

“Hollander,” Ilya said, his voice carrying through the room even though the phone wasn’t on speaker. “That goal, what the fuck was-”

“I’m in the locker room, Roz,” Shane said before Ilya could continue because Shane had a pretty good idea of where he was about to go.

“Put me on speaker.”

“That sounds like a horrible idea.”

“I only have good ideas, Hollander. Put me on speaker.”

Carter looked like he was about to choke on his own tongue as he tried not to laugh and Scott was looking at Shane with eyes that very clearly communicated you’re the one who decided to date him.

Shane braced for insanity and put the phone on speaker.

Ilya must’ve heard the sound change or heard the faint beep of the button because he started talking without Shane’s prompting.

“Shane Hollander, that backhand was a sexy fucking goal,” Ilya said and Shane looked skyward. He wasn’t sure if he was praying for patience or hoping that God might strike him down. “I am so happy to see that playing with Old Man Hunter didn’t slow you down. Now, listen up,” he said before Scott could cut him off, “all of you listen to me. You better be nice to Hollander or I will find your houses and kill you in your sleep. Actually, no, I will find your houses and Marlow will kill you in your sleep. Do you understand?”

Gillis looked a little like he was about to pass out and Shane honestly couldn’t tell if it was because ‘Mob Roz’ (as the rookies had apparently taken to calling him after the Boston v. Montreal game) really did it for him or if it was because he was genuinely afraid for his life.

It honestly might’ve been both.

“Roz, we’re going to the Kingfisher to celebrate the win,” Shane said as everyone else just stood there in stunned silence. Apparently most of them had thought the whole ‘Russian guard dog’ thing was a joke. Shane sort of wanted to laugh at how very wrong they’d been. “The whole team.”

Ilya paused for a moment and Shane, more familiar with Ilya Rozanov’s expressions than he was with his own, could see him giving a decisive nod in his mind’s eye before he said, “good, no deaths tonight. Good win, boys. Go get drunk”

And then the call cut out.

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose and forced himself to take a breath. His fiancé was insane. Like certifiably fucking insane. Shane loved him more than anything.

“Well,” Shane said into the silence, “you heard the man, let’s go get drunk.”

* * *

Scott was packing up his stuff to bring home before going out when Shane quite literally scruffed him like a misbehaving cat and dragged him into the hall before shoving him into the first empty office he found and locking the door behind him.

If Scott hadn’t literally just heard Ilya Rozanov salivating over Shane on the phone in front of God and the New York Admirals, he’d probably have a very different idea of what was happening right now.

But, instead, he found himself fearing for his life.

“Take out your phone and text Kip right now.”

“What the fuck?” Scott asked, genuinely bewildered. Of all the things he thought he was about to get yelled at for, that was not one of them.

“Have you introduced him to anyone other than Ilya and me?”

“… no.”

“We’re changing that,” Shane said, as if this were a group decision, “now, let’s go. Invite him or I will. Twitter already thinks I’m dating him, might be fun to fan the flames.”

“I know the last time I said this it nearly got me punched, but you are seriously starting to sound like him.”

“I’m well aware, now text your boyfriend and invite him to the gay bar that our entire team is willingly going to.”

“I don’t know if I’m -”

“Ready, yeah,” Shane cut him off, rolling his eyes and if it were literally anyone else Scott would probably be offended but Shane wasn’t anyone else. He knew the exact position Scott was standing in right now and he wouldn’t be forcing Scott to do anything if he didn’t think it was a. safe and b. necessary. “Scott, have you ever heard of friends? Don’t think about Twitter, they’re all fucking crazy. Think about our team. Think about the fact that Ilya just called me sexy and threatened to have them all murdered in my honor on speaker to our entire team and then consider the fact that I can guarantee that everyone in that room except for Carter and maybe Bennett probably still think Ilya’s straight. If you say ‘hi this is my friend Kip Grady, he’s lovely and you should all meet him’, they’re going to believe that he’s your friend because that’s their status quo. Also, of lesser importance, I just dragged you out of the locker room and into a locked office, you could kiss Kip square on the mouth and half of them would still think we were, for some godforsaken reason, in an incredibly poorly concealed secret relationship.”

Scott wasn’t an idiot.

He looked at the situation in front of him and came to several quick conclusions:

1. He trusted Shane.
2. Shane was fucking pissed at him.
3. Shane and Kip were friends which meant:
   1. Kip was probably at least a little pissed at him, and
   2. Kip had probably told Shane why he was pissed at him and Shane was now taking it upon himself to fix it before it got worse.
4. Their entire roster was willingly going to a gay bar.
5. He wanted to spend his night with Kip.

He took out his phone and texted Kip.

* * *

Shane and Scott got out of the car they’d called from Scott’s building to the Kingfisher (after taking a different car from the arena to Scott’s building so they could drop of their shit and change because Scott was kind enough to let Shane crash at his apartment) and were met with resounding cheers from their entire team who’d apparently decided to just gather on the curb instead of doing something normal like, oh, I don’t know, going inside.

A figure broke out of the pack and Shane barely had time to react before he was nearly laid the fuck out by Hayden.

“Holy shit,” he huffed, taking a full step back and silently thanking New York’s trainers for how quickly he’d built up muscle in the past month as he wrapped his arms around Hayden’s waist and caught him before they both went flying.

“I fucking love you.”

“I love you too, man,” Shane said, more than a little bewildered but also incredibly grateful that Hayden was here because this meant he could just sneak into Montreal’s hotel and have a sleepover with Hayden like they were twelve years old instead of having to spend the night in the same apartment as Scott and Kip. “What the hell is going on?”

“Comeau is suspended for the next game, they reviewed the tape again and then somehow some reporter caught him on camera saying he wished he’d hit you harder than Marlow had and some other shit about wanting to end your career and, anyways, the officials tore into the coaches, basically telling them to keep Comeau on a leash and the GMs suspended him to save face.”

“Are you saying you love me for my existence pissing Comeau off so bad he got himself suspended?”

“When you put it like that it sounds pretty shitty.”

Shane laughed and set Hayden back down on his own two feet, “how did you even know we were here?”

“I have your location.”

“You got here before me.”

“Yes, I have your location, saw you were driving this direction, so I started walking and happened to come across 20 of New York’s finest hockey players.”

“You’re insane.”

Hayden just grinned.

Shane looked back up and found the rest of his team still standing on the curb and raised his eyebrows a little as he asked, “what are you all doing outside?”

“We were waiting for -” Carter started before cutting himself off, his brows pinching as he thought over whatever it was he was about to say. He blinked a couple of times and then scratched the back of his neck, “uh, we were waiting for you and Scott?”

Shane looked over at Scott who was looking skyward, exactly as Shane had done in the locker room an hour before, “do you mean to say,” Scott started before looking around the street which was weirdly empty. Then Shane remembered it was a Wednesday and most hockey fans would probably not be at this specific bar so it probably made sense that this block was pretty quiet. Scott still lowered his voice and leaned closer to Carter as he said, “are you telling me that you were waiting for the two gay guys to show up before you went inside?”

Carter just stared back at him for a second before nodding.

“Right, okay, you’re all freaks,” Scott decided, “go indoors, now. Please, you’re embarrassing me.”

The team started filing through the door and Shane watched in amusement as Scott stood on the sidewalk, questioning every one of his life’s choices.

Hayden followed Shane like a puppy as they walked up to the bar to order drinks and Shane decided not to ask why he was here and, instead, simply enjoyed the familiar feeling of celebrating a win with his best friend. Hayden clearly didn’t care that his team had just lost 7-0. He was chatting happily with Shane’s new teammates and quickly making friends even though he didn’t leave Shane’s side once.

About a half hour after they showed up, the door opened and Shane watched Kip walk into the bar. He looked nervous and Shane wanted to step in and help but this was Scott’s thing and Scott needed to be the one to make the connection otherwise Shane was certain it’d just become another fight.

* * *

Scott’s eyes locked onto Kip the second he walked through the door and he felt a little lightheaded.

He looked over at Shane, hoping for some sort of direction because all logic had sort of fled his brain, and simply got an encouraging smile and a not at all subtle head nod telling Scott to just get on with it already.

Scott shot Shane a rather ineffective glare and then raised his hand, let the smile that always tugged at his lips when he saw Kip appear in full force, and called, “Kip, hey!”

Kip looked shocked and Scott felt like an absolute ass.

The half comment Shane had made about Scott having only introduced Kip to Shane and Ilya as anything was ringing through his brain.

He’d come out to his team and nothing bad had happened. He’d even told them all he had a boyfriend and they’d just been excited for him. He could introduce them to Kip and the world wouldn’t end. He wouldn’t even have to say the word ‘boyfriend’. They’d all probably just know so long as Scott didn’t do something stupid like continuously say that Kip was just his friend.

Kip walked over to him, looking a little wary, and Scott threw an arm around his shoulders, loose enough that Kip could step away if he wanted but enough to hopefully show Kip that Scott wanted him here, that he always wanted Kip in whatever space he was in.

“Guys, this is Kip. Kip, this is everyone.”

“Kip!” Carter said, clearly delighted about something though Scott really didn’t know what. He sincerely doubted it was just the fact that Scott had brought his boyfriend, that was far too simple for Carter Vaughan. “That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard! Are you kidding me with that shit?”

“It’s, uh, short for Christopher?” Kip said, clearly not having a single clue what to do in the face of an adrenaline drunk (and making his way toward alcohol drunk) Carter Vaughan coming off of a win.

“Kip!” Carter repeated. He opened his mouth to say something else but then a hand landed on his shoulder and Scott watched as Carter looked down, saw Shane, and immediately shut up.

It appeared Ilya Rozanov wasn’t the only person Shane could walk like a dog.

“Hey, Kip,” Shane greeted, smiling now that Carter was no longer about to make a very loveable fool of himself.

“Shane,” Kip greeted, returning his smile, “great game tonight, you played like a beast. I think your mom lost her voice cheering for you.”

“Why does everyone else get to meet Hollander’s parents before me?” Huff grumbled.

“Who has met my parents?” Shane asked, entirely perplexed.

“I have,” Hayden said.

“Rozanov and Marlow!” Breezy said from somewhere behind Scott, “why are Boston Bears and Scott’s friend getting to meet your parents before your team!”

“I’ve also met Shane’s parents,” Hayden reiterated, apparently finding it necessary that everyone knew that.

“Christ,” Shane said under his breath before looking back up and clearly trying to stop himself from sounding completely exasperated, “you can all meet my parents tomorrow. They’re staying at my house; we can go over after practice. Now, everyone say hi to Kip and be nice to him or I’ll tell Rozanov to sic Marlow on you.”

The line of threats was getting quite tenuous.

Scott sort of wondered if Cliff knew that Ilya and Shane were offering him up for acts of violence.

Scott sort of got the idea that Cliff wouldn’t mind.

Shane wandered away and Hayden quickly introduced himself to Kip before turning to follow him. Luke Gillis, a 19-year-old rookie who’d seemingly decided he was going to get himself adopted by Shane if it killed him, did the same thing.

Kip looked up at Scott as the room started moving around them again and Scott decided he was going to listen to everything Shane Hollander told him to do for the rest of his life.

Kip looked so damn happy. Just because Scott had invited him out with the team. Scott hadn’t even introduced him as his boyfriend and it’d been enough to make Kip smile like that. He deserved more, so much more. And Scott was starting to think he might just be ready to give it to him. He wouldn’t do anything drastic now, not in the middle of playoffs.

But this summer…

He could do something brave this summer.

Chapter End Notes

as a side note: my sister, ladies and gents

Chapter 25: it's new york, baby

Chapter Notes

April 2017

Game 2 happened on Friday and ended in another shut out.

New York won 4-0 with goals from Shane, Carter, Scott, and Luke.

On Saturday afternoon, they held practice in Tarrytown and then bussed over to the Westchester County Airport and flew to Montreal.

On Sunday afternoon, Shane stepped into the tunnel at the Bell Center flanked by Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughan and, for the first time in his career, walked into the Visitor’s locker room.

It was completely and utterly surreal.

Playing the Voyageurs on his new home ice had been strange, but stepping onto the ice here as a visitor felt wrong. He was so used to skating out to the sounds of adoring fans, so used to going through his pregame ritual with the knowledge that he’d be playing in front of his home crowd. He knew Montreal had loved him once, but he’d left. And he, in a dark corner of his mind, wondered if he was even deserving of their love, wondered if the fact that he’d spent years lying to himself, his team, and his town meant that they’d never really loved him.

He knew he wasn’t doing a great job of covering up how off he felt as he moved through the paces of pregame, but he didn’t have a single clue what to do about it. He tried every trick he knew for centering himself but every time he stepped out of a coaches’ office or a training room, his feet automatically turned toward the home locker room and he had to physically stop himself from following his instincts.

And then they went out for warm ups and Shane was hit by a tidal wave of sound.

The Bell Center was one of the largest NHL arenas, beating Madison Square Garden’s game capacity by about 3,000. Shane had played in a sold out Bell Center dozens of times and he certainly expected it to fill up by game time tonight; what he hadn’t expected was to look up and realize the arena was almost at capacity for warm ups.

Nearly every one of the Bell Center’s 21,000 seats was full.

And every single person was chanting his name.

The place was full of Hollander jerseys, both in Montreal’s blue and red and New York’s red and white.

Shane forced himself to move forward until he was nearly at center ice and then he pulled of his helmet and just let himself take it all in.

It was incredible and healing and, at the same time, it was all a bit much and it somehow stung, just a little, to be left wondering how many of these people would still be chanting his name if they knew why Montreal pushed him out the door. The world had changed and people were more accepting but hockey was a traditional sport with traditional fans.

“Hey, Hollzy,” Luke said, skating up next to Shane and somehow quietly pulling him out of his head at the exact right time.

“Luke.”

He grinned a little and nudged his shoulder against Shane’s, “wanna make a bet?”

“What’s the bet?”

“If we win this in four, you have to host a team sleepover at your house.”

“That’s not how bets work, Luke.”

“I think it is,” Luke shrugged.

Shane couldn’t help but smile as he shoved Luke away by his helmet, “fine, if we win, we can have a team sleepover at my house,” Luke started grinning and Shane grabbed him by the shoulder and took a bit of a shot in the dark based off of some complaints he’d heard Luke make about his roommates, a couple of AHL and ECHL guys playing for New York area teams, “but, I will only host the sleepover on the condition that you tell me how you really feel about the house you’re living in.”

Luke’s nose scrunched just a bit as he weighed his options, “fine,” he agreed, “fine, but only if we win in four.”

* * *

Scott watched as Luke rather effortlessly pulled Shane back from the edge he’d clearly been about to tip over in the face of thousands of adoring fans welcoming him to a rink he’d only recently been kicked out of and decided that being constantly teased was well worth it.

Shane was an entirely different person than he’d been when he left Montreal. It was clear to anyone who spent more than 30 seconds with him. He was still the same slightly neurotic guy who didn’t exactly love loud noises and crowded rooms, but he joked far more often and laughed freely and he was making meaningful friendships with everyone on the team instead of just a select few.

Luke, though, that was the real change.

Scott hadn’t even noticed the kid was struggling until Shane showed up and clocked it immediately. He’d been playing incredible hockey and always getting laughs in the locker room but Shane had pretty quickly seen through the façade. Scott knew for a fact it was because Shane had nearly a decade of experience in cutting through the asshole persona of Ilya Rozanov in order to see the person underneath; still an asshole, maybe, but an incredibly loyal person with struggles he refused to let anyone see.

Over the past month, Luke had all but adhered himself to Shane’s side and Scott could tell it was making a difference. He was more sure of himself; the bravado that had served as a mask was morphing into actual confidence. He was putting up points every game and making the sorts of plays that won you the Rookie of the Year and he was only getting better every game.

Scott was honestly starting to wonder if he’d end up being demoted to second line so Shane could play center with Luke to his left. And, honestly, that thought didn’t scare him as much as it would’ve at the beginning of the season.

Luke was 19, Shane was 25, and Scott was 33. He was getting old in hockey years and it was about time for the kids to step in. Shane was in his prime, he should be playing the position he was best at on the first line for a winning team.

But those were questions for next year and at that very moment, they had a game to win.

* * *

Comeau was back on the ice and Shane was contemplating homicide.

He jumped over the boards for his second shift of the night and decided that it was time to start scoring just so it would shut the asshole up.

They were only five minutes into the game, but that many minutes scoreless was too many for Shane’s liking.

He’d thought the odd feeling of being back in the Bell Center would throw him off his game. He’d thought that the warm reaction from what’d once been his home crowd would make him a little less hungry for revenge. But then he’d seen Gilbert Comeau’s stupid fucking face and his entire world had narrowed down to kicking the shit out of Montreal.

He caught a pass from Muller as he skated toward the bench and Shane re-entered play and thought to himself that it’d be nice for the 4^th line rookie to have an assist on the scoresheet for a playoff game. With that in mind, Shane kept ahold of the puck as he dodged Gagnon on Montreal’s defense and cut close to the crease to tap the puck just past Drapeau’s left skate. The goal light blazed and Shane allowed himself a brief smile before returning to New York’s half of the ice.

Scott won the faceoff and passed to Carter who, even after only a couple weeks of playing together, knew exactly where Shane was going to be as he left the neutral zone. Shane caught the pass easily and, just to be a dick, chipped it straight over Gagnon’s head before dialing up his speed as he tracked the puck forward. He skated past it just enough to make Gagnon think he’d lost it and then let his right foot hang back, kicking the puck straight into the face of his blade just as he approached Drapeau’s crease for the second time in less than a minute.

He sniped the puck into the top shelf and stood there, just grinning at a fuming Drapeau, as Carter skated into his side and knocked their helmets together.

Six minutes later Shane watched as Luke chased down a loose puck on New York’s half and sped down the ice, keeping control the entire time before driving the puck into the left side of the net, perfectly landing it between the goal post and Drapeau’s glove with the sort of accuracy that Shane had always been known for. Shane was on his feet cheering before the light even went off.

With two minutes left in the first period, Shane caught a rebound off the boards and pulled around the back of Montreal’s goal before tapping the puck into a slight opening just as Scott bullied his way past J.J.

Scott picked it up and snapped it through the five hole to put them up 4-0.

The New York locker room was rowdy during that first intermission, only calming down long enough for Scott to yell at them to keep playing like they had been before they were back in the tunnel and heading for the ice.

The second period was at least a better fight than the first had been.

Someone had lit a fire under Montreal and they started connecting passes like they’d actually played hockey before which only made the game more fun.

Shane loved a competition; it was what had intrigued him about Ilya in the first place.

Winning games against teams and players that didn’t put up a fight was never as fun as beating someone who was actually competing.

But just because Montreal had remembered that they were a professional hockey team didn’t mean they were gaining any ground.

Eric Bennett was playing like a maniac.

Every shot that made it past New York’s defense was immediately eaten up by the black hole that Bennett had somehow summoned around his net. He was making saves that Shane was pretty sure were contrary to the laws of physics.

And New York’s offense wasn’t slowing down, either.

Carter scored on their second shift on the ice bringing the score up to 5-0 and Shane followed two shifts later bringing the score to 6-0 and giving them a minute to breathe as hundreds of hats were cleared from the ice.

The second Shane was back over the boards as their shift ended, Luke was on in his place, rocketing after Couillard who didn’t even have time to react before Luke had stolen the puck from his cradle and spun around, darting back up the ice toward Montreal’s goal. The way Couillard looked down and then over his shoulder before realizing that’d actually just happened was almost comical. Luke smacked the puck into the lower corner of the net with a textbook backhand.

He spun around and pointed at Shane and Shane just knew the little fucker was remembering Ilya telling Shane his backhand during Game 1 had been a sexy goal.

* * *

Ilya’s game ended with enough time for him to watch the end of Shane’s.

He escaped the press pool and ducked into one of the offices he knew had a TV, thankful that they were home in Boston so he wouldn’t have to either scour Philadelphia’s facility or watch this on the tiny screen of his phone. He turned on ESPN about a minute and a half into the third period.

The TV was muted and Ilya grumbled to himself for a second before finding the right button and then turning up the volume.

And then he had to check to make sure the volume was actually working … and that he understood English.

“What the fuck,” he whispered to himself, looking at the remote and seeing if he could rewind, but then the announcers started talking again.

“Hollander might just be playing the best game of his career,” one of them said and Ilya watched as Shane hopped back over the boards for what must’ve been his second shift of the period. “New York is up 7-0. Hollander has scored three of those goals himself and assisted Scott Hunter’s single goal. Carter Vaughan scored one and assisted one of Hollanders, and the other two on the board are from rookie Luke Gillis who’s had an incredible season and only seems to be getting better as the weeks go on.”

There were 17 minutes left on the clock and Shane had already scored three times.

That was the second time in three games Shane had pulled off a hat trick and Ilya found his mind spinning as he tried to remember all of the scoring records for playoff games.

He was about to pull out his phone to Google it when he heard the announcers say, “and there he goes again!”

The announcers sounded genuinely bewildered and Ilya just knew Shane must’ve pulled off something crazy earlier in the game for them to be this shocked by Shane Hollander playing good hockey. It couldn’t just be that he’d already scored three times.

Ilya watched as Shane darted around J.J. like he was a test dummy instead of an actual human. The puck was in the back of the net before J.J. even reacted.

Ilya felt his eyes widen.

They’d been right. This really might be the best game of Shane’s career. Every move was precise but it was all backed by a fire that you just couldn’t replicate. He was playing like Ilya had after Sochi, like he had something to prove.

“A fourth goal for Hollander with sixteen minutes still left on the clock,” one of the announcers said and Ilya forced himself to pay attention, something about their tone made it seem important instead of just a little bit insane. “He’s one goal away from tying the record for most goals in a playoff game. The record hasn’t been touched since 1989 when Mario Lemieux scored five against Philadelphia.”

Ilya knew as soon as he heard them that Shane wasn’t just going to tie the record.

Three minutes later, Shane scored his fifth goal.

* * *

Scott didn’t even know it was happening in the moment. Didn’t even realize he was quite literally watching history until he knocked the puck back toward Shane who rocketed it over Drapeau’s shoulder with less than thirty seconds left on the clock and the entire arena lost their fucking minds.

He turned around to look at Shane who looked just as bewildered as Scott did and then Hayden was crashing into Shane from behind and Scott’s instincts kicked in. He knew, rationally, somewhere in the haze of exhaustion and adrenaline, that Hayden wasn’t trying to fight Shane. He just couldn’t quite parse out what was happening.

“You’re a fucking mad man,” Hayden said just as Scott approached.

“What the hell is going on?” Shane asked, leaning forward to knock his helmet against Scott’s seemingly on instinct.

“I have no fucking clue,” Scott yelled back, not even sure if Shane could hear him over the riot happening around them.

Scott looked around, trying to see if there was anything that might give them any indication of what was happening and then he heard Shane’s voice, quiet and almost awestruck, “oh my God.”

“What?” Scott asked, whipping back around.

“Oh my God,” Shane repeated, his eyes locked on the scoreboard.

Scott turned back around and his brain finally started to process what was happening.

They were up 10-0.

That was assuredly crazy. But that wasn’t what Shane was reacting to.

Right there, under New York’s goal count next to the number 24 was a 6.

Clear as day in LED; six goals for New York’s #24.

Shane Hollander had just broken the record for most goals scored in a playoff game. A record that hadn’t been broken since Montreal’s own Newsy Lalonde set it in 1919. It was later tied by another Montreal legend, Maurice ‘Rocket’ Richard, who scored five goals in the semi-finals against Toronto in 1944 before going on to win the Stanley Cup in a 4-0 sweep against Chicago.

Shane Hollander, Montreal’s Golden Boy who they’d forced out the door, had just broken the record in Montreal’s own goddamn barn.

* * *

The moment the buzzer went off, the Admirals bench cleared and Shane found himself in the middle of a dogpile.

He had no clue what was happening around him, his eyes were still locked on the number 6 next to his own jersey number on the scoreboard.

Somehow, he made it off the ice and into the locker room. He pulled off his jersey and pads, feeling a little like he’d forgotten how to breathe and just needing them gone. He left his compression shirt on but then even that felt like too much. He yanked it over his head and tossed it into his locker without caring where it landed and that was about when he realized he was starting to shut down.

Too much was happening, too many sounds and changing lights and people touching him. Too many emotions were fighting for limited real estate in his nervous system.

Too much.

It was all too much.

His phone rang in his stall and he answered on instinct.

“Hello?”

“Holy fucking shit, Hollander.”

“Ilya?”

The locker room was buzzing around him and Shane could feel himself tipping into an abyss.

“Shane?” Ilya said, his tone changing in a way Shane couldn’t quite track. He would’ve been able to, had it been any other day, any other time. He knew Ilya like the back of his hand, could tell you everything about him from the specific tilt of a smile, but right now he felt like he was lost at sea. “Shane, sweetheart, what is wrong?”

“Too much.”

Ilya hummed in understanding and took in an audible breath that Shane followed on instinct, “good, keep breathing and listen to me, yes? Media is going to want to talk to you. It will be loud, there will be lights, it will feel like too much but you are good at media, better than me. You always know what to say. I am watching on ESPN right now, I will see you as soon as you go in the hall, just talk to me, okay? Listen to their questions and tell me your answers, okay?”

Shane forced himself to breathe, “okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya echoed, “and when it’s done you can shower and go home to our condo or you can go to Pike’s. Either way you will be home, yes?”

Shane hadn’t even thought about that. The thought made something settle in his chest, something warm enough to thaw a little of the ice that had started to encase his lungs. He felt like he could breathe a little easier, like the oxygen was actually making it to his brain.

“Home, yeah,” Shane repeated and he could hear the shift in his own voice. He sounded more like himself. Maybe not quite the version of himself that’d been appearing more and more the longer he was in New York, but at least different from the version of himself that appeared when his brain was waging a war against itself.

“Now go talk to the media so I can see that pretty face.”

“I have to put on a shirt.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“Rozanov.”

“Hollander, live a little.”

Shane breathed out a light laugh and could’ve sworn he could hear Ilya smiling through the phone.

“Thanks,” Shane whispered before hanging up and tossing his phone back into his stall.

He turned around right as Christina appeared, looking more than a little frantic, and put on his best smile as he stepped toward her before she could come across the room to drag him out into the hall, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender.

She shot him a smile that looked almost apologetic and Shane found himself feeling incredibly grateful for her presence. She was really fucking good at her job. She knew how to market them, she knew how to make them comfortable, and she knew how to get the media to back the fuck off even though she was about five foot two and didn’t really give the vibe of someone who knew how to throw a punch.

* * *

Ilya honestly might’ve been more shocked by the fact that Shane actually walked into the hall to face the media shirtless than the fact that Shane had just broken a record that’d been held for nearly 100 years.

Ilya was really fucking glad he was in a locked office and not in front of cameras of his own because his jaw quite literally dropped when Shane Hollander in all his shirtless, freckled, sweaty postgame glory strolled into the hall. His hair was sticking up at all angles and when he ran a hand through it in an (unsuccessful) attempt to tame it, Ilya had the pleasure of watching Shane’s bicep flex in Full HD.

Ilya wasn’t even sort of paying attention to the questions Shane was answering, he was simply watching Shane which was why he caught it immediately when Shane’s attention was pulled by something off camera. Ilya caught the moment Shane’s media smile turned into something real; and not just his normal, real happy smile, but the megawatt one, the one that only showed up when he was genuinely goddamn giddy.

“You’re kidding,” Shane said, his voice pitched just slightly higher in excitement. Ilya couldn’t tell who he was talking to, they weren’t close enough for their voice to be picked up by the broadcast but whoever they were, they were officially on Ilya’s favorite list of people simply for making Shane smile like that. “Who’s with the kids? Are your parents here?”

“No and Jackie’s can’t get here until tomorrow,” and that was clearly Hayden Pike. He must’ve gotten close enough to the cameras for the mics to pick him up even though he wasn’t in the shot. Ilya wanted to revoke his previous statement about the mystery person going on his list of favorite people.

“I’ll stay with them,” Shane responded immediately, he turned back toward the camera and clearly attempted to give an apologetic smile though he couldn’t quite seem to temper his actual smile, “sorry, thanks for your time, we gotta go.”

Ilya watched as New York’s media director stepped into the frame, smiling almost indulgently as Shane disappeared from view.

* * *

“You don’t have to do that,” Hayden said, picking up the speed to keep up with Shane as he moved as fast as he could while still in fucking skates back toward the visitor’s locker room, “Shane, c’mon man, you just broke a massive record, you should go out to celebrate.”

“If you think I give a shit about breaking that record right now, you’re cracked.”

“I think you probably should give a shit.”

“I’ll give a shit tomorrow,” Shane argued. He came to a stop right outside the locker room, the absolute cacophony of sound already grating on his nerves even through the closed door. “Hayd, seriously, I’m about four seconds away from having a mental breakdown. Too much is going on, too many people have been touching me and yelling and I cannot do it. If I have to get dragged to a bar right now, I’ll flee into the wilderness never to be seen again. Just let me grab my bag and we’ll go, I’ll shower at your house and you can get Jackie and go to the hospital.”

“Don’t you have practice in the morning?”

“The girls have school,” Shane said, trying to keep his voice calm, “and if Jackie’s parents aren’t here before I have to go to practice I’ll just bring Arthur with me, the media team will adopt him within the first five minutes. Let me help.”

“Okay, okay,” Hayden said, blowing out a harsh breath and nodding, “okay, put on real clothes though, or at least a shirt.”

“Deal,” Shane agreed. He pulled open the door and did his best not to cringe as he was hit by a wall of sound. “Hey!” he yelled. It didn’t go silent but it got quiet enough that he could be heard without screaming, “Hayden’s wife’s in labor, I’m staying with his kids tonight. Luke, tell them about our bet and we will celebrate my new record, this insane fucking win, and Luke’s crazy bet on Tuesday!”

With that he moved to his locker and got undressed and redressed faster than he ever had before. He was back in the hall and jogging toward the exit with Hayden before anyone could even attempt to stop him.

* * *

Shane woke up Monday morning to the wonderful combination of his alarm going off, Ruby Pike’s elbow attempting to dig underneath his rib cage, and a crick in his neck from falling asleep on the couch.

“Uncle Shane!” Ruby yelled and Shane just grinned, ignoring the twinge of his muscles and the lingering exhaustion of an intense game of hockey followed by a sensory overload, and wrapped his arms around Ruby as she climbed fully on top of him. He held out his right arm on instinct and Ruby shifted until she was wedged between Shane and the back of the couch just as Jade climbed up beside her.

“Oh, my girls,” Shane cooed, squeezing them tight and delighting in their giggles. “I missed you.”

He let himself bask in the relative morning quiet for a minute before getting up to start the day.

He was less familiar with their morning routine than their evening routine, but he knew it well enough. He somehow got everyone fed, dressed, and into Jackie’s car and wasn’t even late dropping the girls off at kindergarten. His phone dinged with a text from Hayden telling him that Amber Pike had made her way into the world and thanking him for staying with the kids. Shane shot back a text telling him the girls were at school and that he’d keep Arthur with him for however long they needed.

He checked his team chat and saw that practice had been scheduled for the afternoon, meaning he’d be able to pick the girls back up and bring them to the hospital which was exactly what he’d done when Arthur was born, though he’d been picking them up from preschool back then.

That thought made him remember the day he’d moved into his house in New York, how he’d stood outside that room that was perfect for these kids and thought about how much it sucked that he wouldn’t be here for the birth of kid number four. But here he was, following the exact same pattern he had the day Arthur was born.

Sometimes, the world worked in wonderful ways.

* * *

Ilya pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked into their practice facility Monday afternoon to find a text from Pike with a picture of Shane looking down at a tiny little baby with a look on his face that Ilya would recognize anywhere. It was how Shane looked when he was entirely overwhelmed by the force of his own love.

That at least explained why Shane had sprinted off camera and then gone MIA.

He’d texted once the night before to say he was staying at the Pike’s but Ilya hadn’t heard from him since. He’d been a little worried, but after seeing that picture of Shane, he decided he’d had a pretty good excuse.

* * *

On Tuesday night, New York beat Montreal 5-1.

Shane was perfectly happy with the fact that it hadn’t been a perfect 4-0 sweep and four perfect shutouts; Montreal’s only goal had been Hayden’s.

Chapter End Notes

on this episode of my younger siblings hate me: my brother borrowing my car
(not pictured: the half finished chocolate milk he LEFT THERE TO ROT IN THE SUN WHILE I WAS GONE FOR A WEEK)

Chapter 26: roommates

Chapter Notes

most of the sleepover shenanigans will be happening over in the socmed companion piece :)

the person who wrote the funniest goddamn socmed au on twitter just recommended this fic to their followers and i nearly passed out (twitter user @2444HOLIX i love you so bad everyone go read their stuff every tweet is the funniest thing i've ever read)

April 2017

On Wednesday morning, Shane boarded the plane at Montreal Metropolitan Airport and wasn’t even sort of shocked when Luke immediately took the seat next to him.

“We won in four.”

“We did,” Shane agreed.

“I hate my house,” Luke said without any prompting, “hate it. They’re all disasters, no one understands the concept of a dishwasher, I’m paying way too much in rent for my ceilings to be leaking, the stove to never work, and the water to never be warm. Also, I have to take my clothes to a goddamn laundromat. And, another thing, I don’t think any of them actually like me and I don’t particularly like any of them but at least I’m not a dick about it. I hate it.”

“When does your lease end?”

“Not until August and they’re all talking about re-signing.”

“How hard would it be for them to find someone to fill your spot?”

Luke paused, studying Shane’s face for a moment before slumping back into his seat, “probably not very but I don’t know where else I’d go. New York is expensive and I’m still on my ELC for two more years so I’ve gotta be responsible with my money.”

Shane was suddenly immensely grateful he’d called Ilya the night before.

He’d had a feeling Luke hated his house and he’d wanted to offer a solution, but his house wasn’t only his, it was Ilya’s, too, even if he lived in Boston most of the year and they’d decided to spend their summers in Canada. It was still meant to be a place Ilya could live in and be comfortable in. But Ilya had been able to tell how much Luke meant to Shane, how quickly he’d wormed his way into Shane’s heart, and he’d told Shane to just do whatever he thought was right and they’d go from there.

“Live with me,” Shane offered. He choked down a laugh at the way Luke’s jaw literally dropped and just continued talking, “I’ve got a massive house and there’s a private room above my garage, has its own external entrance and everything. I’ve got a gym in the basement, a whole kitchen and a laundry room, and I always do my dishes. Also, you’d get unfettered access to Sunny.”

“Shane, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Fine, you’re not asking. I’m telling you; you’re moving in with me. It’s playoffs. We can’t have you not getting proper rest because you’re stuck in a shitty house with shitty roommates. We’ve got at least a week before our next game because we won this one in four, so we’ve got a bit of a buffer to get you moved into somewhere that doesn’t actively suck. The guest room at my place is furnished so we don’t even have to move all your stuff yet if we can’t find the time.”

“Are you serious?”

“Luke, c’mon buddy,” Shane said, dropping his voice lower so they couldn’t be heard over the chatter of their teammates getting settled on the plane, “I already knew you hated your house before you told me. I’ve been planning to make the offer, I was just waiting for you to admit you needed it. Rookies live with vets all the time. Let’s get you out of your shitty house that’s probably infested with black mold and you can live with me and save your money.”

“I can’t not pay you rent.”

“Buy your own groceries if you have to but I’m not taking money from you.”

“Shane.”

“Luke,” Shane shot back, giving him a look that Shane truly hoped translated to you loveable idiot, “I bought the house with last year’s Rolex contract. I don’t need your money.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re stupidly rich,” Luke sighed. Shane just stayed quiet and looked out the window, giving Luke the space to do whatever he needed to do to rationalize accepting Shane’s offer. After a full minute, he finally answered, “okay, okay, thank you. I really appreciate it. I can look for better apartments over the summer.”

“No. Unless you decide you hate me, you’re living with me until you’re done with your ELC. Also, I’ll barely even be here this summer, I’ll be at a lake two hours away from Ottawa where no one can even find me in order to bother me so you’ll have free reign, just don’t burn the house down.”

Luke went quiet again, but then, just as the plane’s engines started to roar signaling take off, he looked over at Shane and said, “I’m really happy you came to New York.”

It was earnest and sweet and different from the way he’d said the same thing on Shane’s first day, back when he’d just seemed like an overexcited rookie with a bit of a Shane Hollander obsession. Back then, he was saying he was happy to be playing with a guy he’d spent the past few years idolizing. Now he was saying he was happy to have Shane as a friend.

“I am too,” Shane responded.

By the time the seatbelt signs turned off, Luke was asleep with Sunny curled up in his lap and his head on Shane’s shoulder and Shane was texting Ilya to tell him they’d accidentally acquired a 19 year old kid.

* * *

They were given Thursday and Friday off of practice as soon as it became pretty clear that the Boston v. Philadelphia series was going to last the full seven games. They were given explicit orders to sleep, limit their workouts, and follow the team nutritionist’s instructions on caloric intake. At this point in his career, Scott was well versed in the playoff diet, he knew how much it effected your body to be practicing and playing consistently with no breaks for an entire playoff run, he knew how hard it became to keep weight on.

He also was knew that when they were told to rest, the coaching staff probably hadn’t meant that they should spend Thursday night having a team sleepover at Shane’s.

They were doing it anyway. Bets were sacred, after all.

Which was how Scott found himself standing on one side of Shane’s kitchen island just watching Shane and Luke in amusement as they tried to figure out what to feed 20 hockey players.

The pair of them had spent their free morning packing up all of Luke’s stuff in the shitty house he’d been living in with some AHL and ECHL guys who apparently sucked nearly as much as the house. Then Luke had gotten the pleasure of watching what Rolex money can do when movers had showed up the same day Shane called to shuffle furniture around the house until the private guest suite above the garage was empty. Then they’d moved all of Luke’s stuff into the suite.

It’d only taken them three hours.

A fact that Luke had mentioned to Scott no fewer than five times in the thirty minutes Scott had been at the house.

“Can’t we just order pizzas?” Luke asked, jumping up to sit on the counter below the cabinets.

“We need something of nutritional value,” Shane argued, “but yes, we can order pizzas. You pick the place, I have no clue where to order from around here.”

“We’ll order salads too,” Luke decided, pulling out his phone to start his review of whatever pizza places were in delivery range of Shane’s house.

Whatever Shane was going to respond was cut off by his open laptop ringing with an incoming FaceTime call. He glanced at the screen and from the distinctly fond way he rolled his eyes, Scott knew exactly who was on the other end of the line.

“Ilya,” Shane greeted. “Scott and Luke are here, by the way.”

Luke looked up at Scott, clearly wondering why that needed to be specified and Scott silently wished the kid well. He was in for a fucking treat.

“Shane, моя любовь, I do not care. It is almost time for pregame meetings and I need to see my daughter.”

“What the fuck?” Luke whispered, staring wide eyed at the screen.

“Hey, Luke, how are you at keeping secrets?” Shane asked, looking a little like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to kill Ilya or kiss him, Scott got the feeling that it was a little bit of both.

“Steel trap,” Luke vowed, entirely earnest. “I’ve been keeping a secret for my best friend since third grade. Still haven’t told a soul.”

“Right, okay,” Shane said before running both hands down his face and letting out a deep breath, “Ilya, meet Luke my new roommate, Luke, meet Ilya my boyfriend.”

“Holy shit,” Luke said, nearly whispering again, his eyes going even wider before they darted toward Scott, “you were serious when you said Scott wasn’t your boyfriend?”

“That’s your reaction?” Shane asked, dumbfounded.

“Well, yeah! I thought you were kidding,” Luke sputtered. “The whole team calls you mom and dad, you’re always together when you’re not at practice, Scott looks at you like you hung the fucking moon, Shane. I mean, you adopted a dog together! What was I supposed to think?”

“You met Scott’s boyfriend a week ago, Luke.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Luke asked.

“I was literally standing right next to you,” Shane responded.

And then Scott watched in real time as Luke’s brain caught up to what was actually happening. He set his phone down on the counter next to him and just pointed toward the laptop, “that’s Ilya Rozanov.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, “nice to meet you. Shane, show me my daughter.”

“Patience, Rozanov,” Shane chided.

“Pleaaasee,” Ilya begged, stretching out the word. He was nearly whining, though Scott was dead certain that Ilya would never admit to that.

“Fine, oh my God,” Shane said, picking up the laptop and walking over to the couch where Sunny was sleeping.

Luke stared after him before turning back to Scott, “that was Ilya Rozanov.”

“Yes,” Scott agreed, “unfortunately.”

“What do you mean ‘unfortunately’? That was Ilya Rozanov!”

“You’re gonna have to get used to him,” Scott said, trying not to laugh at the look on Luke’s face and almost certainly failing, “he stays here whenever he’s in New York.”

“I’m living with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov?”

“I’m sure the novelty will wear off pretty quickly.”

Luke took a deep breath, staring into space like he was trying to figure out what choices he’d made in life that’d led him to this moment just in case he got thrown back in time and had to perfectly replicate them. And then a disbelieving sort of smile spread across his face and Scott just watched some insane series of emotions pass across the kid’s face before he shook his head and let out a little chuckle, “did Ilya Rozanov, the giant Russian guy the entire league is afraid of, just whine until Shane put a puppy on FaceTime?”

“Your life will become a whole lot easier if you learn to separate the Ilya Rozanov you see on the ice from the Ilya you see when he’s around Shane in private.”

“Who all knows?” Luke asked, sobering up slightly. Scott had to assume he’d finally understood the implications of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov being in a relationship, that he’d maybe remembered Shane saying that he had a boyfriend, but that it wasn’t safe for him to be out, that it wouldn’t even be safe for him for Shane to be out.

“Me and my boyfriend,” Scott answered, “Coach Murdock, Hayden and Jackie Pike, Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow, Ilya’s friend Svetlana, and Shane’s parents. J.J. Boiziau might know but I’m not sure how much he knows and I think Carter’s guessed. This is a big secret, Luke. It took Shane years to even tell Hayden. You really can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Luke promised and Scott could tell he understood the weight of what he’d been trusted with. “So, wait, that guy Kip is your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Scott said, his smile feeling a little dopey even to himself.

“Cool, he was really nice. I’d like to meet him again, though, I was a little distracted by Shane and Hayden last time.”

“I’d like that,” Scott said, finding that he really meant it. It was insane to think that just a couple months ago, this kid had felt like a hyperactive annoyance that Scott sort of just had to deal with, that he’d felt like a reminder that Scott was getting old and that new talent was coming to push him out. Now, though, he was something else. He was a kid who needed mentoring, whose family they knew nothing about and whose home life apparently left something to be desired. A kid who was struggling even though none of them had noticed. A kid who made Scott laugh and whose teasing was always good-natured.

Luke just grinned, clearly pleased that Scott wanted him to be a part of his life, even in such little ways, and Scott found himself regretting letting Shane beat him to adopting their rookie.

But then Shane walked back into the room with his laptop, a smile on his face as Ilya rambled about Philadelphia’s shift strategy for power plays and Scott watched as Luke’s entire being reacted to his presence. The almost formal set to his shoulders that Scott hadn’t even noticed was there faded away, his face went almost slack, and his lips tugged into a seemingly unconscious smile. He looked like someone who finally knew what it was like to feel safe at home and Shane was the reason for it.

Scott couldn’t regret anything, then.

* * *

Luke hadn’t even been living with Shane Hollander for an entire day and it was already the best place he’d ever lived.

He had his own space but could already tell that he’d never feel like he had to stay in it, like he had to avoid common spaces so he wouldn’t step on anyone’s toes. It was a new feeling. He’d never spent time in the living room in his childhood home, always opting to stay extra hours at the rink or spend every minute tucked safely away behind his bedroom door watching YouTube footage of Shane Hollander’s best plays and dreaming of a day where he could play at that level.

He’d never felt welcomed in common spaces, but a few short hours at Shane’s house and he was sitting on the kitchen counter, not quite able to stop smiling as Shane sat perched on the island opposite him with his phone on speaker between himself and Scott.

Luke barely even knew what was going on, but he was happy. He felt safe and cared for and, for once, it didn’t feel like it was about to be taken away.

Ilya Rozanov had long since hung up in order to attend pregame meetings, but he hadn’t hung up without telling Luke that he’d been playing great so far in playoffs. It was fucking surreal and Luke hadn’t had a clue how to react in the moment. He honestly still wasn’t sure how to react.

Now, though, Shane (and Scott, for some unknown reason) were on the phone with Shane’s mom trying to figure out which photoshoot and interview he should agree to about his record-breaking game in Montreal because he only had time for one before practices picked back up for their next series against Boston or Philadelphia.

“He’s already done men’s health and I don’t think he should do it again,” Scott said, scrolling through something on his phone. Luke wasn’t sure if it was the team calendar or a Google search on Shane. “I don’t know what was wrong with their stylist, but Shane is so much hotter than that.”

If Luke hadn’t literally just watched Ilya beg Shane to show him their ‘daughter’ while addressing him as what Luke could only assume were Russian pet names, Luke would be having a really fucking hard time believing Shane and Scott weren’t a couple.

“Agreed,” Yuna said and Shane just sort of stared up at the ceiling like he was hoping something might abduct him so he wouldn’t have to listen to his mom and one of his best friends debate which creative team would do justice to his, frankly, ridiculous looks. “Scott, look at the proposals I just emailed you and tell me which one you like best.”

Shane snapped out of his silent daydreams, that Luke was imagining were about escape by alien, to send the phone an incredulous look before shaking his head, his eyebrows pinched in confusion, “why is Scott picking which campaign I do?”

“Scott understands vision,” Yuna said, entirely deadpan.

Scott grinned at Shane, his eyes literally fucking twinkling as he said, “yeah, Rook, I understand vision.”

“I am almost 26 years old why are you still calling me Rook?”

“You’ll always be my rookie,” Scott said, ruffling Shane’s hair which made him look quite a bit like a disgruntled cat. Luke had to try really hard not to laugh at that.

Shane turned his attention back to his laptop where he had his text thread with Luke pulled up so they could figure out what food to order. This whole thing was giving Luke a newfound respect for team moms back in Juniors and youth league. He never had any clue how stressful it was to feed an entire hockey team. He was going to have to text his best friend Drew’s mom to thank her because he clearly hadn’t thanked her enough if this was what she was doing nearly every week.

Eventually, after doing pizza math and deciding that they should grill some chicken and steaks too just for fun, Shane and Luke had sorted out dinner. Scott was still reading through whatever Yuna had sent him so they moved on to adjusting their grocery order to account for breakfast.

Finally, just as Luke was trying to figure out what the next step in planning a sleepover for 20 grown men might be, Scott decided, “I think he should do GQ and Timid. Both have a solid plan and both offered the option of a truncated shooting schedule. GQ has a wider market, but Timid’s proposal is really interesting, also, Shane, I know you hate the emphasis on representation, I know you just want to play hockey, but I think it’d be cool for you to be featured in an Asian-owned publication, it’d even give you a chance to talk about how difficult it can be to be seen as an icon for a single part of your identity.”

Shane dropped the pile of blankets he’d been carrying onto the coffee table in the living room and walked forward to lean against the wall at the entrance to the kitchen. It seemed, to Luke, that he was actually considering Scott’s words. Luke hadn’t really known that Shane struggled with being pin holed into a single aspect of his identity, but it made a good amount of sense. He wondered a bit how it might change if it were safe for Shane to be out; he wondered if people might let him just be Shane Hollander instead of making him into some symbol for inclusivity. Luke honestly doubted it, no matter how much he wished it could happen.

“Alright,” Shane agreed after a minute, “yeah, if you can get those two scheduled, Mom, I’m good with Scott’s idea.”

Scott smiled and set down his phone and Yuna promised to schedule the shoots and then it was just the three of them again.

“Right, c’mon,” Shane said, pushing himself off the wall and heading back into the living room, “I’m going to go start the grill. People should be here soon.”

* * *

If you’d told Shane four months ago that he’d have his entire team in his house and he’d actually be enjoying himself, he would’ve laughed in your face. Actually, probably not, because four months ago Shane was barely laughing at anything. His life had done a complete 180° in the months since Rose had (gently and lovingly) strong-armed him into admitting he was gay.

That had been one of (if not the) scariest moments of his life but it’d been worth it.

Beating Montreal in a 4-0 sweep in round one of playoffs had felt like vindication, it’d felt like proving he was genuinely better than them. But it hadn’t just been him on the ice like it’d sometimes seemed in Montreal, he was now surrounded by an entire team of people who loved the sport and played it to the best of their ability every single game. And what was even better: they loved to win, but they also loved each other. Shane hadn’t even known what he was missing until he experienced what it was like in New York.

To go from a team whose only idea of bonding was attempting to force Shane to go to some club to a team that did its best to meet every member where they were was, honestly, life changing.

Shane had spent his entire life feeling like he was perpetually on the outside, like he was a beat behind the crowd and that he’d never actually catch up. He’d spent so long feeling like that that he’d stopped even trying to catch up. He’d simply resigned himself to existing on the edge of crowded rooms wishing his ever-scrambled mind would let him find a place somewhere in the noise.

It didn’t feel like that anymore.

Sure, he still much preferred smaller groups and comfortable places and predictable sounds, but he was comfortable enough with this team that existing in a crowd no longer felt like drowning.

“Having fun?” Luke asked, sidling up next to Shane out on the patio where Shane had let the younger guys take over his grill under the watchful eye of Cale Wagner.

“I am actually,” Shane said, “thanks for suggesting it.”

“It was a bet, you had to follow through.”

Shane rolled his eyes but he couldn’t help but smile, just a little, as he slung his arm around Luke’s shoulders and let the chaos carry on around him.

* * *

Ilya checked his phone before heading onto the ice in Philadelphia and found a selfie of Shane and Luke grinning up at the camera. Just over Shane’s shoulder Ilya could see a small crowd of who he recognized as most of the younger guys on the team, primarily the third line and Breezy, gathered around the grill in Shane’s backyard with Wagner directing them with all the intensity of a military commander.

It was a simple, stupid little picture but it made Ilya smile.

Shane looked so happy and the fact that he’d actually invited his team into their house, even if it’d been because of a bet, was incredible. He was clearly more comfortable in New York than he’d ever been in Montreal and it made it feel a little like everything had been worth it.

It sucked that it’d taken being ostracized by his team and injured by Cliff to get Shane to a place where he could smile like that and just exist in a space with people who knew and loved him, but that was how it’d happened.

Now Ilya just needed to beat Philadelphia so they could play against New York.

Ilya had the feeling that he’d been playing an almost repressed version of Shane Hollander for the past seven years and he simply couldn’t wait to get his ass kicked by a Shane who’d been unleashed.

Chapter End Notes

back w more commentary from my sister:

Chapter 27: pictures of you

Chapter Notes

title from 'taking pictures of you' by the kooks :)

April 2017

Late on Friday morning, once the team had cleared out of his house, Shane showered and left Sunny in Luke’s care and drove himself and Scott to the empty rink GQ had booked out in Yonkers.

He decided not to question why Scott was coming with. He’d long since abandoned any thought of teasing Scott for always following Shane home when he knew Kip was at work. Shane was pretty sure that Scott had been used to going home to an empty apartment for far too long. He also sort of got the idea that Scott wasn’t used to people who wanted to just spend time with him and Shane sure as shit wasn’t going to give Scott the idea that he wasn’t welcome in Shane’s space.

Also, Shane had been correct in the hospital two months prior; Scott and Yuna got along great. Shane wasn’t sure if he hated it or loved it, but he was pretty sure that Scott would make an incredible manager after he retired and Shane was quite alright with Scott testing the waters by listening to how Yuna handled Shane’s commitments.

The GQ shoot was fun and the interview was easy. The photos had been out of Shane’s comfort zone but having Scott there had honestly helped more than Shane had imagined it would. He was there with a genuine compliment or a joke to pull Shane out of his head every time he got self-conscious. The interview had been exactly what Shane was expecting; easy questions that had been carefully screened by his mom and Farah that had answers Shane could’ve given in his sleep.

He let a little more of his personality show through than he normally would, though. He threw in a few quips and chirps, he smiled more than he normally would’ve and laughed a little instead of just locking up and falling into a practiced pattern. He didn’t talk about why he left Montreal; he didn’t talk about how freeing it’d been to find a team that actually liked him instead of just his skill, but for people who knew him it’d be obvious. They’d be able to see more of him in his answers instead of only seeing a company line and, to Shane, that felt like progress.

They ate lunch at the rink and chatted with the creative team and then got back in the car to drive to the location the Timid team had given them. The publication was based out in San Francisco and Shane had no plans to be in the Bay Area any time soon, but they had contributors across the country so Shane would be meeting with a few from New York.

He was more nervous about this interview than the other one, he knew he’d need to show even more of himself than he had with GQ. He knew this was his chance to talk about tokenism in professional sports, he knew this was a chance to talk about the clash between personal identity and being a public figure. He couldn’t talk about being gay, but he could talk about the aspect of his identity people could see, the identity that’d caused Voyageurs management to tell his parents how excited they were to have ‘diversity’ on Shane’s draft day. He could open up a conversation that Scott (who Shane knew had been thinking about coming out publicly, even if he hadn’t actually told Shane that yet) could someday continue.

The Timid shoot was less about hockey and more about Shane.

Shane wasn’t quite sure whether or not that scared him.

* * *

After a day of questioning his identity and thinking about progress, Saturday morning’s practice was a welcome distraction.

“I want to try a new first powerplay unit,” Murdock said as they finished warm ups. Shane scrunched his nose in confusion but was careful not to show any other outward reaction. They’d just been playing their first line as their first unit and they’d been doing great, so he wasn’t quite sure why they were making a change. But he respected Murdock (and wanted to kick the shit out of Boston), so he decided to just stay silent and listen. “Breezy I want you to stay on the ice at right and then I want Scotty to drop back and play Left Defenseman, Matti you’ll come off because we need speed more than we need strength and it’ll give you a break so you can go back out and deck some Massholes once the clock runs down. Vaughny you’ll stay at right wing then I want Hollander at center and Gillis on the left.”

Shane’s eyes snapped over to Luke who was standing a step to his right; the kid looked stunned.

He’d been playing second line and second unit most of year, swapping between center and left based on what they needed but this would be his first time playing on the first line. Shane could remember when Montreal had officially made the swap part way through Shane’s rookie year, he could remember how that, more than getting drafted, more than being put in for his first face off against Ilya, had felt like his ‘I made it’ moment.

He also remembered how pissed the veteran center, the captain who’d preceded Shane, had been. He especially remembered how the fear that he was on the outside of the locker room had started to turn into reality.

Luke’s eyes locked onto Shane, clearly looking for some sort of reassurance that he deserved this or some sort of confirmation that it was real and Shane just grinned at him before skating a half step closer and knocking their helmets together.

If Shane had his way, Luke would never feel like he was too much.

If Shane had his way, Luke would always know he was welcome.

The new first unit ran a series of drills against both of their penalty kill units and it was fucking electric.

Shane had somehow already forgotten how much he loved playing Center.

He kind of hated it because he loved playing on a line with Scott and Carter, but this was absolutely the position he was meant to be playing.

“Jesus Christ,” Bennet yelled as yet another drill ended in their unit scoring. “Scott, man, I’m sorry but Rook has you beat.”

Shane immediately braced himself for anger.

They all teased Scott about being old and while he was older in hockey years, he was still an incredible player and the captain of this team. Shane didn’t know how far their friendship stretched, didn’t know if he was about to be put down in some way to make Scott feel better about what Eric had said.

He should’ve remembered he wasn’t in Montreal anymore.

His reaction had been visible enough that everyone on the ice was looking at him with varying degrees of pity, a few of them tinged with anger that even Shane could tell wasn’t aimed at him.

Scott took one look at Shane, immediately clocked his anxiety, and turned to Murdock, “I’d play second line, I don’t care. I just want to win.”

Now it was Shane’s turn to look stunned.

Murdock only paused a second before nodding, “alright, you three stay on the ice as forwards, Matti get back out here. Scott play center with Wagner on your left and Huff on your right, second line defense stays the same. Shane’s line, Benny’s your goalie, Scott you guys play with Tommy. Let’s scrimmage.”

It made sense, having a first line that could play longer shifts with a second line full of tried and tested veterans to back them up. Not that Shane and Carter weren’t veterans, but they were 25 and 26, they were young and hadn’t developed joint problems yet. They could skate faster and play for longer and (sorry Scott) wouldn’t be slowed down by someone who’s left hip hadn’t functioned properly in half a decade.

It also wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary for the captain to be a second or third line forward. Calgary, Carolina, and St. Louis all had their captains playing in secondary lines. The captain didn’t need to be the star player; they just needed to be a leader on and off the ice and a well-respected veteran like Scott was the perfect captain, even if he was no longer the star.

They played in bursts with the third line subbing in for Scott’s team and the fourth line for Shane’s and it became incredibly clear, incredibly quickly that Shane, Carter, and Luke were their best possible combination for a first line. All thoughts of potential anger and lingering anxiety from Montreal slipped away and Shane was left feeling weightless.

* * *

Scott watched, entirely helpless, as Shane, Carter, and Luke blew past their defense yet again. He felt genuinely fucking crazy for ever believing that he could out-play Shane at center. The three of them were grinning and laughing like children in a schoolyard while playing like they could win the Cup tomorrow without backup. It was some of the best hockey Scott had ever seen and, in the face of it, the slight sting of playing second line for the first time in years barely even registered.

And the best part of all of this? It was a closed practice.

Boston wasn’t going to know what hit them.

* * *

Philadelphia won Game 6 in Boston putting their series at 3-3 and then on Monday night, Boston won Game 7 in Philadelphia sending them to the second round against New York.

Ilya had barely been on his phone that day, far too focused on the game, so when he picked it up following their win Monday night, he was greeted with a Twitter feed full of Shane Hollander.

Ilya nearly choked on his own tongue.

Shane had posted a picture of himself, shirtless in leather pants and a long black coat in front of an empty net with a link to the GQ article and a caption about how he’d enjoyed having the chance to talk hockey as if anyone gave a solitary FUCK about hockey when Shane looked like that.

The photo he’d posted to Instagram was somehow, impossibly, hotter.

Ilya needed to sit down.

This man was going to kill him.

On Tuesday morning, Ilya woke up to his phone ringing.

He picked it up and was greeted by Shane’s voice, sounding somewhere between amused and ridiculously turned on, “I take it you liked the GQ pictures?”

“Hollander,” Ilya groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes and thanking every god, of every religion, that this man was his.

Shane had gone to bed right after Ilya’s game had finished so he could be properly rested for practice because he was responsible and reasonable. Ilya, meanwhile, had stayed up far too late tweeting absolute filth that he really hoped was never linked to him and sending Shane increasingly detailed texts about everything he was planning to do to him as soon as the New York v. Boston series was done.

Ilya almost hoped Boston would lose in a humiliating 4-0 streak like Montreal had just so he could get Shane in bed sooner.

Almost.

Shane breathed out a little laugh at whatever he’d heard in Ilya’s voice and the sound went straight to Ilya’s dick. He needed to get Shane horizontal (or vertical against a wall, honestly, he wasn’t picky at this point) immediately.

“Well, the Timid article’s out today, you want to pick which photo I use to post about it?”

Ilya’s phone buzzed and he checked his texts to find a series of pictures of Shane, each one better than the last, “marry me, Hollander.”

“Already planning on it, Rozanov,” Shane said, “pick a photo, please, I can’t decide. Also, I’ve gotta go, we’re about to be late for practice. Luke’s already in the car. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, “I love you, Shane.”

“I love you too,” Shane said, his voice going soft like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to say that out loud. Ilya understood the feeling.

The line cut out and Ilya saved the photos Shane had sent him before sending the two he thought he should use for Instagram and Twitter back and then he dropped his phone onto the pillow next to him with a groan.

His fiancé was about to break the internet.

* * *

Shane spent the entire run up to the Boston games being relentlessly teased by his teammates about the two photo shoots he’d done. It was familiar in some ways. But the difference, here, was that they were all doing it in good fun. All of them were happy for Shane, happy that he’d done something incredible and was being recognized for it. They were even happy that he’d looked good enough doing it that Twitter was still in a tizzy days later.

He felt a little stupid about how happy that made him, but he forced himself to feel the joy anyways.

He’d earned it.

Boston landed in New York on Thursday morning and, as much as Shane wanted to see Ilya immediately, he wanted to win this game more.

It was the smallest percentage of difference, but he knew Ilya understood, he knew Ilya wouldn’t be hurt, so he didn’t feel all that bad about it.

If there were a genuine choice between hockey in general and Ilya, he would choose Ilya every time. He knew that now; he knew that it would hurt, that losing hockey would feel like losing his identity, but he also knew that losing Ilya felt like losing a piece of himself and he never wanted to do that again. He’d survived hockey almost being taken away, he’d barely survived a few short months without Ilya. And now that he knew what it was like to actually have Ilya? He’d never survive without him.

But this wasn’t a choice between hockey and his relationship, it was a choice between focusing on winning an important game and getting Ilya alone after they hadn’t seen each other in a month.

He could hold off for another week.

Though when reporters asked him what his motivation for winning was, he was going to need to come up with an answer other than ‘the faster we win this series, the faster I get to suck my fiancé’s dick.’

The pattern of home games at MSG was familiar now after a month in New York and Shane moved through the day easily. He joked with Amanda and Christina, he did media with Scott, he got dragged into some sewer ball with the younger guys, he and Carter teased Scott on Twitter, he met with the trainers and sat through coaches and captains meetings. And then they stepped out for warm ups.

Sports channels and fan pages had been buzzing all day after ‘unconfirmed’ word had come out of morning walk through that they’d shifted their first line and first unit for powerplay. Pundits would be watching warm ups to see who stuck with who, trying to spot which pairings would be used for the game so they could make their predictions and place their bets.

Shane watched in poorly concealed amusement as Carter started purposefully stirring the pot by spending nearly the entire warm up period with Cameron and Nick, the two wingers from the third line. Shane stuck with Luke which wasn’t at all out of the ordinary, even for games when they hadn’t been playing on the same line.

He and Luke were leaning against the boards in front of their bench, double checking one of the play sheets on the iPad when Shane felt something tug at his jersey.

“What the-” he muttered before he looked over his shoulder and cut himself off.

Ilya was standing just on the other side of the center line, unable to crossover to New York’s half without incurring a penalty or fine, and had apparently decided that instead of calling Shane’s name to get his attention like a normal person, he’d reach his stick across the line and hook it into the back of Shane’s jersey.

“Ilya,” Shane greeted. Luke had ducked his head so Shane couldn’t see his face but his shoulders were shaking with poorly concealed laughter.

“Shane,” Ilya responded, entirely unapologetic over his antics, “what is going on with your lines?”

Shane just shrugged and watched Ilya’s nose scrunch in frustration. Luke turned fully around and started talking to Wagner but Shane could hear his voice wavering slightly, still clearly trying not to laugh.

“I’m not the captain, Roz, you’re gonna have to ask Scott,” Shane said, smirking just a little. Ilya knew that; Shane knew that Ilya knew that. Teams had to submit their confirmed starting lineup to the opposing team’s captain and to the officials before the start of the game. Shane was well aware that both Ilya and Scott would be getting the lineups sometime in the next 20 minutes, so Shane really didn’t feel bad for teasing him about it.

“You are a pest, Hollander.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t,” Ilya muttered but Shane could tell he was trying not to smile. “We need to make our bet official, yes? Do you want to or should I?”

“I can do it,” Shane said. He knew he’d get stopped in the tunnel heading back into the locker room and, in the off chance he didn’t, he’d just text Amanda and Christina and ask them to post about it. Ilya had announced the bet with Sunny; it was Shane’s turn this time.

“Is Sunny here?”

“No, it’s too busy around here during playoff games, she got kinda stressed out when she came for the second Montreal game so I just have a dog walker coming by the house in a couple hours.”

Ilya looked like he couldn’t decide whether he was disappointed she wasn’t here or upset that she’d been stressed and eventually landed on, “I will see her soon, anyways.”

Shane smiled at that; at the reminder that the season was nearly over and soon he’d have uninterrupted time with Ilya.

But instead of saying that out loud, Shane said, “the confirmed starters should be in now if you want to go check.”

“Right,” Ilya said, shaking his head a little, like he’d forgotten the reason (or the cover for) why he’d come over to talk to Shane. “Good luck, Hollander.”

“You too, Rozanov.”

Ilya shot him a grin and then skated away and Shane turned back toward Luke to finish warm ups.

He was ready to win this game.

Chapter End Notes

up next: the ny v. boston series

my mother, btw:

Chapter 28: in all my dreams

Chapter Notes

title from paper rings ;)

April 2017

Ilya stared at the sheet listing New York’s confirmed starters in silence for three full seconds before a laugh bubbled out of his chest. He felt hysterical. A month of missing Shane compounded by the stress of playoffs and the absolute fuck load of emotions that he hadn’t yet processed had made him feel a little unhinged. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his reaction to seeing this internal even if he’d tried; and he hadn’t tried at all.

“What?” LeClaire asked, looking at Ilya like he was a little concerned he’d finally lost it.

“They changed their lines,” Ilya answered, still smiling. He didn’t really have a publicly acceptable explanation for why he was smiling when he was looking down at the opposing team’s line up and realizing they’d essentially created two All Star forward lines by moving Scott back with Wagner and Huff, but he really couldn’t help himself. He got to play against Shane.

* * *

Shane and Scott got pulled out into the hall between warmups and puck drop for pregame media and Shane wasn’t at all surprised when the first question was about the switch up in lines.

Shane was about to answer with something that made it clear he’d actually passed media training when Scott gently nudged him with his elbow and started speaking before Shane could.

“We’re lucky,” Scott started, “we’re incredibly lucky to have the sort of depth we have at this point in a playoff run. Playoffs are a marathon and we have to figure out how to best balance ice time and talent. But, beyond the boring utility of it all, I’ll happily admit that Shane’s a better player than I am. Shane’s a better player than just about anybody, actually. He’s an incredible Center, specifically, because he’s not only a great player, but he’s also always going to be the smartest guy on the ice. Shane’s hockey IQ is genuinely, to me, the most impressive thing about him. He can see the rink in ways most guys only dream of. It made sense for us, as a team, to try out these combinations. Also, I’ll admit, I’m really looking forward to playing with Huff and Wagner again, I think we’ll have a lot of fun following up the young guys.”

Once Scott was done talking, everyone looked to Shane.

“Scott’s right, we’re incredibly lucky,” Shane said, trying to collect his thoughts until they resembled something coherent. He was friends with Scott now, proper friends, but it still felt a little surreal when a guy he’d idolized since he was a teenager was saying things like that. “We’re all looking forward to seeing how this new line up works out but, I will say, I think that having two All Star centers following each other in the first and second line is absolutely going to be a benefit.”

They asked a couple other questions about lines and units and tactics and Scott and Shane answered everything the same way they always did because that was simply what they had to do to fulfil media obligations and then, just as Christina was about to step in and pull them back into the locker room, the reporter from NBC asked, “Hollander, this is the first time you’ll be playing Rozanov as an Admiral, I’ve gotta ask, is the rivalry gonna live on now that you’re no longer divisional rivals?”

Scott started laughing next to him and Shane sent him a rather ineffective glare before cracking a half smile and shaking his head in amusement. He looked up just as Ilya stepped out of the office he and Marlow had been pulled into for their own pregame media and grinned as he answered, “beating Rozanov is one of my favorite things to do but ‘rivalry’ might be a strong word for it. Ilya’s one of my best friends and I respect him greatly as both a person and a player. It’s fun to play him because it’s always really, really good hockey but I don’t think it’s been a proper rivalry for a long time.”

“Tell them about the bet, Hollander!” Ilya yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting down the hall just to be obnoxious.

“Ah, right,” Shane said, rubbing his hand across his mouth in a poor attempt to hide just how wide he was smiling. “Roz and I have reached an agreement that whoever loses this series has to show up to the first game of the next one in the winner’s jersey and he’s already put my dog in a Bears sweater and I do not plan on matching with her so I think that’ll be pretty solid motivation for winning this one.”

* * *

Ilya slid to a stop on his side of the red line and didn’t even try to tamp down his grin. Shane had said it best back in the hall; it hadn’t been a rivalry in a long time, but it was really fucking good hockey. Ilya had spent years counting down the days until he played Shane, and not only because he’d get to see Shane after.

They both took this game seriously; they both saw it as a lifeline.

And now that Shane’s life outside of hockey was changing, they were starting to see the sport even more similarly. For so long, hockey had been all Shane was. It’d taken Ilya awhile to see it, to realize just how unhealthy Shane’s relationship with hockey had become, but now that he was seeing Shane genuinely thriving outside of hockey, it was even more apparent. Hockey was still a massive part of his life - it was where nearly all of his personal connections stemmed from, it was his job, it was how he spent the vast majority of his time – but it was no longer the only think that defined Shane Hollander.

Ilya loved it. He loved getting to watch Shane blossom, getting to watch him be a little selfish in all the best ways. He loved seeing Shane smile more and more, he loved getting to watch in real time as people fell in love with the Shane that used to be reserved for private moments after the layers and layers of masks had been peeled away, the Shane Ilya had only had the privilege of seeing a handful of times over the years, but the version of his fiancé he was finally starting to see more often than not.

Shane smiled back at him and then it all fell away.

The noise of the crowd faded to static, the slight chill rising off the ice settled into Ilya’s skin, the low-level hum in the back of his mind that always grew louder the longer he spent away from Shane had gone quiet.

The puck dropped and it simply became hockey.

Ilya moved quickly but not quick enough.

Shane won the face off and immediately snapped a pass over to Luke who took off up the boards.

Ilya hardly had time to react before Shane was past him, moving through the neutral zone with the sort of speed usually reserved for drills and skills competitions, speed that was rarely achieved on the ice, surrounded by other players, in the middle of a game. But Vaughan was keeping up with him to his right and Luke had already looped behind Boston’s goal and dropped a pass to Vaughan who moved like he was going to shoot before deking out and tapping the puck back to Shane with the heel of his blade.

Just as Ilya started to catch up, Shane sniped the puck straight over Oregan’s right shoulder. It hit the back of the net with a satisfying snap and Carter and Luke darted forward, crashing into Shane’s sides and knocking their helmets together.

Nine seconds.

It’d taken them nine seconds.

The volume in MSG grew and Ilya knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that New York was going to win the Cup.

* * *

Shane let out a slightly disbelieving laugh as they dropped onto the bench after their first shift. Luke dropped down next to him and immediately wrapped both his arms around one of Shane’s before tucking his head against Shane’s shoulder and letting out a seemingly involuntary squeal. Shane just knocked his helmet against the top of Luke’s and let himself really and truly grin.

“Holy fucking shit,” Carter said from Shane’s other side, smacking his gloved hand against Shane’s knee in excitement, “holy fucking shit, guys.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, really not sure what else to say. Carter had pretty much covered it.

Shane watched Scott’s new line closely, even as he continued half-listening to Carter and Luke chattering back and forth.

Scott, Cale, and Greg honestly worked perfectly. They’d played on a line together before Carter had been moved up to first line and then Cale had played to Scott’s left until Shane had shown up. They read each other perfectly and moved as a unit in a way only veteran lines truly could. It was different from chemistry, different from the way Shane had been able to just tell where Ilya was on the ice at the All Star Games because he was in tune with Ilya, it was muscle memory.

It was almost like watching a really good goalie.

Sometimes, you could just tell that a save hadn’t even processed in their conscious mind before it happened. They’d simply sensed the puck coming and moved because they’d done it so many times.

That was what it was like watching Scott, Cale, and Greg.

Every play just happened.

Maybe it wasn’t as fast as Luke, Carter, and Shane could move and maybe people could call it boring but it was sharp and effective and made it beyond clear that they each had a lot of good hockey left in them. It also made it clear that Scott was a really fucking good center. He was reading the ice in the same way he’d praised Shane for, creating openings and keeping control with a single-minded focus. Scott was a star player, and even despite an early season slump, it was pretty damn clear that he was playing some of the best hockey of his career.

They moved through shifts quickly and the game reached that point where time just started to pass without Shane feeling like he was a conscious participant. He just moved; he listened to his coaches, fed plays, followed the puck, and kept possession.

At the end of the first, he answered a few brief questions in the tunnel and then moved into the locker room for intermission. The energy was palpable. They were up 2-1 with Scott scoring on his third shift and St-Simon scoring off an assist from Ilya just before the end of the period.

It was a great game, the hardest game they’d played in a while, and everyone was buzzing.

The second period moved the same way.

Luke scored, then Ilya scored, then the period ran out.

By the third, everything felt like it was happening in fast forward and the crowd had reached a fever pitch.

Killing Montreal in a 4-0 sweep had been exciting in the sense that it was always fun to watch your team destroy an opponent, but watching it four times in a row made it almost monotonous. That wasn’t what was going to happen with Boston. Shane could already tell that this would be at least a six game series, if it didn’t run all seven.

These close games, the ones that had you on the edge of your seat watching every single second of every single play, were the ones that made fans stay until the end, the ones that they talked about for weeks to come.

The game ended 4-2 with Carter scoring with two minutes left in the third and time finally started making sense again.

Shane felt his head spin as he readjusted to the world that existed outside of the ice.

He felt a little like there were bugs crawling over his skin, like his bones were too big for his body and like every sound was at least a notch too loud.

It wasn’t the same as the overwhelm after his record-breaking game in Montreal, but it was similar. It was a sort of overstimulation that felt more familiar, one that popped up whenever he sunk too far into his head and then had to force himself to come back to the surface. It felt almost like the static that existed between radio stations, like he was so close to the right tune that you could almost feel it but he just wasn’t quite there yet.

He moved through the motions of post-game press, he laughed at Carter’s ribbing when he went into the hall in a compression shirt like normal instead of shirtless like Carter (and, apparently, Hayden) wanted him to, he showered and got changed back into his suit and then he walked into the hall with Luke and, finally, when they were alone in the back seat of a silent town car heading toward home, the static buzz running across his skin settled.

“That was incredible,” Luke said after the car had navigated out of the traffic surrounding MSG.

“Yeah,” Shane breathed, a smile spreading across his lips both at the relief of his nervous system finally finding a baseline and at the joy of playing a truly competitive game, “that was a lot of fun.”

“Do you think I played alright?”

“You played great,” Shane said immediately. His voice sounded flat to his own ears and he knew it was a product of the slight emotional roller coaster his own brain had just taken him on but he was sure, to Luke, it’d sounded like Shane was apathetic. “Really, Luke, you played incredibly well. The way you set up Carter’s goal was particularly good. You read the space perfectly and a player with even a little less speed and accuracy than you wouldn’t have been able to execute that pass.”

Luke’s shoulders visibly lowered and he let out a soft breath through his nose as he nodded, “thank you.”

“Of course, bud,” Shane said, reaching across the middle seat to squeeze Luke’s knee before settling back into his own seat to doze.

By the time they got home, Shane was more than ready for bed.

Luke grabbed his post-game snack and wandered up to his room with a, “g’night,” that was heavy with sleep and Shane forced himself to eat his own snack in the kitchen so he wouldn’t wake up already annoyed at the day when he realized he’d brought food into his bedroom. He finished his snack, took Sunny out, and then started making his way toward bed.

He was halfway up the stairs when the front door opened.

Only two people had keys and one of them was already in bed.

“Ilya?”

“Hi,” Ilya greeted as he closed and locked the door behind him. He was still in his suit, his travel bag over his shoulder and a slightly sheepish smile on his face.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Shane said before he could catch himself. He wanted Ilya here. He always wanted Ilya wherever he was, but they never met up during playoffs, they never broke curfew or snuck out at this point in the season where every single game mattered. Shane watched Ilya’s face fall and immediately scrambled back down the stairs. He jogged across the foyer and wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck.

Ilya dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist and Shane could feel him start to relax but he was still holding himself taut, like his quick twitch muscles were primed to run.

“I want you here,” Shane said softly, moving one hand up to tangle his fingers in Ilya’s curls. “I always want you here, Ilya, I was just confused and I’m exhausted and I didn’t think about how my words would sound.”

“Is okay,” Ilya whispered back, his whole body melting against Shane’s. “I just missed you, did not think I could sleep knowing you were so close but not with me.”

“I missed you too,” Shane responded, turning his head to press a kiss into Ilya’s hair, “I’m really happy you’re here.”

“What time is practice tomorrow?”

Shane took a breath and tried to make his brain sort through the information their coaches had given them. He’d wake up at the same time either way because he knew he was less likely to have a total breakdown if he followed the same routine every day of a series, but Ilya didn’t need to be subjected to Shane’s particular brand of crazy at 6 in the morning and Shane wanted him to be able to set his own schedule.

“I think 10?” Shane said after a moment, “yeah, I think we’re on the ice at 10 and then you guys are on sometime in the afternoon. Where’s your team staying?”

“Close to here, like seven minutes away? Coaches wanted us to be closer to practice facility than to the arena.”

“Smart,” Shane said, tightening his grip around Ilya’s shoulders as his brain finally registered the fact that Ilya was actually here, standing in front of him in their house instead of on the ice in front of a crowd. Ilya was here and Luke was in bed in his private suite over the garage, the entire length of the house and a full floor away from the master bedroom.

He felt Ilya’s fingers dig into his back and his hip where his arms were still wrapped around Shane’s torso and realized pretty quickly that they were on the same page.

“You have to stop posting thirst traps while I am in different state,” Ilya grumbled, his voice muffled against Shane’s neck. The combination of the scratch of his playoff beard and the warmth of his breath against Shane’s skin made Shane go a little weak in the knees.

“Sorry,” Shane responded, not quite caring about just how breathy his voice had become.

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Shane,” Ilya breathed, sounding almost amused even as his hands slid down Shane’s back, landing on the backs of his thighs. Shane reacted immediately, pulling himself up just a little with his arms around Ilya’s shoulders as Ilya lifted him, he wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist and felt something in his chest settle. He wasn’t sure if it was the constant anxiety he felt when Ilya wasn’t within arm’s reach or the lingering stress from being forced back into his own mind from the almost fugue state he’d entered during the game, but he felt calm again, truly calm. “The Bears media girls will not shut up about how hot Shane Hollander is and you do not know how much I want to tell them to back off.”

“I think I do,” Shane said, tucking his face against Ilya’s neck as Ilya backed them up against the wall by the entry way.

Ilya pulled his head back and narrowed his eyes at Shane and Shane could no longer hide his amusement.

“What do you mean?” Ilya asked.

“I think I know exactly how much you wanted to tell them to back off, Lily.”

Ilya’s eyes went wide, looking exactly like a kid who’d been caught with their hand in a cookie jar. He dropped Shane’s legs and Shane quickly caught his footing, already laughing at the slight panic on Ilya’s face.

“Nooo,” Ilya groaned, his cheeks turning bright red despite his many, many claims that Russians do not blush, “how did you find me?”

“Huff found you,” Shane explained, reaching out to take Ilya’s hand just to have the point of contact. Ilya was here, in front of him, and Shane needed to be touching him, he was not going to let teasing Ilya about somehow becoming a fixture of Shane Hollander Stan Twitter get in the way of that. “Texted me to say some girl named Lily was crashing out about me on Twitter. 1221, Ilya? Really?”

“No one else knows what that means,” Ilya argued, looking like he really couldn’t decide whether or not he was embarrassed. Shane was certain that if he was embarrassed, it was because Shane had figured him out, not because of what he’d been posting. Ilya didn’t have an ounce of shame when it came to sex. But Shane figuring out that he even had a burner account? That might just embarrass him a little.

“No, you’re right. My teammates all just think I’ve got a super fan. They miraculously haven’t noticed that your location, which you’ve failed to turn off, by the way, is always either in Boston or the cities Boston is playing in or that you never post while Boston is playing. Scott knows it’s you and mostly just complains every time you call him old. I’ve gotta say, the ‘birth of Christ’ comment was particularly inspired, well done with that one, Roz. Also, Hayden figured it out because someone tagged you while replying to him and he’s not as dumb as you think he is.”

“That is why Pike was posting about you?” Ilya realized immediately, looking far more annoyed about that than the fact that if he wasn’t a little more careful someone invested enough was going to start connecting dots. “He was trying to annoy me?”

“He used the words ‘rage bait,’ but yes, essentially.”

“I hate your best friend.”

“I know you don’t, but I’ll let you believe that,” Shane said, smiling a little before reaching up to cup Ilya’s cheek and saying, as earnestly as he possibly could given the rather absurd circumstances, “I like the account, Ilya. It’s funny and it’s a way for you to talk about me in public even if no one knows it’s you. I could do without my teammates reading your descriptions of all the ways you want to make me cry in bed, but it’s still funny and very you.”

“I made it so I would not accidentally like tweets about you with my verified account,” Ilya explained, “and then people made me angry and I could not resist.”

“That checks out,” Shane said, trying really hard not to laugh because Ilya just looked so damn sincere. “But you need to be a little more careful. Turn of your location and stop posting pictures of me that I only texted to you and didn’t post anywhere publicly. Just at least until we’re married. I couldn’t protect you if you somehow got outed right now and I worry about you all the time. That’s why Amanda and Christina have been not so subtly shoving Scott and I in people’s faces, they don’t know that you and I are together but I did tell them that even a rumor could be dangerous for you if it seemed like it was coming from someone official and they don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Ilya looked completely and utterly shocked.

And Shane knew it wasn’t because Shane cared. Ilya simply couldn’t fathom that other people, people in the Admirals association who had no skin in the game, who made no profit on Ilya’s existence, would care enough about him to devise a media strategy that would protect him from rumors started by fans on the internet.

“A lot of people care about you, baby,” Shane whispered, running his thumb along Ilya’s cheek and watching the realization set in. He hated that Ilya had gone so long thinking he wasn’t worth anything more than his wallet and skill. He hated that the knowledge that people cared about him was a surprise.

“I’ll be more careful,” Ilya promised, he untangled his fingers from Shane’s and then his hands landed on Shane’s waist, steady and warm. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Shane said gently, “I’m not mad, not at all. I just care about you and part of caring about you is worrying.”

“You would worry less if we were married?”

“I’ll worry less when we’re married,” Shane corrected.

Ilya smiled, soft and fond, and nodded once, like he couldn’t help but affirm the fact that it truly was a when not an if, “Detroit is playing D.C.. Detroit is on the border. If Detroit wins, the one of us who loses this series can travel with during the two game stretch. It would be enough days to get license and go to the courthouse. No one would be expecting to see us in Windsor, it would be safe and Windsor is in Ontario so your father probably knows some government people, yes?”

“I think his college roommate works for the local government, actually,” Shane said, his brain simply supplying the information as he struggled to process what Ilya was saying.

They’d talked about this summer, about going to the cottage and making contacts so they knew they’d be working with people they trusted but, Shane guessed, a lot of that had to do with the Permanent Residency requirements and immigration paperwork. The marriage was always going to be the weak link in the secrecy chain. There was no way to entirely ensure that every person in whatever courthouse they walked into would keep a secret, but Shane had sort of been forcing himself not to think too hard about that.

Maybe this was the solution, maybe getting married in Windsor during a playoff run when no one expected either of them to be anywhere other than training and no one would expect whichever of them lost this series to be anywhere near the next round would be the safest way to avoid anyone realizing what was happening.

And Windsor was in Ontario. They wouldn’t even need to transfer the documentation between provinces to start the citizenship process with the people Shane’s dad knew in Ottawa.

“Okay,” Shane agreed after he realized Ilya had just been watching him, waiting for a reaction beyond the fact that David’s roommate maybe worked for the city of Windsor. “Okay, if Detroit wins this series, we get married during the two game stretch.”

“Thank Christ,” Ilya breathed, darting forward to press a quick kiss to Shane’s lips before stepping away and picking up his travel back that’d been abandoned on the foyer floor.

Shane was left reeling for a second at the loss of contact and sort of just watched, stunned, as Ilya headed for the stairs like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

“What the fuck?”

“I have something for you,” Ilya said, not pausing in his trek up the stairs. “I am not giving it to you down here where your rookie could appear at any moment.”

Shane had honestly forgotten about Luke.

He nodded and followed Ilya toward the stairs, not at all sure what Ilya had for him but really not wanting to traumatize Luke when he’d only been living here for a week. Well, he didn’t want to traumatize Luke at all, but as exemplified by Twitter user @lilyhollander1221, Ilya Rozanov had zero shame. Shane should probably warn Luke. That could wait until morning, though.

Ilya dropped his bag at the end of their bed and knelt down next to it, unzipping one of the side pockets and pulling out a box before settling fully onto the floor and looking up at Shane. His eyes were open and warm and his smile was so sticky sweet Shane felt it like a punch to the sternum.

It wasn’t a ring box, it was a little bit bigger than that, but Shane still knew, somehow, in the back of his mind, that the box contained a ring.

Shane sat down on the floor next to him and leaned into his side.

“I used string while you were asleep last time I was here,” Ilya explained, “is what the internet suggested.”

Shane just nodded, entirely speechless as Ilya opened the box to reveal two perfectly simple, polished rings, one yellow gold and one white, along with a thin white gold figaro chain.

“I thought you’d like the silvery one but if you would rather have gold I will fix it. I can put mine with my cross during practice and games,” Ilya explained, picking up the gold ring before handing the box over to Shane, “you do not wear a chain, though, so I got you one.”

He said it like it was simple.

Like the fact that he’d figured out how to get Shane’s ring size and had put enough thought into it that he’d also found a way for Shane to keep the ring with him during games was nothing at all. Like him noticing that the earrings Shane had been wearing and the other jewelry they’d put him in for photo shoots was silver rather than gold, that he’d likely noticed that and decided that Shane would prefer white gold to yellow.

And then Shane realized that they absolutely could not be seen wearing wedding rings. But just as he opened his mouth to say exactly that, Ilya’s hand landed on his knee and he said, “in Russian Orthodox tradition you wear rings on your right hand. Is not the same here, people here would not question you for wearing ring on your right hand. And, if they did, you could just explain that moving to New York made you more fashionable.”

Shane let out a huff of laughter before looking up at Ilya, his Ilya, who was perfect and beautiful and had thought of everything.

“What about you?” Shane asked softly, “would you be questioned for wearing a ring? Would people back home notice?”

“They do not pay enough attention to notice,” Ilya said and it was the way he said it more than the words themselves that broke Shane’s heart. He said it like he was past resigned, like he couldn’t even imagine why anyone would’ve ever paid attention. “You will wear the ring?”

“Ilya,” Shane whispered, reaching up and combing Ilya’s hair away from his temple with soft fingers so he could press a kiss against his warm skin. “Of course I will.”

Ilya grinned, his entire face lighting up like the summer sun. He picked up the white gold band and slid it onto Shane’s right ring finger before handing Shane the golden one, matching but for the shade of the metal, and holding out his own hand expectantly. Shane just smiled and kissed his cheek before sliding Ilya’s ring onto his finger.

A set; perfectly matched.

It was how they’d always been; the only two who could keep up, the only names in conversations about who was the best, the pair who’d been pitted against each other since before they were even drafted because of how evenly they were matched. It just wasn’t a rivalry like everyone had wanted, it was something so much better.

Ilya’s hands came up to cup Shane’s cheeks and Shane leaned forward, closing the distance between them to press his lips to Ilya’s.

It’d been far too long, nearly an entire month since he’d last seen him and after years of going much longer, it shouldn’t have been so hard, but it was different now. They were different now. They couldn’t pretend anymore, couldn’t act like this thing wasn’t killing them. It was in the open now, or as open as it could be. They were on the same page, taking steps together and figuring it out as they went.

Chapter 29: when i run out of road

Chapter Notes

April 2017

Luke was having a normal day.

He woke up to his alarm and did his fifteen minutes of morning yoga in his room, appreciating the way the sunlight was filtering through his windows and how the trees he could see were properly green with some of them starting to bloom with late spring flowers. Then he made his way downstairs to fill his water bottle in the kitchen before going down to the gym and his day became decidedly less normal.

“Rozanov?” he said before his brain had properly caught up.

He’d known, in theory, that Shane and Ilya were together. He’d also known, in theory, that Ilya sometimes lived and/or stayed in this house.

None of that theory, however, seemed to matter when faced with Ilya Rozanov, shirtless in their kitchen at 7 in the morning, staring at the Keurig like it’d personally wronged him.

“Gillis,” Ilya greeted, “what is wrong with this stupid machine.”

Luke blinked a couple of times and then took a step closer to see what the issue was. He figured it out pretty quickly once he realized the machine wasn’t actually plugged in.

He decided to just plug it in himself instead of telling Ilya he was an idiot.

“Ah,” Ilya hummed, “yes, that makes sense.”

“Right,” Luke said, trying to come up with a sentence other than what the fuck are you doing in our house and landing on, “uh, what are you doing here?”

Not much better, but Luke decided it sounded less accusatory than his first option so he was going to count it as a win.

“Is my house,” Ilya responded, shooting Luke a look that clearly said I was pretty sure you were smarter than this.

“Right, I just meant, well, playoffs, you know?”

“Yes, playoffs,” Ilya agreed and Luke wondered if there might be any merit in going back to sleep and trying this again tomorrow.

He was pretty sure life didn’t work that way, though. So, instead of attempting to manufacture a Groundhog Day situation, he said, “good game last night.”

Ilya’s eyes were twinkling in amusement. A look that Luke recognized from moments before Carter decided to make Scott’s day significantly more exhausting.

“We lost,” Ilya deadpanned.

Luke kind of wanted the Keurig to explode and take him with it.

“Stop terrorizing my rookie,” Shane said, appearing in the kitchen like Luke’s knight in shining armor. Luke would’ve kissed him if he wasn’t entirely certain that Ilya Rozanov would actually fucking murder him. Also, maybe more importantly, if Luke weren’t disappointingly straight. “Luke, antagonizing people is how he shows love, trust me. Ilya, stop being a dick. Please.”

“Fine,” Ilya agreed, rolling his eyes even as he visibly melted at Shane’s presence. “Luke, is nice to actually meet you,” he said as Shane started moving around the kitchen to make them breakfast. If Luke’s day had continued to go normally, he would’ve been done with the shortened version of his strength training he’d been assigned for playoffs with just enough time to rinse off before Shane was finished cooking. Luke’s day, however, was not going normally. “Shane talks a lot about you. You played a very good game last night. Good passes, good shooting, better backhand than Shane already.”

Luke just blinked again, trying to process the past five minutes of his life, “thank you?”

He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question. It did anyway.

“Go do your workout,” Shane said, clearly recognizing that Luke’s brain was stuck in some sort of weird loop and deciding to just yank him out of it. Luke loved Shane. He was going to tell him that someday, as soon as he figured out how people expressed platonic, familial love outside of hockey. Until that point, he was just going to continue falling asleep on Shane on team flights and sitting way too close to him on the bench. “I’ll have breakfast ready when you’re out of the shower and then we’ll make our list and head to the rink, alright?”

Luke nodded and blinked again as his filled water bottle was placed in his hand. He hadn’t even noticed Shane pick it up.

“Thanks,” he said, wondering just a little if Shane would make fun of him if he teared up at how quickly they’d fallen into a routine, at how genuinely at home Luke already felt in this house.

Shane must’ve seen something in his face because he reached out and ruffled Luke’s hair before shoving him lightly by the shoulder and nodding toward the stairs.

Luke turned and went.

He’d finish his workout, shower, eat breakfast, and then he’d get to make his list of things he wanted to work on when they got to the rink. It was what they’d been doing after game days since a few days after Shane got off of IR. If they were at home, they’d go to the rink. If they were on the road, they’d find some open space and do a walk through. But now that Luke lived here, with Shane, they’d been doing it every morning, not only on post-game days. Now, breakfast was at home instead of at a diner near the rink or in whatever conference room their nutrition team had commandeered. And every time, Luke got to feel what it was like when someone paid attention, he got to learn what it felt like when someone consistently showed up.

* * *

As soon as Luke’s footsteps faded away, Shane turned toward Ilya and let out a slightly disappointed sigh and Ilya immediately knew he’d done something wrong.

“Sorry,” he said preemptively.

“No, don’t apologize,” Shane said, running his hand down Ilya’s back before moving toward the fridge. “You didn’t know any better. It’s just that I’m used to your teasing, he’s not. He’s a little like me, I think. Sometimes struggles to read what people really mean. But he’s a lot like you, Ilya. I don’t know much but he barely talks about his family and I heard him on the phone with his best friend saying that he felt like he could be in the living room and the way he said it, it was like it was something monumental. I don’t think he’s had many places he feels at home.”

“So when I teased him, it might have made him feel like he was not welcome?”

“I wouldn’t go that far; he looked confused not hurt. I think he’s just already used to our routine and you threw him off.”

“I will be nicer,” Ilya promised. He’d teased because he was trying to lighten the tension, because he thought maybe Luke would laugh. He should’ve known that the kid was probably exhausted and would’ve been confused to find someone he wasn’t used to in the place he’d been told was his to call home. He hated to think that Luke’s family was anything like Ilya’s, but if what Shane said about him being excited to just exist in Shane’s space was true, Ilya was fairly certain he and Luke grew up in similar houses.

Ilya knew, though, that if Luke really was like Shane in any way, if he paid attention to patterns and followed routines, he’d be even more confused if Ilya just started behaving entirely differently. Ilya had already disturbed their routine simply by being here, but he didn’t have to force it to change entirely. So, he asked, “what happens next in your day?”

Shane looked at him like he’d just fallen in love all over again and Ilya felt an incredible sense of pride swell up in his chest.

“Breakfast and game tape,” Shane said. “He makes a list of things he wants to work on and then we go to the rink and work through it.”

Ilya was shocked to realize that Shane was training Luke. It wasn’t just mentoring during practice and opening his home to a rookie. Of course it wasn’t. Shane didn’t do anything halfway. He’d taken Luke under his wing and Ilya should’ve known that’d mean Shane putting in several extra hours a week to actually, properly train the kid.

Yet, somehow, Ilya found himself stunned by just how wonderful Shane could be.

Ilya stepped up beside him, kissed his cheek, and decided to help make breakfast.

* * *

By the time they left for the rink that morning, Shane could tell that Luke had settled back into his routine. He’d been thrown by Ilya’s presence, but after breakfast and after Ilya had joined them to make Luke’s practice list, he seemed genuinely comfortable.

Still, Shane apologized, “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you he was going to be there,” he said as they pulled out of the driveway, heading toward Tarrytown, “I didn’t even know he was going to be there, he just showed up last night after we got home.”

“It’s his house to,” Luke shrugged, “I was just a little surprised. I think I actually like him though, and not just as a player. He’s nicer than I thought he’d be.”

“I think he just finds it fun to piss people off,” Shane said with a soft laugh, “he can be pretty sweet when he wants to be, though.”

“Do you think he’ll stay with us after we kick Boston’s ass in this series?”

Shane let out a proper laugh at that, “yeah, I think so.”

Luke just grinned.

* * *

May 2017

After the second game, Ilya stayed at the hotel with his team and when New York flew to Boston the day after, Shane stayed in the hotel as well. Getting to spend the night together after a month apart had been wonderful, but they still had playoffs to focus on and neither of them was willing to do anything to screw up their chances and sneaking off and skirting curfew was a great way to get themselves in trouble.

New York won Game One. Boston won Game Two with St-Simon scoring with less than 30 seconds left in the third after they’d been tied 1-1 since the middle of the first. New York won both games in Boston putting the series at 3-1 and then Boston won Game Five in New York bringing it up to 3-2.

Now, Shane was sitting in the visitor’s locker room at TD Garden, just off the ice from warmups, buzzing with anticipation for Game Six.

Either they won tonight or they flew back to New York and played Game Seven.

Shane didn’t want to play Game Seven.

The next day was his birthday and he’d much prefer finishing this series tonight so he could actually go out and celebrate the win and his birthday with his team and then go back to Ilya’s for the night instead of going back to the hotel and going straight to bed so he could be properly rested for another game.

Shane was exhausted. His shoulder was starting to ache and he had a nasty bruise on his stomach from catching someone’s elbow near the boards during Game Four. He wanted this series to be over now so they could have a tiny break. In a perfect world, the Detroit v. D.C. series would go to Game Seven so they’d get a couple of extra days to recover.

“Listen up!” Scott said, only having to raise his voice a little to pull everyone’s attention. “Let’s finish this tonight, I want to be done with Boston for this year, I want to win this game and then go out and celebrate Shane’s birthday and then I want to go home and sleep for 36 hours without any of you bothering me. Sound good?”

“Yes, Captain!” came the automatic reply as everyone started grinning and banging their sticks against the floor or their stalls. Shane just looked at Scott in amusement. Amanda was in the corner recording him and Shane just knew that clip was going to get posted on Twitter and result in an absolute deluge of posts from people who were entirely convinced that Scott and Shane were in some sort of relationship.

Somehow, the internet and his team alike had yet to notice Shane’s ring.

Then Scott turned to wink at him and Shane got an idea.

He just had to win this game first.

* * *

Ilya slid to a stop at the faceoff circle, took one look at Shane, and narrowed his eyes, “what are you planning, Hollander?”

“You’ll see,” Shane said, a look in his eye that probably would’ve made a lesser man turn tail and run. It just made Ilya love him more.

The puck dropped and Ilya won the face off only to immediately have his pass to Connors blocked by Vaughan who took off up the ice with Shane keeping pace. Vaughan chipped the puck directly over Cliff’s head and it landed a half step in front of Shane who easily took it into his cradle and carried forward for barely a second before passing to Luke who, as far as Ilya could tell, had appeared out of thin fucking air directly in front of the crease only to smack the puck straight through the five hole before Oregan could react.

It was insane.

No one should be moving at that speed by Game Six and New York’s entire first line was just as fast now as they’d been during Game One. In a world where this line wasn’t led by Shane Hollander, Ilya might’ve just assumed that all three of them were doping. But in this world, there was no explanation beyond the fact that they were just that damn good.

Scott’s line subbed in 30 seconds later and Ilya had to admit that, despite having witnessed the signing of the Magna Carta, Scott was distressingly good at hockey.

Ilya sort of wanted to petition the League to get rid of the salary cap and, instead, introduce some sort of rule that made it so teams couldn’t have more than one player of this caliber. He was well aware that Shane’s salary had barely fit under the cap this year and the only reason it had was that Montreal had retained part of it. He was going to end up taking a pay cut on paper the following season which made sense, partially due to the lack of space in the cap and partially due to the fact that he was no longer Captain.

But what people wouldn’t realize is that Shane’s manager was Yuna Hollander and he’d just moved from Montreal, a respectable major market to New York City, the world’s biggest market. Shane was going to be swimming in brand deals to the point where he’d probably agree to play for New York for free, meaning the salary cap meant jack shit.

Ilya watched, feeling almost a little helpless, as Scott scored on the second line’s first shift bringing the score up to 2-0 a minute and fifteen seconds into the first period.

He had no clue what Scott had told them all in his pregame speech but, whatever it was, it was working.

By the end of the first the score was at 3-0 and every single one of the Admirals was grinning as they stepped off the ice.

Ilya scored half way through the second bringing them up to 3-1 but Shane answered two shifts later with a backhand that made Ilya want to pin him up against the boards; teammates, audience, and Russian government be damned. Carter scored his first goal of the game the shift after and they went into the second intermission with the score reading 5-1.

Victor St-Simon scored on their second shift of the third and New York let them ride the brief excitement of closing in on them for five whole minutes before Luke and Carter scored back to back goals in a single shift.

Both goals had been assisted by Shane.

That thought hit him a shift later when Cliff Marlow, Ilya’s beloved best friend who he may just have to kill, decided to be the biggest idiot on planet fucking Earth and check Luke from behind.

Luke hit the boards and went down, eerily similar to Shane only a couple of months prior and as Shane actually dropped gloves for the first time in his career, the only fully formed thought in Ilya’s mind was that Shane was about to record his first Gordie Howe Hat Trick.

The second thought to filter through the chaos was that Shane was really fucking sexy when he was angry.

Ilya saw Carter speed over and, for some unknown reason, assumed that he’d pull Shane off.

That was not what happened.

Instead, Ilya watched stunned as Carter Vaughan, a guy who was known for fighting just about as much as Scott and Shane were, dropped his own gloves and joined the fray.

And by ‘fray’, Ilya meant Cliff sort of just standing there in shock while two people who never fought landed several shockingly effective punches.

Ilya didn’t even know how to begin reacting to that situation and he sincerely doubted that Shane would take well to Ilya attempting to pull him off so, instead of getting involved, Ilya skated toward Luke who was, thankfully, fully conscious. He’d sat up and backed himself against the boards to catch his breath and was now just staring in shock as Matti and Breezy finally yanked Shane and Carter away from Cliff.

Carter was attempting to fight back, looking quite a bit like a cat trying to escape a bath.

Shane, though, Shane had gone quiet which was exponentially more terrifying.

Ilya had to say Luke’s name twice to get his attention.

“Yeah?” Luke finally responded, looking up at Ilya wide eyed.

“You okay?” Ilya asked.

“Just got the wind knocked out of me,” Luke responded, shaking his arms out as if physically shaking off the sensation of hitting the ice. “Are Shane and Vaughny alright?”

Ilya looked over his shoulder to where Carter had finally calmed down enough to notice that Shane had gone quiet, to where the pair of them were now clearly attempting to explode Cliff with their minds, and then turned back to Luke, “they are fine.”

Luke looked at Ilya like he didn’t believe him for a second but pretty quickly changed gears and, instead, started trying to climb back to his feet while still half in shock and potentially injured.

Ilya took the last step forward and reached out to steady him and was only slightly surprised when Luke automatically took his hand.

“Thanks Rozy,” Luke said, as he got his feet under him, looking much more stable now that he was actually standing. Ilya decided not to comment on the fact that literally no one called him Rozy. He found didn’t actually hate it when it was coming from Luke. He also only realized once Luke was standing and clearly in one piece that the thought of jumping to Cliff’s defense had never once crossed his mind.

His first thought had been Shane, his second had been Luke.

He really wasn’t sure when he’d ended up co-parenting New York’s rookie with his secret fiancé, but he wasn’t exactly mad about it. Ilya clapped Luke on the shoulder and decided to skate away before he did something crazy like hug the kid and tell him he was glad he wasn’t injured.

Cliff was called for checking from behind and given a five minute major and Shane and Carter were both given five minute majors for fighting, leaving Boston one man down and New York two.

Ilya skated to the bench as their shifts changed and had to suppress a genuine shiver when he caught sight of Shane and Carter both still glaring absolute daggers at Cliff from behind the glass in the box. He knew they’d both calm down as soon as they were out and could check on Luke themselves, but for right now, Cliff was Public Enemy Number One and Ilya had no clue what was going to happen when their penalty time ran down.

His question was answered three and a half minutes later when Murdock changed shifts at the exact moment Carter and Shane stepped out of the box, leaving their first shift on the ice at full power with a minute and fifteen seconds left on the game clock.

No one had scored during the five minutes Carter, Shane, and Cliff had been in the sin bin.

45 seconds later the score was 9-2 New York with Carter and Luke both completing hat tricks within seconds of one another.

23 seconds after that, Shane scored his third goal of the game and brought them up to 10-2 with all three of their first line forwards pulling off hat tricks in Game Six of a playoff series against an actually competitive opponent.

Ilya was pretty sure teams were going to be quite a bit more careful when it came to checking Luke Gillis from here on out.

* * *

They poured into the locker room, rowdier than they’d been since that first victory against Montreal, and Shane found himself actually enjoying the noise for once.

He felt good, like the adrenaline from the game and the fight and worrying about Luke had steadied into a low buzz instead of making him crazy or sending him into a crash. He was proud of his team, he was proud of himself, he felt a little sorry for punching Cliff in the face but not sorry enough to bring down his mood. So, when Christina popped her head into the room to ask Shane to come do press, he gave into Carter’s perpetual demands that he do media shirtless.

* * *

Scott watched Shane peel off his compression shirt at Carter’s insistence and was momentarily shocked that he’d actually agreed. That had been a normal amount of shock, a little surprise that Shane was really going to play along with the team’s constant ribbing about him posting thirst traps and pretending they were about hockey. That little surprise was nothing in comparison to the full body reaction he had when he noticed the chain around Shane’s neck.

The chain that was holding a ring.

He caught Shane’s eye, probably looking like a deer in the headlights, and Shane, the absolute fucker, just winked.