Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage Sex

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Connors (Heated Rivalry)

Additional Tags:

Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Past Child Abuse, Barebacking, First Time Bottoming, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Murder, Sexual Assault, Age Difference, Younger Shane Hollander/Older Ilya Rozanov, OOC David Hollander, Blood and Violence, Dark Romance, Hate Sex, Dubious Consent, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy Issues, Dark Ilya Rozanov, Hazing, guys beating each other up, Rivals with Benefits, porn and plot, Gang Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dom/sub Undertones, Slow Burn, Gore, Angst with a Happy Ending, Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, POV Shane Hollander, morally grey ilya rozanov, Minor Character Death, Mean Dom Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-18 Updated: 2026-09-10 Words: 68,308 Chapters: 7/?

Ultraviolence

Summary

“What makes you so confident you can handle him when Montreal couldn’t?” A reporter asks.

“Because he actually listens to me. Montreal didn’t have a damn clue how to handle guys like him. Me? Oh, I already got this kid under my thumb.”

Once celebrated as the NHL’s most promising young player, Shane Hollander’s rookie season collapses after brutally attacking a teammate during a nationally televised playoff game, leaving him suspended, publicly disgraced, and traded to the Boston Raiders.

Months later, Shane arrives in Boston determined to keep his head down and prove himself. But Ilya Rozanov has already taken an unsettling interest in him.

Notes

This is a DDDNE fic, which means there’s some unpleasant stuff in there. The non-con isn’t between Hollanov, but there will be some dubcon. It’s not lovey-dovey, but it is a love story with a happy ending.

Ilya is: a MEAN dom but also silly.
Shane is: sexually repressed, closed-off, and approval-hungry.

I love writing toxic relationships, but I know they’re not for everyone, so I wanted to give readers a heads-up beforehand

Chapter 1: No Half-Measures

Chapter Notes

Shane is 19, Ilya 28.

“Montreal Metros Select 18-Year-Old Shane Hollander First Overall in the NHL Entry Draft.”

- NHL, June 2009

“From Promise to Problem: What Went Wrong with Shane Hollander? Hollander is one of the most gifted new players in the league, no question. But the Montreal situation clearly went sideways. When a team moves on from an elite player this early, it’s rarely just about hockey. Fans are still speculating about what really happened.”

- The Montreal Journal, May 2010

“The Raiders take a chance on problem player Shane Hollander. The rivalry heats up as Boston acquires Montreal’s most controversial rookie in years.”

- Sports News, June 2010

***

October 2010, Boston

In hockey, brutality and devotion had always shared the same altar.

Ilya's first punch cracks against a visor. 

The Toronto player’s head jerks sideways and eighteen thousand people erupt around them.

Thirty seconds ago, their opponent had driven Shane hard into the boards.

“Woah, now, stay with me.” Ilya holds the man up by the jersey before he can fall. “You started this, you finish it.”

The second punch slips beneath the shield and reaches the player’s mouth. Something small and white breaks free, spinning through the air. It skitters across the ice and goes still at Shane’s feet. 

A tooth.

Exodus 21:24 — Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.

***

“Hollander.” A voice echoes through the locker room.

Shane sits on a bench with his helmet in his lap. Boston had spent the entire last period roaring itself hoarse.

The last time he stood in this arena, he had been on the other side of it, wearing white and blue while the same crowd rained boos down on him.

The Raiders aren't the Metros, but he's too bitter for that to matter. He can’t bring himself to rejoice with his new team after their win.

“Hollander, I’m talking to you.” Ilya snaps Shane out of his thoughts. 

“What?” Shane looks up to meet Ilya’s eyes, already anticipating whatever snarky comment the man has in store for him.

“You played good tonight,” Ilya sighs. “I had this whole speech prepared for when you'd suck ass. I was gonna sit you down, talk about how growth takes time, but now you’ve gone and fucked up my material.”

Go fuck yourself. It’s a backhanded pat on the back.

Shane remembers seeing Ilya for the first time the previous year. They were in a different rink and on different teams at the time. Shane was still a rookie, while Ilya was already well known in the hockey world, nine seasons into a phenomenal career.

The other players parted for him like the Red Sea before Moses, though Shane suspects he would’ve preferred playing Pharaoh.

At nineteen, he had been handed the captaincy, making him responsible for men who had been playing professionally while he was still in school. When a reporter asked what leadership meant, he said: I don't know. Mostly I point at stupid people and explain why they’re stupid.

Shane waits, unsure whether Ilya expects anything more from him. “Thanks… I guess.” 

He knows he played well, but being able to keep up with the team doesn’t feel like an accomplishment. Anything short of him carrying the game is a step back, at best. 

“Oh, wow. That’s the thanks I get?” Ilya rocks backward like Shane has struck him. “You’re giving me the stink eye like I just took a steaming piss on the family grave. What, Montreal hand out stickers and forehead kisses after every game?”

“Whatever.” This is just banter, Shane tells himself.

“All right! Fuck me for trying to build your confidence. Clearly I oversold it,” Ilya nods thoughtfully. “Let me correct the record: you were acceptable. But that backhand needs to be taken out back and shot.”

He claps Shane on the shoulder, then straightens up. Shane wants to bare his teeth, not stand there waiting for Ilya to toss him another scrap. But when he opens his mouth, there’s nothing to say that wouldn’t sound too defensive or pathetic. He'd sooner swallow broken glass than let Ilya hear either.

“You want higher praise, you play higher game.” Ilya turns his back on him to face the rest of the team.

From the other side of the room, a few voices break through.

“I can smell my own sweat through this jersey,” Marlow groans.

“That’s amateur hour. Try smelling my balls after a game, that’ll wake you up,” Carmichael joins in.

“Okay, we don’t need to hear about the biohazard you got down there, buddy.” Marlow wrinkles his nose in disgust.

Ilya raises his voice, slipping into his post-game speech tone. “Alright ladies, listen up. Anybody planning on going home tonight, rubbing one out and getting eight hours of sleep, congratulations... you were planning wrong! We just won and I’m in a fantastic fucking mood, that means we celebrate. Team night’s at my place.”

***

The conference room is packed with reporters, cameras, and equipment, making Shane glad he isn’t at the podium. Several outlets requested Shane specifically, and he knows exactly why. The way things ended in Montreal hadn’t faded quietly. The scandal had dragged on for months, picked apart in headlines and sports coverage. Thankfully, management has shielded him from the press for now, though he’ll have to face them at some point. 

Shane lingers in the doorway, half-hidden behind a rack of equipment cases. 

“Ilya Rozanov, congratulations on tonight’s win. Your team had a major trade with the Montreal Metros. Tonight marked Hollander’s return from suspension and his debut with Boston. How do you think he fits into the roster so far?” says a reporter.

The trade had been an abrupt change that left whispers trailing Shane everywhere he went. Officially, management blamed “friction within the team,” a cover story that avoided messier truths.

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats. “He fits just fine. He plays hard, scores goals. The guys like him.”

“But considering his history, were there any concerns about his disciplinary record? Would you say he is on a short leash?” Another reporter jumps in.

“Leash? What, did we trade for a rabid dog?” Ilya laughs, incredulous. “No, seriously. You can't spend a season poking a guy with a stick, then act shocked when he finally grabs the stick and beats somebody with it.”

There's a pause and the coach turns his head toward him.

“Do I think he'll make another mistake?” Ilya considers the question. “He’s nineteen, he’s gonna do stupid shit, but I trust that he wants a chance badly enough not to waste it.”

“Do you expect him to mature quickly under your leadership?”

“I have twenty men on the roster, so I'm not wiping anybody’s ass. But if Hollander needs a little shove now and then?” Ilya leans forward, crowding the microphone. “Well, I’m more than happy to provide.”

“What makes you so confident you can handle him when Montreal couldn’t?”

His eyes wander across the room and find Shane's. Shane feels his face warm, caught in the act of eavesdropping.

“Because he actually listens to me. Montreal didn’t have a damn clue how to handle guys like him. Me? Oh, I already got this kid under my thumb.” Ilya leans back in his seat. 

Shane wishes he’d walked away before Ilya answered. He’d been better off not knowing the press thought he needed handling.

He hasn’t looked himself up online, not once, not even in a moment of weakness. He clings to his mother’s voice, soft and gentle in the back of his mind:

Don’t invite every ugly thing inside, don’t do that to yourself.

So far, he’s obeyed. He has the certainty that if he reads the headlines now, he’ll remember every painful word. 

The head coach cuts in quickly to stop Ilya from stirring the pot. He clears his throat. “What our captain is attempting to say is that Shane has responded very well to the structure here. We're satisfied with his performance and we’re giving him space. Next question, please.”

***

December 2009, Ottawa

Back in Ottawa, before Boston and before everything in Montreal went wrong, Shane had a girlfriend named Jessica.

After moving to Montreal, visiting her meant driving nearly two hours back to Ottawa. Close enough that it felt like there was no excuse not to try. But the weeks accumulated, and somewhere between her new job and the endless procession of games, practices, and hotel rooms, their conversations thinned into exhausted check-ins and late-night calls.

“You know,” she said one afternoon, curled against him in her childhood bedroom. Her head was tucked beneath his chin, delicate fingers absently toying with the buttons of his shirt. “My dad isn’t home tonight, so…”

“What about him?” 

She smiled like he was being willfully dense. “Well, I was thinking… we could try again.” Her hand slowly drifted lower, the tip of her finger slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Their previous attempts at having sex had been disasters, to say the least. He had breezed through school with straight A’s and stepped seamlessly into the NHL, where the first months of his rookie season had left coaches and fans in awe. 

Each failure was proof of his own inadequacy, and the more he tried, the more he dreaded the next time he’d inevitably fall short. It wasn’t a lack of effort. He had studied it, watched porn, read articles, and knew anatomy. It had been easier when she did all the work, then he could close his eyes and sort of enjoy the sensations.

“Jesus, Shane. Could you sound less enthusiastic about sleeping with your girlfriend?” Jessica meant to tease him, but he could hear the frustration in her voice.

Fuck. I’m screwing this up.

“Of course I want to,” he said quickly.

Jessica shifted over him, and her lips found the curve of his neck. Shane let his head fall back. Across the room, Patrick Swayze stared down at him from a faded Dirty Dancing poster pinned crookedly to the wall. The black shirt clung to the actor’s body, riding just high enough to expose the narrow plane of his stomach. Shane’s dick twitched under Jessica, just enough to mislead her.

Don’t make it weird.

Jessica smiled against his skin. She moved with a new wave of determination, grinding her hips against Shane’s bulge. Shane mirrored the motions he had memorized, his hand traced her waist, following the gentle slope of her breast as he pulled her shirt off. She pressed a trail of soft kisses down his stomach, stopping to unbutton his jeans, and slipping her hand inside.

Minutes passed, and Shane was still silently begging his body to do what it was supposed to. Jessica eventually withdrew her hand, it was another disappointment to add to the pile.

“You’re not even into it.” The hurt and confusion in her voice made it hard for Shane to look her in the eyes.

“I want you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “There’s just… a lot of stress right now. With the Metros. Another time, okay?”

Jessica pulled away and sat up, wrapping her arms around herself to shield her bare chest, both of them self-conscious now. Shane looked elsewhere, anything that would spare him from her disappointment. 

“Okay,” she said after a while. “Another time.”

***

October 2010, Boston

“Dad?”

“Shane. How’s it going, kid? I watched the game.” His father’s voice resonates through the phone.

“Uh… good. The game went fine. Rozanov- he, uh, invited the team over tonight,” Shane says. He’s walking to his car, getting ready to meet the other guys at Ilya’s. He had promised himself he’d make it quick, maybe just talk to a couple teammates, but even the thought of socializing feels exhausting.

“A damn party, really? Isn’t it late for that when you’ve got practice tomorrow morning?” David sighs.

“It’s not a party… and Coach canceled practice, so I got the day off.”

“You don’t get days off, not now. This isn’t junior league, all right? You need to fix your shit. If you screw it up-”

“I won’t,” Shane cuts in.

“You already did once.”

Shane stays silent on his end of the line. He doesn’t know what he expected. Of course, that’s where this is going. 

“Listen, Shane,” David continues. “You need to stay sharp. I don’t want you distracted, I don’t want you… messing around. You keep your head down, you play your game. That’s it.”

Shane stops by his car, resting his hand on the roof. He can feel the tension in his own shoulders relax a fraction, though he knows it won’t last long. “I’m not going anymore,” he says quietly. “Don’t worry.”

“Your backhand still giving you trouble?”

“A little,” Shane admits.

“Then fix it,” David says immediately. “You know better, come on.”

“I know,” Shane rolls his eyes, grateful that David cannot see him. “I’ll work on it tomorrow, I promise.” 

“Good.” 

He finally pulls the car door open and slides inside.

“You getting along with the team? Rozanov still a dick?” David continues.

“Uh… yeah.” Shane had mentioned before that Ilya wasn’t exactly easy to be around. “He’s just on my back all the time, about everything.”

“If the captain is riding you, good. Means he expects something. Use it.”

“…Got it.” 

When the call ends, he considers walking back the other way, going home, sleeping like he said he would.

Instead, he starts the engine. The address Rozanov gave them glows on the GPS screen. That’s the good thing about Boston, distance from his dad.

***

“Hey, Montreal! No way, you made it!” Cliff Marlow barrels into Shane, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Well… there goes my twenty bucks, but hey, I’m glad you took a break from jerking off to hockey highlights.”

Floor-to-ceiling windows cover two walls of Ilya’s penthouse. At night, anyone in the neighboring buildings could look straight inside and watch him cross the living room.

The shelves are another story. No family photographs, no framed pictures with friends or teammates. Nothing from Russia, nothing from before hockey, nothing to see at all. 

“Yeah, couldn’t miss it. It’s like a bonding night for you guys, right?” Shane shifts uncomfortably, trying to escape Cliff's hold without offending him.

“You guys?”

Cliff releases him only to seize both his shoulders and bring their foreheads together, beaming at him.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, buddy. We are way past this.” Cliff gives him a small, reproachful shake. “No more ‘you guys.’ It’s we guys now.”

“We… okay. We guys,” Shane repeats.

“That’s the spirit.” Cliff pulls him into a bear hug.

Shane can tell Cliff is pretty drunk. Not that Cliff is unfriendly under normal circumstances. But both of them understand how the locker room hierarchy works. He’s still what they call a bottom feeder behind closed doors, grouped with rookies, call-ups, and fringe players whose stalls could be emptied before breakfast if management changed its mind. They absorb the worst jokes, carry equipment, fetch coffee and surrender seats. They’re expected to show deference toward veterans, especially the captain sitting comfortably at the top of the pyramid.

“To your debut with the team,” Cliff says, raising an imaginary glass between them. His face becomes briefly serious. “Honestly. You played solid tonight.”

Before Shane can respond, someone across the room shouts Marlow’s name. Cliff’s entire face lights up.

“Ooh, tequila. You’ll excuse me, that’s my cue.” He claps Shane on the shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

The place feels crowded even with only a dozen guys. As the night wears on, Shane drifts from conversation to conversation. Nobody notices how little Shane actually contributes. Everyone else is drunk enough to carry both sides of any discussion. 

That’s when he sees Rozanov leaning against the kitchen island across the room, looking directly at him.

Most people glance away when caught staring. Ilya only lifts his drink. Shane stands there like a deer in headlights, wondering how long he’s been watching him. Disturbed, he loses track of what Connors is saying.

“Sorry,” Shane interrupts Connors midsentence. “I need some air.”

He breaks Ilya’s stare and strides stiffly toward the balcony. Someone steps into his path and he has to angle around them. His shoulder clips another player, sloshing beer over the front of the man’s shirt.

“Watch it!” Someone snaps just as Shane reaches his destination.

***

April 2010, Montreal

“What the hell is your problem, Shane? I drove all this way just to see you, we were supposed to talk it out.” Jessica’s voice trembled, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She paced back and forth in Shane's apartment. “You don't open up, you don’t talk to me.”

“I talk to you every day,” Shane muttered, but it only seemed to frustrate Jessica more.

Shane stood there awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. He had been hoping she would be the one to initiate the breakup so he wouldn’t have to. He’d rehearsed his speech a dozen times in his head. Every version had sounded reasonable in his head. Now, none of them seemed appropriate.

“I know,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I know I’m letting you down. I’m sorry. I just… I just think we both need this. I should focus on hockey right now, it’s not about you.”

“What does that even mean?” Her voice rose again, mascara smudged beneath her eyes.

He couldn’t have explained it worse, but what was he supposed to say? He wasn’t sure how to comfort her. Every word coming out of his mouth just screamed bullshit excuse. He wasn’t good with feelings.

“I don’t mean to hurt you, Jess. I really don’t.” That part, at least, was honest.

Jessica let out a shaky laugh that quickly became a sob. “Wow… not about me, huh? God, you’re just lying through your teeth.” She grabbed her coat from the back of a chair and slammed the door on her way out.

A week later, voices dropped and laughter died down as soon as he stepped a foot into the dressing room.

“What? I missed the joke?” he asked, walking to his stalll to peel off his gloves.

“You haven’t seen it?” Comeau snorted. 

“Seen what?”

“Your girlfriend, man. Ex, I guess,” Comeau said as he shoved the phone into Shane’s hand.

The video was grainy and poorly lit, whoever filmed it couldn’t stay still. When the angle changed, he recognized Jessica. She was sunk into a couch, laughing loosely. She leaned into the girl beside her. Her cheeks were flushed.

“I’m serious,” she said, words slurred. “Like… nothing. Ever. I could be naked and he had no interest, he just…” She made a dismissive gesture. “He didn’t even look like he wanted to be there. It was always hockey this, hockey that. Like my competition was a fucking puck.”

“Are you sure he’s not just…” one of them started, voice trailing off suggestively.

“Not just what?”

“Gay.”

Jessica hiccupped. “I mean… at this point? Maybe.”

All the girls burst into giggles.

The video ended there.

He became acutely aware of the circle around him, his teammates obviously examining his reaction. He desperately tried not to let his panic show on his face, but he handed the phone back like it burned him.

“She’s drunk,” Shane said quickly, his voice cracking. “She’s mad at me. It’s bullshit.”

Everyone stayed silent, but Shane could see some of them exchanging skeptical looks.

He laughed, forcing it out of his chest. “You guys seriously believe that shit? Come on.”

Hayden cleared his throat. “Nah, man. She’s just pissed you dumped her, that’s all. That’s gotta hurt her ego.” He clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder reassuringly, but Shane shrugged it off.

“Maybe you guys should get a life and stop stalking his exes,” Hayden added.

Shane sat down on the bench. The room stayed courtroom quiet, while Shane waited to see what they’d make of him. He shoved his hands under his thighs until they stopped shaking. He didn’t want to look like he was making a big deal out of this, but he was miserably failing.

***

October 2010, Boston

Shane grips the railing of Ilya’s balcony, looking down at the traffic in the streets of Boston. He squints and raises an index finger, easily blotting out cars and people beneath the tip of it. Maybe that’s why Ilya likes living this high up. From up here, everybody else looks very small.

“If you’re working up to some big dramatic exit, I should warn you, this balcony is a real gamble.” Ilya’s voice comes from behind him.

Shane keeps his back turned. He has had enough of Ilya for one day. Enough of the remarks in the locker room, the performance for the reporters, the stare following him across the apartment. When someone withdraws from a crowded room, shuts a door behind himself, and makes every possible effort to be alone, you leave him the fuck alone.

“Phew, that is a long way down.” Ilya appears beside him and leans over the railing, considering the street below. “That’s the problem with heights. Fifty-fifty you die, fifty-fifty you spend the next forty years eating through a tube while some nurse wipes your ass.”

He takes a slow drink.

“Terrible odds for a guy who hates losing as much as you do. Do you splatter, do you bounce? Honestly, the suspense alone would kill me.” He glances sideways at Shane, smiling around the rim of his glass. “Well. Not me, obviously.”

Shane wasn’t planning on saying anything, but Ilya seems determined to make this as uncomfortable as possible by simply standing there next to him.

“I came out here to be alone,” Shane says. “Maybe you should take the hint.”

“Oh! Believe me, I got it. You want me to fuck off. But I’m trying to be nice here.” Ilya's eyebrow raises in pseudo-indignation. “Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Come on, Hollander. Give me something to work with. At least pretend you know how to be part of a team.”

Shane wonders if he missed part of the conversation. Is this a joke? He has done nothing but swallow shit from Ilya today.

“I’m here, aren’t I? That should be enough.”

“That is the absolute bare-ass minimum. You’re making me look bad, kid.” Ilya's eyes drop to Shane’s white-knuckled grip on the railing. “I told an entire room of reporters you were adjusting, so you are going to adjust beautifully. Now go mingle, drink something.”

“I don’t really drink.”

Back in Montreal, Shane had perfected a trick for moments like these. Carry the same beer for hours without taking a sip. Nobody noticed because everyone else was too drunk to keep track of which bottle belonged to whom, and it excused him from accepting anything else.

“Ohhh, I love this part.” Ilya settles more comfortably against the balustrade. “Go ahead. You tell me Daddy liked his whiskey with a side of beating the shit out of his kids, so junior swore he’d never touch the devil’s juice. I'll pretend to care, then we'll both feel closer.”

“No tragic backstory. Sorry to disappoint,” Shane says flatly.

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re naturally boring.”

“I just avoid alcohol during the season. It’s better for my performance.”

“Was that you performing earlier? You touched the puck a few times. Let’s not plan the parade yet.”

Ilya can’t string two sentences together without hiding a blade inside one of them. Shane pushes off the railing and turns to look him in the eyes.

“Whatever point you’re trying to make, just fucking make it. You’ve clearly got something to say about my game,” he snaps before realizing that Ilya’s just trying to get a rise out of him.

“Easy, I’m just giving your nuts a friendly little squeeze. And I'm being very gentle with them, by the way. Look at that grip.” Ilya pinches his fingers together to demonstrate. “That is a courtesy, two-finger balls-busting. I'm practically cradling the things. Men give each other shit all the time, It means I like you enough to bother.” Ilya pauses and adds, “And did I or did I not already tell you that you played good?”

“Calling it friendly doesn’t make you less of an asshole.”

“No, but it makes me an asshole who is making a very sincere effort to be your buddy, which, believe me, is a limited-time offer.” Ilya offers him the drink. “Come on. Show me you can play nice when somebody gives you the opportunity.”

Shane stays silent. Ilya’s smile drops into disappointment.

“And he blows it... Fine, baby steps.” He extends his hand. “Hand.”

Ilya grabs Shane's hand before he can pull it away, closing his fingers hard around the younger man's knuckles.

“Let go, Roz-” Shane jolts.

“We’re having a bonding moment here,” Ilya shushes him dismissively. “Don’t ruin it.”

One by one, Shane feels his fingers being peeled open forcefully. Ilya uses his thumb to pry at each joint. Shane tries to pull back on instinct, but Ilya’s grip tightens, a silent warning. Shane’s tendons scream as they’re bent backwards, and he stops fighting him.

Then, Ilya rearranges the digits to curl around the glass, keeping them locked in place with a crushing grip. Shane’s certain that if he were to withdraw his hand now, something would snap.

“Meet me halfway.” Ilya sighs, long and suffering, like Shane is making them both look ridiculous. “Montreal win so rarely they never taught you what comes after?”

They’re alone, and there’s nothing beyond the railing but open air. He must be paranoid, because a thought takes root in his mind: Could Ilya push him?

It’s irrational, Ilya isn’t going to shove him over the edge. Shane still looks toward the window, searching for witnesses, only to find everyone oblivious to his predicament. 

“Ah-ah.” Ilya tightens his hand around Shane’s, stopping him from pulling away. “Eyes here. Don’t be rude.” Then Ilya follows Shane’s gaze toward the window, and lets out a delighted huff of laughter. “Is that what that face is?” Honest-to-God fear.”

He releases Shane with a tap against his wrist. Blood rushes back through Shane’s hand like tingling needles in his fingers. 

“I’m not scared.” Shane tries to keep his expression impassive.

He shouldn’t have anything to prove. Still, he brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip.

“That’s right,” Ilya murmurs. “All the way down. Spitters are quitters.”

The liquid leaves a foul taste in Shane's mouth and he forces himself to swallow it. “Fuck you.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. No, we’re gonna rewind that rude little outburst and try it again.” Ilya clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “What you meant to say was, ‘Thank you, Ilya, for wasting the top-shelf shit on my ungrateful ass. Thank you, Ilya, for being patient when I act like a rude little asshole. Thank you, Ilya, for trying to socialize the weird loner guy.’”

“You really like hearing people thank you for things they never asked for.”

Dad would've told him this was exactly how idiots got themselves into trouble. Give somebody an inch, let them think they’re funny. Suddenly, they’re standing on your throat.

Shane tips the glass back and drains it. This time, he can’t stop the cough. It tears out of him, ugly and humiliating, and alcohol burns up the back of his nose. His eyes water, and heat floods his face.

Now, seeing Ilya’s smug expression, he wonders why he indulged him in the first place. Now he realizes, Ilya could have put anything in his hand. He probably would’ve been just as pleased making him stand on one foot. 

“See, you can be fun.” Ilya’s voice is a purr. “It just has to be forced down your throat first.”

Vividly, Shane imagines smashing the glass against the railing, shards bursting between his fingers, driving what’s left of it straight into Ilya’s face.

“There. You proved you can make me drink.” Shane shoves the empty glass against Ilya’s chest. “Glad I could make your night.”

Ilya steps closer, but Shane doesn’t budge. He knows men like that, men who expect everyone to make room for them. But this isn’t the arena, and here, Ilya isn’t his captain.

When they’re toe to toe, Ilya reaches out, surprisingly gentle as his fingers settle on Shane’s cheek. Shane barely has time to register the contact before Ilya gives him a condescending pat.

“Attaboy,” Ilya murmurs, like Shane finally sat on command. He pulls his hand back.

Shane’s mind goes elsewhere. The features of Ilya’s face distort and blur together. A calloused hand on his face, tilting it up. Good boy, don’t make this harder. A memory he’d locked away cracks open just long enough to make him nauseous before snapping shut again.

Get a grip, he wills himself.

The heat of Ilya’s palm still burned his cheek, leaving him shaken up. He’s taken punches before. He’s been checked into boards with more force than that. 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child.” Shane glares, clawing back a shred of dignity.

Shane realizes his own hand is raised between them, palm open, ready to wipe the smugness off Ilya’s face. They stay like that, locked in a staring contest. 

No, he won’t stoop this low, won’t hit Ilya over a stupid game of chicken.

Slowly, Shane lowers his hand.

“See you at practice.” Ilya steps back. 

***

April 2010, Montreal

The video had spread faster through the team than he thought it would. He pretended not to notice, letting the humiliation roll off him like he always did. 

Then the passes stopped coming. Teammates passed to worse options rather than send it his direction. Every joke became at his expense, people still laughed, but Shane wasn’t sure they were kidding anymore.

One day, following a rough loss, Shane and Maxwell headed to the showers to wash off the sweat. At that moment, one of their defensemen crossed their path. As he was passing by, he slapped Maxwell’s shoulder.

“Careful, don’t drop the soap around Hollander, man.” The defenseman snickered as he walked away.

Maxwell’s smile faltered. “He’s an idiot.”

Maxwell gave Shane an apologetic look, but in the showers, Shane noticed Maxwell seemed paranoid and overly careful as he shielded his body from Shane’s view.

Even practice changed. A shove that should've only spun him off balance drove him hard into the boards instead.

“Get up!” Coach would snap at Shane.

Later, Shane pressed an ice pack to his bruised ribs and told himself it had been a bad hit.

***

October 2010, Boston

Shane’s apartment is dark when he gets home.

He lies back on the bed, staring up into the dark, with only the flashing lights of the city filtering through the curtains. He stares at the ceiling and watches the night play out there again: the balcony, Ilya forcing his fingers open, the heat of a palm against his cheek. Every time his thoughts return there, arousal follows with it, gathering insistently between his legs.

“Come on.” He lets out an exasperated groan.

Shane rolls onto his stomach, presses his face into the pillow, and tries to suffocate the sensation. His dick hardens and fills up in his boxers. He waits for it to fade, but all of a sudden, he grinds down against the mattress without even registering the movement. When he does, he freezes, disgusted by his own impulse.

Absolutely not. He does it again.

It’s like scratching an itch or prodding a bruise at first. Then soon, his hips jerk forward, pressing his growing bulge against the mattress. His cock throbs against the cotton, leaking warmth that soaks into the fabric. The lack of actual contact is torture.

The movement turns frantic. He needs to touch himself, it’s all he can think about. His hands fumble, shaking as they drag and pull at the fabric of his underwear.

Fuck… Just get it over with already.

When he can’t take it anymore, he lifts his hips in the air, his back arching in a dramatic curve. He shoves his fingers inside his underwear, closing them around his cock. He almost recoils from how hard it is, how wet. He closes his eyes, and all he sees is Ilya staring back at him.

He bites back a broken moan when he frees his aching cock, it springs up, flushed and leaking against his stomach. His thumb smears slick over the head in a desperate swipe, every movement tentative. He lets out a soft gasp into the pillow. He hasn’t touched himself in a long time. He brings his palm up to his mouth and spits, gathering a generous amount of saliva before reaching back down to stroke his cock. He pumps roughly, rushing into the pleasure. More pre-cum squirts out of his slit, and his other hand brushes his face where the touch of Ilya’s fingers still tingles.

He thinks of those hands, large and unyielding. They had frightened him on the balcony. Shane can see them now, forcing his wrists down into the mattress the same way he forced the glass into his hand.

All the way down. Attaboy.

He imagines them around his cock, jerking him off, dictating the pace. 

He tries to stay quiet, if only not to hear the high-pitched whines that escape him. His strokes lose any rhythm. He can’t even stop long enough to be grossed out properly, taking himself over the edge while picturing a man he despises. 

His orgasm takes him by surprise, his slit spurting warm cum into his hand and onto the bedsheets.

Losing control feels like rutting against a mattress with Ilya in his head.

He stays facedown for a few seconds, cheek pressed into the pillow, waiting for his breathing to settle. Just like that, it’s over. He slips his hand out from under him, wiping it on a tissue without looking at it. He grimaces when he notices the dark spot he left on his bedspread.

Great. Now the bed’s all dirty.

He stands and strips the bed, avoiding looking at the stain for too long so that he doesn’t have to think about it. It's been a long time, and his body needed the release, that’s all.

***

April 2010 Madison Square Garden.

New York Admirals vs Montreal Metros.

When Shane walked into the arena that day, Hayden was waiting for him. He straightened up the moment Shane stepped through the door of the locker room. They had been on a losing streak lately, and tonight’s game would be decisive, so the tense atmosphere was expected.

“Hey!” Hayden moved quickly, planting himself in Shane’s path with an apologetic expression. “Listen, before you go over there, some dumbass, I don’t know who, did some shit to your stall… Just ignore it. It’s stupid. I…”

“What do you mean some shit?” He tried to look past Hayden, but the locker room was crowded, and Hayden kept shifting, subtly blocking his line of sight.

“It’s vandalized. It wasn’t even there five minutes ago,” Hayden muttered. “But it’s nothing. Just… Sharpie. It’ll come off.” His nervousness only served to freak Shane out even more.

Hayden’s hand hovered like he was about to grab Shane’s arm. Shane felt a flicker of irritation at the gesture. He wasn’t a child about to run into traffic. He pushed past Hayden. A few of his teammates gave him weird looks as he passed through them to get to his stall, some mocking, a few uncomfortable.

Faggot.

In big, bold letters. The slur had been written across his stall with a Sharpie, looming over his name. 

“Who the fuck did this?” His voice cracked, he could feel his own pulse in his ears.

Everybody stayed silent. J.J. looked at the floor. Drapeau and Comeau whispered something to each other. Andropov leaned back against the wall, arms folded.

“Which one of you?” Shane muttered. He was usually composed and quiet, but this was a nightmare, and he was getting more agitated by the second.

Andropov finally pushed off the wall with a sigh, as though Shane was being an inconvenience. “This shit isn’t cool. Whoever did that is an idiot, but we’ve got a game tonight. You want to spiral over some graffiti right now? Coach will have someone clean it up soon.”

“Some graffiti?” Shane couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“It’s a word on a wall. You’re a professional. Act like one.”

A few of his teammates nodded in agreement. Shane bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

Control yourself, don’t make a scene.

***

“Your ex taught you that move?” Comeau sneered as he skated past Shane as the team did dynamic stretches before the game.

“Fuck you,” Shane growled. He was on all fours, palms flat against the ice.

Comeau circled back.

“You hear me?” Comeau pressed. “I asked if she showed you that move. Or did she bend you over first and then you figured out you liked it?”

Shane froze for a fraction of a second, his fingers curling slowly against the ice. Then he pushed himself upright on his skates. He drove him backward. The boards rattled as Comeau’s back slammed against them.

***

“Welcome back to Madison Square Garden, hockey fans. Tonight, the New York Admirals are hosting the Montreal Metros in what’s shaping up to be a very interesting playoff game. The Metros are under pressure, currently down 3–2 in the series. If they lose this one, they’re out,” the commentator announced into the mic.

The camera tracked the puck as it dropped. Skates carved white lines into the ice.

“Andropov takes off with the puck…”

Shane picked up speed along the boards, quick and efficient. The earlier exchange replayed in his head. He shook it off.

“Hollander is working hard to create space…”

Shane was open for a pass. He tapped his stick against the ice to signal it.

“Andropov passes to Pike!”

Shane adjusted without hesitation, looping back into position. The puck flew towards the net.

“Impressive save from the Admirals’ goaltender.”

***

“The score is still tight as we head into the final stretch.”

The puck dropped. Shane lunged forward and intercepted a careless pass mid-stride. The ice parted for him, this was his chance.

“Hollander takes the puck! Keep an eye on him tonight,” the commentator continued. “Talented kid. Strong player, but he seems to be playing solo for now.”

Comeau cut across Shane’s lane without warning, shoulder driving into him even though the puck was already moving toward the opposite boards. This wasn’t about hockey anymore. Shane lost all composure as he pivoted and slammed into Comeau.

“Oh, big collision… and now they’re going! Hollander and Comeau, two teammates dropping the gloves right in front of the benches!” the commentator narrated breathlessly. “This is… this is unusual.”

Comeau swung first, his fist connecting with Shane’s cheekbone. Shane groaned, but he quickly retaliated. His knuckles collided with Comeau’s jaw.

“Comeau lands the first shot. Hollander answers with a right of his own! Linesmen watching closely here.”

The rest all happened in less than 20 seconds.

Comeau tried to throw another punch, but Shane grabbed him and jerked him upright. Their visors clinked together. He hit him again, then kept hitting him, every punch harder and sloppier than the last. Weeks of restraint gone in seconds.

With a final hit, he hammered his fist straight into the bridge of Comeau’s nose. It broke audibly as the bone gave way. His head snapped back, and blood sprayed Shane’s hands, spotting the ice beneath them. The linesmen rushed in immediately, hands outstretched to pry Shane off. The audience gasped as Comeau reeled back, dazed, hands flying to his face, but every noise was dulled in Shane’s ears.

“Hollander’s lost it. Comeau’s in trouble now… He’s hurt. Linesmen are stepping in immediately. This is not something you want to see,” the commentator said. 

One linesman wedged himself between them, grabbing Shane around the chest. Comeau fell to the ice as he was separated, landing on his back and knocking his head hard against the ice. His face looked terrible now. His lip was split, and his nose was crushed and skewed sideways. Blood poured freely, running down over his upper lip and dripping off his chin in heavy drops. One nostril was completely blocked, and the other flared uselessly as he tried to suck in air through his mouth, wheezing.

Control yourself. Don’t make a scene.

The command arrived too late to keep him anchored this time.

“Comeau’s down. Trainers are coming out right away. Hollander’s being escorted off, and the officials will sort out the penalties, but the bigger concern right now is Comeau.”

Shane’s chest heaved, his face glistening with sweat. He didn’t resist as he was hauled backward by his arms.

The noise came rushing back alongside the ache in his hands and face. Only then did he realize that thousands of people had watched him come apart.

Losing control felt like Comeau’s blood drying between his knuckles.

“Wow… that was a rare one. You just don’t see teammates go after each other like that. This is going to raise a lot of questions on that bench.”

The camera lingered on Shane as he skated off, escorted to the locker room. Comeau was taken away by the paramedics.

***

They lost the game, ending their series. Shane was swarmed the moment he stepped out of the dressing room. Cameras and microphones were ready for his statement, and the idea of being first on the story had the reporters practically salivating.

“Shane, what happened out there? Why did you go after your own teammate?”

“I… lost my cool. That’s on me.” Shane’s voice came out hoarse and shaken.

“Did Comeau say something? Was there a history between you two?” another reporter asked.

“I’m not getting into that.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Of course I do,” Shane answered quickly.

The reporters kept firing questions. Are you worried about your reputation? Do you expect a suspension? Does the team still trust you?

***

Shane sank into a chair facing Coach Theriault. He looked down at his hands, smeared with blood, picking at the dried streaks under his nails. He flexed his knuckles, checking his range of motion. Nothing was broken.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Theriault’s palm cracked against the desk. “Playoffs. National broadcast. And you turn it into a bar fight. Did you both wake up this morning and decide you wanted to be remembered as the dumbest motherfuckers in NHL history?”

Shane pondered what would happen to him and what his parents would think. His reputation was barely formed.

“I just got off the phone with the front office…” Theriault continued, sighing heavily. “Three years clawing our way back to the playoffs, and you decide to settle personal bullshit on the ice. I’ll talk to the GM, and we’ll decide what to do with you. But this? This was career suicide.”

“I understand.” What else was Shane supposed to say? He knew he fucked up.

“No, you don’t,” Theriault shot back. “You don’t get the luxury of a solid reputation yet. You haven’t earned that. You aimed for Comeau's head while he couldn't fight back. You pushed him after the linesmen stepped in. You lost your goddamn mind out there, Hollander.”

Now that the fight was over, all Shane could feel was shame. Both ashamed of taking Comeau’s bait and ashamed of making it everyone’s problem. This wasn’t the disciplined player scouts had raved about back in junior league.

“Christ,” Theriault muttered, dropping into his chair. He rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re not a bad kid. You see the ice better than guys who’ve been here a decade. That’s raw talent. But you absolutely cannot be doing that shit ever again.” 

The next day, every sports radio station had spent the entire morning ripping into the team, and the headlines were accumulating:

“Chaos on the Bench: Teammates Drop Gloves in Stunning On-Ice Fight.”

“Hollander vs. Comeau: What Sparked the In-Team Meltdown?”

“Locker Room Turmoil? Hollander Loses It Mid-Game.”

The NHL issued an official statement reinforcing rules about excessive force during fights and player safety. The clip ran on every sports network on a loop. Team management contacted Shane to break the news: On top of a multi-game suspension and fines from the league and the team, he would be traded to another team. He and Comeau could not play together again.

Chapter 2: Down, Boy

Chapter Notes

this david is a pretty major departure from canon. both of shane’s parents are underdeveloped in the books, so there was a lot of space to imagine how that family worked before we met them. the show made yuna shane’s manager, but i always thought that role made more sense for david: he played hockey at university and was probably the person who first taught shane to skate. he was probably his first coach too. from there, i started asking what would happen if david had wanted the NHL for himself and, for whatever reason, never made it.

September 2010, Boston

The first day in Boston, Shane arrived at the practice rink with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was immediately greeted by the management. Then he had to meet the trainers, the physiotherapist and the equipment manager. 

“The captain’s going to meet you here,” the woman from management told him just outside the dressing room. “Rozanov will help you get settled and introduce you around.”

“He knows I’m here?” Shane looked at the closed door.

“He should be along any second,” she said as she walked away.

That had been fifteen minutes ago.

Shane checked the time on his phone again. Sixteen minutes.

At first, Shane had assumed Rozanov was busy with other obligations, he could understand that. By the tenth minute, however, the delay had begun to feel intentional. By the sixteenth, he felt like an idiot. Two members of the rink staff had already exited by the same door, shooting curious glances at him. They must have wondered why the newest Raider had been abandoned in the hallway with all his belongings. Shane picked up his bag and pushed through the door himself.

Inside the Raiders' dressing room, a different jersey hung in each stall. Shane moved slowly along the row.

Marlow… Connors… Kane… Carmichael… Dubek… Rozanov.

The captain’s stall was at the center, wider than the others. And a few stalls down, Shane's own waited. Hollander printed on a black jersey. He had become accustomed to seeing his name against Montreal blue, to the point that this version looked counterfeit.

“That one’s yours.” 

The voice came from directly behind him. Ilya Rozanov stood inside the doorway. He looked Shane over without attempting to disguise it.

“I know, I know,” Ilya pushed away from the doorway and entered the room. “I was supposed to hold your hand and bring you inside. But I figured I'd let you sniff around first. Helps with adjusting to a new home.”

“I managed. Thanks.” Shane let his duffel bag fall beside his stall. “The name on the back helped.”

Shane couldn’t tell whether the phrasing was intended that way. Ilya’s English sometimes made insults sound accidental.

“Don’t bother translating, Hollander. I meant it exactly the way it sounded.”

So he'd meant it.

That, at least, fit the man Shane knew from a distance. Ilya had entered the league at eighteen and spent the next decade becoming one of its most recognizable players. He was Boston’s captain, its highest-paid asset and the centerpiece around which the entire team had been built. Even people who hated Boston knew his statistics.

Especially people who hated Boston.

Shane had watched him on television long before they shared a rink, Ilya laughing through a split lip while an official dragged him away from a fight. He had played against him several times from the opposite bench. After the trade, Shane had spent an entire night watching his interviews in an attempt to understand what kind of captain he'd be dealing with, and had learned almost nothing. Ilya could be charming for a second and cold enough to make a reporter forget the question right after. 

“Staff show you around?” Ilya asked.

“Yes.”

“They asked me to show you the ropes. I said, absolutely not, kid made it nineteen years without me holding his dick while he pisses.” Ilya sighed as if burdened by the memory. “Then they showed me your disciplinary record. So here we are.” 

“I can handle myself.”

As far as Shane was concerned, that should've settled it: You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours. But he saw the slight narrowing of Ilya’s eyes. He might have missed it if he hadn’t spent his teenage years learning how to read the smallest changes in his father’s face, identifying the moment David's patience began to thin. 

Don’t get smart with me, Shane.

Shane corrected course before the silence could start a confrontation.

“Fine,” he added. “Just tell me what to do and I'll do it.”

Ilya walked deeper into the room and stopped beside Shane’s stall. He tapped the nameplate above Shane’s head.

“You know, I spent all summer hearing what a problem you are.”

“You and everyone else.” 

“Nobody here gives a flying fuck that you lost your shit in Montreal. You play well, you’re golden. Half these idiots would probably buy you a drink for punching Comeau.” Ilya leaned against the partition separating Shane’s stall from the next. “Just don’t walk in here with your chest puffed out, swinging your dick around to prove you’re the toughest in the room. This is my room.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Shane said. “I know how to stay out of the way.”

“I don’t need you out of my way.” Ilya’s voice lowered, losing some of its humor. “I need you exactly where I put you. That's why you're going to give me your phone.”

He held out his hand expectantly.

“My phone?” Shane reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone, passing it over before fully considering whether he should.

Ilya had clearly not expected immediate compliance. He smiled and took the phone.

“Team chat,” Ilya's thumb moved over the screen, but his eyes lifted to Shane repeatedly. “Schedules. Fines. Dumb shit. Now I know where to find you.”

Raiders - Rozanov added Shane Hollander

“There, everyone can bother you,” Ilya said as he handed the phone back. “I’ll introduce you to the boys.”

His palm settled between Shane’s shoulder blades as he steered him toward a door at the rear of the locker room. The adjoining lounge was crowded with Raiders. Couches had been pushed against two walls, facing a television mounted above a cabinet.

“Everybody,” Ilya announced. “Montreal sent us a present.” His hand moved from Shane's shoulders to the base of his spine, while he presented him to the room.

A tanned man sprawled across an armchair.

“This is Marlow,” Ilya told Shane.

“Cliff,” the man corrected. 

“I’m Shane.”

“Yeah, buddy. We put that together.”

A few of the others laughed. Shane assumed he was supposed to laugh too, so he forced out a stiff chuckle. Ilya began pointing around the room, listing names with varying levels of accuracy and respect. When the introductions ended, Shane gave the room a short nod. He had no idea what he was supposed to do next. Most of the seats were occupied, but an empty space remained at the far end of one couch. He started walking toward it.

He made it two steps before fingers hooked into the back of his collar and gently pulled him backward.

“Not there,” Ilya said.

“What?” Shane looked over his shoulder.

“That's veterans’ couch.” 

“It’s just a couch.” It looked like any other couch in the room.

“Bold move, Montreal.” Carmichael lifted his water bottle in solemn approval. “You’re already challenging the upholstery.” 

“You don’t know the rules yet,” Ilya said. “It’s fine. I'll teach you. I will be nice because it is your first day after all.”

“It's fine, I can stand.”

“No, no.” Ilya looked genuinely offended. “I would never do that to you.”

He pointed toward the center of the room.

“You sit where rookies sit,” he said.

Shane followed the direction of his finger. At first, he thought Ilya meant the crowded couch, then his eyes dropped to the strip of carpet between it and the coffee table. A space barely wide enough for a person to sit without blocking the television.

“You’re kidding,” Shane said.

“Oh no, we take rules very seriously around here.” Ilya gave the back of his collar another small tug. “Down, boy.” 

“I’m not a rookie.”

“New team, new room.” Ilya shrugged. “Baby starts at the bottom.”

“Just sit on the floor, man,” Cliff advised. If anything, he sounded sympathetic. “It’ll be over faster.”

He could tell Ilya to go fuck himself, claim the empty seat and force him to decide whether a stupid joke was worth escalating. No one here was actually going to drag him onto the floor. They were just bored. They wanted to see whether the rumours were true and how much entertainment they could get out of him before he snapped.

But by tomorrow, the story would have changed. Hollander couldn’t take a joke. Hollander walked into Boston acting like a star after Montreal threw him away. Coming from the Metros, Boston’s longtime rival, had placed him at a disadvantage before he stepped through the door. And Shane had arrived with enough baggage to feed a locker room for months. 

His father’s voice moved through his head. Keep your head down. Don’t give them another reason.

“You’re thinking about refusing, aren’t you?” Ilya leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I'd be impressed. First day on a new team, standing in front of your captain with a big, beautiful set of balls hanging between your legs.”

Ilya hooked a thumb toward the room behind him.

“Only problem is, then you’ve disrespected me in my own room, in front of my guys. And I can’t just let that shit sit there, can I? I’d have to turn this cute little moment into a whole thing or people start thinking my word means nothing,” Ilya said. “That gets uncomfortable for everybody here. So how about you save me the trouble, tuck your sack away, and sit the fuck down?”

Slowly, Shane lowered himself onto the floor. He settled into the narrow space between the couch and the coffee table. His legs fit awkwardly beneath it. There was nowhere natural to place his hands, so he rested them loosely over his knees. Shane’s cheeks burned red, but he kept his face blank.

“Gentlemen, that is what we call a management issue,” Ilya told the room. “Montreal made this guy sound rabid, and now look at him sitting pretty at my feet in twenty minutes.”

Conversation resumed around them. Cliff began describing an initiation from his first season that had involved crossing a shopping mall in a sequined dress.

The couch shifted behind him. Ilya dropped into the seat, spreading his knees on either side of Shane’s shoulders. Shane stared straight ahead at the television mounted high on the wall, anything to give his mind somewhere else to go besides Ilya’s thighs bracketing him. The room had already moved on, no one paid attention to them or how uncomfortable Shane appeared. 

Ilya shifted forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, the edge of his smile visible in Shane’s peripheral vision.  

“I have to admit,” he said, his breath warmed the side of Shane’s face. “I thought you’d make me work harder for it.”

“You done?” Shane whispered, his fingernails pressed crescents into his palms.

“Oh, not a fucking chance.”

Ilya sat back at last, but Shane remained braced, waiting for whatever came next. A hand descended onto the top of his head, and he flinched only for Ilya’s fingers to briefly ruffle his hair.

***

October 2010, Boston, practice rink.

On the ice, Shane is a boy-shaped hockey machine. He fires the puck, striking the back of the net before the goaltender even finishes squaring himself to the shot.

He had slept badly. Even after stripping the bed, changing the sheets and showering until the water ran cold, he had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling while the balcony replayed behind his eyes. Attaboy. A bad night can't follow him onto the ice. Whatever his body did afterward, alone in his apartment, was nothing more than a physiological response. 

Across the rink, Ilya is propped against the boards beside the coaches, looking well-rested just to spite Shane. What kept Shane awake all night clearly hadn’t cost Ilya a minute of sleep. Everything comes easily to him. The fans adore him, the press hangs on to every stupid thing he says, the team treats him like he owns the place, and the jackass sleeps like a baby too. 

The goalie sends the next puck across the ice. Shane receives it on the blade and drives toward the net.

Ilya meets Shane’s eyes. A second is all it takes, Shane releases the puck late. The puck bounces off the goal frame with a sharp metallic ring that echoes loudly in the rink.

“Come on, Hollander, stay focused.” Coach Leclaire snaps from where he’s standing next to Rozanov. “That was sloppy. What the hell are you doing?”

Shane’s hands tighten on his stick.

Mistakes like that are not permitted.

Other players are allowed bad mornings.

He skates toward the loose puck, but Ilya reaches it first.

“You look worn out, Hollander. Busy night?” Ilya calls as he glides past.

Shane’s head snaps up.

If the captain is riding you, good. Means he expects something. Use it.

“I told you,” Shane says, pushing after him. “If you have a problem with me, say it.”

“Oh, no. I want you right here.” Ilya gestures with his stick toward the ice between them. “Front-row seat.” 

The faint smirk at the corner of his mouth makes Shane want to drive him through the glass.

“Watch and learn, kid.”

He doesn’t even look at the net. One smooth pull across his body, a quick snap of his wrists. The shot rises past the goalie’s blocker and buries itself beneath the crossbar. Shane swallows the bitter taste gathering at the back of his throat. 

The whistle shrills in their ears.

“Line up!” Leclaire shouts. “Five-on-five. First unit against second. Let’s move.”

Players scatter into position. Shane skates toward center, Ilya is already waiting across from him. Shane bends at the waist. 

“Maybe I should go easy on you, yes?” Ilya murmurs once they're at eye-level.

The puck skids between them, and their sticks clash. Shane wins the draw, pulls the puck back and accelerates down the ice. Ilya comes out of nowhere and slams him into the board, the force of it knocking Shane off his feet and sending him down hard.

The puck pops loose, and Rozanov’s defenseman scoops it up. Shane shoves himself away from the boards before the sting finishes settling. He intercepts the pass meant for Ilya’s winger. The change in possession catches everyone moving in the wrong direction. Ilya turns.

Their eyes meet again.

This time, Shane keeps moving, he snaps the puck into the net.

Goal.

“Watch and learn, asshole,” he mutters to himself. If they’re keeping score in this dick-measuring contest, Ilya is still winning by a mile, but Shane can still enjoy the small wins. He's so elated as he skates back to the boards that he doesn't even think to hide it.

***

“Finally,” Carmichael sighs, already heading for the dressing room. “I thought Rozanov was gonna make us do suicides instead.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cliff cuts in, grinning. “He saves that for when you play like shit, which is what? Every other night?”

“Fuck you.”

Their voices fade as they disappear down the tunnel. The rink empties out fast after practice, most guys don’t linger unless they absolutely have to. Eighty-two games a season teach men to ration themselves carefully. Nobody’s worried about forgetting how to skate overnight.

Still, Shane circles the ice one more time, sweat cooling against the back of his neck. His thighs ache. Good. He pushes harder. He doesn’t need a break. Not when Rozanov is still there, his elbows hooked over the boards, watching him with that bored, mean little curl to his mouth. Shane pretends not to notice until Ilya makes a show of patting the empty seat next to him.

He’s not some eager rookie panting for approval. Not fourteen years old again, giving everything he had just for the privilege of hearing his coach tell him he was better than the other boys. And he sure as hell does not sit just because Ilya Rozanov crooked a finger.

“I’m not here to kiss your ass,” Shane mutters, already slowing down.

His skates carve into the ice as he drifts to a reluctant stop in front of him. He considers skating away on principle. He really does. But Ilya just keeps looking at him, bored and expectant, like Shane is taking too long to complete the simplest drill. He pats the seat again.

“Oh my God,” Ilya sighs dramatically. “Don’t just stand there with your dick in your hands. Get over here.”

Ilya's irritation is lighthearted, but the rebuke still puts Shane on edge. He steps off the ice and drops on the bench with just enough reluctance to save face.

Ilya doesn’t waste a second. He leans in and plants a rough hand on the small of Shane’s back, shoving him upright. “Chest up. You look pathetic folded in on yourself like that.”

Shane nearly jumps out of his skin, his spine snapping straight.

“Quit pushing me,” he hisses, shocked once again by Ilya's assurance that whatever line he wants to push will be taken. 

The realization that he has been allowing this is particularly unpleasant. He doesn’t want confrontation, not now, if he can avoid it.

“You ran off last night,” Ilya remarks.

“Didn’t feel like staying.”

“And apparently didn’t feel like sleeping either.” Ilya studies the shadows beneath Shane’s eyes. “Somebody keep you up past your bedtime?”

“No one. Why do you care?” Shane cringes at how defensive he sounds, and suddenly he’s thinking about the balcony again. Ilya’s hand on his cheek, deceptively gentle. Then Shane alone in bed afterward, feverish with shame, grinding himself into the mattress.

“Hmm.” Ilya leans back, stretching out his legs to take up as much space as possible. “Last night you looked one loud noise away from blowing a fucking gasket. Now you’re dragging ass. So either somebody spent all night fucking the tension out of you, or you’re somehow even more exhausting when it's just you and your hand.” Ilya’s grin spreads. “I was gonna congratulate you. But considering you’re still cranky, I’m leaning more toward the second option.”

Shane looks away so Ilya can't enjoy the color spreading across his face. What is he supposed to say? That he couldn’t breathe being that close? That a stupid brush of fingers had short-circuited his brain, so he freaked out and ran away like a kid caught doing something wrong?

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” he spits out. 

“Ah-ah. See, this? This is why I asked. That is not the attitude of a man who gets laid.”

Ilya's index finger pokes Shane’s chest. Shane jerk back, swatting the hand away.

“You are so frustrated,” Ilya grins. “Walking around with your dick in a chokehold. Do everybody a favor and let the poor thing breathe once in a while. Sex is a healthy way to get the anger out. You need an outlet because this-” he pokes him again, eliciting a glare from Shane. “-is becoming a workplace hazard.”

“You'd know, right? You’ve probably got a spreadsheet.”

It’s a petty deflection and they both know it. Ilya is seen with a different woman in every picture circulating online, and he isn’t ashamed of his lifestyle.

“It’s better than beating a guy’s face in,” Ilya says, unbothered by Shane’s sarcastic jab. Shane thinks of Comeau, bloody and disfigured. The headlines, the comments calling Shane unhinged, unstable, a liability.

“Oh, spare me. You fuck anything that moves.” Shane doesn't have any moral objection to his captain sleeping around. He just can't pretend sex is as simple as some valve you open to let pressure out. No, sex was zoning out with Jessica and praying his body would do its thing.

“Yes,” Ilya admits unabashedly. “And? At least I sleep amazing after. You know it’s not immoral to fuck, right? Life is miserable enough. You find something that feels good, you hold on to it with both hands.” He leans closer. “Unless… you don't know that yet.” Ilya breaks into a grin and laughs. “No fucking way. You’re brand-new, are you?”

“I’m not a virgin,” Shane blurts, embarrassed by how prudish he must seem. “I’m not a prude either. I just don’t do that stuff. Hooking up, I mean.”

“And why the hell not?” Ilya asks. “You’re what, nineteen? An athlete. You look pretty. Your personality is a fucking disaster, obviously, but you can still make it work.”

Pretty isn’t something men normally call each other except for chirps on the ice. It’s how guys say, “You’re soft. You’re not man enough.” The last time he heard that, it came from Drapeau: “Good job, pretty boy.” He didn’t understand it at the time, but he connected the dots later when he heard the recording of his ex-girlfriend: “Are you sure he’s not just…” 

“I guess I’m just too boring for all that.” Shane tries to brush it off.

“You think girls give a shit if you’re interesting?” Ilya scoffs. “Nobody is climbing into your bed for your conversation. They want to tell their friends they fucked the Shane Hollander. You could lie there completely silent and still make somebody’s year. Think you can manage that?” 

“What?” Shane huffs, incredulous.

Ilya raises an eyebrow as if to say Are you slow?

“I said you’re hot. Keep up.” His gaze drops without the slightest attempt at discretion. “You could have half the city begging to fuck you, provided you don’t start talking and make their pussies dry up.”

Shane has seen men look at women that way in hotel bars and parking lots, assessing what they might like to put their hands on. Ilya’s attention travels down Shane’s chest, pauses at the narrow line of his waist, then his thighs before climbing back to his face. 

“Oh.” It is the only thing Shane manages. He lets the silence drag for a while then stands. “All right, I’m done with this.”

He pushes past Ilya, heading for the locker room.

***

August 1998, Ottawa

Growing up, Shane's idea of manhood had always come straight from hockey culture. Rozanov being like the perfect male prototype engineered in a laboratory specifically to make Shane feel inadequate.

“Son, you can’t let them see you cry, okay? Don’t let them know it’s affecting you, or it’ll just get worse,” Shane’s father had told him one day when Shane came home from school, visibly upset about his classmates making fun of his freckles. “These little assho... these kids, they’re just bullies. Don’t mind them. You stay strong, got it?”

“Yes.” Shane sniffled.

“Yes, what?” David smiled, crouching down to Shane’s level.

“Yes, sir.”

“Attaboy,” David muttered as he wiped Shane’s wet cheek with his fingers.

His mom, Yuna, only smiled when neighbors would ask why their own kids couldn’t be as well-behaved as Shane was.

His father had always been a strong presence, pushing Shane to accomplish what he couldn’t do himself in his youth. David was a good enough athlete and student to play hockey for one of Canada’s most prestigious universities before becoming a public servant at TBS. Shane knew his dad would’ve loved to go professional in hockey, but David injured his knee badly before he had a chance to prove himself. He kept the framed team photo in the living room, hung above the fireplace where they kept Shane’s trophies.

He introduced his son to hockey when he was only three years old, and Shane never looked back. Soon, he was taking multiple classes, attending youth hockey camps, and watching NHL games on TV with his father. David always insisted on how important cardio was. He made Shane run laps in the neighborhood all summer. But Canadian winters were an absolute nightmare in the streets of Ottawa, so for Shane’s seventh birthday, David got him a treadmill.

“Okay, kiddo. If you want to be a pro, you got to train like a pro. You may never be the biggest guy, but these other boys, they’ve got nothing on you if you’re faster than them, okay?”

Shane stepped on the treadmill with childlike curiosity, feeling slightly intimidated by all the features on the machine.

“This is going to make me fast like you?” Shane said excitedly. He had seen video recordings of some of his dad’s hockey games back in the day. It looked straight out of an action movie.

“Like me? Oh, this is going to make you even faster, buddy. Come on, try it out. I want to see how red your face gets when you’re at your maximum speed.” David ruffled Shane’s hair affectionately.

***

October 2010, Boston

It has been two weeks since the season started, and Shane has gotten to know the team. He knows the names of everyone who skates beside him, their routines, their habits, their way of communicating on the ice, and the number of goals each of them has scored in the past few seasons.

He knows Cliff Marlow breaks curfew to hook up with women in most of the cities they visit and has had chlamydia three times in the last five years. Shane can’t figure out how someone can live with that kind of disregard.

He knows Carmichael always carries extra protein bars with him because he’s a gym freak. He knows that Coach Leclaire keeps a stash of scotch in his office for nights when the games have been long and the tension runs high. He knows that the physician, Cole, brings his daughter to work sometimes to see the Raiders practice. He knows St-Simon is lying about quitting smoking. The guy’s breath always smells faintly of tobacco, even when he insists that he’s been clean for weeks.

The one thing Shane hasn’t figured out is Ilya Rozanov. He knows that Ilya came to Boston from Russia when he got drafted, but beyond that, there’s nothing. Shane keeps an eye on him, tries to understand him. 

Shane had learned to read his father like a book. David never had to raise his voice when Shane knew exactly what to do before he asked. Anything could be anticipated if you paid close attention.

***

Detroit

Each morning is the same, he wakes at six to run. On game days, he reduces the route to a few kilometers, though even that is more than the trainers want. 

“You planning on running alone like a poser the whole season?” Cliff calls out. 

The sun has begun to rise, Detroit is still mostly asleep. Shane has just stepped out of the hotel lobby when Cliff shoulders through the revolving door behind him. Shane checks his watch. 6.15 am, he's already late. 

Cliff jogs down the front steps and falls into stride beside him, nudging Shane with his elbow as if they arranged this together.

“Let’s get a sweat in,” he says. “Build camaraderie. Strengthen the sacred brotherhood of men.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on company.” Shane faces forward and begins at an easy pace, giving his muscles time to warm. 

“Aw, come on,” Cliff says, matching his pace. “This is how men bond. You’re depressing me with that loner bullshit.”

Shane wants to protest, but Cliff is particularly persistent, and saying no to him is more efforts than it's worth. Besides, Shane isn't sure he wants to be the weird loner guy anymore. When Cliff is not behaving like a complete idiot, he is not terrible to have around. 

“All right,” he says at last. “But if you slow me down, I’m leaving you behind.”

Cliff grins. “Knew you liked me.”

“Let's not go that far,” Shane shot back.

They turn onto a broader avenue. Tonight, Boston will play the Red Wings. He would prefer to be thinking about that now. For nearly five minutes, Cliff allows him to.

Then he says, “So, you and Rozanov getting along?”

Shane huffs. This is exactly what he gets for letting Marlow tag along. He had hoped the run might clear his head. More specifically, he had hoped it might expel Ilya from it. Sweat him out like a toxin. But Cliff has dragged him back into it before the first mile is finished.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“He’s always talking to you.”

“More like always bothering me.” Shane increases the pace slightly. Cliff notices but stays beside him, his breathing beginning to roughen. “I know he’s your friend, but he’s kind of a dick.”

“Kind of?” Cliff snorts, then coughs into his sleeve as if he can disguise the laugh. “No, yeah. He is. Definitely. But he doesn’t mean all of it.”

Shane speeds up another fraction, and Cliff makes a quiet sound of suffering but refuses to drop back.

“Okay, he loves fucking with you,” Cliff says. “Obviously. But he likes you, you know?”

“You think harassing someone means you like them?”

“With Ilya?” Cliff considers this. “Sometimes.”

Shane looks ahead, jaw tightening. Cliff must sense that the joke didn't land because his voice loses some of its playfulness.

“When Ilya saw that video from Montreal,” he says. “You beating the absolute shit out of Comeau. He thought you were a total psycho... in a good way. That guy was twice your size, and you just kept going. Turned his face into a goddamn piñata.”

Shane slows his pace. “I lost control,” he says. “That isn’t impressive. It was stupid, and we lost the game.”

“Stupid, yeah,” Cliff agrees. “Historically stupid. Like, ‘who let this dude play professional hockey?’ levels of stupid. But Roz respects guys who are a little fucked up.” Cliff grimaces as soon as he says it. “No offense.”

Shane grits his teeth. “Why would that offend me?”

“Well, you made that face.”

“Whatever.” Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. “And respect? For acting like a lunatic on the ice? If that’s how you earn his respect, I don’t know what that says about him.”

“Sorry,” Cliff says. “Look, nobody thinks what happened was good. Coach sure as hell doesn’t. But hey, you get a fresh start here. Anyway, you’re not doing this again... right?” 

“No. Jesus. Of course not,” Shane snarls, irritated. He’s not going to jeopardize his career by making the same mistake twice. He doesn’t need to be reminded. Another incident like that could cost him twenty games, maybe more, and possibly his place in the league. “I’m not doing it again. I know what it cost me.”

“Take it easy,” Cliff says, raising his hands. “I’m just making sure you’re not going to go berserk on me in the middle of a game. You saw the state Comeau was in? Dude looked two seconds away from asking to be put out of his misery.”

They continue in silence. Shane turns Cliff’s words over despite himself. It's probably nonsense. 

Cliff looks relieved when the hotel appears several blocks ahead. “Fucking finally,” he pants. “Hey, race you back? Loser pays for breakfast.”

This is childish. Shane has already completed the workout he planned. Sprinting on damp pavement for the sake of winning a smoothie is pointless will accomplish nothing for his conditioning.

“You scared?” Cliff rocks impatiently on the balls of his feet.

Then, without warning, Shane surges forward, chasing the boyish challenge. His legs moving faster than they have in weeks. There is no game on the line. No father on the phone demanding that he correct his form. Cliff takes off after him, but Shane is already several strides ahead.

He reaches the wall beside the revolving door and slaps his palm against the cold stone before turning around. Cliff is still half a block away. By the time he arrives, Shane is bent over with his hands braced on his knees, lungs working hard and sweat cooling beneath the collar of his shirt. Cliff staggers to the wall and collapses against it dramatically.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “You really wanted that lunch money. How bad were the fines for Comeau? It’s like yelling ‘squirrel’ to a dog with you.”

Shane looks down at the pavement. He's confused why his face hurts until he realizes he is smiling. He cannot remember the last time competition felt this light and fun. 

“I told you,” he says between breaths. “Don’t slow me down.”

Cliff pushes himself upright, still panting. “You didn’t have to humiliate me in front of the entire city of Detroit.” Cliff shoves his shoulder, playful and careless. “All right, you freak. You win. I’ll go get the food.”

Cliff laughs and heads through the hotel entrance. Shane follows, expecting them to separate at the elevators, but Cliff makes it three steps toward the on-site restaurant before stopping so abruptly that Shane nearly walks into him.

“Oh, shit.”Cliff pats the pockets of his jacket, then reaches inside and pulls out a tangled pair of black earphones. “Can you bring these back to Ilya? I promised I’d bring them back this morning, but now I have to play waitress because somebody took our friendly race too seriously.”

Cliff holds out the earphones.

“Why do I  have to do it?” Shane asks warily, this all seems suspicious.

“Because you’re going upstairs,” Cliff says slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “And I’m going in there.” He points toward the restaurant.

Shane sighs and takes the earphones. Cliff releases the cord immediately, before he can change his mind.

“Fine,” Shane says.

“My hero.”

***

May 2005. Ottawa

Shane has just turned fourteen. His birthday gifts sit unopened in the corner of the living room: new skates, still wrapped in plastic, and a small digital camera he hasn’t touched. To capture memories, his mom had said. Otherwise, one day, he would be an adult and realize that entire summers had disappeared from his mind.

Shane sits with his bowl of cereal in front of him, spoon idly moving through the flakes. Hockey classes were over for the season. His regular arena had ended its spring programming in late April. A summer camp’s brochure sits on the counter, a boy holding a hockey stick on the cover.

“I’m too old for this, Mom,” Shane whines, voice muffled by a mouthful of cereal. “It’s for kids.”

“Sweetheart, you’ll have fun,” his mom reassures him. She slides the brochure closer. “It’s not a beginner’s camp. Advanced boys in your age group only. You’ll get to practice every day on ice. There are other activities too. You could make friends… meet kids your age instead of spending the whole summer with your dad.”

“I don’t want to go,” Shane says defensively. “They won’t like me.” He hates when she circles this topic.

He thinks of school, the only other Asian boy, Shun, gets it worse. Kids mock his accent, his lunch, his name. Shane doesn’t get that kind of attention. Not with “Hollander” at the end of his name. People squint at him before deciding he “looks Asian, or something” and move on. Shun hates him for it. Once, he muttered, “Must be nice,” when a teacher mispronounced his name for the hundredth time but said Shane’s perfectly.

The other boys don’t bully Shane, they just don’t include him. He gets jokes too late and talks too little. He can never tell if people are laughing with him or at him.

“Honey, you don’t know that.” Yuna’s tone is light. She glances at David, sipping her coffee with a small sigh. “You’re always by yourself, or with us, but you’re only fourteen. You should be doing normal kid stuff.”

David doesn’t look up from the New York Times. He folds a page carefully.

“Normal kid stuff?” He scoffs. “Like wasting his formative years playing video games and hanging around malls? Smoking pot in parks with delinquents?”

“Yes, David, I know,” she replies, voice soft but hopeful. “But just for a month. One month where he can be a kid and play without worrying about statistics and competitions.”

David finally folds the paper flat on the table.

“Fine,” he says, turning towards Shane. “You’ll go. But this is for your development.”

Shane sighs. He hates this tug-of-war between wanting to assert himself and knowing that he can't win.

Yuna reaches for Shane’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “You might like it,” she murmurs.

***

October 2010, Detroit

Room 1221

Shane hesitates outside the door of Ilya’s room, earphones wrapped tight around his fingers, the wire cutting off the circulation in his palm, twisting, untwisting. A black Do Not Disturb sign hangs from the doorknob. Ilya would not hesitate to disturb him. He'd pound on the door until Shane answered, then give him shit for taking so long. He would probably walk in if the lock allowed it.  He knocks.

“Piss off.” Ilya’s muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

Shane shifts his weight, uncomfortable. Should he just let it go? That should be enough. He can hand the earphones back to Cliff and tell him Rozanov was busy. No reasonable person could expect him to stand here arguing through a hotel door before breakfast.

But he hates leaving things unfinished. His father had trained that aversion into him early. You did not stop because something was uncomfortable. You did not leave a job unfinished because finishing it became awkward.

Finish what you start.

He knocks again, louder this time. He hears a muttered curse in russian, then shuffling from inside the room. The click of a lock.

The door swings open. Ilya stands there, shirtless under a loosely tied robe, hair mussed as though he’s just rolled out of bed.

The gold cross rests against his sternum. Shane cannot imagine him sitting quietly through a Sunday service, bowing his head while somebody speaks about mercy, purity, or loving your neighbor. 

Then his attention drops. Shane had caught glances of Ilya’s body in the showers before, never on purpose, obviously, Shane makes a point of looking straight at the wall every time he showers since what happened in Montreal. But this is a more intimate picture that Shane has no right to see.

There are pale lines along his torso, some faint and almost faded with time. Bruises mottle his skin in shifting colors, purples and greens blending into yellows. Nothing that playing a physical sport like hockey couldn’t result in, but there are too many injuries in too many strange places for it not to be odd.

“Can you not fucking read?” Ilya snarls, cutting him off before he can even form a word. “Of course it is you bothering me. No, I don’t want your cookies or whatever boring nonsense you're selling.”

Ilya taps the Do Not Disturb sign.

“Sign’s there for a reason. Means go away. Means try next door. Means walk into traffic, I don’t care.”

Shane can tell the Russian man is in a foul mood today because Ilya almost immediately starts to close the door on him. Shane’s foot moves before he fully thinks it through, blocking the door as it starts to close.

“Wait!”

Ilya exhales dramatically, like he’s deciding whether this is worth the effort.

“I just need to give you something,” Shane insists.

“I have everything I need.”

And that’s when Shane sees it. A figure curled into the white sheets, mostly hidden by the half-open door. Then he notices all the clues, the scattered clothes on the floor, heels, a bra. He realizes what he walked in on, feeling very much like a voyeur.

“Shit,” he mumbles, cheeks aflame. “I didn’t realize.” Maybe they can just pretend he didn’t see that?

But Ilya, upon seeing his bashfulness, decides against taking pity on him. “Realize what?” 

“That you were... uh. Busy,” Shane finishes.

“Oh. That.” Ilya looks back at the bed, his complete lack of embarrassment makes Shane’s own feel childish. “You here to watch?” He snarls, tapping his foot impatiently.

“I’m not.” He clears his throat. 

“No?” Ilya hooks one thumb into the loose belt of his robe. “You can come in. We'll make room. Maybe you'd like instructions after our conversation the other day.”

Despite Shane’s best efforts, his gaze is drawn down the hard line of Ilya’s abdomen, where the trail of hair on his lower stomach disappears beneath the robe’s careless knot. The fabric hangs low on his hips. Shane’s throat goes dry, and he forces himself to look away. Ilya smiles faintly, now there's no point keeping scores.

“I said I’m not interested,” Shane says defensively. “I came to return these.”

He holds the earphones out between them.

“Ah,” Ilya says. “That’s what this is about.”

He takes the earphones and slides them into the pocket of his robe. His expression has lost its earlier amusement now.

“Marlow making you his errand boy now?” he asks. “Running around the hotel, fetching my shit because he tells you to? Whatever keeps you busy, I guess.”

Like clockwork, Shane thinks. You’re being talked down to and you’re letting it happen. 

“No. I was just doing him a service,” he says carefully. Held there by the same stupid impulse that keeps him arguing with Ilya when he could just leave.

“Hmm, you’re very well-trained.” Ilya's tone seems somewhat lighter now, which is better than a pissed-off Ilya. 

“Trained?”

“Mm, maybe it is the wrong word.” Ilya shrugs. “But you get the point. Some people need to be told what to do. Otherwise, they don’t know what the fuck to do with themselves and they go off the rails.”

Behind Ilya, the bed shifts slightly, and Shane remembers that they’re not alone, feeling intrusive again.

“Now, if you’re done cockblocking me…” Ilya says as if mentioning it was trivial. Ilya glances over his shoulder toward the bed, making absolutely no effort to protect Shane from the implication. “…I’d like to get back to it.”

Ilya is enjoying this.

“Right,” Shane says. “Enjoy your… whatever.” His nose scrunches in disgust. The word itself leaves a bad taste.

“Oh, I will.” And then the door shuts in Shane’s face.

***

After returning the earphones to Ilya, Shane heads to the hotel’s restaurant for breakfast. He spots Cliff tucked into a booth, steam curling from the pancakes he got himself. The smell of maple syrup and butter hits him before he even reaches the table. He associates that smell with Sunday mornings when he was a kid, putting too much syrup on his plate when his mom made crepes. 

“Ah, there he is! I thought you ditched me. Sit your ass down, it’s getting cold,” Cliff calls, patting the seat next to him.

Shane slides in across from him, immediately noticing that his own plate is piled with a cheesy omelette and sausages instead of his usual bagel and smoothie. He had made sure to tell Cliff exactly what to get, precisely so this wouldn’t happen, but clearly, he overestimated him.

“Thanks… but this isn’t my order, you know?”

Cliff nods as he shoves pancakes into his mouth. “Mmm, don’t start with that sad-ass smoothie crap and your paper-thin bagel. Come on, you’re not a teenage girl with an eating disorder. You need some real food, man. You’re not going to die if you take a bite of sausage.”

Shane frowns, fork hovering over the omelette. He eats healthy, nutritious food. He could give Cliff a detailed explanation of how eating like this every day would affect his performance, his body-fat percentage and eventually his cardiovascular health. But he won't. Cliff’s clear lack of boundaries irritates him. How does Ilya put up with this guy?

“You don’t know what’s good for me,” Shane snaps. That came out harsher than he meant. “Fuck… I’m sorry. It's not about you. Rozanov was being a jerk upstairs. He put me in a shitty mood.”

“It's fine.” Cliff nods. “Order whatever you want. I’m paying anyway. I’ll eat that if you don’t. By the way, you’re probably not the first one Ilya pissed off today.”

“There’s no surprise there.”

“If he starts cursing at you in Russian, just curse back.”

Shane snorts. “That’s your strategy?”

“Absolutely. And when it doesn’t work, then I pretend I was joking. It kept me alive this long.”

As obnoxious as Cliff is, he is trying to help. Shane reminds himself of that.

“And about that…” Cliff continues, looking away. “My fault, really. Kind of knew he’d be a dick today.”

“And that’s why you had me return the earphones for you?”

Cliff grimaces.

“In my defense, you were already going upstairs.” Cliff lowers his voice confessionally. “Fine. Yes. That’s why I had you bring them back. The thing is, our rooms are adjacent. Walls are thin as paper, so I hear a fuck-ton of what goes on in there. And last night was… well, it was intense.” 

Shane recoils, gaping at him. Is Cliff referring to the girl Ilya hooked up with?

Sex is a healthy way to get the anger out. 

Is that what he walked in on earlier, Ilya getting the anger out? He assumed Ilya had just been trying to provoke him that day, to get a reaction out of him, but maybe there was some truth to it.

He remembers how Ilya looked when he opened the door. His hair messed up from that girl running her hands through it while he rutted between her thighs. He had never looked so human before, just Ilya bare. It's strange to think that strangers have seen him like that. That dozens of women have touched him everywhere Shane tried not to look.

Shane digs his nails into the chipped edge of the table. He doesn’t want to hear the details. But Cliff doesn’t get the hint and continues anyway.

“Pretty sure he was on the phone. Didn’t actually hear shit ’cause he was speaking Russian, but it wasn’t friendly. I don’t need to know Russian to tell you that. Anyway, when he gets like this, I usually try not to be in the line of fire.” He shrugs and shovels another bite of pancakes into his mouth.

Oh. He's not talking about the hook up, but what came before that. 

It’s better than beating a guy’s face in.

“Who do you think he was talking to?” Shane leans in. 

“Well… once he told me he had some problems with his dad or brother. He talks about them like the guy are assholes, real hard-ass. Ilya probably gets that from them, huh?” Cliff hesitates. “But I don’t know. We don’t really talk about that stuff. Careful. You’re getting curious.”

Shane is listening very closely now. He has never heard anyone mention Ilya’s personal life. Nobody knows much more than he does about the man. 

“So what do you think he was angry about?”

“You see? This is exactly what I’m talking about.” Cliff groans.

“You brought it up.”

“Because I don’t know when to shut up. That doesn’t mean you should encourage me,” Cliff warns him. “You don’t go rambling about that to anybody, all right? Seriously, don’t be a little shit.”

“I won’t tell.” Shane huffs out a laugh. 

“Good… good, cause if word gets out that I told you that, he’ll stab me in the balls.” Cliff leans back with a sigh of relief, picking at the pancakes. “Anyway. My advice? Don’t poke around inside Rozanov’s head unless you want to lose a finger.” His expression remains unusually serious. “Ilya’s fun when he’s messing with you. Annoying as hell, sure, but usually it's harmless. There’s other stuff, though.”

“What other stuff?”

“The kind he doesn’t joke about. Whatever that call was about, it’s not hockey, and it’s not our business. He gets mean when people touch that stuff.”

“Meaner than usual?”

“Much.”

Shane nods slowly. He fights the urge to ask more questions so soon. Instead, he calls the waiter over to order something he’ll actually eat.

***

February 2006. Ottawa

A car accident changed everything this winter. Yuna’s passing left Shane alone with his father. 

Before the funeral, David already managed Shane's meals, his training, his sleep, his weight, his off-season schedule. 

Since the funeral, the moments of comfort feel stranger and more desperate.

David seems to live with the conviction that anything he loves can vanish overnight. His own dream had already been taken from him by a knee injury. Then a patch of black ice and an oncoming truck took his wife.

He checks the locks before bed, calls the school if Shane is ten minutes late coming home. He watches from the kitchen window when Shane takes the garbage to the curb, like a car might leap from the road and take him too.

Winter forces their training into the garage.  Yuna would've complained that it was too cold there, that Shane had school in the morning. She would've told David to give Shane a break, and David never could deny Yuna. No one says those things anymore.

“Does it hurt yet?” David asks.

Shane gasps for air as he forces himself through another push-up. His arms are quivering uncontrollably now, muscles spasming, elbows buckling under the strain. His palms burn against the concrete. Each breath scrapes his throat raw.

Yes, Shane wants to say. His shoulders feel like they’re tearing loose from their sockets. His chest is constricted, as if an invisible weight is crushing down on it. It hurts everywhere.

His mother’s coffee cup in the cupboard. The panic that sometimes wakes him before dawn with the certainty that he has forgotten something important. The guilt of realizing that an entire hour has passed without thinking about her.

It all hurts.

But they both know that isn’t the right answer. The only way out is through.

What happens now?

We keep moving.

“Go lower,” David orders. “Do it like a man.”

Shane lets out an embarrassing sound that might have been a groan. Sweat drips down his face, stinging his eyes as his arms threaten to fold beneath him. He lowers his body another inch, then another, teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches.

“Lower,” David snaps.

I can’t, Shane thinks wildly.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

Then there’s a crushing weight on his back. His arms give out completely, and his body drops, face smashing into the concrete with a thud, scratching his skin raw. His breath leaves him in a sharp wheeze. David’s foot presses between his shoulder blades, pinning him there. He can feel tiny stones grind into his cheek, lodging themselves in the open wound. Something warm seeps there and mixes with the dirt.

“Does it hurt yet?” David asks again.

In this moment, he hates his father more than he has ever hated anyone. He hates that David can do this and still believe he's right. Shane’s hands curl into fists. He imagines driving both fists into his face until David understands what it feels like to be the weaker one. The fantasy is vivid enough to frighten him.

Davis is all he has left, and Shane is all David has left. That has to mean something.

“Yes.” Shane can only manage a breathy whisper. It’s no use lying anymore when he’s already failed. Shane’s body feels numb and heavy where it lies on the floor.

“Good.” David removes his foot. “It’s supposed to. That’s how you learn endurance.”

He crouches down to Shane’s level. David stares at him for a moment.

“One day, you’re going to be tired,” he says quietly. “You’re going to be hurt. You’re going to be sick. Maybe you’ll be scared. It won’t matter.”

His gaze drifts past Shane for a moment, toward something that is not in the garage. Sometimes, exhaustion gives him a haunted look. He goes still and stares through what's in front of him. Shane often wonders what he sees there.

New lines have formed around David's eyes, deepened by too little sleep and too many hours spent working. He took a second job to keep the household afloat without sacrificing any part of Shane’s future. Private lessons, tournament fees, new skates, sticks, and protective equipment remained nonnegotiable expenses, even when David had to work his ass off to pay for them. 

“You think life is going to wait for you to catch your breath?” David continues, his eyes returning to Shane who stays silent. “Then get up.”

He grabs Shane by the arm and hauls him upright. Shane winces, his legs wobble beneath him. He’s sure he’s going to collapse again, it happens fast. David catches him quickly, cradling him against his chest. Shane’s forehead presses into his father’s shoulder.

“Hey. Hey, kiddo.” David’s voice softens. 

Shane closes his eyes. His body sags into the hold.

“You’re all right,” David murmurs, his voice soothing. “I’ve got you. You did well.”

A broad palm spread protectively over the back of Shane's head. He leans into the hold and finds comfort in the embrace. David is scared too, he lost his wife and nearly lost Shane in the same accident.

He guides Shane toward an old wooden chair beside the workbench.

“You scraped yourself up good,” David says. “Come on, sit.”

Shane obeys. His hands hang between his knees, streaked gray with dust and dotted with blood where the concrete chewed through his skin. David reaches into a drawer and pulls out a first-aid kit.

He tilts Shane’s chin up, holding a moist wipe. Shane sucks in a breath.

“Don’t fight me,” David says. “You want dirt to stay in there? You want it to get infected?”

“No.”

His father’s thumb anchors his jaw in place, keeping his head steady while the other hand wipes away grit and blood gently.

“You went lower this time,” David mutters as he cleans the wound. “You’re getting better.”

Shane smiles faintly. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed.” 

***

October 2010, Boston

“They’re not letting Rozanov breathe.” Shane leans forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, watching Ilya get stapled to the boards by Florida’s players again.

“Yeah,” Carmichael says beside him, unconcerned, like they’re talking about the weather. “They’re running him.”

Shane notices the pattern in the first period. Their opponents are trying to shut down Ilya. They’re finishing every check on him to wear him down. Shoving him against the boards whenever the opportunity presents itself. Nothing is brutal enough to draw a penalty. Everything is just inside the margin of plausibility.

They want him tired, frustrated, reckless, and it's working.

By the second period, the other team’s every move feels predictable. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it for Ilya specifically until he’s already memorized their entire rotation, who the opposing team sends on the ice when Ilya jumps over the boards. Ilya responds in the only way he knows how, he escalates. He  hits harder and chirps meaner. At first, Ilya seems to be thriving on the aggressive play, but now it’s clearly costing him when he has the puck.

Late in the third, they’re trailing by one. Shane hops over the boards a stride behind Ilya. The puck rims around the boards. Ilya gets there first. He drives the opponent into the glass with a clean check and the puck squirts loose toward the slot. In this moment, he has a clear window to score.

But Shane’s attention is already somewhere else. He sees it all in slow motion, the loose puck, Ilya accelerating toward it, and an opposing defender angling in from behind, lined up perfectly for a hit that is going to land square in the middle of Ilya’s back. An illegal hit, the kind that breaks collarbones or slams a head into the boards.

They still have one minute left in regulation. If Ilya scores, they tie it and force overtime. They get a chance to win. If Ilya gets hit like that, he’s gone, and the game goes with him.

Shane pushes off hard. He cuts across the lane at the last possible second. Shane feels the opposing player’s momentum transfer into him, a brutal, full-speed hit that he isn’t braced for. The impact comes through his shoulder and whips his head back, skates tearing out from under him like the ice vanished. 

The world is plunged into darkness for barely a second.

The crowd is roaring. He’s on his back staring up at the rafters, chest heaving. Shane blinks up at the scoreboard, red lights smearing before snapping back into focus. He turns his head and sees black jerseys collide in a mass around the net. 

They scored.

He gets back up instantly, over the moon. His balance is off, but the adrenaline still running through his veins makes him feel invincible. Rozanov may have shot the puck, but Shane bought the extra second that changed the game. He did that. 

Ilya skates past the celebration and veers toward Shane, slowing down to a stop to grab Shane’s arm. “What the fuck was that?” Ilya’s mouth is moving faster than Shane can process right now, accent heavier than usual.

“A good play.” That’s what it was. Be useful, make yourself hurt if that’s what it takes. “I saw it, I timed it.” Shane pulls free, irritated by the scrutiny. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

The evidence of Shane’s success is flashing above their heads in numbers large enough for everyone in the arena to read. He waits stupidly for some sort of approval. At very least, one of those backhanded compliments Ilya likes to throw at him.

Anything but the cold look Ilya is giving him right now.

“That wasn’t a play. That was… you… fuck… You like getting hit? You get off on it or something?” Ilya says through clenched teeth, holding back much harsher words behind the tight line of his lips.

His eyes flick toward the bench where the trainer is waving Shane over. They don't have time for this.

“You scored because I-” 

“I scored because the puck was on my stick,” Ilya snaps. “You were on the ice like a dead fish-” He cuts himself off, frustrated with Shane and frustrated that it’s making him struggle to form sentences correctly. 

“I can keep going,” Shane says quickly, looking at the trainer approaching.

“Yeah, you must’ve hit your head pretty hard because you sound fucking mental,” Ilya exhales, frustrated. 

The trainer reaches them then, grabbing on Shane’s arm, steering him off the ice. A five-minute major appears on the scoreboard beside Florida’s number forty-four. Charging. The penalty will carry into overtime.

Perfect. This is amazing.

As he steps off the ice, he glances back once. His teammates are back in position, a one-man advantage this time, setting up the power play he earned for them. He feels pride knowing he bought them this. The trainer’s hand is firm on his elbow, guiding him into the dressing room while the game roars on somewhere above. He sits while fingers track a pen in front of his eyes. Someone from the medical staff asks him what period it is, what city they’re in. His name, the date, their opponent. He’s steady enough on his feet. No nausea. No dizziness. No headache he’s willing to admit to.

“Does it hurt at all?” asks the medic.

Does it hurt yet? The question resurfaces uninvited.

“No,” he lies. “See? I’m good.”

He hears the crowd cheer again and even though he cannot see what is happening inside the rink, he just knows that they won. He smiles to himself.

His suspicions are confirmed when the door bursts open and the team spills into the room, loud and enthusiastic. Cliff claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make his vision spark again.

“Saved his ass.” Cliff is already halfway through a sentence Shane can’t follow.

“Sacrifice play, hero,” Carmichael says.

Across the room, Ilya looks at Shane like dog crap stuck to his shoe. 

“Next time,” he says without looking back. “You stay in your lane.”

Cliff tosses Shane a water bottle. He catches it, fumbling slightly. The room tilts for a fraction of a second before settling back into place.

***

“Just a couple questions,” someone from the PR team says, herding them into the conference room. “You and Rozanov together. Quick.”

Shane sits at the long table. He blinks, trying to make the blur of his vision into clear lines again. Ilya, by contrast, is fully composed beside him, answering questions about tonight’s game.

“Shane,” a reporter says. “You took a brutal hit in the third period. Looking at the replay, it appears the contact was originally intended for Rozanov. Some people are saying you deliberately stepped into the lane. Is that what happened?”

Shane feels Ilya’s gaze shift towards him. He should say yes, that it felt like he couldn’t not intervene. Shit, his mind is drawing a blank. “I... was just in the right place at the right time,” Shane says carefully. “I made a split-second decision. Rozanov had the puck and I saw the… thing… coming.”

“You mean the hit?” the reporter prompts.

“Yeah,” Shane says quickly, relieved to have something to grab onto. There are a few quiet laughs around the room, and Shane takes the chance to collect himself. “The hit. I just… went. We won. That’s… what matters.”

Someone scribbles. Another question comes before he can recover.

A reporter lifts his hand. “Shane, when you saw that play developing and Rozanov exposed, what was going through your mind? Did you feel like you had to do something?”

“I mean, you don’t get points for standing by,” Shane says, and immediately wishes he could take it back because it sounds defensive, not what he meant. “Someone had to… uh…”

Had to what? Get hit?

“That’s part of hockey. I… it just happened fast,” he finishes, rubbing at his temple. 

Another flash goes off, leaving a pale stain that won’t fade. He squints, unable to recall what he just said.

A reporter asks another question, directed at Ilya this time, something about leadership. Shane is grateful for the reprieve. Shane lets his eyes close for half a second.

“Shane?”

His name snaps him back. He looks up at a different reporter, concentrating to make sense of her words.

“Shane, how did you feel about the team’s overall effort tonight?”

“It was great,” he says. “I think the third period got more intense, uh…” He loses the thread completely, his thoughts scattering. He’s not even sure what he’s answering anymore. “I’m sorry, can you… What was the question?”

“I asked how you felt about the team’s effort tonight,” the reporter clarifies.

Shane nods with difficulty. “Right… Yeah… I… sorry.” Embarrassment doesn’t even cover it, he can’t form a sentence that makes sense.

“We’re done.” Ilya’s voice cuts flat.

A PR handler starts to protest, “Just one more!” But Ilya is already on his feet, pulling Shane up by the arm.

“Walk,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane pushes up from the chair, but his knees feel detached to his body anymore. He reaches for the table and misses, elbow knocking a microphone sideways. The feedback squeal stabs him through his head and he hisses. Ilya catches him firmly before he can collapse, one hand locked around his forearm, the other braced at his back.

“I’m fine. I just got up too fast,” Shane insists, the words slur together. Reporters’ faces look like pale smears under the lights. Every camera in the room is on him now.

“Stop talking,” Ilya hisses, low enough that only Shane hears. He’s already steering him away from the table. The PR handler is saying something about finishing the availability, but Ilya doesn’t even look at him.

“I can walk.” Shane tries to pull away out of reflex, because being manhandled like a kid in front of the press is worse than the nausea, worse than the lights drilling into his skull. He hates being seen like this. His struggles only make it worse, they make it two steps further before Shane’s legs give out again.

This time, Ilya doesn’t bother to spare Shane’s pride, doesn’t try to keep him standing. He shifts, hauling Shane’s arm over his shoulders and taking most of his weight. Shane’s cheek presses against Ilya’s shoulder.

“You are walking,” Ilya says under his breath, tightening his grip. “Because I am holding you up.”

The press crew steps aside as Ilya shepherds him through a side door. The noise fades, but each step makes his stomach roll. Someone calls for medical staff. Ilya hauls him the last few feet to a bench and pushes him down. A palm presses flat against Shane’s sternum, pinning him there like he might bolt if given the chance. His body feels heavy, like it’s sinking through the bench.

“Eyes open,” Ilya commands, already crouching in front of him.

Shane hasn’t even noticed his eyelids have dropped. He forces them open, even as he infuriatingly wants to rest. Ilya’s face fractures into double images, his brows furrowed. It’s almost painful to stay awake. He wants to lie down where the pressure in his skull leaves him and the nausea fades away.

“Leave me alone,” Shane mumbles.

Ilya turns his head to bark something at someone down the hall, and the moment his attention shifts, Shane lets his eyes slide shut, and he’s somewhere else, on cold concrete doing push-ups while his father counts.

He’s only distantly aware of Ilya’s voice when he hears it again.

“Hollander, no sleeping.” Fingers snap in front of his face. Shane tries to open his eyes, but they feel glued shut.

A hard slap snaps his head sideways and his eyes snap open in utter shock. It takes him a moment to process what just happened, his cheek stings and Ilya’s hand is still raised between them.

“What the fuck... You just hit me?” Shane manages, voice weak and slurred.

“Shhh, kid,” says Ilya above him. He rubs his knuckles over the reddening spot. “Tiny slap. You'll survive.”

“Rozanov,” Coach warns from somewhere behind them. Shane hadn’t even noticed him there.

“Well, he’s awake now,” Ilya shoots back.

Medics rush in with a stretcher, he steps back to let them take over. Ilya’s hands finally leave him, and the loss of contact makes Shane list sideways before someone else catches him. Shane watches Ilya through the blur, trying to parse the expression he just saw on his face.

Matthew 16:25 — Whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.

Chapter 3: A Better Class of Dickheads

July 2005, Summer camp

Shane tries not to think of the summer he turned fourteen.

“You’re tougher than the other boys,” Miller had murmured once, his thumb moving over the bruise flowering along Shane’s ribs. “You push through when things get hard. That’s why you’ll go far.”

He tries not to remember the heat, or the endless drills that emptied him by nightfall. He used to drop into his bunk exhausted enough to sleep through everything: boys snoring across the cabin, laughter smothered beneath blankets after lights-out. He doesn’t think about Miller noticing him when there were twenty other boys on the ice.

“You’re different, special… You’ve always been my favorite, you know?”

Shane wonders, sometimes, if Coach Miller had recognized something in him long before anyone else did.

Proverbs 22:6 — Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

***

October 2010, Boston

Shane wakes to the steady beep of a monitor. His skull feels packed with wet sand. His mouth is dry. He can’t remember how he got here. It takes him a long moment to realize he's in a hospital room.

Memories carry him back to another hospital years ago, when he was sixteen. His knee had been aching for weeks. The doctor had patiently explained that growing bones weren't designed to withstand perpetual hours on the ice, that even healthy kids had limits.

Shane blinks again and the ceiling fractures into two pale rectangles, one drifting over the other like two frames of film slipping over one another. The chair beside his bed becomes two. So does the broad-shouldered Russian man who occupies it. Shane stare through the blur for several seconds before the two rooms collapse into one.

Ilya is sitting by the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes closed. When Shane shifts against the mattress, Ilya immediately stirs in his chair like he'd never really been asleep.

“Ah. You’re awake.” His voice pulls Shane out of the fog. “I was gonna let Doc crack that melon open and go fishing around for whatever the hell’s broken.”

“Fucking finally.”Across the room, Cliff pushes away from the wall, relief plain on his face, and crosses to the bedside table. There is a plastic cup waiting there. Cliff picks it up, bends the straw toward Shane’s mouth, and Shane drinks.

“Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” Cliff says. “You also puked all over the ambulance crew on the way here, so really they deserve the thanks.”

Shane becomes abruptly aware of how pathetic he must look. Wrapped in a hospital gown with some kind of ice pack melting against his neck. He jerks upright on instinct, pushing himself onto his elbows and the room spins. Ilya’s hand comes down on his arm, firmly pushing Shane back against the mattress.

“Down,” he says sharply, yet it’s still the gentlest Shane has ever heard his voice. “You pull that shit again, I’m calling the nurse and telling her you’ve gone completely bananas. Then she straps your ass to this bed, and guess what? You’re still lying down, but like a crazy person.”

Shane glares through the dizziness. He knows it's not an empty threat. “Don’t touch me.”

Ilya adjusts his grip, his hand sliding to Shane’s shoulder. His thumb brushes over the bruise, where the joint had been crushed only hours before. Ilya finds the center of it and presses hard.

A strangled yelp tears out of Shane.

“You mean like this?” Ilya asks, conversationally.

His thumb sinks deeper into the injury. He watches Shane, every muscle in his face twisting in pain. Ilya leans down next to Shane’s ear. “Yeah, bet that hurts like a bitch,” he murmurs. “But you just grit those teeth and take it.”

“I just got fucking hit. Let go.” Shane's voice shakes despite his best efforts. He pours as much venom into the words as he can, but Ilya’s thumb presses a little harder, forcing another small sound out of him.

“In a second. You’re being so good through it.”

Ilya’s voice drops low enough that Shane wonders if he heard him correctly, his body still half-stupid with pain and sedatives. He considers fighting it purely out of spite, but another wave of vertigo rolls through his skull and he sinks back against the pillow with a muttered curse. 

Ilya’s palm is hot through the thin fabric of Shane’s gown. He leaves it exactly where it is, making a point of how little effort it takes.

Across the room, Cliff shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Dude, come on. He’s not feeling well.”

“I’m making sure he rests.” Only when Shane stops fighting does Ilya withdraw.

“You don’t have to be such a dick about it,” Shane snarls weakly.

“Buddy, I would love to be nice to you but it gets me nowhere.” Ilya settles back into his chair. “You set that system up.”

"All right," Cliff says, pushing himself away from the wall. "He's awake and arguing again, so I'd say we're back to normal."

He reaches for the jacket draped over the back of a chair and slips it on.

"Doc said he'd come back once Shaney, here, woke up. I'm heading out, Coach wants everyone at morning skate tomorrow, and I'd like to squeeze in at least three hours of sleep before then," Cliff continues, glancing at Ilya. “Don’t let him escape.”

“I will break his legs,” Ilya replies. There isn't the slightest hint of humor in his voice.

"Goodnight." Cliff closes the door behind him.

Shane stares down at the hospital bracelet around his wrist. The last thing he remembers clearly is the flash of a camera.

“How bad was it?”

“You fainted in front of thirty reporters. Just... boom. Lights out. Gotta hand it to you, when you shit the bed, you make sure there’s an audience.”

The game comes back to him in fragments. The hit. The goal. The press room, reporters’ cameras exploding in white flashes as Ilya carried him more than supported him out of the conference room.

“Kill me.” Shane lets out a long, miserable breath and drags a hand over his face. The movement makes his head pound. “…Concussion?”

“Yeah. Your brain is still umm… How do you say that?” Ilya twirls a finger beside his own temple. “You know those little snow globes? Give one a good shake and whoosh everything goes flying? Yeah, that. Just gotta wait for the snow to settle now.”

Shane groans quietly and sinks deeper into the pillow. “You stayed?”

“Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass you were to get here?” Ilya says. “So I made sure you couldn’t wander off and get yourself killed. Bad enough for you, sure, but fucking inconvenient for the team.”

A weak laugh slips out of Shane. “Oh, so that’s your concern?”

“I am known for my compassion,” Ilya says flatly. “You shouldn't have been at the press, they are idiots. Couldn’t get three words out without losing one.”

“PR asked me to.”

“Oh, please. PR can gargle my balls while they’re down there.” Ilya frowns. “You were drooling-in-a-cup fucked up. And there you were, sitting on command for the cameras... You really can't help it, can you?”

Shane would normally have something to bark back. Right now, even getting angry feels like work.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Well, congratu-fucking-lation,” Ilya snaps. “You made very big deal. Whole room saw you almost eat the floor.”

“Great. That’s… fuck. Oh god.” Shane cringes.

“Hey none of that. Don’t torture yourself, they already thought you were insane,” Ilya says with a dismissive scoff. “This changes nothing.”

“Fuck you, you’re enjoying this,” Shane hisses.

“A little bit.”

Ilya leans forward, staring at the floor between his shoes. When he looks up again, the amusement is gone.

"So why'd you do it?" he finally asks accusatory. "If I owe you for saving my ass, I want to know why."

“I didn’t do it so you’d owe me anything.” The admission comes quietly. Shane stares down at his hands, brows drawing together. “I… I don’t know. It wasn't something I stopped to think about.” Trying to explain it suddenly feels impossible. “You’re making it sound like it was some huge decision.” Shane shakes his head. His eyes lift again, meeting Ilya's. "It wasn't. I saw what was about to happen. I knew if you took that hit, the play was dead." He shrugs like the rest should be obvious. "So I took it."

Maybe he’d needed one thing to go right because of him.

But after the disaster in the press room, he wasn't sure he'd balanced the scale at all. If anything, he’d only given everyone another reason to look at him the same way they had before.

Ilya tilts his head, watching him sharply. “Mm. I have lots of ass-kissers around me, but you’ve never been one of them. I have to say I’m surprised you give a fuck at all.”

“…Doesn’t matter if I like you or not. It was… the right thing to do.” Shane closes his eyes and breathes shallowly until the nausea passes.

David had always respected pain if you had something to show for it afterward.

His mother didn’t teach him to endure pain or grind through exhaustion. She always put others first, spending most of her energy stepping between David and Shane so he wouldn't have to bear the worst of it.

“I’ve heard every flavor of shitty martyr speech this world has to offer, but you might actually be breaking new ground here.” Ilya’s gaze drifts to the auburn bruises decorating Shane’s body. “Somebody knocks the shit out of you and you pat yourself on the back. You’re proving my point right now.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow slightly before he continues.

“I had a few concussions in Moscow, we do not play gently. If someone gets hit like you did, first thing you do is make sure the person stays responsive until you get help.”

“How?”

“Like this.”

He lightly taps Shane’s cheek with two fingers. Shane flinches, expecting something harder, a real slap.

“Yeah. Big fan of that one.”

“When I was sixteen, there was a warehouse just outside my city. We’d bring liquor stolen from our parents,” Ilya continues after a moment, voice quieter now. “Boys from school met there on weekends to fight. You know, just to throw punches. Two people agree, everyone makes circle, and you keep going until one quits.”

“So like a fight club?”

“Something like that. There was one boy everyone avoided, Viktor. He was a bit older.  He’d already busted one kid’s nose, knocked another guy out cold, so everybody was scared shitless of him. I walked up to him and I told him to suck my dick.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Ilya laughs. “Because what the hell was I gonna do, beat up some skinny kid nobody respects and expect people to give a shit? No, I had to go after the toughest guy there. I wanted everyone to know there wasn't one person who could put their hands on me... We started trading punches. He was stronger, but drunk. He hit hard when he caught me, but he had to catch me first. The first time I dropped him, everyone went quiet.”

“I’m guessing he got back up,” Shane says.

“Too damn proud to quit. Every time that son of a bitch got back up, I hit him again. Again. And somewhere in there, the crazy thing happens: this big, bad, untouchable motherfucker who’d spent his whole life making everybody else feel small was scared of me. And Jesus, did that feel good. So I kept swinging. Wanted everybody watching to see it too. Wanted them to see who the bigger man was now. How many times did I hit him? Shit. I lost count. His head… I felt it.”

“Felt what?”

“The impact.” Ilya taps his own knuckles against his temple once. “I felt his skull hit the concrete through my hand. He just went still. No one knew what to do. We tried shaking him, yelling. The others wanted to leave, they thought we’d go to jail. I remember looking at my fist and thinking, that’s it, I killed a guy with this fucking thing.”

“Did you?” Shane asks quietly.

“Kid got up afterward. Swear to God, I didn't think that was possible. He pushed everybody away, spat blood at my shoes, called me a cheap prick and said I hit like a girl.” A faint smile crosses Ilya’s mouth.

“And he was okay?” Shane frowns, confused where this is going.

“Oh, he looked okay. Went home, climbed into bed. Never woke back up. His brain just bled all night. His mother was the one who found him.”

A moment passes before Ilya continues.

“My dad's a cop, so lucky teenage me had a get-out-of-jail-free card. He cleaned it up. Made sure nobody came knocking... But, and this is the important bit, I didn’t need that last hit. That one was for me. The fight was over, he knew it, I knew it, but I chose to hurt him.”

Shane turns toward Ilya carefully, his shoulder pulling tightly. “So what? This is the part where you tell me I should be grateful you got me here in case my brain's bleeding?”

“No, dumbass. This is the part where I tell you to stop volunteering as a punching bag. Here’s a free lesson: people take what you let them take. You keep telling the world, Go ahead, I can handle it, somebody's gonna decide to find out exactly how much you can take. And there are much worse assholes than me.”

I chose to hurt him. 

Ilya had known exactly what he was doing. How could he look at it so plainly? Shane wonders what Ilya had been like before that night. What had already happened to him by sixteen that made beating another boy half to death feel good.

It’s better than beating a guy’s face in. Maybe that had been advice after all.

Shane thinks back to his own incident on the ice last season. It hadn't felt anything like this. He hadn't wanted to overpower anyone or prove anything. By the time he'd realized what he was doing, panic had already taken over.

Ilya’s sleeve has ridden up, a long pale scar running along Ilya’s forearm. “What about this? That from a fight?” Shane asks.

“That is enough bedtime stories for one night.” Ilya pulls the sleeve down, shutting Shane out again.

He can’t shake the image of Ilya standing over an unresponsive boy. Ilya doesn’t offer anything else, and Shane knows better than to ask.

“Tomorrow… when they release you, call me,” Ilya mutters as he stands up, putting on his jacket. “I’ll come to pick you up. Then you are going to sit in your room for the next weeks and be bored and miserable and heal.”

“Yeah… all right,” Shane says quietly.

***

The morning sun slants through the car windows. Ilya’s hands grip the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Shane leans back in the passenger seat, the motion of the car gentle enough that the nausea from yesterday is only a bad memory now. His shoulder aches faintly, a dull reminder of the hit, but the pounding in his head has eased.

Since last night’s incident, the media has been running multiple headlines about Shane and Ilya. The light from his phone’s screen was sharp, but curiosity won over discomfort and Shane couldn’t help but check what they were saying online.

“Hollander’s willingness to absorb a full boarding in the final minute secured Boston’s win.”                                                                                                                                        

Half the articles used the same photograph. Ilya had an arm locked around him while Shane sagged against his side.

The comment section was relentless:

“Rozanov’s been targeted all season. Teams know if you shut him down, Boston collapses.”

“Hollander’s play literally bought Rozanov 0.8 seconds of space. That’s the difference between a shot and a broken spine. That’s old-school hockey.”

“That hit was dirty. Suspension incoming. Hollander stepping in was crazy. Like… dude, you’re not Secret Service.”

“Hollander was NOT okay. Like… at all. Why was he even in the press room?”

“Hollander is a walking PR disaster.”

Shane locks his phone and lets it drop into his lap. Ilya hasn’t said a word since they left the hospital. Shane shifts in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make his neck throb. The seatbelt rubs against his sore shoulder. He clears his throat.

“Uh… so,” Shane starts, voice thin. “The media’s… really running with that whole thing.”

Ilya gives a noncommittal grunt. Shane stares out the window, inspecting the streets of Boston. 

Shane tries again, unable to leave the silence alone. “And… You sleep at all?”

“No.” Ilya doesn’t look away from the road.

Shane nods, even though Ilya isn’t looking. “Right. Yeah. Me neither. Hospital beds suck.”

“You can quit trying to make conversation,” Ilya says. “I am exhausted and you are concussed. Both things make conversations unpleasant right now.”

They sit in silence until Shane’s phone buzzes in his lap.

“No, take it,” Ilya says, just as Shane is about to decline the call.

Shane reluctantly brings the phone to his ear.

“Shane, are you okay? You scared the crap out of me, Kiddo. If your mother was alive, this might’ve been what killed her.” David’s voice resonates from the end of the line.

“I’m fine.”

“Just… how bad is it?”

“A concussion and my shoulder’s injured. Doc said it might be a few weeks before I’m back on the ice.”

“What the hell went through your head? Your numbers are improving, and you pull something reckless like that?"

“It was a bad hit.”

“That you didn’t need to take. You’re supposed to score points, not… I don’t even know what that was.”

“I did,” Shane retorts. “Well, Rozanov did technically.”

“I looked at your stats this morning,” David continues. “You can’t afford to be sidelined because you got hurt covering for somebody else.”

“He didn’t make me do anything,” Shane mutters.

“No,” David agrees. “You did it yourself. You have a career people would kill for, and lately every time things start going right, you find another reason to put it at risk.”

Shane presses a hand to his forehead. “Dad, please. I’m tired.”

“That’s not smart hockey. You think Rozanov would’ve done that for you? I know his kind.”

Shane laughs dryly. “Yeah? From what, your university league twenty years ago?”

That gets Ilya’s attention.

"Don’t get smart with me." David exhales on the other end of the line, impatient now. “Son, I’m trying to keep you focused. We’ve worked too hard for you to throw it away.”

We, Shane thinks bitterly. 

“It was one hit. We won. Why are you making it into something else?”

“You’ve always needed somebody telling you you’re doing the right thing,” David says. “Usually that’s been me.”

“You think I risked my neck for approval?” Shane whispers it this time, ashamed to give Ilya even a hint of the conversation being had. 

“Sometimes I think you do this just to make me watch,” David says.

Shane tries to follow David’s logic and loses the thread.

“I’m the one trying to make sure you still have a career when you’re done proving whatever you think you need to prove,” David says. “We’ll talk when you’re clearer. Just… heal properly.”

Shane sighs when they hang up, running a hand over his face. “Sorry about that.” 

“So,” Ilya snorts. “Daddy issues.”

Shane’s head snaps toward him. “Don’t even-”

Ilya changes lanes without signaling, sending Shane against the car door. He sucks in a breath when the seatbelt jerks against the bruise.

Shane glares at him. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“Oh, so now you have balls? I was starting to think your daddy kept them in a jar all the way back in Canada, listening to you talk.” Ilya shrugs, eyes still on the road. “What am I supposed to think? I hear him talk to a grown man like he’s a bitch, and you sit there taking it.”

“It’s just… my dad,” Shane answers, aware that it doesn’t explain anything.

“So?” Ilya says flatly. “Mine was a bastard too. Blood means nothing if he’s a cunt. I was around your age when I fixed my shit.”

“Yeah, easy to say,” Shane huffs. “What, you just wake up one day and decide he doesn’t matter anymore?”

“No,” Ilya says calmly. “I waited until I was big enough. Then I hit the asshole back.”

For a second Shane thinks Ilya is joking. Then he notices the complete lack of amusement on his face. The car hums beneath them. Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. There should be something.

Sorry. That’s awful.

But all of them feel stupid. Ilya doesn’t look like someone who wants sympathy. Quite the opposite. He looks like someone who’d bite your hand off for offering it.

“Mine’s not like that,” Shane says.

His father isn’t some monster beating his kid for the hell of it. When Shane was eight and broke his wrist, David slept in a chair beside his bed for three nights because he was afraid Shane would roll over onto it. When Shane made the NHL, David cried.

Monsters don’t carry you to bed when you’re so exhausted you can’t even stay awake on the ride home after a game. They don’t spend every last dime making sure you have a chance to make it in this world where they couldn’t.

Shane folds his arms and immediately regrets it when his shoulder protests, he drops them again. “You don’t know him. It’s been just Dad and me for a while now.”

***

July 2005, Summer camp

Shane stood beside the trunk while his mother checked his bag for the third time. Water bottle, change of clothes, snacks. She had slipped the digital camera in his bag, a birthday present he still hadn’t used.

“I have everything,” Shane said, trying not to sound impatient.

“I know,” Yuna answered softly. “I just want to make sure.”

Across the parking lot, boys spilled out of minivans and pickup trucks in noisy clusters, jostling one another, already forging friendships effortlessly. Shane watched them without moving. Some of them had parents carrying their bags. Some had fathers clapping them on the shoulders, saying things like have fun and don’t get into too much trouble.

His father had said: Don’t waste this.

“There’s a pay phone in the dorm, you can call whenever you need to.” Yuna zipped the bag closed. She kissed his cheek. Shane let her, though he was getting too old for it.

“I won’t need to.”

“I know,” she said.

Shane looked away first.

The brochure had made the camp look better than it was. The rink gleamed in the photographs, the dorms looked freshly painted, and every kid pictured seemed thrilled to be there. In person, paint peeled around the players’ entrance, the bleachers were rusting, and cars kept throwing pale dust across the parking lot.

Yuna reached for his bag, but Shane caught the strap before she could lift it.

“I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure? It’s heavy.”

“It’s fine, mom. I got it,” he reassures her.

The registration table had been set just inside the lobby. One coach barked room assignments over the growing noise while another hurried parents through paperwork. Off to one side, a younger man in a bright red camp jacket reassured a nervous kid. Shane noticed the embroidered name stitched across his chest: Ian Miller.

He couldn't have been much older than thirty. As Yuna stepped forward to fill out the registration forms, Miller looked directly at Shane.

"Shane Hollander?"

"Yes, sir." Shane stood beside his equipment bag with his hands clasped behind his back. His father had told him good posture made a better first impression.

“Coach Miller.”

He held out his hand and Shane met it with a firm handshake.

"It's nice to meet you, sir."

"'Sir' makes me feel about fifty. Ian's fine." The coach’s mouth tilted with approval as he glanced toward Yuna. "Polite kid. That's getting rare."

Beside him, Yuna’s hand settled lightly between Shane’s shoulder blades. "My husband made sure of that."

“Your dad sent your stats with the application. Pretty impressive for your age.” Miller said, flipping through a folder.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re the one who put in the work.” He tapped the folder closed.

For the first time since they had pulled into the lot, he felt something other than dread. He lowered his eyes before anyone could notice how desperately he wanted to hear more.

“What’s the schedule like?” Yuna asked.

"Busy enough to keep them out of trouble," Miller said with an easy grin. "Morning skate, conditioning, video sessions, ice time, team activities. They'll sleep like rocks. Believe me, by the end of the camp you'll probably wish they stayed another few days."

A few parents laughed nearby.

“Don’t worry. We take good care of them.” Miller’s smile softened then he looked back at Shane.

“You ready to get started?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like that,” Ian said with a warm smile.

By the time Yuna wrapped Shane in a hug, Miller had already turned to greet the next family with the same easy smile, giving them the small privacy of pretending not to watch which Shane thought was nice of him.

"He seems nice," his mother murmured.

Shane looked over her shoulder. Across the lobby, Miller happened to look up from another clipboard. Their eyes met for only a second before the coach gave him a small nod, then returned to the family in front of him.

"Yeah."

***

October 2010, Boston

The next morning, Shane wakes at six out of habit. It isn't until he's halfway dressed that he remembers he's not going to practice. He's not supposed to be anywhere. Normally, even on his days off, there is no such thing as doing nothing.

You are going to sit in your room for the next weeks and be bored and miserable and heal.

“I’m not sitting around doing nothing.”

He falls into his usual warm-up without thinking, easing through a series of dynamic stretches, The movement barely lasts a minute before his stomach revolts.

Right. The doctor had warned him against physical effort.

“…Okay.” His pulse rings in his ear like he just finished a sprint instead of a handful of stretches.

He drags a hand down his face, already irritated with himself. Physically he can do it, and yet, his head keeps imposing limits on him.

He sinks onto the couch and stays there. He waits two uncomfortable hours before allowing himself breakfast and a shower, unwilling to let his routine unravel any further than it already has. The bright light in the bathroom immediately blinds him.

Shane can't remember ever looking so worn when he looks in the mirror. Dark purple colours his cheekbones where the visor had slammed back into his face. The bathroom light picks out the dark circles under his eyes.

For his dinner that night, Shane decides to make some tofu on the stove. He stares at it for ten minutes before realizing the stove isn’t on.

Just gotta wait for the snow to settle. Right.

***

Lying in bed, Shane can’t stop thinking that his dad would’ve visited by now if he could stomach seeing him like that. Limp, dazed, half-conscious in Rozanov's arms while cameras flashed around them. Now stuck in bed like an invalid, counting the seconds between dizzy spells. Sleeping twelve hours a day and struggling to read for more than two minutes without getting a headache. Losing his train of thought halfway through a sentence. Not allowed to run, to skate, to do much of anything.

A lot of players guarded their bodies like they're made of money, because, in this league, they are. One reckless shift can become weeks on injured reserve, months of rehab, and the slow death of whatever momentum they'd clawed their way into.

What bothered him the most is that he still couldn’t convince himself it wasn’t the right play. He had done exactly what he had always been taught to do. He’d taken the hit, kept Ilya in the play, helped them win. It had still put Shane on the couch while everyone else practiced, and David had never had much respect for someone who couldn’t be useful.

People checked on him now. Everyone spoke to him with the careful tone people used around the elderly, the children and the stupid. Doctors would clear him when they cleared him. And until then, he existed in a state David had always treated with quiet contempt.

Promising, but. Talented, however. Gifted, if only.

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, and a fresh pulse of pain moved through his head, punishing him.

***

Ilya pauses just inside the doorway, taking Shane in. Shane is still in pajamas. This past week had been challenging for him, he never realized how much his days revolved around hockey until he became unable to play.

“Well, this is depressing as shit,” Ilya says, voice rich with amusement. “And I thought you’d last at least another week before you start to wither away.”

“I’m fine,” Shane retorts, he looks weirdly out of his element at home.

“Clearly,” Ilya replies as he walks past Shane.

He sets his bag down on the kitchen counter. Shane walks closer just as Ilya starts unpacking it. He examines a bottle of Tylenols Ilya pulls out, none of the pills inside resemble what's advertised in the image.

“What is that?” 

“Good painkillers. I take care of my players,” Ilya says. “Take once in a while, only if the pain gets too bad. You do not wanna get hooked on this stuff. It got me through some bad injuries.”

“Where did you even get that?” Shane asks, wary.

“I robbed an old woman.” Ilya says, and Shane must’ve missed the joke, because Ilya sighs. “God. I know people. Are you gonna take it or do you want the receipt too?”

Shane quietly pockets the bottle of pills. Maybe it’s better not to know.

“Cliff says you haven’t answered a text in five days and I had time, so…” Ilya continues. “You’re lucky someone would notice if you died in there. knew a guy in Moscow, barely left his house, they found his body two weeks later when neighbours complained about smell.”

“Everything you tell me about your childhood sounds lovely,” Shane says, sarcastic.

“Christ. You actually live like this, you little freak,” Ilya chuckles as he continues exploring.

Protein powder lined up on the counter. Vitamins organized in a little tray by day of the week. A whiteboard on the fridge with his old training schedule still written in black marker: cardio, weights, stretching, meal prep. All useless in his condition. Shane stares at his back, the broad line of his shoulders beneath dark wool.

“You mind?” Ilya glances at Shane, picking up the milk carton sitting on the counter.

“Make yourself at home, I guess,” Shane mutters.

Ilya grabs a glass in the cupboard, halfway through pouring the milk, his face lights up. He reaches into the bottom of the bag again.

“Oh, almost forgot.” He tosses a magazine on the counter. A woman on the cover, red lipstick and ridiculous arched spine, one hand hooked into the waistband of her lacy lingerie. Shane stares at it in disbelief.

“You brought me… porn?”

“Trust me, this is the good stuff.” Ilya flips a few pages, he stops on an image of a fully naked woman facing the camera, her legs spread and her head thrown back and turns it toward Shane. “You cannot stare at screens. I assume this week has been... difficult. This solves the problem.”

“This is so stupid, this is what you think I like?” Shane picks up the magazine between two fingers like it’s dirty and shoves it against Ilya’s chest. “I’m not keeping it.”

Ilya doesn’t take it back. He only looks down at where Shane’s hand is pressed hard against his coat, glossy pages bent between them.

“Careful,” he says softly. “That’s not how you treat a lady.”

Shane drops it like it burned his hand.

“Kids these days, no respect for the classics.” Ilya leans one hip against the counter, amused. “You’re a nineteen-year-old boy with no hobbies, no screens, and no life. What do you think you'll do besides rubbing your dick raw?”

"I'm not using a gift from you to do… this."

“No? You scared it will know?” Ilya murmurs before reaching for his glass of milk. “Suit yourself. Figured by now you'd be bored enough to start grinding against your couch cushions."

"They still sell these?" Shane asks in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Thank God for the elderly and neurologically compromised. You people keep the industry alive."

Ilya takes a sip from the glass, and his face immediately twists into disgust. He spits the milk into the sink, coughing.

“Jesus fuck, Hollander, are you trying to poison me?” He grimaces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What?” Shane straightens.

“How long has this been sitting out?” Ilya bends against the sink and rinses his mouth with tap water.

“I don’t know,” Shane hesitates. He can’t even remember the last time he used the milk. He tries not to let the concern show on his face because he’ll be damned if he lets Ilya know he’s still messed up from that hit.

Ilya stops in front of a framed photograph on a bookshelf. A fifteen year old Shane, boyish frame swallowed by oversized hockey pads, holding a trophy nearly half his size. Beside him stands his dad. The trophy had been too heavy for Shane to hold properly, so David had curled one hand over Shane’s shoulder and steadied it for him.

David looks like a respectable old-school dad. The kind of man who gets called disciplined, traditional, a little hard on the kid maybe, but he means well.

Shane remembers that day vividly: a regional championship, he skated on a stress fracture he’d hidden for a week. The adrenaline carried him through the last period, nearly blacked out when the buzzer finally sounded. And afterward, in the bathroom tucked beneath the arena, he had thrown up from pain and exhaustion while David stood in the doorway and called it grit.

His knees had trembled under him once the high wore off, the victory leaving him empty and pained. Shane had expected him to be angry. For hiding the injury. For vomiting. For almost passing out where anyone could see him. Instead, David had crouched beside him, one hand heavy on the back of his neck, and spoken to him with that same gentle voice Shane still hears in his sleep sometimes.

“Shh. It’s alright. Let it out. You kicked their asses today.”

Shane had been too sick to answer. Too dizzy to do anything but lean into the pressure of his father’s hand.

Then Dad said the part Shane remembered best: “You toughed it out like a champ. I’m proud of you, Shane.”

“That picture. It was after regionals. We won four-one.” Shane says fondly. “I had a goal and an assist.”

“You got injured during the game or something?” Ilya asks, noticing Shane’s awkward stance in the photo.

“Oh. No, I fractured my leg a week before that.”

“And they let you play through it? Oh, Hollander.” Ilya’s eyes widen. “That is just sad.”

“Let me? I had to. It was an important game.” Shane says, thoughtful. "He bought me ice cream afterward."

“For playing on a fucked up leg?” Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“For winning. My dad, he always got me ice cream if I won something big. Only if I won." Shane adds, pointing to David in the picture.

“Shit, this your dad?” Ilya squints at the man standing next to Shane in the frame. “No offense, Hollander, but somehow this rough-looking bastard made… that? You must take after your mom then.” He raises a brow at Shane. “She hot?”

Shane’s head snaps up.

“Jesus- can you not be gross for five minutes?” He crosses the room quickly and snatches the frame from Ilya’s hands with surprising force. He cradles it against his chest. “Don’t touch that.”

“Relax. I’m not trying to replace Daddy,” he says lightly. “Though honestly? Low fucking bar. Give me six months and I'd have you house-trained.”

Shane stiffens and turns the photograph toward the wall before setting it down.

“Maybe I should’ve gotten to you sooner,” Ilya muses. “Before you had time to become so fucking uptight.” He gives him a long once-over. In pajamas, Shane must look younger than his age. “I can’t imagine you were a difficult child. And I’ve already done enough parenting today to know what I’m talking about.”

He lets the words settle and leans against the shelf.

"You would've been easy. Couple rules. Tell you good job once or twice, and I’d have you eating right out of my hand,” Ilya adds with a knowing smirk. “Tell me, were you always so disciplined?”

Shane feels his cheeks turning red. Don’t make a scene. Don’t be difficult. Take it. Be useful. Be better. The good kind of boy. The kind who doesn’t need to be watched because he already watched himself.

“He didn’t raise me soft. That was the point. Most kids waste half their lives screwing around. They get distracted. They think talent is enough and then they wake up one day and they’re nobody.” Shane exhales through his nose, sets the frame back on the shelf with too much care. “My dad wasn’t going to let that happen to me.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums, like that explains nothing.

“He wasn’t… easy on me. He wanted me to be the best,” Shane says, taken by the urge to fill the silence. “Morning skates. Runs. Diet. Practice. More practice.” Ilya’s scrutiny gets under his skin, and once Shane starts talking, the rest comes out too fast. “He always said if I had enough energy left over to complain, I wasn't working hard enough. Second place wasn't worth much to him… Honestly, it wasn't worth much to me either. If I came home first, it was just what I was supposed to do.”

Ilya’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. It’s the first time Shane has opened up about his dad to a teammate in years and he immediately wishes he hadn’t said anything at all.

Once Shane gets the first sentence out, the rest starts spilling after it. “My dad didn’t like stupid talk,” he says, despite himself. “He didn’t like excuses either. Big believer in ‘pain builds character.’ If I was injured, I was supposed to keep going. If I was upset, I just had to keep it to myself… He just-” Shane sighs frustrated. “…knew what it took,” he says, unsure he even believes it anymore.

“Jesus Christ,” Ilya says. “Your old man really fucked you up good.”

Shane goes rigid. “Don’t start with this shit.”

“What? I’m impressed.” Ilya tilts his head. “Most people get hurt and they learn to stop. You swallow shit and look around to see who noticed. Maybe Daddy buys you ice cream later?” His gaze cuts to the framed photo. “It’s kind of adorable in a horrifying way.”

Shane looks at the photograph again. The ice cream had been one of the good parts. That was before Ilya got his hands on it. 

"Well, shit. Look at that," Ilya says quietly, pleased like he was back at the hospital when he pressed on Shane’s bruise and found it tender. “That one you did not like. Took me a while, but I knew there had to be a reason you're sick in the head.”

Shane has every reason to end the conversation there.

How do you explain David? He was difficult. But he was also the man who taught him how to skate and sat through every game.

"He did a lot for me. He gave a shit. Maybe too much, but he gave a shit," Shane mutters.                                                                         

David wanted this for him almost as badly as Shane had. Everything he’s proud of traces back to his dad, and if his father was wrong, Shane doesn’t know what that makes the rest of it.

Ilya leans close and murmurs.

“You poor fucked-up thing.” It comes out sarcastic. “It’d be less sad if you were one of the sick fucks who pop a boner when you break their nose.”

“You do this shit on purpose? Say the worst possible thing and act surprised when people want to hit you?” Shane feels more emotional than he’s allowed himself to be in months. Ilya doesn’t get to figure him out, to reopen wounds and press into them just to mock him for it.

Maybe it’s the head trauma making him emotional. His fingers curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

“Oh,” Ilya murmurs, delighted. “You wanna hit me?”

Shane breathes through his nose.

Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

"No."

“No? That is a big fat fucking lie,” Ilya chuckles. He takes one lazy step closer. "Kid, if you didn't wanna hit me, I'd be worried. But you won’t, not today. Because you're a smart boy… But if you ever take a swing at me, you better not miss. I know I won’t, and your brain’s already messed up enough as it is.”

“Fuck you,” Shane whispers.

“See? Wanting it so bad your hands start shaking and still not throwing a punch?” Ilya’s grin fades. “That’s discipline.”

“Get out, I’m serious.” Shane drags a hand across his face and lets out a shaky exhale. "I'm done."

The compliments are condescending at best and he knows better than to want them. He tries to bury it beneath a scowl.

“Oh, you liked hearing that,” Ilya teases. “Made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

He slings his bag over one shoulder and starts toward the door. At the threshold, he stops one last time.

"We’ll circle back to this, don’t worry."

***

July 2005, summer camp

Shane sat alone near the far end of the room, his tray placed squarely in front of him. Turkey sandwich and apple slices. Across the dining room, a group of boys from his dorm were flicking peas at one another until one hit the side of a counselor’s neck. Someone laughed so hard milk came out of his nose. Shane watched them for a second, then looked back down until a shadow fell across his tray.

“Mind if I sit?”

“No.”

Shane looked up. Coach Miller stood there with his own lunch in one hand. Tall, tanned from the sun, with damp hair pushed back from his forehead and a whistle hanging loose around his neck. Shane wouldn’t understand what he was feeling until years afterward. At fourteen, he couldn’t have explained why Miller made his stomach dip or why he cared so much about being noticed by him.

“I watched you during drills this morning,” Miller said. “I gotta say, you’re quite the player.”

“Thank you.”

The morning had been brutal. Skating drills, puck control, conditioning. He had done better than all of them.

Miller took a bite of his sandwich, then nodded toward the noisy tables. “You not friends with those guys?”

Shane glanced over at the other boys again. One of them was making fart noises in the crook of his elbow. Another was going for the record of the most peas simultaneously contained in a mouth. The other kids’ carefreeness stood between them like a fence.

“They’re fine.”

“But?”

“They’re not serious.”

“No, I guess they’re not.” Miller looked amused, it felt like he and Shane were sharing an inside joke at everyone else’s expense. “That can be lonely.”

Shane swallowed a big bite. “Yeah, but I’m used to it.”

“I bet you are. Well, I’ll tell you what. Come by the rink before morning skate. I’ll work with you. No idiots to distract you.” Seeing Shane’s stunned expression, Miller quickly backtracked. “I mean, you don’t have to. I don’t wanna drag you out of bed if you’re gonna hate me for it.”

“You’re kidding? I’d love to, totally!”

“Hey. Hey. Don’t tell the other boys or they’ll get jealous and start whining about ice time,” Coach laughed warmly. “And I don’t want them giving you a hard time.”

Shane mimed zipping his mouth shut and Coach smiled. For a while, Miller ate beside him in silence. Shane kept expecting him to leave, to get bored, to remember there were other coaches and louder boys and better company. But he stayed.

When Coach caught Shane eyeing his brownie, he reached for it and broke it neatly in half, setting one piece on the edge of Shane’s tray.

“Oh, I shouldn’t, my dad says sugar drains your energy.”

“I don’t see your dad anywhere, do you?” Ian said, pretending to look around.

Screw it.

Shane picked up the brownie. It was sweet, sticking to his teeth. He chewed quickly, Miller only smiled and took a bite of his own half.

“There,” Miller said. “Feeling drained?”

Shane swallowed. “I guess I’m not.”

During afternoon scrimmage, Shane stole the puck twice, threaded a pass through two defenders, and scored off a rebound. The other boys groaned and cursed at him. Someone called him a try-hard. Shane pretended not to hear, but when he looked toward the boards, Miller was watching.

At five-thirty the next morning, Shane was already awake. He dressed silently in the gray-blue dark, pulling on his compression shirt and shorts, careful not to wake the others. His skates hung from one hand by the laces. The floorboards creaked beneath his socks, and he froze every time one of the other boys shifted in bed.

He followed the gravel path to the rink at the edge of the property. Its metal doors left unlocked for Shane when he arrived.

Inside, Miller waited for him, wearing track pants and a camp T-shirt, hair still damp from a shower, coffee in one hand. He grinned when he saw Shane walk in.

The air bit pleasantly at his face after the sticky heat outside. Their footsteps echoed through the empty corridor. 

On the ice, Miller pushed him hard. He caught every small inefficiency and knew exactly how to smooth it out. When they left the ice, Miller tossed him a towel from the bench.

“Same time Monday?”

Shane tried not to look too eager. “Yeah.”

“You sure? You’ll be dead on your feet by Wednesday if we keep this up.”

“I won’t.”

 “Good. I’d hate to lose my best player on week one.” Miller offered a warm smile.

***

December 2010, Boston

Eight weeks of recovery is what it takes before Shane is cleared to play again.

On good days, he wakes feeling normal, convinced the worst is finally behind him. He can still outskate most of the roster, anticipate plays before they develop, thread impossible passes through traffic. His confidence creeps back one clean shift at a time.

On bad days, the puck seems to move a second faster than his brain can follow. He misses passes he would have caught blind two months ago, misjudges distance. Those are the days he comes off the ice furious, chasing the player he used to be while refusing to admit that the version who took the hit for Ilya may not return anytime soon.

By luck, the inconsistency is mercifully dismissed as rust. Coaches tell him he'll find his rhythm after missing eight weeks, teammates chalk it up to shaken confidence, and nobody looks closely enough to notice the pattern. The coaching staff quietly cuts his minutes, moving him down to the fourth line and keeping him away from late-game situations.

One afternoon, some players are hanging in the lounge. Carmichael stretches across half the veterans’ couch, Marlow perches on the armrest beside him, tossing popcorn into his own mouth. St-Simon and Dubek are sitting on another couch, watching the football game on the TV.

Shane sits on the floor with his back against the couch. That had started as a joke in September and somehow survived long enough to become routine. The first few weeks, it had made his ears burn every time. Now, he barely reacts when someone drops a towel over his head or uses his shoulder as a place to rest a soda can. It’s stupid, but at least he belongs enough to be messed with.

Ilya comes in from the hallway, hair still damp from the shower, black T-shirt clinging to the lingering warmth of his skin. He steps over Shane’s legs without slowing down and sinks into the couch behind him. A second later, one long leg stretches out until the toe of his shoe nudges Shane’s hip.

“Hollander. Water.”

He doesn’t look down to see if Shane is listening. He simply lets one hand hang off the couch, palm open, like he’s waiting for Shane to deposit the bottle there. Shane looks around swiftly. The green bottle isn’t on the table, isn’t tucked beside Ilya’s gym bag or wedged between the couch cushions.

“It’s not here,” Shane says.

“Then fetch.” Ilya finally turns his head to look at Shane like he just said something unbelievably stupid.

"Get it yourself."

“Could,” Ilya says with a shrug. “But don’t you miss being useful now that you’re on the fourth line and all?”

Carmichael snorts from the couch. “Kid, don’t question decades of tradition.”

“Yeah,” Marlow adds, clapping Shane’s shoulder. “One day, you’ll be old and washed enough to boss around some other miserable guy.”

“Water. Green bottle. Go.” Ilya snaps his fingers.

“Fine,” Shane mutters and pushes himself up begrudgingly.

“There we go,” Ilya says, pleased. “So helpful.”

Behind him, Marlow calls, “Grab mine too if you see it!”

The locker room is empty when he pushes inside. The room comes apart the moment he crosses the threshold. The benches drift apart. Even the green water bottle resting on the bench seems to drag a pale copy of itself.

Shane closes one eye and braces a hand against the counter. His fingers skate over the cool surface before finding something solid to hold. He waits without moving, willing the room to remember its proper shape. Thirty seconds. A minute at most. Then he'll collect the bottle, return to the lounge, take his place on the floor, and endure whatever smug remark Rozanov has waiting for him.

The door opens behind him. Shane straightens so quickly that the room lurches and his stomach goes with it. He catches himself against the counter again, his palm slapping the surface.

“Whoa, don’t pass out,” someone says.

Connors stands just inside the locker room.

“I’m fine.” Shane doesn’t turn around fully. He keeps one eye shut, jaw locked so tightly it hurts.

Maybe he was too defensive to sound convincing. Either way, Connors doesn’t leave. He closes the door behind him and takes a slow step closer, as if not to startle him.

“Shane…”

“I said I’m fine,” Shane groans.

Hunched over, Shane opens both eyes to prove a point and the attempt backfires. Connors' outline unravels into a blurred double, the two images refusing to align. Shane groans and closes one eye again. That seems to answer Connors's question.

“Fuck,” he says. He glances around quickly, eyes landing on the trash can near the stalls. “If you puke, I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“I’m not going to puke.” Shane forces himself upright, though he keeps one hand braced on the counter. “I’m dizzy, that’s all. It happens sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Connors insists. “Are you kidding me? Does Coach know about this?”

“You a doctor now?”

"No, dumbass, but I know a few things about concussions from getting my head bounced off the ice." Connors rolls his eyes. “How often?”

“Not often. It happens randomly,” Shane says quickly. “When I’m tired. When there’s too much noise. Bad lights. Sometimes after practice. It’s better than it was.”

“Man, you shouldn’t be playing. You need to tell the doc.”

“Nobody knows and it needs to stay that way.” Shane snaps. He pulls in a breath, forcing himself to lower his voice. “Connors, please.”

“I’m serious,” Connors says. “You can’t hide symptoms. That’s how guys end up done. Like, done done.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Shane says, quieter. “Listen, it’s getting better right now. Just give me a few days, I’ll tell them if it gets worse.”

“Look I’m not trying to screw you over.”

Shane can feel it slipping away from him. His season. His place in the room. The fragile, awful routine of being useful again. He imagines his name scratched from the lineup. Ilya hearing about it. Worse, he imagines calling his father and telling him he has failed to stay cleared for more than a week.

“Please,” Shane says again, swallowing back whatever self-disgust he feels from begging like this. “I can’t get pulled again. They already cut my minutes in half like I don’t play perfectly fine ninety percent of the time.”

Connors hesitates, visibly adrift. He would know what to do if Shane told him to fuck off or shoved him. The pleading seems to throw him.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut for three days.”

“Really?” Shane says, astonished.

“Yes, really. Learn to quit while you’re ahead,” Connors grumbles. “you don’t play if this happens before getting on the ice. You don’t take contact on purpose. If you do, I’ll tell, Coach, Cole, the fucking janitor, whoever I have to.”

“Thank you.” Shane lets out a relieved sigh.

“I really mean it. I’m not covering your ass so you can go get yourself brain-damaged for pride.”

Shane pushes away from the counter with caution. This time, the room holds together. He reaches for Ilya's water bottle on the bench. Connors watches him for another moment before giving a small nod toward the lounge.

“Go on.”

By the time Shane steps back into the lounge, the football game has cut to commercials, Carmichael is locked in another pointless argument with St-Simon, and no one notices Shane's return except Ilya.

“You took your sweet time,” Ilya says.

Shane tosses him the bottle. Ilya catches it one-handed without looking away from him. Then his gaze shifts past Shane’s shoulder, catching on Connors trailing in behind him.

“I send one boy, two come back.” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Did you get make a friend on the way?”

“Had to fight off all the other guys in line to do your errands,” Shane says.

Ilya snorts and taps the floor between his feet with the toe of his shoe, beckoning Shane back without so much as looking at him. No one is paying attention anymore except Connors. Shane glares before sinking to the floor. While unscrewing the bottle, Ilya lets his hand linger at the nape of Shane's neck, idly guiding him into place before his attention drifts back to the television.

***

July 2005, Summer camp

There were afternoons when Miller would beckon him into the coaches' room while he worked through stacks of notes, pausing every so often to scribble another observation across the page. Ian liked to tease that Shane had spent so much time back there they should put him on the coaching staff and let him evaluate the other kids himself. Campers weren’t supposed to be in the coaches’ room. Every time Miller invited him back there, Shane felt like he’d been given something the other boys hadn’t earned.

One evening, rain drove everyone indoors. The gravel paths turning black and slick beneath the downpour. With every outdoor activity canceled, the boys were funneled into the common room, where they bickered over decks of cards, paced with restless energy, and complained about having nothing to do. Miller found Shane sitting among them.

“Come on,” he said, leaning against the wall. “I have something for you to do.”

Shane hesitated, scanning the room as though someone might stop him. A counselor was struggling to separate two boys grappling over a board game while the rest barely looked up.

"Can I?"

"You're asking me? I'm the coach," Miller laughed.

Miller's room was small and cluttered. Miller crouched beside the bed and reached underneath, emerging with a battered handheld console.

"You ever play with Game Boys?"

"A little."

"Brought my old one for rainy days." He turned it over in his hands, pressing the power button with his thumb. An electronic noise crackled from the tiny speaker. Miller smiled to himself. "Still works, somehow."

Miller wiped the screen with the hem of his shirt and tossed himself onto the bed like they had done this a hundred times before.

“Come on, buddy. I’ll warn you now, I’m incredible.”

The few times Shane had played had been at classmates' houses after school, always with one eye on the clock, knowing David would be waiting outside exactly when he said he would.

They settled against the headboard, shoulders brushing whenever they shifted, trading the console back and forth after each round. Miller missed an easy jump on purpose, groaning dramatically when Shane's score edged past his.

"What? No way," he protested. "Beginner's luck."

Shane laughed out loud. He knew he let him, caught the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but victory still shot through him all the same.

"Alright," Miller sighed theatrically. "Enough charity. Time for a real game."

The second round was merciless. Miller dismantled him without mercy, clearing level after level while Shane watched in disbelief.

"That's not fair!"

"Life ain’t fair, Kiddo," Miller said solemnly.

Down the hall, a burst of laughter echoed through the dorm before fading beneath the sound of the storm outside.

Reaching for the console after another round, Miller's elbow caught Shane hard in the side. Shane doubled over with a hiss, his hand flying instinctively to his side.

"Shit," Miller said immediately, pulling back. "I didn’t realize you were hurt."

"It’s nothing." Shane folded an arm over his side, forcing a small smile. "Just sore."

“Come on. Let me see.” Miller held out his hand for the console patiently.

Shane peeled his shirt upward, exposing the dark bruise beneath it. Some kid had pushed him into the boards this morning. The pad of Coach’s thumb followed the purple-and-yellow trail.

"That’s not nothing," Miller whistled. “Goddamn, kid. You played the rest of scrimmage with this?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Shane said through clenched teeth.

"There." Miller patted the mattress beside him. "Lie down. It'll feel better."

He gently pushed Shane’s shoulders until he lay flat on the bed then sat beside him. He caressed the skin over his stomach, soothing and massaging his body. No one had ever touched him like this before. Say something, part of him whispered. But a treacherous little voice told him that saying something would ruin everything.

“You know, I don’t do this for just anyone. The extra ice, private sessions.”

“I know,” Shane replied quietly.

“You’re tougher than the other boys. You’re not just talented, you push through when things get hard. That’s why you’ll go far, I need you to understand that.”

Shane stared up at him, hardly breathing.

“I really like you,” Miller continued. “You’re different. Special. I could tell from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Shane soaked up every word with an eagerness he wouldn’t admit. It started out as shivers running through his body, then he felt his dick stiffen in his pants and froze. Silently praying that coach hadn’t noticed.

Miller glanced down and hesitated for moment, then shifted to lean over Shane. His hand wandered slowly down Shane's chest and stomach before settling at the front of his pants. Shane let out a little gasp as every muscle in his body locked into place.

He heard the metallic rasp of his belt unbuckling and let his eyes drift shut as Miller’s hand wrapped around him. It felt nice, the ache in his ribs faded away, replaced by a new, confusing feeling. He’d touched himself before, but this was nothing like it.

“See? Feels good, right?” Miller murmured against Shane’s temple. “You’re my favorite, you know that?”

This isn’t right, Shane realized. He knew enough to be uneasy, but he still let it continue. 

“Attaboy.” Coach's hand rose to cup his cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against his skin before giving him an affectionate pat.

When Coach came, his sperm formed a puddle on Shane’s stomach. He sat back up on the bed, reached for a tissue and wiped Shane clean, avoiding his gaze entirely. The console laid abandoned near the foot of the bed. Shane pulled his shirt back down, unsettled by Miller’s silence.

"You did good, you... It’s okay. Everything’s okay." Miller had a glassy look in his eyes as he hurriedly tucked himself back into his pants, fingers fumbling with his belt. "You didn't do anything wrong. We just... got carried away."

Miller covered his mouth for a second before rubbing a trembling hand over his face.

"I just care about you more than I should," He muttered. "People don't understand feelings like that."

The next morning, before any other kid got up, Shane was back at the arena.

***

December 2010, Boston

Ilya stands near the back entrance with his shoulder against the brick wall, one hand tucked in the pocket of his coat, the other holding a cigarette between two fingers. Shane has only come outside to escape Connors’ wary glances, the man has been watching him as if he’s waiting for Shane to tip over so he can prove a point. Shane stops just beyond the doorway.

“Spying is rude, Hollander.”

“I wasn’t. I needed air.” Shane shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The wind slips under his collar and raises goosebumps along the back of his neck.

“No?” Ilya takes another drag from his cigarette, watching him through the smoke. “You just follow strange men into dark alleys?”

“Guess so.” Shane huffs a laugh.

“Dangerous hobby.” Ilya flicks ash onto the wet pavement. “Tell me, is Connors giving you shit?”

“As opposed to what the other guys are doing?” Shane asks, skeptical.

“The other guys are doing what I let them do. It works because everybody understands where the line is.”

Shane has lived through worse. He knows exactly how locker rooms work.

“No, he’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Shane shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His toes are going numb from the cold.

“You know, if someone fucks with you in my locker room, you tell me,” Ilya says, placing the cigarette between his lips, his voice muffled around it. “I told you on day one, we don’t handle our issues like they did in Montreal. Here, if someone has a problem with you or wants to put hands on you, they clear it with me first.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“It should.” Ilya inhales, then leans slightly to the side and exhales the smoke past Shane’s ear. “Means you belong to a better class of dickheads now.”

An expensive car rolls into view, sleek and black, its headlights sweeping briefly over them before it slows near the curb. It comes to a smooth stop near them. Ilya drops his cigarette and crushes it beneath his shoe. A beautiful woman steps out, dark curls spilling over the collar of her coat. Her heels click against the pavement as she walks around the front of the car. She looks at Ilya first, then she notices Shane.

“Miss me?” Ilya asks, pushing away from the wall and crossing to her.

“Of course,” she says. Her accent is lighter than Ilya’s but still there.

His hand slides to her waist first, then drifts lower, fingers spreading over the curve of her ass possessively. He catches her mouth with his, deep and slow, making a show of it. Despite himself, his eyes stay fixed on them.

Ilya pulls her in by the waist and kisses her. She indulges him for a few seconds before pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him back. When Ilya pulls away, he glances over his shoulder at Shane. His lips are glossy, and his eyes are daring Shane to react.

“Enjoy the show?” Ilya smirks when Shane looks away.

“I wasn’t watching.”

“That’s okay, kid.” Ilya wipes his mouth with his thumb. “File it away for tonight.”

Shane’s face starts to burn even as the cold bites at his skin. The woman does not look at him. Her gaze passes over the space beside him, the door, the street beyond. If she notices his embarrassment, she gives him the small mercy of pretending she hasn’t. Ilya opens the passenger door for her. She gets in smoothly, crossing her legs as he shuts it behind her. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel. His car, Shane realizes. She brought it around for him.

Shane stays where he is, stupidly rooted to the pavement as they leave. The door behind him opens. Cliff steps outside with his jacket half-zipped, rubbing his hands together against the cold.

“Man, it’s freezing. You Canadians are freaks.” He squints at Shane. “What are you even doing out here?”

Shane barely hears him. “That’s his girlfriend?”

Cliff follows his gaze toward the car as it drives away.

“Oh. Svetlana.” Cliff shoves his hands under his arms for warmth. “She’s his wife.”

For a second, Shane thinks he has misheard him. His wife?

Shane looks back at the road even though the car is long gone. He has never heard anyone mention a wife. Not in the room, not in the papers, not even as gossip. Ilya is talked about constantly, but never as a family man. Never as a husband. He exists in stories as a captain, an asshole, a man going through clubs and hotel lobbies and women who do not stay long enough to have names.

“He’s married?” Shane asks. “But… I’ve seen him with women.”

“It’s Ilya,” Cliff says it like the explanation is obvious. “He still does whatever he wants. Sleeps around. Disappears whenever. Nobody really talks about it.”

“And she knows about that?”

“Never seen her complain.” Cliff’s mouth tightens into a fine line, like he regrets saying even that much. Then he nudges Shane’s shoulder lightly. “Come on, let’s go back inside.”

Shane lets himself be steered back toward the door, absentmindedly.

A wife?

Chapter 4: Look at the Mess You Made

Chapter Notes

Thank you for the comments on the last chapter, here's a new chapter of me putting Shane and Ilya through the horrors

About Ilya and Svetlana's marriage: The marriage isn't purely transactional in this story. They’ve been together for years, and Ilya could divorce her without losing his citizenship, so Svetlana serves a different purpose for him.

Not to psychoanalyze him too hard, but I’ve thought a lot about how his upbringing would shape his relationship with masculinity and bisexuality. In Russia, especially within police and prison culture, gay sex has historically been understood through an extremely rigid hierarchy. Penetration is associated with power and masculinity, while being penetrated is treated as humiliating and feminizing, partly because sexual violence was used as punishment and social degradation in prisons. The man who tops can still imagine himself as “the man,” while the man who bottoms is stripped of dignity entirely.

With Ilya coming from a family of cops, it made sense to me that he would grow up with an especially warped and obsessive idea of what a man is supposed to be. His hypermasculinity becomes a form of compensation: he can desire men, but only as long as he remains dominant, untouchable, and the “man” in every relationship.

His marriage to Svetlana isn’t loving so much as possessive. Being married to a beautiful woman reinforces the image he wants to project, and he treats having her almost like proof of his masculinity. That mindset also bleeds into the way he needs to control other people, especially Shane. The more genuinely attracted he becomes to Shane, the more threatened he feels by that attraction, and the more aggressively he needs to dominate him and establish himself as the manlier one

December 2010, Plane 

“Can I get you anything?” The flight attendant stops beside his row with a customer-service smile and a cart crowded with food. Half the team is asleep around him. The other half talks quietly across the aisle.

Since when do airlines have so many options?

Cognitive fatigue is one of the terms Cole, the team physician, used along with slowed processing, light sensitivity, emotional outbursts and all the other medical names for the ways his brain has started messing with him the past nine weeks. All part of the long, humiliating list of symptoms he had been forced to review with Connors, teaching his teammate exactly what warning signs to look for.

He had made it through Connors’s three-day test without episode, or at least none Connors had noticed. That had been enough to convince him that Shane was fully recovered and that what he had witnessed in the locker room had been the last of it.

Some days go without any incident. Other days, Shane can’t answer the simplest question in the world.

Protein bars, blueberry muffins, cookies, pretzels, jerky, dried apricots, nuts. Electrolyte drinks in seven different colors. He tries to divide them into categories. Even after eliminating everything too processed to fit his diet, there are still too many choices.

He realizes it has gone on too long when the flight attendant’s smile strains and she says, with growing discomfort, “Maybe I can come back in a few minutes, give you some time to choose?”

Shane blinks and the rows of snacks double, then settle again. Maybe he shouldn’t take anything. No, he’d look like an idiot after he already spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding. Nuts are high in protein. Dried apricots have less fat. Just pick something.

“He’ll have the jerky.”

Ilya reaches across Shane’s body and plucks the small bag of beef jerky from the cart. The flight attendant seems relieved when Ilya answers for him, and Shane wonders if she thought she had said something wrong.

“Oh I don’t really want that,” he says.

“That’s fascinating.” Ilya drops the bag into Shane’s lap. “But the rest of us are aging in real time, so take the jerky, thank the nice lady you’ve kept hostage for five minutes over trail mix, and let her get on with her life.”

The flight attendant gives a small, strained laugh, though she looks increasingly eager to leave. David’s not here to tell Shane to keep his head down, but he hears it anyway.

“Thank you.”

The flight attendant moves on to the next row, cart rattling softly down the aisle. Her black dress swaying around her knees.

Shane holds the bag of jerky in his lap without opening it. He glances toward the window. There is nothing to see but clouds.

“Oh, Okay…” Marlow twists in his seat, a grin on his face.

“What?”

“No, no. I’m not judging.” Marlow lifts both hands innocently. “Hey, man, it’s a boring flight. Pretty girl leans over, suddenly you forget how to be civilized. Happens to the best of us.”

“I was looking at the food.”

Marlow leans into the aisle, lowering his voice. He tilts his chin toward the flight attendant, now stopped two rows down. “Poor woman’s asking if you want pretzels and you’re just sitting there, thousand-yard stare aimed directly at her tits.”

“Our boy’s growing up,” Ilya says.

Shane tears open the jerky to give his hands something to do. The package splits down the side, and a strip nearly falls into his lap before he catches it.

“Careful. Don’t wanna get too aggressive with your meat in public,” Marlow whistles.

Shane looks through the window. Somewhere ahead is Montreal.

***

Dubek is telling a rookie about the year his daughter asked for a pony and got a plastic horse from the dollar store instead. St-Simon remembers stealing liquor from his parents’ cabinet on Christmas Eve and replacing the missing vodka with water. John claims his mother used to make the best apple pie in town. Carmichael says his family used to exchange presents at midnight because none of the children could be trusted to sleep. Even Connors contributes occasionally, though most of his answers are short and dry. Shane listens without joining in.

On the bus, someone puts Christmas songs on. The Raiders talk about the holiday meal waiting at hotel, and the gifts they bought for their families. They’re not close to his old apartment, but he recognizes the exits he used to take to see Jessica.

Someone asks Shane what his family used to do.

He remembers colored lights reflected in the windows of the living room. Yuna’s pancakes on Christmas morning. His mom searching the house for wrapping paper. Cinnamon cookies cooling on the counter and his father’s big hands lifting him so he could place the star on top of the tree. The Christmas party at his aunt’s house. Everything is blurry after that. His mother’s voice from the front seat. White light passing across his closed eyes. The rest has been shut away.

Before he can answer, a burst of laughter erupts behind him. Dubek has somehow acquired a sprig of plastic mistletoe and is holding it over Cliff’s head, shaking it insistently while St-Simon tries to shove him away.

“Come on, Cliffey. It is almost Christmas.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

A couple of guys laugh loudly, it makes Shane’s head throb. He closes his eyes until it passes.

Connors had noticed earlier, while they were loading the bus outside the airport. Shane had gotten dizzy and stumbled. Connors had grabbed the back of his jacket before he could fall, then stared at him long enough for Shane to understand that the conversation was not over.

Third floor. 310. Don’t touch my shit. Connors had told him while shoving his bag beneath the bus afterward, sounding about as enthusiastic as he ever sounds about anything.

Simple enough.

They made it to the hotel early in the afternoon.

Connors stands beside the front desk, handing out keys. “St-Simon and Carmichael, 209. Marlow, 312.” He glances down at the remaining tags, almost everyone has started moving towards their assigned room. “Hollander, you’re with me, 310.”

“Hold your goddamn horses, Pornstache.” Ilya’s voice carries across the lobby. Everyone stops. He is leaning against the reception counter, one ankle crossed casually over the other. “Change of plans. You can have your little sleepover with Dubek.”

Dubek looks up from the packet of stale crackers he has been attempting to open with his teeth.

“The hell I am.”

“The hell you are,” Ilya confirms cheerfully. Then he looks at Shane. “Kid’s with me.”

The few guys left begin moving again, collecting keys and shouldering bags, seemingly unconcerned. Veterans like Ilya always get single rooms. Sometimes he brings a girl upstairs and people understand that they are not to knock unless the building is burning down.

Connors has gone very still beside Shane.

Ilya tosses Shane a key. Shane catches it against his chest.

“Third floor,” Ilya says.

 “Aren’t you supposed to have your own room, or did you lose that privilege?”

“Am I? How very embarrassing.” Ilya glances around. “Somebody better call management. There has been a terrible fucking mix-up.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Shane would rather sleep in the team bus or on the concrete walkway.

Ilya nudges his duffel across the floor with his boot. Shane hefts the bag onto his shoulder beside his own.

“Hey, Hollander. Walk with me for a second?” Connors calls out.

Shane doesn’t break stride, continuing toward the elevator. “I got to drop my bag.”

Connors doesn’t drop it. “Won’t be long.”

“He heard you the first time.” Ilya blocks the elevator as Shane enters without looking at any of them. Ilya looks over his shoulder at Shane. “You heard him, right?”

Shane lets his silence answer for him.

“See?” Ilya turns back to Connors. “He’s avoiding you on purpose. Take the hint, buddy.”

Connors’ mouth compresses into a thin line.

“Next one, Connors. This car’s full.” Ilya dismisses Connors with a flick of his wrist and steps inside the elevator.

***

“Take your boots off before you track shit all over the carpet,” Ilya says.

The door has barely closed behind them. Shane is still carrying both duffels, their straps cutting into the same shoulder, while Ilya crosses the room like he’s been waiting all day to shed everything associated with the team. He drops his room key onto the nightstand, shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it across the untouched bed. Without the bulk of his coat and suit jacket, he somehow looks larger, his shoulders stretching the thin cotton.

Shane bends to untie his boots. The room is stifling after the cold outside, but his fingers are still numb and stiff, fumbling with the wet laces after the time spent unloading the bus. When he looks up, Ilya is sitting on the edge of the nearest bed in his undershirt.

His belt has been pulled free and tossed beside his jacket on the white duvet.

“Since you’re already down there…”

Ilya shifts closer to the edge and spreads his knees farther, leaving Shane directly between them. Shane’s eyes lower to the open space between Ilya’s thighs before snapping back to his face.

Then Ilya lifts one foot and nudges the toe of his boot toward Shane’s chest.

“You can take off your own shoes,” Shane says, heat climbing abruptly into his face.

“I’ve been independently taking off my boots since before your balls dropped. It has precisely fuck-all to do with whether I told you to do it.”

Shane begins to rise, but Ilya places one hand on his shoulder and steadily presses until Shane’s knees meet the carpet again.

“Now, now, don’t make it weird.”

Ilya always does this, makes sure the moment can only be read one way, then feigns innocence like Shane’s the pervert for noticing. Fine. Then Shane would give him nothing to point at.

He loosens the knot, pulls the laces free and grips Ilya’s heel. The boot resists at first, held by the angle of Ilya’s foot, and Shane has to tug harder for it to come off. Ilya watches him work without offering any help.

“Don’t get sloppy now.” He plants the sole of his remaining boot firmly between Shane’s thighs. “You were doing such a beautiful job.”

“I know how to take off a boot. Lift.” Shane tears the laces loose hastily.

“Ask nicely,” Ilya says.

“Lift your fucking foot.”

Ilya finally raises it with an exaggerated sigh. Shane yanks the boot off roughly, dropping it beside the first and standing before Ilya can invent another reason to keep him there.

He turns his back and crouches next to his own duffel, using the excuse of unpacking to put the width of the room between them. Everything inside is arranged exactly as he left it: shirts folded into equal rectangles, underwear rolled tightly along one side, socks paired by color, toiletries sealed inside a clear plastic bag. He begins transferring each item into the dresser, aligning the edges of the shirts with the edges of the drawer.

“So…” Ilya begins, scrolling through his phone.

Shane keeps his attention on the drawer.

“You wanna tell me why Blondie was trying so fucking hard to get you alone?”

“Connors?” Shane takes out another shirt. “I don’t know.”

“Mm.”

“He probably wanted to talk about tonight’s game. He’ll get over it.”

“Uh-huh.” Ilya scrolls idly. “And here I thought you two were having relationship problems.”

“We’re not having-” Shane stops with a pair of socks suspended between his hands. “I mean, we’re good, but…” Slowly, he turns around and narrows his eyes. “Wait. What exactly are you implying? You’re the one who…”

“No, no, don’t you dare stop there.” Ilya sets the phone beside him and leans back on his palms. “You’ve obviously got something rattling around in there. Let’s hear it.”

“Why change the rooms?” Shane asks. He places the socks into the drawer, then moves them when the pair sits too far from the others. “And why not arrange it with the coordinator beforehand? You didn’t need to announce it in front of everybody. You could’ve switched the keys without turning it into some big show.”

“Oh, boy. You’ve been chewing on that all the way up here,” Ilya hums. “The spectacle was the point.”

Shane closes the drawer hard. The wood strikes the frame with a sharp crack.

“Does this shit ever end?  I’m not carrying bags and running errands just because you assholes decided I still rank at the bottom,” Shane snaps. “I did my time as a rookie already.”

“And how did that work out for you? You walk in here with your little first-overall pedigree and expect everyone to forget Montreal packed your bags and mailed you to Boston because nobody there could stand you.”

Ilya watches Shane fail to answer. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“If you’re having regrets,” his voice goes cold. “I can march you right back downstairs and put you exactly where Connors has been trying to get you all day. Then you and Pornstache can lie in your matching little beds, braid each other’s hair and stay up late discussing whatever the hell you’ve been dodging him over.”

“I’m not dodging anything.”

“Then go.” Ilya gestures toward the door dismissively. “He wants you badly enough. I’m sure he’ll still take you.”

If Shane goes back downstairs, Connors won’t let it go. Ilya only knows Shane doesn’t want to be alone with Connors.

“I’ll stay,” Shane says quietly.

“Wanna try that again?” Ilya cups a hand behind his ear.

“I want to stay in your room.”

***

December 2005, Ottawa

Shane finds his mother sitting on his bed with a glass of wine balanced between her knees. Yuna has pulled one of his old blankets around her shoulders. The blue one with the faded dinosaurs that she bought him when he was six. Shane has been meaning to throw it away for years. He would have thrown it away already, probably, except every time he tries to put it in the garbage, his mother finds it and washes it and folds it back at the bottom of his closet.

A cardboard box sits on the floor, filled with school pictures, old birthday cards, plastic trophies and medals.

“There you are,” she says when she sees him.

Shane remains in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for wrapping paper.” She gestures vaguely toward the closet with her wineglass. “I could’ve sworn we put the Christmas stuff in here.”

“It’s in the hall closet.”

“Look at this. Your first trophy.” She picks up a small trophy and smiles. Her eyes are glossy, but it’s hard to tell if it is because of the wine or because she has decided to make herself sad going through all his old things. “God, you were so little.”

Shane shifts his weight. He does not know what answer she wants. She places the trophy back inside the box and pats the mattress beside her.

“Come sit with me.”

Shane crosses the room and sits beside her. His mother leans against him, resting her cheek on top of his head.

“Oh my baby,” she murmurs.

“Mom, I’m fourteen.”

“You’ll always be my baby.”

She reaches up and smooths his hair back from his forehead. Shane endures it, though he checks the open doorway to make sure his father is not standing there.

“You used to come into our room every night,” she says. “Do you remember?”

Shane nods, looking down at his hands to hide his smile.

“You absolutely did. You’d come in dragging that blanket behind you and stand beside me until I woke up.”

His mother gets like this sometimes after a glass of wine. Too affectionate and sentimental, determined to talk about the child Shane used to be before he started closing his bedroom door and complaining whenever she kissed him in public. Usually, he complains about it. Tonight, he lets her do it because she seems happy.

She reaches into the box again and pulls out a small silver camera.

“Oh,” she says. “Look what I found.”

Shane recognizes it right away. She gave it to him for his fourteenth birthday, a month or two before he left for hockey camp that summer. A peeling Camp Leduc sticker is still stuck across the battery compartment.

Yuna plugs the camera into the wall beside his bed. After a few seconds, the screen flickers blue. The first picture is of the camp entrance, taken through the window of the dorms. The sign is blurred because Shane had moved the camera too soon.

The next one is sharper. A row of cabins beneath a bright blue sky. Then the dining hall. The rink. A group of boys standing beside the lake, all of them squinting into the sun.

“There’s you,” she says. Shane is near the edge of the photograph with his arms folded, separated from the others by half a step.

“I look stupid.”

“You look handsome.”

She moves to the next image. A blurry close-up of Mathieu Gagnon, his mouth open and both middle fingers raised toward the camera. Yuna’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh, I never liked this kid,” She blurts out.

“Mom!” Shane gasps, giggles escaping him.

“What? I didn’t.”

Another picture shows three boys wrestling on a cabin floor. Then a plate of eggs, toast and fruit. She keeps scrolling. The lake at sunrise. The weight room. A scoreboard. A moth trapped inside the cabin bathroom. Miller behind Shane, one hand resting on his shoulder while the camp director presents him with a certificate.

“You never showed me this.”

“I forgot.”

She studies the picture longer than necessary. Shane remembers Miller pulling him closer just before it was taken. Stand up straight, Hollander. You earned this. Shane had been proud for the rest of the day.

Then she presses the arrow once more. Coach Miller is asleep in a bed. He is lying partly on his stomach, his face turned toward the camera. The sheet has twisted low around his waist. He is not wearing a shirt. The room is dark except for the yellow light spilling from the bathroom. On the chair beside the bed is Shane’s gray camp sweatshirt. The timestamp glows in the bottom corner.

2:14 a.m.

Shane’s heart gives one violent thump. Oh.

His mother goes quiet. She does not move to the next photograph.

“Oh,” she says.

Shane snatches the camera away. “That’s nothing.”

“What is it?”

“A bunch of us were watching a movie in his room,” Shane panics.

“What movie?” Yuna looks at the screen again.

Shane remembers the television being on, Miller lowering the volume because the rooms beside his belonged to other staff. His laugh when Shane admitted he’d never seen the movie before. He cannot remember the title.

“I don’t know. Something old,” Shane stutters helplessly.

“Who else was there?” Yuna looks completely sober now.

“Uh… Mathieu. Josh.” Shane struggles to think of another name. “Some other guys… You’re making it sound weird.”

Nothing had happened that Shane could name as something. Miller had let them watch a movie. The other boys had gone back to their cabins. Shane had stayed because Miller asked him to help clean up, and then because it was late, Miller told him there was no point sneaking through camp after curfew when there was plenty of room.

“Did the other boys leave?” Yuna’s voice softens.

“No,” Shane lies, “We stayed to clean up before leaving. That’s all. He wasn’t some creep,” Shane says. “I took the picture because he fell asleep during the movie. It was funny.”

When she speaks again, her voice is gentle. “Sweetheart, I’m not angry with you.”

“You don’t believe me!” Shane gets to his feet.

He pulls away before she can see the tears gathering in his eyes. He’s not going to cry over this. There’s nothing to cry about.

“Listen to me.” Yuna takes his hand. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart.”

“Nothing happened.”

Yuna nods. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” She tugs gently on his hand until he sits beside her again, putting the camera facedown on the nightstand and pulling the old blanket around them. “I’m sorry I made it weird. I trust you.” she whispers, stroking his hair.

***

December 2010, Montreal

Connors should have vanished down the corridor with the rest of the team, swept toward the dressing room by the pregame rush. But he is waiting outside the Bell Centre’s conference room when Shane emerges. He stands with his shoulders against the wall and his arms folded. The moment he sees Shane, he pushes away.

“Stop avoiding me.” He falls into step beside Shane.

 “We’ve got warm-ups.” Shane continues his beeline toward the locker room at the end of the corridor.

“Yeah, well, too fucking bad. They can wait.” Connors lowers his voice as a pair of arena employees pass them. “Christ, Hollander, I’m getting real tired of chasing you around all day. Every time I come near you, you suddenly have somewhere else to be.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a difficult morning.”

Connors catches him by the arm roughly. Shane jerks backward, nearly wrenching himself free, but Connors has already turned him toward a narrow door across the hall.

“Two minutes,” Connors says quietly. “Then you can go.”

“Get the fuck off me.”

“Then stop making me drag you.”

“I said let go.”

Connors only tightens his grip and shoves the staff’s bathroom door open, propelling Shane across the threshold. The door swings shut behind them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane demands.

“What the hell am I doing?” Connors checks beneath the stalls before turning back to him. He lowers his voice. “I’m trying to have one conversation without half the team listening through the walls. I’m doing you a favor.”

Connors plants himself in front of the door. “You’re not playing tonight.”

“Okay?”

“I’m serious. You looked me in the eyes and told me you were good you manipulative little shit.”

“I am. We went over this,” Shane says.

“Clearly the fuck not. You nearly went down while loading the bus.”

“I just stumbled, it was icy. You dragged me in here over nothing.” Shane lets out a laugh of disbelief. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re imagining shit.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know what I saw.” Connors’ expression changes from anger to concern. “I’m giving you a chance to tell Coach yourself.”

“Tell him what? That I lost my footing in a frozen parking lot?”

“That you’ve been lying ever since you cracked your head against the ice.”

“Keep your voice down,” Shane hisses. “Fuck this. We’re not doing this now. I gotta get dressed.” He turns toward the door.

“We’re not done.”

Connors moves in front of him. Shane tries to shoulder past, but Connors shoves him back. Shane’s hand strikes the edge of the sink, his fingers closing around it tightly.

“You’ll still have your spot when you come back recovered,” Connors insists, stepping closer.

“Cole said most guys are fully recovered within three weeks,” Shane says. “Three. I did every stupid little exercise they gave me for nine. I did everything right.”

He hears how close his voice is to breaking, but he cannot pull it back.

“What if I take two more months and nothing changes?” Shane continues. “What if I sit out the rest of the season and I still get headaches? What if the lights still bother me next year? How long am I supposed to wait before everybody admits this might be as good as it gets?”

“You don’t know that. Shane-”

“I can still anticipate plays. I can still read the ice. I can score goals.” Shane points toward the corridor, toward the rink waiting beyond it. “That’s what matters.”

“It isn’t the only thing that matters.”

“It is to me.” Shane moves toward the door again.

Connors swears and catches the front of Shane’s shirt, hauling him backward. The fabric tears between them. Buttons strike the tile in quick taps.

“Let me go!” Shane twists violently. His shirt falls open to his belt, one side dragged halfway down his shoulder inside Connors’s fist.

“Stop trying to leave!”

Connors wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him away from the door. Shane drives his elbow backward and catches Connors beneath the ribs.

“Motherfucker.” Connors folds around the blow but does not release him. “Stop fighting me!”

Shane holds his breath.

Easy, Shane. Stop squirming.

“Don’t-” The word tears out of him. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

He claws at Connors’s arm with sudden desperation. Five years vanish, and Shane is fourteen everywhere Connors touches him.

Shh. You’re okay.

He plants one hand against the wall and tries to tear himself free.

“Shane, stop. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Don’t make this difficult. I’m not hurting you, right?

The floor beneath his boots seems to tilt sharply to the left, then back again. His weight goes slack a second before they fall. His back hits the tile first. Connors lands over him, one hand catching the back of Shane’s head before it can strike the floor, taking the full impact against his knuckles.

Shane shoves at Connors’s chest, scrambling blindly for space, but Connors catches his wrists before Shane can strike him again and forces them down beside his head.

“Stop,” Connors pants. “Just stop for one goddamn second.”

“Get off me.”

Shane bucks beneath him. The movement pulls his torn shirt farther apart, the fabric sliding from his shoulders and spreading across the floor, leaving his chest and stomach exposed beneath the other man.

“Not until you calm down.” Connors shifts his weight to keep Shane from throwing them both into the sinks, one knee planted beside his hip and the other braced between his thighs.

The door handle turns and both men fall still. Neither has time to move before the door swings inward. Ilya stands on the other side, taking in the scene.

“Well,” Ilya says. “This is one hell of a team-building exercise.”

Connors releases Shane instantly, pushing himself upright.

Shane shoves him away and scrambles backward. His shoulder strikes the cabinet beneath the sink hard enough to rattle the doors. He drags one side of his shirt across his chest as he heaves, but there are barely any buttons left to hold it closed.

“Roz-” Connors begins.

“No, no.” Ilya steps inside and carefully closes the door behind him. The lock clicks beneath his thumb. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

He leans back against the door, blocking the only exit.

“By all means,” he continues. “Get back down there. Continue dry-humping him on the bathroom floor. Seems like you two were really working through some shit.”  

“It ain’t what it looks like,” Connors says, climbing to his feet.

“We weren’t doing anything like that.” Shane pulls himself upright using the sink. He holds the porcelain until his fingers stop slipping. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He fell trying to leave,” Connors says, his chest still rising heavily from the struggle.

Shane shoots him a glare, but Connors stares directly into Ilya’s eyes.

“He’s been hiding concussion symptoms for weeks.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Shane surges forward, unsure what he even intends to do now that the info is out.

Ilya catches him before he makes it three steps, grabbing the back of his neck and hauling him against his side.

“Easy there, Killer,” Ilya says, not allowing an inch of distance. “Save some of that aggression for the game, would you?”

“He shouldn’t be anywhere near the ice,” Connors says. “He’s getting headaches. Dizziness. His balance is fucked. Sometimes he can barely follow a conversation. I can keep going.”

“That true?” Ilya asks Shane, who’s straining against his grip.

Shane turns his face away. The silence answers for him.

Ilya whistles softly. He turns back toward Connors with a smile of disbelief. “And you figured the best way to diagnose him was playing doctor-hands-on, pants-off?”

“He was trying to leave after I told him he’s not playing tonight,” Connors says. He pushes away from the wall, regaining his composure. “Not in this condition.”

“And when did you become the final authority on what Hollander can and cannot do?”

“He made it my problem when he asked me to cover for him.”

“You’ve become awfully close, huh?” Ilya’s gaze remains fixed on Connors, but his fingers tighten against Shane’s neck until the pressure becomes painful. “Your concern is downright heartwarming.”

“This isn’t funny,” Connors snaps.

The amusement leaves Ilya’s face completely.

“No,” Ilya says. “It really fucking isn’t.”

He releases Shane without warning, Shane stumbles sideways. By the time he looks up, Ilya has crossed the narrow space separating him from Connors. Connors holds his ground, although his shoulders tense as Ilya stops directly in front of him.

“Let’s make sure I’ve got this right. I walk into a closed bathroom and find you on top of an injured, half-naked teenage boy,” Ilya speaks quietly now, forcing Connors to take in every word. “You had his wrists pinned beside his head. Your knee was between his legs. His shirt was torn open, and he was telling you to get the fuck off him.”

Connors’s face begins to drop as Ilya lists each detail.

“You know this isn’t what happened.”

“Do I?” Ilya tilts his head like he’s seriously considering the question.

“No,” Connors says. “No, this is sick. Nobody’s going to believe that. You know I wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?” Ilya’s voice stays conversational. “Come on, Buddy. You play hockey, so you know how this story goes. Rape’s a big no-no. Especially when the cameras catch you forcing some poor guy into a bathroom.”

“He didn’t give me a choice! There’s some fucking context,” Connors says, outraged.

“Then tell Coach. We both tell our stories. Maybe I tell them you refused to let him go. Maybe I tell them I had to break some fingers before I could pry you off him.”

He plants one hand against Connors’ chest and drives him backward.

“Or, you can keep your crispy little nose out of my business and wait for Hollander to fuck up all by himself. And if his brain is as scrambled as you say, that could happen any minute now.”

Connors looks past Ilya and directly at Shane, silently asking him to confirm what all three of them know.

“Oh, don’t look at him for help now.” Ilya presses Connors more firmly into the wall. “That ship has sailed, crashed into a reef and sunk to the bottom of the fucking ocean. Which one of us do you think he is going to back?”

“Tell him,” Connors says, offering Shane one last way out.

Connors had kept his secret for a week. He had watched Shane without embarrassing him, lied by omission to Coach, Cole, teammates, and given him chance after chance to tell the truth himself. Shane could end this right now.

“I told you to let me go,” Shane whispers. There had been a time when Shane would have chosen him.

Connors stares at Shane with disgust.

“Yeah,” he says. “You did.”

“See?” Ilya claps, the sound cracking through the bathroom. “We’re already telling the same story.”

“You don’t give a shit whether he gets better. Why are you doing this?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Ilya releases Connors with a firm clap on the shoulder. He smooths both hands over Connors’s shirtfront, flattening the fabric and erasing the wrinkles left by his grip. Then he reaches down and snaps Connors’ belt buckle open.

Connors jerks backward and knocks his hand away. “What the fuck?”

“Relax, just getting you camera-ready.” Ilya grabs the loose end of the belt and yanks it free from the buckle, leaving it hanging open against Connors’s trousers. He pats Connors firmly on the chest. “The devil’s in the details.”

Connors’ hands close into fists, he pushes away from the wall as soon as Ilya steps back. At the door, he stops beside Shane.

“I hope it’s worth whatever he takes from you.”

“Off you go.” Ilya reaches past Connors and opens the door.

“Fuck both of you.”

Connors leaves without another word. Ilya closes the door and locks it again. His hand lingers on the latch, then he turns toward Shane.

“Anybody besides Connors knows?” Ilya asks calmly.

Shane is standing beside the sink clutching the torn halves of his shirt together. His heart is still beating fast.

“No.” Shane shakes his head.

“Think you can play tonight,” Ilya asks, “or is the brain damage gonna make you skate into the wrong net?”

The words have no more weight than a joke about his backhand, but they still make Shane feel sick all over again.

“Yes,” Shane says quickly. “I can play. I’ve been managing it for a while. I know what sets it off. I know when to slow down. If you can keep that to yourself, I’ll figure out a way not to let it affect my game.”

“If I wanted you benched, you’d already be facedown on an exam table while the doc shined a flashlight into every hole God gave you.”

“Why help me?”

Ilya crosses the bathroom, and Shane gives ground without meaning to, one step and then another, until the edge of the sink presses into his spine.

“That is the arrangement. I do you the enormous favor of keeping that busted head of yours our little secret, and you keep your spot on the roster,” Ilya adds.

Shane forces himself to hold Ilya’s gaze. “And what do you get?”

“You.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means your no is worth just as much as Connors’ was.” Ilya’s eyes travel over Shane’s exposed chest before returning to his face. “I own your ass.”

“I’m not agreeing to that.”

“Kid, you just spent Connors’ life buying this favor. You don’t get to swallow half my deal and spit out the rest. You take the whole thing whether you can stomach it or not.”

“That isn’t a choice,” Shane whispers. He stares past him at the locked door.

“Sure it is. One option just sucks more.” Ilya leans closer. “That’s life, nothing’s free.”

Shane’s grip loosens around his shirt, the sides fall slightly apart. Ilya looks down, then he reaches between them. Shane goes rigid, but Ilya only gathers the edges of the fabric together. One button remains near Shane’s stomach. Ilya pushes it through the opposite hole with care, his knuckles brushing the bare skin beneath Shane’s navel.

“That’s my boy,” Ilya’s hand rises to Shane’s face, patting his cheek.

***

The moment Shane spots his father in the stands, relief rushes in. David has barely spoken to him since the concussion, each unanswered call and clipped message feeding the fear Shane has carried for weeks: that his father could not bear to look at him diminished, that whatever affection existed between them had always depended on Shane being a generational talent within the league.

But he came.

He is here, sitting among the Montreal crowd. He looks out of place beneath the blue-and-white banners, surrounded by people who once cheered for Shane. David has never been sentimental enough for apologies, never known how to say he missed someone, how to admit when he was wrong. Yuna used to say Shane inherited the emotionally constipated gene from his dad. This must be his father’s clumsy way of reaching back, a peace offering.

Throughout warm-up, Shane circles the ice and keeps glancing toward David’s seat. He waits for a nod, a lifted hand, any small acknowledgment that might bridge the distance between them. Nothing comes.

***

Comeau lowers himself across the faceoff circle, and beneath the arena lights. Shane sees for the first time what he left behind. He had seen photographs after the fight. Grainy screenshots. Comeau leaving the hospital with gauze taped across his face.

A pale scar hooks over Comeau’s cheekbone, puckered where the skin had split beneath Shane’s fist and been sewn shut again. His nose has healed crooked, the bridge veering sharply to the left.

“Take a good look,” Comeau says, lowering his voice as the linesman prepares to drop the puck. “Still pretty enough for you, Hollander?”

The puck drops, and Shane slips his stick beneath Comeau’s, cutting the draw cleanly backward to Carmichael. Carmichael carries it across the blue line and sends a shot knifing through the traffic in front of the net. The goaltender catches enough of it to turn it aside, but the rebound spills loose at the edge of the crease. Shane reaches it before Comeau can lock up his stick and snaps the puck toward the open mouth of the net. It strikes the post with a clang and kicks away into the corner.

Half an inch to the left, and it would have counted. A vendor passes along the row, David raises one hand and orders a beer.

***

David is already on his second beer. He does not usually drink. Not during games and certainly not while watching him play.

Shane chases the puck into the neutral zone, it splits into two black shapes sliding away from each other.

He commits to the wrong one. His stick slashes across empty ice several feet from the real puck. The Montreal defenseman nearest him hesitates, glancing toward the space Shane has attacked, expecting something to be there.

Ilya is over the boards before Shane has fully registered the mistake. He accelerates into open ice and collects the real puck cleanly before Montreal can take advantage.

Shane returns to the bench. He sits and searches the stands automatically. David raises the beer to his mouth.

***

Boston takes the lead early in the third. Ilya carries the puck through two Montreal defenders and scores from the left circle, snapping it beneath the crossbar before the goaltender can seal the angle. He barely celebrates. He turns toward the Boston bench and strikes one gloved fist against the crest of his jersey.

The other players leap over the boards to meet him, but Shane looks for his father.

David’s seat is empty. At first, Shane assumes he has gone to the bathroom or to buy another beer. The cupholder beside the seat still contains an abandoned plastic cup.

During the next stoppage, the seat remains empty. His father left. There are ten minutes remaining in the game. Shane keeps staring until the official blows the whistle and Carmichael knocks his stick against Shane’s shin to get his attention.

“Move,” Carmichael says.

***

When Shane steps outside, David is waiting beneath the overhang outside the emergency exit, shoulders powdered with snow and a beer hanging loosely from his hand.

“Dad...”

“I’ve been meaning to-” David begins. He stops to clear his throat, then sways drunkenly. The smell of alcohol reaches Shane when David leans closer to speak over the noise spilling from the arena. “Been trying to find a minute.”

People are still pushing through the doors, bundled against the cold. Arena employees steer equipment carts toward the loading area while reporters linger near the team entrance, hoping to catch one last player before the buses leave.

Ilya must still be somewhere inside, surrounded by men eager to congratulate him on a successful game Shane had barely contributed to.

“Come on. Not here,” Shane mutters.

He catches David lightly by the elbow and guides him away from the exit before anyone recognizes him. David allows it, which unsettles Shane, usually his father hated being steered anywhere.

“I parked a few blocks over,” David says. “Couldn’t get anywhere near the building with all this shit.”

“You shouldn’t be driving.”

“Piss off, I’m fine.”

“You’re gonna wake up with a headache.”

He keeps his head lowered beneath the brim of his winter hat, hands buried in his coat pockets. People are too focused on escaping the cold to notice him. They follow the stream of spectators west for half a block, moving with the crowd toward Lucien-L’Allier station. David walks close beside him, occasionally brushing Shane’s shoulder before drifting away again. At the first intersection, he turns abruptly.

“This way.”

They leave the station traffic behind and cut southwest for a few blocks. The arena disappears behind them. Stores and restaurants give way to loading bays. The farther they walk, the quieter the city becomes.

The parking lot is behind a row of darkened wholesale businesses, separated from the street by a sagging chain-link fence. Half its lamps are dead. The remaining ones cast weak yellow light.

“You parked all the way back there?” Shane asks.

Only a handful of vehicles remain. David’s sedan sits near the far end of the lot, its roof furred with fresh snow. Beside it, a delivery truck has been parked parallel to the warehouse, leaving a corridor between its side and the brick wall.

David continues past the rear bumper and walks into the passage, sheltering himself from the wind. Snow has been pushed along the wall, covering the pavement with a thick layer of slush.

“I was going to call you today. Kept putting it off… Couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to say.” David says finally, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Of course I know.”

“I thought maybe we could get something to eat after the game. Talk like men.” David gestures toward the distant glow above the warehouses. “There’s that place your mother liked on Saint-Denis. The little Japanese place.”

Of all the things he had imagined breaking nine weeks of silence, none had been so painfully ordinary. If David had asked him this two months ago, Shane would've been in the passenger seat already.

“You came here to have dinner?” Shane asks.

“Your mother wouldn’t have wanted either of us alone tonight.” David takes another drink from the nearly empty bottle. “You could come home for one goddamn night. The two of us oughta be together.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Course you don’t.” David lets out a bitter laugh. “You always gotta make everything difficult.”

When he looks back at Shane, the brief crack in his defenses is gone. Shane’s fragile hope of reconciliation collapses.

“Sat through that whole sorry excuse for a game, thinking maybe afterward you’d give me five minutes,” David huffs.

“You came here to talk to me,” Shane says warily. “Or you came here to tell me how badly I played?”

“I came because it’s the anniversary of your mother’s death. God if she knew you threw everything away in less than a year.” David’s voice rises over the distant traffic. “How the hell did we get here?”

Shane looks toward the opening between the truck and the edge of the building, he briefly considers walking away.

“All this for what?” David demands. “You’re trying to prove some kinda point? Is that it?” David lets out a bitter laugh.

“And what point would that be?”

“That I ruined everything. That I couldn’t protect you.” David’s voice cracks violently on the last word. “I know you still blame me for it. You think I haven’t gone over it every night of my life?”

Shane’s hands close into fists at his sides.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know.”

“No.” Shane shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t.”

“Don’t do that.” David points the bottle at him. “Don’t stand there and make me spell it out like you haven’t spent the last five years making damn sure I know. You shut me out, like I-” David’s voice catches, his mouth twists. “Like I handed you over to that son of a bitch myself.”

The time seems to stop.

“You knew.” Shane’s hands strike David’s chest, shoving him backward. The older man stumbles half a step, unsteady on his feet. “You fucking knew.”

His father’s known long enough to watch Shane retreat into silence and fury without once asking why.

“What did you want me to do?” David snaps. “Drag every filthy detail outta you? Sit you down and make you say it while your mama was working herself into a state and I was trying to keep this family together?”

“I don’t know!”

“Maybe I didn’t handle everything perfectly, but I was doing everything I could to make sure you had a future, keep you moving forward,” David says. “One day you’ll understand. Every choice is gonna be the wrong one. Every goddamn choice. And you’re still gonna have to make it.”

“I was a kid and I blamed myself for what happened,” Shane says. His voice shakes despite his effort to steady it. “I needed you.”

David’s expression hardens, sudden anger covering the shame.

“Well, you’re not a kid anymore, you’ve got to grow up, Shane! For God’s sake. You’ve been tearing your own life apart just to make me stand there and watch it happen.”

“Mom would’ve helped me.”

“You don’t get to use your mother against me, not tonight,” David’s voice rises. “You don’t know what your mother put herself through worrying about you.”

“She wanted me to get help, didn’t she?”

“I said shut up,” David shouts.

*

Shane is half-asleep in the back seat of his father’s car. The heater blows hot against his shoes, but the glass beside his face radiates winter. Each time the car passes beneath a streetlight, pale orange light travels across his closed eyelids and disappears. The wipers scrape across the windshield, pushing wet snow aside before it gathers again. The Christmas party at his aunt had ended late and his mom had drunk more wine than she should’ve. His parents’ voices move in and out of his sleep.

“You saw one photograph,” David said. “That doesn’t mean anything”

“I’m not saying I know what happened, but he lies every time I ask him about it,” Yuna said.

“Because you’re making him uncomfortable.”

“I knew there was something wrong when he came home.” Yuna’s voice trembles.

“Watch what you’re suggesting,” David lowered his voice. “You’re not thinking clearly, you can’t start throwing accusations over this.”

“I want to call them.”

“You don’t get to decide this by yourself.”

“Watch the road!”

White light floods the windshield. His mother screams. The car spins, the roof comes down and the windows explode. Then everything stops moving. Shane hangs sideways against the seat belt, blood running warm into his eye. Snow falls through the broken windshield and melts against his face.

*

Shane sees David’s shoulder move and flinches into a crouch. Glass explodes against the brick wall behind him, spraying the pavement with glittering shards. Beer runs down the bricks in amber streams.

Then he slowly straightens, something warm slips down his cheek. He touches it with two fingers and draws them back red. A shard has carved a line beneath his cheekbone.

At his feet, the broken pieces glitter in the snow like the remains of a windshield.

*

Shane opens his eyes and sees his mother leaning against the window. Her head rests on the crushed passenger door, cheek pressed to the glass. Snow drifts through the place where the windshield used to be and catches in the strands of her hair. She looks asleep.

Then the dome light flickers on.

The right side of her face is gone. Her cheek collapsed inward beneath the eye, the skin split from the corner of her mouth to her temple. One eye forced partly from its socket, staring down toward her lap while a red cord of tissue holds it in place.

Her jaw hangs crooked, moving as the car settles against the tree. The metal has punched through the footwell and driven her knees upward, compressing her into herself.

Her hand lies between the seats. It is close enough for Shane to touch. He reaches for it.

“Mom,” Shane whispers.

She makes a bubbling noise, her remaining eye finds him through the gap between the seats.

*

Shane lunges without thinking. His fist knots in the front of David’s coat and hurls him backward into the truck, hard enough to make the metal groan. David’s hands rise by reflex, first to fend him off, then higher, closing around Shane’s throat.

Somewhere beneath the panic, Shane remembers when his hand had been small enough to disappear inside his father’s.

His grip tears loose from David’s coat, his hands scrambling for his father’s wrist instead. David bears down harder, drunk past the point of knowing his own strength.

“You think you’re the only one who lost something?” David yells.

He spins them around, pinning Shane against the truck. David’s thumb burrows beneath his jaw while the rest of his fingers cinch around the side of his neck, pressing flesh into cartilage.

Shane tries to answer, but the pressure reduces his voice to a wet click. His nails drag helplessly across David’s knuckles, finding nothing to loosen.

“I gave you everything,” David says. Spit catches at the corner of his mouth. “Everything I had.”

Shane’s boots churn through the slush. Mud and snow collapse beneath his heels every time he tries to brace. He searches blindly for enough purchase to drive a knee into David’s stomach, but his father crowds into the space between them and crushes him flat against the truck.

His vision darkens, black sparks pulse with the frantic beat of his heart.

Then David is simply gone.

A hand catches the back of his coat and rips him away violently. His boots skid through the snow before his shoulder slams against the brick wall.

Shane folds over, coughing into his sleeve, the tender skin beneath his jaw throbbing in the exact shape of David’s hand. He catches himself against the truck, and through the bright blur of tears, watches Ilya drive David face-first into the wall. He must have seen Shane leave.

“That’s twice in one day, Hollander,” Ilya says, wrenching David’s arm behind his back. “Starting to think you’re the problem.”

“Get off me,” David growls, smearing blood from his nose across the brick. “This is between me and my son”

He jerks backward, but Ilya slams him into the wall again, harder.

“This is gonna look terrible in the family Christmas newsletter.”

“Ilya,” Shane rasps weakly. His voice barely carries. He forces himself upright, one hand still pressed to his throat. “Let him go.”

He takes cautious steps forward, dragging his feet through broken glass, shards cracking beneath his shoes.

“Let him go,” Shane repeats, swallowing painfully. His hand reaches out and catches Ilya’s sleeve. “He’s done.”

“Come again? Maybe getting your windpipe crushed screwed with your head. You want me to give him another turn?”

“He lost his temper,” Shane mumbles. “He drank too much. Just let him go, I’ll take him home.”

Even now, a part of him can already imagine David tomorrow: sober, horrified, unable to look at the bruises he made.

“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” Ilya’s eyebrows rise theatrically, he releases David’s arm. “God, look at me, jumping to conclusions. My mistake.”

Before Shane can exhale, Ilya seizes David by the shoulder and turns him around. David staggers forward, one hand flying toward the wall to catch himself. Ilya stays close, his other fist gathering the front of David’s coat and holding him upright directly in front of Shane.

Then Ilya moves behind him, his heavy hands on Shane’s shoulders. “There, your turn, Junior. Make Daddy proud.”

“What?” The relief Shane felt dies instantly.

“He wanted to fight.” Ilya’s breath warms the shell of Shane’s ear. “So give the man what he wants.”

Shane wants to say no. What’s wrong with Ilya, what could possibly be happening inside his mind to make him think Shane is capable of this. He wants to scream that David is the only family he has left, the last living piece of his mother and the life they once had in Ottawa.

“No. He’s my father.” Shane tries to step away, but Ilya keeps him in place.

“That is a powerful word. Lets people get away with all kinds of shit.” Ilya’s hands squeeze Shane’s shoulders. “But this is the part where you keep your end of the deal.”

David is still breathing hard. Melted snow darkens his hair at the temples. His coat hangs crooked from where Ilya twisted it.

“Go home, Dad,” Shane says.

“Ah-ah.” Ilya releases one of Shane’s shoulders long enough to grab David when he tries to step away. He jerks him back into place “Nobody’s leaving until the kid takes a swing. We’re working on boundaries.”

In front of them, David’s own eyes widen in understanding and he lunges forward. “You stay the fuck out of this.” David’s face reddens.

He swings at Ilya, a wide drunken punch aimed at his mouth. Ilya shifts back, the fist misses him by inches.

“Be quiet,” Ilya orders. “We’ve all seen what you bring to the table.”

Ilya lands one short punch in David's stomach, his fist disappearing into David’s abdomen. David folds in half, knees striking the wet pavement. Ilya drags David through the mud until he is kneeling in front of Shane again.

“Stay,” Ilya tells him. “Unless you want to explain to the cops why you had your hands around his throat.”

He moves behind Shane again.

“I am offering you the family discount here, kid,” Ilya murmurs. “You do it, or I do it?”

It’s not a bluff.

Ilya closes a hand around Shane’s right wrist and lifts the trembling limb between them. Then, he turns Shane’s palm inward patiently, folding Shane’s fingers down one by one, shaping the hand into a weapon. His hand immediately goes slack, resisting the shape Ilya is forcing it to take.

“Thumb outside.” He closes his own hand around Shane’s, compressing it until the knuckles push sharply beneath the skin. “Unless you want to break it.”

It feels ceremonial, Ilya passing down the only lesson his own father ever taught him: freedom begins when the son finally hits back. Now he presses that inheritance into Shane’s hand. But what kind of freedom is that, when all Shane is doing is slipping from his father’s grip into Ilya’s?

Shane’s fist remains suspended between them, held there by Ilya’s hand.

One day you’ll understand.

Every choice is gonna be the wrong one.

“Put your hand down, Shane.” David’s voice is rough with pain. “Don’t you dare.”

Every goddamn choice.

And you’re still gonna have to make it.

“You want to blame me for everything? Fine.” David looks directly into Shane’s eyes. “But don’t stand there pretending this is what your mother would’ve wanted for you. She’d be ashamed of you.”

When Ilya lets go, the fist keeps its shape. David is still in front of him, but Shane can neither see nor hear him. He’s inside the wreck again, staring at his mother’s body. His hand holding hers in her last moment. His voice comes so flat and distant that it hardly sounds like his own.

“She's not here.”

Then he punches him.

He had fantasized about hitting his father a hundred times before. But the real thing doesn’t make him feel any better. He wanted an apology, his mother alive and David telling him none of it had been his fault. That his father should have torn the world apart before allowing Shane to carry it alone.

Shane draws back his fist again.

David sees the hesitation and surges to his feet. His shoulder catches Shane beneath the ribs and drives him backward before Shane can hit him again. The side of the truck caves inward with a metallic crack. Shane swings blindly over his father’s shoulder, making contact half of the time.

David’s fist strikes his mouth. Shane tastes metal as his upper lip folds against his teeth, skin tearing wetly along the inside. He hooks his fingers inside David’s collar and jerks downward while driving his knee up. It lands deep in David’s groin. David yelps, his forearm slips from Shane’s throat. Shane plants both hands against David’s chest and shoves with everything he has left.

David stumbles backward, arms pinwheeling. He goes down heavily into the dirty bank of snow along the wall. Shane pushes away from the truck and kicks David in the stomach. Shane draws his foot back again, but David catches his ankle with both hands and yanks until Shane falls beside him.

David crawls over him, hands reaching for his face. Shane jams his forearm between them. Fingernails sink into the cut on Shane’s cheek tearing the skin open farther before dragging across his neck, leaving four red trails behind. Shane cries out, blood pours warmly, blurring his left eye red.

They resemble nothing more than two drunks wrestling behind a warehouse. David raises his fist, Shane cannot tell which is real.

“Hollander,” Ilya calls sharply. “Eyes open.”

Shane blinks hard and twists aside as the blow comes down. David’s knuckles miss his face and split against the asphalt beside his ear. David curses and recoils. They roll through the slush, Shane comes out on top, his knees on either side of David’s hips.

“I was a kid,” Shane shouts, driving his fist into David’s face. “I was a fucking kid!”

His knuckles split David’s eyebrow. David’s head snaps sideways. His boots scrape against the pavement, heels digging trenches.

David’s blood-slick fingers catch Shane by the hair, dragging his head downward to pull him close enough to head-butt him. Shane drives his elbow into David’s face. The point catches the bridge of his nose with a wet crack. David’s grip disappears.

Each blow drives his father deeper into the filthy snow.

He grabs David and drags him partly upright. Shane’s breath comes fast and ragged from exertion. Red saliva hangs in a string from his mouth.

He raises his fist again. Something locks around his torso from behind.

He is lifted so violently that one of his hands remains tangled in David’s coat until the fabric tears free between his fingers. He thrashes as Ilya drags him backward, boots kicking in the air before finding the pavement again. He reaches for his dad even as the distance opens.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ilya says. “Easy there. Bell’s rung. Fight’s fucking over.”

“Let go.” Shane squirms, trying to plant his feet. “I need to-”

“You need to stay the fuck where I put you.”

Shane twists hard enough to wrench his spine. Ilya’s arm only tightens around his middle, crushing the breath from him and dragging him flush against the front of his body.

David lies crooked beside the loading dock, one cheek pressed into the dirty crust of snow. Blood runs from his nose and disappears beneath his jaw. His chest still moves, but Shane cannot hear him breathing over the ragged sound coming out of his own mouth.

“Dad.”

Shane had wanted David to feel even a fraction of what he had felt. He can’t remember when that stopped being the point.

“I have to check him,” Shane says. “He could choke.”

“Then he’d better roll over. I’m not doing all the work tonight.”

Shane drives his elbow backward. Ilya twists Shane’s wrist across his chest and forces his hand flat against his own shoulder, trapping the arm there.

“Oh, no.” Irritation creeps in Ilya’s voice. “You do not get to take a swing at me because you’re having a rough night.”

His other hand closes over Shane’s jaw, forcing his head back against Ilya’s shoulder.

“Try that shit again,” Ilya says beside his ear, “and I will put you facedown in this nasty-ass snow beside him.”

David makes a small noise and Shane jerks in Ilya’s grip.

“Please,” Shane says.

“There’s the magic word.” Ilya’s thumb drags through the blood on Shane’s cheek, smearing it toward the corner of his mouth “Now, that was real pretty, kid, but you’re gonna have to tell me exactly what you’re asking for.”

“Please, help him.”

Ilya’s fingers press into both of Shane’s cheeks, turning his face until he has no choice but to look directly at the body in the snow.

“I’ll clean it up for you,” Ilya says. “But you’re gonna look at the mess you made.”

David has rolled partly onto his back. His face is swollen, and his mouth hangs open as he drags in shallow breaths. The sight makes Shane’s stomach clench.

“You fought back. That part was a thing of beauty,” Ilya murmurs. “Though knowing when to quit? Clearly not your strong suit. You got a little overenthusiastic. But hey, that’s what you’ve got me for.”

He releases Shane, the younger man stumbles forward and catches himself against the brick wall, his palms sliding over the frozen surface. He whips around toward David.

“Now,” Ilya says, stepping into his path. “You wait and keep your homicidal little hands where I can see them while I go check on Daddy.”

“I’m not gonna hit him again.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust a kid wearing half his father’s face not to finish the job.”

Shane looks down and sees that both hands are red. David’s blood has gathered beneath his fingernails and seeped into every crack in his skin. He feels nauseous again.

“Okay,” Shane whispers, eyes locked on his trembling hands. His back hits the brick.

Only then does Ilya cross to David.       

“There he is.” Ilya crouches next to David. He slides an arm beneath David’s shoulders and drags him upright against the truck’s rear wheel “Come on. Rise and shine.”

David groans and tries weakly to push him away.

“Good news,” Ilya says. “I can get you patched up somewhere no one asks why you tried to kill your kid and send you home to sleep it off. You can tell the guys at work you took a bad fall, got mugged, got into masochism. I don’t give a shit. Get creative.”

“I didn’t-” David coughs. “I didn’t try to kill anyone.

David braces one palm against the ground and tries to rise. Ilya plants a hand on his shoulder and presses him back down with almost no effort.

“Then I guess we’re shit out of explanations for how Shane ended up with your ugly handprints all over his neck.” Ilya nods toward Shane.

Four dark marks climb one side of Shane’s neck, aggravated by red scratches that vanish beneath his collar. For the first time since they stepped outside, David looks completely sober. Shane pulls his coat shut.

“Say ‘yes’ if you understand,” Ilya demands.

“Yes,” David mumbles, visibly pale.

“Fantastic.”

Ilya reaches inside David’s coat. David makes a weak attempt to stop him, but Ilya catches his wrist and pins it against the truck while searching the pockets with his free hand. He retrieves a set of keys.

“Up you get.” Ilya hooks one hand beneath David’s arm. “I’m taking all three of us for a ride.”

Proverbs 22:24–25 — Make no friendship with an angry man; and with a furious man thou shalt not go: Lest thou learn his ways, and get a snare to thy soul.

Chapter 5: Everybody Gets a Choice

Chapter Summary

After everything with his father falls apart, Shane makes the mistake of letting Ilya take care of him.

Chapter Notes

now that chapter 4 is done, i can finally give my little analysis of it:

ilya sees shane as a kind of inverted version of himself. he survived abuse from his dad by becoming the person everyone else feared, while shane survived by learning how to absorb pain. that’s why shane’s whole martyr complex genuinely horrifies him.
that’s basically why he forces shane to hit david. he’s pushing his own survival story onto him: i fought back and it freed me, so it’ll free you too. he can’t understand that shane doesn’t actually want revenge. he wants david to acknowledge what happened, apologize and tell him it wasn’t his fault. but ilya sees victimhood as the real problem, so his solution is to teach shane how to retaliate.

at the same time, ilya can only really handle caring about someone when he gets to be in charge of them. he lets the team haze shane because it’s happening under his supervision. that’s also why connors becomes such a threat to him. connors has private information about shane, and starts making decisions for him without involving ilya. he’s basically competing for a role ilya has already decided belongs to him. so he eliminates connors and makes it a debt for shane.

December 2005, Ottawa

Funeral lilies crowd the mantel and dining table, their white blooms obscuring family photographs and the Christmas cards Yuna arranged there only a week ago. Hands settle on Shane’s shoulders and squeeze his arms. Relatives he barely recognizes pull him into embraces, each one tells him how sorry they are.

One presses a hand against his cheek and says, “You take care of your dad now.”

David keeps one hand on Shane’s shoulder throughout the funeral reception. His grip tightens whenever someone approaches and loosens once they leave.

His aunt corners David beside the front door after most of the guests have left.

“Let Shane come home with us for a few days,” she says quietly. “You both need some time.”

David’s hand slides higher, closing around the back of Shane’s neck.

“My son stays with me.”

“If you think that’s what’s best for you,” she says, not exactly an agreement, but everyone grieves differently after all. She kisses Shane’s cheek and draws him into one last embrace. “Call me whenever you want, sweetheart. Day or night. I mean it.”

Shane promises he will, though they both know he probably won’t. She leaves with the final cluster of relatives.

Yuna’s mug sits by the sink. His aunt had reached for it while clearing dishes earlier. Shane told her not to touch it. A faint imprint of Yuna’s lipstick remains around the rim. Shane can see where the colour begins solidly and fades into the shape of her mouth.

“What do we do with this?” Shane picks up the mug by its handle, careful not to smudge the mark she left behind. “With all her stuff?”

Yuna’s coat still hangs by the door. Her shoes wait beside the mat.

“We keep some of it and store it somewhere. Throw out the rest. I can’t see her all around the house. I can’t do it.”

His father pulls at the knot of his tie. His fingers shake badly enough that he cannot loosen it. He tries again, dragging the knot tighter against his throat.

Shane steps closer. “Let me help.”

He slips a finger inside the knot and works it loose. David stands unusually still while Shane draws the tie from his collar. It is the striped one Yuna bought him for their anniversary. She had complained that David owned nothing appropriate for formal occasions and told him every grown man needed at least one decent tie.

Shane remembers her fastening it around David’s neck in the kitchen and pronouncing him respectable. David had looked down at the stripes, unimpressed.

Let’s not get carried away.

Yuna laughed and pulled him down by the tie to kiss him. Now David stares at it in Shane’s hands.

“Put it away,” he says coldly.

“Where?”

“Wherever, just put it away.”

Shane folds the tie carefully and places it on the small table beside the door. One end slips over the edge. Before he can catch it, the tie slides to the floor.

David bends to retrieve it. His fingers close around the fabric, but he does not straighten. One hand remains braced against the table. His head hangs between his shoulders, the striped tie clenched inside his fist.

“Dad?”

David presses the tie against his mouth. A strangled breath escapes him.

Shane has seen his father furious. He has watched him shout at referees, slam doors and drive home in silence after bad games. He has seen him exhausted, injured and frightened. He has seen blood on his face and glass caught in his clothes. He has never seen him cry.

At first, only one tear travels down the bruised side of David’s face. It catches against the swelling before falling from his jaw. Another follows. Then David’s face folds. He turns away from Shane and covers his eyes with one hand, but the movement comes too late. His shoulders jerk beneath his suit jacket. The sounds he makes are muffled, every breath forcing its way out.

“I don’t know how to do this, i don’t… i…” David repeats incoherent sentences, lost in his own world.

Shane doesn’t know what to say. He steps forward and puts both arms around his dad. David turns into the embrace and buries his face against Shane’s shoulder. His weight comes suddenly, almost knocking Shane backward. Pain flares beneath the bruise across Shane’s chest, but he tightens his arms instead of letting go.

Shane is the only thing holding his father together, the realization terrifies him. If David stops moving, Shane will have to move them both.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” David mumbles to no one in particular.

Eventually, David draws a trembling breath and pulls away. He wipes his face hard with the heel of his hand, then straightens his jacket, ashamed of what Shane has seen. Shane lowers his eyes, silently offering to pretend it never happened.

The bruising from the crash has turned one side of David’s face yellow and purple. A healing cut divides his eyebrow. Shane has injuries of his own hidden beneath his suit: stitches beneath his hair, the seat belt’s dark stripe across his chest and glass cuts scattered along one arm.

The tie still hangs from David’s fist in a death grip. Shane gently takes it from him, opens the drawer in the table beside the door and places it inside.

“What happens now?” he asks.

David rubs at his face and takes a shaky breath.

“You go back to school, I’ll look for some more work. You keep training. You don’t let this ruin you. One day, we’ll get things back to normal, but for now, the only way we get through this is if we keep moving.”

His father then crosses the space between them and takes Shane’s face in both hands, aligning their eyes.

“Listen to me. I’m still here.”

He pulls him forward. Shane’s forehead presses against his father’s shoulder. One hand returns to the back of his neck, holding him there. Shane grips the sides of David’s jacket.

“We’re going to be all right,” David says. “Your mother would have wanted us to keep going. So that’s what we’re going to do. It’s just you and me now, kid.”

Lamentations 3:27 — It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.

***

December 2010, Montreal

Cole must have thought he was finished for the night when the game against the Metros ended without injuries. When he opens the door, his shirt is untucked and his reading glasses hang from one hand.

“You’d better be bleeding, Rozanov.”

Ilya steps aside. “Good news. Everybody is.”

Shane stands several feet behind him with one hand braced against the wall. Dirty water drips from his coat and gathers beneath his shoes. Mud streaks his trousers up to the knees. His hair is plastered darkly across his forehead, blood covers both hands, and a drying trail runs from the corner of his mouth to his chin. A cut opens one cheek.

David’s face is almost unrecognizable. One eye has swollen nearly shut. His nose sits crooked above a mouth split in two places, blood soaking the front of his coat. He tries to straighten when Cole looks at him, but his legs fail to cooperate and he lists sideways.

“Little family disagreement,” Ilya explains. “Feelings got expressed.”

Whatever sleep remains in Cole’s face disappears. His eyes move between them once, quickly. He takes in David’s crushed nose and split eyebrow, the blood across Shane’s knuckles, the open wound on his cheek. Then he sees Shane’s neck and his attention stops there.

“Shane, I need to examine your throat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Cole then turns to Ilya and gestures to David. “Put the other man on that bench. Keep him upright.”

Ilya drags David toward the bench across the corridor. David tries to wrench his arm free, but the attempt ends with his knees buckling. Ilya lowers him onto the seat with almost insulting care and props him against the wall.

“There. Comfortable?” Ilya pats David’s uninjured cheek. “Wonderful.”

“Come inside.” Cole steps back, holding the door open for Shane.

Shane does not move. His hand stays planted against the wall, grounding him while everything else feels disconnected from him.

“Shane.” Cole’s voice hardens. “Now.”

Ilya returns and closes a hand around Shane’s upper arm.

“I heard him,” Shane mutters.

“Then move.”

Ilya guides him across the threshold and onto the treatment table. Shane sits wherever he is placed.

The Raiders reserve an additional hotel room for Cole whenever the team travels. The beds have been pushed against opposite walls to make space for two portable treatment tables, medical cases and coolers of ice. Rolls of tape, gauze and sterile packaging cover the desk.

“Ilya, wait outside.” Cole draws one glove over his wrist with a sharp snap. “There’s only so much I can do from a hotel room. Both of them may need a hospital, but I need to see them individually before I make that decision.”

Ilya looks at Shane. The glance is brief, but Shane understands the question hidden inside it: Are you going to say something stupid?

“I’ll be right outside,” Ilya says. Then he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

Cole crosses the room and engages the lock.

“Nobody comes through that door without your permission,” he says. “Not Rozanov. Not the man in the hall. Nobody.”

Cole pulls a stool in front of the treatment table and sits, placing himself below Shane’s eye level.

“What happened?” he asks while examining Shane’s neck gently. “You can tell me. I won’t repeat anything without your permission unless I believe someone’s life is in immediate danger.”

“I got in a fight with...”

My dad.

“...Someone,” he finishes.

Cole asks him dozens of questions, takes his vitals, cleans his wounds and performs various tests on Shane. Shane follows the light across Cole’s face during the familiar neurological tests. He has rehearsed them often enough over the past nine weeks that his answers come automatically. Cole insists that Shane gets checked out at the hospital, but Shane refuses each time.

“If your breathing changes, your voice becomes hoarse, the swelling increases, or swallowing gets painful, you call an ambulance. Not me. An ambulance. The same goes for confusion, weakness, vomiting or a sudden severe headache. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You cannot be alone tonight,” Cole continues. “I want somebody with you for at least the next twenty-four hours. Is there anyone else you want me to call?”

Connors’s name surfaces first. Shane remembers the staff bathroom beneath the arena. Connors waiting for him to admit that his symptoms had never stopped. The concern in his face, knowing that Shane would keep lying no matter how gently he was asked.

Then he remembers helping Ilya threaten him into silence.

“No.”

“A friend? Another teammate? Someone from home?”

“There’s nobody.” Shane corrects it before Cole can react. “Nobody I want called.”

“I need to ask you something before I let you leave this room.” Cole finishes wrapping gauze around Shane’s worst knuckles. He secures the end with tape, then remains crouched in front of him. “You don’t have to explain. I’m not asking you to name anyone. Do you feel safe going back to your room tonight?”

His father is in no condition to attack him again. But does he feel safe with Ilya?

No.

Not after Ilya wrapped a hand around his fist and made him strike David like it was a rite of passage. Not after he threatened to beat David himself if Shane refused. Not after watching Shane lose control with something close to pride, allowing the violence to continue until the precise moment he decided Shane had done enough.

Perhaps it had been justice in Ilya’s mind. Perhaps it had only been entertainment.

“Just tell me yes or no,” Cole says.

David’s anger had become unpredictable.

Connors might expose everything while trying to save him.

Ilya is the reason tonight became what it did. He is also the only person Shane trusts to keep the damage contained. He will keep David away. He will keep the police out of it. He will invent whatever lie is needed by morning and tell it so confidently that everyone else will feel stupid for doubting him.

“Yes.”

***

Ilya guides Shane back to their shared hotel room, the entire floor seems asleep at this hour.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Then he crouches beside his duffel and opens the front pocket. He removes a long plastic cable tie, threads it around the bar and its mounting bracket, and pulls. It locks with a series of sharp clicks. When he tests the handle, the door opens less than an inch before the bar catches.

“Why are you locking the door?” Shane asks warily.

“Privacy, kid.” Ilya gives the cable tie one final pull. “You’ve aired enough family business for one night. Nobody gets in unless I say so.”

Or out.

“The bar would’ve been enough to keep my dad out.”

“Aw, no. The bar’s for your dad. This?” Ilya gives the cable tie a tug. “This is for you. You’ve had enough unsupervised adventures for one night.”

Nothing has changed since they left for the arena. Ilya’s clothes remain scattered across one bed. Shane’s belongings sit neatly inside the drawers.

Shane stands near the door, staring at nothing. His fingertips jump against his thighs. Only then does he notice how badly his hands are shaking.

How long has he been trembling?

Perhaps since the loading bay. He had been too full of adrenaline to feel it then.

Shane’s wet clothes cling to his skin. Mud has dried stiffly along one side of his pants, while the other remains soaked from the slush. Each step makes his socks shift wetly inside his shoes. The cold has settled so deeply into his body that he just feels numb everywhere. Dirty water gathers beneath his boots and darkens the carpet when he sits on a chair to untie them.

He leans down and looks at the knot, unable to make sense of it.

It always gets worse late at night, once the day has exhausted whatever limited reserve his brain wakes with now. Usually, he can disguise the lapses by pretending to be distracted, keeping his hands moving until the missing instruction returns. Tonight, after the game and his father and the fight, he is too depleted even to manufacture an excuse.

He learned to tie and untie the laces of his skates at four when his dad used to take him to the arena. His movements grow faster and less precise. Panic makes him stupid in exactly the way he fears the concussion already has. Nineteen years old, and he cannot untie his own fucking shoe.

“Fuck.”

Ilya watches him fumble, his silence humiliates Shane more than a joke would have. Then Ilya moves toward him.

“Don’t,” Shane snaps. The knot blurs as his eyes begin to sting. “I can fucking do it.”

But Ilya crouches in front of him, and his hands close around the wet laces of Shane’s boot. Shane’s foot goes slack, he cannot bear to keep failing at this one simple task while Ilya watches.

Hours earlier, Ilya had made Shane perform this same task precisely to diminish him. Now Ilya lowers himself without embarrassment, secure in the knowledge that Shane is already far beneath him.

“There.” Ilya sets Shane’s boots away. “Miraculous.”

He folds Shane’s coat over the back of the desk chair. A phone falls from its pocket. It strikes the floor on one corner and lands faceup between them. Ilya retrieves it. A dark stain spreads beneath the shattered glass where Shane’s weight crushed it during the fight. Ilya presses the power button, and nothing happens.

“It is broken,” Ilya says. “Probably for the best right now. Your judgment’s not exactly blowing me away tonight.”

Ilya catches the bottom of Shane’s shirt. The wet fabric has adhered to his skin, cold and heavy with melted snow.

“Come on, kid. Wings in the air.”

Shane lifts his arms, wondering how his pride can possibly survive the night. Ilya pulls the shirt over his head, slowing only when it catches against the Steri-Strips on his cheek. The fight is beginning to show across Shane’s body, Ilya assesses the damage.

“Get up. Shower time, you’re getting David all over the floor.”

Ilya secures an arm around his upper body before steering him toward the bathroom. Shane’s feet drag over the carpet. Their reflection follows in the dark television screen: Ilya upright and solid, Shane fitted against his side like someone being escorted away from an accident.

Ilya turns on the shower. Water pounds against the tub, Steam slowly clouds the lower edge of the mirror.

When Shane finally looks at his reflection, he does not recognize the boy staring back. His hair is matted against his forehead. Blood remains along the edges of his jaw after Cole cleaned only enough skin to disinfect the wounds.

He barely registers Ilya moving until hands reach for the fastening of his trousers. Shane recoils. His back strikes the mirrored closet door hard enough to rattle it.

“Easy.” Ilya raises his hands. “Just helping you change, not popping your cherry. Your virtue is safe.”

There is enough amusement in his voice to make Shane’s face heat. Ilya hooks his fingers inside the waistband and draws the wet trousers over Shane’s hips. They cling stubbornly to his thighs. Ilya crouches and works them downward, first over Shane’s thighs and then his knees.

One of Shane’s hands settles on Ilya’s shoulder for balance. He steps out when Ilya taps each ankle. Only Shane’s underwear remains, soaked through and streaked with mud along one hip.

“Those too.”

“I can do the rest,” Shane whispers. “Leave.”

“Fantastic.” Ilya straightens. “Door stays open, I’m supervising.”

“What the hell does that mean? I don’t want you hovering over me while I shower. I can manage to be alone ten minutes without choking.”

“You had an opportunity downstairs to tell Cole you didn’t want to come with me.”

“That doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”

“It meant yes.” Ilya points toward the shower. “Now let me do my job and get naked.”

He has been naked around men since he was old enough to play organized hockey. Locker rooms provide no privacy. You strip without hesitation and never let your eyes linger anywhere.

But his teammates have never undressed him. They have never remained fully clothed while ordering him to strip.

“I’m not watching your ass, Hollander,” Ilya says. “I could lie if you’d find it flattering.”

Shane faces away before catching the waistband and stripping away the final wet fabric. He steps into the tub. Behind him, he hears footsteps retreat into the bedroom and the creak of the mattress.

Shane drags his shoulders down the tile until he reaches the bottom of the tub. He draws his legs toward his chest and rests his forehead against them. Water pours over the back of his head. It is only when salt reaches the split inside his lip that he recognizes the difference.

Cole has wrapped gauze over the worst of his knuckles, but red has already begun spreading through the white and the water loosens the bandage until it hangs from his hand. Shane catches one edge between his teeth and pulls until it unravels. His knuckles emerge swollen and split.

David’s blood has dried in the creases of his palms and beneath his fingernails. Shane scrubs at it until he’s not sure which belongs to whom. Droplets splash on the white porcelain before rushing down the drain.

***

Shane emerges from the bathroom wearing a clean Raiders shirt and grey sweatpants. The clothes had been folded on the counter when he stepped out of the shower. Ilya is sitting on the edge of the bed with his forearms braced against his thighs. Shane crosses the room and lowers himself onto the opposite bed.

“Did Cole release my dad?”

“Yeah, I sent Daddy home in a nice warm car.” Ilya spreads his hands. “He’ll live. Nose is fucked sideways. Cole says he’ll need a surgeon to put Humpty Dumpty back together, but otherwise? A-plus family reunion.”

His grin widens as he studies Shane.

“You really rearranged the family resemblance,” Ilya continues.

The joke reaches Shane a second late. Disgust follows close behind.

“Home where?” he asks.

“Ottawa.”

“You sent him all the way to Ottawa?”

“He wanted to go home. I wanted him out of my sight. For once, everybody got what they wanted.”

“And you just let him leave without letting me talk to him?”

“After the goodbye you gave him?” Ilya leans back on his palms. “Seemed redundant. I’m pretty fucking sure you got your point across.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing you’d want to hear.”

“Tell me.”

“No.” Ilya’s amusement vanishes. “Whatever touching little message you’re hoping for, he didn’t leave one.”

The numbness that carried Shane through Cole’s examination, into the elevator and beneath the shower disappears.

His father’s face rises behind his eyes. Not the ruined face from tonight, but the one Shane remembers from Yuna’s funeral. Yellow bruises from the crash. A healing cut through his eyebrow. Tears caught in his eyelashes as he held Shane by the back of the neck and promised they would be all right.

It’s just you and me now, kid.

The sentence had survived everything. His father’s anger. Shane’s failures. The years of silence surrounding his mother and everything she had been trying to uncover before she died. However bad things became, there had always been that promise underneath them. Until tonight.

“You made me beat my own father,” Shane mutters.

“Whoa, now, don’t give me all the credit. I gave you the first swing,” Ilya says. “Shit, blame me for the second if it helps you sleep. But everything after that came straight from the heart.”

“You enjoyed that shit,” Shane snaps, rising to his feet abruptly.

“Enjoyed it?” Ilya stands more slowly. There is no shame in his face. “I was proud. The look on his face when he realized he spent nineteen years building something he couldn’t control? Priceless.”

“And he could have died.”

“You gave it your best shot, but I stopped you from killing him, got both of you medical attention and kept your ass out of jail.” Ilya gives him a slow, unpleasant smile. “Trust me, with a face like yours in prison, they’d pass you around more than the Stanley Cup. So before you climb onto that moral high horse, remember I was the one person in the room doing what was right.”

You made the room, Shane wants to yell.

Something is wrong with Ilya. He can feed the worst part of Shane until it is full, then congratulate himself for knowing when to take the plate away.

“You’re sick, you know that?” Shane shoves a finger into Ilya’s chest. “He was my family. It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“It was yours.” Ilya grabs Shane by the jaw. He avoids the wounded cheek, but there is nothing gentle about his grip. His fingers force Shane’s face upward until their eyes meet. “I just gave you permission. And hoo-boy, did you take it. That’s what’s eating you alive, isn’t it? Not that I made you do it. That I didn’t even have to.”

He releases Shane, sending him back half a step. Shane rubs his jaw and looks toward the broken phone on the nightstand.

No apology or awkward dinner on Saint-Denis will repair this. Shane cannot unlearn that David knew about Miller. David cannot forget Shane above him in the snow, screaming that he had been a child. Even if they speak again, they can never go back to the way it was.

There will be no funeral for his father. David will keep breathing somewhere in Ottawa while Shane mourns him alone.

“Fuck you.” Shane strikes Ilya’s chest with the flat of his hand, leaving a red print on the white shirt.

Without warning, Shane thinks of his mother. The memory is not one he consciously preserved. Most of them have faded from neglect after five years spent refusing to picture her. The accident changed the order in which Yuna returns to him. Death comes first now. Always. Her body collapsed against the passenger door. Her hair obscuring part of her face. One arm hanging between the seats. He has to force himself past that image to find her alive.

Sometimes he manages it by looking in the mirror. He finds pieces of her there, her dark hair, her brown eyes, her kind smile. Most of all, he remembers her laughter.

The memory surfaces now: Yuna standing in the driveway while David washed the car, dressed in sandals and one of the flowery summer dresses she wore around the house. Shane must have been ten or eleven. David turned the hose on her without warning, the water splashing her legs. She shrieked and leapt backward. David laughed so hard he had to brace himself against the car. Yuna snatched the hose from him and chased him around the driveway with it while Shane shouted encouragement from the front steps, betraying one parent and then the other depending on who was winning. The hose fell between them, spraying wildly over the pavement while David held her against him, both of them drenched. He kissed the side of her face and she complained that he ruined her dress.

All three of them happy at once.

What would Yuna say if she could see them now? What would she say after seeing her son straddle her husband in the snow and hit him until the face beneath his fists barely looked like the man she had loved?

Would she still reach for him with his father’s blood drying between his knuckles, pull him against her chest and call him her baby? Or would she only see that the two people she had left behind had destroyed each other without her?

Shane touches his throat. The dark impressions of David’s fingers feel raised beneath his own.

“I can’t breathe-” The words emerge weakly.

Shane steps backward, then again. Yuna’s hand hangs between the seats. Her wedding ring reflects the flashing red light outside the car.

Shane drags in another breath, too shallow to reach his lungs. He tries again, faster. His fingers dig into his neck like he can pry open whatever is closing inside it.

“It’s swelling,” he gasps. “Something’s wrong.”

“You’re panicking. Slow it down,” Ilya says. “You’re breathing too fast.”

“No, I’m not getting any air.”

Ilya takes one step toward him.

Shane shoves him with both hands. The movement catches Ilya unprepared. He stumbles backward and strikes the edge of the bed hard enough to shift the mattress.

“Don’t touch me.” Shane’s voice breaks around the little air he has. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Ilya straightens slowly. “Hollander.”

“You don’t get to.” Shane backs toward the door. “Not after what you did!”

The shout empties his lungs. Shane tries to replace the air and cannot. His throat closes more tightly around the next breath. He claws at his collar and drags the fabric away from the bruises, then digs his nails into his neck again.

“Stop that,” Ilya says.

Shane swings when Ilya reaches for his wrist. Ilya traps his forearm against his chest, but Shane thrashes free before the grip can close. His elbow clips Ilya beneath the chin. Ilya’s teeth snap together audibly.

“Cheap fucking shot,” Ilya snarls.

One arm locks across Shane’s upper body from behind, pinning both elbows against his sides. Ilya’s other hand closes around his wrist and drags it away from his throat. Shane reacts violently.

He throws his head backward. Ilya moves aside before Shane’s skull can catch his face, but the struggle drives them both backward into the edge of the bed. Ilya’s knees strike the mattress first. Then he turns as they fall, dragging Shane down sideways in front of him.

Shane tries to roll away, but Ilya fits himself along his back and throws one leg over his calves, trapping them beneath his own. His arm remains locked around Shane’s upper body, holding both arms against his chest. Ilya’s body curves around his from shoulders to knees.

Shane bucks hard enough to make the headboard strike the wall. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“Keep that up,” Ilya says as Shane makes the headboard hammer against the wall. “Whole floor’s gonna think we’re doing something more fun than breathing exercises.”

Shane bucks again. The headboard hammers the wall. He can hear himself making awful, high sounds with every breath he takes.

He is going to die in this room with Ilya holding him down.

“I can’t breathe,” Shane says again, and this time it emerges as a plea. “Ilya, I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can. I’m nowhere near your throat,” Ilya says through gritted teeth. “My arm is lower. Feel it. I’m not choking you.”

Shane does not care where the arm is. He only knows that he is trapped again. David’s forearm across his throat. Ilya’s hands making a fist out of his. His father’s body beneath him.

“Get off.” Shane’s voice collapses, he shakes his head frantically. “Please, get off me.”

“You’re breathing. I can feel you doing it. Now let it out,” Ilya orders.

Shane’s breath shudders from him and breaks into a sob before his lungs are empty.

“Out, Hollander. Empty your lungs.”

Shane feels the breath move through the body pressed against his back. Ilya exhales behind him, his chest sinks then stays still.

 “Come on, all the way out.”

*

The treadmill belt whines beneath Shane’s feet. Upstairs, the funeral lilies have soured in their vases. David stands beside the console, the bruises from the crash still yellow along one cheek. One finger rests above the button controlling the speed.

“Breathe properly,” he says. “Out. All the way. Then you take another.”

Shane’s legs are shaking, but David does not lower the speed.

“Keep moving, son.”

*

Keep your head down. Get up. Keep moving. Tonight, the memory of that voice only closes his throat. It’s Ilya’s command his lungs obey.

Out, Hollander.

Shane’s resistance weakens into trembling. His legs stop fighting beneath Ilya’s. His own heart still racing, but no longer trying to break through his ribs. Ilya’s hand moves lower, settling flat against Shane’s stomach, measuring each breath as it enters and leaves.

Ilya repeats the rhythm until Shane’s breathing settles.

In. Hold. Out.

“There you go,” Ilya whispers. His thumb moves across Shane’s abdomen.

Shane should tear himself free, crawl across the mattress and cut the cable tie. He should go straight back to Cole and tell him he lied. He should get as far away from Ilya as possible before this becomes something he can’t escape.

“He left,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s damp hair. “It’s just you and me now, kid.”

The last of Shane’s strength leaves him. Exhaustion drags him under while part of him is still trying to fight the man who severed the last fragile bond between him and David.

***

By morning, every visible trace of the fight has been buried. Fresh snow has covered the tire tracks, the footprints and David’s blood.

The cable tie remains looped around the security bar until Ilya is ready to leave. In the elevator, Ilya reaches over and draws Shane’s hood farther forward. He tugs one side, then the other, arranging the fabric until it shadows most of Shane’s face. It conceals the bruising around his throat, though nothing can fully hide his facial injuries.

“There, better,” Ilya says.

Shane lets his head fall back against the mirrored wall. Their reflections surround him: Shane pale and folded into his coat, Ilya beside him looking offensively rested. He can feel each separate place where his body hurts. Even standing upright requires a distant, continuous effort. His hands are the worst, his skin burns every time he washes them. He tries to put them inside his pockets, but Ilya catches his wrist.

“Oh, absolutely fucking not. Leave those out.”

“Why?”

“Because we did not go through all that trouble for you to hide the best part.”

We? Shane thinks of arguing but even that he is too tired for. Out of nowhere, Ilya reaches toward his throat and Shane recoils, but the narrow elevator leaves him nowhere to go.

“Look.” Ilya draws Shane’s hood back to expose the fingerprints above his collar, studying the dark bruises in the mirror. “What does this say?”

“That my father strangled me.”

“That’s what happened. I asked what it says.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you mean.”

Shane closes his eyes. The elevator continues its slow descent, each floor announced by an electronic chime. He is too tired to translate himself into whatever language Ilya has decided to teach him today. 

“It says somebody bigger got his hands on you and nearly put you down.” Ilya’s thumb passes over one of David’s fingerprints. “Most people won’t bother thinking past that.”

His hand falls away from Shane’s throat.

“They see this, they see a victim.” He releases Shane’s neck and raises his captured hand between them. “And this?”

Shane stares at his hand. He sees it as Ilya must: the wounds are proof of what he was capable of.

“That I hurt him back,” Shane answers.

“Ah.” Ilya turns Shane’s split knuckles toward the light like a jeweller displaying something precious. “We’re being modest. Say it right.”

Shane knows what answer Ilya wants. It’s all a lesson to Ilya, another unpleasant thing only he is willing to do because everyone else is too weak, sentimental or dishonest to do what’s necessary.

“That I hurt him worse,” Shane says.

Ilya’s expression settles into satisfaction. It feels good until Shane remembers what he did to earn it.

“Your neck tells them you can be hurt.” Ilya lowers their joined hands but does not release him. “Your hands tell them what it costs.”

The doors slide open onto the lobby, bringing with them the distant voices of their teammates. Ilya remains inside the elevator, his body between Shane and the exit. The doors begin to close again, but Ilya braces his other palm against one of them and forces it back.

“I can’t stand over your shoulder every second of the day,” Ilya continues. “So let them see the right thing, and nobody fucks with you.”

Ilya draws Shane’s collar back into place and steps aside.

Later, when Carmichael stops to ask what happened to Shane’s face, Ilya answers before Shane can open his mouth: Some drunk asshole was mad his team lost and took a swing at him. If you think Hollander looks rough, you should see the other guy. Kid made a real mess.

To which Carmichael answers, shaking his head: Montreal fans, man. Fucking animals.

***

Shane leaves his hands in plain sight on either side of his tray. The Raiders crowd into the hotel breakfast room before the flight home. Christmas music plays quietly through ceiling speakers.

“There he is. Fucking Romeo.” Dubek drops his tray across from him and Ilya.

He has a mug of chicory coffee in one hand and murder in his eyes. His hair is flattened on one side, sticking upright on the other, and the shadows beneath his eyes make him look sleep-deprived.

“Morning,” Ilya says, taking a leisurely sip from his own mug. “You look like warmed-over dog shit.”

“I wonder why.” Dubek drops into the chair opposite them and points an accusing fork across the table. “You owe me coffee, breakfast, and about four hours of my fucking life.”

Ilya presses one hand to his chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Whatever the hell you were doing to that girl last night.” Dubek jerks his fork toward the hall leading to the elevators. “Three in the fucking morning, Rozanov. If you’re gonna fuck somebody through the wall at that hour, put a damn pillow behind the headboard first.”

For one second, Shane does not understand. His mind catches on girl and stalls there. Ilya had been in the room all night. Shane would have noticed if somebody else came in. The door was locked. The cable tie… Then the pieces slide into place.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Of course this is what it sounded like. The headboard striking the wall. Ilya cursing when Shane kicked him. Shane gasping and pleading while Ilya wrestled him against the mattress. The bed frame had hammered the wall every time Shane tried to tear himself free. Anyone listening through a hotel wall would have found the simplest explanation available.

Ilya’s gaze slides toward him. Shane sees the precise moment he understands. Ilya’s grin turns vicious.

“What can I say?” He opens his hands. “She was enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic,” Dubek repeats flatly.

“Montreal girls.” Ilya shakes his head fondly. “They like to make a man work for it. Makes it so much sweeter when you finally get those legs pinned down.”

St-Simon abandons whatever story he had been telling the table beside them. Even players pretending to focus on breakfast have gone quiet.

“It sounded like you were throwing her around the room,” Dubek says. Their nearby teammates listen openly now, abandoning all pretense of separate conversations. “You gonna tell us what happened or keep jerking us around?”

“Oh, she put up a fight.” Ilya leans back comfortably, smirking at Shane over the rim of his coffee. “Fucked her so hard she started gasping for air.”

Heat floods Shane’s face. He lowers his head and concentrates on peeling the foil lid from his yogurt. Last night, he had been gasping exactly like that. He had thought he was dying. He had fought until his limbs gave out, then begged Ilya to release him.

I can’t breathe.

Ilya, I can’t.

Please, get off me.

St-Simon, who has been listening attentively, points toward Ilya’s forearm. “She do those?”

Ilya glances down. His cuff has ridden back, exposing four red scratches running from his wrist toward his elbow. Shane remembers leaving them. His fingers hooked into Ilya’s arm, nails dragging downward while he searched for leverage.

“Clawed the shit out of me when she came,” Ilya says. He pushes his sleeve higher and rotates his arm, displaying the marks.

“Classy,” Shane mumbles.

He kicks Ilya under the table. Ilya barely reacts beyond a slight lift of his eyebrows.

“Junior’s restless.” He chuckles. “All this talk’s got him worked up.”

Shane sinks lower into his chair, pulling his hood forward until the edge shadows his eyes. His face feels hot enough to cook the untouched eggs in front of him.

Dubek looks toward him as though only now remembering Ilya had not been alone in the room before the imaginary woman supposedly arrived.

“Wait.” His fork lowers. “Hollander, you were in there?”

“The kid slept through it.” Ilya looks directly at Shane. “Didn’t you?”

Shane feels the attention around the table shift onto him. Across the room, Connors has stopped eating. He had been in the adjoining room with Dubek and he knows enough to recognize the truth.

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. “I slept through it.”

Ilya’s mouth shifts at one corner. He sees Connors looking and raises his coffee in a seemingly courteous salute. Connors ignores him, his eyes remain on Shane until Shane looks down.

“How the hell did he sleep through that?” Dubek demands. “I was in another room and it woke me up.”

“He sleeps like a baby.” Ilya shrugs. Beneath the table, the side of his shoe presses briefly against Shane’s.

“Next time,” Dubek turns to Ilya again. “Move the bed away from the wall. Stuff her panties in her mouth. I don’t care. Just don’t make the entire floor listen.”

“Sorry.” Ilya sounds entirely unrepentant. “Wasn’t thinking about your beauty sleep while I was balls-deep in pussy.”

“Yeah, we gathered that much.”

The conversation finally begins to break apart. By lunch, their teammates will have exaggerated her into something ridiculous. The lie is humiliating, but it concerns a woman who does not exist.

By tomorrow, the violence in this room will have become a joke about Ilya’s stamina. His father will disappear from the story entirely.

***

December 24, 2010, Montréal–Trudeau Airport

The airport is crowded with people trying to get home before Christmas. Families occupy entire rows of seats, coats and carry-ons arranged around sleeping children. Garlands loop around the check-in counters. An artificial tree stands beside the departures board, decorated with golden ornaments and gift boxes. Every few minutes, a flight changes gates or acquires another delay.

Shane keeps his head lowered and follows the team through security with his broken phone in his coat pocket. He keeps taking it out only to be disappointed when the device has not miraculously repaired itself since the last time he checked. David could have left one message or twenty. He might be furious. He might be sorry. Every possibility remains trapped somewhere Shane cannot reach.

“You know that thing is fucked, right?” Carmichael asks as he passes.

“Thanks.”

Carmichael raises both hands. “Just trying to save you the heartbreak.”

Some players will continue to Boston on the team’s flight. Others have separate tickets taking them directly to wherever their families live. For three days, the roster will scatter into ordinary lives Shane rarely has to think about. All around Shane, his teammates are expected somewhere. Carmichael’s wife is collecting him from the airport. Dubek promised his daughter they could open one present at midnight. St-Simon is flying to Quebec City.

Cliff has a connection to Chicago, where his family lives. He keeps checking the departures board and complaining that his mother will kill him if the snow makes him late.

Connors sits several seats away with his arms folded, staring through the windows. He grumbled something about being tired after breakfast and has mostly kept to himself since.

Just yesterday, Shane avoided him like the plague. Today Connors is returning the favour. Shane cannot blame him. Connors had tried to help. Shane repaid him by helping Ilya turn that concern into an accusation capable of destroying his career. At breakfast, Shane proved he would help Ilya tell the next story too.

“What about you, Hollander?” Cliff asks. “Heading back to Ottawa?”

Until last night, Ottawa had been a possibility. Shane had imagined spending Christmas in Boston, but he had left the decision unfinished. If dinner with David went well, if Montreal somehow repaired what months without calling had not, then Shane might have followed him home.

Now Ottawa does not feel like a place Shane can enter.

There is no family waiting for him there. No girlfriend. No friends he maintained well enough to call after months of silence. Only the house where he grew up.

“Boston,” Shane says. “I’m staying home this year.”

“Alone?” Cliff asks.

“It’s three days. I’ll survive.” Shane redirects the conversation before Cliff can invite him somewhere out of pity. “What about you, Rozanov? Got plans?”

“Heading out to the house to see Svetlana.”

Shane remembers the name of Ilya’s wife. Curiosity led him to ask about her sometimes. His teammates knew surprisingly little. Svetlana attended the expected functions and disappeared again afterward. Ilya maintained a secluded house outside Boston for her, although he spent most nights at his penthouse near the arena. Shane has never understood why Ilya keeps a home with his wife inside it and chooses not to live there.

“You get her anything?” Cliff asks.

Ilya gives him a bored look. “She has my credit card. She wants something, she gets it. Every day is Christmas for her.”

“You know what I mean.” Cliff shifts his boarding pass between his hands. “Something personal. She’d probably like it if you picked something yourself. Showed her you give a shit.”

“Hm.” Ilya shrugs.

Cliff is friendly with everyone, including teammates’ wives and girlfriends. Still, Shane cannot remember him ever caring whether Carmichael chose his wife’s Christmas present personally.

A chime cuts through the terminal, followed by a woman’s voice in French. The English announcement follows a moment later: “Flight 612 to Chicago is now boarding passengers in Zones One and Two at Gate Twenty-Five.”

“Shit. That’s me.” Cliff checks his boarding pass, then the clock. “Okay, gotta go. See you, brother.”

Cliff hooks one arm around Ilya’s shoulders and pulls him into a rough half-embrace. Ilya’s hand closes briefly at the back of Cliff’s neck before Cliff slaps him twice between the shoulder blades and releases him.

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Ilya says.

“Yeah, you too.” Cliff turns to Shane. “Merry Christmas, Hollander. Try not to get into another fight before New Year’s.”

“No promises.” Shane smiles faintly.

Cliff raises one hand in a hurried goodbye and joins the passengers heading toward Gate Twenty-Five.

***

December 24, 2010, Boston-Logan airport

A black Range Rover emerges through the blowing snow and turns into the pickup lane. Ilya raises one hand, and the attendant behind the wheel steers toward the curb as if he has been summoned. He climbs out with the engine still running, shoulders hunched against the wind. Ilya gives him a folded bill without counting it. He opens the rear hatch and throws his duffel inside.

“Come on.”

“I’m getting a cab,” Shane says.

“You could.” Ilya takes Shane’s carry-on before Shane realizes he has reached for it. By the time Shane objects, the bag is already beside Ilya’s. The hatch closes with a heavy thud. “Or you could enjoy the deeply coveted privilege of riding with me.”

Behind them, the taxi line stretches beneath the overhang. Snow lashes sideways through the terminal lights, collecting on shoulders and luggage faster than people can brush it away. Horns sound farther down the lane as attendants wave cars forward and stranded passengers argue over whose cab arrived first.

By the time Shane decides refusing may still be worth the effort, Ilya is behind the wheel, drumming his fingers against it. He lowers the passenger window.

“Are you waiting for me to open the door?” he calls. “Because I can absolutely do that. Carry you over the threshold too, if you want the full newlywed experience.”

“My place isn’t on your way.”

“Everything is on my way. I have car.” Ilya leans across the console and pushes the passenger door open.

Shane hesitates for another few seconds before climbing into the passenger seat. He tells himself it is easier than calling a cab.

“Wake me when we get there,” he mutters.

Shane rests his temple against the cold window. He barely slept after the fight. What little unconsciousness he managed was less sleep than his body finally shutting itself off beneath Ilya’s arm. Now the vibration of the engine works through his bones. The heater blows against his feet while wet snow ticks against the windows.

His eyes close.

When he wakes, Boston is slipping away.

He realizes something is wrong when an unfamiliar highway unspools beyond the window. The exit toward his apartment is behind them. They should be moving toward the city, not watching its lights disappear into the storm.

How long has he been sleeping?

“You missed the exit,” he mumbles sleepily.

“I know where you live.”

Shane waits for Ilya to take the next exit and turn around. Ilya continues driving. Both hands rest loosely on the wheel. No map is open on his phone. No navigation system offers directions from the dashboard. He knows exactly where he is going.

“What are you doing? Turn around,” Shane demands. He straightens abruptly, wincing when the seat belt tightens against his sore ribs.

“Calm the fuck down. We’re having dinner at my place.” Ilya says it as if they settled this days ago. “You heard me tell Cliff I was going there, right?”

“You said you were going.”

“And now you are too. Surprise. Thought I’d do something nice for you after you did so good yesterday.”

Shane cannot tell whether Ilya means the game or what happened afterward. He suspects Ilya sees no meaningful difference.

“Besides, Cole said you shouldn’t be alone,” Ilya continues.

“He didn’t say I had to stay with you.”

“Stop pretending somebody is waiting for you.”

The road narrows between dense pines.

“Pull over. You can’t just take me wherever you want.”

“And yet.”

Ilya’s expression remains amused, which somehow makes Shane angrier. He reaches for the door handle. His fingers have barely closed around it when Ilya grabs his wrist.

“Are you stupid? “You planning to tuck and roll at sixty miles an hour?” Ilya’s fingers tighten. Pain travels through the swollen joints of Shane’s hand, bright enough to make his breath catch. “Jesus. Who knew I needed child locks for a grown-ass man?”

“I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Good. Because I’d hate to spend Christmas scraping you off the road.”

He continues driving one-handed, holding Shane’s wrist between them as the Range Rover pushes through accumulating snow.

“You try that again,” he says, “I will pull over, take off your belt, tie your hands with it and put you facedown in the back. Then you can spend the rest of the drive screaming into the carpet while I turn up the radio.”

Then he releases him. Shane cradles his wrist against his chest.

Ilya could do it.

Shane knows exactly what it feels like to fight Ilya now. He knows how quickly his arms can be pinned. Ilya could do it and Shane still couldn’t tell anyone. Every secret Ilya keeps for him becomes another secret Ilya can keep him with.

Ilya turns toward a pair of iron gates between fieldstone columns. There is no sign beside them and no house visible beyond, only a narrow drive disappearing into the trees. When the car goes in, Shane twists in his seat to watch both halves of the gate meet in the middle, cutting the property off from everything beyond it.

Nobody knows where he is.

The house emerges, strangely secluded. The engine cuts out.

“You can stay in the car if you want. I’ll even crack a window,” Ilya says.

He climbs out and retrieves both bags. He takes them up the porch steps, unlocks the door and leaves them just inside before returning. He opens the passenger door, and cold air floods the heated cabin, carrying a spray of snow across the seat. He stands in the opening, broad enough to block most of the view.

Behind him, Shane cannot see the road, the gate or the lights of another property. Boston is less than thirty miles away. It might as well be another country.

“Come on, kid.” Ilya rests one hand on top of the open door. “I’ll give you a choice.”

Snow sweeps across the drive, erasing the last visible marks left by the tires.

“You can walk,” Ilya says. “Stand at the end of the road and show a little ankle. Maybe someone takes pity on you. Of course, in this shit, you’ll lose the driveway before you find the gate and freeze your balls off.”

He nods toward the open front door.

“Or, and this is where the deal gets really good, you can come inside, endure a few hours of my company, and I take you home after dinner. Warm, full, balls still attached.”

“You swear?”

“What are we, twelve?” Ilya shakes his head with an annoyed sigh. “Fine. pinky promise. Happy?”

Eventually, Shane climbs out. He refuses to think of it as giving in. Let Ilya have the car, the driveway, dinner. None of those things matter. Inside there will be warmth and, somewhere, a telephone. He can call a cab once he has eaten.

He holds on to that as he follows Ilya toward the house, although nothing else today has ended how it was supposed to.

***

December 24, 2010, Dover

The heat begins working through Shane’s coat as soon as he crosses the threshold. A woman’s boots stand neatly beneath the entryway bench. The house is surprisingly welcoming. His penthouse in Boston had nothing personal in it. The evidence that Ilya has a life outside the team is more disturbing than an arsenal would’ve been. A woman sits reading beneath the warm light of a lamp. Shane recognizes her face from the last time he saw her at the arena. She is dressed too elegantly for someone spending Christmas Eve at home.

“There she is,” Ilya announces. “Hollander, my beautiful wife, Svetlana.”

“You didn’t tell me we were having company.” Surprise flashes through her expression before she schools her face. She sets the book on the end table and rises gracefully.

“Don’t mind the kid. He’s staying for dinner.” Ilya rests one hand on Shane’s shoulder as he says it, then crosses to his wife.

Before his fingers reach Svetlana’s chin, she is already lifting her face. He kisses her cheek first, then her mouth, lingering like it’s just the two of them in the room. Svetlana returns the kiss without hesitation, resting her palm against his chest. Ilya pulls away only when he seems satisfied. His eyes drop to the keys and handbag on the table.

“You were going somewhere?” His thumb travels idly down the side of Svetlana’s throat.

“I was meeting Nadia for a drink after dinner.”

“Ah.” A small crease appears between Ilya’s brows. “Were you?”

Svetlana looks from Shane to Ilya, then toward the two bags Ilya left beside the door. Whatever question occurs to her does not reach her mouth.

“I’ll call her and cancel,” Svetlana says.

Ilya’s expression warms immediately. He kisses her temple. “You’re an angel.”

“I should check the oven.”

“In a minute.” Ilya catches her wrist before she can turn away and draws her toward the sofa, pulling her down with him. “Sit with me. I just got home.”

He leans back and lifts her legs into his lap, one arm beneath her knees, arranging her across the cushions with easy familiarity. His hand closes around her bare ankle. Svetlana settles against him without protest, fitting herself into his hold with an ease that makes Shane wonder how often she has done it, and whether things go better when she gives Ilya what he wants before he has to ask twice.

“Why are you standing there?” Ilya asks Shane. “Sit down.”

“I don’t want to intrude.” Shane addresses Svetlana rather than him. “I mean it. You don’t have to cancel your plans because of me. I’m not staying long.”

“It’s all right,” Svetlana assures him. “Nadia will understand.”

“You hear that?” Ilya squeezes her ankle. “She’s delighted you’re here.”

Only then does Svetlana look properly at Shane’s face. Her attention moves over the strips on his cheek, his split lip, then the bruising disappearing beneath his collar. She doesn’t stare, but there is a brief softening in her expression.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your face?”

Her concern seems genuine. It makes Shane suddenly conscious of how he must look. He lowers his chin, trying to hide the worst of his neck beneath his coat.

“Family problems.” Ilya shrugs. “Shane recently got disowned. You know how these things go.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells Shane.

Shane isn’t sure which part she means. His father. His face. The fact that Ilya brought him here and immediately began answering questions for him.

“Sweetheart, would you get us drinks? Wine for me, and water for Junior here,” Ilya tells Svetlana.

“I can get them.” Shane glances toward the adjoining kitchen. Somewhere in the house there has to be a telephone. “Where is it?”

“No, you’re a guest.” Ilya points to the armchair opposite them. “Sit.”

Shane remains where he is for another second, aware of Svetlana watching him and Ilya waiting with absolute confidence. Shane lowers himself into the armchair. Svetlana slips her legs from Ilya’s lap.

“Thank you, baby.” Ilya catches her hand as she passes and kisses her knuckles.

She smiles at him and disappears into the adjoining kitchen. The sounds of cupboards opening and glass touching glass follow. Ilya watches her walk away. His gaze travels openly down her body before he leans back, stretching one arm along the sofa.

“Tell me that is not the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” Shane mumbles, unsure what to say.

“Just yeah? My wife crosses the room looking like that, and all you’ve got for me is yeah?.” Ilya tips his head.

“What do you want me to say?” Shane hesitates, glancing toward the kitchen to see whether Svetlana heard, which makes Ilya laugh.

“I want you to appreciate the privilege. Show a little respect.”

“She’s beautiful,” Shane says, getting irritated.

“Relax. She knows she’s gorgeous. I spend an obscene amount of money making sure she never forgets. So look your little heart out, she’d probably be offended if you didn’t.” Ilya’s grin widens. “Just keep your hands to yourself.”

Before Shane can answer, Svetlana returns carrying a tray. A glass of red wine rests beside a tumbler of water. Ilya watches her approach attentively.

Shane looks at Svetlana again. Expensive clothes, jewellery, the immaculate house she lives in. Ilya has the same pleased expression he wore in the elevator while turning Shane’s knuckles beneath the light. He’s beginning to suspect that Ilya likes beautiful things most when he can display them.

She places the wine directly into Ilya’s waiting hand, then crosses to Shane and hands him the water.

“Thank you,” Shane says.

“You’re welcome.” She smiles. “Dinner is ready.”

“Go ahead, Sveta. We’ll be right there,” Ilya answers.

Svetlana disappears into the dining room. Ilya takes a drink without looking away from Shane. When he speaks again, the words are for him.

“I’m very good to people who let me be.”

“Does she get a choice?” Shane nods toward the doorway through which Svetlana disappeared.

“Everybody gets a choice.” Ilya holds Shane’s gaze. “You did.”

One option just sucks more. That’s life, nothing’s free, Ilya had said before.

Ilya stands and offers Shane the same hand that pulled Svetlana down beside him. Shane leaves it hanging and gets up on his own. Ilya glances at his rejected hand, then at Shane, fondly.

“Come on,” Ilya says. “You were so worried about getting home. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Chapter 6: One Teeny Tiny Favor

Chapter Summary

Left to his own devices, Shane goes looking for something he probably shouldn’t find.

Chapter Notes

chapter 5 is done, here's my little analysis because i have been thinking way too hard about these two again:

shane repressed everything that had to do with his mom, the assault and his sexuality. he forgets traumas because his solution to anything painful is to push it somewhere he doesn't have to look at it and keep moving. that's why the flashbacks are structured like they are: shane is gaining awareness at roughly the same time the reader is. some of those memories have always existed, but shane has spent years refusing to connect them to each other and he doesn't understand what they mean until something in the present forces him to confront it.

Every time he gets reminded, it activates his fight (his violent outburst) or flight because he just doesn't want to process it.
that's a huge part of what happened with comeau and the metros.

the video of his ex girlfriend wasn't just embarrassing because his teammates thought he might be gay. it accidentally touched something shane had spent years making sure nobody, including himself, could name. his sexuality is tangled up with miller, and miller is tangled up with shame, fear, guilt, and the idea that wanting another man makes him vulnerable to being preyed on. so when the locker room starts joking about him being gay, shane is unconsciously reacting to everything that rumor threatens to uncover.

comeau keeps pushing because he thinks he's found something funny. shane experiences it like somebody picking at a sealed wound and threatening to rip the whole thing open in public. and because he can't explain any of that, the fear converts into anger.

that's why the beating gets so extreme. by the time shane goes after comeau, he isn't really responding proportionally to whatever comeau said in that exact moment. comeau becomes the physical target for something much larger than him. and once shane starts, stopping would mean having to come back into himself and understand what he's doing. so he keeps going.

Isaiah 43:1 —  Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.

December 2010, Dover

Ilya lounges at the head of the table, one arm slung over the back of his chair, dividing his attention between his wife and his guest of honor.

“You know,” Ilya says between bites. “My brother Alexei says I have a bad habit of collecting strays.”

He spreads his hands, presenting Svetlana and Shane to one another.

“Starting to think the shithead might have a point. You both landed on my doorstep after somebody else kicked you hard enough, and I ended up taking you home.” Ilya lifts his wine. “Maybe I just hate seeing good things go to waste.”

Across the table, Shane and Svetlana exchange an assessing glance.

They have exchanged a handful of polite questions and careful answers. Svetlana asked if he wanted more potatoes. Shane declined. He asked how long she and Ilya had been married. A while, she answered before calmly returning to her dinner. Her tone discouraged further inquiry.

Shane still cannot decide what to make of her.

Despite her gracious manners, Shane remains wary of her. She accommodates Ilya too easily, accepting his whims without visible surprise. She indulges his performance like a bruised stranger deposited at her dinner table is only another eccentricity of life with him.

“Oh, yes,” Ilya says, his eyes darting between them with glee. “This is going to work out beautifully.”

“Svetlana here,” Ilya continues. “Came to America with big dreams and absolutely horseshit execution. When I found her nine years ago, she was alone in a foreign country, stuck in a serious mess...”

Svetlana’s fork halts above her plate.

“But!” he hauls the story away from any objection that might follow. “I fixed it. In return, all I asked for was one teeny-tiny favor.”

He never asks for much. Practically nothing, really, once the favor is weighed against everything he has already done for you.

What’s one seat on the floor to be accepted by the team?

One drink for the privilege of belonging?

One lie to keep playing?

One punch after pulling David’s hand off his throat?

“I don’t do half-rescues,” Ilya says, sawing through another piece of meat. “If I pull somebody out of a hole, I finish the job. But afterward?” His attention settles fully on Shane. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect them to remember who climbed down there.”

Shane comes back to the question he’s had since arriving in Boston.

What does Ilya want from him?

A protégé to trail behind him, carrying secrets as readily as equipment bags? A weapon Ilya can aim and shoot with? A toy to provoke simply for the pleasure of watching it react? Something younger and easier to shape in his own image?

“And you.” Ilya gestures toward Shane with his glass. “Montreal made sure everybody knew you were damaged goods before they shipped you south. Then you come here and scramble your brain down to…” He rocks one hand indecisively. “…seventy percent functionality on a good day.”

Shane eases his grip on the fork before the metal starts to bend beneath his fingers.

“I save your career. Then I save your life.” Ilya points at the mottled bruising at Shane’s throat. “Maybe my solution wasn’t exactly what you pictured while you were sitting around holding hands and wishing on a fucking star, but here we are. You’re still breathing because of me.”

His mouth quirks.

“Literally, in this case.”

Shane feels Svetlana looking at the bruises now. Another damaged thing Ilya found, expected to know how lucky it is.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about me,” Shane snaps.

His chair grinds backward across the floor. Water jumps over the rim of his glass and splashes. Shane realizes he has risen halfway from his seat, one palm planted against the table.

“Sit down,” Ilya says sharply.

It’s one thing to snap at Ilya alone in a hotel room. It’s another thing to do it in Ilya’s house, in front of his wife.

Don’t back down.

Don’t make it worse.

Ilya’s palm crashes against the table. Shane’s body jolts, shoulders pulling inward as if the blow landed against him.

The plates leap. His wineglass tips, hits the linen and rolls onto its side, bleeding red across the white cloth.

“Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Shane lowers himself back into the chair, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He fixes his eyes on the water spreading around the base of his glass.

“I’ve let a lot of shit slide.” Ilya scowls. “More than I do with anyone else because you’ve had a rough couple of days. That doesn’t mean you get to keep pushing it.”

A drop of wine lands on the hardwood, breaking the uneasy silence around the table. Ilya looks down, then exhales.

“Jesus,” he exclaims. “That got heavy.”

He retrieves the fallen glass and sits back, inspecting the meager swallow left inside it with genuine offense. He swirls what remains, then looks down at the spreading stain.

“Look what you did to perfectly good wine, kid. That is the real tragedy here.”

Then he drains the glass. The shift back to levity unsettles Shane more than the shouting did.

“I told you we should’ve bought the dark tablecloth.” Ilya turns toward Svetlana. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go grab dessert?”

Somehow, dinner resumes. Ilya’s phone rings midway through dessert.

“I have to take this.”

He answers as he crosses into the adjoining sitting room, his voice slipping into Russian. When he returns a minute later, he seems annoyed.

“What happened?” Shane asks.

Ilya’s attention passes over him and he turns to Svetlana, speaking in Russian. They speak over Shane's head like he isn't sitting there. He listens for anything he might recognize and understands nothing until his own name appears unexpectedly in one of Ilya’s sentences.

Shane’s fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

“There’s a problem I need to handle.” Ilya heads for the entryway and takes his coat from the hook. “I’ll be gone a few hours.”

Shane pushes his chair back.

Finally.

He has spent most of the evening privately negotiating his escape: resisting the urge to check the time, trying to determine how early would be rude, how much longer he could sit here before asking Ilya to fulfill his promise and drive him home.

“Okay,” Shane reaches for his own coat. “Let’s go.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ilya asks.

Shane stops in his tracks, the relief drains out of him. No. No. No. There’s just no way.

“With you.”

“Oh, you’re staying here.”

“You’re leaving me here? You said you’d drive me back after dinner!” Shane gapes at him.

“And I will when I come back.” Ilya slips one arm into his coat and then the other, utterly unconcerned. “I pinky-promised you. I take that shit extremely seriously.”

“I can come with you,” Shane says. “Or you can drop me off on the way,” he amends quickly. “I can wait in the car. I don’t care.”

Ilya pauses with one hand on the door, considering whether to humor him or simply leave.

“No.” The answer closes the matter. “I’ve got a live situation out there, kid. Tonight I need people I can point somewhere and forget about until the job’s done. Right now, that ain’t you.”

Ilya has spent months denying all of Shane’s boundaries. He pushed his way into every ugly corner of Shane’s life and acted like witnessing it had granted him entitlement over the wreckage.

Evidently, that privilege only goes one way. Now he’s finally stepping away, and all Shane can think is that he must’ve done something to make him.

He wants to tell Ilya he won't cause trouble. That whatever happened with David won't happen again.

Take me with you. I'll be good.

Shane clamps his mouth shut, and just like that, Ilya is gone.

Shane and Svetlana look at one another across the room. 

***

Shane has been restlessly prowling around the living room since Ilya left, unable to stay put.

Beyond the windows, snow drives sideways through the dark. The storm has killed the fantasy Shane entertained earlier about simply walking out.

“Fuck you,” he mutters.

The words bring a petty satisfaction after an entire evening choking them back.

Even if Svetlana handed him her phone, Shane couldn't tell a dispatcher where to find him. He would have to ask her for every piece of information required to leave. Standing in Ilya’s kitchen like a stranded child asking somebody’s wife if she knows how he can get home. It irritates him beyond reason.

That is when he notices the pack of cigarettes abandoned on the side table. Ilya must have forgotten them when he left. Sometimes he distractedly pats his pockets for the pack before they leave without even seeming aware of the habit.

Shane reaches for the pack and slides one cigarette free. Then he snaps it between his fingers.

The fireplace across the room is still burning low from dinner.

Ilya likes cigarettes and he’s not here to prevent Shane from destroying them. Therefore, Shane breaks them one after another before feeding the pieces to the embers.

Fuck your rules. Fuck your house. Fuck your stupid fucking pinky promise.

“Asshole,” he murmurs, tossing the empty package into the fire.

Ilya can come home, sit down, reach automatically toward the side table and find nothing. A smile pulls slowly at Shane’s mouth.

“Shane?” Svetlana calls from the kitchen. “I have something for you to do if you’re up for it.”

He brushes the tobacco from his palms onto his pants, and crosses into the kitchen. Svetlana has gathered the plates into orderly stacks beside the sink.

“You can dry,” she says.

A long moment passes where Shane just looks between the dish towel waiting beside the sink and Svetlana, uncertain.

“What?” Her patience has evidently reached its limit. “Did you expect me to clean all of this by myself? Or is that beneath you, Shane Hollander?”

Oh. Housework doesn’t bother him. After his mother died and his father buried himself in work, Shane learned quickly that ordinary chores continued with complete indifference to grief.

“No.” He grabs the towel before his hesitation can be interpreted as contempt. “No. I just didn’t know if you were serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

Because none of this is real, Shane nearly says.

The house is too large and too immaculate for Svetlana to scrub dishes after dinner. Even the bathroom hand towels had been folded into exact thirds. Yet Svetlana has spent the evening ferrying plates in and out of the dining room while Ilya sat at the head of the table accepting service as if they had stepped into another century.

Shane takes the first plate she hands him and begins drying it.

“I didn’t mean you should do it,” he says. “I just thought you two had people for this.”

“We do.” She glances sideways at him. “But tonight, Ilya wanted a wife.”

They work quietly for several minutes.

“I don’t think I’m better than you, by the way,” he says finally. “I clean my own dishes.”

The corner of Svetlana’s mouth lifts. He cannot tell whether she finds this amusing. With Ilya, it’s hard to miss. Svetlana keeps her reactions tucked away.

“Where did he go?” Shane asks. “He wouldn’t take me with him.”

“He did you a favor.”

“Yeah, right. Apparently, every shitty thing he does is secretly for my benefit.”

“No.” Svetlana gives him another glass. “Sometimes Ilya does shitty things because he wants to do shitty things, but tonight? He made the right choice.”

This is the first time all evening she has said anything that contradicts their strange little household.

“He’ll hurt you, Shane,” she continues, completely matter-of-fact. “He can like you very much and still do it. You must know that by now.”

“So why do you put up with him?” Shane says.

“Since he has already told you half of it,” Svetlana says. “My mother was American. She left Russia when I was young. After my father died, I found out she'd been trying to contact me for years.”

“And you came here to find her?”

“I had her old address, so I tried.” She cleans a new plate. “I trusted people who promised to help. They helped me renew my American passport, arranged the trip, and took it back once I was here.”

“But where does Ilya fit into this?”

“I met him later. He got my documents back and cleared what they said I owed.” Svetlana hands him the plate. “Then he needed something from me, and I needed somewhere to go.”

One teeny tiny favor.

The marriage.

He recoils at the realization. He wants the conversation back where it was five minutes ago, when the greatest problem in the room was whether she thought he was too spoiled to dry a stupid plate.

“So, he just…” Shane stops, trying to find a version of the question that does not sound as ugly as the one forming in his head. “He bought you out and married you?”

The silence afterward is enough to tell him he has gone too far, but his mind has already seized on the question. He wants to ask whether she ever tried to leave. Whether she loves him.

“Could you actually have said no?” He asks bluntly.

Svetlana’s hands stop beneath the water.

Fuck.

“I think,” she says slowly, “you have known me for approximately three hours.”

Shane searches her face for some sign, some secret appeal hidden beneath the words. There isn't one.

Svetlana looks at him sharply. “Ilya was the first person in a very long time who told me exactly what he wanted before I agreed to anything.”

After a while, Shane says, “Sorry.”

He expects her to say more, but she doesn’t. Eventually, she dries her hands and leaves the kitchen. A minute later, she returns carrying a wooden case under one arm. She sets it on the dining table and opens it into a backgammon board.

“You play backgammon?”

“A little,” Shane says, thrown by the abrupt change.

“Good. Sit, Shane.”

She divides the checkers between them and hands him the dice cup. For the first few turns, they barely speak. Shane remembers enough to avoid embarrassing himself, though Svetlana keeps taking his pieces.

“You said you played,” she remarks.

“I said a little.”

“Apparently very little.” Svetlana smiles faintly.

Outside, the storm begins to weaken.

By the time Ilya finally returns, it is well after midnight, and Shane has lost a few games. They are halfway through a game when the front door opens.

Shane braces himself for another reason they suddenly cannot leave, another change of terms, but Ilya hooks his keys around his finger and jerks his head toward the door.

“Come on, Shane. Let’s get you home, it’s way past your bedtime.”

***

Early January 2011, Boston

Shane should be relieved.

For the first time since arriving in Boston, he can walk into the locker room without wondering what Rozanov is going to demand from him before the day is over. On the ice, nothing has changed. Ilya still corrects him when correction is necessary, still expects him to keep up, still gets on his ass when he makes a mistake.

Everything beyond that has disappeared. He treats Shane like everyone else.

Yet, Shane cannot shake the conviction that this is punishment for letting Ilya see him fall apart that one night. For losing every scrap of composure Shane had spent years learning to maintain.

Tonight I need people I can point somewhere and forget about until the job’s done. Right now, that ain’t you.

Fine.

Shane knows, rationally, that shooting harder will not change what happened. Still, he starts arriving at the practice facility before almost everyone else. There is always something useful to do, and his backhand still needs work.

He shoots until the muscles between his shoulder blades begin to ache. Collects the pucks. Lines them up again.

Forehand. Backhand. Forehand. Backhand. Again.

Sometimes he reaches the end of a set in the gym and realizes he cannot remember whether it was his fourth or his fifth. Rather than risk shortchanging himself, he starts over. When it happens twice during the same workout, he buys a small black notebook from the pharmacy on his way home.

At first, he only records sets and repetitions.

A few mornings later, Shane walks into the bathroom intending to shave. He stops when he finds shaving cream has dried along the edge of the sink. He lifts a hand to his jaw only for it to be smooth.

He already shaved.

Shane stands there with his palm against his cheek, trying to retrieve the memory. He remembers showering, stepping out, toweling off and getting dressed. But not shaving.

He retrieves the notebook: SHAVED.

After that, other things begin appearing beneath the workouts: shower, lunch, vitamins.

Eventually, the entries become more specific. If something has been written down, Shane doesn't have to keep checking whether he remembers it correctly.

Shane brings game footage home at night, then falls asleep with the screen still flickering across the dark apartment and wakes before his alarm because the headaches have started following him into sleep.

When they get bad enough, he reaches for the Tylenol bottle Ilya gave him. The label has been a lie from the beginning. Shane noticed that much the first time he opened it in front of him, the tablets inside looked nothing like anything sold over the counter.

He takes one and records it in the notebook.

Take once in a while, only if the pain gets too bad. You do not wanna get hooked on this stuff.

There are numbers stamped into the tablets. He could identify them easily. Five minutes online, probably less. Instead, he has settled on prescription painkillers acquired through one of the countless people Rozanov apparently knows. He refuses to narrow the category any further.

Players took prescription painkillers all the time. Injuries came with the job. Shane wasn't even sure the league cared about something like this unless somebody made it a problem.

Shane leaves the label facing outward in the medicine cabinet: Tylenol.

The first few times, he only takes one when the headache becomes impossible to ignore. Then there’s a game where his head already hurts during warmups, and Shane reasons that waiting until it becomes unbearable is stupid. 

So, he begins taking them before games to concentrate on hockey instead of spending two periods wondering when the pain will get bad enough to justify taking something.

After that, the bottle starts migrating. From the medicine cabinet to the kitchen counter, and from the counter to his bag. Nobody has to know there was ever a problem in the first place.

On days off he becomes restless. Without scheduled practice there is no obvious stopping point. He finishes a workout and finds himself standing in front of the open refrigerator ten minutes later, staring at shelves full of food while his brain refuses to settle on a single thing.

Too many choices still jam something inside his head, so he removes them. Same breakfast. Same protein shake, lunch, route to the rink, exercises in the same sequence whenever circumstances allow it.

Routine reduces the number of decisions his brain can fuck up.

When dizziness hits in the shower after a game, he plants both hands against the tile and waits until it passes. Doesn't make a fucking spectacle of himself.

See? I can handle myself.

On the ice, he is more than functional, his numbers keep improving. The worse Shane feels, the better he plays.

He knows there is no medical logic to it. Pushing until his vision blurs will not scare damaged neurons into repairing themselves. Cole has explained recovery often enough that Shane could probably deliver the lecture himself.

Patience is the most useless prescription anyone has ever given him.

Hockey has always been the one part of his life where working harder is the solution. And when working harder hurts, he takes something that makes the hurting stop.

***

Late January 2011, Boston

The bottle sounds different when he picks it up that morning. He unscrews the cap and tips the pills into his palm.

Five left.

That can't be right.

He retrieves the notebook from the counter and flips backward through the pages, scanning dates and dosages. The record extends farther than he expected. What he thought was an occasional necessity has left a much denser trail in ink.

Shane pours the pills back into the bottle. He has nearly a week’s worth if he actually needs one every day, which he doesn't.

Everything is getting better.

He screws the cap on and puts the bottle into the cabinet. Then, after thinking about it, takes it back out and slips it into his hockey bag.

Just in case.

***

18:30 — GAME. 1 pill. FOUR LEFT.

“Have you seen my gloves?” Ilya stops beside Shane’s stall.

“No.”

“This idiot Cliff probably took them.”

He turns away, already calling Cliff several inventive variations of kleptomaniac moron under his breath.

“Rozanov,” Shane says.

Ilya turns back. “What?”

The question has been sitting in Shane's throat since he counted the pills this afternoon. But when Ilya turns around, Shane can’t find the words. The bottle is nearly empty in his bag.

At fifteen, he skated a game on a stress fracture and threw up while his father called him a champ.

If Shane can endure it, he is disciplined. If nobody notices, even better. Finish the game, get home, ice it there and sleep it off. Taking painkillers already feels suspiciously close to conceding something.

Shane could ask Ilya and the problem would disappear. Just like his dad disappeared. Just like every other problem Ilya decides is his.

Three weeks ago Ilya had looked at him like Shane was one more problem he couldn't trust unattended. Shane has spent every day since proving otherwise.

And now he is supposed to look Ilya in the face and admit he cannot even manage a headache without asking him to fix that too?

“What?” Ilya asks again, impatience creeping in.

Shane imagines Ilya looking at him and understanding right away.

Still can't manage without me, huh?

“Okay, you’re doing the creepy staring thing. Should I guess?” Ilya steps closer, lowering his voice enough that the guys around them won’t hear. He sounds strangely genuine. “What’s going on? Your head fucking with you again?”

It takes Shane another second to realize he has been standing there mute for a while.

“Nevermind, it’s nothing.” Shane reaches for his skate and retightens the laces, anything to escape Ilya’s eyes.

He has never bought prescription drugs illegally. He has no idea what the process even looks like, who you ask, what you say, how you tell the difference between somebody who can actually get them and somebody who is about to rob you.

He has never even bought weed. After years of avoiding parties, he discovers one deeply inconvenient downside to having been the most boring teenager alive.

There has to be somebody else Shane can ask.

“Uh-huh.” Ilya’s eyes narrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a little more defensive.

“All right, freak.” Ilya reaches over and knocks his knuckles against the top of Shane’s helmet. “If you remember what planet you’re on, tell Marlow I want my fucking gloves back. And tell him I know where he lives.”

***

22:05 — SLEEP. 1 pill. THREE LEFT.

He saved today’s pill for after practice, he needed to be able to sleep tonight because he had a big game tomorrow. By practice, irritation had crawled beneath his skin with no obvious source. On the ice, Shane had missed a pass he could have received blindfolded.

“Hollander! What are you doing?” Coach blew the whistle.

For the rest of practice, he had played almost perfectly, but it cost him everything.

***

19:00 — GAME. 1 pill. TWO LEFT.

Kane is the obvious person.

Every locker room has somebody who knows how to get things. Not necessarily drugs. Tickets. Women. Fake IDs for rookies. A chiropractor who doesn't ask questions. Someone who knows someone.

Kane has been in the league eight years. He also spent one of those years in rehab.

Shane waits until most of the room has emptied after a game.

“Hey. Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.” Kane looks up. Shane doesn't usually talk to him.

“You know where guys get stuff?” Shane lowers his voice. “Painkillers.”

Kane shuts his locker. “You're asking me…?” He gives an irritated scoff. “Why do you think I'd know?”

The answer seems obvious enough that Shane almost says it without thinking. Then he sees Kane's expression.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. You looked around this room and picked the guy who spent a year in rehab because you figured he'd still have the Rolodex.”

He feels like a jerk now. “Kane, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, I don't know where you can get pills. And even if I did, I'm not getting them for you.”

Shane looks toward the doorway. “Forget it.”

“Hold on.” Kane rubs a hand over his jaw, irritated. “What are you taking now?”

“Why?”

“Because you came to me asking where to buy more. Humor me.”

Shane hesitates, then he pulls the bottle from his bag and hands it over. The last two pills rattle inside. Kane tips one into his palm and turns it over between two fingers, squinting at the imprint.

“Looks like oxy.” Kane looks up at him. “You’re playing on these?”

“They help.”

“No, they make you care less that you’re hurting. How many days can you go without one?”

“I'm not asking for a lecture.”

“These aren’t candies, Shane.” Kane drops the pill back into the bottle.

“Fine, I'll figure something else out.”

Shane shoves the bottle into his bag and turns away again. Kane closes a hand around his arm before he gets far.

“No, that's exactly what I don't want you doing.”  Kane lets out a long sigh, visibly reconsidering something. “You’re gonna go looking anyway, aren’t you?”

Shane stays silent, Kane knows all too well the answer to that.

“I know somebody from rehab... Not a dealer, but he knows people.” Kane grimaces. “Or he used to. I haven't asked him for anything in years.”

“Then how do you know he still can?”

“I ran into him a couple months ago. He said if I ever needed something, he's working at this place now. A private club, I think. Ask for Sasha. If he's not there, you leave.”

Kane writes down the address on a piece of paper and hands it to Shane.

“I’m not saying he’ll help you, but if there’s a safe way to get what you’re looking for, he’ll know it. I'd rather you ask somebody who isn't gonna give you something sketchy.”

***

Early February 2011, Boston

8:45 — PRACTICE. 1 pill. ONE LEFT.

That night, the address Kane gave him leads Shane into an industrial stretch of Boston he has never had a reason to visit. An old brick factory occupies most of the block.

Cars fill the small lot beside the building and spill along the curb.

ATLANTIC SOCIAL CLUB - Members & guests.

The sign looks decades old, painted metal with tarnished brass lettering.

His shoes crunch over salt and snow as he crosses the lot. From somewhere inside the old factory comes a faint pulse of music, Shane feels it through the brick.

The first door opens into a narrow vestibule rather than the club itself.

A second set of doors waits several feet ahead, dark glass preventing him from seeing much. Between them sits a man behind a wooden desk.

“Evening.” He looks up from a newspaper. “Member?”

“No.”

“Guest of?”

“Sasha.”

The man studies him for another instant, then reaches for the telephone on his desk. He presses a button and speaks briefly into the telephone, glancing at Shane once during the exchange.

“Sasha's occupied. They said you can wait upstairs,” the man says after hanging up. He tips his chin toward the inner door where security stands.

Shane exhales in relief. Sasha exists. Kane didn't send him to some abandoned address to teach him a lesson.

“Pockets,” security says.

“What?”

“Empty them.”

Shane takes out his phone, wallet and car keys and drops them onto the counter harder than necessary. The security guard checks Shane's coat first, running his hands down the outside before opening it and checking beneath his arms and around his waist. Shane stiffens when the man's palms reach his sides.

“Arms.”

Shane raises them. This is ridiculous. The search continues down his legs and around his ankles before the guard finally steps back.

“Clean.”

Shane immediately sweeps his phone, wallet and keys off the desk and stuffs them back into his pockets.

“Upstairs. Second floor, right-hand corridor. Someone will let Sasha know when he’s available to see you. If somebody tells you an area is private, believe them the first time,” the guard says.

Shane pushes through the door and crosses what seems like a lounge.

Dark wood covers the bar to his left, men sit with their coats folded over stools, drinks gathered around their elbows while a basketball game plays silently on a television mounted near the ceiling.

Brick walls rise past the renovated portions. Steel columns divide the room. Behind the bar, expensive bottles stand beneath a section of brick where some previous company’s painted name remains barely visible:

 Atlantic Printing & Lithograph Company.

Halfway to the stairs he passes a card table where three men are playing poker. Cash sits in stacks between them.

“Tell him Friday. I don't care what he said.” One of the men says, mid-conversation.

Shane slows without meaning to. Then keeps walking.

None of his business.

He climbs a metal staircase laid over an older industrial frame. Up here, the building changes. A corridor stretches in both directions. Framed prints on brick walls, upholstered chairs tucked into alcoves, dark runner beneath Shane's feet.

It reminds him vaguely of an old motel.

A woman in her twenties wearing a black dress stands near the landing. She looks up when he approaches.

“Sasha?” Shane asks.

“He’s with someone right now.”

She has a Russian accent. Shane has heard enough of Ilya’s to recognize it immediately, although hers is heavier.

“For how long?”

 “Could be a while. You can wait there.”

She points toward a smaller room, there are two chairs and a little couch arranged around a low table. Shane sits on one of the couches. A man from downstairs disappears into one of the rooms with the woman who had been standing near the landing earlier.

Get the pills. Go home. That's it.

He should have asked Kane what Sasha looked like. Or what exactly he was supposed to say. Hi, I'm one of the idiots you apparently supply through other idiots. My brain hurts. Please give me something stronger.

Sasha probably does not even have the pills himself. Kane only said he knew people. For all Shane knows, this is another introduction, followed by another address. Most of all, he hates that the alternative is going back to Ilya.

A well-dressed man in his late forties comes down the corridor. He nearly passes the doorway before noticing Shane sitting alone.

He stops.

“Someone coming to get you?”

“Yeah.” Shane glances up. “I’m waiting for a guy.”

The man looks toward either end of the corridor, then back at him. “He someone you see regularly?”

“No, never met him.”

“You came up here for business, didn’t you?” The man steps farther into the room.  

“Yeah.”

“He giving you a decent deal?” The stranger asks.

“No. I haven’t even talked to him.”

“Then don’t. I can do better.” He tips his head toward the corridor. “Come on. We'll figure something out.”

Another option is good. If this man can get him what he needs, Shane won’t have to come back here in a week, or ask Kane again, or stand in front of Ilya with an empty bottle and admit he has been counting the pills.

Shane follows the man, they stop beside one of the numbered doors.

It looks more like a private lounge than anything else. Heavy curtains cover the window. A partial wall divides off the back of the room, leaving whatever is beyond it mostly hidden. Shane feels faintly stupid for expecting someone to hand him pills in the middle of the hallway.

“Yuri, by the way.” The man pours himself a drink from the minibar. “You want one?”

“No.”

“Smart.”

Yuri looks him over again. He has been doing that since the corridor, though Shane cannot figure out what he is assessing. Maybe whether Shane looks like a cop. Maybe whether he has enough money.

“Look, can we just-”

“Relax. You’re in a hell of a rush.” Yuri laughs. “You from Boston?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so.”

What does that mean?

Kane specifically told him to find Sasha. Following some stranger into a room was probably the exact kind of shit Kane had been trying to prevent.

“Maybe I should just wait for the other guy.”

“Whatever he offered you, I'll give you twice as much.”

Shane blinks. If Sasha was going to give him a few pills, this man apparently has enough supply that doubling it means nothing.

Yuri steps closer and settles a hand on Shane’s hip.

Shane goes perfectly still. He looks down at the broad hand spread over his jeans, then lifts his eyes to the man’s face.

Yuri only smiles wider.

“You look surprised.” His hand slides around Shane’s hip and down, palm closing over his ass through the denim. He gives an appreciative squeeze. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I can afford you.”

Everything Shane has ignored since coming upstairs starts to make more sense. The men coming upstairs. The women leading them into private rooms.

Shane had thought they were negotiating drugs. Yuri thought they were negotiating Shane.

“Get your fucking hand off me.”

“Calm down, baby.”  Yuri lifts both hands, amused rather than chastened. “Look, if you changed your mind, it’s okay. I’m not forcing you to suck my dick.”

Shane shoves him off roughly. Yuri’s glass tumbles from his hand and rolls at Shane’s feet, whiskey and ice spilling across the carpet.

“Hey easy.” Yuri stares down at the mess. Then at Shane. “Wow this place collecting head cases now?”

Shane’s hand closes around the whiskey bottle.

Yuri takes a step forward, bending down to retrieve the glass near Shane’s foot.

The bottle breaks against the back of Yuri’s head before Shane has formed any coherent intention beyond get him away from me.

Yuri collapses sideways with a strangled yell, one hand flying to his head. Whiskey drenches his collar. A jagged section of the bottle remains clenched in Shane’s fist.

 “Ah fuck! you fucking psycho-” Yuri shouts at Shane.

He stands over Yuri, rigid, staring at the blood already threading through the man’s hair. Yuri is shouting from the floor, but the words are incomprehensible, drowned out by the violent thud inside Shane’s skull.

The door flies open.

Hands clamp around both his arms, the contact tears him out of his stupor. Shane drops the broken bottle and wrenches backward. Somebody tries to pin his elbow. He twists, kicks without aiming, and feels his heel connect with a shin.

“Son of a bitch-”

“Hold him!”

A fist buries itself in Shane’s abdomen. Air leaves him in a guttural cough and the security guards use the collapse to drive him facedown. His right arm is torqued behind him, a knee plants between his shoulder blades.

Then a shoe connects with his ribs. Shane drags in air through his teeth, cheek ground into the carpet. He tries to push himself up and succeeds only in twisting his shoulder farther inside the guard’s grip.

“I barely fucking touched him!” Yuri bellows behind them. “He just attacked me! I want that little piece of shit thrown out.”

Hands dig into Shane’s coat. His phone disappears first, then his wallet and car keys.

Shane bucks against the weight pinning him, but a fist knots into his hair and forces his face back into the carpet.

“Stop moving,” the first guard says. He passes Shane’s belongings to his partner, who pockets everything.

The pressure finally lifts from Shane’s back, only to be replaced by two men seizing him under the arms and wrenching him upright. His stomach clenches violently where the punch landed, forcing him into a hunch.

“Walk.”

They steer him toward a narrow staircase at the rear of the building. The farther down they go, the less it resembles a private club. By the time they reach the basement, there’s nothing left of the renovation upstairs. It looks like a regular factory.

The frenzy that had been burning through him has died down. One guard stops beside a narrow steel door and produces a key.

“No fucking way.” Shane braces his feet and jerks against their grip. “I’m leaving.”

Neither guard answers.

“I said I’m leaving.” Shane pulls harder.

The door opens. Beyond it sits a cramped utility room, perhaps once a supply closet. Metal shelving occupies one wall, most of the tiers empty except for a dented plastic bin, a coil of extension cord and several dusty containers shoved against the back.

They shove him through the doorway. He pitches forward and braces a hand against the shelving.

“Hey!” The door slams and the lock turns. His palm strikes the steel. “Open the fucking door!”

He paces the perimeter of the cramped room back and forth and back again, too agitated to stay still. Door, shelving, bare wall, turn.

 Voices filter through the door.

“…came looking for somebody.”

“Who?”

“Nadia said he was asking about Sasha, so she told him to sit in the waiting room.”

“Where's Sasha?”

“With a client.”

Sasha isn’t upstairs with someone looking to buy drugs, he realizes that now. Kane’s connection for narcotics must be a sex worker. Shane has absolutely no idea how those two facts intersect, and at this point he has lost most of his enthusiasm for finding out.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. He needs to get out before anybody starts asking questions he can't answer.

“Hey. I was sent here,” he calls through the door. “Kane sent me. Ask Sasha about Kane.”

When he gets no answer, he drives the sole of his shoe into the bottom of the door.

“Fucking assholes.”

The impact jars his foot badly enough to punish the impulse. He lowers himself onto the floor with considerably less aggression than he used getting there and braces his back against the shelving. Everything hurts.

Time becomes difficult to estimate without a window or phone. Ten minutes might pass. Twenty. Footsteps outside come and go. Eventually, voices gather outside again.

“What happened?”

“Some guy came in looking for you, then he attacked a client. He said Kane sent him.”

Shane lifts his head. That must be Sasha.

“Kane sent him?”

“Yeah, you know this kid?” The guard asks Sasha.

Shane shifts closer to the door to hear more. Something scrapes against a surface outside. His wallet, probably.

“This him? No. I've never seen him before,” Sasha says.

Shane can practically hear him looking at the driver's license again.

“Hollander.” Sasha repeats the name, quieter. “Oh. That Hollander...”

“What?”

“I know who he is.”

Shane's stomach drops.

Recognition outside a rink still surprises him. In Montreal it used to happen, particularly after the Comeau footage started circulating. Boston has offered more anonymity. He can easily buy groceries or coffee without anyone looking twice. It seems he has managed to lose that privilege in the worst possible building.

The conversation recedes before he can hear what follows.

Kane does not know whether Shane actually came here, whether he got what he needed, whether he left ten minutes later. And Shane, demonstrating truly exceptional foresight, told nobody else where he was going.

He presses his palm against his stomach and tells himself to stop being an idiot. NHL players do not simply disappear into basements without people asking inconvenient questions.

Unless the reason these people are currently whispering about his name is because they are trying to decide how inconvenient he might become. He tries not to imagine tomorrow's headlines.

He starts trying to count his breaths and loses track around thirty because his head hurts too much to concentrate. The fucking reason he came here. The stupidity finally exceeds his capacity for self-pity. A dry laugh escapes him. He wanted painkillers, and he has managed to acquire several entirely new sources of pain.

His eyes start watering and he angrily scrubs them dry.

“Fuck off,” he scolds himself.

After what feels like an hour, metal shifts inside the lock. The door bursts inward and bangs against the wall.

Shane recoils into the shelving and his arm comes up across his face before he has time to think. Light pours into the cramped room, painful after however long he has spent sitting in the dark.

Maybe they have decided what to do with him.

“Okay, everybody unclench. Daddy’s here.”

Shane lowers his arm to see Ilya standing in the doorway.

His eyes burn again.

Of all people, it’s Rozanov. The asshole who has spent the past month acting like Shane barely existed. And somewhere along the line, Shane’s brain has become fucked up beyond repair because one look at Ilya is enough to fill his lungs properly for the first time since the lock turned behind him.

“I hear you’ve had a productive evening,” Ilya says.

Shane recognizes the guard who dragged him downstairs and another who helped pin him to the floor. The third man is unfamiliar: slim, dark-haired, no uniform, perhaps Ilya’s age. None of the brutish bulk of security, but he stands comfortably among them anyway.

Sasha, presumably.

Shane's pride makes him stand up on his and he has to swallow a pained moan. He keeps one hand against the shelf until his balance returns. Sitting on the floor with damp eyes while Rozanov and several strangers stand outside looking at him is intolerable.

Ilya watches him recover without offering help. Shane is grateful for that too, which only adds another item to tonight’s growing list of humiliations.

Ilya continues, turning toward the others.

“I got three different versions of this bullshit on my drive over. Let’s see if I have it.” He begins counting on his fingers. “Yuri cops a feel, kid beats his ass. Accurate?”

“Pretty much,” says the guard nearest the door.

“Okay. Then what the fuck are we discussing?” Ilya sighs dramatically. “Yuri’s done upstairs.”

Shane looks between Ilya and the others. Nobody asks Ilya who gave him the authority to make that decision. The realization arrives embarrassingly late, Shane had been too busy thinking Rozanov is here to consider the obvious question.

Who called him?

Why him?

In the locker room, Ilya says something and twenty hockey players listen because the C is stitched to his jersey.

Shane has no idea what Ilya is here.

“He's been coming here for years,” says the second guard.

Ilya gives him a blank stare. “Then that should’ve given him plenty of time to learn the rules. You ask before you touch.” He turns to Shane and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “And you. Don’t get comfortable.”

The fragile satisfaction Shane had taken from Yuri’s punishment evaporates.

“He deserved it,” he says quietly.

“That one’s free.” Ilya gives a careless shrug. “But when security comes over, you let them do their job. You don't decide they're round two because you're having a bad night. If you hit them, they hit you. Everybody gets a turn.” Ilya addresses the guards this time: “Once he's on the floor, though, that’s getting greedy.”

Then Ilya looks at Shane again.

“You done?”

“What?” Shane frowns.

Ilya taps beneath his own eye. Shane had wiped his cheeks with his sleeve when he first heard voices outside. Obviously, he'd done a terrible job.

“Yeah.”

Somehow, being told to pull himself together is easier to endure than sympathy would have been. Nobody makes him explain what the stranger's hand had dragged out of him.

“Good.” Ilya turns toward the guard. “Go get his shit.”

Then he notices Shane staring at Sasha.

“Oh! Right. Where are my manners?” He reaches sideways and hooks an arm around Sasha’s shoulders, hauling him closer. Sasha doesn’t seem remotely concerned about being manhandled by Ilya Rozanov. “This is Sasha, since you were determined to meet him. Which is a whole separate conversation we're gonna have later.”

Sasha shoots Shane a long, curious look.

“Say hello.” Ilya gives Sasha’s shoulder a small jostle.

“Hi, Shane.”

A guard returns with Shane’s wallet, phone and car keys. When Shane reaches for his keys, Ilya closes his fist around them and puts them into his own coat pocket. 

“Come on, jailbird.” He tips his head toward the corridor and starts walking, plainly expecting Shane to follow.

***

Shane sits low in the passenger seat with his coat pulled closed over his ribs. Every pothole sends a dull complaint through his side.

“If you need drugs,” Ilya says while driving Shane’s car. “You come to me, not somebody else, especially not some idiot who spent a year in rehab. And you do not drive out to some shithole asking people where you can score narcotics, understand?”

Shane’s teeth grind together.

“You hear me?” Ilya asks.

“Yes.”

“What were you looking for? Oxy? Vicodin? Fentanyl? What?”

“The same thing you gave me,” Shane mutters. “I play better when my head doesn't hurt.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek and stares at the road. For once, Shane has managed to shut him up. Whatever Ilya expected him to do with that bottle after the concussion, apparently building a dependency around hockey performance was not on the list.

Ultimately, Ilya says, “We’re circling back to this later, but tomorrow you call in sick for practice.”

He drives in silence for a few minutes.

“This place. That’s where you get your stuff,” Shane says. It’s only a guess, but Ilya’s reaction tells him he hit the nail on the head.

“Sasha talks too much.”

“He didn’t have to tell me anything. I figured he was your dealer since you clearly know the guy.”

“Sasha does not sell me drugs.” Ilya gives a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus Christ. I know him from Russia, before Boston.”

That makes Sasha the first person Shane has encountered who knew Ilya before the Raiders. Shane makes a mental note of it.

Shane turns toward the window, pretending to let the subject die.

“So they come from someone else there.”

Ilya looks over. Shane keeps looking through the windshield so Ilya won’t see the satisfaction on his face.

“What?” Shane asks.

“You are being very fucking nosy.”

There. A wall.

Shane considers it, then changes direction.

“You walked in there and started telling everybody what they were allowed to do.”

Ilya glances at him again. This time Shane can practically see him noticing where the conversation has gone.

“You trying to figure out if I’m the big bad pimp now, Hollander?”

Shane shrugs. The accusation hangs between them, offensive mostly because neither of them believes it.

“No. I don’t run the place,” Ilya says.

He scoffs when Shane just stays silent.

 “Seriously, I have a day job. When exactly am I supposed to manage this place?”

“Then why do they listen to you?” Shane corrects himself before Ilya can shut the question down. “Never mind. I get it.”

“Oh, do you?”

“You’re a regular.” Shane settles farther into his seat. “Spend enough money somewhere, eventually people let you throw your weight around.”

Ilya slowly turns his head, thrown off.

 “Regular customer?” His fingers tap against the steering wheel, getting increasingly irritated. “Yuri got himself banned. And buddy, if I ever have to start paying people to suck my dick, somebody please put me out of my misery.”

Shane waits with the conviction that Ilya will add something, he counts the seconds in his head.

Six.

“I put money into some things there,” Ilya finally says.

Shane looks over. This is easier than asking direct questions.

“You put money into a brothel.”

“It’s not just a-” Ilya cuts himself off, a humorless smile touches his mouth. “Careful.”

He could ask what else the building contains, what Ilya finances, who owns the place, what exactly happens there. But Ilya would tell him to mind his own business, ending the conversation.

So, Shane reaches for something else.

“Whatever. Yuri only got banned because it happened to me.” Shane keeps his attention on the road ahead. “He put his hands on me. You got pissed off and threw him out.”

Ilya’s brows furrow.

“Kid, don’t go making yourself special. You really think I rewrote house rules because somebody grabbed your ass? You could’ve been Joe Nobody with a face I’d forget five seconds later, I still would’ve tossed his ass out.”

Then Ilya looks at him for a little too long, eyes narrowing.

 “Oh my God. You think I don’t see that?”

“What?” Shane schools his face. He can tell he pushed too much this time.

“No, no.” Ilya points at him, briefly abandoning the wheel with one hand. “I get it now. That little thing you do. You say some stupid shit, then sit there staring at me until I explain exactly why it’s stupid.”

“Maybe you just talk too much.”

“Fuck you. Don’t ruin this.” Ilya sounds delighted by the discovery. “I was proud of you. You want your gold star? I had a hand in some of the rules. Now Yuri gets his pussy membership card snipped in half.”

Ilya glances at Shane sideways, and Shane flushes slightly.

“Or dick membership.” Ilya winces. “Whatever. Don’t make me redo the whole metaphor for you.”

“Why did you put rules in place?”

“Aaaand there goes the gold star.” Ilya clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Tsk, tsk, tsk… You were doing so good.”

Shane smiles despite himself.

“Worth a try.”

Ilya looks over at him, visibly annoyed and a little impressed by Shane’s manipulations.

“All right, Detective. Investigation’s over.” He smirks. “You are getting way too fucking comfortable with me.”

Shane lets the warning stand, pushing again so soon would be greedy. Besides, he already got more than Ilya intended to give him.

Shane thinks of Christmas, Svetlana’s handbag waiting beside the door.

I was meeting Nadia for a drink.

The guard had called the woman upstairs Nadia. It isn’t exactly an uncommon Russian name, but Shane stores it anyway.

***

Ilya follows Shane into his apartment. Shane is too tired to argue about it. His ribs hurt every time he breathes too deeply, his stomach still aches from the punch downstairs. He stands by the kitchen island.

Kane.

Ilya might do something to him. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not at all. Shane has no idea what qualifies as a punishable offense according to whatever private ledger Ilya keeps in his head. But he never seems to forget when somebody creates a problem for him, and Kane sent Shane straight into one.

Shane had prepared the argument anyway. Kane hadn’t known what would happen. He had refused Shane first. He’d only given him Sasha’s name because buying pills from some stranger would have been worse. Sasha was supposed to be safe.

If Ilya brought it up, Shane was ready.

“Hollander, spit it out.”

“It’s nothing.”

“If this is some big confession,” Ilya says. “Save yourself the dramatic buildup. I already know what you did.”

“What?” Shane’s stomach drops.

“You really thought I wasn’t gonna know what happens in my house?”

Christmas flashes through Shane’s mind.

Shane had all but accused Ilya of taking advantage of Svetlana, then kept digging until she shut him down so sharply there had been no mistaking the offense. And he'd done it in Ilya’s kitchen. In Ilya’s house. Questioning his wife about him almost the second his back was turned.

Maybe Svetlana told him.

“I know you burned my cigarettes,” Ilya says. “You spread tobacco all over the fireplace, I connected the dots. Cute attempt at a rebellion.”

Oh, that’s all. Shane releases the breath trapped in his chest.

“You don’t care?” He looks at him suspiciously.

“You killed maybe fifteen dollars of cigarettes after having a spectacularly shitty day. All is forgiven, consider it my Christmas gift”

For several seconds, Ilya says nothing. Then he sighs, blue eyes piercing through Shane.

“Look. About what happened upstairs.” Ilya puts a hand on top of Shane’s head, his fingers settling briefly into his hair. The teasing drops out of his voice. “I need you to know that nobody gets to touch you like that unless you want them to.”

His hand strokes Shane’s hair as he continues talking, and Shane stops breathing. Shane has carefully avoided asking himself how much Ilya might have reconstructed from the scattered things that had been said between him and his father that night.

“And I mean nobody,” Ilya adds quietly.

Shane remains rigid beneath his hand, afraid that opening his mouth will confirm more than silence does.

“And for what it’s worth,” Ilya says, pulling his hand away. “I don’t give a single shit that you beat Yuri with a bottle, I would’ve done worse. Yeah, you got a little excited and tried to fight security too, but we’ll work on impulse control another day.” Ilya waves the issue aside. “My point is, you fought back. That part I liked.”

He hasn’t seen Ilya this exposed since the hospital. He had told Shane a story about his childhood, how he killed that kid at sixteen, Viktor.

People take what you let them take.

Moments like these remind Shane that there’s versions of Ilya he hasn’t seen beyond the captain, bully, husband, or manwhore. He’s left unsettled every time he gets a glimpse.

Then Ilya’s usual expression returns like they have reached the maximum allowable amount of sincerity for one night.

“Now, since you did one thing tonight that impressed me enough to almost cancel out the twelve things that pissed me off, you get to ask for something. Anything. If I can give it to you, it’s yours.”

Ilya has been prying Shane open with both hands from the start while surrendering almost nothing of himself. What Shane knows has accumulated piecemeal across their months together: a brother named Alexei, a wife in Dover, a dead boy in Moscow, a father who was a cop.

“Sometimes when you go there,” Shane hesitates. “Take me with you.”

“Unbelievable. After all that, your big magical wish is a return ticket?”

Ilya leans against the counter and looks at the ceiling. Shane braces for refusal. Ilya seems more than reluctant to let him go back there, it’s understandable. But if Ilya is offering him one favor after all this, Shane might as well give it a try.

Ilya sighs with exaggerated suffering. “All right. Fine.”

“Fine?” Shane’s eyebrows climb to his hairline.

“Yes. Fine, don’t make me change my mind.”

Chapter 7: Pavlov

Chapter Summary

Shane finally gets what he wanted: Ilya’s trust, his protection, and a place beside him. Ilya decides it’s time to see whether Shane can follow through with his eyes open.

Chapter Notes

The real challenge in this chapter is me resisting the urge to drop 28 years of rozanov family lore so that Shane can learn the right pace. I'm late on answering comments because many of them are so thoughtful and I want to take my time with those, just know I'm reading all of them at least twice. Special thanks to Xylona28 for recommending my fic on reddit, very appreciated

February 2011, Boston

“Are you kidding me?” Shane groans. Frustrated, he sinks back into the couch when the puck slides into his net for the fifth time.

“Five-one! Shane, you’re an embarrassment to the profession.” His teammate throws both arms into the air, controller clutched in one hand.

“It’s not even like real hockey,” Shane protests.

“It says NHL right there.” Cliff points at the bottom of the screen. “God, you’re a terrible loser.”

Shane glares at the television and presses the button he thinks switches players. His defenseman promptly dumps the puck into the corner. Twenty minutes of this has taught him that understanding exactly where every player should be means absolutely nothing when his thumb refuses to put any of them there.

None of that matters because Cliff spent his adolescence developing some grotesque second set of motor skills specifically for an Xbox controller.

Cliff came over less than an hour after practice carrying an Xbox under one arm and a paper bag from a deli under the other.

Roz said you were sick. I brought chicken soup.

Then he had walked straight past Shane before Shane could decide whether to let him inside. Now half the coffee table is covered in deli containers and bottles of Cliff’s usual sports drink.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Cliff says, “I’d say this is why Montreal traded you. Management got footage of you playing Xbox and made the call immediately.”

“Shut up. I barely ever played video games.”

Cliff’s grin falters. “Seriously? What did you do after school, taxes?”

“My dad didn’t like me wasting time, and my mom thought video games made kids violent.”

Cliff bursts out laughing. “Okay. Well... Tough break for Mrs. Hollander’s theory.” 

Shane reaches over and shoves his shoulder. Cliff starts the next faceoff before Shane is ready.

“I’m getting water.”

“Uh-huh.”

Shane plants one hand against the couch and pushes himself upright. He gets halfway straight before pain pulls tight across his ribs, forcing him to pause. One of the guards had buried a fist in his stomach and another had kicked him after he went down.

“This flu kick you in the ribs?” Cliff asks. He isn’t watching the game anymore.

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Right.” Cliff picks up his controller. “You fell.”

“Yes.”

Shane walks into the kitchen, opens a cabinet and takes down a glass that he fills with water. Behind him, the game resumes its menu music.

“You don’t have to tell me.” Cliff keeps his eyes on the screen. “Just maybe avoid the stairs for a while, yeah? We need you functional for playoffs.”

Shane takes a sip from his glass, buying himself another second.

“Yeah,” he finally says, quieter than before. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” Cliff pats the seat beside him. “Now come lose with dignity.”

***

St-Simon has Ilya cornered beside the trainers’ table, halfway through some story. Shane has spent the last twenty minutes debating whether he can play through a headache just to avoid asking Ilya for a pill.

The bottle is probably in Ilya’s pocket, maybe his bag.

Either way, Ilya brought it. That had been the arrangement since the Atlantic Social Club. It sounded reasonable when Ilya explained it. Shane had burned through the first supply because he'd started using them for everything: games, practice, headaches, sleep. Ilya told him he’d confused once in a while with whenever my little heart desires.

Now Ilya keeps the bottle, and Shane gets one before games.

Nothing at night even when he’s lying in the dark for hours with an ice pack over his eyes wishing somebody would put a bullet through the throbbing half of his skull. Ilya decided those headaches are good for him.

You don't need to be comfortable twenty-four hours a day, Hollander. If I wanted you doped up every night, I'd just give you the bottle

St-Simon and Ilya keep talking for a bit while Shane stands there awkwardly waiting for the right time to ask without interrupting them.

Thirty seconds pass and the men keep talking. Then another thirty.

Finally, St-Simon looks over. “The hell do you want? You’re creeping me out, here.”

“I need to talk to Rozanov.”

Ilya gives him a long once-over, and Shane has a feeling that Ilya knew he was there the whole time.

“Oh, I bet you do.”

Ilya pushes away from the table. He leads him out of the locker room, Shane follows him toward the short corridor leading to a small office. The door shuts behind them.

"All right." Ilya leans against a desk, arms folded. "Whatcha need?"

“I need a pill.” Shane hates having to say it.

“How bad?”

“Seven.”

Ilya appraises him for a long moment, trying to see if Shane is lying. When he’s satisfied, he reaches inside his pocket. Relief comes embarrassingly fast at the faint plastic rattle. Ilya’s hand comes back out with the bottle. He turns it between his palms and watches Shane’s eyes track every movement.

"Boy, you really want this thing." Ilya looks down at the bottle. “What are you willing to do for it?”

“What?”

Ilya pushes away from the desk and walks toward him. Shane is still wondering what he means by that when suddenly Ilya is right there, leaning forward until Shane has no choice but to press himself against the wall, caged between Ilya’s arms, one of his hands holding the bottle and the other one next to Shane’s ear.

“You want something I have,” Ilya leans close like he’s about to tell Shane a secret. “What are you willing to do for it?”

In front of him, Ilya doesn’t budge, close enough that Shane can feel his breath against his face. He’s made enough filthy comments that Shane should know where this is going, but his fists clench at his sides. Ilya glances down, then withdraws with a knowing smile.

“It’s not funny.” Shane shoves at his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, too soon.” Ilya barely rocks backward, but he grabs Shane’s wrist before he can do it again. “I spent most of last night balls-deep in my wife, so my brain’s running a little slow today… Which- holy shit listen to me bitching about slow brains to you.” He releases Shane. “Fuck. See? I need sleep.”

Shane bristles at his condescension. At this point, beating his own head against the wall until unconsciousness solves the problem for both of them is starting to sound reasonable.

“Can I have it now?”

"Jesus Christ. Yes."

Ilya shakes a pill into his palm. Shane snatches it before he can change his mind and swallows it dry. It can’t possibly be doing anything yet, but some of the desperation goes out of the headache.

“Go play.” Ilya opens the door and smacks his back, sending him out ahead of him.

***

“Get your coat, you’re coming with me.” Ilya stops next to his locker.

“Where are we going?” Shane blinks.

“This, Hollander, is my gift to you.”

Sometimes when you go there, take me with you.

Since then, Ilya hasn't mentioned it once. Shane had started wondering if all right, fine had been another carrot Ilya dangled in front of his face to keep him appeased.

About damn time. Considering how spectacularly everything else in his life has gone to shit, Shane figures he’s owed this one.

***

February 2011, Boston, Atlantic Social Club

A broad-shouldered guy Shane vaguely recognizes from the other night reaches for his coat. Shane jerks back before the hand gets there.

“Easy,” Ilya says.

“I’m not giving him my shit,” Shane hisses.

“He keeps it, Feliks.” Ilya waves the man off and turns to Shane. “Here's the deal. You stay where I put you, you do what I tell you, and you don’t start shit.”

Ilya leans close enough that Shane instinctively stiffens.

“I’m taking a chance on you, Hollander. There are people I’ve known for years who don’t get what I’m giving you right now. That is how much I like you.” His hand slides from Shane’s shoulder to the back of his neck, squeezing painfully. This time, Shane can’t stop the dread that fills his throat because Ilya’s completely serious. “So, imagine how personally I’m gonna take it if you fuck me over. We clear?”

Ilya must feel it too. His fingers are pressed against the pulse racing beneath his skin.

He needs an answer. Now, Shane thinks, but it still takes far too long for him to muster enough breath to speak.

“I understand.”

Ilya’s hand leaves Shane’s neck, Shane breathes in.

“Good.” Ilya turns and pushes through the next door, jerking his head toward the bar beyond it. “Come on, Shane. Let me show you around.”  

***

Ilya introduces him to Mike, the actual manager of the Atlantic. The last time he came here, the club looked like a shitty bar in a renovated factory. Shane follows Ilya deeper into the building. The place is bigger than he thought, split into three floors.

The bar occupies most of the ground floor: kitchen, cards, liquor. This is the part anybody invited inside can see.

Upstairs is the hallway he wandered into looking for Sasha, mostly private rooms where the prostitutes work.

Then there’s downstairs. Shane hasn’t seen much of it beyond the broom closet he got locked in.

By late afternoon, after lunch and hours of being introduced around by Ilya, Shane finds himself in the little staff room upstairs, where the women take their breaks. He’d expected something grimmer, considering the kind of work that happens here. But Sasha and Nadia are arguing over a dating show on television while another woman paints her nails on the couch.

Ilya tells Shane he can safely hang out here whenever they come back.

“You know everybody here?” Shane asks.

“You thought I showed up here five years ago and declared myself king?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Ilya laughs. “No. I’ve been coming here since I was eighteen, place used to be a fucking zoo. Most of these assholes knew my dad or my brother before they knew me. Lot of immigrants from Russia hanging around, if the accents somehow escaped you.”

He snatches a cigarette from one of the women leaning against the window, lights it with her own lighter and keeps walking.

“I was spending half my free time in this dump.” He exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “At first, I was my father’s kid hanging around for drinks. My English was shit, everybody on the team talked too fast, and here I could open my mouth without somebody going, Sorry, what? every ten seconds.”

Shane’s head is spinning with all that new information. Ilya takes another drag and sits on a couch.

 “Anyway! NHL money came in. Clean money is practically magic around here. I paid for things, did favors, fixed shit when it broke. Somebody had a problem, sometimes I knew who to call. Sometimes I was the guy they called.” Ilya shrugs. “You do that for ten years, it piles up.”

Shane tries to picture him when he’d just arrived in Boston. Some Russian kid with shitty English sitting at this bar because he couldn’t follow his teammates’ jokes.

He never tried to put the dates together before. Ilya had told him once that he hadn't gone back to Russia since he married Svetlana, nine years ago.

Shane does the math in his head, that would make Ilya nineteen. The same age he'd been when he finally got big enough to hit his father back.

My age, Shane realizes.

“What did you even do here?” Shane asks.

“Back then? Drink, fight, and fuck. Good use of my formative years.”

***

November 2000, Ottawa

Nine-year-old Shane sat on the floor close enough to the television that his mother told him twice to back up before giving up. The commentators had mentioned Boston's new Russian rookie more than a few times.

After the game, they cut to an interview outside the Boston locker room. Ilya was still in his equipment from the waist down, jersey gone, hair wet and a towel hanging around his neck.

The reporter asked him a question.

“Again?” Ilya asked.

The reporter repeated himself more slowly. Ilya frowned in concentration, answered in halting English, then stopped halfway through and glanced off-camera. Someone supplied a word.

“Yes. That.” He pointed toward whoever had helped him and laughed. “My English is... eh.” Ilya made a face. “Fucking ass?”

Yuna clapped both hands over Shane's ears after the words were already out. Ilya looked around, confused by the reporter’s expression while someone in the booth apologized for the language.

“Maybe learn the language before you start swearing on TV,” David groaned from the couch.

***

February 2011, Boston, Atlantic Social Club

Shane had expected the NHL star to look out of place among men with prison tattoos, but Ilya fits right in. They banter and smoke and drink and cheat each other out of money.

As for Shane, his first night here had made him memorable among the staff. By the time they’ve been there an hour, Shane has heard three separate versions of the story about the idiot kid who came asking for Sasha, smashed a bottle over a member’s head and tried to fight security. To which Ilya generally answers, “Everybody lived. Let’s move on,” before returning to a game of cards.

***

February 2011, Boston, Arena

Something rattles behind Shane, his head immediately turns.

“Wow.” Ilya holds the bottle in his hand. “I could train you with this thing.”

“Not what I’m here for,” Shane scoffs.

They’re alone in the players’ lounge. Ilya had been watching something on the television and Shane had just walked in to grab water from the fridge.

“Come here.” Ilya pats the place on the couch next to him on the veterans’ couch.

Shane glances around warily, wondering if it’s a test. Ilya had made a point of making the couches, and especially the veterans’ couch, a line Shane or the rookies could not cross. But Ilya just points to the seat beside him, so Shane hesitantly sits down.

There isn’t even anyone here to see him getting away with it.

“I’ve been meaning to have this conversation.” Ilya picks up the remote and mutes the television.

What did I do now? Shane wonders.

Ilya sets the bottle on the coffee table, Shane’s eyes are already glued to it. “See? Every fucking time.” Ilya sighs. “Right now, one before games. That stays for a little while then we start backing off.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the Shane Hollander all-you-can-eat pharmacy is closing. One before games, then less, then none after the playoffs. You’ll only train as much as your scrambled up brain can handle, no more cheating.”

“No,” Shane says, then hears how petulant it sounds. “I have conditioning to maintain off-season.”

Ilya snorts, and this time Shane is offended.

“What?”

Ilya reaches into his pocket, takes out a folded piece of paper and drops it into Shane’s lap. It’s a page torn from his notebook.

“What the fuck? You went through my stuff?”

“Read it.”

“I wrote it. I know what it says.”

“Do you?” Ilya cocks an eyebrow. “Tuesday. You had to write down that you brushed your teeth.”

Shane looks away, unwilling to address the obvious issue.

“Hey.” Ilya hooks a finger under Shane’s chin and turns his face back. “You ask people things they already answered. You stop talking halfway through a sentence because the rest fell out of your head. You walk into rooms and forget what the fuck you went in there for. And every time your head hurts you take a pill. You forget shit because you keep pushing too hard, and these things let you keep going when your head is trying to make you stop.”

Shane is left stunned. He knows that Ilya always notices more than he lets on, but he never imagined that he was so transparent, or that Ilya would be keeping track.

“I can’t just sit around for months,” Shane says through gritted teeth. His fingers tear through the paper on his lap. “And if I’m still fucked in October?”

“Then you’re still fucked in October. We figure out what you can do with whatever you’ve got left.”

“That’s your fucking plan?”

“My plan is to make sure there is something left.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “I can’t promise you take the summer off and everything magically fixes itself. Maybe your brain heals a bit, maybe it doesn’t. But you keep going like this? There’s no fucking maybe.”

Ilya is the first person to suggest there might not be a normal to get back to.

The possibility isn’t new, Shane thinks about it every day. As long as he keeps playing, he can tell himself he hasn’t reached the end of anything yet. Losing pieces of himself as time goes on is easier to contemplate than stopping today and discovering the pieces already gone aren’t coming back.

Shane gives a short laugh. “So basically, I lose either way.”

“You can have my help or my sympathy. Not both.” Ilya picks up the remote and turns the television back on, waving him away. “Now fuck off. You’re on my couch.”

Shane gets up, he makes it a few steps toward the fridge when something rattles behind him. His head turns before he can stop himself.

“You gotta be kidding me.” Ilya lets out a disbelieving laugh, bottle in hand. “Go hydrate, Pavlov.”

***

February 2011, Boston, Atlantic Social Club

After his first visit alongside Ilya, there’s another, then another. After home games when neither of them is tired enough to sleep, or practices when Ilya has nowhere better to be, Shane ends up back at the Atlantic with him.

The more time Shane wastes watching terrible reality TV in the staff room, the less sinister the Atlantic starts to feel. Sasha, especially, seems less like an employee than a lazy house cat. Half the time he doesn’t seem to be working at all.

Nobody’s watching him like an intruder anymore. Mostly, the people ignore him and only refer to him as “Rozanov’s boy”. When they do need something, they address Ilya instead. They don't seem worried about what Shane might do anymore. They treat him as one of Ilya’s things, if he becomes a problem, that’s Ilya’s responsibility.

Months ago, Ilya had told him that if anybody in his locker room wanted to put hands on Shane, they cleared it with him first. The locker room seemed to extend to wherever Ilya went.

Most of the time, Shane follows him. Ilya jerks his chin and expects Shane behind him. When Shane isn’t allowed somewhere, Ilya points at a chair, a barstool, once an empty patch of wall, and tells him to stay.

Shane never does.

There’s nothing useful to learn from sitting obediently while men drink, eat and insult each other in a foreign language. He wanders until he knows which hallway reaches the loading bays, which doors stay locked, where the cameras point, and which exit opens from inside without a key.

***

Shane pushes out of the employee room and stops short. Sasha is leaning against the wall, boxed in by a man old enough to have kids Shane’s age. One hand is planted beside Sasha’s head, the other roaming over his hip. Shane should go back inside, but he stands there holding the door halfway open. Leaving him alone with this guy feels wrong.

“Careful,” Sasha says, glancing down when the man’s hand slides onto his thigh.

There it is. Shane shifts forward, the floor creaks beneath his feet but neither man turns around.

“Am I in trouble?” The older man grins.

“No.” Sasha hooks a finger through the man’s belt and gives it a tug. The client steps closer until their hips meet. “You’re just very old. I worry about your heart.”

The man snorts and grabs Sasha between the legs. Shane averts his eyes, staring at an old, framed photograph of the factory before it became a private club.

“Oh,” Sasha purrs. “Hello.”

He certainly looks like he likes it, but Shane doesn’t trust that either. He’d smiled for Miller, sought him out, made noises because Miller liked hearing them. Sometimes he'd even been hard.

“Let’s go to your room,” the client murmurs.

“Dinner first.”

“You're extorting me for dinner again?”

“Yes, I’m not cheap.”

“I thought paying to fuck you was expensive enough.” The man rubs him through his pants. Sasha tilts his head back, letting out a pleased little hum.

“I’m hungry…” he whines, batting his eyelashes. “Take me somewhere nice and tell me all about how your wife doesn’t understand you. Then afterward,” Sasha adds, lowering his voice, “maybe I let you do that thing you like.”

“Steak sounds good?”

Sasha considers him, pretending the decision requires serious thought. “Go. Get the car before I find somebody else. And not that shitty place you took me last time!”

Sasha gives him a little shove. The man grabs his chin, steals a kiss, then heads downstairs. Sasha watches him disappear around the corner. Only after the footsteps fade does he turn his head. 

“You know,” Sasha says, adjusting himself through his pants. “Most people pay to watch.”

“I was waiting for you to be done.” Shane finally steps into the hallway, feeling like a voyeur. “And I, uh… wanted to know if you needed help-” He stops, painfully aware of his mistake. “Never mind.”

Sasha bursts out laughing. Shane’s face burns, he’d been prepared to do something. What exactly, he has no idea. Tell the guy to back off? Get Ilya? Punch another customer and see if security upgraded him to permanent residency in the broom closet?

“No, no. I’m perfectly fine,” Sasha says, strolling toward the staircase. “Ilya was right, you are boring.”

What the hell has Ilya been telling him?

When Shane scowls, Sasha adds with a smirk, “No offense, it’s… nice.”

Shane can see why Ilya gets along with him. He seems to enjoy making Shane squirm just as much, and he’s got the same knack for making him feel hopelessly sheltered.

***

Shane finds Ilya at one of the card tables. Mike the manager is there with two other men. Ilya looks up when Shane approaches and nudges the empty chair beside him with his foot.

“Sit.”

Every time the game gets interesting, the conversation slips back into Russian and leaves Shane stranded. Mike offers to deal him in, but Shane has no interest in learning the rules, and Ilya looks comfortable enough to stay there all night.

After another ten minutes of listening to people laugh at things he can’t understand, Shane gets restless, pushes out of his chair and wanders off.

He decides to check out the basement. He has his hand on the knob when he hears somebody clear his throat behind him. Caught red-handed, he turns to see Ilya standing at the end of the corridor.

“I was… looking for the bathroom,” Shane stutters.

“Planning to piss down the stairs?” Ilya walks over. Shane expects him to tell him to go back upstairs, but Ilya reaches past him and opens the door. “Go on.”

Concrete stairs descend beneath the building. Shane hears shouting before they reach the bottom. The basement is mostly unfinished factory space. In the center of a large room, two drunks are brawling while about ten people watch.

Shane stops dead in his tracks.

“What is this?”

“Community center. This is where we settle our problems.” Ilya looks past him at the two men beating the shit out of each other. “I made it.”

Shane gapes at him. “You just… Why?”

“Because guys used to do this shit upstairs.” Ilya points toward the ceiling. “Broken glasses, broken chairs, some idiot went through a wall once. I got tired of paying for furniture, so I gave them a controlled environment to lash out.”

Shane stares in disbelief around the room. Mats cover two walls. Somebody has dragged benches and chairs around a square marked on the floor with black tape. Inside the taped square, the smaller man lands a punch that snaps his opponent’s head sideways. The larger man knocks the other to the floor and follows him down. The one underneath covers his face.

*

Boys from school met there on weekends to fight.

I wanted everyone to know there wasn't one person who could put their hands on me.

I remember looking at my fist and thinking, that’s it, I killed a guy with this fucking thing.

The fight was over, he knew it, I knew it, but I chose to hurt him.

*

Shane had assumed that would be the kind of mistake a person spent the rest of his life avoiding.

“Done,” somebody calls like a referee would on the ice. The two men instantly drop everything and walk out of the square.

“See? They got it out of their system.” Ilya claps a hand on Shane’s shoulder.

The man who lost is sitting on one of the benches now, head tipped forward while blood drips from his nose into a wad of paper towels. His opponent crouches beside an old red cooler and digs through melting ice. Shane watches him pull out a plastic bag, fill it and toss it over. The bloody guy catches it against his chest.

“Dipshit.”

“Next time keep your fucking hands up.”

Five minutes ago, the bigger man had been on top of him driving his fist into his face. Now he’s helping him peel open the adhesive on a bandage.

“You have first aid down here?” Shane asks.

Ilya looks offended. “No, Shane, I make them rub dirt in it.”

Against a wall, a metal cabinet hangs above a utility sink. Somebody has painted a red cross on the door. Gauze, tape, antiseptic, ice packs.

Had Ilya built this room because he wanted another chance at that night, to change the ending? A warped attempt at self-improvement.

Shane can relate to that part more than he wants to. After putting Comeau in the hospital, every flash of anger came with a doubt: I could do that again.

Then again, maybe that gives Ilya too much credit. Maybe he built a shrine to the worst thing he's ever done, immortalizing the moment.

The bigger man gets up from the floor and offers his opponent a hand. A minute later, they’re sitting beside each other passing an ice pack back and forth.

“Or you could just tell them not to fight.”

“Wouldn’t stop ‘em.” Ilya steers him toward the stairs. “Come on. You’ve learned enough extracurricular shit for one afternoon.”

***

April 2010, Montreal

“Comeau says you two had been having problems for a while,” the general manager says, a legal pad open in front of him.

“We didn’t get along,” Shane mumbles.

“That’s not enough for me, Shane. If there was something happening in the locker room that led to this, I need to know now.”

“I heard there was a video going around.” Theriault speaks from beside him. “Pike says Comeau kept giving you shit about it. Was that part of this?”

“It wasn’t.”

The GM watches him. “Was he targeting you? Because if he was, I need to know before I decide what happens next.”

Shane looks down at the table. “No. It wasn’t like that.”

***

March 2011, Boston, Shane’s apartment

The Raiders replay is on NESN when Shane gets home from practice. He leaves the television running while changing out of his sweats.

Boston won 4–1. He remembers Ilya stealing the puck from their opponent behind their own net and feeding Kane for the goal, then hugging him during the celebration.

The screen changes to the postgame set near the tunnel. Beside Ilya stands Kane, Shane had been halfway home by the time NESN pulled the two of them aside for the postgame show. The reporter turns toward Kane.

“Two goals tonight, your first multi-goal game of the season. You’ve really started finding your rhythm over these last couple of weeks. What's changed?”

Kane talks about getting chances and good linemates. Ilya nods beside him.

“You set Kane up beautifully on that second goal,” the reporter says. “What have you seen from him lately?”

“Kane?” Ilya reaches over and hooks an arm around Kane’s neck. “Oh, he's been fantastic. Look at this guy.”

Kane rolls his eyes, but there's the beginning of a smile on his mouth now.

“Seriously. Coming back after last year, getting sober, staying sober, playing like this?” Ilya squeezes him harder. “That takes some fucking discipline. We’re all very proud of him.”

Kane's smile disappears. Nobody outside the team knew about this. He’d spent a year making sure of that.

On television, the reporter asks, “A year sober?”

He remembers Kane sitting across from him in the locker room.

You looked around this room and picked the guy who spent a year in rehab because you figured he'd still have the Rolodex.

Shane had wanted the floor to open underneath him. But it seems he'd been considerably more discreet about Kane's business than Ilya planned to be.

The reporter continues. “Kane, was substance abuse part of what kept you away from hockey last year?”

“There were some things I needed to deal with.” Kane looks away from the cameras, fidgeting with his water bottle. “I'd rather talk about the game.”

“How long have you been sober?”

“Hey, he doesn’t wanna talk about it.” Ilya grimaces toward the camera and pats Kane’s chest. “Next question. Come on, Kane scored two goals and we're talking about his personal life. Very rude.”

Shane reaches for the remote. He rewinds fifteen seconds.

Seriously. Look at this guy- Pause. Ilya is frozen on-screen with his arm around Kane's shoulders, both of them smiling.

Shane presses play.

A year sober, comes back, works his ass off- Pause. He watches Kane's face change again. Shane drops the remote beside him.

The television keeps playing. Ilya is talking about the game now, animated and cheerful, using his hands enough that Kane has to lean away once to avoid being hit in the face. Kane gets up once the segment finishes. He gives the reporter a quick handshake and disappears toward the locker room without waiting for Ilya.

The segment cuts to highlights from the game.

Ilya says inappropriate shit constantly. He knows everybody's business and has never developed the instinct to keep half of it inside his skull. He could have slipped up, but Shane knows better.

His phone is on the coffee table. He considers calling Kane, but he doesn't know what he'd say. Sorry I accidentally got your addiction announced on TV?

Even that would require explaining the accident. As far as Kane knew, he'd given Shane Sasha's name and sent him on his way. He didn't know Shane had walked in there, started a fight, ended up locked in a storage room and then been collected by Ilya like a kid somebody forgot at school.

And he knew even less about whatever the fuck existed between Shane and Ilya now. The favors, the fact Ilya had somehow decided Shane buying pills from the wrong person was something that concerned him personally.

Shane couldn't exactly call and say, Rozanov told half of Boston you went to rehab because you helped me go around him.

It hadn't even occurred to Shane to spend his favor on Kane. Now half of Boston knew Kane was a recovering addict because he’d been too eager to go back to Ilya’s stupid clubhouse.

***

March 2011, Boston, Arena

According to Cliff, PR made Ilya apologize to Kane privately, though Kane apparently looked more embarrassed by the whole fuss than angry. He’d told Ilya he knew it was a slip and thanked him instead for shutting the questions down before the reporters could keep digging.

Most of the team is still around when Shane finally finds an opening after the game. Ilya is sitting at his stall, talking to Carmichael about Thursday’s party. St-Simon is stretched across the bench beside them, contributing absolutely nothing except suggestions about alcohol.

“I need to ask Rozanov something.”

“I am right here,” Ilya says, without looking at him. 

Normally, hovering near Ilya in the locker room would at least earn him a closed door, but the bottle only comes out before puck drop now. Ilya knows there’s nothing Shane can legitimately be asking him for tonight. If Shane wants him alone, he needs another reason.

“It’s hockey,” Shane says. Now Ilya looks. Shane asking for hockey advice is unusual enough. “There’s something from last night I want you to look at.”

“Figure it out yourself, man. I’m busy here.”

Shane presses his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I want your opinion.”

“Use that gigantic freak brain everybody keeps paying you millions of dollars for.”

“Ilya.” Shane lowers his voice enough that nobody else should hear. “Please.”

It feels ridiculous saying it out loud. He’s already trying to come up with something less pathetic when Ilya looks up slowly. Shane is starting to understand that Ilya responds extremely well to incentives. A little concession goes a surprisingly long distance with him. The trick is not giving away too much at once.

“All right.” Ilya jerks his chin toward the door. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

***

“Okay.” Ilya points toward the empty monitor in the video room. “There’s no fucking footage.”

“No.”

“Oh my God.” A laugh slips out of Ilya. “I knew something was up when you started sweet-talking me.”

“I wanted to talk about the interview with Kane.”

“Oh, you saw that?”

Shane ignores his question. “You're such a fucking asshole.”

Ilya raises both hands in a pacifying gesture. When Ilya answers, the humor has thinned.

“Yeah, yeah. I said he got sober, I didn’t tell them he was blowing dealers behind a Wendy’s.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“Shane.” The warning is mild enough that Shane resents how quickly it gets his attention. “Kane fucked up.”

Seeing the replay had left very little room for doubt, but hearing Ilya admit it without even attempting a lie still unsettles him.

“He didn’t know anything about this place.” Shane folds his arms. “I asked him if he knew somebody. He said no. I asked again. And again. I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“I know how persistent you are.”

“So why the fuck are you doing this?”

“Because he should know better.” Ilya’s eyebrows rise, and Shane knows Kane’s public humiliation isn’t the end of it. “I don’t give a shit if you annoyed him until he gave in. You think you invented pestering somebody until they finally give you what you want? He knows that trick. He probably used it fifty times before he got sober.”

“How is he supposed to learn if he doesn’t even know what he’s being punished for!”

The interview suddenly makes sense, Kane didn't even have to know what he did wrong. Ilya had been talking to Shane.

“Well team night might be educational for him.” Ilya shrugs. “Maybe I’ll bring his old friend, see how much he appreciates somebody making a bad decision nice and convenient for him.”

Old friend. Coke, pills, whatever had owned Kane badly enough to cost him a year of hockey. Put it at hand-reach and make him prove he can still say no.

Ilya reaches for the door handle.

“Leave him alone.” Shane grabs Ilya’s hand before he can leave. “If you’re pissed at somebody, be pissed at me.”

Ilya stays silent while Shane grows increasingly desperate.

“Punish me,” Shane says.

He holds Ilya’s gaze, making sure Ilya knows he means it. Ilya’s eyes drop to Shane's hand still wrapped around his, then rise to Shane's face. Shane lets go.

“Okay,” Ilya says and walks out. Shane has to hurry after him.

***

March 2011, Boston, Atlantic Social Club

Ilya drags Shane by the back of his coat before they’re five feet inside, steering him through the room hard enough that Shane has to keep pace or choke on his own collar.

The bar isn’t crowded, it’s the same faces Shane has started recognizing over the past few weeks. Most of them are used to seeing Shane two steps behind Ilya, wandering off whenever he can get away with it. But nobody has ever seen Ilya manhandle him like this. Still, no one interferes.

Sasha and Nadia have a booth near the back, Sasha halfway through saying something that dies when he notices them. Shane looks away, but he can feel the man’s attention following them across the room.

If he becomes a problem, that’s Ilya’s responsibility.

That arrangement was useful when it meant everyone left him alone. Nobody searched him anymore, nobody told him to get out of places he clearly didn’t belong until Ilya did it himself.

“Move.”

Ilya shoulders through the service door at the end of the hall and yanks Shane after him. Shane twists enough to wrench some slack into his coat. “You can stop dragging me around like-” Then he sees where they’re going.

This is where we settle our problems.

The shouting he remembers from his other visit is absent tonight, no crowd hollering whenever somebody throws a good punch. Ilya had convinced everyone and himself that he made it civilized.

There are two grunts downstairs, Feliks and Eduard. Whatever this is, Ilya had arranged it before Shane ever offered himself up. Ilya finally releases his coat.

“Take it off.” Ilya nods at the coat. “I like that one. I don’t want you fucking it up.”

Right. Shane swallows and shrugs out of it. Ilya takes it from him and folds it over the back of a chair rather than letting Shane throw it somewhere.

“In.” He points toward the taped square.

Shane looks back at him, but Ilya offers nothing. The first time he saw this room, two men had been beating each other senseless inside these lines until somebody called it settled.

Shane steps across the black line, he knows what’s going to happen. A beating is considerably easier than imagining Ilya laying a line of coke in front of Kane. Easier than another secret dragged into public because Shane had been stupid enough to ask the wrong person for help.

He can endure unpleasant things. If he gets lucky, maybe Ilya even lets him defend himself.

“You still want this?” Ilya steps into the square, taking his time rolling up his sleeves. It’s obscene how ordinary he makes it look, like he’s getting ready to wash dishes.

“Just get it over with,” Shane hisses, planting his feet.

Ilya stops directly in front of him and raises his hand. Shane braces for it, his shoulders pull tight, his chin dips, he closes his eyes.

Maybe you’ll be scared.

It won’t matter.

Does it hurt yet?

Do it like a man.

Shane opens his eyes to see Ilya’s fist suspended beside his face.

“Oh, fuck off.” Ilya lowers his hand slowly. “You were gonna stand there and take it?”

Then he raises his hand again like a cat toying with a mouse. He inspects Shane’s face, taking in the fear Shane can’t completely hide behind the fact that he hasn’t stepped away.

“Still gonna let me?” Ilya asks quietly.

“I can take it.”

Ilya drops his hand.

“You little martyr.” He drags his palm across his mouth. It’s hard to tell whether he’s amazed or irritated. “I’m not hitting you. Getting hurt is easy for you, you’d learn nothing.”

It’s only a short reprieve, Ilya glances back toward a closed door. Eduard disappears through it and comes back dragging somebody with him. He forces a battered man in the center of the square, planting a foot on his back and kicking him flat.

“Feliks, bring out the toys, your pick,” Ilya instructs.

Feliks reaches into a toolbox and picks up a hammer that he hands to Ilya.

“This is Rolan.” Ilya crouches beside the man and taps the wooden handle against his shoulder. “Rolan’s been around here a few years. Does errands, handles cash sometimes, drives people when Mike needs an extra set of hands. Usually pretty useful. Turns out Rolan’s been shaving a little off the top for a while. Yesterday Nadia walks into the back room and catches him peeling bills out of an envelope he’s supposed to bring Mike.”

He stands up, turning the hammer over in his hand.

“Bad start... But! Nadia could’ve gone straight to the big guy. She doesn’t. She tells Rolan to put it back. That’s a gift, buddy. Somebody walking in while your dick is still inside the goat and saying, Hey, maybe pull out before Dad gets home. You take it.” Ilya looks down at Rolan. “But our boy decides Nadia just needs some incentive. Offers her a couple hundred bucks to forget what she saw.” Ilya’s smile disappears. “She tells him no, admit you’re an idiot, pay Mike back and take whatever punishment he gives you. And that’s when genius here hits her. Splits her lip, knocks her into a table, grabs what he can and runs, making everybody chase his stupid ass around all night.”

“I’m sorry,” Rolan says into the floor. “I’m sorry. He got his money back.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re very sorry. Now, the money is Mike’s problem, that has fuck-all to do with me. But years ago, I gave the women upstairs my word. They get paid what they’re owed, nobody forces them and nobody hurts them. Those rules only work if people believe me. So if this guy hits one of the girls and I let Mike roll it into the beating he was already getting for stealing, what the fuck is my word worth?” Ilya glances around the room.

Feliks and Eduard nod. Ilya spreads his free hand toward them, then looks back at Shane. See?

“So I asked Mike to leave me this part. Now Rolan gets to help me remind everybody.” He points the hammer toward Rolan’s outstretched right arm. “You stole with this hand. You hit Nadia with this hand. This is the hand we're dealing with.”

“What are you doing?” Shane whispers apprehensively.

“Me? Oh, I’m not doing shit. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind.”

Ilya closes the distance one step at a time.

“It’s all right, Shane,” he says softly, as if Shane might bolt at the slightest sound. “It’s all right.”

Shane wants to ask what he means by that but then, he feels Ilya pressing the hammer into his own hand. His eyes go wide and his fingers lax, not daring to touch it. That's when he realizes that Ilya never meant for this to be Rolan’s lesson.

Spooked, Shane tries to step back, but Ilya puts a hand over his shoulder, trapping him where he is.

“Shhh, it’s all right,” he leans down to whisper in his ear. His breath warms the side of Shane’s neck. “I know you can do it. You do this and Kane is peachy, you won’t have a worry in the world. One hit, stay off the wrist. I want him remembering this for a couple weeks, not learning to use a fork for the rest of the year.”

As Shane looks past the hammer, he sees Rolan properly. The man is older, maybe forty, with one eye swollen and dried blood crusted beneath his nose. Shane recognizes him vaguely from upstairs, usually sitting near the card tables. His cheek is pressed to the concrete now, but he keeps trying to turn his face enough to see what’s happening.

“But he-” Shane stops and looks at Rolan. “They already beat the shit out of him!”

“That was Mike’s part.” Ilya folds his arm. “Shane, break his hand.”

He’d use the same tone to tell Shane to get off the veteran’s couch, and Shane stares at him, waiting for the part of this he has misunderstood.

“I’m not doing this,” Shane says, his voice already starting to tremble. Judging by Ilya’s eyes narrowing, he’s hit a nerve.

“I’m sorry, did you decide violence is suddenly beneath you?” Ilya asks. “Because if I remember correctly, you put Comeau in the fucking hospital.”

“That was different,” Shane says helplessly.

Ilya’s nostrils flare. Shane knows immediately that he has said the wrong thing.

“Yeah. It sure was, because Comeau was for you.” Ilya continues. “Your father was for you. Connors too. Yuri puts his hands on you, suddenly you’re happy to crack a bottle over his head. Every time it serves you, your morals go straight out the window.”

That’s not what happened, Shane wants to protest. He snapped, he wasn’t in control of himself.

He remembers Comeau underneath him on the ice. The crowd screaming. His fist coming down again after there was already blood everywhere.

Rolan isn’t Comeau. He isn’t David or Yuri. Ilya can stack them together all he wants, Shane knows the difference.

“This time it’s for me,” Ilya says, cupping Shane’s face between both hands and turning it squarely toward him.

“I can’t do things like that for you,” Shane presses on.

“He deserves it. What's the difference?”

“I don’t know.” Shane shakes his head inside Ilya’s hands. “I don’t fucking know, Ilya! I just can't.”

“I know you can do this, kid,” Ilya says quietly. “You just do this one thing, and then we’re done here. We can all forget about this.”

Shane looks toward Feliks for some indication that Ilya has finally crossed a line. But no one seems revolted or concerned by what’s happening. Either way, Rolan’s hand is getting crushed. Shane could leave now and let Ilya handle it, but Kane would still have to deal with the consequences of his decision.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Shane steps forward, disentangling himself from the warmth of Ilya's hand on his shoulder.

Eduard pulls Rolan’s right arm straight and presses his palm flat against the floor. Rolan’s breathing turns ragged when he sees him coming. He’s nothing like David in the parking lot, drunk and furious. Rolan only looks scared.

He crouches beside Rolan, his fingers tighten around the wooden handle. The man struggles, but Feliks helps Eduard pin him down.

Do it like a man, he thinks over and over, like a mantra.

Shane raises the hammer.

*

“But mom… He started it.”

“I know, baby, but it doesn’t mean you should do it back.” Yuna smooths his hair down. “You still have to do the right thing, okay?”

*

He swings.

***

“Ho-ly fucking hell,” Ilya draws the word out and whistles. He turns to Eduard. “Did you see that? Bet he’s a menace at whack-a-mole.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the urge to vomit.

Eduard gets Rolan to his feet. He cradles his broken hand against his chest, sobbing through clenched teeth. His knees buckle before Feliks gets underneath his other arm. He can technically walk, though most of his weight hangs between the two grunts.

Ilya glances over his shoulder as they walk him out.

“Take him upstairs, wrap that shit up, give him something for the pain, kiss it better, whatever needs doing.” He points after them. “And take him past Nadia first. I want her to see that beautiful apology he just gave her.”

Shane is still crouched beside the empty patch of concrete. A hand settles on his shoulder. Shane clamps harder around the hammer, his knuckles have gone white. Shane keeps staring at the head, mesmerized. He had expected blood, but there isn’t a drop.

“Come on, kid. Gimme.” Ilya kneels in front of him.

Carefully, he grabs Shane’s wrist and pries Shane’s fingers loose from the handle one at a time, then tosses the hammer toward the toolbox.

“It’s over.” Ilya lets go of his wrist, then reaches up and pushes Shane’s hair back from his forehead, fingers running through it. Shane leans into it before he realizes what he’s doing. “You’re all right. You did good, really good, so take it easy.”

Ilya is practically glowing with pride. Suddenly, Shane can’t remember why he ever wanted to impress that man.

***

“This is mine.”

Ilya opens the door and motions him through. The room is small but nicer than anything Shane expected to find upstairs. A bed, dresser, bathroom, television bolted to the wall.

“I crash here when I’m too drunk to make it home,” Ilya says. “Nobody uses it but me so you don’t gotta spend the night wondering whose dried-up little swimmers are living in the mattress.”

What happened downstairs has put Ilya in the best mood Shane has seen all week.

Tentatively, Shane asks, “Where are you sleeping?”

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna be just fine. I got half the women upstairs lined up like it’s Black Friday and my dick’s the last TV in the store. Maybe I let two of ’em win. After tonight, why stop at two? I earned myself a party.”

Shane’s face heats up and he cringes. He doesn’t want to think about Ilya having sex with a bunch of girls after what just happened. He sits on the edge of the bed, half expecting the mattress to crunch beneath him.

He can’t believe that a few weeks ago he spent night after night wondering when Ilya would trust him enough to bring him back here. He must be sick in the head, wanting so badly to be chosen by someone who keeps kicking him. Maybe he’s lonely without David, and Ilya feels like a fire in the dead of winter. Shane is cold enough to crawl toward the first thing giving off heat, never mind that getting close means getting burned.

“If you wanted his hand broken.” Shane picks at a loose thread in the blanket. “You should’ve done it yourself. You’re the one with the rules. Nadia’s your friend. You made this personal.”

“I wanted to know what happens when I ask something difficult from you.”

“You keep looking at me and seeing…” Shane searches for something he can stand to say. “You. You wanted my hands dirty too. You wanted me dirty and you wanted to watch. Tell me I’m wrong,” Shane dares him.

“You were dirty before I met you. That’s what made me notice you.” Ilya stares at him, then laughs. “I’ve got ideas for you, kid. Lots of ’em. And I’m dying to see which ones stick. Assuming you ever quit fighting me long enough to let me get you there.”

Shane looks at him, bewildered. Ilya takes the chair beside the dresser and turns it backward before sitting, forearms resting across the top.

“You wanna know when I started giving a shit about Shane Hollander? I barely knew you existed until you went apeshit on TV. Then Montreal shits its pants, gift-wraps your ass and drops you right in my lap. Since then, you’ve been walking around scared there’s something bad in there. You spend every day sitting on it like it’s a grenade. You don’t look at it. You don’t learn anything about it. You just clench your ass cheeks and pray it never goes off.”

Ilya leans forward, forearms on his thighs.

“It’s always the same excuse, I lost control, I don’t know what happened. I needed you to do something ugly with your head clear. You keep talking like somebody else does the bad shit and leaves you holding the bag.”

“I still didn’t choose to do it.” Shane picks harder at the thread on the blanket until it snaps. He can still feel the hammer in his palm.

“I didn’t ask you to have the time of your life. I asked you to be awake. One swing, off the wrist, then done. You knew exactly what you were doing, and you did a great job.” Ilya stands and comes over.

He reaches out. Shane’s whole body knows what happens next. That ridiculous tenderness Ilya keeps pulling out right after shoving Shane’s head underwater.

He’s fucking with your head. Do something. Now, he thinks. Ilya’s fingers barely touch him. Unable to bear it anymore, Shane turns and bites.

“Ow, what the fuck?” Ilya barks.

He jerks his hand back on reflex, but Shane has already sunk his teeth into the thick pad beneath his thumb. His free hand comes up fast enough that Shane thinks he’s about to get slapped, but Ilya grabs a fistful of Shane’s shirt high on his chest and shoves.

Shane’s shoulders hit the mattress, and Ilya follows him down immediately, planting one knee beside Shane’s hip.

“You have completely lost your goddamn mind,” Ilya says incredulously, looking down at him.

Surely, Ilya could yank free, but he pushes his palm farther against Shane’s mouth, forcing Shane’s head into the mattress. Then, against all odds, the corner of his mouth lifts.

The bastard is enjoying this. Shane glares up at him over his knuckles. Unwilling to back down, he sinks his teeth deeper, hyper-aware of the fact that this might be a game to Ilya but that he’s the one walking through a minefield.

“Oh, come on!” Ilya winces. “Five minutes ago I scratch your head, you’re about ready to roll over and show me your belly. Now you get mad? It’s like there are two of you rattling around in that messed-up head.”

The words sting and Shane makes an angry noise against his skin, only clamping down harder. Ilya recoils and Shane follows, refusing to let him take his hand back on his own terms. Beneath his tongue, Ilya’s pulse keeps beating hard.

“Ah- Jesus fucking Christ.” Ilya sucks air through his teeth.

Shane finally releases him. Ilya shifts off him, wiping his spit-covered palm on the thigh of his pants. Shane’s teeth have left deep red impressions around the base of his thumb.

“See? I can stop myself,” Shane hisses. He sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling like he just got one over Ilya. “You gonna break mine now?”

He only dares to say it because he knows Ilya wouldn’t. Shane had offered himself up downstairs and Ilya hadn’t laid a finger on him. He leaves that part unsaid.

For once, Ilya doesn’t answer right away.

“So can I.”

Ilya gives him a little slap across the cheek, quick enough that Shane doesn’t see it coming. It barely hurts, but it takes him a few seconds to gather himself.

“I’m not gonna maim you for acting out, Shane.” The humor stays in Ilya’s face, but his voice drops. “But every once in a while? Yeah. I think a slap might do you some fucking good.”

Ilya waits another beat, apparently satisfied when Shane doesn’t immediately come at him again.

“Shit. You actually got me pretty good.” He works his thumb, grimacing. “I mean, usually when a girl puts her mouth on me, she knows to watch the teeth.”

Shane’s little triumph dies on impact. He had turned Ilya’s lesson back on him for all of thirty seconds before Ilya contaminated the whole thing.

“What about Kane?” Shane asks when Ilya strolls toward the door.

“Kane's done, you paid his bill.” Ilya turns the door knob. “Lock it after me.”

Luke 12:48 — “For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.”

Chapter End Notes

I can’t say too much about Sasha yet without getting ahead of myself, but I’m very excited to develop his relationship with Shane next chapter. He’s especially uncomfortable for Shane because he’s several things Shane would insist are impossible: enjoying being desired by men without feeling degraded and letting someone else hold power in your life without necessarily being powerless. Selfishly, Shane would be more comfortable if Sasha was miserable.