Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander & Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Brandon Wiebe, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Evan Dykstra, Nick Chouinard, Harris Drover, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Original Characters, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), POV Multiple, Coming Out, Texting, Social Media, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Anxiety, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Good Friend Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Canon-Typical Homophobia, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Friendship, Found Family, Belonging, Immigration & Emigration, Hockey-Typical Violence, Protective Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Internalized Homophobia, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Sickfic

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Kick At The Darkness ('Til It Bleeds Daylight)

Collections:

Fragments of Ice, I'm praying these update, HR canon divergence: Shane ditches Montreal, *Heated rivalry melts my heart*, Heated Rivalry ➻ Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov / Shane Hollander, Ebenelephant's Hoard of Shiny Gems, Relationship Reveal HR

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-18 Completed: 2026-03-02 Words: 72,997 Chapters: 22/22

A Little Less Like Lonely (A Little More Like Home)

Summary

When Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov arrive in Ottawa, everyone expects the hard part to be hockey.

What they don’t expect is how difficult — and how hopeful — it will be to finally build a life together.

As the Centaurs rebuild, Shane and Ilya navigate new teammates, new expectations, and the unfamiliar challenge of letting their relationship exist outside of stolen moments and long-distance phone calls.

Because it turns out, being on a losing hockey team might be the easy part.

Learning how to have a future together is something else entirely.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Title From the Song: All the Way by Matt Andersen

Wyatt Hayes still isn’t sure how he feels about being an Ottawa Centaur.

It’s not that he doesn’t like the team. Or even the city. Ottawa had welcomed him with a kind of uncomplicated warmth the second he’d stepped off the plane at the trade deadline; equipment guys greeting him by name, trainers making space for him like he belonged, teammates tossing him into conversations without making him earn it.

It should have made it easier.

Privately, it just made him feel guiltier about how unsettled he still was.

They’re a bottom-of-the-league team. That part is just facts; standings don’t lie, neither do the highlights of pucks slipping past your defense because the timing’s off and the structure collapses the second someone sneezes.

And his whole life was in Toronto.

Toronto’s room had been… Toronto’s room. The culture there could sour milk. The expectations were a vice grip. Chirping that was so far past the line of acceptable, he shuddered to think what was said in private.

But he’d been happy enough anyway, in the way you can be happy inside a machine when you know exactly what your job is and you’re good enough at it.

He liked the city. He liked their house. He liked the way the kitchen window caught the morning sun. He liked that Lisa had a routine there; her job, her friends, the yoga studio she swore she loved and then complained about for forty minutes afterward.

He’d known a trade was coming. Not Ottawa specifically, but… something. Toronto had at least had the decency to give him a heads-up. One of those quiet meetings where the GM’s mouth says “We value you” while his eyes say “We’ve already run the numbers.”

Wyatt had emotionally prepared. He’d told himself that was the job. You pack, you go, you smile for the cameras, and pretend you aren’t being moved like a piece on someone else’s board.

Ottawa had been better than he expected. Infinitely better, honestly. The guys were genuinely nice. Not performative nice, not “we’ll tolerate you until you prove useful” nice, just nice. The kind that makes you realize how much tension you’d been holding in your shoulders for years.

And still.

Getting sent to Ottawa had felt a little like being put out to pasture.

Like the organization had looked at him and decided, “You’ve served your purpose. Go be decent somewhere quiet.”

He’d been sitting in that self-pity, quietly, privately, in the corners of his own head, until the end of the season.

Until Shane Hollander got traded to Ottawa.

And then Wyatt couldn’t muster it anymore.

Because if Toronto shipping a middle-of-the-road goalie to Ottawa felt like being put out to pasture, Montreal sending their captain to Ottawa was the hockey equivalent of taking your prize-winning racehorse out behind the barn to be shot.

It was objectively a steal for Ottawa. The kind of deal fans print out and frame. But God… Wyatt had felt sick for Hollander.

No one knew, officially, why Montreal had dumped him. Or if they even had. Maybe Hollander had asked to leave.

But between a lackluster season where sometimes it looked like their captain was alone on the ice, alone in the way a guy is alone when he’s doing everything right and the team still leaves him out to dry, and then the rumors about the room… the whispers of toxic culture and management “handling it internally”… it didn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.

So, post-season, Wyatt’s feelings about Ottawa had shifted. Self-pity had burned off into something closer to sympathy.

It was still going to be hard. It was still going to be Ottawa. But at least he could tell himself there was purpose in it. That they weren’t just collecting leftovers. That they were building something.

And now…

Now he’s standing in his living room in the middle of a July afternoon, and he feels like the universe just reached into his skull and flicked a switch.

His phone pings again. He’s had it in his hand for five minutes, and he still hasn’t processed what he saw.

The group chat is small: him, Evan Dykstra, and Nick Chouinard. Defensemen, both of them. Evan’s been with the Centaurs long enough to have a permanent bruise where optimism should be. Chou’s a bit newer, still in that stage where he’s trying to figure out if the organization’s problems are fixable or just… structural.

The first message Evan sent had been a screenshot.

A Hockey Night in Canada tweet, all clean branding and cheerful punctuation, like it wasn’t detonating a bomb in the middle of the league.

The second had been a link. The official Ottawa Centaurs press release.

Wyatt is still staring at it, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen, like if he refreshes it enough times, it’ll turn into something more reasonable.

It does not.

It stays stubbornly the same. Black text. White background. A brief statement. Corporate language.

And one name that makes his brain skip like a scratched CD.

Rozanov.

Wyatt reads it again, slower, like he’s trying to catch the trick.

No trick.

“What the fuck?” he blurts out loud.

From the kitchen, there’s the sound of the refrigerator door closing, then footsteps on hardwood. Lisa appears in the doorway, hair up, wearing one of Wyatt’s t-shirts. She takes one look at his face and immediately changes course, coming straight to him.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, hand sliding between his shoulder blades.

Wyatt doesn’t answer right away because he’s still not sure his mouth knows how to form the sentence. He just tilts the phone so she can see.

Lisa leans in, squints, and reads. Her eyebrows climb.

“Is that…” she starts.

Before she can finish, Wyatt’s phone lights up with an incoming FaceTime.

Nick Chouinard

Wyatt stares at the screen like he’s considering throwing the phone into the nearest body of water, then hits accept, because if he doesn’t talk to someone right now, his head might actually explode.

Chou’s face pops up, framed by what looks like his kitchen. His hair is damp like he’s just gotten out of the shower or shoved his head under a faucet in an attempt to reset reality.

“What the…” Chou begins, and then stops like he can’t even commit to the profanity yet. “Tell me you’re seeing this too.”

Wyatt angles the camera. “I’m seeing it.”

Lisa hovers behind Wyatt’s shoulder, watching, her hand still on him like she’s anchoring him to the planet.

Chou’s eyes flick up. “Hey, Lisa.”

“Hey,” she says, and there’s something in her voice like she’s trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. Like this is too big for anything else.

“Okay,” Chou says, voice rising. “Okay? I don’t…”

A chime. Another face joins.

Evan Dykstra appears looking like someone just told him Santa Claus is actually real and also that gravity is optional. His eyes are wide. His jaw is set in a way that suggests he’s been clenching it for five minutes straight.

“Tell me,” Evan says without preamble, “that this is fake.”

Wyatt gestures at his phone like it’s Exhibit A in a courtroom. “Official press release.”

Evan drags a hand down his face. “No. No, no, no.”

Chou barks a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “What do you mean, no? It’s already happened.”

Evan points at his own screen like he can poke the universe through it. “I mean… why? Why here?”

Wyatt opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“I don’t know,” he says, which feels like an understatement bordering on criminal.

For a second, the three of them just stare at each other through the glitchy little rectangles, as if collectively waiting for a fourth face to join and say “Surprise! Just kidding. All-star prank.”

It doesn’t happen.

Evan’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s reading something on another screen. “It’s all over the league socials too,” he says. “It’s… he’s… he’s signed. It’s real.”

Chou makes a noise low in his throat. “Why would he pick Ottawa?”

“That’s the question,” Wyatt says slowly.

Lisa’s hand squeezes his shoulder once, like encouragement.

Wyatt tries to put words to it, to the shape of the confusion.

“I mean,” he says, “it’s not like he needed…”

“Money?” Evan finishes sharply. “No.”

“Term?” Chou adds. “No.”

“A chance?” Wyatt says, and even he hears how ridiculous it sounds. “He could’ve had a chance anywhere.”

Evan’s mouth twists. “Is he here to play hero?”

Chou snorts. “To what? Drag us out of the basement by himself?”

Evan looks at him like he might actually believe that’s possible, and that scares Wyatt a little. Because it’s insane. Because it’s also… if anyone could do it, it would be someone like Rozanov.

“Is this an ego thing?” Chou asks, voice half awed, half offended. “Like, ‘watch me turn a dumpster fire into a contender’?”

Wyatt rubs his face. “That’s… that’s a theory.”

“No.” Evan shakes his head so hard his camera wobbles. “No, even Rozanov isn’t that arrogant. There has to be something else.”

“Like what?” Chou’s eyes narrow. “Like Boston didn’t want him?”

Wyatt blinks. “Why wouldn’t Boston want him?”

“Exactly,” Chou says. “So why is he not there?”

Evan leans forward, elbows probably on a counter. His expression goes tight, thoughtful. “Unless… unless Boston did want him and he didn’t want Boston.”

Wyatt stares at him.

Evan continues, speaking faster now, like his brain is on a downhill slope. “Unless he wanted out. Unless something happened. Unless this is…”

“A punishment?” Chou says, incredulous.

Evan’s lips press into a line. “Or a challenge.”

Wyatt thinks of Shane Hollander again. Thinks of the trade. Thinks of the rumors. Thinks of the sudden, aggressive competence of Ottawa’s front office in the last few months like someone finally decided to start acting like they wanted to win.

He thinks of the way the press release was worded: careful, clean, like it’s been vetted by three lawyers and a priest.

He thinks of how July 1 is supposed to feel for a team like Ottawa: anxious, hopeful, resigned to watching the big names go elsewhere while you make do.

And instead, the biggest name on the board just walked through their door.

Wyatt’s throat goes dry.

Evan’s face tightens with something like disbelief turning into something else. “It’s insane.”

Chou nods once, slowly. “It’s huge.”

Lisa’s hand slides off Wyatt’s shoulder, and she leans closer to the phone, eyes on Evan and Chou. “Is this good for you guys?” she asks carefully, like she doesn’t want to jinx it.

Evan barks a laugh. “For us? Yeah. It’s good. It’s…”

“It’s a cheat code,” Chou says, voice reverent despite himself.

Wyatt huffs a breath, the kind you let out when you realize you’ve been holding it for too long.

“Yeah,” he says, and he’s surprised by how steady the word comes out. “It’s good. For us.”

Evan’s gaze flicks to Wyatt. “You feel bad for him?”

Wyatt doesn’t answer immediately because the truth is complicated.

He’d felt bad for Hollander because Hollander had arrived like a man carrying bruises no one could photograph. Because something about it had felt like punishment, or a desperate escape.

Rozanov’s arrival feels different. Not clean, nothing about hockey is clean, but intentional. Like a choice.

Wyatt looks down at the press release again, at the neat lines of text that don’t say anything real.

“I don’t know what to feel,” he admits.

Chou’s face softens slightly, which is rare. “Yeah.”

Evan’s eyes go distant, like he’s already imagining training camp. Imagining that first practice. Imagining the way the building will feel when two of the best players in the league step onto their ice wearing their crest.

Evan swallows. “This is going to change everything.”

Wyatt’s phone buzzes again with another notification, someone else somewhere in the league shouting into the void about the signing, the hockey world catching fire one tweet at a time.

“Yeah,” Wyatt says quietly.

And then, beneath the shock, beneath the uncertainty, beneath the lingering sting of being a guy who got traded away from his life…

There’s something else; tiny, bright, and dangerous.

Excitement.

He can’t help it. He doesn’t even want to.

Because Ottawa just became a very different team.

Wyatt looks at the two defensemen staring back at him through his phone, both of them still shellshocked, both of them trying to calculate what this means.

He thinks of Hollander, too, somewhere out there, probably fielding texts and calls and questions he can’t answer yet.

He thinks, suddenly, of the first day of training camp.

And for the first time since he’d arrived in Ottawa and told himself he could make peace with being “put out to pasture,” Wyatt feels the faint, electric pull of possibility.

“Alright,” he says, forcing his voice into something like normal. “So what do we do now?”

“We get scored on less?” Evan’s mouth quirks, sharp and helpless.

Chou laughs, this time real. “We stop being a joke?”

Wyatt looks toward Lisa, who’s still standing behind him, still watching like she’s also trying to decide whether to hope.

He looks back at the screen. And he says the only honest thing he’s got.

“We show up,” Wyatt says.

Because apparently, somehow… Ottawa is making itself worth showing up for.

Chapter 2

The house is bright in a way that feels inviting.

Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the living room, catching on dust motes and the edges of half-unpacked boxes. A warm breeze drifts in through open windows, carrying the distant sound of leaves rustling and, faintly, someone mowing a lawn several houses away. The air smells like cut grass, cardboard, and fresh paint.

It doesn’t feel anything like Ilya’s old place in Boston.

That house had been sleek and sharp-edged, all clean lines and cool surfaces. Everything chosen carefully, sparingly, like clutter might give something away. Shane’s place in Montreal had been somewhere in between; functional, familiar, but curated in a way that always made Ilya feel like neither of them quite belonged to it.

This is different.

The house in Rothwell Heights is warm. It’s smaller than what people probably imagine two millionaires owning. Lived-in already, even with half its contents still in boxes. A mid-century bungalow with a sunken living room and wood accents that catch the light just right. The kind of place that looks like it was designed for slow afternoons and long winters. It sits back from the road at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway, invisible from the street unless you know exactly where to look.

The street itself is quiet, too. The kind of quietly wealthy neighbourhood where people mind their business because nothing ever happens. No gawkers. No curiosity. No one counting cars or noticing patterns.

Privacy. Safety.

Currently, the house is full of boxes, stacked neatly along the walls like a maze someone abandoned halfway through building. David stands in the living room by the bookshelf, sorting through paperbacks and framed photos with surprising care, occasionally tilting his head like he’s curating a gallery instead of a hockey player’s living space. He hums to himself, content, every so often stepping back to adjust the angle of a knick-knack by a fraction of an inch.

In the kitchen, Yuna and Shane are rearranging the pots and pans for the third time.

“No, see,” Shane says, sliding a drawer open and closed like the answer might reveal itself if he tries hard enough. “If we put the big pan here, then…”

“It makes no sense,” Yuna interrupts cheerfully, moving the pan anyway. “You’ll never reach it.”

“I can reach it.”

“You can, but you won’t,” she replies, already reorganizing again. “You’ll grab the wrong one and then complain.”

Shane huffs, fondly exasperated. “You don’t know that.”

Yuna gives him a look that says she absolutely does.

Ilya sits at the island, elbows resting on cool stone, sipping tea that’s long since gone lukewarm. He doesn’t mind. He watches the three of them move through the space like this is the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the result of months of planning and quiet fear and careful decisions.

On paper, this is Shane’s house.

And only Shane’s house.

Ilya’s official address is downtown, a modern condo in the Golden Triangle with clean sightlines and a doorman who’s paid to not ask questions. It had been a smart decision, necessary, even. Separate addresses gave them plausible deniability. It gave Ilya a place to be visible, social, and uncomplicated in the ways his current reputation demanded. Somewhere he could host teammates without raising eyebrows or inviting scrutiny about where, and with whom, he spent most of his nights.

Ilya knows he’s more extroverted than Shane. He likes being the one who invites people over, who organizes game nights and casual dinners. Having his own place means he can do that without making Shane feel like his space is being invaded, and without making their shared life too visible too soon.

Still. They both know the truth.

This house, this place filled with light and mismatched boxes and Shane’s laugh drifting through the kitchen, is home.

Ilya abandons his tea on the counter and reaches for the next box labelled KITCHEN. He opens it and lifts out a mug, ceramic and sturdy, something Shane must have picked up years ago and forgotten about.

“Моя любовь,” Ilya says lightly. My love; the endearment is habitual now.

Shane looks over automatically, eyebrows lifting in question. His gaze flicks to the mug in Ilya’s hand.

“Кружка,” Shane says, pronouncing the word for mug carefully, making sure every sound is as accurate as he can make it.

Ilya’s mouth curves. He nods once in approval and sets the mug down on the counter without even attempting to guess which cupboard it will end up in. That is a battle he will not fight.

They’ve been playing this game for weeks now; ever since Shane admitted that he’s, privately, been learning Russian for over a year.

Learning it quietly. Methodically. Since that phone call from Moscow.

Ilya had been so overwhelmed by the warmth that had seized his chest when Shane told him that he hadn’t even known how to respond. Still doesn’t, really. There isn’t a word for the way it feels to realize someone is learning an entirely new language so that you don’t have to translate your heart every time you open your mouth.

So instead, Ilya quizzes him.

“А это?” Ilya asks as he pulls another item from the box. And this?

Shane glances over at the plate in his hand. “Тарелка,” he says, more confidently this time.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs, genuinely pleased.

Shane preens for half a second before catching himself. “My accent was terrible.”

“It was not terrible,” Ilya says, affronted. “It was… acceptable.”

Shane snorts. “High praise.”

Ilya smirks and hands him another item. The game continues as they unpack, gentle teasing threaded through every exchange. Ilya corrects him softly when he needs it, never pushing, never mocking. Shane absorbs it all with the same focus he brings to game film sessions and practice drills, repeating words under his breath until they settle right.

It shows. He can get through basic conversations without stumbling. Understand more than he lets on. His pronunciation improves constantly, the words feeling less stilted, the sounds flowing more naturally.

Ilya watches him from the corner of his eye, something warm and steady unfurling in his chest.

Yuna, rearranging a cabinet nearby, catches the look and smiles to herself without saying a word.

David clears his throat from the living room. “Where does this go?” he calls, holding up a framed photo.

Shane turns, mid-Russian-practice, and grins. “Wherever you think looks best.”

David studies the shelf again. “Trusting,” he says dryly.

Ilya laughs, soft and unguarded, and reaches for the next box.

The house hums around them; quiet, alive, theirs.

Lunchtime finds the four of them sitting at Shane and Ilya’s new kitchen table, eating the sandwiches his mom had made and brought over from his parents’ house across town.

His mom sits next to him, idly checking her email while she eats. Ilya and his dad are across from them, Ilya already halfway through his second sandwich as he nods along to something his dad is saying about the best route to the rink in rush hour traffic.

Shane lets the conversation wash around him.

He leans back in his chair, shoulders loose in a way they haven’t been in a while, and watches Ilya talk with his dad; hands moving, voice animated, the occasional Russian word slipping through the way they still do when his brain is moving too quickly to translate carefully. David listens intently, asking questions, not looking lost or impatient.

It still catches Shane sometimes, how easily they all fit together.

His phone buzzes on the table.

Shane glances down, expecting nothing in particular, and then sees the name.

Zane Boodram

He feels the flicker of hesitation before he even opens the message. It’s not fear exactly, more like the afterimage of it. The muscle memory of a time when every interaction with teammates felt loaded, where every invitation came with an unspoken evaluation attached. Where he’d learned the hard way that being welcome and being tolerated were not the same thing.

He opens it anyway.

He’d hesitated when the alternate captain had first invited him earlier in the summer. Not because he didn’t want to do it, he was always willing to do charity stuff, but because it still felt strange, accepting he was part of a team that wasn’t Montreal. Scary, letting himself be visible around new people, new teammates, who haven’t decided how they feel about sharing a locker room with a gay man.

But this… this is easier. No media, no pressure. No need to perform a specific role to the public. He’s just showing up to talk to sick kids and hopefully make a decent impression on some teammates.

He types back a quick confirmation, then sets the phone face down again.

His mom notices anyway. She always does.

“Everything okay?” she asks, already reaching for her own phone out of habit.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “That was Boodram. Confirming the kids’ hospital thing later this month.”

Her face brightens immediately. “Oh, good. What day did you say it was again?”

“Twenty-fourth. Morning.”

She nods, thumbs flying as she adds it to her calendar. “That’s nice,” she says casually. “It’s a good sign they asked you.”

Shane hums in agreement. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that until she said it.

“Yeah,” he says. “It feels… nice.”

Ilya glances over, eyebrows lifting slightly. “You were nervous about it.”

“I was,” Shane admits. “I think I just needed to stop thinking of it like I was intruding.”

“You’re not intruding,” His mom says immediately, sharp with certainty. “You’re on the team.”

His dad nods. “And it’s good for people to see you. Especially there.”

Shane swallows around something warm in his throat and takes a sip of water to cover it.

“It’s not just that,” he says, after a beat. “I’ve been getting texts too. From the captain. From the coach.”

His mom’s attention sharpens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Nothing big. Just… welcome messages. Checking in. Asking if I need anything.” He shrugs, like he’s trying not to make more of it than it is.

“They seem actually happy I’m here.”

There’s a brief, loaded pause, one that carries Montreal with it without ever saying the name.

Ilya breaks it first.

“I got the same,” he says. “From both of them. Was nice. Did not feel… forced.”

Shane snorts softly. “No PR speak.”

“Exactly.” Ilya smiles faintly. “Coach asked me to think about if I’d be okay playing wing. Said he didn’t want it to be surprise when he asks about it at camp.”

His dad raises his eyebrows. “That’s… considerate.”

“Suspiciously so,” Shane says dryly.

“Careful.” His mom laughs. “You might get used to it.”

The mention of the coach opens the door, and the conversation drifts naturally there.

“I still can’t believe how young he is,” Shane says. “He’s what… thirty-nine?”

“Thirty-eight,” Ilya corrects. “I checked.”

Of course he did.

“Wow,” his dad says.

His mom smiles. “Maybe that’s good. Fresh perspective.”

“Maybe,” Shane says. “Hopefully he’s good at the job.”

“Will have to see.” Ilya shrugs. “He seems… nice.”

“That’s a start,” Shane says, and realizes he means it.

They talk hockey then, lightly, carefully. What they’ve heard about Wiebe’s systems. How little anyone really knows. The fact that he’s new to Ottawa this season, too, finding his footing alongside them. The two teammates Shane’s exchanged messages with so far, brief but friendly. The absence of edge in any of it.

It’s not a miracle.

It’s just… normal.

And that might be the strangest part.

Shane leans back again, listening to his parents argue gently about whether the house needs more art on the walls, watching Ilya gesture animatedly as he explains something about neutral zone pressure, and feels something settle in his chest.

He’s still nervous.

About the team. About the season. About what it means to start over somewhere new when he’s spent so long being the guy somewhere else.

But for the first time in a while, the nerves aren’t tangled up with dread.

They’re threaded with something else.

Cautious optimism.

Dinner finds Ilya standing in the living room of Shane’s childhood home, and he doesn’t bother pretending he feels normal about it.

The house is warm in that particular way places get when they’ve been loved for decades. Not carefully styled, not polished, just… inhabited. Worn in. An even more permanent version of the Hollander parents’ cottage. The furniture doesn’t match, not really, and the walls are crowded with framed photos that seem to have multiplied over the years instead of being rotated out. Birthdays. Holidays. Vacations. Awkward school pictures where Shane’s smile looks too big for his face.

Ilya drifts slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, letting himself look.

There’s a corner near the hallway where a Team Canada jersey is mounted in a simple frame, the fabric slightly faded with time. Below it, photos from the Cup win: Shane on the ice, helmet askew, grin feral and disbelieving. Shane with his parents, all three of them squinting into camera flashes. Shane lifting the Cup, with that rare, completely uninhibited smile.

Physical evidence, Ilya thinks. Of love. Of pride.

His chest tightens, not painfully, but sharply enough that he has to pause for a second and breathe through it.

“You’re staring like it’ll disappear,” David says mildly from the kitchen.

Ilya startles, then laughs, unembarrassed. “I am enjoying,” he says honestly.

David smiles at that, small and genuine. “Good. Come help me before Yuna decides we’re late and takes over.”

That sounds like a threat, so Ilya follows him into the kitchen without argument.

Cooking with David is easy. Comfortable. They move around each other without bumping, passing utensils, trading space, Ilya dutifully following David’s instructions. David chops vegetables with methodical precision while Ilya stirs something that smells rich and comforting, steam fogging the window above the sink.

“You cook a lot?” David asks casually.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “It is… comforting.”

David hums in agreement. “It is.”

There’s no interrogation. No awkward curiosity. Just a quiet acceptance that Ilya is here, belongs in this space, hands in the same sink Shane grew up washing dishes in.

When they sit down to eat, the table fills quickly with food and conversation. Yuna talks about the neighbours. David asks Shane about training camp logistics. Shane answers easily, relaxed in a way Ilya rarely sees him anywhere else.

He’s different here.

Not smaller. Not younger. Just… unguarded.

Shane leans back in his chair, one ankle hooked over the other, laughing freely when his mom teases him about never calling unless he needs something. He listens more than he speaks. He interrupts without apologizing. He doesn’t brace for impact before offering an opinion.

Ilya watches him, chest warm and aching all at once.

He hadn’t realized, until now, how much he wanted this. Not just to love Shane, but to see him here. To understand the shape of the family that made him. To be allowed into it.

Two years ago, Ilya would not have dared imagine this scene. Would not have let himself want it, not really. Family dinners. Easy teasing. Parents who look at him without calculation, without judgment, without the weight of expectations.

He eats slowly, savoring the food, the noise, the quiet moments in between.

When Yuna reaches over to refill his glass without asking, when David nudges his shoulder lightly as he passes the bread, something settles in Ilya’s chest that he doesn’t have language for yet.

Later, when the goodbyes are said, and they’re back at the house in Rothwell Heights, the night feels hushed around them.

They get ready for bed in practiced silence, brushing teeth side by side, moving through the space like they’ve always done this. Ilya slips under the covers first, sheets cool against his skin, and Shane follows a moment later, warmth pressing close immediately.

They lie facing each other, knees tangled, the room lit only by the soft glow from the hallway.

“Camp’s coming fast,” Shane says quietly.

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs. “You are worried about it.”

Shane exhales. “A little. New systems. New team. I know it’s normal, but…” He trails off, then offers a small, honest smile. “Montreal didn’t exactly make me excited about being the new guy.”

Ilya reaches out, fingers brushing Shane’s wrist, grounding. “That will take time,” he says. “What they did… it does not just disappear.”

“We’ll have to be careful,” Shane adds, not anxious, just practical. “Especially at first. Showing up separately, that kind of thing.”

“I know,” Ilya says. The words don’t weigh on him the way they once might have. And then, softer: “But we are here. Together.”

Shane’s hand finds his, their fingers threading together easily. “Yeah. We are.”

The relief of it, of sleeping in the same place, of not counting hours, of not saying goodbye, wraps around Ilya like a blanket.

Outside, the neighbourhood is quiet. Safe. Anonymous.

Inside, Shane shifts closer, forehead resting against Ilya’s, breathing steady.

This is real, he thinks. This life they’re building.

And for the first time, the thought doesn’t scare him at all.

Chapter 3

Bood has always loved the first day of training camp.

Not the headline-grabbing kind of love, but a quieter, steadier thing. The kind you feel in your bones when you step into a room that smells like tape and sweat that never quite leaves the walls, when the air buzzes with voices, and everything feels familiar and brand new at the same time.

He digs through his duffel at his stall, letting the locker room chatter wash over him like white noise.

Someone’s already arguing about playlists. Someone else is complaining about the fitness testing like it’s a personal betrayal. Lenny is laughing too loudly at something Tomek just said, because Lenny laughs too loudly at everything. It’s the same rhythm it always is, even when the names change.

Bood has been in the building plenty the last week; captain’s skates, workouts, the usual unofficial pre-camp stuff. But this is different. This is the real start. The day where everything resets, at least on the surface. Where everyone pretends the last season doesn’t matter as much as it did, and the new one isn’t going to hurt as much as it probably will.

He pulls out his practice socks, checks that he’s got his mouthguard, and hears Hazy’s voice float through the room.

“Morning, Hollander.”

Bood glances up automatically.

Wyatt Hayes leans back against his stall, helmet hair already half-formed even though they haven’t hit the ice yet. He looks easy about it. Hazy’s a goalie, and goalies are always a little weird about first impressions, but Bood catches the carefulness in it too. Like he’s choosing friendliness on purpose.

Shane Hollander, only a few steps into the room, pauses. He’s got that posture Bood’s seen for years across TV broadcasts and playoff series: shoulders squared, face neutral, eyes too sharp to ever fully relax.

And yet.

The smile that shows up is small, but real.

“Hey,” Hollander says, and it isn’t the stiff, clipped kind of hello you give strangers. He steps in, bumps fists with Hazy, then turns to greet a couple more guys like he’s been doing this longer than a week.

Dykstra gets a nod. Chou gets a quiet “morning.” Someone else gets a shoulder tap that looks almost accidental.

Bood clocks it with a low, private relief. Moving to a new team is hard in the best of circumstances. It’s harder when you’ve spent your entire career in one city, wearing one jersey, being one thing to one fanbase.

It’s harder again when everyone in the league has an opinion about you before you’ve even hung your suit bag on the hook.

Hollander’s been through it. Bood doesn’t need the details to know that much. The Metros’ situation had been a slow-motion mess all season, and by the end, people had stopped pretending it was just about hockey.

Ottawa had gotten him anyway.

Ottawa had gotten him, and then…

The locker room door swings open again.

The noise doesn’t stop, not fully, but it changes, like somebody nudged the volume dial.

Bood looks up.

Ilya Rozanov walks in like he timed it down to the second he was contractually obligated to appear.

Nine minutes to the official start of the day. No earlier. No later. Bag slung over one shoulder, hair perfect, jaw set in that cool, bored expression that has made half the league want to punch him at one point or another.

There’s a ripple; half disbelief, half tension. Bood feels it in his own shoulders before he can stop it.

Because no one knows what to think about Rozanov.

Not really.

His reputation isn’t bad in the way some guys’ are. Bood isn’t standing here worried that Rozanov is a locker room cancer. He’s heard enough over the years to know Rozanov isn’t the type of guy to hurl slurs or sleep with a teammate’s wife. Heard enough to know he’s loyal to his people once he decides you’re one of them. Seen enough to know Rozanov takes his job seriously.

But Rozanov is… a lot.

He’s arrogant. He’s sharp. He gets under people’s skin like it’s a hobby. He’s the kind of player who can make you feel stupid on the ice and then smile about it in a way that makes you want to swing first.

And him showing up like this: late, calm, like this room has been waiting for him, doesn’t exactly do him any favours.

Bood catches Dykstra’s eyes across the room.

Dykstra’s expression is flat, but there’s a question in it: “You seeing this?”

Bood gives the smallest nod back, “Yeah. I’m seeing it.”

Marko Lehtinen is already moving. The captain crosses the room with that steady, uncomplicated presence that makes people listen when he talks. He heads straight for Rozanov, hand out.

“Rozanov,” Lenny says calmly. “Marko Lehtinen; Lenny. Or Cap. Welcome to Ottawa.”

Rozanov shifts his bag down, takes the handshake.

“Thank you,” he replies. His voice is even. Not warm, not cold. Just… present.

Lenny says something else; short, practical, probably about meeting times and where the trainers are, and Rozanov nods along like he’s paying attention, like he isn’t above any of it.

Bood tells himself to stop cataloguing every micro-expression like it’s game film.

He still does it anyway.

He pushes off his stall and heads over before he can think too hard about it. If Rozanov is going to be on his team now, Bood’s not going to be the guy who stands back and lets awkwardness fester.

“Zane Boodram,” he says, offering his hand. “But everyone just calls me Bood. Good to have you here.”

Rozanov’s gaze flicks to him, quick, assessing, and bright in a way that says he’s taking Bood seriously as a person, not just a name.

“Bood,” he repeats, then shakes. Firm grip. “Да. Good.”

Dykstra joins half a second later, because of course he does; the other alternate captain, the other piece of the room’s backbone.

Introductions ripple outward. Half-waves from the vets. Awkward nods. The younger guys look like they’re trying not to openly stare.

And then Rozanov does what everyone expected him to do: he walks to his stall as if he owns it.

Except… his stall is right next to Hollander’s.

Bood watches the moment it clicks.

Rozanov drops his bag, straightens, and looks sideways, and his face spreads into a wide smirk.

Rozanov steps closer. Then, easy as breathing, he smacks a hand onto Hollander’s shoulder. Not a friendly pat. Not gentle. A solid, deliberate thwack that makes Hollander flinch on instinct.

Bood feels the whole room freeze.

Rozanov says something in what must be Russian, fast and low, and then follows it with English that’s perfectly timed to land like a punch.

“Tell me, Hollander. How does it feel knowing Montreal finally got tired of you? Is about time.”

A few guys actually stop moving. Tape goes still. Someone’s laugh dies in their throat.

Hollander turns slowly. His eyes go flat.

For half a second, Bood thinks the media was right, and that the front office made a horrific mistake trying to put these two in the same locker room.

But before anyone can cut in, Rozanov continues.

“Finally realised you are too boring for exciting city like Montreal. They send you to most boring city in the league instead. First smart thing they have done in years.”

There’s one agonising breath, the room suspended in unease. Then Hollander’s expression cracks, his mouth twitching ever so slightly.

“Careful, Roz. Say that too loud and people will start asking why you chose to live in the league’s most boring city on purpose.”

Rozanov’s grin flashes, quick and bright like a blade, and he taps Hollander’s shoulder again, lighter this time.

“You have jokes,” Rozanov says approvingly. “This is improvement. Still boring, though.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Hollander replies, but it doesn’t sound like he hates him.

It also doesn’t sound like he likes him.

And that’s the problem.

They keep going.

Back and forth, low enough that not everyone catches every word, but loud enough that the energy shifts around them. It’s competitive, immediate. Like they’ve walked into a room and decided the only way they know how to communicate is by trying to win.

Bood watches Dykstra watch them. Watches Chou’s eyebrows climb. Watches Hazy’s mouth twitch like he’s trying not to laugh.

Lenny looks calculating in a way that suggests he’s already trying to figure out how he can weaponise this on the ice.

Bood can’t tell if it’s friendly or hostile. He can’t tell if there’s actual animosity under it or if this is just… them.

Before anyone can get too caught in it, the locker room door swings open again.

Coach Brandon Wiebe steps inside with a clipboard in one hand and a grin on his face, like he’s walking into Christmas morning instead of training camp for the worst team in the league.

“Alright,” Wiebe calls, loud enough to cut through everything. “Let’s go. You’re moving like it’s March.”

A couple of guys groan automatically. Habit.

Wiebe’s eyes sweep the room, land on Hollander and Rozanov, and his grin widens instead of tightening.

“Save the chirping for the ice,” he says. “Or don’t. Whatever gets you dressed faster.”

Hollander mutters something under his breath. Rozanov’s smile turns innocent in a way that convinces absolutely no one. Bood feels his own mouth twitch.

He likes the little he’s seen of Wiebe. The new coach is young for the job, but he carries himself like he belongs here. Like he’s not trying to prove he’s tough enough to handle MLH players. Like he’s confident enough to let the room have an edge without letting it cut itself open.

Bood grabs his gear and starts moving with everyone else, the familiar choreography of practice taking over before anyone has to overthink.

They file out toward the ice.

And underneath the normal nerves, the first day, the new systems, the conditioning, the unspoken fear of looking slow when it matters, there’s another current running through the group.

Curiosity. Unease. Anticipation.

Because the Centaurs aren’t just starting a new season. They’re starting a season with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov in the same room, on the same bench, in the same drills.

The “rivals” thing has been a storyline for years. The league has feasted on it. Fans have screamed about it. The media has built highlight reels out of every collision and every stare.

Now the rivalry has Ottawa logos on it.

And nobody knows what that means yet.

Out on the ice, Wiebe runs them through warm-up with a briskness that makes it clear he’s not here to waste time. His voice carries, confident and sharp. His instructions are clean. The drills are structured without being stiff.

Bood skates hard, listens, watches.

Post-warmup, Coach blows the whistle and starts pointing with his stick, carving the ice into pieces like it’s nothing. Centres here. Wings over there. Defence stays back.

Bood peels off with the other wingers automatically, skates slowing as they bunch near the boards. He’s halfway there when someone beside him makes a sharp, choking sound; not loud, just enough. Bood glances over.

Rozanov is still near the hash marks. Not planted. Not arguing. Just… paused. A half-second too long. Long enough for everyone to notice.

Then he drifts. Not toward the middle. Toward them.

Coach looks up, follows the movement, and nods once like he’s remembering something. “Ah, yes. Rozanov. Right wing for now.”

The ice goes quiet in that specific way it does when something interesting is about to happen.

Bood’s heart jumps. He looks down the line and catches the captain’s eye. Lenny’s brows are drawn together, expression caught somewhere between confusion and concern. Around them, sticks stop tapping. Even the rookies are frozen.

Because this is the thing with guys like Rozanov: you expect pushback. You expect entitlement. You expect the little negotiations that happen in the space between coach said and player does.

Rozanov doesn’t do any of that.

He just nods. Once. Small. Almost like he’d been waiting for it.

“Okay,” he says, already angling his skates to line up properly.

The drill starts. The moment passes.

But Bood can feel it ripple through the group anyway; a quiet recalibration, settling into place. Like everyone just realised they might not actually know what kind of guy Rozanov is at all.

An uncountable number of reps later, Coach blows the drill dead and waves them back to center ice. All of them this time.

He starts calling out forward lines for a continuous offensive-zone drill. Lenny, Hollander, Rozanov. Bood can’t decide if throwing them together day one, forcing them to work together this early, is proactive or actual lunacy.

Hollander and Rozanov end up near each other almost immediately as they wait, because of course they do. They’re close enough to bump shoulders in transition, close enough for Hollander to mutter something and Rozanov to laugh like he’s offended.

They chirp endlessly. Rozanov’s voice carries. Hollander’s doesn’t, but you can read it in his posture, the tilt of his head, the way he leans in, the way his brow pinches or his jaw clenches.

Bood watches, trying to decide where the line is. Friendly? Hostile? Somewhere in between?

Then they’re up. Hollander lines up through the middle. Rozanov takes the right flank like it’s always been his.

Someone mutters something under their breath. Bood can’t tell if it’s anticipation or dread.

Coach tags them in. Rozanov receives the puck on the wall, turns, and fires a pass through traffic without looking. Hollander is already there. The puck lands on his tape like it belongs. Hollander barely has to adjust. He moves like the play is obvious, like the ice is a language he and Rozanov share fluently, even if everything else between them is still a question mark.

Hollander snaps a shot.

The net ripples.

Lenny may as well have not been part of the line.

Bood hears the little oof that runs through the guys watching, the involuntary sound of witnessing something clean and unfair.

Rozanov grins, already gliding away. Hollander’s mouth twitches like he hates how good it felt.

“You are late,” Rozanov calls over his shoulder in a sing-song tone.

“I scored,” Hollander shoots back, seemingly offended on principle.

Rozanov glides to stop next to Bood before turning his attention back to Hollander. “If you get there earlier, puck is on your forehand, and you do not have to shoot through three sticks.”

“And if you don’t send it through a minefield, I don’t have to play goalie with my blade,” Hollander argues, but Bood sees his brow furrow as he glides up to them, like he’s actually thinking through what Rozanov had said. 

Bood thinks it through, too. He was inclined to dismiss it as Rozanov being Rozanov, nitpicking at everything just to be annoying. But as he runs the play over in his mind, he sees what he’s talking about; if Hollander moves a fraction earlier, the path is clearer.

How Rozanov picked up on that, he has no clue. It’s the type of thing most people wouldn’t catch even if they watched it on film five times in a row.

“Play it the same next time,” Hollander instructs, cutting into Bood’s thoughts. “I’ll be earlier.”

Bood’s chest tightens with something he can’t quite name.

Because whatever this is between them: competition, resentment, history, it’s not getting in the way of the hockey.

If anything, it’s fueling it.

Bood skates to the line for his next go around and exhales slowly, steadying himself with routine.

He doesn’t know what to make of Rozanov yet.

He doesn’t know what to make of Hollander yet, either; not in this room, not without Montreal shadows at his back.

But as Coach calls out the next change, smiling like he just found a new toy, Bood feels something shift inside him.

A cautious, reluctant thought.

Maybe there’s more here than the headlines.

Maybe Rozanov’s arrogant-asshole reputation isn’t all there is. Maybe Hollander’s quiet isn’t passive.

Maybe the “rivals” thing isn’t going to blow the room apart.

Maybe it’s going to light something up instead.

Coach’s voice rings out again, and Bood pushes off, legs burning, heart thudding, and lets himself hold the possibility without demanding certainty from it.

That can come later.

For now, camp has started.

And Ottawa, somehow, feels like the centre of the hockey universe.

Practice is… interesting.

That’s the kindest word Shane can find for it as he glides through the last cooldown lap, lungs burning and legs humming with that familiar, bone-deep fatigue. The kind that doesn’t hurt exactly, just reminds you that you worked.

The Centaurs are a mess.

Not in a catastrophic way. Not in a burn it all down way. Just… structurally. 

Early season is always rough. But the Centaurs are rough in a way that goes beyond summer rust and new teammates. It’s deep. Baked into the fabric of the team.

There are habits layered on top of habits, systems that seem to exist because someone once insisted on them and nobody ever questioned why. Shane can’t quite tell what the old coach had been trying to build, only that whatever it was didn’t really fit the pieces he’d been given.

It’s frustrating.

But it’s not bad.

Coach Wiebe has already earned a quiet checkmark in Shane’s head. He’s clear. He’s observant. He explains the why instead of just barking corrections and expecting blind compliance. He lets drills run long enough for people to fail and adjust instead of cutting them off the second something looks sloppy.

And the team works. Not in a cohesive sense, not yet. But in the effort sense.

That might be the biggest thing.

The kids look overwhelmed, eyes a little too wide, feet a half-step behind their brains. The vets look like men who’ve spent a few years compensating for gaps that shouldn’t have been theirs to fill; overworked, overtasked.

But all still showing up. Nobody coasts. Nobody phones it in.

Shane’s had much less promising first practices with much more “talented” rosters.

Then there’s Ilya.

Playing with him instead of against him is everything Shane hoped it would be.

Not magic. Not the effortless, cinematic thing the media sold at the All-Star Game, or the version local reporters will start tweeting about as soon as the first open practice gives them something shiny to latch onto.

Their timing is off. Ilya’s adjusting to wing, recalibrating where space opens and closes when he’s not driving the middle. Shane has to think more than he likes to, has to consciously track Ilya’s routes instead of just reacting.

But it’s there.

The foundation. The instinct. The way Ilya sees the ice: aggressive, precise, imaginative; it meshes with Shane’s more calculated sense of structure, like they were built for it.

They’ll get there.

Easily.

When the final whistle blows, and they drift toward the tunnel, Ilya bumps his shoulder lightly into Shane’s, a familiar, easy thing, and Shane can’t stop the smile that breaks across his face.

He schools it almost immediately.

Old habit.

He keeps it small as he steps off the ice, as if too much visible satisfaction might be a mistake. Might invite scrutiny. Might turn into something he has to defend.

Standing at his new stall, tugging damp gear loose with hands that already know the routine, Shane feels it settle in.

That strange, hollow unease he’s been carrying with him since the ink dried on his new contract.

It's not that he feels unwelcome. If anything, the opposite. Everyone’s been friendly. Easy. Curious without being invasive.

As much as he would have loved Ilya by his side while he tackled meeting teammates, trainers, and staff, he’s glad they’d decided he would show up for optional captain’s skates and workouts while Ilya stayed away.

It gave him space. To exist as Shane Hollander, new teammate, before he became Shane Hollander, infamous rival.

It gave him time to learn names. Learn rhythms. Learn who jokes and who doesn’t. Who leads quietly and who fills silence just to avoid it.

Everyone he’s met has been good.

If anyone has a problem with him being here, with him, they’re keeping it to themselves, and their poker faces are good enough that Shane can’t read it.

So this isn’t that.

This isn’t a gay thing.

This is something else. Something older. Deeper. Less rational.

Shane pulls his jersey over his head and sits for a moment, elbows on his knees, helmet resting between his skates. Around him, the locker room hums; voices overlapping, the clatter of equipment, the low thud of gear being dropped.

He feels… small.

Unanchored.

It isn’t about not being captain.

That realisation comes easily, without bitterness. If anything, there’s relief in it. Shane can admit now, honestly, that he’d been captain in Montreal because he was the best player, not because he was a natural leader. He’d done the job well. He’d taken it seriously. But it had been work.

Heavy work.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t miss that weight.

But if he’s not captain… who is he? Where does he fit?

In Montreal, his identity had been fixed. Immutable. Shane Hollander, franchise player, face of the team. Golden boy. Someone you build around, someone you protect… until, suddenly, you don’t.

Until he stepped even slightly outside the role he’d been cast in.

And then it didn’t matter how good he was.

Didn’t matter how much he’d given. Didn’t matter how many nights he’d played through pain, or how much of himself he’d poured into that crest.

When he became inconvenient, he became disposable.

The thought sits heavy in his chest, dull and persistent.

Shane exhales slowly and reaches for his towel, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. Next to him, Ilya catches his eye, something soft and questioning in his expression; not worried, exactly. Just attentive.

Shane gives him a small nod, a silent “I’m okay.”

He isn’t sure if it’s true. But he wants it to be.

This is a new team. A new system. A new version of himself that hasn’t been defined yet.

That should feel freeing.

Instead, it feels like standing on ice that hasn’t quite frozen over, weight distributed carefully, every step measured.

Shane sits there a moment longer, listening to the sounds of a team that isn’t his yet but might be.

Then he stands, tosses his towel back into his cubby, and starts peeling out of his sweat-soaked practice gear. Routine. Familiar.

The season has started.

Whatever comes next, he’ll have to figure out who he is without the armour he used to wear.

But listening to the easy laughter that floats around the room, thinking of the genuine smiles that have been sent his way…

He thinks he might not need it anymore.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

The last Friday afternoon before pre-season starts, Ilya finds himself in a glass-walled office overlooking a downtown Ottawa street, wishing he was anywhere else other than sitting opposite the immigration lawyer his agent had found for him.

Training camp exhaustion is a particular thing; less sharp than game fatigue, more insidious. It settles into the joints and behind the eyes, making everything feel slightly heavier than it should. He wants to be face-down in his and Shane’s bed, hoarding every possible minute of sleep before the next week ramps up and consumes it all.

Instead, he’s here.

Because this matters.

He’d been deliberate about scheduling the meeting now, in the lull before pre-season games begin in earnest. Before travel, before game film reviews, before his days disappear into a blur of ice time and video and recovery. He knows himself well enough to know that if he didn’t do this now, he might find reasons to put it off. One more road trip. One more homestand. One more excuse.

So he sits upright in a leather chair that’s just comfortable enough to lull you into forgetting where you are, hands folded loosely in his lap, listening to the woman across from him speak.

She’s dressed sharply, in neutral colours, hair pulled back neatly. Calm. Confident. The kind of person who makes complicated things sound manageable without ever promising they’ll be easy. She reminds him a little bit of Yuna.

“Mr. Rozanov,” she says, glancing down at her notes before meeting his eyes again. “I’ve had a chance to review everything Mr. Landry sent over. He was very thorough, both in terms of the documents included and your reasoning for seeking permanent residency.”

Ilya’s shoulders tense on instinct.

The old fear flares; someone knowing too much, seeing too clearly. It’s muscle memory, more than logic. Ilya forces himself to breathe through it, slow and steady, reminding himself of what he knows to be true.

Lawyers have obligations. Confidentiality isn’t optional. And John would never send him somewhere unsafe. Neither would Yuna.

“Okay.” He nods once.

She launches into the explanation of his situation as if this were any other case.

The drawbacks come quickly.

“It’s slow,” she says frankly. “You’re looking at twenty-four to thirty-six months, assuming no complications.”

And the drawbacks continue. It’s not guaranteed. He’s an ideal candidate, but it’s still far from an automatic approval. There’s no expedited processing, regardless of public profile or income.

It’s discreet, though. Private. Something he can control.

“SEPP doesn’t value why you want permanent residency,” the lawyer says. “Personal relationships, family ties, none of it’s relevant unless it affects your eligibility.”

So they wouldn’t need to disclose anything. Could keep things private for as long as they wanted to.

Ilya listens. He understands every word. Asks a clarifying question about timelines. Nods at the right places.

And still, somewhere between her explanation of application stages and the list of required supporting documents, his focus slips.

Not because he isn’t bothering to pay attention. Because it’s too much to hold all at once.

Because suddenly this isn’t abstract anymore. It’s not a plan he’s been circling from a safe distance. It’s a decision with weight. With consequences.

With loss.

Russia rises up in his mind uninvited. Not the headlines. Not the politics. Not the things he has spent years learning to despise and fear.

Home.

Snow-packed streets and concrete apartment blocks. The particular smell of his dad’s cologne and favourite brand of cigarettes. The language he dreams in when he’s not paying attention. The place where his childhood lives, whether he likes it or not.

There is so much about Russia that he hates. So much that has harmed him. So much that has made it impossible for him to be honest, or safe, or fully himself.

And still…

It’s his country. His history. The place that shaped him, for better and worse.

The realisation hits him sideways: this isn’t just paperwork. This isn’t just logistics. This is him choosing, formally, legally, to give it up. And sure, technically that won’t come for years, until there’s citizenship changes and new passports, but this is where it starts.

He wants this. He knows that. He wants to live somewhere he doesn’t have to lie by default. Where loving Shane doesn’t carry a constant undercurrent of danger. Where he can exist without watching his back.

He will do this.

But the grief blindsides him anyway. Grief for a version of the world where he wouldn’t have to make this choice at all. For a homeland that could have been different.

For the unfairness of having to trade one truth for another.

His chest tightens. He swallows, grounding himself in the feel of the chair beneath him, the faint hum of traffic outside.

“This is all… manageable,” the lawyer is saying, and Ilya realizes he’s drifted too far.

He refocuses just in time to hear her add, “There is, of course, another option.”

Ilya blinks. “Another?”

“Mr. Landry’s documents indicate your partner is Canadian.” She inclines her head. “You could consider spousal sponsorship.”

The words land like a dropped plate.

Marriage.

The reaction is immediate and visceral. His stomach knots, sharp and instinctive.

“No.”

The thought is so fast, so absolute, that it surprises him.

He must make a face because the lawyer raises her eyebrows slightly. Not offended. Just noting.

“It’s simply an option. If you have a Canadian partner,” she continues evenly, “that pathway is significantly faster. And more secure. Your approval becomes a matter of right, not merit.”

Ilya doesn’t respond right away. He can feel his pulse in his throat.

She’s still speaking. Explaining. Practical. Clear.

Marriages leave a paper trail. Not something you can hide indefinitely. But also, she adds carefully, something he might not need to hide. Canada is not Russia. Visibility here is not automatically a threat.

She lets that hang between them without commentary.

“I’m not advising you one way or the other. That’s a decision you need to make,” she says finally. “My job is to make sure you understand the options. I’d suggest you go home and think about it.”

“I have everything I need to prepare the self-employed application,” she adds. “I’ll draft it. If you decide to proceed that way, it’s simply a matter of filing. If you choose otherwise, we adjust.”

Ilya nods slowly.

Marriage.

The word echoes uncomfortably in his head, tangled up with love and fear and safety and choice.

“I’ll… think about it,” he says.

It’s the only honest answer he has.

As he steps back out onto the street a few minutes later, the afternoon light feels too bright, too sharp. The city moves around him, unbothered.

This is real now.

He knew that.

He just hadn’t expected how much it would hurt to make it so.

The house is quiet and warm. The sun has gone down fully, and the neighbourhood feels even quieter than it usually does.

Shane and Ilya are stretched out on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled together somewhere in the middle, feet brushing calves absentmindedly every so often. Shane scrolls through his phone without really reading anything. Ilya does the same, thumb flicking aimlessly, his screen dimming and lighting again as he forgets to interact with it.

It feels domestic. Normal.

“So,” he says eventually, breaking the moment, because someone has to. “How’d the meeting go?”

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose. “Fine,” he says. Then, after a beat, corrects himself.

“Good. Complicated, but… good.”

Shane lowers his phone and looks at him. Ilya is staring at the ceiling, brows faintly drawn together, like he’s replaying the conversation in his head and trying to translate it into something manageable.

“She went through options,” Ilya continues. “There is special application for professional athletes. I would count. But… is slow. Two years, maybe more.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “That tracks with what we found online.”

“It is private,” Ilya adds. “Discreet. No need to explain… reasons.”

Shane hums. That part, at least, sounds like a relief.

“But is not guaranteed. They could say no. She says is unlikely, but possible.” Ilya adds.

“There is also…” Ilya hesitates.

Shane feels it immediately, the shift in the air, the subtle tightening that always means Ilya is standing at the edge of something he doesn’t quite know how to say.

“Also?” he prompts gently.

“There is also other option,” Ilya says carefully.

Something clicks in Shane’s head. An option they’ve carefully danced around in all their conversations so far.

“Marriage?” Shane suggests cautiously.

“Yes,” Ilya says quietly. “That is the other option. It is… faster. And more guaranteed.”

Shane sits up a little, phone forgotten in his hand. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I mean, it makes sense, right? If we got married, you could apply as my husband.”

There’s a pause.

Not the thoughtful kind. Not the easy one.

The kind that makes Shane’s stomach drop.

“I could,” Ilya says.

Shane studies him, really looks this time. The way his shoulders are drawn in, the way his jaw is set like he’s bracing for impact.

“Hey,” Shane says, softer now. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Shane’s chest tightens. The question slips out before he can talk himself out of it. “Do you not want to get married?”

Ilya’s head snaps toward him. “No. Shane, no. That is not…” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I want to marry you. I know that.”

Relief flares, quick and hot, even as confusion follows close behind. “Okay,” Shane says.  “Then what is it?”

Ilya stares at him, frustration flickering across his face; not at Shane, Shane realizes, but at himself.

“I just,” Ilya starts, then stops. He exhales sharply. “Not like this.”

Shane frowns. “Not like… what?”

“Not like paperwork,” Ilya says. “Not like strategy.”

Shane stiffens.

“You were fine with the idea of marrying Svetlana,” he argues, and immediately regrets the edge in his voice.

Ilya gestures vaguely with one hand, searching. “With Svetlana, it was different.”

“How?” Shane presses.

“With Svetlana, was only paperwork,” Ilya says.

Shane’s brows knit together. “I don’t understand.”

Ilya mutters something under his breath, sharp and fast, and Shane doesn’t catch the words, but he knows the sound. Knows the feeling behind it.

This is Ilya knowing exactly what he wants to say and not being able to make the English do it justice.

Shane has the fleeting thought, not for the first time, that he needs to stop half-assing his Russian lessons. That he needs to give Ilya more than this, more than watching him struggle alone when the feelings get too big.

“I am trying,” Ilya says quietly. “To explain.”

“I know,” Shane says, forcing himself to relax. “Take your time.”

Ilya closes his eyes for a second, like he’s bracing himself, then opens them again.

“So much of us,” he says slowly, carefully, “has been about what we are allowed. What is safe. What does not get us hurt.”

Shane nods. He knows this. They both do.

“We plan,” Ilya continues. “We are careful. We give up things. Or wait for them. Because fear is loud.” His voice tightens. “I do not want marriage to be like that.”

Shane’s throat goes dry.

“I do not want it to be something we do because it is safer,” Ilya says. “Or easier. Or because it fixes something.”

“It wouldn’t be just that,” Shane says automatically. “It’d be because we love each other.”

“I know,” Ilya says, and the certainty in his voice makes Shane stop short. “I know that. But would also be because of this.” He gestures between them, then vaguely outward, toward the world.

“I want to marry you because I want to marry you,” Ilya says. “Not because it is smart decision.”

The words land heavy and fragile all at once.

“I do not want to make it a… transaction,” Ilya says. “I don’t want to look back and wonder if we rushed because we are afraid.”

Shane sits with that.

He understands it. Intellectually, he really does.

Emotionally, though, it’s messier.

“I don’t know if it would feel like that to me,” Shane admits quietly. “It wouldn’t feel cheap.

It would just feel… like us, doing what we’ve always done. Adjusting.”

Ilya nods. “I know.”

There’s no argument in it. Just acceptance.

“I’m not saying you are wrong,” Ilya adds. “Only that I would feel wrong.”

Shane reaches out, fingers curling around Ilya’s ankle where it rests against his calf. A grounding touch. Familiar.

“Okay,” he says.

Ilya searches his face. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane repeats. “If this matters to you this much, then… we do it the long way.”

A breath shudders out of Ilya. Relief, sharp and unguarded.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Shane squeezes his ankle again. He’s not sure he gets it, not fully. But he doesn’t need to. If it’s what Ilya feels, he’ll respect it.

Ilya’s mouth curves into a small, grateful smile.

They fall into silence again, softer this time. Not empty. Just thoughtful.

Ilya moves, rearranges himself until he’s draped over Shane, head on his chest; grounding each other in the quiet certainty underneath the complication.

A few days later, Ilya is peeling himself out of sweat-soaked practice gear, standing in front of his stall while the locker room moves around him.

The noise is familiar. Comfortable, even. Sticks clatter against the floor. Someone laughs too loud at something half-funny. Music hums low from a speaker down the row, bass vibrating faintly through the benches. Towels snap. Zippers rasp. The normal, grounding choreography of a team at work.

Practice had been good.

Not just fine, good. The drills were sharp. The pace was high without being frantic. He’d felt strong on his edges, quick in his reads. Coach Wiebe’s systems are starting to make sense, settling into muscle memory. There’s momentum building, the early signs of cohesion where there hadn’t been any before.

This is usually the part of the year where something inside him lifts.

The beginning of pre-season always does that. The sense of reset. Of forward motion. Of purpose narrowing into something clean and immediate. This is when the excitement usually creeps in quietly, unannounced, until suddenly everything feels possible again.

But it doesn’t.

He isn’t not excited. That’s the strange part.

There’s no dread curling in his gut. No sharp anxiety. No looming fear waiting to be named.

Just… flatness.

A sense of being slightly out of step with his own life, like the world is moving at the right speed and he’s half a beat behind it. Like he’s watching himself from a small distance, close enough to recognize the shape of things, but not quite close enough to feel fully inside them.

Ilya pulls his compression shirt over his head and drops it into his stall, sweat cooling too fast against his skin. He sits for a moment longer than necessary, forearms resting on his thighs, breathing slow.

He thinks, briefly, that he should feel lighter.

They chose each other. Out loud. On purpose. They made a plan. They didn’t take the easiest way, but they took a way, together.

They are safe here.

Ottawa has been kind. The team is open. The city doesn’t feel hostile. Their house is warm. Shane’s parents welcome him without hesitation. The life they’re building is solid in ways he once only imagined.

He has done everything he told himself he needed to do.

And still, the feeling doesn’t lift.

It isn’t about Russia.

That grief is real, sharp in its own way, but this isn’t that. This isn’t the ache of loss or anger or longing for something he can’t have.

It isn’t about Shane.

Shane is steady. Present. Loving in all the quiet ways that matter. Ilya doesn’t feel distant from him. If anything, he feels anchored.

It isn’t even about hockey.

He isn’t worried about the impending string of losses his new team will surely rack up. The game is still the one place where his mind clears, where instinct takes over, and the noise fades. He still loves it. Still feels at home on the ice.

This is something else.

It sits low and constant, a muted echo of last season. Of the exhaustion that hadn’t lived in his muscles, but in his chest. Of the loneliness that hadn’t come from being alone, but from feeling unseen even when surrounded by people.

He’d thought he’d figured it out.

Let people in. Build something real. Stop living in fragments and shadows and stolen moments. Stop treating survival like the same thing as living.

That’s what Ottawa was supposed to be. What he believed it was becoming.

And maybe it still will.

Maybe this is just a remnant. A habit of feeling that hasn’t caught up to his new reality yet.

Ilya exhales slowly and reaches for his towel, dragging it over the back of his neck. He stands, forces his body back into motion. Routine helps. It always has.

He doesn’t dwell on it.

He files the feeling away the same way he’s learned to file so many things over the years: For later. When there’s time. When it’s less inconvenient.

The locker room hums on around him, unchanged, and Ilya steps back into it like nothing is wrong.

Because nothing is wrong.

And that, somehow, makes it harder to explain.

Chapter End Notes

Canadian Immigration Law 101: Ilya’s Two Permanent Residency Pathways

Option 1: Self-Employed Persons Program
For individuals with significant experience in cultural or athletic fields who can show the ability to be self-employed in Canada. As an internationally recognized professional athlete with major league and Olympic experience, Ilya qualifies under this category. Processing was slow, often taking 2–3 years. (This program is effectively defunct as of the mid-2020s.)

Option 2: Spousal Sponsorship
For spouses or common-law partners of Canadian citizens or permanent residents. Approval is rights-based. Marriage to a Canadian citizen makes Ilya eligible. Much faster timeline, typically around 12 months.

Permanent Residency (PR) v. Citizenship:
PR allows a non-citizen to live and work in Canada indefinitely, independent of employment. Citizenship grants a Canadian passport, consular protection abroad, voting rights, and full protection from deportation. (A permanent resident may apply for citizenship after at least three years of physical presence in Canada.)

Chapter 5

By the time Marko Lehtinen is pulling on his socks for the first preseason game, he’s doing something he hasn’t let himself do in multiple seasons.

He’s hoping.

Not recklessly. Not loudly. Just… carefully. Like you might test ice with the toe of your skate before you trust it with your weight.

It’s still early. Too early for anything to mean much. Preseason is full of lies: inflated confidence, false alarms, good habits that vanish the moment the games start to matter. Lenny’s been around long enough to know better than to declare anything fixed after a few weeks.

But.

Despite all the newness: the new coach, the new systems, the new faces, the way this year feels like it was stitched together from spare parts; things feel more settled than they did last season. More coherent. Less desperate.

That alone is something.

Coach Wiebe helps. A lot.

Lenny had been cautiously optimistic when he’d heard about the hire; young, smart, good reputation, but he hadn’t expected this. Wiebe is direct without being dismissive, confident without being brittle. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. He explains why he wants something done a certain way instead of treating obedience like a character trait.

Most importantly, he seems to genuinely care about the people in the room, not just the numbers they produce.

It’s amazing how far that goes.

The systems aren’t perfect yet. They’re still clunky in places, still uneven. But they make sense. The kids are starting to find their footing instead of just trying not to screw up. The vets aren’t being leaned on like pack animals anymore, asked to paper over holes that shouldn’t exist.

It’s progress.

Not enough, Lenny knows better than that, but already more than they managed all last year.

He finishes taping his stick and glances across the room at his linemates.

Hollander and Rozanov.

If you’d asked him after the first day of training camp how he expected this to go, Lenny would’ve said he was bracing himself to feel either useless or actively in the way. Two generational talents, two centers who’d spent years being the best there is, dropped into the same space like a social experiment no one had properly thought through.

Instead, somehow, they’d folded him into their game like he belonged there. Not as an afterthought. Not as a safety valve. As a real, functional part of the line.

Lenny still can’t tell if Hollander and Rozanov hate each other.

No one can.

The chirping is constant. The critiques border on scathing: missed reads called out immediately, timing dissected on the fly, no attempt made to cushion egos. Every one responded to with more chirps or exasperated swearing.

And yet.

They listen.

Actually listen.

They adjust. They absorb. They apply. There’s no sulking, no score-keeping, no silent standoffs disguised as professionalism. Whatever edge exists between them gets fed straight into the hockey.

They make each other better.

Which, Lenny has learned over his years in this sport, is rarer than people like to pretend.

Off the ice, things are… good. Better than he ever expected them to be, honestly.

Hazy looks settled in a way he never quite managed at the tail end of last season. He’s laughing more. Talking more. Finding his place instead of just filling space.

Hollander is exactly what his reputation promised: polite, friendly, quietly observant. He doesn’t force himself into conversations, but when he speaks, people listen. He remembers names. Asks questions. Shows up.

Rozanov, on the other hand, turns out to be almost everything his reputation isn’t.

Yes, he’s brash. Blunt. Sharper than most people are comfortable with. He has an ego; he knows he’s good, and he won’t pretend otherwise. But he doesn’t act like he’s untouchable. He takes feedback from Wiebe without argument. From teammates without offense.

He works. Relentlessly.

Lenny has watched him stay on the ice long after practice ends, running reps with the younger players, who look like they can’t believe someone of his caliber is bothering. He explains things plainly. Repeats himself without irritation. Pushes when pushing is needed, backs off when it isn’t.

And for all his rough edges, he’s not mean.

He’ll rip your play apart without hesitation, call it slow, sloppy, uninspired, but he knows where the lines are. He never crosses into the personal; never weaponizes the stuff that actually matters. Never uses what he knows about someone against them.

Lenny’s seen him clock when Hazy’s in his head and steer the chirps elsewhere. Seen him soften with the kids when they’re overwhelmed instead of lighting them up. Seen him shut things down when conversations drift into territory that doesn’t belong in a locker room.

It’s… unexpected.

So yeah. It’s only the beginning of the preseason.

But standing there, lacing up for the first exhibition game, Lenny feels like he’s at the edge of something. Not a miracle. Not a fairytale turnaround.

Just something real. Something that could grow.

For the first time in a long while, he lets himself imagine what it would feel like to end his career on a season he’s proud of. Not just personally, but as a captain. As someone who helped hold this thing together long enough for it to become something better.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

He doesn’t even fully admit it to himself.

But as the room starts to rise, players filtering toward the tunnel, energy tightening into focus, Marko Lehtinen dares to think:

Maybe this is the year he gets the ending he didn’t know he was still hoping for.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

The season has been a lot of things so far.

It’s been humiliating, in the way it always is when you’re trying your best and still failing. It’s been exhausting, camp bleeding into the season with barely enough air to breathe in between. It’s been loud and fast, full of mistakes that make Shane want to stop the play and re-run the last twenty seconds like he’s holding a remote.

And it’s been… fun.

That’s the part that keeps sneaking up on Shane.

It’s subtle, but unmissable. It’s in the way he walks into the rink without having to sit in the car for five minutes first, emotionally preparing. The way he doesn’t feel that low-grade nausea every time he steps on the ice that he had always chalked up to nerves. The way laughter feels welcoming here, not isolating.

For years, he had given everything he had to a game and an organization that had slowly bled him dry. He’d done it willingly, because he loved hockey. Because he was good at it. Because hockey was the one thing that always made sense, the one place he always knew the rules. Even when the rules were cruel.

So it bled him dry, but he loved it.

He just can’t pinpoint when he stopped liking it.

But now… they’re a few weeks into October. A few weeks into losing. Zero points. A string of games that weren’t disasters, but still not good enough to get the job done. Because the standings don’t care that “we made them work for it.” The standings only care about wins. Something Ottawa has none of right now.

But Shane still finds himself looking forward to the next game, the next practice, the next time he can be on the ice with this team.

He hadn’t realised how much hockey had stopped being fun until it was again.

The team files into the locker room with the familiar chaos. Someone is already complaining about the new cardio test Wiebe has been threatening them with. Someone else is talking about dinner plans like the season isn’t chewing them alive.

Shane drops onto the bench at his stall and starts stripping off his gear. He’s halfway through untying his skates when a shoulder bumps his; not hard, just enough to grab his attention.

He looks up.

Tomáš Hronek, Tomek as he's called by everyone but his wife, sits next to him, still in his baselayers.

“Hey. You wanna explain what that no-look drop pass was supposed to be?” Tomek asks, tone openly teasing.

Shane doesn’t look up from his skates. “A learning opportunity.”

“For who?”

“For you,” Shane says calmly. “You learned not to expect competence from me at all times.”

Bergström, from Shane’s other side, snorts to himself.

“Unbelievable.” Tomek laughs. “You botch one play, and suddenly you’re a comedian.”

“I contain multitudes,” Shane replies evenly. “Most of them are disappointed in that pass.”

There’s a half-second of silence, just long enough for the words to register, and then Bergström loses it.

“See?” Tomek points at him. “There. That. You’re… funny.”

Shane stares. “I’m not funny.”

Tomek shakes his head solemnly. “You’re funny. But in that quiet, bitchy way.”

Shane opens his mouth to deny it, then catches Ilya’s eyes across the room and sees the smirk on his face, like he agrees with everything Tomek said and has been waiting for someone else to notice.

Shane closes his mouth again.

“Whatever,” he says, because it’s easier than admitting anything.

Tomek claps him once on the shoulder and moves on, already yelling something at Caldwell about a missed pass.

Shane goes back to unlacing his skates, but he’s still aware of the echo of laughter around him. Of how easy it was to throw a comment back without checking it for landmines first.

He doesn’t have to police his tone here. He doesn’t have to rehearse every sentence in his head, testing for how it will be heard, how it will be used. He doesn’t need to carefully calculate how he’s being perceived.

He can just… be.

It’s not like he’s someone else now. He’s still quiet. Still reserved. Still, if you asked most people, probably a bit boring.

But the Centaurs don’t seem to care. Not the way Montreal did.

Here, “quiet” doesn’t mean cold or arrogant. Doesn’t mean distant in a way that can be looked down on.

It just means Shane is Shane.

He can turn down post-game drinks without bracing for the side-eye. He can say “not tonight,” and nobody makes a comment about him being no fun. He can go to bed early without the chirping that’s more judgmental than affectionate. Nobody calls him a grandma, nobody makes it a thing.

He doesn’t have to uphold an image he felt judged for, but forced to maintain.

He just exists.

He finishes changing, grabs his duffel, and when he stands, Ilya is there like he always is now, eyes bright with the residual adrenaline of practice.

“Today,” Ilya says, voice low, “you will come.”

Shane blinks. “To what?”

“My condo,” Ilya says, like Shane is the stupid one. “People are coming. You said yes.”

Shane frowns. “I said ‘maybe.’”

Ilya’s mouth curves. “You said ‘maybe,’ which means yes.”

Shane exhales through his nose. “That’s… not how language works.”

“It is how you work,” Ilya says, and then bumps his shoulder into Shane’s and walks away before Shane can argue.

Shane watches him go, stomach doing that familiar, stupid flip. Then he hauls his bag onto his shoulder and follows.

Gatherings at Ilya’s condo are a common occurrence. Shane makes his excuses more than he attends, but he attends more than he did any social event with the Metros.

He looks around at the familiar sight. There are snacks on the kitchen island. There’s a haphazard pile of shoes by the door. The TV is on, video game menu music loops in the background.

Bood is on the couch, sitting like he owns it, legs spread comfortably, one arm draped along the back. Lenny is beside him, looking composed even while holding a plate of chips. Ilya is between them, leaning forward, gesturing sharply with his hands as he argues like his life depends on it.

“I am telling you,” Ilya says, voice animated, “San Jose’s power play is too predictable. They try same pass every time.”

Bood grins. “It’s not predictable. It’s efficient.”

“It is predictable,” Ilya insists. “Efficient is not the same as good.”

Lenny takes a bite of chip, calm. “It works because they rotate faster. It’s not the pass, it’s the movement.”

“Yes.” Ilya points at him like he’s been waiting for backup. “Thank you. See? Captain understands.”

Bood scoffs. “Captain’s just trying to keep you from throwing yourself off the balcony.”

Ilya scoffs, as if he hasn’t been violently gesturing for the last five minutes.

Across the room, Dykstra, Chou, and a couple of the other d-men are huddled around controllers, shouting at each other over the game on the screen.

“That was interference!” Chou yells.

“That was strategy,” Dykstra snaps back.

Morrow laughs, wild-eyed. “I’m literally not even touching you, man, you just can’t play defense.”

“Say that again,” Dykstra says, low and dangerous, and then immediately loses possession in-game and swears loudly enough that someone in the kitchen bursts out laughing.

It’s chaos. It’s warm.

Shane stands there for a second, holding his ginger ale, letting the noise wash over him.

Then Wyatt Hayes spots him from a corner chair and waves him over like he’s been waiting for him.

“Hollzy!” Hazy calls. “Come sit. I saved you from being forced into video game combat.”

Shane moves to sit, grateful.

Hazy is already settled in with a plate of chips balanced on his knee, beer in hand. He’s in sweatpants and a Centaurs hoodie. He looks comfortable in a way Shane still doesn’t know how to do without thinking about it first.

Shane drops into the chair beside him and exhales. “Thanks.”

“You looked like you were about to pretend you got a phone call and flee.” Hazy grins.

“I was,” Shane admits.

“Same,” Hazy says cheerfully. “I love them, but I don’t need to be verbally assaulted by teenagers with reflexes.”

Shane chuckles and takes a sip of ginger ale, watching the room. He can feel Ilya’s presence like gravity even from across the condo, but he forces himself not to look too long.

“So,” Hazy says, lowering his voice like he’s about to tell a secret. “You watch the Washington game last night?”

Shane makes a face. “Unfortunately.”

“Okay, everyone keeps saying they’re dangerous, but I’m not seeing it,” Hazy says. “Am I crazy, or did they look… bad?”

“Not bad.” Shane tilts his head, considering. “Lazy.”

Hazy’s eyebrows climb. “That’s worse.”

“They cheat for offense,” Shane says. “Both wingers fly the zone before the puck’s even settled. It looks aggressive until you realize they’re just betting no one will pressure the puck carrier.”

“And when someone does?”

“They panic,” Shane says calmly. “Force passes. Miss coverage. Start coasting.”

Hazy blinks. “You sound like you’ve been personally offended.”

“I just don’t respect teams that rely on other people making mistakes.” Shane shrugs.

“Wow,” Hazy deadpans.

“It’s hockey for people who don’t want to adjust,” Shane adds.

Hazy bursts out laughing. “Man, that was ruthless.”

“It’s true,” Shane shrugs, laughing as well.

Hazy studies him for a beat, then tips his head back against the chair. “Man. This team is weird.”

Shane hums. “Yeah.”

“We’re losing,” Hazy says, like he’s tasting the word. “But it doesn’t feel like… dying.”

Shane’s smile turns rueful. “No.”

Hazy turns his head, eyes bright. “Is that what it was like for you? In Montreal? Losing felt like dying?”

Shane’s throat tightens reflexively. He can feel Montreal like a bruise under the skin of the question.

He doesn’t want to drag that into this room. Not tonight.

So he keeps it simple. Honest, but not bleeding.

“Montreal wasn’t… easy,” he says. “Even when we won.”

Hazy’s eyebrows lift, and then he nods like that makes sense. Like he doesn’t need more.

“Toronto was the same,” Hazy says. “Well.” He raises a chip in a mock toast. “Welcome to Ottawa, where the losses are frequent, and the vibes are…”

“Confusingly good,” Shane finishes, without thinking.

Hazy’s grin widens. “Exactly.”

They laugh again, and Shane feels it, how easy it is. How the words came out without a filter. How the laughter didn’t cost him anything.

Across the room, Ilya argues louder about power plays. Lenny looks amused. Bood looks delighted to be annoying him.

The kids scream at each other over the game.

And Shane sits in the middle of it with a ginger ale in his hand, feet on his boyfriend’s coffee table, and feels something uncoil in him.

Ilya can tell when Shane’s laugh is real.

For years, it’s been something he’s coveted. Treasured. Craving the thrill of the rare moments he can coax it out of Shane.

It’s not that Shane doesn’t laugh; he does, always has. But there’s a difference between the polite chuckle he gives someone at an event, and the bright, unrestrained laugh that seems pulled right out of his chest.

He hears that one now from across the living room, and it sparks something warm inside him. He turns his head without thinking, eyes catching on Shane where he’s tucked into the corner chair with Hazy, ginger ale in hand, shoulders loose, mouth open in a grin that looks almost surprised, like Shane isn’t used to it.

Ilya’s been hearing that real laugh more often lately. Little bursts of it in the locker room after practice, on the ice, in the kitchen when Yuna teases him about something stupid. The sound of Shane Hollander, his intense, tightly wound, love letting go.

It makes Ilya feel quietly vindicated that other people are finally getting to see the version of Shane he gets to see.

He looks around his condo, at this space that isn’t really a home, but is still so full of life. Bodies sprawled across furniture, laughter and voices bouncing off the walls, half-finished beer bottles collecting on the coffee table.

It’s good.

The season’s been good.

Not in the standings. God, the standings are an insult. They’re still scraping the bottom of the league, collecting losses like they’re doing it on purpose. They’ve been outshot in games that should have been close, chased leads and watched them collapse, gone into third periods down one and come out down three.

But the team works. The team cares. They chirp, they complain, they fight through drills, fight through games, and show up the next day, still trying.

They’ve folded Shane and Ilya in, too.

No weirdness. No lingering rivalry narrative poisoning the room. No bullshit about “chemistry” that’s really just suspicion. No one has looked at them like they are a problem waiting to happen.

The guys treat Shane like a teammate. Treat Ilya like a teammate. Treat them like people.

It feels good.

He hears Shane laugh again, louder. But instead of the warmth that usually accompanies the sound, he feels something cold and hollow open up in his chest.

Not sharp, or harsh. Just… there. A quiet emptiness, tucked behind his ribs, like someone scooped something out of him and forgot to fill the space back in.

It should be enough. It usually is.

But the feeling doesn’t move, doesn’t shift or soften. It just sits there, indifferent to the proof that everything is supposed to be okay.

“Drink,” he announces abruptly, standing up before anyone can ask why his thoughts just went distant. “I need drink.”

Bood waves a hand at him, still engrossed in the argument with Lenny about San Jose’s power play.

Ilya moves into the kitchen under the pretense of needing another drink, letting the noise of the living room soften behind him. The condo is warm from the bodies, full from voices and movement.

The kitchen light is bright. Clean. Clinical compared to the living room’s chaos.

Tomek is leaning against the island like he lives here, beer in hand, shoulders broad in a t-shirt that makes him look like the kind of guy who could bench press the fridge. Millsy, still technically a kid, still with that baby-faced look that always makes Ilya forget how enormous he is, is across from him, laughing too loudly at whatever Tomek just said.

“…I swear to God,” Tomek is saying, “if Wiebe makes us do another one of those stupid fucking shuttle runs, I’m filing a complaint with the government.”

“To who?” Millsy laughs, almost choking. “The Prime Minister?”

“Yes,” Tomek says seriously. “I will write him a letter. ‘Dear sir, your country’s conditioning tests are criminal.’”

Millsy’s grin is wide and unguarded. “You’d actually do that?”

“Ilya would,” Tomek says, nodding toward him as if Ilya had just walked into court and was ready to testify.

Ilya opens the fridge and stares into it like answers are hiding in the vegetable drawer. “I would not write letter.”

“No,” Tomek agreed. “You’d just send someone to yell at him in person.”

Ilya laughs, shaking his head as he opens the fridge.

Millsy snorts and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You guys are insane.”

Ilya grabs a can of ginger ale for Shane out of habit, then pauses with his hand on the cold aluminum.

He’s suddenly aware, again, of the hollow.

Tomek is still talking, something about Dykstra’s “old man knees,” something about how their defensive zone coverage is “a disaster movie”, and Ilya laughs at the right time, inserts a comment, stays present enough to be believable.

A moment later, footsteps shuffle in, and Shane appears in the doorway, posture relaxed and smile easy.

Shane reaches past Ilya into the fridge, close enough that his shoulder brushes Ilya’s.

Not on purpose. Not dramatic. Just proximity.

And it’s so normal that it steals Ilya’s breath for half a second.

Shane takes the ginger ale from Ilya’s hand without thinking, fingers brushing Ilya’s knuckles like it’s nothing.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

Ilya hums, noncommittal, because if he speaks, he might sound too soft.

Millsy points at Shane’s drink. “Ginger ale again? You’re twenty-seven going on eighty.”

Shane looks at him, deadpan. “It’s called being hydrated.”

“It’s called being boring,” Tomek says, delighted.

“I’m fine with boring,” Shane replies, and the way he says it, so casual, so unbothered, makes something in Ilya’s chest ease, just a fraction. “And at least I’m not Roz. Who drinks Corona without lime?”

Ilya makes some sort of involuntary noise of protest, taken off guard by the chirp. Tomek and Millsy laugh.

“You gonna tell Millsy his beer choice is bad too, or are you saving that for later?” Tomek asks, gesturing to the bottle of Labatt in Millsy’s hand.

Shane glances at Millsy’s bottle, then back at his face. “I don’t need to. He already knows.”

“Hey,” Millsy protests immediately. “This is a classic.”

“So is dial-up internet,” Shane says with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean it’s good.”

Millsy laughs so hard he actually chokes on his sip, coughing as Tomek slaps the counter, wheezing. Ilya nearly spills his own drink, folded over in laughter. The sound of it fills the kitchen.

It’s light. It’s stupid. It’s exactly the kind of moment Ilya used to imagine and then shove away because imagining hurt.

But it’s real. And Shane is here, shoulder still brushing Ilya’s.

Ilya catches his eye again. The eye contact holds, quiet and steady, while Tomek keeps talking and Millsy tries to recover his dignity.

For one suspended beat, it feels easy.

Then Ilya sees it happen.

Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just a flicker. The small internal click of awareness; how close they are, how comfortable it is.

Shane’s expression shutters slightly, like a door closing on a room only Ilya is allowed to see. He takes a half-step away, casual enough that nobody else would clock it.

But Ilya clocks everything.

The internal reprimand is almost audible in the movement: “Not too friendly. Not here. Not where people can see.”

It stings.

It shouldn’t. Ilya understands it. He understands the habits Shane has built over the years, understands the carefulness carved into him. Understands the instinct to step back before someone decides closeness means something dangerous. Understands this is for his safety as well.

But it still stings. A sharp little cut inside a moment that had been warm.

Ilya’s smile stays in place because it has to.

The conversation moves on. Tomek launches into a story about last season, Millsy chipping in occasionally. Shane tosses in a dry comment that makes them both lose it again, and the ease returns, imperfect but real.

And still, underneath it, the wrongness comes back.

That faint misalignment.

Like Ilya is standing in his own life and somehow not fully inside it.

He runs through the facts like a checklist, like logic can reorder his feelings. He’s done this before. Lined the facts up, counted them, waited for the sum to feel convincing.

It used to work, at least a little. He does now again anyway. Going through the list carefully, like skipping a step might be the reason it doesn’t work anymore.

He chose Shane; Shane chose him. They are safe. Ottawa is kind; the team is good. Shane is laughing.

He is building the future he wanted.

The feeling doesn’t lift. It just sits there, quiet and stubborn, waiting for him to notice it again.

So he doesn’t. He takes a sip of whatever drink he grabbed without really tasting it. He laughs at something Millsy says, flicks Tomek on the shoulder when the man gets too smug.

He keeps moving. Keeps smiling.

He carries on.

Chapter End Notes

So, because, unfortunately, this disclaimer is apparently required:

No AI has been used, in any capacity, in the creation of this fic (or any of my work).

I understand the concern. AI is a parasite. I hate that we need to question if fics are written by people now.

That being said... Some of y'all are paranoid and accusatory af. Those who think this is AI, I will never be able to convince you otherwise, so I'm just refusing to engage. Any and all comments questioning or accusing this of being AI will be deleted.

Chapter 7

Coach Wiebe interrupts the locker room routine with impeccable timing.

Which is to say: right as someone has started complaining loudly about the showers, someone else is arguing about music, and Ilya is halfway through peeling off his shirt, sweat cooling unpleasantly down his spine.

“All right,” Coach says, clapping his hands once. “Before you all disappear, I need a minute.”

A collective groan ripples through the room, but it’s lazy and good-natured. No one actually stops what they’re doing, but the music and voices die.

Coach steps aside to make room for the man hovering just behind him. Now the room stops, people paying a bit more attention.

The man is shorter than most of the team, stocky, with blond hair neatly styled and a trimmed beard that makes him look a little older than he probably is. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, posture relaxed but smile tight at the edges.

Nervous, Ilya clocks immediately.

Cute, too, if rugged is your thing.

“This,” Coach continues, gesturing at him, “is Harris Drover. He’s our new social media guy.”

A few heads lift with interest. Someone whistles softly.

“Hey.” Harris lifts a hand in a small wave.

“He’ll be around a lot,” Coach adds. “Pictures, videos, whatever content the front office thinks will make us look charming and exciting.” He pauses for a minute, turning a narrowed gaze on the team. “Be nice to him. I will hear about it if you’re not.”

That earns a few laughs.

Harris clears his throat and steps forward a half-step, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans like he’s grounding himself.

“Uh. Hi,” he says again, smiling wider this time, like he’s decided to lean into it. “I’m Harris. I just started this week, so thanks in advance for putting up with me.”

A few guys nod.

“Welcome to the circus,” Lenny says with a smile.

Harris laughs easily. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

He gestures vaguely around the room. “Mostly, I’ll just be around, capturing your normal routines. Practices, workouts, stuff like that. Sometimes I’ll ask for short interviews, mic’d segments, things like that. I promise I’ll always tell you when I’m filming or taking pictures.”

More than a few sets of shoulders relax at that. Ilya’s included. He’s never minded doing the media stuff, but there are definitely times when he doesn’t want to be on camera.

“And if there’s ever something I catch that you don’t want posted,” Harris continues, more serious now, “just tell me. No questions asked. Same goes for boundaries in general; anything you don’t want online, anything you want me to avoid… please talk to me.”

There’s a small pause after that. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

“Also,” Harris adds, the grin creeping back in, “if you have ideas, fun stuff, dumb stuff, whatever, please pitch them. I’m very easy to bribe with good content.”

“Does complaining about refs count as good content?” Morrow asks from a few stalls away.

“Always,” Harris replies instantly.

Laughter breaks out.

Ilya watches it all with quiet interest. The way no one bristles. No one looks suspicious or closed off. Guys nodding, smiling, already comfortable enough to joke with him.

He glances sideways without meaning to.

Shane has gone still. Not frozen, exactly. Just… attentive in a way Ilya recognizes. His shoulders are a touch more squared, his expression carefully neutral. He’s listening closely, eyes flicking briefly toward Ilya, then back to Harris.

Ilya can tell he’s worrying; every worst-case scenario playing out in his head.

He catches Shane’s eye again and lifts his eyebrows just slightly, the smallest possible question: “You okay?”

Shane exhales through his nose and gives a barely-there nod, “Okay enough.” 

Coach claps his hands again. “All right. That’s it. Get out of here.”

The room immediately dissolves back into noise and motion. Benches scrape. Someone yells about dinner plans. Another guy asks Harris if he needs help finding the media room.

Harris laughs, shaking his head. “I’ve already been lost twice today. I’m building character.”

Ilya stands, slinging his towel over his shoulder, watching Harris get immediately absorbed into the low-grade chaos like it’s nothing.

He thinks, not for the first time, that they’re going to have to be careful.

But they already are.

And maybe, if they’re lucky, if this works the way it feels like it might, they can trust Harris to help keep their secret, instead of accidentally exposing it.

Ilya meets Shane’s eyes once more, tries to let Shane know they’ll talk about this at home.

Shane’s mouth curves, just slightly.

That’s enough for now.

Harris has two monitors going and his headphones on, the volume turned up just enough that he can hear the background voices without blowing out his eardrums every time someone laughs.

The timeline stretches in front of him, clips stacked and colour-coded, tiny frozen moments waiting to be turned into something cohesive. A few hours of footage, more than enough to work with.

He leans back in his chair and exhales.

First NHL job. First real team.

He’d told himself he wasn’t nervous. Told himself it was just content. Just hockey players. Just another workplace.

That had been optimistic.

He clicks play.

The video opens with morning workouts, because that’s always a safe place to start. No one’s pretending to be cool at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Why do we do this?” someone groans, off-camera. Eric Kavanagh, Harris thinks, jotting the name down for the captions. Learning who’s who is going to take some time.

“Because you hate joy,” another voice, this one recognizable as Tomáš Hronek from the accent, fires back immediately.

Harris grins despite himself and trims the clip, tightening it so the exchange lands cleanly.

The next clip shows Boodram, lying on the gym floor, staring up at his linemates, Caleb Moore and Julien Martel.

“I just want everyone to know I am choosing to be here against my will,” Bood says, beathless.

“You signed a contract,” Martel replies.

“I was misled,” Bood fires back.

Harris snorts and drops a marker: KEEP

He’d been worried they would hate this. That they’d find the mics and cameras intrusive, that they’d clam up or get weird.

Instead, half of them had immediately forgotten they existed. The other half had been deeply concerned.

“Did that pick that up?”

“Wait… was my mic on just now?”

“Please tell me that mic was not on…”

He layers the audio so the questions overlap slightly, on a background of clips of worried and sheepish expressions, chaos on chaos, and then cuts hard to the ice.

Practice footage.

He scrolls until he finds it.

Wyatt Hayes, alone in the crease, talking to the net like it’s a living thing.

“Good post,” Hazy murmurs as a shot rings iron and bounces away. “Thank you for your service.”

Harris pauses the clip. Rewinds. Plays it again.

“Oh my god,” he mutters to himself, already dragging it into the main sequence. “You’re adorable.”

He drops in the next clip without missing a beat.

Bood again, gliding through a drill beside Julien Martel.

“Okay, Marty, here’s the plan,” Bood narrates seriously. “Step One: Suffer.”

“Step two?” Marty asks.

“Believe in yourself. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter.” Bood deadpans.

Harris laughs out loud, alone in his office, and almost misses the next clip.

Hazy again, loud this time.

“Oh, come ON!” he yells as a puck snaps past him. “That’s disgusting, Hollander. Like. Legally questionable.”

Harris smiles to himself then focuses on the next section. He drags the playhead forward. Finds what he’s actually been looking for. The first line drill. He cuts the clip from Rozanov mid-practice, sharp and focused.

“Again. Faster.” Rozanov snaps, words accented and quick.

He cuts to the footage from the bench. The entire team is gathered, postures relaxed, watching. He zooms slightly on the play: Hollander through the middle, Rozanov wide, the puck moving like it knows where it’s supposed to go.

Rozanov’s mic crackles.

“You are late,” Rozanov calls, not unkind.

“Your turnover was sloppy,” Hollander shoots back.

Lenny’s laugh floats in from somewhere off-frame.

Harris switches to Bood’s audio as the drill resets.

“I still can’t tell if they’re actually fighting,” Bood says.

“They’re not,” Evan Dykstra replies immediately. Then, with less certainty, “I don’t think…”

“Just let them be,” Coach Wiebe says, amused.

Harris smiles, scrubbing forward. He switches angles, a camera behind the net this time. Hazy’s mic is still hot, but he’s quiet, watching.

Rozanov and Hollander skate forward, taking another run of the drill. Hazy bats the shot away this time. But as Rozanov and Hollander pass the net to reset, they’re close enough for Hazy’s mic to pick them up.

“You know, Mom would like you more if you stopped doing that,” Hollander says offhandedly as he comes into frame.

“Lies. Yuna Hollander would murder me if she thought I showed mercy.” Rozanov retorts with a smirk.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hollander laughs.

Harris freezes. Rewinds. Plays it again. Slower this time.

That’s not… rivals banter. That’s not even teammate banter.

That’s familiar. Casual. Friendly.

He sits back, staring at the screen.

“Well,” he murmurs, impressed. “That explains Twitter.”

He considers it for all of half a second. Then keeps it, because it’s gold. But he does make a note to run it past the two of them before it gets posted.

He finishes the video with locker room footage: music blasting, towels snapping, someone yelling about late lunch plans.

“If we go now, we can beat the rush,” Ryan O’Connell argues.

“We are the rush,” Nick Chouinard counters.

Harris exports the file and leans back in his chair, finally taking his headphones off.

This team has chemistry. Not polished. Not curated. Not manufactured for the camera. Real, genuine chemistry. A group of guys who all love the same sport, excited to get to do it together.

He smiles to himself, already picturing the comments.

Yeah, this job is going to be just fine.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

The locker room lingers.

That’s the only way Ilya can think to describe it: a soft, unhurried stretch of time after practice where nobody seems in a rush to be anywhere else. Music hums low from someone’s phone. A few guys are still half-dressed, towels slung around waists, sitting instead of immediately pulling on jeans and shoes.

Someone laughs. Someone else groans about the showers again.

Earlier, before they’d even hit the ice, someone had thrown out the idea of lunch at the pub down the road. Anyone who could make it was in. No debate. No scheduling gymnastics. It had landed easily, like most things have lately.

Ilya sits on the bench at his stall, pulling on his socks, letting the room breathe around him.

A few stalls down, Lucas Novak, one of the rookies, is talking to Bergström while he struggles with a damp compression shirt.

“I don’t know, man,” Lucas is saying, voice tired. “It’s just… hard. The time zones suck. Every call feels like I’m either waking her up or dragging her through her day half-asleep.”

Bergström hums sympathetically. “How far?”

“Seattle.” Lucas huffs a laugh. “We FaceTime all the time, but it’s not the same. You miss shit. Birthdays. Random Tuesdays.”

“Mmh,” Ilya murmurs without thinking. “Is difficult to be apart so much.”

The words are barely louder than the scrape of skate blades against rubber. Still, the room shifts. Not sharply. Just… attention tilting.

Lucas glances over first, eyebrows lifting. “Wait. Roz?”

Ilya looks up, confused for half a second. “What?”

Bergström grins. “You’ve done long-distance?”

“Yes.” Ilya snorts softly. “For years.”

There’s a beat. Then the room pounces.

“For years?” someone echoes.

“Hold on,” Bood says from across the room. “You’re telling me Rozanov, international menace and womanizer, has suffered the pain of distance relationships like the rest of us mortals?”

“Tragic, I know.” Ilya rolls his eyes. 

“How many years?” Lucas asks, openly curious now.

“Uh..” Ilya falters, not sure how much to reveal. “Officially, only one. But… many before that.”

A low whistle cuts through the room.

“That’s commitment,” Hazy says, impressed.

“Yeah, well,” Ilya shrugs, feeling warmth creep up his neck.

Chou squints at him. “Wait. Didn’t you say something last year about liking Ottawa because you had… family here or something?”

Ilya freezes just long enough to be noticeable.

Bood’s eyes light up. “Oh my god.”

“Hold on,” Dykstra says slowly. “Is that why you signed here?”

Lenny’s face splits into a grin. “Roz, do you have a girl in Ottawa?”

The question lands easily. Casual. Expectant.

Ilya feels his face go hot instantly. He dips his head, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

The reaction is answer enough. The locker room erupts.

“No way.”

“That’s romantic as hell.”

“For years?!”

Ilya laughs helplessly, shaking his head. “You are all too loud.”

“Answer the question!” someone yells.

Ilya lifts his eyes and, without meaning to, catches Shane’s. 

They’ve talked about this. About how Ilya would say something when it felt right, not scripted, not forced. Shane’s mouth curves into a soft smile, eyes warm and steady. A quiet reassurance, “You’re okay.”

Ilya exhales and straightens a little.

“Yes,” he says, louder now. “I have someone.”

The noise dips, just slightly.

“And he is from here,” Ilya adds. “Ottawa.”

There’s a brief pause, not shock, just recalibration.

Then Bood grins. “Damn. Ottawa really did steal you.”

“Can’t compete with that,” Dykstra adds.

Tomek nods, thoughtful. “That explains a lot, actually.”

Ilya hesitates, then adds carefully, “I trust you all. But… because of Russia, this cannot be public. Not yet.” He lifts his hands slightly, palms open. “I hope that is okay.”

Lenny doesn’t hesitate.

“Trust is important on this team,” he says evenly, voice carrying just enough to settle the room. “And I hope I don’t need to remind any of you how shitty outing someone is. So keep your mouths shut.”

There are immediate nods. Quiet murmurs of agreement.

Ilya nods along with the rest of them, grateful, a little stunned.

He knew this would probably go fine. Boston had gone fine. Ottawa had felt kind from the moment he arrived. And the way they treat Shane had already told him more than words ever could.

Still, there’s something about saying anything true out loud that always feels like stepping onto thin ice. Not just this. Anything that lets people see where he’s soft.

The moment dissolves as naturally as it formed. Someone stands and reaches for their jacket. Another guy complains that he’s starving.

Ilya pulls on his hoodie, heart still thudding, but lighter than he expected to feel.

They spill out of the rink together into the cool afternoon air. Jackets zipped. Sunglasses dug out of pockets.

Shane falls into step beside him without a word and bumps his shoulder gently into Ilya’s.

Ilya smiles, the last bit of tension slipping from his shoulders.

The Centaurs take over the back corner of the pub, the way they’ve started doing without any discussion, like a habit. Which, it almost is these days.

Tables get shoved together, jackets thrown across the backs of chairs. Morrow claims the end seat like it’s a throne and immediately regrets it when the waitress drops a stack of menus in front of him. Not that any of them need a menu at this point; hockey players are creatures of habit.

Shane ends up wedged between Dykstra and Hazy, shoulder-to-shoulder in a way that should feel crowded but doesn’t. Across from him, Chou is bracketed by Novak and Ilya, all three of them dipping in and out of conversations like it’s a shared current.

It’s noisy. Warm. Earned.

It’s nothing like the forced bonding that went on in Montreal. The post-game drinks and occasional dinner where everyone pretended they wanted to be there because they were supposed to, full of polite laughter and fake smiles. This is just… the natural gravity of people who spend every day fighting together, then still choosing to hang out after.

The food shows up, and the volume dips as everyone suddenly remembers they’re starving.

Shane’s a few bites in when Novak leans across Chou, speaking toward Ilya with the cautious earnestness of someone who’s trying to ask something without stepping wrong.

“Hey, Roz,” Novak says. “Can I ask you something?”

Ilya looks up, mouth full, eyes amused. “You already are.”

Novak grins sheepishly. “Okay, yeah. Uh. Earlier… when you were talking about long-distance… how’d you do it? Like… for that long.”

Chou makes a noise like he’s been waiting for this. “Oh, here we go.”

“Yeah, rookie.” Hazy adds. “Tell us about your feelings.”

“Shut up,” Novak says automatically, but he doesn’t look embarrassed so much as tired. “I’m serious. I’m barely a couple months into this, and it feels like…” He gestures vaguely, like he’s trying to scoop the whole concept of time zones into his hands. “Like I’m always missing her. Or I’m always rushing. Or I’m always on the wrong side of her day.”

Dykstra’s expression softens in a way Shane has noticed happens whenever the younger guys get honest.

“Yeah,” Dykstra says. “That’s about right.”

Novak looks relieved just to have it acknowledged.

Ilya sets his sandwich down and actually thinks about it for a second, like he’s choosing words with care.

“It was hard,” he says finally, simple and direct. “Not feelings hard. Well, that too. But… planning hard. You are always stealing time.”

Novak nods quickly, like yes, exactly.

“Texts,” Ilya continues, ticking off on his fingers. “Calls. FaceTime. Voice messages. Lots of waking up and checking phone before your eyes are even open.”

Hazy snorts. “The ol’ five a.m. ‘hey babe’ because your flight lands and you’re in a bus and your brain is soup.”

“That,” Ilya agrees, pointing at him like Hazy’s contributed something important. “And you go to bed alone a lot. Wake up alone a lot. You get good at airports.”

Chou raises his beer. “Fuck airports.”

“Fuck airports,” Dykstra echoes, with feeling.

Novak laughs, but it’s thin around the edges. “And it doesn’t… kill it? Like, eventually?”

Shane watches him ask it, like it costs him something. Like he’s braced for someone to tell him the truth, and the truth is going to hurt.

Hazy leans back in his chair and makes a face. “Even when you live in the same city, it’s still brutal sometimes. The travel doesn’t stop. The schedule doesn’t care. Lisa and I were in Ottawa, and I still felt like I only saw her in passing some weeks.”

“Same.” Chou nods. “You’re home but not really home.”

Dykstra wipes his hands with a napkin, then shrugs. “Early years for me were worse. Caitlin was still in school. I was bouncing between the minors and call-ups, constantly on the road, constantly trying to prove I belonged.” He looks at Novak. “I thought I was going to lose her. Straight up.”

Novak’s eyes widen. “What’d you do?”

Dykstra huffs a laugh. “Got real intentional about it. Scheduled calls like meetings. Put reminders in my calendar like a loser.” He points at Novak. “Not a loser. Do that. Make it routine.”

“I sent flowers,” Hazy says, like it’s embarrassing and he’s daring someone to make fun of him for it. “Every time I was gone more than a few days, I’d have flowers delivered.”

“Flowers. In this economy,” Chou teases.

“Shut up,” Hazy says, grinning. “It worked.”

Dykstra nods. “Gifts. Notes. Random ‘thinking of you’ stuff. Anything that says you’re still there even when you’re not physically there.”

Novak chews on that, literally and metaphorically, then asks, voice smaller, “And when it still feels endless?”

There’s a moment of quiet that isn’t awkward so much as… real. The table noise carries around them, other people in the pub laughing, cutlery clinking. Their little corner goes still.

Ilya’s gaze drops to his hands, thumbs rubbing at the condensation ring on his glass.

“It will feel endless,” he admits, voice quieter. “Sometimes it will hurt. A lot. Because calls are not hugs. FaceTime is not… being there.” He lifts his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug. “You hang up, and the room is still empty.”

Novak watches him carefully. Shane watches him too, chest aching.

“And it’s frustrating,” Ilya adds, more certain now, like he’s found the point. “Because you love them, but you cannot make anything. Not really. You are always… on pause. Waiting for next trip. Next break. Next chance.”

Shane feels the words land in his ribs like a familiar bruise.

Ilya takes a sip, then says, almost like an afterthought, like the truth slips out when he’s not guarding it. “And is worse when you can’t even talk about it. When you have to keep it… secret.”

Shane makes a noise before he can stop it. Not loud. Just a soft, involuntary sound of agreement. Pained understanding.

Across the table, Ilya’s eyes flick up for a heartbeat, quick and steady, checking in. Shane gives the smallest nod he can manage.

“Hold on.” Dykstra turns his head slowly, eyebrows up. “Hollzy?”

Shane opens his mouth, already assembling something careful.

Chou beats him to it, pointing his fork like he’s made a connection. “Wait, didn’t you say… when you came out… didn’t you mention you had a boyfriend?”

A few heads turn. Not like a spotlight. More like a gentle shift of attention. Curiosity, not scrutiny.

Hazy, blunt as always, asks, “Was he in Montreal, or have you suffered long-distance too?”

Shane’s stomach flips. His instincts go to ground, automatic. Protect. Deflect. Don’t give anyone something they can hold.

His eyes flick to Ilya, just a fraction of a second. Ilya’s expression is neutral, but his gaze is steady. Patient. A silent reminder: you don’t have to give more than you want to.

Shane exhales through his nose and keeps it simple.

“He travels for work,” Shane says. “A lot. So… yeah. We’ve done distance. We only really saw each other a few times a year.”

Dykstra’s face does something complicated: sympathy, recognition, maybe a quiet anger on Shane’s behalf that he doesn’t have the context for. He doesn’t push.

“That’s brutal,” Hazy says immediately, like it’s the only thing that matters. “When you’re both travelling… that’s, like, advanced mode.”

“Roz is right,” Shane admits with a shrug. “It makes it hard to make it feel real. To feel like you’re building a future. I… I spent years wanting more than we had. Having no idea if he felt the same. And then even if he did, how the fuck would we make it work?”

Chou nods, emphatic. “Hockey ruins relationships if you let it.”

“It tries,” Dykstra corrects, then points at Novak with his napkin. “But you don’t let it. You fight for it. That’s the whole thing.”

Novak’s gaze bounces around the older guys like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to hope. He swallows, then asks the question like it’s too vulnerable to say out loud, but he says it anyway.

“Is it worth it?” he asks.

The table goes quiet again, softer this time. A collective pause.

Ilya answers first, no hesitation.

“Yes,” he says. “If you love them, yes. Always yes.”

Shane’s throat tightens.

He looks at Novak, this kid, really, with the same wide-eyed exhaustion Shane remembers from his own rookie year, only with more emotional honesty than Shane had ever been allowed.

“I’d do it all over again,” Shane says quietly. “If it meant I could be where I am now.”

A foot taps his own under the table, so light nobody else would clock it, except Shane does. Ilya.

Novak’s shoulders drop, just a little.

“Okay,” the rookie says, voice rough. “Okay. That helps.”

“Good,” Hazy says firmly, then points at him. “Now eat your fries before I do. Emotional growth is great, but I’m still hungry.”

The table laughs, the moment dissolving back into noise and food and sarcasm, like that’s the point. Like you can say something real and still keep living around it.

By the time Shane and Ilya get home, the house is quiet in the way it only is after you’ve been in a room full of people for hours.

The front door clicks shut behind them.

And Ilya is on him immediately. Not frantic, just sure.

He hooks an arm around Shane’s waist and pulls him in, tight, burying his face against Shane’s shoulder like he’s been holding his breath all day and can finally let it out.

When he pulls back, his smile is wide and boyish and unguarded, lighting up his whole face.

“They know,” Ilya says, voice breathless with it.

Shane’s chest warms. “Yeah.”

Ilya kisses him, deep and joyful, like he can’t help it.

Shane makes a soft, surprised sound into the kiss, then laughs when Ilya finally pulls back.

Ilya’s eyes are bright. “They were good about it.”

Shane brushes his thumb over Ilya’s cheek gently. His heart twists a little with the familiar wanting; wanting to tell them the whole truth, wanting to say it’s us, wanting to stop measuring distance in secrets.

Not yet, he reminds himself.

But one day. Not too far from now.

Ilya presses his forehead to Shane’s. “We are safe here,” he says, like he’s testing the words.

Shane closes his eyes and lets himself believe it.

“We are,” he murmurs back. “We are.”

Harris is halfway through his coffee, trying to wrangle a truly unhinged email inbox. Seriously, how does a hockey team’s social media manager get so many emails? He moves his cursor to the next one and frowns at the screen. The email is forwarded to him from the team’s communications director, the subject line reading Player Initiative – The Irina Foundation.

He has just opened the body when there’s a knock on his door. Looking up, he finds Ilya Rozanov standing in his doorway.

Harris blinks once, then pushes his chair back. “Uh… good morning,” he says, a little startled despite himself. “Come in.”

Rozanov steps inside, shutting the door carefully behind him. He looks freshly showered, hair still a little damp, hoodie pulled on over what Harris assumes is workout gear. Awake, but not fully online yet.

“Good morning,” Rozanov replies politely. He hesitates, then gestures vaguely at the chair opposite Harris’ desk. “Can I… sit?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Rozanov sits. Not stiff, exactly, but deliberate. Hands folded loosely in his lap like he’s trying very hard not to fidget.

Harris sets his coffee aside. “What can I do for you?”

Rozanov nods once, as if bracing himself. “You said… on first day. That if there was anything you filmed, or posted we did not want online, we should come to you.”

Harris’ stomach drops.

“Oh,” he says, immediately, words tumbling out before his brain can catch up. “Okay… okay, yeah, absolutely. If this is about the mic’d up practice clip, I just want to say, I did ask both you and Hollander before posting it, and you both said it was fine, and I know the mom joke was maybe a little, uh, intimate, but it already went live, and it’s gotten a lot of traction, and…”

“No. No,” Rozanov cuts in, not sharp, just amused. “Is not that.”

Harris stops.

“It is fine.” Rozanov smiles, small and crooked. “We both said yes, knowing it would be… big deal.” He shrugs. “It is stupid. We are teammates. Friends. Is time people started knowing rivalry was media bullshit.”

Harris exhales, relieved, then laughs a little at himself. “Okay. Good. Sorry. I just… I know Hollander was hesitant.”

“Yes, he worries,” Rozanov says as if it’s a well-known fact. “But as I said, is stupid. He knows this, even if he worries.”

Harris just nods, not really sure what to make of that.

“Besides,” he adds lightly, smile widening a fraction. “Yuna thought it was funny. And she agreed with me.”

There’s something in the way he says Yuna, fond, easy, unguarded, that makes Harris’ brain quietly file the information away. Not in a use this later way. Just in a this means something way.

“Okay,” Harris says. “So… if it’s not that, what’s up?”

Rozanov shifts in his seat. Not nervous. Just… arranging himself.

“I came out to the team yesterday,” he says.

Harris blinks. The only thing his brain can come up being “Huh.” He’s not shocked. Not really. Something about Rozanov had always pinged his radar. Not in a stereotype way, just in the quiet familiarity of someone who has done a lot of careful living.

“Okay,” Harris says out loud, keeping his voice neutral but warm. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I have a boyfriend,” Rozanov adds, like he’s completing a thought rather than confessing something.

“Got it.” Harris nods.

“I wanted the team to know,” Rozanov continues. “I trust them. I do. But… people knowing means rumors. And rumors are fine.” He hesitates, then adds more carefully, “But as long as I have a Russian passport…”

“Anything concrete is dangerous,” Harris finishes gently.

Rozanov looks relieved, like Harris has taken a weight out of his hands without him having to set it down himself. “Yes. Exactly.”

He lets out a small breath, then rubs his thumb along the seam of his jeans. “I know that now the team knows, it will be hard for me not to talk about him. I am… tired of pretending he does not exist.”

“Yeah. That tracks.” Harris smiles at that. He leans back in his chair, thinking. “Okay. So. We can handle this pretty cleanly. I’ll make sure anything that mentions your partner, if it comes up at all, stays vague. No identifiers. No gendered language.”

Rozanov tilts his head. “I don’t mind if people know I have someone,” he clarifies. “Just… nothing that makes it obvious he is man.”

“Got it,” Harris says. “Honestly, the easiest way is probably just to run anything even remotely adjacent to your personal life by you first.”

Rozanov nods immediately. “That would be good.”

“Cool,” Harris says, and means it.

There’s a brief pause. Not awkward. Just quiet.

“Thank you,” Rozanov says finally.

“Of course,” Harris replies. “Thanks for trusting me.”

Rozanov glances at the corner of the desk, where a small pride flag sits tucked beside Harris’ monitor. He gestures toward it, a little sheepish. “It helps that you… get it.”

Harris feels something warm bloom in his chest at that. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”

Rozanov stands, conversation clearly complete in his mind. Then pauses, like he’s remembering something.

“You should come to the next team hangout,” he says. “At my place.”

Harris hesitates. “I don’t want to intrude. I’m…”

“You are not,” Rozanov interrupts, firm but smiling. “You are invited. You are fun, team is nice. Come.”

Harris laughs, surrendering. “Okay. Okay. I’ll come.”

Rozanov nods, satisfied, and heads for the door.

A few minutes later, Harris is finally diving into the email about The Irina Foundation, whatever that may be. He sips his coffee as he reads a draft press release about a charitable fund and hockey camps spearheaded by Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. About mental health support, about personal connections, and about late mothers.

The email was signed off by Yuna Hollander.

Well, Harris can’t help but think, that explains Rozanov’s fondness for the woman.

Harris looks up to his now empty doorway. Thinks of Ilya Rozanov and the quiet tension he carried into his office earlier that morning; this complicated, brilliant player who the media flattened into a caricature, navigating vulnerability with the same deliberate care he brings to the ice.

Harris looks back at his screen, at the headlines and narratives and half-truths people love to spin.

Yeah, he thinks.

This team really is different.

Chapter End Notes

Apparently I scared a lot of you with the accidental implication that Harris didn't run the clip past them. I'm sorry lol 😅

but you're safe. I do not have it in me to put these boys through that in any capacity lol

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Mild Content Warning: Hockey-Typical Violence, Blood, Minor Injury

Being in the visitor’s locker room at the Bell Centre feels wrong in Shane’s bones.

Not unfamiliar, he’s been in here before, and it’s really not that different from the home locker room, but wrong in a deeper way. Like he’s wearing someone else’s skates. Like he’s stepped into a version of reality that doesn’t quite line up.

He should be on the other side of the rink.

In the locker room he knows without thinking. The one where he could tell you which shower tile always creaked under his weight, which hook bent slightly under the weight of his bag, which shower stayed cold no matter how long the water ran. Years of muscle memory, of routine carved into place.

Instead, he sits on a visitor’s bench, tugging his socks up a little too high and trying not to spiral.

It’s their first game against Montreal this season.

His first game against Montreal.

And he’s scared.

That’s the only word that fits, even if he doesn’t like it. Even if he wishes it sounded more controlled, more professional. He’s scared of standing across the ice from people who used to be his teammates, used to be his friends, and seeing what’s on their faces now.

Disgust. Resentment. Indifference.

Or worse: nothing at all.

Because nothing would mean he never mattered here. That all the years he bled for this team, all the careful obedience, all the swallowing himself down to fit… none of it ever bought him anything real.

Ilya has been hovering all day.

Not obviously, nothing anyone else would clock as strange. Just close. Close enough that their shoulders brush when they sit. Close enough that Ilya’s knee knocks into Shane’s when he leans down to untie his boots. Close enough that Shane can feel the heat of him even through layers.

It’s not suspicious. The team knows they’re friends. Knows Ilya is always tactile with people he considers part of his circle; physical, grounding, present.

But it’s not the way Shane wants.

Ilya can’t reach out and grab the back of his neck, thumb pressing in hard, forcing Shane to look at him and breathe. Can’t say “I’ve got you” out loud. Not like that.

So he does what he can. He sits close. He bumps Shane’s shoulder lightly when he passes. He murmurs something in Russian that Shane doesn’t quite catch, but the tone is warm, teasing. Familiar.

It helps.

Hazy notices anyway.

“You’re vibrating,” he says from across the room, already half-dressed, goalie gear strewn around him like debris. “Don’t tell me this is ‘just another game.’”

Shane exhales through his nose. “It’s just another game.”

Hazy squints at him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Before Shane can respond, his phone buzzes in his hand.

His first instinct is Ilya, which is stupid, because Ilya is right there, tugging on his shoulder pads. Shane frowns and unlocks the screen.

Hayden Pike.

His stomach drops.

Shane sucks in a breath before he can stop himself. It catches. Sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched.

Of course things are tense. Of course they are. He’d known this was coming, had told himself to expect it. Had told himself he deserved it, in some quiet, unexamined way.

Ilya notices immediately.

“What?” he asks, low. “What happened?”

Shane hesitates for half a second, then tilts the phone toward him.

Ilya reads it once. Then again. Then swears viciously in Russian, loud enough that a few heads turn.

He takes the phone right out of Shane’s hand and stands up. “Lenny!”

“Ilya,” Shane says quickly, reaching for him. “Don’t…”

“I am not letting you go out there like this without people knowing,” Ilya snaps, already halfway across the room.

Lenny looks up from his stall, one sock on, the other in his hand. “What’s going on?”

Ilya shoves the phone toward him.

Lenny reads. His jaw tightens.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Then louder: “Coach.”

Coach Wiebe appears almost instantly, like he’d been watching from the corner of his eye. Lenny hands him the phone. The room quiets, not tense yet, but alert.

Shane feels all of it like pressure against his chest.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quickly. “I don’t want to make this a thing.”

Ilya turns back to him, eyes bright with fury. “You are not making anything. They are.”

“I know,” Shane says. “I just…”

He hates this. Hates the way attention snaps to him. Hates that this feels like proof that he’s a problem. That he’s a distraction. That his presence alone, his existence, is disruptive.

Like if he were different, straighter, whiter, less… this, this wouldn’t be happening.

Coach hands the phone back to Lenny and looks at Shane carefully.

“I can bench you,” he says. Not unkind. Not threatening. Just factual.

The words hit harder than any chirp could.

Shane straightens immediately. “No.”

“Hollander…”

“No,” he repeats, firmer now. “I’m not letting them scare me off the ice.”

There’s a long moment. Coach studies him, then nods once.

“Okay,” he says. “But if I don’t like what I see out there, I won’t hesitate to pull you mid-game. Understood?”

Shane nods. “Understood.”

Lenny claps his hands together, breaking the tension.

“All right,” he says, voice carrying. “Same shit as always. We look out for each other. No one is out there alone.”

There are murmurs of agreement. A few sharp nods. Shane hates how relieved that makes him feel. Hates how it feels necessary.

From the moment he steps onto the ice, he can feel it.

The Bell Centre is loud in a way that feels pointed, sharpened. Booing rolls down from the stands like thunder clouds. The air hums, charged, like something is waiting to spark.

Warm-ups are tense. Pucks whistle past a little too close. Someone clips his stick as they pass. No apology.

At puck drop, it starts subtly. Stick checks a beat late. Cross-checks that linger just long enough to make a point. Extra shoves after the whistle that get waved off as nothing.

It’s “just hockey”. Plausibly.

By the middle of the first, it’s less plausible.

Hits aren’t being spread around. Chirps turn uglier, quieter; words dropped just out of earshot of the officials. Slurs muttered under breath. Smiles that don’t reach the eyes.

Shane absorbs it the way he always has. Keeps his head down. Keeps playing.

He notices, distantly, that Hayden and J.J. are the only ones who don’t engage. Hayden meets his eyes once, apologetic. J.J. gives him a quick nod after a faceoff, solid and steady.

The common denominator is obvious.

It’s him.

And somewhere between one shove too many and a sneered comment he pretends not to hear, the realization settles in. Not with anger. Not with shock. Just certainty.

This place will never respect me.

Maybe it never did.

The thought doesn’t hurt the way he expects.

It just… settles.

And as the period grinds on, Shane keeps skating, heart pounding, jaw tight, already bracing for the damage he’s convinced he’s about to cause.

By the middle of the second, Montreal stops pretending.

The hits are targeted. The whistles stop feeling coincidental. Every time Shane touches the puck, there’s a body coming through him half a second later, a stick wedged into his ribs, a shoulder driven up and under his arm.

They’re counting on him not to respond.

And he doesn’t.

He never does.

But Ilya does.

The game has turned ugly in a way that has nothing to do with hockey. The flow is shredded by constant stoppages; penalties on both sides, coincidental minors stacking up like bad debt. The refs are doing that thing where they try to manage the temperature instead of enforcing anything consistently, which only makes it worse.

Ilya thinks, distantly, that they’ve probably taken more penalties in a period and a half than they have in the rest of the season combined.

He doesn’t care.

He’s stopped checking the scoreboard. Stopped tracking matchups. Stopped thinking about anything except the way Montreal’s defensemen angle their bodies when Shane is on the ice, the way they lean just a little harder into contact, like they’re daring him to say something.

Shane takes another hit as he sends the puck Ilya’s way.

It’s ugly, but clean enough to skate away from. Shoulder through the numbers, just shy of being from behind. Shane stays upright, but he stumbles, catches himself on his stick, jaw clenched tight.

Ilya corrals the puck, sends it deep, then circles back toward the bench, heat crawling up his spine.

Shane looks at him as he passes.

Just a look. Sharp. Warning.

“Let it be.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. It’s the same look Shane used to give him last year; the one that meant “don’t make this worse,” even when the worst was already happening.

He sits on the bench, gloves on, leg bouncing hard enough to rattle the boards. He can feel the tension in the rest of the team, too; Bood pacing at the far end, Lenny standing instead of sitting, chewing on his mouthguard.

Then Bood answers for them.

A hard forecheck. A turnover. A quick release.

The puck snaps past Miitka’s glove and hits the back of the net with a sound that cuts clean through the noise.

Ottawa’s bench explodes.

Ilya doesn’t even smile.

Because the next shift, Montreal has moved past not pretending into outright attack. Ilya’s vision keeps tunneling, snapping back to Shane every time he’s on the ice. Counting strides. Counting seconds.

Waiting for the hit that won’t stay borderline.

He doesn’t need to wait long.

Shane chases a loose puck into the corner. Comeau comes with him.

The hit is wrong from the moment it starts.

Shane never sees him. There’s no angle to brace, no chance to roll with it. Comeau drives through his back, hands extended, shoving him forward at speed.

Shane goes down hard.

His skates kick out. His shoulder hits first, then his head snaps forward, helmet cracking against the boards with a sound that turns Ilya’s blood cold. Shane collapses to the ice, momentum sliding him down the wall like a rag doll.

For half a second, all Ilya can see is the way Shane doesn’t move right away. The sight crawls up Ilya’s spine, cold and familiar. He’s seen this movie before. Seen Shane hit like that, crumple like that, disappear down a tunnel while the world kept spinning.

Last time, there had been nothing he could do.

This time, Ilya drops his gloves before his brain catches up.

He doesn’t even remember crossing the distance. One second he’s at the blue line, the next his fist is knotted in Comeau’s jersey, yanking him forward so hard the man stumbles.

“You motherf…”

Ilya doesn’t let him finish.

The first punch lands solid, right to the cheekbone. The second is uglier, glancing off the helmet but snapping Comeau’s head sideways. Comeau swings back, catches Ilya on the mouth, and pain flashes white-hot and sharp.

The noise is deafening. The crowd screaming. The benches yelling. The linesmen shouting his name, grabbing at his arms.

He doesn’t care.

He lands another punch. Then another. Not to win the fight, not even to prove a point. But because it felt needed. Something cracks, he isn’t sure if it’s Comeau’s nose or his own knuckles, but suddenly there’s blood slicking between his fingers, warm and wet.

Comeau’s visor is askew. His lip is split. His eyes are wild.

Ilya smiles. It’s not pretty. It’s feral.

In all the fights he’s been in, he’s never actually wanted to hurt someone.

But… there’s a first time for everything.

And this? This feels righteous.

Comeau tries to tie him up, but Ilya wrenches free, slamming a fist into his ribs, then his jaw again. He can feel arms wrapping around his chest now, hauling at him, but he keeps hold of the jersey, keeps swinging, spitting words in rapid-fire Russian he isn’t even fully conscious of forming.

“Хватит, Илья!” A voice cuts through everything. Sharp. Commanding. Enough, Ilya!

His body freezes mid-motion, adrenaline still screaming through his veins.

The world rushes back in all at once: the roar of the crowd, the linesman barking in his ear, the ache in his hand, the copper taste of blood in his mouth.

Shane yelling at him that it’s enough.

He lets go. His head snaps up immediately.

Shane is a few paces away. On his skates. Helmet crooked. Jersey twisted. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

But standing. Whole.

Ilya exhales so hard it almost knocks him dizzy.

The linesmen drag him backward, skates scraping as he resists just long enough to make a point, then finally allows himself to be pulled away.

He keeps his eyes glued to Shane the entire time.

“You’ve made your point,” Shane says, again in Russian, voice tight and furious.

Ilya spits blood onto the ice and huffs a breathless laugh. “I do not think so. He is still breathing.”

Shane glares at him.

It’s not grateful. It’s not approving.

It’s worried. Upset. Frustrated.

Ilya closes his mouth.

A referee’s arm is already up, voice barking numbers to the scorer’s table.

A hand grips his elbow, steering him past the penalty box entirely. He goes toward the tunnel with no hesitation, no argument about the ejection. He won’t fight it.

As he passes center ice, Hayden Pike catches his eye.

Hayden gives him a small smile. Not big. Not celebratory. But approving.

Ilya smirks back, sharp and bloody.

Then he looks again at Shane. Shane’s expression is tight. Jaw clenched. Angry.

Ilya doesn’t regret it.

Not for a second.

Shane walks down the tunnel like a man headed to his own execution.

The Bell Centre is still roaring behind him, a living thing; boos and cheers, and that hum of an arena that never really quiets, even when the game is over. The air in the corridor is colder, sharper. It smells like rubber and sweat and old concrete. Familiar.

Wrong.

Ottawa won.

It doesn’t make him feel any less sick.

He can still hear the crack of his helmet against the boards. Still feel the way the game tipped from tense into violent. Still see Ilya’s face, bloodied and feral, gone somewhere Shane couldn’t follow him.

This is his fault. It’s all his brain will supply, relentlessly.

If he hadn’t been here. If he hadn’t left. If he hadn’t made himself into a problem.

He reaches the visitor’s locker room and steps inside, and the noise hits him, louder than the tunnel, warmer, a rush of voices bouncing off tile. Guys peeling gear off, laughing, swearing, making dinner plans.

A win, ugly as it was, loosens people.

Shane doesn’t loosen.

He sits down at his stall and just… sits.

He doesn’t even start untying his skates at first. His gloves are still on. His hands rest on his thighs like they don’t belong to him. His chest feels tight, like he’s been holding his breath since warm-ups.

A stall away, he catches Ilya’s eye for half a second.

Concern flashes there immediately, quick and instinctive. Then Ilya looks away like he’s giving Shane space. Like he knows Shane is still angry. Like he knows there’s no safe way to reach for him in this moment without making it worse.

Shane hates that he can’t tell whether he’s angry because Ilya fought, or because Shane wanted to fight and didn’t.

Lenny is the one who comes over.

Marko Lehtinen moves with that steady, unhurried calm that always seems to settle the air around him. He’s still half-dressed, hair damp. He stops in front of Shane’s stall and leans against the wall like this is casual.

“Hey,” he says, quiet enough it’s just for Shane. “You good?”

Shane’s throat tightens. He forces sound out anyway.

“Yeah. I’m…” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Lenny’s brows shoot up like Shane has just spoken a different language.

“Sorry?” he repeats, incredulous.

Shane tries again because the guilt is a living thing in his chest, and if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’ll eat him. “The game. The… everything. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to…”

“Whoa,” Lenny cuts in, sharper now. Not angry. Just… immediate. “No. Absolutely not.”

Shane blinks at him.

Lenny straightens a little, gaze steady. “Under no circumstances are you apologizing for that.”

Shane’s mouth opens, but no words come out fast enough.

“It was because of me,” Shane insists, quieter. It feels pathetic the second it leaves his mouth. Like he’s making excuses for Montreal. Like he’s still trying to take responsibility for them.

Lenny stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

Behind them, someone makes a choking sound.

Bood, who has been peeling tape off his shin pads, turns his head so fast Shane thinks he’s going to sprain his neck.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Bood splutters, loud enough that a few more guys glance over. “Your fault? Hollander, do we need to run you through concussion protocol again?”

Shane flinches, instinctively bracing for the wrong kind of attention.

But there’s no sharpness in it. No judgment. Just disbelief, like Shane has suggested gravity might be optional.

Dykstra leans back in his stall, eyebrows up. “This was Montreal’s fault.”

“Yeah,” Hazy calls from somewhere near the showers, voice echoing. “Pretty sure the guy who back-checked you into the boards deserves the blame there.”

Chouinard, already dressed, pulling on his hoodie, points at Shane with his water bottle. “You didn’t make them act like assholes. They came pre-installed.”

A few laughs ripple through the room. Dark, incredulous.

Shane’s face heats. “I just… I didn’t want…”

“Stop,” Bood says, and it’s the first time Shane’s heard him sound genuinely serious all night. He steps closer, tape ball forgotten in his hand. “I’m not letting you do that thing where you take the blame so everybody else can stay comfortable.”

Shane freezes.

Because that’s exactly what it is. It’s what he’s always done. The easiest way to keep the peace is to label yourself the problem.

Bood shakes his head like he can’t believe this is even a conversation. “They targeted you. We responded. That’s hockey. That’s being a team.”

Lenny nods once, firm. “We look out for each other. Period.”

“I ruined the game,” he says, almost under his breath, because the words are still there, still demanding to be said.

“You didn’t ruin shit,” Dykstra says flatly.

“Also,” Tomek adds, grinning like the devil, “it was kind of hilarious.”

Shane looks up despite himself.

Tomek points at the box score someone has pulled up on a phone. “Our best players lived in the box all night, and they still lost.”

He thinks about how easily that could have gone wrong, of how many bodies had been put in danger because of him.

“That’s so embarrassing,” Chou says, delighted. “Imagine needing to target the top line of a bottom-rate team and still getting cooked.”

“Hey,” Bood protests automatically. “We’re not bottom-rate. We’re…”

“Bottom-adjacent,” Dykstra supplies, deadpan.

“…we’re improving,” Bood finishes, glaring at him.

The room laughs again. It’s looser now, the tension sliding sideways into humor like it has to go somewhere.

Shane feels the edges of his panic snag on it and soften.

Then Ilya appears at his side without announcement, like he’s been waiting for the exact second he could get close without making it seem like he’s hovering.

He drops onto the bench beside Shane and presses their sides together, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Casual, to anyone watching. Normal. Ilya is tactile; everyone knows that. He’s been leaning on people since the day he walked in.

Shane goes rigid for half a heartbeat on instinct, too close, too obvious, then forces himself to breathe.

Ilya’s voice is low, only for him. “This is Montreal being assholes.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “You got ejected.”

“I did,” Ilya agrees, utterly unapologetic.

Tomek leans over from the next stall, eyes bright with mischief. “Okay, so. Can we talk about how fucking scary you are?”

“I was inspired,” Bood says reverently.

“I was traumatized,” Millsy announces from across the room, even though he hadn’t been on the ice for it. Goalies are always dramatic about team violence.

Hazy’s head pops out of the shower area, hair damp and sticking up. “I’ve literally never seen you listen to anyone in your life, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s mouth curves, sharp. “I listen.”

“Bullshit,” Hazy says immediately. “You listen to Hollander.”

A chorus of agreement rises up like it’s been waiting to happen.

“Oh my god,” Bood says, eyes wide. “He does. He stopped the second Hollzy yelled.”

Lenny’s lips twitch. “Yeah, that was… interesting.”

Tomek points between them like he’s connecting dots in midair. “Why Hollzy and no one else?”

Dykstra, grinning, adds, “Hollander’s got him on a short leash.”

Shane feels heat crawl up his neck so fast it’s almost painful. He opens his mouth to deny it… and then freezes, because he’s suddenly aware of what they’ve all just implied out loud.

Not them. Not on purpose. Not that. Just… the shape of closeness.

Ilya, bless him, saves him by making a rude sound and flicking a wet towel at Dykstra.

“I am not dog,” he says, offended. “And he is not…” He stops, searching for the English word with exaggerated irritation. “…person who holds leash.”

“Owner?” Tomek suggests helpfully.

Ilya glares. “No.”

“Handler?” Bood offers.

Ilya points at him like he’s betrayed. “Also no.”

Shane’s mouth betrays him by twitching.

“Wait.” Tomek’s eyes narrow.

Oh no.

Tomek leans closer, grin slow and wicked. “Since when does Hollzy know Russian?”

The room goes quiet in that very specific way it does when the group brain has smelled blood in the water.

Shane’s pulse trips. He can feel it in his throat. He can feel Ilya’s arm around him, steady, like an anchor.

He forces a shrug that he hopes looks casual. “Since always?”

“That is not answer,” Ilya says immediately, too quick, too amused.

“Since always?” Bood echoes, delighted. “Hollander, you’ve been hiding multilingualism from us?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shane says, and he can hear how unconvincing it sounds even to himself.

Lenny’s eyes crinkle. “What did you say to him?”

Shane’s mouth opens.

He can’t say, “Enough, Ilya,” in front of all of them. Not with the way his voice had carried. Not with the way it had been pure command.

Not with the way it had revealed, for half a second, how much he can reach Ilya.

Ilya answers for him, lightly, like he’s tossing Shane a lifeline. “He said I am embarrassing.”

“That tracks,” Dykstra says immediately.

“Yeah,” Bood agrees. “That feels accurate.”

Tomek sighs dramatically, like he’s been robbed. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

Shane laughs, small and reluctant, but real, and the sound seems to loosen something in his chest.

He still feels wrong about the whole night. Still feels responsible in that stubborn, reflexive way guilt lives in the body.

But he looks around the room, at Lenny’s steady insistence, at Bood’s outrage on his behalf, at the way the guys are joking like this was absurd and frustrating and theirs to deal with, not his to apologize for, and something shifts.

Ottawa doesn’t look at him like he’s a liability. They look at him like he’s one of them. Montreal had always made him feel like something to be managed. Ottawa treats him like something worth defending.

And that should be simple. That should be obvious. Instead, it lands like a revelation that makes his throat sting.

Montreal is behind him now, he thinks.

Even if some part of him still believes he earned what they did to him. Even if some part of him is still waiting for the moment this team decides he’s too much trouble.

Ilya’s arm tightens around his shoulders for a brief second, a wordless squeeze.

Shane exhales slowly, letting the noise of the room fill the cracks in his head where Montreal still lives.

Not gone.

But not as cavernous.

By the time Shane gets back to the hotel room, the adrenaline has burned itself out and left him hollow.

His gear is gone, shower taken, he’s been cleared by medical. His head aches in that dull, post-impact way that isn’t pain so much as presence. Every muscle feels like it’s been rung out and left to dry.

He kicks his shoes off by the door and sinks onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

Ten minutes later, there’s a knock. It’s soft. Deliberate.

Shane doesn’t bother looking before opening the door; he knows who it is. He and Ilya wouldn’t normally risk spending the night together when travelling with the team, but on the bus ride back from the rink, they had both wordlessly agreed that tonight it would be worth it.

Ilya barely gets one foot over the threshold before Shane folds into him.

It’s not dramatic. He just steps forward and lets his forehead hit Ilya’s shoulder, lets his hands curl into the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie like he’s been holding himself upright by force of will alone.

Ilya exhales and closes the door behind them with his heel, arms coming around Shane immediately. Firm. Secure.

“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low, relief threaded through it. “Are you okay?”

“Mm,” Shane says, muffled into Ilya’s neck. “Passed concussion protocol.”

He feels it, the way Ilya’s body loosens, tension draining out of his shoulders like someone cut a wire.

“Good,” Ilya says quietly.

They stand like that for a moment, neither of them moving, the silence heavy but safe. Bone-deep exhaustion settles over Shane now that he’s not pretending to be fine for anyone else.

Eventually, Ilya nudges him backward, steering without breaking contact until they hit the bed. Shane goes easily, knees bracketing Ilya’s hips as he sits, straddling him without really thinking about it. His head drops back down, cheek resting against Ilya’s temple.

When they pull back enough to look at each other, Shane’s thoughts are tired and sharp all at once.

“I’m still mad at you,” he says.

Ilya nods. “I know.”

“You knew I didn’t want you to fight tonight,” Shane continues, voice flat with it. “I told you.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. No defensiveness. No regret.

Shane huffs, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re probably getting reviewed by Player Safety.”

“Probably,” Ilya says, shrugging one shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters. He leans forward again, forehead pressing to Ilya’s. “I don’t want to argue about this.”

“Okay,” Ilya says easily, running a soothing hand up Shane’s spine.

Shane shifts, settling sideways against him instead, one hand finding Ilya’s and threading their fingers together. He glances down at their joined hands, then at Ilya’s bandaged knuckles.

“How is your hand?”

“Fine,” Ilya says. “Hurts like hell. Not broken.”

“Good,” Shane snaps, automatic and sharp. Harsher than he really means to be.

Shane snorts despite himself, then leans in and kisses him. It’s gentle, more pressure than heat, until Ilya makes a small sound and pulls back with a hiss.

“Split lip,” Ilya explains unnecessarily.

“Go,” Shane says, waving him off. “Clean yourself up before you get blood on my pillow.”

Ilya laughs softly and stands, pressing one last kiss to Shane’s temple before disappearing into the bathroom.

Shane exhales and falls back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He knows why Ilya did it.

God, he knows. He’s replayed the moment over and over; the way Shane hadn’t moved right away, the way the ice had seemed to tilt. He knows that fear.

He probably would have done the same thing in Ilya’s position.

That doesn’t mean he’s okay with it.

He’s still angry. Angry that Ilya put himself in danger. Angry that he made himself a target. Angry Ilya did it for him. Angry that it was necessary.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Shane pulls it out, already bracing to ignore Hayden or J.J. again. He’ll deal with that later. He feels a bit bad about ignoring them, but he doesn’t have it in him to field their apologies right now.

Instead, it’s Scott.

Shane lets out a quiet laugh, the sound surprising him.

He types back.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Shane stares at the screen for a second, then exhales.

It helps. A little. Enough to take the edge off the anger, to let it slide into something duller and more manageable.

The bathroom door opens a few minutes later.

Ilya pads back into the room, hair damp, lip cleaned up, knuckles wrapped loosely. He doesn’t say anything, just crawls into bed behind Shane and drapes an arm around his waist, pulling him back until their bodies fit together like this is where they’re meant to be.

Shane melts into it without thinking, hand settling over Ilya’s forearm.

They lie there quietly, the city humming beyond the window, the worst of the night finally behind them.

Shane closes his eyes.

Tomorrow, they’ll deal with consequences. With media. With everything Montreal still is.

But tonight, he lets himself rest.

Held.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

They’re standing just outside the media room at the Centaurs’ rink, close enough that Shane can hear the low murmur of voices through the door.

The Centaurs hadn’t hesitated when they had asked to borrow the space. The team’s PR had handled the logistics; Yuna had handled the optics. Everything about this had been carefully planned and deliberately executed.

The door is only half open, and Shane can see straight into the room. Yuna Hollander stands at the podium, composed and elegant, a practised calm settling over her shoulders as she speaks. Reporters sit in neat rows, pens moving, cameras trained forward. A few familiar faces. A few unfamiliar ones. All paying attention.

Shane barely registers any of it.

Ilya stands beside him, half-turned away from the door, note cards in his hands.

He looks calm. Anyone else would think he’s fine.

But Shane knows better.

Ilya keeps flipping the cards, not reading so much as checking that the words are still there. His shoulders are pulled tight, posture rigid in a way that has nothing to do with confidence. One thumb keeps dragging along the edge of the top card, worrying at the paper like he’s sanding it down millimetre by millimetre.

He flexes his fingers. Once. Then again.

Shane watches all of it.

He knows what this costs Ilya. How much of himself he’s about to put on display. This isn’t trash talk or a rivalry soundbite or even a game recap. This is his mother. His childhood. A loss he almost never names in the privacy of his own mind, let alone into a room full of strangers with recorders running.

It matters. That’s the problem.

Shane doesn’t say anything. He knows better than to try to talk Ilya out of nerves that deserve to exist. Instead, he reaches out and tugs gently at the sleeve of Ilya’s suit jacket, smoothing a wrinkle that doesn’t really need smoothing. Adjusts the cuff by a fraction. Practical. Grounding.

“Your tie is crooked,” he murmurs, like it’s just another media day.

Ilya startles slightly, then looks down, instinctively checking. His breath leaves him in a slow exhale.

“Ah,” Ilya says quietly. He adjusts it slightly, shoulders easing by degrees. Not relaxed. But… less braced.

He glances at Shane, eyes flicking up for half a second. There’s no panic in them. Just a lot of feeling held carefully in place. Shane meets his gaze and nods once. Nothing dramatic. Just “I’m here. We’re doing this together.”

From inside the room, applause breaks out, polite and sustained.

Yuna’s finished. That’s their cue.

Ilya swallows once, then stacks the note cards neatly in his hand like order might make this easier. Shane reaches over and gives his fingers a brief squeeze.

“Ready?” Shane asks, already knowing the answer doesn’t really matter.

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

Shane steps forward first, pushing the door open the rest of the way. The noise swells, cameras lifting, attention snapping toward them.

As they walk in, side by side, Shane feels the familiar steadiness settle into his bones; the practised calm of rooms like this, the rhythm of questions and answers, the knowledge of how to hold himself under scrutiny.

Beside him, Ilya walks tall.

They sit side by side at the table, microphones angled toward them, the foundation’s logo projected softly behind their shoulders.

Shane is relieved that they’d let his mom handle the formal opening. The mission statement, the structure, the board members, the logistics. All the things that sound better coming from someone who didn’t spend their entire adulthood being slammed around on the ice.

But now it's their turn to speak.

Ilya straightens slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his note cards before he sets them aside. He looks composed. Calm. Shane can see the effort it takes to make himself appear in control, to say all the things he’s about to say.

Ilya leans toward the mic.

“Thank you all for being here,” he says, words careful but steady. “We are… very proud to announce The Irina Foundation. This is something we have been working on quietly for a long time, and it means a lot to both of us.”

Shane picks up smoothly, like they practised. Not rehearsed, exactly, just… planned.

“We’ve both spent our lives in this sport,” Shane says. “We’ve seen what it gives people: confidence, structure, community. But we’ve also seen what it takes. Mental health is still something athletes are expected to manage quietly, and we wanted to help change that. Especially for kids coming up now.”

Ilya nods beside him, shoulders easing just a fraction.

“One of the hardest parts,” Ilya adds, “is how alone people feel when they are struggling. Even when they are surrounded by teammates. We do not want that to continue.”

Shane watches the way his hand tightens briefly on the table before loosening again.

Yuna gestures to the room. “We’ll open it up for questions.”

Hands go up immediately.

The first few are easy. Safe. Questions about how involved they’ll be personally, if they plan to partner with existing charities, or expand beyond hockey.

Then someone asks the question they knew was coming and have been bracing for.

“We often see athletes make foundations or charitable efforts for a variety of causes. Why mental health, specifically?” a young woman Shane doesn’t recognize asks.

He doesn’t look at Ilya right away, but he feels the tension shift beside him. The subtle tightening of Ilya’s shoulders, the way his breath goes a little shallower. Shane slides his foot sideways, bumping gently against Ilya’s under the table.

Ilya inhales.

“This is… personal,” he says carefully. Not hesitant, exactly, but unsure, like he’s worried it’s going to cost him something. “To both of us.”

Ilya scratches at the side of his nose, that little nervous tick Shane has learned means Ilya is feeling a bit too vulnerable.

“The foundation is named after my mother,” Ilya continues. “Her name was Irina. She died when I was a child. She struggled with depression for a long time.”

The room goes very still. Shane doesn’t move either, doesn’t interrupt, just lets the moment exist, because this is Ilya being braver than the ice ever asked him to be.

“I was… twelve, when she died,” Ilya says. Shane can see how deliberately he’s choosing each word. “Losing her shaped how I understand strength. And taught me a lot about what the world sees as weakness.”

Shane watches Ilya’s hands now, how they flatten on the table, grounding himself. He wishes he could do more than just sit here, could reassure Ilya in a more obvious way, let his boyfriend know how proud he is that he’s letting himself be vulnerable.

“I do not want kids to learn the same things I did.” Ilya finishes.

“And for you, Shane?” the same reporter asks him.

Shane nods once, collecting himself.

“For me,” he says, “this isn’t about one story or moment. But, I’ve played in this league for 8 years now… I’ve seen teammates, friends, people I care for and respect, struggle quietly because this sport still rewards silence and toughness over honesty.”

“It’s getting better,” he continues. “But it’s still not enough. And if we can help make it easier for the next generation to speak up sooner, that’s worth doing.”

The next question is easier: “Why start a hockey school?”

Shane feels the tension bleeding off Ilya beside him as they move into safer territory.

“We are hockey players,” Ilya answers with a shrug. The room chuckles, Shane included.

“We wanted to be involved,” Shane explains. “But let’s be honest, neither of us know how to run a charity.”

“But we are very good at hockey.” Ilya finishes for him with a smirk.

Another hand.

“Is this connected in any way to Shane’s recent public coming out?” a reporter Shane can’t see asks.

There’s a beat of surprise; not alarm, just recalibration. Ilya glances sideways, quick and checking. Shane gives a small smile and answers without hesitation.

“This foundation isn’t about one person or one moment,” Shane says evenly. “Mental health affects athletes across identities. We wanted to build something that would outlast any individual story.”

Ilya nods, relieved.

More questions. Logistics, league involvement, Centaurs’ support. Shane and Ilya answer easily, passing the more detailed questions off to Yuna.

And then, finally:

“You’re teammates now, and clearly have strong on-ice chemistry,” a reporter says. “But some fans are surprised to see the two of you working together so closely after such a long rivalry.”

Ilya snorts before he can stop himself. Shane smiles.

“There was never personal animosity,” Shane says. “Competition doesn’t equal hatred. It never did.”

Ilya leans in, grin easy now. “The rivalry was fun,” he says. “Shane is very annoying. Very… persistent. ”

Shane rolls his eyes to scattered laughter.

“Competition between us is very real,” Ilya continues. “But is because he is good hockey player. Playing against him makes me better player.”

Shane’s chest warms a little, and he has to school his expression because he knows it’s far too fond, and this is still a room full of cameras.

“Our rivalry was always professional,” Ilya says with a sort of inarguable certainty. “I have always respected Shane. As player, and as person.”

“Same for me. And now we’re friends,” Shane says simply.

Ilya nods. “Yes. Friends.”

The words land cleanly. No drama, no qualifiers, but Shane can tell they’ve shocked the room a bit with the casual admission.

They answer a few more questions before Yuna wraps things up.

As Shane watches the reporters start to gather their things, he feels a quiet pride settle in his chest. Not just for the foundation, but for the way Ilya handled this. For the way they did it together.

He moves under the table again, nudging Ilya’s foot once more. Feels Ilya nudge in return.

Steady. Present. United.

Chapter End Notes

Not sure I'm super happy with this chapter, but I can't spend any more time on it or I'll never move on lol

Chapter 11

The season settles the way winter in Ottawa does: quietly at first, then all at once.

One week, it’s still technically fall, the sidewalks wet and brown but forgiving, the air brisk but not cruel. The next, Shane is stepping into air so cold it bites clean through his coat, watching his breath fog, watching the calendar fill until there aren’t really days anymore, just clusters of back-to-backs, travel, practice, video review, sleep, more travel.

It’s a rhythm. Not a gentle one, but a familiar one. Something his body understands even when his brain is too tired to keep up.

And in the middle of it, the strangest thing happens.

They start winning.

Not a lot, not enough to erase the hole they dug in October, not enough to make anyone pretend the standings look good. They’re still living in the bottom quarter of the league, still the kind of team people look at on the schedule and think, “Should be two points.”

But they aren’t a joke anymore.

They’re work.

Shane notices it first in the way he stops bracing. The sick little twist in his stomach before warm-up, anticipating some humiliating collapse, some catastrophic mistake, starts showing up less often. Not gone, because he’s Shane and his brain keeps receipts, but quieter. Like a radio turned down in the next room.

The games aren’t easy. And the wins aren’t clean. They’re messy, still. They lose leads. They take penalties at the worst possible times. They make dumb mistakes because half the roster is only just learning how to keep up, the other half is trying not to drown, and all of them are learning brand new systems.

But they aren’t rolling over.

Other teams don’t coast through Ottawa anymore. They don’t play lazily. They don’t pull off the gas in the third. They push like Ottawa might actually do something about it, because lately, Ottawa has.

There’s a particular satisfaction in that, watching the league recalibrate, watching a team that everyone wrote off make people adjust their game plans.

Shane doesn’t say it out loud. But he feels it in his chest like a pulse.

And a lot of it is them.

Him and Ilya.

He knew, logically, that they’d work. You don’t become who they are without learning how to read the game, how to adapt. Their rivalry had always been built on the fact that they were the only ones who truly challenged each other.

But knowing something in theory is different than living inside it.

On the ice, with Ilya, Shane doesn’t have to think in sentences.

He thinks in angles. In pressure. In the way Ilya’s weight shifts on his edges, the way he carries the puck just a little farther out from his body when he’s about to cut inside. The way his head always tilts before he changes pace. The way he uses his hips to shield, not just his stick.

Ilya, in return, reads Shane the way Shane reads the game: quickly, cleanly, without sentimentality.

There are plays where Shane can feel the pass arrive before he’s even opened his blade, because he knows exactly when Ilya will look up. Exactly when he’ll decide the lane is there. Exactly how hard the puck will come, where it’ll land.

It doesn’t take eye contact anymore. Barely takes a glance.

They just… know.

There’s a shift, somewhere in mid-November, where Shane realizes it’s not even remarkable to them anymore. A play breaks down, the puck pops loose, and Shane sees it happen: the correction, instant and instinctive. Ilya is already there, already supporting, already turning the chaos into a second chance.

Not flashy.

Efficient.

Repeatable.

And repeatable is scarier than miraculous, because miracles don’t hold up to video review. Miracles don’t survive a season. Miracles don’t build a team.

Repeatable does.

Lenny is contributing as well. Shane, maybe vainly, was expecting him to, not struggle per se, but need time. An adjustment period, a learning of what’s instinctual to him and Ilya. He had forgotten that Marko Lehtinen has been captaining teams longer than some of their rookies have had driver’s licenses.

Lenny doesn’t try to be the star. He doesn’t force his way into their rhythm. He finds the gaps in it and fills them. Where Shane and Ilya are fast and sharp and sometimes a little too aggressive, Lenny is stabilizing. Quiet competence, a veteran who knows when a play needs to be made and when it needs to be killed.

He wins the puck battles that let them stay on offense. He covers for the riskier reads. He does the unglamorous work that makes the pretty stuff possible.

It’s not mind-meld the way Shane and Ilya can be. But it’s the kind of line that makes other teams keep their top pair honest. Makes them shorten the bench. Makes them match hard.

And it’s not just them, either.

That’s the part Shane didn’t expect to feel so… satisfying. Watching the ripple effects.

Ottawa’s systems don’t look like a patchwork anymore. They look like something being built with intention.

Coach Wiebe has been, if Shane is honest, brutally efficient about it.

Not harsh. Not screaming. Not humiliating.

Just consistent.

He corrects mistakes without assigning moral failure to them. He doesn’t fixate on one turnover until a player’s confidence collapses. He isn’t trying to scare them into obedience.

He expects best effort. He expects growth. He expects people to do their jobs.

But he doesn’t expect miracles.

In some rooms, Shane knows, that lack of constant pressure would rot a team from the inside. Complacency would settle in, and mediocrity would become the culture.

Ottawa is not complacent.

Ottawa is starving.

That small loosening, oxygen to fuel the fire, lets the hunger do what it’s been trying to do all along.

Players start to make sense in their roles. The kids stop looking like they’re sprinting through quicksand. The vets stop getting run into the ground because they have to cover three jobs at once. Lines stop feeling like a coin toss.

And then, in late November, in the middle of a practice that feels routine enough Shane barely clocks it as important, Wiebe calls everyone in.

“Okay,” he says, voice carrying in that straightforward way he has. “Line change.”

There’s an immediate rustle, sticks adjusting, skates scraping as guys drift closer. A few guys look at each other like they’re bracing for something dramatic.

Wiebe doesn’t do dramatic.

“Lehtinen, you’re going down with Moore and Martel.”

Marty, Julien Martel, blinks like he’s been personally called out. Caleb Moore looks like he’s trying to calculate what he did wrong.

Lenny doesn’t react much at all. Just nods once. Knowing how much Coach Wiebe valued player input, Lenny probably knew this was happening.

“And Bood,” Coach continues, “you’re up with Hollander and Rozanov.”

There’s a beat of surprised silence, and then the noise breaks in around it; mutters, a few “oh, shit” laughs, someone whistling.

Boodram’s eyes go wide. He doesn’t look thrilled. He looks like someone just handed him a fragile, expensive thing and said, “Don’t drop it.”

Bood skates over to Shane as they reset for drills, brows pulled together.

“Hey,” he says, low. “So. This is a prank, right?”

Shane huffs a laugh. “If it is, Coach committed.”

“I’m serious,” Bood says, looking genuinely distressed. “You two are… you’re, like, the hockey version of a hurricane. I’m going to die.”

Ilya, skating in on Shane’s other side, looks delighted. “You will not die,” he says, too cheerful to be reassuring. “You will suffer, though.”

“Thank you,” Bood says flatly. “That helps.”

The first few reps are exactly what Shane expects.

Bood is fast, faster than Lenny, less measured and more explosive, but he’s also playing slightly ahead of the play, like he’s trying to be where he thinks the puck should be rather than where it will be.

He overcommits once, leaves a lane open, and Shane has to recover hard. Another time, he tries to force a pass through traffic because he thinks that’s what Shane and Ilya want, high risk, high reward, and it gets picked clean.

Bood swears loud enough that a couple of guys on the bench laugh.

After a whistle, Bood circles back, breathing hard, eyes darting between Shane and Ilya like he’s waiting for them to roast him.

Ilya just gestures with his stick. “Again. Faster.”

Bood’s face pinches like he doesn’t understand what Ilya is asking.

Wiebe skates over, cutting in before Bood can spiral further into his uncertainty. He looks Bood in the eye.

“Bood, I don’t need you to think the game better than them,” he says, calm as if he’s discussing grocery lists. “Or hell, even as well as them. I need you to get them the puck faster.”

Bood stares at him. Shane watches the moment land. Watches Bood’s shoulders drop, just a fraction, like someone has finally told him what his job is in a way that makes sense.

Bood nods once, sharp. “Okay.”

And after that, something clicks.

Bood stops trying to be clever. Stops trying to prove he belongs on that line by making complicated plays.

He becomes a conduit.

He wins races, forces turnovers, pulls defenders out of position, and then, most importantly, he gives Shane and Ilya the puck sooner. In better spots. With more time.

He feeds them.

Two days later, in their next game, it looks like Bood has been there all season.

Not because he’s perfect. Because he’s exactly what the line needed.

If a line of Lehtinen–Hollander–Rozanov was dangerous, this is lethal.

It’s ruthlessly effective. Pressure, speed, puck retrieval, immediate attack. Shane and Ilya don’t have to spend half their shift digging the puck out of corners anymore. Bood does it like he was built for it, and then the two of them do what they do best.

Goals start coming easier.

Not for Shane and Ilya alone. For the whole team.

Because when your first line is dangerous, the rest of the bench changes. The game opens up. Other teams start matching harder, which means their depth gets stretched thinner, which means Ottawa’s second line, now steadied by Lenny, gets more space.

Moore and Marty are firecrackers. Young, fast, reckless in the best and worst ways. With Lenny between them, they become something useful. The line doesn’t just spark, it sustains.

It ripples.

Shane feels it on the bench, in the way the guys start leaning forward instead of back. In the way goals aren’t greeted with relief so much as expectation; “Yeah, of course. Do it again.”

And they win.

And then they win again.

And again.

The first winning streak of the season lands like a physical thing. Like the building itself is lighter. Like the air in the locker room has more give.

The media notices. Not in a “Centaurs are a contender” way, nobody’s that reckless, but in the way analysts start saying they’re interesting. In the way opposing teams stop treating Ottawa as a free night.

Shane notices something else, too: the way he starts believing.

It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t a single moment where he looks at the standings and thinks, “We’re here.” It creeps in around the edges, like confidence does when you don’t chase it.

They come back from being down two in the third period, and Shane realizes he assumed they could.

They play a clean road game against a team that should have steamrolled them, and Shane realizes he expected them to hold the lead.

They run a drill in practice, and it looks sharp: crisp passing, clean entries, everyone moving with purpose, and Shane realizes he’s not surprised.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, somewhere between a third straight win and the quiet swell of hope on the bench, Shane starts noticing Ilya. Notices how he’s quiet now that the hockey is loud.

It isn’t a switch.

It’s seepage.

At first, it’s almost nothing. A half-second delay in Ilya’s smile at a joke in the locker room. A moment where his gaze goes unfocused mid-conversation, like he’s watching something behind someone’s shoulder.

Then Shane catches it again. And again.

Not on the ice.

On the ice, Ilya is exactly what he always is: engaged, ruthless, electric. He chirps, he argues calls, he celebrates goals with that sharp grin that looks like it belongs on a poster.

He’s deadly.

But off the ice…

Off the ice, there are moments when he seems slightly out of sync with his own life. Like he’s present because he’s supposed to be, not because he’s actually there.

Shane notices it that first time at a team dinner, one of those loud, crowded affairs where everyone talks over each other and no one cares. Ilya laughs, but a beat too late, like he’s hearing the punchline through a wall. He contributes, but his energy is muted, his comments less sharp, less playful.

In the locker room, Ilya drifts. Keeping to himself in a way he never does. Changing methodically instead of jumping into five different conversations and three people’s spaces. He doens’t chirp. Doesn’t argue.

He still has his charm, but it’s like he’s reaching for it instead of wearing it naturally. Not always. Not enough for anyone else to say something.

But Shane sees it.

Shane always sees it.

At home, it’s even clearer.

At home, Ilya has always been a physical presence, tactile to the point of being absurd. A man who will drape himself over Shane like he’s trying to merge atoms, who will lean into Shane’s space in the kitchen just to be annoying, who will sit too close on the couch and steal warmth like it’s a shared resource.

Now, Ilya sits on the far end of the couch.

He still talks. Still watches the same shows, still makes sarcastic comments at the TV.

But he doesn’t press into Shane’s side. He doesn’t tuck his feet under Shane’s legs. He doesn’t absentmindedly hook an ankle over Shane’s like he used to.

The things Ilya usually does to needle Shane fall away. He doesn’t quiz him on Russian anymore. Doesn’t mock Shane’s pronunciation and then, five minutes later, kiss him like he’s proud anyway. Doesn’t poke at him just to get a reaction.

Shane misses it in a way that feels strangely like grief, because it isn’t about the teasing. It’s about presence. About contact.

In the mornings, Ilya stays in bed too long. Not in a lazy, indulgent way, more like his body is heavy. Like getting up is a negotiation he has to have with himself.

He sleeps in when he can, and when he can’t, he drags himself out of bed like it costs him something. He moves more slowly. His shoulders are slightly hunched. The brightness in his eyes is dimmed, like a light turned down.

He stays up too late, too. Shane will wake up at two a.m. and find Ilya sitting in the living room in the dark, phone in his hand, scrolling aimlessly, the TV on mute.

When Shane asks, softly, “You okay?” Ilya will look up like Shane has startled him, and smile like it’s a reflex.

“Of course,” he’ll say. “Just could not sleep.”

It isn’t a lie, exactly. Shane can tell the difference. Ilya doesn’t lie well when he’s tired.

But it isn’t the truth, either.

Sometimes it feels like Ilya is there in the room but just out of reach, like a skittish animal that won’t be cornered.

Sometimes Shane will reach for him, and Ilya will respond, because he always responds, but it feels like Shane is pulling him back into his own body.

Shane thinks about asking directly, every time he notices.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows what it takes for Ilya to be vulnerable. He’s watched Ilya treat honesty like a resource; precious, rationed, only spent when necessary. He’s watched him circle topics like they’re traps.

Getting Ilya to open up is like trying to catch a stray cat. You need to be certain, because if you lunge too early and miss, you don’t get a second chance.

So Shane doesn’t lunge.

He waits.

He watches. He keeps his voice calm. He keeps his routines steady, because routine is something you can offer someone without asking them to accept help.

He starts doing small things instead: leaving water out, making sure there’s food that doesn’t require thought, turning on the kettle before Ilya even realizes he wants tea. He keeps the home warm and predictable.

And when the worry doesn’t stop building, he texts Scott.

It feels ridiculous, in a way. Texting the man like he’s asking for permission to be concerned about his own boyfriend. But Scott has a way of steadying him without making it a big thing.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Shane stares at the phone for a while, trying to put it into words without catastrophizing it. Without making it sound like Shane is inventing problems.

Scott's reply is both reassuring and worrying.

The question sits heavy. Because Shane doesn’t actually know. Because knowing would require having been present, for more than a few nights a season. Because that’s not a luxury they’ve been able to have before.

So Shane texts Marleau.

Because Cliff Marleau has known Ilya longer and better than almost anyone else, and because Marleau’s loyalty to Ilya has always been quiet but absolute.

Marleau’s response is delayed, coming hours later, probably because Marleau is Marleau, and Ilya constantly complains about how bad the man is at texting back.

The next day, there’s a ring of the doorbell and a parcel waiting. Expedited. Boston origin.

Cinnamon buns from some bakery Shane has never heard of, still warm in their insulated packaging.

Shane stares at them for a long moment, something tight in his chest loosening despite his worry.

He brings them inside. Sets them on the counter. Doesn’t announce it like a solution, doesn’t make it into a conversation. Just… puts it where Ilya will find it.

Ilya comes home later, tired from a run, hair damp, eyes a little too flat.

He spots the box. His eyebrows lift.

“What is this?” he asks, staring at the box.

Shane shrugs like it’s nothing. “Marleau.”

Ilya pauses, then lets out a short, surprised laugh. Not bright. But real.

“Of course,” he says, voice softer than usual. Then, after a beat: “Tell him thank you.”

Shane nods. “Eat one.”

Ilya does. He chews slowly, like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to enjoy something without thinking about it.

“Good,” Shane says, not trusting himself to say anything else.

Ilya glances at him, like he knows Shane is watching. Like he knows Shane knows.

He doesn’t pull away.

But he doesn’t step closer, either.

And that’s how it is, for weeks.

Hockey gets better. The team gets better. The bench gets hopeful. Shane feels something alive in the sport again; purpose, not just escape. A sense that the work is building toward something real.

And at the same time, Ilya’s quietness seeps into the edges of it, not enough to ruin it, but enough to change the way it tastes.

Shane doesn’t say depression. Not even in his own head. It feels too big, too definitive, too much like a diagnosis. He doesn’t know what it is, not really. He just knows the man he loves is slipping sideways in small, almost invisible ways.

And Shane, who has spent his whole life being careful, being patient, being the kind of person who watches for cracks and tries to patch them before anyone notices, does what he knows how to do.

He catalogues it.

He files it away.

He keeps showing up.

And he waits.

Quietly. Patiently.

For his stray cat to come to him.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Mild Content Warning: Discussion of depression, very minor mention of potential suicidal ideation.

The shower is too hot.

Ilya had turned the dial without looking, the way he always does, and now the water is scalding his shoulders, and he still can’t make himself move. He stands with his forehead against the tile, hands splayed on the wall, breathing in steam that smells like his soap and Shane's shampoo.

He is crying.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… silent tears that get lost in the water, that slide down his cheeks and disappear before they can even reach his jaw.

It makes no sense.

That’s the worst part. The part that makes him feel stupid and childish, like he is failing some invisible test of adulthood. If something was wrong, if the day had been bad, if someone had said something cruel, if Shane had looked at him differently, then this would be simple. Cause and effect. An understandable reaction.

But today had been good. Today had been… almost perfect.

It had been the last day of their Christmas break, the last free pocket of time before the schedule clamps down again, and they’d spent it at Shane’s parents the way it was becoming normal to do. Not a special occasion thing. Not a visit with a reason. Just… a place to go on a day off, like family does.

David had insisted on starting the puzzle Yuna had bought him for Christmas, some ridiculous landscape with a thousand tiny pieces and a big smug picture on the box that promised satisfaction. Ilya had rolled his eyes and sat down anyway, and then, somehow, he’d gotten pulled into it the way he always does. The small, precise pleasure of finding the right edge, the right color, the right fit. David had made little pleased noises every time Ilya found a piece quickly, like he was impressed, like this mattered.

Across the room, Yuna and Shane had been on the couch, watching the San Jose versus Vegas game and ripping into it like it was their job. Yuna had been vicious about it, in that clipped, cheerful way she has when she’s really into it.

“Did he just… glide?” she’d demanded, pointing at the TV. “Like he’s on a leisurely skate at the Rideau Canal? God, I miss aggressive defensemen.”

Shane had made that little hum he does when he’s trying not to laugh too hard. “He’s conserving energy.”

“He’s conserving his life,” Yuna had said flatly. “Because if I were his coach, I would end him.”

Shane had laughed then, real and unguarded, and it had made something in Ilya’s chest loosen, a knot he hadn’t even known was there.

Later, David had started teaching Ilya his chicken parmesan recipe like it was a sacred rite.

“Pound the chicken thin,” David had said, handing him a mallet. “Not to death. You’re not tenderizing your enemies.”

“I have no enemies,” Ilya had replied automatically.

David had raised an eyebrow. “You’re a hockey player.”

Ilya had shrugged. “They are all my enemies, but… politely.”

Shane, passing through the kitchen with two beers, had muttered, “That’s the most Canadian thing you’ve ever said,” and Yuna had snorted so hard she’d almost spilled wine on the rug.

And then, as if the day hadn’t already been too much tenderness in one dose, Yuna had pulled out baby photos.

Not one. Not a couple. A whole album like she’d been saving ammunition.

“Look,” she’d said, flipping to a page and tapping the plastic sleeve. “He’s doing that face already.”

Shane had made a noise of protest, somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Mom.”

Ilya had leaned in, helpless, and there Shane was at seven years old with his hair sticking up and his expression already annoyed at the world, like he’d been born skeptical. There was another photo of him in tiny skates, looking furious, and another of him holding a trophy like it offended him personally.

He caught the soft look Yuna was giving him as he pored over the photos, and it felt like more than just a smile over photos.

It felt like a welcome. Like acceptance.

Like family.

On the drive home, Shane’s hand had found Ilya’s in the dark between the seats, fingers threading together like it was instinct, like it wasn’t even a choice anymore.

At home, they had barely made it through the front door before Shane’s mouth was on his, hungry and familiar and impatient in the way that always makes Ilya feel like he could crack open from the inside out. They’d stumbled into the bedroom, laughing against each other’s mouths, hands everywhere, still carrying the warmth of the day like sparks under their skin.

Later, after, Shane had been draped over him, heavy and warm, murmuring in Russian against the curve of Ilya’s throat, voice soft with it.

“Я люблю тебя.” Again. And again. I love you.

Like he needed to say it until Ilya believed it. Like he needed it to be a spell that could keep everything safe.

It had been a good day.

A good life, if Ilya is honest. A life that, on paper, looks like the kind of thing he used to stare at from far away and think: “That’s not for me.”

He has the team. He has the city. He has a home that feels less like a hotel than it used to. He has a boyfriend who loves him so openly in private that it makes Ilya’s throat ache.

He has paperwork filed and lawyers saying confident things, and the slow grinding bureaucracy that means they’re waiting now, not fighting.

He has friends and teammates who know he has someone. One friend who knows who, and still looks at him like he’s worthy of friendship.

He has hockey that is going well. Better than well.

The Centaurs are winning now. Not contenders, not miracles, but solid. Middle of the standings. Dangerous on any given night. A team that doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. A team that works and cares and has chemistry that isn’t manufactured.

He’s playing some of the best hockey of his career.

He should be happy.

He is happy, sometimes. In flashes. In moments so sharp they almost hurt; Shane laughing at something stupid, the bench exploding after a goal, Yuna calling him “dear” like she’s known him forever.

And still…

He is standing in his shower, crying.

He lets the water hit his face harder, as if it can wash it out of him. As if he can drown whatever this is before it turns into something real.

But it’s real. It’s been real.

It has been creeping in for weeks, quietly, like cold coming through a window you didn’t realize was cracked. At first, it had been tiredness. That was easy to explain. Everyone is tired in November. Everyone is tired in December. The schedule doesn’t care about your feelings.

Then it became something else. A heaviness that didn’t lift after sleep. A blankness that wasn’t peace. A drift in the middle of conversations, like he’s watching the world from behind glass.

Sometimes it is sadness, yes, but sadness is too clean a word. Too understandable. Too… emotional.

Most of the time, it’s not sadness. Most of the time, it’s numb.

Like someone turned the volume down on him.

Like all of his feelings are still in the room, but they’re not sitting close enough for him to reach.

He presses his hand to his chest, right over his sternum, as if he can physically locate it.

There.

That hollow.

Not his life. His life is full. His life is… embarrassingly good.

It’s him.

Something wrong inside him, deep and stubborn.

He doesn’t even know why.

That’s what terrifies him.

Because if he can’t point to a reason, he can’t fix it. He can’t outwork it. He can’t argue it into submission.

The water keeps running. His skin is red. His fingers are wrinkled.

He thinks of his mother, suddenly, so sharp it almost makes him inhale wrong.

The way she used to sit at the kitchen table with her face in her hands, cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling, eyes distant. The way she’d smile at him, like it took effort. The way adults whispered words around him that he wasn’t supposed to hear.

Episodes.

Weak constitution.

Not well.

He had been a child, and all he knew was that sometimes his mother was there and sometimes she wasn’t; even when she was standing right in front of him.

Everyone had always said he was like his mother.

He worries now that maybe he’s a bit too much like her.

He turns off the water.

The sudden silence is so loud it makes him sway, just slightly. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. The bathroom is steamy and bright, too bright, and he stands there for a second, breathing hard like he has done something physically difficult.

He wraps a towel around his waist and dries off mechanically, hands moving without thought. Clean boxers. T-shirt. He doesn’t bother with anything else. He doesn’t want to stand here longer than he has to.

He opens the bathroom door.

The bedroom is dimmer, lit by the soft lamp on Shane’s side. Shane is already in bed, one arm thrown over the pillow like he’s half asleep but not fully gone. The duvet is bunched at his waist. His face is relaxed in a way it never is in public.

Ilya stands in the doorway and looks at him. The sight hits him in the chest, warm and painful.

This is what he wanted.

This is what he fought for.

This is what he has.

And still…

He crosses the room and climbs into bed without thinking, curling into Shane like his body is making the decision for him. He presses himself tight, chest to Shane’s side, arm thrown over his ribs, thigh hooked over Shane’s legs like he needs contact to prove he’s real.

For half a second, Shane goes still. Just a flicker. A startled pause in the muscles. It makes guilt bloom hot in Ilya’s stomach.

He’s surprised.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Ilya used to touch him constantly. Used to crowd into him, steal heat and attention like it was oxygen. Used to reach for Shane in the kitchen, in the gym, on the couch, everywhere.

Lately… he hasn’t. He’s been pulling away in little quiet ways, and Shane has noticed, and Shane hasn’t pushed, and now Shane is startled when Ilya comes back to him like this.

That’s on Ilya. That’s his fault.

Shane exhales and relaxes, turning slightly so he can wrap an arm around Ilya, pull him closer. His hand slides up into Ilya’s hair, fingers combing through damp curls with slow, soothing strokes.

Ilya’s throat tightens.

He presses closer, like he can crawl under Shane’s skin and hide there.

“Hey,” Shane says, voice low and soft and careful. “Ilya?”

Ilya doesn’t answer.

Shane’s fingers keep moving. Gentle. Consistent. Like a metronome.

“What’s wrong?” Shane asks.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes. Not the words themselves. The tone. The absence of judgment. The quiet certainty that Shane is here, and he’s not going anywhere, and he’s not angry about it.

If Ilya had tears left, he thinks he would be crying again. But he doesn’t. The shower took most of them.

What he has instead is a shuddering breath that he can’t seem to control.

He shifts in Shane’s arms, rolling so he’s on his back, still tucked into Shane’s side. He stares at the ceiling like it might tell him what to say.

Words in English feel too blunt. Words in Russian feel too raw.

He picks English because, as much as he wants to, he knows he shouldn’t hide.

“I think,” he says, and his voice cracks on the first word. He clears his throat, tries again. “I think I am not doing okay.”

Shane’s fingers still for a fraction of a second.

Then they start again, slower, like Shane is reminding himself to keep breathing, too.

“I don’t think you’re doing okay either,” Shane says quietly.

Not accusatory. Just… confirmation. Validation. Like Shane is offering Ilya a hand and saying, “You’re not imagining it.”

Ilya swallows.

His chest feels tight. His heart feels too big for his ribs.

“I do not know what is wrong,” he says, frustration creeping in around the edges. “Everything is… good. It is all good. The team is good. The city is good. You are…” He turns his head to look at Shane. “You are good.”

“I know,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya laughs once, sharp and humorless. “I have everything I wanted. I have more than I ever thought I could get.” His voice drops. “And I still feel… bad.”

Bad. That stupid, useless word. It makes him want to punch something.

Shane’s hand moves from his hair to his shoulder, squeezing gently, grounding.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says.

It makes Ilya’s chest ache.

He shakes his head. “Do not be sorry. This is not…” He gestures vaguely at himself, helpless. “It is not because of you.”

“I know,” Shane says again, like he’s holding the line steady for both of them.

Ilya stares at the ceiling.

He is quiet for too long.

Shane doesn’t fill the silence. He never does when it matters. He waits. Patient. Like he’s been waiting for weeks.

Finally, the words come out of Ilya like he is pulling them through his teeth.

“I think I am maybe a bit like my mother,” he says.

Shane’s body goes rigid, just slightly. Not surprise, so much as worry.

Shane’s arm tightens around Ilya, and then Shane moves, rearranging them so smoothly it’s almost automatic: Shane sitting up against the headboard, Ilya pulled upright and tucked tight into his chest, arms locked around him like a seatbelt.

Ilya lets it happen because part of him wants to be held that hard.

Shane’s voice is careful when it comes. Too careful.

“Are you saying you…” Shane stops, unable to finish the question.

“No,” Ilya denies immediately. “No, I don’t…”

He can’t quite make himself say it: “I don’t want to die.”

Because he doesn’t.

Ilya doesn’t think he’d ever kill himself. Not unless he didn’t feel like he had any other options.

Ilya presses his face into Shane’s shoulder.

Shane’s hand cups the back of his head.

“Okay,” Shane breathes. “Okay.”

But Shane doesn’t loosen. Doesn’t move away from the edge of the question.

Ilya knows why. Shane has spent his whole life watching for danger. Shane hears my mother, and his brain goes straight to the worst case. It’s what Shane does. It’s what kept him alive in Montreal. It’s what keeps them safe now.

So Ilya forces himself to be honest in the way that matters, even if the honesty terrifies him.

“But maybe I think…” he says, voice shaky, “if it got worse… I could maybe think about it.”

Shane goes very still.

Not shocked. Just… absorbing it. Cataloguing it the way Shane does.

Ilya hates that he has put that in Shane’s head.

He hates even more that it is true.

Shane’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Ilya hears him breathe in. Out.

“Thank you for telling me,” Shane says.

It hits Ilya like something sharp. Because he expected anger. Or fear. Or disappointment. Or a lecture. Instead, Shane is thanking him.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, because apology is his first language when he doesn’t know what else to do.

“No,” Shane says, immediately firm. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“I don’t… have the right words,” Shane admits quietly. His voice is rough with it, like he’s ashamed of that. “I don’t know how to say what you need to hear.”

“I also don’t know,” Ilya says, muffled.

That gets a soft, broken little laugh out of Shane. Not humor. Recognition.

They sit like that for a moment: two people who are good at everything except talking about what’s happening inside them.

Eventually, Shane’s voice steadies.

“Can we talk about you getting help?” he asks.

Ilya stiffens instinctively. Not because he doesn’t want help, or thinks he doesn’t need it.

Because help is… complicated.

Help means someone knows. Help means someone writes something down. Help means someone decides what kind of person you are based on words you don’t even know how to say properly.

His mind jumps, immediately, to consequences.

Coach. Management. Media. Russia.

His body tenses, and Shane feels it, because Shane always feels it.

“Not… the team,” Ilya says quickly. “Not…” He pulls back enough to look at Shane’s face. “What if they find out? What if…”

“Hey,” Shane says, gentle but firm, cutting through it. “You don’t have to tell everyone. You don’t have to announce anything. You’re allowed to get help without making it public.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens.

“It is not so simple,” he says, and he hates how defensive he sounds.

Shane nods, like he’s expected that.

“I know,” Shane says. “I know it isn’t. But there are ways. We can do it carefully. Only tell the people who need to know, to help you feel better.”

Ilya swallows.

He wants to believe him.

He does, mostly.

But the fear is real. The stigma is real. The old training is real: don’t be weak, don’t be needy, don’t hand people a weapon.

Shane’s hand comes up to Ilya’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly under his eye like he’s wiping away water that isn’t there anymore.

“Ilya,” Shane says softly. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

The words land somewhere deep.

Ilya’s throat tightens again, pain and relief tangled together.

“I don’t know what I need,” Ilya admits, voice small. It feels humiliating to say. “I don’t know what is wrong. I just… feel wrong. And tired. And sad. And scared.”

Shane nods like that makes sense.

“Okay,” Shane says. “Then we start there.”

Ilya blinks at him.

Shane exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care, too.

“We don’t have to name it perfectly,” Shane says. “We don’t have to have perfect answers. We just… have to take it seriously.”

Ilya presses his forehead to Shane’s collarbone.

Shane’s arms tighten around him again.

After a moment, Shane continues, practical now in the way he gets when he’s made up his mind about something.

“We can find someone outside the organization,” Shane says. “A therapist, a psychologist. Someone who works with athletes, maybe, but not… connected.” He pauses. “We probably have to tell the team doctor… but it would be confidential.”

Ilya’s chest tightens at the word.

Confidential.

He wants that to be true.

He has heard the word used like a promise before, and then watched it dissolve.

Shane seems to read it on his face because he adds, quickly:

“We can ask what the limits are,” Shane says. “We can ask about privacy before you say anything. What needs to be disclosed, what doesn’t. Only tell him what you have to. We can… do it step by step.”

Step by step. That, at least, Ilya can understand.

Ilya nods, very small.

Shane’s breath catches like he’s been waiting for that nod. Like he’d been expecting Ilya to argue.

“Okay,” Shane whispers, like it’s a victory.

Ilya hates that it makes him emotional. He shifts again, turning his face slightly so he can see Shane. Shane’s eyes are tired, worried in a way he tries to hide and fails. Ilya reaches up, slowly, and touches Shane’s jaw with the back of his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter.

Shane shakes his head.

“No,” Shane says. “I’m… glad. I’m glad you told me.”

Ilya’s throat tightens.

He wants to say: “I didn’t want to be like this. I didn’t want to need you like this.”

But the truth is, he does need him. And maybe that’s not the worst thing.

“Okay,” Ilya says finally. The word feels heavy. Like committing to something. “We… find someone.”

Shane’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding them up for weeks.

“Yeah,” Shane says, voice rough. “Yeah, we will.”

Ilya presses closer again, tucking his face into Shane’s neck.

Shane’s hand goes back to his hair, fingers combing slowly, steady.

They sit in silence for a long time.

Eventually, Ilya’s body loosens, exhaustion settling over him like a blanket. His eyes burn. His limbs feel heavy in a way that isn’t just tiredness, but it’s tiredness too. The kind that comes after you’ve been holding yourself together for too long.

Shane kisses the top of his head, barely a brush of lips.

“I love you,” Shane murmurs in Russian, because Shane seems to always know when Ilya needs the comfort of a language he knows in his bones.

Ilya swallows around the ache in his throat.

“I love you too,” he replies, also in Russian, because he can’t help it.

Shane’s arms tighten once, a quiet squeeze.

They don’t talk about tomorrow. They don’t talk about appointments or phone calls or what they’ll tell anyone.

They will, later.

For now, Shane just holds him.

And Ilya lets himself be held.

Chapter End Notes

😭

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

The office building is aggressively ordinary.

Concrete. Narrow windows. A sandwich board near the entrance is advertising tax preparation. The kind of place that could house a dentist, an accountant, or a private investigation firm like the ones that only exist in movies.

Ilya sits in his car in the parking lot and checks the address again. Same civic number. Third floor. Suite 304.

He exhales through his nose and double-checks his calendar entry one more time anyway.

He doesn’t hate the idea of being here.

That’s not true.

He kind of does.

Not because he thinks therapy is fake. Not because he thinks it won’t work. He knows it works. He’s seen teammates over the years quietly improve after “seeing someone.” Knows how, ever since that bad breakup in Ilya’s third season, Marley misses optional skate every second Thursday. Has overheard Hazy mention his panic attacks and the person he sees to help with them.

He co-founded a mental health foundation for fuck’s sake.

He’s not an idiot. He understands brains are organs. Organs malfunction.

It’s just… he hates feeling like this. Hates walking into something where he doesn’t know the rules. Doesn’t know the playbook. Doesn’t know what version of himself is expected. Confident? Contrite? Strategic? …Honest?

He is good at most rooms.

He knows how to behave in locker rooms, in bars and clubs, in press conferences, in contract negotiations, and at charity galas. He knows what tone to use, when to deflect, and when to charm.

He does not know how to sit in a room and talk about his feelings. Not openly. Not without deflecting, or fighting back, or hiding it in a joke.

The thought of even trying to do so makes something in his chest tighten.

He could leave.

No one would know.

He could text Shane and say it got cancelled. Say the office called. Say something came up.

Shane probably wouldn’t believe him. But he wouldn’t push.

That thought makes him straighten.

Shane would not push.

He turns off the car.

The cold air hits his face when he steps outside. January in Ottawa does not care about internal crises. It is sharp and practical and indifferent.

Inside, the building smells faintly like cleaning supplies and old carpet.

The elevator is slow.

He considers leaving again.

By the time the doors open on the third floor, he feels like he’s walking into a test he hasn’t prepared for.

The reception area is beige. Soft lighting. A handful of chairs and a small coffee table stacked with magazines that he doubts anyone ever reads.

A young receptionist looks up from behind the desk. She’s pretty. Early twenties and bright-eyed. The kind of woman he pictures having a 10-step skincare routine and a group chat she answers consistently.

“Hi,” she says, smiling politely. “Name?”

“Rozanov,” he says automatically, then hesitates. “Ilya Rozanov.”

She types, glances at her screen, nods. No flicker of recognition. No widened eyes. “Perfect. Take a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

He nods and sits.

The chair is too soft.

He looks around at the walls. Neutral art. Framed prints of abstract landscapes. A small diffuser is humming quietly in the corner.

He thinks about leaving.

Again.

He pictures himself standing up, walking out, getting back in his car. He could still make it to the gym. He could still salvage the afternoon.

Then he thinks about Shane.

The way Shane had spent two nights combing through profiles online. The way he’d said, cautiously, “Maybe someone who speaks Russian? So you don’t have to… translate everything first.”

Translate everything first.

That had hit harder than Shane probably intended. The tiny acknowledgment of exhaustion at trying to describe something messy and complicated in a second language. The way Russian holds things differently. The way certain words just… fit better.

He thinks about the look on Shane’s face when he’d said, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He stays in the chair.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of his name. And it truly is the sound of it.

Not “Il-ee-ah”, like it is these days. Not three syllables.

But two. “Ill-ya”. The Russian way. Clean and quick.

It does something strange to his chest.

He looks up.

The woman standing in the doorway looks to be in her early fifties. Dark hair pulled neatly back. Smart pantsuit. No-nonsense posture. Neutral expression that isn’t cold so much as contained.

If she recognizes him, she gives no sign.

That alone makes something in him loosen.

“Ilya Rozanov?” she says again. And again, the Russian way.

He stands, a little awkwardly. “Yes. That’s me.” The words come out in a strange hybrid of English and Russian, and he winces internally.

“Come with me,” she says, fully in Russian.

Her office is simple. Bookshelves. A couch. Two chairs angled toward each other. A small box of tissues placed discreetly on a side table, which he pointedly does not look at.

He sits.

He folds his hands together so they don’t fidget.

She sits opposite him.

“I’m Galina,” she says. “Before we begin, I want to clarify confidentiality and the limits of it…”

She explains calmly: legal parameters, privacy, duty to report if he is an immediate danger to himself or others.

Her tone is steady. Unemotional.

It helps.

When she finishes, she looks at him.

“So,” she says. “What brings you here?”

He had prepared something for this question. Something well thought out. Detailed enough to be honest, vague enough to still feel controlled.

Instead, what comes out is:

“I am not… doing very well.”

The words sit between them. She nods once.

“Not doing well how?” she asks.

He inhales. And when he opens his mouth, he talks.

An hour later, he is back in his car.

The building looks the same.

He feels… not the same.

Overwhelmed is probably the closest word. Like someone opened a door inside him and forgot to close it.

He sits there for a long minute before pulling out his phone.

He calls Shane.

Shane picks up on the second ring.

“Hey. How was it?” Shane asks.

“It was… okay,” Ilya says. He leans back in the seat. “Mostly just getting to know each other. She asked why I am there.”

“And?”

“She seems nice,” he admits. “Serious. Not… easily fooled.”

Shane huffs a soft laugh. “Good.”

“It was nice to speak Russian,” Ilya adds, quieter.

There’s a pause on the line.

“I’m glad,” Shane says. And he means it. Ilya can hear the relief threaded through the words.

He hesitates. He could wait. Could bring it up later. He decides not to be a coward and bring it up now.

“She thinks maybe it is worth asking a doctor about medication,” he says carefully.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Like… antidepressants?” Shane asks.

“Yes,” Ilya answers.

Silence again. Not strained, just processing.

“Okay,” Shane says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

We.

He’s still not used to that word. So used to handling things alone.

Something warm moves through Ilya’s chest. Not bright. Not overwhelming. Just steady.

He stares at the office building one more time.

“I did not hate it,” he says, almost grudgingly.

“That’s good,” Shane replies.

Ilya exhales slowly. He is not better, not fixed. Not even close. But he went inside. And he stayed. And maybe that’s something.

The exam room smells faintly of antiseptic and fresh tape.

Ilya sits on the edge of the table, the vinyl squeaking under him every time he shifts his weight. He’s still in his workout gear. Practice ended an hour ago. His hair is still damp at the nape of his neck.

This room has seen him stitched up. Injected. Cleared for play. Told to sit out.

It has never seen him like this.

Terry leans back in his rolling chair, tablet balanced loosely in his hands. He’s in his late forties, graying at the temples, permanently calm in the way good team doctors are. The kind of man who has delivered bad news and good news with the same steady tone.

“So, Roz,” Terry says easily. “What can I do for you? You were pretty vague when you asked to meet.”

Roz.

The nickname lands in Ilya’s chest strangely today. Familiar. Locker-room safe.

He clears his throat.

“Yes. I…” He hates that his voice sounds thinner than usual. “I think I am depressed.”

There it is.

It sounds clinical. Detached. Like he’s talking about a stranger.

Terry doesn’t blink. Doesn’t frown. Doesn’t lean back in surprise. He just nods once and gives Ilya a look that is neither alarmed nor dismissive.

“Okay,” Terry says. “Tell me more.”

Ilya swallows.

This feels different than the therapist’s office. With Galina, the expectation had been vulnerability. The room had been built for it. This room is built for bodies. For ligaments, fractures, swelling.

He feels like he’s misusing it.

“I have been… not myself,” he says slowly. “Or maybe this is myself, and I’m just… sad. I don’t know.” He rubs his hands together, staring at the floor. “It has become difficult to ignore.”

Terry waits.

“I met with a therapist earlier this week,” Ilya adds, forcing the words out. “She suggested medication might help.”

There. The full confession.

Terry gives him a small, sympathetic smile. Not pity. Just understanding.

“Alright,” Terry says. “Let’s talk about it. Start wherever makes sense.”

Ilya exhales through his nose.

He talks about the numbness first, because numbness feels less humiliating than sadness. He talks about drifting during conversations. About feeling like he’s watching his own life happen from a few feet behind himself.

He talks about sleep, or the lack of it. About nights staring at the ceiling and mornings that feel like wading through wet cement.

He mentions appetite, the way food sometimes tastes like nothing.

He does not look at Terry while he speaks.

“And sometimes,” he says, voice tightening despite himself, “is not numb. Sometimes is just… too much.” He hesitates. “I end up in the shower crying so hard I don’t know how to breathe.”

The room is quiet.

When Ilya trails off, Terry asks gently, “Have you had any thoughts of self-harm?”

Ilya freezes.

The question lands heavily. He’s talked about it in the vaguest sense with Shane. But no one has ever asked him so directly before.

He thinks of his mother. He thinks of Shane’s arms tightening around him in bed.

“No,” he says immediately. And it’s true. “I do not want to die.”

He forces himself to continue because he promised himself, and more importantly, Shane, that he would be honest. “But I worry that if I do nothing… maybe I could think about it.”

Terry nods once and makes a small note on the tablet. No sharp inhale. No sudden seriousness. Just measured attention.

“Thank you for saying that,” Terry says.

The embarrassment flares hot and immediate. “Thank you.” It feels like being praised for admitting flaws.

Terry sets the tablet aside.

“Based on what you’re describing,” he says calmly, “an antidepressant could absolutely be helpful. Therapy plus medication tends to be more effective than either alone.”

Ilya nods, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“And that’s… allowed?” he asks, and hates how small the question sounds. “With anti-doping?”

Terry almost smiles.

“Yes,” he says. “SSRIs are permitted. You’re not the first hockey player to take one, and you won’t be the last.”

“And management?” Ilya asks, unable to stop himself. “Will… will you have to tell them?”

He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of. If it’s the idea of them knowing at all, or of them seeing him differently. Of them treating him differently.

Terry’s expression firms, but not unkindly.

“This is confidential,” he says. “Medical information stays in medical unless you’re an immediate danger to yourself or others. Even then, no one is informed without your consent.”

He wants to believe that entirely. He does, mostly.

Terry hesitates, then adds gently, “I would encourage you to consider telling Coach Wiebe if you feel comfortable. Especially if we do start medication. Some guys have side effects the first couple of weeks: fatigue, nausea, sleep disruption. It can help to have your head coach understand if you’re not at one hundred percent. But again, that’s your choice.”

The idea makes Ilya’s stomach twist. He pictures Wiebe’s steady eyes. The quiet trust in that room. The respect.

He nods, noncommittal.

“I’ll… think about it,” he mutters.

“That’s all I’m asking,” Terry says easily.

He swivels slightly, picking up the tablet again.

“Now. Medication isn’t an exact science,” Terry continues. “We usually start with one of the common SSRIs and see how you respond. It can take a few weeks to feel a difference.”

“And side effects?” Ilya asks.

“Varies by person,” Terry replies. “Most common are nausea, headaches, appetite changes, sometimes weight changes. Sleep can be disrupted at first. For most people, those settle within the first couple of weeks.”

Weight changes. Sleep disruption. Appetite changes.

The words land in the part of Ilya’s brain that tracks skating speed and protein consumed. The part that measures value in minutes played and points earned.

Terry watches him closely.

“We’ll monitor it,” Terry says. “You won’t be doing this blind. If something isn’t working, we adjust.”

Adjust.

Like taping an ankle differently. Like changing a training plan.

It helps, framing it that way.

They discuss options. Dosages. Follow-ups. It is strangely procedural.

Ten minutes later, Terry hands him a prescription.

“I’ll want to check in with you in a couple weeks,” Terry says. “Or reach out anytime if anything feels off.”

Ilya nods and slides off the exam table.

“Thank you,” he says, because it feels like he should.

“I’m glad you came in,” Terry says, meeting his eye. “This is part of taking care of yourself. Same as any injury.”

Ilya forces a small nod.

It doesn’t feel the same.

But maybe it will, eventually.

He steps out into the hallway, prescription folded in his hand.

It feels heavier than it should.

Like proof. Like evidence. Like something that confirms what he has been trying not to name.

He walks past the gym, past the locker room, past the ice. Past the place where he is steady, and confident, and certain.

No one looks at him differently.

No one knows. For now.

He slips the paper into his jacket pocket and keeps walking.

January settles into something almost steady.

Not exciting, not catastrophic. Just… steady.

The Centaurs hover in the middle of the standings, like they’ve found a ledge and decided to sit there. They aren’t surging, they aren’t sliding. They win one, lose one, win two. Things are working, players are clicking. It feels stable.

On the ice, Ilya is as good as ever.

The new line with Bood is cementing itself as one of the deadliest first lines in the league. Not quite as electric as that first game on every shift. But efficient. Reliable.

Off the ice, he’s… adjusting.

The first week on the medication is uneventful in the most disappointing way possible.

He doesn’t wake up magically better. He doesn’t feel clarity descend like morning sun.

Mostly, he feels nauseous.

There’s a low-grade hum in his stomach that makes breakfast unappealing again. A dull pressure behind his eyes that flares into headaches by mid-afternoon. Once, during practice, the world tilts so sharply he stumbles sideways and nearly takes Bood’s skates out from under him.

“What the hell, Roz?” Bood laughs, steadying himself.

Ilya laughs too, but the dizziness doesn’t pass as quickly as it should.

It takes him another thirty seconds to realize it isn’t going to.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He hates the idea of being the guy who can’t handle his own prescription.

But later that day, when Coach Wiebe calls him into his office, calm, not accusatory, and says, “You looked off in drills,” Ilya feels heat crawl up his neck.

He could lie.

He doesn’t.

“I started new medication,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere near the corner of Wiebe’s desk. “For depression. The side effects are… not great right now.”

There is a beat.

Then Wiebe nods once, slow.

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks for telling me.”

That’s it. No lecture. No shift in tone. No concern that feels like doubt.

“Let me know if you need your training adjusted while you’re figuring it out,” Wiebe adds.

“And make sure you’re eating.”

It is kind.

It is reasonable.

It is still mortifying.

The walk back to the locker room feels longer than usual. He can almost feel the word hovering above his head like a neon sign.

Depressed.

He considers, briefly, stopping the medication. It would be easy to say it wasn’t worth it. Easy to go back to pretending exhaustion was just exhaustion.

But he remembers the shower. The uncontrollable tears. The way he’d been pulling away so hard from the man he loves that Shane was surprised when Ilya touched him.

So he keeps taking it.

The dizziness doesn’t come back. Either because it’s gone, or because he starts forcing himself to eat breakfast, even when the thought makes his stomach roil.

That might help. Or maybe it’s just time.

It’s hard to tell.

What he does notice, slowly, is that he sleeps.

Not every night. But more nights than before.

He wakes up and realizes he doesn’t remember staring at the ceiling or scrolling until two in the morning. He wakes up and realizes he doesn’t need to debate himself to get out of bed.

The gray is still there some days. But it’s thinner, less suffocating.

He still feels numb at times. Still drifts in long conversations. Still has days when the weight in his chest feels disproportionate to the circumstances.

But the spirals are shorter.

He sees Galina once a week.

Those sessions are… exhausting. There is no better word for it.

He leaves her office feeling like someone wrung him out internally. Like every muscle in his brain has been forced to stretch in directions it does not enjoy.

They talk about his father. About Russia. About silence.

They talk about how depression can feel like failure when you were raised to believe discipline fixes everything.

They talk about shame.

Galina doesn’t let him deflect. Not with humour. Not with aggression either. She doesn’t let him rationalize everything away.

He isn’t used to being pinned like that without a stick in his hands.

He isn’t sure yet if it’s helping.

A lot of the time, it feels like cutting himself open just for the sake of watching the blood pool on the floor.

But if there’s one thing Ilya Rozanov is not, it’s a quitter.

So he keeps going.

One afternoon, he comes home from therapy with that hollowed-out feeling in his ribs. Shane is in the kitchen, cutting vegetables with unnecessary precision.

“How was it?” Shane asks, gently.

“Fine,” Ilya says automatically, toeing off his shoes.

Shane nods. He waits.

Ilya knows that wait. Knows it intimately.

It’s the same silence Shane has when he’s choosing whether to pass or shoot. The same patience he offers in arguments. The same quiet space he held in bed that night in December.

Ilya feels the expectation of elaboration.

He has none to give.

He could try.

He could explain how Galina spent twenty minutes unpacking the way his father never once called his mother’s death anything other than an “accident”. He could explain the cultural context of psychiatric medicine in post-Soviet cities. He could explain why certain Russian phrases about strength feel like commandments carved into bone.

But to explain one of those things properly would require explaining ten others.

And he is tired.

“Okay,” Shane says after a moment.

But Ilya sees it, the flicker. Not anger. Not an accusation. Frustration, ever so slight.

Wanting in.

It makes something twist low in his stomach.

“I just…” Shane starts, then stops himself. “I’m glad you’re going.”

“I am going,” Ilya says, sharper than he means to.

Shane’s jaw tightens for half a second.

“I know,” he says.

The air shifts. Not heavy. Not hostile. Just… misaligned.

Ilya hates it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Shane. He does. In theory.

But Galina is Russian. She understands certain things without explanation. The specific brand of stoicism. The way men of his father’s generation weaponized silence. The casual cruelty that was never called cruelty.

To translate that into English would feel like writing footnotes for his own childhood.

And he doesn’t have that energy after spending an hour dissecting it.

Later that night, in bed, he rolls toward Shane deliberately.

“Today was…” Ilya searches for the word. “Difficult.”

Shane turns his head on the pillow. “Okay.”

“Sometimes, it feels like, to explain how I feel, I would need to explain all of Russia,” Ilya adds. “And I don’t know how to do that.”

“Then don’t,” Shane says, like it really is that simple. “Just explain right now.”

“I am tired,” Ilya says.

“I know,” Shane nods, pulling Ilya closer to him. “I’m here.”

No follow-up question. Just presence. It helps more than Ilya wants to admit.

Over the next couple of weeks, he starts trying to get ahead of it. Instead of waiting for Shane to ask, he says, “Bad day,” when he walks in the door. Or, “I’m fine, just tired.” Or sometimes, simply, “I don’t want to talk.”

And Shane nods. “Okay.”

Sometimes Ilya does talk anyway, later. Offers a piece. A sentence. A memory. Sometimes he doesn’t. Shane stops trying to pry it open. Stops looking for hidden meanings in every quiet stretch.

And slowly, something shifts.

Shane trusts him.

Trusts that if things get dangerous, if the gray turns into something darker, Ilya will say so.

That he will not hide it.

Ilya is not entirely sure he trusts himself like that yet.

But he is beginning to.

Chapter End Notes

Today's update is brought to you by Zoloft 🌞

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

Mild Trigger Warning: Vomiting (not described in any detail, but it's there)

The hotel lobby is controlled chaos.

Media banners flank the entrance. Assistants with lanyards and clipboards hover like anxious birds. Agents cluster in small, tight circles, pretending they’re not scanning the room for gossip. Players in designer jeans and team jackets drift in and out of revolving doors, dragging suitcases behind them.

It smells faintly of cologne and expensive coffee.

Ilya steps inside beside Shane and pauses long enough to take it in.

All-Star Weekend.

He’s done this before. Many times. It still feels a little surreal every time. As much as his body would love the couple of days off instead of trekking across the continent to Seattle, the little boy in his chest still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to be here.

There’s a general unspoken agreement in the lobby; everyone nods, maybe tosses out a greeting, but no one really stops. First rule of All-Star Weekend: drop your bags, take a couple hours to feel human again, then socialize.

They check in quickly. A woman with a sharp blazer hands Ilya his room key and an information packet thick enough to qualify as a novella.

He thanks her, but he doesn’t even glance at the key card.

Instead, he turns and follows Shane toward the elevators. Shane doesn’t question it. Doesn’t even look back to see if Ilya’s coming; he just presses the button for the twelfth floor.

Shane’s room is identical to every other high-end hotel room in North America: soft lighting, neutral art, a bed big enough to feel excessive.

Ilya drops his bag at the foot of it and exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line.

Shane is already unzipping his suitcase.

“Shower?” Shane asks, not looking up.

“Yes,” Ilya says, toeing off his shoes.

Ilya showers first, washing away the recycled airplane air and the stiffness in his shoulders. By the time he steps back into the room, Shane has laid out clean clothes for both of them: jeans, a sweater, socks placed neatly on top.

It still surprises him sometimes. Not the gesture. The ease of it.

They switch. Shane disappears into the bathroom. Ilya dresses and unzips his bag properly.

He still thinks unpacking for four days is ridiculous. But of all the adjustments he’s made for Shane, of all the compromises, the careful negotiations, the quiet recalibrations, this one is small.

He hangs up two shirts. He lines his toiletries along the counter.

It makes Shane smile every time.

That alone is worth it.

An hour later, they step into the hotel bar. Low lighting. Dark wood. A long counter already lined with players and their entourages. A low hum of conversation threaded with laughter.

Shane orders a beer.

Ilya doesn’t comment, but he notices. Not because he cares whether Shane drinks. He doesn’t. If Shane doesn’t want alcohol, that’s his choice.

But sometimes Shane’s abstaining feels less like a preference and more like control. A tightening of reins that don’t always need tightening.

So when the bartender sets a cold glass in front of him, and Shane just nods and takes a sip without overthinking it, Ilya feels something warm and approving settle in his chest.

“Good”, he thinks.

“Roz!” The voice cuts clean through the noise.

Ilya turns, and his face splits open before he can stop it.

Cliff Marleau is weaving through the crowd, offering fist bumps and shoulder taps to other players as he goes. Same easy grin, same two-day-old scruff. Same gravity that pulls people in.

Ilya stands automatically.

They collide in a hug that’s harder than it needs to be.

Ilya doesn’t realize he’s holding on too long until Marley’s hand slides up his back and gives a slight squeeze.

“You good?” Marley murmurs in his ear.

It’s subtle. Not prying, just checking.

Ilya pulls back enough to meet his eyes.

“So-so,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug.

Marley nods once. He understands. He’s always understood. There are versions of Ilya that only a handful of people have ever seen. Cliff Marleau has been one of them for years.

“Still dramatic, I see,” Cliff says lightly, clapping him once on the shoulder.

“Always,” Ilya replies.

Only then does he realize Shane is still at the barstool behind them, watching with a soft, amused expression.

“Oh,” Ilya says, stepping back and gesturing. “Marley, you know Shane.”

There’s something in his chest when he says it. Not teammate. Not star center. Not rival. Not even a hockey player.

Just Shane.

Marley straightens slightly and offers a hand. “Good to meet you properly, man.”

Shane shakes it. “I’ve heard a lot.”

“All good things, I hope,” Marley teases.

Shane’s mouth curves. “Debatable.”

Ilya laughs.

The three of them settle at the bar, drinks in hand, conversation easy and overlapping. Marley talks about his team’s playoff push. Shane complains about travel schedules. Ilya listens, contributes, watches the two most important men in his life trade dry humor like they’ve been friends for years.

It feels… right.

Friday is exactly what it always is.

Relentless.

Media stacked back-to-back. Branded interviews. Photo ops. A panel discussion about “growing the game” that lasts twice as long as it needs to.

By the time they reach the league dinner that evening, Ilya feels scraped hollow.

He and Shane are cornered by two league executives in tailored suits who seem determined to extract strategic insights disguised as casual conversation. 

“And where do you see the European market expanding in the next five years?” one of them asks, smiling, as if two people who have done nothing but play hockey since they were teenagers could possibly have anything useful to contribute to the conversation.

Ilya keeps his expression polite.

Beside him, Shane’s face has settled into that carefully constructed smile. The one that looks warm and engaged while concealing a relentless internal monologue about stupid questions and pointless rich-people problems.

Ilya taps Shane lightly on the bicep.

Shane glances down.

Ilya lifts his empty glass in silent question, “You want another?” Shane shakes his head. Ilya nods once and extricates himself at the first natural pause.

He makes his way to the bar and orders another drink, leaning against the counter while the bartender works.

A few paces away, he spots two familiar forms.

“Kip!” he calls. Scott Hunter’s boyfriend turns first, grin immediate and infuriatingly charming.

Scott follows, already rolling his eyes.

“Ah, Hunter,” Ilya says smoothly. “You are here as well.”

“Rozanov,” Scott groans, but there’s fondness underneath it.

They trade quick jabs while waiting for the drinks.

Plans are made almost accidentally.

“Dinner tomorrow?” Kip suggests. “With Shane?”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya says. “I should invite Marley. You will like him.”

Kip smiles, but he sees Scott hesitate, just slightly.

“Marley is safe,” Ilya says quietly. “A good man. You will not need to be careful. He knows.”

Scott’s shoulders ease almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. He’s always been good when we’ve spoken.”

The bartender slides Ilya’s drink toward him. Ilya thanks the man, slides him a couple of bills as a tip.

“Well, I should go rescue Shane,” Ilya says, glancing across the room where Shane is still suck in conversation with the same executives.

“Oof,” Scott sympathises, following his gaze. “Richards can talk forever. Go. We’ll figure out the details of dinner tomorrow.”

“Good to see you,” Kip says with a smile.

Ilya throws a wave over his shoulder as he makes his way back to Shane.

The sound of an alarm pulls Ilya, unwillingly, into the land of the awake.

Ilya knows before he even opens his eyes that it’s going to be a bad day. His body feels like wet sand; heavy, uncooperative, and distant. His brain is a fuzzy mess, way too tangled for a man who went to bed sober.

Shane shifts beside him, groaning softly, and reaches for his phone.

Ilya keeps his eyes closed.

He feels Shane get out of bed. Hears the footsteps, the flick of a lightswitch. The shower turns on. Some amount of time later, it turns off.

More footsteps on carpet.

A gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Shane murmurs. “Time to get up.”

Ilya grunts and rolls toward him instead, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and pressing his face into the warm skin of Shane’s torso.

He shakes his head.

Shane huffs a quiet laugh, fingers sliding into his hair. “What’s up?”

Ilya doesn’t answer.

He knows he should. He’s been trying to be better about naming it out loud, at saying the words before they turn into something worse.

But his throat feels tight, like if he even opens his mouth, he’ll start crying.

And he does not want to cry in a Seattle hotel room on All-Star Saturday.

Shane goes still for a second.

Then, softly, he asks: “Bad day?”

Ilya swallows.

“Yes,” he manages, voice rough.

Shane shifts, dropping to his knees beside the bed so they’re eye level. He cups Ilya’s cheek gently.

“It’s just optional skate this morning,” Shane says. “And maybe some media, but nothing we’re scheduled for. I can easily make excuses for you.”

Ilya blinks. “Really?”

“Really.” Shane nods.

Relief hits first. At not having to force himself out of bed right now when he thinks any amount of social interaction would rip him open.

Then shame.

He hates missing things. Hates the idea of not showing up. Hates the quiet voice that whispers “weak”.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Shane brushes his thumb along his cheekbone.

“Do you want me to order breakfast?” Shane asks.

“No,” Ilya says immediately. The thought of breakfast alone makes nausea roll through him. That side effect of the antidepressants seems determined to stick around.

“Okay,” Shane accepts easily. “I’ll check in after the skate. Just rest.”

Ilya leans forward and kisses him, deep and deliberate. Shane presses his forehead to his for a second before standing.

Ilya watches him get dressed. Tries his best to offer a small smile when Shane looks back at him before opening the hotel room door.

When the door closes behind him, the room feels larger and quieter. Ilya rolls onto his side and pulls the comforter up under his chin.

He is lucky, unreasonably lucky, to have someone like Shane, who so easily bends around him to fit what he needs.

The old instinct tries to creep in, the one that hisses “you don’t deserve this”, but he exhales slowly and lets it pass.

He is working on it.

That has to count for something.

Scott glides in a lazy arc along the boards, stick balanced loosely in one hand.

The optional morning skate at All-Star Weekend is less about skating and more about socialising. A chance to stretch, keep the legs from stiffening after travel and too-soft hotel beds. A chance to catch up with colleagues in a way that doesn’t involve a microphone shoved in your face.

The rink hums with low conversation. A few younger guys are actually running drills, trying to prove something to someone. Most of the veterans are doing what Scott is doing: easy laps, half-hearted passes, coasting into conversations mid-stride.

He nods at a defenseman from Calgary. Tosses a puck absentmindedly to a winger from Dallas. Stops near the far blue line long enough to stretch his hip flexor against the boards.

He scans the ice.

Most of the usual suspects are here.

Younger guys, eager. A couple of older ones, avoiding the circus upstairs. A handful of European players clustered together near the far bench.

He spots Hollander near one of the benches, chatting with a forward from Edmonton. Relaxed posture. Helmet tipped back slightly. Laughing at something.

Scott’s eyes shift automatically, searching.

He doesn’t see Rozanov.

That’s… odd

Not alarming. Just… odd.

Rozanov isn’t the type to skip skates. Even optional ones. Especially not ones like this, where half the point is socialising with guys you only see a few times a year.

Scott pushes off and glides toward the bench just as the Edmonton player peels away with a clap on Shane’s shoulder.

Scott coasts to a stop beside him.

“Morning,” he says.

Shane turns, expression open, relaxed. “Hey.”

“Don’t know if Roz told you, but he and Kip made dinner plans for us tonight,” Scott says with an easy smile.

“Yeah, he mentioned it,” Shane answers, returning the grin. “Said something about dragging Marley along as well.”

Scott chuckles, eyes instinctively looking for the Boston forward, finding him a few paces away.

“Speaking of Rozanov,” Scott says next. “He not coming to morning skate?”

He keeps his tone neutral. Curious, not pointed.

Something shifts in Shane’s face. Just a flicker of something Scott can’t quite categorise.

“He’s sleeping in,” Shane says. “Not feeling great.”

Scott winces instinctively. “Nothing viral, I hope.”

The league is already a petri dish on a good day. All-Star Weekend is basically a cross-continental germ exchange program.

“No.” Shane shakes his head immediately. “Nothing like that.”

There’s an odd certainty in the way he says it. Not dismissive, but firm. Scott studies him for half a second. Shane looks… tired. But not stressed. Not worried in an acute way. Just measured.

Scott nods once. Accepts it.

“Good,” he says. “Last thing we need is half the league down with whatever plague you carried with you from Ottawa.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh.

In Scott’s peripheral vision, he catches movement.

Marleau. He had been winding his way closer during their conversation. At Shane’s comments, he slows. Not dramatically, just enough that Scott notices. Marleau’s gaze flicks toward Shane, then to Scott, then back.

Shane glances at him, just briefly. Then gives the smallest nod.

Marleau nods almost imperceptibly in reply and pushes off, rejoining the cluster of players near centre ice.

Scott catches it, then pushes it away. He’s played long enough to know when something is being handled quietly. He’s also played long enough to know when something isn’t his business.

“Well,” Scott says, tapping his stick against Shane’s lightly, “tell him he’s on the hook for the bill at dinner as payback for ditching.”

Shane’s mouth curves faintly. “I’ll pass it along.”

Scott pushes back onto the ice, resuming his lazy circuit.

The locker room is quiet when Scott walks in.

He likes it that way. Always has. There’s something grounding about being early; the hum of fluorescent lights, the neat rows of stalls waiting to be filled. It gives him a few minutes where the job feels simple again.

He drops his bag at his stall, loosens his tie, and heads toward the bathroom.

He hears it before he sees anything.

A sharp retch. Then another.

Scott stops mid-step. His brain was already in captain mode, running through possibilities: flu, food poisoning, nerves.

Then he hears something muttered under someone’s breath. Not English.

Russian.

Scott exhales sharply.

“Rozanov?” he calls, not too loud.

Another sound from the stall. Then,

“Hunter,” comes Rozanov’s accented voice, hoarse and irritated.

Well, that answers that.

“You okay?” Scott asks, stepping further into the bathroom. “You need me to get Shane?”

“Нет. No.” A flush. The stall door unlocks.

Ilya steps out looking… normal. Face pale, maybe. A bit damp at the temples. But nothing that says “sick”. Nothing that screams “just finished puking his guts out.”

Scott folds his arms.

“I swear to god,” he says flatly, “if you get half the division sick because you’re too competitive to sit out the skills competition…”

“I am not sick,” Ilya cuts in quickly. He moves to the sink, turning the water on harder than necessary. “It is not that.”

Scott watches him in the mirror.

Ilya avoids eye contact.

“Stupid fucking pills,” Ilya mutters. Scott doesn’t know if he realizes he’s actually speaking out loud. “They are useless. Need to tell dumb doctor they are useless.”

Scott blinks.

“Roz..” he starts, but cuts himself off when Rozanov’s gaze snaps to his.

Rozanov freezes, just slightly, like he’s said something he shouldn’t have.

Voices echo faintly from the main locker room now. More players arriving. The quiet window is closing.

Scott lowers his voice.

“You alright?” he asks, tone shifting without him fully deciding to shift it. “Seriously. You want me to grab Shane?”

“No,” Rozanov says again, too fast. He dries his hands. Doesn’t move toward the door.

For a second, Scott thinks that’s the end of it. That Rozanov will toss out some joke, insult his skating stride, and walk away like nothing happened.

Instead, Rozanov just… stands there. There’s a tension in his shoulders that Scott recognizes. He watches Rozanov close his eyes, tips his head back. Then he sighs deeply and meets Scott’s eyes again, jaw set, gaze steady.

Like he’s made some sort of decision.

“I am not sick,” Rozanov says again, quieter this time. “It is… medication.”

Scott waits.

“For my head,” Rozanov adds stiffly. “For depression.”

The word lands almost harshly. Scott wasn’t expecting that. Not that Rozanov could struggle with his mental health, but that he would admit it to someone like Scott.

He keeps his face neutral on instinct, the same way he does when a teammate confesses a contract worry or a family problem. You don’t react big. You don’t make it dramatic. You make it safe.

“Okay,” he says.

Rozanov’s eyes flick up at that. Searching.

“I started them a few weeks ago,” Rozanov continues, the words slightly clipped, like he’s forcing them through a narrow gap. “And they are… not pleasant.”

Scott huffs out a breath. “Yeah, I’ve heard that can happen.”

There’s a beat.

“I am also seeing a therapist,” Rozanov adds, like he’s stacking evidence against himself. “So. I am very efficient at being broken.”

Scott snorts before he can stop himself.

“You’re not broken,” he says automatically.

Rozanov scoffs. “I am currently throwing up in Seattle locker room toilet because of medication for my feelings.”

“Okay, when you put it like that…” Scott concedes.

A reluctant smile tugs at Rozanov’s mouth.

Scott studies him for a second longer.

“I’m glad you’re doing something about it,” he says finally.

And he means it.

Rozanov’s posture shifts, a fraction looser.

“Shane knows? I hope,” Scott asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Yes,” Rozanov confirms.

“And Marleau?” Scott adds.

Rozanov looks surprised for a brief second, like he hadn’t expected Scott to know that. “Yes.”

“And you decided to add me to the list mid-vomit?” Scott raises an eyebrow.

For the first time, Rozanov looks properly embarrassed about this whole situation.

“You were here,” he says simply.

But it’s not simple. Rozanov would have snapped at most people, told them to fuck off in that particular way of his that makes you both want to punch him and scared you’re about to be punched.

Scott hears the subtext underneath.

Not just “You were here.”

But, “You asked,” and “You didn’t make it a joke.”

Maybe even a bit of “You’ve held my secrets carefully before.”

“Okay,” Scott says. “Well, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know,” Rozanov replies immediately. Not hopeful, not questioning. Certain. That does something strange to Scott’s chest.

“And if those pills keep making you puke,” Scott adds, unable to stop his captain voice from coming through, “you talk to the team doctor. You don’t just power through because you think it makes you tougher.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “I am not that stupid.”

Scott just stares at him.

Rozanov falters.

“… I am trying not to be that stupid,” he amends.

“Good,” Scott says.

More voices outside; the locker room filling up.

Rozanov shifts toward the door, then pauses.

“I am fine,” he says, and Scott isn’t sure who he’s reassuring. “It is not… dangerous.”

“I figured.” Scott nods.

He takes a step closer and places a hand on Rozanov’s shoulder.

“But if it is,” Scott adds quietly, “you tell someone. Shane. Marleau. Me. I don’t care who, just someone.”

Rozanov looks at him, eyes wide, like he didn’t expect that level of concern. Very suddenly, he looks so young to Scott; every second of his handful of years younger.

Then Rozanov nods. “Okay.”

It’s not a big moment. No handshakes. No emotional speeches. Just two men in a bathroom agreeing, wordlessly, to carry a small piece of each other’s weight.

Rozanov straightens, mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.

“Do not expect me to go easy on you tonight,” he says coolly. “Just because I am sad does not mean you aren’t old.”

“There he is,” Scott mutters, pushing the door open.

They step back into the noise of the locker room together.

And Scott adds one more to the mental list he keeps of people he looks out for.

Rozanov.

No, he corrects himself.

Ilya.

The hotel restaurant is loud, in a polished way.

Dimmed lighting. Too many candles. Waitstaff moving with practiced efficiency. The kind of place that feels just a bit too fancy to currently be filled with mostly hockey players and their families.

Marley is waiting near the host stand, hands in his pockets, looking like he belongs there. Ilya walks a step ahead of Shane, scanning the room. When Marley sees him, his entire face lights up.

“Roz,” he says, easy and fond.

“Marley,” Ilya replies, equally fond but pretending not to be.

They do that awkward half-handshake, half- shoulder pat, and then Marley pulls Ilya into a brief hug anyway.

Shane watches the micro-beat where Marley scans Ilya’s face. A quiet check-in. Ilya rolls his eyes at him in response.

Translation: “I’m fine. Leave it be.”

Marley grins. He and Shane exchange brief hellos before stepping further into the restaurant.

Scott and Kip are already seated in the back corner, Scott leaning back in the booth with a sort of casualness he rarely shows in public. Kip is half-turned toward him, smiling at something Scott just said.

Scott sits up straighter as they approach. Not formal, just instinct.

“This feels illegal,” Scott says dryly as they sit. “All of us in one place, no one trying to check someone else into the boards.”

“Give it time,” Ilya replies smoothly, sliding into the booth beside Shane.

Kip snorts into his drink.

“Ah!” Ilya exclaims, face lighting up. “Marley, you have not met Hunter’s boyfriend, yes?”

“Not yet,” Marley confirms.

“Kip, this is Marley. Marley, this is Kip,” Ilya introduces.

“Cliff Marleau,” Marley says, offering his hand across the table to Kip. “But like Roz said, everyone calls me Marley.”

Kip shakes his hand, amused. “No one calls me by my real name either. I’m just Kip.”

“Kip is studying art history. Like a fancy person,” Ilya continues on, like he’s trying to sell his friend on being set up on a date or something. “Much too smart to be sitting at a table of hockey players. Who knows why he dates Hunter.”

Shane can’t help but snort, Kip and Marley chuckling with him.

Scott makes an affronted noise. “Are you calling me dumb, Rozanov?”

“Да,” Ilya replies automatically, earning more chuckles and a half-hearted glare from Scott.

“I mean,” Shane muses, “he is the only one of us with a post-secondary education.”

“I went to college!” Scott argues.

“Did you graduate?” Shane challenges.

The table dissolves into laughter when Scott just splutters, then glares at Shane with a muttered “traitor”.

A server arrives. Drinks are ordered. Menus are opened and then mostly ignored.

Hockey talk takes over almost immediately, the way it always does when they’re all in the same room.

Scott and Marley get into a spirited disagreement about playoff projections in the Western Conference. Ilya leans back in his chair and listens for a while, then drops in a single devastatingly precise statistic that dismantles both of their arguments.

“You are insufferable,” Scott informs him.

“And yet,” Ilya replies, lifting his glass, “correct.”

Shane watches him.

Watches the way Ilya leans forward when he’s engaged. The way he gestures with his hands. The way his eyes sharpen when someone challenges him.

He isn’t drifting tonight.

There’s no lag in his responses. No faint, hollow look behind the humor.

He looks here.

Fully.

It settles something in Shane’s chest he hadn’t realized was still tight.

Across the table, Kip is telling Marley about school, something about trying to figure out what comes next once he’s done his grad program, and setting up interviews, and hoping to be able to get a job.

Marley listens like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

“That’s huge,” Marley says. “Like… real adult decisions.”

Kip laughs. “Says the man who’s been in the league for a decade.”

“Exactly,” Marley says. “I’ve been suspended in adolescence this whole time.”

“You absolutely have.” Scott snorts.

Ilya narrows his eyes at Marley suddenly.

“You are smiling too much,” he says, tone suspicious.

Marley freezes mid-sip. “What?”

“You have that face,” Ilya insists. “The one you had when you bought that stupid boat.”

“Boat?” Scott echoes quietly, putting his beer down and leaning in.

“There is no boat,” Marley says defensively.

“There was a boat,” Ilya corrects.

“Was,” Marley emphasizes.

Ilya leans back, arms folded across his chest, and studies his friend with exaggerated scrutiny. “Who is she?”

“What? Who?” Marley splutters to deny, but his ears turn red. It’s subtle, but not subtle enough.

Kip gasps theatrically. Scott’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Marley,” Ilya presses.

“It’s nothing,” Marley insists. “It’s new.”

“New,” Ilya repeats, savoring the word. “But you like her. A lot.”

Marley glares at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Of course I am,” Ilya says. “Payback for all the years you teased me about Montreal Girl. So who is she?”

Marley looks at Shane with a “rescue me” face. Shane, knowing better than to get between Ilya and gossip, just raises his glass. A silent “You’re on your own.”

Ilya glances at him, smirks.

Shane reaches under the table and squeezes Ilya’s knee lightly.

Across the table, Scott seems to take pity on Marley.

“We’re thinking about getting a cat,” he cuts in.

The words land unexpectedly in the middle of the chaos.

Kip beams.

Ilya blinks. “A cat.”

“Yes,” Scott says defensively. “A cat.”

“You will hate it,” Ilya informs him immediately.

“I will not.”

“You like control too much,” Ilya continues. “Cats do not care about your leadership.”

Marley laughs so hard he nearly chokes.

“That’s actually the point,” Kip says. “He needs to learn humility.”

Scott looks betrayed. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I am,” Kip says sweetly. “But also… cat.”

The food arrives in waves. Plates are stolen from. Fries disappear without ownership being claimed. Someone orders another round without asking.

At some point, the conversation shifts away from hockey entirely.

Stories from rookie years. Travel disasters. Which team has the worst visiting locker room (they all unanimously agree it’s Washington).

Marley recounts a story about accidentally locking himself out of his apartment in Boston in nothing but a towel. Ilya adds unnecessary commentary about his “valiant rescue”. Scott looks like he’s somewhere between an amused older brother and an exasperated father. Kip demands photographic evidence.

Shane laughs more than he has in a long time.

And he keeps watching Ilya.

Watching the way he throws his head back when he laughs. The way he leans into the conversation instead of away from it. The way he doesn’t look like he’s calculating how much longer he can pretend.

It isn’t perfect. There’s a faint tiredness around his eyes that Shane knows isn’t just travel.

But he’s here.

Present.

Safe.

Halfway through dessert, which they absolutely did not need but ordered anyway, Ilya clears his throat.

“By the way,” he says casually, which means it is absolutely not casual. “Shane and I were thinking.”

Scott immediately looks wary. “That’s never a good start.”

“We’re starting to recruit players to help run our summer camps,” Shane jumps in smoothly. “We need coaching staff.”

Marley perks up. “You need bodies?”

“We want you both,” Ilya says simply, glancing between Scott and Marley. “If you’re interested.”

There’s no hesitation.

“Yeah,” Marley says immediately.

“Obviously,” Scott adds at the same time.

They look at each other.

“Wait,” Scott says. “What exactly are we agreeing to?”

“Unclear,” Marley says cheerfully. “But I’m in.”

Kip laughs. “This is how cults start.”

Shane feels something warm and steady bloom in his chest.

This.

This is what they’ve been building toward.

Not headlines. Not speculation. Not rivalry narratives.

Just this table. This noise. These people who know and who don’t look at them differently.

Under the table, Ilya’s hand brushes his. Just briefly. Grounding. Shane squeezes once in return.

Across from them, Scott is arguing with Marley about whether cats can be trained. Kip is instigating. Ilya is smug.

For a few hours, the world is small.

And good.

The arena feels different on Sunday. Louder, but lighter.

The skills competition is a spectacle; tonight is just chaos with a scoreboard attached. Three-on-three, rotating lines, music thumping between whistles like it’s a night club and not a professional sporting event.

Ilya steps onto the ice for his first shift and feels it immediately.

He’s here.

Not floating a few inches behind himself. Not wading through mental static. Just… here.

The puck comes to him off the boards, and he takes it cleanly, instinctively, cuts wide around a defenseman who doesn’t look particularly invested in stopping him, and dishes it across the slot to Marley, who buries it with an exaggerated celly that makes half the bench groan.

Ilya laughs as he glides past him.

“Show-off,” he mutters.

“You love it,” Marley shoots back.

He does.

He really does.

Back on the bench, he leans forward against the boards and watches the game unfold in quick bursts of skill and low-stakes bravado. 

Scott Hunter hops over the boards at one point and immediately threads a ridiculous backhand pass through two defenders.

Ilya clicks his tongue.

“Annoying,” he says under his breath.

Hunter catches his eye as he skates past the bench. Smirks. Like he heard it.

It’s always fun playing with this group. Against them, too. All-Star hockey is ridiculous; no one is blocking shots with their body, no one is finishing checks, but the talent is undeniable. It turns into a game of pure instinct. Pure creativity.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed playing with Marley until this weekend. There’s a comfort to it, the way Marley reads him without explanation.

It’s fun playing against Scott Hunter, too. He’d die before admitting that, but it’s true. Hunter is a great player. It’s equal parts aggravating and satisfying watching him pick a puck off someone’s stick like they were handing it to him for free.

And Shane… well, playing with Shane always feels like magic. Even having done it for half a season now, it still feels just as special.

He feels… not good, exactly.

But steady.

Yesterday morning feels farther away than it should. The weight of the comforter. The nausea. The humiliation of needing Shane to excuse him from a skate like he’s a rookie with nerves.

And the bathroom.

He winces faintly at the memory.

He hadn’t planned on telling Hunter. He’d planned on brushing him off. Making a joke. Telling him to mind his own business.

Instead, he’d just… said it.

“For my head. For depression.”

The word still feels strange in his mouth.

He isn’t entirely sure why Hunter had felt like a safe person in that moment. Maybe because of how Hunter had reacted to finding him heaving in a bathroom stall. How his voice had been full of genuine concern. Not pity, just concern. Maybe because of how his first question was if Ilya wanted him to get Shane, like he knew that Ilya wouldn’t have chosen for it to be Hunter standing there.

Or maybe… maybe because Hunter knows something about losing parents young. About learning to stand on your own before you’re ready. About feeling like your only value lies in what you can offer on the ice. About performing competence so well that no one thinks to ask if you’re tired.

There’s something specific in that kind of history.

A particular loneliness.

And a particular relief when someone proves they can hold a piece of it without dropping it.

Ilya had seen it in Hunter’s face, the moment he understood what was being handed to him.

And he’d taken it.

No fuss. No spectacle.

Just, “Okay.”

He shifts on the bench and watches Scott Hunter take a faceoff, jaw set in concentration even in a game that does not matter.

Ilya exhales slowly.

Maybe that’s what this is. Not grand declarations. Not dramatic breakthroughs. Just small, quiet decisions. To tell someone. To stay on the medication even when it makes you sick. To show up the next day anyway.

A whistle blows. He hops over the boards again.

This time, he ends up out there with Shane.

There’s a moment, brief and stupid, where they find themselves alone on a two-on-one. The defender overcommits to Ilya, like he always does. Ilya slides the puck across without even looking.

Shane scores.

They don’t celebrate much. Just a quick tap of gloves as they circle back.

But when they pass close enough, Shane leans in slightly and murmurs, “You good?”

It’s casual. Hidden in the noise.

Ilya opens his mouth to say “fine.”

Stops. Checks in with himself instead.

“I’m good,” he says.

And realizes, as he says it, that he means it.

Shane’s shoulder bumps his once, solid and warm, even through his gear.

“Good,” he replies simply.

They skate back into position as the puck drops again.

The music blares. The crowd roars at something flashy on the far side of the ice. Marley yells something incomprehensible and theatrical.

Ilya feels the cold air in his lungs.

Feels his skates bite cleanly into the ice.

Feels present.

Chapter End Notes

A Small Timeline Note:

In canon, Ilya doesn't attend the 2018/19 All-Star weekend, because he's attending the funeral of Duncan Harvey. This is also when he invites Ryan Price to coach at their hockey camps.

In my head, in this universe, those events absolutely still happen. Just not overlapping with the All-Star weekend. Why? Because I needed a way to have all of the characters in this chapter together during the season, and All-Star weekend makes the most sense.

Chapter 15

The locker room after practice is Wyatt’s favourite version of the locker room.

Not the sharp, focused noise of pre-game. Not the tense quiet of a loss. Not even the excitement of a win. Just comfortable chaos. Gear half-off, clothes strewn across benches, someone blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker.

A loudness that’s familiar and lived in.

Wyatt is halfway through redressing post-shower when it happens. A strangled, scandalized noise from a few feet away.

“Shane!”

Wyatt looks up. So does everyone else; the whole locker room pauses for half a beat, then returns to normal when they realise it’s just Roz being Roz.

Rozanov is standing by his stall, dripping hair, one sock on, one sock off, staring at his phone like it has personally betrayed him.

Hollzy doesn’t even flinch at the volume. He just sighs the sigh of a man who has lived through this before and looks over from where he’s shoving things into his stall. Roz shoves his phone into Hollzy’s face, gesturing dramatically.

“What?” Hollzy asks mildly. “The canal? What about it?”

“You did not tell me,” Roz accuses. “Why would you hide skating on giant river in city from me?”

There’s a beat. 

Hollzy blinks at him.

“Hide it?” he says, fighting a grin. “Ily… Rozanov. You drive over it every day.”

Wyatt pauses mid-sock.

That’s not… Doesn’t Roz live in Golden Triangle? He definitely does. Wyatt knows he does; has been to his place more than once.

Which means he absolutely does not need to cross the canal to get to the rink.

He files that inconsistency away automatically.

Goalie brain: notice everything, react to very little.

“Shane!” Roz repeats, louder, more offended.

Wyatt clocks that too. That's the second time he’s called him Shane instead of Hollander.

Wyatt tells himself not to think too hard about it. He tries not to look at the puzzle pieces he collects. It’s not his job to solve them. Some pictures aren’t for him to see until someone hands him the box lid. But he can’t help but collect the pieces anyway.

From the showers, Tomek’s voice floats out. “What is Roz yelling about now?”

Hollzy opens his mouth, then pauses, like he’s reconsidering whether he wants to explain.

Wyatt decides to put him out of his misery.

“From what I’ve gathered,” Wyatt says, loud enough for the room to hear, “Roz apparently didn’t know you could skate on the Rideau.”

A chorus of disbelief answers him.

“What?” Lenny pops his head up from tying his shoes. “How did you not know about the skateway? It’s like an Ottawa winter classic.”

Roz looks personally insulted.

“How was I supposed to know a boring Canadian city decided to be interesting and turn river into skating rink?” he demands.

Bood, delighted to be the one with information, launches into explanation mode. “It freezes solid every winter. The city clears it, floods it, and turns it into a full skating path. Like, kilometers long. You can skate from downtown to like Dow’s Lake.”

A couple of the younger guys perk up.

“Wait, actually?” one of them asks.

“It’s free,” Lenny adds. “You can get Beavertails. It’s basically the most Canadian thing you can do without apologizing.”

Roz narrows his eyes at Hollzy again.

“You knew,” he says accusingly. “And you did not tell me.”

Hollzy finally laughs, full and unbothered.

“I didn’t think I had to explain winter to you,” he says. “You’re Russian. Do you not have outdoor skating? You have proper winter.”

“That is different winter,” Roz snaps. “That is survival winter. This is… festive propaganda winter.”

The room dissolves into laughter.

Wyatt leans back against his stall and just watches.

It’s easy. That’s the thing.

Easy in a way it wasn’t at the start of the season. No one bristles when Roz gets loud. No one stiffens when Hollzy answers him back. It’s all rhythm now. Tease and counter-tease. Familiar.

Tomek comes striding out from the showers, towel slung over his shoulder.

“If he didn’t know,” Tomek says reasonably, “then we have to go.”

A ripple of agreement spreads instantly.

“Oh, we’re absolutely going,” Lenny says.

“Field trip,” someone adds.

Roz’s eyes light up like he’s just been vindicated by the United Nations.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Team bonding.”

Hollzy closes his eyes briefly. Wyatt nudges him with his elbow.

“We’re going to end up at the canal, aren’t we?” Hollzy mutters under his breath.

Wyatt grins. “Oh, one hundred percent.”

Two days later, Shane is lacing up his skates on a wooden bench beside the Rideau Canal.

He blames Lenny.

It had been Lenny’s fault for saying they’ll go in a room full of grown men with the impulse control of twelve-year-olds.

Now here they are.

Mid-February; clear sky, sun bright but not warm. The canal stretched out in a long ribbon of ice, bordered by snowbanks and bundled-up people clutching hot chocolate.

Shane ties the final knot in his laces and glances down the line of his teammates.

They are, without exception, incapable of behaving normally.

Wyatt is already testing his edges like he’s about to play a game. Tomek is stretching like he expects a full-contact scrimmage. Two of the younger guys are arguing about who can skate the full stretch faster.

Ilya is standing with his hands on his hips, staring out at the canal like he’s personally evaluating it for structural integrity.

“This is… acceptable,” he declares after a moment.

“You sound like a disappointed contractor,” Shane tells him.

Ilya shoots him a look. “The ice is uneven.”

“It’s a frozen canal,” Shane replies, “not an Olympic rink.”

Ilya waves that off like it’s a minor detail.

They step onto the ice as a group. It lasts maybe thirty seconds before it devolves into chaos.

Someone shouts, “Race you to the next bridge!”

Three players take off immediately.

“Jesus,” Lenny mutters, pushing off after them despite himself.

Shane glides out more slowly at first, letting his blades settle into the slightly rougher surface. It’s different from arena ice. Softer in places. A little bumpy where the flood hasn’t fully smoothed out.

It’s… nice.

Cold air in his lungs. Sunlight reflecting off ice instead of LED panels. No music. No announcer.

Just the scrape of skates and the distant murmur of the city.

It’s nostalgic for Shane. Reminds him of skating on this same canal when he was a little kid.

A couple of kids recognize them first.

“Mom,” one whispers loudly, pointing. “That’s…”

The mom looks up, does a double-take, and then tries very hard to be normal about it.

Shane gives them a small wave. The kid beams.

Behind him, Ilya has already been cornered by a cluster of elementary school boys who clearly follow hockey and are vibrating with excitement.

He watches as Ilya drops down into a crouch without hesitation, listening to one of them explain something with wild hand gestures.

There’s a looseness to him today. Not the performative charm he uses in press conferences.

Not the sharp-edged wit he defaults to when he’s deflecting.

Just… open.

He laughs at something the kid says, head tipped back. Then reaches out and adjusts the boy’s hat like it’s instinct.

Shane feels it in his chest.

The doctor had switched Ilya’s medication a couple of weeks ago. The first one had been brutal: nausea, headaches, that dizzy spell at practice.

This one… this one seems to be working. The side effects are mostly gone. Ilya isn’t waking up looking like he lost a fight. He’s sleeping. Eating. Engaging.

He still goes to therapy every week. Still comes home wrung out, eyes heavy in a way that has nothing to do with physical fatigue.

But he goes.

He does the work.

Shane is so stupidly proud of him for it that it almost embarrasses him.

A shout pulls him back to the present.

Wyatt and Tomek come barreling past him in a full sprint, shoulders nearly colliding.

“Recreational!” Shane calls futilely after them.

Wyatt laughs over his shoulder. “This is recreational!”

A group of teenage girls shriek delightedly as the two of them streak past.

Shane shakes his head and pushes off, joining the flow.

It’s impossible for a team full of professional hockey players to skate “casually.” Someone is always accelerating. Someone is always testing something. Edges, speed, hands.

But it doesn’t feel tense. No one’s trying to prove anything.

That’s the part that hits him.

He doesn’t feel like he’s trying to prove anything either.

He’s not captain. He may never be again.

And… he doesn’t need to be.

He knows this team values him. Knows it in the way Wyatt glances at him before making a joke. In the way Lenny loops him into decisions without ceremony. In the way the younger guys gravitate toward him during drills.

He doesn’t feel like he’s performing for someone here.

Doesn’t feel like he’s constantly calculating how to be the perfect captain. Or the perfect Asian-Canadian. Or the perfect role model.

He’s not bracing for the moment he screws up and ruins everything.

He just… skates.

For once. Finally.

Like he wanted to when he was eight years old, before hockey turned into brand management, expectation, and obligation.

He weaves around a couple holding hands and almost collides with Ilya, who appears at his elbow out of nowhere.

“You are slow,” Ilya informs him.

“I’m pacing myself,” Shane replies.

Ilya glances over his shoulder at the group of kids still hovering nearby.

“Race me,” he says suddenly.

Shane raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Ilya tilts his head subtly toward the kids. They’re watching them like they’re superheroes.

“For them,” he says, almost casually. “They think you are fast.”

“Oh, do they?” Shane asks.

Ilya smirks. “I told them you are overrated.”

Shane feels laughter bubble up in his chest. He doesn’t hesitate.

“Fine,” he says, pushing off backward a few feet to give them space. “To the next bridge.”

The team immediately clocks what’s happening.

“Oh no,” Dykstra calls out. “Not again.”

“Ten bucks on Roz!” Nick Chouinard yells.

“Betrayal!” Shane shouts back.

Ilya drops into a low stance beside him, grin sharp and bright in the winter sun. For a second, they just look at each other. There’s no heaviness in Ilya’s eyes today. No distant fog.

Just challenge.

“Ready?” Shane asks.

Ilya’s smile widens. “Always.”

They take off together.

The canal rushes beneath his blades, wind biting at his cheeks, teammates whooping behind them.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but speed and the rhythm of his skates.

He’s smiling like a fool.

Shane comes skidding to a stop under the second bridge, just ahead of Ilya. He has all of a second to process his win before Ilya is barreling into him, curls wild and grin wide, sending them both toppling to the ice in a heap of limbs.

And when he lies there, glancing sideways and sees Ilya matching him, laughing breathlessly, fully here…

Shane knows, maybe truly for the first time, that they’re going to be okay.

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

Ilya is halfway through his steak when Shane sets his cutlery down. The sound is soft, barely more than a shift of metal on porcelain, but it’s enough.

Ilya looks up immediately.

Shane is watching him, his face scrunched a bit in thought. Not worried or upset, just… contemplative.

Ilya knows the look well at this point in their relationship. The “I have something important to say, but I’m rehearsing it seventeen times first” look. If left alone, this could take several minutes. Thankfully, Ilya also knows when he can push and when he needs to wait it out; this doesn’t feel like a “wait it out” time.

“What is it?” Ilya asks gently.

Shane exhales with a huff. “I was getting there.”

Ilya just hums in response, shooting his boyfriend a small smirk. A reluctant smile flickers across Shane’s face, then fades into seriousness again.

“I just wanted to… check in, I guess?” Shane says. “About the end of the season.”

Ilya stills, the fork in his hand feeling oddly heavy. There’s only one end-of-season conversation that requires this tone.

“End of season,” Ilya echoes. “You mean the plan? To tell the team about us.”

Shane nods.

Ilya feels the tension in his shoulders before he can stop it. His fork pauses midair. He sets it down carefully, like if he moves too fast, something will crack.

He thought things were good. Better than good. The team had been easy about everything. They’d welcomed Shane with open arms, knowing he was gay. They hadn’t blinked when Ilya told them he had a boyfriend. They treat Harris like he’s always been there.

It had felt… safe.

Had something changed?

“You don’t want to anymore?” Ilya asks quietly. He can hear the shakiness in his voice, the vulnerability.

Shane’s head snaps up. “No. No, that’s not…” He leans forward in his chair. “I do. I still do, I promise.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t fully relax.

Shane huffs softly and runs a hand through his hair, clearly searching for words.

“They’ve been good,” he says finally. “The guys. They’re good men. They handled my sexuality well. They didn’t treat you differently after you came out. Didn’t make it weird.”

Ilya nods, letting Shane ramble. Letting him untangle his thoughts.

“They were quick to drop the rivalry thing, too,” Shane continues. “You could tell, early season, they were nervous about us together. But they adjusted really quickly.”

Shane’s mouth twitches.

“They bought into us being friends without hesitation,” he adds.

“We are friends,” Ilya says, though there’s something softer under it.

“I know.”

A quiet stretches between them.

Ilya tips his head. “If you are not reconsidering plan, why are we having this conversation?”

Shane hesitates again.

“Partly just to check in,” he admits. “But also… I realised something.”

Ilya waits.

“The team knows we both have boyfriends,” Shane says slowly. “But that’s it.”

Ilya frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Shane says, “I don’t talk about him… you. At all. Not really. No stories. No complaints. No casual mentions of places we’ve gone or things we’ve done. And it’s not just me, you haven’t talked about me either.”

Ilya opens his mouth to disagree, then closes it without saying a word.

Because… when was the last time he mentioned Shane in the locker room? Not as a teammate, or even a friend. Just in passing. In the way Wyatt mentions Lisa’s hospital shifts, or Bood complains about Cassie hiding the good snacks.

He leans back in his chair and searches his memory.

Finds nothing.

“…Oh,” he says softly.

Shane nods, relieved to not be alone in the realisation.

“I just noticed it the other night,” Shane says. “They know I have a boyfriend. But they don’t know anything about him. Not how long. Not how serious. Not what our life actually looks like.”

Ilya exhales slowly. He rests his forearms on the table, staring at the grain of the wood.

“It is strange,” he admits. “I kind of thought once I could talk about you, even a little bit, I would never stop.”

And he means it. Ilya had spent years desperate to talk about Shane, even in the most abstract ways. There for days, weeks, months at a time, where he thought he was going to explode from keeping it all inside.

“I thought you would too,” Shane says with a faint laugh.

“And now I have months of opportunity,” Ilya says, a bit in disbelief of himself, “and I say nothing.”

“I mean, same though,” Shane says with a shrug. “I haven’t really talked about you either.”

They sit with that for a minute.

“The team knows, in theory, that we have boyfriends,” Shane says. “But they don’t know how real it is.”

Ilya nods slowly.

“It’s not on purpose,” Shane adds, a trace of worry in his features.

A year ago, Ilya wouldn’t have believed him. Would have doubted the words. Would have been hurt about the fact that Shane had shoved himself, and therefore their relationship, so far in the closet that the people he spends every day with hardly know it exists. Even if he understood why it was necessary.

But now… with months under the same roof, in the same bed. On the same team, who accepts them fully. After months of unpacking his worst feelings in therapy. Well, now, he knows it’s not on purpose.

Besides, like Shane had pointed out, this isn’t one-sided.

“I know,” he reassures Shane. “Is just… habit.”

Ilya knows he’s bad at talking about the things that are important to him. He knows Shane’s anxiety makes him quiet, obsessive over control.

Habits they hate in themselves, and are trying to dissolve. But ones they came by honestly. Built from years of deflection. Of redirecting questions. Of trimming down truth to what was expected or acceptable.

Carefully filtering their lives into something safe. Survivable.

Even now, when survival no longer requires it.

A long silence settles between them. Not awkward or tense, just thoughtful.

Then Ilya straightens lightly. He hooks his foot around Shane’s ankle under the table, trying to ground them both a bit.

“So we fix it,” he says simply.

Shane blinks. “Fix it?”

“We talk about our boyfriends. Each other,” Ilya clarifies with a smirk. “No dramatic announcement. No huge stories. Just… normal. The way everyone else does.”

Shane nods slowly.

“The small things,” Shane adds. “The everyday stuff.”

“Exactly,” Ilya confirms. “I will start by telling whole locker room how my boyfriend makes terrible coffee.”

Shane laughs, tension easing out of his shoulders. But then his gaze softens again.

“I do still want to tell them at the end of the season,” Shane says quietly, earnestly. “Just to be clear.”

“Good,” Ilya nods.

Ilya reaches across the table and brushes his fingers lightly against Shane’s wrist. And as Shane brushes his back, he starts thinking about all the little pieces of his life he’s been longing to share.

And for once, it doesn’t feel dangerous.

It feels overdue.

Ilya is bent over, unlacing his skates, running through a missed pass from practice, trying to dissect what went wrong, when Bood shoves his shoulder, bringing him back into the conversation happening between him, Tomek, and Evan.

“You guys still coming over tonight? Jays game is on; spring training,” Bood says.

Ilya snorts under his breath. He doesn’t give a single fuck about baseball. Especially not spring training baseball.

But Ilya knows that tone in Bood’s voice. Knows it’s not about baseball. Cassie has been out of town for the last week visiting family, and it’s clear the empty house is starting to get to his friend.

So, yeah, Ilya will go watch a spring training baseball game.

Tomek doesn’t even look up from where he’s peeling tape off his stick. “I’ll be there, but I’ll be late. Gotta stay back and do laundry.”

Evan pauses mid-sock removal. “At the rink?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tomek shoots him a flat look. “Pretty sure my wife would kill me if I tried to wash my stuff at home.”

The group laughs knowingly.

“Smart man,” Bood says, pointing at Tomek with a broad grin. “You do that once, and you’re banned from the laundry room for life.”

“Nah,” Evan shakes his head. “I always wash my base layers at home. The soap here smells weird.”

“That’s because it’s industrial,” Tomek says. “It’s not meant to smell good, it’s meant to kill shit.”

“Plus, you’re lucky,” Bood adds. “Caitlin grew up in a hockey family, right? She was conditioned early to not care about the smell.”

Ilya barks a quick laugh, pulling his undershirt over his head.

“That does not always matter,” he says.

There’s just enough pause in the conversation for Ilya to know they’ve picked up on the subtext.

Looking up, he sees three sets of eyes on him. Interested. Curious. Almost excited at the prospect of getting a piece of their teammate’s elusive personal life.

This is the moment where he would normally deflect. Make some joke about a teammate, or a “friend back in Russia.”

But he doesn’t need to. Not here.

“I made mistake last summer,” Ilya admits, his tone a bit self-chastising. “Washed my socks with some of my boyfriend’s laundry.”

Bood makes a horrified face before the sentence is even finished. “Oh no.”

“I thought he was going to make me sleep in laundry room for a week!” Ilya complains with exaggerated despair. “Said the smell had seeped into the fabric permanently.”

Tomek cackles.

“Honestly?” Evan says. “Valid.”

“It was an accident,” Ilya protests, but he’s smiling. “I was trying to be helpful.”

“That’s where you went wrong,” Bood says. “Number one rule of hockey laundry: never mix with regular clothes.”

“Well, I know that now,” Ilya retorts with an eye roll.

Next to him, he feels Shane’s shoulders shake in silent laughter at the anecdote. The “Sock Incident of 2018,” as it had now been named, was one of those completely stupid domestic arguments that stopped mattering five minutes after it happened, but will live on for years, being brought up at every opportunity possible.

The kind of thing Ilya pretends to hate, but secretly adores, for the sole reason that it’s the exact kind of mundane domesticity he never thought they’d get to have.

Ilya tunes back in as Bood chirps Tomek about his ancient shin pads, finding the conversation has easily moved on.

Ilya exhales, realising he expected it not to, bracing for the follow-up questions that never came. But no one had pressed for details. No one had asked for more than he gave willingly. No one made it a thing.

It was just… folded into the rhythm of everything else. A teammate contributing to the casual jokes and stories about their lives.

No different than when Tomek groans about having to socialise with parents at another kid’s birthday party. Or when Nick updates them on Selena’s new job.

Just a story. Just a little piece of his life outside of the rink.

Later that night, he’s on Bood’s couch, half-watching the ball game, half-scrolling through his phone, while Tomek and Bood argue about pitching.

Evan drops down on the cushion next to him.

“Hey,” he says lightly, not even looking at him at first. “That why you’ve been staying in Canada during the off-season? The boyfriend?”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya replies a bit sheepishly. “It’s nice to spend actual time together.”

“God, don’t I know it,” Evan sympathises with a nod. Then he turns his attention back to the TV.

And that’s it.

Ilya leans back into the couch cushions with a small smile, stretching his legs out in front of him.

He did it. He talked about his boyfriend, and it was fine.

It didn’t feel scary. It didn’t even feel particularly memorable.

It felt… normal.

Like he’s finally speaking a language everyone else has been allowed to use the whole time.

The plane hums steadily beneath them, a low mechanical white noise that settles into Shane’s bones.

It’s a late flight. They’d played an afternoon game in Carolina, squeaked out a win in the third period, and now, the adrenaline had finally burned off somewhere over Washington.

Half the team conked out within minutes of takeoff; headphones on, mouths slack. Somewhere near the front of the plane, Martel is snoring loud enough to compete with the engines.

The other half are scattered in quiet clusters; movies flickering, low conversations weaving in and out.

Ilya is asleep before they hit cruising altitude. He’d tried, for about ten minutes, to stay awake. Had muttered something about reviewing a clip from the second period. Then his head had tipped sideways.

Now he’s fully slumped against the plane window, curls sticking out from his hoodie. He has a leg angled awkwardly into Shane’s space, one hand resting on Shane’s thigh, where their legs are pressed together.

No one looks at them twice. It’s just Roz being Roz. The team has long accepted that Ilya falls asleep anywhere, on anyone, at any time.

Still, Shane feels a quiet flicker of satisfaction at the contact.

They’ve been doing better about talking. About mentioning their boyfriends in the casual drift of conversation. Not performative or rehearsed. Just participating.

It feels good.

He shifts slightly so his hip isn’t jammed at an awkward angle that his body will scream at him for later, and that’s how he ends up half-turned to the row across from him.
Wyatt Hayes is mid-story.

“…and I spill coffee on myself in front of her,” Wyatt is saying, gesturing with both hands.

“First time meeting. Whole cup.”

Nick Chouinard groans. “No.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt says. “White shirt. Of course.”

Ryan O’Connell is laughing softly. Millsy and Novak are turned around in their seats, leaning over the backs, invested. Tanner Dillon has one earbud dangling, fully tuned in.

“It’s okay, the first time I met Sarah was 2 weeks after my entire college team lost a bet. I had frosted tips,” O’Connell admits.

“And she agreed to go out with you?” Novak teases.

O’Connell shrugs. “For some godforsaken reason.”

There’s a ripple of laughter. Then Millsy glances across the aisle, catching Shane’s eye, and sees that he’s obviously listening in to the conversation.

“What about you, Hollzy?” he asks casually. “When’d you meet your boyfriend?”

The question lands without weight. Shane feels his spine straighten anyway.

Dillon leans forward, looking around the group. “Didn’t his tweet, when he came out, say they met, like, nine years ago?”

“Ten now,” Nick corrects immediately. “That was two Christmases ago.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m a little concerned you remember that.”

“I remember everything,” Dillon says smugly.

“Uh, yeah, ten and a bit years ago now,” Shane confirms, feeling heat creep up his neck. He takes a slow breath, steadying himself. “Christmas 2008.”

Eyes go wide on the faces looking back at him. Nick lets out a low whistle under his breath. Millsy’s brow furrows like he’s trying to do the math on how old that means Shane would have been.

“Damn,” O’Connell says softly. “That’s… a long time.”

“Meeting at Christmas is kind of adorable, though,” Wyatt says. “That’s some rom-com shit.”

“And you were teenagers,” Nick adds. “You two are basically high school sweethearts.”

Shane snorts. “I mean, we didn’t start officially dating until 2017. But… I guess?”

There’s a small collective pause.

“Wait,” Novak says slowly. “So you met in ‘08. Started dating in ‘17.”

“Yeah,” Shane confirms.

“I can’t decide if that’s insanely romantic, or just insane,” O’Connell says, grinning. And now Shane is laughing again, because, honestly, valid.

“Okay, but,” Millsy says, leaning even further over his seat. “Were you, though? High school sweethearts? Is that how you met?”

Shane freezes momentarily. Not because he doesn’t want to answer, but because he isn’t sure how much to say, how honest he can be without being too revealing.

He decides to go with honest, but minimal.

“Uh, no,” Shane says, shaking his head. “Hockey.”

He braces himself. Waits for the questions he can’t answer. For someone to do the math and realise what tournament he would have been at. To wonder if it’s a former teammate, or an opponent, or maybe someone’s sibling.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he’s met with snickers and rolled eyes.

“Of course,” Nick says.

“Couldn’t be anything else,” Novak adds.

“Guy eats, sleeps, breathes hockey,” O’Connell says.

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “That’s not…”

“It absolutely is,” Hazy cuts in. “You probably introduced yourself with your stats.”

“Did not,” Shane denies.

“‘Hi, I’m Shane, I play centre, here’s my Corsi.’” Millsy says, voice stripped and monotone, his face faux-serious.

The guys dissolve into quiet laughter.

Shane finds himself laughing with them. The teasing ins’t sharp. Not pointed the way Montreal had been when they’d called him a hockey robot.

This feels… affectionate.

“We were kids,” Shane shrugs. “But I think we turned out all right.”

The words come out undeniably fond. He knows they do.

“Look at his blush,” Nick stage whispers, nudging Dillon. “That’s cute.”

“Oh fuck off,” Shane retorts, ducking his head, smiling despite himself.

He realises, somewhere between the quiet teasing and the hum of the plane, that this is the most normal relationship conversation he’s ever had.

No preamble. No careful explanation. No coming-out speech.

Just: When did you meet? That’s cute. You’re a nerd.

That’s it.

Shane shifts in his seat again, his back starting to protest the twisted way he’s been sitting.

Ilya stirs beside him. There’s a huff and an exhale, then a sleepy mumble in Russian as Ilya’s head lands on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Shane murmurs back in Russian. “Go back to sleep.”

Ilya’s fingers curl loosely into the fabric of his hoodie, grip tightening for half a second before relaxing again. His head settles more firmly against Shane’s shoulder.

Across the aisle, Nick’s eyebrows shoot up. Wyatt bites back a grin. Dillon, traitor that he is, quietly lifts his phone.

“Don’t you dare,” Shane whispers, levelling him with a half-hearted glare.

The flash is off, but he hears the shutter.

Dillon just grins. “For the archives.”

“Delete it,” Shane mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Novak shakes his head with a smile. “Roz really does just attach himself to whoever’s closest, huh?”

“Koala,” O’Connell says solemnly.

“Menace,” Shane corrects.

Ilya makes a soft, offended sound in his sleep. The guys chuckle again.

Then, the conversation moves on, back to coffee disasters, and in-laws, and the worst first dates imaginable.

Shane leans his head lightly against Ilya’s and closes his eyes.

It feels a little surreal to exist like this around other people. To be so openly affectionate and not have it be scrutinised. To know that even if it is, in the quiet of someone’s mind, that they’re still safe here.

For once, talking about his boyfriend hadn’t felt like stepping onto thin ice; a carefully calculated risk you hope doesn’t end with you hurt.

It had just felt like being one of the guys.

Bood watches Roz argue with Lenny over a passing drill and rubs a hand down his face.

Roz is being weird.

Not his usual weird, either. Because the guy is weird. Anyone that talented and single-minded about something is bound to be at least a little unhinged.

Normally, it’s the fun kind of weird. The hyperactive menace-to-society kind. Chirping from across the ice, seeing plays before they happen, smirking like he’s already five steps ahead of you. All wrapped in a charm and confidence you’d call cocky if he couldn’t back it almost every time.

It’s not that slightly worrying weird from around Christmas, either. The one that was always semi-detached and quiet, like he was just going through the motions. The one he knows Roz hopes no one noticed.

No.

This week?

Roz has been insufferable.

Not mad. But definitely irritated. A little explosive. Like, everyone is personally offending him by existing in his vicinity.

“Lenny, that pass is supposed to be on my tape,” Roz snaps now, skating backward, hand thrown out dramatically. “That shit you sent me would be considered garbage for 7-year-olds.”

Lenny just glares at him, jaw tight. They all learned quickly that arguing with Roz when he’s like this does not end well.

Roz scoffs at the silence.

He’s been like this for days now. Snapping at drills. Going full rookie-mode at practice, like he’s got something to prove. Attacking every rep like it’s Game 7 instead of mid-March on a team everyone knows is done for the season in early April.

And the fidgeting.

Jesus.

He keeps chewing on that chain around his neck, the little cross he always wears, tugging it between his teeth like he just wants to spend time at the dentist.

Twitchy. Restless.

The whole room’s been side-eyeing him, giving him space. Waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t seem to be passing.

Halfway through practice, Hollzy misses a read in a small-area drill. Nothing major, just mistimes a cut. The sort of small fumble most players make semi-often.

Roz wheels on him like he’s committed a felony.

“What the fuck was that, Hollander?” Roz barks.

Hollzy, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. Just stares Roz down.

Coach Wiebe’s whistle shrieks across the ice.

Everyone freezes.

Coach skates toward them slowly, the kind of slow that means someone is about to get verbally body-checked. Wiebe doesn’t often call people out in front of the team, which Bood respects, but this public dressing down feels a bit deserved.

“Rozanov,” Wiebe says flatly. “What the hell has been going on this week?”

Roz opens his mouth immediately, defensive and ready.

Coach doesn’t let him.

“You’ve been a menace,” he continues. “And not your usual lovable kind. The exhausting kind.”

A few guys shift awkwardly. No one disagrees.

Roz’s eyes flick around. He sees it. The hovering. The uncomfortable half-agreement. The fact that this isn’t just Coach feeling this way.

His shoulders drop a good inch as he folds in on himself.

Bood sees his mouth move, muttering something too quiet to be heard, face looking almost… ashamed.

It’s a weirdly disconcerting expression on someone like Rozanov.

“Louder,” Coach says, hands on his hips.

Roz sighs, looks around, and drops his eyes to the ice again.

“I am trying to quit smoking,” he admits. The words are still quiet enough that Bood is pretty sure he misheard.

Coach blinks. “What?”

“Smoking,” Roz repeats, jaw tight, finally daring to meet Coach’s eye. “Cigarettes. Am trying to quit. Is making me… unpleasant.”

Bood stares at him.

That is what this is all about?

“Jesus Christ.” Coach Wiebe scrubs a hand down his face. “What sort of professional athlete smokes cigarettes?”

“Russian one?” Roz lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Is bad habit from my teens.”

“No kidding,” Coach mutters. “Well. Good. Glad you’re kicking it. But for the love of God, go talk to Terry, see if he can help you. Because if this continues, someone is going to murder you, Rozanov.”

A few guys snort.

Roz nods stiffly. “Yes, Coach.”

“And quit biting your damn necklace,” Coach Wiebe adds, skating away. “You look rabid.”

Roz at least has the decency to look properly chastised.

Practice resumes.

Bood watches Roz skate off, jaw still tight but… lighter. Like saying it out loud took some of the edge off.

In the locker room afterward, it doens’t take long. Morrow is the first to ask what they’re all wondering.

“Roz,” Morrow says slowly. “You actually smoke?”

Roz is bent over, peeling tape off his pads. “Да. Would not lie to Coach.”

“Wait,” Martel cuts in. “Actually?”

“No.” Roz shoots him a look. “I fake it for looks.”

That sends a wave of laughter through the room.

“Not often,” Roz adds with a sigh. “Not like when I was young. But yes. I do. Or did.” He grimaces. “Am trying to quit.”

He pauses his movements, then, looking up around the room.

“I am sorry.” Roz’s words are steady, honest. “I know I have been bitch lately.”

Hollzy snorts from a few paces away. Roz just blindly lobs a ball of rolled-up used tape in his general direction. It hits Hollzy square in the chest.

“You’ve smoked your whole career?” Lenny asks, leaning back in his stall, looking mildly horrified.

“On and off.” Roz shrugs.

“That’s insane,” Evan mutters.

“It’s outright stupid,” Hollzy interjects. “He’s going to give himself lung cancer.”

“Yes, I know, Hollander,” Roz huffs. “Boyfriend is equally annoying about it.”

“Oh?” Bood questions, leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms. “So he’s the one responsible for our misery.”

“No,” Roz denies, but his cheeks are slightly pink.

“So he’s not making you quit?” Tomek teases from across the room.

“He does not make me do anything,” Roz scoffs. Then, quieter, almost begrudgingly: “It was easier to hide when I lived in Boston.”

The words hang in the air for a moment as they register, then the room erupts in laughter.

“Okay, but seriously,” Bood manages, between the noise. “Who is this mythical man that can get you to not only sign with Ottawa, but also quit a whole-ass decade-long addiction?”

“Well,” Roz says simply. “I love him. He is worth it.”

The room goes quiet. Not a heavy quiet, but definitely a bit caught off guard.

Bood finds himself staring.

The words were so simple. So straightforward. Delivered with a kind of casualness you can’t fake.

Like it was fact.

Roz had said it like he was commenting on the weather. Not admitting to loving someone so deeply that he’s rearranged his entire life around them.

Hollzy’s mouth twitches, something soft in his expression that Bood isn’t quite sure how to interpret.

Novak lets out a low whistle.

“Well damn,” Bood mutters under his breath. And then, because he is who he is: “Alright, Romeo. If you start writing poetry in here, though, we’re staging an intervention.”

The spell breaks. Laughter returns, and conversation moves on.

But Bood watches Roz a second longer.

Insufferable? Sure.

Annoying as hell this week? Absolutely.

But pushing through something difficult because you love someone enough to be better?

Yeah, he can live with that.

Still… if he starts chewing that necklace again, Bood’s going to smack him.

Chapter End Notes

If you saw the total chapter count change? Um... no you didn't
Will it change again? Let's be real, yeah, probably lol

Chapter 17

Ilya wakes up feeling like someone has been body-checking him in his sleep.

Not a clean hit, either. The kind that grinds you into the boards and keeps you there. Everything aches; his shoulders, his ribs, even his knees feel sore when he shifts his legs under the sheets.

His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Too sensitive.

His head is thick and heavy, like he’s been on a three-day bender. Something he hasn’t done since he was younger and stupider.

He opens his eyes and immediately regrets it. The world spins slightly.

“блядь,” he mutters hoarsely into the crook of his arm. Fuck.

He’d been off the last few days. Not bad, just not sharp. A little chilled, a little tired. He’d told himself it was nothing. Just travel. Just end-of-season grind. Just something that would work itself out if he ignored it long enough.

Apparently not.

Beside him, Shane stirs.

“What’s wrong?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Ilya tries to answer. His throat feels like someone scraped it raw with sandpaper. What comes out instead of words is a sharp, hacking cough that tears through his chest and leaves his lungs burning.

Shane is upright instantly.

“Jesus,” he swears softly.

The mattress shifts beside him. A cool hand presses to Ilya’s forehead.

“Fucking hell,” Shane swears again, louder this time. “You’re burning up.”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut.

“I am fine,” he rasps automatically. “We don’t need to be at airport for…” he coughs again, the sound ugly and uncontrollable.

Shane sighs.

“I don’t think you should play tonight,” he says gently.

The words hit like a slap.

Ilya forces his eyes open and glares at him.

“I am playing,” he insists. Or tries to. It comes out weak and cracked.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, intending to swing his legs out of bed and prove he’s fine.

The room tilts violently. His vision goes blurry.

He drops back against the mattress with a miserable groan that turns into another coughing fit.

Shane is already moving. The bedroom door opens, footsteps down the hall. A minute later, he’s back, pressing a glass of water into Ilya’s hand.

“Slow,” Shane says as Ilya tries to gulp it. 

Ilya ignores that instruction and drinks half of it in one go anyway. It hurts to swallow. It still feels like relief.

He stares at the ceiling.

The road trip flashes through his head. Their last one of the season; Detroit tonight, Buffalo in two days. They’re thin at wing already. He knows the lines. Knows where he fits.

Knows what it means to leave a hole.

“I can play,” he says again, but even he hears how pathetic it sounds.

Shane just looks at him.

Not angry. Not frustrated.

Concerned. Which is worse.

“Okay,” Ilya mutters finally. “Maybe… maybe you are right.”

The words feel like defeat. Who the heck gets sick in March?

He flops back fully against the pillows, arm thrown over his face.

“Phone,” he says after a moment, the words still rough. “Pass me my phone, please. I should call Coach.”

Shane hesitates only long enough to brush his thumb briefly over Ilya’s wrist before handing it to him.

Coach Wiebe answers on the second ring.

“Roz,” he says, clearly still partly asleep himself. “What’s up? I don’t need to see your ass for another couple hours.”

Ilya opens his mouth. A coughing fit answers for him.

There’s a pause.

“Well, fuck,” Coach says.

“Yes,” Ilya croaks. “I, uh… do not think I can play tonight.”

There’s a heavy exhale on the other end.

“Damn it,” Coach mutters. He doesn’t sound angry, just frustrated at the universe. Ilya feels responsible anyway.

“I am sorry,” Ilya says quickly. “I should have…”

“No need to apologize, kid,” Coach Wiebe cuts in. “You’ve been under the weather all week. I was just hoping it wouldn’t take you out.”

“Me too,” Ilya admits quietly.

There’s a beat. The sound of dishes clinking on the other end of the line. Now Ilya feels even more guilty; not just for the situation, but also for interrupting the man’s breakfast with it.

 “Alright. Here’s what we’re going to do,” Coach says. “You’re staying home.”

“I can still travel…” Ilya starts.

“No,” Coach says sharply. “Don’t want to hear it. You need to get better. And I don’t need this whole damn roster sick.”

Ilya swallows.

“You’re scratched for tonight. If you’re feeling well enough to play in Buffalo in two days, we’ll fly you there from Ottawa. But only if you’re actually better. I’m not risking this spreading.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, the word flat.

“Good.”

He stares at the wall.

“I feel bad,” he adds quietly. “We have good shot against Detroit, but we are thin.”

“That’s my problem,” Coach says firmly. “Not yours.”

Ilya presses his lips together to try to stop his protest from escaping.

“Do you need me to send Terry to the house?” Coach asks. “Make sure you’re alright?”

Despite himself, Ilya huffs a weak laugh that turns into another cough.

“No, no,” he says. “Is just flu. I will survive.”

“I’ll have him check in anyway,” Coach replies. “Not negotiable.”

“Okay.” Ilya doesn’t bother to argue.

“I gotta make some calls,” Coach says. “You rest. Feel better. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Take care, kid,” Wiebe says, voice softened just a bit, before hanging up.

The room feels quiet afterward.

Shane is watching him carefully, perched on the edge of the bed.

Ilya lowers the phone to his chest.

He hates this.

Hates the helplessness. Hates the weakness. Hates the way his body has decided it will not cooperate with what his brain wants.

He stares at the ceiling again, throat burning.

“The team will be fine,” Shane says gently. “Won’t be the same. We’ll have to fight harder. Get a bit scrappy. But we’ll be okay.”

Ilya nods.

He knows they will.

That’s almost worse.

Shane’s knee won’t stop bouncing.

He’s aware of it, but he can’t seem to stop it.

The airport is quiet; the team is scattered across the private terminal, some scrolling their phone, some half-asleep.

Shane hadn’t wanted to leave that morning. Didn’t want to have to go play a hockey game. It’s not a completely foreign feeling to him, but it is rare.

But Ilya had been miserable. Curled up on the couch under a blanket, skin flushed, eyes glassy. He’d barely lifted his head when Shane had said goodbye.

Shane had stood there a second too long, debating calling Coach Wiebe and somehow convincing him he was sick too. But he knows Ilya would have murdered him for even trying.

Plus, he was being ridiculous. It was a short trip, 3 days. It’s just the flu.

Ilya is a grown man.

A grown man who looked like he could barely keep his eyes open.

Shane sighs.

Being sick alone is different. Lonelier.

He remembers Montreal. Being twenty-one and feverish in his condo that still didn’t quite feel like home, shivering under three blankets, wishing more than anything he could just teleport to his parents’ house. His dad’s soup. His mom knocking quietly on the door of his childhood bedroom, asking if he needed anything.

His parents.

Of course.

Shane pulls his phone out before he can overthink it. He weaves past his teammates and tucks himself into the quieter hallway near the bathrooms, leaning back against the cool wall.

He taps his mom’s name. She answers almost immediately.

“Hey, honey. Shouldn’t you be at the airport by now?” Yuna asks. “Everything okay?”

Shane huffs a small breath. “Yeah. I mean, mostly. Not really?”

“Shane?” There’s an immediate shift in her tone.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “They haven’t announced it yet, they probably will this afternoon, but Ilya’s not coming on the road trip.”

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line.

“It’s nothing serious,” Shane rushes on. “He’s just sick. Bad flu. He’s okay, just… definitely not in any shape to play.”

“Oh,” Yuna says softly. “That’s awful. I’m sure he’s frustrated.”

Shane can’t help his small smile, picturing Ilya’s pout that morning. The stubborn insistence that he could skate.

“Yeah,” Shane admits. “He is.”

There’s a pause. He hadn’t planned what to say next.

He pushes off the wall and starts pacing a little.

“He’s really sick, though,” Shane continues, the words coming out faster now. “Like, he was curled up on the couch when I left, and he just… he looked miserable. And I know he’s an adult, and it’s just the flu, but he’s all alone and he…”

“Shane.”

He stops pacing.

“Don’t worry,” his mom says gently. “We’ll go check on him.”

The tension leaves his body so quickly that it almost makes him dizzy.

“Thanks, Mom,” he exhales.

“Of course,” she says, like it’s obvious. “We’ll make sure he’s eating. And drinking. And not trying to power through like an idiot.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That would be… helpful.”

“You go play your games,” she says. “We’ll look after him.”

“Okay,” Shane says softly. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank us, honey,” Yuna replies. “He’s family.”

The word family settles warm and steady in his chest.

“Call me if you need anything,” she adds.

“I will,” he assures before hanging up. Shane stands there a second longer, letting his heartbeat even out. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been until now.

When he heads back to the gate, Lenny glances up.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says, dropping back into his seat. “Just talking to my mom.”

Lenny nods, but there’s something knowing in his eyes Shane can’t quite interpret.

Shane leans back in the chair, exhales slowly, and tries to focus on the boarding announcement echoing overhead.

David stands a step behind Yuna as she unlocks the front door with the spare key Shane and Ilya insisted they keep.

Yuna pushes the door open gently. The house is quiet.

“Ilya, honey?” she calls into the house as they toe off their shoes. “You here?”

A weak hello floats back from the living room.

They find him curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket twisted around his legs, HGTV playing at low volume on the television. Something about renovating a kitchen in Arizona.

Ilya looks… wrecked.

Curls wild, skin flushed, still in his pyjamas. He looks younger like this. Smaller. The sharp edges he carries around the rink dulled down to something softer.

Something vulnerable.

Something shifts in David’s chest.

“Oh, sweetie,” Yuna breathes, already crossing the room.

Ilya blinks at them, slow and confused.

“Stupid germs,” he croaks, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite make it. “Did Shane send you?”

“He called from the airport,” Yuna says gently, brushing her fingers through his hair the way she used to when Shane was little. “Said you weren’t feeling great.”

“Ah,” Ilya says.

It’s small. Just a syllable. But David sees the flicker in his face. Surprise. Something like hope. Gratitude. And then it disappears, tucked away behind composure.

David feels it like a tug under his ribs.

He doesn’t know much about Ilya’s childhood. Shane hasn’t said much, and David has never pushed. He knows enough. Parents gone. A brother who might as well be. A boy who learned to stand on his own way too young because there wasn’t another option.

He can’t help but wonder when the last time was that someone took care of him like this.

Yuna meets his eyes over Ilya’s head. They don’t need to speak. They’re having the same thought. Yuna straightens.

“Alright,” she says decisively. “You’re not staying here alone.”

Ilya frowns up at her. “I am… what?”

“You’re not staying here by yourself,” Yuna repeats. “Ordering takeout or eating nothing at all. You’re coming home with us.”

Ilya tries to push himself upright, wincing as he does.

“No, no, that is not necessary,” he protests weakly. “Is just the flu. I will be fine here.”

David hears the edge beneath it. It’s not independence, it’s fear of inconvenience.

“I do not want to be a burden,” Ilya adds quietly. Something in David’s chest twists.

He’s never been the talker. That’s Yuna’s gift. She’ll win this argument; she always does.

But if there’s one thing David can do, it’s take care of a sick kid.

So while Yuna starts gently dismantling Ilya’s stubbornness, explaining that he is absolutely not a burden and yes, she will be offended if he argues further, David slips down the hallway.

He pauses outside Shane and Ilya’s bedroom door, knocking lightly out of habit even though he knows there’s no one there to answer.

The room smells faintly like laundry detergent and whatever cologne Ilya wears.

In the closet, he spots the weekender bag, already mostly packed.

Of course it is. Even if Ilya doesn’t seem like a pack-early guy, Shane absolutely is.

David moves it to the end of the bed and unzips it.

Sweatpants. Athletic shorts. T-shirts. A hoodie. Socks. Underwear. He removes the dress shirt and slacks, setting them neatly on the bed. No need for that where they’re going.

In the bathroom, the toiletry bag sits on the counter. He adds the lone toothbrush by the sink, zips it shut, and tucks it into the duffel.

On his way out, he notices the phone charger by the nightstand and coils it neatly before dropping it in.

There’s a book there too, with Russian text on the cover. David spots the bookmark three-quarters of the way in and decides to add it to the bag as well.

Back in the living room, Yuna is standing with her hands on her hips in that way that means the discussion portion of the program is nearly complete.

Ilya is upright now, swaying slightly, blanket still draped around his shoulders.

David sets the bag on the coffee table.

“Ilya,” he says gently. “I grabbed your bag and toiletries. Made sure there are some comfortable clothes in there. Shane’s got some things at our place too, in case you need them. Is there anything else you want me to grab?”

Ilya inhales sharply, which immediately turns into a coughing fit.

Yuna’s hand is on his shoulder in an instant.

But David can’t stop staring at Ilya’s face. Wide-eyed. Confused. Almost startled.

Like he can’t quite process that someone just… handled it.

Jesus Christ.

This boy needs a family.

David had known that, in a vague way. Hadn’t missed how Ilya soaks up every ounce of affection given to him. Has seen the way Ilya lingers a little longer in their kitchen after dinners. The way he cautiously contributes to Yuna’s hockey commentary, like he’s afraid one wrong word will make it disappear.

But the fact that packing him a bag is surprising?

That hurts.

When the coughing subsides, Ilya looks at him, mouth opening and closing once before he finds the words.

“There is… hoodie,” he says quietly, cheeks somehow even more pink than before. “On bed. In bedroom.”

David nods once. “Got it.”

He goes back down the hall.

Sure enough, between the pillows on the bed, there’s a faded red hoodie.

He picks it up and unbunches it to fold it properly.

It’s a Team Canada, from Sochi. One of Shane’s.

David pauses, a slow understanding settling over him.

Ah.

Well.

That explains the embarrassment.

He considers, briefly, the temptation to tease him about it; about how sick people always reach for something familiar, something safe.

He decides to spare him.

Some things don’t need commentary.

He folds the hoodie carefully and adds it to the bag.

The drive to their house is only twenty minutes.

Ilya makes it to the car under his own power, though David keeps a steadying hand near his elbow just in case.

He’s asleep before they hit the highway. Head tipped against the window. Mouth slightly open. Exhausted.

When they pull into the driveway, David carries the bag while Yuna gently shakes him awake.

They half-walk, half-guide him inside and onto the couch.

“I am fine,” Ilya mumbles for what has to be the tenth time, as Yuna settles him on the couch.

His protests are slightly undercut by his current state. He looks like a drowned puppy.
Yuna just laughs softly. “Of course you are.”

David watches the way she smooths his hair off his forehead, the same way she did when Shane was small and feverish.

It hadn’t taken her long to come around to Ilya.

There had been questions at first. Worries. The usual parental reflex, augmented by Yuna’s sometimes obsessively managerial mind.

But now? Now she loves him like her own.

David does too.

He leaves them there, retreating quietly into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, then the pantry. Takes inventory. Soup ingredients. Ginger. Crackers. That black tea Ilya likes.

He grabs a notepad from the drawer and scribbles a short grocery list: more broth, fresh vegetables, ice cream. Cold and flu medicine.

Next step in the sick kid caretaking guide: Feed the kid.

Ilya isn’t entirely sure how he transitioned from a self-pitying lump on his own couch to a slightly less self-pitying lump on Yuna and David’s couch.

Probably two parts Yuna’s supernatural efficiency, one part Shane worrying from miles away.

He vaguely remembers protesting. He definitely remembers losing the argument.

He isn’t upset about it.

The Hollander house is warm. It always is. It smells faintly of ginger, and the flowers Yuna has on the dining room table.

It’s familiar now.

He hadn’t expected that when Shane had first brought him here. Hadn’t expected to be comfortable in someone else’s parents’ home, especially without them.

But he does.

And it’s… nice. Not to be alone.

He can’t quite remember the last time he wasn’t alone while sick. Can’t even picture it. Is a bit worried that the answer is probably before his mother died.

His eyes burn unexpectedly. He blinks hard.

Blessedly, Yuna walks back into the living room before he can embarrass himself further by getting emotional in front of his boyfriend’s parents.

She presses a glass of water into his hand and a couple of pills into the other palm.

“Take these,” she instructs gently. “They’ll help with the fever.”

He nods and swallows them without argument.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I am okay.”

It’s a lie, but not a harmful one. Especially since he isn’t really sure what it is he does need, or how he’s not okay.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He frowns, fishing it out. A handful of notifications greet him. Twitter first; he has alerts turned on for when the team posts.

Ilya’s stomach twists.

Eight seasons playing professional hockey. Except for when his father died, he’s never missed a game. Not for a cold, not for bruised ribs. Not for anything.

He knows, logically, that missing a game for illness or injury is inevitable. Overdue, even.

It still feels like some sort of personal failure.

He closes the app before he can see any of the response, and spirals further.

There are a few other notifications. A couple texts from people about the statement. An email from John that he can’t even pretend he’d understand right now.

And the team group chat.

He hesitates. Opens it anyway.

He braces himself for annoyance. For frustration or disappointment. For comments about him missing a game and leaving them short-handed.

Instead…

And there’s more. The entire roster chiming in. And other than reassurance that they’ll be alright, no one mentions the game. Not one comment about line combos. Not a single passive-aggressive joke about him abandoning them.

Just: rest, feel better, we’ve got you.

His chest feels tight in a different way now.

He swallows.

Types carefully. He stares at the message for half a second before hitting send.

He exits the chat immediately, unwilling to face the inevitable chirping about domesticity.

He opens his messages with Shane instead.

The reply comes quickly.

Ilya huffs softly.

There’s a pause.

He considers lying. Doesn’t.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Ilya’s mouth curves into a soft smile.

He sets the phone down on the coffee table.

The house is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty. He can hear Yuna typing softly at the kitchen table. The low hum of the fridge. The faint clink of David moving something in a cupboard.

Ordinary sounds.

Safe sounds.

He curls deeper into the corner of the couch, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His body aches, throat raw, head foggy.

But he is not alone.

That realization sits somewhere warm and strange in his chest.

He doesn’t have the energy to examine it.

So he simply closes his eyes and lets himself sleep.

Chapter 18

Chapter Notes

Ilya wakes slowly, surfacing through layers of warmth and fog.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, gentle and steady. Not shaking him, just present. He startles anyway, breath catching as his eyes open to gold light and unfamiliar shadows.

At first, he doesn’t know where he is. The ceiling isn’t his. The couch isn’t his.

There’s a soft voice next to him.

“Hey,” Yuna says quietly. “Sorry to wake you. You should probably try to eat something. And you’re due for more meds.”

It takes him a few seconds to assemble the pieces. The drive, the couch, the blanket. Shane’s parents.

Right.

He scrubs a hand down his face, cheek still pressed into the cushion, and nods into it.

“Okay,” he mumbles, voice rough.

He pushes himself upright slowly. The room tilts, but not violently this time, just enough to remind him he’s not fine.

He feels… better. Marginally.

His throat still burns like he swallowed broken glass. There’s a faint rattle when he inhales too deeply. His head aches dully behind his eyes.

But the fever is gone, or at least not as bad. He’s no longer both freezing and sweating at the same time.

Instead, he’s just damp.

His hoodie clings uncomfortably to his back, sweat cooled into something clammy and unpleasant.

He shifts awkwardly, trying to unstick the fabric from his skin.

“Can I… shower first?” he asks, then immediately grimaces. “Sorry. I mean, if that is okay. I don’t want to…”

Yuna waves him off before he can finish apologizing.

“Of course you can,” she says easily. “Clean towels are in the linen closet. David put your bag in Shane’s room.”

Ilya nods. He gets to his feet carefully, steadying himself on the arm of the couch. Yuna stays close enough to catch him if needed, but doesn’t touch him. It’s a subtle kindness he notices.

Halfway up the stairs, he pauses. He always does, the wall of photos catching his eye every time.

Little Shane in oversized hockey gear. Gap-toothed grin. Birthday cakes. School photos. One of him and David at some local rink, both bundled up in heavy jackets.

Ilya stands there longer than he means to.

There are so many.

So much proof of being wanted. Of being loved.

He swallows thickly and keeps climbing.

Shane’s childhood bedroom looks the same as the last time he saw it. His bag sits neatly on the bed, exactly where Yuna said it would be.

He unzips it slowly.

Toiletry bag. Clean underwear. Sweatpants. T-shirt.

He pulls out what he needs and heads across the hall, grabbing a towel from the linen closet.

The shower is heavenly. Hot water pounds against his shoulders, and he leans into the wall, eyes closed, letting it soak into his aching muscles.

He stays longer than necessary. Longer than is probably polite in someone else’s home. But no one knocks. No one rushes him.

When he finally steps out, skin flushed from heat instead of fever, he dries off and pulls on the clean clothes.

He digs through the toiletry bag until he finds his razor. The scrape of it against his jaw is grounding. Familiar. Controlled.

By the time he’s dressed and shaved, he feels… human.

Back in the bedroom, he rummages again until he finds socks. Then his hand lands on the faded red hoodie.

He pauses.

It’s worn thin at the cuffs. The fabric is soft from years of wear and washing. The white Canada embroidered on the back has a few threads starting to come loose.

Ilya hesitates only a second before pulling it over his head.

It stretches tight across his shoulders, despite already being stretched out with age. Ilya doesn’t care.

The comfort is immediate. Ilya buries his chin into the collar. The fabric smells faintly like detergent and something distinctly Shane beneath it.

God, he’s gone soft.

His phone buzzes on the bed before he can linger on the thought too long.

Terry.

Right. Coach said he was going to get the team doctor to check in.

He answers.

“Rozanov,” Terry says without preamble. “Sorry to hear you’re out for the count.”

“Temporarily,” Ilya corrects automatically, though it comes out scratchy.

“Let’s hope. Tell me your symptoms?” Terry asks.

“Fever this morning,” Ilya replies. “Body aches. Cough. Throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper. Fever is better now.”

“Good,” Terry says. “Hydrating?”

“Yes.”

“Eating?”

“I am about to.”

“Any chest pain? Shortness of breath beyond the usual flu misery?”

“No. Just the misery,” Ilya jokes weakly.

“Alright,” Terry chuckles. “I’ll trust you for now. But if that fever spikes again or your breathing gets worse, I’m coming over whether you like it or not.”

“I would prefer not,” Ilya mutters.

“I’m aware,” Terry replies dryly.

Despite himself, Ilya huffs a weak laugh.

“Check in with me by lunch tomorrow,” Terry continues. “If you’re not trending upward, we’ll re-evaluate Buffalo.”

“Okay,” Ilya says.

“And Roz?”

“Yes?”

“Rest means rest. Not film. Not workouts. Not ‘light stickhandling in the basement,’” Terry says sternly.

Ilya hesitates a beat too long. He wants to argue that the warning is unnecessary, except that if he hadn’t been lovingly abducted by the Hollanders, it absolutely would be.

Terry sighs. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The line clicks dead. Ilya lowers the phone slowly.

He pads back downstairs, hair still damp against his neck.

Yuna looks up from the dining table and smiles.

“You look more alive,” she says.

Ilya nods, chuckling. They both wince when it turns into a harsh cough.

David appears from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“Think you’re up for eating something?” he asks. “You skipped lunch. That’s not ideal.”

Ilya hadn’t even realized. Now that it’s mentioned, his stomach growls faintly.

“Yes,” he says. “I am very hungry, actually.”

“Perfect,” David says. “Sit. I made soup.”

Ilya does as told.

A bowl appears in front of him a minute later, steam curling upward. Chicken broth. Herbs. Something warm and comforting.

He blinks at it.

And, horrifyingly, feels his throat tighten for an entirely different reason than illness.

It’s just soup.

It’s not a big deal.

To them, this is nothing. This is automatic. Ordinary.

But to him…

Movement pulls him out of it.

David sits across from him. Yuna is beside him. They both have bowls, too. A basket of fresh rolls sits between them.

Yuna nods toward his spoon. “Go ahead.”

He does.

The first bite is almost too hot. He doesn’t mind.

They eat together. Quiet. Occasionally commenting on something mundane: traffic, the grocery store being out of decent tomatoes, the neighbour’s dog.

After dinner, he ends up back on the couch. Upright this time.

Yuna settles on the other end, remote in hand. David disappears briefly and returns with a glass of wine for her before claiming the armchair.

The TV flicks to the Ottawa game.

Warmups.

The sight of the ice makes something twist inside him.

He tries not to show it.

He knows Shane and Coach Wiebe were right. He’s in no shape to play; he was barely standing this morning. He can’t risk getting his teammates sick, either.

Still.

He should be there.

His eyes follow Shane skating lazy circles near the boards, firing an easy shot toward Hazy.

Coach has moved Lenny up to the first line. It’s a bold choice, putting Lenny on right wing when he’s playing left for years.

But it makes sense. Lenny is steady. Adaptable. Not flashy, but solid. There’s a reason he’s worn a letter longer than Ilya’s been in the league.

He’ll make it work.

Ilya makes it halfway through the first period before his energy starts to drain again.

Yuna’s commentary is as sharp and merciless as it is accurate. David chimes in occasionally, providing a neutrality that is otherwise missing from the room.

Normally, Ilya would match Yuna, add the biting remarks she’s too diplomatic to say outright.

Tonight, he just listens. Lets it wash over him.

His body sinks deeper into the couch without his permission. The last thing he remembers is the puck dropping for what must be the start of the second period.

He wakes again to a hand on his shoulder. The room is dark now, the TV off, only the hallway light casting a soft glow.

A blanket had been tucked around him at some point.

David stands nearby.

“We’d just let you sleep, but your back will hate you if you spend all night on the couch,” he says quietly. “And I think you’re a bit too big for me to carry upstairs like I used to do with Shane.”

A small, hoarse laugh escapes Ilya.

He pushes himself upright. David waits while he steadies himself, then leads the way upstairs.

At Shane’s bedroom door, David pauses.

“There’s water and more meds on the bedside table,” he says. “Get some sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”

Ilya nods.

David turns to go.

“David,” Ilya says before he can stop himself. David looks back. “Thank you.”

It feels inadequate. Small.

David’s expression softens. “Of course, son.”

And then he disappears down the hall.

The word lands harder than any hit he’s ever taken.

Son.

Ilya stands frozen in the doorway. His breath stutters in his chest, sharp and sudden.

He is profoundly grateful that David’s back is already turned.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the way that single word makes something inside him crack.

He steps into the room and closes the door gently behind him.

The next day is a blur of small, gentle repetitions.

Waking, napping, waking again.

A new glass of water appearing beside him, like it’s always been there. Another dose of pills in an outstretched hand. Soup that is definitely homemade; salt, herbs, and hearty vegetables, not whatever comes out of a can when you’re too tired to stand.

Yuna moves through the house with that particular kind of attentiveness that somehow doesn’t feel like hovering. She’s there when he needs something, and somehow not there when he doesn’t. A blanket tucks itself around his shoulders. A window opens for five minutes to let in fresh air, then closes again before he can even think to shiver.

David is quieter, but just as present.

He’s in the living room most of the morning, newspaper folded on the coffee table, a mug of tea steaming in his hands, like he’s chosen this spot on purpose. Not blocking Ilya in. Not staring at him. Just… nearby. A steady anchor in the room.

At some point, David sets a box on the table in front of the couch.

A puzzle. One of those thousand-piece ones with a landscape on the front and too much sky.

“I figured we could do something,” David says. “If you’re up for it.”

Ilya is not good at puzzles. He enjoys them anyway, finds them satisfying.

“Okay,” He says, and his voice is still rough enough that the word scrapes.

They work in silence for a while. David sorts edge pieces without looking like he’s trying. Ilya picks through the pile, fingers slow and clumsy with fatigue, and tries to pretend he isn’t grateful for the distraction.

At one point, he almost asks why David isn’t at work. Yuna, he knows, works from home. But David, at 11:00 am on a weekday, should be in an office somewhere on the other side of the city.

But he isn’t.

And Ilya doesn’t ask.

Because there are answers he can’t afford to hear.

Because if David says, casually, “I took the day off,” something in Ilya will twist itself into guilt so tight it will never untangle.

So he stays quiet, and he matches a corner piece to an edge piece, and he breathes through the ache in his ribs.

Lunch time comes with a call from Terry, who listens to his cough for ten seconds and kills Buffalo immediately. 

Ilya knows he’s right. Hates it anyway.

But Ilya somehow escapes the phone call without an impending home visit, so he’ll take the small victory.

By afternoon, his fever is still low. The cough is still there, rattling when he laughs or talks too long. But his head is clearer. He can sit upright without the room tipping. He can stand in the kitchen long enough to rinse his bowl without needing to lean on the counter.

He is, in the most insulting way possible, functional.

Which should make him feel better.

Instead, it makes him raw.

Everything does.

The warmth of the couch. The soft knit of Shane’s hoodie against his wrists. The way Yuna says his name like he belongs. The way David doesn’t ask questions that Ilya won’t want to answer. The way they just… assume he’ll be here for lunch, and dinner, and tomorrow morning, as if he’s not a guest they’re accommodating but a person they’ve decided is part of the schedule.

He feels like he could cry at any second. Not from pain. Not even really sadness.

From the sheer disorientation of being cared for.

It’s humiliating.

His therapist would have something to say about that. Galina would probably call him dramatic and then make him talk anyway.

Ilya doesn’t want to think about therapy today. Therapy has made his feelings sharp lately, like someone took the edges off the numbness and replaced them with exposed nerve. It’s like he can’t keep things buried where they belong. Everything is right there, too close to the surface.

Mid-afternoon, Yuna brings him a mug of tea. Lemon, and honey, and a smoky campfire smell. He’s so thrown by wondering where Yuna found Russian tea in Ottawa that he doesn’t even have time to unpack how something can smell like home, even when that home no longer exists.

She sets it down on the coffee table in front of him.

“Drink,” she says. “Slowly. Your throat will thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ilya says automatically, and she gives him a look that says she heard the sarcasm and approves anyway.

He reaches for the mug.

His fingers slip.

It’s stupid. His grip is fine. He’s held a stick through two overtimes. He’s done surgery-level fine motor work with skate laces in the dark.

But his hands are still a little shaky, and the handle is hotter than he expects, and the mug tips.

Tea sloshes out over the coffee table in a bright, sticky spill and splashes onto the rug.

For half a second, everything stops.

Ilya’s body goes cold. Not fever-cold. Something older.

His chest tightens so fast it’s almost a spasm. His throat closes. His brain flashes through a thousand instincts at once: fix it, apologize, get up, don’t be in the way, don’t make it worse, don’t take up space.

He’s already halfway out of his seat, panic sharp under his ribs.

“I… sorry…” he starts, words tumbling, too quick, too desperate. “I can clean, it’s fine, I…”

Yuna is there before he can even fully stand. Not rushing, not alarmed. Just… efficient.

“It’s okay,” she says, calm as if he’s spilled tea every day of his life.

David appears with paper towels like he was waiting in the wings. He hands a few pieces to Yuna, who starts wiping at the spill on the table in smooth strokes.

“Accidents happen,” David says mildly, crouching to dab at the rug where the tea splattered. “It’s a rug. We’ll survive.”

Ilya stands there, frozen, heart pounding like he just took a penalty shot with the game on the line.

He waits for the other shoe.

For the sharp inhale. The irritated sigh. The look that says “of course you did.”

For the moment where they remember he is not their problem.

For the moment where they regret this.

Yuna reaches up and presses her hand to his forearm. Warm, steady.

“Sit down,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, but his voice cracks on the last word.

He hates it. Hates the weakness creeping into his throat. Hates how close he is to losing control over something so stupid.

Yuna doesn’t move her hand.

“It’s tea,” she repeats, softly this time. “We can make more.”

David nods once, still kneeling on the rug. “No harm done.”

No harm done.

No harm done, and yet Ilya feels like the world has shifted.

He tries to breathe. It catches.

And then, without warning, the tears come.

It’s immediate. Not a slow, dignified leak. Not something he can blink away and pretend didn’t happen.

It’s a full-body betrayal.

One second he’s standing there, stiff with the instinct to apologize himself into invisibility, and the next his face is hot and wet, and his chest is shaking like he’s being pulled apart.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, horrified.

He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, like that will fix it. Like he can wipe the problem away.

It makes it worse.

Yuna’s expression changes; softening, not into pity, but into something deeply, instinctively maternal.

“Oh,” she says, and the single syllable is more dangerous than anything else in the room.

David stands slowly and steps back, giving Yuna space like they’ve done this dance before. Like this is a role they know how to fill.

“Come here,” Yuna says, not quite asking.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya tries again, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “I don’t know why… I’m not…”

“You’re sick,” Yuna says firmly, as if that explains everything. As if he doesn’t need to justify it. “Sit.”

She guides him back onto the couch with her hand still on his arm, and Ilya goes because his knees feel like they might stop working.

He drops down onto the cushion and covers his face with both hands, shoulders shaking.

It’s mortifying. Humiliating in the purest way possible; being seen, being held, being unable to hold himself together.

Yuna sits down beside him. Close, not crowding. Her hand settles on his back, rubbing slow circles through the hoodie.

David sits in the armchair, not leaving, not intruding. Present in the way he’s been present all day.

Ilya tries to get control of himself.

He can’t.

It’s too much. 

All of the last twenty-four hours is too much. All of it. The soup. The blanket. The photos. The way David packed his bag without being asked. The way Yuna said honey like she meant it.

The way David said son last night, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The realization hits him, and it’s destabilizing, like a stick to the ribs he wasn’t braced for.

They don’t care about him because Shane cares about him.

They just… care.

They care when he’s impressive and when he’s not. When he’s scoring and when he’s sick. When he’s charming and when he’s crying on their couch like a child.

He tries to swallow around the lump in his throat.

It doesn’t go away.

“Oh, honey,” Yuna leans in slightly. “What’s the matter?” she asks gently. It’s not demanding or pushy. Just an opening to talk.

“I…” Ilya starts, and the sound that comes out is ugly. “I do not know how to do this.”

“Do what?” David asks quietly from the armchair.

Ilya scrubs his palms over his face. His cheeks are wet. His nose is running. It’s disgusting.

He laughs once, a broken sound, and then his throat tightens again.

“Be taken care of,” he says, voice cracking. “Without… earning it.”

Yuna’s hand stills on his back for a second, then resumes, slower. Like she’s keeping him tethered.

Ilya stares at his knees.

The words start coming out anyway. Not smoothly. Not in order. Just a dam that's cracked, unable to hold back the flood.

“I am used to being useful,” he says, and his voice is suddenly thick. “If I was not useful, people… looked at me like I was wasting air.”

Yuna makes a soft sound, and it’s not agreement or disbelief. It’s just recognition.

“I had to be good,” Ilya continues, breath hitching. “The best. If I was not best, I was… disappointment. Always. Even when I was best.” He shakes his head, anger flashing through the tears. “Even then, it did not make them kind. It just made them less angry.”

David’s jaw tightens, just slightly. His hands curl around the armrest.

Ilya keeps going because if he stops, he might never start again.

“Hockey made me useful,” he says, voice low. “Money. Fame. Status. That’s all. That’s all I was for.” He swallows hard. “So when I am here, and I am sick, and I am not… anything… and you still… You still do this. Like it is nothing.”

His voice breaks.

He presses his fist against his mouth like he can hold the sound in.

He can’t.

“Like you still want me,” Ilya whispers.

“Oh. Ilya. Honey,” Yuna gasps softly. “Of course we do.”

Yuna’s arm slides more firmly around his shoulders.

Ilya’s chest heaves once, twice.

And then the part of it he didn’t know was there, didn’t know he’d been carrying, slides out into the light.

“I worry Shane won’t want me anymore…” His voice goes smaller, almost impossible. His fingers twist into the fabric of Shane’s hoodie. “I worry he will get tired of me.”

The room goes very still.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, shame roaring up his spine.

He can’t believe he said it out loud.

“He won’t,” Yuna says immediately. Not defensive. Certain.

“I know,” Ilya says, and it’s the worst part. “I know he won’t. He has never…” He shakes his head, wet and miserable. “But my brain… it keeps waiting. Like this.” He gestures helplessly at himself. “Like when I am… too broken. Too much trouble. Not good enough. Not useful.”

Yuna makes a small, fierce sound. Not anger at him. Anger at the idea.

David’s voice is quiet, but it has weight. “Shane is his father’s son,” he says simply. “Stubborn. Loyal. He doesn’t stop loving just because it’s not convenient.”

Ilya knows that too. Knows Shane loves with a dedication that frightens him. They would never be where they are, be who they are to each other, if Shane weren’t that way. 

But still…

“Love doesn’t work that way. Family doesn’t work that way. Not for me,” Ilya says, tears spilling over again. “I don’t know how to convince my brain different.”

The end of his words is almost cut off with a choked sob.

Yuna pulls him closer until Ilya is tipped into her space, half in her lap, his shoulder pressed into her chest. She tucks him in like he’s small enough to fit there.

She wraps her arms around him, holds him tight, rocking him gently. It feels safe.

Motherly.

And it does two things at once: it stitches him together and rips him wide open. Because Ilya can’t even count how many moments in his life he wished he’d had a mother to hold him like this.

And now he does.

Ilya’s sobs turn heavy, full-body. He clutches at the hoodie sleeve like it’s a lifeline. His face presses into Yuna’s shoulder. He can smell her perfume, laundry detergent, and the faint scent of her shampoo.

A mother smell.

He doesn’t know how long he cries like that. Long enough that his throat hurts. Long enough that his body goes slack with exhaustion.

Eventually, the sobs slow. He pulls back just enough to breathe properly, eyes swollen and red, face damp.

Yuna smooths his curls back like she’s done it a hundred times.

“There,” she murmurs. “There you go.”

David gets up and disappears into the kitchen. When he comes back, he doesn’t make a big deal of it; he sets a fresh mug of tea on the table and places a box of tissues within reach, like it was always part of the décor.

The rest of the day passes in a strange, gentle quiet.

Ilya keeps waiting for one of them to bring it up. To ask questions, to wonder what he meant, to be offended at his worries about their son.

But they don’t.

They don’t pretend it didn’t happen. But it also doesn’t change the way they move around him.

Dinner is dinner. Yuna teases him when he reaches for a second roll and asks for seconds.

David just hands him a refilled plate without comment. “Eat.”

Afterward, David asks him to help bring the dishes to the sink. Not because David needs the help, he doesn’t, but because it’s what you do when you’re in a house where you belong.

Ilya rinses a bowl. The water is warm on his hands. The kitchen smells like garlic and soap.

No one looks at him differently.

No one treats him like he’s breakable.

In the living room later, they put a game on; Boston versus New York, the kind of matchup Yuna claims she hates and then watches with the focus of a hawk.

Ilya sits on the couch with a blanket over his legs, tea in his hands, Shane’s hoodie soft around his wrists.

David settles into the armchair. Yuna stretches her feet onto the coffee table.

It’s almost like the breakdown never happened.

Not because it’s being ignored. Because it doesn’t disqualify him.

Because crying on their couch doesn’t make him less worthy of being here.

Because he can be messy and still be included.

Halfway through the first period, Yuna makes a sharp comment about a defensive pairing and David hums in agreement, and Ilya realizes something with a slow, startled clarity.

He isn’t visiting.

He is being kept.

The thought sits warm and strange in his chest.

This time, he doesn’t shove it away.

He just holds it, carefully, disbelievingly, and gratefully, like the fragile, precious thing it is.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya Rozanov: A fully grown fictional man, who is, canonically, older than me.

Me, and my couple years of motherhood: Someone give this child a mother!! Mother him! Give him family, or so help me god!!

Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

Ilya’s blood is still humming when he gets his gloves off.

It isn’t the adrenaline spike of a playoff game; there’s no denying this is one of the last games of Ottawa’s season, but it’s the clean, satisfying rush of being back in his body. Back in motion. Back on the ice.

He’s still not a hundred percent. He can feel it when he bends for his shin pads, when he hauls his sweater over his head, and the air hits the sweat-damp compression shirt on his shoulders. There’s a lingering heaviness behind his eyes, a small drag in his lungs when he laughs too hard.

But it’s good.

It’s so good.

“Roz!” Coach Wiebe calls from somewhere down the row of stalls. “Media wants you.”

Ilya doesn’t even look up as he fumbles with the buckle on his shoulder pads. “Okay,” he yells back.

Bood makes a noise that is almost a snicker. “He’s gonna get fined for being late.”

“I will charm them,” Ilya says, and shrugs out of his gear with renewed purpose.

He glances to his left.

Shane is half-undressed in his stall, towel around his neck, hair still damp, looking tired in that post-game way that makes him prettier than he has any business being. When Ilya catches his eye, Shane’s mouth softens.

Ilya grins, big and shameless.

He ducks out of the locker room and into the hallway, the arena air cooler here, the concrete swallowing the roar of the crowd that’s already thinning.

The media room is already a semi-circle of bodies and devices by the time he gets there. Cameras. Recorders. Notebooks. Faces that are starting to be familiar after a full season.

Luke Sheffield is up front, a local sports reporter. Ilya likes him. He’s solid, the kind of reporter who asks questions like he’s actually interested in the sport.

Ilya smiles at the man, pointing at him to start things off.

“Rozanov,” Sheffield says, and his smile is polite but real. “Before I ask my actual question, first game back after missing a few days with illness. Glad to see you back. How are you feeling?”

Ilya’s smile comes easily.

“Ah, yes, better, thank you,” he says enthusiastically. “All better. Was just the flu.”

A couple of scribbles. Someone murmurs a soft “good.”

Ilya shifts his weight, rolling the stiffness out of one ankle. He can feel the itch to say something stupid. Something true.

He probably shouldn’t.

He does anyway.

“My in-laws live close,” he adds lightly, like he’s talking about the weather, “so I was very spoiled. Well taken care of. But I was tired of watching the guys on TV. Is nice to be back.”

There’s a beat.

It’s not outrage. Not even shock, really. It’s that collective recalibration, people’s brains tilting to accommodate a new piece of information. The sort of disruption to the media status quo Ilya loves causing.

He catches it in Sheffield’s face first: surprise that turns instantly professional.

“That’s good to hear,” Sheffield says smoothly, as if Ilya didn’t just lob a grenade into the hockey rumour mill. “Okay, power play looked different tonight. You guys ran that low interchange more often. Was that a planned adjustment, or a read you made on the fly?”

Thank you, Luke Sheffield, for being a grown-up.

Ilya dives in. He talks about entries and rotations and the way their bumper option had been getting swallowed on the last few games. He gestures with his hands. He stays on hockey. He gives them what they came for.

But he can still feel the words he said hovering above the scrum like a neon sign.

In-laws.

By the time he gets back to the locker room, the place is louder; showers running, music coming from someone’s speaker, the familiar after-game chaos of bodies unspooling.

And, of course, they’ve all been watching.

Someone has a phone propped up on a stall, the post-game clip paused on Ilya’s face, mid-smirk.

The chirping starts before he can even reach his seat.

“In-laws?” Nick calls, scandalized. “Roz, you got married and didn’t tell us?”

Morrow makes a pained sound. “The betrayal.”

“Do we even know your husband’s name?” Tomek adds, and the room breaks into laughter.

“Ilya Rozanov,” Bood announces solemnly, “domestic icon.”

“Is not icon,” Ilya says, peeling his base layer off with a practiced tug. “Is… normal.”

“Normal,” Shane repeats from a stall away, voice flat with disbelief.

Ilya pauses with his shirt half-off and points at Shane without looking. “See? Even my rival agrees I am normal.”

The room howls.

Shane makes a noise that might be a laugh if it didn’t also sound like he’d like to be swallowed by the earth.

Ilya’s gaze finds Shane immediately, scanning his face for how he truly feels.

Ilya knows there isn’t technically anything bad about what he said. Knows that it was bold, but not too far in terms of his image rebrand. That Yuna will call him impulsive but won’t actually think he’s been reckless.

But he also knows that just because it meets Yuna’s line of safety, doesn’t mean it necessarily meets Shane’s line of comfort.

And as much as Ilya loves confsuing the media. Loved saying those words. He doesn’t want to make Shane uncomfortable.

But Shane is just looking at him, face somewhere between surprise and exasperation. Not scared or mad.

Just… “You menace.”

Ilya lifts his eyebrows, as if to say: “What?”

Shane’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“I promise you all that when I do get married, you all will be invited,” Ilya says to the room, not taking his eyes off Shane for a second.

Shane smiles, slow and fond, as the room collapses into more laughter.

Relief loosens something in Ilya’s ribs. He lets himself lean into the teasing, lets it land and roll off like water.

Ilya had never particularly felt like he didn’t fit in in locker rooms, but he hadn’t realized how much he had wished to be able to be part of it, properly part of it, without keeping half his life clenched behind his teeth.

He dresses. He showers. He endures one more round of “congrats on your secret wedding, Roz” from Lenny.

Then they’re in the car, late-night dark outside the windows, streetlights smearing gold across the windshield. Shane drives. Ilya sits warm and satisfied in the passenger seat, still a little achy, still a little tired, but clean and alive.

For a few minutes, they just exist.

Then Shane clears his throat.

“So,” he says, and Ilya can hear the carefully neutral tone. “In-laws?”

Ilya turns his head, watching Shane’s profile in the soft glow of the dash. “Yes.”

Shane’s fingers tighten briefly on the steering wheel. “Really?”

Ilya’s stomach tightens reflexively. He hadn’t thought it would; he knows he may have gone too far. But he can feel the instinct to dig in, to get defensive, to push back.

He forces himself not to.

Instead, he does something annoyingly mature.

He checks in.

“Is not okay?” he asks carefully. “I… I am sorry, if that was too much. I don’t want you to worry… about being caught.”

Shane’s jaw shifts once, thinking.

“No,” Shane says finally. “No, not too much.” He glances over briefly, eyes soft in the dark. “No one saw you with my parents. Even if people speculate, there’s no proof. And it’s not like they can prove you’re dating me and work backwards. We’re teammates. We spend time together. It’s normal. If that was going to get us caught, we would have been by now.”

Ilya exhales, tension easing out of him like air from a punctured tire.

“That was my thought,” he admits.

“I figured,” Shane says, with the faintest edge of exasperation. “Next time, maybe warn me you’re going to break Twitter, though.”

Ilya snorts, relaxing even more. If Shane was joking, he was being honest that he wasn’t upset about it.

Then Shane adds, quieter, almost puzzled, “But… in-laws? We’re not married.”

Ilya hums.

“No, not yet,” he says, and he makes it light on purpose, because he doesn’t want Shane to feel cornered by the weight of the word. “But ‘my boyfriend’s parents’ is not… enough.”

Shane blinks at him in the dim light. “Not enough?”

“In-laws,” Ilya says, and he feels his throat go tight in a way that has nothing to do with being sick, “is more… permanent. Да? Is word for family.”

Shane’s grip loosens on the wheel. His face does something small and open.

“Oh,” he says, like the meaning just landed properly. “Yeah. It is.”

At home, Shane heats leftovers like he’s on autopilot, and Ilya ends up perched at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone with a kind of resigned curiosity.

Notifications everywhere.

He ignores most of them. Skims a couple. Like the messages in the family chat from Yuna that calls him stupid in one sentence and her new son-in-law in the next, and the love you, kid from David.

Then he finds what he’s looking for.

The group chat. The newest one he has, made after the truly bizarre but wonderful dinner in Seattle during All-Star Weekend.

Ilya snorts, the sound catching briefly in his throat.

He’s still smiling when a new message drops in.

Ilya laughs so hard he nearly chokes on the sip of Coke he’d just taken.

Looking up, Shane is leaning against the counter across from him, phone in hand, a wicked grin on his face.

Their phones start vibrating like angry bees. More messages, stacking and stacking as their friends spiral.

Ilya pushes off the island, crosses the kitchen in three steps, and pins Shane back against the counter with all the satisfaction of a clean hit.

Shane’s hands go automatically to his waist.

Ilya kisses him, hard and delighted. When he pulls back, Shane’s eyes are bright. His cheeks flushed.

“You are brilliant, secretly evil man, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, breathless. “And I love you so much.”

Shane’s smile softens into something warm and stupidly tender.

“I love you too,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Their phones are all but forgotten for a while after that.

They eat. They shower. They crawl into bed together, the sheets warm, the room quiet.

Ilya only remembers the chat again, half-asleep and scrolling aimlessly, when Shane makes an ominous sound beside him.

“Oh, no…” Shane murmurs.

Ilya turns his head. “What?”

Shane is staring at his phone like it personally betrayed him. “I think we scared our friends.”

Ilya blinks, opens the chat and scrolls back up to Shane’s messages.

The first wave of replies is all laughing emojis and threats of murder.

Then, slowly, the tone shifts.

Ilya snorts.

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “We should probably tell them I am not having affair.”

“You think?” Shane says, voice laced with laughter.

He hits send, then immediately locks his phone and steals Shane’s, setting both down on the nightstand.

Shane makes a sound of protest that dies when Ilya climbs over him, bracing his hands on either side of Shane’s head.

Shane looks up at him, amused. Soft. Safe.

Ilya’s smile fades into something quieter.

“You are sure,” he asks, low, “you are okay with what I said to media?”

Shane’s expression sobers just a fraction. He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Like I said, it doesn’t give us away.”

Ilya leans down and kisses him anyway, slow and grateful.

Shane’s hand slides into his hair.

When they part, Shane’s voice is quieter. “Is that…” He hesitates, searching. “Is that really how you see them?”

Ilya takes a breath.

“Yes,” he says.

He feels it in his chest as he says it—still strange, still tender, but no longer impossible.

“I do not have good track record with parents,” he admits. “Not meeting them. Well, maybe. I would not know. Have never met anyone else’s parents.”

Shane snorts.

“I mean having them,” Ilya continues, and he keeps his tone steady because he doesn’t want this to turn into something heavier than it needs to be. “I was so young when Мама died. My father…” He shrugs, the motion small. “Was not a good man. Even before he was sick.”

Shane’s eyes soften.

“But Yuna and David,” Ilya continues, voice catching slightly despite himself, “they are good people. Good parents. They treat me like I am their son. Not just their son’s boyfriend.”

“Of course they do,” Shane says simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it isn’t a miracle. “They love you.”

Ilya swallows.

“I think,” he says quietly, “I am starting to realize that, yes.”

Shane’s thumb rubs gently at his hip.

“And I want that,” Ilya admits, softer still. “For them to see me as family. So… in-laws is right word.”

Shane’s smile is slow, sweet, a little wrecked.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

He kisses Ilya again, and it’s not dramatic, not desperate, just steady.

Chapter End Notes

Is Shane a little OOC by not freaking out about what Ilya said? Maybe.

But I don't think it's that far of a stretch. There's glimpses in the books of how Shane can be just as much of a chaos gremlin as Ilya. He's just SO hamstrung by his anxiety and paranoia. But I firmly believe that getting out of Montreal earlier, having real support and real friends earlier, would really help him be less afraid of it all.

So.... Let Shane be a menace occasionally.

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

The Ottawa Centaurs’ season ends quietly in the first week of April.

No playoffs. No dramatic final push. Just eighty-two games, a handshake line, and a locker room that feels… finished.

It’s a good end, all things considered.

No one expected them to make a run this year. Not the analysts. Not the fans. Not even the guys in the room.

But they finish solidly in the middle of the standings. Competitive most nights. Hard to play against. Not embarrassing.

More importantly than that, they feel like a real team. Not a collection of contracts. Not a stopover on the way to somewhere better.

A team.

For Marko Lehtinen, it’s enough.

More than enough.

More than he pictured his final season being.

He sits in his stall after the last game, long after most of the guys have peeled off their gear, and stretches his legs out in front of him. His knees ache in that deep, familiar way that doesn’t really go away anymore. It’s not sharp pain. Just a steady reminder.

You’re not twenty-five.

His shifts were shorter this year. Fewer minutes on special teams. He heard “veteran presence” more often than “go-to guy.” He’s not blind. He’s not delusional.

The desperate, hungry animal that lives in every pro athlete, the one that got him drafted, that kept him grinding through bad seasons, wants to stay. Wants to be part of what this team is about to become.

They’re going to be a problem in a few years. Everyone can see it.

But the sensible part of him knows this is it.

He feels it in the half-second he’s lost on the rush. In the way younger guys recover faster.

In how long it takes his body to feel normal again after a back-to-back.

It’s time.

And even knowing that, leaving the Centaurs makes him feel a little like a parent sending their kid off to college.

The Ottawa Centaurs aren’t the only team he’s played for, but they’re where he built his career. Where he’s worn the C for a decade. Where he was handed the captaincy at an age when most guys are still trying to keep their heads above water.

Not because he was anything special, but because there was no one else. Best of the worst.

He’d taken the C anyway.

For years, he captained one of the worst teams in the league.

They’d claw their way to respectable one season, scrape into the middle of the standings, start to look like something stable, and then the front office would blow it up. Half the roster traded by the deadline. New systems. New faces. Same results.

It took him a while to stop taking it personally.

For a few years, it pissed him off. He’d go home wired and furious, replaying blown leads and bad trades in his head like he could fix them by thinking hard enough.

Eventually, though, he figured something out.

If they weren’t going to build a contender, he could at least build a room.

A good one.

One where nobody got frozen out. Where no one got called a slur and told to “toughen up.” Where the rookies didn’t get hazed into hating their jobs. Where guys could bring their partners to events without side-eyes or whispers.

If they were going to lose, they weren’t going to be miserable doing it.

So he focused on that.

He learned every equipment manager’s kids’ names. Made sure new guys got invited to team dinners. Shut down bullshit before it had a chance to take root. Kept things steady when management tore the roster apart for the third time in five years.

He can’t control the standings.

He can control the room.

Three years ago, when he and his wife had their first real conversation about retirement, about what life would look like after hockey, he told her that if the only thing he accomplished in his career was the reputation of being the team guys actually wanted to play for, he could live with that.

Then ownership finally got tired of spinning its wheels.

They fired the GM. Opened the chequebook. Hired someone willing to wait longer than a season for results.

They brought in Coach Wiebe, young, patient, and stubborn about building something sustainable instead of flashy.

And then, at least partly because the room was already solid, because guys around the league knew Ottawa wasn’t a nightmare, they somehow landed one of the biggest names in the sport.

Lenny had laughed when Hollander landed in their laps.

He’d known, right then, that the rebuild he’d quietly shepherded through mediocrity might actually turn into something real.

Rozanov’s signing turned that “might” into “will.”

Now, he’s the aging captain of a team that’s outgrown him.

He sees it clearly. The speed. The confidence. The way the younger core pushes each other without looking to him first anymore.

It’s not a failure.

He was never supposed to be the guy who lifts the Cup in Ottawa. His job was to be the guy who makes it possible for someone else to.

He runs his thumb over the worn stitching of the C on his jersey.

He doesn’t know what it’s going to feel like next season, watching from a suite, or his couch, or anywhere that isn’t the bench.

He doesn’t know what it’ll feel like to see someone else wear that letter.

He wants to be the one wearing it. God, does he want to keep wearing it.

But he knows it’s time.

You don’t raise something to need you forever. You raise it so it can stand on its own.

And they can. They will.

They’re ready.

They don’t need him the way they used to.

That was the whole point.

Lenny stands, reaches for his jersey, and pulls the C over his head one last time.

The room is louder than it should be for something that is, technically, an ending.

Clean-out day always has that final day of school before summer break feeling. Guys dragging hockey and duffel bags through the room, laughing too loudly, talking about golf trips and cottage weekends. Trainers weaving through it all with clipboards and calm faces, trying to get the end of year physicals all squared away.

Lenny has done this enough now that he could be in and out in ten minutes if he wanted to be.

He doesn’t want to be.

So he goes slow.

He folds his clothes with more care than is really needed, fingers smoothing each crease and wrinkle. He peels tape from his sticks and stacks them neatly. He empties his stall in layers: gloves, then elbow pads, then shin guards, then the small stuff; laces, extra mouthguards, the worn roll of athletic tape with his initials scrawled on the cardboard.

He folds his practice jerseys, then leaves them on the bench instead of shoving them in a bag.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also the only way he can make his hands match the pace his brain is moving at.

Around him, the room shifts.

The young guys come in hot and leave even faster, all restless limbs and tropical destination plans. They slap each other on the back and shout goodbyes across the room like they’re afraid to get sentimental if they stand too close.

“I’d better see all of you at the barbecue next week!” Lenny shouts, without even pausing his packing.

There are promises thrown back at him, shouts of “of course” and “wouldn’t miss it”, before the door swings shut again.

The older guys linger. A quiet conversation at the end of the row. A shoulder squeeze here, a brief hug there. A few of them stop by his stall like it’s natural.

They don’t say much.

They don’t have to.

Eventually, the room thins out until the noise fades into something manageable. The chaos becomes echoes and zipper sounds and the occasional shout from the hallway.

Lenny is stuffing a pair of knee sleeves into the side pocket of his duffel when Bood drops down onto the bench, leans into Lenny’s shoulder, and exhales through his nose.

“So,” he says quietly. “This is it, huh?”

Lenny keeps his eyes on his bag for a second longer than necessary. He pulls the zipper closed. Checks it. Checks it again. Then he nods.

“I guess so,” he replies, just as quiet.

Bood’s voice goes rougher, but he tries to play it off. “It’s not gonna be the same without you.”

Lenny huffs a small laugh. “Nah. It’ll be better.”

Bood turns his head, narrowing his eyes at him. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s true.” Lenny meets his gaze, steady.

Bood holds the look for a beat, like he’s searching for the part of Lenny that might be lying. Then he lets out a breath and softens.

“You built a lot of this,” Bood says, like he’s stating a fact.

Lenny nods once. “I know.”

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just… heavy in the way shared history always is.

Then Lenny says, casually, as if it doesn’t matter at all, “Coach asked me who I’d recommend.”

Bood’s mouth twitches. “Mm-hmm.”

“We both knew he would,” Lenny continues.

“And we both know who you said,” Bood finishes.

Lenny watches him carefully. Not because he doubts Bood, but because he’s learned to check. Captain habits die hard.

Bood’s expression is open. Easy. There’s no bitterness in it, no tightness around the mouth. Just that familiar grin like he’s been waiting for this moment, and it’s about time everyone caught up.

“He’ll do a good job,” Bood says softly. “Make you proud.”

Lenny exhales. Something in his chest loosens.

“Yeah,” he says. “He will.”

“Come here,” Bood declares, standing abruptly.

Before Lenny can respond, Bood pulls him into a hug that’s tight and solid and unselfconscious. The kind that says a thousand things without saying a single one out loud.

Lenny holds on. For a second longer than he probably should.

Bood pulls back, claps him once on the shoulder like they’re just buddies after a game.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” Lenny says.

“Thanks for a good season, Cap,” Bood replies.

Bood’s grin wobbles for half a second. He masks it immediately. Then he grabs his bags and walks out of the room without looking back, like if he does, he’ll stop.

Lenny watches him go.

Then he sits back down.

And keeps sitting.

The last of the guys trickle out. A few lingering hugs. A couple of “call me”s. The door swings shut again and again until the room is mostly empty, sound swallowed by concrete and the absence of people.

The equipment staff begins to drift in. Quiet and efficient. They gather stray socks, forgotten water bottles, and the small graveyard of used tape that’s accumulated on the floor. One of them starts taking down name plates.

They don’t spare Lenny more than a respectful glance. He’s grateful for that.

They also don’t touch his stall. He’s grateful for that even more.

Eventually, he’s the only player left.

The only sign of life is the thin sliver of light spilling through the crack of Coach Wiebe’s office door.

Lenny sits in his stall with his elbows on his knees and looks around the room that has held most of his adult life.

This is where he learned how to be a captain. Where he learned how to lose, and then lose again, and still show up the next day and make it matter. Where he learned every kind of joy this sport can give you: big wins, ugly wins, the quiet relief of a shift done right. Where he buried grief on the days there was no space for it. Where he laughed until he cried with men who became family.

He lets it sit in his chest.

The sadness. The pride. The quiet fear of what comes next.

Then, because he can’t just sit here forever, he stands.

He leaves his duffel on the floor and makes his way down the tunnel.

He needs to see the ice.

Just once more.

The arena is dimmer now, the big lights off. The rink feels bigger without the noise of a game layered over it. The boards look the same. The bench looks the same.

Everything looks the same.

And yet it’s different, because he is.

He steps out and stops.

Someone is already sitting on the bench.

Shane Hollander. In his street clothes, sitting on the bench, arm crossed as he leans over the boards like he’s watching a game unfold on the empty ice.

“Hollander.” Lenny’s voice comes out softer than he expects. “Didn’t realize you were still here.”

Hollander startles slightly, then twists on the bench to face him, cheeks pink like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “I, uh… It’s stupid, I guess. Just habit. I like being the last one out here for the season.”

Lenny’s mouth curves. He’s heard of worse end-of-season rituals. He’s heard of much weirder ones.

“Well,” Lenny says, shifting on his feet, “don’t let me mess with the ritual.”

He turns slightly, intending to give Hollander his space. He can always come back, Wiebe would let him in tomorrow if he asked.

“Cap, wait,” Hollander says. Lenny pauses. Hollander stands, then sits back down like he can’t quite decide what to do with his body. “I was actually hoping to talk to you before you left.”

Lenny nods, walks over and sits next to him on the bench.

They stare out at the rink for a moment. The ice is freshly resurfaced, smooth enough to reflect the dim lights like a pale mirror.

Hollander clears his throat again.

“So… I know you’re hosting the team barbecue,” he says. “In a couple of days.”

Lenny hums. “Yeah.”

Hollander’s fingers fidget with the cuff of his hoodie.

“I know it’s last-minute,” he says, “but I was wondering if… if I could host instead.”

Lenny turns his head, surprised.

Hollander’s house isn’t a mystery, exactly. Everyone knows where he lives, broadly. But he doesn’t think anyone from the team has ever actually been there. Shane is friendly, but private in that way only the deeply controlled are.

And if Lenny’s instincts are right about who lives there with him… well, he understands why.

Hollander apparently takes Lenny’s silence as rejection, words suddenly spilling out too fast.

“I just… it seems like a good way to, I don’t know, do something,” he tries to explain. “And I know I’ve never had anyone over before, but…”

“Hollander,” Lenny cuts in gently.

The man stops.

“Honestly?” Lenny says with a small smile. “I would love not to have to deal with it this year.”

Hollander’s shoulders drop, relief visible. He lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lenny echoes. 

It’s not entirely the truth. The post-season barbecue was a tradition of his own invention that he’ll miss deeply. But if Hollander is finally comfortable enough to want to let the team into his space, Lenny isn’t about to discourage him.

“Although,” Lenny says, smile sharpening. “Bood will fight someone if he gets kicked off grill duty.”

Hollander laughs, eyes crinkling. “He can still be grillmaster. I don’t have a death wish.”

“Good,” Lenny says, mock stern. “I’ll text the team chat, let them know of the location change.”

Hollander nods. “Thanks.”

Lenny stands, knocking a fist against the bench as he does so, the same way he does before every time he goes over the boards.

“I’ll leave you to your ice time,” he tells Hollander.

Hollander stands too, hesitates. Then he looks at Lenny with something serious in his eyes. Something careful and knowing. Because, of course, Shane Hollander knows without needing to be told.

He extends a hand.

“It was an honour playing with you, Captain.”

Lenny’s throat tightens.

He’s not a crier. He hasn’t been, not in public, not since he was a kid. But something in him wobbles anyway, a wet laugh caught behind his teeth.

He grips Hollander’s hand firmly.

“I think the honour is mine, Shane Hollander,” he says, voice rougher than he’d like. “You guys are going to go far.”

Hollander ducks his head. Embarrassed. Pleased. Determined.

Lenny turns quickly, determined to get himself alone before he lets the tears fall.

He makes it back to the locker room on sheer stubbornness and muscle memory.

The room is dim now, most of the overhead lights off. The stalls look like shadows of themselves.

He walks to his stall, and that’s when the last of his restraint crumbles.

His nameplate is still there.

Not mounted, not on the wall.

Sitting on the bench.

Someone left it there.

On purpose, for him.

His chest tightens so hard it almost hurts, and he feels a few hot tears finally track down his cheeks.

He stands there for a long moment and just lets himself feel it. The grief. The gratitude. The ending of a chapter that was never gentle, but was his.

Then he reaches down and carefully picks up the nameplate. He slips it into the side pocket of his bag.

Lenny scrubs one hand over his face, trying to erase the tears. He shoulders his duffel and grabs the hockey bag with the other hand.

On his way out, he pauses outside Coach Wiebe’s office. He raps his knuckles on the doorframe once, then pushes the door open.

Wiebe looks up from his desk, face softening.

“Lenny,” he says. “Headed out?”

His voice is gentle, like he knows how loaded that question is. Which, Lenny supposes, he does, having made the same decision himself not that long ago.

“The name plate,” Lenny says instead of answering. “Was that you?”

“Yeah,” Coach’s mouth quirks. “I figured you’ve earned it. If you want it.”

Lenny swallows. “Thank you.”

Coach Wiebe stands, walks around the desk, and claps him on the shoulder, hand heavy and solid. Coach to captain. Man to man.

“Thank you, Marko,” Coach says quietly. “You did right by this room.”

Lenny nods because if he tries to speak, his voice will betray him.

“And hey,” Wiebe adds, lighter now, “when you’re ready to talk about next year, let me know. I meant it when I said you’d be good at it.”

“I will.” Lenny huffs a laugh, shaky at the edges. “Thank you, Coach.”

He steps back into the empty locker room.

He takes one last look at the stalls, at the rows, at the space that has held him for so long.

Then he straightens his shoulders.

And he walks out.

Chapter End Notes

Made myself sad with this one

Chapter 21

Shane has vacuumed the living room twice.

The rug didn’t need to be vacuumed twice. It definitely doesn’t need to be vacuumed a third time.

He runs the machine over the same stretch anyway.

“Shane,” Ilya says from the other side of the room, voice lightly teasing. “If you continue like this, there will be no rug left.”

Shane shuts the vacuum off mid-pass.

The silence that follows is loud.

He looks around the room like he’s seeing it for the first time. The couch cushions are straight. The throw blankets are folded. The coffee table is clear except for coasters that no one is going to use.

His heart is beating like he’s about to step onto the ice for a Game Seven.

“They’re going to be here in twenty minutes,” he says.

“I am aware,” Ilya replies.

Shane turns to him. Ilya is leaning against the doorframe, sleeves of his hoodie pushed up, watching him with an expression that is somewhere between fond and exasperated.

“They’ve never been here,” Shane says. “No one’s been here.”

“That is not true,” Ilya says mildly. “I have been here. Your parents. Terry, when you worried you sprained your ankle. The man who fixed the dishwasher.”

“You know what I mean.” Shane shoots him a glare.

Ilya pushes off the wall and walks into the living room slowly, like he’s approaching a nervous animal.

Shane hates that he knows exactly what this is.

It isn’t about the rug.

It isn’t about whether there’s enough beer in the fridge, or if Bood will judge the grill placement, or if someone will manage to break something.

It’s about this house.

This space.

The first place that ever felt entirely like home.

The first place they’ve fully shared.

And today, he’s about to open it up and say something out loud that can’t be unsaid.

Ilya stops in front of him.

“Hey,” he says, softer now.

Shane exhales through his nose. “I trust them.”

“I know,” Ilya says easily.

“I do,” Shane insists.

“I know.”

Shane scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s just…” He cuts himself off.

Montreal flashes through his head uninvited. The locker room. The looks. The slow shift in tone when people thought he wasn’t looking. The meeting with management that wasn’t framed as a threat but felt like one anyway.

And that was just about him sleeping with a man. They didn’t even know which man.

Ottawa isn’t Montreal. He knows that.

Still.

Ilya reaches up and takes his wrist gently, tugging his hand down from his face.

“We do not have to tell them,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane’s head snaps up. “No.”

Ilya studies him carefully. “You are allowed to change your mind.”

“I want to tell them,” Shane says immediately.

And that’s the truth.

He doesn’t want to hide anymore. Not here. Not with this group. Not when he looks around this roster and sees guys who, in one season, have been better friends than Montreal was in eight.

He’s just… scared.

“I want to tell them,” he says again, firmer. “I’m just not looking forward to the part where my heart feels like it’s trying to exit my body.”

Ilya smiles faintly. “That part will pass.”

Shane huffs. “You sound very confident for someone who is also about to publicly out himself to twenty-five professional hockey players.”

“I am not confident,” Ilya says.

Shane’s eyes snap to Ilya’s, a bit surprised by the confession.

“I am terrified,” Ilya admits. “But… will be worth it, yes?”

Ilya steps closer, runs his hands up and down Shane’s upper arms.

“If it goes badly,” Ilya says with a smirk, “we sell the house. Move to Sweden. Raise goats.”

Despite everything, Shane laughs.

“Goats?” He raises an eyebrow at his boyfriend.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I look good in fancy knit sweaters.”

The doorbell rings.

They both freeze.

There’s a split second where Shane considers pretending they’re not home.

Ilya squeezes his hand once.

“I will put vacuum away,” he says. “You go answer the door.”

The first wave of teammates is chaos.

Bood barrels in like he owns the place, arms loaded with what has to be half a kitchen’s worth of spices.

“Meat’s in the kitchen, everything bought as per your grocery list instructions,” Shane says with a laugh.

“Good,” Bood nods, more serious than Shane has ever seen him, already heading that way. “I’m not surrendering grillmaster duties just because the address changed.”

Nick follows behind him, craning his neck to look at the space. “This is nice, Hollander. Very… adult.”

“That’s because I am an adult,” Shane replies.

Nick squints at him. “Debatable.”

“I’m older than you?” Shane utters, confused, as Nick wanders further into the house.

More guys filter in over the next little while. Dykstra with a six-pack tucked under his arm, Hazy with a container of something homemade courtesy of Lisa, Tomek bearing his infamous chocolate cookies.

The noise level rises quickly. Shoes pile near the door. Someone gets their phone hooked up to the stereo system. Someone else immediately critiques the music.

It’s loud. Familiar.

Normal.

Shane feels his shoulders drop a fraction.

Ilya moves through the room easily, greeting everyone with that warm half-smile that somehow manages to be both polite and slightly smug at the same time.

If anyone notices how at home he seems here, how easily he can instruct Bood where to find things in the kitchen, no one comments on it.

The doorbell rings again.

Harris stands on the porch, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking like he’s debating whether he should be there.

“Hey,” Harris says carefully. “Are you sure I’m okay to be here? I know this is usually a team-only thing...”

“You are part of the team,” Ilya says firmly, appearing at Shane’s shoulder. “Come inside.”

Harris hesitates only a second longer before stepping in.

He barely makes it two feet into the house before Bood spots him.

“Harris!” Bood booms. “Finally. We need someone with a brain to supervise Novak.”

Novak throws a cushion at him.

The tension leaves Harris’s shoulders almost instantly.

Shane watches it happen. Watches his team absorb someone without question.

It steadies something in his chest.

It takes almost an hour before everyone is there.

The house is almost uncomfortably warm from the extra body heat. Someone’s laughing so hard they’re wheezing. Bood has roped a few bodies to help prep food for later, and is commanding the kitchen with the authority of a Michelin-star chef.

Eventually, people naturally migrate to the living room, drinks in hand, bodies sprawled over furniture and floor. The TV is already turned to the upcoming playoff game, showing the pre-game commentary on mute.

Lenny stands, tapping his bottle lightly against his wedding ring to get people’s attention.

It doesn’t take long for the noise to taper.

“Alright,” Lenny says. “God knows you’ve heard me talk enough this year, so I’ll try not to drag this out.”

Chuckles float around the room. Lenny smirks faintly.

“I’m proud of you idiots,” he says simply.

A few guys laugh. A few look down at their drinks.

“I’m serious. I’m really proud of all of you,” his tone sobers, and everyone is looking at him now. “I know we’d all rather be playing right now than sitting in Hollander’s living room, but I don’t want you to think of this season as just another missed playoffs. No one knew what to think of us at the start of the season. And we may not have made the playoffs, but we did a hell of a lot better than anyone predicted.”

Lenny pauses, lets the words register.

“And… we built something this year. Something real. Something with so much potential. And that matters more than a wildcard slot.”

He pauses again, and his face turns a bit sad. Shane knows what’s about to come, but he still feels his chest tighten.

“I know this won’t be a surprise to any of you,” Lenny continues, glancing around the group. “But I wanted you to hear it from me.”

The air shifts.

“I’m retiring.”

No one looks shocked.

But the words still land heavily.

“So, thank you,” Lenny says. “For giving me a hell of a final season.”

Bood swears softly under his breath. Nick’s permanent grin falters. Tomek’s eyes look suspiciously misty.

Slowly, the room moves. Drinks set down, people standing. Lenny gets drowned in quiet thank-yous, and we’ll miss yous. More than one tight hug that lingers.

Lenny clears his throat.

“Now, before you go getting too sentimental,” he adds. “You might not be rid of me that easily. Nothing official, but I’ve talked to management. And, well… I’m thinking about it.”

That gets a louder reaction.

“Of course they did,” Bood says. “They’d be stupid not to.”

“Alright. That’s enough.” Lenny rolls his eyes. He gestures toward the TV. “Now let’s watch some hockey.”

The tension breaks like a snapped stick.

The team migrates back to their seats, arguing immediately about which teams will make it through to the next round. Someone turns the volume up. Someone else throws popcorn at Novak for his bad take.

At first puck drop, the house fills with the familiar sound of playoff hockey: skates cutting ice, sticks cracking, the low roar of a distant crowd.

Shane sinks back into the couch as Ilya squeezes in beside him, their sides pressed together in the cramped space. There’s barely room, but no one comments when Ilya’s knee stays hooked over Shane’s.

No one even looks twice.

Ilya glances at him.

A silent, “You okay?”

Shane nods.

And he means it.

Across the room, Bood is arguing with Lenny about New York’s defensive strategy. Harris is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fully absorbed. Nick is heckling the refs like they can hear him through the screen.

It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s theirs.

This team.

This house.

This life.

Shane lets his shoulder press more firmly into Ilya’s.

His heart is still beating a bit too fast. His mind is still working overtime in the background.

But it doesn’t feel like fear anymore. At least, not completely.

It feels a bit like anticipation.

The game ends in overtime. A win for New York.

Half the room groans, the other half cheers.

Then, all eager to take advantage of the unseasonably warm early April day, they spill outward.

The patio door slides open and stays that way as two dozen large men migrate into the yard with snacks, drinks, and loud opinions. The late afternoon sun hangs low enough to soften everything, catching on beer bottles and the metal edge of the grill.

Bood takes command immediately.

“No one touch anything,” he announces, wielding tongs like a weapon. “If you burn the meat, I burn you.”

The younger guys laugh and immediately crowd too close anyway.

“Back up,” Shane mutters, already moving toward them. “Fire safety is not optional.”

Ilya watches him herd three grown men away from open flame with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Shane’s mouth is moving in what is definitely a lecture. His face, however, is split wide with a grin.

Tomek bumps Ilya’s shoulder lightly.

“Come,” he says. “I’ll help with the rest of the food.”

They carry the food out together: bowls of salad, trays of roasted veggies, more junk food than any of them can justify eating as professional athletes. Ilya and Tomek set them down on the long patio table, watching as hands immediately reach in to steal pieces before Bood declares the main course ready.

The yard fills easily.

The defensemen have found a soccer ball somewhere and are kicking it around in the grass with the seriousness of men who take competition personally, even in sandals. A cluster of vets sinks into the patio chairs, laughter loud and unrestrained. Harris is perched on the edge of the steps, arguing with Nick about playoff brackets like his reputation depends on it.

And Shane…

Shane is everywhere. 

Redirecting the young ones out of trouble. Clapping someone on the back. Tossing a bottle opener across the yard with alarming accuracy. Smiling in a way that is looser than Ilya remembers seeing in a long time.

It hits Ilya then, quiet and overwhelming.

They are all here.

His team.

His love.

In the same space.

No dividing lines. No carefully constructed compartments. No switching versions of himself depending on who is in the room.

He stands there, in the patio doorway for a moment longer than necessary, just… looking.

He had wanted this in a way that had almost felt shameful. To have both halves of his life exist in the same air. To not feel like he was living his life in pieces.

He never thought he would actually get it.

“Roz!” Bood shouts. “Stop staring into the distance and get a plate. Food’s just about ready.”

Ilya laughs and steps fully into the yard.

When Bood finally declares the meat done, the transformation is immediate.

Two dozen professional athletes fall eerily silent the second food is involved. Plates fill with alarming speed. Chairs scrape. People find spots directly on the stone patio and in the grass, not caring to wait for a real chair.

It’s absurd.

It’s perfect.

Ilya settles onto the edge of the patio table with his plate balanced on his knee. He watches the quiet that falls over the group, broken only by chewing and the occasional appreciative noise directed at Bood.

He catches Shane’s eye across the patio.

Shane is mid-conversation with Millsy and Martel, nodding along to something, fork halfway to his mouth.

When he catches Ilya’s gaze, Ilya just looks at him. Raises one brow.

“We’re really doing this?” he asks silently.

Shane stills.

For half a second, everything else fades.

Then Shane nods. Small, but certain.

Ilya’s pulse spikes.

He pushes off the table and claps his hands once, sharp and commanding.

“Alright, you fuckers, listen up.”

The chatter doesn’t die immediately, but it lowers. Enough heads turn that the rest follow.

Two dozen men look at him from various positions — cross-legged on the grass, slouched in chairs, leaning against the fence.

Ilya spreads his hands slightly.

“Now,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward Lenny, “I know Captain has already made his announcement. And I am not trying to, uh…” he waves his hand, searching for the word, “…hijack.”

A few of them chuckle.

Lenny, seated comfortably with a drink in his hand, is watching him with a look that is obviously knowing. There is pride in it. And something else.

Ilya suspected that he knew. The confirmation is oddly comforting.

“But,” Ilya continues, grin sharpening. “I have my own.”

That earns him some more focused attention.

Shane is already walking toward him. His expression is composed, but Ilya can see the tension in the line of his shoulders. The deliberate steadiness.

“Well,” Ilya amends, reaching out and catching Shane’s hand as he comes within range, “Shane and I have announcement.”

There’s a ripple through the group.

“Is this about the charity thing?” someone calls.

“Shut up,” Nick hisses at whoever said it.

Lenny laughs softly. “Alright, alright. Let the man speak.”

The yard quiets.

Ilya feels it then, the old instinct. The urge to turn this into a spectacle. To posture. To make it a performance so no one sees the part of him that is bare and terrified.

For a brief second, he considers doing the opposite. Stripping it down. Saying it quietly. Vulnerably.

But that would not be him either.

He would not be Ilya Rozanov without at least a little bit of spectacle.

He’s just done letting the spectacle override the honesty.

He refuses to separate the pieces of himself anymore.

So he squares his shoulders.

“You have all been very nosy this season,” he says loftily. “Always asking, ‘Roz, who is boyfriend?’ ‘Roz, when do we meet him?’ ‘Roz, does he exist or is he imaginary?’”

A few of them snort.

Shane smacks his arm lightly. “Ilya. Just tell them.”

Ilya shoots him a wounded look. “I am building suspense.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Shane mutters.

“Obviously,” Ilya retorts.

Laughter flickers through the group. It steadies something in Ilya’s spine.

He slides his arm around Shane’s shoulders, tucking him into his side easily. Familiar. Natural. Like they have stood like this a thousand times before.

Because they have.

He feels the air in the yard shift again.

“Shane Hollander is my boyfriend,” he announces clearly. “We are very madly in love.”

Wyatt hears it like a slap and a punch at the same time.

“Shane Hollander is my boyfriend,” Roz says, tone almost defiant. “We are very madly in love.”

For two heartbeats, the backyard goes dead quiet. Even the guys with food halfway to their mouths freeze.

Wyatt’s brain does that stupid, delayed buffering thing, like it wants to be surprised, even though the information has been sitting in the back of his head for months, patiently waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Then the yard detonates.

“What…”

“No way!”

“Holy shit.”

“Are you kidding me?!”

“Wait, Hollander?”

Nick’s voice rises above the rest, shrill with revelation. “Oh my god. Are we… stupid?”

Wyatt turns his head and catches Lenny’s eye over Tomek’s shoulder. Lenny’s mouth twitches, trying and failing to hold back a grin.

Tomek, taking a sip of his beer, just shakes his head slowly like he’s watching a car crash happen in slow motion.

Wyatt snorts and lifts his bottle in a silent toast.

Yeah.

They’re stupid.

Because once the first wave of shock passes, the second wave follows: the collective horror at their own obliviousness.

“It’s so obvious!”

“Oh my god. Roz moved to Ottawa because of Hollander!”

“Are we blind?”

“Wait… that’s why they were always together!”

“Why did we just accept the ‘rivalry turned friendship’ narrative like idiots?!”

“Was there ever a rivalry?

Bood, somewhere near the grill, makes a sound like he’s personally offended by his own brain. “I built an entire character arc around you two becoming besties!”

Dykstra chokes on a laugh. “You still can! It’s just… with benefits!”

“Gaahhh! No!” Millsy exclaims in horror, looking like a teen who just caught their parents in the act.

Through it all, Roz doesn’t move. He just keeps his arm wrapped around Shane like it’s the only reasonable place for it to be, like it’s always been there.

Shane’s face has gone a vivid, painful red. The tips of his ears match the colour of the ketchup bottle on the patio table.

But he leans into Roz anyway, like it’s instinct.

Roz laughs into the side of Shane’s head, shoulders shaking, like he’s getting exactly what he wanted: chaos, disbelief, and the purest kind of affectionate yelling.

Wyatt watches them and feels something soften in his chest.

He really doesn’t know how the rest of them didn’t see it.

Wyatt hadn’t been certain there was something romantic between the two. Mostly because he chose not to know. Chose to accept the story being presented.

But he’d known there was something.

Because Shane relaxed in Roz’s presence the way Wyatt relaxes when Lisa’s hand finds the small of his back at a crowded event.

Because Roz looked for Shane the way Bood looks for Cassie, like the world is slightly less bright when she’s not in it.

Because it wasn’t just “friendship.” Not the way they carried each other. Not the way they took up space around each other.

It wasn’t subtle. It was just… quiet. Plausibly deniable.

And hockey players are many things, but “observant” is not always one of them when you hand them a narrative that requires no further thought.

Shane clears his throat, having to raise his voice a little to be heard. “Look, we get it if anyone’s upset we didn’t…”

He doesn’t even get to finish. The reaction is immediate and violent.

“No!”

“Jesus, no!”

“Why would we be upset?”

“Buddy, we’re only upset you didn’t tell us sooner so we could’ve started chirping you properly,” Morrow calls over the other protests. It earns him a ripple of laughter.

“I would’ve had so much material.” Nick gestures dramatically, almost dropping his plate.

Roz lifts his brows like he’s impressed. “You already have too much material.”

“Not like this,” Nick insists. “Not like this.”

The uproar surges again; everyone suddenly sifting through their memories for moments that could have been prime chirping content.

Roz’s gaze cuts through the crowd and lands on Wyatt, Lenny, and Tomek; three men standing off to the side, not shouting, just watching with beers in hand like they’re at a show they paid for.

Roz narrows his eyes. Slowly. Suspiciously.

“Why are you three not appropriately shocked?” he demands, voice accusing in a way that’s obviously meant to be joking but still carries the faint edge of threat that earned him his on-ice reputation. “Captain, I knew you knew. But you?” He points at Wyatt. Then Tomek. “Hmm?”

Wyatt lifts his bottle again. “We’re not shocked.”

Shane’s head whips toward them, mortified. “Wyatt…”

“What?” Wyatt says honestly, and probably a little too pleased to finally admit it. “I had suspicions since, like… week three.”

Harris, who’s been hovering near the patio steps looking like he can’t decide whether to laugh or apologize, raises a hand slightly. “Same,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t know for sure, but…”

Shane makes a strangled noise and drops his face into his hands.

Roz looks personally betrayed. “How. Did you know.”

Tomek shrugs, helpless. “Little things.”

“That is not answer,” Roz says sharply.

“It is, though,” Tomek insists, still shrugging. “Little things that add up.”

“You always looked for him,” Wyatt says to Roz. “Every time you walk into a room, your eyes would find Shane.”

Roz opens his mouth, then shuts it like he’s trying to argue with a fact and losing.

“And Shane…” Wyatt continues, glancing at him. “You were tense whenever the team was in your space. But the second Roz showed up, it was like… you could breathe.”

Shane’s fingers splay over his face. “Oh my god.”

“And,” Wyatt adds, because now he’s committed and there’s no going back, “you speak Russian. Even for you, that’s weird as hell to do for no reason.”

Tomek’s eyes go wide, and he chokes as he practically inhales his beer with a gasp.

Roz’s head snaps to him. “What.”

“I, uh…” Tomek clears his throat. “Understand a little bit. Russian. Not fluent, not even as much as Hollander, but, uh…”

Now it was Roz whose eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, no.”

“Oh, my god,” Bood’s voice booms, scandalized. “They were using Russian to flirt?!”

“No.” Tomek’s denial is immediate and profoundly unconvincing.

Wyatt watches Shane’s shoulders shake; either with laughter or despair, it’s genuinely hard to tell.

Roz throws his head back and laughs like this is the best thing he’s ever experienced.

It’s contagious. The yard breaks again into the kind of laughter that makes people lean over and wipe at their eyes.

Eventually, as the noise settles into a buzz, Roz lifts both hands like he’s calling a penalty.

“Okay,” he says, voice cutting through the chatter. “Listen. This cannot get out. Not yet.”

The yard quiets, people picking up on the shift in tone.

Roz’s expression goes a shade colder, all sharp edges and serious intent. “Not to media. Not to your friends. Not to your group chats with wives who cannot keep secrets.”

A few guys cough guiltily. Bood raises his hand like he’s in class. “What if Cassie already knows everything about everyone always?”

Roz points at him without looking. “Especially Cassie.”

“Look, guys,” Shane cuts in for the first time in a while. “It’s not about not trusting you. You know what this league is like…”

There’s a round of angry and frustrated noises.

“And as long as Ilya’s visa depends on hockey,” Shane adds, letting the unfinished thought land. “We can’t risk this being public. Not yet.”

Lenny, who has been watching all of this with the softest smile Wyatt’s seen on him in months, steps forward like he’s putting the C on one last time.

“You heard him,” Lenny says, calm and firm. “This stays here. Until they’re ready.”

There’s a chorus of agreement.

The sincerity in it hits Wyatt hard. The ease. The instinctive loyalty.

Then, like a switch, the team shifts into its true final form: Nosy Friends.

“So, like, how?” Nick asks, tone utterly baffled. “I mean, we all know you’re friends. Now. But you were rivals for years.”

“The rivalry was pretty much entirely the media,” Shane shrugs. “On the ice, sure. But off it? No. I mean, what reason did we have to actually dislike each other?”

“Fair enough,” Nick admits.

“Was impossible to hate Shane,” Roz says, looking so stupidly in love. “I see cute freckles and fall in love immediately.”

“Okay, but when?” Dykstra asks. “Like… a season ago? Two?”

Roz makes a face. “No.”

Shane winces slightly.

“How long?” Martel presses.

Roz glances at Shane, then back at the group. “Nine years.”

The yard goes still again.

“Nine,” Martel repeats.

“Years?” Lenny echoes quietly. Wyatt snickers to himself that even their captain is getting sucked into the gossip.

“Official since 2017. But, we’ve been… us since 2010,” Shane mutters like he’s confessing to a crime.

“Two thousand and ten?!” Bood screeches. “You mean to tell me you idiots have been together through a joint move to Ottawa, three cups, and my entire marriage?”

“That’s more than my entire marriage,” Tomek mutters.

“That’s… that’s your whole careers!” Morrow looks shell-shocked.

Roz just smirks. “Yes.”

The explosion that follows is less shock now and more outrage at the sheer scope of the situation.

Shane makes a noise of absolute suffering.

Wyatt laughs so hard he has to bend forward, hand on his knee, beer sloshing dangerously.

Across the patio, Dykstra leans into Bood, stage whispering. “This explains so much.”

"So much." Bood nods with the gravity of a man solving a conspiracy. “Like… so much.”

Shane’s face goes even redder, which Wyatt didn’t think was physically possible.

Roz, for his part, looks delighted. Radiant, even. Like the world finally did something right.

Wyatt’s laughter fades into something quieter as he looks around the backyard.

At the guys he’s sweated and bled with all season. At Harris, folded into the group without question. At Shane, overwhelmed but still standing there, still choosing this. At Roz, cocky and soft at the same time, like he’s finally letting himself be both.

And Wyatt thinks about this time last year, how he’d joined this organization half-braced for disappointment, half-ready to keep his head down, do his job, and go home.

He thinks about how, without noticing it, Ottawa had shifted from a place he ended up to a place he wanted to stay.

Wyatt takes a slow drink of his beer and lets the noise wash over him.

Yeah.

He’s glad he’s here.

Chapter 22: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

The lake is a mirror, reflecting the morning sun and scattering it around the sky.

Ilya sits on the edge of the dock with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his toes in the water, feet stirring slow circles through the cold. The boards under him are warm already, sun-soaked and rough against his thighs.

The mug in his hands is too hot. He keeps it anyway.

He can’t hear Shane in the kitchen, but he still knows the sounds by heart. The clink of a spoon against ceramic, the low hum of the fridge, the little exhale Shane does when he’s concentrating. It’s funny. Shane will shoot a puck through a moving gap at full speed without blinking, but coffee requires focus and a small prayer.

Somewhere behind him, a patio door opens and closes again.

Ilya tips his head back, eyes closed, sun already hot on his face despite the early hour.

This is what he wanted.

Not the cottage, not even the lake. The quiet. The sameness. The fact that there is a morning, and then another one, and none of it feels fragile. The thought makes something warm curl under his ribs.

Footsteps on the dock.

Shane stops just behind him. A shadow falls over Ilya’s shoulders. Then a second mug appears in his peripheral vision, held out.

“Careful,” Shane says, voice still sleep-rough. “It’s hot.”

Ilya takes it, their fingers brushing lightly.

Shane lowers himself onto the dock beside him with a soft grunt, blanket already thrown around his own shoulders. He leans in until their arms touch. The contact is so normal now that it almost doesn’t register until Ilya feels the body heat seep through the layers of fabric.

Ilya hands the mug back. Shane takes a sip, makes a face.

“Too strong?” Ilya asks, amused.

“No,” Shane says stubbornly.

Ilya hums, unconvinced. He blows on his own coffee and takes a careful sip. It’s definitely too strong.

They sit in silence for a while, watching light sparkle off the water. A loon calls from somewhere out of sight, and Ilya almost doesn’t flinch. Shane’s knee bumps Ilya’s once, absentmindedly, like it’s checking that he’s still there.

“Coach called yesterday,” he says, because it’s the first thing his brain lands on when it stops enjoying the peace.

Shane’s eyes flick toward him. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” Ilya hums. “Wanted to tell me himself, even though he knows management already did. He is excited about the decision.”

Shane’s mouth twitches. “That sounds like him.”

Ilya stares out at the water. He tries to keep his tone casual and fails slightly. “And you are okay with this?”

Shane goes still for half a beat. Not in a bad way. Ilya watches Shane’s profile instead of the lake. Watches the way his jaw shifts, the way his throat moves as he swallows. Like he’s taking the question seriously.

“We knew it was coming,” Shane says finally.

“Yes,” Ilya admits.

Shane doesn’t look upset. If anything, he looks… relieved, in a way that makes Ilya’s chest do something strange.

He also didn’t really answer the question.

“But, you are okay with me being captain next season?” Ilya asks, because he has learned he’s allowed to ask.

Shane blinks, then looks at him properly. “Yes.”

“That was fast,” Ilya narrows his eyes.

“What do you want me to do?” Shane snorts softly. “Dramatically throw myself in the lake over it?”

“Would be fun to watch,” Ilya teases.

Shane huffs a laugh, then runs his thumb along the edge of his mug contemplatively.

“I’m okay with it,” he repeats, quieter. “Honestly… I don’t think I want it.”

Ilya’s brows lift. He hadn’t expected that, not from Shane. Not from the man who had worn the C like it was etched into his soul, who strives for absolute perfection in every single thing he does.

“You don’t?” Ilya asks, not disbelieving, but… recalibrating.

Shane shakes his head once.

“I didn’t hate being captain,” he says. “I took it seriously. There were parts I really liked. And I think I did a good job.”

“You did,” Ilya agrees immediately. There’s no argument to be had there. Ilya didn’t need to be on the team to know Shane captained it well.

Shane makes a small noise, like the praise is both welcome and embarrassing.

“But it was… a lot,” Shane continues, shrugging one shoulder under his blanket. “It’s not the hockey part of it. I liked the on-ice part of it. And I can deal with the media. It’s the… constantly being on. The connecting, the checking in. Making sure everyone’s okay. Reading the room, even when I’m tired. Even when I don’t want to talk.”

He glances down at his coffee.

“I already find that hard,” he admits. “And as captain, it was my job. It was just… I don’t know, extra pressure. It made my brain loud.”

“Louder than it already is,” he adds with a sort of self-deprecating smirk.

Ilya watches him for a moment, then nods.

“Okay,” he says.

Shane looks up, like he’s surprised by the lack of pushback.

“What?” Ilya asks.

“I just… thought you’d argue,” Shane says, a little baffled.

Ilya snorts. “Why would I argue with your feelings? That is your job, yes? To argue with your feelings.”

Shane’s laugh is quick and real, the sound bouncing off the water.

“You’re a jerk.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees pleasantly. “But I am your jerk.”

Shane rolls his eyes so hard it’s practically affectionate.

Ilya leans closer until their shoulders fully press. Shane doesn’t move away. His body shifts, making room on instinct.

“It makes sense. That you find it tiring,” Ilya says, quieter now. “So I… am glad you’re okay giving it up.”

Shane’s gaze softens. “Me too.”

They fall back into silence. The lake keeps being beautiful without asking anyone’s permission.

Ilya takes another sip of coffee, then makes a face.

“Still awful,” he informs Shane.

“Don’t drink it, then.”

“I am not wasteful,” Ilya says, offended. “Your coffee may be terrible, but it does not deserve death.”

Shane bumps his shoulder gently.

“So,” he says cautiously, like he’s pulling a thread and seeing what unravels. “Next season.”

Ilya exhales deeply. There’s a lot to unravel with that thread.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Next season.”

“Okay,” Shane says, already counting on his fingers. “We lost two vets, we lost Martel…”

Ilya cuts him off with a sound that isn’t quite a word; just undistilled frustration.

“Martel for Troy fucking Barrett…” Ilya sighs.

“Barrett is undeniably a better player…” Shane says cautiously.

“Yes,” Ilya says carefully. Shane is right; Barrett is a better player than Martel.“…But he is an asshole.”

“Anyone who is friends with Dallas Kent...” Shane trails off, his eyes narrow at the water, like he can glare the trade into being undone.

They both go quiet. The sunlight keeps moving. The world keeps being gentle, which somehow makes the ugliness feel sharper by contrast.

“He’s in for a rude awakening,” Shane says eventually. “If he thinks that stuff flies in Ottawa.”

“It will not,” Ilya agrees. His voice is calm, but there’s steel under it. “Not with us.”

Shane glances at him. “That’s the other thing.”

Ilya waits.

Shane clears his throat. “Can we trust him with… us?”

The way he says it is casual. The way his hand curls tighter around his mug is not.

Ilya stares at the lake and thinks, briefly, about how a year ago this question would have made them both sick with fear. How now it makes them angry.

“Not yet,” Ilya says simply.

Shane’s shoulders loosen. Ilya can tell he appreciates the honesty.

“But,” Ilya says slowly, thinking as he speaks, “maybe we do not decide he is a problem before he arrives.”

“Why?” Shane frowns.

“Barrett is good.” Ilya exhales. “Very good. Toronto does not give away players like that for nothing.”

“Unless they’re cleaning house,” Shane counters, words clipped.

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees. “But Toronto doesn’t usually care about its cleanliness, either.”

Shane studies him. “You think there’s more to it.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

“I think,” Ilya says carefully, “that something doesn’t make sense. And until I know what it is, I would rather see for myself.”

“You’re going to give him a chance,” Shane says.

“I am captain,” Ilya replies simply. “That is my job.”

Shane watches him for a long moment, then nods once.

Ilya knows neither of them is particularly thrilled about the idea, but he has to trust his gut. Plus, Ilya knows how much he would have loved to have been given the benefit of the doubt about his own reputation.

So he’ll give it to Barrett until he has a concrete reason not to.

Ilya leans harder against Shane’s side. A quiet thank you for the man’s trust in his judgment.

“At least it was a three-way trade, and Martel didn’t end up in Toronto,” Shane states, and there’s genuine relief under the joke.

“At least he did not end up in Toronto,” Ilya agrees.

“And,” Ilya continues, a smile crossing his face, “we have promising rookies.”

“Uh oh,” Shane groans, but his eyes are teasing.

“What?” Ilya frowns.

“You’re going to do that thing,” Shane replies, smirking now.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you adopt them,” Shane says. “You’re turning into a rookie mentor. Old and boring. Sensible.”

Ilya scoffs. “I am not.”

Shane lifts a brow.

“Okay. I am a little,” Ilya concedes with a huff.

“A little?” Shane teases. “You had the kids last season practically following you around like ducklings. And you weren’t even captain then.”

“You are not much better,” Ilya says, pointing at him with the authority of a man who knows they’re correct.

Shane laughs. “I barely even talked to them!”

“You do quiet mentoring,” Ilya says firmly. “You look at them with your Responsible Face, and suddenly they drink water and call their mothers.”

Shane makes a sound of protest that is, frankly, guilty.

Ilya’s mouth quirks.

“I wish Haas was coming this year,” Shane laments, because when it comes to hockey, Ilya knows he will never truly be satisfied.

“He is still baby,” Ilya says, even though he agrees. Luca Haas is by far the most exciting prospect in the pipeline, and Ilya can’t wait to play with him.

“He’s the same age we were,” Shane reminds him.

“Exactly. Baby,” Ilya insists, remembering vividly how terrifying it had felt to move to North America, alone, at the age of nineteen.

So even though he’ll dream of the day he can share ice with Luca Haas, part of him is glad the kid is waiting an extra year.

Oh.

Oh no…

Shane was right. 

He is becoming the old, sensible rookie mentor. The kind who worries about things like whether his players are eating their vegetables and partying responsibly.

Shane’s phone buzzes on the dock between them, cutting into their bubble. Shane glances at it, then sighs.

“My mom,” he says.

“And what master plan is Yuna Hollander working on today?” Ilya jokes, soft smile on his face.

Shane reads for a second, then squints. “She’s asking if we’re still good for dinner tonight.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I told her yesterday we will be over around six.”

“She says to come over earlier. She wants to go over last-minute stuff for camp,” Shane adds, already sounding tired.

Ilya perks up.

“Camp starts in two weeks.” He knows he sounds more like a little kid counting down the days to going to summer camp, instead of the adult running one, but he can’t help it.

He still can’t quite believe they’ve actually pulled it off. That in a couple of weeks, he’ll be on the ice with two dozen kids and half a dozen professional hockey players, teaching those kids how to be better players, on and off the ice.

“I know,” Shane’s reply is quiet. But Ilya can hear the pride in his voice as well.

“And we have other players,” Ilya says, still faintly amazed. “A lot of other players.”

That was the part Ilya had secretly been worried about: that they wouldn’t be able to convince other players to give up some of their already limited time off to run a summer camp. Because that’s what the entire thing hinged on; without the players as coaches, they couldn’t justify the money they were charging. And without that money, they couldn’t actually help anyone in any meaningful way.

But he’d been surprised at how easily everyone they asked agreed to be a part.

“I told you not to worry,” Shane says, not looking up as he types out a reply, thumbs moving quickly over his phone.

Then he pauses. “Cliff texted you yesterday. Did you answer him?”

Ilya freezes.

Shane looks up slowly. “You didn’t.”

“I was busy,” Ilya says, immediately defensive.

“With what?” Shane questions.

“With… captain things,” Ilya says, which is a ridiculous answer, and they both know it.

Shane’s eyes go bright with amusement. “You’re gonna be so annoying about being captain.”

“I will be responsible,” Ilya insists.

“Mm-hmm.”

Ilya lifts his mug and takes a sip out of spite.

Shane’s phone buzzes again. Shane looks at it and groans.

“What now?” Ilya asks.

“My mom sent a grocery list.”

Ilya leans over to see, blanket sliding off his shoulder. He reads it, then makes a face.

“This is too much food,” he says.

“It’s my mom.”

“We are four people,” Ilya points out. “Including you, who eats like bird.”

“I do not eat like a bird,” Shane says, offended out of principle.

“You eat like a polite bird,” Ilya amends. “Still a bird.”

Shane’s laugh is quiet, warm.

He pockets his phone and sets his mug down, then reaches over and tugs Ilya’s blanket back up over his shoulder with a small, absent motion, before leaning his head on Ilya’s shoulder. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to take care of him.

It still startles Ilya, sometimes. Not the touch, but how easily it comes. How familiar it feels.

“We should probably go check the grocery situation,” Shane says after a while.

Ilya looks out at the water again. The sun is higher now. The day is fully awake.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

He feels Shane’s cheek lift into a smile, where it’s pressed against his shoulder.

“Okay,” Shane replies just as softly.

They sit a while longer in the quiet.

The kind of quietness that feels like bare feet in cool water. Like blankets pulled close, almost too warm in the rapidly heating morning. That tastes like too strong coffee. And sounds like bird calls, and leaves rustling in the breeze.

The kind that feels like home.

Chapter End Notes

Well, welcome to the end 💖 A few thoughts, now that we've concluded this journey:

I have been terrible at replying to comments, but please know that they all mean so, so much to me. I've loved seeing everyone's kind and enthusiastic reactions to my writing. It makes my heart happy to see my silly little ramblings have touched so many people. This fandom has been a joy to write for 🥰 

Will there be more? Maybe... I'm not ruling it out, but there is currently nothing more written (or even really outlined).

If I did write a third installment, it would follow a similar format to the first two and cover a single season (so, the 2019/20 season). I have ideas for what I would want to write next, but I don't know yet if there is enough there for another full season. I will also want to do a re-read of Role Model before I write any more. It's been a while since I've read it, and Troy will be a huge piece of any future installment.

So, if there is more, I have zero thoughts on the potential timeline for it being published. But I'd encourage you to subscribe to the series just in case it happens.

I hope this is a satisfying end for everyone 💕