Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander/Yuna Hollander

Characters:

Hayden Pike, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Car Accidents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mentioned Yuna Hollander, Parental Death, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Soft Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, The Irina Foundation (Game Changers), Momager Yuna Hollander, Good Parent David Hollander, David Hollander & Ilya Rozanov Bonding, Mentioned Irina Rozanova, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Hospitals, Implausible Airplane Schedules, Unreliable Narrator, ish, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except Shane doesn't know how to accept it, Self-Worth Issues

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-06 Completed: 2026-04-16 Words: 9,163 Chapters: 5/5

the silence that remains

Summary

The guys had always chirped Hollander for being a bit of a mama's boy. Well. They aren't chirping anymore.

(I was thinking about how Shane would handle future business ventures if Yuna wasn't there/how the Irina foundation would work if Yuna wasn't there & how Ilya would try to help Shane through a pain he knows uniquely)

Chapter 1: I replay your voice in fragments

Probably the worst part is that Shane could never have seen it coming. 

In the privacy of his own mind, he can admit that, like every child, he had thought about what he would do when this day came.

When he would get this call.

When his life would be changed forever.

Perhaps horribly, perhaps naively, Shane had always assumed his father would die first.

His mother had always been so strong, so confident, so essential to Shane’s life.

Drunk drivers don’t care about that sort of thing.

 

Shane is lying in his bed after winning the game, the sticky Florida air wreaking havoc on his senses. After this, the Metros have a blissful three days off, followed by a game in Ottawa. Shane will get to spend almost four full days with Ilya. He can’t wait. It’s early in the season, but Ilya seems to be settling in with the Centaurs nicely. While the internet still hasn’t quite gotten over Boston’s star center moving to the worst team in the league, Ilya seems happy, and the guys are, apparently, nice. 

Ilya seems to think they’re the type of people who would be supportive of them, if they ever came out. Shane has been out to his team as gay for a few months now, and it hasn’t gone well. He can’t imagine things would get any better if the team found out he’s in love with Ilya Rozanov. But it’s good that Ilya feels safe there. 

And it’s really nice to have everything Shane loves in one neat little circle. His boyfriend, his parents, his hometown. All of it is only a two hour drive away. 

 

The phone rings. Shane frowns. The caller ID reads l’Hôpital Monfort Hospital, and Shane feels his stomach sink. There is no good reason for an Ottawa hospital to be calling him at 11pm.

“Hello? Shane Hollander speaking,” he says. The huff of air on the other end of the line tells him that whoever is calling, they know his name.

“Mr. Hollander, hello. My name is Amelie Lalonde and I’m calling you because you are listed as an emergency contact for one Yuna Hollander?”

Fuck. Shane sits up properly, grateful to have a room to himself tonight.

“Yeah,” he replies, “that’s my mom. Is she alright?”

“Unfortunately, she was involved in a car accident this evening. We tried to call her husband, David Hollander, but there was no response.”

“Is she okay?” Shane doesn’t miss how Amelie didn’t answer his question the first time. His dad is probably asleep, at this hour. What had his mom even been doing out this late?

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Hollander. Your mother passed away en route to the hospital.”

There’s a buzzing in Shane’s ears. This can’t be right. This can’t be right. His mom is fine. They talked on the phone this morning. They have dinner plans for tomorrow. She isn’t-

She can’t be-

“I won’t be able to get there until tomorrow,” Shane says, voice numb. This isn’t real. 

“That’s perfectly understandable. Is there anyone else we should call? We can also keep trying David, of course.”

“Oh,” Shane breathes uselessly, “no, um, I’ll figure something out. I’ll call- yeah. Yeah. Just. Fuck. I’m sorry. This is…” Shane doesn’t even know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. “You’re sure it’s her?” he asks desperately.

“Paramedics were able to make a positive ID with her driver's license."

“Okay. And-” Shane sighs, “no. No, I’ll be there in the morning. As soon as I can. And I’ll call dad. It’s better that he hears from me.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr Hollander.”

“Yeah. Um. Bye.” Shane hangs up.

He stares at his phone screen until it turns dark, taking with it all the light in the room.

Shane calls his father seven times, to no avail. His dad is going to be so upset. So heartbroken. So unmoored. Shane can’t even imagine if something happened to Ilya and he was asleep for it-

Ilya. Ilya is in Ottawa. 

Granted, even if they have been pushing the friendship narrative with their camps, it would still be odd for Ilya to go to the hospital for Yuna Hollander. 

Fuck it. Shane doesn’t care right now. He just doesn’t want his mother to be alone. From a continent away, this is all he can do.

He calls his boyfriend.

“Shane?” Ilya picks up immediately, despite the late hour, because he’s amazing like that.

“Ilya,” as soon as Shane opens his mouth to speak, he finds the task impossible, barely managing to choke out the name.

Ilya notices immediately that something is wrong, sending a facetime request. Shane accepts, desperate to see the man he loves.

“What happened? Is everything okay? Are you hurt?” Ilya’s concern is immediately apparent in his face and voice. Shane just shakes his head, tears falling from his eyes unbidden. “Talk to me, my love.”

“My mom-” Shane whispers, desperately trying to regulate his breathing. The mechanical calm that had gotten him through the initial phone call is gone, replaced by something much uglier and harder to manage. On the screen, Ilya’s eyebrows narrow in concern. “There was an accident. I don’t know. The hospital just called.”

“Fuck,” Ilya curses, “is she okay?”

“No,” Shane’s voice breaks and the sob he’s been holding back breaks out.

He can’t breathe. The radiator in the corner is too loud. The sheets smell wrong. Tears flood Shane’s vision and he can’t breathe and his mom is dead. 

Distantly, Shane thinks that Ilya is still talking to him, but it’s hard to tell. Shane just tries to calm himself, trying to do one of the many meditation exercises he’s learned over the years.

Eventually, it seems to work. Ilya’s voice fades back in. “Yes, good, keep breathing, just like that. Good job. You’re doing so good sweetheart.” Eventually, Ilya must notice that Shane is a little more present. “I texted Pike,” Ilya says, “he will knock on the door any second.”

“I don’t want-” Shane protests weakly.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Ilya counters. It’s a solid point. They don’t say anything then, simply breathing together. Shane knows that his boyfriend is probably aching to ask more questions, and he appreciates that Ilya is waiting until Hayden gets here before he starts. While Shane would prefer not to have his best friend see him like this, he can admit that being alone probably isn’t the best idea.

A know on the door, insistent.

“Shane? I just got a concerning text from- you know- and I’m going to need you to let me in.”

Shane opens the door, shaky on his feet. Hayden steps in, a frown on his face.

“Hey dude, listen I’m sorry to barge in like this but Rozanov was blowing up my phone telling me to come check on you and-” Hayden seems to realize Shane’s emotional state. “Is everything okay?” 

Shane just shakes his head. He returns to the bed where he had left his phone, and to his dismay, Ilya has moved out of view of his camera.

“Ilya? Where did you go?” It feels kind of pathetic but Shane really just needs to see him right now. The camera moves, and Ilya’s face fills it once more. He’s put on a hoodie and pants, and is walking down the hallway of his Ottawa house.

“I’m right here,” he assures Shane, “I’m not leaving.”

Shane sits against the headboard and pulls his knees up to his chest. Hayden is standing awkwardly in the center of the room, clearly no idea what to do or what is going on. Shane feels similar. 

“She’s dead,” he finally manages. Ilya freezes on the screen, heartbreak clear on his face. 

“Baby,” he breathes, anguished. Shane bites his lip.

Hayden is pale, walking towards the bed and placing a hand on Shane’s shoulder in comfort. “Who is?” he asks.

Shane swallows thickly. “My mom.”

The hand on his shoulder tightens.

Silence.

“Is David…” Ilay starts, trailing off. Shane closes his eyes.

“He doesn’t know. The hospital tried to call him but he didn’t pick up. Probably sleeping.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, “here is the plan. I will go and get David. We will go to the hospital. Pike will help you find an earlier flight. I will meet you at the airport when you land. Yes?”

To Shane’s side, Hayden nods, but Shane frowns. “Won’t it be weird if you’re seen…”

“It is nobody’s business. Besides, we are friends. The whole world knows this. You are not here. I am. I am just being a friend.”

“I- yeah. Yeah, okay.” Shane agrees because he’s too tired to care. He trusts Ilya to take care of this right now.

Shane trusts Ilya with a lot. 

“I will stay on call, okay? As long as you need. But I have to turn off camera for driving.”

Shane makes a noise of understanding. He and Hayden listen as Ilya locks his front door and starts his car. He doesn’t play music. Nobody talks. That isn’t what this is about. Shane doesn’t even know what he would say.

Ilya rings the doorbell. Once, twice, a third time. Then- the sound of a door unlatching.

“Listen. I don’t know what- Ilya.” Shane’s father, voice rough with sleep. Shane hears in his tone how he changes as he realizes who is at his door, going from pissed off to concerned in a heartbeat. 

“Can I come in?” Ilya asks softly, and Shane’s dad must agree because a moment later Shane hears the door close. 

“Is Shane okay?” Shane hears his dad say.

“Am I on speaker?” Shane asks. A beat.

“You’re on speaker,” Ilya replies.

“Hi dad,” Shane whispers.

“Shane, what’s going on? Are you-”

“It’s mom,” Shane interrupts, “the hospital called me when they couldn’t reach you. There was an accident. She-” The tears are back. Hayden wraps his free arm around Shane’s other shoulder, grounding. “She didn’t make it, dad.”

The words are said so quietly Shane worries he is going to have to utter them again. Then, a gasping breath. Ilya says something but the microphone doesn’t pick it up. Muffled sounds, minimal dialogue. Shane wishes he knew what was going on. He clutches the sheets in his fists.

After what feels like a million years but is probably only five minutes, Ilya’s voice is clear again. “Which hospital called? We will go there now.”

“Monfort,” Shane replies.

To his side, Hayden is on his phone. “There’s a flight through Toronto that could get you to Ottawa before sunrise, if we left right now.”

“Layover?”

“An hour.”

Shane gestures at where his wallet sits on the bedside table. “Use my BMO card.” He looks around the room. He has to pack. He has to become a functional person. He has to-

“Hey,” Hayden says, “don’t worry about your stuff. I’ll make sure it gets back home. Just make sure you have your passport and phone.”

“Okay.” Shane huffs out a breath of air. “Ilya,” he turns back to the phone, “I have to go. Hayd found me a flight but I have to leave right away.”

“When will you land?”

“Six thirty.”

“I’ll be there. Fly safe. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Shane hangs up first.

He pulls his shoes onto his feet.

He shoves a Metros cap over his messed up hair. 

He drinks water, at Hayden’s urging. 

Shane’s uber arrives and he gets in the car with nothing but the bare essentials: phone, passport, wallet, keys. 

This is the last time in his life he will ever get on a plane to go see his mother.

Yuna Hollander is dead.

Chapter 2: like a song that refuses to end

Shane doesn’t really know what happens over the next week. He stays with his dad, and Ilya does too, and they move around the space like they don’t know how to exist here anymore. There’s a lot of silence. 

Ilya skips every optional practice, but Shane won’t let him miss anything mandatory. He doesn’t know how Ilya is explaining all his absences, but between their newly public friendship and all the work Yuna does (had done. Because she’s dead) for the Irina foundation, people must not be questioning it too much. Honestly, Shane doesn’t care as much as he should. Ilya’s presence at his side is one of the few comforts available, and Shane doesn’t want to give it up. 

“I never wanted you to know how this feels,” Ilya had whispered to Shane, that first night. Shane had been fresh off the plane and wrapped in Ilya’s arms in a quiet corner of Ottawa’s Montfort hospital, tears drying on his face. David had still been in the room with her (her body. Because she’s dead), and Shane had stepped out to take a deep breath, only to find the task impossible. But Ilya had followed him and held him and not judged him for a second.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to…” Shane had all but whimpered into Ilya’s shoulder. He hadn’t known how he was ever going to move past it. Ever get back to how he was before. Ever go back to his normal life. He still isn’t sure.

“Just breathe, my love,” Ilya had kissed the top of his head, “we will figure it out together.”

 

They’ve certainly started to. Shane is a week into his allotted fourteen days to be upset before he’s expected back on the ice. Today, Ilya has negotiated his way out of Ottawa’s game so he can be at the funeral. After today, Shane will change course. No more being sad, only being practical. They have a will to sort out, and things to go through, and eventually, maybe his dad will want to move into a smaller place, so Shane should start looking into Ottawa realtors. The Irina Foundation needs a new operations manager, especially with registration for the summer camps opening in only a few weeks, and Shane should definitely start looking at managers for himself as well, since, even if he isn’t looking to do any brand deals right now, his contract is up at the end of the season. There’s just so much to do and as much as wallowing seems easy, it’s not the smart choice. It’s not what Yuna would have wanted.

The only suit Shane has at his parent’s place (his dad’s place. Because she’s dead), is the one he wore to the draft. It doesn’t fit. 

Shane plays with the arms of the jacket for five minutes and they’re too tight because he’s put on too much muscle. Maybe he could stand the dress shirt being tight, but not the jacket. And the pants will probably be just as bad. It’s fine. He doesn’t have time to go all the way to Montreal and back, and so this will have to do. Shane should have checked this earlier. He had a whole week. He knew this was coming. This is a fucking disaster but it’s fine he’ll put on the tie and the pressure won’t choke him and-

Thick end over skinny end. Over and up through the neck loop. Wrap around once. Back behind the skinny end, around the neck loop on the other side. Across the front and in the neck again. Out through the top, and tuck through.

It’s the worst Windsor knot Shane’s tied in a decade and his hands are shaking and he’s barely standing and this isn’t going to work. He stares at himself in the mirror and someone entirely different stares back.

He rips the tie off, tears the too-tight jacket away from his shoulders, and gets about half the buttons undone on the dress shirt before collapsing on the floor, head between his knees, clad in only boxers. From this angle, if he looks up, Shane will still be able to see himself in the mirror. Hyperventilating on the floor of the bathroom in his childhood home. Of course. 

Your captain of the Montreal Metros, three time Stanley Cup champion, Shane Hooolaaaanderrrrr. 

Fucking right. Sure. 

Shane hasn’t opened his phone in days, but whatever people are saying about him, he’s sure it isn’t how good he is at hockey.

“Shane, sweetheart,” a light knocking on the bathroom door. Ilya. “Are you okay? Because you do not sound okay.”

Shane hadn’t realized he was making any noise at all. He reaches up to open the door, otherwise unmoving from his position on the cold tile. Ilya walks in, brow immediately furrowing in concern. He couches down in front of Shane, warm hands coming to rub at Shane’s bare shoulders. 

“Hey,” Ilya starts softly, “talk to me.”

And Shane knows that he can. That everything he’s going through, Ilya already knows. Except he also can’t. He can’t, because when Ilya lost his mom, he was a kid. He found her body. And that is, unarguably, so much worse. Who is Shane to be this upset, given that he’s an adult who had been a whole continent away when it happened?

So Shane can’t say everything. But Ilya is looking at him so sweetly, and so open, and Shane wants to say something.

“I don’t know what I’m going to wear. The only suit here is like ten years old and the tie is broken and I don’t have time-”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts him not unkindly, “you have like five suits at my house. I’m sure one of them will work.”

“Oh.”

It probably says something about Shane’s mental state that he hadn’t even thought of his growing collection of clothes at Ilya’s.

“Do you want to come with? Or I can go and get options and bring them back.”

“I…” Shane doesn’t know what he wants. He wants a lot of things, none of them very possible at all. “I should go. Get out of the house. Fresh air.”

Ilya gives him an approving, maybe even relieved look. Shane smiles just slightly. He did good. He picked the right answer. Ilya cups Shane’s face in hand, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“Okay. Meet me downstairs when you’re ready.” And then he’s gone. 

Ordinarily, Shane would appreciate having a bit of space when he’s feeling emotional. Ordinarily, Shane’s mom wouldn’t be dead, though, so all bets are off. He wants his boyfriend to come back.

Eventually Shane manages to get his legs underneath him again, pulling on a pair of joggers. He trudges down the stairs shirtless, and spies Ilya leaning across the kitchen island, passing David a mug. Shane’s dad has not been well since the accident. He’s probably doing even worse than Shane, which is saying something. Ilya has even convinced him to try therapy - it’s on the calendar for tomorrow. Ilya’s been pushing Shane to talk to a professional as well, but Shane doesn’t need it. He isn’t like that. He doesn’t need someone with a fancy degree to tell him he’s upset that his mom is gone, he already knows that. 

Shane walks up behind Ilya, resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder and bringing his fingers to the hem of Ilya’s Nike sweater. Ilya frowns at him just slightly, but allows Shane to remove the garment. He immediately pulls the hoodie onto his own body, because it’s warm and smells nice and feels safe. He wishes this was the type of thing you could wear to a funeral. 

Ilya grabs his keys and slips on a jacket, toeing on his shoes. 

“We’ll be back soon,” Shane assures his father, “call if you need anything.”

David just nods. 

“Hi, everyone, uh,” Shane starts off his speech quite horribly. Why is this so much harder than talking to the press, or hyping up the team? “Thank you all for coming. Um. There’s a lot you can say about mom. Hell, a lot of it has already been said.” Fuck. Not only did Shane swear, he also said a lot twice. He’s messing this up. In the second row, Ilya smiles at him encouragingly. “She was, you know, probably the strongest person I've ever known. Never took no for an answer. She supported me through everything, making me the man and player I am today. But, um,” Shane looks at the notecard where he’d written down the big things he wanted to remember, but he can’t make his eyes focus enough to read it. “But probably the best thing she ever did was make strawberries taste better.” A beat. Breathe. “When I was a kid, mom knew that I liked the taste of strawberries, but I didn’t like having to bite into them. She would cut them up for me, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it. So I wouldn’t have to compromise. So I could focus on doing what made me happy. And she never made it something I had to ask for, you know? Mom was always just there. Ready with a plan and a backup plan and a backup for that plan too. And I just-” Shane blows out rapidly, looking up and blinking tears out of his eyes. “Sorry. I just really- I’m really grateful for all the small things, because they were small, but she did them anyway. And that’s… that’s probably what I’m going to miss the most.” Shane nods to himself. “Thank you.”

Hayden is sitting next to Ilya because they’re the only two hockey players here, and maybe that’s weird but maybe it isn’t and Shane doesn’t even know anything anymore. He locks eyes with his best friend, who gives him an encouraging half smile. Ilya sucks in his lips, eyes wet. Proud of you, he mouths. Shane swallows thickly and wishes he was brave enough to hold his boyfriend’s hand at his mother’s funeral. 

“Ilya,” says some sports reporter on the TV, “last weekend you were spotted at Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander’s mother’s funeral. Why were you there?” 

Ilya, sweaty after the game, fails to look unoffended by the question. He’s cute when he’s pissed off, but Shane can’t even appreciate it because he’s pissed off too. He’s back in Montreal, and he has his first practice back in the morning, and apparently some stupid reporter cares too much about his personal life.

“Hollander,” Ilya says calmly, “Shane,” he amends, and it might be the first time Ilya’s called him that on TV, “is a friend. I know people do not think this, but it is true. And Yuna was also very involved with our Foundation, named after my mother. So her death is hard, for me. I went to the funeral to pay respects and support my friend.” Ilya pauses, before adding, “If you want to do this also - pay respects, I mean - you will not ask any more of these questions. Hollander deserves privacy.”

Cut to commercial. Shane groans, leaning his head against the back of his couch. 

For the first time in his entire life, he doesn’t want to play hockey tomorrow. He doesn’t want to do anything tomorrow. He needs to fix that. Shane needs to get a grip on his life. He can’t be a disaster, not now. The Metros are defending Cup champions, and they need to act like it. Shane needs to start acting like it. 

He opens his notes app and a list of five possible sports managers stares back at him. Taunting.

He closes it again.

Not yet. Not today.

Fuck.

Yuna Hollander is dead.

Chapter 3: and I pretend I do not hate

“Listen, Shane, we really like you. You’re an incredible player, and an important ambassador to hockey. We will make sure that you are represented fairly, and will always act in your best interest. What say you?”

Shane’s been listening to Mark Ranson pitch his sports management agency for upwards of four hours. JJ works with him, which is the only reason Shane’s here at all. When he arrived, five minutes early, the receptionist had offered him a bottle of water and a cookie of some sort. Shane had accepted, not wanting to be rude. Approximately ninety seconds later he had stumbled into the single stall of the bathroom and puked both things back up. 

So it's not exactly going well.

“You know, Mark,” Shane says, putting on his best, most normal smile, “I really like you guys, but I do have a few other agencies I’m speaking with at the moment, so I can’t make any commitments today. I’ll let you know soon, though.”

Mark nods, and the stand, moving to the door and shaking hands.

“I, uh,” Mark says awkwardly, stopping Shane half out the door, “I just want to say that while I didn’t know your mother personally, um, I only ever heard good things. I can’t even imagine…”

“Yeah,” Shane says, because until she died he couldn’t even imagine either. There is probably something else he’s supposed to do in this interaction but he’s already decided to never see Mark again so he doesn’t bother, and walks out.

Montreal is oppressively cold in January. Especially this year. Usually, in January, Shane is fresh off a few free days for Christmas and looking forward to the part of the season that can determine a playoff spot. But Dad hadn’t really felt like Christmas this year, and Shane hadn’t either, and so he had spent the break at the cottage, his father and boyfriend doing puzzles on the coffee table and failing to hide their concerned looks. Shane doesn’t really understand why. He’s fine. He’s moving on, like you’re supposed to. Like Dad is, only without the therapy. He shouldn’t need therapy, because he’s a grown man and a professional hockey player and he’s fine. 

Shane’s breath fogs up the car when he half collapses into the driver’s seat, and he rubs his hands together for a burst of warmth. Ilya would make fun of him for not prestarting the car using his fancy app on his phone, but whatever. Shane turns on the engine, and gives the vehicle a moment to warm up and for the windows to defrost. He checks his messages from the past four hours. Ilya has sent him fourteen texts. A recipe for grilled salmon. A photo of Anya, the dog he’d adopted for no apparent reason. A link to some article. A reel. Three quips about Detroit’s new hotshot leftwinger who called him old in a presser last weekend. A link to a new brand of stick tape, since Shane’s favourite was discontinued and he’s been shopping around. About five other messages that Shane glaces over. Endless little things, each sent separately. Shane should look through it all. He should appreciate the ways that his boyfriend is always thinking of him. He should reciprocate, even with a quarter of the enthusiasm Ilya gives him. 

Shane hearts the most recent message, a link to some youtube video. He doesn’t open anything. Skims, at best, the texts that don’t require clicking a link. Feels like the worst partner on the planet. He’s so tired. Ilya will understand.

Ilya will probably understand better than most, this time of year. January is always a hard month for him, Shane knows. It’s the anniversary of Irina’s death, and it always gets Ilya a bit in his head. And that’s another reason Shane’s being just such a horrible boyfriend these days, because he knows it's a rough time for Ilya and yet he’s only thinking of himself.

Shane has been exhausted for so long. Since November 10th, probably. Since the driver - who the Ottawa police have let out on a plea deal - barreled into his mother at eighty kilometers per hour at midnight on a Wednesday. 

Shane has been extra exhausted this week, with all these stupid fucking meetings and Theriault on his ass to get the team ready for the playoffs. Today he had morning skate and practice with the rookies and a working lunch with a lawyer and this meeting with Mark Ranson that went about three hours and forty-five minutes longer than Shane would have liked.

He has to be up early, too, with a 7am flight out to LA with the team tomorrow morning. Really, all Shane wants to do is go home and reheat a preprepped meal and curl up into the fetal position. He will pass the fuck out for as long as he can allow himself, routine be damned.

 

Shane slides his key into the door and his shoulders drop a fraction of their tension as he steps into his space. The lights are dim and everything is in its place and-

And Ilya. 

Ilya’s sitting on the couch and his dog isn’t here thank god and he’s wearing one of Shane’s older Metros hoodies. He smiles up at Shane, who gapes back at him in turn.

“Hi sweetheart,” Ilya is so soft. His curls look fluffy, and Shane wants to touch them. Shane also still very much wants to do his sad-meal-cry-in-bed plan.

“Ilya,” he breathes, “what…”

“I missed you. Got home from practice and was thinking ‘oh, I wish Shane was here,’ and then I remember, you are only two hours away. And morning skate isn’t until ten tomorrow so…”

“So you just came here?” It comes out a little harsher than Shane means it to, but he can’t help being a bit upset. If Ilya is here then he can’t do his plan and his plan is what got him through today. Even if trading blowjobs and cuddling also sounds good, it wasn’t the plan and so everything is fucked. But it’s fine. Shane is fine. He has everything under control. Ilya is here and Ilya loves him and so Shane can do this for him.

“I texted first, but you did not respond. And you have sounded, I don’t know, stressed, maybe. On the phone yesterday too. Not your usual stressed. I thought I could help.”

Shane feels a flash of guilt. He hadn’t read those text messages. “Sorry,” he says, “it's just been kind of crazy these past few days. I’m fine though. Don’t worry.”

“I-” Ilya starts, but then cuts himself off, shaking his head. Shane frowns.

“What?”

“No,” Ilya sighs, “it is nothing I haven’t said before, and it will not make anything better, not tonight.”

Inexplicably, that makes Shane angry. Just because he’s had a few stressful days doesn’t mean he can’t handle whatever Ilya has to say. He’s not weak. “Say it,” he bites out.

Ilya looks a little taken aback by his tone, but Shane doesn’t really care.

“Shane,” and that voice. It’s so soft. So careful. So everything Shane doesn’t need. Like Ilya thinks he’s some fragile piece of glass that will break at the slightest tap.

“No, fucking say it. Whatever you want to say, you shouldn’t hold back just because I’m-”

“What?” Ilya asks, “just because you’re what?” It’s an annoyingly good question that Shane can’t bring himself to answer. I’m broken? I’m fragile? I’m weak? I’m still upset over something that happened months ago?

Shane elects to say nothing. He’s still standing but Ilya’s moved to stand in front of him. They’ve always been eye level with each other. Equals. Partners. 

“Please, baby, tell me. Because I don’t know what is happening up there in your beautiful head and I’m scared, because I think it is nothing good.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Shane whispers, and it would be convincing if not for the way tears have welled up in his eyes, and the way his voice shakes with every syllable. He can’t make himself look at Ilya. He wants to sleep for a million years. He wants to run away to someplace where nobody knows his name and start a new life where he doesn’t have to be anyone at all. More than anything, Shane just wants to go back to how things were before.

“No, of course there is nothing wrong with you,” Ilya brings a hand to his chin, guiding his gaze up until their eyes lock, “but you see a nutritionist even though you are the healthiest man in Canada, yes?”

“I mean I don’t know about the healthiest, that seems pretty hard to measure.”

“Yes, sure, but you eat good and still you see a professional.”

“I mean, yeah. Just to make sure I’m doing everything I can to stay in the game as long as possible.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at that. It takes Shane about five seconds to connect the dots. He presses his palms over his eyes.

“Why is it different, when it is your brain and not your body?” Ilya asks the question in a way that makes the answer seem so much simpler than it really is. He’s so gentle about it that Shane almost misses the judgement. The underlying issue that makes Ilya think Shane needs therapy at all. It's been months and despite everything, he hasn’t gotten over this. Hasn’t even gotten close, really. Just absolutely drained of energy to the point where his bones ache from something no amount of macrobiotic eating could ever hope to fix.

“Do you really think I’m that weak?” Shane asks, getting defensive. Being seen like this, for his flaws, is absolutely terrifying. Ilya hasn’t really had to deal with him like this, all the time they spend apart. If he lashes out, Ilya can lash back, and it'll be like when they were just getting to know each other. They can have sex and work it out and be better in the morning.

But Ilya doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t play his part. He just looks at Shane with infinite, irritating patience. He opens his mouth to say something that Shane is sure will be perfectly kind and understanding and so not what he wants to deal with. Shane can’t have that. He needs Ilya angry, or he needs to be alone with his prepped meal and his bed. He needs to stop feeling like he’s going to crawl out of his own skull. 

“You don’t have to worry so much,” he says, “its not like I’m going to fucking kill myself.”

The instant the words are out of Shane’s mouth he knows he’s ruined everything. Ilya’s face shutters, and the open, caring look is replaced with a nauseating expanse of nothing at all. Shane might regret his words more than anything else he’s ever said to Ilya. Especially in January. Especially with everything. Especially because he’s sure, now that he’s said it, that it being January is the reason why Ilya’s been so worried in the first place.

“Shit, Ilya, I’m-”

“I will go,” Ilya interrupts, and Shane feels his heart in his throat.

“No, please-”

“I love you,” Ilya whispers, “and I know you are hurting, but” he takes a deep breath, “you cannot say things like this. If I stay here, I am going to make this worse. I just need a moment. And you need rest, I think.”

Shane looks down, blinking tears out of his eyes. He nods. At some point, Ilya must have stopped touching him, and now all he can feel is space and emptiness and nothing. “At least text me when you get home so I know you’re safe?” he all but begs.

Ilya swallows visibly, “okay.”

He presses a barely-there kiss on Shane’s forehead, and then toes on his shoes. Shane resists the urge to reach for him. He resists the urge to ask him to stay. He’s an adult and he made this mess and he’s fine, so it doesn’t even matter.

The door clicks shut with horrible finality. 

He has missed his chance to say "I love you too."

Shane doesn’t even bother with his prepped meal, going straight for bed.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

 

Shane doesn’t sleep until two hours later, when Ilya sends a one word message: home.

It’s the most Shane hears from him for three days.

Chapter 4: the way I used to know you and

Chapter Notes

super short lil guy because this scene needed it's own segment

A week later and everything is still kind of super horrible and Shane doesn’t know how to fix it. Ilya had called four days after the fight, apologising for taking so long to do so. Shane had apologised right back. He knows that what he said was horrible. Unforgivable. And yet Ilya had forgiven him, or something close to it. Still, their communication since has been stilted, neither of them knowing how to get past the issue that caused the fight. Because Shane is fine, but Ilya can’t seem to accept that. He just keeps pushing and pushing.

But today the Canadian Youth Mental Health Coalition is hosting their annual charity gala, and both Shane and Ilya will be attending on behalf of the Irina Foundation. So they’ll get to talk, at least. Maybe seeing each other in person will help to mend whatever Shane broke last week.

The gala is in Montreal, and Ilya won’t be arriving until a bit later, but Shane is saved from having to make small talk with strangers by one Jackie Pike. Jackie has taken over as interim director of the Foundation, and she’s doing such a good job that Shane is seriously trying to figure out how to convince her to fulfill the roll permanently. With the Pike kids getting older, Jackie had been looking for something to do that wasn’t being a stay at home mom, and her degree in communications and business management has certainly come in handy.

Jackie knows, too, which is helpful. She knows what Shane said, and how much he hates that he said it. Jackie understands why, when Ilya walks into the room, Shane clings tightly to her side. She does, however, give him a bit of a disbelieving look.

“Shane,” she sighs, “just talk to him.”

“What if he doesn’t want me to?” Shane groans.

“He does. Trust me,” Jackie nods in his direction, “that man always wants to talk to you.”

“Its just-” Shane lowers his voice, unsure how to even say what he’s thinking. “It’s been two months, since she died. And all he’s just, like, been here for me. The whole time. And I knew that this time of year is especially hard for him, and I knew that I was worrying him more because of that, and still I was such a fucking asshole and it’s not even like I meant it. I was just so tired and upset after talking to all these managers. And I do need a manager before contract negotiations but it just felt like replacing her and…”

“And this all feels like a conversation you should be having with your boyfriend. Not me.”

Shane lets out a breath of air, leaning down to knock his head into Jackie’s shoulder. “You’re right,” he grumbles.

Jackie laughs lightly, “I usually am, yeah.”

Rolling his eyes good naturedly, Shane crosses the vast expanse of Montreal’s rich and vaguely famous until he gets to where Ilya is standing in a clump of old white guys that look like they bleed hundred dollar bills.

Shane clutches his class of champagne so hard he worries it might break in his hand. Ilya meets his eyes, and offers the faintest hint of a smile, but its cautious. Unsure. Shane wants to throw up.

Five minutes later the conversation dies out, and Shane takes the opportunity to drag Ilya into a secluded corner. They stand there, together, and the rest of the world fades into the background. Ilya’s suit is soft, and Shane clutches the lapels tightly in his hands. One of Ilya’s arms comes up to hold Shane, thumb moving over his shoulderblade.

Shane buries his face in Ilya’s chest. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” His voice is wet and he doesn’t even care. Ilya doesn’t move. Just acting as a steady presence, as he always does.

“I know you didn’t mean it, and so I’m not mad about what you said,” he murmurs eventually, and Shane moves to look at him properly, searching for any hint of deceit in the words. “Maybe I should not have pushed. But…” Ilya shakes his head, “I will not stop worrying about you. And every time I do, you get upset. So I do not know what to do.”

“I’m fine,” Shane replies, because maybe once Ilya realizes that, things can get better. It doesn’t have the intended effect. Ilya pulls Shane away, just a fraction but enough that it feels like losing a limb.

“No, you’re not,” he chokes out. Shane realizes with shock that Ilya is crying. “And nobody except your stupid team is expecting you to be.” The pressure of Ilya’s arms around Shane grows tighter. “You cannot keep pretending like this or it will destroy you.”

“Ilya…” Shane doesn’t know how to respond to this much raw emotion coming out of his boyfriend.

“I love you so much but… I won’t just stand here and watch you fall apart like this. I can’t.”

Shane feels like he’s in a nightmare. This is his worst fear. He is too much for Ilya and Ilya doesn’t want him and he is only making Ilya’s life worse and there is simply nothing to be done about it.

“What are you saying?” he asks desperately, voice rough. His fingers twist in the fabric of Ilya’s jacket, wrinkling it, probably. Just like he’s wrinkled Ilya’s entire life. Because Ilya could have anyone, could have some hot Russian model woman that he wouldn’t have to hide, but instead he’s stuck with Shane.

“I don’t know,” Ilya sighs, voice so soft Shane can barely hear it, “I don’t know. I just…” he runs a hand down Shane’s jaw and it might be the most intimate thing they’ve done together. “I can’t lose anyone else that I love.” Ilya’s voice breaks with that. He tilts his head up, blinking into the harsh lighting. Willing away tears, Shane thinks. As though it's not too late for that. 

“You aren’t going to lose me.”

“I’m worried I already have.”

“No,” Shane grips Ilya’s hand in his own like his life depends on it, “no, I’m right here.”

“I don’t think you are. Not completely.”

“I-”

“Let someone help you, please. Me, or Pike, or a professional, it does not matter. But please, Shane. If you cannot do this for yourself, do it for me.”

Shane sniffles. Fine. Fine. Going to therapy to make Ilya happy is fine. He wouldn’t be weak for doing it if it's only to appease Ilya. And it’s not like anyone could find out. There are privacy laws or whatever. 

“Okay,” he says, voice small.

“Okay?” Ilya looks relieved. Hopeful. 

“Yeah. I don’t need it but if it’ll make you happy… I guess I can book an appointment tomorrow.”

“This is all I ask,” Ilya breathes, planting a sweet kiss on Shane’s lips. It’s their first in a week. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

In the morning, after Ilya has left for Ottawa once more, Shane googles therapists and calls the first one that pops up. No research, no vetting. He doesn’t even read reviews. He just has to show Ilya that he’s trying. 

Shane can’t lose anyone else that he loves either. He has to do this, for Ilya. For love.

Chapter 5: the silence that remains.

Shane does not like therapy, but he likes being bad at things even less, and so he does genuinely try. His therapist’s name is Lisa and for their entire first session he just explains all the reasons why Ilya (incorrectly) believes he needs this, when really nothing is wrong. Or maybe something is wrong, but it’s not so bad that Shane can’t get a handle on it on his own.

Lisa asks him to come back in three days time, which even Shane can admit doesn’t feel like a great sign.

He considers refusing, or finding another therapist, or lying to Ilya and pretending therapy was going well when he wasn’t seeing anyone at all. Infuriatingly, if there’s one thing Shane can’t bring himself to do, it’s quit.

 

Shane’s second session is on a Saturday before an evening game, and he complains about how the timing is messing up his pregame routine. 

Lisa asks him if he’s always been this obsessed with controlling his life, or if its gotten worse since Yuna died.

He doesn’t know what to say.

 

In the third hour of knowing Lisa, Shane tells her about Ilya. About being gay. About all the pressures that come from that.

He talks about how it’s hard to find a manager because he knows he will never find another one who supports him quite like how Mom did.

He talks about how Ilya forced him to do therapy in the first place.

Lisa asks him when the last time was he did something for himself.

Shane doesn’t know how to answer that one either. 

Shockingly, he leaves the appointment feeling better than before.

 

At the fourth session, Shane cries. He doesn’t even know why. Lisa lets him leave fifteen minutes early, but insists that before their next appointment (a whole week away, now,) Shane should do something for himself. Something that makes him happier, or freer, or just less pent up and anxious. 

“Do something that Shane would like to do,” she says, “not Shane Hollander the hockey player, or the son, or the boyfriend. Just Shane. Just you. And if that happens to relate to those other things, that's fine, but I want you to do it because you thought of it, and you want to.”

Shane thinks on it the whole drive home. The thing is, he’s never been one for half measures. Everything Shane does, he tries to be the best. 

He plops down on his couch and opens his photo gallery on his phone. Shane doesn’t take many pictures for reasons other than shear utility - nutrition information, scheduling, plays for upcoming games. But he and Ilya have a shared album, in one of those encrypted photo apps, and those photos have a very different utility. He smiles as he scrolls past a series of sleepy selfies from Ilya, until he finds what he was looking for. It’s a picture Ilya took last summer, at the cottage. In it, Shane stands at the barbeque, wearing a nondescript hoodie that is a size too big because he had stolen it from Ilya. He’s smiling, in that real genuine way he doesn’t let brand deals or reporters ever see. Shane moves the photo to his proper cameral roll.

He opens Instagram. Plops the photo in. Adds one of his more professional looking action shots too, for good measure. 

I’m gay. In hockey, -

Is this stupid? Yes. He doesn’t even have a manager to help him through whatever shit this would start. 

Delete.

I am in love with Ilya Rozanov. This will come as a surprise - 

If he does this, at least he’ll know which potential management agencies are homophobic before he signs with them, rather than when it's too late.

Delete.

Authenticity is important. On the ice, and off. On the ice, I work to play a game that is true to myself, and to my team. Off the ice, I’m not so good at that. As an athlete, it is important to constantly be growing and improving myself. If is for this reason that I have decided to share something about myself that I have kept silent about for a long time. I’m gay. It has never affected my game, and it never will, but I believe that being honest about who I am and who I love will only make me a better player, and a better person.

And honestly? 

Not too bad, if Shane does say so himself.

Post.

Shane ignores the numerous phone calls as they come in. He will talk to Hayden and Rose and JJ and Theriault in good time, but for now he wants to ignore the consequences of his actions. He wants to bask in the relief that comes with having done this thing: not for the team, not for his family, not even for Ilya. Just for himself. Just so he would be able to relieve a fraction of the secret he carries each day. 

It’s still scary, but it was always going to be. And like this, Shane has control. He doesn’t have to worry about how the narrative could be twisted.

The phone rings again. Ilya. This call, Shane does pick up.

“Hi,” he says, voice a little breathy.

“You came out,” Ilya says neutrally, almost unsure.

“I did, yeah.”

“Why?”

“I was told I needed to do something for me. Not hockey, or family, or anything.”

Silence for a second. “Who told you this?”

Shane for Ilya to make this into way too big a deal. “The therapist I’ve been seeing.”

“You’ve been seeing someone?” Ilya sounds surprised, but pleasantly so, Shane thinks.

“Yeah. Since the gala. I’ve been meaning to tell you about it but I wanted to do it in person. Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologise, I just-” Ilya exhales audibly, “it is good? Helpful?”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits, “it’s not as bad as I was expecting. Lisa is nice.”

“Good. This is good. This is… I’m really proud of you.”

“Yeah. Well. I might have just made my life harder in the long run, but for now it feels good.”

“Anyone who is not good to you, tell me and I will beat them up.”

“You can’t beat up everyone who’s mean to me.”

“Hmm, yes I can.”

“Okay. Sure. Listen, I need to make sure JJ doesn’t hate me, and then probably talk to my coach, but…”

“Call me back after?”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you too. Always.”

Click. 

Theriault benches Shane for two weeks. It doesn’t surprise him, not really. Some of the guys have been good about it, JJ especially, but a lot of them have not been. The public is similar. Scott Hunter had reached out the day after Shane’s post, offering support. Dallas Kent had all but eviscerated him on Twitter, talking about how hockey is no place for this behaviour. 

Despite the mixed responses, Shane does, somehow, feel good. Better, at least. And now he has two whole weeks with nowhere to be. He arrives at Ilya’s around ten pm. Shutting off the car, Shane clocks three unknown cars in the driveway. He knocks instead of using his key, because he doesn’t know what he’s walking into. He isn’t deterred though. It’s been a hectic few days and Shane deserves to see his boyfriend.

Ilya opens the door, his face quickly morphing from confusion to elation. “Shane!” he beams. Shane grins back sheepishly.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I was given two weeks off. A present from the Metros.”

Ilya’s eyes darken despite the way Shane attempted to soften the fact with humor.

“How long until you have to go back?”

“Not for a while. Ten days. Maybe twelve.”

There are most definitely hockey players on Ilya’s couch watching their entire interaction with interest and bewilderment. Shane doesn’t really care. Ilya must not either, because he’s pulling Shane in for a deep, desperate kiss. They haven’t kissed like this in far too long. Almost a month. Shane can’t even articulate how much he needs it.

Shane brings his hands up to weave into Ilya’s curls, and Ilya’s arms come around to hold him tightly, pressing their bodies together. Ilya tastes like beer and pizza, and Shane smiles into the flavor. As Ilya attempts to shove his tongue down Shane’s throat, Shane lets him, moaning into it. One of Ilya’s hands moves up to the back of Shane’s head. Shane tangles his fingers in the collar of Ilya’s shirt. 

They still have to talk properly, but this feels good and right and like maybe they can grow from whatever horrible weirdness has been brewing for the past month. It’s a relief.

They’re interrupted by someone aggressively clearing their throat. Ilya freezes against Shane, as though he had forgotten they had company. In his defense, Shane forgot as well, wrapped up in finally satisfying his need for Ilya’s hands and mouth and everything.

They pull apart, and Shane locks eyes with Wyatt Hayes, a recent trade to Ottawa from Toronto. 

“Something you need to tell us, cap?” Hayes asks, and his tone isn’t judgemental, just absolutely baffled.

“You didn’t know Hollander is gay? Do you live under a rock, Hazey? This is all anyone has talked about for two days.”

Hayes gapes at Ilya. “That is not what I meant and you know it. How long- what even-” he gestures frantically between Shane and Ilya.

“Ah. You are jealous then. Sorry, Shane is all mine, and I do not share.”

“So you guys are, what, dating? Didn’t you hate each other until like a year ago?”

“We never really hated each other,” Shane confesses softly, “we just really like to compete, and the media ran with it.”

“Holy shit,” Hayes mutters, mostly to himself, “the biggest rivals in the league are gay for each other. Holy fuck.”

“Technically,” Ilya interrupts, “I am bisexual. But yes.”

“So what now? Are you going to come out? Like as a couple?”

Shane shakes his head as Ilya says “No. Not now, anyways.”

“I don’t think either of us are prepared for how chaotic that would be. We’ll definitely need a plan.” Shane adds. He thinks of how helpful his mom would be in a situation like this. He wonders if she had already made a plan for them, before. She would. Shane resolves to go through her files in the coming days, just in case.

“One day, I think we will.” Ilya says, and Shane turns to look at him properly.

“One day?”

“Yes. Maybe another year, give you time to adjust to how things are now. Give me time to figure out my citizenship. And then…:

“I like that. A year.”

“And maybe,” Ilya says, “until then, we can hide less? Be less afraid?”

“People will talk, especially now that I’m out.”

“I don’t care.” Ilya meets Shane’s eyes. Shane doesn’t look away. “Do you?”

There are a lot of things Shane cares about. Hockey, his father, Ilya. His future. His mom had always taught him the importance of his reputation. The importance of his brand. She had hammered into him from age sixteen how important it was that he served as a role model for other kids like him.

But reputations only mean so much, and brands can change, and role models come in all shapes and sizes. And Yuna Hollander is dead.

Maybe part of moving on is deciding to let things go. 

Shane cannot live his life to appease a ghost.

“No,” he says, wrapping an arm around Ilya’s waste, “I don’t.”

Above all else, Shane has to believe that Yuna would have wanted him to be happy. Like this, with Ilya, he is.