Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Jackie Pike, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Friendship, Coming Out, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-28 Words: 6,480 Chapters: 1/1

Famous Last Words

Summary

Shane and Ilya are publicly outed by grainy paparazzi footage the season after the cottage and thankfully their best friends take it better than they do.

Notes

I’ve been deep in my “Ilya and the Bears” era lately, which naturally led to me wondering how differently Hayden and Cliff would react to Hollanov getting outed. So this happened.

Also based on this tumblr post

Montreal, 7:20 p.m.

The TV was on in the living room, loud enough to be heard over everything else but not loud enough for anyone to actually be watching it. Some wildlife documentary. A lion chasing something unfortunate across a yellow field while an overly serious British man narrated in the background like this was the most important thing happening in the room.

It wasn't. 

Jade was standing on the couch in mismatched socks, pointing accusingly at Ruby.

"You had the middle cushion yesterday."

Ruby crossed her arms so hard her whole tiny body went rigid. "That was different because yesterday I was being a veterinarian."

"That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

Hayden didn't even glance over from where he was half-sprawled in the armchair.

"Why can't you two be more like Arthur?" he asked.

"I'm telling mom!" both girls screamed at once in reply. 

Arthur was under the coffee table with a juice box and three toy dinosaurs arranged in a line so exact it looked ceremonial. Every so often he nudged one a fraction of an inch and stared at it like he was solving advanced mathematics.

Amber kicked lazily in her swing beside the couch, making soft burbling noises at nobody in particular.

The whole place smelled like dinner. Garlic, onions, something roasting in the oven. Warm enough that it had sunk into the walls, into the furniture, into the air itself. The kind of smell that made a house feel occupied in the best possible way.

Jackie stood in the open kitchen with one hip against the counter, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something on the stove while still somehow participating in every conversation at once.

Shane sat sunk into the couch, one arm thrown over the back cushion, watching the chaos like it was background television.

He'd been there three hours.

He had come up with Hayden after practice without texting first. Jackie had opened the door, taken one look at him, and gone, you're staying for dinner, in the exact same tone she used on children when they had to put their winter gear on.

Shane hadn’t argued. He didn’t usually.

That was sort of the point of being here.

Hayden was in the middle of explaining why one of the rookies on the team was "the least naturally coordinated athlete I've ever witnessed at a professional level."

"I'm serious," he said, gesturing with his beer. "The kid fell over putting his helmet on."

"That cannot be true," Shane said.

"Hand to God."

Jackie snorted from the stove. "You're exaggerating."

"I wish I was exaggerating."

"He fell over because Smitty shoved him," Shane said.

Hayden pointed at him. "Thank you. Important context omitted for comedic effect."

"You're a terrible storyteller."

"I'm an excellent storyteller. You're just difficult."

Jade climbed onto the back of the couch behind Shane and leaned over his shoulder.

"Uncle Shane."

"Yeah?"

"Ruby is being mean."

Ruby immediately shouted from the other cushion, "She started it!"

"I did not!"

"You did when you said my pony looked ugly!"

Shane examined the mangled plastic toy in Jade's hand with appropriate seriousness.

"It has character."

Jade beamed. Ruby rolled her eyes and flopped sideways off the cushion in protest.

Arthur, still under the table, suddenly announced to no one, "Green dinosaur goes first."

"Obviously," Shane said.

Arthur nodded like this had been a satisfactory contribution.

Jackie glanced over her shoulder. "Shane, grab plates for me?"

He pushed himself up automatically.

"Where are they?"

"Same place they've been for six years."

"Right, sorry, forgot everything is where it's supposed to be, except when it isn't."

She pointed the spoon at him. "Mock me all you want. You'd starve in here without me."

"True."

"Deeply true," Hayden added.

Shane flipped him off while grabbing plates.

Jackie smirked. "Not in front of the children."

"Your husband started it."

"My husband is emotionally stunted."

"Mean," Hayden said.

Jackie nodded. "Thank you, Shane."

Hayden looked offended. "This is hostile. I brought you both into my home."

"You live here by my permission," Jackie said.

Shane nearly choked laughing.

Amber made a delighted squeal from the swing like she wanted in on the joke.

Hayden pointed at her. "See? She gets me."

"She's eight months old," Jackie said.

"And already wiser than all of you."

Jade tugged on Shane's shirt. "Can I have juice with dinner?"

"Ask your mother."

"I'm asking you."

"That seems like a bad plan."

Jackie called over without turning around, "One juice box and if you spill it on my couch I'll sell you."

"Mom!" Jade shrieked.

Ruby gasped. "Can you do that?"

"Only on weekdays," Hayden said.

Arthur crawled out from under the table just long enough to place one dinosaur carefully on Shane's knee before retreating again.

Shane looked down at it.

"…Thanks, buddy."

Arthur smiled up at him.

Hayden leaned back in his chair, beer balanced on his stomach. "So when are you gonna join us, Holzy?"

Shane didn't look up from where he was making the dinosaur stomp dramatically across the arm of the couch for Arthur's benefit.

"In parenthood?"

"Yeah."

Shane gave him a flat look over Arthur's head.

"Christ, Hayd, are four kids not enough? I still got some good hockey left in me before you try to get me pregnant too."

Jackie snorted from the kitchen.

"You've heard him make that joke before and still set him up for it. That's honestly on you."

Shane pointed toward her without missing a beat. "See? Someone pays attention."

"Though Shane'd make a fantastic sister wife," Jackie added. "Useful, good with children, and house-trained. Hard to find."

Hayden stared at both of them in open betrayal.

"You are both awful."

"You started it," Shane said.

Arthur shoved the dinosaur into Shane's chest and demanded, "Again."

Shane obliged immediately.

The room kept moving around him after that. Kids bickering. Hayden chirping from the armchair. Jackie swatting at him with a dish towel when he got too close to stealing food off the tray.

Normal noise.

Warm noise.

The kind of noise that made it easy not to think too hard.

Easy not to think at all.

And for three whole hours, Shane hadn't. That had been enough.

Then his phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Then again.

He frowned, pulling it from his pocket.

The screen lit up with a message from his mom.

He stared at it.

The phone was still buzzing in his hand.

Then, automatically, he opened Twitter.

His feed loaded into chaos.

Clips. Zoomed-in stills. Slowed versions. Freeze-frames with circles and arrows like anyone needed help understanding what they were seeing.

His name.

Ilya's name.

Together. Again and again. In more languages than he could process.

Notifications stacked so fast the numbers stopped meaning anything. Mentions useless. Messages worse.

He tapped the first video he saw.

Grainy footage. Shot through leaves and branches, half the frame blocked by something dark in the foreground. The camera wobbled once, whoever filmed it shifting to stay hidden.

At first, there was nothing obvious.

Just a man walking out to a porch with his back to the camera. Broad shoulders Shane only recognized because they were his. The cut of his jacket. The way he stood when he was half-turned away.

Without context, it could have been anyone.

For one stupid second, Shane thought maybe it won't be obvious.

Then the door opened back up.

His stomach dropped before his brain caught up.

Ilya stepped out fast, sure, reaching for him like it was instinct. His hand closed around Shane's wrist. The motion tugged them sideways, out of shadow and into the light, and their faces came clear in a way that left no room for doubt.

Shane's chest seized.

There was a pause in the footage. He remembered that pause. Remembered almost leaving. Remembered thinking maybe he should just go.

He hadn't.

Ilya leaned in.

The first kiss was soft. Brief. Careful. The kind meant to be enough.

Should've ended there.

Didn't.

On screen, Shane watched his own hand fist in Ilya's jacket and drag him back. The second kiss hit harder. Not tentative. Not secretive. Not new. Practiced and easy, like muscle memory, like something that had been happening for years, because it had.

Then the footage slowed.

They didn't separate right away.

Another kiss. Softer this time. Slower. The kind people gave when they weren't ready to be done yet.

Shane didn't remember that part.

He did now.

It landed somewhere deep under his ribs.

Ilya's hand lingered at his jaw. Shane watched himself tilt his head, say something too quiet for the mic to catch. Ilya answered. Then they stepped apart. Shane turned first, head down, already leaving.

Too late.

Ilya stayed on the porch another second, watching him go before stepping back inside.

Door shut.

Video over.

A minute and thirty six seconds.

His life was over in one minute and thirty six seconds.

Shane dropped the phone like it burned him.

Across the couch, Hayden was already looking at him. Not panicked. Just focused, sharp in that particular way he got when he knew something was wrong.

"Holzy?"

Shane didn't answer. He bent, snatched the phone back up, held it out.

Hayden took it.

Watched.

Once.

Then again.

Blinked slowly.

Then handed the phone back.

Then both their phones started going off. Buzzing hard against the cushions, constant, the noise drilling straight through Shane's skull.

Shane's hands went first.

A fine shake at the fingertips, quick and ugly. He clenched them to stop it and only made it worse. Sweat slicked his palms. His grip slipped on the phone.

Then his breathing went.

Too fast. Too shallow. Catching halfway in like something was cinched tight around his ribs.

He stood without meaning to.

The room tilted. Not enough to drop him. Just enough to make everything feel wrong.

"Okay — okay, so — Hayd, I need to — "

"Shane — "

"I know, I know, just — just let me — "

He was already moving. Two steps one way. Turn. Two steps back.

Jackie moved before anyone else did.

"Girls," she said, crossing the room fast, voice light but leaving no room for debate. "Bedroom. Go build a fort or start a coup or whatever it is you maniacs do in there."

Ruby was up first. "Can we use the dinosaur blanket?"

"If you can find it."

Jade grabbed her sister's hand and bolted.

Arthur was still under the coffee table, humming softly around his straw, turning one of his toy trucks over and over in his hands.

Jackie crouched.

"Buddy. Upstairs."

Arthur looked at her. Looked at the truck. Then pushed himself up and toddled after his sisters without fuss.

Jackie shepherded all three down the hall.

Shane kept going.

"We met at World Juniors — we were seventeen and it wasn't — it wasn't anything, not really, it just happened, and then after the draft it kept happening whenever we were in the same city and it was just — "

His breath hitched hard.

" — I told myself it didn't count. That it wasn't real."

His phone slipped completely from his hand. Cracked against the floor. He flinched. Didn't look at it.

"And then I stopped it. I panicked. I thought I could just move on, be normal about it, so I dated Rose — "

Hayden got to his feet. Took a step toward him.

Shane didn't register it.

" — I know how that sounds — " His voice climbed. "I liked her, I did, she's great, but there was something missing and I couldn't figure out what it was and she — "

His voice snagged.

" — she's the one who said it. She just said it. Like it was obvious."

He pressed his palm hard into his forehead.

Eyes shut.

"And then I couldn't unknow it anymore and I went home and I — "

His breath stuttered.

" — I cried for like two hours, which is — "

A broken laugh.

" — not my best moment. And then Ilya and I started talking again and it wasn't casual anymore, it wasn't something I could just — "

He turned. Started pacing again, faster.

"I should've told you. I should've told you years ago, about him, about all of it, I just — "

His jaw locked.

"I'm gay."

Silence.

The word sitting in the room, blunt and final.

"I'm gay," he said again, rougher. "And I've been with him for years, on and off, and now it's not on and off anymore and everyone just — "

"Hey."

Hayden was right in front of him now. Close. Steady.

"I didn't want you to think I didn't trust you, I just didn't know how to say it and then it got too big and I waited too long and now this is how you find out and I'm sorry, I'm really — 

"Shane." Hayden said firmly, "Stop."

His mouth kept moving another second before the word registered.

He swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry," he said again, smaller.

"I heard you," Hayden said. "You're gay."

Shane blinked at him.

"Okay."

"Got it. Not exactly shocked, if I'm honest."

Something in Shane's shoulders loosened. Barely.

"But I am a little offended you didn't tell me sooner," Hayden added. "We'll deal with that later."

Jackie reappeared from the hallway. She crossed the room in three long steps and lifted Amber from her swing, tucking her against her shoulder.

She stepped in close and laid Amber carefully against Shane's chest. Not into his arms. Directly against him.

"Hold her."

His hands came up automatically. One spread over her back. The other bracing her tiny side.

Amber made a soft little noise and tucked herself closer without hesitation. Warm. Solid. Alive against his sternum.

The contact hit him somewhere past thinking.

Jackie sat beside him, shoulder pressed to his, one hand sliding into his hair.

"Breathe," she said quietly. "Slow it down."

He tried. Failed halfway.

Her hand tightened once at the back of his head.

"Again."

He inhaled. Amber shifted with the motion, small body rising against his chest. He felt the tiny rhythm of her breathing through her onesie. Held it. Let it out slower.

"There you go," Jackie murmured. "Stay with that."

Neither phone stopped buzzing. Nobody looked at them.

Hayden dropped back onto the opposite couch, watching Shane with the look of someone revising eight years of memories at speed.

Then:

"So," he said. "Rose Landry."

A rough little laugh escaped Shane.

"Yeah."

"She just called it?"

Shane nodded weakly. "She just… said it."

“She sat you down and said ‘Shane Hollander you are gay'?” Hayden shook his head. "I like her more now."

That got another breath out of Shane. Closer to real this time.

Hayden leaned back.

"I don't like Rozanov."

"Yeah, I know — "

"I never have. He is an asshole. "

Jackie snorted softly beside him. "No one's forgotten."

Hayden pointed at her without looking away from Shane. "Thank you."

Then back to Shane, he said. "But if you're actually dating him, properly, then I guess he can't be completely terrible."

Then he smiled.

"Still. Slim pickings, huh? No nice men in Montreal?"

That finally did it.

A real laugh, brief and shaky, but there.

"There were," Shane muttered. "Didn't want any of them."

Jackie adjusted Amber higher on his chest, casual as breathing.

Hayden's phone buzzed again. He flipped it face-down.

"How long?"

Shane hesitated, 

"Since 2010. On and off." He swallowed, "Since last summer… not on and off."

Hayden stared.

"Shane. That's eight years."

"Yeah."

"That is longer than I've known Jackie."

Jackie made an offended noise. 

Hayden ignored her.

"Eight years?"

A helpless laugh slipped out of Shane.

Hayden shook his head slowly, then leaned forward and squeezed Shane's knee once, firm and brief.

"We'll deal with it."

Shane nodded.

Then his eyes dropped to his phone, still flashing on the cushion beside him.

He reached for it.

Missed the screen once.

Tried again.

His thumb found Lily's name and hovered there just a second before he pressed it.

Jackie's hand stayed in his hair.

He held on to Amber and waited for it to ring.

Boston, 7:20 p.m.

The TV in Ilya’s living room was loud enough to shake faintly through the floor and rattle the glassware in the kitchen every time something exploded onscreen, which in Fast & Furious was approximately every forty-five seconds.

At the moment, a sports car was drifting sideways through downtown traffic while an entire city block collapsed behind it in flames.

Marley, sprawled diagonally across Ilya’s sectional like a man who had been legally granted squatter’s rights, pointed at the screen with a spring roll halfway to his mouth.

“There is no fucking way that car survives that.”

Ilya barely looked up from his noodles, sunk into the corner cushion with one knee bent and the other foot kicked up on the coffee table. “It did not survive,” he said. “It exploded.”

“You know what I mean.”

“They should explode more things.”

“That’s the CTE talking, man.”

“This is from a person who likes these movies for same reason.”

“Wrong,” Marley said, shoving the spring roll into his mouth. “I like them because they’re cinema.”

“You like them because things catch fire.”

“That too.”

The first floor of Ilya’s house opened around them in sharp modern lines and warm low lighting, living room bleeding into kitchen, dark wood floors, too much glass, too much square footage, furniture expensive enough that most people probably sat weirdly straight on it.

Marley had never once treated any of it with respect.

He had one foot on the coffee table despite being told not to. His jacket was draped over a dining chair. His overnight bag sat abandoned by the stairs because neither of them had bothered pretending he would go home before they left for the club.

This was how it always went.

Practice ended, somebody said food, and then somehow they wound up at one of their houses for the rest of the night without ever formally deciding to.

Marley had his own place ten minutes away and still treated Ilya’s house like an extension of it. There were sneakers by the mudroom door that weren’t Ilya’s. A charger permanently plugged into the guest room upstairs. Half a dozen hoodies in the coat closet that belonged to Marley and had simply never left.

Ilya, in turn, had enough clothes at Marley’s place to survive there for a week. Neither of them acknowledged this arrangement because acknowledging it would require admitting they actually cared for eachother.

Onscreen, another car launched off something that was not remotely a ramp.

Marley made an appreciative noise.

Then leaned bodily across Ilya’s lap to steal fries off the coffee table despite having his own carton still half full.

“You have your own,” Ilya said, shoving at the side of his head.

“Yours are crispier.”

“They are same fries.”

“Theft improves flavor.”

He stayed halfway draped over Ilya even after taking them, shoulder wedged into his ribs, one leg thrown over both of Ilya’s shins like he had no concept whatsoever of personal space.

He never had.

Marley existed in physical contact with everyone he liked: arms over shoulders, knees pressed into thighs, shoving people just to make a point, hanging off teammates in locker rooms like a particularly loud golden retriever.

With Ilya, it had long since stopped registering.

Eventually Marley pushed himself up and headed into the kitchen carrying his empty takeout container and Ilya’s beer.

Not to throw it away.

To steal it.

“What are you doing,” Ilya asked.

“Making drinks.”

“We have reservation in two hours. We can drink there.”

Marley was already opening cabinets. “Pregaming is fun.”

“We are millionaire professional athletes in Boston. We can afford alcohol in club.”

“That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

Marley found the tequila and held it overhead in triumph. “You have no joy in your cold little heart.”

Ilya watched from the couch as Marley moved around the kitchen island like he owned the place, grabbing limes from the fridge and two glasses from the cabinet without asking.

“When we pregame,” Ilya said, “we get drunk too early.”

“No we don’t.”

“We do every time.”

“That is defamatory.”

“Last month you tried to fight a man in Celtics jersey because he said house music was dead.”

“He was wrong and disrespectful.”

“You were dancing on table to Pitbull by eleven.”

“That’s called range, baby.”

Marley returned with both drinks and, instead of taking the empty cushion at the opposite end of the couch, dropped directly beside Ilya hard enough to jostle him.

Then hooked an arm around the back of Ilya’s neck and hauled him sideways just enough to shove a glass into his hand.

“Drink, princess.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet your legs are open for me on your couch.”

“Move before I break your fucking nose.”

Marley grinned. “Knew you liked when I talked dirty.”

Ilya shoved him off.

Hard.

Marley only laughed and kicked his shin.

Pregaming with Marley always went the same way.

They’d get drunk too early.

Spend the entire night attached at the shoulder instead of making any real effort to flirt with anyone. Then devolve into standing at the bar talking shit about strangers and rating everyone’s outfits like two deeply judgmental babushkas.

It had mattered less lately.

Marley had gotten increasingly serious about that model from New York. The one he kept pretending was casual despite flying her in often enough for the team to openly mock him for it.

And Ilya…

His phone buzzed beside him on the couch.

He glanced down automatically.

Warmth settled low and immediate in his chest.

Private. Familiar.

He typed back before thinking.

Beside him, Marley narrowed his eyes instantly.

“You’re texting.”

“I have phone in hand, yes.”

“Is that Jane?”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re making the face.”

Ilya locked the screen and tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him. “There is no face.”

“There is absolutely a face.” Marley shifted closer, shoving his knee into Ilya’s thigh. “Every time Montreal Jane texts you, you look like somebody pet your hair and called you pretty.”

“I will kill you.”

“You are down catastrophic.”

“I am no,” Ilya said, “what stupid phrase is this?”

“You are whipped, dude.”

Ilya snorted into his drink. “You know nothing.”

“Oh my god.” Marley sat up straighter. “You like like her.”

“No comment.”

Marley slapped his arm hard enough to sting. “Holy shit.”

“Stop hitting me.”

“You text a girl be safe before going out with me. That’s boyfriend behavior.”

“Drink your stupid tequila.”

Marley laughed and immediately slung an arm back over Ilya’s shoulders, dragging him half into his side.

“You’re getting soft, Rozanov.”

“Only for you, baby.”

Marley clutched dramatically at his chest. “Don’t tempt me when I’m buzzed.”

Then both their phones buzzed.

Neither reacted.

Normal.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

Constant now.

Relentless.

Marley’s arm slid off Ilya’s shoulders.

Both of them straightened.

“What the fuck did you do?” Marley asked.

“Nothing.”

“That many notifications means somebody died or you got traded.”

Ilya was already reaching for his phone.

The screen lit up in a wall of alerts.

Unknown numbers.

Agent.

Management.

Teammates.

Three missed calls from Svetlana.

Eight texts.

His stomach dropped.

Fast.

Wrong.

Marley saw his face immediately.

“Roz?”

Ilya opened the first text from his agent:

And below it a link.

He clicked.

Ilya watched for barely a handful of seconds before something inside him seemed to short out. He made a sharp, disgusted sound low in his throat and slammed his phone face-down onto the coffee table hard enough that the wood cracked against the glass base beneath it and both drink glasses jumped.

“No.”

Marley straightened immediately from where he sat half-turned toward him on the couch, one arm still draped across the back cushions behind Ilya’s shoulders.

“What—”

His own phone buzzed again in his hand.

He frowned down at it.

Without waiting for an explanation, he clicked.

The room went strangely still around them except for the TV still blaring some pointless explosion in the background. Marley watched in silence, shoulders slowly coming forward, elbows braced on his knees now as the clip played out on his screen. Once. Then again, slower, his brow furrowing harder.

Then he lowered the phone.

Looked at Ilya.

And said, with the genuine awe of a man who had just learned deeply destabilizing information:

“I cannot believe you bagged Shane fucking Hollander.”

The anger vanished off Ilya’s face so fast it was almost visible.

He stared blankly.

“What?”

Marley looked up from his phone like he was the one confused by the question.

“I always suspected you swing both ways,” he said, as if this were obvious and entirely beside the point. “But damn, man. I did not expect you to seduce Canada’s golden boy. I thought the guy hated you.”

For a moment Ilya could only blink at him.

His pulse was still hammering from the shock of the video, from the violation of it, from the sick drop of panic in his stomach and somehow Marley’s reaction was so profoundly fucking stupid it cut clean through all of it.

“That,” Ilya said slowly, incredulously, “is your reaction?”

“Yes,” Marley snapped, gesturing with his phone. “My first reaction is that you somehow pulled Shane fucking Hollander. My second reaction is that we have much larger problems.”

Ilya stared. Marley stared back. Then his expression changed. His eyes narrowed.

Marley’s gaze flicked from Ilya’s face to the phone still lying face-down on the coffee table, then back again, and Ilya watched realization strike him in real time, slow at first, then all at once. His expression sharpened, eyes widening as the pieces rearranged themselves behind them.

“Oh, fuck.”

The words dropped like a stone into the room.

Ilya’s stomach turned over. “What?”

Marley lifted one hand and pointed at him with slow, dawning accusation, as if he could hardly believe what he was about to say.

“Montreal Jane.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Ilya shut his eyes for one brief, doomed second.

Marley made a strangled sound and surged upright off the couch so fast his knee clipped the edge of the coffee table. “No fucking way.”

“Do not start.”

But Marley was already moving, pacing a tight path between the sectional and the television, one hand buried in his hair, the other still gripping his phone as the implications crashed into him one by one.

“Montreal Jane is Shane Hollander?” he demanded.

Ilya said nothing, which was answer enough.

“You have been texting ‘Montreal Jane’ for years—”

“Be quiet.”

“Holy shit.” Marley spun on him, full-body affront radiating off him. “You told me she was some girl from Montreal!”

“He is from Montreal.”

“That is not the point!”

“It is technically not lie.”

“He is Montreal’s captain!”

Despite the panic chewing through his ribcage, despite the constant vibration of both their phones on every available surface, despite the fact that his life was detonating in front of him, Ilya nearly laughed.

The sound died before it fully formed because Marley stopped pacing, stopped joking, looked at him harder.

And whatever he saw on Ilya’s face wiped the amusement clean from his own.

“This is real,” Marley said quietly. Not teasing. Not asking.

Ilya’s jaw locked.

“Yes.”

Marley held his stare. “How real?”

Ilya looked away first, toward the dark windows stretching along the far wall of the living room, black glass reflecting the warm lamplight back at them. Outside was nothing but darkness and the vague shapes of bare trees moving in the wind. Inside, everything suddenly felt overlit, overexposed.

“We are together.”

Marley blinked.

“Together,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“A year.”

Marley narrowed his eyes instantly. “Come on, Rozy. I know it’s been way longer, how long really?.”

“Officially.”

His brows shot up. “No.”

Ilya stayed silent.

“No fucking way,” Marley said again, slower this time. “How long unofficially?”

Ilya dragged a hand back through his curls hard enough to pull at the roots.

“Since we were eighteen.”

Marley stared at him, then dropped back onto the couch beside him so abruptly the cushions bounced and their shoulders knocked together.

“You have been secretly fucking Shane Hollander for years?”

He looked at Ilya as though seeing him for the first time. Then, gradually, the disbelief faded. His eyes tracked over Ilya’s face, his rigid posture, the white-knuckled grip he had on the couch cushion beside his thigh, and understanding settled over him with visible weight.

“Oh,” Marley said softly.“This is bad-bad.”

Ilya laughed once, a short, hollow sound with no humor in it. “Yes.”

The whole first floor seemed to contract around them. The open-plan living room and kitchen now felt exposed. Too much glass. Too many sightlines. Too much empty dark beyond the windows. The movie still blared pointlessly from the television, some engine revving into an explosion that sounded absurdly far away.

Marley reached for the remote and muted it.

The sudden silence rang.

Then he turned fully toward Ilya on the couch, bracing one forearm along the back cushion behind him.

“Okay,” he said, voice level now. Steady. “Talk to me.”

Ilya stared down at the coffee table. At the wet ring his untouched drink had left on the glass. At his phone lying face-down beside it like if he did not pick it up none of this would become real.

“If this goes wrong,” he said at last, his voice rougher than he intended, “I lose everything.”

Marley frowned. “The team’s not gonna cut you for being—”

“It is not team I worry about.”

That stopped him cold.

Ilya swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.

“I am Russian citizen.”

Marley’s face changed immediately.

“Oh.”

“Yes.” Ilya laughed again, bitter this time. “If league wants issue, they make issue. If management wants distraction gone, they make excuse. If contract disappears—”

He tapped his chest once with two fingers.

“My visa disappears with it.”

Marley went still. “And Russia—”

“They have laws,” Ilya said flatly, the words clipped and cold from repetition in his own mind over years of private terror. “They decide visibility is problem whenever useful. They decide people like me are example whenever convenient.”

Silence stretched between them.

Long.

Heavy.

The fear inside him had nowhere left to go. It curdled into something colder, uglier.

“If hockey goes,” he said quietly, “where do I go?”

His laugh came out thin and sharp.

“If they send me back,” He spread one hand helplessly. “I go to prison.”

Marley stared at him for half a breath.

He shifted in close without a word, pressing thigh-to-thigh against him on the couch, shoulder knocking hard into Ilya’s as he crowded directly into his space the way he always did, except now it was careful. Deliberate. Grounding.

“You idiot,” Marley said softly.

Ilya blinked at him.

Marley reached up and caught the back of his neck, squeezing once. Firm enough to anchor.

“You should have told me.”

Something sharp caught in Ilya’s throat.

Marley held his gaze, hand still warm against his skin.

“Not because I give a shit that you’re bi,” he said. “I don’t care if you like dick, pussy, both, whatever. I care that you’ve apparently been in love with Shane fucking Hollander for your entire adult life and carried all this around alone like some tragic Russian novel.”

The breath that left Ilya hitched on the way out.

Marley’s hand stayed where it was.

Solid. Steady.

“You are not alone in this anymore,” he said. “Understand?”

Ilya swallowed and could not make words happen.

Then the next thought hit and he went cold all over.

“Shane.”

Marley’s grip tightened instantly. “What?”

“They followed him here.”

Everything in him seized.

“They can follow him in Montreal too—”

He lurched to his feet so fast the couch rocked beneath Marley. His body moved before thought did, panic surging through his limbs sharp and electric, driving him into motion. He paced once, twice, too fast, hands shaking.

“He gets distracted when upset, he stops paying attention, they will follow him again—”

“Roz.”

“They will corner him, they will hound him, they will—”

Marley was up immediately. He stepped into Ilya’s path and planted both hands hard on his shoulders before Ilya could turn again.

“ROZ.”

Ilya jerked against the hold. “Move.”

“No.”

“Move, Marley-”

“No, fuck you.”

Marley shoved him once, hard enough to halt his momentum but not enough to hurt, and stayed directly in front of him, blocking him in the narrow strip of floor between the couch and coffee table, forcing Ilya to stop moving or barrel straight through him.

“Call him,” Marley said.

The command cut clean through the spiral.

Yes.

Of course.

Ilya snatched for his phone.

And it lit in his hand.

Jane calling.

Both men froze.

Marley looked at the screen, then slowly up at Ilya.

“That,” he muttered, because apparently even now he could not help himself, “is still the gayest contact name in professional sports.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ilya answered immediately and lifted the phone to his ear with hands that still trembled.

“Shane.”

Shane exhaled so hard through the speaker it crackled.

“Oh, thank fuck.”

The relief hit like physical impact.

It slammed through Ilya’s chest so hard his knees nearly gave. His entire body folded around the sound instinctively, one hand bracing against the back of the couch, shoulders hunching inward around the phone as though he could physically shelter the call between them, head bowed like prayer.

“I am here,” he said, and heard the strain in his own voice.

“Are you okay?”

The question came too fast, too breathless, panic still bleeding through every syllable.

Ilya shut his eyes.

“No.”

There was a beat.

Then Shane let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, me neither.”

Across the room, Marley moved without interrupting. He went to the front windows and began pulling the curtains shut one by one, drawing heavy fabric across every pane of glass on the first floor. The front windows first. Then the dining area. Then the kitchen. Quiet. Efficient. Locking the world out while giving Ilya privacy without leaving him alone.

Ilya watched for half a second, then bent over and sat heavily on the edge of the couch because his legs no longer trusted themselves to hold him. His elbows braced against his knees. His free hand clamped hard around his own thigh to stop its shaking.

“Are you safe?” he asked.

“Yeah. At Hayden’s.”

Somewhere deep in his chest, something loosened by a fraction.

“They know?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

A pause.

Then Shane said, weakly, “They’re not exactly shocked.”

A rough breath escaped Ilya, almost laughter.

Marley glanced over from the windows at the sound, caught it, and lifted his brows. Ilya waved him off impatiently.

Shane continued, voice frayed around the edges.

“I kind of panic-came-out to them.”

“You what?”

“I panic-came-out,” Shane repeated, sounding embarrassed now beneath the panic. “More or less while actively losing my fucking mind.”

Ilya’s shoulders dropped an inch despite himself.

“You okay?”

He heard the stupidness of the question even as he asked it.

Shane laughed once without humor. “No.”

Marley returned then and sat beside him immediately, close enough their shoulders pressed. One knee knocked against Ilya’s and stayed there, deliberate contact, silent reassurance.

Ilya tightened his grip on the phone.

“They were outside my house,” he said. “In bushes. With camera.”

“Oh.”

“They followed you here.”

Silence.

Then Shane, very quietly:

“…Yeah.”

Fear threaded through that single word so clearly it made something vicious rise in Ilya’s chest.

He shut his eyes.

“They will not do it again.”

Shane let out a humorless breath. “You can’t promise that.

“No,” Ilya said, voice going flat and cold. “But I can make attempt.”

Beside him, Marley snorted.

Shane heard it. “Is Marleau there?”

Marley leaned in before Ilya could stop him. “Tell your boyfriend I’m emotionally devastated he hid this from me for, like, ten fucking years.”

There was stunned silence on the line.

Then Shane, horrified: “He knows about that part too?”

Marley barked a laugh. “Buddy, I know everything now. I’ve been here the entire time.”

“Oh my God.”

Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose. “Marley, shut the fuck up.”

“No.”

Shane made a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

And just like that, the air in the room eased.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But easier.

Breath by breath, Ilya felt Shane steadying through the line, and his own body followed without permission, his shoulders unclenching by degrees, his death grip loosening from his thigh, his heartbeat gradually lowering from panic to merely furious.

Eventually Shane said, quieter now, “I don’t know what happens next. I should call my mom.”

The words landed heavy.

Ilya stared at the dark television screen reflecting the room back at them.

Lawyers. Agents. Press. Statements. Russia. Sponsors. Management. Endless consequences already cascading toward them.

But Shane was waiting.

And beneath the words was something small and frightened and raw enough that every protective instinct in Ilya’s body surged awake.

“We deal with it,” he said.

A pause.

Then Shane, softer: “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Another beat.

Then Shane huffed a tiny laugh. “You sound like Hayden.”

“That is insulting.”

“It was affectionate.”

“Take it back.”

“No.”

Marley immediately cut in, “Tell him I’m hotter than Pike, too.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Marley says he is hotter than Pike.”

Shane laughed small but real.

“Tell Marley he looks like a vape with legs.”

Marley sat bolt upright. “FUCK YOU, HOLLANDER—”

That earned a full laugh from Shane, bright and sharp enough to hit Ilya straight in the chest.

He would have torn the world apart to keep hearing that sound.

He leaned back at last into the couch cushions, every muscle in his body abruptly aware of how tightly it had been clenched. Marley knocked his shoulder against Ilya’s and then slouched sideways until half his weight rested there, casual and heavy and unembarrassed.

Still here.

Still not leaving.

Shane’s voice softened again through the phone.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”.

Then, quiet enough, “I’m glad you picked up.”

Something warm and aching twisted low in Ilya’s chest.

Always too easily.

“I will always pick up.”

Silence.

Then Shane exhaled.

“I know.”

Marley gagged theatrically.

Ilya kicked him in the shin without looking.

He yelped loud enough to make Shane laugh again.

And with the phone warm against his ear, Marley pressed into his side, and the curtains drawn tight against the dark beyond the windows, Ilya sat there listening to Shane breathe and thought that the future could do whatever it wanted.

They would survive it anyway.