Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Irina Rozanova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Irina lives, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fake Marriage, inaccurate visa procedures

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Heated Rivalry AUs

Stats:

Published: 2025-11-28 Updated: 2026-01-05 Words: 12,481 Chapters: 2/3

Mama call me home the streetlights are coming on

Summary

“My mother needs me. If she comes home to my father–” Rozanov didn’t finish but the threat hung in the air. They’d had an unspoken agreement to avoid those heavy topics during their time together but now the weight seemed to creep in with smothering pressure they were both buckling under.

He’d have to sell the apartment and never again have to remember random hotel room numbers or see that flash of teeth Rozanov always gave him even around his mouth guard when he won a face-off. Montreal would dominate Boston without him. But what was the fucking point to say he was the best when there was no one around for him to beat?

“Marry me.”

Shane hadn’t realized he’d spoken until Rozanov’s head shot up in confusion as if he’d misheard Shane’s English.

Notes

Happy Heated Rivalry Eve! Hope everyone is as mentally unstable about this as I am!

To pass the time before the show is available, I'm finishing up so many drafts for a show which literally has not aired yet. Please ignore the absolute mess I've made of the timeline, just assume its in the middle of their 2015/16ish seasons but before Rose (spoiler for next chapter!). This is also not at all how the visa process works, just read for the vibes, not the accurate portrait of the impossible complexities of gaining citizenship. Also, this is only slightly edited because the show comes out in like ten minutes, so sorry for any subpar grammar.

I'm actually surprised there are not more Alive!Irina fics, so hopefully this sparks a few more!

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Proposal

When Shane first hears the distant sound of Rozanov's phone ringing, he could honestly say it was the last thing on his mind. That sort of happened when a 6’3 ripped man had Shane bent over the banister at a swanky hotel, railing him overlooking the same stadium that he trounced said man 2-1 in only a handful of hours previous. The high was probably more from the win than the sex, but Shane had been happy to have both.

That was also why he made a frankly embarrassing sound when Rozanov abruptly pulled out and the cool air rushed in to replace him.

“What the hell?” Shane demanded but Rozanov was back inside, throwing around their discarded clothes like a very large cartoon Tasmanian devil. “Rozanov!”

Rozanov, in a move that Shane realized was really out of character, ignored him. Instead the man tore into his discarded pants which he'd found tossed over the bar stool. There was a long moment where he just looked at the screen and then flipped the phone open.

“да?” Rozanov demanded, short and clipped. The rapid-fire Russian he went on to speak did something to Shane. He'd never thought of it as turning him on but then again, Rozanov brought out a lot of things in him, way too many of those things being sex-related.

Rozanov looked up after a moment, eyes resting on Shane who stood naked near the windows and clearly growing more self-conscious the longer the conversation went on.

When Shane realized Rozanov had no intention of hanging up, he sighed and went to find his underwear before grabbing a shower. If Rozanov had business to handle, Shane didn't want to hang around like a clingy girlfriend.

Just the thought had something swooping in his gut, weird and uncomfortable enough that he instead went to find the shower.

Rozanov had retreated to the swanky balcony when Shane came out with wet hair and went looking for where his own pants had landed.

His button-up was over the lamp and his pants were thrown over the fancy and very uncomfortable looking armchair. Unfortunately this brought him close enough to the opened door to hear the sharp and biting way Rozanov was speaking.

Shane knew the generalities of Rozanov's life. His father sometimes called for money, his brother was a prick, and he never talked about his mother.

That last point was mentioned only because as Shane tried to silently put one pant leg up his damp thigh he heard Rozanov's voice shift. It went from deep, grating, and angry to something soft and tender as he said “привет mama.”

Ilya Rozanov gone all gooey, a sight Shane never thought he'd see. He had half a mind to poke fun right as Rozanov's voice broke and his face tumbled into his knees and he broke in deep aching sobs.

Something in Shane jerked like he wasn't sure whether to run or throw the door open and comfort him. Those were not the cries of someone alright emotionally, especially as Rozanov seemed to be desperately trying to talk, though whether they were pleads or promises was lost on Shane.

The choice of running was taken from him when his belt slid from his damp hand and jangled on the composite flooring. Shane's desperate grasp was useless, Rozanov's head had shot up and they made awkward eye contact, Rozanov with puffy eyes and snot smeared under his nose and Shane with his pants around his ankles.

Rozanov said something else to whoever was on the other side of the phone. Shane could tell because his voice was back to being sharp and biting.

“How much did you hear?” Rozanov asked when he'd finally hung up.

“Not much.” Shane promised. “Besides, I don't speak Russian.”

“No. I suppose you don't.” Rozanov seemed to be somewhere else, head in the clouds.

Shane should pull his pants on and leave the room. It would be the smart move. So he instead walked over and sat down near to Rozanov on the couch which was just as uncomfortable as the arm chairs.

“What happened?” He asked and when Rozanov said nothing, he pressed. “Was it your mother?”

Rozanov's eyes shot up to him. “How did you…?”

“Mom is the same in most languages.” Shane said carefully, feeling that he was walking on eggshells which might at any time turn into razorblades.

“My…mother–she is…sick.” Rozanov settled on. “When I was young she had an–accident.”

Shane could almost feel the man vibrating next to him. He'd never seen Rozanov so thrown off.

“Is she not better by now?” Shane asked and could tell he'd struck a cord.

“No. She is not better by now.” He said and then seemed to be searching through his phone for something. “The place where she stays says they have no more room. I had wanted to bring her with me, but I could not. Not with my visa.”

“Sure, a work visa, but couldn't she visit?” Shane asked. He'd like to know the type of woman to raise a man like Ilya Rozanov.

“No. My father is her–” He said a complicated series of words in Russian then looked angry that he couldn't translate them. “One who signs the paperwork.”

“Like power of attorney? Or next of kin?” Shane tried and Rozanov nodded.

“He says no.” Rozanov growled. “Even with green card, I could not sponsor.”

“Do you see her when you go home?” Shane asked. He was almost hoping to get something more tangible about the man who, despite his outward personality, was always so insular. “Summer is coming up–”

“I’m going home to Russia.” Rozanov said suddenly.

“Oh, that’s good. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.” Shane said stupidly and it was only when he looked up at Rozanov’s face did he catch the true meaning of the words. “You’re coming back, though. Right?”

Rozanov looked away first and Shane had the distinct feeling of losing your footing over a free fall. His stomach swooped as Rozanov’s head fell into his hand and he ran an anxious hand through his curls. “Hollander…”

“You’re fucking leaving the NHL?” You’re leaving me? went unsaid. He didn’t know what else to say. Hockey was his whole world and for the first time since the start of his career, he had to think about the future without Rozanov in it and it was painfully empty. There were good players, but there was only one Ilya Rozanov and here he was saying he was giving it all up. “How could you…?”

“My mother needs me. If she comes home to my father–” Rozanov didn’t finish but the threat hung in the air. They’d had an unspoken agreement to avoid those heavy topics during their time together but now the weight seemed to creep in with smothering pressure they were both buckling under.

He’d have to sell the apartment and never again have to remember random hotel room numbers or see that flash of teeth Rozanov always gave him even around his mouth guard when he won a face-off. Montreal would dominate Boston without him. But what was the fucking point to say he was the best when there was no one around for him to beat?

“Marry me.”

Shane hadn’t realized he’d spoken until Rozanov’s head shot up in confusion as if he’d misheard Shane’s English. He almost took it back, but he hesitated too long and Rozanov said nothing, just looked at him with this deep searching look that caught Shane’s tongue and emboldened his mouth to repeat “Marry me. We could get your citizenship and then work on hers. You said a year?”

“No.” Rozanov said, quietly and with a jaw clenched so tight the skin looked white as bone. “No, you won’t do this for me.”

“Why not?” Shane demanded. Any anxiety faded the longer Rozanov didn’t laugh at him, instead it was like on the ice when Rozanov’s actions only pushed Shane to one-up him. “You think anyone in Russia is better than me?”

He knew there wasn’t. Shane tried to remain humble and there were so many amazing players on the ice right now, but he knew he was good, great even, and he knew with a certainty that Rozanov would hate the sport if he had to play in Russia. He said as much.

“You don’t know me, Hollander.” Rozanov hissed but he seemed uncertain in a way which set something alight in Shane. He looked like a kid all hunched over on himself, phone clutched between his palms.

“I don’t know you? Then who does know you, huh?” Shane almost taunted and that barb caught in Rozanov like a fishing hook through the thin skin of the mouth. “You’d be miserable and resentful and so fucking pent up, it just might kill you.”

Shane had only meant it to be hyperbolic, but the way Rozanov looked like he’d been slapped seemed to take all the wind out of Shane’s sails about as quickly as Rozanov was trying to build up a blank face. “Ilya, I didn’t mean–”

“I could get my mother here?”

Shane gave a half-stuttered “Oh, I think…” and then Rozanov nodded and took to his phone. Shane felt weird standing with his pants on the floor and dress shirt half buttoned up. The handful of minutes it took to hike up his pants and button his shirt, Rozanov had spent with his face lit up from his phone screen. When Shane fell to his knees to look for his missing left shoe under the stone coffee table, Rozanov must have moved because when he sat up, the other man was crouched on his heels right in front of him, looking deep into Shane's eyes. “You would marry me? Just to not play with mediocre people?”

“They're not mediocre!” Shane defended weakly. “Where did you even learn that word?”

“You're not marrying any of them.” Rozanov said slyly and the humor that had been sucked away by the phone call returned in full force. “You only like the best.” Then, almost affectionate, “Fame fucker.”

“I'm famous!” Shane defended but the anxiety of blurting out the craziest fucking idea had been replaced with a familiar exasperation. “Listen, it was a crazy idea, you don't have to–”

Rozanov cut him off, his eyes narrowed and his voice sharp when he demanded “I don't have to? You are sacrificing more than me.”

“Sacrifice is a strong word.” Shane muttered, finally standing so he wasn't in line with Rozanov's dick. That was not helping him with this conversation. “Not exactly got people lining up around the block and besides, it's only a few years to gain citizenship, right?”

“Sure.” Rozanov said. “But we'll be Canadians.” He gave a fake shudder and Shane rolled his eyes.

“You're welcome to find someone else to marry.” Shane huffed and then realized that he'd mentioned a girl once, a Russian like him and Shane felt a jolt of panic ripple through him. “I’m just saying…”

He didn't know what he was just saying.

Rozanov seemed to sober a bit, but there was a lightness to him now. “When do you want to celebrate our anniversary?”

“Why would that matter?” Shane asked.

“They ask these questions, Hollander. To make sure no fraud, the kind we are committing.” Rozanov leaned back, watching Shane like he expected him to jump out a window or make a break for the door. “So, anniversary.”

“What about the day we got signed?” Shane threw out.

“First day we fucked.” Rozanov countered, then, “First time Boston beat Voyageurs.”

“Fuck you.” Shane said, and it might as well have been wedding bells.

It hadn't sunk in what exactly he'd offered until the next morning when a thick envelope was handed to him by an express delivery man and requiring a signature. It was extensive, written in legalese he had to call his own lawyer to look over.

“It's thorough, I'll give him that. Most of the time parents are not eligible for visas of this kind, but he found something–here–to get around that.” She highlighted something on his screen which might as well have been in Russian for all he understood. “Marks her as asking political asylum. This might actually work.”

With that ringing endorsement, Shane ended the Zoom and called Rozanov.

“Got my love letter?” He laughed and his voice sounded tinny but happy. “I called the hospital, they can hold her release for six months but no longer.”

“Can't you grease some palms?” Shane questioned, still flicking through the papers.

“You want me to give handjobs to doctors?” Rozanov questioned.

“What? No! Like pay them off, have you not heard that phrase?” Shane hissed.

“No, Shane, I have not heard the phrase grease and palms because I am young and cool and sexy.” And he continued just like he knew he would with a “not boring and old like you. Besides, how do you think I got six months?”

“All the sexy handjobs, I expect.” Shane muttered as he flipped through the packet. Rozanov’s laugh was so loud Shane had to pull the phone away from his ear and when he brought it back, he realized he was smiling too.

After that it was mostly logistics. When would they next have time off or be in the same city? They'd need photos together and before this, they had avoided cameras like the plague.

“About our anniversary, what about the day we met?” Rozanov, he'd have to start calling him Ilya now, threw out. “Was nice day.”

“You made me feel like an idiot.” Shane countered.

“Would have happened without me.” Ilya argued. “That night in the gym?”

“No, I still had a girlfriend.” Shane ignored the smirk he knew the man would have. He felt embarrassed enough just knowing Ilya knew how conflicted he felt that night. “Don't say it.”

“Say what?” Ilya asked innocently. “First night we kissed.”

“Sure.” Shane said, ignoring the way his heart seemed to beat fast enough it pressed against his lungs. It was the only reason he was having trouble breathing.

Shane had never been stupid enough to think he was the only one in Rozanov's roster, but he was thrown off by how definitive the man was about the dates. Shane knew most of them, treasured them in a way as a series of firsts, but Rozanov seemed to have memorized details. It was strangely settling to not be the only one who seemed to want to do this–whatever this was–right.

“First date?” Shane asked.

“You spent the night, we had tuna melts and ginger ale.” Ilya said with a strange lilt in his voice. They'd done something like that a few months ago. They had eaten, but Shane hadn't stayed.

They hashed out other menial details and then settled on the week of All-Stars next month. They'd be in the same city for longer than a single night to make sure the paperwork went through and then have a little downtime to file it in his home city. From there, they'd pour money, quietly, into getting his mother papers.

Laid out all nice and neat on his schedule, it seemed as simple as practice, as routine as his plays.

“Hollander–” Rozanov called just when he was about to hang-up. “–Shane. Thank you.”

“You'd do the same.” He said and then felt weird. Maybe he wouldn't, and it was a stupid phrase anyway. “I just mean–”

“If you want to move to an oligarchy, let me know.” Ilya said but there was a tenderness to him now. Then, abruptly, he said. “You'll like my mother.”

“I'm sure I will.” Shane said but then realized that he would meet her, not just the nebulous idea of Romanov's mother. They'd be close for nearly two years for Ilya's passport and maybe more for sponsoring his mother.

His lawyer had been against it, vehemently, but when he'd explained more, that they'd been seeing each other for a few years, and about the way Ilya spoke of his mom, she went quiet, a little furrow in her brow, and stopped pushing for him to drop it. It didn't matter much to him, it wasn't like he had a whole lot of prospects lining up and even if he did, Shane had little doubt that Ilya would go celibate for years. They could have a schedule or something.

He ignored the way his stomach clenched. He needed another smoothie or something.

When the line disconnected, he was left alone with his thoughts and the dawning realization that he should probably tell his own parents before he brought Rozanov home for Christmas.

Still, it took a week to work up the courage and even then, he thought through all the excuses as he made the drive home. It was a long drive during the season, but he just knew he couldn't make it work over the phone.

“Shane!” His dad opened the door and Shane fell into his hug. By the time they walked into the kitchen, he was picking at his nails.

“What's wrong, baby?” His mom asked immediately and Shane's whole plan crumbled down around him. He made it through a stilted dinner before clearing his throat. His parents knew to give him time to work up to things.

“So you know Rozanov…” He asked and his mom scrunched up her nose. Not a good start. He could feel his palms start to sweat. “Well, so, we've been seeing each other around…” Obviously. “and one thing sort of led to another and he…and I…well we decided to get together. So, yeah.”

Shane liked his lips and looked up into his parent's shocked faces.

“Oh, and I'm like, I don't think I'm straight.” He added. He'd been so stressed about marrying Rozanov he'd forgotten that he hadn't even come out to his parents yet. He was going to throw up.

“Oh, Shane…” his mom cupped her mouth and before he could take it all back as a shitty early April Fool's prank, she had her arms around him and he realized he could let out the breath he'd not realized he was holding.

The night was filled with too many questions he wasn't sure he should answer. He gave them as close to the truth as he could, that they'd had moments of closeness in Juniors that had bloomed when they'd been signed and they'd been seeing each other sporadically until this deal with his mother meant they'd have to move their plans up a bit.

“But you're so young! Are you sure you want to marry him?”

That was the part she was stuck on, not that he might be marrying a man, but just who that man was. If he hadn't been lying through his teeth, he might have felt touched.

“Yeah, I think this is best for both of us.” Which was the truth.

“You should fly him out, we'd love to meet him.” His mom said softly. “Will you be waiting until summer to get married?”

“Uh, no. We were thinking in two weeks?” Shane said and then looked up when he got only silence. Both his parents looked at him like he'd grown a second head. “I told you, it's short notice and we need to get started on her work visa.”

“It's just…” His mom cleared her throat, a nervous tic he got from her, and then looked to his father. “We thought we'd, you know, be at your wedding. That's all.”

Shane froze. He, like an idiot, had completely forgotten that for them, this was their only son getting married. Shane knew it was a mild case of fraud to…what? Free a woman from under the thumb of her abusive husband? To help his not-so-friend with benefits? Shane didn't know, he just knew he was doing this and that he was speaking before he'd realized he'd opened his mouth. “We were planning on hosting a party once the paperwork went through.” They had said nothing of the like but it seemed like something he could do. “We just didn't know when that'd be so…”

“We can plan it!” His mother nodded. “I'll look at your schedules and get something on the books. What's Ilya's favorite food? Does he drink? How about deserts, does he want something Russian?”

Shane felt like it was out of the pan and into the fire. They'd gone over backstories but not eating habits. He guessed, “He likes tuna melts? He drinks and as for desserts, he eats anything sweet.”

That seemed about right from what he could remember but his mom's face scrunched up. “I'm not serving tuna melts to the team, Shane, we only have two bathrooms.”

“Oh, we’re not really telling the team…” He tried but the whole thing had spun out of his control. He just nodded and let his mother run to the home office to print out the Bear's schedule to compare to the Montreal version she already had tacked up on her fridge.

From his old bedroom, which his parents had transformed into a home gym with a bed in the middle, he called up Ilya.

“Is this booty call?” Ilya answered with. “Unfortunately for you, I am in the locker room.”

“My mom is planning a reception for us.” Shane pulled off the bandage. “She was all sad about not being there so I said we could do something and now she's comparing schedules.”

“You told your parents?” Ilya said and Shane's heart seemed to jump into his throat.

“Should I not have?” Shane asked. He guessed he could have said nothing but they were his parents and thinking about it now, he wondered if Ilya had wanted no one to know. “I figured I should tell them. Did you not want anyone to know?”

“They can know.” Ilya said suddenly.

“Alright…” Shane drawled. Ilya was being weird. “If you want anyone to know, we can talk about it. I don’t think I want my team to know, you know how they talk in the locker room.”

“Yes.” Ilya said. Marriage had only been completely legalized in the States for just under a year and even in a country where it had been legal since 2005, Shane was painfully aware of how cruel men could be when they were drunk and felt surrounded by friends.

The call didn’t last much longer, it couldn’t considering Ilya had a game in about half an hour, but right as they were about to disconnect Shane stopped him with a “Wait! What’s your favorite food?”

“What?” Even over the phone Shane could imagine the way Ilya’s brows would scrunch up in confusion.

“My mom asked. I didn’t know what to say.” Shane defended. “It’s not that important but I just thought it would be good to know.” Shane felt himself getting more defensive. “I can lie I just thought it would be better to ask–”

“Solyanka. It’s soup, sour but filling.” Then, as if it was being pulled out of him, “My mother used to make it for me.”

Shane had him spell it as he dutifully entered it into his notes before searching it up. “No wonder you like it, it has like a hundred different kinds of meat.”

“You’d know about only liking meat.” Ilya laughed and Shane sighed. “And onions. Mama adds onions.”

“A gay joke, really original.” Shane laughed so Ilya knew they were both in on the joke. “You’ll have to have her make it for me.”

“Yes, I will.” Ilya said and even with only his voice, Shane could feel the bright little spark of excitement, like knowing a puppy was wagging its tail from the sound of displaced air. “What is your favorite food?”

Shane paused. The first thought was his diet now, but saying his kale smoothies would be disingenuous. “My mom makes this dish with rice noodles and a soy broth. She’d always make it when I was sick.”

“I should try.” Ilya said, voice drowned out with the sound of more players surrounding him. “I must go. Good night.”

“Good night.” Shane echoed.

Any worry or uncertainty about this arrangement faded at those words. It was a bit drastic to marry his rival, but no one would know except those closest to him and he’d help Rozanov, a man who was impossibly annoying but also a good person when he wasn’t playing up the role he’d been given. Shane sat in his room, call ended, but flicked through some recipes which had populated under his search. It wouldn’t hurt to practice, maybe to impress his in-law when she got here.

Shane pushed down the squirming that thought brought up and sent to ask his mom where he could buy a kielbasa.

Chapter 2: The Wedding

Chapter Notes

Listen, I HATE this chapter. Like, it's been written for over three months and I hate reading it, looking at, thinking about it, but so many people have left such lovely, wonderful comments that I feel like it's a waste to let it sit here gathering dust.

Please enjoy but for this particular chapter, if you could avoid leaving an criticisms, that would be much apricated!

“I tried solyanka.” Shane opened with over the divider where Ilya was leaning against the boards. “The one I made was bland but I got some from this little Russian store near Old Port, but she didn’t use onions.”

Shane didn’t know exactly why he felt the need to tell Ilya this, except for the fact that he’d liked it and spent more time than he's like to admit in the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with an old woman named Alyona who spent nearly his whole lunch teaching him how to correctly pronounce the dishes on the menu. They’d worked their way into naming ingredients right around the time she got another customer, an inconvenience both for his language learning but also because calling the place a restaurant ignores that it was really just a kitchen with three chairs shoved along the windows, meaning the place was packed with only two customers.

Rozanov looked down on him with his eyebrows furrowed. “You made?”

“Well, I tried. Mom said the leftovers congealed somehow, so I’m going to keep practicing. Alyona, the cook, she said she’d help me.” He laughed and then looked around to make sure no one was listening in. Worse than teenage girls, hockey players when they thought there might be gossip. “I thought it would be nice to cook something for your mom when she gets here.” Looking at the way Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly, Shane leaned back and his smile died. “Sorry, if you don’t think she’d like that, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“You just need everyone to like you all the time, Hollander.” Rozanov hissed, glancing down to test the grip of his stick. Shane flinched.

That had been what lots of people said but Shane had always thought it was a good thing. He tried hard and was rewarded, but when Ilya said it like that, it sounded like a bad thing. Shane leaned back to put some space between them. People were starting to look this way; rarely did they have civil conversations in public that lasted this long. He stood and grabbed his kit. Best to give their audience what they wanted. “Yeah, should I do what you do? Antagonize everyone so that the whole league hates me?”

“Would make you less boring.” Rozanov said, not taking his eyes from the ice. Shane laughed and rolled his eyes. He didn’t have to take this.

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” Shane said, standing, and for good measure, stepping down so he was leaning in close so he made sure he was heard, “I don’t know what the fuck is up with you today, but I know I’m not the reason so stop taking it out on me. I’m just trying to help, remember?”

Shane leaned back and realized Ilya had looked at him, finally. There was a sheen to his eyes and the way he clenched his jaw was familiar, Shane had seen it when he’d been on the phone with his mother.

Probably a real fiance would stay and talk out whatever shitty attitude Ilya was in, but Shane was a fake fiance so he turned and went to find a seat next to J.J. and Hayden down the boards.

Ilya texted that night, just a room number. Shane gathered up all the paperwork his lawyer had sent over and made his way through the halls. They were incredibly busy and more than once he had to walk right past the room because there was another player down the hall. Finally, after ducking into the nook housing the ice machine for the third time, the hall was empty enough that he could bang on the door. Ilya opened it immediately, yanking him in.

“What are you, super spy? You being followed?” Ilya smiled. “Did you hide behind ice machine?”

“Were you watching through the peep hole?” Shane asked. He wanted to stay mad, to keep his anger, but the Ilya before him was looser and more settled and looked less like he might burst into tears.

“Peep hole?” Ilya asked. “Sounds dirty.”

“I know you know those words, you’ve used them before, you’re just embarrassed you were waiting at the door. Like a puppy.” Shane laughed when Ilya frowned. “I’ve got the paperwork, I figure we get these sorted–”

“We should get married.”

“We are?” Shane hefted the paperwork.

“No, here.” Ilya threw himself down onto the couch to grab his phone, turning it around to show his screen. Shane leaned in to see what looked to be a small white chapel with a cardboard Elvis propped up against its doors.

“Since when does Nashville have roll up chapels?” Shane asked, then realized what Ilya had said. “Since when did you want an actual ceremony? I thought you just wanted to file the paperwork.”

“Good photos. For parents and government officials.” Ilya said, scrolling through the photos. “Also only two miles away.”

“I mean…sure, if that’s what you want?” Shane said. “Was this why you were being such an ass today? A chapel?”

“Mama is against this plan.” Ilya said softly, not looking up but touching the cross he wore. It had been hers, Shane knew. Without saying a thing, Shane tossed the files onto the table and lifted Ilya’s long legs to open up a seat on the couch. Like the asshole he was, Ilya kept his legs extended and even tried to shove one under Shane’s shirt.

“Fuck off, your feet are cold!” Shane grabbed them and held them, placing them in his lap instead. “Don’t avoid the question. Your mom doesn't want to immigrate?"

“She thinks she will ruin my life. Said she will not burden me, or you.” He said softly. “I will try again.”

“Well, I could talk to her.” He said and then, “I mean, I only really know the Russian words for vegetables so maybe I’d need a translator, but if she thinks I’m going into this without thinking it through, I could put her fears to rest. Besides, I’ve been told I’m very boring, so maybe that means she’ll trust me more.”

Shane had said it like a joke and with a smile but Ilya was just looking at him with this heavy expression, head resting on his hand along the back of the couch.

“She speaks some English. She wanted to go to college.” He said and those words alone painted a picture. Shane realized he was rubbing the arch of Ilya’s foot, soft and repetitive. “I told her you’re надежный.”

“That’s not a vegetable so I don’t know what that means.” Shane hummed, leaning his head onto his own hand so they were both leaning onto the back of the couch. “I hope it’s a good thing.”

“It is.” He said. “You want to go commit fraud?”

“The one we already planned or a new fraud?” Shane asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe both.” Ilya said, finally pulling his feet out of Shane’s lap. “Let’s go get married by Elvis.”

There really was an Elvis impersonator who laid out the cost and how they could upgrade to a better bundle with balloons. “No, I think we're good.”

“Don’t be cheap, this is my big day.” Ilya hissed and Shane handed over his credit card.

Shane had expected some pushback from the chapel considering they were two men, but the man with the wig and costume seemed surprisingly accepting. “Alright, got your names and where you’d like the documents sent. We do require two witnesses, though they can be off the street. I have you booked for the next hour, let me know when you want to get started.” He stood and fixed his wig which had tilted forward when he was typing their information into a brick of a computer. “I’ll get started on those balloons.”

“Shit, I forgot witnesses!” Shane muttered. The only people in this state he knew also knew nothing about this and Shane wanted to keep it that way.

“I will find some. Go help Elvis with balloons.” Ilya pushed him up and towards the back room.

Shane did help with some of the balloons. The silence at the start was really awkward but the impersonator seemed excited even though it was almost one in the morning. “You must be famous or something, to want the private package. Glad to see you’re still going through with it, you seem like a nice couple.”

Shane smiled and brought another balloon to his mouth to avoid talking. Ilya burst in sometime later, and with a crooked smile announced, “Many witnesses!”

Shane shoved past him, peeking through the swinging doors at the handful of people shuffling in. “What the hell did you do?”

“Found gay club down the street. Many very drunk people who know nothing about sports wanting to support gay marriage.” Ilya stood there waiting for praise, flush from apparently running.

“You sure they don’t know who we are?” Shane folded his hands in his lap and picked a bit at his nails. “All it would take is one photo…”

“I told them we are from conservative place, no one can know. And they are so drunk we could fuck in front of them and they might not notice.” Ilya argued, gesturing to one man who had fallen asleep over one of the flower arrangements.

Shane and Ilya were wearing their press conference suits but Ilya had gotten a stupid new bow tie Shane had to straighten out. When they finally came out, Shane was shaking but the whole chapel cheered like they were at a concert venue. There were no phones being raised but a lot of glitter sloshing off people and up into the air when they threw up their hands. The only camera was the one bored looking teen employed by the chapel clicking a button every few seconds.

The vows were short and sweet, good considering Shane just had to stand there staring at Ilya in a pose which felt too reminiscent of a face-off for comfort. He almost felt like a puck was going to drop and Ilya would tackle him to get it. As if seeing where his mind went, Ilya winked, which drew out Shane’s smile.

“We come here today to bring together these two in matrimony.” Elvis said, masterfully avoiding their names. “Would you like to say anything?”

Shane looked at him in shock. He hadn’t prepared anything and his already racing heart seemed to pound double-time. To his surprise, Ilya pulled out a piece of paper bearing the hotel logo, probably ripped out but to have prepared something–

“Jane,” He started and Shane rolled his eyes but it did get a laugh out of him. “I have many things to thank you for. You are very good at losing to me, I like that. But you fuck like a champion–” The group cheered and Shane buried his face in his hands to avoid their eyes. His whole face felt hot. “You are kind. Steady and safe. Also, thank you for Canadian citizenship, I would hate being American.” This also got a cheer but at this point Shane figured most of them didn’t know what Ilya was even saying. As if tacking something on, he huffed, “So, we thank you.”

Shane just watched him fold the paper back up and tuck it away. With the heavy lights, Shane could see there was more written on the sheet. Elvis piped up before he could ask about it. “Anything you want to say?”

“You are unbelievable, you just want to win at vows too!” Shane accused and Ilya smirked crookedly. Shane straightened then it was just a matter of outperforming Ilya Rozamov, a skill he’d nearly perfected. “So many things had to go right for us to end up here today. When we met that first time, I thought we might be rivals, but now I can say we are so much more.” The crowd cheered and Ilya seemed like someone hit him over the head. He was winning, so he continued. “You always push me in all parts of my life, I think of this as one more push, one I’m excited to see through with you and your mother.”

Shane winked and Ilya’s face squinted a bit and it looked like he was biting his lip. Shane didn’t think his speech was that bad! The crowd of six was standing now, leaning on each other and making vaguely congratulatory sounds.

“You may now kiss.” Elivs interrupted and Shane looked back at Ilya as the man took his face in his hands and they kissed.

Something in him jumped, maybe his stomach from the way he felt like he might throw up. There were people watching, people who knew they were together in some capacity. They watched them kiss and they cheered, and something in Shane unwound enough for his own hands to find their way around Ilya’s neck. His fingertips found Ilya’s pulse frantically beating under his warm, slightly clammy skin. It was grounding to know that even the mighty Rozanov was not immune to nerves.

Strangely, he felt a bit bereft when Ilya pulled back and their gathered gay crowd swarmed them, smacking them on the back and someone even called “I’m so happy for Tilly and whatever the fuck their name was!”

A few couples dragged them out the doors and down the street to what Shane realized was a gay bar the moment he walked in and there was softcore porn playing on various screens over the bar. One person, thin as a stick and covered in glitter and what looked like lipstick marks, bought them drinks and word soon spread enough that Ilya tossed his Gold card down and announced to an already sloshed crowd that, “I am taken now, sad for you all! To make feel better, next round on me!”

The whole bar cheered and the bartender, an ambiguous person with a nametag which just said ‘Rowen,’ just smiled as they rang up drinks and offered a heartfelt, “Congrats!”

By three drinks, Shane felt the world start to go hazy. He was a lightweight and he’d been trying to cut which meant the lunch he’d had was doing him no favors in soaking up the liquor. He ended up in a booth surrounded by a drag queen in a massive wig and two girls who seemed to be fused together; Shane hadn’t seen them part all night. On his other side was what Shane thought of when someone said ‘twink’ with a choppy bob and mesh shirt which cut off above his nipples. Shane felt his already red cheeks get warmer. Over the last ten minutes, the man had already nearly climbed into Shane’s lap and if he moved over any more, Shane’d be sitting on top of the drag queen.

“Here.” A clear glass swung in front of his face. He tilted his head back to see a sweaty Ilya. He’d left his jacket and belt with Shane in the booth. Shamefully, he realized he'd been clutching them to his chest. “Move.”

Shane realized Ilya was talking to the other man who shifted over reluctantly but shot Ilya the same looks as he gave Shane. “You left him alone, sweet thing like him needed some company.”

“Drink.” Ilya pushed and shot the other man a sharp look. Shane didn’t like being talked about while he was sitting right there but his tongue was thick in his mouth and so dry it felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Vodka?” He asked as he reached out to take it. Ilya instead brought it to his mouth like he was a child. He could feel the eyes of people on him and tried to push back.

“Water. Drink.” Ilya demanded and he did just to get it over with. Once he finished the glass, Ilya pushed the others out of the booth. “Time for bed.”

“I wanna call my parents.” Shane said instead. The wedding had been, strangely, nice and he wanted to tell them about it.

“In the cab.” Ilya countered and Shane nodded, letting his head sink to rest on Ilya’s collarbone. When the numbers swam behind his eyes, he thrust it into Ilya’s face to find the number. “Is late. Almost four here.”

“Mom's up.” Shane waved his phone and then, like one defusing a bomb, clicked the call button. When it connected, Shane called out a soft, “Mom!”

“Shane, honey, what are you doing up so early? You have a game in a few hours!” She chided.

“We got married in an Elvis chapel. There were balloons.” Shane said, taking the phone and putting it back to his ear. “It was nice and then we went out for drinks.”

“Till four in the morning? Shane, you're in the middle of the season!” She said sharply and he looked over to where Ilya was sitting, poorly concealing that he was listening in. “Is that what Rozanov wanted?”

“I thought it would be nice. And it's my big day.” He said shyly and Ilya looked over at him, the slightest raising of his lip that he got the joke. He mom huffed and seemed ready to start on another hockey related rant when Shane broke in. “It was only a few drinks, the competition's not till seven tonight, and we're the best players there. I'll be fine.”

“Well you're right about the best player.” She said, then sighed again, this time the one he got when she got all weepy about him growing up. “Alright. I'm glad you had fun. I love you. And I want to see pictures!”

“Sure, mom.” He said. The only photos had been taken by the chapel's own photographer and Ilya had gotten the memory card when they'd finished. It wouldn't be much, just enough for the citizenship hearing. And apparently his mom. “Love you.”

“Watch your backhand!” She reminded him before they hung up.

“That went well.” Ilya muttered.

“My mom didn't rant at me for over-drinking during the season, we got off lucky.” Shane huffed. His buzz was waning. “Just wait until we get closer to the Cup, she gets worse.”

“Good to know, but you are not touching the Cup.” He said.

“Fuck you, our team is stronger this year than Boston.” Shane huffed. “Come talk to me when your left and right know which is which.”

That got a smile out of Ilya. When they finally got back to the hotel it was almost morning and it would be more conspicuous if he walked back to his shared room still covered in body glitter. At least that was what he told himself when he crashed on Ilya's bed in the room he'd bought to avoid rooming with others.

Shane showered first, pushing Ilya out. If he came in it would just mean showering twice. Instead he finished quickly and tossed himself onto the mattress. His head was fuzzy with exhaustion and alcohol and he was drifting in and out when he realized he could hear the deep drag of Ilya's Russian. It had to be his mom, he never sounded so young as when he was talking to her.

He fell asleep with the sound echoing in his ears like a lullaby. When he woke up the next morning it was late, he could tell from the slant of light. When he turned his head, Shane froze. Ilya was asleep beside him, hand shoved up under his cheek and body plastered along Shane’s. Even with the heat making him sticky, Shane just blinked a few times to clear the sand from his eyes and laid there a bit longer.

Eventually the thick taste of his own mouth was too much and Shane tried to slide out from under Ilya without waking him. It didn’t work and he sat up with a groan. “What died in my mouth?”

“Whatever died in mine.” Shane commiserated. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

“No, use mine.”

“Gross, no.” Shane grumbled but the film over his teeth was causing uncomfortable tension ripple along his spine, the same sense of wrongness like when he wrapped his stick too many times or put his shoes on the wrong side of his cubby. He wanted it gone. When he finally cracked and examined the single toothbrush, annoyed he hadn’t grabbed his own bag last night, he talked to distract himself. “What did your mom say?”

“You heard that?” Ilya asked. He was naked, leaning against the doorway and watching Shane the way one watched animals move around the zoo. “I told her more about you. Sent her some photos. Got her to sign.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Shane said through toothpaste, then he saw Ilya’s face. “Right?”

“Oh, yes.” He said, shaking himself out of whatever stupor he’d slipped into. “We go tomorrow to embassy?”

“Sure, what time is your flight?” They exchanged times and settled on where to meet when Ilya’s later flight came in. It was strange to be standing in front of Rozanov with his dick out deciding when they’d see each other again. It was unlike the schedule they'd had in the past and Shane tried hard not to be thrown off by it. He cleaned the toothbrush and sent off a text to his attorney to have the paperwork drawn up so that they could get the paperwork processed in time for their interview before they had to get back on the road. Shane had three days before he needed to be in Tampa and Ilya was heading to Chicago in two. “Alright, that’s set. Sorry our wedding is going to end with you losing to me in the speed skate.”

“I will win. You are too stiff.”

For a minute Shane felt a flash of shame, thinking about all the times he’d had to hide a limp Ilya had fucked into him, but he realized quickly that wasn’t what he was talking about this time. Trying to avoid giving away his emotions though his expressions, Shane counted back, realizing for the first time that they hadn’t fucked. The carefully planned routine was in shambles and something clenched in his gut. He looked up to say–something–when he realized Ilya was leaning over the sink with his toothbrush in his mouth.

“Jesus, Ilya, that’s disgusting!” Shane hissed.

“I put my tongue in your ass.” Ilya muttered through the froth of toothpaste. “But this too much for you? Really?”

“That’s different!” Shane argued but Ilya just hummed, moving forward, mouth still white with suds, still naked, caging Shane in against the marble counter. It was cold through his dark briefs.

“More different than my dick in your mouth?” Ilya questioned, eyes falling to where his dick was hard against Shane’s thigh.

He left an hour later, ignoring the way his schedule now included five minutes to brush his teeth again.

Ilya won the speed skate but Shane swept nearly every other competition he was in including accuracy. In his rush to get to the airport, he didn't get to see Ilya off and felt disconcerted through the whole flight.

Shane ordered a car from a local company while waiting in the airport bar and by the time that Ilya’s flight landed, he wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for three days straight. Instead, Shane drove him to his apartment on autopilot. It was only when he’d pulled in did he realize Ilya had gone still besides him.

“We can shower here, get ready for the meeting with the Immigration officers?” He explained, but Ilya’s eyes were focused on the door. “We can go to the other apartment, but my lawyer mentioned they sometimes ask about where we live and since you’ve never been here..”

“Stop talking, Hollander.” Ilya muttered and shoved him out of the way, walking right into his apartment. “Where is your room?”

“What?” Shane asked, having to take off his shoes and carefully put them into their spot in the closet. “Up the stairs, on the right?”

Ilya was gone, shoes loud on the stairs. Shane followed him, startled when Ilya called out, “Just like I thought!”

Shane picked up the pace, thinking about all of the horrible possibilities Ilya could have found in only a few seconds. The largest, no pun intended, was in the back of his nightstand in a tasteful box and Shane would rather face the whole Boston team alone on the ice than have Ilya find that.

But when Shane turned the corner, Ilya was just standing in the middle of the room, looking around as if his bedspread and blue walls were some wild modern art exhibit. “What are you yelling about?”

“I knew it.” He said, cocky and smiling. “Your bedroom is boring like you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious.” Shane huffed. “There’s a shower down the hall and–where are you going?”

Ilya ignored him, pulling off his shirt and pants, leaving them in piles on his way to the ensuite. Shane had a complaint rise up in his throat but it was silenced when Ilya turned and made a little crooking gesture with his finger. Shane followed. But he folded his clothes on the bed because he wasn’t a heathen.

Ilya laughed, pushing Shane back into the grey tile of his bathroom before he sank to his knees and took Shane’s cock into his mouth. The smooth glide was nice, the heat of it familiar. “Shower, Hollander, don’t want to be late.” Ilya murmured into his hip. Shane grabbed at the handle.

“Fuck!” Both of them jumped apart when ice cold water rained down on them. Shane yanked the handle the other way and it warmed up quickly. He turned to say something but Ilya was laughing, yanking on Shane’s hips until he could get his lips back around his cock. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Wrong question.” Ilya huffed between deep sucks. “What do you want getting into you?”

“Fuck.” Shane sighed.

“That’s one option, yes.” Ilya hummed and Shane didn’t last much longer.

Shane couldn’t help it, the moment Ilya stood with another stupid fucking zinger already coming out of his mouth, Shane had shoved him up agasint the glass and fell to his knees to return the favor.

They made it to the meeting with only a handful of minutes to spare and a tight look already on their lawyers’ faces. The meeting was mediated, a rarity they're told and only because of the difficult situation. Shane tried to keep up, but he could see them leaving him in the dust as they worked through logistics and signed more papers than he'd seen since he signed his hockey contract.

Ilya was worse off. His English had gotten so much better but even he seemed like he thought they were talking in tongues. It was only when the Russian started flying that Ilya leaned forward, speaking quickly.

Shane hadn't thought of Ilya as a quiet man, but seeing him here, speaking quickly, confidently and with a smoothness he didn't seem to have in English, Shane wondered how often he felt unable to express himself. Somewhere in the middle of a heated debate with one of the consulate members, Shane opened up his calendar and moved around his schedule, allowing for an hour every other day. It wouldn’t be much, but he'd look into language tools or tutoring. It would only be polite to try and speak with Ilya and his mother in a language they preferred. Ilya's raised voice brought him out of his planning spiral.

He was almost standing now, frantic and pleading. The consulate seemed shaken, and the conversation was rerouted by Ilya's lawyer into something less loud.

Finally, the man sighed and signed something which had both his lawyer and Ilya's relaxing in their seats.

“Good news?” Shane asked and his lawyer nodded, snatching the paper up and tucking it away seemingly before they could change their mind.

“Yes, expedited filing and a visa for the spring.” His lawyer smiled at them both. “As the sponsor, you will be in charge of most of it, especially as Ilya's citizenship is not yet settled. We will need to fill out resident paperwork soon too. I know you mentioned a new property?”

“New property?” Ilya asked and Shane felt himself blush a bit.

“I thought I might buy a house, a little ways outside of Montreal? I figure your mom might not want to be in the middle of the busy city in a high-rise.” Shane explained and then felt stupid so he back-tracked. “But maybe she would? It was a stupid idea anyways.”

“No, it’s nice. Nice idea. A house for us.” Ilya said and something in Shane’s stomach did a weird flip.

The interview was not long after and if he thought he was stressed before, sitting in a waiting room filled with posters warning about the punishments for doing what they were about to do was not helping. Ilya had finally slammed his hand down on Shane’s knee to stop it from jumping but it just meant the other one started up when Shane wasn’t thinking about it.

“Is fine, Hollander. We know each other, fucking relax.” Ilya huffed but he was also biting his cheek like he did when he was nervous so Shane couldn’t trust a word he said. By the time they called them back, they were a wreck. Without thinking, Shane grabbed Ilya’s hand, presumably to peel it off his thigh, but someone moved and then their hands were interlaced.

No one said a thing and Shane just followed the man who led them into a nondescript office with a woman wearing big wire-rim glasses and watching them with a mild smile. “Hello, Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov. Should we get started?”

“Sure, sure.” Ilya sat and Shane followed. Their hands were getting sweaty between them, but Shane held on like a lifeline, calming only once Ilya gave a big squeeze.

“Alright, first off I need you, Mr. Hollander, to sign an undertaking. This just means you promise to provide for your spouse for three years. It also says here you have a special visa from the consulate.” She looked up with a sharp look. “These mean you will be financially responsible for both spouse and his mother for three years. Do you understand?”

“I am millionaire hockey player.” Ilya huffed then jerked a thumb at Shane. “He is in many underwear ads, we will be fine.”

“Still, I need it in writing.” She smiled but there was a little line of tension around her eyes. Shane could feel the dampness of his hands and wanted to whip them on his pants, yet Ilya seemed unwilling to let him go. Shane signed one-handed. “Alright, I have your IMM 1283 here, and we are filing under Conjugal Class because Mr. Rozanov currently plans on not receding in Canada?”

“We play nation-wide, his contract still has years on it, it’s not like he can up and move right away and I know it says in the file–” Shane tried to point at where it had to have explained about Irina but the woman simply smiled stiffly and nodded, typing something into her computer.

“For this class we need proof of cohabitation or marriage-like situations for at least twelve months. Do you have that?” She asked like she didn’t expect them to and that annoyed Shane. The fear of doing something wrong was quickly being subsumed by the anger. Did she not think Shane could bag someone like Ilya Rozanov? It wasn’t hard!

“We have text messages.” Shane held out his phone. “Going back nearly six years. We haven't been able to stay in one place together for long, but that is much more than twelve months.”

They’d deleted the more incriminating ones but had, embarrassingly, been advised by their lawyers to keep many of the more sexual ones. Something about proving a relationship and avoiding looking too squeaky clean. According to them, if there was nothing nasty, that just meant you hadn’t gone digging deep enough. She scrolled, seeing a few of their rather explicit exchanges and then clearing her throat and typing something into her computer.

“What do you think she’s typing?” Ilya whispered and Shane dug the heel of his dress shoe into his foot. It didn’t stop him from muttering “Should we show her the pictures?”

“Shut up!” Shane hissed and when she looked back with a glare, Shane tried to smile. “Sorry…”

I have your LoE, Letter of Explanation. I see there are some spectacular circumstances to this marriage.” She leaned forward, pen in hand. “That wouldn't have anything to do with this hasty marriage, would it?”

Shane gaped, but Ilya seemed angry.

“Do you know us?” He asked and she seemed surprised about his anger. “Yes, you know who we are. You know what people say. You know what I give up to do this. What Shane will have to deal with. And you ask this?”

“Mr. Rozanov…” The representative tried to deescalate the situation but the Russian cat was out of the bag. “I only meant that your rivalry has been well documented for half a decade and yet the moment your mother, who if she were any other candidate would have failed the required medical exam, needs to get out of Russia you walk in with someone willing to put his career on the line to help you. Do you not find that convenient?”

Ilya leaned back and huffed. “You’re a Montreal fan, I see.”

“It’s not that!” She defended and then looked over where an incriminating bobblehead sat up on a shelf. She shoved it away and laughed. “Alright, let’s just move to the questions. How’d you two meet?”

“You should know, being such big fan.” Ilya said and Shane smacked him in the ribs.

“We met when we were seventeen, a scramble in Regina.” Shane said. When she looked over at him, he stuttered out, “It wasn’t anything serious for a while, but–”

“Beating him is like foreplay.” Ilya hummed and Shane wanted to bury his head into his hands or maybe sink into the floor.

“Alright. Hobbies?”

“Hockey.” Shane said right as Ilya said “Orgasms.”

Shane glared at him but he just shrugged. “She asked hobbies. Hockey is job.”

“Fuck, I swear he’s not like this all the time.” Shane promised but from the way her face was all scrunched up, he wasn’t sure how convincing he was.

“Tell me about your wedding.” She tried again.

“Elvis did it.” Ilya said and Shane leaned his head down and muttered “Jesus Christ.”

“It was a little chapel outside Nashville. We were down there for the All-Stars.” Shane explained, reaching for his phones to pull up the photos. “It was a little spur of the moment. We knew we were going to get married, but Ilya wanted to be dramatic.”

“I brought in whole gay club to watch. Was really very beautiful.” Ilya faked wiping away a tear. “I won at the vows.”

“You can’t win at vows.” Shane argued and then, “Especially because mine were so much better. You nearly cried!”

“Liar, Russians do not do this.” Ilya turned and they both realized the woman was watching them with a new light in her eyes, hand hovering over the screen where one of the photos sat, of them smiling at each other. “Other questions?”

“Final one.” She said. The suspicious tilt to her head was gone. Instead she watched them now like they’d grown second heads. “You are going to be separated for most of the year, caring for a woman who needs round the clock care, and presumably hiding this from the media who have only pushed the narrative that you are embittered rivals. How do you plan on making this marriage successful?”

Shane had some media trained answer pressed behind his teeth, overthinking how it might come out sounding canned, when Ilya leaned forward, placing a solid hand on Shane’s thigh.

“Have you watched his games? Shane always has plan, never one to leave things to chance. We will succeed because Shane refuses to fail.” Ilya explained. Shane cut in.

“Ilya keeps me grounded. I can get too in my head and he helps get me out of it.” Shane was looking at Ilya, it was why he caught the way the other man’s eyes flashed over to him and then away. “Does that answer your question?”

“It was actually more what you think your strengths are, but yeah, that works.” She made a note in the file and then leaned back in her chair. “I can not confirm or deny the status, but I wish you both the best of luck.”

She smiled then and it was tender and thoughtful.

“We were amazing.” Ilya said right after the door shut. “Won the interview.”

“Yeah, add that to the list of accomplishments.” Shane huffed. “And you can’t win an immigration interview!”

“What do you call that?” Ilya gestured and then there was a heat in his eyes and Shane knew they should probably leave.

It was two weeks before they heard anything and another two before Ilya had the time to fly out and visit the properties Shane had been thinking of buying. He had a list from his realtor and while he’d sent that list to Ilya, the other man had just sent back an upside-down smiley face emoji Shane didn’t know what to do with.

“Not the third or seventh one. Too brutalist. My mother is escaping Russian, she doesn't need to be reminded of home.” Ilya said the moment he tossed his duffle into Shane’s backseat and jumped into his car. They were in a back parking lot of the airport and the moment his ass touched the seat, Ilya was gesturing to his car. “Are you too poor for good taste now? What the fuck are you driving?”

“It’s economical!” Shane argued, patting the dash of his Suberu. “And it’s good on snow.”

“God, you’re boring.” Ilya moaned. “Drive on, Mr. Landlord, show me all your houses.”

Ilya was more demanding than a gold-digging housewife. Shane would have told him it too if the man wouldn’t have just found it funny. The moment Shane typed in the code to the first house, a nice two-story just outside of Montreal with a massive yard and a pool, Ilya made a gagging sound. “No, who puts wood on walls? What the fuck, Hollander?”

The second and fourth were nixed too, one too large and the other two small. Five was tossed because apparently it had ‘bad energy’ but when Shane asked all Ilya could say was “You trust Slavs to know when to leave some place.” They took a break to get coffee from a drive-though which was an experience. Shane hadn’t known you could get that many shots of creamer in a coffee and still call it a coffee, but Ilya sure tried. Lunch was from a nice Mediterranean place which they were forced to eat in his car.

“Fucking relax, Hollander, I won’t get sause in your car,” Ilya promised before he took a bite of his gyro and the yougart sauce splattered down his shirt.

It was when they finally made it to the sixth option, Shane was ready to open the door, give Ilya a peek and call the day a lost cause, but Ilya seemed charmed by the squat little cottage on a thawing lake. It was the oldest on the list by almost two decades and it showed in the worn wooden railings and scuffed floors.

“This the one you like?” Shane asked. He did like the view. The plot came with a waterfront, a bit like his cottage, but it also extended to a treeline along the right side of the house. The left had neighbors but behind a massive ten foot privacy fence and a shrub wall. “It’s got a great view.”

“I like this one.” Ilya said softly. “You could put a piano here.”

He was standing directly under a skylight where afternoon sun was still streaming in and illuminating him like one of those Renaissance paintings. Shane asked softly, “She plays?”

“Yes. She was professional before she married my father.” Ilya explained and Shane didn’t move for fear of disrupting the moment. It didn’t seem to matter, Ilya was too lost in memories. “She traveled all over the country. She’d hoped to attend college here.”

“She must be good.” Shane said softly and then nearly pinched himself at the way the open expression he wore seemed to snap closed.

“Was good. She has not played since I was a child.” Ilya shoved both his hands in his pockets to tell Shane he was done talking.

Shane, never one to let things go, couldn’t help but say, “I’ll get one. Just in case.”

Shane bought the house. His realtor looked at him like he was crazy. It was nothing like any of his past purchases and when he brought in a stylist, every board they mocked up felt wrong. The house sat empty for almost a month while Shane dove head first into the play-offs and when Montreal was knocked out only a few games short of the Cup, he took comfort in having something to focus on that was not the way Boston had trounced them to do it.

It also distracted from the way Ilya was acting. He was cold on the ice, cold in a way he’d never been before and which did a lot to throw him off his game. When Shane eventually made his way up to the hotel room, Ilya was on him before the door had closed. Their fucking had been fast and dirty and Ilya had spoken in breathless Russian the whole time.

Shane had been face down with a hand on the back of his neck, drooling into the sheets and the stuttering string of Russian only wound him up more. He recognized only one word, his name and all its variations sprinkled in and it set something off in him until he was cumming across the pillow he’d shoved under his hips. Ilya came too, gripping his hip so tightly Shane still had finger shaped bruises to poke at when he flew home.

With nothing to focus on and Ilya still neck deep in a run at the Cup, Shane fired the third stylists who kept suggesting to tear out all the natural wood floors for some expensive Parisian tile. Instead, he pulled out the paperwork and found the number to Irina’s hospital and waited with his computer opened up to Google Translate.

“I was hoping to speak to Irina Rozanov?” Shane tried and then in stilted Russian which had the receptionist laughing until they transferred him. The line rang until it clicked and then there was a deep voice, quiet and deeply familiar in its cadence.

“Что?” The woman had to be Irina, especially when she followed it up with, “Илюшенька, это ты?”

Shane knew a few of those words and he started in English while also looking over what he’d already looked up online. He felt his voice shake a bit. “Hello, Irina? I’m Shane Hollander.”

Then he froze. What did he say, ‘I’m your son’s fake gay husband’ or something like ‘your son and I have been fuck-buddies for years, so don’t worry!’ Instead he settled on, “I’m friends with your son.”

“Friends? From what my son tells me, more than friends.” She hummed and Shane felt his face grow warm even though she couldn’t see him. “Why you call?”

“Oh, well…” Shane’s voice wobbled a bit and instead of looking at the planned spiel, he spouted out, “I was wanting to buy some things for the house, like furniture things, and wanted your input, because you’ll be living here, obviously. But I, like, didn’t know if you liked leather or like, velvet or certain colors or something.”

Shane closed his eyes and wished he had a pillow nearby to smother himself with. He was just about to hang-up and pretend he hadn’t just made a terrible first impression when the line cracked with what Shane took a moment to realize was soft laughter. Her deep voice lightened when she spoke again.

“Alright Shane Hollander,” She chided and Shane realized she said his name the same way her son did. It was strange to feel the shiver of knowing Ilya had talked about him with her. “I like the color with the brown and green. The color of Ilyushenka’s eyes. The sky color on warm day. That help?”

“Yes, that helps.” Shane said softly, then because it seemed like he was physically unable to shut his own mouth, he said, “Ilya mentioned you played piano. Would you want one?”

The line was silent. He thought about filling it, but if Ilya had taught him anything, it was to sometimes let things settle. Irina eventually sighed. “I have not played in years.”

“Seems like a good time to pick it back up.” Shane said softly. “Seeing as your English is already so good, there won’t be much more for you to do.”

“Flatterer. Son told me that.” Irina said softly and Shane wondered in what context they talked about him like that. “My English very bad, but enough to teach Ilyushenka. Always struggled with the Rs.”

“Maybe you could teach me some Russian? I’ve been trying to learn but the letters always get me all confused.” Shane confessed.

“Alright.” She said, “I will pull my weight.”

“You’re just like your son!” Shane laughed a bit, at how they both had the same inflection and were able to put the same emphasis on those words. “You being here means the world to him and he means a lot to me, so that’s you pulling your weight.”

Irina didn’t say much after that, mostly just monosyllabic answers to questions about what sort of mattress she’d like (small, she argued, so Shane wrote down King-size), food she’d want stocked (whatever he’s eating which Shane knew if she was like her son, she’d hate), and what activities he could stock the house with (puzzels, she’d admitted and Shane mentioned she’d get along with his dad which had made her go quiet).

“Good night, Shane Hollander.”

“Good night, Irina.” Shane said softly and when the call disconnected, he realized he’d been talking for over an hour. As he looked up furniture options, he felt himself settle a bit. Strangely, Ilya’s mother had the same no-nonsense attitude as her son which made talking to him so easy. The weight he’d been carrying around about cohabitating with a stranger had faded.

Ilya’s citizenship was approved and right in time for the Bears to be tossed out of the playoffs by the Admirals. Ilya bought a one-way ticket up to Ottawa to take the Civics test and to meet Shane’s parents, one of which made Shane want to bury his head into the sand, and it was not even the one involving fraud.

At least Ilya looked as nervous as Shane was when he picked him up. “This test has got you rattled? You studied the flashcards, right?”

“Test? A breeze, I know all the English.” Ilya muttered but his hand was shaking on his knee.

“Why are you nervous then?” Shane asked as he merged back into traffic.

“Not nervous, you nervous.”

“I am.” Shane admitted and then his mind caught up to the conversation. “Wait. Are you scared to meet my parents?”

“I wrestled bears back in Russian. I don’t get scared.” Ilya argued but didn’t meet his eyes.

“They’ve had time to adjust, I’m sure they’re fine.”

They were not fine.

Mom was friendly in the way a manager was to a rival star and his dad seemed on edge, questioning every move he made like he might stumble his way into a hate crime by offering Ilya lemonade. They’d met at a swanky hotel restaurant in a back room and he almost wished it were public just so that he could have something else to focus on other than Ilya drinking three glasses of water to give himself something to do.

“This is weird.” Shane said when the food was finally delivered. “Why are you all so weird?”

“It’s just a bit of a change honey.” His mom smiled but it was tense. “That wasn’t exactly what we planned.”

“Well I planned this for myself.” Shane argued, not looking up where he was chasing a pea around his plate. His mom reached out and placed her hand over his which finally got him to look up.

“If this is what you want, this is what we want.” She said fiercely. Then, as if to prove this, she took Ilya’s hand between her palms. “I can’t promise I’ll be rooting for Boston, but David’s right. Welcome to the Hollander family.”

Ilya's face was pale and he nodded softly, his hand clenching once on his mother’s. As if that was all she needed, she nodded once and gave his hand a pat before asking, “Have you ever sponsored cologne?"

“That’s her way of bonding.” Shane promised while they were waiting for the valet to come back with their car. It had just crested the hill when Shane’s phone rang. “It’s the immigration office.”

Ilya went still next to him, their breath heavy when he answered.

“We got it.”

Something broke in Ilya, and he hunched over like a puppet with its strings cut. Shane reached out and ran a hand down his arm, as he asked as many questions as he'd written out in the spreadsheet he’d made. Ilya was just looking at the sunset, and Shane realized he was crying right as his lawyer said, “–on a flight out in March.”

“March.” Shane said softly.

“March.” Ilya repeated, reverent.