Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Related, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Gets Outed, Ilya Rozanov outs himself, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Pining, Love Confessions, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Possessive Sex, 2017 MLH All-Star Weekend in Tampa Bay (Game Changers), Pining Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Idiots in Love, Cheating, but not on each other!!

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-03 Words: 8,649 Chapters: 1/1

Run Your Mouth

Summary

Shane’s eyes narrowed at the weak excuse. “So you randomly decided to announce your bisexuality the day after pictures of me kissing a man hit the internet.”

Ilya felt a surge of irrational jealousy and shoved it away. “Was not random. I just said that I did it because I had gay FOMO. Keep up, Hollander.”

Shane let out a strangled sound of disapproval and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Rozanov. Please tell me that you didn’t…that you didn’t out yourself for me.”

 

OR: Nothing ever happens between Shane and Ilya at the CCM shoot. After the 2017 All Star Game, Ilya’s unchecked obsession gets a little out of hand.

OR OR: In 2017, Shane gets outed. Ilya takes matters into his own hands.

Notes

inspired by this tweet about there not being enough fics about Ilya cheating on his gf with Shane. I felt called to join the cause <3

title from Run Your Mouth by The Marías 💋

January 2017 - Tampa Bay

On the night that Ilya Rozanov played on a line with Shane Hollander for the first time, he nearly drank himself into a coma.

It had been a great All Star Game - probably the best Ilya had ever participated in. It was the first time in their seven year careers that the notorious rivals played on the same team, and no one was surprised by the outcome. The Eastern Conference handily defeated the West, scoring 5 goals to their 3.

Hollander, who’d been voted captain by the fans, centered Ilya, and he’d pretended to be outraged about playing wing. In reality, Ilya was thrilled to finally play on a line with someone that could keep up with him.

It was exhilarating playing with Hollander. He was always exactly where Ilya needed him, sliding gracefully into position like he could read his mind. They moved in sync, like they’d been running plays together for years instead of less than 24 hours.

And Hollander was a vision on the ice. Now that Ilya was playing with him instead of against him, he saw Hollander’s game in a whole new light. His ‘rival’ was fast and effortless on the ice, moving with a fluidity that seemed out of place in their rough, bloody sport. He was sharp and focused but never out of touch, always perceptive to the dynamics of the other players. He made plays when he could, but he wasn’t selfish with the puck. He wasn’t flashy with his own goal celebrations, but he always made sure to recognize the hard work of his teammates with words of encouragement and helmet taps.

Ilya wished the game would go for 10 periods. He never wanted it to end.

Playing with Hollander filled him with an excitement for hockey that he hadn’t felt in years, maybe since he was drafted. He felt like a teenager again, unburdened from the weight of the world's expectations, simply enjoying the game he loved.

After an assist from Ilya resulted in a characteristically impressive Hollander goal, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. Ilya launched himself at the Montreal captain and planted a wet kiss on his visor. He was surprised and more than a little pleased when Hollander smiled and wrapped one arm around Ilya, pulling him into an awkward half-hug that had no business making Ilya’s pulse race the way it did.

“Great goal,” Ilya grinned, pulling away reluctantly.

“Great pass,” Hollander said, flashing him a bashful smile. The way he flushed pink under his pretty freckles was a greater reward than every All Star win combined.

It was a perfect day, really. Being in such close proximity to Shane Hollander, practicing with him and playing with him and laughing with him, had given Ilya things he’d never even known he wanted. Had made him hungry for attention that he’d never allowed himself to crave. By the end of the festivities, Ilya was ravenous, desperate to make Hollander smile and blush and glare at him in disapproval with those beautiful, expressive eyes.

And that was a big fucking problem. Because Ilya Rozanov had a girlfriend, and so did Shane Hollander.

Ilya met Alicia a week after the pictures of Hollander and Rose Landry had started to circulate online, and they’d made their relationship official a month later.

It was all a bit fast, but Alicia was funny and beautiful and understanding of his crazy schedule. And Ilya had never been known for his rational decision making.

Clearly.

Because it was also not rational that in the near decade they’d known one another, he’d never been able to squash his obsession with Shane Hollander.

His inability to do so was now coming back to haunt him.

Ilya’s crush (a stupid, childish, accurate term) on Hollander had been at a controlled smolder since they’d met in that parking lot in Saskatchewan, but after the All-Star Game it turned into a full on wildfire. A force of nature.

Ilya had to be careful, lest he burn his whole life to the ground.

He told himself it was essential to stay away from Hollander at that night’s after party, a tame affair at the hotel’s outdoor bar. Ilya lasted approximately 30 minutes before engaging, at which point he was already tipsy from the 3 shots of tequila he’d knocked back in an attempt to distract himself.

All it did was make his tongue a little too loose. When the star defenseman from Columbus that had been half-occupying Ilya’s attention left to call his kids, Ilya folded immediately.

“Captain!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled in Hollander’s direction. He was leaning against the bar, sipping the beer he’d just ordered. “Come keep me company! Since we are both sad and alone this evening.”

Hollander rolled his eyes but obliged, joining Ilya at the small high top. Their arms were close but not touching, and Ilya had never been so aware of two inches of space. “You were just talking to Wozniak. I literally saw you.”

Because he was stupid and self-destructive, Ilya closed the distance and knocked their elbows together. His skin tingled from the contact. “Ah, so you were looking for me.”

Hollander scoffed. “I wasn’t-“

“Tell me something, Captain,” he interrupted, leaning in close. Close enough to count those infuriating freckles.

“Stop calling me that,” Hollander grumbled, but a smile tugged at his lips.

“Why are you here alone?” Ilya turned to look at him. “Rose Landry did not want to spend the weekend listening to 45 sweaty hockey players fanboy over her? I am sure they are all obsessed. Even my girlfriend loves her movies.”

He didn’t know if this last statement was true, but he said it in a desperate bid for accountability. If he couldn’t stop himself from flirting, he would rely on Hollander to keep him in line. He was dating Rose Landry, and now he knew Ilya had a girlfriend. The MLH’s golden boy would save Ilya from himself.

“We actually…” Hollander stared down at his beer bottle, avoiding eye contact. “We broke up a few weeks ago.”

Oh, no. This was not good. This was bad for Ilya’s tenuous self control. He needed to remove himself from this conversation right now.

“She’s great but, we’re just not, uh…” Hollander brought his gaze to Ilya’s. “…compatible, I guess.”

When his eyes flitted down to Ilya’s lips, he felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. The other man’s intense gaze was fuel for his delusions, dangerous kindling for the desire raging inside him.

“Pity,” Ilya choked out, feeling parched all of a sudden. He reached for his drink, but the half-melted ice cubes did nothing to quench his thirst.

Hollander threw back his head and laughed, exposing the column of his neck. Ilya was losing his mind. Ilya wanted to bite him. Ilya wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole before he did something that he’d regret. “Fuck you, Rozanov. You’re supposed to be nice when people go through a breakup.”

“I can be very nice, Hollander,” he said automatically, then wanted to gnaw his own tongue off.

Hollander’s eyes glinted as he rose to the bait. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

Say you need to go to bed. Say you have to call your girlfriend. Make some excuse and get the hell out of here.

“Next drink is on me, then.”

Ilya was so incredibly fucked.

•••

Hollander nursed two beers throughout the night, but Ilya did not pace himself accordingly. Meaning that the Montreal captain had to deal with a very drunk Boston captain by the time the bartender announced last call.

Ilya had continued drinking to keep himself busy, to avoid thinking too hard about what he’d rather be doing with his hands and mouth.

He’d lost count of the drinks at some point in the night.

When it was time to exit the bar, Ilya had semi-coherently told Hollander to leave him behind, mumbling that he could sleep in one of the booths in the hotel’s dining area. Neither Hollander nor the hotel staff were very receptive to that idea.

Which is how Ilya ended up slumped against Shane Hollander’s side, leaning on him as they made their way to Ilya’s room like they were in the world’s slowest three-legged race.

This was maybe the worst case scenario. Because now Ilya was close enough to feel the heat from Hollander’s body. Close enough to bask in his smell, a heady mix of citrus and pine and something muskier underneath.

Ilya breathed through his mouth and attempted to cling to his last shred of sanity.

Hollander was quiet as they made their way to the elevators. He didn’t seem mad, exactly, just single-minded and focused on the task at hand. There was a small crease between his eyebrows, the same one he always got when bent over the face-off circle.

Ilya was so busy admiring Hollander’s profile that he almost didn’t hear his question.

“What room are you in?” He asked, dragging Ilya out of the elevator and onto the 14th floor. Their eyes met, and Ilya’s stomach flipped.

“Wow. Very forward, Hollander. At least buy me dinner first.” His attempt at joking was hindered by the way he slurred the words.

Hollander flicked the side of his head, making Ilya yelp. “Shut up and pick up your feet. You’re going to trip and take us both down.”

“Bossy,” Ilya muttered, even as heat spiked low in his stomach.

“Practical,” he fired back bitchily, which only made the heat spread.

Room 1410 was fast approaching, and Ilya couldn’t stop himself from running his mouth one final time.

“If I did not have a girlfriend I would probably try to kiss you,” he announced, voice too loud in the quiet hallway. “You are annoyingly pretty, Shane Hollander, and I am a very weak man.”

Hollander attempted to shush him, but he was fighting a smile. “You’re drunk.”

“Drunk people are very truthful,” Ilya slurred.

“And very heavy.”

“Do not body shame me,” Ilya pouted. “I am sensitive.”

Hollander smiled then, glancing at Ilya with eyes that were much too warm. “My apologies, Rozanov.”

“Oh no,” Ilya groaned. “Oh no no no.” He clapped a hand over his eyes to block the other man from his vision.

“Rozanov, what’s wrong?” Hollander laughed, trying to pry Ilya’s hand from his face. “C’mon, we’re so close to your room.”

Ilya dropped his hand with a sigh. “Stop looking at me with your big doe eyes, Hollander,” he begged. “I am a taken man, for crying out loud.”

He had the audacity to look confused. “I’m not doing anything, Rozanov.”

Ilya sighed again. “That is the problem. Doing nothing but existing, and still you are perfect.” He gestured at Hollander’s white blazer with his free hand, the one he’d worn all night despite the heat. “Even that terrible blazer cannot ruin you for me.”

“It’s a normal blazer,” he argued, his bottom lip sticking out. “My stylist picked it out.”

“It is terrible. Fire your stylist immediately.”

“Whatever, you absolute menace.” Hollander brought them to a stop in front of Ilya’s door. “We’re here. Get your keycard out.”

In his rush to obey, Ilya nearly toppled over. Hollander steadied him with a hand on his lower back, and the touch made Ilya far too bold.

“Goodnight kiss?” He asked, right as the green light lit up and the door unlocked with a soft click. “For the road?”

Hollander laughed and pushed him gently into the room. “Drink some water, Rozanov. And brush your teeth. You reek of tequila.”

“Yes, captain,” Ilya purred, trying not to feel pathetically disappointed about the lack of a kiss.

Ilya had just turned on unsteady legs to shut the door when a voice called out from down the hallway.

“Hey Roz!” Hollander grinned at him. Then he brought one hand up to his lips and blew Ilya a kiss.

Ilya’s knees went weak, and he nearly collapsed on the spot, but he recovered enough to snatch the imaginary kiss out of the air. He heard Hollander laugh before disappearing into the waiting elevator.

Ilya ducked into his room, but not before he pressed the kiss to his chest, right above his racing heart.

Yeah, he was definitely fucked.

June 2017 - Las Vegas

Ilya was not accustomed to feeling nervous under the pulsing lights of a nightclub, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

He scowled at the rainbow banner hanging above the bar, the one that read “Scott Hunter Night” in block letters, and considered leaving for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Ilya Rozanov, publicly showing support for Scott Hunter? Did you lose a bet or something?”

Ilya knew that voice. Sometimes he dreamed about that voice, a fact he would take to his grave.

“Ughh, it is so embarrassing,” he sighed, trying to play it cool as Shane Hollander joined him at a table, much like that night in Tampa Bay. “I misread the invite. Thought this was a retirement party.”

“Asshole,” Hollander said, but it sounded fond. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “Your better half didn’t want to come and run interference tonight?” He joked. “Keep you from causing a scene?”

Ilya laughed, but his heart-rate spiked at Hollander’s mention of his girlfriend. “Alicia is busy. Some work event in New York.” He took a swig of his beer as he gave Shane a once over, lingering on his lips for a beat too long. “You look good, by the way.”

Hollander raised his eyebrows, and alarm bells clanged in Ilya’s head. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Not quite so obviously, at least.

“I mean..better. Not injured,” he spluttered. “That was a terrible way to end your season. Marley still feels terrible about that hit.”

Hollander shrugged, like the fact that he’d been carried off the ice on a spinal board was merely an inconvenience and not the subject of Ilya’s recurring nightmares. “It sucked, but it’s part of the game. Sling came off last week, so I’m officially in the clear.” He shot Ilya a look from the corner of his eye. “It was nice of you to reach out, though.”

Ilya stifled the fond smile that threatened to surface. “I am a nice guy, Hollander.”

“When you want to be,” he allowed, running his index finger over the lip of his beer bottle. Then he turned to Ilya, his expression suddenly serious.

“Hey,” Hollander said earnestly, like he wasn’t always commanding Ilya’s full attention. “I wanted to say…I’m sorry about your father.” A low buzz started to build in his skull, but it cut off abruptly when Hollander laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “I wasn’t sure if I should say something at the time. I know we’re not really…friends or anything. But I’m sorry, Rozanov.”

“I am not.” Ilya surprised himself with the honesty. It felt good to admit out loud. “But thank you. I appreciate it, friend.” He smiled, laying his hand on top of Hollander’s.

“Of course,” the other man murmured. He didn’t pull his hand away. 

Too late, Ilya realized that touching him was a mistake. The feeling of Hollander’s skin opened a skylight in Ilya’s chest, letting in all the light and warmth that he’d been trying to keep at bay.

The moment stretched and tightened like a rubber band. The tension took Ilya’s breath away.

Hollander was the one to snap the moment, because he was a better and stronger man. He pulled his hand out from under Ilya’s and leaned over to grab a drink from a nearby tray.

Ilya inhaled a steadying breath as the other man turned back to face him.

“I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here, Hollander,” he mused.

He’d meant it as a throwaway remark about Hollander’s buttoned-up reputation and notorious disdain for parties, not as a comment on his sexuality.

But Hollander seemed to take it that way. He stiffened immediately, putting subtle distance between them, and Ilya’s heart dropped into his ass.

“Are you?” He smiled ruefully, taking a long swig of his beer. “Based on the way people talk, I don’t think that’s the popular opinion.”

“Who talks about you?” Ilya demanded, the outrage in his voice surprising them both.

Hollander blinked. “Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” Ilya hadn’t, not really. He never entertained gossip about the Montreal captain. “People in the league. People on the internet. The press.”

“Fuck the internet,” Ilya scoffed. “Fuck the press.”

Hollander’s lips twitched. “No ‘fuck the league’?”

Ilya laughed, and some of the tension left his body. “That is implied. Obviously.”

Hollander snorted. “Obviously.” He hesitated, his eyes darting to Ilya’s face before dropping away. He studied the sticky tabletop with interest. “People suck, but..they’re not wrong about this.” He sucked in a breath and straightened his shoulders, raising his gaze to Ilya’s. “About me.”

Ilya nearly choked on his sip of lager. He thought his ears must be failing him, because it sounded like Shane Hollander just came out to him in the middle of a crowded bar. A crowded gay bar. Where they were gathered for Scott Hunter Night.

“Oh,” Ilya said sagely, once he was sure he wouldn’t spit beer all over Hollander. “Oh.”

And then, once he realized that the other man might have a panic attack if he left it at that, he rushed to add, “You just can’t let Scott Hunter have one thing, can you Hollander?”

He laughed, loud and abrupt, and Ilya couldn’t help but join him. Because it was Hollander’s real laugh, the one he so rarely gifted to others. The accompanying smile lit up his whole face, and Ilya’s heart did something medically concerning in his chest. “You’re right. I should wait a few months before I say anything. Let him have the spotlight for a while,” Hollander joked.

Ilya leaned in close, making sure no one would overhear. “You are planning to come out?” He asked, careful to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Not yet.” Hollander bit his bottom lip. “But…one day. Maybe soon.” He nodded, like he was gathering his courage. Ilya’s heart ached for him. “For a long time, I thought it didn’t matter. I just wanted to play hockey, you know? That’s all I’ve ever wanted. But after years of watching everyone else build these amazing lives outside of hockey, I think I’m finally realizing that…I should be allowed to want more. To want more than hockey for myself.” Shane looked up at Ilya with big, wet eyes, and he barely suppressed the urge to pull him into a crushing hug.

“Everyone else always seems so…free. Free to be who they are, to do what they want, to live how they want to live. I don’t know what that feels like.” Shane shrugged, small and exhausted, like he was tired of shouldering the weight of the world’s expectations. Ilya knew the feeling. “I’ve been living like I owe the world an apology. For being me. For existing. I don’t want to live that way anymore. I want to stop being sorry.”

Ilya was fairly certain that his jaw was on the ground. He had no clue how to handle this unexpected vulnerability from the most stoic player in the league.

“Whoa, I’m sorry,” Shane blinked, immediately contradicting his resolution. “That was a lot, I didn’t mean to-“

“No more sorrys, remember?” Ilya gently reminded him, laying a grounding hand on his shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Hollander. The rest of the world should be sorry. Sorry that they are not you.” Ilya paused. “It is very impressive to be second best hockey player in the whole league.”

“Fuck off,” Shane huffed, shrugging off Ilya’s hand. He was smiling, though. “I probably never would have considered…coming out, if not for Scott Hunter.” He said the words slowly, like he was practicing them. “That’s why I wanted to show up tonight. To express my gratitude, I guess. He’s brave. Braver than I ever could be.”

Ilya was so busy trying not to make a snide remark about Scott Hunter that he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Shane nudged Ilya with his shoulder, breaking the heavy silence. “I am surprised that you’re here, though.”

Ilya scoffed, feigning outrage. “You thought I was homophobe? Because I am Russian? That is very problematic, Hollander.”

“Because you’re an asshole,” he retorted, but the insult held no heat.

Ilya hummed, tipping his beer in Shane’s direction. “When I want to be.”

He clinked his glass against Ilya’s. “Touché.”

Shane seemed ready to let the conversation go, but Ilya felt the need to say something else. Something to make it clear that he treasured this undeserved and unexpected gift of vulnerability.

“I will not tell anyone,” he said, trying to catch Shane’s eye.

“Everyone already knows you’re an asshole,” he quipped.

Ilya shot him a look. So much for being nice. “About you.”

Shane softened, turning to study Ilya in the low light. “I know you won’t.”

Ilya’s heart thudded in time with the pulsing music. “Thank you for…trusting me with this.”

Shane smiled at him. It was a warm, private thing, an embrace of an expression. “Thanks for being so easy to trust.”

Ilya hadn’t even cried when they lowered his father in the ground, but now, staring into Shane’s open, honest face, he felt his eyes grow damp.

Shane politely pretended not to notice. He clasped a hand on Ilya’s shoulder and squeezed, moving to leave the table. 

“I’m going to circulate. Let Hunter know I’m here. Maybe steal his spotlight for a bit.”

Ilya laughed, but his breath caught in his throat when Shane’s touch lingered. He dragged his fingertips down Ilya’s back, leaving a trail of warmth behind.

“Hey,” Ilya called, once he regained the ability to speak. Shane turned around. “For the record, I think you are very brave, Shane Hollander.”

A small, grateful smile tugged at his lips. “For the record, I think you’re a lot nicer than you pretend to be, Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya couldn’t wipe the ridiculous, fond smile off his face for a full ten minutes.

October 2017 - Boston

The day before the first Boston/Montreal matchup of the season, the photos of Shane started circulating online.

He’d been in Boston a few days early for some brand meeting, apparently, and had indulged in a rare night out.

Ilya stared at the photos of Shane pressed against the muscular blonde until his vision blurred.

Ilya felt sick. Not because Shane was kissing another man, although that knowledge settled in his chest like a stone. He felt sick because he knew that Shane hadn’t meant for this to happen. That he never would have wanted to be vulnerable in such a public, uncontrolled way. 

Ilya felt sick that Shane’s story had been taken from him, that it would be twisted and distorted by careless, cruel hands. Turned into a tasty sound bite, a salacious tabloid headline. A disfigurement of a precious truth. 

The nausea hadn’t abated by the time Ilya arrived at The Garden for their game the next day.

He was desperate to find a way to get Shane alone, to check on him. But what would he even say? Shane had said it himself - they weren’t really friends. They were supposed to be rivals. 

But they’d never been, not really. They’d just been two kids in the same MLH draft class, two kids forced to indulge every whim of the league and the press and their teams. Forced into roles they’d never auditioned for, forced to fit neatly into the boxes built for them.

Ilya Rozanov, the irreverent asshole. The bad boy. The womanizer.

Shane Hollander, the stoic hero. The golden boy. The unattainable bachelor.

If Ilya was tired of playing his part, then Shane must be exhausted.

When management informed him that Shane wouldn’t be giving a pregame interview, Ilya decided to skip his as well.

“Solidarity,” he said brusquely, before management could question the decision. “Media is terrible. Do not want to encourage the gross questions I know they will ask.”

But it wasn’t enough. Shane was a ghost on the ice, a specter of the man that had haunted Ilya’s every move for a decade. He passed when appropriate, he shot when necessary, but he played like he was trying to shrink into the background. Like he wanted to melt into the boards and disappear.

Like he was apologizing for existing. 

Ilya felt like he was going to throw up.

Shane wouldn’t meet his eyes. He wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He was stiff as a board, as cold as the ice they skated on.

Ilya tried to catch his eye during a face off in the second period, tapping his stick against Shane’s while the ref wasn’t looking. 

Look at me, Shane, Ilya wanted to beg. Look at me so I can make this okay.

Shane tensed but did not look up.

Ilya had never been more distracted during a game. He managed even fewer shots on goal than the ghost of Shane Hollander, and the score was still 0-0 by the end of the second period.

By the start of the third, Ilya had formulated a plan that had nothing to do with hockey. A very stupid, very reckless plan.

Montreal won the game 1-0, but all Ilya felt was relief that Shane was the one to score the game-winning goal.

Ilya decided not to skip the post-game interview, even though he knew Shane wouldn’t take any questions.

In fact, he was counting on it.

The reporter didn’t even try to ask about the game. Shane’s name was the first thing out of the man’s mouth as he shoved a microphone into Ilya’s face.

“Do you have anything to say about the photos of Shane Hollander that surfaced yesterday? Any thoughts on how this might affect his game moving forward?”

For a moment, under the harsh light of the cameras, Ilya hesitated. But then he thought about Shane’s face when he came out to Ilya, about the trembling of his bottom lip and the tears on his lash line. He thought about the words he’d whispered like a confession: I’ve been living like I owe the world an apology. For being me. For existing.

Ilya thought about how Shane had only ever wanted to play hockey, how he’d built a dynasty in Montreal with his own two hands, and now even his unprecedented skill and dedication were being called into questioned.

Any thoughts on how this might affect his game moving forward? Like it was being gay that would impact Shane’s game, not the public dissection of his very existence.

Ilya thought about how these people demanded everything from Shane without giving anything in return, how they took and took, draining him until he was empty. How they’d demanded he shrink himself to fit within their narrow conception of who he should be.

He thought about how they’d taken this from Shane, too. The chance to share his beautiful heart on his own terms. And now here they were, demanding explanations to questions they had no right to ask. Demanding them from Ilya first, but Shane would be expected to answer eventually.

He would be expected to answer for the crime of being human.

Ilya would not let that happen. Shane would not explain himself to these people. Shane would never again apologize for existing.

Ilya grabbed the microphone out of the reporter’s hand. “Yes, I have something very important to say. I want to say that I am disappointed that Hollander’s taste in clubs is as boring as he is. When I make out with men, I do it in much nicer places.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Ilya heard the ticking of a clock behind the closed locker room door.

The reporter gaped at him. “What?”

Ilya clucked impatiently. “I am bisexual. You should be familiar with that term by now, yes? It is 2017. I like both men and women.” The reporter open and closed his mouth, looking like a fish out of water. “Now, would you like my list of gay club recommendations?” Ilya continued breezily. “I have them organized by price-point.”

Ilya winked at the camera, then turned on his heel and walked away. The hallway finally unfroze, exploding with shouted questions, but he didn’t turn around.

There was nothing behind him worth the attention. He was only interested in looking ahead.

•••

The knock on Ilya’s front door came at midnight. He’d been on the couch, scrolling social media while some reality TV show played quietly in the background. He was pleased that the internet had taken the clip of known womanizer Ilya Rozanov coming out as bisexual and ran with it. He was relieved to see less mentions of Shane and more articles popping up about himself.

Strangely, even as his phone buzzed with hundreds of confused and incredulous text messages, Ilya didn’t feel scared. He didn’t even feel anxious. His father was dead, his brother would not contact him again, and he would never go back to Russia.

For all that he’d lost, Ilya didn’t feel empty. He’d shed the expectations of his former life, recklessly and irrevocably, but it was an unburdening more than anything.

Ilya was free. He no longer had to move in the shadows, to shove parts of himself deep down where they’d never see the sun.

He could finally step into the light.

The knock startled him out of his musings, and Ilya’s first thought was that Alicia came back early from her business trip. But if that were the case, she would have come in through the garage.

He did not expect to find Shane Hollander standing outside his front door.

Ilya froze with one hand on the doorknob, his heart catapulting into his throat. He hadn’t prepared for this outcome, and he couldn’t tell what Shane was thinking. He looked intense and upset, but he couldn’t tell what kind of upset. Couldn’t tell if he was going to curse Ilya out or start crying in his arms.

“Why did you do it?” Shane demanded, shoving past Ilya and marching into his house like he owned the place.

Ilya stifled a panicked giggle. “Hello to you too, Hollander,” he drawled, fighting to maintain his composure. “Make yourself at home, I guess. How did you even get my address?”

Shane wheeled on him, his brown eyes flashing with heat. Okay, so he was the angry kind of upset. “Hayden’s wife knows everyone. Don’t change the subject,” he spat through gritted teeth. “Why’d you do it? Why did you…come out like that? You’re dating a woman. You’ve always dated women. No one ever would have suspected…” he trailed off, his chest heaving with unsaid words.

“Probably not,” Ilya allowed. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, walking casually toward the couch that Shane stood frozen in front of. “But the league has been very gay lately. Hunter, Barrett, you. Was starting to feel left out, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed at the weak excuse. “So you randomly decided to announce your bisexuality the day after pictures of me kissing a man hit the internet.”

Ilya felt a surge of irrational jealousy and shoved it away. “Was not random. I just said that I did it because I had gay FOMO. Keep up, Hollander.”

Shane let out a strangled sound of disapproval and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Rozanov. Please tell me that you didn’t…that you didn’t out yourself for me.”

The emphasis on the word me was not lost on Ilya. Shane implying that he wasn’t worth the trouble made him ache.

Ilya uncrossed his arms and stepped closer, running a hand through his curls. “I thought maybe…” he sighed, resigning himself to honesty. “I thought maybe it would help. I know our situations are not the same, but I did not want you to feel alone in this,” he admitted. “And I wanted to take some of the attention off of you, if I could. I am better at causing a scene, after all,” he added grimly.

Ilya watched in horror as one tear slipped down Shane’s face, then another. “You asshole,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Ilya surged forward, ghosting his hands over Shane’s shoulders without touching. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t think,” he rushed to explain. “I know it wasn’t my place, and I should have asked what you wanted-“

Strong arms wrapped around Ilya and pulled him off balance. He crashed inelegantly into a broad, muscular chest. Into Shane Hollander’s chest.

Ilya didn’t think. He hugged Shane back on instinct, arms tightening and thumbs running soothing circles over the other man’s sweatshirt. Ilya fought to keep his composure when Shane burrowed his face into the crook of his neck.

“Shut up, Rozanov,” he murmured, his voice muffled and wet against Ilya’s skin. Shane’s fingers dug into the muscles of his back, and Ilya felt his hands shaking. He pulled Shane in tighter, tucking him into his chest like he could protect him from the world. “That is…the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. What the fuck.”

Ilya pulled back just far enough to cradle Shane’s face in his hands. He ran his thumbs under his eyes, wiping the tears from his freckled cheeks.

“I told you,” he started, his own voice thick with emotion. “I am a very nice guy.”

Shane laughed and pushed half-heartedly against Ilya’s chest, but there was no heat in it. They both knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I hate you, oh my god,” Shane groaned. “Can you be serious for one second?”

Ilya’s lifted Shane’s face, forcing him to make eye contact. “You want me to be serious? Fine. I will say what I have been thinking all along.” Shane looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes, and Ilya almost laughed. How could he possibly doubt what he meant to Ilya now? 

“You deserve to be supported. You deserve to be protected. You deserve everything.” Ilya stroked his thumbs over Shane’s cheeks. “You are Shane fucking Hollander, and you deserve to live without apology.”

A sound halfway between a sob and a laugh tore loose from Shane’s throat. He dropped his forehead against Ilya’s, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to slow his breathing.

“Ilya…fuck,” he choked out. Shane’s use of his first name hit Ilya like a puck to the chest. “Thank you. I’ve been…I’ve been so scared. Terrified.”

“It is scary,” Ilya murmured. “But you are brave. And you will be okay.” Ilya squeezed his shoulders. “I promise.”

Shane lifted his head and looked at him with those impossible eyes. “What about you?” He whispered.

Ilya shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I would do it again. In a heartbeat.”

Too honest, that was way too honest. But Ilya couldn’t bring himself to care; not when Shane was inches away, staring at Ilya like he’d gifted him something priceless.

“For me.” It was a statement and a request -  he was asking Ilya to confirm that this meant what he thought it did.

You can deflect. You can walk away.

Ilya couldn’t bring himself to do either.

“Yes,” he murmured, running his thumbs along Shane’s collarbone. “For you. Anything for you.”

Shane’s breathing picked up, and his eyes dropped to Ilya’s lips. He leaned forward instinctively, a moth drawn to Shane’s flame. He would be consumed by this man. He would enjoy every second.

“I should go,” Shane rasped unsteadily, because he was good and kind and responsible. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from Ilya’s mouth. “Before you do something you regret.”

Ilya knew what he really meant: I should leave before you cheat on your girlfriend with me. He waited for his blood to run cold, waited for the guilt to rush in.

But all he felt was Shane’s warmth, spreading through him from head to toe.

“You can go. I will not stop you,” Ilya whispered, even though he hated the thought. “But before you do, you should know. I could never regret anything with you, Shane.”

And then, because Ilya would never get this chance again, he unearthed the words he’d buried for almost a decade. “I have wanted this for so long. Since we first met, I think.” He smiled. He remembered that day like it was yesterday. “You scolded me for smoking and flaunted your pretty freckles and it was over for me.”

Shane exhaled shakily and dropped his hands to Ilya’s waist, pulling him closer. “For me too,” he whispered, solemn and reverent as a prayer. “God, Ilya. For me too.”

Ilya could no longer contain the wildfire raging in his chest. His whole body burned with need for the man in front of him.

He brought one trembling hand up to cup Shane’s jaw, gripping the nape of his neck with the other. “Can I kiss you?”

Shane blinked up at Ilya through his long, dark lashes. “Do you really have to ask?”

Then he leaned in, and Ilya’s brain officially went offline. The kiss was gentle at first, a reverent discovery of each other’s mouths, an exploration of terrain they’d been mapping for years.

Ilya kissed Shane like he was making up for lost time, slow and deep and meaningful, savoring the taste of him after years of only dreaming about it.

Shane was beautifully responsive, making pretty little sounds that stoked Ilya’s growing arousal. Ilya deepened the kiss just to hear more of them. He slipped his tongue into Shane’s mouth and was rewarded with a delicious moan. The other man’s movements turned desperate and heated; he opened his mouth and sucked on Ilya’s tongue, burying his hands in his curls and using the leverage to grind his clothed erection against Ilya’s. 

“Where’s the bedroom?” Shane gasped when they parted, his eyes hazy and his lips slick with spit.

“Eager,” Ilya teased, but he was just as desperate to take Shane apart. He grabbed his hand and led him to the bedroom, kissing him the whole way and slowly ridding him of his clothes.  

By the time they got to the bed, Shane was bare except for his underwear and Ilya was scrambling to catch up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling off his sweats. “So fucking beautiful.”

Ilya relished the way Shane flushed from his nose all the way down to his chest. He ran an appreciative hand over the pink skin before tugging him onto the bed. Ilya crowded into Shane’s space, pressing kisses along the length of his body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

He pulled off his boxer briefs and tossed them on the floor, then leaned over to take Shane’s leaking cock into his mouth.

“No, no,” Shane said, grabbing Ilya’s arm and trying to haul him back up his body. “C’mon, open me up. I want you to fuck me.”

If Shane kept saying things like that, Ilya was going to come in his pants before any fucking took place.

“So bossy. So impatient,” he chided, trying to will his dick to be patient. “You will not even let me taste you?”

Shane huffed. “I’m not going to last if you do, and I don’t want to come before you fuck me. We just established that I’ve been dreaming about this for years.”

This information went straight to Ilya’s aching cock. He felt like a fucking teenager again, giddy and eager and painfully horny.

“Oh, you’ve been dreaming about this, have you?” He teased, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Most handsome man in the MLH dreams about me?”

“Shut up,” Shane groaned, but he was already hauling Ilya closer. “I’m regretting this already.”

Ilya looked down at the other man’s cock, red and steadily leaking pre-cum. “I think your dick would disagree.”

Shane didn’t reply. He just pulled Ilya into a filthy kiss, nipping and biting and sucking until they were both gasping for breath.

“Shut up,” Shane repeated, biting ilya’s bottom lip for emphasis. “And fucking touch me.”

As Ilya he reached into his nightstand for the bottle of lube, he felt Shane’s whole body tense. When he followed his gaze, he saw Shane was staring at the photo on the nightstand. A picture of Ilya and Alicia, wrapped around each other at a banquet in the spring.

Ilya dropped the lube on the bedspread and settled on Shane’s chest. He wouldn’t make eye contact. “I am sorry, sweetheart,” Ilya whispered. He reached out to smooth the wrinkle between Shane’s eyebrows. “I did not think that I could ever have this.” He pressed a kiss to his chin, then his cheek. “That it could be mine.”

He felt Shane relax under him. “It can be,” he said, looking earnestly into Ilya’s eyes. “If you want it.”

Before Ilya could respond, Shane reached behind his head and knocked the photo off the nightstand. It hit the ground with a soft thud. “Fuck me like I’m yours, Ilya,” he breathed. He ran a hand down his chest, gripping his cock and spreading his muscular thighs.

“You’re already mine,” Ilya growled, lunging forward and closing the space between them. He took his time opening Shane up, kissing every inch of skin that he could get his mouth on while he worked his fingers in a steady rhythm. He catalogued every one of Shane’s expressions as he learned his body, as he discovered what made him moan and what made him shake, what made his toes curl and what made him white-knuckle the sheets.

It was only when Shane moaned that he was ready, snapping at Ilya to hurry the fuck up and get in him, that he realized they had a big fucking problem. He stared into the drawer of his bedside table like he could make condoms appear with his mind.

“Shane,” Ilya started, with the placating tone of a man scared for his life. “I do not have…we don’t use protection. She has an IUD.” He winced as grim understanding flashed across Shane’s face. “We can still do other things-“

“You haven’t had sex with anyone else since you were last tested, right?” Shane interrupted, his voice tight. “She hasn’t either?”

Ilya stared at him. “No, not that I know of. But-“

“Great,” Shane interrupted, like that settled the issue. “Neither have I.”

He wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist and pulled their bodies together, and Ilya felt like he was going to combust. The thought was almost hotter than he could bear, but it was a terrible idea. He couldn’t let them do anything that Shane would regret.

“Shane,” he said shakily, “I don’t think-“

“Ilya, please.” Oh god, Shane was begging. His eyes were shining and he was begging and Ilya was not a strong man. “I want you so bad. I need you.”

One day, Ilya should probably examine the way Shane could break his resolve with three little words. But today would not be that day.

“Yes, sweetheart, okay.” He pressed kisses to Shane’s jaw, tucked strands of silky hair behind his ear. “Yes. You will have me. You will have everything.”

Ilya was not a religious person, but pushing into Shane inch by delicious inch felt as close to experiencing a higher power as he could imagine. He had to stop halfway, taking deep breaths as the heat and the pressure and the rawness of being as close as two people could be threatened to overwhelm him.

Ilya expected Shane to tease, to make fun of him, but he looked just as affected. His pupils were blown wide and his legs were shaking, and he gripped Ilya’s shoulders like they were his only tether to the earth.

“So good,” he encouraged, looking at Ilya with barely concealed awe. “So good, baby.”

Ilya let out an embarrassing whine and started to move again.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he groaned when he finally, finally buried himself as far as he could go. He gripped Shane’s thighs hard enough to bruise as searing pleasure coursed through him from head to toe.

Shane’s expression darkened. He gripped Ilya’s chin with one hand and started to roll his hips with purpose. “Don’t call me that,” he scolded, digging his nails into Ilya’s face. “Say my name.”

Ilya moaned, loud and long, snapping his hips to match Shane’s movements. Each stroke was delicious, perfect agony. “Shane, oh my god. You will kill me. I will die a very happy man.”

Ilya set a deliberate pace, slow but deep, allowing him to savor every expression and every sound that Shane gifted him. He liked when Ilya talked, and he was more than happy to keep up a steady stream of praise, murmuring sweet, filthy words against Shane’s lips as he fucked him into the mattress.

Beautiful. So perfect. So good for me, Shane. Taking me so well. 

Shane writhed and moaned when Ilya found his prostate, his lash line flooding with tears as Ilya intensified his thrusts. He was so focused on hitting the sensitive spot and trying to last as long as possible that he hadn’t realized he’d gone quiet. He was pretty sure his English would fail him, anyway.

“Keep talking,” Shane begged, reaching up to claw at one of Ilya’s pecs. “Please, keep talking to me, Ilya. I’m so close.”

English did fail him, so Russian would have to do. “Черт, ты идеальна, ты — всё, чего я когда-либо хотел, я люблю тебя,” he babbled, until Shane cut him off.

“What does that mean?” He asked, his eyes brighter than they’d been a moment ago.

Ilya groaned. Only Shane would ask questions about linguistics at a time like this. “I said, you’re perfect. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

Shane gasped at a particularly sharp thrust, but he didn’t relent. “You said more.”

“I didn’t-“

“You did. What did you say?” When Ilya shook his head, Shane shifted his hips so Ilya slipped out of him, holding his waist so he couldn’t drive back in.

“Fuck, Shane. I said, I said-“

He was going to lie. He really was. But then he looked at the freckles of the beautiful man he’d chased for a decade and the truth left him without permission.

“I said I love you.”

Shane’s pink lips parted in surprise. For a long moment, they just stared at each other.

“Fuck, I’m sor-“ Ilya cut himself off with a moan when Shane lined up their bodies again. He hooked an ankle around the small of Ilya’s back, encouraging him to press inside.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his eyes burning with intensity. “Say it again.”

Ilya snapped his hips like a man possessed, pouring every ounce of desperate adoration into his movements. “I love you Shane, fuck, I love you. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I love you so much.”

One brush of his hand against Shane’s cock sent him over the edge. He spilled all over his stomach and Ilya’s hand with a strangled cry.

Ilya drank in the sight, relishing how absolutely wrecked Shane looked. His cheeks stained with tears, his lips bitten red, his chest splotchy with desire. He started to slow his hips, but Shane shook his head. “Keep going.”

When Shane brought Ilya’s fingers to his mouth and lapped at his own cum, Ilya knew it was only a matter of time. Shane must have seen it in his face, because he nodded. “In me, please. Finish in me,” he requested, slutty and polite in equal measure.

“Oh my god, Shane,” Ilya groaned, his whole body tensing as he tipped over the edge.

“Ilya,” Shane said breathlessly, right as his hips began to falter. “я люблю тебя.”

It was terrible, broken Russian, but Ilya still understood the words.

I love you.

Ilya spilled into Shane with a choked off gasp. He collapsed against Shane’s chest, and it took him a long moment to realize that his body was shaking with heaving, uncontrollable sobs. It was the first time he’d cried in front of a man since he was a scared, lonely child.

But Shane’s arms wrapped around him, sure and steady, and it felt like the answer to a question Ilya hadn’t even known to ask.

It felt like coming home.

•••

“So you speak Russian now?“

They’d showered and settled back in bed, and Ilya had Shane wrapped tightly in both of his arms. He felt like he might die of happiness.

Shane laughed softly. “As if. I learned how to say that on the way over here.”

Ilya’s heart somersaulted in his chest. “Oh.”

Shane set his chin on Ilya’s stomach, gazing up at him with fond exasperation in his eyes. “What you did was very brave, and very stupid, and it confirmed what I already suspected.”

Ilya’s raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“That I am very in love with you,” Shane admitted shyly.

Ilya felt the wide grin split his face.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling about, asshole,” Shane huffed, glaring at him. “You still have a girlfriend.”

Oh, right. Ilya should probably feel worse about the fact that he hadn’t thought about Alicia once since Shane arrived on his doorstep.

“For now,” he shrugged. “For 17 more hours, to be exact.”

“Ilya,” Shane chided disapprovingly. 

“In my defense,” he argued, “when I started dating her, I did not know Shane Hollander was an option. He was very publicly dating Rose Landry at the time.” Shane narrowed his eyes but didn’t argue. “If I knew you were gay, I would not have gotten a girlfriend at all.”

Shane’s annoyed expression melted into something tender. “You don’t mean that.”

Ilya snorted. “Of course I do. Do you not remember that CCM photo shoot? How the whole thing was my idea? How I stared at you in the showers for so long that it made you run away? I am obsessed, Shane Hollander. I always have been.”

“I was scared! I thought you were fucking with me.”

“No.” Ilya shook his head. “But I very much wanted to be fucking with you.”

“I’m an idiot,” Shane sighed, and he looked too sad for Ilya’s liking, like he was in danger of sinking into himself.

Ilya didn’t want Shane to ruminate on things they couldn’t change. He wanted them to move forward now, unburdened by the past.

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “I am also an idiot. But it is okay. We will make up for lost time.”

Shane was quiet for a long moment. “What are we going to do now?” He asked, his voice quivering slightly.

They’d need to deal with Ilya’s breakup, with the nosey press, with the outraged public. They’d have to figure out how to navigate a relationship that would likely set both their lives on fire.

But Ilya wasn’t scared. He’d found someone worth burning it all down for.

Ilya thought that maybe every choice he’d ever made had been leading to this - a chance to rebuild from the ashes of everything that came before. A chance to begin again, to live an authentic, honest life with Shane by his side.

“We will figure it out. Together,” he promised.

Ilya looked into Shane’s eyes, the same eyes that he’d searched for across every the rink since they were 17, and he knew he’d never again have to face the world alone. 

“Together,” Shane echoed. Then he leaned in, knocking his forehead against Ilya’s.