Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry & Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Magic, Magical Realism, Wishes, Be Careful What You Wish For, Fairy Godparents, Witchcraft, Happy Ending, Coming Out, POV Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Rose Landry, or is she?, She is she just views her gifts like Lucinda in Ella Enchanted does, Good witch Rose Landry, would have been the better tag, Crack Treated Seriously, Fix-It, Happily Ever After, Gay Pride

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-11 Completed: 2026-06-24 Words: 29,476 Chapters: 9/9

Rose Landry Is My Fairy Godmother

Summary

"She's my fairy godmother," Shane says, loud enough for Ilya to hear, as he stares at himself in the mirror.

There's a long, long pause. Then Ilya laughs loudly, a genuine burst of surprise that reverberates off the doorway. "Very funny, Hollander. And you are my cute little house elf. What does that make me?"

Vibes: Ella Enchanted meets Heated Rivalry

50% crack, 50% fix it fic, 100% magical alternative coming out story. 🧚‍♀️ Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo

Chapter 1: For Ten Orders of Poutine

"Rose Landry is my fairy godmother."

Shane practices saying it in the bathroom mirror, over and over. He pushes the words out of his mouth with different intonations and studies his own expression, hoping some combination of earnest eyebrows and a set mouth will make it seem like he's not a crazy man or playing a practical joke.

Nothing really works.

It turns out Ilya is the type to get jealous jealous. After the umpteenth time at the cottage that Ilya makes a joke about Shane not being too gay to fuck Rose Landry or calling Rose Landry more than he calls his mom, Shane admits to himself that he can't keep pretending he hasn't noticed what Ilya is trying to bring up, in his own avoidant, passive aggressive way. The jealousy was kind of hot at first, a sexy reveal that Ilya cares about him, but now it's starting to get a little awkward.

But Shane's a coward, and when he practiced telling the truth to the bathroom mirror he still looked like he was attempting the world's lamest stand up joke. So he tells Ilya half the truth.

"We're friends," Shane assures him with a sigh as he gathers up the card deck they've just finished with. "Rose and I are just good friends. I told you, she helped me realize I'm gay. So, like, by definition, we are never going to have sex."

"Again," Ilya says curtly, playing with a stray joker card. It twirls around and around on his fingertip.

"What do you mean?" Shane asks, intent on his shuffling. He hates when a deck still has runs from last time when you take it back out. Better to shuffle before and after. He learned that from his dad.

"You mean you two are never going to have sex again. Because you did already have sex with her once, right? Or… twice?" He hands over the joker and looks at Shane. Shane fights to keep the guilty look off his face. "Three times? Fuck, really, Shane? How much testing did you have to do? You are sure you are gay?"

"Very gay," Shane assures him. "Or, I mean… normal gay," he corrects, ducking his head, but Ilya's already got a slow grin of delight spreading across his face. "Look, I know it's kinda weird? But isn't it like, a good sign to stay friends with your ex?"

"Stay friends. You know what this means? Means like, you text sometimes, you see them with mutual friends. You are literally stopping game with me for weekly zoom session with your ex! Will she be on zoom call in swimsuit she wore on cover of Sports Illustrated last week?"

"I told you, we mostly talk about our careers! She's great at manifestations and goal setting and stuff. You should try it actually, it's really – what are you doing?" Because Ilya has now dropped to his knees on the concrete patio and is more or less pawing at Shane's shorts.

"Making sure you cannot get hard during zoom with Sexiest Woman Alive."

Shane looks down Ilya's efforts with some chagrin. "Uh, fuck. I wish we could, but I only have five minutes before I have to be on the call."

Ilya whines, and the sound goes straight to Shane's dick, which makes a betraying little pulse that's visible even through the fabric of his shorts. Ilya raises his eyebrows and glances back up at Shane.

"I think five minutes is enough," Ilya says, easing Shane's shorts down and palming his dick. "Oh, look, he agrees."

"It's a new month," the pixilated Rose says from the laptop. "So let's start with your new manifestations."

Shane nods, relieved she remembered his request that she not say wishes. Especially not with Ilya somewhere in the house. Hopefully not listening.

"The first?" she prompts.

"To stay physically healthy and very good at hockey. This includes avoiding CTE and long term injuries," Shane intones. He's very, very careful not to say to keep being the best, lest Rose decide that someone else is playing better than Shane. Especially since the most likely rival candidate for "best" is someone Shane has recently realized he's in love with.

"Shane," Rose says, sounding exasperated. "Is that really still number one?"

"Yes," he says flatly. "It's not going to change, I've told you."

She sighs, then prompts, "Number two?"

"To give back to my community in meaningful ways. Expand the sport, do some good, that kind of thing," he says. He rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe… I don't know, this part isn't a manifestation yet, but maybe like, some mental health stuff?" This is a new one for him, still percolating, inspired by the last sports biography he read and the talk with Ilya by the fire the other night.

"Oh," Rose says, sounding surprised. "That's… I like that."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I can definitely help with that one," she says. He watches the pink fuzz on the top of her pen jump in and out of frame as she jots something down.

"And the third?" Her eyes look so kind, so gentle, even through the blurry little screen.

Shane's heart constricts as he thinks about the man sitting somewhere in this house. About how many of his impossible-to-imagine wishes have already come true.

"Um, I think… I just want to know if Ilya loves me too. Obviously I know you can't, like, make him if he doesn't. Or, please don't, even if you can. But I just want to know if he feels the same way…" he swallows. "I don't think I can say it first. Every time I try, I just can't get it out."

"Hmm," Rose says, looking down at her notebook. He hears a few little taps of the pen tip pen on paper and watches the pink fuzz on its end dance around the bottom of the screen a bit more, as Rose writes some things down about his list.

"Or is that… is that too much?" he asks. "I don't want it if he only would blurt it out during a any trip to the ER or over my deathbed or something."

"Oh, honey," Rose says gently, looking up into the camera. "It's not too much at all. I keep telling you, you need to dream bigger. We're not stopping till you get your happily ever after."

Shane eyes her nervously, but Rose is already looking back down, humming to herself as she moves the pen around.

"Don't marry Svetlana," Shane finds himself having to say later that evening. He fixes his gaze across the couch at Ilya. "Just don't." He swallows hard.

Fuck, why could his manifestation call not have been tomorrow? Why did he waste this month's third wish on something so stupid? He has to call Rose, ask if it's too late to change the third wish. But, what if he does ask, and Rose decides the only way to accomplish it is like, incapacitate Svetlana, or Ilya, or something else horrible?

"We can figure something else out, okay?" Shane adds.

"Okay," Ilya whispers, looking fondly at Shane. Shane wiggles his toes against Ilya's, taking in his curls, how he looks in the flannel he "borrowed" from Shane, and the softness in his eyes, so much more relaxed out of season. Three words are at the tip of Shane's tongue, practically choking his airway with how badly they need to get out.

He looks away. "Shit, sorry. I just remembered, I have to call Rose about something." He pushes off the blanket and grabs for his phone, then swings his feet around and hastily pushes himself off the couch.

"Hollander," Ilya says, turning his head to watch him go, "what the fuck?"

That night, Shane has a dream.

He's teaching a little kid with curly hair how to skate and play hockey. They do some drills, with and without sticks. It's Ilya, of course; dream-Shane knows this and feels a softness every time he looks down at him. Every time he looks back up and around the rink, a woman is sitting in his line of sight, watching. She looks so beautiful, but so sad.

He wants to help her, but whenever he turns away from kid-Ilya to skate closer and check on her, kid-Ilya gives a yelp and falls down. Each time he helps kid-Ilya back up, he's a little bigger, a little older, until he's full grown and then suddenly he's the one pulling Shane along. Only grown-Ilya's not wearing the black and gold of the Raiders. His sweater is black and red, instead, and he's pulling Shane along the edge of the arena, and he's laughing when he looks back, mouth spreading into that rare wide smile of his, making them skate faster and faster and faster.

Shane glances up again to check on the woman, but she's gone. He does a quick 360 on his skates, shifting his hands around as he does so to keep Ilya's hand in one of his own the whole time, but he doesn't see her anywhere. When Shane looks back down, Ilya is in kid-form again, now basically swimming in grown-Ilya's giant jersey. He says, in the cutest little Russian accent, "Thank you for helping me practice. My mom used to do it, but now I have you."

Shane wakes with a start. He sits up and thinks about the dream a bit. He should keep the idea for tomorrow and bring a fully-formed plan to Ilya at a time that is not two am. But the idea stirs in him, won't let him wait, won't let him go back to sleep. He switches on the light.

"I have another idea," he says as he shakes Ilya awake.

"What idea, what is happening?" Ilya says, voice thick with sleep.

"What if you played in Ottawa? You'd be closer, and maybe we can start to change the narrative, a bit."

Back in November, after their second disastrous fuck but before Shane knew Rose had magic powers or whatever, they had sat on Shane's couch and split a bottle of rosé left behind once by Jackie that Rose had found buried in his pantry, and they'd both talked about their exes. Kind of.

"I get the sense you're not always 100% with me, when we… you know," she said, gesturing back at the bedroom. "Is there sometimes someone else on your mind?"

This was normally a topic that would send Shane into lockdown mode, but the rosé was helping everything with sharp scary edges look a bit softer, so he just shrugged and popped his hoodie string in his mouth.

"Let me guess," Rose said, placing her own glass back down on the coffee table and pulling her legs up a little closer underneath her as she looked at him. "Bad breakup? Long relationship, maybe?"

"Yeah," he said, around the string of his hoodie. "Basically."

"Hmm," she said. "But you think you're over them?"

"Course." He spat out the hoodie string and reached for his glass of wine. "Sooo over it. I wish they – she could see us together. I'm not trying to like, use you or anything," he said quickly, realizing how this sounded, and was relieved to see that Rose was just looking at him with amusement. "But she had this really hot ex who she fucked the whole time, and we weren't exclusive, I mean, she even asked me about other girls, and it was just… fuck, that sounds so messy. I'm a terrible person. You must hate me."

"No," she laughed. "Not at all. I've been there. I hope your wish comes true. I do!" she had said, louder, when he gave her a look. "Really, I bet it will. What will you give me if it does?"

"One bottle of wine," he said, smiling shyly at her as he took her proffered handshake. Maybe having a girlfriend wasn't so bad. The sleepover part was fun.

A week later, he had seen Ilya on the dance floor at a club in Montreal. And Ilya had seen him, with Rose.

A wish come true, technically.

Shane feels like he's gone to heaven the morning after he and Ilya first say I love you. He realizes all of this month's wishes came true overnight, even the one he scratched to make room for the emergency wish.

He and Ilya bask in the glow of the sunrise, then fuck each other into a sex-drunk haze. They lay together, touching, breathing their new-found words into each others necks. They can't stop saying them, over and over, quiet and loud, after every other sentence, every time they touch – ya tebya lyublyu. I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you.

Ilya asks Shane again about what he plans to tell his parents, while they're getting ready to go swimming. He brings it up under the guise of asking what Yuna would think of the camps, but he looks so hopeful as he says it.

Before he can answer, Shane's phone rings from the living room. It's the third time this morning, and Shane sighs and goes to retrieve it. Ilya's closer, and he darts out the door of the bedroom ahead of Shane. He's scowling when he returns.

"It's Rose," he says darkly, holding up the phone so Shane can see the screen.

"Oh!" Shane said. "I forgot we had a… manifestation check in. Sorry, this will just take a sec."

"Hollander. Seriously?"

"I – sorry, I just –" Shane looks helplessly between the still-ringing phone and a frowning Ilya. How can he explain what this is? He has to let Rose know that the wishes worked.

"Fine," Ilya grumbles. "I call Svetlana, I guess. Then swimming?"

"I am sorry your parents found out like that," Ilya says that night. He says it right as he spits out his toothpaste, like he'd been thinking about it the whole time he was brushing and had to get it out the second he was able. Shane looks up at him from where he's sitting on the edge of the tub, brushing his own teeth. He hopes Ilya didn't cut short his own toothbrushing time for this apology.

"You should have been been able to come out yourself, when you wanted," Ilya continues. He looks so sad, blue eyes earnest as they dart back and forth between Shane's. Shane's own toothbrush is still in his mouth, because it's electric and it hasn't done it's final beep yet, so he says nothing.

By the time Shane spits, Ilya's already back in the bedroom. Shane hears the swoosh of clothes being thrown in the hamper, followed by the crinkle of the comforter being thrown back from the bed and a large body thudding onto the mattress.

"It's okay," Shane calls back as he reaches for his oil cleanser. "It wasn't your fault. And it worked out, right?"

"It is my fault," Ilya says, his voice just loud enough to make out the bitterness in it. Shane's heart breaks; he wishes he could confess the ways that this is really all his own fault. The serendipity of his dad's visit could only have been explained by one of his wishes gone awry. Maybe the magic thought Shane's parents knowing about them was essential for Shane's emergency wish swap. Probably because Yuna would be so useful for the plan.

He pauses, dries his hands on a washcloth, and grabs his phone off the bathroom counter. Need emergency session tomorrow, he texts Rose. Big updates this afternoon. He turns back to his skincare, working his second cleanser up to a foam.

Earlier, he had turned the phone ringer to high in anticipation of his parents calling a warning before tomorrow's visit. So Rose's answering texts come through as three too-loud dings, echoing through the en-suite and into the bedroom.

"Is that your parents?" Ilya calls from the bedroom. Shane can practically see the pregnant pause at the end of the question.

"Um, no," Shane admits. "It's Rose. Just, uh… some stories from her shoot today." He dips his head again to splash water on his face.

"Oh," Ilya says, and even from the next room Shane can tell his voice is hard, tone too flat. "Okay."

Shane looks up at himself in the mirror, face damp, hair held back by a little headband with bunny-ears that Ilya had express ordered and presented to him on only his third day at the cabin.

"She's my fairy godmother," Shane says, loud enough for Ilya to hear, as he stares at himself in the mirror.

There's a long, long pause. Then Ilya laughs loudly, a genuine burst of surprise that reverberates off the doorway. "Very funny, Hollander. And you are my cute little house elf. What does that make me?" His voice has the tease of sexiness to it, which Shane recognizes as an olive branch. He sighs and decides to take it, ignoring the internal voice that calls him a coward.

Just saying it was obviously not going to work. He needs some way to prove it to Ilya.

His first thought is to lay it all out to Ilya while they're at the cottage, then have him give Shane a wish – something specific and unlikely, but doable – which Shane can then relay to Rose as one of his wishes. Then, when it happens, Rozanov will be all, "wow, incredible, Hollander, you were telling the truth all along! I believe you and am no longer mad or jealous!"

But he only gets three wishes a month, and he's used this month's. They'll be leaving the cottage before they reset, so he needs another way to get Ilya to believe it.

Of course, Shane hadn't initially believed Rose either.

At a Montreal restaurant in November, after Shane had admitted he preferred being the hole and he and Rose had agreed to break up, Rose had offered that they could stay friends, or she could become his fairy godmother and grant him three wishes per month.

"I mean, I can't like, start or end wars or anything," Rose had explained, eyes dancing with amusement over her cocktail. "But yeah, anything like, specific or small scale, I would be able to do for you."

"Right," he said slowly. "Like… no, sorry. I'm going to need an example."

What he really needed was more time to decide if it fell under his duty as her newly minted ex-boyfriend to have her committed if she was having a mental breakdown. She was American – would the Canadian hospital even take her? He was pretty sure they should, her work permit surely couldn't be that different from what the American teams had when they played in Montreal, and they always got hospitalized when needed. But maybe it was different for psychotic breaks?

"I'm particularly good with nudges," she said.

"Nudges," he intoned.

"Yeah. Like… well, maybe, if someone just needs the perfect scenario to come out to someone for the first time." She looked meaningfully at him, and he flushed a little at the reminder.

"Sure. But that's like, charisma or whatever. Right?"

"I'm flattered," she said, still smiling her gentle smile like they were talking about her dress or her lipstick and not her alleged magic powers.

"Sorry. I did appreciate you being so nice, and encouraging, and all that, but it doesn't feel very – I don't think I get it."

"Hmm," she said. "I can't really show you without you agreeing to the contract with me. But maybe we can do another mini contract, as like a one off."

"Okay," he said, his insides now feeling slightly squirmy as he thought about having to coerce her to get help. Because she was very good at getting what she wanted, even Shane had noticed that, so how was he going to get her to agree to want a psych assessment? Maybe he could just get her agent's number and have them handle it. "Wait, another contract? What was our first?"

"Don't worry about it. What will you give me if your wish comes true?"

"Umm…" he looked around blankly. Seeing nothing that was his to give, he fished through his pockets. He pulled out one of the hundred dollar bills he kept accessible for tipping.

"No," she said. "I can't take money. And it works best if it's something more personal. Like, something you value."

He raised his eyebrows at her but said nothing. He shifted his hand to his jacket and began skimming through those pockets, dumping two carefully folded receipts on the table before –

"Ohh," Rose had said, looking at his just-extracted hand, clenched tight. "What's that?"

Shane opened his hand to show her the pull-tab of a soda can.

"That will work," she said, eyeing it appraisingly. "Definitely."

"Um," Shane said, looking between his ex-girlfriend and the loose silver tab in his palm. He closed his fingers around it, once, then opened his hand again, holding it out between them. "Sure. Alright, then. I guess… I wish… for Gretsky to walk through those doors."

"When?" she said, eyes still trained on his palm. She looked a little hungry.

"Um, like, now?"

Rose made a little tsk sound with her tongue and sucked in her breath. "Can't do teleportation. Sorry. I can have him here by, like, tomorrow? I told you, it's more nudge-y."

"By tomorrow you may have just called him and called in a favor. Like, just asked him nicely, or paid him," Shane pointed out. And I'll have to worry about if you're crazy all night.

"You're more likely to be able to call in a favor with Gretsky than I am," Rose noted, laughing easily. She downed the last of her cocktail. "Why don't you just think of something that's around here, that wouldn't normally happen, but that would definitely prove it."

"Fine," Shane said, again looking around and catching sight of a waiter bringing an order to another table. "I want… ten orders of poutine in the next ten minutes."

"Fine." Rose's eyes flitted back to Shane's palm.

"But you can't order them," he clarified.

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously." She put out her own hand. Hesitantly, he shifted the pull tab to his left hand and extended his right.

They shook.

"Can I order a cocktail, at least?" she asked, looking pointedly down at her own empty glass.

"I'll order it," Shane said quickly. Paying for another round was probably the least he could do for her during the middle of a breakup and mental breakdown.

"Another old fashioned," Rose said. While Shane raised his hand to flag down a waiter, she started rummaging through her purse. After a moment of concentrated rustling and some suspiciously loud noises emanating from inside the purse, she pulled out a neon pink pen with a fluffy bit of fuzz at the end.

Shane watched, mystified, as Rose raised the fuzzy pen and begun waving the fuzzy end in the air, muttering to herself as she dragged it in patterns. Every few seconds, she aimed it behind her, in the direction of the kitchen, and then thrust it forward sharply, like she was pulling something over her shoulder.

Shane looked around the restaurant and out the dark windows, praying he wouldn't need to worry about any paparazzi witnessing him bodily haul Rose into a car and shouting for the driver to take them to l'hôpital général.

Five minutes later, Rose was sipping her cocktail when she, without turning, raised her right hand and pointed over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen doors.

"Holy shit," Shane said, watching a waiter weave toward them. He was bearing a tray laden with poutine.

"Hope you're hungry," Rose said, watching him.

Shane gawked at her as the waiter came over and explained in French that he was so sorry, but they had accidentally made too many poutines in kitchen, and would they be so kind as to help eat some? Rose sipped at her drink as Shane bumbled through an acceptance of the food. After the waiter left, she put out her hand.

Reluctantly, he handed over the tab from the ginger ale he had drunk at Ilya's house before he ran out the door, which he had been fingering in his jacket pocket like a pathetic talisman for the last five weeks.

Chapter 2: For A Levitating Russian

Chapter Summary

"Perhaps you're ungrateful for how I delivered your April wish?" she says. She looks pointedly around the cottage and gestures behind her, at the couch. Shane finds himself unable to tear his gaze from her eyes.

"I didn't ask for –"

"Or," Rose says, stepping closer to him, pink pen clutched in front of her like a knife. "I hope you don't think I was in breach of our contract?"

Ilya will just have to see it for himself, Shane decides.

"Rose is in Ottawa to film a commercial," Shane says casually over breakfast, hoping Ilya doesn't know enough about Canada's filming industry or Rose's career to ask why this commercial isn't being filmed literally anywhere else. "But she just texted me that they had a few shoot days postponed. Director has a cold, or something. Do you mind if she comes by tomorrow?"

"Hollander," Ilya says, looking at Shane over his unholy pile of recently unfrozen waffles and overcooked scrambled eggs. "We have five more days."

"I know," Shane says, scraping at the peanut butter that was hiding under the last of the strawberries in his açaí bowl.

"And you want to spend one of them with your ex -"

"She's a friend, okay?" Shane says, finally snapping. "She's a fucking friend, just a friend. I've told you this so many times, why are you not listening to me?"

"Oh-key," Ilya says slowly, looking at Shane like he's a dog about to bite. Which, fair.

"I – sorry. Sorry. It's just, this is really important to me, okay? Please?"

"Hmm," Ilya says. His voice sounds almost normal, to Shane's ears. "And how is hotel staff going to convince me that my visit won't be spoiled by the presence of another guest?" He moves his left hand off the table and onto Shane's thigh.

"Oh," Shane breathes, looking down at Ilya's fingers, which are now creeping up his thigh. "I'm sure we can agree to something. Sir."

Rose pulls up to the cottage in a sporty little pink coupe, laden with gifts.

"Water shoes?" Ilya asks as he opens the last box. He looks from Shane to Rose, eyebrow raised. "Shane told you?"

"I told her nothing," Shane says honestly. "She's just good at this stuff."

Rose beams from the armchair where she's been perched, doling out gifts to both of them like one of Santa's elves. There's three more gifts on the table earmarked for Shane's parents.

"Look," Shane says. He was patient, waiting through the gifts. Now it's time to get on with it. "Rose and I have something to tell you." He shoots Rose a meaningful glance and then shifts sideways on the couch to face Ilya. Ilya warily shifts his gaze between the two of them.

"Fuck," he says. "How far along?"

Rose snorts.

"I – what?" Shane says, baffled.

"How many weeks is pregnancy?" Ilya says. "Just be honest." He sniffs once, a tight, stiff motion paired with an upward jut of his chin.

"I can't get pregnant," Shane says, head spinning, quickly running through all the wishes he's made with Rose, just to check nothing had… but no, that would be outside of her established scope, surely.

"Not you, her –" Ilya says. He gestures at Rose, who makes another little snort of laugh.

"Oh my god," Shane says quickly. "Obviously – no, no! She's not pregnant. Are you?" He looks in horror at Rose, who's too busy laughing to help him. "I mean, if she is, it's not mine! It would be like, born by now, right?" He reflexively looks at his watch, then back at Ilya.

"Oh, okay," Ilya says, his expression softening as his eyebrows raise. "So this is… okayyy. But I thought you think you are gay?" His voice lowers. "Shane, you do not have to do this for me. I already tell you this, I do not miss women. And if you want threesome, we can ask a boy. Connors got drunk, once, and kind of hinted…"

"What the fuck? No. Shut up!" Shane says. "I'm trying to tell you that Rose is my fairy godmother!"

Ilya stares at Shane, then Rose, then back at Shane.

"Wow," Rose says, still chortling but apparently enough recovered enough from her laughing fit to speak. "Congratulations, Shane. That might be the worst I've seen it done yet."

January had been Shane's second month with Rose as his official fairy godmother.

Shane had gone directly from a game in San Francisco to attend Rose's New Year's party, a big bash she apparently threw every year at her house in Los Angeles. It fell just after a win and before a rare three day game-break, which meant Shane was pretty drunk when the wishes reset at midnight.

"Shh," Rose had told him, rubbing his back as he hiccuped over a bottle of Krug, their legs dangling side by side in her backyard pool. "We can talk about it tomorrow."

"I know it was my fault," Shane said, biting his bottom lip and staring miserably down at his bare feet, "but I miss him." Rose reached for the champagne and took a sip, then passed it back to him.

Shane took a big swig of his own, watching the way the pool lights reflected the dark green of the champagne bottle back into the pool. He felt his lip wobble traitorously, and blew out a big breath.

"Ohh. I know, baby, I know," Rose said, rubbing his back a little harder. It was just enough to nudge his exhale into an embarrassing sob.

"I just wish," Shane found himself saying after a moment, as he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, "that I could just actually say it to someone, and have it not be a huge deal. That I'm gay. Besides you, I mean," he said, waving the bottle at her. "But you nudged it out of me, so it doesn't count." He bumped his own shoulder against hers as he said the word nudged, to demonstrate, and she took his distraction as another chance to swipe the bottle. "I can barely say it to myself," he added, a glum afterthought.

He reached for the Krug again, but Rose pulled it away. She smiled at him as she held the champagne just out of reach over the cool blue light of the pool. "Anything else?"

"Nooo, give it back," he said. She laughed.

"Fine. I want to have sex with him again," he huffed. "I fucking miss him. It was – fuck. Such good sex."

"Aww. I feel I should be offended, but you're gay, so, I get it."

A thought occurred to Shane. "And you know what? I wish he thought I was a little cooler," he said, gesturing down at himself. "Or, I don't know, sexier. You know earlier J-Lo asked me if I was your mechanic? And then that director guy said 'Mechanics in LA are better dressed, he obviously plays sportsball.'"

"Oh, honey," Rose had said. "I think that's the only one you actually need my help with."

"I said I believe you," Ilya shouts down to them from his perch on the roof of Shane's cottage. "We do not have to actually do it."

"Yes we do," Shane shouts back, squinting as he looks up. He raises his right hand to block out the sun. With his other hand, he subtly adjusts his shorts, which have been feeling a little tight since he watched Ilya climb out of the second floor window and do a one armed pull-up to haul himself into his current position next to Shane's weather vane.

"Why?"

"Because you're lying. You can't actually believe me without proof!

"Um," Shane continues more quietly, leaning over to Rose and speaking to her out of the side of his mouth. "You sure about this? It seems like more than a nudge."

Rose rolls her eyes. "I told you, this one's pretty easy. It's just a nudge up. The trick is timing it right." She reaches out and boops his nose with the fluffy end of the pink pen. Shane sneezes.

"Okay," Ilya shouts down. "You count or I do?"

"Together!" Rose shouts back cheerfully. "Count down from three, but jump on go, not one."

"Fuck," Shane whispers, reassessing the distance from the ground to the roof. "I feel sick."

"Shane," Ilya calls. "It is not too late to believe that I believe you!"

"You wimping out now, Rozanov?"

"Alright, alright," Rose says. "Everyone ready?"

"Da."

"Three…"

"Two…"

"One… oh, shit!"

"I told you to jump on go," Rose says, tutting disapprovingly as she looks down at Ilya, who is laying in the grass, clutching his ankle and sucking in air quickly between his teeth. "You went early."

"Blyat, Landry," Ilya swears. "Would not be problem if you have faster reflexes." His face is pale, and he's breathing deeply through a mouth twisted in pain.

"Sorry! We can't all have the reflexes of professional athletes!"

Shane kneels down and presses his fingertips lightly to Ilya's ankle. His heart sinks when Ilya lets out a low grown and rolls over, pressing his face into the lawn, hands still braced protectively around his foot.

"Was fun, though," Ilya says after breathing through the pain for a moment, voice tight and slightly muffled by the grass. "Not so fun being held in air just by ankle, but levitatsiya… levitate? Levitation? That was cool. I would do this again."

"Cool?" Shane says in disbelief. "What the fuck. What if this isn't healed by preseason?" He feels a sting pricking at his eyes. "Fuck. And how are we going to take you to the hospital without anyone knowing you're here? Ilya, I'm so sorry."

Ilya lifts his head off the grass a little and turns to peak out at Shane. "Why hospital?"

"Because your ankle is fucking broken."

Rose and Ilya both laugh. Ilya's laugh turns into another moan, and he digs his face back in the grass, breathing more deeply.

"Will you do it for same prize as before," he grits out, apparently to the grass.

"Sure," Rose says. "But it has to be a second, different picture. And you have to delete that one off your phone, too."

Ilya pulls his right hand off his ankle and waves it in the air. Shane watches, baffled, as Rose bends down to shake it.

"Feels much better," Ilya admits, after Shane has bridal-carried him inside, ignoring his many quips and flirtations, and Rose has waved her pen over his foot and chanted a few words. "Sorry about counting."

"No worries," Rose says, prodding the ankle with the fuzzy end of the pen. "Should be fully healed in five minutes. Shane, hand him his phone so he can do his side of the contract."

"You can do healing?" Shane says, frowning at Rose.

"Sure," she says, poking again at the ankle. "It's just nudging body parts back in place."

"So you could have healed my collarbone and concussion."

Rose stands up slowly from where she's bent over Ilya and turns to Shane.

The room feels very cold, suddenly. Out of the corners of his eye, Shane sees Ilya's fingers flex as he grips one of the couch cushions.

"No," she says flatly, eyes sharp as she stares him down. "I could not."

"But you just healed him. I could have played in the playoffs." Shane cringes inwardly at how whiney he sounds, but he can't help it.

"I could heal Ilya," Rose says, her tone cooler than Shane has ever heard. "First, because there's no one besides us who knows about his ankle in the first place."

"Sure, but –"

Rose holds up her hand to stop him speaking, pink fluff of the pen waving in the air as she points it at him. "And also, because it was just an accident. In this case it was wish-adjacent, but not an injury done on purpose in order to accomplish the wish." She glares at him. "Was your injury an accident, Shane? Hmm?"

"I mean, I –

"Perhaps you're ungrateful for how I delivered your April wish?" she says. She looks pointedly around the cottage and gestures behind her, at the couch. Shane finds himself unable to tear his gaze from her eyes.

"I didn't ask for –"

"Or," Rose says, stepping closer to him, pink pen clutched in front of her like a knife. "I hope you don't think I was in breach of our contract?"

"I just –"

"Landry," Ilya interrupts. Startled, they both look over at him. Shane is surprised to see that he's pushed himself off the couch and apparently wobbled over to the side table, which he's now balancing lazily against, twirling his phone. "Don't you want your payment?"

"What is it?" Shane says, peering over Ilya's shoulder. "What did you give her?" All he sees is the red "DELETE PHOTO" confirmation prompt before Ilya is pocketing the phone and licking a stripe up the side of Shane's cheek.

"Ew," Shane says. "You're so gross." His heart swells.

"Just some photos that are nice to look at," Ilya says with a shrug. "Is okay, I have a few similar pictures. I only had to give Rose two."

"Pictures of your mom?" Shane says, worried. Ilya probably doesn't have many of those.

"No," Ilya whispers, putting his arm around to squeeze Shane's ass. "Enough questions." Oh, Shane realizes. It must be a nude, or something. Given he's never sent anything of the sort to Ilya, it doesn't feel great to know that it qualified as something personal and valuable.

"Got them," Rose confirms, poking at her phone. She spends a few moments staring, swiping, zooming in, looking triumphant as she takes in whatever the photos are. "And these are the only copy, now?"

"Yes," Ilya says, serious as he looks at her. "I would not fuck with you."

She looks up at him, then moves her eyes to appraise him from his head down his body, then back up. "Is your mom a witch?" she asks. "You have this kind of… I don't know."

"My mother is dead."

"Oh," Rose says, her gaze softening. "Sorry."

"Why does she work, then? Like, the acting?" Ilya asks, after Rose has driven off, hand trailing a wave out the rooftop of the coupe as she went.

"I've actually never asked," Shane admits as he turns and pulls Ilya back into the house.

"You were not curious? She is fairy godmother to second best hockey player and also very famous actress. Probably she does not need to work at all. You are not curious why she does this?"

"I figure she feels the same way about acting as I do about my job. I'd play hockey for free, at any level. Wouldn't you?" he looks sideways at Ilya.

Ilya look back at him with disbelief, left eyebrow raised.

"No, Hollander," he says.

"Oh," Shane says, feeling his cheeks heat. Before he has to say anything else, Ilya continues.

"There is exactly one job on earth that I would do for free."

"Chirping?"

"Mmm, no. Different job. Want me to show you?"

They don't talk about Rose again till their last night at the cottage. Shane had expected Ilya to have some questions after he found out she was magical. He had actually been looking forward to showing Ilya how he comes up with his manifestations, maybe getting his advice on the next set. But Ilya doesn't bring it up, so Shane doesn't either, figuring he just needs a little more time to wrap his head around it. Shane's own mind had raced for a week after he found out.

When it does finally come up, it's not because Ilya has a question.

"You should be careful around Rose, maybe," Ilya says as he eases a stack of clean underwear into his suitcase, packing for his departure tomorrow. He says it in that particularly casual tone of his that Shane is starting to recognize as meaning Ilya's thought about something for a while and feels very strongly about it.

Shane sighs and hands Ilya the Raiders hoodie he's just been carefully folding. "Come on. I thought you'd stop with this, once you knew. There's literally nothing to be jealous of."

Ilya fingers the zipper on his suitcase. "No," he says. "You should be careful around her. Wishes can be… dangerous, maybe. At least," he clears his throat and turns around to the dresser, "that's what Russian stories say. Maybe Canadian ones are nicer."

Back in March, Shane hadn't yet figured out that he preferred calling them manifestations. So his "wishes for the month had been, in order:

1. For the Metros to score the last few points they needed to qualify for the playoffs

2. For Jackie Pike to have a smoother, easier eighth month of pregnancy and, as Hayden had reported the doctor thought an early birth was looking progressively more likely, to have a healthy birth for both her and the baby if it came to that

3. For Rozanov to open up to him just a bit

Nothing too crazy, Shane had thought. He was a little uncertain about his moral stance on the hockey points, but they were very close to qualifying for the playoffs already. All he really wanted the wish to do was make sure nothing heinous stood in their way. Like, in case a rival team had a fairy godmother of their own, or something.

Then, halfway through the month, as Shane walked out of the showers after practice in Montreal, JJ said the words that sent a stab of worry into Shane's stomach.

"Hey, did you hear about Rozanov? He did not fly with the rest of the team to Nashville."

Shane's stomach did a very complicated, very specific movement that made him feel like throwing up. Trying to act nonplussed, he reached for his phone as he discussed it with Hayden and JJ.

No new texts.

He opened the Lily chat and typed a quick message. Are you okay?

Fighting the bile rising in his throat, Shane clicked back and scrolled to the chat with Rose.

Anything I need to know about wish three? he texted Rose.

Her reply had come quickly. Not yet 🙂 this nudge is a good one. Taking some time.

Okay. It was probably fine. Nothing. A good thing, maybe. As soon as he was home, Shane hit dial on his Lily contact.

"Hi, this is Ilya, I will never listen to your voicemail."

Fuck.

Shane's relief when Ilya finally did call had warred with his guilt when he confirmed that his dad had passed away in his sleep.

"I want to help, if I can," Shane said. I think my fairy godmother killed your father, he hadn't said, stomach twisting as he peered through his glasses at fuzzy screen-Ilya. Which means I killed him, basically. Sorry.

First thing the next morning, Shane had video called Rose. "It wasn't me, I swear," she had said guilelessly, flipping her hair.

He tried to believe her. He almost could. But it got even harder to ignore the pit of guilt when Ilya called, the next day, and basically poured out his heart to Shane.

In Russian, but still – Shane was pretty sure it counted as opening up.

"What would you say your biggest problem in life is?" Shane asks about halfway through preseason training, leaning in towards the phone screen so he can better see Ilya.

"That you are not wearing your glasses."

"I left them downstairs," Shane admits. "My quads hurt too much to go grab them. Theriault has decided this year's training camp mantra is 'Pain is weakness leaving the body.'"

"Ouch. In Boston we braid each other's hair and sing songs. So, my life is perfect, actually."

"Shut up. Seriously, what's your biggest problem?"

"Hmm," said Ilya, thinking. "Used to be my dad, but, he is dead. So." Ilya shrugs, and Shane looks away from the screen and then back, keeping his expression schooled. "I think my biggest problem is not having my cock inside you."

"Like, right now, or… in general?"

"Both, no? Why, what is your biggest problem?"

Shane thinks about how it felt not to win the Stanley Cup last year, losing out on the historic chance to win it three years in a row. He thinks about the distance he sometimes feels from his team, and his asshole coach. He thinks about the pressure Rolex is putting on him to do an ad campaign that is maybe the dumbest thing he's ever seen. He thinks about how he still hasn't come out as gay to more than four people.

Imagining coming out not just as gay but as Ilya Rozanov's boyfriend makes his whole chest clench in a hopeful, terrified way. But then he thinks about how he would lose his whole career if he did, because there's no way Rose is powerful enough to nudge a whole sport and two countries towards total acceptance. So the thought of that wish coming true mostly makes him want to vomit.

He looks at Ilya, who's biting his lip as he waits for Shane to answer.

"Yeah," Shane says, honestly. "I guess the same thing. I wish I could see you more."

Rozanov smiles slyly, then pauses. "Why you ask this?"

"No reason," Shane says. "I just miss you."

"This is not for Landry?" Ilya checks. "You are just saying this, just because?"

"Do you think Rose Landry is hiding in my closet, listening to what I'm saying, waiting to make our dreams come true?" Shane tries to joke.

"No," Ilya says, his lips quirking. "Just you in your closet, probably."

"At least it's comfortable," Shane says. "Big walk in. Tidier than someone else I know. Maybe I should add a stool. You know, since I'll be living in there for the rest of my life?" He chuckles at his own lame joke.

Ilya doesn't laugh back.

About a month into the season, the morning after a Metros home game and just before a rare two-night break that by some miracle is lining up across both Ilya and Shane's team schedules, Shane gets a text from Coach Theriault: Cancelling practice today, too many guys with norovirus. I am writing a team email now and will send out some tape as homework, but for now you can spread the word. None of you idiots should hang out with each other. I expect everyone to be better by Wednesday's game.

Shane dutifully relays these orders to the team chat, adding a note of his own about the importance of washing hands and being honest about any symptoms come Wednesday. He feels totally fine, so he opens his text chat with Rose and types: "Health manifestation seems to be holding well, thank you."

She replies: "Ugh, that one is so boring. But you're welcome."

The three typing dots dance for a moment, and then he receives: "Want to replace it with something more fun next month? I can probably get you a foursome with Scott and Kip."

Shaking his head, Shane opens Google Flights. He has a flight to Boston booked for early tomorrow morning, but this opportunity seems too good to pass up. His bag is already packed, of course, and he always packs an extra shirt and pair of underwear, so he's good to go. Maybe he'll pretend that he didn't bring enough clothes, so he can borrow Rozanov's underwear and shirt.

The thought makes him feel warm, and that settles it: he buys a flight that leaves in two hours and ten minutes. Normally Shane has a be at the airport two and a half hours early rule when he's not traveling with on the team plane, but fuck it, he's feeling wild.

He's feeling so wild, he decides, that he won't even text Rozanov. Shane's not really into surprises, but he knows Ilya is; when Shane had sent flowers to his house after the first Raiders game of the season, signed by Jane, Ilya had called him nearly in tears. Then he'd wrapped some of them around his head in a flower crown, set up his tripod, and dirty talked Shane until they both came.

So, Ilya's probably down for Shane surprising him by arriving a day early.

Just to be sure, he shoots Ilya a text: Doing anything fun today? Before your game, I mean.

Ilya's reply comes when Shane's boarding: No 😢 Just doing house projects with Svetlana until I go in.

Shane's lips twist as he processes this. It doesn't feel great, obviously. But it's not like he can say much – he's still friends with Rose. And Svetlana knows about him, so it should be alright if she's there when he arrives. Either they can all hang out, or Ilya will kick her out so they can…

Shane's phone dings again as he hands over his passport to the gate agent: Wish I was doing you instead.

Then, as Shane settles into his seat and pulls the baseball cap lower over his head, he gets a third text: Why? You so horny you cannot wait for real thing tomorrow? Need virtual dick? 💻🍆🤓

Yes, Shane thinks as he smiles slightly to himself, he is too horny to wait.

Ilya's house is quiet when Shane lets himself in, which is odd, because Shane checked Find My Friends twice in the car ride over to confirm that Ilya is definitely at home. He eases his shoes off and looks around curiously as he walks through the ground floor.

"Ilya?" he calls. Nothing.

"Svetlana?" he tries. Just the dead echo of an empty house.

He steps warily into the kitchen. Empty, but the kitchen has big glass doors that face the backyard, and through them he can see two figures with curly hair. They seem to be bent around the fire pit that Shane hasn't actually seen yet, but has been sent photos of. Ilya had it installed right after he came back from the cottage.

Fighting to suppress the little smile that's trying to take over his face, Shane quietly slides open one of the big glass doors and eases his way onto the concrete patio. He tiptoes towards Ilya and Svetlana.

"Surprise," he whispers when he's just behind them, losing the battle against his smile.

"AHHH!" Ilya and Svetlana scream. Svetlana fucking jumps.

They turn around, shock and fear etched on their faces. As they move, they reveal what their bodies had previously been mostly blocking: an absolute unit of a pot, cast iron, dark black, sides at least an inch thick and big enough for one of the Pike kids to fit into. It's perched precariously over Ilya's new fire pit, which is crackling away.

Like a cauldron, some random part of Shane's brain supplies.

As she jumps, Svetlana drops what she was holding into the cauldron. It makes a giant splash, sending waves of a silver liquid spilling over its thick sides.

"FUCK!" she shouts, looking from Shane back to the cauldron. "WHAT THE FUCK!"

Chapter 3: For No One To Recognize Me

Chapter Summary

"Now drink this, it takes five minutes to work. It tastes like ghosts, but do not vomit, I didn't bring another one. And there is jersey in the back, put it on."

Chapter Notes

The first thing Shane notices is that the previously-silver liquid in the cauldron behind Svetlana and Ilya has turned a very orange color, and Svetlana and Ilya have both turned faintly red.

"Surprise," Shane breathes, again. Ilya, eyes wide, gives a disbelieving laugh and takes a quick step forward, pulling Shane into an enveloping hug. He hoists him off the ground and spins around twice, squeezing an embarrassing yelp out of Shane. As Ilya sets him down, Shane hears Svetlana say something in Russian that sounds very angry. He can't tell if it's supposed to be directed at him, Ilya, or the cauldron which she's now bent over.

"What are you doing here?" Ilya asks as he sets him down, sounding awed.

"Um," Shane says, as he finds his feet after being twirled around like a toddler. "Practice was cancelled so I thought I'd surprise you. I hope it's okay."

"It's not," Svetlana says, from where she's bent over the cauldron. The air around them smells faintly of old feet.

"Sveta."

"It's not okay!" she repeats. She whirls back from the cauldron and points a finger at Shane. "That potion was at the final step. Are you going to find me another Russian bear claw and twenty more ermania parryoides pedals from the Kolyma Highlands and repeat the whole fucking thing from the beginning?"

Shane has only met Svetlana once, very briefly at a league event for the start of the season. His primary impression then was that she was very beautiful and funny. His primary impression right now is that she is fucking terrifying.

"I – sorry?" Shane says. Svetlana has always seemed fluent to Shane, with a near-native North American accent, but she must have used the wrong English word. "A potion? Like… tonic? You're injured?" he says, looking back at Ilya.

Ilya laughs and pulls him closer, planting a kiss on Shane's forehead. "I am perfect," he murmurs against Shane's temple. "I am so perfect, since you are here."

There's another scoff, and Shane looks at Svetlana in time to see her roll her eyes. "This adorableness is only like, half endearing enough to calm me down." She doesn't look calmer at all, Shane thinks. Her hair is frizzing from the heat of the still-bubbling, disgusting-looking liquid in the cauldron, and her eyes look like they could turn someone to stone.

"Okay, okay," Ilya says. He claps his hands once, and looks from Svetlana to Shane to the disgusting cauldron of goop. "Sveta: you go for drive, go cool off. Take any car you want. I will clean up here, explain to Shane. Ruined potion is not end of the world. When you come home I will leave present for you, special thank you."

Svetlana looks at Ilya appraisingly, lips pursed, hands on her hips. "You know you're going to have to get more of his hair, now," she says after a moment.

"I know," Ilya says, his tone hard and flat.

"Have fun," Svetlana laughs. Shane thinks her tone sounds a little mean; he has a sudden urge to jump in front of Ilya and protect him from her. Before he can act on the irrational impule, Svetlana says something in Russian, very quick and sharp. Ilya sighs and responds, his own tone still even. She nods.

"Fine," Svetlana huffs. "I will take the Lambo. You pay any speeding tickets. And yes, tell him. He seems like the type to have so many questions, I'd rather not be here anyway."

Ilya nods. As Svetlana disappears into the house, Ilya pulls Shane into another hug, peppering his cheeks and lips with kisses.

"You're not injured?" Shane checks again, the words muffled by Ilya's lips.

"Ah, no," Ilya says, pulling back and rubbing Shane's back. "It was more, like, magic potion?"

It's lucky Ilya has his arms wrapped so tight around Shane, he thinks dimly, because he feels like all the air has just evacuated his lungs.

"So you have a fairy godmother, too," Shane says, awed, once he's helped Ilya carry the cauldron to the edge of the yard and toss the thick, now-brown goop inside on an innocent bush. The thing weighed a shit ton, and they were both huffing by the time they'd hosed it out, so they're now sipping tall glasses of water at Ilya's kitchen island.

"Russians do not have fairy godmothers," Ilya says dismissively. "This is for soft Canadians."

"Okay, what do Russians have then?" Shane says, setting his glass back down on the countertop.

"Baba Yaga," Ilya says, through lips set in a hard line.

"Right. So why the fuck did you not tell me about her when I told you about Rose? That would have been a pretty fucking good time to mention her."

"Is fucking embarrassing, is why," Ilya admits with something of a pout. "You have had Rose since what, November? Also, after you tell me about Rose, I did want to tell you. But I needed her to agree, first. I am bound to keep her secret. I was working on this. I think she would have agreed soon."

Shane's still focused on the first thing he said. "So Svetlana's been your Baba since when?"

"Ew," Ilya says, wrinkling his nose. "Do not call her my baba. She will maybe murder you if she hears you said that."

"What?" Shane asks, alarmed. "Why?"

"Is, like, not so nice word for woman. Or sometimes means grandmother. Depends on context," Ilya says, raising his hand and tipping it side to side in a so-so motion.

"Oh. So what do I call her then? Your… Yaga?"

"No, no. This word means nothing. It is just, I do not know, just word. Name. Myth-name." Ilya pauses and cocks his head, apparently thinking. "And actually, I do not think she is actually the Baba Yaga. Her name is Svetlana, not Yaga. Well, I can call her Sveta. But, mmm, I think she is Svetlana to you, still."

"Okay, so she's your what then? What do I call her?"

"I do not know, Hollander, how am I supposed to know right etymology for this! Call her Svetlana, call her my fucking vyed'ma, my… how do you call it… wizard. No, witch, I guess, since she is lady. I do not care." He waves his hand through the air again, now dismissively.

"Your witch," Shane repeats. He's glad he has a fairy godmother, and not a witch. "Wait, etymology? How are you still mixing up witch and wizard but you know that word? Did you like, wish for a bigger vocabulary?"

Ilya blows an exasperated raspberry through his lips. "Is called a fucking cognate. What, you think I am such a caveman that every big word I say I should get gold star for? Eksperiment, biologiya, geneticheskiy, psikhologiya, terapiya, ekonomika. Half the big words are same in Russian and English! Congratulations, now you are fluent in three languages."

"Okay, I'm sorry. So since when has Svetlana been your… witch?"

"Mmm, I met her in Russia, so…"

"Like, over the summer?"

"No, like, few months before the draft?" Ilya says with a too-casual shrug.

"In 2009? Svetlana has been your witch for eight years?"

"Yes, I just say this."

"Couldn't she have done more for you?" Shane says, baffled.

Ilya scoffs. "Like what?"

"I don't know, shouldn't you have like, a perfect life, or something?"

There's a long moment where Ilya stares at Shane.

"Seriously?" he asks, accent sounding even thicker. "Hollander. Look around."

Shane does so, taking in Ilya's couch and some generic art on the walls. He looks back, baffled.

Ilya raises his eyebrows and pushes his head forward, as if to say again, seriously? "I am literally living my fucking dream," Ilya says, gesturing around.

"This house?"

"No, in life!"

"But you and I have, like, the same life."

Ilya tips his head back and laughs, three short sharp noises, but they don't seem unkind; when he tilts his head back, he's smiling a little. He seems more amused than anything.

"Oh my god. Yes, Hollander. We are both living the fucking dream. Not just our dream. Like, many people's. I am bisexual Russian kid from not so nice family, and now I am rich, famous, sexy athlete in America. For a long time I had many pretty women and exotic car collection. Now I have even more pretty boyfriend and even better car collection. You think I fucking did this by myself? I'm a lazy piece of shit!" He says it like it's a joke, but Shane winces.

"You're not lazy. You got this far because of talent and hard work."

"Did I?"

"I mean… didn't you? What, are you saying… it's all fake? Are you actually shit at hockey?"

Ilya lets out a big breath. "This is also why I did not tell you. You think I am proud of this? That I needed help?"

"Okay, I'm sorry, but like, are you saying you wished for your Cup? Or that you're actually bad at hockey?"

"Seriously? This is what you care about, on-ice shit? You have a fucking fairy godmother too!"

"Yeah, but I met her less than a year ago," Shane points out. "After I won both my cups."

Maybe Ilya can tell just how much the idea of Ilya actually being secretly shit at hockey is distressing Shane, because his voice gets very serious and soft. "No, Shane, obviously is not fake. I am very good hockey player. The best, actually. Maybe you have had a chance to see me skate, hmm? What, you think I just waste my wishes on hat tricks?"

"But… then what does she do for you? Why do you need her?"

Ilya sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "I do not need her. But she helps with, you know, some luck things."

"Like, nudges," Shane supplies, glad to be back on familiar ground.

Ilya barks another laugh, this one short and sharp. "Clearly you have not heard Baba Yaga stories. More like, removing obstacles."

Shane feels gooseflesh bloom on the back of his neck. "Like?"

"Like, maybe, making sure people who try to blackmail you to stay and play in KHL do not succeed. Making sure your father and brother do not accidentally kill you before you join draft when they hear you were found in storage closet with coach's son." Ilya rolls his shoulders down, casually, from where they've bunched near his ears.

"Fuck," Shane says.

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Do not look at me like this. Everything worked out fine," Ilya says, with an indifferent sniff.

Yeah, because of your WITCH! – Shane does not shout.

Svetlana still isn't back by the time Ilya has to head to the Garden for his game, so Shane figures that she's gone straight to the barn, since Ilya mentioned she was using his tickets tonight.

Shane's relieved, because he did about forty-two seconds of googling about baba yaga russian myth stories and immediately had to force himself to put down the phone before the tightness in his chest became a panic attack. To distract himself from doing more research, Shane flops down on the couch to pick apart the pre-game commentary on ESPN, trying not to feel too sorry for himself that he can't just go to the game that's happening a few miles away.

He's not there long before he hears the sound of the garage door opening.

"Shane!" Svetlana's voice echoes through the house. "Come here!"

She's already glaring at him when he walks up to the door that leads to the garage.

"Look," he says, "I swear I won't tell anyone."

"I know," she says with a sweet smile, "because I will kill you if you do."

Shane swallows and forces himself to keep eye contact. Think of her like a big d-man, it's no big deal. "Right."

"I'm going to the game," Svetlana says.

"Have fun," Shane says, trying not too sound too bitter.

"You should come with me."

Shane laughs, then, taking in the look on Svetlana's face, quickly stops laughing. "What the fuck? No."

"Why not?" she asks, quirking her head and frowning.

"You know why not."

"I have to hear you say it," she says, in a tone that suggests she may as well be talking to a toddler.

"Why?"

"I have to hear you say it, before I can do anything about it."

That makes Shane pause. "Um… because I'd be recognized?"

"Oh, no," Svetlana says. She puts a hand into her purse and draws out a little vial of what looks like bottled smoke. "If only we could fix that."

"This is such a bad idea," Shane says as they approach downtown Boston in Ilya's Lamborghini. "I feel sick."

"Don't be a baby," Svetlana chides from behind the wheel. "You're too handsome to cry."

"Fuuuck," he says as he starts seeing more and more fans in jerseys out the window, walking on the sidewalks just a few feet away. He bends at the waist to lower his head between his knees.

"Hollander," Svetlana says, voice gentler. "I promise the potion will work."

Shane forces himself to take a deep breath, grounding himself in the scent of irresponsibly expensive Italian leather seats. "Okay. Say I believe you. What do I owe you?" He thinks about the kinds of things Rose asks for for payment. His anxiety grows at the thought of having to give her the little keychain of a loon that Ilya gave him, which is currently sitting in his left pocket.

"Nothing," Svetlana says.

"What?" Shane says, twisting a little from his recovery position to look up at Svetlana, whose expression is unreadable as she focuses on the road. "Don't you need, like, a contract and a payment after?"

"No, that's settled," she says again. "I always take payment up front."

"I haven't paid, though?"

"Oh, Jane," Svetlana says, sounding amused. "You have already paid me by being so good to my Ilyushenka." She smiles down at him, then lifts the potion bottle out of the drink cup of the Lambo. "Now drink this, it takes five minutes to work. It tastes like ghosts, but do not vomit, I didn't bring another one. And there is jersey in the back, put it on."

"I can't do this," Shane says as they step out of the garage they parked in a few blocks from Boston's barn. He pulls his hat lower and moves to turn around and double back to the car.

Svetlana juts out a hand to stop him.

"Look," he says to her, voice low as he glances around at the fans streaming around them, towards the game. "Getting spotted is one thing, but if I get spotted in Ilya's fucking sweater my team will literally not let me into the locker room. I'll be traded by the end of the day."

"Is anyone even looking at you?" Svetlana asks, raising her eyebrows and looking pointedly at the busy sidewalk.

"I mean –"

"Excuse me," Svetlana says, putting her arm out to stop a guy who's walking past. He's wearing a Boston Raiders jersey and drinking openly from a bottle of beer, which Shane's pretty sure is just as illegal in this city as it is in most of Canada.

"What?" he barks at her, then, apparently taking her in, shifts to a smile. "What can I do for you, beautiful?" His Boston accent makes beautiful into very long word.

"Quick question. Who do you think is a better hockey player, Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov?" With her left hand, Svetlana quickly reaches up and pulls Shane's cap off his head. He hisses and reaches for it, but she quickly stuffs it in her purse. The Boston guy notices the weird thing Svetlana has just done, of course, and he looks right at Shane.

"Fuck Shane Hollander," he says, and spits on the ground. A little bit lands on Shane's left sneaker. "He's a pussy who couldn't finish a fight if his life depended on it. Heard half his Metros have norovirus. I hope he fucking dies of it, wherever he is."

"Well said," Svetlana says, sweetly. The man grunts. As he walks away, she turns back to Shane. "Believe me now? No one can recognize you. Same for photos."

"Holy shit," Shane says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That was incredible."

"Holy shit," Shane says again, looking around the rink. He feels like he did when he was five and went to his first professional game. Their seats are great; right against the bubble, just behind the net on the side the Raiders will be shooting twice on. It's kind of uncanny, being this close and not being on the player's bench.

And no one has fucking recognized him.

The Raiders file onto the ice for the pregame warmup, and all Shane has eyes for is number 81. He feels like a dog watching a ball, unable to take his eyes off Ilya regardless of where he is on the ice; taking shots, skating back to his bench to say something to his coach, interacting with a little kid on the other side of the bubble just a few feet from Shane.

And gyrating stretches into the ice. Shane never gets to look at that part. He's always too busy focused on his own pre-game rituals when they play.

One of the times he skates around the net after a practice shot, Ilya spots Svetlana and gives her a little wave and wink. He doesn't even look at Shane.

"Holy shit," Shane says again, absolutely thrilled at being ignored by his boyfriend. "This is so fucking cool."

"First time at a game?" the guy next to him leans over to ask Shane.

Svetlana chortles.

"Uhh –" Shane says.

Boston plays decently well the first period. Neither team scores, but Ilya has a few solid shots on goal and some absolutely inspired passes, one of which literally makes Shane feel a little angry, because there's no way he would have seen the opening himself.

Once, during a freeze of the puck that gives Ilya a chance to make a lazy arc around the back of the net, Ilya looks at Svetlana and his eyes slide sideways, to Shane's face. Under his visor, Shane sees his forehead pucker into the tiniest frown.

The second time Ilya skates around their side of the net during a stoppage, he shoots Svetlana a quizzical little uplift of his head. She chuckles next to Shane and just smiles and waves back.

"He texted me from the dressing room," Svetlana says quietly to Shane when he gets back to their seats during the end of intermission between first and second period. "Asked who was sitting next to me. Says he looks familiar."

She leans over and takes one of the beers Shane's carrying: a spontaneous and irresponsible purchase made because he doesn't have a game for a few days and he literally feels like he's on cloud nine right now.

Shane feels a little flutter in his chest. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him it's you, but the service is bad, so it just went through," she whispers, tapping at the back of her phone like she's disappointed it. "He probably won't see it until third period."

"Right."

"At least that means we'll be able to see his reaction up close," she adds, gesturing at the net in front of them, which is now Tampa's to score in for this period, but will revert to being the Raiders' target again in the third, putting Ilya back on offense right in front of their seats.

"What do you mean?" Shane asks, but he's distracted by watching the Raiders funnel back out of the tunnel, looking for the 81.

"We'll see."

Tampa scores halfway through the second period, and despite some more good passes from the Raiders, they aren't able to tie it up by the time the buzzer sounds for the second intermission.

"Do you think he got your text?" Shane leans over to ask Svetlana towards the end of the intermission, because they haven't gotten a reply from Ilya. "Can't you, you know, nudge him to make sure he does?"

"Believe it or not, phone service inside concrete buildings is not really what I carry potions around for," Svetlana replies dryly. She raises her hand to wave down a concession guy and orders two more beers. Shane takes his without hesitation – he's fucking stressed, watching Ilya play from here. Every shot Tampa took on the net in second period sent his heart plunging, and every miss sent it soaring again. He'll have to ask Jackie how she handles it, before he does this again.

Again. The thought wipes the smile off his face for the first time this game. Of course, he'll never be able to do this again. It's no doubt a one time deal, so he has to savor it while he can.

When third period kicks off, Ilya is at the front of the procession out of the tunnel, so Shane can watch him on the jumbotron, this time. The camera zooms in on him, and Ilya points right at it, winks, and blows it an exaggerated kiss.

"I think he might have seen my text," Svetlana says, knocking Shane with her elbow.

Chapter End Notes

I love Baba Yaga-vibe Svetlana. Thank you to the people who commented last chapter it really helps with motivation to work on fics! Even one person being into the same stuff I am honestly feels so amazing.

Also I am continuing my crusade to remind our amazing fandom that Ilya would understand plenty of “big words” because a lot of them are nearly the SAME in Russian. Including, SURPRISE, the word genetic. This is the second fic I’ve put a mention of cognates into somehow and the cognate references will continue until cognate awareness improves!

Chapter 4: For Norovirus (Oops)

Chapter Summary

"Has she ever done anything like this before? Anything that made you –"

"What," Shane says, "sick?"

"Afraid."

Chapter Notes

I realized I find publishing a WIP in chunks kind of stressful and distracting from writing, so I'm putting Chapters 4-5 up now and hope to have the last 3 up in the next day or two!

There's no other way to put it – Ilya has turned into a less green version of the Incredible Hulk.

"You're sure you didn't cast a spell on him?" Shane mutters to Svetlana as he watches his boyfriend storm his way through the Tampa defense.

"No," she whispers back. "But I think you did."

When Ilya scores – because of course he fucking scores, he's skating with the speed of a speed skater, pivoting with the grace of an ice dancer, and checking with the force of an Olympic bobsled – he gives a roar. Before finding his team for the celly, he skates quickly around the back of the goal and bangs on the bubble, twice, flashing his shit-eating grin at Shane as he passes. Shane has never seen anyone look hotter.

"Wicked," the Boston guy next to Shane says, sounding awed. "Did you guys see that? He looked right at me."

Shane rushes down to the garage the second he hears it whirring open. "That was so fucking hot," Shane says, practically bouncing on his toes as Ilya steps out of his Porsche. It's just him at home; Svetlana's already flown away on her broomstick or flying carpet or whatever witches do (she claimed to be taking an uber, but Shane didn't actually see her take out her phone).

"Bozhe moi," Ilya says, a smile spreading across his face. "It was true? It was you?"

"Yeah," Shane breathes. He surges forward and presses his lips to Ilya's before he can even close his car door, desperate to have Ilya's mouth on his own, to press his admiration into his tongue and his neck and every inch of his skin. "You are so fucking hot," he says again, when their lips separate for a quick break for air.

Ilya chuckles. "You saw second goal, too?" he checks. "You liked it? This was for you."

Shane swallows at the memory of Ilya mouthing "for you" and blowing a kiss at the camera after his second goal. "Yes," he moans into his mouth, "so fucking hot. Do you want your reward or not?"

Smiling into their next kiss, Ilya promptly kicks the car door closed with his foot, lifts Shane onto his own hips, and all but barges through the door that leads to the house.

"What were you brewing in the cauldron?" Shane asks Ilya over dinner the next night, trying to sound casual.

He's pretty proud of himself for waiting this long to bring it up. He spent most of the day in bed with the hottest man he knows, which helped him not hyperfixate. Mostly.

He did do maybe some more googling while he was in the bathroom.

And post-googling, there was maybe one blowjob where Shane took twice as long as normal to come, because he couldn't stop picturing Svetlana in the Baba Yaga myth where she eats a baby.

After, both of them breathless from the extra effort, Ilya had asked him what was wrong, and Shane had to pretend it was because he was tired. Ilya had insisted they nap, but Shane's dreams had been filled with huts with chicken legs and images of a version of Svetlana with iron teeth, and after ruminating on that for a few more hours, he decides he has to bring it up.

But, all in all, Shane thinks he is crushing it for waiting as long as he does to follow up on the cauldron.

Ilya looks up at him quickly when Shane asks the question, then back down at his chicken.

"What?" Shane forces a laugh. "Feeling nervous about asking for my hair for the next potion? How'd you get it in the first place?"

Ilya swallows loudly. "Was not your hair," he says gruffly.

"Then whose –"

Ilya aggressively cuts another piece of chicken. "Marley's."

"Cliff Marleau?"

"No, dog in movie. Yes, Cliff."

"Why?"

"For potion about Marleau," Ilya says, waving his fork in the air on its way to his mouth as if to say duh. Shane waits him out.

"Look," Ilya says, after he's chewed his bite thoroughly. "I get three wishes, right? After we leave cottage, I make one of my wishes about help with a move closer to you." He says it casually, like it isn't the kind of thing to make Shane's stomach do a backflip.

"Really?" Shane says. "I mean…" he clears his throat. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"Yes," Ilya says. "Wishes are always projects, with Sveta. So Sveta uses… I don't know, whatever she does. She cannot see future, but she says she can maybe see pieces. Obstacles, like, to happiness. She looks, and says I will be lonely in Ottawa. Says…" he clears his throat roughly and stabs at a big piece of roasted potato and brings it near his mouth. "Does not matter what she says," he says darkly, looking away from Shane. "But says it is maybe better if I think about Ottawa again."

"Oh," Shane says, his heart dropping.

Ilya chews his food very carefully, eyes still trained over Shane's shoulder as his jaw works in tight circles.

"So," Shane says after a minute, fighting to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "You're not moving to Ottawa?"

"What? Of course I am."

"But you just said Svetlana said…"

"Ah, no. She says I will be lonely in Ottawa. So I say, you remove obstacles. This is obstacle. We remove it." Ilya uses his hands to demonstrate this, picking an invisible object off the table and throwing it onto the floor.

"Right. Uh, so, what does that have to do with Marleau?"

"Potion is so Marley comes with," Ilya says, like it's obvious.

"What? Like, to force him? Or… what, create a trade by magic?"

"No, no," Ilya says, his eyes widening. "Of course not. Potion is to see, what would make Marley happy to move to Ottawa with me? What does he need. This kind of thing. I do not want to bring Marley if he is sad, too."

Shane isn't sure how to ask about the too in that sentence, so he doesn't. "Wow," he says. "That's really nice, both that you would do that for Marley and… um, for me. Thanks."

Ilya rolls his eyes at him. "I would do anything for you," he says, quietly.

After they've slept in and then slept together the next morning, Ilya makes them a breakfast of eggs and some kind of Russian cottage cheese pancakes. They eat at the kitchen island, and Shane drags his bar stool right next to Ilya's, so every part of their knees and thighs are touching.

"I know it's bad to say, but it's kind of lucky the team got norovirus," Shane admits, reaching over Ilya for another pancake. "It was good timing, at least. The trip already feels too short, even with the extra day. Lucky I didn't get it, too."

Ilya cocks his eyebrow at him. "That is a joke, yes?"

"No," Shane laughs. "I wouldn't be here if they hadn't, and we couldn't have done everything we did last night if I had caught it, could we?"

"The Metros actually have norovirus? I heard this, but when you came here, I thought this is rumor started by Theriault to make Carolina not want to check you guys when you play them."

"No, it's true," Shane says, thinking glumly of who Theriault will try on his wing for their next game if Hayden's still out. "But I've started always manifesting good health with Rose, so I was safe." He smiles at Ilya, expecting approval.

"Shane," Ilya says slowly, in a voice that does not sound approving, "what else did you wish for?"

"Um," Shane says, thinking back. "I manifested good health, obviously. For my mom to be able to hire the right project coordinator to help with stuff like renting the rink time for camps next summer, because she said no one she had interviewed so far was good enough. And," he leans in close to Ilya, ready for his kiss after he says the next bit, "I wished for a little more time with you."

"Shane," Ilya says again.

"Hmm?"

"Did you accidentally wish your team into having norovirus?"

"You're sure you don't have norovirus?" Ilya calls skeptically from just outside the downstairs bathroom, where he's no doubt heard every moment of Shane emptying his breakfast into the toilet.

Shane moans a little as he closes the toilet lid and flushes. He pushes the sliding pocket door open with his toe, but stays in his position on the floor, just in case.

"I'm sure," he says. "I'm just freaking out, you can ignore me."

"Okay," Ilya says, sounding and looking uncertain.

Shane can't bear the look, so he turns around. "Fuck," Shane says, more or less to the toilet lid. "Do you really think she gave the team norovirus? Just because I wished for a little more time with you?"

Ilya sighs. "Yes."

"Fuck."

"Has she ever done anything like this before? Anything that made you –"

"What," Shane says, "sick?"

"Afraid."

After his season-ending injury in April, once the heaviest drugs had been weaned and his concussion had waned, Shane phoned Rose.

"Hey! I'm in makeup," she told him quickly. I'm not alone, she meant. Probably on speaker. She had already told him she was on this project for the next two months, with long shoot days and hours in makeup being painted blue, so time to talk alone would be limited to their start-of-the-month chats.

"Got it!" he said. "Hi, Rose's crew!" A chorus of hellos in various pitches trickled down the phone.

"How are you feeling, babe?" Rose asked, sounding genuinely concerned. "Not in too much pain?"

"Not too bad," he said. "They did surgery right away and gave me the good drugs. Just bummed to be injured for playoffs."

"Mmm," Rose hummed sympathetically.

"I keep thinking, if only I'd… prayed a little harder… to not get injured…" he said, hoping she'd catch his drift and her makeup crew would just assume he was super religious.

Rose laughed. "You know what they say. Man plans, god laughs."

"Right," he says. "Still, I guess I'll pray… harder… about that next month."

"And any update on the invite you were going to extend?" Rose aske pointedly.

"Oh, yeah. Um… they didn't say no?" Although Ilya hadn't exactly said yes to the cottage, either.

"That's great!" Rose says. Shane can hear her smile in how she says it. "I'm so happy for you. That's exactly what you were telling me you wanted, right?"

Was it? Shane's heart sunk at the confirmation that Rose viewed the wish as fulfilled. He'd thought maybe the wish just hadn't fully loaded yet.

Fuck, Shane thought, thinking back over how he'd worded the wish.

Ilya's father's death had loomed over Shane's conscience, reminding him not to push too hard with his wishes. He didn't want Ilya saying yes just because of the magic.

But Shane had also been sure if he just asked Ilya about the cottage, without help from Rose, Ilya would say no. In fact, he was getting pretty worried Ilya was thinking about ending whatever-they-were. Ilya's texts had become more sparse and terse since he had come home from his dad's funeral, and they hadn't spoken on the phone since then either.

So Shane had gone for very light, low-touch April wishes. Shane had said: I wish he would actually think about coming to the cottage. Not say no right away, actually give it an honest chance. If he really wants to, I hope he says yes.

Apparently, Ilya hadn't really wanted to. And now, just Shane's shitty luck, he had a "maybe," but he also had a sling, a headache, and no hockey.

"Yeah," Shane said. "Yeah, it's great."

"Sounds like the injury was worth it?" Rose prompted pointedly. "Sucks it had to happen, but you got something you hoped for out of it."

Holy fucking shit.

Shane's blood went cold as he processed the implication of that. Was his season-ending injury because of his wish?

"Yeah. I guess I did," Shane said shakily, feeling a prickle at the back of his neck. He had to get better at this wish shit next month.

Shane groans again and closes his eyes as he slumps against the bathroom doorway.

"Okay, so your fairy godmother is psychopath, and you are obsessed with me," Ilya says. He leans over and starts massaging Shane's shoulders. "She gave your whole team norovirus and put you in hospital."

"I think she means well," Shane says, because he's given this a lot of thought. "She just gets so focused on the wish delivery, she doesn't look at the whole picture."

"The whole picture," Ilya repeats. "Like, keeping you out of hospital."

"Yeah," Shane says. He feels better, so he puts out a hand. Ilya takes it in his own and gives him a yank to get him on his feet. Shane slips past him and to the stairs, in pursuit of his toothbrush.

"You know what you could do," Ilya says, trailing after him with his hand on Shane's back like he thinks he's actually ill.

"I can't apologize to the team. I can't admit this to anyone, they'd put me on a psych hold. Then I'll have to go on IR," Shane says, horrified at the thought of being stuck on injured reserve against his will.

Ilya laughs as he holds the door to the master bathroom open for Shane. "No. But, you could just get rid of her."

Shane glares at him. "Not an option."

"Mmm. Think about it. She seems like she scares you. Wishes are nice, but maybe not… worth this?" They've made it to the bathroom now, and Ilya accompanies his this with a gesture at Shane in the mirror. Even Shane has to admit, he looks… like a man who just got so freaked out that he threw up.

"I have thought about it," Shane says, his voice quiet. He looks at Ilya, begging him to understand. "You think I haven't thought about it, every month since the injury? Since – it doesn't matter. It's not an option."

"Okayyy… why?"

"It's an iron-clad contract. I can't get out of it."

There it is. Out in the open.

"You have become her servant for life, or?"

"No," Shane says, reaching for his toothbrush.

"Okay, then, deal can be ended. Like you said, Rose does all her magic under a contract, right? There must be some end clause or payout or something."

"It's not that simple." Shane starts brushing his teeth, hoping this will shut Ilya up. Ilya just stares at him with that fucking what do you mean look the whole time. When Shane finally spits, he's still there.

Shane looks down at the sink. "The thing I promised her, my side of the deal, I can never give her. So she's going to by my fairy godmother for the rest of my life."

"Shane," Ilya says, stepping closer and lifting Shane's chin until their eyes are making contact in the mirror, "Maybe I can help you, yes? I have had my own vyed'ma for many years now, and no hospital."

"You can't."

"We're a team now, no? That means we solve problems together. There is always a way out. But I can only help if you tell me what it is. What did you promise her?"

Shane's stomach plummets. "I told you. Nothing I can give. So ending the contract with her is not an option. I'll figure something else out. Please. Just drop it."

Ilya is incapable of fucking dropping the topic of what Shane's contract with Rose entails, apparently. So an hour later, as they do some steady state cardio in Ilya's gym, Shane on the erg, Ilya on the treadmill, Shane decides to go on the offensive.

"Why? What do you do for your… do you even do a contract? With Svetlana."

Ilya laughs. "She just calls it our blood deal."

"What does that mean?"

"I have to go bleed on a tree. Every year. In the middle of the forest."

"Seriously?" Shane looks up at him the gym mirror, but he can't tell if Ilya is serious.

"Takes fucking foreverrrr," Ilya says, lifting his hands from where they've been pumping by his side to enunciate. "I don't know what her connection with this tree is, but tree is like, eight hour drive and then three hour hike from Moscow. Huge pain in the ass."

Shane lets the handle of the rowing machine fall into its cradle so he can turn to actually look at Ilya. "That's it? You spill a few drops of blood on a tree?"

"Maybe you did not hear me," Ilya says, continuing to jog as he frowns at Shane. "I nearly bleed myself to death, Hollander. I lay on tree, slit my wrists, bleed my lifeblood onto this tree for an hour. After, I have to hope I have enough life left in me to crawl back to Moscow and fight off any wolves or bears who may be in my way."

"Oh," Shane breathes. "Shit."

"No, Hollander, am kidding. I give tree, probably, like…" he purses his lips, considering, a paused look that gives Shane a moment to appreciate how hot he looks running shirtless, "maybe same blood as blood donation? Tree is far but hike is not bad in summer. Yes, is not bad deal. But does mean I am stuck with this relationship to Russia."

"What do you mean?"

"I have to go do this every summer. This is problem, maybe, if we –" Ilya face twists, "if I did something that meant I could never go back to Russia."

"Oh," Shane says, processing this. "So –"

"Yes?"

"Does that mean you can never come out?"

Ilya laughs. "Are you asking if I would choose Svetlana over you? Stupid question, Hollander."

They're laying on the couch watching a Western Conference game, still a little fuck-drunk from their latest round of frottage during the first period intermission, when Shane asks a much stupider question. Or, what should be a perfectly reasonable question, but leads to a very stupid fight.

"Why did you you use one of your October wishes on the Ottawa stuff? Just so excited to escape America as soon as possible?"

Ilya pauses the hand he's been rubbing up and down Shane's back. "What do you mean?"

"You get three wishes a month, right? You're not a free agent till next season. Why now?"

Ilya shifts Shane a hair further from him on the couch so he can look at him. His mouth is literally open in surprise. "Shane. Do you get three wishes per month?!"

"Yeah. Why? What do you get? More?"

"I get three per year! This is why I wished for help with moving now, wishes reset in summer."

"You – what? Really? Svetlana only gives you three a year?" Wow. And Ilya had said he made that wish about Ottawa right after the cottage.

"Only three, he says, like he has forgotten that most people get zero."

"I just mean... and you already used one of them on us?"

"Of course I did, moya lyubov." Shane's shifted back to looking at Ilya's pec, but he can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm sure you have made wishes about us, too, no?"

Shane swallows and tries to think around the guilt that flares at the reminder of the mixed success of his Ilya-related wishes so far. Before he has to decide what to share, Ilya's speaking again.

"Sooo –" Ilya says, his accent deepening the word "– what will next month's wishes be? To help us come out?"

"No, she can't, like, do anything about that. I asked, when she did the Scott Hunter stuff –"

Ilya's hand freezes on Shane's back again.

"Shane," he says slowly, "did you wish for Scott Hunter to come out?"

Chapter End Notes

Fairy Godmother Rose very much has the same attitude about her gifts as Lucinda in Ella Enchanted, which is to say, she's always right in giving them. If you were not blessed with seeing perhaps Disney's best movie of all time as a child (Ella Enchanted), this might help.

Chapter 5: For Happiness (for Someone Else)

Chapter Summary

"Holy shit," Ilya says. "Shane, you're the reason Scott Hunter kissed Kip?"

Chapter Notes

"You can't, like, get rid of homophobia, right? Even just at a national or city level?" Shane had checked with Rose over a video call at the start of June. It was 4:45am and they only had 15 minutes before Rose's pickup for a shoot, so it was meant to be a quick session to knock out this month's 'manifestations.'

She sighed and lifted a mug to her mouth. "No," she said, looking sadly at Shane through the phone. "Sorry. Maybe over a hundred years, with enough little nudges…"

He nodded. "I figured. Since you mentioned you couldn't do world peace when you first told me."

She laughed. "Good memory."

"And can you guarantee me that if we come out as a couple, we won't lose our jobs or be like, attacked? Or if I do, that my team will be cool with it, and stuff? I know you know about hockey… if they stop having my back in fights on the ice, it could be…"

She looked even sadder, then, so he already knew the answer. "That would be a lot of nudges," she said slowly. "It's… I'm sorry, when you do so many things at once, when there are so many variables…"

"It's okay," he said, saving her from saying the rest. "In that case, my third wish is just… if there's anyone else out in the league, like us." He swallowed. He'd wondered about it so many times, if there was anyone else. There had to be, right? "I wish for one of them to at least be able to find happiness. I hope they don't feel as alone as I do."

Because he could see, then, that there was no real hope for Ilya and himself. They probably wouldn't even get the cottage. Ilya hadn't accepted the invitation. Regardless of if they did or didn't, that's it – there's no real path forward, for them.

There's nothing to be done.

"Holy shit," Ilya says. "Shane, you're the reason Scott Hunter kissed Kip?"

"I didn't wish for him to come out, or anything! I wouldn't drag someone out of the closet like that. I just wished for, I don't know, one gay person in the league to find happiness."

"Aww," Ilya says teasingly, running his fingers through Shane's hair. "So sweet. But you made this wish, and as a result, he came out?"

"I guess."

"Okay," Ilya says, sounding excited. "And you get three wishes every month. So what are next month's wishes?"

"What?"

"Since my boyfriend is so wealthy with wishes," Ilya says, squeezing him, "surely we will be out and proud and waving pride flags by next June?"

Shane's brain stutters. "Why would I wish for that?"

"That's our goal, right, for us to be close? To be able to come out together?" His arms jostle Shane as if looking for a physical confirmation.

Is that the goal? The goal is to be close, yes, definitely. Is the goal to come out? Shane feels the muscles in his back tighten under Ilya's hand.

"That's the dream," Shane says slowly. "But for goals you have to be realistic."

Ilya laughs. "You have a fucking fairy godmother. What do you mean, realistic?"

"That's not – she can't help. I asked Rose. She can't, like, get rid of homophobia."

Ilya laughs again, more sharply. "I know," he says. "I would have wished for that already, if possible." He shifts his hand off Shane's back and rubs at his nose. "I, uh, I try this once. Except not even so big. I just wished Putin to not be president. Sveta would not do it."

Relieved they're no longer talking about how he should be using his wishes to come out, Shane decides to follow this thread. "That could be because he's Russian, right? Maybe a Russian witch can't influence Russian politics through murder or whatever. It's not, you know. Democratic."

Ilya barks his sharpest laugh yet, then pauses. "Oh, you are serious?"

"Yeah. She must have some kind of code."

"Russians influence Russian politics all the time. With murder. This is like, whole history of Russia. And Soviet Union. And the Russia before Soviet Union. Besides," he sighs, sounding wistful, "I tried it on American president too. And not just on him. Also on guns, that big supreme court case, war stuff... she always says it is too much work."

"Really?"

"Mmm. I think she just can not do the magic at certain size. Is like us, we can influence game, but only one play, one pass, one goal at a time… So –" he says, and abruptly Shane feels stupid for not seeing where this would go and heading it off, "– what is next step for you? If you will not fire Rose, you will at least use her to help our problem, right?"

Shane ducks his head so he can mumble into Ilya's chest. "I guess. I could wish for more time together, again, like I did this month."

Ilya scoffs.

"What?" Shane asks. "You don't like having me? I'll just go, then," he jokes.

"No, no, it's sweet," Ilya says. "It's cute, seeing how helpless you are without me. Have you been wasting your wishes without my help?"

"No."

"No? Okay, so, what is next month's wish? If you say you cannot end contract with your psychopath fairy godmother, you may as well use the wishes well."

"I haven't decided yet," Shane admits.

"Okay," Ilya says with a chuckle. "We think of one, then. Let's see, what will help us come out... hmm…"

"I already told you," Shane says, exasperated. "She can't solve homophobia."

Ilya rolls his eyes. "I know. But she can help with other things, no?"

"Like what?"

"Like - I don't know, Shane," Ilya says, sounding just as baffled as Shane. "Did you not like it yesterday? Getting to watch my game? Like we were…" Ilya trails off. From his position crushed against Ilya's chest, Shane has a good view of the bob his Adam's apple makes.

"Like we were what," Shane whispers against it, already tensing against the answer.

"A real couple."

Shane freezes. "We are a real couple, Ilya."

"Right," Ilya scoffs. "This is real? Hiding in my house for days?"

"This is real," Shane says, feeling dazed. He feels like the couch cushions they're laying on are hardening under them, like they're being dropped onto a hard, cold stone floor. "I like doing all this. I wish we could do it more often, but once you're in Ottawa –"

"Shane – don't you want to come out?"

"That's not what we're talking about?"

"Why not?" Ilya says. The timbre of his voice is wrong, tight and low in a way Shane doesn't often hear anymore. "We are talking about wishes. Why are your wishes not to help us be together?"

"They are. I told you, that's literally what I asked for. That's what gave my team fucking norovirus. And the fucking collarbone was what apparently made you my boyfriend, so – woah –" he says, startled as Ilya lets go of him and shifts to a seated position on the couch.

"No," Ilya says, voice firm.

"No what?"

"No, you did not wish for us to be out together. You asked for us to have more time. Have you ever wished for anything related to us being able to come out? Or you being able to come out?"

"I just said, Scott Hunter –"

"You say this is accident! I am asking about your wishes, Shane. Simple question, no? Have you ever wished for anything that will help us come out?" Ilya stares at him, hands upturned, like a statue in a repose of bewilderment. It would be funny if Shane's heart wasn't beating in double time.

Shane feels a flood of defensiveness. "Have you? I'm not the only one who gets wishes around here, apparently, which you neglected to mention for nine years."

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes," Ilya says again, tilting his head angrily and again waving his outstretched hand. "Of course I wish for this. You think I do not think of this all the fucking time? This year I wish for help moving closer to you, you know this. Last fall, I ask –" he takes a breath, and when he speaks again his voice is one modicum calmer. "Last fall I ask for help with. Stopping."

"Stopping?" Shane repeats.

"Our situation…ship."

"You wished for it to end?" Shane's voice sounds small in his own ears.

"I wished for it to stop! It was torture, being what we were. Or were not. I could not – I did not want to do another year as we had been doing, Shane!" Ilya's voice has risen with anger. Just as quickly, it softens. "It was killing me," he whispers. It sounds like a confession. Ilya shifts his gaze to catch Shane's, like he's imploring him to understand, and the pain Shane sees there makes him swallow back the harsh words on his own tongue.

"Oh."

"I told Sveta something had to change." Ilya's mouth twists, but he continues. "Yes, I knew this meant it could end." He hangs his head in his hand. After a moment, he speaks through his fingers as if they were a cage. "I did not want that, but I thought it was best for both of us, maybe."

"The little things that pushed me to leave, that first time I came to your house…" Shane realizes, feeling a little terrified as it dawns on him. "And after, me meeting Rose…"

Ilya laughs bitterly. "Yes. But do not talk about this time in front of Sveta."

"Why? Were you – why?"

"I was thinking, this is like hockey injury, it will heal. You play through, and every day it hurts less. But this was opposite. It hurt more every day. One night I get very drunk, and I ask Sveta to let me take the wish back. I say…" he takes his head out of his hands. "It was not very pretty. I begged. I said I would rather have you as we had been, then not at all. No matter how much it hurt."

"You did?" Shane asks, his own heart both breaking and swelling as he pictures it. Ilya takes a deep breath, pulls one of his hands down and puts it out for Shane. He looks at him sadly.

"Then we were together. At all-star game. And in Russia, I realized I was in love with you. After my father died." Shane's fingers twitch in Ilya's hands, and Ilya gives them a squeeze, misunderstanding. "So I sometimes had hope, maybe, wish for end of situation could mean it ends and becomes relationship. But I still did not see a way. And it was just getting harder, not to have you. I could see it was hard for you, too. So. I think you guessed, maybe, before the hospital? That night, I planned to…" he trails off, looking at Shane with pleading eyes.

To end it, Shane knows he cannot bring it to say. How many times had Shane himself gone to a hookup with Rozanov with the same plan?

"But then I got injured," Shane finishes for him.

"Yes," Ilya says, with a sad smile, stroking the back of Shane's hand with his thumb. "Your wish did, like, body check on mine, I guess. So Marleau did body check on you." He lifts Shane's hand to his lips, kissing the back of his hand. Then he continues.

"Now I can see that in my heart, my wish to stop what we were was always because I wanted to become something more." He squeezes Shane's hand, and Shane feels dampness in his eyes. "It is the best gift of my life so far that this is how my wish came true." When Shane looks at Ilya, he sees the ghosts of tears there, too. But there's something else with it, too.

"But I am greedy," Ilya continues, looking intensely at Shane. "You know this about me?"

Shane shakes his head slowly. "No," he breathes, unable to tear his eyes from the naked hunger in Ilya's face.

"I am," Ilya says, with a dark want. "I can never stop. Even – your parents, this summer." He laughs hollowly. "You were on the phone with Rose, and I called Sveta. She asked how we were doing. My 'stop situation' wish was still valid. She resets them just before season. I said to Sveta on the phone, biggest obstacle was you were never going to tell anyone. Few hours later, there is David. I felt so guilty, that night. I apologized, but I couldn't tell you – I am so sorry. I did not mean –" he clears his throat.

Shane looks at him. The wetness in his eyes threatens to spill, and he lifts the back of his hand to rub at them.

"It's okay. It was…" Shane is a little in awe, that one of the best things in this already incredible year came from one of Ilya's wishes. He clears his throat. "It worked out."

Ilya says nothing for a moment. "But I am greedy," he says again, eventually. "Now you know. I will never stop wishing to be with you. To really be. I want the biggest life we can wish for."

He looks at Shane again. "Can you wish this, too? Can you imagine it?"

Ilya looks the saddest he has the whole conversation, like he already knows Shane's answer.

Because no one has ever understood Shane like Ilya does.

So of course course he knows what Shane will say next.

"I'm sorry," Shane whispers. Because, no. He cannot let himself imagine it. "I can't let myself wish for that. It's not… realistic. Too many things could go wrong." He directs this at the wall, not able to bring himself to look at Ilya. Coward.

Ilya's fingers stiffen in Shane's hand. "Right," Ilya says. Shane can see his jaw tightening, and words suddenly pour out of him. If Ilya can just understand... "It's just not worth risking what we have. There still a lot we have, and we'll have more next year. We still have the same plan."

"Ottawa," Ilya repeats.

"Yeah. Two hours apart, all year round, remember?" We have a plan. It's a good plan. Realistic.

"You have a fairy godmother," Ilya says. "Hollander, you have a fucking magic fairy godmother and best case scenario you can dream of is me two hours away?"

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much to anyone who commented or even left kudos, I'm new to posting fics and while as I said posting this has taught me I find posting kind of scary, every comment or kudo has felt so special and made putting work out there feel worth it (as opposed to letting this weird little project sit on my harddrive)

As I said hoping (would say planning but I will NOT be jinxing it) to have the last 3 chapters in the next one or two days.

Chapter 6: For a Loonie and Some Go Raw Trek Mix

Chapter Summary

"The Trader Joe's by our hotel here was out of the nut mix I like. I'm manifesting that when I go to the one in San Jose, they have it."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Shane says, trying his best to sound passionate about nuts.

They studiously avoid the topic of wishes for the rest of Shane's visit. After returning to his team, Shane uses snatches of moments when traveling to form his December wishes. He crafts them through a careful process of elimination.

It doesn't matter what pie in the sky, romantic dreams Ilya might have. Shane's the cool-headed one, and he knows he has to be realistic.

Most important: no one else can get hurt. The norovirus incident was a fluke that cannot be repeated.

Second: he can't give Ilya what he wants, as much as he might want to. Anything around coming out would be the biggest, riskiest wish of all. Too many ways for it to backfire, leading in the loss of their careers, and not enough upside, because the magic can't actually make coming out be safe. That's been well established, now, by both Rose and Sveta's admissions of the limitations on their magic.

He wishes he could just get rid of all the fucking wishes, but of course, that's also not an option.

So, what's left is obvious: he will just feed Rose tiny wishes. Stuff that can't possibly backfire or get anyone hurt. Easy.

The Metros play in California for a few days in December, and Rose and Shane agree to wait to do their meeting until they can grab coffee while he's in Los Angeles. Given they're almost certainly going to get papped, Rose asks Shane twice if he's sure he wouldn't rather meet at her house. What he doesn't admit is he'd rather have an audience so Rose can't lose her temper.

"Did you enjoy the extra time at Ilya's last month?" Rose asks over her oat latte.

Shane tries to force himself to smile. "Yeah, um... yeah, it was great. Thanks again."

She beams at him. "Of course, Shane. All I want is to see you happy, so seeing you with Ilya makes me really happy."

He gives her the health manifestation first, and she dutifully notes it down with her pen in a little pink notebook. Then, trying to sound casual, he moves right on to his second manifestation.

"Um," he says, "I kind of… would love… I mean I wish… I could find a loonie. Like, anywhere. Just, wherever, sometime this month."

"You want to find a Canadian one dollar coin on the ground?" Rose says with a laugh.

"Yeah," Shane says. "It's good luck, for the game. The last time I found one, I, uh, got a hat trick."

"Why don't you wish for help scoring a hat trick, then?" Rose asks.

"No!" Shane says quickly. "I mean –" he forces himself to drop his voice, because not only is Rose looking at him in alarm, the customers two tables over are, too. "– no, there's no need. Just the loonie is fine."

"And for the third?" Rose asks, a little too sharply to help Shane feel at ease.

Shane swallows and starts picking at the edge of the sleeve on his coffee cup. "The Trader Joe's by our hotel here was out of the nut mix I like. I'm manifesting that when I go to the one in San Jose, they have it."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Shane says, trying his best to sound passionate about nuts.

The look Rose gives him would cut a man in two, Shane thinks. She blinks at him twice, glances sideways out the window, then says, "Let's go on a walk."

"I don't get it," Rose says, the anger in her voice an unpleasant contrast to the temperate LA sun. Before she'd closed her notebook up in the cafe, Rose had waved her pen around a bit, and the two paparazzi who had been outside the coffee shop had both answered phone calls and scurried off. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," he assures her. "You're great."

"Then what is it? Why are you wasting your wishes?"

"I'm not. I'm just really passionate about nuts."

"Seriously, Shane, I'm not an idiot. And I don't like having my time or my friendship wasted."

"I – that's not what this is."

"I've given you a lot, you know? And I've never pushed you or rushed you to deliver your side of the bargain."

"I know."

"Even when I could help you, you know? I mean, people would kill to have a fairy godmother. I could do even more for you. And this is how you thank me? Wasting my time? What, you don't like my presents?"

"That's not it," he says quickly, trying to get back in control of the metaphorical puck. He doesn't like how her voice is just getting higher and angrier. "I just – I know you said I shouldn't question how you get them done. But the norovirus stuff kind of freaked me out, maybe?"

"Oh my god. You don't like my presents!"

"No, no!" he says, thinking as fast as he can. "I just like that nut mix and I think the loonie would be good luck. You know how hockey players are. We're all anal, superstitious freaks."

Rose stops, forcing Shane to pause his own walking and stand next to her. She waits till he's made eye contact, then looks him up and down.

"Fine," she says at last. "But if I think you're wasting my wishes, I'm going to be very put out." She smiles at him, a diabolical mix of crazy mixed with affection.

"Right," he says warily, trying to fake an answering smile of his own.

"I keep telling you, dream bigger!"

Shane holds it together until he's standing at a Trader Joe's in San Jose two days later and sees the fucking nut mix.

It hadn't been a lie. Well, it was a lie that Shane, like, needed them – if he really did, he could get one of the team support crew to buy him like a hundred and have them on hand for every game. He doesn't. It's only because of Hayden's insistence on "stretching their legs" when they can that they even go to Trader Joe's when there's one nearby their hotel. But it is true that Shane likes this mix best, and that the store near their hotel in LA had been out of it.

And here they are. Thirty bags of Go Raw Trek Mix, lined up like soldiers in formation, practically bursting out in attack over the little wood edge of the shelf. Shane glances down, and, yup, there must be another fifty or sixty bags, in a box there. A full fucking crate.

A staff member in a Hawaiian shirt using a box cutter to apparently take his pent up anger out on some innocent cardboard sees Shane staring at the crate and takes two steps towards him, leaning in and gesturing at the nut mixes. "Wasn't me, I swear. One of the other mates messed up the order. We have, like, three hundred of them."

"Oh," Shane says, his voice hollow. "That's crazy. What a dream come true."

"You were right," Shane tells Ilya as he paces the Trader Joe's parking lot. "I have to get rid of her."

Ilya laughs. "What happened to your genius plan?"

"It backfired. I was trying to feed her tiny stuff. Like, that can't cause any trouble. I manifested finding a snack mix and a lucky coin."

Shane hears Ilya suck in air between his teeth. "If she's anything like Svetlana, I bet she loved that."

"Yeah. She freaked out and accused me of wasting her time."

Ilya laughs. "It's not funny!" Shane reminds him. "She said next month I have to wish – I mean " he looks around, but he's only surrounded by cars, "– manifest – something really big! What if I get someone hurt?"

"This is why I told you to let me help," Ilya says, in a voice so saintly that it manages to sound rude again. "I could have told you it would not work."

"Shut up."

"Maybe I can help you get out of it. Are you ready to tell me about what your contract is?"

A Subaru pulls into the lot; Shane watches as it circles around in search of a spot. "You're gonna be mad."

"I won't," Ilya says gently.

"You will. Or, worse, you'll be happy, and then I'll be mad at you."

"Okay…" Ilya says, sounding confused.

Shane takes a deep breath and rubs his fingers over the skin between his eyebrows. "I have to let her do a documentary on me."

A pause, then what sounds like relieved laughter. "That's it?"

"Like, a full documentary. On my…" Shane drops his voice automatically, though there's no way the guys getting out of the Subaru can hear him from across the lot. "On my coming out story. That's what I have to give her. I come out, and she gets the doc. If I do that, the contract ends."

"That's it? Why would she agree to this?" Ilya says. Shane can practically hear the gears turning in his head through the phone.

"You've seen the kind of stuff she asks for. It's personal shit."

"Personal shit."

"Yeah. Stuff that means something to you and only she can have. She said… trusting her with my story, it was be the most personal, vulnerable, valuable thing anyone could possibly give her." The thought of it twists his gut, which Shane supposes is confirmatory of Rose's point. His next exhale comes out ragged.

"And you have to come out, by when?" Ilya asks. "Does she pressure you?"

"No, no, I made her promise. It's in the contract. She can't pressure me, can't coerce it. And there's no deadline. I read it a bunch of times. I never actually have to come out, I just have to let her do a doc if I do."

"Ah," Ilya says, apparently understanding the nuances way quicker than Shane did when he first made the stupid deal. "And when you made deal, you thought you would never come out. So, fairy godmother wishes go forever. For free. Perfect deal."

"Yeah," Shane says thickly, watching one of the guys bump the others shoulder as they get canvas bags out of their trunk. "Exactly."

Ilya laughs. "You really did no fairytale research before you agreed, did you?"

Shane ignores this. Hot tears have started to prick at his eyes, and he can feel his throat constricting. His whole chest feels tight.

"Shane?" Ilya asks, voice louder. "Shane?"

"I can't do it."

"You can, Shane."

Shane shakes his head quickly and bites at his lip, gripping the phone hard. The tightness in his chest grows.

"Shane? You are okay. Is Hayden there?"

"He's inside," Shane manages, his voice thin and ragged.

"Bend over and put your head between your knees," Ilya says, his voice sharp and clear despite being thousands of miles away. "You're okay. We're going to fix this."

"I'm not okay. I can't do it. I can't come… I can't." Shane pulls in another ragged breath. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know that's all you want, I know you're going to break up with me eventually if I don't," Shane says, through real tears now, tipping his head back up and blinking at the mural on the side of the shop. "But I can barely say the words, you know that? I feel like I can't breath when I think about telling someone –"

"Listen – " Ilya attempts.

"– but if I don't, if I keep making these wishes, she's going to fucking kill someone eventually –"

"Listen, listen," Ilya says again, voice loud through the phone. "We are going to get you out of this."

Shane laughs shakily. "How!"

"You are Shane fucking Hollander."

Shane scoffs.

"You have me, genius sexy smart boyfriend. And we each have a fairy godmother."

"I thought you said Russians don't have –"

"Shh. Listen! You are tied for best hockey player of a generation. You are first Asian captain in the league. First hockey player with Rolex sponsorship, which you refuse to tell me details about but I am pretty sure pays you five million dollars a year. You have two Cups. Right?"

"I mean..."

"You are Shane fucking Hollander. If anyone can come out as gay and sleeping with rival and stay at the top, it is you. You have yourself, and me, and literal magic friends. Now. What. Is. Your. Dream?"

"I don't know," Shane says, a little dazed. "Whenever I think about –"

"Shane. Stop. Don't think. Imagine can snap your fingers and have anything. Real alternate world, full magic wishes. What do you wish for?"

"I wish," Shane says slowly. He stands up and looks at the Subaru guys as they walk inside the store, now hand in hand. "I didn't have to hide. I just want to play hockey. As me. As all of me."

"Me too. So let's fucking make this fucking happen."

Chapter 7: For the Commissioner to Get Eaten by a Polar Bear

Chapter Summary

"Wishes are like anal sex," Ilya says solemnly. "Surprises can work out sometimes, but it goes better if you are prepared."

"I call this: Operation Fire Your Psychopath Fairy Godmother/Ex-Girlfriend By Coming Out As Gay with Your Much Sexier Boyfriend, And Then Win Two More Stanley Cups," Ilya says, using a long metal pointer with a teensy tiny hand to gesture at each word on the powerpoint on his tv screen, which currently bears a title slide saying exactly that.

Shane squints at the hand at the end of Ilya's pointer. "Is your pointer giving me the middle finger?"

"Focus, Hollander," Ilya says sternly. "Open your notebook, you need to be ready to write wishes."

"Sorry," Shane says, opening the notebook Ilya had set out for him. The first page has already been defaced with 'PROPERTY OF JANE HOLLANDER xoxo' and a drawing of a dick and balls surrounded by three hearts, so he flips to the second page.

"Now, as we know, this Operation is too big for any one wish. So what do we do?" Panic and run away, Shane thinks. "That's right, we break. it. down. Baby steps!"

"Baby steps," Shane repeats, as he dutifully writes this at the top of his notebook.

"Good. Now, three obstacles as Svetlana and I see it, you tell me if you agree," Ilya says. He reaches his hand into his pocket, and the slide deck flips to the next page, which just says "3* Obstacles to Solve!" Shane notices that there's a little asterisk next to the three, and in teensy font underneath, he can just make out:

*This slide deck only deals with obstacles one and two. Obstacle three will be discussed at a future date.

Before he can ask about it, the deck has changed again. "Number one," Ilya reads out. "Locker room acceptance."

He turns back to Shane. "We already get a lot of hate outside of our locker room, right?" he checks, and Shane nods. "And this is okay? You do not mind being hated in Boston, no?" Shane nods again.

"Okay, good, because that will never change, no matter how many wishes we use. So, outside of team hate is fine. But inside team, inside dressing room, inside our own fans, we need support, right?" He moves the pointer in a giant circle, which presumably is supposed to have said invisible support inside of it.

Shane nods a third time. Ilya holds his gaze a moment, but Shane has nothing to add, and Ilya moves on.

"Second obstacle: We can't come out as being together as rivals, or have people know we were together as rivals. People will never forgive this, I think," Ilya muses, looking thoughtful. "Sveta confirmed this, hate would be… a lot. People are stupid, and it is too much for their tiny minds to understand. Pike's lame reaction is already proof of this."

Ilya presses something in his pocket again, and little drawings of Tom & Jerry and a wolf and rabbit that Shane assumes must be some Russian equivalent of Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner bounce across the screen, looking menacingly at each other.

A second later, and big red X's pop up on both pairs. "NO RIVALRY" starts undulating across the screen in big multicolor early-2000s WordArt.

"We knew this already," Ilya reminds Shane, with the air of a teacher reminding his class about last month's lecture. "This is why we were going to start changing narrative, thanks to your smart plan." He takes one long step forward to give him a longer reach with the rude pointer. He pokes Shane on the nose with it, and Shane ducks his head, blushing. "But now we know just being friends is not enough. We cannot be competitors when we come out. Make sense?"

"Makes sense," Shane says. "My mom once told me one of the league officials told her our rivalry is worth $322 million US dollars to them, because it's one of the few hockey things that non-hockey fans have heard of."

"You – what? Seriously?" Ilya says, seeming genuinely distracted by this fact.

"Yup."

"Wow," Ilya says, looking from Shane back to his little powerpoint with his eyebrows raised. "Okay, well, yes, then league will definitely do everything to keep rivalry going as long as we are on different team."

"Yup."

"So we need team that is safe space, and zero rivalry. This means we need team that will support us, and we both need to both be on it. So, here is plan. "

Ilya pulls the remote out of his pocket and presses a button, bringing up a picture of Rozanov and Hollander jerseys hanging side by side that must have been taken in the all-star locker room earlier this year. The image of the two, in the same colors, is almost enough to make Shane blush. Ilya winks at him and continues.

"Plan is, we find safe team to both sign with, play amazing hockey together like at All-Stars –"

– another button press, revealing the shot of Ilya kissing the side of Shane's helmet earlier that year in Tampa –

"– pretend to fall in love as teammates because of amazing hockey chemistry –"

– another slide, this time a gif from some years-old game showing Shane on the bench, scowling at Ilya, who skates by and sticks his tongue out of his mouth –

"– and then we both come out, me as bi and you as very gay and both of us in love, and we live happily ever after."

A final click brings up a poorly photoshopped picture of a Disney cartoon, with Shane's head pasted on the prince and Ilya's on the princess. Around the sides of the image are two Stanley Cups and five dogs.

"Oh, and then you let Rose Landry make documentary about it and end contract and then she can never put you in hospital again," Ilya adds. A little frog appears in the bottom of the screen, with Rose's face on it and a video camera pasted next to her.

"Any questions?" Ilya begins to ask.

He's cut off by Shane jumping up to tackle him to the floor with a kiss.

When Shane tells Ilya that he normally just starts thinking about his wishes a few days before they reset at the end of the month, Ilya looks like he wants to strangle Shane, and not in, like, a sexy but safe bedroom way.

"Wishes are like anal sex," Ilya says solemnly. "Surprises can work out sometimes, but it goes better if you are prepared."

Before they can wish for anything, Ilya tells him, they should always be doing some background reconnaissance of their own. In this case, Ilya decides the first step is deciding what team they should aim to both be on. Since Ilya's free agency opens up in a few months, but Shane isn't a free agent for another year, they agree the quickest solution would be to vet Montreal for a potential transfer for Ilya. Which is a fucking bonkers sentence, especially since he and Ilya would probably both have to take paycuts to make it happen which no one would buy Shane wanting to do given Montreal just won the cup. But, hey, Shane's trying to trust the potential "magic" of it all.

So Shane recruits Hayden for the mission of vetting Montreal, under the half-true goal of "assessing the team's openness to Shane's eventually coming out, not, like, with anyone, just as casually gay." Hayden had looked at Shane like he'd said he wanted to switch to being a professional table tennis player when he said this, which wasn't the most auspicious start.

The team knows Captain Shane doesn't approve of too much shit talking in the locker room. So, at a practice before the next time they play the Admirals at hom, Shane makes up an excuse to leave the locker room, and hovers just outside the door. Hayden then brings up Scott Hunter in the room while Shane is out of sight but just within earshot.

"Maybe Hunter will be easier to check," Hayden says. "You know, if he's been working on his wedding bod. I heard he's getting married to that guy he kissed." Even Shane winces at the awkward non sequitur; he owes Hayden for this.

There's a pause, and Shane can almost see the guys looking around and noticing he's not there, before –

"Fucking fag," he hears Drapeau say. "Don't know how Hollander takes the face offs with him, I wouldn't be able to look him in the eyes. Don't know why guys like that have to shove it down everyone's throats all the time."

"The In The Crease guys did a piece on their all star fantasy team," JJ comments, "and it had Hunter, Hollander, and Rozanov, with Theriault coaching."

"Yeah right," someone else says – Comeau, Shane thinks – "like Theriault would put up with that shit." Yeah, definitely Comeau. "Do you remember last year, when that kid they were trying from the farm team asked if he could show his sibling around the rink after practice, and Theriault told him if the sibling can't look down and clock their own gender, they're probably so blind they wouldn't be able to see the rink?"

There's wide snorts of laughter, covering whatever Comeau says next, but Shane catches Hayden trying to change the subject by saying, "I like that kid. He was a fucking giant, why didn't we keep him?"

"No distractions," Shane hears four people intone at once, in variously successful imitations of Theriault's gruff voice. No distractions is, of course, Theriault's current favorite mantra to bark at the team.

Shane's stomach sinks. He remembers the kid in question. He was fast, a quick thinker, and an absolute mountain. Shane had put in a good word with the defense coaches about him, and another good word with Theriault. Theriault had told Shane that there were "fit issues" that just weren't going to work. Shane had figured he meant, like, steroids or something.

"The Metros aren't an option," Shane tells Ilya over a video call, fighting to keep his voice flat. "Theriault's been here too long, we'd have to replace him and half the team. Too many wishes, too many chances for people to get hurt."

"Okay…" Ilya says, and pulls the camera a little closer to himself. "Are you… still in the parking lot? You had to call me right now?"

"Yeah," Shane says, willing his voice not to shake.

"And you are… okay? I know you said you thought maybe they would be good about it. What did they –"

"It doesn't matter," Shane says, cutting him off. "It's not going to work." He'll have to leave the Metros.

He thought he was going to be a Metro forever. He thought they'd hang his number from the rafters.

They would, too. But only if it's not really his number. They're only willing to hang the number of who they think he is.

"You don't have to tell me about it, but tell me one bad part you are feeling," Ilya says.

Shane takes a steadying breath. "I'm mostly mad at myself for… not seeing it sooner, I guess. I gave this team so many years of my life, through every version of the team, whether winning or losing. They would only support one version of me. I feel like… I deserve better than this."

"Yes, moy solnyshko. Yes, you do."

"It's gonna be San Francisco, right?" Shane muses to Ilya as they clean up from dinner. They've both got a few days off over Christmas, and they're up at the cottage, Shane's parents just having driven back to their own.

"What, just because city is gay, you think whole hockey team is, too?" Ilya comes up behind him and kisses his neck.

"I also thought… I mean the obvious… Seattle," Shane admits, leaning back into the kiss while simultaneously bracing himself for Ilya's reaction. "They're getting an expansion team in 2021, it would be a chance to shape –"

"No," Ilya says, his voice rumbling against Shane's ear. He nips at the top of the cartilage.

"We could really have influence, from the ground up, the players and the culture and the hockey strategy –" And more time, part of Shane thinks. Why rush?

"Too long. It is dangerous to wait this long, so many years of wishes with Rose. And I am greedy, remember?"

"Yeah. I bet it will be San Francisco, then," Shane says, pulling another pot into the sink. He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Ilya laughs. "You still hate their play style, don't you, moy botan? And what, you do not want to get sand in your shoes from runs on the beach?"

"It'll be fine. Ice is ice, hockey is hockey," Shane says, trying and failing to sound convincing even to himself. "And your wish this year was to be closer to me, right? So it's fine if you tells Svetlana a different team, even though she was originally doing that stuff about Ottawa?"

"Yes," Ilya says. "I told you, I word my wishes very carefully. Like you should have been doing."

"Okay, okay, I get it, you're the wish whisperer. And you're sure you don't want to just try to get me transferred to the Raiders? I know you said Boston will hate me forever, but not if I'm on their team, right?"

Ilya sighs. "I think this should be backup plan only. Raiders are already close to cap. Probably we would have to make wishes to paralyze and decapitate some people if we wanted to make space." Shane cringes. "Unless you are willing to be paid in ginger ale," Ilya adds thoughtfully.

"Tempting."

"Also, I think owners are super old fashioned. And… ugh," Ilya says. Shane looks up from the sink to see his mouth twisting. "I was not going to mention this, but, since you keep asking. This team knows a certain Ilya. They have seen me do a lot of… certain things. I think it will be… difficult, maybe… for them to watch me change so much for someone, if we pretend we fall in love once you are here. Better we have neutral territory. Like how puck starts on center ice."

"Ilya," Shane says, a smile creeping over him. "Are you saying you have been such a man-slut at Boston that your team won't be able to believe you getting in a serious relationship?"

"Mmmm. Connors told team doctor he should make me do brain scan because he has not seen me take anyone home this season."

Shane laughs. "Is not funny!" Ilya says. "I had to answer big survey of questions with sad and happy faces!"

Shane turns off the tap and dries his hands. "Okay, okay. So, if we don't know now can I ask Rose what team is best?"

"Yes," Ilya says. "Wish away."

Shane has a game just before and after New Year's, so he doesn't go to Rose's party this year. They do their January wishes by video call, Rose barely smiling at Shane as he greets her. His own heart starts to beat faster as he runs her through his first two wishes – first, for himself to stay healthy, and second, the same for Ilya. She's got her eyebrows raised and he can tell she's about to make a critique, so he barrels into the third manifestation.

"I wish I knew what the gayest team in hockey is," Shane says, and immediately cringes. Fuck, he's probably getting the wording all wrong again.

"You – what?"

"Or, like, most gay friendly."

A smile spreads across Rose's face. "Seriously? Does this mean –?"

"Don't jinx it," he warns her.

She grabs her pen and starts waving it around. Shane watches the pink fuzz at the end warily. "You know," Rose titters, "if you want, you could just wish for me to transfer you to whatever the most gay friendly team is. I know you have a no-transfer clause, but if you let me look at your contract –"

"No!" Shane interrupts. "No, no. I mean –" because Rose has stopped her exciting rambling and is now glaring at him with an upturned eyebrow. "Thank you! But no, that's okay. Just knowing, is good for now."

"Wishes and anal," Ilya reminds Shane as he looks around the post-All-Star-Game party. "Better with prep!"

"Yeah, thanks, I fucking got it," Shane mutters, hoping the bartender will be fast with mixing their drinks so Ilya will have to shut up about this when he comes back.

"And prep is never done! Each time, you have to do it again," Ilya adds cheerfully.

"Yes, thank you," Shane hisses. It's lucky everyone in this room think he and Rozanov hate each other, because he doesn't have to bother hiding the annoyance on his face. "I get the analogy."

"I am just reminding you why we have to do this. Since you look like you maybe would rather fight Ryan Price."

"Yeah, because Hunter's going to see right through us. There's literally no other reason we would be asking him about it."

"Mmm. He will see right through you. I think he will just think I am naturally World's Best Ally. Just like I am best at everything else."

"Oh yeah? Then why did I beat you in the skills competition yesterday?"

"Oh, there he is," Ilya says, ignoring Shane. "Grandpa! Grandfather hockey!"

"Oh my god," Shane says, turning away from Ilya like he could pretend he didn't know him.

"Yes, you! Scott Hunter! Grab your cane and get over here! We have a question for you."

"Wow," Scott says, raising his eyebrow as he ambles over to join them at the bar. "You two just get cozier and cozier every time I see you."

"And you get older," Ilya says.

"Really? That's the best you got? You're loosing your fire, Rozanov," Scott says. He puts out his hand to shake Shane's and flashes him a smile. Just then, their bartender returns.

"One eggnog for my grandfather, please," Ilya says. The bartender raises his eyebrows at Scott, who sighs.

"I'll have an Allagash, thanks," Scott tells the bartender amiably.

Once they all have their drinks, Ilya throws his arms around Shane and Scott and steers them to a quiet corner, smiling and waving off anyone who moves to intercept them. "First line business, very important post game debrief for winning team, thank you!"

"Since when are we debriefing All-Star games?" Scott asks when they finally stop at a table at the side of the room.

"We're not. Is debrief, though," Ilya tells him. "I saw speech last summer. You said, anyone who wanted to talk about coming out, could come to you."

Scott's eyes widen a bit, and Shane can see the moment he schools his expression. His eyes flit from Ilya to Shane. "Are you –"

"Allies," Ilya says, flashing his smile at Scott. "For now. You understand? We just want to help."

Scott nods, eyes still a little wide. "Sure."

Shane clears his throat. "So, uh, has anyone? Reached out to you, I mean."

Scott laughs. "I'm not outing people to you. What, did Crowell put you two up to this?"

"No," Shane says quickly. "We really do want to help. We don't care who it is. We just want to understand, from your experience, and anyone who's reached out to you – if there's any – that is, if anything could be done – about what's hardest – or, the obstacles that are – that could be –"

"Bozhe moi," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Hunter, what is worst part of being gay in league and what is number one reason more people do not come out?"

Scott laughs, bewildered, looking back and forth between Shane and Ilya. "I mean…" he says, "people kind of suck, in case you didn't notice."

"Besides obvious," he waves his hand "general homophobia or whatever. Specific to league. What would you change if you could change one thing."

"Oh," Scott says, rocking back on his heels. "Hmm, tough question." He looks thoughtful as he takes a sip of his beer.

Tough question. The words echo in Shane's ears. He hasn't been this closer to Scott, off the ice, since Scott came out. He's looking, almost entranced at this glimpse into his future. Does Scott seem happy? Sad? What's it like to play, out? Does it matter for Shane, either way?

"Actually," Scott says, laughing to himself. "I know my answer – it's what I just asked, if you're working for the Commissioner. Seriously, you would not believe the shit Crowell has given me…" he shakes his head.

"Like what?" Shane says quickly.

"Threats?" Ilya asks, voice thick.

"Yeah," Scott says with a shrug Shane's sure he would not be making if the roles were reversed. Which they will be, in a year, if their plan goes well. The thought scares the shit out of him, but he swallows it down with a sip of his moscow mule.

"What kinds of threats?"

"The shit against me has been fine, I can take it," Scott says thoughtfully, "but, hypothetically, there have maybe been one or two guys from Europe who, you know, have maybe told me they were maybe spotted back home dancing with guys, or that kind of thing. In one case, I guess the league saw it on Twitter or whatever. And both of these maybe-guys told me they got calls from the Commissioner or his office reminding them to stay 'focused.'"

Ilya scoffs, and Scott nods and continues, "yup. Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. One of them told me he had actually been thinking of coming out, till he got that call." Scott sighs and takes another sip of his beer.

"Okay," Ilya says, his eyes flicking from Scott's to Shane's. "Fuck Crowell."

"Yeah," Scott says. "Fuck Roger Crowell. Kip once said he's the only guy he'd go on a murder spree for, if he could kill him three times and get away with it."

"We cannot kill the Commissioner," Shane reminds Ilya for the twentieth time, once they're back in Ilya's hotel room.

"Why not?!"

"You know why not!"

"But you heard Hunter! Crowell is our evil villain! If we kill him, you can come out and you are free of your evil witch."

Shane laughs. "You've had your own evil witch for too long, she's rubbing off on you. No murders! We'll have to wish him away the old fashioned way." He can feel his smile crinkling around his own eyes as he looks at his lunatic of a boyfriend, who's pacing the hotel room floor with a murderous glint in his eye that Shane gets the sense is only half a joke.

He should probably feel shitty, having just found out that the Commissioner of the league is a homophobe who's been actively deterring players from coming out. A year ago, he would have. Or he would have felt nothing, because it would have just been a straw on an already-broken camel's back; another reason for Shane not to come out, but only one of many that compounded to decision well-past made.

But now he feels almost giddy, hearing there's a concrete obstacle and that he can do something about it. It's the difference between on the bench when your team is down by one goal and being on the ice, ready to fight to tie it up.

"Nooo," Ilya whines, putting his arms around his waist and squeezing. "Let's wish for him to die. What, like you have never used your wish to kill someone?" he says teasingly.

Shane freezes. His eyes betray him first – they flit quickly to Ilya's face, then the ground. Fuck.

"Shane," Ilya says, his grip tightening. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Shane says quickly. Way too fast, he feels tears prick at his eyes.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me. Who was it?" Ilya laughs a little, but he sounds a little scared now, too. "What, man at sweetgreen did not make salad right and you cursed him?"

Shane shakes his head in an unsuccessful attempt to hold back the emotion. He shouldn't be the one crying here.

"It was an accident," he whispers. "I didn't mean to wish for it." Ilya steps towards the bed and pulls him up into a hug, which only sends another wave of guilt through Shane's body.

"Okay," Ilya says. The word reverberates through his chest and into Shane's skull. "Okay, okay, it's okay. Accidents happen, yes? What did you wish for, Shane?"

Shane takes a shaky breath. "I think I killed your dad," he whispers into Ilya's collar.

"Oh?" Ilya asks. His voice is unreadable, and with Shane's face squished against his chest, he can't see anything. Maybe this will be the last hug Shane gets. "How did you do that?"

"I wished for you to open up to me," Shane admits, voice muffled by Ilya's clothing. "I'm so sorry, Ilya. You were right. I was shit at my wishes, and it cost –"

As he says this, he becomes aware of Ilya shaking a bit underneath Shane's head. Shane pulls back, ready to comfort him – or stand back, if Ilya is going to push him away – only to see Ilya… laughing?

"What the fuck?" Shane asks.

"Sorry," Ilya says, raising his hand in the air. "Sorry, sorry. You have thought this how long? Since March?"

"Yeah," Shane says. "I know I should have told you –"

"You should have," Ilya says, solemnly. "Yes. You should have told me this."

"I know," Shane says, bracing for whatever words come next. He's not sure he could forgive Ilya, if the roles were reversed.

"You should have told me," Ilya says, ducking his head to force Shane to meet his eyes. "Because I would have told you did not kill him."

Shane spits out a laugh-sob. "I know, you think Rose did it. But it's my wish. My fault."

"No, no, moy svyatoy," Ilya says firmly. Shane looks up and is confused to see a smile playing at his lips. "You didn't kill him."

"I did," Shane says glumly. He pulls a hand out of Ilya's hug to rub at his forehead. "It was my fault."

"You didn't."

"Don't – stop – you don't have to make me feel better."

"I would not do this. You did not kill him."

"You can't know that," Shane protested.

"I can. I know who did kill him."

"You – what? Who?"

"I did," Ilya says, casually. He gives a quick, indifferent sniff.

"You - what?"

"Well, Svetlana and I did, I guess."

"You killed your dad?"

"Mmm. Kind of?"

"How do you kind of kill someone?"

"Wow," Ilya says, laughing as he looks at Shane, "you judge very fast for someone who one minute ago thought they were murderer."

"I – sorry – but – what the fuck? You killed your dad?"

Ilya's laugh fades. "I did not even kill him, really. From when he was lucid, he had… I do not know English word. Paperwork that says do not use tube, do not do CPR?"

"A DNR? Like, a do not resuscitate?"

"Sure. He had this, and he was very sick, but Alexei was telling them to ignore DNR every time when my father went in to hospital. Making them do more and more procedures. Alexei thought – " Ilya's mouth twists, erasing any trace of laughter "– he thought I would only keep sending money to him while Papa was alive. So he was keeping him alive."

"Shit," Shane breathes.

"I hated my father," Ilya admits. "But I hated to see him suffer, too. So I just wished for Alexei not to make it to hospital in time to block them, if it happened again. Timing was fucking shit, though. Wish he had waited to summer to fucking die."

"Oh my god, Ilya. Fuck. I'm so sorry."

"Is not your fault."

"Fuck, I've felt so guilty about this."

"Who's fault is that, hm?" Ilya asks, squeezing his shoulders. "This is what you get for not telling me! Okay. Well. Now, since we both have not killed anyone, it is okay if we do just one little murder wish on Crowell?"

"Absolutely fucking not. I'll wish him away to Alaska or something."

"Nooo. This is very mean thing to do to Alaska. Think of the polar bears, Shane!"

Chapter 8: For the Gayest Team in Hockey

Chapter Summary

"Chemistry," Ilya corrects. "We join same team, become friends, play fucking amazing hockey, everyone loves us and sees this psychic magical hockey chemistry and cannot help but be happy for us when, oops, chemistry was too good. We fall in love."

"Yeah," Shane says. "Oops, I tripped and fell on my teammate's lap and he ended up inside me."

"The women players do it all the time," Ilya says. "Why not us?"

The "gayest team epiphany," as Ilya has been calling it whenever he asks Shane if he's had one yet, eventually comes to Shane in the last meeting he would have expected.

"Right, so," Shane says, picking at the edge of the label on the water bottle in front of him, "as my – Yuna – told you, we're talking to you for background. I'm just curious for your outside perspective here based on your experience with the other hockey camps you've been involved in, both as a coach and a parent. The rough idea would be to run the camps, take the funds both from the camps and general fundraising, and donate the money to mental health organizations where it could have the most impact."

"The funds from the camp, meaning…?" Brandon Wiebe asks. He seems nice, Shane thinks; polite, neutral, but friendly. Not overly loud. They spent the first few minutes of the meeting talking about Shane's season without Wiebe hinting once at the pressure on Shane to win a third cup. Good find from his mom for sanity checking their approach to the camp stuff.

"Um, like the entrance fees and stuff? So basically we – I mean, I –" Shane quickly corrects, because he hasn't actually mentioned to Wiebe that there would be a second player involved "– could fund the actual running of the camp, and maybe I could ask some of my player friends to donate their time to coach, so that the money we make can all go directly to charity."

"Right," Wiebe says. "So it would be a normal camp, in terms of parents paying and the coaching and all that."

"I guess?" Shane says, a little confused. He went to a lot of hockey camps as a kid. They all were useful. A normal camp seems fine. "Yeah, like, a normal camp."

"Okay," Wiebe says. "And the donations? To what kind of organizations?"

"Suicide prevention, and that kind of thing." Shane squirms a little in his seat. He's pretty sure he's supposed to be the one asking Wiebe the questions. "It's, uh, a subject that's important to me. Personally."

"I respect that," Wiebe says. "It's definitely something that's not talked about enough in our world."

Shane glances up from the label he's been fidgeting with. "Yeah," he says with a soft smile. "I agree. So, what do you think?"

Brandon Wiebe looks at him across the mahogany table in the offices Shane's mom rented for the day for these meetings about vetting their camp ideas. He's already had two before this one, and they both told him it was a great idea, gave a few tips for structuring the charity for maximum tax benefits, how to position it publicly for the best PR. He's pretty bored of this, and ready for Wiebe to just give the same advice so he can get out of this stuffy room.

"Why are you asking me?" Wiebe surprises Shane by asking.

"To get your advice," Shane says, pulling his eyebrows together in a frown. Didn't his mom make that clear to Wiebe?

"You want my real advice, or you want me to say it's all good?"

Shane pauses picking at the water bottle label. "Uh, your real advice?"

"You sure? You don't mind a bit of tough love coaching?"

"Yes," Shane says. "Nothing you say will be tougher than how Theriault delivers feedback."

"Okay. Well, then, I think it's a bad idea."

"Oh. Okay," Shane says, deflating a little.

Wiebe holds up his hand. "To be clear, I respect the hell out of what you're trying to do. It sounds well intentioned. But poorly executed."

"Okay," Shane says, pushing his water bottle aside and reaching for a notepad that has thus far gone unused. "What are we getting wrong?" He decides the 'we' will have to be fine - 'I' feels wrong, he doesn't like leaving out Ilya. Wiebe can just assume the we is Shane and his team.

"You're not thinking about your competitive advantage," Wiebe says.

"Um, I'm as competitive as anyone else, but I don't think charity needs to be a competition."

"Not like that," Wiebe says, smiling slightly. "I mean, you're not thinking about where your particular advantages lie. You have the highest name recognition in the league, right? Maybe next to Rozanov?"

Shane shrugs and hopes his cheeks haven't gone to pink.

"Right," Wiebe says, looking at him seriously. "And, general mental health causes are great, but – I mean, I don't want to be too blunt here. I'm not sure what kind of personal connection you have to the causes you're looking to donate to. But, I would guess you've had quite a few personal experiences with mental health challenges within the sport? Masculinity, racism, homophobia, alcoholism and substance abuse, body image, not to mention general mental health stigma, you mentioned suicide…" he trails off, looking at Shane as though assessing how this is coming across. Shane swallows and ducks his head in vague affirmation.

"Right," Wiebe continues. "So, why not use your reach to focus on those issues? Within the sport? Start a bit of a culture change?"

"A culture change," Shane repeats slowly, feeling nerves flare at his stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I guess I mean, what is the kind of hockey camp you wish you had been to when you were a kid? Or that you think your friends would have appreciated."

Shane thinks about when he was eleven and went to a camp hosted at the Ottawa rink, and the coach told them all that an important part of hockey was having a nickname. And all the kids called him… he swallows, shying away from the slur even in his own brain.

But Ilya – Ilya had wanted a camp that raised money and awareness for suicide prevention, right? And the idea had come to Shane from one of his wishes, so it just seemed like the right idea.

He wonders what Ilya would say to a shift of the plan. Suddenly, he remembers something else Ilya once said – that he had spent his first year after his mom's death having to hide anytime he wanted to cry.

Shane has never once cried in a locker room. Ilya couldn't then, either. Of course not.

Shane wonders what it would be like for them if crying in the locker room didn't lead to a kid being called a fag or a cocksucking pussy.

"Yeah," Shane says. "A different kind of camp would be… yeah."

Wiebe doesn't speak for a moment, he just watches Shane. Eventually he nods. "I don't want to tell you how to spend your money. But if I had your means, I would fund the camps myself, and focus on them being a place for kids who otherwise wouldn't have the chance to do a hockey camp. You don't even want to know how much we pay for my girls to do their camps. Actually, I guess you already know, since that was part of your original fundraising plan," he says with a rueful smile. Shane bites his lip and nods, feeling a little guilty that he hadn't thought of any of this before.

"I just think," Wiebe continues, "that you could have a lot more of the impact that you're hoping for by focusing your efforts within the sport. You've already done a lot, just from being you. I think you could get a lot of attention and really help some kids feel at home in our sport. The future players who feel different, or aren't going to the traditional camps. Whether because of their home situation, or their race, or their financial background, or…"

"Their sexuality," Shane adds, then realizes what he's just said. "I mean…"

"Yes," Wiebe says, his rueful smile turning genuine. "Exactly that. Hell, you're a two time cup winner. Even just talking honestly about your perspectives on mental health and differences in hockey would go a long way." He looks at Shane through kind eyes, and Shane wonders…

"What would you do for them? As a coach?" Shane asks, before he can stop himself. He's not sure why he's asking, really, he just felt a little pull and the words tumbled out of him.

Wiebe. "If I were hosting a camp? Or if I had your fame?"

"If you coached a player who was… different," Shane says, using his finger to pick at the edge of the top page of his notepad. Who was gay, he wants to say.

Wiebe's silent a moment, apparently thinking. "I'd try to make it easier for them than it was for me," he says eventually.

Shane looks up, surprised. His eyes meet Wiebe's neutral, slightly guarded expression.

"Right," he says. Then, unable to stop himself, he gives a quiet laugh of disbelief. "Fuck. I wish you could coach Montreal," he says. Wiebe gives another rueful smile, and Shane wonders if he understands more than either of them are saying.

"Any chance Denver would give you up?" Shane says, only half joking. He could file a wish with Rose, right? The thought makes him nervous – lots of ways to accidentally hurt someone. But, for the first time as he considers a wish, also kind of hopeful. Like some part of his brain is dreaming of a better life instead of just running away from a problem.

"Well," Wiebe says. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Sure," Shane says, thinking of his own.

"I'm not going to be the assistant in Denver for long."

"Really?"

Wiebe looks like he's biting back a much bigger smile now. "It'll be announced next week. When Johnson retires, I'll be the next head coach at Ottawa." He shrugs.

"Wow," Shane says. "Any big plans?"

"Yeah," Wiebe says. "Pretty much what I just told you, actually. Make it a healthy place, better than what I had as an athlete. I have a theory that if we get the locker room right, we can actually use that as springboard to play some really good hockey."

"Good luck," Shane says, and he finds he means it.

"They've already got a pretty good culture, so it's an easy start. You should check out the Centaurs' Instagram. The guy who runs it, Harris, is highlighting some really special stories on and around the team. It might give you some ideas for the camp."

Ilya's face breaks out in one of his rare wide smiles that takes a few seconds to fully bloom. When it does, Shane feels like he's staring at the sun.

"Really?" he says, his gaze shifting from the phone screen, which Shane knows has instagram pulled up, into the phone camera lens. "You're sure?"

"Pretty sure, yeah," Shane replies, barely suppressing his own grin. "I mean, he said what his own philosophy is pretty directly, and you just saw the posts for yourself. I think Ottawa's what we were looking for."

"It may not be perfect," Ilya says, sounding like he's holding himself back. He frowns through the phone screen. "You know this, yes? Is still hockey, even if coach and team are not terrible."

"Yeah," Shane says, "but I was kinda thinking about that and – I mean, we're the best, right?"

"Hollander," Ilya says, his smile growing impossibly wider. "Wow, I like Gay Hollander. You are such a queen."

"Shut up, how do you even know that word? I just mean, we're… us. I kind of realized, talking to Wiebe, people listen to us, or whatever. I have some ideas from the camps and charity from him that I want to talk to you about, actually. About how we can change the sport, not just wait for it to change or for us to leave it."

Ilya blinks, looking surprised. "Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?"

Shane ignores him. "And if a team is rebuilding anyway, like Ottawa has to, we get a chance to influence their culture too. Especially if one of us becomes captain –"

"Ohh," Ilya says. "One of us. Yes. How to decide who gets C? We make new competition, hmm? Should probably go to person with more stamina and willpower – how do you think we can test this?"

"Gross. The team decides who's captain," Shane says seriously. "It'll be up to… sorry, wow. I just can't believe we're going to try to play for Ottawa." He laughs in disbelief. There's a bitterness in his stomach, a flutter of nerves at the idea of having to go to a totally new team. But the idea of playing on the same team as Ilya, of potentially having other people know and it not be the end of Shane's career, of being able to just focus on the hockey –

"Ottawa," Ilya says, like he's testing out the word, sounding just as awed as Shane. "Wow. So original plan was right all along."

"I mean, it was the colors you were wearing in my first wish-dream," Shane recalls. "So I guess it makes sense. Maybe Rose does know what she's doing."

Ilya scoffs at that implication before letting his expression settle. "But this time, plan is to go together? Yes?" Ilya checks, sounding a little nervous.

Shane's powerless to stop his grin now. "Yeah," he says. "Together."

Ilya laughs. "I was ready to go alone, really, to be close. But when Sveta told me what she saw, about how Centaurs would do with me on team and how I would –" he swallows and looks away from his camera. "Fuck," he saysnunder his breath, then glances back at the phone. Even through the blurry phone screen his eyes are so blue it makes Shane's heart hurt. "With us together, same team… Montreal will shit themselves when we play them, probably."

"How did you describe the plan again?" Shane prompts, because he knows Ilya loves to say it. "Our amazing hockey connection?"

"Chemistry," Ilya supplies immediately. "We join same team, become friends, play fucking amazing hockey, everyone loves us and sees this psychic magical hockey chemistry and cannot help but be happy for us when, oops, chemistry was too good. We fall in love."

"Yeah," Shane says. "Oops, I tripped and fell on my teammate's lap and he ended up inside me."

"The women players do it all the time," Ilya says. "Why not us?"

"Why not us," Shane agrees. His heart feels like it's beating out of his chest.

Chapter 9: For an End Credit Dance Party at a Gay Club

Chapter Summary

"Fuck," Shane says shakily, after a very long hug. "How can I be bad at being gay?"

"You are not bad at it, moya lyubov," Ilya says, stroking Shane's back. "You just need to practice."

Chapter Notes

Ilya's free agency period doesn't open till July, so they agree to focus on their seasons. Wishes fade to the back of their minds as the final weeks of regular season games ramp up in intensity, both of their teams fighting hard to secure playoff berths.

Shane has another year on his contract with Montreal, but if their plan works, it'll be Ilya's last season with his team, and he seems determined to take the team as far as he can before he has to rebuild somewhere fresh.

"But no cheating," Shane tells him sternly, cradling the phone to his ear as he weighs out the chia seeds for his breakfast bowls.

"Hollander," Ilya says. "Who do you think I am, Yuna playing Yahtzee?"

"I'm serious. No wishing for a Cup. If I think you have, I'll have to file a wish of my own with Rose."

"Khuy," Ilya swears. "Then we will both end up in hospital, probably. I do not think even Sveta could save us from your Fairy Killmother."

Shane doesn't laugh, but the mention of Svetlana and Rose triggers a thought he's had a couple times over the last few weeks.

"What was Obstacle Number Three?" Shane asks.

"Hmm?" Ilya hums. Shane hears the musical chime of a washing machine starting in the background. He allows himself to briefly think about imagine what it will be like to be there, to live there, with Ilya. All the time. Starting laundry for each other, meal prepping for each other, going to bed together…

"Obstacle Number Three," Shane repeats, a little smile on his face despite the fact that he's been worrying about this ever since he saw it. "It was on the powerpoint you showed me. Obstacle Number Three will be discussed at a later date."

There's a pause on the other end of the line. Shane only hears the loud tumble of the washing machine.

"Ilya?"

"Um," Ilya says, "I don't remember."

"Okay?" Shane says, confused. "So check your notes. Or whatever."

"I am too busy winning games. Next one against you, in case you forgot."

"Okay…" Shane says again, more slowly. "So… after the season, then?"

Shane hears a barely perceptible sigh through the speaker of his phone. "Fine," Ilya says. "I tell you after season."

"I'm sorry you didn't win this year," Shane whispers against Ilya's collarbone the morning after they're finally reunited after the season. "Fuck Vegas."

"Mmm, no you're not." Ilya's chest rumbles pleasantly against Shane's own as he speaks.

"I am!"

"Maybe, but also you are happy now I will never as many cups as you. Well," Ilya purses his lips and tilts his head, his curls brushing against Shane's temple. "Unless I become hockey Jesus and do miracle win with Centaurs before you join next year."

"About that," Shane says, smiling into Ilya's pec in anticipation of the reaction this is going to get. "I think I'm going to ask Rose to look at my contract."

Ilya slides his hand down to palm Shane's ass. "For next year? You are already planning how to get more money than me? You know we cannot negotiate too much if we want them to be able to pay any other players to be on the ice with us." He squeezes Shane's ass teasingly.

"No. Rose thinks she can find a loophole that would let me sign with them for this coming season."

Ilya freezes.

"At the same time as you," Shane clarifies.

"Hollander."

"Would you… like that?" Shane says, suddenly self conscious. "If we both transferred to Ottawa for next season, instead of me waiting?"

"Hollander, do not say this if this is joke." Ilya lifts his head off the pillow to look at Shane's face, as though searching for a sign that Shane is pranking him. Shane's heart flutters at seeing how beautiful he is in the soft morning light. The small bruise on his cheekbone from the last game is nearly faded.

"I'm serious," Shane says with a light laugh. He expects Ilya to tackle him, tickle him, tease him, pin him to the bed.

To his surprise, Ilya's eyes immediately turn a much brighter shade of blue and get a little bit watery. "Hollander," he whispers. "You mean… really?"

"Yeah," Shane said. "I was thinking about how much I wished we didn't have to wait to really be together. And then I just thought… I literally get three wishes a month. This is what having a fairy godmothers are for, right? Finding loopholes in ironclad contracts?"

"Fuck," Ilya says with a laugh. "Yes. But let me help you word it so you do not end up in hospital. Cannot have you waste more wishes." He shifts on the bed to pull Shane into his lap, scooping him up in a hug and burying his curls into Shane's bare chest.

"I'm sorry I wasted so many," Shane whispers.

"Shh," Ilya says. "It doesn't matter now."

"Do you remember you asked me about Obstacle Three?" Ilya asks Shane casually over his coffee an hour later. He's got a giddy smile on his face that he keeps trying to bite back, but every time Shane turns around from bustling around his kitchen, the smile is back.

"Yeah?" Shane says, reaching for his own mug.

"This is you."

"What is me?"

"Last obstacle. I was not going to say, yet, but if plan is going to happen this year… we should maybe talk about it now."

"I was the obstacle, you mean," Shane says, smiling dopily at Ilya. "Before I decided to use my last wish to transfer to the same team. Then we can be together." He feels his smile grow as he imagines it, waking up next to Ilya whenever he wants. Even though they'll still be a secret, for a while.

"And?" Ilya prompts

"And… end the rivalry and eventually, we can... you know." He feels his own smile fading a bit, and he turns away to make breakfast.

"Come out?" Ilya offers. "Tell people we fell in love as teammates and are super gay for each other?"

"Sure, yeah. Right, that's the plan, obviously," Shane says with a shrug, swallowing as he cracks an egg into a bowl.

"Hmm," Ilya says. Shane can feel the heat of his gaze on his back. He reaches for another egg.

"You are homophobe," Ilya declares.

"What?" Shane cracks the egg too hard, and the yolk goes all over the counter. "Shit."

"You are homophobe," Ilya repeats as he stands up from the kitchen stool. He gets to the paper towels before Shane does.

"I'm gay," Shane says, taking the paper towels from Ilya to mop up the egg. "I can't be homophobic."

"This is not how this works, I think," Ilya says casually. He wets some more paper towels and shoos Shane away from the counter as he takes over cleaning up the last of the yolk. "Can still be afraid of gay people. Except you are also gay. So you are afraid of this part of yourself, too. So you are Obstacle Three."

Shane stares at his back.

"What," Ilya says, tossing the paper towels in the bin and turning towards Shane. "Am I wrong?"

Shane opens his mouth to say "yes, fuck off, you're obviously wrong, now move out of the way so I can make our omelettes."

Instead, to his own bewildermenr, his lower lip trembles.

"Fuck," Shane says shakily, after a very long hug. "How can I be bad at being gay?"

"You are not bad at it, moya lyubov," Ilya says, stroking Shane's back. "You just need to practice."

That surprises Shane into a wet laugh. "Practice? We've been hanging out for twelve hours and we've already each come three times. How much more practice do I need?"

Ilya laughs and squeezes him tighter. "No, more like, practice being comfortable with people knowing you are gay. Maybe in gay spaces."

Shane's chest immediately tightens at the suggestion. "But people can't know we are gay yet. So how would we practice?"

"Hmm," Ilya says, the hum reverberating pleasantly in Shane's own chest. "I have an idea. Do you trust me?"

"Yeah," Shane breathes, shifting his hand to pull Ilya closer. "Always."

"Okay," Ilya says. "Give me some time toplan. But let's go practice a gay orgasms, now, too. Just in case it helps."

A week later they're in Montreal together, packing up to make the road trip to the cottage together. There's a knock at the door, and when Shane opens it, he sees a witch.

"Surprise," Svetlana says dryly.

"Um, hi?" Shane says. "Come in?"

"See?" she replies. "The surprise does not always feel so good, does it?" She gives him a pat on his shoulder as she swoops past him, kneels down to pull off her knee high boots, and then rises to pull Ilya into a hug, kissing him gracefully on each cheek.

"He's not dressed," Svetlana comments to Ilya once they've settled on the couch and given her a glass of water.

"I was getting there," Ilya says.

"Dressed for what?" Shane asks as he looks between the two of them.

Before they can answer, there's another knock the door. "I'll get it," Ilya says gruffly, moving quickly towards the foyer. A few seconds later, Shane hears the unmistakable high pitched squeal of –

"Rose?" he calls out. He quickly gets up off the couch and moves to the entrance. "Woah!" he says as he's enveloped in a petite but mighty hug.

"Hi!"

"Hi," he laughs, uncertainly but warmly. Now that he's a bit less terrified of Rose, their friendship has been genuinely growing.

"Eeee!" Rose squeals. "This is going to be so fun! Wait, that's not what you're wearing, is it?"

"Why does everyone keep talking about my clothes? Wearing to what?"

"To the club, silly!"

"Absolutely not," Shane says, gazing up at the rainbow flag hanging in a dimly lit street. "This is such a bad idea." He glances nervously down at his clothes, forced on him before they even told him where they were going – a too-sheer shirt produced as if by magic by Svetlana, tight pants borrowed from Ilya, and a pair of leather boots also borrowed from Ilya's closet and nudged by Rose to better fit Shane's feet. Just the thought of being recognized in this has him sweating in the late July evening.

"But it's pride month!" Rose says brightly. "We have to celebrate!" She takes her pink fuzzy pen out of her purse and waves it over herself. Seeing Ilya's curious glance, she leans over and explains. "Just a little nudge spell to avoid people noticing me."

"Wish I had one of those," Shane says, then immediately freezes, looking terrified at Rose. Next to him, Ilya laughs.

"Allow me," Svetlana says, pulling two glass bottles out of the top of her knee high boots. They're filled with smoke. Shane simultaneously shudders and feels a trill of excitement as he recognizes them.

"Ugh," he says. "Those taste so gross, though."

"Like ghosts," Ilya agrees. "Bottoms up, baby."

There are dozens of people around them; mostly men.

Men. Together. Dancing on each other. Kissing each other. Grinding, making out, doing shots, laughing, touching each other, like it's no big deal.

It makes Shane squirm, a bit, like he's seeing something he shouldn't. So maybe Ilya was right about some of his feelings.

But it also makes him feel something else, too. Jealousy, maybe. Want. These are people doing the things Shane has always wanted to do to Ilya, and they're just… doing it. Like it's no big deal.

The joy in the room, the sexiness, the revelry, all of it feels contagious.

Could that really be them, in just a few months? Not just as two anonymous people who've taken a magic potion to be unrecognizable, but as themselves? Just the idea makes him feel heady in a way that's not explainable by the two shots he's had.

Drunk with joy, Shane turns around from where he's been dancing side be side with Ilya and pulls him into a kiss.

Ilya's wet tongue licks at his own. Then he shifts to bite and suck at his lips as his body pulses against Shane's in time with the music.

And no one around them giving a shit.

"Wow," Shane says, breaking away with a pant. The music is pulsing so loud that Shane can barely hear his own voice. "This is fucking incredible."

"Wow," Ilya mouths back under the music, his eyes dark with lust.

Shane puts his hand around Ilya's neck, feeling the slick of warm sweat under his fingers. He pulls Ilya towards him, tucking his mouth against Ilya's ear to make himself heard.

I can't fucking wait to do this with you all the time, he wants to say. Knowing he has to choose just a few words to be heard over the music, he just shouts, "So, how long do we have to be teammates until we can pretend to start dating?"

Pressed so close against Ilya, he can feel the rumble in his chest as he makes a considering hum.

"Well, lucky for you I am very sexy," he says, his breath hot as he moves his mouth to speak into Shane's ear.

"Oh, are you?"

"I am." Ilya moves his hand down to cup Shane's pants, and Shane feels a white-hot pulse of heat shoot straight to his dick. The purr of Ilya's voice in his ear only adds to his arousal. "People usually fall in love with me in, hmm, a week? Maybe two?"

"A week," Shane repeats skeptically with a slight smile, not even bothering to shift his own mouth closer to Ilya's ears. "No way. No one will believe I'd fall in love with you till you've quit smoking and stopped treating your body like shit." He slides his hand down to squeeze Ilya's ass, as though that won't make the opposite of his point.

"Actually, I think lots of people here would wish for a boyfriend with a body this sexy," Ilya shouts back, smirking as he wraps his arms tighter against Shane.

"Maybe," Shane says, pulling Ilya in close again. He whispers against Ilya's mouth, "but you're my wish. Other people will have to get their own."

He leans in and pulls Ilya's mouth back onto his, savoring the taste of vodka and sweat and Ilya and hope, and most of all the taste of what it will feel like to be who he is, and love who he loves, without hiding.

He can't fucking wait to make his wish come true.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading!!

I get what authors say about fic possession now, because this fic cast a spell on me. It started as a silly idea that popped into my head on a walk, and it wouldn't let me go until I had written 25k words in a week and a half. The whole thing feels like I had an affair – I had a lot of fun but am also relieved it's done so I can go back to my loving spouse, which is a very prosey, angsty Ilya WIP (A Terrible Problem).

I know this was all kind of goofy and loosey-goosey but I had so much fun with it and it was such a fun thing during Pride Month to write the guys getting to control their own coming out and watch my Shane to learn how to dream bigger. Thank you again for reading, I welcome comments! This was my first ever complete multi chapter fic so I'm just proud for that.