Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Implied Shane Hollander/Others, background Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov, Multiple Versions of Some Characters (Kinda), Kip Grady

Additional Tags:

Canon Compliant, But also, Alternate Universe, Parallel Universes, Butterfly Effect, Injury, Head Injury, Angst with a Happy Ending, Magical Realism, Established Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Open Relationship (Ilya/Svetlana), Marriage of Convenience, These relationships do not occur in the same universe, Rose Landry & Shane Hollander Buddy Cop Adventure, Rose Landry & Shane Hollander Save an [Alternate] Universe, Optional Reassurances/Spoilers in Authors End Notes, Minor Mentions of Sensitive Topics: Cheating / Cancer (Remission) / Sour Friendships

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-21 Updated: 2026-09-22 Words: 33,645 Chapters: 4/?

reflektor

Summary

When it happens the puck has just left his stick.

It's a clean hit, but Shane takes it horribly, crumbling on impact and colliding with the boards. While he tries valiantly to keep his head up, he feels himself slide sideways and his last fully coherent thought occurs as his head cracks against both the ice and the bottom edge of the boards.

Immediately, the arena starts to wilt.

“… We just want a future.”

“I have only been in love with one person…”

Shane falls backwards and sinks, the ice turning to water beneath him.

“Holy shit. I love you too…”

“I love you…”

The words—memories?— are swimming amongst him, angled and distorted; they consume him, they’re are all he can process, even as someone else—a medic, maybe?— on the periphery now, says, "Just stay still Hollander."

-

Or, upon appearing in a parallel world, canon-Shane is on a mission to fix AU-Shane's fucked-up life. Stat.

Notes

fic title from the Arcade Fire song of the same name.

Hello again. I'm excited/nervous for this one. But trust me, I think this will be fun! However, as much as you all delight me you also scare me, so if you are worried about the tags, I've included some very optional reassurances in the end notes of the fic, but they come at a cost of spoilers and I recommend you just trust me and don't read them.

thanks to @ifyoustay for letting me bounce ideas off of them, and vetting all my tags.

Chapter 1: entre la nuit, la nuit et l’aurore.

Chapter Notes

entre la nuit, la nuit et l’aurore.

*

Do you think the universe fights for people to be together?

Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidence.

— Emery Allan, Become

*

This must be what a parallel universe is like, I thought.

Everything looked the same, but I suddenly felt like it wasn't.

Like everything had been taken apart, brick by brick, flower bed by flower bed, and put back together in the wrong order.

— Jordanna Fraiberg, Our Song

*

Here

April 3, 2022, Ottawa

When it happens the puck has just left his stick.

Shane dumps it over the red line into the offensive zone, aiming to give the Centaurs a much needed line change. His legs are burning, the Centaurs’ having been hemmed in their own end for much of the last two minutes of play before Shane finally gets his stick in the way of a pass. He manages to get possession of the puck long enough to skate clear of their zone and send the puck rattling down the boards. Job done, Shane turns, heading for the bench for a line change, but an opposing defenceman gets in front of him, coming in on an angle, presumably trying to block the dump and chase play.

It's a clean hit, but Shane takes it horribly, crumbling on impact and colliding with the boards. While he tries valiantly to keep his head up, he feels himself slide sideways and his last fully coherent thought occurs as his head cracks against both the ice and the bottom edge of the boards.

Immediately, the arena starts to wilt.

“… We just want a future.”

“I have only been in love with one person…”

Shane falls backwards and sinks, the ice turning to water beneath him.

“… Does it fucking kill you too?”

“Holy shit. I love you too…”

“I love you…”

The words—memories?— are swimming amongst him, angled and distorted; they consume him, they’re are all he can process, even as someone else—a medic, maybe?— on the periphery now, says, "Just stay still Hollander."

“… I do not want the problem to ever go away.”

“You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not… like me…”

Shane’s head is pounding, as if it’s cracked open and everything is flooding out. Blood, but everything else, too; a whole history spread thin on the ice. The edges of the arena soften, and everything begins to move very slowly.

“No, I mean, I know…”

“… Not Montreal.”

“You wouldn’t re-sign with Boston?”

He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to find Ilya in the bright, dancing, web-light patterns of the arena lights above him, startling bright and immediately disorientating. He knows Ilya’s there. He can hear him; he’s everywhere.

“… Yes. Same. But we have two weeks.”

“It’s kind of been awhile…”

Everything seems further away, the tones changing— all the contents around him being absorbed. The arena light seems to be bending oddly, fracturing into trembling bands; all the loud colours being ripped away, going from startling yellow, and fading, until everything is just shades of blue and green. His heartbeat is suddenly the loudest thing he can hear.

“I’m coming to the cottage.”

“… Can you belie—”

The world tilts on its axis. He loses sense of up and down and left and right, forwards and backwards. Here and everywhere else. Everything thins out, spreads out in front of him like a long, endless tunnel.

He sinks.

Slowly.

“Maybe. Maybe.”

“… We’d be completely alone. Together.”

“Hollander. You know we can’t do that.”

“Will you come to my cottage this summer? Don’t go to Russia…”

Everything compresses. 

He tries to look up at the muddled voices around him, but everything has condensed into a circle of light directly overhead, a shiny sliver of a faint twilight above him. Everything else becomes a dark reflection, and it feels like he, himself, is being absorbed.

“Ilya, they can see us."

“Is he OK? Fucking tell me.”

It feels awfully like déjà vu as his eyes fall closed and he becomes suspended in a deep, quiet blue; everything else bending away into darkness.

*

Somewhere Else 

Unknown

He wakes on the ice. 

He finds himself directly in front of the net with a puck already rocketing towards him, coming off a huge shot taken from the point. 

The rinks snaps into focus a moment before the puck collides with his inner thigh, right where the equipment is at its lightest, and, consequently, pain is the first real feeling that overwhelms him: his leg partially collapsing beneath him on impact. The rebound trickles off him and the sound of slapping of sticks against the ice suddenly roars into his ears, as the players around him fight for control before the goalie finally smothers the puck under his glove and the play is whistled down, cutting through the noise of the crease battle. 

Shane’s not one-hundred precent sure what has happened. 

He tries to review the play in his mind, like he normally does, but can’t pull the sequence into clear view. He has no idea how this play developed and that thought keeps him hunched for a second longer than he wants to, before he finally pushes himself to his feet, pressing his weight onto the other leg. The sting spreads out from the point of contact, dull and throbbing now; the kind of pain that tells him a bruise is already blooming under the sock tape.

“Nice shot block,” chirps someone. 

Shane's gaze snaps up; the lights of rink burn his eyes, like waking up suddenly in a too bright room, disorientated and not quite conscious. Light is a spider web, and he blinks it away as quick as he can. When everything finally clears, he looks for the voice, recognizing the jibe as coming from a Buffalo defenceman. 

He missed a tip-in shot then. 

A simple play, one he's executed a thousand times. On most nights it’s muscle memory: plant himself at the top of the crease, watch the release, make sure the stick is free, angle the blade, soften the hands, and redirect, let the defenceman's shot do most of the work.

But tonight he’d been late reading the lane. Like the play had already been in motion when Shane had snapped into existence, like there was nothing and then there was hockey. He'd blinked and then he was in the crease, in traffic and unsure how he got there.

“Esti!” a frustrated voice laments, sliding up to Shane. “Mon Captain, you refuse to help me score?”

Shane turns his head slowly. The voice is familiar and yet terribly out of place, and it sends a tremor of confusion up his spine. When Shane's gaze finally meets the person, shock reverberates through his entire body because J.J. Boiziau has skated up to him. 

A man, who, last Shane checked, was no longer his teammate. 

Shane stares at J.J., blinks once, then twice, and then slowly gazes down his front to look at himself. Confusion ties itself to his bones when he looks down only to find himself wearing colours he thought he'd shed, but there it is: the Montreal Voyageurs emblem alive on his chest.

*

He has no idea what is happening. 

Is this a dream? A nightmare? 

Where is his life? 

Shane can't get out of the arena— the Bell Centre— fast enough. He begs off press, skirting what are apparently still his responsibilities as captain, skips most of his post-game routine, receiving odd looks from the majority of his apparent teammates, and bolts. 

For this first time in his life, he's not sure if he could recite the box score. He has no idea who won. He skated his way through the rest of the game in a daze, convinced he was dreaming and confused when each hit actually rattled his body, when he felt each impact. He flinched each time he caught a glimpse of the blue of the Voyageur jersey in the glass, pulled tight over his shoulders. If his parents are in the crowd, he doesn't know— or care. He just waves off a confused Hayden Pike and J.J., and abandons his team— his team?—  and speeds, thankfully on autopilot, to what used to be his Montreal-area home, just across the river in the suburbs of Brossard. He congratulates himself on only having a minor panic attack when the door actually opens with a code he thought he'd forgot and he's able to slip inside. 

Hoping the noise will scare him out of this, he lets the door slam behind him.

“Ilya?" Shane calls, when the noise changes nothing. His voice slices through silence.

The house is quiet in response.

Shane’s heart pounds, but ultimately, he’s not too surprised that there's no answer. Buffalo was in Montreal playing the Voyageurs, not Ottawa. There’s no reason for Ilya to be here— there’s no reason for Shane to be here. 

Fuck. 

But Shane just has to reach him. Talking to Ilya, wherever he may be, will snap Shane out of this madness, bring him back to reality, or, at minimum, help Shane sort through whatever the fuck is happening to him. Ilya is an anchor. Ilya keeps him still when Shane wants to drift; when Shane panics and threatens to get swept out with the tide, it’s Ilya that keeps him moored.

He needs Ilya. 

The house is empty, so Shane opens his phone and scrolls down to Ilya to locate his husband’s number. But there's nothing there. No contact information to be found. 

Frowning, Shane keeps scrolling, navigating to the letter L. Which is weird, because he long ago corrected Ilya’s name in his phone, but it’s fine. Among everything happening to him today, the fact that Ilya’s information is once again saved under Lily will be the least of his issues. 

He nearly drops his phone when he gets to the row spelling out Lily, as staring back at him in his contact application are the words:

LILY ❌ DO NOT FUCKING TEXT ❌

A cold sense of dread curls in his chest, only tightening around his lungs when he tentatively clicks on the contact and opens their chat. There, staring accusingly at him, is the last text ever sent, having been sent by his own number a nearly three years ago: a simple question that threatens to stop his heart. 

Saturday, June 29, 2019

You're really getting married? 

The phone leaves Shane's hand in a split second of raw, horrible anger. 

The device launches across the room colliding with a glass frame, sending shards into the air with a satisfying shatter. Shane raises his hands to his mouth, sucks in a long, shuddery breath through his fingers, and then screams. 

*

In the end, Shane convinces himself that he just needs to sleep. 

This is a nightmare. There’s no way it’s not a nightmare. 

It’s a horribly, very lucid, unbelievably real-feeling, nightmare.

So, Shane will go to sleep. He’ll get some rest. He’ll clear his head. And then he’ll wake up tomorrow, have left this nightmare behind, and everything will be normal again. He’ll be back in his bed in Ottawa, and Ilya will be there right next to him, his body way too warm against Shane’s back and with his face half-buried in Shane’s hair, and everything will be okay again. 

He’ll wake up from this dream, the strangest one he’s ever had, and the world will tilt back on its proper axis. 

*

In Between

He hovers in that place where the brain burns with vivid activity and the body floats in tranquil paralysis. He casts off his anchor of consciousness and drifts through a surreal, private gallery of memory, a warm voice lapping just on the edge of it, dampened just enough so that Shane can’t focus on it.

“Shane... love, please. Shane…"

*

Somewhere Else 

Unknown, Montreal

When Shane wakes, the first thing he does is reach blindly across the mattress.

There’s nothing there. 

The sheets are cold, undisturbed and tucked too tightly around a body that was never in them. The ceiling above him is the same familiar one from years past, with the one scratch lying horizontally in the flat, white, plasterboard surface. For a moment, Shane just lies there, heart hammering, waiting for relief to arrive— waiting for the moment the dream dissolves and he finds himself back where he belongs. 

It doesn’t come. 

Instead, there’s a dull throb behind his eyes, the stale taste of sleep in his mouth and the quiet creak of an empty house settling around him. All of it stubbornly, terribly real. 

The realization settles slowly: Shane hasn’t left the nightmare at all.

Absurdly, this might be terrifyingly, impossibly, real: him, in Montreal, with Voyageurs gear in his closet, and no traces of Ilya to be found, and the single soul-shattering memory of that text.

He doesn’t know what this is, and he’s paralyzed between two opposing forces, having to get himself out of here and just wanting to pull these now-unfamiliar covers over him, give in, and cry. 

Slowly, he drags himself out of bed and into the living area of his old residence. It looks the same as it did a year ago when he sold it, except for the glass shattered on the floor, shards spread wide from where the frame was hit, thin slivers and jagged pieces fanned out like splash frozen in time. In the morning light the pieces gleam faintly, each edge catching the sun differently, so the whole mess ripples when Shane shifts his head, like a puddle stirred by the slightest movement. 

The shattered glass is from the frame of a photo of Shane’s 1000th point celebration, which, in real life, happened a few months ago, early in the season and shortly into his tenure with the Ottawa Centaurs, but, in this nightmare, apparently, happened with the Montreal Voyageurs— the previous season.

What the fuck.

The date on the plaque marking the milestone is almost a full six months of regulation play earlier than Shane actually achieved it. This dates indicates the milestone occurred in the NHL season 2020-2021, instead of 2021-2022, like it actually did.

Bewildered, Shane stares at the shards for several minutes, catching glimpses of brown and gold reflecting in the pieces, before sighing and moving to the closet where he unfortunately and predictably finds a small broom and dustbin. 

For a moment he just stares into the closet. This dream is uncanny, too much predictability to be entirely fake, and yet, everything feels off, like it’s been slightly shifted to the left.

He grabs the broom.

Once the glass is all in the dustbin, Shane picks up the puck and the photo and looks at his face. It’s clearly him; he still looks like himself, hair not quite as long as it was yesterday, but still curling around his ears, flattened by the helmet he had on for warmups and was forced to take off before the pre-game ceremony.

In the photo, Shane’s barely smiling, and the realization makes Shane’s stomach roll uncomfortably. In real-life, he couldn’t keep a smile off his face, beaming as the Centaurs’ coaches and owners had shook his hand, with Ilya on one side of him and his parents on the other. 

They’d repeated the event a few weeks later, Shane having just barely beaten Ilya to the career marker. 

In this photo, though, he looks like a shadow of himself, giving the patient media-friendly smile he’d perfected by the age of seventeen; the one that looks genuine, but isn’t, even if it’s a crowd-pleaser. But there’s no light in his eyes. No pride there. Just mechanics: just him processing the milestone like a machine registering a completed task, built for motion not for reflection.

Not for enjoyment. 

This is a nightmare, Shane thinks again, because he doesn’t know who this person is in the photo, not anymore. It’s him, but it’s also not. It reflects who he is physically, but emotionally, this person is a shell. 

Shane sighs and deposits the glass in a cardboard box, taping it up and marking it clearly, and placing it on the side of the kitchen counter and leaves it for hopefully another Shane to fucking deal with.

He then picks up his phone. The screen has a gnarly spiderweb crack in the upper right corner from being thrown across the room, but otherwise the device seems functional, so Shane taps it to light up the screen and holds it out in front of him, the phone unlocking when it recognizes his face. 

In a way, he’s thankful the phone unlocks for him; in other ways, he’s even more panicked. 

He checks the date first. April 4, 2022, his phone tells him. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispers, because he’s lost no time. 

It’s the day after the Ottawa Centaurs’ last home game, where he and Ilya were both playing, having arrived at the game together, driving from their house, with plans to go to Shane’s parents the next morning for breakfast, because Ottawa had an off-day at home, and then to spend the rest of it in bed, as Ilya had made some incredibly dirty promises. 

He taps on the screen a few times, pulling up the Centaurs’ schedule with a few clicks in the browser. When it loads on his screen he blinks at it, confused, because these Ottawa Centaurs are on a west coast trip, playing in Los Angeles this very evening. 

Is that where Ilya is? Shane wonders, navigating over to the Centaurs’ roster page and scrolling down the list. He already knows he won’t find himself, but he’s not mentally prepared to scroll down the list and find Ilya Rozanov missing from the roster list as well. 

The feeling of unease and dread that’s filled him all morning grabs hold of his internal organs and twists as Shane slowly types in Ilya Rozanov, presses the enter button, and then waits for a few anxious seconds as the search results load. 

Ilya Rozanov is a Russian professional ice hockey player who is a centre and captain of the Boston Bears of the National Hockey League, reads the overview text, right below two boxes of information, one with Ilya’s age, and the second with the words, Spouse: Svetlana Vetrova, m. 2019.

“What the fuck,” Shane whispers to himself, sliding down the length of the kitchen island, as his legs threaten to give out beneath him. “What the fuck is happening to me?”

Boston, not Ottawa. 

Svetlana, not Shane. 

Pieces of the puzzle, picked up and placed down differently. He’s not exactly sure of the picture being built here, but he doesn’t like it one bit. 

*

Shane is in his car and is on Autoroute 10 before he fully thinks through what he is doing. It’s not till his phone rings and Hayden Pike appears on the call-display on the car’s dash, that he—he, Shane Hollander— remembers about the Voyageurs, and that— his— team’s own hockey schedule. 

“Hi?” Shane says, tentatively, accepting the call.

“Where the fuck are you?” Hayden says over the car’s audio system, his voice a pitch between worried and angry. “Coach is pissed, man. Practice is about to start.”

“Oh,” Shane intones.

“Oh?” Hayden rejoins. “Dude, what the fuck.”

“Um.” Shane switches lanes without signalling and speeds around a car in front of him, leap-frogging a few slower cars in the right lane. He’s driving like Ilya does, fast and manic, but he can’t help it: it’s a five hour drive to Boston, and he’s determined to make it in less. 

There’s a pause before Hayden asks, “Are you on the highway?”

“Er,” Shane says, continuing his streak of vocal disfluencies. 

Concern laces Hayden’s voice, as he asks, unprompted, “Is everything okay with your parents?”

Shane taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He hates lying to Hayden, even if this might not be his-Hayden, exactly, but latching onto the excuse that Hayden is offering him seems simpler than trying to explain to his friend that Shane is starting to believe that his life has been erased. Or rewritten. Or that everyone has been replaced by aliens. Or something. 

“Ah…” Shane spares a look at the trees on either side of the Autoroute. He’s about ten kilometres away from the border crossing into Vermont.

“Christ, Shane, if you don't want to tell me—" Hayden starts, concern morphing into frustration, and Shane interjects, rapidly, to lie: “I’m on my way to Ottawa now.”

“Oh fuck." Again, Hayden's tone shifts, sounding genuinely concerned, and Shane suddenly feels irrationally guilty. “I hope everything’s okay. I’ll cover for you. Give your parents my best.”

“Thanks Hayden,” Shane tells him, meaning it. Even if he’s lying, even if he can’t tell this-Hayden the truth, he appreciates that at least one thing is consistent here: Hayden Pike is still his best friend. 

When Hayden hangs up the phone, Shane sighs. “Call Farah,” he orders the auto-assistant, and immediately her number pops up. Belatedly, with the call already dialling, Shane says a small prayer that Farah is still his agent. 

Ilya would die laughing hearing it, but Shane needs to arrange himself some personal time away from his fucking team, the Voyageurs. 

*

Somewhere Else 

April 4, 2022, Boston

He passes the sign on the I-93 welcoming him to Boston in record time, a feat he’d generally consider reckless. But he can’t be bothered to care. For all he knows, this isn’t his life— he might not even really be here. History seems to mean nothing here, so the future might not either; so what if he plays a bit fast and loose with safety? Maybe if he crashed, he’d just snap out of wherever here is and back to his own life.

Shane pulls up to what was once Ilya’s house, stops the car and gets out too look up at the sterile, glass jewel box of a home. This house looks nothing like the home they share in Ottawa. This house, while architecturally stunning, is devoid of any warmth, all straight edges and cut glass; while their shared home in Ottawa is the opposite, soft lines instead of severe, rooms unfolding into others with easy familiarity. Warm and lived-in, where this one always felt carefully curated, but with no sense of self. Conversely, they've worked to make the Ottawa home theirs, a reflection of them both. 

Straightening the jacket he’s wearing over his hoodie, Shane pushes his hair back from his face and walks determined towards the door, banging on the imposing silver slab several times in quick succession. Then Shane waits, heart beating out of his chest, and prays that Ilya answers the door.

“Hollander?” 

The moment the door opens, relief floods through Shane so sharply he almost sags with it. He can’t help the breath that leaves him, the knot in his chest loosening just at the sight of his husband.

He’s so relieved that it takes him a moment to process that it’s an odd greeting. Hollander, not Shane. Not my love, not some random combination of Russian words for fruit or vegetables, or household appliances. Shane finds himself frowning, his brain too busy trying to make sense of the word Hollander, said plainly and not teasingly, a title, not a plea. 

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats, when Shane takes too long to reply. Ilya’s brow creases as he holds the door open, fingers tense against the paneling. “What are you doing here?”

Shane looks directly in Ilya’s eyes and sees only uncertainty staring back, as if Shane’s presence makes no sense at all. It’s not until that moment, when he sees the confusion knitting Ilya’s brow together that it dawns on Shane that he doesn’t have a plan. He just drove here, all of his instincts screaming for him to get to Ilya, because he figured that once Shane saw him, everything was going to make sense again. 

They can fix this, together. Ilya will help him. He will be able to tell Ilya that something weird and confusing and horrible is happening to him, and they’ll fix it. Together. 

Whatever the fuck is happening is solvable: together.

Because Ilya still exists. He’s here. 

Shane can touch him. 

He reaches out to do so and, incredibly, Ilya pulls back, sharply. He takes a step out of reach—away from Shane— by backing into his house, his brow furrowing deeper and mouth setting in a firm line. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Hollander?” Ilya demands, once again, dropping his grip on the door and crossing his arms over his chest protectively. 

“I needed to see you,” Shane tells him, finally finding his voice, and, for lack of a better plan, takes a step into the house, uninvited. 

“What?—Why?” Ilya asks, sharply. 

There sharp skepticism in his tone, like the idea that Shane might want to see him is impossible. At the same time, Ilya inches backwards, small and careful steps. Not much, just enough to register. Shane watches it happen in slow motion as Ilya creates deliberate space between them, as if he’s afraid Shane might reach for him again. Like he doesn’t want Shane to try. As if that would be the worst thing in the world.

Shane’s pulse stutters. 

For the first time years he’s entered Ilya’s orbit and Shane isn’t being touched immediately. No hand on his arm, or around his shoulders, or threading through his hair, or pushing up under his shirt. No grounding pressure. No claim. The absence feels wrong, like missing a step in the dark, and it weighs him down with the implication of another atom being out of place. 

The longer they stand like that, the more Shane starts to feel off balance, like he’s sliding out of alignment. 

This isn’t how this works, he wants to cry.

It isn’t how we’ve ever worked. 

A thin, insistent panic threads through Shane’s veins. He wants to reach out again. He wants to be touched. He wants to drop to his knees; wants to fold in on himself and press his head against Ilya’s legs and beg for him to anchor him there. Wants to plead with him to tell Shane this is a huge cosmic joke that the whole world is in on; for Ilya to hold him tightly and press his shoulders down and use his body to assure him everything is okay.

Tell me this is still where I belong, he wants to beg, Please— Please.

But he doesn’t. The sharp rejection of Ilya pulling back still raw, and there’s no way to bury it.

“Is she here?” Shane asks, instead, trying to keep breathing as he looks around the house. He takes a few steps past Ilya, ignoring the way he plasters himself to the wall, like he’s afraid for even the rippling air around Shane to make contact with him. “I’ll explain. But, maybe Sveta can help us too…”

He’s been here a few times, years ago, and the house still looks familiar, the same cuts of stone and washes of paint, even if there’s more clutter everywhere. Shane walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator without asking. It’s full, with containers labeled in careful cursive, cut fruit in glass bowls, sparkling water lined up like soldiers. 

There, in plain view: evidence of Svetlana. 

It’s one of the many things that Shane and Svetlana have in common, the meticulously packed fridge of food neatly arranged into carefully labelled containers. Something Ilya rolls his eyes at, even though he secretly aims soft smiles at them both. They visit her in Boston a few times a year and she always keeps the fridge stocked with things that Shane likes, ginger-ale and the-like, as well as containers of prepped-ingredients that meet the macros of his diet. It’s a kindness she’s always paid him, since the very beginning, even if the effort is mostly for Ilya; a quiet message to Ilya that says, yes, love, I accept your man, too. But it’s also for him, because he and Svetlana are friends; they have their own bond, even if built on the basis that they both love and adore the same man, if in entirely different ways. 

But here’s proof of her, laid out in front of him. Confirmation that Svetlana lives here— that they’re married.

The other evidence is on Ilya’s hand, Shane catching a glimpse of glinting gold on Ilya's right hand, as he scoffs and pushes irritated fingers through his hair, saying, almost derisively: “None of your business. What are you doing here?”

Shane tries not to flinch at the tone. Or to let the feeling of Ilya’s eyes on him, tense and calculating, seep into his skin. The look is foreign to him: even in the most strained moments in their history, llya’s never looked at him like this, like Shane is something that slipped through an unlocked door. Ilya's never looked at him with this sort of skepticism, or resistance. 

“Something is happening to me,” Shane starts, closing the fridge door and starting to pace in Ilya's kitchen. He just needs to push through this. "Something is happening to us," he amends. 

“To us?” Ilya tracks Shane’s pacing closely. His brow furrows. “Hollander, there is no us.” 

The words cut. It’s a sudden wound, unexpected, and it aches immediately. Shane’s gaze snaps up, looking at Ilya in shock because the idea is utterly impossible. For a moment, it’s like struggling to stay afloat on choppy waters. 

“No, see,” Shane continues, hoarsely. He shakes his head, brings one of the strings from his jacket up and starts chewing on it, anxiously. His chest is horrifically tight, but he shoves down the shock. “That's the problem— there is an us. There has always been an us.”

“Not for years. You know this,” Ilya argues, tightly. He is already shaking his head.

“Ilya! Listen to me." Shane breaks in, frustrated. 

“Hollander, you should leave,” Ilya continues.

Shane spits out the aglet in his mouth, protests: “No, please, listen—”

“You shouldn’t be here—”

“Ilya!”

“You can’t just barge in after—”

“Ilya!” Shane slams a palm down on the counter in frustration, colliding with a stray bottle of sparkling water. The bottle tips and the water pours out and both Shane and Ilya turn, startled into tense silence.

The water drips off the counter, each drop captivating Shane’s attention. The spill glints at him, sparkles and shines shades of red with a secret. In the water, he sees a movement, a subtle flicker of gold, moving through the droplets. He frowns at it for a few long moments, until Ilya makes a frustrated noise, breaking Shane's trance.

“Hollander.”

“Ilya,” Shane counters, slowly, dragging his attention from the water with great effort. “There is. There’s always been an us, even when we didn’t admit it.”

“Hollander,” Ilya replies, and there's anger slipping into his voice now. “There hasn't been an us for years.”

Shane shakes his head. “No, that's impossible.” He clears his throat, presses his hands against just face and then says, imploringly, begging Ilya to remember: “We have a life together. Ever since— You know. You came to my cottage. You said you loved me— and I said I love you. We agreed on a future. You met my parents”— with every admission Ilya's eyes get wider—“You signed with Ottawa. I signed with Ottawa. We got married.”

“Hollander.” Ilya shakes his head, a clear dispute of Shane’s facts.

“Shane,” Shane corrects, fiercely. He feels like he's drowning, his chest is way too tight. 

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats. His face is pale. “None of that happened.”

“It did, Ilya,” Shane begs. “You have to remember. It was the beginning of everything, of us. Of a real us.”

Ilya rakes a hand over his face. The wedding band glints, taunting Shane. 

“Hollander, none of that happened.” He looks a bit pained when his hand pauses, still covering his mouth. “I’ve never been to your cottage—”

“You have!” Shane insists, ferociously. “Twenty-seventeen. Marlow gave me a concussion during a game—”

For the first time, Ilya nods. He drops his hand from his mouth, but the line of it is still tense, a firmness that Shane wants to kiss away. “Da, I remember—”

“Okay!” Shane exclaims, excitedly, because they’re getting somewhere. He takes a deep breath of relief. “And then at the hospital, I asked you to come—”

Ilya shakes his head again, and Shane wants to scream. “Hollander, I know this, but I never went. I went home. To Russia.”

“You didn’t,” Shane argues, immediately frustrated again. He clenches his hands into fists, whacks one against his own chest. “You stayed with me—”

“Is nice dream," Ilya admits, and maybe Shane should cling to that, but there’s a note of hopelessness, of surrender, in Ilya’s tone that just makes him angry.

“It’s not a dream! This is a dream— this house, Boston, that wedding band.” Shane points to it accusingly, and Ilya at least has the good sense to shove his right hand in his pocket. “This place is a nightmare,” Shane corrects, waving a wild hand around Ilya’s house of sharp edges. “You came to the cottage. It was the best— it was the best two weeks of my life.”

“No,” Ilya tells him, his voice corded tension. “That didn't happen.”

“It did,” Shane insists. He feels like he’s flailing, like he’s falling. Sinking. “It happened to us.”

“No, Hollander, it didn’t." 

Ilya shakes his head again, and Shane can't take it anymore. He crosses the space between them in a few quick steps, takes Ilya's face in his hands and kisses him, fiercely.

It's the worst kiss of their lives. 

Ilya is stiff under it, his mouth barely opening and his hands don’t move to touch Shane back. He doesn't respond, even as Shane tries to put everything he has into it, trying to put into this kiss the memory of every kiss they've ever had. 

It doesn’t work.

Just as devastating as his protests, Ilya places his hands on Shane's shoulders, pushes back, and shifts his face away from him. 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, slowly, staring blankly at the ground to their right. “Stop.”

Fragments of Shane's soul feel like they're drowned. Shane keeps his hands on Ilya's face, desperate. He pushes his fingers into Ilya’s jawline, trying to turn Ilya’s eyes back to him. “Ilya... please. I love you.”

Ilya flinches, and applies pressure on Shane's shoulders, pushing him away, slowly and gently.

“Hollander,” he repeats, and the word feels like a warning. 

Shane lets his hands fall away from Ilya’s face. “You don't remember?” 

Shane asks the question so quietly, almost a whisper, and, for the first time, some cracks in Ilya’s composure seem to appear; curated stillness slipping away. Ilya’s jaw seems to twitch, his voice cracking, subtly, as he insists, “There’s nothing to remember, Hollander. None of this happened…”

Shane ignores him, utter dismay filing his chest. 

He doesn’t know how to explain, how to make Ilya remember: How do I explain to you, love of my life, that I woke up and all the pieces of my life have suddenly been placed in the wrong order? That you, this person I love so much that it would be impossible to sing all the ways, is suddenly acting all wrong? That you, darling, have been stripped of every single memory of every thing we are?

“Hollander, where is this coming from? Are you feeling OK?” Ilya asks.

A pained sound escapes him instead of another protest, and Shane raises his hands to his head and pulls on his own hair as he paces away, back to the other side of the room.  

“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” he begs himself, and he, once again, wants to scream. He wants to bang his head against something, until all this fades away.

“Hollander.” Ilya's voice is softer now. 

“You came to the cottage. We made a decision,” Shane tells him, pathetically. Shane drags another vicious hand through his hair, fingers snagging as if he might rip strands out. “It happened. It did. I love you— you love me.” The words come faster, sharper, until the last part nearly breaks into a shout: “Ilya, you have to remember that!” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ilya flinch, and the line of his mouth snapping back into tension. Shane just paces, one hand gripping his hair and the other one smacking his cheek with increasing force, as he begs himself to wake up. 

“Ilya!” he finds himself pleading, a few frayed strands away from a total collapse in this kitchen. He pulls on his hair again and winces when the motion hurts him, instead of yanking him from this dream. “Ilya. Fuck. It all happened— I swear it did, you have to remember all of this— why don’t you remember?”

“Hollander…”

“Please, Ilya—” 

“Hollander, you are scaring me,” Ilya says, slowly. 

Shane pivots towards him. Stops pacing immediately. “I'm scaring you?” he demands. “Ilya, I don't understand what's going on— this isn't right. None of this makes sense. You’re my husband.”

“I get that you seem to think that… right now… But I’m not…” Ilya tells him, the words slow and halting.

Shane raises his hand to his mouth to stifle the scream he wants to let out. He paces the kitchen again, dragging his hands through his hair, pulling at strands, again chanting to himself: “Wake up, Shane. Wake up.” 

He steals a glance at Ilya, who is studying him, carefully, but isn’t folding. Shane slaps himself, and the resounding crack rings out in the hollow kitchen. 

“This isn’t real. Wake up.”

“Hollander, calm down. Please,” Ilya interjects. 

Ilya— this other Ilya, who insists he isn’t Shane’s husband—places his hands out in front of him, placatingly, the ring mocking Shane as it glints in the afternoon light. This man takes a few, slow, steps towards Shane, starting to look more worried than angry. One foot in front of the other, while he repeats Shane’s surname in hushed tones, like Shane is a freaked-out wild animal that Ilya needs to be careful around. 

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats, “Maybe just sit down.”

“Stop calling me that,” Shane insists. 

“OK.” Ilya relents, and, ever so gently, adds: “Shane.”

Shane barely restrains a whimper before it can take shape. Shane’s name sounds wrong in this-Ilya’s mouth— stripped bare of its meaning, emptied of reverence. Just a name, just a sound: short, blunt and unadorned. Monosyllabic. Unremarkable, and containing none of the multitudes or the promise that it has always has. Shane’s knees weaken for all the wrong reasons. 

“You remember, don’t you?” Shane tries again. A final plea, as his legs threaten to give out.

“Shane,” Ilya repeats, pitifully; gives a single, heartbreaking shake of his head. 

Shane does the only thing he can think to do: he flees. 

*

In Between

"My love..."

Someone is whispering, warm and comforting tones, but an undercurrent of tension. Shane reflexively reaches out for the voice. The words are just out of his grasp, tiny sparks of light skirting the top of a seemingly endless body of water. Shane tries to stretch, tries to propel himself upwards.

"Shane, love, I need you to wake up now. OK? My love, please."

The voice is breaking, lost in a liquid curtain, and Shane is too deep to comfort it. 

*

Chapter End Notes

Come find me on Tumblr at @veilofimagination.

---

Very Optional Reassurances for Those Who Want to Read but Don't Trust Me (MAY SPOIL SOME OF THE FIC - Read at Your Own [Damn] Risk)

- There are two versions of Shane in this fic, as well as everyone else. But we will only meet one Shane (Canon-Shane)
- Svetlana and Ilya are married for family obligation reasons, not romantic ones. Yes, they love each other (like very close friends) but it's not a real marriage. It's almost political, in a way, and it's an open marriage. Think of it as them helping each other out.
- Au-Ilya and canon-Shane will get together. This is not considered cheating on Svetlana (open marriage), and canon-Shane just sees all Ilya's as his.
- There will be timeline differences between realities. (Just know canon-Shane lived the original RR timeline, as written).
AU Shane, due to some canon-divergence, has gone off the rails a little. All top athletes are a little bit selfish, and well AU-Shane doubled down on that. We might not always like AU-Shane.
- Implied references to AU-Shane/Others, AU-Shane has not been a nun since AU-Ilya got married.
- Canon-Shane is in a coma, yes, but he will make it back. It will take some time.
- Yes, AU-Shane and AU-Ilya had five years taken from them. Sorry (again).
- No, I don't know where AU-Shane is. I've thought about this, and decided I can't be bother to work this out. I maybe reconsidering this.
- I have an ending in mind, and it may not tie absolutely every little detail up.
- Yes, end-game Hollonav (in both universes).
- Discussion of childhood cancer, now in remission (Jade Pike).
- Minor references to NHL players cheating on their wives (not Hayden).

Chapter 2: we’re still connected, but are we even friends?

Chapter Summary

Shane wakes up cold. He notices it more and more, how cold he is. How his skin feels like ice to the touch, as well as damp, beads of sweat clinging to the surface. How his breath upon waking feels strained, his voice rough and his first words feel like metal scraping down his throat. Mentally, he awakes in a fog, with his last memories feeling fragmented like they’re suspended between here and somewhere else.

He dreams of Ilya.

It’s too lonely here and Shane’s starting to feel like he’s trapped. His thoughts spiral— what if he is stuck here? What if he can never get back? What if he has to stay here, in a world where his most important people, aren’t even his people?

 

Chapter Notes

Just FYI but I updated the tags (additional spoilers for this chapter in end notes, if you need them - they expand on the new tag, they will be added into the fic notes spoiler dropdown [see more notes], but wanted to flag them here.). Also, there's probably too much hockey jargon up front, sorry.

II. we’re still connected, but are we even friends?

If this is the best of possible worlds, what then are the others?

— Voltaire, Candide

Every decision or non-decision shifts the universe in a whole new direction.

— Ray A. Davis

*

Somewhere Else 

April 4, Boston

Shane rips off a piece of tape with his mouth and uses it to attach the final corner of a roll of cardstock to the hotel room wall. Then, he unsnaps the lid off of the black permanent marker he’d bought at the Walmart down the road, shoves the marker lid in his pocket, and draws a thick line down the middle of the page, all the way across, being careful to press lightly so it doesn’t bleed through. 

“Are you Shane Hollander?” the Walmart cashier had marvelled, as he’d slowly loaded Shane’s purchases into a bag, not long after Shane had fled Ilya’s house, following their disastrous, heartbreaking of a conversation. Every beep of the scanner had echoed around Shane, as well as inside of him. “Like, NHL Shane Hollander? Captain for the Montreal Voyageurs?”

Shane had pulled his ball cap lower of his face and reached over to yank the four-pack of black permanent Sharpies out of the cashier’s hand as soon as the machine had registered the purchase of $6.49.

“Nope,” Shane had lied, but barely, tapping his card and getting out of there. 

He’d pulled into the first hotel parking lot he found, as unkempt and horrible as it looked from the outside, and checked in under a false name. He’d paid in cash and felt every iota of the identity thief that he probably is.

Now, that’s where Shane stands: in socks, boxers, and an old Voyageurs hoodie he found in the back of his car, on top of ugly hotel room carpet and staring at cardstock taped to egg-shell coloured walls. 

He has no luggage and barely any belongings, just hastily purchased craft supplies, his phone, a twelve-pack of ginger ale in cans, half-eaten-and-regrettably-purchased steak and cheese sub, and a puzzle to solve.

Shane steps back to consider the cardstock and the line he's drawn, then hastily writes MY TIME above the line in choppy block letters; below, THIS TIME. In the middle of his timeline, he marks off a section for 2017 and clearly adds COTTAGE above the line and NO COTTAGE below it, and tries to ignore the uptick of his pulse.

“Okay,” Shane murmurs out loud to himself in the hotel room, as he steps back, aglet of his hoodie tucked in the side of his mouth. He cracks open one of the cans. “What else is different?”

He starts where he's pledged to never go. Somewhere he usually leaves to Ilya, or his mom, or his dad on extremely rare occasions. Somewhere he avoids like the plague, especially post being outed to the entire league: his own Wikipedia page.

It's the same at the start. 

He knows these details— born in Ottawa, the only child of Yuna and David Hollander.  He played AAA hockey in Kingston and was the Captain of the Canadian National Junior Team in 2008 and 2009, still winning a silver and gold, respectively; both games against still Russia. Draft-eligible in 2009, and still drafted second overall to Montreal, a fact which Shane is only a little bitter about being the same in this place, because if things had to be different, why couldn’t this little piece of history be changed? Shane swallows that annoyance, noting that he still takes home the Calder, winning Rookie of the Year over Ilya and Vincent Lemaire. 

Shane writes all of these facts on the timeline, indicating they occurred in both places with tiny arrows pointing up and down. Then, he scrolls quickly through the rest of the Wikipedia page, until he gets to Career Statistics, where Shane proceeds to get distracted for the next forty-five minutes because even he has to admit that this-Shane’s stats are incredible.

Like scarily good.

Annoyingly good.

He and his other-self have stat lines that are relatively similar until the 2017-2018 season, where this-Shane’s stat line gets lit on fire. Four fifty-goal seasons in a row, with 104, 111, 144, and 136 points per season respectively, which eclipses Shane's own season totals— and explains why this-Shane notched his 1000 point almost eight in-season months before Shane himself did. In his place, the only one of the last four seasons where Shane summited 100 points was 2019-20, when his-Montreal team won their third Stanley Cup. Which apparently happened here too, except then this-Shane led them back to the Finals in 20-21, where even though Montreal lost, this-Shane still won the Hart Memorial Trophy for the most valuable player, as well as the Art Ross for most total points across the league. 

“What the fuck,” Shane laments, flopping on his back on the bed, legs hanging off the end at ninety degrees and phone right above his face. "What the actual fuck," he repeats, flipping windows to scroll through this-Shane's NHL stats page and fuming, because not only has this-Shane has out preformed him on the stats line, he presumably also needs a much larger trophy room. 

Because, aside from the gold and silver that they both have from the World Juniors and 2009 Calder, this-Shane also has a gold medal from the 2014 Sochi Olympics, as well as double the amount wins for the Rocket Richard award, one more Art Ross trophies, back-to-back Conn Smythes in 2019-20 and 2020-21, and an additional Hart Memorial. Scrolling back through the NHL Award nominations, this-Shane has been nominated for double the amount of awards across the categories that Shane has. In fact, the only NHL Award where Shane leads his other-self in nominations is for the fucking King Clancy award, which barely has anything to do with on-ice production. This-Shane even has—

“What the fuck?” Shane exclaims sitting up with a sudden surge of frustration, because this-Shane has a fucking Selke Trophy.

Shane has never, not once, not ever, even been nominated for a Selke Trophy, and not for a lack of trying because his defensive game is excellent. It’s the one award that he— and Ilya for that matter— have been consistently locked out of their entire careers. So much so, that Ilya and him have had a unspoken competition for the past few years to see if one of them could actually get a nomination, because somehow, despite all the things they do well on the ice, the NHL Awards voting committee seems to be quite happy to ignore how much of a 200-foot defensive game both of them actually play.

“Maddening,” Shane announces to the empty the room, continuing to scroll through the photos on the NHL’s site, watching an eerily-similar copy of himself accept the Selke Trophy in 2020. 

He then quickly looks up his stats for the 2019-2020 season, comparing to the mental shot he has of his own stats, and quickly becoming increasingly dismayed, as he registers the actual ludicrous season his other self had, noting that this-Shane took home the Stanley Cup, the Conn Smythe, the Art Ross and the goddamn Selke Trophy in one damn season. That eclipses any take-home from a single NHL Awards that Shane— and again, or Ilya— has ever managed. Shane would have to verify, or ask his mom, but he’s pretty sure that nobody in the history of hockey has ever won the Art Ross and the Selke Trophy in one season. 

And yet, this-Shane managed it. 

“You bastard,” Shane swears at this copy of himself.

There’s an itch under Shane’s skin. Something burning to know what was fuelling this season. He wants so badly to know what drove this-Shane to have such monster of a 2019-2020 season. He needs to know, he needs to replicate it— he needs to find a way to bottle this up and bring it back to his own time.

“I hate this place,” Shane mutters instead, scanning the rest of this-Shane stats with jealously rolling in his stomach, before finally getting up and begrudgingly writing on APPARENTLY BETTER AT HOCKEY below the line. 

*

With great effort, Shane closes the tab on his own Wikipedia page and starts googling some of the other foundational pieces of his life. 

The next discoveries are no more easier to swallow.

Shane still finds some photos of him and Ilya. Proof that their history exists here too: the CCM commercial, a photo of them on stage as Ilya took that selfie of them at first NHL Awards show, and several from the 2017 All Star Game, including one of Ilya kissing his helmet. There's still articles about their rivalry, up until very recently, with a multi-page article dissecting the rivalry’s history, as well as that of Boston and Montreal, upon Shane’s re-signing with the Voyageurs in summer 2021. There’s no mention of Ottawa, because, here, Ilya re-signed immediately with Boston before he even hit free-agency in 2018; a six year deal, with an $8.1 million average annual value. 

The pictures stop after that. There’s nothing at All Star games, even though they’re both always on the rosters, and the game highlights he watches don’t even seem to indicate any chat between them on the ice. Their faces are stone every face off they take against each other. Barely a flicker of recognition. Like a whole history was wiped away. 

“It's still a rivalry. It still gets built up to this day. It's fun to compete against Hollander. There's a ton of respect there,” this-Ilya says in this timeline, mostly monotone, as he responds to some reporters' question post a Boston-Montreal game in February 2020. The Ilya in the video brushes a hand through his hair and his wedding ring glints in the lighting of the press box. 

“Yeah, of course. Montreal-Boston, always fun. Ro— Boston has a lot of great players. That’s why there’s a rivalry,” this-Shane intones, in press post the same game, in a flat tone that Shane knows means he wants to escape. This-Shane gives a tight lipped smile to the camera, his patented-well-practiced-press-avoidance smile. The same smile Shane has given for questions he's uncomfortable answering since he was sixteen years old and first receiving media-training from Hockey Canada. “Anything else?”

Other interviews are the same. All of this-Shane’s answers focused on the game, never anything else. He never mentions Ilya by name. Over time, neither does Ilya.

There also doesn't seem to be any press about either himself or Ilya being openly queer. Instead, he finds Ilya’s wedding date, July 2019, as well several news articles, including wedding photos of him and Svetlana, seemingly taken in Russia. Reluctantly, Shane admits they look beautiful together, even if vaguely sedate in every photograph, nothing like broad smile Ilya wore throughout their own wedding, teeth and crow’s feet on full display.

But it’s more than that. 

There’s no mentions of queer NHL athletes. Not himself, not Ilya, not Ryan Price, not Troy Barrett, not Eric Bennett, and, the one Shane looks for the longest, refusing to allow it: no Scott Hunter.

Shane watches the video of Scott Hunter being awarded the 2017 Stanley Cup after beating Los Angeles a dozen times over. Each time refusing to believe what he’s seeing: Scott Hunter getting handed the Cup, him skating around the rink, passing it off to his teammates and then… Nothing. 

After awhile, the video ends. Shane restarts it, waiting for that moment when Kip Grady steps onto the ice. He waits for the moment everything changed. That hope, the flick of a light switch that made him believe— dare, think, feel, hope— in a sliver of possibility for himself, in the prospect that there might be a future for him out there that wasn't him, post-career, all alone.  

It never comes. 

No matter how many times Shane presses the replay button, the video never changes: Scott skates alone. 

“Well, fuck,” Shane breathes out, many replays later. 

This place suddenly feels very tight around him, like he’s trapped in a room that has no light and no door. He recognizes the feeling; its one that lives buried further done now, only rearing its head on particularly bad days, when Shane feels terribly small, but one that used to reign in his head— and in his soul.

Shane gets up, goes up to the wall and reluctantly adds this final information to his timeline, underlining it twice: NO S./KIP KISS.

He steps back, assessing all the information he’s gathered and the dark intensity of his block letters the further in time that he looks. The differences stack up to the right, with everything post-2017 standing in bold contrast to the other.  Everything diverges, from the second that kiss should have occurred, but apparently never was.

“Fuck,” Shane repeats, bringing his hands up and gripping both sides of his head, the edge of the pen digging into his skull. Deep down, he’s always known the importance of what he saw on television that day, he’s just never fully reconciled how much he owes that moment for what he has now— for what he has there, in his place, with Ilya.

He’s going to buy Scott Hunter and Kip Grady flowers every fucking year, starting the second he gets back.

*

In Between

He can hear voices. 

But they’re muffled, having lost any crisp consonants and become soft and dull. The voices seem to be more vibration than sound, heard in his head or stirring in his skull; a hum in his soul, rather than anything said aloud. As he drifts, he’s not even sure if it’s real.

One of the voices, an insistent tense wave, asks, “When will he wake up?”

“We don’t know,” another admits, a different, even, tonality. “But he is stable. All his vital signs are good.”

“Then he should be awake,” a third distinct, calm, rhythm murmurs.

The previous voice exhales; long, controlled, practiced sounds. “Unfortunately, that is not how it works.”

There’s a long pause. Not silence, not completely, Shane feels like there’s a low hum that surrounds him constantly, as well as a strange pressure as if being suspended between floating and falling. 

“His neurological responses are in tact,” the voice continues, when no one else stirs. “He’s stable. Present.”

The word present seems to echo, rippling through him, although he doesn’t understand why. It feels important, like something he should hold onto, but it slips away, like trying to grasp water.

“Present,” the first voice repeats. It sounds familiar, but the tremor it causes isn't. “Okay.” The word is a sharp intake of the surroundings, then, action: “What is the next step? What do you do now?”

“We've done what we can. At this point, all we can do is wait.”

“No,” the first voice protests, for the first time sounding like it's floundering. “Do something else. Wake my baby up…”

“Sweetheart,” the third voice murmurs, and Shane hears a gasp for breath, buried under something solid. 

For a moment, everything is silent, except for the hum that seems to keep Shane afloat. Something warm touches his skin, a ray of sunlight trickling down through deep water.

“Can he hear us?” a final voice asks; different than the others, deep and resonant, and the rhythm settles comfortably against Shane's chest. 

“Possibly. We can’t rule it out.”

“OK, good... Good,”  the last voice says, slightly sharp; a rapid in an otherwise slow current. It's followed by quick, melodious, sounds in a rhythm that Shane can’t quite grasp enough to understand, the only familiar sound being, “Shane.”

He tries desperately to answer. But nothing happens.

If anything, he floats further away.

“Ilya,” the third voice murmurs again, “Everything’s going to be okay… He’s strong…”

The voices drift, sounds disappearing in layers of liquid.

Ilya.

* 

Somewhere Else

April 5, Boston

A buzzing sound wakes Shane from a restless sleep. When he wakes he feels hungry for air, panicking as he gasps relentlessly and pushes up to his forearms, having awoken face down on the bedspread, the sheets scratchy against his cheek. His chest feels tight and like it's burning, and he pushes his forehead into the bed as he coughs rapidly, spit sliding down his chin.

He gropes blindly for the phone. "Hello?" he murmurs, mustering as much politeness as possible. Every breath feels strained. Mentally he feels like he's in a fog, disorientated and with his last memories feeling fragmented and unlike his own. "Shane Hollander."

"Shane?" the unmistakable voice of Farrah Jalali says, "Where are you?"

"Ottawa. Personal time," he lies, his voice gravel, as he rolls over and catches a glimpse of his timeline on the far wall, the black upper case lettered mania stark on the page. He's still in his hoodie, and reaching up to touch his face, Shane can feel a crease in his cheek where he fell asleep on the pen. "Remember?"

"I spoke to your mother," Farrah tells him, bluntly.

"What?" Shane rubs a hand against his cheek. His skin is damp to the touch, and he wipes the moisture on the bed. 

"Your mother, Shane," Farrah repeats. "She tells me everything is fine in Ottawa. So, care to tell me what it is you've requested personal time for?"

"Uh," Shane stutters.

"Are you in some sort of other trouble? A woman?" Farrah pauses. "A man?"

"What?" Shane says, weakly, lying flat on the bed staring at the ugly egg-shell white ceiling. His heart pounds in his chest, and he still feels lightheaded. 

"Because you know we have NDAs for this type of shit," Farrah scolds him. 

"What?" Shane repeats, his voice scraping against his throat.

"Is there a problem we need to handle?"

Shane looks at the timeline. At all of the changes and question marks and sketched out uncertainty. "Uh."

"Shane." Farrah sighs deeply on the other side of the phone. "You are my best client. If there's something we need to handle, just tell me. Knocked up girl, stalker boyfriend, or crazy fan, whatever, I’ll get—”

"There's no girl..." Shane interjects, and then has a moment where he thinks, At least I fucking hope not. "I'm gay."

"Glad we have some clarity on that," Farrah says, no nonsense. Shane remembers her being gentler last time, the other time— the other place. He rubs pointlessly at his temple. "So then, is there a crisis?"

"Uh, no?" Shane responds, wondering if it sounds like a question as much as it feels. 

"Good. Then may I suggest you get your ass back to your team and make whatever it is that is keeping you away from the fucking rink wait for the offseason?" Farrah laughs, short and sharp. "Montreal has five days left to make a last minute effort to secure a wildcard spot, and we need every point you can muster on the board to maximize your next contact. Got it?"

"Got it," Shane repeats, weakly, and then the phone goes dead in his hands. 

He drags himself up from the bed slowly. Looks around the madness of his hotel room and sighs. It looks like he's going back to Montreal. 

*

In Between

There are waves tonight.

“You should go back to the team, honey. He’s stable. There’s nothing you can do here right now,” someone says, followed by a wobbly screech that seems to wrap itself around Shane, the sound directionless. He struggles to locate the source of the words.

“Fuck the team,” and even as warped as they are, the words sound clipped and angry, pulsing around Shane, a booming monotone while the other is ghostlike. 

“He would understand. He wouldn't want you just sitting here—”

“—I’m not leaving! I’m not leaving him.”

“Honey,” the first voice murmurs, a slow, bubbling current. 

The two voices continue, but the words become broken fragments of tone and rhythm. Shane whines as he rocks, trying to make its way back to them. 

“Hey, kiddo,” whispers a third voice, clearer than the others, yet still more rhythm than sound. It’s comforting though, and Shane gravitates towards it, straining to listen. “Rest as long as you need, just come back to us soon.” Everything around him ripples, but calmer now, as if something has drug itself over Shane’s skin and he wants to whimper. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll take care of them both.”

*

Somewhere Else

April 6, Montreal

The game ends and somebody wins. 

Shane played well, did his part. He didn't sabotage Montreal, even if a part of him wanted to. It feels odd to say it, but this body feels different than his real one— the hockey reflexes just dissimilar enough to throw him off, like his body wants to do things based on muscle memory that his mind doesn't recall how to do.

It's more evidence that Shane doesn't belong here. And that whoever this-Shane is, he's different than Shane is. And, frustratingly, he's found a hockey gear deeper than any one that Shane has ever accessed. 

Shane kinda hates him for that. Can't keep himself from grumbling about it under his breath, as he strips and showers, and then reorganizes his equipment. 

His phone lights up just as he shoves the last bit of his kit in his stall and Shane leaps for it, reflexively, still naively expecting it to be Ilya and immediately feeling the lightness rush out of him when he looks at the screen and sees the initials T.L., followed by the message: 

T.L.  looked good out there. yours tonight?

Shane frowns at his phone; squinting at the odd words, perplexed.

“Is that Todd?” Hayden mutters, depositing his shoulder pads on their hook in the stall next to Shane's. They're two of the last players lingering, the others on the far side of the locker room. 

Startled, Shane's head snaps up to look at his friend at him, quickly pushing the button to send the phone to black. “What?”

Hayden sighs. “That's your Todd-is-booty-calling-me-again face. But fine, whatever. I can pretend I didn't notice.”

“What?” Shane repeats, again. 

“Forget I said anything,” Hayden mutters, straightening his skates and then bending to punch in the code to the valuable box underneath the bench. He pulls out his own phone and watch, strapping the latter on. Shane just stares, trying to muddle out how much this Hayden knows about him, when Hayden stands up, a bit aggressively, and adds, still mostly under his breath, “I hate that guy.”

“What?” Shane blurts, a broken record.

“Fuck, is that all you have to say?” Hayden asks, letting out a short bark of a laugh. “Fine, I'll shut up— but that guy sucks.” Hayden pauses  and Shane opens his mouth to say something— anything— but Hayden barrels on, quickly adding, “He's just using you. He likes your house and your contract and your fucking money—”

“What?”

“Fuck, Shane,” Hayden mutters. He kicks the door of the valuables box to shut it, then angles his foot to hit the lock button. It whirls closed. “You don't even like him.”

“Don't I?” Shane asks, and there's some honesty to the question.

Hayden rolls his eyes. “Don't fuck with me.”

“I'm not?” Shane asks, with an inflection at the end that Hayden squints at, before continuing to rant. 

“I wouldn't be surprised if fucking outed you if you stopped sleeping with him, that guy's a fucking loser—”

“You think he'd do that?” Shane wonders, stomach sinking, especially when Hayden laughs. 

“Yes, yes I fucking do,” Hayden asserts, running a thumb across his visor to rub out a smudge, then mumbles, “I miss Lily, you were happier with whoever that fucking was.”

“You know about Lily? Since when?” Shane asks, preparing to make a mental note for his timeline. 

Hayden stares at him. Instead of answering the question, he poses his own, a frustrated, “Did you hit your head or something?”

“Kinda,” Shane answers, a bit too honestly. He lifts his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s… complicated…”

“Right. Of course. Too complicated for Hayden,” Hayden says, sarcastically. “I don't know why you insist on hiding this shit from me. I've known for years and I don't have a problem with you, just that loser.” He points to the phone, clutched tightly in Shane's hand. “It's like you don't fucking trust me or something.”

“Oh,” Shane murmurs, thinking of all the ways he’s always trusted Hayden, even if it kinda blew up in his face. “That can’t be it.”

Hayden laughs again, a bit derisively, and pointlessly straightens a skate, hanging on the top hook of the locker. “Right,” he adds, shouldering his bag and turning towards the door. He starts to walk out, throwing over his shoulder a tight, “Have fun with your friend.”

“No, Hayden—” Shane starts, picking up his own bag and chasing after him. This isn't even his-Hayden and he feels unduly thrown off at how much he hates this interaction, panic immediately taking hold of him. “Hayd.” Shane grabs his friend's elbow. “I'm not seeing him anymore," he says, and hopes it's a claim that will hold true. “So, maybe, instead… want to get... a drink?”

Hayden stops so abruptly that Shane's knee locks with the impact of pulling up alongside him. Hayden looks at Shane, this uncomfortable shadow of shock on his face. He repeats, slowly: "A drink?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, shoving his hands and phone in his pocket. “Like, we do that. Sometimes.”

Rarely, now, his mind fills in, because, now that Shane is down the highway in Ottawa, and he's always with Ilya, even during the summer, so he and Hayden barely see each other and their texts are infrequent. Shane makes a silent promise to himself that the second he's out of here, and the season is over, he's driving up to Montreal to spend time with a Hayden, Jacki and the kids. 

“It's just been awhile…” Hayden tells him, almost a bit warily. “Since you’ve wanted to hang out with me.”

“Sorry,” Shane responds, automatically, with maybe more feeling that necessary, because Hayden’s eyebrows lift. “If you don't have time…”

“No,” Hayden counters, brow creasing. Some sort of conflict flickers over his face. “Maybe. I just need to call Jacki first.”

*

They end up at The Coldroom, a tiny hidden speakeasy located in a transformed 19th century cold storage warehouse in the Old Port, accessed by following a tiny rubber duck logo and ringing a bell. At least in Shane’s reality. Here, The Coldroom is pretty much the same, except for the symbol that greets him upon entry is a polar bear, and the slightly dissonance settles oddly in Shane’s bones. 

Tiny little alternations, everywhere. 

It’s the big ones that freak him out the most.

Like Hayden, sitting across from him, who, in Shane’s place, is Shane’s best friend, but here, is a little like a stranger. Hayden barely says a word the entire way to the speakeasy, leading the way down the stairs and letting the door swing closed after him so Shane has to lunge to grab it, lest it slam him in the face. 

They sit in silence. It stretches awkwardly between them, Hayden studying the drink menu for too long considering it only has a handful of options. He's overly polite to the waitress, finishing his order by flashing a broad, yet oddly hollow, smile, which immediately fades to nothingness the second they're left alone again, and Hayden returns to staring at the cocktail napkin, twisting it in counter-clockwise circles with two fingers. 

“How's Jacki?” Shane offers, an olive branch as their drinks are set between them. He takes a tentative sip of the drink he let the waitress choose, asking her to decide for him, and only grimacing slightly as he smells the drink, some concoction called Fine à L’Eau. It tastes vaguely of cherry.

Hayden takes a long, extended sip of whatever he's ordered. “She's fine.”

“Oh, good,” Shane murmurs, anxiously twisting his glass and listening to the ice cubes clink. Adds, despite not knowing if it's true, “I've been meaning to call her…”

The laugh that escapes Hayden's mouth is bitter. It falls heavy in the air and Shane flinches, fingers pressing against the cold of his glass to centre himself. The dissonance in this world appears everywhere; in his home, in his skating, in the lack of his husband in his bed, and now, in the noticeable fury in Hayden's expression. It's not something Shane's seen before and he can't help but hate it on sight. 

“Right,” Hayden scoffs. His lips twist into something between a scowl and disbelieving smile. 

“I have…” Shane says, hopeful.

“Really?” Hayden questions, and then takes a furious sip of his drink, placing it back on the table with a thud. “Because it's not fun to only see you on the ice. And have to explain to my kids why they never see you— they ask, you know. About their Uncle Shane.”

Shane sinks in his seat, slouching uneasily on behalf of this other-Shane, whose somehow managed to anger the most affable and easy going person in Shane's entire life. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs, perhaps pointlessly. “How are they?”

“Fine,” Hayden echoes, staring somewhere into the distance above Shane's left shoulder. He sighs, something long and exhausted, and rubs his hand against his temple. “Amber and Arthur are great, still sweet, just want to play all the time. Ruby's doing okay. Better now that Jade's cancer is in remission—”

“What?” Shane stares at his friend, eyes wide and disbelieving. Something sharp slithers down his spine as he thinks of that little girl, seven years old in her pink princess dress and officiating his first wedding, her gleeful expression as she watches him attempt to slide a child-sized ring onto Ilya's pinkie, over painted nails. Shane has pinpricks in his eyes as he swallows, and, unable to help himself, repeats to Hayden's confused face, “Jade's what?”

Hayden's brow furrows, lips slanting downwards. “She was sick. You know this, Shane. Or you should.”

“Yeah— of course,” Shane gets out, catching himself. His heart is pounding; he feels fundamentally unmoored. “I just meant... Remission. That's good, yes?”

Again, Hayden just looks frustrated. “You know, Shane,” he says, voice laced with a thick undercurrent of anger. “I know you don't give a shit about anything but hockey now a days, but honestly, my kid? Wow. Really?”

“Hayd,” Shane protests. “No. I was just—”

“Stop,” Hayden breaks in, and Shane’s mouth snaps shut. 

By now a few of the adjacent tables are staring at them and Shane wants desperately to disappear into the ground. He wants to sink into cold water and wake up from whatever nightmare this is.

“This is…” Hayden trails off momentarily, standing up and digging out his wallet. Hayden’s gaze bores into him. “Where the fuck did you go? I miss my friend. I know something fucked you up. Lily”— he says the name like a curse, something wicked falling onto the table, at the same time Hayden tosses down a couple of twenties—“fucked you up. But, you've had time. Years. You need to get your shit together. Fuck man, I hate this you.”

“Hayd…” Shane tries, but he's anchored to the spot and can't get these limbs to move as Hayden walks out the speakeasy's door. 

*

Shane drags himself back to his house in a daze, feeling disorientated and horribly trapped, drowning in a life that isn't of his own making. 

“You fucking asshole,” he tells the face in the mirror as he splashes water on his cheeks, colours that spiral down the drain out of the corner of his eyes blinked away in his exhaustion, as he resigns himself to another restless sleep here. 

*

In Between

“Love.”

The word is directionless, but Shane shifts regardless, searching.

“I miss you,” a voice whispers, suddenly close to Shane’s face, the words ghosting across his skin. “I need you to open your eyes for me, OK? I need you to get better.” There’s a crack, ice breaking into pieces. “I need you to come back to me, OK? I need you…”

The words repeat, a soft rhythm and Shane leans into it, drifting alongside until both of them fade into nothingness. 

*

Somewhere Else

April 8, Ottawa

This-Ottawa Centaurs team's first line centre gets thrown out of the face-off circle for moving early, attempting to knock Shane's stick before the puck drops, and suddenly, Luca Haas is staring at him from the other side of the dot. 

“Hey,” Shane says, giving the kid a small smile and then watching as Luca's face goes pale and complicated, before remembering that this-Luca has probably never spoken a word to Shane Hollander in his entire life. Shane ducks his head, forcing his attention back on the play.

Shane wins the face-off easily, and when he returns to the bench JJ calls at him from a few spaces over, “New tactic? Scare the rookie?” and Shane forces himself to grin down the bench, even as his stomach is rolling. 

The game ends in a blow-out, Montreal winning easily, and the Centaur’s Captain, a hulking man with a face for radio, throws a tantrum, whacking his stick across Hayden’s shoulders in the dying minutes of play. Shane still feels sick leaving the ice, glancing at the centre-ice crest, the thin layer of water on top of the ice glinting golden, and missing his real life fiercely.

*

In Between 

Everything feels heavy tonight. There’s the familiar hum too, the one he now recognizes as talking, but the tone is different today; higher energy, with sharper consonants that seem to stay longer, as well as dramatic pitches that echo around him. The pace of the words is high, and the movement of them is sharp and clicky. 

He struggles to make sense of it, most of the meaning lost. One voice sounds frustrated, the other angry, and he just makes out, “Bylat, Ilya—” 

*

Somewhere Else

April 10, New York

It's clear here that the team respects him. 

He even gets the sense that his sexuality is a bit of an open secret, and one that isn't treated as a joke either, given lack of any slights or even micro aggressions in the room. It makes him a bit wistful for what could have been, under different circumstances. But then he catches wind of other secrets and wonders his secret is exactly that: only okay because it is a secret, something the team protects, exactly the same as they keep the secret of which among them are cheating on their wives in different cities around the league. The brotherhood protects what is not explicitly said aloud, which is the only rationale for why one of the married guys quietly asks him if he wants to split a ride to go see Jay who apparently lives in the same building as Maria, and then looks shocked when Shane immediately refuses, before shrugging and muttering, “Suit yourself”, and piling into a cab. 

“Jay,” Shane mutters to himself, derisively, hating the name. He immediately wants to find Hayden and ask, but Hayden's already seated on the far end of the lobby, head down and whispering, ear pressed hard to his phone.

Later, the game goes poorly. Montreal's roster is littered with injuries and their call-ups are a joke, clutching their sticks too tightly and jumping whenever Shane steps in to give them direction, like Shane's a drill sergeant rather than their teammate and mentor. The Admirals serve them a blood bath.

Shane looks for Scott Hunter on the ice, but he's no where to be found, and later, when Shane pulls up Scott's name on Google, the small, random entry on Reddit tells him Scott faded into retirement with a whimper, not a bang, the season before. 

*

In Between

“Sir.”

A small tremor jostles whatever is anchoring him. 

“Chto?” The voice's panic is a full wave sending Shane sailing and he starts to float, aimlessly. The voice is immediately anxious. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No, sir. I just need to access this area…”

“Oh.” The anchor breaks out of the bottom of the seabed. “But everything... Nothing is wrong?”

“Your husband is fine,” the softer voice murmurs, the words sliding over Shane's skin, gentle, but unfamiliar. “Why don't you get yourself some coffee while I take care of him?”

Something steady presses against Shane's body; a solid grip wrapping around his foot. “Net... No... I stay…”

*

Somewhere Else

April 12, Washington

Shane wakes up cold. He notices it more and more, as the second week of his time in this place opens and then drags to a close, how cold he is. How his skin feels like ice to the touch, as well as damp, beads of sweat clinging to the surface. How his breath upon waking feels strained, his voice rough and his first words feel like metal scraping down his throat. Mentally, he awakes in a fog, with his last memories feeling fragmented like they’re suspended between here and somewhere else.

He dreams of Ilya. 

It’s too lonely here and Shane’s starting to feel like he’s trapped. His thoughts spiral as he moves around the hotel room preparing for their afternoon game against Washington— what if he is stuck here? What if he can never get back? What if he has to stay here, in a world where his most important people, aren’t even his people? 

He sits on the bed cradling his phone in his hands. He has no Ilya here. He’s on the receiving end of thousand yard stares from Hayden. JJ is here, but he’s different, married but also one of the men who has a fling waiting for him elsewhere, on the other side of the country, apparently nearby the rink in Vancouver. He hasn’t had the guts to reach out to his parents here, responding vaguely to text messages but unable to hit the call button, too afraid to find out what that relationship looks like. 

Shane sighs and scrolls through his phone to the contact for the one person he hasn’t reached out to yet, for fear of what kind of terms they’re on. He’s seen a lot of photos and even blogs dedicated to their romance, so he knows their history still exists here, thanks to various shots of the red-headed actress at his games with his name across her shoulders. 

The phone rings five times, before Rose’s voice comes over the line: “What do you want?”

Shane blinks, startled at the abruptness, and his heart instantly sinks. “Um—”

“Nope, not good enough,” Rose snaps, and then the line goes dead.

“Fuck,” Shane concludes, flopping back on the bed to stare at the ceiling and continue hating this-him with every fibre of his body.

*

In Between

“Honey,” a voice murmurs and even though he doesn't think it's meant for him, Shane startles, instantly searching for the voice. “Honey, I brought you food. And clothes.”

The responding sound wraps Shane gently, smooth waves over his skin. “Oh. I'm not really hungry…”

There's a thud near him and something glides past him, removing a weight off his skin and pressing something warm into that weight. Shane can feel the heat momentarily, before it wanes and everything is cool again. 

“Hi, baby,” the softer voice murmurs, pausing slightly to press something soft against Shane's skin, brushing across his cheek. Then, there's movement near his feet, something sharp cutting through water. The voice is monotoned as it recites a bunch of jargon, before the voices goes, “Sounds like everything's the same… That’s good… maybe…” and it seems like it’s seeking reassurance.

There’s a few beats where Shane floats in silence, then finally something shakes and the other voice goes, “What?” A pause, where everything is still. “Sorry, I didn't understand what you said…” The response is thick, consonants lost to deep blue. “English is harder lately…”

There's a sigh which ripples around him. He gets jostled slightly, something picking up and stealing the anchor that holds him. “Honey. It's because you're tired. You need to go—”

“Don’t,” the other voice interrupts, thickly. “I am fine.”

*

Somewhere Else

April 15, Montreal 

Back in Montreal post a four game road trip—featuring one win and three road losses to New York, Washington and to fucking Buffalo, of all teams—Shane gets a few days in Montreal where he’s forced to truly settle into this-Shane’s life, as he waits for the season to limp to a close.

He can’t settle though. He refuses. 

Instead, Shane paces. Carves a hole in the floor of his house as he paces back and forth in front of the timeline he’s taped back on his wall, having added the bits and pieces he’s discovered over the past week and a half of being trapped here. He adds the information about Hunter’s retirement, about his friendship with Hayden, pen quivering as he scrawls these details down, and, after more research, about where he’s friendship with Rose seems to have been derailed, as well as other small incongruences that have piled up. 

The more he stares at it, the more determined he is that he can not stay here. He misses Ilya like limb, like part of his heart has been carved out and thrown away, but there’s so many other ways that this life is just less and he needs to fix it. 

For him, and for this other Shane. 

And for Ilya. Because no matter how many photos Shane finds of Ilya and Svetlana—all of which, outside of their wedding photos, are taken around the league or in European vacation destinations, and rarely in Russia—he just can’t bring himself to believe that Ilya is truly happy like this. That this is a life he wants for himself. That there could be anyone else that is meant for Ilya, and despite everything Ilya said to him here, at his house, in time, he doesn’t believe him. 

There has to be a them. 

There has to be. 

Shane will make there be a them, if it kills him.  

He just doesn’t know how to fix all of this. Or how to get back. And honestly, he thinks he needs help, because looking around his silent, mausoleum of a house, he feels more alone than he has in years. He just doesn’t know where to turn to: Ilya barely knows him, Hayden hates him, JJ is a completely different person, and Rose…  Well, he weighs the decision for a long time, but ultimately spends his day calling Rose on the hour, every hour.

“Rose!” Shane breaks in quickly, the second time she picks up, after three unsuccessful calls. “Please don’t hang up. Listen to me. Something crazy is happening—”

She hangs up and Shane calls back immediately, frustratingly being diverted to her voicemail, and settling for leaving a plea, “Rose, please call me back. Look, I know we apparently haven’t spoken in ages, but I need to talk to you, I can explain…”

He leaves a new message an hour later: “Rose. I am sorry for whatever he— I, me— it’s complicated. Call me. I’ll explain.”

And another one the next hour, and the next, and the next.

Four hours later, he calls and the voicemail box responds with a tinny ‘this mailbox is full’. Shane curses, nearly throws his phone at the wall, but reluctantly pulls himself together and reluctantly gathers his stuff and heads to his game. 

*

His phone rings as he gets to the rink and he jumps to answer it, depositing himself in an empty corner. “Rose—”

“Rose?” a man’s voice chuckles. “Thought you and Rose Landry weren’t friends anymore, given how bitchy she’s been about some things you do.”

Shane frowns, pulling the phone away from his ear and checking the caller-ID, the tilt of his mouth deepening when he sees the initials T.L. on the screen.

“Shane?” The man’s voice rings out and Shane reluctantly puts the phone back to his ear. “So, end of season, you’re obviously not making playoffs,” the stranger huffs out a small laugh, which makes Shane bristle, even though he’s never been so desperate for a hockey season to end. “Are you coming over after? It’s been weeks.”

“Uh.” Shane shakes his head, even though the other person can’t see it. His stomach rolls. “No.” 

“No?” the guy—Todd, Shane remembers, finally— actually has the gall to sound surprised. “Seriously, Hollander?”

Hollander. It’s shocking how much that hurts, given he plays a sport where he’s frequently reduced to just the letters on his sweater, but his last name in another man’s mouth said like that threatens to break him. It’s only with a deep breath and his fingers pressed steadily against his pulse point that he’s able to muster up any words at all.

“Seriously,” Shane manages to get out. He looks at the floor, leans his head against the cool concrete of the basement. “I’m— There’s someone else,” he explains, despite not knowing if he owes this man one. Then chokes out a very-Canadian please-don’t-make-it-more-awkward-for-me-than-needed, “Yeah, sorry.”

Todd scoffs. “You’ll change your mind,” he retorts, and then hangs up. 

Shane stays there for a long few minutes just breathing, and closing his eyes and thinking of Ilya. Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring, Shane reminds himself, picturing the man, his voice, his everything; Hollander, they are stunning; On your knees, Hollander; Hollander, I want to fuck you; was that goal for me, Hollander?; Hollander, ya lyublyu tebya.

Hollander, Hollander, Hollander.

Shane's heart clenches, and he can't help but wonder how many times his heart has broken here, if this-Shane even has any of those words. 

Shane flips to Rose’s contact again, flips to their text messages and writes out:

I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m not the same Shane you know. I’m from… somewhere else? Another reality? I’m not sure. But I’m stuck here, I don’t know how I got here—  and nothing is the same as how I know it. But where I am from we’re friends. Best friends. And I don’t know what I would do without you, and now… I need your help here.

*

The second the buzzer goes on the Voyageurs final game, Shane’s finished. He packs up his locker immediately, makes excuses to get himself out of break-up day and press obligations the following day, and makes his way home. 

His phone stays silent.

*

In Between

For a long time, Shane just drifts. He’s comfortable and very still, like an anchor is keeping him steady as he drifts, holding him in place. There doesn’t seem to be a current tonight.

It feels like that for a long time, everything calm and placid, but, finally, a hushed voice breaks the surface, “Has he been here all night again?”

“Yes, ma’am,” a completely unfamiliar tone says, softly. 

There’s a ripple. A sigh. Something jostles at his anchor, murmuring, “Honey, you need to go home and sleep.”

The responding noise is a harsh, guttural, “Net.”

“Honey, he wouldn’t want you sitting here all night and all day,” the first voice says, softer still, “You need to sleep. To eat. To see sunlight. You need to take care of yourself too.”

“I’m fine,” the other voice retorts, and even from down here Shane knows it’s lying. 

“At least eat something, okay? Please.”

*

Somewhere Else

April 16, Montreal

The afternoon after the season ends, and two weeks into being stranded in this place, Shane rings the doorbell to the Pike's house and waits, heart in his throat, for someone to answer the door.

It takes several, long minutes for anyone to do so.

“Oh. Hi, Shane,” Jacki says when she appears at the door, opening it halfway and leaning towards it, clutching it against her body. 

“Hi, Jacki,” Shane murmurs, shielding his chest with a bag of groceries. 

She gives him a small smile. She looks exhausted, stains on the leg of one of her sweatpants and her hair tied into a messy bun. Her face is bare, and the shadows under her eyes are darker than he's ever seen them. “Is Hayden expecting you? He didn't say…”

“Oh— um, no,” Shane stammers. “He's not.”

“Oh,” Jacki says. Her fingers tighten on the door. She hasn't opened it any further. 

“I just…” Shane starts, adjusting the bag in his hand so he can run an anxious hand through his hair. “I brought stuff the kids like,” he explains, holding out the bag like a peace offering. “I thought maybe... I could make dinner and take the kids. And maybe Hayden and you could... have a break…”

He pauses there, looks anxiously at the woman in front of him. Someone who is one of his best friends, and yet, she too is looking at him weirdly, like she isn't sure whether she can trust him; as if the words coming out of his mouth are too unexpected to be said by the person he is here. 

“Jacki,” Shane starts, not even trying to hide the plea that it is, because if there’s truly is no way out of this place, he can't be stuck here without the Pikes. 

Jacki inhales deeply, then opens her mouth to say something, but doesn't quite get the words out before someone from inside calls, “Jacki! Who the he— who is it?” and then footsteps are coming towards the door and Jacki sighs, gives Shane a worried look, and then slowly pulls the door open wider to reveal Hayden, holding Amber in his arms. 

“Oh. It’s you,” Hayden says, flatly, media-scrum-after-a-bad-game flat. 

“Hey, Hayd,” Shane murmurs, shifting the bag of groceries to one hand and raising the other, pathetically, in a small wave. Jacki's gaze flits between the two of them.

“What are you doing—” Hayden starts to ask, but then there's the patter of tiny feet and a screech of “Uncle Shane!” and Shane is quickly bending to put his groceries to the side so he can brace himself for an armful of two little girls. 

“Hi Jade. Hi Ruby,” Shane murmurs into their shoulders.

*

Skepticism never wavers from Hayden's face, but in the end, Shane manages to convince him that he has good intentions, and after a few murmured words in Hayden’s ear by Jacki, the two of them shower, change, and leave Shane with their kids. 

“Can we play?” Jade asks, curling short locks around one finger and looking up at him with big eyes.

“Yeah,” Shane says, nodding, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He’s still got a grasp on her hand, feels unbearably unwilling to let go. “Whatever you want.”

*

The kids are in bed, after about a dozen bed time stories because Shane can never find it within himself to say no in his time, let alone in this one, and Shane's in the kitchen cleaning, when Hayden and Jacki return. Shane can hear them murmuring in the foyer of the house and he continues scrubbing, trying not to eavesdrop, hearing only the tail end of whatever they're saying as Jacki excuses herself upstairs to check on the kids.

Hayden wanders into the kitchen as Jacki heads upstairs and for a moment Hayden just stands there, hands in his pockets as he watches Shane put the final dishes away. 

“You don't have to do that,” Hayden says, finally. “Cara will be by in the morning. She’ll”— he waves a hand around, then places two fingers to his forehead and sighs, exhausted—“clean up, everything.” 

“It's fine,” Shane replies. He stretches to tip a colander into the top shelf. “I don't mind.”

Shane can feel Hayden studying him. In his peripheral vision he can see a frown on Hayden’s face like he's trying to put his finger on something. Shane lets him stare, as he maneuvers around the kitchen putting dishes away, giving thanks that Jacki's kitchen organization seems to be consistent across timelines.

Finally, he looks at Hayden, and, itching to breath the uneasy silence, asks, “What did you guys end up doing?”

“Movie,” Hayden replies.

“Oh. How was it?”

“We both fell asleep,” Hayden tells him, with a small shrug.

Shane gives him a tentative smile, small and unsure. “It's insane that you managed to play hockey all year, Hayd…”

Again, a shrug. “It's my job.”

Shane leans against the counter, stares at the floor, where there's a crack running through one of the kitchen tiles. “One that takes you away from your family…” he points out needlessly and, from the way Hayden barks out a short laugh and turns away from him, something he shouldn't have said at all.

“Well, it was made pretty clear if I took any more personal time away, I wouldn't be seeing another contract here. And I can’t exactly uproot everybody right now, so I can’t risk getting traded.” Hayden straightens a photo on the fridge. In it, the six of them smile and Hayden's fingertips linger.

“That's not right…” Shane murmurs.

Hayden turns slowly from the fridge, leaning against the counter again, and grasping the edge of a lower cabinet with both hands. “You say this like it's new information to you.” Hayden looks at him steadily. “Like you weren't there for the last two years, watching all of this happen.”

“I—” Shane starts. 

Hayden waves a hand at him, dismissive. “Yeah, I know, you've said: ‘it's not like I have control over those decisions’,” Hayden mimics, in a voice that Shane thinks is supposed to approximate his own, or at least this-Shane’s. 

It leaves a lump in Shane's throat. For a minute, he considers telling Hayden the whole truth: It's because it is new information. I didn’t watch it happen. I’m not the same Shane... I’m from somewhere else, where we are still friends and I’m not this selfish, and where I’m married to Ilya Rozanov, and maybe we're not teammates anymore, but we're still friends. See, I’m stuck here, but this isn’t my life and I hate the way that the other-Shane fucked everything up… But I’m going to fix it, I swear.

The words are stuck though, and when Jacki comes back into the kitchen and Hayden hands her some sort of pre-made juice out of the fridge and lets her tuck herself into him, Shane decides then and there that he can't. He can't burden this-Hayden. Not with this. 

Jacki lifts her face from Hayden's shoulder, who peers at Shane over her head, lips buried in her hair. Her eyes are still puffy, though she mostly looks relieved.

“Everyone’s down. So, I’m going to sleep…” she trails off, looking quickly at Shane and then back at Hayden, something private passing between them. 

“If anybody even squeaks, I have it covered,” Hayden promises her, squeezing Jacki's hip before she presses a monitor into his hand and then starts to depart, pausing only briefly to smile again at Shane.

“Thank you,” Jacki tells him, giving him a small smile. “It's good to see you.”

Shane smiles back, murmurs softly and honestly, “You too, Jacki.”

Both men watch her leave, after which Hayden sighs and pulls open the fridge, muttering at him, “Beer?”

Shane nods, takes one gingerly from Hayden's hand and cracks it open, tilting it slightly towards his friend, before taking a sip. 

Hayden inclines his slightly, murmuring into the bottle, “Thank you. For coming over,” before taking his own sip, swallowing, and adding, “Don't think this makes up for you being a dick for three years though.”

“I don’t,” Shane says, quickly. “And for what it's worth, I'm sorry, Hayden. I'm going to fix all of this…” He gestures aimlessly, meaning more than just him and the Pikes, but everything, this-Shane’s whole goddamn life. 

“I just want you to be happy again, man,” Hayden says, softly, shifting the beer from hand to hand. “I wish you'd just tell me what happened. Why you started hiding from everything, except the game.”

It's hard to answer, exactly, because Shane doesn't really know. All he has is a roughly scrawled out timeline and theories; he’s starting to see where everything went wrong, but he's not sure he'll ever know the ache that this-Shane experiences, or feel the cracks that are on his heart. It seems unknowable, something that is uniquely the other-Shane's.

And yet… after this long here, he starting to feel it too, the aches and cracks and profound emptiness, where something bigger and better should be.

“I loved him,” Shane offers and Hayden’s eyes snap up to his. “I think I was in love with him for years. Maybe my entire career, in a way,” Shane continues, softly, and as honestly as he can. Half the truth, but the only truth he can release here, in this kitchen. “And something went wrong, or broke, or something... I'm not sure. And then he got married.”

“Oh,” Hayden murmurs, “Shane, I—”

“It’s Ilya,” Shane interjects, before he can lose his nerve, or think better of this. “Ilya Rozanov.”

Hayden's eyes grow wide. His throat constricts, Shane watches him swallow down the truth; watching as the wheels spin behind his eyes as Hayden does the math, reads the history, remembers the news. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Shane gives Hayden a small smile, a tiny tilt of his lips, and Hayden returns it. Shane takes a sip of his beer, then lets the bottle hang loosely from two fingers at his side. “Oh.”

*

Shane sits in his car in his driveway outside his own house, his heart constricted and laying in the base of his throat, when he dials Rose again. It doesn’t go through and he’s sent straight to voicemail. 

“Rose,” Shane sighs into the phone, ducking his head and staring at the pedals of the car 

This can't be his life. He can't be stuck here, but if he is stuck here, he needs to fix things. He needs his life back, at least parts of it. He needs Ilya. He misses him, like someone has sliced into him and scraped out all the important things, sealing them with mud. 

“I need help,” Shane continues. “Your help. It’s a lot to explain, and I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not lying— This isn’t really my life. I need your help. Please…”

He trails off pathetically, and then hangs up. He tilts his head back against the headrest and sighs, deep and resigned, then lifts his palms and phone and presses them against his face, hard, trying to hold back the water in his eyes, all the emotions that have bubbled up durning his time here that have now surged to the surface. He lets out something approximating a gasp, and swipes his empty hand across his mouth, trying to hold back any further sounds.

His phone vibrates against his nose, startling him, and Shane almost drops the phone between the seat and the centre console as he stumbles to open it. When he does, his heart skips a beat.

Rose Landry       you want my help? beg for it.

A second message quickly follows, containing only an address in New Mexico. 

Shane stares down at his phone, feeling a flicker of hope jolt through him for the first time in over a week. He can’t help but let out a long exhale and finally allow the prickles in his eyes to drip down his face. He finds himself half-laughing, half-crying with sheer relief.

He opens his phone’s browser, and wastes no time in buying the first flight he can find.

*

In Between

“Son,” a low voice murmurs, “You need to go home.”

Shane sways, as something draws back from him. The responding voice sends slow ripples out, an exhausted, “I can’t…”

“It's been two weeks,” the first voice continues, “You can't keep sleeping here. You need to go home. Shower. Sleep in a bed, not a chair—”

“I don't want to leave him,” the second voice, the usually melodious, anchoring one. The one Shane wants desperately to touch. “I can't leave him alone here. What if he wakes up and I'm not there?”

“Someone will be here, okay? We'll take turns,” the first voice is ever so gentle. “I promise.”

“I can’t…” An anchor, except now it sounds like it's going to snap in two.

“Son, I understand.” The tone of the voice shifts, becoming heavier; the waves get a little rockier for a moment: “But I'm not asking.”

“I…" A wave of protest starts, but then a cloud breaks and then all Shane can hear is rain and gasping for breath.

“Son…” There's movement, and the rain gets quieter, muffled in something solid. “I know... I know,” the steadier voice murmurs, over and over again. 

Shane just listens, and drifts, and aches.

After awhile, the steadier voice says, reassuring as it can be, “I know how much you love him. You don't need to sit here all day and night to prove that. No one, not even Shane, wants that.” Another tone shift, back to even waters. “Let me drive you home.”

The responding tones are broken, heavy. “I don't want to go there…”

“Okay, our place then. Let me take you to our place.”

Shane drifts a bit further, as whatever was holding onto him is guided away. He feels like maybe he should panic, but instead he just feels relief, as he quietly gets rocked back to sleep, deep in the waves. 

*

Chapter End Notes

Kudos & comments mean the world to me, truly. Thank you so much for the amazing response to chapter one.

 

---

Mentioned NHL Individual Trophy Breakdown (for those who care)

- Art Ross = Player with most points in regular season
- Calder = most outstanding rookie (Shane canonically wins this, and still does in the AU)
- Conn Smythe = Most valuable player in the playoffs
- Hart = most valuable player to his team
- King Clancy = player who best exemplifies leadership qualities on and off the ice and has made a noteworthy humanitarian contribution in his community (I just think it's funny to imagine AU-Shane as so off the rails he doesn't get considered for these anymore, also no camps, so less community involvement).
- Rocket Richard = top goal scorer in regular season
- Selke = awarded to the forward who best excels in defensive mechanics of game (I just truly believe that Shane and Ilya are too offensively minded to ever really be considered for this award, so I thought it would be fun for Shane to find that frustrating).

---

Additional Spoilers For Chapter For Those Who Need Them [CLICK AT OWN RISK]

- AU Shane, due to some canon-divergence, has gone off the rails a little. All top athletes are a little bit selfish, and well AU-Shane doubled down on that. We might not always like AU-Shane.
- Implied references to AU-Shane/Others, AU-Shane has not been a nun since AU-Ilya got married.
- Discussion of childhood cancer, now in remission (Jade Pike).
- Minor references to NHL players cheating on their wives (not Hayden).

Chapter 3: and i was staring at a screen

Chapter Summary

“This is completely bonkers, you know,” Rose surmises, after a few more minutes of staring at the timeline of differences, bringing more popcorn to her mouth. The next part comes out garbled as she chews: “Bananas.”

“Which part?” Shane says, dryly.

Rose hums thoughtfully, then shrugs. “Mostly the Ottawa thing. I mean, god, two young, hot, gay men having to suffer and live in Ottawa.”

Chapter Notes

hello. i am back from the land of writer's block. rumours of me leaving the fandom have been greatly exaggerated; a combo of things have kept me away, but they're likely not worth lamenting on. anyway, thanks for your patience, dear reader, if you are still here. thank you all for your comments and also the reddit thread mentioning this fic, being like "i hope they're okay!" i very much appreciate it.

 

a few things to keep in mind. First, Kip and Scott are their BOOK ages, not their TV ages (this makes Kip the same age as Shane/Ilya, and Scott only a few years older). if you think TV ages, this doesn't make sense. second, i wrote the Ottawa jokes below before Tkachuk was traded away, but the joke amuses me so i never rewrote it. third, i've never read any other Game Changers books aside from HR and TLG, so any mischaracterizations are because i got tired of looking stuff up and just posted this rather than reading a book for the sake of a 10K chapter. embrace it!

III. and i was staring at a screen 

I have a new plan; to go mad. 

—Fyodor Dostoevsky

The multiverse exists because every choice we make creates a fork in the road, which leads into a parallel world.

— Blake Crouch, Dark Matter

Somewhere Else

April 17, New Mexico Desert

Rose Landry reads the sign on the trailer in front of him. He'd bought his way onto set, flashing a smile at the attractive PA that guarded the entrance, along several hundred dollars in bills. It was a ploy that would make his-Ilya proud; he'd grin fantastically and tease Shane for throwing his money—and good looks—around, oddly proud with an exaggerated wink, words teasing in a ‘finally you do something not boring, Hollander’-kind of way. 

Shane's slightly embarrassed about the whole of it. But Rose had given him no other choice. Just an address in the desert and a note saying: you're not on any list, so good luck! 

This is for the greater good. He needs help, he keeps reminding himself, every time he needs to explain his presence to another PA or stage-hand by slipping them another bill.

That's why he's ended up here, less than forty-eight hours after the season ended: sweating in the hot New Mexico sun, with sand seeping into his shoes, and staring at Rose's trailer, on the set of whatever godforsaken movie she's filming now. 

The sun reflects off the trailer's scratched up metal and Shane adjusts the sunglasses on his face to avoid the glare, shoulders his bag more securely, then takes a breath and knocks on the door.  

“Yes?” comes Rose's voice a moment later. 

“It’s me. Open up,” he calls.

“Who?”

Shane pauses, foot already on the bottom of step. He retreats, momentarily baffled, then responds slowly, “It’s Shane.” Then, when there’s no immediate reaction behind the door, adds his surname, “Hollander.”

“Oh,” Rose’s disembodied voice intones. The door does not budge. “You got on to set, I see.” 

Shane scuffs a shoe through the dirt. “Yep, thanks for your help with that. Now let me in.”

“Password?” is the next question.

“Rose,” he sighs. 

“Password!” she calls through the door, a bit more forcefully.

“Seriously Rose?” he calls back, a flicker of irritation racing through him. He knows what she wants as she'd texted him explicit instructions earlier, but he doesn’t actually want to say it. He barely restrains himself from stomping his foot. 

The trailer squeaks with movement, and then her voice is closer to the door, when she continues: “You either know the password, or you don't and can go away.”

Shane pushes the sunglasses more firmly against his face and sighs. “Rose, open the door and let me in, and then I'll say it.”

“No.”

Shane presses two fingers to his forehead. Then, he leans towards the door and mumbles, “Ipreferbeingthehole.”

“I can't hear you,” she says, sing-song-like. 

Shane sighs again. He looks quickly side to side and, seeing no one, raises his eyes to the bright blue sky, and, essentially shouts: “I prefer being the hole!”

Almost immediately, the door swings open, revealing Rose, standing there in a gingham ankle-length cotton skirt and white puff-sleeve blouse, waist winched with a wide belt and tapping one brown leather cowboy boot on the floor. She flicks her red curls behind her and grins down at him. 

“Well, well, well,” Rose says, in fake-country western drawl. “You really are desperate if you're roaming around these parts.”

“Rose,” Shane growls, climbing up the two steps to the trailer and bullying his way in. She takes a step back to accommodate him. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” Rose replies, pulling the door shut behind him. “You’ve been a dick.”

Shane pulls the sunglasses off his face and drops his bag carefully on floor. “That wasn't me.”

“So you keep saying,” Rose says, flouncing down onto one of the benches lining the trailer and crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes lock onto his. “But… my Shane would never shout that.”

“So, you believe me?” Shane asks, some desperation creeping into his voice.

Rose drags her eyes over him slowly.  Assessing. 

“Sit,” she commands, pointing to the bench opposite. The slight point of the cowboy boot swings aggressively in his direction. “Explain.”

*

“It sounds insane,” Rose says, her hand halfway to her mouth, fist full of popcorn, having got up to make herself a bowl at some point during Shane's rundown of his full timeline, which is now unpacked from his bag and taped to the windows of her trailer. She looks at him curiously as she bites down in a half-popped kernel, the crack loud in the silence of the trailer as Shane waits. “Like absolute mad,” she adds, mouth half-full. 

“I know,” Shane agrees, voice hoarse from the last forty-five minutes of explanation. He sits down with a huff, shoving one of Rose’s cowboy boots, long discarded in favour of her propping her bare feet up on the small table, to the side. “But it's true.”

Rose makes a thoughtful noise and casually holds the bowl out to him, her eyes still on his timeline. Shane reaches in, popping a single kernel into his mouth.

“Rose, I need someone to believe me,” he pleads. “I need to get back. I need your help.”

“When was the last time you saw me? In your reality,” Rose asks, letting the popcorn bowl balance in her lap as she raises her fingers and makes quotation marks around the last word. 

Shane sighs. “Yes, my reality. I saw you…” he trails off, thinking. “I guess at my wedding? It's been a bit.”

Rose's eyes widen. “You're married?”

“Yes! Rose, were you not listening?”

“To who?” Rose interrupts.

“To Ilya!” Shane answers, frustrated. 

“Rozanov?”

“Yes,” Shane restates, with emphasis. He wants to scream.

“Like the Boston Bears Captain? That Ilya Rozanov,” Rose clarifies, one hand clutching the trailer bench and the other buried in her popcorn bowl. 

“Is there another Ilya Rozanov in this reality?” Shane retorts, sarcastically, and when Rose shakes her head, continues: “Yeah— kinda? In my reality he's Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs—”

“But the Cens are horrible,” Rose states, mouth dropping open a little. 

Shane groans. “Rose—”

“They’re so bad,” Rose repeats, then adds: “And their Captain’s not Rozanov, it's this other guy. He’s an absolute troll.”

“Rose,” Shane repeats, impatiently. “They're— We're not that bad—”

“You play there too?” Rose exclaims, eyes now comically wide.

“Yes,” Shane says, with almost a growl to his voice. “I signed last summer—”

“But why?” Rose cries. The popcorn starts to slip from her lap as she pulls her feet off the table, and she barely catches the bowl, depositing it on the bench next to her. “The Voyageurs are a dynasty and you look so good in blue—”

“Rose!” Shane bemoans. “There were”—he waves a hand in a circle, aimlessly—“circumstances. But yes: I play for the Ottawa Centaurs alongside my husband Ilya Rozanov.”

“What about Todd?” Rose asks, suddenly. “Or Jay. Or Steven.” She pauses, rolls her eyes and scoffs, gently, under her breath. “Or Walter.”

“Walter?” Shane repeats incredulously, jaw dropping a bit. He’s almost offended by his other self. “Seriously?”

Rose waves a hand, perfectly manicured fingers swirling in the air. “His name isn’t actually Walter. I think it’s Will, or something, but he’s insufferable. Like a Walter would be.”

“Oh my god,” Shane murmurs, sinking in his seat.

“You have terrible taste in men,” Rose informs him, then casually tosses more popcorn into her mouth. 

“Again, it’s not me,” Shane says, gesturing enthusiastically at his timeline on the window. Rose arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, and Shane digs into his pocket for his phone. He types in his web browser and then picks a photo of Ilya at random, pausing only briefly to stare as he tracks how low Ilya's pants in the photograph are riding, hinting at the beginnings of that treasure trail he’s so intimately familiar with, before finally holding the phone out for Rose to see. He taps the corner of his phone empathetically. “See? I have excellent taste in men.”

“I know what he looks like,” she replies, dryly, yet she leans in to peer at the photo anyway. 

“Then you understand,” Shane concludes, sparing the photo one last glance before clicking the side button to send the phon to black and tossing it on the bench beside him.

“Hmm,” Rose hums, folding her arms across her chest, the puff-sleeves pulling slightly around her shoulders. “What about Miles?” she asks, suddenly. 

“What? Miles?”

“Yeah.” Rose nods. “My friend Miles— you know him, right?” and when Shane nods, she continues, “You guys— dated? I don’t know, might not be the exact right term— you guys fucked around for a bit after one of my parties. Late summer 2019?”

Shane shakes his head. “I know who Miles is, but no— never. Not even once.” 

Rose flips her hair over her shoulder and twists a lock around her finger. “Really?”

“Really,” Shane says, emphatically.

“Because that was a disaster. You were clearly not invested—”

“Not me,” Shane interjects.

“—And he actually liked you—”

“Not me,” Shane stresses.

“—And I told you—”

“Not me.”

“—That you needed to tread carefully—”

“Again—”

“—And he thought you were dating—”

“Rose!” Shane groans. “Not. Me.”

“And clearly he was more into you than you were into him, so it blew up spectacularly—”

“Wait, what?”

Rose frowns at him. “It blew up, spectacularly. Because he developed feelings and you were stringing him along for some reason, and I told you not to do that to my friend. And yet…” Rose brings her hands together then makes an exploding motion and murmurs boom.

Shane stares at her. “Shit.”

“We got into a fight about it,” Rose says, just the tiniest edge to her voice, even as she adverts her eyes from him, looking down at her hand, fingers curled over her palm, to investigate her nails. “Big one. You were a dick.” Shane opens his mouth to argue, but Rose cuts him off— “Yes, yes, not you. Allegedly.”

Shane drags a socked foot across the trailer floor, drawing a big circle with his toe. “Ilya got married that summer. In 2019.” He gestures at the timeline. “So, that was… probably... it…”

Rose looks back at him, her gaze softening ever so slightly. Shane has to look away from the weight of her scrutiny, eyes finding refuge in the blackened bottom of the trailer door, seemingly scorched from one mishap or another. He focuses on the mark, trying to wrestle down the irrational guilt he suddenly feels, as well as the intensity of the wrongness of all of this.

“So, the source of all your dickery,” Rose concludes, standing up and picking Shane’s marker up from where it lies next to him. She puts a knee on the bench, balancing on the bunched up fabric of her skirt, and reaches over, scrawling Miles + Shane was a classic hockey-bro under the line, where it reads THIS TIME in Shane’s block-letters. 

“Have we…” Shane twists on the bench, rubs an hand awkwardly over the back of his neck. “Talked since then?”

“Not really,” Rose says, still studying the timeline. “It was a big fight. You made it pretty clear you didn’t want my input on much, particularly not your stupid, horrible, no-good, very bad sex decisions.”

“Ah,” Shane murmurs.

“Plus, you hurt my friend,” Rose adds, still not looking at him. 

“I’m sorry…” Shane tries, uselessly, apologizing for the actions of another man. 

Rose ignores his apologies. She keeps studying his timeline for several long minutes, before finally, going: “So, Rozanov?” and when Shane nods, she chews on her lip thoughtfully. “I can see it. There was the Tampa All Star game where you guys had ridiculous chemistry. I came to stay with you that summer and teased relentlessly you about it.”

“Oh,” Shane intones.

“We ended up fighting and I left,” Rose adds, a bit sadly. “Kinda makes sense now.”

Shane wrings his hands in his lap. “Rose…” 

“Did that happen… to you?” Rose asks, and her voice catches a little.

“No,” Shane murmurs, reaching for her hand, the one not holding the pen, and catching her fingers in his. “None of that did.”

“Oh.” Rose presses the pen into her hip. Her hand is limp in his, but she doesn't pull away. “So, we never fought.” There’s a pause, as she draws her lip into her mouth and rakes her teeth over it. Exhales, “Are we still friends… there?”

“Yeah,” Shane tells her. He squeezes her fingers. “We are.”

Rose nods, then reaches up and scrawls in the summer 2017 timeframe First of BIG FIGHTS with Rose. Shane stares at the new text, stomach swirling with irrational guilt over actions he, himself, never took. 

Rose backs away from the window, pulls loose of his hand and retreats to other bench, dropping back into a seated position. She pulls her legs underneath her and reaching for her popcorn bowl again. 

The silence stretches between them. Shane shifts uncomfortably from his seat on the bench, but he waits, as long as he needs to, as Rose’s eyes wander back and forth along his timeline.

“This is completely bonkers, you know,” Rose surmises, after a few more minutes of staring at the timeline of differences, bringing more popcorn to her mouth. The next part comes out garbled as she chews: “Bananas.”

“Which part?” Shane says, dryly. 

Rose hums thoughtfully, then shrugs. “Mostly the Ottawa thing. I mean, god, two young, hot, gay men having to suffer and live in Ottawa.”

Bizarrely, Shane laughs, sinking a bit in his seat from sheer relief. “So, do you believe me?”

Again, Rose pauses, humming thoughtfully as she sucks on another popcorn kernel, before finally nodding. “Honestly, it's too crazy to make up.” 

“Thank fucking god,” Shane swears. For the first time since landing here, Shane feels the tiniest bit hopeful. She holds the popcorn bowl out to him again and this time, he takes an entire handful.  “You know I'm from Ottawa, right?” he asks her. 

Rose shrugs. “Doesn't make it any less tragic.”

Again, Shane laughs. And keeps laughing, wiping a hand across his face to brush away tears that have escaped from a combination of pure exhaustion, relief and, begrudgingly, amusement. Rose smiles at him, the first genuine one he’s seen on her face since he arrived.

“So, what's the plan?” Rose asks, a little while later, the bowl discarded to the side, and both of them having laid down on their respective benches of the trailer, staring at each other across the aisle.

“Fuck, I have no idea.”

*

In Between

“Hey buddy," a familiar cadence says. “Just me today… Kids wanted to come too, but…  well, they don’t really understand… so, Jacki’s at home with them. They sent drawings though.” The voice pauses and Shane can hear something shifting, crinkling. “I think it’s some sort of horse? They tried for a centaur, but, well, you know…” 

There’s a long pause, and the voice seems to step away for a moment. Shane can feel his surroundings shifting, little movements giving way to ripples.

The voice comes back softer. 

“Miss you, buddy. I hate seeing you like this. Fuck. You have to be okay, okay? I need you back. I—” Everything shifts around Shane and he can feel something rough resting against his skin, engulfing his hand. “You probably know, but in case you don’t… he’s a wreck. If I didn’t already know he loved you, there’d be no doubt in my mind now. But don’t worry, Jacki, Svetlana… your parents… even me… we’re going to force him to take care of himself.”

The weight in his palm doesn’t leave as the voice begins a long story about two daughters and a puppy named Anya, that’s apparently keeping the twins quite occupied— “I swear Shane, we are going to have to work out some sort of custody agreement, or I'm going to have to get the kids their own dog", the voice teases, lapping at him. Shane finds himself getting lulled into it, resting in the words. It lasts for a good while until—

“Where’s Yuna?” a sharper sound cracks.

“Fuck,” the first voice says, and suddenly Shane’s skin is cold again. “You scared me.”

“Where’s Yuna?” The voice is the comforting one, yet Shane senses panic growing, tension in the next words: “I only left because she said she would be here.”

“I sent her home. She needs a break too.” Everything echoes with heavy movement and then Shane feels something brush across his forehead, pressing lightly. “You look like shit,” the first voice continues. 

The water vibrates. “Nobody asked you.” 

“Shane would.” And then there’s a loud splash as something hits the water’s surface. 

“What is this.”

“Bortsch. Pelmeni. Jacki went to Nevski for you,” the voice grumbles. “Eat.”

There’s a pause; everything feels tense, pulling across his skin, thin and elastic. There’s a slow unravelling of plastic and a soft, metallic pop. 

“This wasn’t necessary. I’m fine—”

“For fucks sake. You’re not. None of us are,” the voice pauses, as if there’s something important on the tip of the wave, but it fades without full impact, just:  “Eat the fucking soup.”

*

Somewhere Else

April 21, New York City

The New York Admirals tip off against the Boston Bears in Game 1 of the First Round of the 2022 Stanley Cup Playoffs on April 21 and the streets near Madison Square Gardens are alit with excitement. 

Shane and Rose, the latter having wrapped up her minimal scenes in a lightning fast two days, are not at the game, despite Shane itching to be there to see Ilya play, even if it would be from the stands and not the bench, or, better yet, the ice. Instead, he and Rose are a mile and a half away, standing outside The Kingfisher.

“Christ,” Shane swears under his breath, taking in the vaguely-English style pub and its disarray, one of the Is and the F burnt out in the sign announcing its presence. 

“This is it?” Rose asks, sounding slightly bewildered.

Shane nods. “I’d heard it was a dump before Scott bought it… And well…” He waves his hand absently at the facade in front of them, and mutters, “They weren’t kidding.”

“It’s rustic?” Rose offers, generously.

“Is it?”

“No,” Rose admits. She frowns down at her coat and tucks the material closer around, flicks the bottom as if there’s already dirt on it. “Are we going in anyway?”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, albeit reluctantly. Shane starts forward regardless, propelled by the force of a New Yorker shoving past him, and pushes open the door, a bell sounding as it swings open, chiming off-key. 

After several nights of deliberations with Rose, tipsy with tequila, Shane had decided to start with Kip Grady, given that he has no idea where to start looking for a retired-Scott Hunter and access to Ilya will be nearly impossible with the Bears in the playoffs. So he’s starting here, at the Kingfisher, with someone he owes something impossible to. 

"Hi," Shane says, placing two hands on the sticky bar surface and leaning his weight into them. 

“What can I get you?” asks the blonde-haired man behind the bar, who is decidedly-not-Kip.

Shane knows him though and blinks awkwardly as he stares past the glass of Kyle Swift’s glasses to meet his eyes, recognition creeping up on him entirely too slowly. “Uh.” 

Pulse thumping, he glances awkwardly down the bar towards where Kip Grady is actually standing, leaning over the bar talking to a patron. Kyle smiles knowingly, following Shane’s gaze, “I see.”

“Uh—” Shane tries, again. Stammers out half a syllable, “Ky—”

“He wants to order from that one," Rose interrupts, sliding onto the stool next to Shane and nodding down the bar at Kip. Kyle laughs, immediately charmed. 

“Coming right up,” Kyle tells them, and makes his way down the bar, whispering into Kip’s ear, who looks over for barely a second, before frowning and slowly making his way over. 

When he reaches them, Kip already has a fake customer-service-smile plastered on his face, one that twitches when he takes in Rose. “I’m sorry— are you Rose Landry?”

Rose smiles at him, confirms, “I am,” as she reaches out to touch a sticky menu. 

“In this bar?” Kip continues, eyes comically wide.

Rose laughs. “It is a bit weird, but my friend, Shane, wanted to talk to you…” she trails off, letting the menu fall back onto the bar top and looking at it from above. 

Kip’s gaze flitters over to Shane, who tries to smile non-awkwardly, and says, stupidly, “I’m, um… Shane."

"Hi... um, Shane. What can I get you?"

"Oh," Shane stumbles. He looks along the shelves behind the bar, pulling his lip between his teeth. "Um, do you have ginger ale?"

"Ginger ale?" Kip repeats, staring at him, eyebrows inching into his hairline. 

Next to him, Rose sighs. “He’ll have a cider. As will I— two of these ones?” Her fingernail hovers above the menu and Kip nods, collecting the menus and sliding a cloth over the counter in front of Rose and, as an after thought, in front of Shane too. 

“Coming right up,” Kip tells them, and then he heads off.

“Smooth,” Rose assesses, plucking a napkin from the stack in front of them and placing it down on the newly-cleaned bar top, folding her hands on top of it.

Shane glares at her. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”

“Maybe something other than ‘I’m, uh, Shane’. Doesn’t he know you?” Rose tuts.

“Maybe of me,” Shane murmurs, lowly, “I don’t know… We didn’t meet until after he was with Scott.”

Rose hums. “And the other guy?”

“Kyle Swift,” Shane mutters, keeping his head bent towards Rose and lowered. “He’s with Eric— who owns this bar with Scott, except, I guess, not here. Which makes sense because the Admirals only started coming here because Scott—”

The sound of a glass hitting the bar snaps Shane’s head up. Kip has appeared back in front of him, and places one glass down in front of Rose. A rigidness that wasn’t there before is sketched across his mouth. 

“You’re friends with Scott?” Kip asks, a little cautiously, still clutching Shane’s drink. 

“Uh,” Shane begins, helpfully, and Rose kicks him underneath the counter. He reaches for his drink. “Kinda.”

“Kinda?”

“I mean, we used to play against each other,” Shane continues. He drops his hand back down to the counter when it becomes clear that Kip isn’t going to hand him his cider. “Obviously.”

Rose finishes taking a sip of her cider, draining about one-third of it, then pipes up, “He’s also an NHL player— Shane Hollander.”

“I know that,” Kip says—at the same time Shane hisses, defensively, “He knows that,”— and then, Kip continues, “I just didn’t know you and Scott were friends.”

“We’re not really. Not… now…” Shane says, rubbing at the back of his neck and wishing Kip would set the cider down just so he would have something to occupy his hands with. “But we kinda are… It’s complicated?” Shane adds, with an inflection at the end that only serves to flatten the curve of Kip’s mouth to a straight, tight line.

Kip stares at him, finally mostly-drops the cider onto the bar, some of the golden liquid sloshing out of the top. Kip doesn’t bother to wipe it up. 

“You guys really do get knocked in the head too much,” Kip concludes before marching away to pretend to serve one of the other patrons in the sparsely attended bar. 

“Smooth,” repeats Rose, taking another sip of her drink.

*

A half an hour passes in which Kip occupies himself on the farthest side of the bar, and Rose drinks her own cider and most of Shane’s, while Shane stares Kip down and simultaneously tries not to make eye contact with Kyle.

“You have to talk to him,” Rose tells him, when there’s about a third of Shane’s beer left. “We came all this way.”

“I know,” Shane hisses. “But I didn’t really think this through—”

“Fact,” Rose interrupts, and then waves enthusiastically at Kip until he sighs and comes over. 

“Can I get you both something else?” Kip says, politely. 

“Oh no, not right now,” Rose tells him, “My friend here just has something important to tell you.”

Rose nudges him hard in the side, so hard that Shane spits out the first thing that comes to mind: “I know about you and Scott.”

Kip’s eyes widen. “He told you?”

Shane nods, feeling only slightly conflicted about the lie it is, because technically this-Scott has told Shane nothing, but the other Scott—his-Scott— has told him plenty. “Yeah, so I know—”

“Nothing,” Kip interrupts, the next words come out quieter, a protective hiss under Kip’s breath: “You know nothing. There is no Scott and I.”

“Okay, see,” Shane continues, shaking his head, “I know that—”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Kip cuts him off. He presses two fingers to his forehead, exhales, and then, under his breath, “I wasted too long on a closeted NHL-player.” Kip’s face shutters. “I have customers,” he adds, and moves down the bar to where absolutely no one is seated.

“See,” Shane calls after him, “That’s the thing, he actually came out for you.”

“Pretty publicly, apparently,” Rose adds, not quietly.

Kip ignores them. Kyle glances at them nervously, then sidles up to Kip and asks, just barely loud enough for Shane to overhear, “What are they talking about?”

Shane takes a deep breath, continues to call down the bar: “It’s really hard to explain, but see, I know that’s there’s actually no way that Scott Hunter still doesn’t care because I know that you made him—”

“He doesn’t,” Kip snaps and Kyle’s eyes widen a bit. “He doesn’t care.”

“I don’t believe that,” Shane counters, without hesitation.

“Okay,” Kip says, “Then I don’t.”

Rose tuts softly, “Oh, I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t even know me,” Kip cautions, gaze flickering to Rose and then back to Shane, and as he does a dark-haired woman gets up from one of the bar booths and takes a step towards him, checking in with him with a light touch to the shoulder and something murmured under her breath. 

“No, see, I do.” Shane sighs and curls his hands around the bar’s rough edge. “I’m going about this all wrong— honestly, I don’t know if there’s a good way— but, see, I was Scott,” Shane gets out, and he’s opening his mouth to say more, when Kip suddenly calls out to a man hovering at a table near the front door.

“Dave, can you get these two out of here?”

“Kip,” Shane protests, as the hulking man named Dave stalks towards them, black shirt stretching over broad shoulders as he crosses the floor to the bar. 

The man pauses, frowning down at the two of them, before leaning around and calling to Kip, “These two?”

“Yes,” Kip confirms, pulling back on a tap. Both Kyle and the woman glance down at them apprehensively.

“Isn't this Rose Landry?” Dave-the-appointed-bouncer asks, still frowning, and Rose raises a hand, fluttering her fingers at him, a little flirtatiously. 

Kip hands the beer to the woman and places a hand a cocked hip. “Yes, but they're bothering me and not buying anything more—“

Shane starts to protest again, releasing an emphatic, “Not bothering!” as Rose exclaims, brightly, “We'll buy something! A round for the whole bar on me—”

“No!” Kip exclaims, even as few patrons of the bar begin to cheer. Rose takes a one-hundred dollar bill out of her purse and slides it over the bar. She winks at Kip. 

Shane takes the opportunity she’s created, breaking in with, “Drinks for everyone and you hear me out about Scott—”

“I don't want to talk about Scott!” Kip shouts, slamming a palm down on the bar counter. A neighbouring patron's gin and tonic topples off the side of the bar, fluid and ice spilling everywhere and Shane's attention is taken with the spillage; ice catches the golden hues in the bar light, and Shane aches. “Dave, please.”

“On it, Kip,” Dave grunts, and then Shane feels a large hand on his arm, as he is summarily marched out of the bar and pushed out onto the street. “Sorry, Ms. Landry,” Dave murmurs, as he lets her go, much more gently than he did Shane.

Rose smiles at Dave and pats his check before he disappears back into the bar, leaving the two of them standing on the street. It’s raining now, and it falls down around them; Shane’s hair immediately gets plastered to his face. 

“Did we just get thrown out of a bar?” Shane ponders aloud, uselessly. 

Rose pops open an umbrella from her purse and tucks herself under it. “I believe we did.”

“I have literally never been escorted out of anywhere,” Shane sputters. He drags a hand across his face, trying to clear the water from his eyes. “Have you?”

Rose raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Of course.”

Shane balks. “What?— Really?”

“Yes, darling,” Rose confirms, inching towards him so the umbrella covers him too, despite Shane already being soaked. She brushes some raindrops off his shoulder. “So, that went badly,” she surmises.

“Terribly,” Shane agrees. 

“We may need a new plan,” Rose muses, tucking her arm into his as they start to walk down the street, away from the bar. “In the meantime... pizza?”

Shane sighs; tries not to get sucked in by the golden and red that glints familiarly in the puddles. “Yeah, fuck. Pizza, why the fuck not.”

*

In Between

Everything feels extra cold tonight; there’s a chill to the water that suspends him and even the weight tightly clenching his hand feels frozen. Only a thin brightness presses through the layers of fluid, flickering way above him and Shane wants to reach out, yet can’t. 

Sound comes in pieces. 

“Hi—love—”

The words drift in, distant and warped, travelling some distance to reach him. He wants to turn towards it; pivot on a sharp blade to find it, but the sound wraps around him, directionless, and his body doesn’t seem to understand the idea of turning anyway. 

He’s weightless and there’s nothing, just the voice, the shape of which he recognizes instinctively: “They keep telling me to give it time. To give you time.” The last word seems to choke off, reaching him in a garbled, broken state; the next part, almost too quiet: “They don’t understand that we already wasted so much of that.”

Shane wants to whimper. He tries to answer, but again—nothing. 

“Can you even hear me?” the voice wonders, and Shane wants to say desperately to answer: Yes, I’m here, Shane wants to say. The words feel enormous in his head, a throbbing, dull pain in his forehead like something is squeezing his sinuses, yet they refuse to come out.

“I miss you. I miss you in our house. I miss talking to you. I miss our cottage. I miss going for runs, swims— watching you do your dumb yoga. I even miss your stupid green protein shakes. I’m never going to say anything about those things ever again. I’ll even make them. Or drink them,” the voice continues, and there’s a desperation to the tone that penetrates the water between them. 

Shane aches. Something drags across his hand, a caress of sorts, running all the way up his arm and then a weight falls against his shoulder, something soft burrowing into his neck. 

A whisper, “I miss you touching me back…”

*

Somewhere Else

April 24, New York City

Shane wakes feeling unsettled and frustrated, this deep sense of agitation gnawing inside of him. Restless energy that has no where to go, and only gets worse the longer he stares at the ceiling of the rented condo that Rose found and may him pay for, during their time in New York. Finally, he rolls over and grabs his phone, scrolling until he finds highlights from the previous nights Admirals-Bears game and then allows himself to stare at Ilya on the screen. 

The Bears lose 5-4 in overtime, but, regardless, Ilya is beautiful. Shane’s eyes track him everywhere, but watching does nothing to ease the tension in his stomach. 

He wants to touch.

Finally, he gives in: shifts the phone to one hand and slides his other down until he can roll his balls between his fingers, pressing harder than is completely comfortable, and sighing into the pillow at the threat of pain. Shane lets his fingers push lower, rubbing the pads of his index and middle finger along the stretch of skin below his balls, and watches the Ilya on the phone screen completely lay out one of the Admiral’s defensemen. 

“Fuck,” he groans, when the next highlight is—graciously—a beautiful shot from Ilya that he manages to bank off the defensemen’s skate at the opposite corner and into the net, trickling behind the goalie who never saw it coming. Shane sends silent thanks to whatever-god for whoever roz81sickedits is, as the next clip is just fifteen-seconds of intensity from Ilya over the face-off dot. Shane grips himself tighter, leaking over his own fingers.

The game apparently got heated too, as roz81sickedits has included a whole minute of a fight that sees Ilya square off against one of the Admiral players, helmet knocked loose and Shane grips himself tighter, watching the bout that ends with Ilya knocking the other man off his skates. 

When the clip ends, he immediately presses play next on video called Ilya Rozanov’s Hottest Moments, and ends up spilling over his fist to an underwear ad, with close-ups of Ilya’s abs and the small bit of hair leading down below the waist band. 

Mine, Shane thinks, aching to touch.

Fingers of his right hand wet and sticky, Shane pauses the video a few seconds later, now on Ilya’s face. The curl of tension low in his stomach has released, but he still feels staticky everywhere, his chest still tight and burning and tiny stars prickling in his periphery. The release does little to calm his mind and he just stares at the freeze-frame of Ilya’s face, and misses him fiercely.

Every day the feeling of Ilya under his hands slips away a little more. Seventeen days here: seventeen days of not touching Ilya, and not knowing if he’s ever going to again. 

Shane reaches for the Kleenex box next to the bed, wipes his fingers and chucks the balled up tissues on the floor, then shoves his head back into his pillow and begs himself to wake up from all of this. Or at least shut his eyes again; go back to sleep where he can at least hear Ilya’s voice in his dreams.

The sound of Rose shouting at him startles him out of any attempt.

“Shane!” 

His eyes fly open, but he doesn’t respond immediately, silently wishing she might go away. 

“Shane!” And this time banging on the door accompanies her shout. “Get up. We have plans— and you promised part of those plans would be brunch and shopping."

Shane blinks, reluctantly pushing himself out of bed and tugging on some sweatpants over his briefs. He grabs the towel that’s sitting on the bedside chair, throwing it over his bare shoulders and pulls open the bedroom door.

"Good morning, sunshine." Rose smiles. 

“Fuck,” Shane groans in lieu of a greeting. He shifts to take a step past her, aiming for the shared bathroom.

Rose's eyes widen. “Wow. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s almost ten-thirty,” Rose laments, trailing behind him down the hallway. “I thought you’d be up way before this. Aren’t I the lazy actor and you the peak-physical-condition routine-every-day hockey player?”

“It’s the offseason,” Shane grumbles. He slides his hand through his hair, trying to ignore how itchy he feels under his skin, how annoyed and uncomfortable he feels, thanks to this itch he can't possibly scratch.

“So, what about brunch?” Rose pouts, lacing her voice with a fake put-outness. Shane lifts a shoulder, noncommittal, and pushes the door of the bathroom, already slightly ajar, further open. “Shane, you promised when I came out here with you.”

“Fuck, Rose, we’ll get your stupid brunch,” Shane snaps, head still unsettled. 

Rose’s eyes widen and Shane reaches for the doorknob of the bathroom, trying to yank it closed. Rose shoves her leg in the way. 

“Rose, come on,” Shane grimaces. 

“No,” Rose argues, “You're the one who has dragged me on this adventure, you don't get to snap at me without explaining yourself.”

Shane turns slowly, tries not unflatten the slant of his mouth. He twists the tap of the sink and reaches for his toothbrush, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Rose…”

“Oh my god,” Rose exclaims, smile spreading across her face. She laughs sharply. “Oh my god! You’re horny.”

“What? No,” Shane disagrees, immediately. Probably too fast. He shakes his head and then shoves his toothbrush in his mouth and starts brushing aggressively.

Rose leans against the outside panel of bathroom door, giggling. “Oh my god, you are. You irritated because you want to be fucked and nobody is here to—”

Shane cuts her off with a glare and then pulls the door closed in her face. He spits once, then continues brushing, glaring at himself in the mirror, and trying to clamp down on the frustration rolling in his stomach. 

“Just admit it!” Rose calls from the other side of the door, as Shane spits again. “You're upset because your beautiful, strong, Russian lover isn't here to give you what you need— You miss him, but you also miss his cock…”

Shane grimaces around the toothbrush, rinsing it quickly and then putting it back into his toiletries bag. He bends towards the sink and rinses his mouth with water.

Rose is still giggling. Shane hears her flop further against the door, like the wall is supporting her from toppling over with laughter. “Toothbrush enough for you, Shane, or need your mouth occupied by—”

Shane throws an arm out, rapping on his side of the door and cutting off whatever crude thing was going to come out of her mouth next. “Rose,” he warns. 

“How long has it been since your man gave you a really good, hard, life-altering fuck?” Rose calls from the other side, undeterred.

Sighing, Shane raises his eyes to the roof looking for patience. “I'm not... sexually... frustrated.”

“How blue we talking?” Rose teases.

“I'm normal frustrated. I'm trapped in this place,” Shane continues, voice louder than any calm-and-not-frustrated-person's should be. He raises his hands to his face, pressing his palms against his eyes hard. Shane takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore everything else his body is telling him, despite being desperate to get in the shower, and definitely not jerk odd, again. “Normal frustrated!”

It's quiet for thirty seconds before Rose's voice pipes up again: “So, again, how long?”

Shane lets his hands fall from his face, momentum taking them back and slamming against the door. 

“Nearly three fucking weeks, Rose!” he shouts back at her, “It's been nearly three fucking weeks.”

Immediately, he hears laughing on the other side of the bedroom door. Her head clanging as it falls back on the bathroom door separating them.

“Take your time!” Rose calls out, between laughs, “I'll make myself a snack to tide myself over— but don't think jerking off in the shower gets you out of brunch!”

Shane groans and starts the shower, getting in quickly to drown out the sound of her cackles, as he stares at the water curling gold down the drain. 

*

Rose assesses him over the top of her mimosa. “So, three weeks, huh?”

Shane drops his coffee on the table, slightly harder than intended. “Rose, come off it—”

“No! I mean,” Rose winces. “I just mean… Sorry, not”—she leans in, mimosa still grasped loosely between two fingers—“the lack of sex, just— that’s awhile. To be away from him.”

Shane twists the coffee cup back and forth on the table by the handle. “It is,” he agrees, deflating a bit in his seat. Around them, the low hum of the breakfast crowd and the sounds emanating from the open-line of the kitchen creates just enough distraction that their voices can’t be heard by the tables around them. 

“You must miss him,” Rose observes and, again, Shane nods. “You're in love with him?” She taps a nail against her glass. “With... Ilya Rozanov…”

Shane frowns at her. “He's my husband, of course I'm in love with him,” he argues, immediately on the defensive. “What type of question is that?”

Rose places the mimosa down, releasing the long stem and sliding her hand across to grab Shane's instead. “You— my you, this-you, has just never... said that about anyone.”

“Oh,” Shane murmurs, anger leaving him just as quick as it rose. He curls a thumb over hers and slides it across her skin. “Well, yeah… I love him more than anything.”

A smile spreads across her face. “Really?”

“Really,” Shane promises. “He's beautiful. He's so smart and so brave. And so... unbelievably frustrating.” Shane laughs, thinking of his husband, the way he teases and annoys him. The lilt of his laugh. His intensity on the ice, in comparison to the demeanour he has with Hayden’s kids, or with Anya, or with even with Shane, alone at their cottage, hidden from the entire world. “He’s utterly incomparable to anyone I've ever met in my whole life and I've been utterly...  infatuated with him since I first laid eyes on him. I never stood a chance.”

“Infatuated?” Rose repeats, lips curling in a teasing smile. 

“I mean—”

“I know what it means.” Rose laughs, tightening her grip on his hand. “How'd it start?”

“Well,” Shane says, shrugging. He can’t help the hint of a smile that pulls at his lips. “Hockey. Well, I guess it started with a no smoking sign,” he begins, and launches into the story and by the time his finished their food has been ordered and arrived and there are sparkles of tears in Rose's eyes. 

“He's made for you,” she murmurs, when Shane finishes their story.

“He is,” Shane agrees. 

“Here too?” Rose asks, something inscrutable passing over her face, hidden only as she spoons a bite of yogurt into her mouth. 

“There's no one else,” Shane tells her, “Not here, not anywhere. It's just him.” He has to believe it, he has to; a world without Ilya is too hard to imagine. “He's mine... he has to be.” He smiles down into this breakfast. “I don't know how either of us could possibly be for someone else.”

“I want that,” Rose breaks in, a bit briskly, “For my Shane, I mean. So, whatever you need, I'm in.”

“I thought you were already in,” Shane protests.

“Before I was just along for the ride,” Rose tells him, pointing at him with a utensil for emphasis. “Now— after everything you said, I'm invested. Now I want that for my Shane too.”

The words stretch across the breakfast table, a long moment where Shane holds his coffee between two hands, chest tight and emotions way too close to the edge, and Rose stirs her yogurt, pensively, before Shane finally manages: “Thank you,” then, “I love you too, you know?”

She flashes a smile. “Of course you do, why wouldn't you?” and then balance is restored, Shane chuckling as he reaches for his fork and slays a green, as Rose gestures at the waiter to bring her another mimosa. 

A little later, still at the table, Rose picks up her second mimosa, and hums, between sips, “What do you think happened to you?”

Shane picks up his fork and spears a piece of his omelette, then drags it through a small puddle of maple syrup. “Not sure,” he murmurs, shoving the syrup-drenched egg in his mouth and relishing the indulgence. “Maybe I’m dead.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “You’re not dead.”

“How do you know?”

“If you’re dead, then where’s my Shane?” Rose points out. 

Shane looks her in straight in the eyes. “Maybe he’s dead too.”

“Oh, am I talking to a ghost?” Rose says, twisting in the booth to stop the waiter passing by them. “Excuse me,” she asks, fake smile on her face and mimosa glass still dangling from dainty fingers. She points to Shane. “Can you see this man?”

“Rose—” Shane protests. 

“Uh,” the young man says, staring at Shane, recognition dawning in his eyes. “You mean…  uh… Shane Hollander?” 

Rose beams. “Yes, thank you.”

“Big fan, man…” the waiter mumbles, and Shane nods, cheeks burning. Rose hands him a pen out of her purse, and Shane scrawls out a hastily signed autograph on a napkin, which Rose hands over, thanking the man for his help. 

“See, not a ghost,” she murmurs, once the young man has moved his attention to another table. 

“Christ, Rose,” Shane mumbles back, pulling the ball cap he’s wearing lower on his face and ducking his head towards his breakfast. “Don’t do that.”

Rose just smiles, finally putting down her mimosa and digging into her own plate of mostly leafy-greens. “Don’t be so obtuse then.”

Shane puts another forkful of egg in his mouth, chews slowly, before he finally admits, “Okay, so I’m probably not dead.” 

* 

In Between

"There's no change in his prognosis," a patient voice; just barely audible over the hum in the water. "He's still stable. Things look—"

"Better?" another voice breaks in, a ripple propagating outwards. 

There's a pause, as the elasticity surrounding him reforms, broken by the first voice again, intoning: "No. But no worse either."

The weight against his hand increases, tight and cold, and Shane wishes desperately to propel himself to the surface. 

*

Somewhere Else

April 26, New York City

“This is a stupid idea,” Shane mutters around the aglet in his mouth, hat and the hood of his sweatshirt both pulled far over his eyes. Next to him, Rose’s sunglasses cover half of her face and she has a scarf pulled over her red hair, even though they’re inside, crammed in the back row of a lecture hall at New York University.

“It’s not!” Rose says, cheerfully, stretching her legs out as far as possible in the row. She taps a prop-pen she has brought on the desk. 

Shane scoffs. “He didn’t like us ambushing us at his bar… you think Kip—”

“Professor Kip,” Rose interjects, referring to the man now taking position at the lectern at the front of the class, preparing to teach the class they'd found online, with Kip Grady PhD(c) Teaching Assistant printed under the professor's name. 

“Professor Kip?” Shane repeats, then shakes his head. “Do PhD students get that title? I don’t think so—”

“Oh, sorry, Mr. University,” Rose quips back. “So much knowledge for someone who never went.”

Shane glares at her. “Oh, like you did?”

Rose’s mouth drops open in mock horror. “I have an acting certificate from a college, I’ll have you know—”

“Oh, sorry,” Shane effuses, rolling his eyes.

“What college did you attend, Shane?” Rose demands.

“You know that’s not how it works—”

Rose interrupts, countering: “My brothers went to college.”

“Well, you don't go to college if you’re actually any good at hockey,” Shane snipes back, only to be silenced by a student in front of them, who half turns around in their seat and shushes them violently.

“Sorry,” Shane whispers, chagrined. Heat rushes to his face.

“Nobody cares about your pipe dream,” the student hisses back, before turning around and tuning back in to whatever Kip is saying at the front, something about spatial creativity in art under Roman occupation. Rose stifles a snort by clasping two hands around her mouth, and Shane mouths pipe dream? at her, before sinking into his seat to at least pretend to be paying attention to whatever art history lesson Kip is giving down below. 

Rose elbows him. Hard.

“Okay, so for next week the discussion topics are already posted,” Kip is saying, as Shane startles back into consciousness. “Come prepared with your opinions about what this small silver cup says about the moment in experience…”

Shane blinks. Registers his surroundings just in time to catch the student in front of them remark to his friend, “They know this isn't an easy elective right?” before walking away. 

“Wake up, sleepy-head,” Rose murmurs. 

“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, pushing himself up in his seat. He resists the urge to rub sleep from his eyes. “I was paying attention.”

Rose snorts. “Oh? And what did Professor Kip about the intersection between colonialism and and aesthetic tendencies in Roman art?”

Around them, the students are filing out of the classroom, but the two of them remain seated, planning to talk to Kip after all the students have left, so for now, Shane just blinks at her. He has no idea what she's talking about and finally, relents, with, “I don't care?”

“It was very interesting.” Rose smirks, the arch of her eyebrow appearing above the rims of her sunglasses.

“Oh come off it,” Shane grumbles. “You don't care either.”

“Perhaps I'll enrol,” Rose muses. “I've always been interested in what tiny little pieces of pottery have to say about the individual Roman identity…”

“You have not,” Shane scoffs, and is preparing to argue more when a shadow appears over their desks.

“What are you two doing here?” Kip demands and nervously, Shane follows the voice, staring up into Kip’s face.

“Um,” Shane starts, pushing his hood off his head and scrapping his hat. Rose smiles brightly, removing her sunglasses and placing them down on the table in front of her, gushing, “Great lecture.”

Kip glares down at her. “I thought I made myself pretty clear the other night.” 

Shane’s stomach rolls, but he gathers himself and presses forward, saying, “I know, but I can’t leave without you hearing me out. I can’t.”

“He really can’t,” echoes Rose.

“I didn’t go about it explaining this right at your bar,” Shane says, a slightly begging lilt to his voice. “But please, hear me out.”

Kip looks at him, hazel eyes completely focused on Shane: hard and assessing. Shane feels more uneasy under Kip’s stare than in every single post-game interview he’s done in the last twelve years in the NHL. Shane waits on Kip’s response, drawing on every ounce of patience he has.

“You have two minutes,” Kip says, crossing his arms over his chest so the face of his watch is pointed outwards, towards Shane. The seconds hand seems to be moving unbelievably quickly. “Go.” 

“Okay,” Shane agrees, and for some reason he’s pushing out of his chair, standing so he’s eye level with Kip. For some reason it seems important, to draw up to the same height as him; as if it gives Shane more gravitas, as he spills out his truth. 

“Where I’m from,” Shane begins, “And yes, I know, it seems crazy. Or impossible, But I’m not from… here.” Shane waves a hand around them.
“But in 2017, I was sitting on my parents couch watching the Stanley Cup finals, feeling like the only thing I wanted— my now-husband— was an impossibility for me. Because I was Scott; I was horribly scared. And alone, and not sure I could ever be that brave to be out. In the NHL? It was unthinkable… 

“But… then Scott won the Cup, and I saw you, coming down the stairs at Madison Square Gardens, and Scott pulled you on the ice, and he kissed you…”— Kip’s eyes widen—“and in that moment, you and Scott proved that something that seemed pretty impossible was actually incredibly possible and then I—”

“Then he got with his boyfriend,” Rose chimes in, flourishing it with a charming smile.

Shane spares her a quick glance, before continuing, “One of the reasons— maybe the only reason— that my husband and I believed we could possibly ever be together is because of you and Scott,” Shane tells him. “You made me believe—”

“That’s impossible,” Kip breaks in, a ragged edge to his voice, “No— we fought, he refused to come out. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere with him. So, I left him… I never went to that game…”

“Maybe not here,” says, Shane, ever so gently, “But you did in my life. I swear, you did.”

Kip runs his hand over his mouth. “Do you know how crazy this sounds? How can I believe this?”

Shane wracks his brain, cognizant that his time is ticking away on Kip’s wrist. “Have I ever met your dad? Here?” he blurts out, desperate and when Kip shakes his head Shane continues, “Okay, because I have. At your wedding. He walked you down the aisle— bigger guy. Real sweet. Just unbelievably proud of you. Seems like the type you’d see wearing a ‘free dad hugs’ shirt at Pride—”

“He has one of those,” Kip murmurs and Shane can’t help but laugh. 

“Yeah, my dad too,” Shane adds, and, despite everything, Kip manages a half smile. “Your wedding was beautiful. Simple— more organized than mine. You had chairs.”

“You didn’t have chairs?” Rose repeats, disbelieving. His friend shakes her head, dropping it into two hands in dismay. “Oh my god, Shane.”

“Shut up,” Shane hisses, kicking the leg of her chair. “Later.”

“You met my dad,” Kip surmises, twisting the band of his watch nervously. Shane’s time has ran out. “At my wedding. To Scott.”

“Yes,” Shane confirms.

Kip raises his eyes to meet Shane’s. “What’s my dad’s name?”

For a moment, Shane panics, wracking his brain as he goes back in his memory to the singular time he’s met the elder Grady. Kip starts to open his mouth, when Shane suddenly claps his hands, exclaiming, likely louder than necessary: “George. George Grady. He’s a teacher— English? Or maybe History.”

Shane looks back at Kip anxiously. Silence stretches between the three of them, and Shane waits, nervously for whatever Kip is going to say next. He can’t completely explain why it’s so important for him to reset the trajectory of Scott Hunter and Kip Grady here, in this place, but it is. These two men gave him a gift; without them, who is to say where he’d be— apparently, alone. These men made Shane believe in the impossible, the least he can do is give them back their everything. 

Finally, Kip nods, biting at his lip.

“You’re serious about this,” Kip murmurs, quietly. “I don’t know how you know all of this—”

“Because it happened,” Shane insists, “This is the way it was supposed to happen. Kip, you’re supposed to be with Scott. I swear, he loves you.”

“Do you love him?” Rose asks, and both men drop their gazes to where Rose is still sitting, patiently, assessing them both. “At the end of the day… it doesn’t matter what Shane says happened elsewhere. It just matters… do you still love him?”

Kip draws his lip into his mouth, then nods once, very quickly.

“Then maybe you should try again,” Rose prods, gently. 

Kip brushes the back of his hand across his eyes. “Okay. Maybe.”

*

“Do you think he’ll go see Scott?” Shane murmurs, head laying on Rose’s shoulder as they sit on the couch, some mind-numbing romcom playing on the television. 

“I think so,” Rose muses back. “I believe he will.”

*

In Between

“Hi, baby,” a soft voice murmurs. Something cool keeps running gently over his forehead, gentler than the waves that rock him. “I miss you, sweetheart.”

The presence is continuous, yet he still rocks a little more than usual, the anchor here not as strong, not as steady, yet still determined. There’s a light weight consistently pressing against his hand.

“Do you remember the first hockey game we ever went to?” the voice wonders, “You were so small, so you stood on your dad’s lap for a better view and narrated the whole game. You knew every single player, and your play-by-play from your seat charmed everybody around us…”

The voice breaks, a few times, but its grip never wavers, holding onto Shane tightly, like the presence refuses to let go no matter how much everything else tries to make him drift. 

*

Somewhere Else

April 28, New York City

The New York High-Line stretches out in front of them, the green of spring growth poking up on either side of the path. The sun peaks its head over the skyline, already uncomfortably bright, even this early in the morning. 

“And you’re sure he’ll be here?” Rose says, holding her iced-coffee as she stands, other hand on her hip, next to Shane, gorgeous in expensive workout gear, with her red hair slicked back in a high pony-tail. 

Next to her, in a rebook branded training shirt, Shane sighs, confirms: “Yes.”

“He runs the high-line?” Rose questions, an eyebrow arching behind her sunglasses, a different pair than the other day. These ones has smaller rims, more sporty. Aerodynamic in a way. “This tourist trap. Dodging pedestrians.” 

Shane shrugs one shoulder. “He likes it. The people watching— he doesn’t give a shit about the crowds. He’ll run this and then down to the Hudson River.” He glances at Rose, adds, almost defensively: “Lots of people run here.”

“You think he’d get recognized,” Rose observes, taking a sip of her coffee. 

Shane looks at her pointedly. The two of them, movie-star and hockey-star, standing on the side of the path, completely undisturbed, people meandering past them, minding their own business, barely giving them a stray glance. 

“He does, sometimes. It’s half the fun for him, interacting with fans.” Shane makes a face. For him, the fans are an unfortunate inconvenience he deals with, in order to play hockey; something he’s used to, but doesn’t necessarily enjoy. “It’s just… New York— nobody gives a shit. Scott met Kip running the same route to a smoothie shop.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “So, what you’re saying is to meet a nice man, I need to start being predictable.”

“And stop dating gay men,” Shane retorts, biting down his smile when Rose reaches over to smack him. 

“Asshole!” she exclaims, and Shane lets out a pretend wince, straightening only when he catches a glimpse of golden curls further up the path. 

“Rose,” he says, as a warning.

Rose’s head snaps in that direction. “Oh shit!” she swears, and Shane steps out into the middle of the path as Ilya jogs steadily towards him, slowing as recognition dawns on him, until the last two steps towards Shane are at a slow, unsure, walk.

“Hollander.”

“Ilya,” Shane greets, trying to put optimism into his tone. He tries to smile, but it feels forced, particularly when Ilya maintains a gap between them. Shane wants nothing more than to step forward and close it.

“Sorry about your season,” Ilya says, gruffly.

Shane shrugs. “No worries,” he replies, and Ilya’s eyebrows raise immediately, confusion sketched across his face. “There’s more important things than hockey,” Shane adds, and looks at him, meaningfully. 

“Right…” Ilya replies. His brow furrows. “I trust you’re… feeling better?”

Shane’s smile falls from his face. “Ilya, about that—”

“It’s fine, Hollander,” Ilya tells him, the sound low in his throat. He crosses his arms over his chest, wedding band glinting on his finger where it curls over his bicep. It seems like he’s going to say something else, but Ilya pauses and his eyes shift to Rose instead, who is still standing beside Shane. Ilya’s mouth flattens, and he straightens his posture. “I did not know you were back together.” His shoulders roll back slightly. “Congratulations.” 

The last word comes out brusquely, and Rose snorts, “Oh god, no.”

“We’re not,” Shane protests, at the same time. “She’s just—” he breaks off, unsure how to explain, then, pivoting, says: “Ilya, can we go somewhere, we need to talk. I need to explain—”

“It’s fine,” Ilya breaks in. “No explanation needed. I do not know what… confused… you… Hollander, but—”

“Ilya, no,” Shane interjects, “Nothing confused me.”

Ilya frowns and shakes his head in frustration. “What you were saying made no sense.”

“I know!” Shane takes an anxious step forward and then feels his heart plummet as Ilya actively flinches. Ilya’s eyes dart around their surroundings. Shane can feel eyes drifting towards them too, but can’t find it in himself to care. “Ilya, I can explain. Just come with me, please, and listen…”

“Hollander,” Ilya stresses, voice lowering: “Even if I believed you, I’m married and”—his jaw tightens, like he’s clamping down on something else—“I have a series to win.”

“Ilya—”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Ilya says, essentially in a whisper, “But get yourself help.” Ilya side steps him, picking up his feet and starting to run in place for a moment. Louder, he goes, “Better luck next year, Hollander,” then he jogs off.

Shane stares after him, until he disappears down the path. Rose’s hand comes to lay on his arm and she murmurs, gently, “Shane…”

Later, it rains, and Shane sits, alone, on the balcony of their apartment and watches the water settle on the city. It pools in a crack on the edge of the cement ledge and Shane stares at the small river, fixated on the gold figure within.

*

In Between

*

The anchor securing him heavy and warm, draping him and keeping him still in the sway of the ever present waves. Shane doesn't sink under the weight, but is buoyed by its presence, floating near the top of the water where everything is clear and warm, and the light nearly reaches his skin. 

“Should we wake him?” a voice asks, skimming across the water.

A second voice goes, “Let him sleep. He's barely slept in weeks. Let him be.”

“What if he jostles something? I should—”

“Sweetheart,” the second, steadier voice murmurs, and the ripple that had started converging stops, suddenly. “They're both okay. Let him sleep.”

“I just…” the first voice trails off, swallowed by the water itself. 

“Remember when we found them on the couch like that? First Christmas Ilya was with us. Conked out after dinner. All curled up together?” the second voice muses, what seems to Shane as like ages later, “They look a little like that now.”

“Except—” the first voice breaks, and Shane wants to reach for the other voices too, but can't quite place them amongst ripples. He leans into his anchor instead, begs for it to keep him in place. 

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

*

Somewhere Else

April 29, New York City

The Boston Bears lose in five games to the New York Admirals and Shane’s heart aches alongside this-Ilya’s, watching Ilya make his way down the handshake line from his, too far, spot on the couch of the condo. 

“I don’t even know where to find him now,” Shane laments, as Ilya disappears down the tunnel. “I don’t know where this-Ilya spends his off-seasons.”

If this was his real life, they’d spend the next day or two wrapping up things in Ottawa. Post-season press, team meetings, locker-clean out. He’d have microphones shoved in his face as he answered questions about expectations, about what the team could have done differently— about whether he, Shane Hollander, failed his new team, before Ilya and him piled in one of their cars and drove out, together, to their cottage. Now, he’s not sure if he’ll ever even experience that. He’s first season as a Centaur will end with a whimper, not a bang. 

Rose twists on the couch next to him. “Well, that’s easy. There’s a big charity gala in Monaco next weekend. Svetlana Vetrova is on the board. She’s there every year.”

“So?”

Rose squints at him. “So? She’s his wife. If he’s not playing, he’ll be there. With her.”

Shane stares back at her. “And… we’re just going to crash some high-end party in Monaco and, what, kidnap him and force him to talk to me?”

His friend rolls her eyes. “No, darling. I’m Rose Landry. We’ll be invited. And then, we’ll kidnap him and force him to talk to you.” She plucks her phone off the side table and immediately starts texting ferociously. Looks up at him for a mere second as she fires off messages. “Do you have a tux?”

Chapter 4: we fell in love, alone on a stage

Chapter Summary

“It’s late, people are starting to depart—this might be your only chance to get him alone.”

Shane stares at her. “Isn’t that a bit… desperate?”

“So?” Rose counters, forcefully, “Aren’t you? Desperate?”

Chapter Notes

just a reminder that this is an alternative universe fic, which implies the existence of many universes, so if you're fav character is acting out of what you think is their character, just remember there's probably a universe in which they act exactly like you want.

also there's a joke in here entirely written in so i could lament about Celebrini's/Makar's new contracts.

IV. we fell in love, alone on a stage

For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.

— Carl Sagan

Dearest [Ilya], You’d be forgiven for thinking me mad, the way I acted this afternoon. The truth is I feel rather light headed and foolish in your presence, and I don’t think I can blame the heat.

— Ian McEwan, Atonement

In Between

There's too many waves tonight; the turbulence rocks Shane back and forth, even as he tries to focus on the surface. Tries to listen, but he can't hone in on the sounds. Somewhere, seemingly far away from him, there's a soft voice speaking to him, asking him questions. He just can’t reply. 

He wants to, just can't seem to claw himself into shallow enough waters to focus. 

“Hi. I wish— help— I’d help—"

*

Somewhere Else

April 30, Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean

“—you anyway I could.”

Shane blinks, jolting himself out of that restless space between sleep and awake. He presses his hands against his eyelids and breathes deeply, trying to centre himself, to pull himself away from whatever dream was trying to pull him under. Eyes still adjusting to the light, he grunts, “What?”

Rose frowns at him, poking her head over the wall behind Shane’s business class seat. She leans forward to rest her forearms on the divider and stares down at him, reclining in his spot in D3. “Are you sleeping?”

“Not anymore,” Shane retorts, regretfully. There’s a part of him that wants anxiously to sink back into sleep.

“Why are you sleeping? We need to plot—sorry, plan,” Rose whispers at him, excitedly, too awake for this time in the evening, especially for a person suspended above an ocean on a plane. “When you get him alone, what are you going to say?”

Shane shrugs up at her. He doesn’t adjust his seat. “I’m still thinking about it.”

Rose draws in a frustrated breath and some of her hair flutters into her mouth. “There must be something you can say to him, like you said to Kip—”

“Rose?” Shane murmurs, closing his eyes again. Sleep doesn’t feel very far away. “I’m thinking. Let me sleep.”

Shane hears Rose flop down in her seat, grumbling as she retreats, “Ugh, fine, I’m sorry..."

*

In Between

“— it took me so long to get here,” someone is saying, the waves rocking Shane back and forth again.

“Is okay,” another voice, closer to him. Something glides over his skin. Steadies him. “Nothing you can do.”

Silence. The waves are more gentle now, his body swaying less as his anchor holds him in place.

“Well, I’m here for him now,” the first voice murmurs, so softly. A weight gets added to his anchor, pushing down gently where it holds onto Shane. “For both of you.”

*

Somewhere Else

May 7, Monaco

The Salle Belle Époque at the Hôtel Hermitage Monte-Carlo is bathed in deep blue ambient light and Svetlana Vetrova’s and her committee’s efforts sparkle under the effect. The ceiling of the room rises high overhead, ornamented like a grand European palace, with soft creams and gold molding leading to tiers of crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, also lined with decorative panels—winged figures and cherub-like children surrounded by clouds and flowers, and lying on lily-pads, water rippling around them. Shane had only barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes at the ostentatiousness of it all, particularly when Rose murmured, while they waited among the last wave of guests to enter, “What do you think Kip would think winged babies say about the aesthetic tendencies in European art?”

“It’s beautiful,” Shane had effused, instead of some other choice words, mostly as he’d been in earshot of an older, elegantly-dressed man. He’d dutifully shook that man’s hand and recited canned, much practiced, lines about how pleased he is to support their cause, despite him not remembering, or honestly caring, what it is they’re lining the pockets of tonight.

Shane’s here for one reason, and one reason only.

When they stepped in, the room unfolded luxury in front of them. Mirrors along the walls reflect the light and make it seem even larger, with tables and couches lined on either of the room to encourage conversation amongst guests, all the way down to where broad doors open towards the terrace. On one side, there’s several pieces of art for auction, while the middle of the floor is empty, likely set up for some sort of dancing after cocktails and speeches, a fact which Shane processed in horror. 

Now, after doing one polite circuit, Rose leads him to the edge of the room. Shane grabs them both drinks from the bar, and they post up with their backs to one of the obscenely ornate greek columns, the pink-coloured marble cold against his back which is the only reason he’s not sweating in his sharp black suit. Shane eyes the terrace, longingly.

They root themselves to the spot though, both of them surveying the room. Waiters slip between guests with silver trays of delicate glasses, tuxedos and jewel-toned dresses everywhere, but none of them are worn by the blond or fiery head of curls that he’s looking for.

“You owe me 6,000 euros, by the way,” Rose murmurs, casually sipping at her champagne.

Shane nearly drops his glass. “I’m sorry, what?”

“For your ticket,” Rose explains, calmly.

“A single ticket cost that much?” Shane gapes at her. “What is this the fucking Met Gala?”

Rose laughs at him. “Oh, darling, the Met is so much more expensive. 100,000, at least.”  She pats the sleeve of the suit jacket she’d forced him to buy earlier this week patronizingly. “But no, the tickets weren’t that expensive.” She pauses, runs a hand down her side, sliding down the silk, floor-length, cream dress— also a recent purchase of Shane’s— and smoothes out an already sleek silhouette. “Yours was.”

“Sorry, what? Just mine?”

“Mhmm. It seems Mrs. Rosanova—”

“Please don’t call her that,” Shane breaks in, something twisting inside him.

“—needed some convincing to let you come.” Rose shrugs, and leans a bare shoulder against the column. “Price was 6,000 euros. You might be a top donor tonight.”

“Oh my god,” Shane mutters, and again, Rose laughs.

“Oh no,” Rose teases. She bats her eyelashes at him, then drops her voice an octave, putting on a low, hopefully-deliberately-exaggerated drawl: “‘With my twenty-four million average-annual-value, how will I ever afford it?”

“Stop it,” Shane starts, poking her in the side with his elbow. Rose laughs again, and, a full second later once he’s completely internalizing her joke, his gaze leaves the floor and snaps to hers: “Also—what? Twenty-four mil? No. I’m only on an eighteen million AAV— what are you talking about?”

“Um, well,” she says, reverting to her normal tone. “That’s what you make… here.”

Shane blinks, jealously rolling in his stomach again. That contract is more than any contract in his world’s history, a fact which makes him bite back a string of curses, letting out only, “That bastard,” before he throws back almost the entire glass of his champagne and sets it down slightly too hard on a nearby table, the glass creaking audibly. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Rose nods. “There was a lot of news about it. Some sort of record?”

“Oh my god.” Shane reaches to grab a second glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Skin still itching, he mutters under his breath, “Twenty-four million,” before biting down on all those thoughts, sighing, and then asking: “What is this event even for?”

“Some sort of opera thing.” Rose shrugs a single shoulder. “A very worthy cause.”

Shane nods some sort of agreement, even as he grumbles, “I’ll write you a cheque.”

“The cost of love,” Rose murmurs back, holding her glass up until he begrudgingly clinks his own against hers.

*

The night drags on. 

Shane follows Rose around like a obedient puppy for what seems like hours and mingles, between speeches, with people as directed, his gaze scanning the room every few seconds, looking for a familiar shape moving among the clusters of strange, well-dressed, people. 

“You play ice hockey in America?” a guest asks him, a Frenchman with a bow-tie that is slightly off centre and it takes great effort on Shane’s part to not to stare at it. 

“Canada,” Shane corrects, gently. “For Ot—Montreal.”  

“Ah. You speak”—the man’s lip quirks—“French, then?”

Shane smiles, tense and polite, the same patented one he has for post-game questions he’d rather not respond to, and admits, in what he knows is a terrible accent: “Pas très bien, malheureusement.”

Amusement spreads across the man’s face, like this was exactly the answer he expected. There appears to be a comment on the tip of his tongue, but the man’s too polite to let it escape, instead asking, “And you’re interested in the future of the opera? I cannot imagine these two things have much in common.”

“No, you’re correct. Not much in common.” Shane forces himself to laugh. He twists the stem of the wine glass in his hand between his fingers, cursing this place and this idea, and the fact he can’t see Ilya anywhere. He hates these things. Always has. He hates the requirement of making uncomfortable small talk. Hates the way his tie always feels like it’s getting tighter around his neck by the minute and how it’s always so horribly hot in these places, with everyone humming about. The only thing that’s made any event tolerable the past year is that he’s finally been able to have Ilya by his side, and his husband diverts most of the small-talk requests his own way, saving Shane the trouble. “And, well—”

“His opera interest is very much my doing,” Rose says, swooping in and linking her arm through his. “Supporting performance arts is my passion. Shane is just kind enough to come along.” She smiles, sweetly. “Arm candy, you know.”

“How lovely,” the man replies, looking immediately charmed. 

“It is,” Rose agrees, and turns her gaze towards Shane. “Can we go outside for a moment? I need some air.”

“Of course,” Shane agrees, probably too hastily. “It was nice to meet you,” he says to the other guest, offering his hand and then letting Rose guide him outside. 

“You are so bad at this.” Rose laughs into his shoulder, steering him towards the edge of terrace, to the far side where the crowd has thinned out. Shane is immensely thankful when they slide into a spot by themselves and the air suddenly feels way less thin.  

Shane leans against the railing, mutters, “I hate these things.”

“You don’t say,” Rose chides, sliding in beside him, with her back to the railing. “My-Shane hates them too, but he’s definitely not as awkward making small talk.”

“Oh great,” Shane complains, pushing his palms into the railing’s concrete. Beyond them, the lights from the marina glint in an otherwise darkened sky, over the harbour and the sea, and whatever is beyond that. “Another thing the other-Shane is better at. Hockey. Contract negotiation. Small talk. What else?”

“Casual sex,” Rose offers.

“Fuck off,” Shane grumbles, poking her in the side.

Rose grins back at him, entirely unbothered. For a few minutes, they lapse into an easy silence, punctuated only by the rumble of other people’s conversations and the street sounds coming from down below. Shane keeps his gaze glued on the horizon, watching the water shimmer, reflecting gold streaks of the light.

“This is useless,” Shane mutters. The waiting is driving him insane. “We should just go. Maybe they skipped their own fucking event…”

Rose scoffs, “Don’t be silly.” She lifts another flute off a passing waiter, and Shane politely declines. When the waiter has flitted away, she adds, “They arrived about an hour ago and have been doing the rounds since.”

“What?” Shane exclaims. He jolts up, immediately turning around to scour the balcony. “You saw him? Do you think he knows I’m—we’re here?” 

Rose pins him with a pitying look over the glass. “Of course he knows. You think Svetlana didn’t tell him?”

“You didn’t point him out,” Shane snaps, pushing off the edge of the balcony and starting forward, only for Rose to lay a hand on his arm and pull him back. Sharp nails dig into his skin.

“Because you need to be cool,” Rose hisses. “This panicky energy is not it. Calm down,” she repeats; a phrase that has helped no person ever. Shane glares at her and he starts to pull forward again, until Rose adds, “He already saw you anyway.”

That stops him in his tracks. “What?”

Rose releases her grip on him. “Yes, when you were talking to that cute Swedish man.” 

Shane wracks his brain, finally drudging up the face of the longwinded, tedious, man from earlier who had bored him by talking about some prize-winning book he’d read earlier that month. Upon reflection, he had been relatively attractive, if dull. “He saw that?” 

“Yes,” Rose confirms, rolling her eyes. 

Shane can’t help but ask: “And?”

“And?” Rose repeats, then laughs. “And he stared waaay too long. So, congratulations Shane, I do believe your husband is interested here too.”

It’s a relief to hear; a weight lifting from his chest the second she says it. It’s been a struggle to process Ilya’s words from their first encounter— Hollander, there is no us and, there hasn't been an us for years— but here’s hope. He just has to convince Ilya—

“Or, he’s fascinated by whether you’ve completely lost your marbles,” Rose continues, breaking Shane’s train of thought.

“Rose!” Shane protests.

“It’s probably the first one, but, you know,” she continues, bringing her index finger next to her ear and rotating it in small, pointed, circles. “He did have a crazy person break into his house.” 

Her words are light, teasing— and also cut short as her gaze drifts over Shane’s shoulder. Instantly, her posture straightens, a polite, welcoming smile snapping into place on her face. Shane turns, just in time to suck in a breath and prepare himself minutely for the approach of the very man they were just discussing, flanked by his equally striking companion. 

The two of them slide effortlessly into their space, breaking the private bubble Shane and Rose had been sharing.  

Shane’s stomach flips.

“Svetlana,” Rose greets, brightly; brave enough to break the ice. “Brilliant event. The space looks beautiful.”

Svetlana smiles. Her own post-game smile. It’s polite and cautious; not overly friendly, but it’s not the one Shane knows she reserves for the people she truly can’t stand. This smile is somewhere in the middle— skeptical, but not mean-spirited, and yet, it doesn’t settle his stomach any. He also can’t stop staring at her hand resting on Ilya’s shoulder, the giant rock on her finger sparkling in the terrace lights. “Lovely of you to come… all this way.”

“Our pleasure,” Rose replies, and, having slid closer to Shane in intervening moment, pokes him in his side. 

“Um, yes.” Shane takes the hint, finishes lamely, “Great event.”

Ilya snorts, and Svetlana doesn’t even hide the way her lips twist, amused, as she turns her face towards Ilya and murmurs something to him in Russian, too fast for Shane to catch. The corner of Ilya’s mouth tilts up at whatever she’s told him.

“Yes, thank you. Unusual for any of the league to make it to this,” Ilya says; his own hands stay tucked in his pockets. 

Svetlana adds, “It is very unusual. Might make one wonder…”

“The arts are my passion,” Rose explains. “I’m the interested party. Shane—”

“Oh?” Svetlana arches a skeptical eyebrow. “So, Rose, you’re the one who is interested in something here?”

The words are faux-honey sweet and full of double-meaning, and Shane shrinks a bit on his spot. Svetlana’s fingers flex on Ilya’s shoulder and a horrible mix of emotions drips through him; no shortage of jealously, but, strangely, shame too. 

“Hmm,” Svetlana muses, when no one says anything further. She smooths the back of Ilya’s jacket and then links her arm back through his. “Well, much thanks for your donation tonight, Hollander,” she says, post-game smile back in place. “Hope you find what you’re looking for… Rose.”

Svetlana then turns and leads Ilya away from Shane and Rose, tucking her head closer to Ilya’s as they make their way back into the Salle proper, once again murmuring something low into Ilya’s ear as they do. 

“Well, at least your donation is welcome,” Rose surmises, stealing two more champagne glasses off a passing waiter and handing one to Shane, solemnly. 

*

Now that Shane knows Ilya’s here, his eyes rarely leave him. 

He tracks him as he supports Svetlana around the room: he applauds enthusiastically after her short speech announcing the closure of the art auction—which Rose had, to prove a point, bid Shane’s money on—as the two of them had helped open up the dance floor, and now, as Ilya kisses Svetlana on the cheek, and begins to make his way across the room towards where the restrooms are located.

“Go after him,” Rose hisses, appearing at his shoulder.

“To the washroom?” Shane asks her, incredulously. 

“Yes!” Rose insists, nudging him forward with a swat of her hand at his side. “It’s late, people are starting to depart—this might be your only chance to get him alone.” 

Shane stares at her. “Isn’t that a bit… desperate?”

“So?” Rose counters, forcefully, “Aren’t you? Desperate?”

Shane pauses, swallows hard to clear the dryness in his throat. Across the room, Ilya pushes through one side of the double doors, pausing briefly to hold the door as a woman enters, then continuing on his way, the door falling closed behind him. Shane’s heart thumps in his chest. Drawing in a breath, he concedes, “Good point.”

Rose takes the glass he’s holding, and gestures with her eyes towards the door, jetting her chin out ever so slightly with the movement, hisses, “Go!”

Shane goes. 

*

“Hi.”

The door swinging shut behind Shane with a soft click, the only other sound in the room the water rushing from the tap where Ilya stands. His shoulder immediately tense, and Ilya turns, slowly, shaking water droplets off his hands as he does. Each droplet shimmers, reflecting the red flakes of the marble around them. He manages to swallow any surprise effectively, tone even when he rejoins, “Hollander.”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh?”

Shane glances around the bathroom, the few stalls doors are thankfully slightly ajar. It’s just the two of them; familiar, and yet not. He shifts his gaze back to Ilya, takes a few steps forward. “I made a mistake.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens a trace. Shane only notices as he’s been staring at that same face for over a decade; over a face-off dot and elsewhere, analyzing every and any single tic, running his hands over it, memorizing everything. 

“What kind?”

It’s here that Shane has a choice: launch into his spiel about where he’s come from and what they are there, or what this-Shane, here, might conceivably say. Settles on, “I shouldn’t have let you get married.”

“Hollander—”

“No,” Shane continues, taking a few more steps forward. “I should have said more. Not just sent one text. I should have made my feelings clear—”

“What text? You didn’t send a text,” Ilya interrupts, a micro-twitch of surprise wrinkling on his forehead.

Shane stops, just short of Ilya. He knows he too must look taken aback, but there’s so many things he doesn’t know about this world and yet, this is one he does know. There is a text, this-Shane cared enough to send something— you’re really getting married? says the text, he knows it. 

“No, I did.” Shane says reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket for his phone. 

He’s ready to offer this smallest proof up, to shove it in Ilya’s face, when Ilya repeats, “Hollander, stop. It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does,” Shane insists. “I loved you— I love you. You were supposed to come to the cottage. Fuck, Ilya. Let me prove it to you.”

“How?” He frustrated now, Shane can hear it. The barely concealed anger at the base of his tone. The way his jaw clenches, a small strain in his cheek. Corners of his mouth tipping downwards. Shane notes it all. “Hollander, it’s done. It doesn’t matter now.”

But it does. It’ll always matter. 

Shane takes another step closer, gently palms the contour of Ilya’s face, and kisses him. 

For a moment, Ilya seems to give in. Relaxes. Then, Shane feels Ilya’s jaw tense and he’s pulling away, flipping Shane easily to reverse their places. Shane lets himself fall back against the nearest wall. 

“Ilya.” Shane tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I should have fought for you— I am now. I love you—I want you. I always did.”

What follows is not exactly the reaction Shane had equipped himself for. He’d mentally prepared himself to face off with the Ilya from his house the other week, armed with his tactics of straight up rejection or irritation or confusion, or for their game to begin with a fight. But maybe he should have prepared himself for this— for Ilya’s mouth to set in a firm line and for his eyes to narrow and his energy to focus, directly on Shane, just like he’s stepping onto the ice.

“What? It’s that easy, is it?” Ilya challenges, crowding Shane against the wall. Ilya grabs Shane’s chin, holds him in place. "You going to get on your knees right here? You that confident in your insane dream that you're willing to do that? Here?” His fingers tense against Shane’s jaw. “With all those people, and Rose Landry, and my wife right outside."

"Yes," Shane responds, immediately, changing his own game plan. It’s an adjustment, but he can redraw on the fly. Plus, beyond the bravado, Shane can sense how fast Ilya's heart must be beating. How this challenge is a test, coming from a place of deep insecurity. He knows Ilya, better than anyone. Knows how much of the courage is a front. How much of it is just daring Shane to be the first to back down. 

Well, Shane won't be. 

They weren’t rivals for nothing, Shane knows how to beat Ilya at his own game.

"Is that what you want?" Shane continues, parrying the challenge right back. His gaze might be locked in place, but he lowers his hands, reaching for Ilya’s belt, and starting to slide it out of the first loop. “As I want.”

Ilya lifts an eyebrow in another challenge, drops his eyes down the length of Shane’s body and tenses two fingers against Shane’s jaw. “Get on with it then.”

Shane finishes sliding the belt from the loop, unsheathes the prong from the notch. He pushes his other hand up under Ilya’s shirt, sliding fingers across warm skin, and then starts to shift his weight to make his way to his knees. He moves to sink down.

Ilya drops his hand from Shane’s chin. 

“What the fuck, Hollander?” Ilya lets out a rapid succession of Russian expletives, as he backs away. It almost makes Shane smile. “You’re insane.” 

There’s surprise, maybe some panic, in Ilya’s eyes, as he backs away and glances at Shane warily from across the bathroom, as he rethreads his belt. His walls seem to go up again, as he watches Shane for any further sudden movements. Shane doesn’t move a muscle, and once Ilya’s righted his clothing, and without another word, he makes his way out of the bathroom, throwing Shane one last confused look. 

And then Shane is alone. His pulse is racing. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and tries to picture his-Ilya: sprawled out half on top of Shane in their bed at the cottage, breathing deeply, calmly, with his face tucked into Shane’s neck and Shane’s fingers tracing the length of his back. Home.

Breathes to centre himself, then heads back out into the throng of people.

*

“Come with me,” a brisk voice says behind him, and Shane looks back just in time to see Ilya move past him. He pauses long enough to whisper the words before taking long strides towards the door at the other end of the Salle Belle Époque. 

Shane doesn’t hesitate, his body already moving to follow Ilya across the room before he can think. He sends Rose a text as he moves— leaving. with him.— and he’s not even at the end of the room when his phone buzzes in his hand again, an array of thumbs up emojis and the words try to not sound crazy! followed by SEE YOU AT HOME!! in capital letters with exclamation marks. 

Ilya’s already climbing the spiral staircase when Shane slips out the door of event room. Shane follows quickly, trying to formulate a game plan in his head—Where I’m from, we’re married. Scott Hunter won the cup, and he kissed Kip on television, and you came to the cottage and we admitted we were in love and now—there’s no way that doesn’t sound crazy, Shane thinks, as he catches up to Ilya after three spins of the spiral staircase. Shane sucks in a deep breath; Ilya says nothing, just opens the door to a suite and pulls Shane inside. 

And then Ilya kisses him.

“Wha— fuck—” Shane protests against Ilya’s mouth, confused, yet unable to stop kissing him to form full words. 

Ilya holds him against the wall, slides his hands up Shane’s chest, stopping right at the lapel of his suit jacket and creasing it between his fists. “You said you wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Yes—”

“OK, then. Me too,” Ilya murmurs, and then he’s kissing him again, pushing Shane’s jacket off at the same time and Shane gives in. 

They undress in a rush. Formalwear discarded to the floor, entirely too hurried. Like they’re stealing time together again. Shane hasn’t felt this sort of urgency from Ilya in years, not since the last time they were slinking around in hotels rooms, not knowing when the next time they’d have this would be. Each touch feels like Ilya’s trying to retrace things he’s forgotten; nothing like the sure, confident touches of his own-Ilya, of his husband. There’s an uncertainty about it that comes from years without this. 

For Shane’s part, he doesn’t have that uncertainty and each of his touches are confident, possessive. It’s Ilya— his, doesn’t matter where they are, he knows this man. If there’s something he can prove he knows, it’s this: Ilya is Shane’s. 

Everywhere.

“Fuck,” Ilya gasps, as Shane rolls his hips down, pressing into him. Shane runs his tongue over Ilya’s collarbone and feels Ilya’s whole body shiver with the sensation. “Hollander—”  is gasped, as Shane flips Ilya on the bed and makes his slow way down his torso, taking his time to plant reverent licks and kisses and small nips in all the places he knows so well, before filling his mouth with Ilya’s cock and reminding him, like this.

*

Later, sat on the suite’s balcony, with the clock encroaching on six in the morning, Shane can’t help, maybe in part because he knows how he’d be feeling, but ask, “What’s Svetlana going to think?”

“It’s not that type of marriage, Hollander,” Ilya responds, immediately, reaching out with a bare foot to tap Shane’s. There’s a chill to the morning air, and Ilya’s shrugged on some sort of robe over his briefs; Shane’s back in his trousers and shirt, unbuttoned as it is. “She knows. Is okay with it.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed. “If it’s not— like that… why are you married at all?”

Ilya shrugs. Nonchalant, like the whole thing hasn’t been tying Shane up in knots. “Is easier. Sveta’s father is traditional. And became very powerful in Russian Government, after hockey. Is easier to justify his only daughter living in America if she is there with her husband.”

“Oh.”

“But it works for us.” Ilya raises a cigarette to his lips and lights it. Laughs, “In Russia we are real married.”

“Oh.” Shane intones again. It’s an explanation to one of the things he’s needed, but it still leaves the other, perhaps bigger, question. So, he asks, anxious, “And what about us?”

Ilya’s slow to answer, exhaling a long snake of smoke. “Hollander, there was—there is no us.” 

Shane’s stomach tenses, but he fights to keep his expression flat. Keeps his eyes on the horizon, and not on Ilya. He doesn’t want to frighten Ilya away, again, with insistence that he and Ilya are married, somewhere else. Not like the last time.

Ilya continues, teasing but there’s an edge to it, a sort of a question. “This”—he gestures between them, then back at the disheveled bed—“This isn’t your imaginary dream world.”

It’s not a dream! Shane wants to scream at him. This isn’t real—my world, my world is.

“We would have found a way,” Shane insists, quietly, instead, thinking of a kiss on the ice, of the cottage, of charities, and elaborate plans. “It was hard, but worth it— would have been hard,” he corrects, staring out over the buildings where there's a soft light starting to appear at the lowest point.

Ilya scoffs, tapping the cigarette against the ashtray. "A fantasy, Hollander."

"It's not just us… in the NHL. Scott Hunter—"

"Was a coward too," Ilya finishes, dryly. 

Shane finally twists his head to look at him. "You're not a coward, Ilya."

"Well, I'm a self preserving bastard then." He flicks the cigarette again and looks back at Shane, murmurs, "Must have been a nice hallucination."

"Ilya," Shane starts, ready to launch into whatever he needs to, for however long he needs to, to make him understand. That somewhere—in Shane's somewhere—they did make it work. And it was so worth it. Even with all the challenges: the hiding, the secrets, the lying, being outed. Even if he still wants to throttle his-Hayden sometimes when he sees him, and even if he resents that every post-game he's given this year contains pointed questions about his sexuality, and his lies, and even if half the league thinks he’s an uncompetitive cheat, and even if he knows that the checks from other players around the league are harder this year, more punishing—even then, it was worth it. They were worth it. 

Ilya was. 

He’s going to say all of that, except, Ilya's phone rings. And then Ilya's putting out his cigarette and digging into the pocket of the robe to unearth his phone. He stands, turning his back to Shane as he picks up the call, despite the early morning hour. 

Shane sits quiet against the wall, all of his explanations dying on his lips. 

“Papa?” 

Shane’s brain short-circuits, stopping in place and fixating on that single word. His head whips around, unsure if he heard correctly, and then listening as Ilya launches into Russian, voice gentler than Shane’s ever heard it. There’s a moment, where Ilya laughs, clearly amused by something said on the other end.

Papa.

The word rattles around in Shane’s brain, blocking out any other noises from the hotel or the sounds of early-morning life from the streets. Just: Papa, Papa, Papa.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks, a moment later, and Shane pulls himself out of his trance and looks up at the man who is his husband, but also isn’t.

Shakily, Shane says, “Yes, of course,” and takes Ilya’s outstretched hand, letting Ilya pull him to his feet. Ilya’s hand is warm in his, and Shane forces himself to focus on that, as Shane asks, bravely, “That was your dad?”

“Oh?” Ilya smirks, so familiar. A eyebrow quirks. “You know Russian word for father?”

Shane should roll his eyes or smack him, or do something to rebuke Ilya for the teasing, but he can’t bring himself to when his heart is beating so fast in his chest. Says, instead, “Of course.”

“Yes, my father,” Ilya agrees, looking at Shane a bit strangely. “Is early in Moscow too, but he does not care— wants to know how Sveta’s event went. You know how dads are, as they get older.”

I do, Shane should say, but can’t, the words stuck in his mouth, along with, You do too. But, with my dad. Shane opens his mouth, not sure what will come out until the very moment it does, and then the words that tumble out are, “He’s alive?”

Ilya stares at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion, as he confirms, slowly, “Yes…”

“Oh,” Shane says, stupidly, not quite able to bring his eyes up to where Ilya’s are boring into him. “Your mom too?” He can’t help himself from asking the question, and he regrets it instantly as Ilya drops his hand, severing their connection. 

“What?” Ilya gets out, in Russian. Shane’s brain barely makes the translation. “No,” he continues, in English, for Shane’s alleged benefit, “She died— Hollander, you know this.”

“Right,” Shane agrees, because he does know. That part, at least. Irina Rozanova, Ilya’s mother. Still dead, even here. Shane stomach churns. “Are you… close… with your dad?”

Ilya hums. He sticks his hand into the other pocket, taking out his pack of cigarettes and unsheathing a new one. He lights it. “Is better, now, than when I was younger.” Ilya takes a drag, pausing, as if he’s considering, and Shane forces himself to look back at him. “He has mellowed some. And he likes Sveta,” he continues, shrugging. He offers Shane a tilt of a smile. “Is mostly good. Most of the time.”

Shane’s stomach feels like it’s been flooded with weeds, threatening to strangle him from the inside out. He can’t breathe, not enough to say anything in response to Ilya’s news, and thankfully he doesn’t need to come up with anything because Ilya takes a step towards him, and crowds Shane against the railing of the balcony, and leans in to kiss him again, thumb grazing Shane’s stomach, dipping just below the waistline of his pants. 

Despite everything, Shane can’t help but respond, kissing back immediately, gripping at the Ilya’s robe, as here, he can.

“What are you doing to me, Hollander?” Ilya murmurs against his lips.

The words are frozen water, poured over him. 

Shane pulls back, watching the beginnings steaks of the sun poking out overtop of the buildings. It’s as illuminating as the words, a spotlight directly on what Shane is doing. Shane tucks his face into Ilya’s shoulder, breathes in deeply, then whispers, regretfully, “I should go.”

*

Rose finds him, awake despite the hour, on the couch. She shuffles through the living room wrapped in a dark blue robe, its belt tied in a loose, uneven knot at the side of her waist, her hair flattened on one side from sleep and a wild tangle at all other angles. Rose rubs her eyes with the back of one hand, before sitting down beside him. 

Her face softens with concern. “Hey, you okay?”

"I think I'm making a mistake, Rose,” Shane murmurs, staring down at the pale bands of morning falling over the coffee table book in front of them.  Shane presses his palms into his eyes and exhales, long and regretful. His heart is pounding—Papa, Papa, Papa, echoes. He tries to breathe. “His dad’s alive.”

“Okay…” Rose says, exhausted and tender, but there’s a question in there. She brushes a stray lock of hair off his forehead. 

“This-Ilya…  his dad is still alive. He called. Ilya laughed.” Shane can’t unhear it, can’t get that singular sound out of his head: Papa. The sound of his laugh. Shane’s never heard that before, not in reference to Ilya’s father. “Rose, he can go to Russia. See his family. His mom's grave..." Shane glimpses Rose eyes, watching him, carefully. “My Ilya doesn't have any of that."

"But he has you.” 

She looks so earnest that Shane almost wants to crumble; instead she pulls him against her and Shane lets himself rest there, curled on the couch, until he’s swept out to sleep.