Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Montreal Voyageurs. Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Boston Bears (Game Changers), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Idiots in Love, Competence Kink, Concussions, More Injuries Than I Was Expecting, Internalized Team Culture Is Definietly The Villain Here, Rivals To Lovers To Possibly Manslaughter, This Is Definitely AU But Even I Don't Know The Timeline Anymore, This Author Really Doesn't Know How To Tag, Is This Is What Hurt And Eventual Comfort Looks Like, Some Of These Tags Should Definitely Already Exist, This Is About Hockey But Also Not About Hockey AtAll, Skating Through Emotional Damage, Russian Pet Names Spoken Under Arena Lights, Emotional Repression (Professional Level), They're Going To Have To Talk About It Eventually, Iya Rozanov Has Entered His Villain Arc, Coming Out, Accidental Coming Out, Accident Acquiescence Of A Rival Captain, I've Been Reliably Informed That My Lagging Is Unhinged And I Now Live To Be Worthy Of It, Shane Hollander Canonically Speaks Russian In TLG And I Plan To Abuse The Hell Out Of That Knowledge, Shane Hollander Will Set Himself On Fire Before Complaining, The League Will Absolutely Fumble This, The Bears Will Not, It's Not Kidnapping If He Consents First, (it kinda is), himbos, I Swear There Was Supposed To Be Plot In Here Somewhere, Apparently I need to add that this is not AI, Which Is So Bizarre To Me But Okay (Affectionate), the author is british, Which Apparently Now Needs To Be Added As A Warning For Some People, The Characters Are OCC…That’s Kinda The Point (Apparently Also Needs To Be Added As A Warning), Please Stop Assuming I’m Enough Of An Adult To Have An Update Schedule, Take Two, Artos and Luke Are Roomates, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, The OCs Are Still My Favourite, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, They Share One Brain Cell And Shane Is Hoarding It, Shane Hollander Needs To Be Bitten Affectionately, Ilya Rozanov Bites As A Love Language And You Can Fight Me On That, Ilya Would Kill For Him But More Importantly He Would Sit Still For Him, Possessive Behaviour But In A Romantic Way?, “I Hate Everyone” “Everyone?” “Obviously Not Shane Don’t Be Stupid”, They’re Each Other’s Worst Coping Mechanism, The Word Count Isn't Actually That Long It's Just Overinflated Because I'm Shit At Coding

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of (We Could Be) Something Great

Collections:

Annonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-16 Updated: 2026-05-21 Words: 230,038 Chapters: 13/?

(We Could Be) Something Great

Summary

When Ilya Rozanov goes down on the ice, the Boston Bears are already moving to defend their captain. No one expects Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, to be the one who throws the first punch.

Or: the Boston Bears figure out Ilya and Shane's relationship first-and decide that instead of letting their captain move to Ottawa, they'll just kidnap his boyfriend instead. Shane Hollander would make a better Bear anyway.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Time is a sandbox, and none of the events of HR or TLG has officially happened here. So, let's delve into the idea that our boys are just as committed—but with a slightly healthier communication style. Also, there's CSS elements in this story, so hover/click on things and see if you find the hidden stuff!

Edit: I had a small accident where the fic got deleted, and I'd really rather we all pretend it didn't happen 😭 but if you left comments on the original, please know I read and appreciated every single one! Feel free to yell at me again.

Edit 2: There's been a small update to this chapter, which is currently the only one where you can hover over the words for the English translation. I'll get around to doing the other chapters eventually, but right now it's just Chapter 1 and 13.

Chapter 1

Shane Hollander Verses The Voyageurs
...Err, The Bears?

Ilya Rozanov loved playing against Shane Hollander almost as much as he loved fucking him.

Not that anyone in the arena would ever guess it from the way he drove Shane shoulder-first into the boards. He followed through on the check a second later, crashing in behind him with enough force to rattle the plexiglass under their combined weight.

Shane’s mouth opened on a sound that never quite made it out, swallowed by the sudden roar of the crowd as they all surged to their feet. Twenty thousand people turned toward the collision, already cheering, but Ilya barely registered it. 

The arena blurred into noise and motion, everything narrowing down to the way Shane’s body went still beneath him. The way he tensed, ready to push back—only for the fight to ease out of him when he realised who, exactly, had him pinned to the boards.

For a second, Ilya thought he might actually groan when Shane pushed back into his chest. He was pretty sure he was panting in Shane’s ear—though he could probably blame that on the brutal shifts.

He honestly had no idea how Shane was managing to keep up when Pelletier kept putting him out for shifts easily two or three times longer than everyone else’s. But even when he was tired and sore and pushed to the absolute edge of his endurance, Shane Hollander was still the most dangerous player on the ice.

And he belonged to Ilya.

The thought made him almost dizzy. Because Shane had belonged to him from the moment he'd caught those pretty brown eyes watching him from across the ice in Saskatchewan. When he’d recognised the way they flicked away every time he caught him—until, slowly, Shane had started holding his gaze longer, something challenging settling in them that had nothing to do with hockey.

And maybe it was just the thrill of chasing something he already knew was his, but Ilya couldn’t help the way his grip tightened as he pressed in a little harder. Shane’s spine arched under his forearm, still trying to throw him off, though Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if he was doing it on purpose.

Because, sure, their gear kept them from being pressed skin to skin. But the sight of that familiar body yielding to him—fuck—he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his expression from slipping into something that would give them both away.

He knew, of course he fucking knew, that he absolutely should not be letting himself fantasise about fucking Shane against the wall in this position later, when they both made their own way back to Shane’s Montréal apartment. Or, at the very least, he shouldn’t be thinking about it in the middle of a fucking grudge match.

And yet, for a single heartbeat, it was all he could think about as the world narrowed to the familiar shape of Shane’s body trapped under his. And maybe he held Shane against the boards for a moment longer than he needed to—just to feel the subtle way Shane leaned into him.

Some that felt an awful lot like triumph flared in his chest. Because after chasing Shane across the ice during every shift they’d shared, Ilya had finally caught him—and an absolutely insane part of him never wanted to let him go.

But he knew the cameras were on them. Somewhere in the crowd—or high above it—their lenses were already zooming in to capture the moment for viewers at home, with no idea what was actually happening right in front of them.

Ilya could almost imagine the commentators leaning forward in their booths, already framing the collision as yet another brutal chapter in the rivalry between the captains of the Montréal Voyageurs and the Boston Bears.

“Did you hear that?” Ilya asked as another whistle cut through the roar of the crowd.

He leaned in anyway, pressing his visor against the damp fabric at Shane’s shoulder, and felt the shiver that ran through him in response. “Are you putting on a show for them, Hollander?” He murmured, unable to keep the grin out of his voice when he felt the sharp inhale Shane tried to swallow down. “Or just for me?”

The crowd was still roaring, their voices a wall of sound that turned deafening as Shane got his skates back under him.

“Don’t be a dick,” Shane shot back, shoving at him hard enough to knock him off balance.

Ilya laughed when he stumbled, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the crowd. Their helmets knocked together as Shane turned, shrugging off Ilya’s forearm now that he wasn’t pinned anymore. And there it was—that look. Those dark eyes that always got under Ilya’s skin in ways he tried very hard not to think about during games.

Their visors scraped together as they fought for the puck, the sound absurdly intimate for what they usually allowed on the ice, and Ilya knew he should probably back off. They were trapped against the boards now, the puck jumping uselessly between their skates with no room for either of them to break free without giving up possession first.

He knew he was risking Montréal’s referees calling him out for interference or roughing or whatever else they decided to invent tonight. But Shane was still glaring at him like he wanted to start a fight, and Ilya had never once been smart around the things he wanted.

So instead, he leaned in closer and smiled where only Shane could see it. “You skate slow today, captain,” he murmured, his accent thicker than usual. “Maybe still tired from last night.” His hand tightened against Shane’s hip before he finally let go. “Should I take it easy on you?”

Shane huffed out a breathless laugh, his shoulders shifting as his eyes darted across the ice, searching for someone he could make a pass to. But there was no one close enough for that play to work.

There rarely was, Ilya thought. The Voyageurs had a bad habit of leaving a wide gap around their captain, leaving him open to cheap hits even when he was the only one generating an offence for them. Shane was often alone on the ice, and even if he kept trying to minimise it, Ilya knew that behaviour had started bleeding into their locker room as well.

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane muttered, though the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

Before Ilya could stop himself, his gloved hand slid back to Shane’s hip, pulling him in again. He felt the tremor in Shane’s breath and, for one stupid second, almost forgot where they were.

“Ah. You need reminding how to be a good boy, dayes?” Ilya said, his lips curving into a mocking smile. “You forget how to behave when you play against the Bears. So aggressive today, solnyshkosunshine.” His gaze flicked briefly to Shane’s mouth before returning to his eyes. “Is very attractive.”

“Ilya,” Shane warned, already flushed beneath the visor.

Ilya wondered, sometimes, how thousands of people could watch them circle each other like this every game and still never understand what they were seeing. “You should be told how pretty you are more often,” he murmured. “You're very pretty when you blush.”

“Ilya,” Shane repeated, though the warning in it softened when Ilya smiled at him again.

Ilya followed Shane’s gaze as it darted across the ice, and he frowned when he noticed the Voyageurs had left that same gap around their captain again. They’d drifted too far ahead on the rush instead of giving him any real support to work with, and it left Shane stranded with no passing lane.

It also, ironically, left him completely defenceless against Ilya’s flirting. None of the Voyageurs even realised what Ilya was doing, because none of them were close enough to fucking stop him.

“Your team should be playing with you,” he muttered, unable to keep the growl from his voice as he glared toward Olsson and Berkes. Both of them rolling their eyes at something Drapeau had just bitten out, mostly under his breath, but it was still loud enough for a few of the Voyageurs nearby to laugh.

The way they all looked at Shane after carried that same ugly, familiar edge as the rest of the bullshit Shane kept pretending didn’t bother him.

“Your shifts are longer than theirs,” Ilya continued, his gaze narrowing slightly, “but they look like they’re the ones struggling to keep up?” He exhaled sharply, the next words coming out in Russian. “Tvoya komanda—yobanaya shutka, solnyshko. Ty yedinstvennoye khorosheye, chto u nikh yest’, a oni etogo dazhe, blyad’, ne vidyatYour team is a fucking joke, sunshine. You are the only good thing they have, and they don’t even fucking see it.”

His jaw tightened as he watched them again, tracking the lazy positioning, the missed reads, the way they left Shane to cover for mistakes that should never have existed on a team that had won three Stanley Cups in the last ten years. It made something ugly coil in his chest, because they weren’t just failing Shane. They were acting like he was the problem, when they were the only ones who’d apparently forgotten what Shane had done for their fucking team.

Didn’t they understand what his name meant? Or how many teams would kill for the chance to steal him from Montréal?

“Works out better for the Bears if they keep acting like idiots,” Shane said, snorting when Ilya huffed under his breath.

His expression only twisted into something more annoyed when, somewhere in the lower bowl, someone let out a loud, piercing wolf whistle. The sound cut through the arena, sharp enough to drag Ilya’s attention outward.

Another whistle echoed it almost immediately, this time from one of the referees, who was already skating toward them. “Keep it moving!” He barked, his narrowed gaze flicking between the eighty-one and twenty-four stitched across their jerseys.

He looked unimpressed, but laughter rippled through the crowd as they cheered. No doubt thinking it might turn into a fight between the rival captains.

“Either separate or we’re resetting at the dot.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed at the referee, irritation flashing across his face. And Ilya’s grip tightened again, reluctant to let Shane go even with the warning. A dozen excuses flickered through his mind and burned out just as fast, because—fuck it—he wanted Shane closer. He wanted to lean in and kiss him against the glass. Wanted to let the world see exactly what it was cheering for.

“Rozanov!” The referee warned.

Ilya sighed in annoyance.

“You’re gonna get us both a penalty,” Shane muttered, knocking his shoulder into Ilya’s.

There was something in Shane’s expression that made Ilya’s pulse stutter in his throat, only to begin racing twice as fast immediately after. There was always something reckless about him on the ice, something that pushed back just as hard as Ilya did when anyone else would have backed down. And how could Ilya not want to—

Shane grunted as he tried to pin Ilya’s stick against the boards and kick the puck free. “Oh, c’mon,” he muttered when Ilya rolled his wrist, keeping the puck trapped between his stick and the boards no matter how Shane tried to pry it loose.

Ilya leaned harder into Shane’s shoulder, skates planted firmly against the ice as a grin pulled at his mouth. God, he was beautiful like this. Frustrated and flushed and glaring at him like he was also trying very hard to remember they were in the middle of a game.

“You are very pretty when you’re desperate, Hollander,” Ilya murmured, his voice low enough that no one else would hear it over the noise of the arena. “Is not bad thing to lose to the Bears. Many teams do.” He felt Shane shove harder against him in response and only smiled wider. “Do not worry, solnyshkosunshine. I will, ah—make it up to you later. DaYes?”

“Behave, Ilya,” Shane said, his eyes flicking toward the referee, who already had his whistle poised between his lips. “And fuck you. We’re in the fucking lead.”

Ilya followed the glance for half a second, then looked back at Shane. If they’d been anywhere else, he was pretty sure he would’ve dropped to his knees right there just to hear Shane say his name again.

“Hm,” he murmured, pressing his shoulder harder into Shane’s when Shane tried to dig the puck free again, refusing to give him even an inch. “Make me,” he said, right before he drove Shane straight back into the plexiglass.

The impact tore through both of them, skates biting into the ice as Shane’s breath hitched—and yes, maybe Ilya had timed it exactly for that. The puck was knocked loose somewhere between them, momentarily forgotten as their bodies pressed closer than the play strictly required.

“Ugh, fuck you,” Shane muttered, the sound dropping low in his throat.

And Ilya—fuck—how the fuck was he supposed to focus after hearing that? The only other time Shane’s voice sounded that wrecked was when Ilya was fucking into him. When Shane was already all flushed and shaking beneath him, making all those helpless little sounds like he couldn’t hold them back anymore.

The thought of anyone else hearing him like that made something possessive twist in Ilya’s chest. No one else was supposed to get that version of Shane. It was his. And the instinct to hoard it, to keep it locked away somewhere no one else could touch it, hit him hard enough that Ilya’s grip tightened around his stick for a second.

But it was swallowed almost immediately by the memory of the last time Ilya had heard that sound. Which had only been last night, but that just meant the memory was still fresh enough that he could almost feel Shane’s skin against his instead of the layers of gear separating them now.

For one perfect, agonising second, Ilya remembered having his hands on Shane’s hips instead of the stick clenched beneath his gloves. He could almost hear the way Shane’s voice had kept catching every time Ilya fucked his tongue into him. And, if he let himself think about it any longer, he’d start remembering the way Shane’s thighs had trembled beneath his hands. The way he’d thrown his head back with a sound so desperate that Ilya had nearly come right there on his knees.

Ilya swallowed hard, almost certain the ache still lingering in his throat came from the way Shane had fucked himself into it. It was—fuck—he was letting himself get distracted again, wasn’t he?

But it was difficult not to when Shane moved like that. When Ilya could still remember the way Shane had clung to him when Ilya finally fucked him, the way he’d arched into every thrust, impatient and demanding and so fucking beautiful about it that Ilya had barely been able to think straight then either.

The memory flashed behind Ilya’s eyes so vividly he nearly groaned out loud, barely managing to catch himself at the last second. “Later,” he muttered under his breath, only to get distracted all over again when Shane made another frustrated sound against the boards.

Fuck. He had to be doing it on purpose, right?

“I swear you do this on purpose,” Shane hissed through clenched teeth, looking as distracted as Ilya felt.

The crowd erupted into cheers a moment later, the sound crashing back into Ilya all at once. It hit almost as hard as the plexiglass still rattling beneath his shoulder and, for a split second, everything seemed to blur together.

He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing from his ears when Shane—who Ilya was becoming increasingly convinced had been put on this earth specifically to make him lose his fucking mind—used the opening to break free.

Ilya refused to be impressed by the move, but he couldn’t help thinking—of course he’d turn getting pinned into the boards into a fucking zone entry. He watched him twist away with a sharp roll of his hips, the puck hooked to his blade as he tore down the ice like Ilya had never had him pinned at all.

All Ilya could do was stare after him, briefly stunned by the sheer audacity of Shane getting him all worked up like this only to skate away like a fucking coward.

“BlyatFuck,” he groaned, already pushing off to chase after him.

He closed the gap in four hard strides, the muscles in his legs burning as he cut straight through the lane Shane had just opened up. There was barely enough room to slip his stick beneath Shane’s, but he still managed to steal the puck clean off his blade with a quick, arrogant little flick.

Their sticks cracked together when Shane tried to block the lift, the puck jumping loose between them. Satisfaction flared in Ilya’s chest as it slid directly into his path, and he saw the play unfold in his head before he’d even fully reached it.

Cliff was close enough to take the pass, which meant Ilya could use him to create some space between Shane and the puck and force Montréal back on the defensive. And maybe, finally, they’d break the suffocating pressure that had kept Boston down three to one.

His skates bit hard into the ice as he turned with the puck, already tracking the movement of everyone around him as he mapped out the ice. Victor was open near the far boards. And Luke was staying close to Brad by the net, trying to reinforce their defence before Montréal could collapse on them again. He could probably—

Shane slammed into him with a brutal pivot before the thought could finish forming. The hit went straight through him as Shane’s shoulder drove into his side, forcing him off balance while Shane stole the puck right off his stick.

The impact forced all the air straight out of Ilya’s lungs for one breathless second—and no, the hitch in his chest after had absolutely nothing to do with how fucking pretty Shane looked when he grinned at him.

“You’re getting slow, Rozanov,” Shane taunted, close enough now that the words seemed to press directly against the pulse in Ilya’s throat. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to take it easy after last night.”

And then he was gone again, before Ilya could even process what the fuck had just happened.

Shane still had that grin pulling at the corner of his mouth when he glanced back over his shoulder, his dark eyes bright beneath his visor. He was moving the puck back up the ice like he’d seen the play unfolding three moves ahead and had simply chosen the version where he won. Which—fuck—he probably had.

Ilya snarled under his breath and pushed off hard, his legs screaming in protest as he chased after him again. That look should have earned Shane a fucking penalty. There had to be a rule somewhere against deliberately distracting the opposing captain in the middle of a fucking game.

Though, Ilya admitted distantly, his team would probably laugh him out of the locker room if he ever said any of that out loud. But there was no other explanation for the calculated misuse of those eyelashes and that infuriating fucking mouth. All of it carefully folded beneath the near-perfect mask of Captain Hollander™ that the rest of the league apparently took at face value.

Probably, Ilya thought, because they were all fucking idiots.

The restraint Shane showed on the ice was almost a crime in itself. The way he kept his expression locked down, like nothing ever got to him, while his eyes still lit up the second someone actually challenged him instead of just trying to survive a shift against him. The fact that a part of Ilya could only admire that level of control only made it worse.

“Ugh, why is it always fucking Hollander?” Marcus groaned from behind him as the Bears tried to force the play.

Ice sprayed under their skates as the Voyageurs finally seemed to remember they were meant to be playing hockey, not just standing around watching their captain do everything himself. They moved to intercept the Bears so Shane could make a clean break through the neutral zone—but there were too many bodies scrambling to close the gap now.

Victor went down hard from an elbow to the jaw. And Luke, somehow, managed to trip both himself and Berkes as they collided trying to recover. It all collapsed into a mass pileup near the blue line, but Ilya refused to let any of that stop him.

He vaulted cleanly over Berkes, who was still sprawled on the ice beside a laughing Luke, and drove his shoulder straight into Drapeau on the way past. The hit sent him crashing sideways into Hayden Pike, hard enough that both of them slammed awkwardly into the boards.

Even the Jumbotron flashing Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander in giant block letters didn’t pull his focus away. Though somewhere, distantly, he registered that the screen was replaying their second hit against the boards from three different angles, and that the crowd was roaring loud enough to rattle the glass.

All Ilya could see was the puck just ahead of Shane’s stick. The way his stride lengthened, edges biting into the ice as he cut around Marcus’s attempt to block him. He carried the momentum straight toward Brad in net without even glancing over his shoulder to check who was chasing him.

That, more than anything, made Ilya want to catch him. To drag his teeth over the tense muscle at the back of Shane’s neck and bite down hard enough to make him gasp. He probably would have last night, if Shane hadn’t been so worried about his team questioning the marks Ilya left behind.

And look—Ilya knew he’d been distracted for most, if not all, of the game. But he still should have noticed Cliff cutting straight toward them through the narrow gap in the Voyageurs’ defence, jaw clenched like he already knew this was going to be an ugly hit before he committed to it.

And Ilya definitely should have seen the way Gilbert Comeau’s eyes had locked onto Shane from the moment he stepped onto the ice. He’d only just come off the bench, taking over the shift from Olsson, but his blades were already biting hard as he drove straight toward them.

Fuck, Ilya thought, dragging the word out in his head as he realised all four of them were about to collide. Well—maybe it would just be three of them, actually. Cliff was still in the neutral zone, while Comeau was nearly on top of them by the time Ilya finally understood what was about to happen.

Ilya should have been bracing for the hit. He should have either stepped back to avoid it entirely or turned to take the impact on his shoulder, hoping his pads would take the worst of it. But there was something about the way Comeau’s eyes stayed locked on Shane instead of the puck that sent something cold down his spine.

There was no time to call out a warning by the time he finally realised that Comeau wasn’t aiming to intercept the play. No. He was heading straight for his own fucking captain.

And Ilya knew it wasn’t his place to interfere in another team’s internal bullshit, especially when it might give Boston the chance to even the scoreboard. Besides, Shane had taken worse checks before. Hell, he’d probably taken worse hits from Ilya himself.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t his team. Shane wouldn’t even want him to—

Ah, fuck it.

Ilya moved without thinking, the muscles in his legs screaming as he forced himself to close the remaining distance between them. There was a split second where he thought he wouldn’t make it. Comeau was too close, too fast out of the gate compared to Ilya lagging at the end of his shift. But he refused to be outpaced by a second-rate asshole like Comeau.

He dropped his shoulder and drove his whole body into Shane from behind, the impact knocking them both off balance as the puck skidded toward the boards.

Shane managed to stay upright, shooting Ilya an annoyed look over his shoulder as Brad dove headfirst for the puck. Which was—great, actually. The Bears needed a goal badly enough that even Brad had apparently decided abandoning the net was preferable to facing another one of Shane’s impossible-to-read shots.

Ilya caught himself a moment later, his skates biting hard into the ice—

And everything was fine. It was.

—right up until Comeau hit him at full speed.

The boards cracked when they collided with them, and Ilya had just enough time to think—absurdly—that maybe the padding would still take the worst of it, even if he hadn’t had time to prepare properly. But he knew the second Comeau hit him that they hadn’t absorbed enough to stop the impact from going straight to his ribs.

Pain tore down his left side from where he’d hit the boards. It folded him in on himself, legs giving out beneath him before he could even try to catch himself. And maybe he would have groaned, but the air had been punched out of his lungs all at once. When he tried to drag it back in, there was nothing—just a soundless grunt where a curse of Comeau’s name should have been.

His lungs kept trying to inhale anyway. Panic followed fast when they failed, rising up from his chest until it caught at the back of his throat. He forced himself to focus, to think past the pain and remember that it was just the shock of the hit. He’d taken worse before. The adrenaline would kick in at any second now and have him back on his feet—he just needed to remember how to breathe first.

On the ice, Ilya’s lungs finally expanded as air rushed back in to fill them.

He groaned, maybe a little in relief, but mostly because he was annoyed that Comeau, of all fucking people, had managed to knock him flat on his ass. He pulled in another shallow breath through clenched teeth but didn’t try to move yet. Maybe the ice would numb the ache in his ribs long enough for him to figure out whether he’d broken them or just bruised them. Then he could—

“Fucking asshole,” Comeau’s voice came from somewhere above him.

Ilya rolled his eyes. He just knew that bastard was going to be smug about this.

He turned his head slightly as Comeau skated backward, probably just so he could keep staring down at Ilya sprawled out on the ice. Comeau’s smirk pulled awkwardly at the split in his lip, probably from the collision—there was blood staining his teeth right before he spat a mouthful of it onto the ice beside Ilya’s shoulder.

“Stay down there where you fucking belong,” Comeau sneered, before adding a mangled, mocking attempt at Russian. “Russkiy skuaRussian bird.”

And fuck—his accent was atrocious. He’d also just called Ilya a fucking bird when he was clearly aiming for sukabitch, which honestly wasn’t even close to the worst thing Ilya had ever been called, on or off the ice. Still, he opened his mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but the only thing that came out was a rough, breathless laugh.

Ilya kept laughing until the pain in his side forced it out of him. And even then, it didn’t stop completely, just broke into breathless chuckles as he wrapped an arm across his chest to hold his ribs. It didn’t help much, but it felt better than not holding them at all.

“Can’t win in a fair game, so you play dirty?” Ilya tsked softly. “When was the last time you scored, Comeau?” He added, even though they both knew the answer was a lucky shot Comeau had made two seasons ago. “Or even got an assist? No?”

Ilya blinked slowly, feigning surprise as a grin pulled at his mouth. “Ah, do not feel too bad, sukabitch. Many players spend their whole careers trying to keep up with me.”

“Man, fuck you!” Comeau snapped.

Ilya rolled his eyes again, ignoring the way it made the world spin. Comeau could lie to himself all he wanted, but the hit had been dirty. The Boston crowd certainly seemed to agree, their boos rolling down from the stands, while the Montréal fans laughed at the sight of Ilya Rozanov dropped by one of their own.

He couldn’t even be annoyed at them for it. It was an away game, and the referees might as well have been skating in Montréal colours instead of stripes. No one in this arena was calling anything in Boston’s favour unless they absolutely had to. So no, he wasn’t expecting a raised arm or a whistle calling a penalty on Comeau.

Montréal might like to pretend they were above that sort of bias, always talking about honour and leading by example—but everyone knew they played just as dirty as everyone else in the league once the puck dropped. Ilya might have been able to respect them more if they at least owned up to it, but the only thing worthy of respect on their piece-of-shit team was their captain.

Ilya closed his eyes at that thought and finally let the relief settle beneath the ache in his ribs, because at least it hadn’t been Shane who'd been hurt.

“Comeau, you fuckin’ bastard,” Cliff roared from somewhere behind him, still skating toward them. Fury had twisted his expression into something that might have been terrifying, if only Ilya hadn’t spent years watching him act like a lovesick fool around his, admittedly terrifying, wife.

Ilya turned his head to look at him, and maybe he would have called out to tell him Comeau wasn’t worth the fine, but he was distracted by the sight of Ryan Carmichael vaulting over the boards to join Victor in squaring up to JJ Boiziau against the boards. One of the rookies scrambled after them a second later, the rest of the Bears moving all stepping out onto ice too—all of them looking like they’d just been waiting for a reason to drop their gloves.

For half a second, Comeau went pale. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by that same stubborn lift of his chin. Because everyone, Comeau included, expected someone to get hit after a play like that.

But no one expected it to come from Shane Hollander. Captain of the Montréal Voyageurs.

One second he was just standing there, jaw tight, dark eyes locked on Comeau. And then—his hand twisted into the front of Comeau’s jersey, yanking him forward with enough force to throw him off balance as he drove a punch straight into his jaw.

Comeau’s head snapped sideways, surprise wiping the smug look off his face as his skates went out from under him. Shane let go immediately, refusing to give him the dignity of holding him up after a hit like that. He watched him hit the ice with something like satisfaction in his eyes.

And Ilya found himself—well, stunned mostly. He searched Shane’s face for even the slightest flicker of regret or doubt, but there was none.

Oh, he thought, with the sudden, alarming realisation that—Shane was pissed. And not in the careful, controlled way he usually allowed himself to be, when he gave tight smiles and clipped answers to reporters who asked the same stupid questions in every post-game interview. No, this was more honest than anything else he’d ever allowed himself to show in public.

For a single, disorienting second, relief hit Ilya so hard it almost turned into laughter. Because Shane was finally angry. After months of holding it back when his teammates pushed too far in ways he pretended not to notice, he finally looked offended by it. No, he looked outraged. Like Comeau had crossed a line Shane had finally stopped trying to excuse.

It—probably shouldn’t have felt like a victory. But Ilya couldn’t stop the fierce, aching swell of affection that rose in his chest at the sight of Shane standing there, flushed with anger, glaring like he wanted to fight the entire world for daring to touch something that belonged to him.

“What the fuck is your problem, Comeau?” Shane snarled as Comeau stared up at him, eyes wide as he cupped his jaw.

Hands grabbed at Shane from behind as the Voyageurs’ defensemen tried to pull him back. Ilya could see the surprise on their faces when Shane didn’t move, even with three of them holding onto his arms and the back of his jersey, the fabric pulled taut as they tried to drag him away.

Everyone always seemed to forget that Shane might choose not to fight, but he was still over six feet and could throw a punch as well as any other professional hockey player.

Ilya’s eyes flicked back to Shane’s face. He looked calm enough, but his chest was rising and falling hard, pulling in sharp breaths around the mouthguard clenched between his teeth. His hand was trembling slightly now, still clenched at his side, but his eyes never left Comeau—not even when Hayden Pike forced his way through the other players and grabbed Shane’s shoulder, shaking it like he was trying to snap him out of whatever fury had taken hold of him.

“Shane, man—c’mon,” Hayden said, almost pleading.

“No,” Shane said, still glaring at Comeau.

He spat his mouthguard into his hand, his top lip curling back into a snarl that showed off all of his perfect teeth that had never once been knocked out and replaced after a fight—unlike Ilya, who had four veneers and was fucking proud of it. If either of them should have been fighting right now, it was him. Shane’s face was too pretty for Comeau to ruin. Not that he was doing much damage sprawled out on the ice.

“That was a dirty hit,” Shane said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the noise pouring down from the stands. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Comeau coughed, blood splattering onto the ice as he turned onto his side, groaning as a piece of enamel bounced against the surface before skittering off toward the boards.

And Ilya—should probably not have been as turned on as he currently was. But there was something very attractive about the way Shane looked standing over Comeau, willing to throw himself into a fight he barely knew how to finish just because someone had touched Ilya first.

His hair was damp with sweat beneath his helmet, curls sticking out at the edges, and his whole body was wound tight with adrenaline in a way Ilya recognised instantly. Shane looked dangerous like this, he thought. It wasn’t the carefully charming, media-trained version of him everyone knew. No, this was an angry, pissed-off version that had forgotten to worry about the consequences for one beautiful, stupid moment.

And fuck—Ilya loved him so much his chest didn’t feel big enough to hold it all.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Comeau spat at Shane as he tried to get his feet under him. One glove was pressed flat to his mouth as he pushed himself upright, only for his blades to slip out from under him again. “You down that bad for Rozanov you’re throwing punches for him now? Too busy sitting on his dick to remember what fucking team you play for, Hollander?”

“The fuck is wrong with your team, Hollander?” Ilya snapped before he could stop himself, glaring at Comeau as he tried to sit up. “They can’t even come up with good enough insults, they have to—”

“Sit the fuck down,” Shane said.

He wasn’t even looking at him when he said it, but Ilya dropped back onto the ice immediately anyway, biting down on the grin threatening to break across his face. Because Shane Hollander had just told him to stay down like he expected to be listened to, and Ilya obeyed without thinking about it for even a second. It was, ah—it was maybe a problem, but not one he particularly cared about dealing with right now.

Shane turned back toward Comeau just as the Montréal players trying to restrain him loosened their grip. Ilya probably could have warned them that was a bad idea, but then he wouldn’t have gotten the satisfaction of watching Shane punch Comeau again.

Comeau hit the ice hard for a second time, sprawling backward while one of the Voyageurs nearby made a choking sound that was definitely a laugh, before slapping a gloved hand over his mouth like he could somehow take it back.

“You’re a fucking embarrassment,” Shane told Comeau, finally stepping away. His shoulders stayed tight, his gloved hands flexing like he wanted to swing again. “Stay the fuck down before I put you there again, connardasshole.”

Fuck. Ilya was going to be thinking about this moment for the rest of his life. He hoped one of the fans had managed to get a good angle of the ice so he could rewatch it later—just so he could see the way Shane’s eyes flashed as he shrugged off the hands still grabbing at him, even shoving past Hayden when he tried to steer him farther away from Comeau.

Ilya watched, half-stunned and half-deliriously in love, as Shane skated away from the Voyageurs players gathered around the fight. He ignored the referee shouting after him about penalties, even ignoring Coach Pelletier yelling from Montréal’s bench. Instead, Shane took a single deep breath and turned toward him, skating straight in Ilya’s direction like there had never been another possible decision he could have made in that moment.

The Bears didn’t even try to stop him. They looked almost as shocked as everyone else that it was Shane Hollander™ dropping his gloves for their captain. Which, Ilya thought, was fair. Shane was famous for not fighting, and almost equally famous for his rivalry with Ilya.

Their surprise made sense, but it still wasn’t going to stop Ilya from mocking them for it later.

The entire arena seemed to inhale at once as Shane dropped to one knee beside him on the ice. His hands were braced against his thighs to steady himself, and he was close enough now that Ilya was almost certain he could smell the adrenaline still clinging to him.

He watched Shane’s fingers curl tighter against his own thighs, digging in hard like he was stopping himself from reaching out. Ilya knew he wouldn’t, because there were twenty thousand people watching them and a dozen cameras pointed at them from every fucking angle. Only—fuck it—Ilya didn’t care about that anymore.

His gaze dragged slowly over Shane, even though he knew Shane hadn’t been caught in the collision. Just like he knew the only person who’d managed to bruise Shane tonight had been Ilya himself—but he still had the irrational urge to check him over anyway.

Shane was fine, thankfully, which should have been reassuring enough to keep Ilya’s attention where it belonged. Instead, his gaze drifted down to the way the muscles of Shane’s thighs flexed as he shifted his weight. The Montréal kit was offensively tight around his legs—not even in a flattering way, either. Montréal somehow managed to make every player look vaguely miserable, like the jerseys themselves were punishing them for historical success.

But Shane’s thighs still looked unfairly good in them. All strong lines and controlled power and—fuck—they were so fucking beautiful they should have been illegal, even when they were hidden beneath Montréal’s ugly excuse for a kit. Which Ilya was convinced was the worst in the league, second only to the monstrosity of the Ottawa Centaurs’ logo.

Ilya’s thoughts derailed immediately after that—all he could think about was how those thighs would look wrapped around his waist. How they’d feel trembling beneath his hands. How easy it would be to pull Shane over him, settle him into his lap, and hold onto him while he kissed him and told him just how fucking beautiful he’d looked defending him like that.

“You good, Rozanov?” Shane asked, oblivious to every thought in Ilya’s head as he tugged one glove off with his teeth, then the other, his eyes never leaving Ilya’s face.

Ilya felt his mouth finally give in to the grin he’d been fighting since Shane told him to sit down. “Ah,” he said, his gaze catching on Shane’s swollen knuckles. “M’fine.”

Over Shane’s shoulder, the medics were already grabbing a bag and hauling themselves over the Boston side of the boards, but Ilya shot them a quick look and shook his head. They frowned, lowering the bag slowly, though the concern didn’t leave their faces.

Ilya resisted the urge to snort. His ribs still ached with every inhale, but it hardly felt important enough to stall the game like this. Though, he thought, he’d happily play it up if it meant Shane would keep looking at him like that.

“IlyushaIlya,” Shane said softly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Ilya’s smile slipped into something crooked. “Did you miss me, solnyshkosunshine?” He asked, leaning into Shane’s space. “Ah. I know, is okay. I’m very irresistible.” His grin widened slightly. “Even your team misses me so much Comeau tried to pin me down.”

Shane’s eyes flicked between Ilya’s before he finally seemed to realise the game Ilya was playing. He exhaled through his nose, his mouth settling into that familiar, irritated line as he rolled his eyes. “You’re such an asshole,” he muttered, but his voice was relieved.

Ilya watched Shane’s shoulders finally drop, the concern he’d been wearing so openly a moment ago folding itself neatly back beneath the mask of Captain Hollander. That was okay, Ilya thought. What wasn’t okay was when Shane’s hands braced to push himself back up, his thighs tensing as all those thick, beautiful muscles prepared to stand.

Ilya’s hand shot out before he thought it through, closing around the ankle of Shane’s skate. “Ostan’sya so mnoyStay with me,” he said in Russian. “Khotya by na mgnoveniye, solnyshkoJust for a moment, sunshine,” he added pathetically. “Mne, ah—nuzhno perevesti dykhaniyeI, ah—need to catch my breath?”

“Your breathing’s fine,” Shane said.

“Is not true. I am dying, no?” Ilya said, tilting his head back against the ice with an exaggerated groan of pain. “You must defend me from all of those bloodthirsty Voyageurs. That is your job, isn’t it—captain?” He tugged lightly on Shane’s skate, smiling when Shane shook his head and let out a sound that was almost a laugh.

“You’re going to get us caught one of these days,” Shane murmured as he dropped down onto the ice beside him. He had one leg bent underneath him, so his left skate pressed against the outside of Ilya’s thigh, and Ilya smiled. Because maybe he still couldn’t convince Shane to hold his hand in public, but he would take this instead.

“Hm.” He let his eyes close. “DaYes. Much better.”

He distantly registered the noise from the crowd starting to pick up again, and realised with faint amusement how absurd this must look to them. He could hear the Montréal side becoming unsettled somewhere to his left, their angry voices too distant to make out clearly. But the Boston side was louder, laughing as they chanted Shane’s name like they’d decided Shane belonged to them instead.

“Your name sounds better in black and gold,” Ilya murmured.

“You’re in your away kit, Ilya,” Shane scoffed. “You’re wearing fucking white.”

Ilya opened one eye just in time to catch Shane glancing toward the crowd behind the glass. The Boston fans were openly grinning now, some of them pounding hard enough against the glass to make it rattle. And they were still chanting Shane’s name with the kind of uncomplicated affection they usually reserved for their own players.

Shane looked genuinely confused by it, like he didn’t know what to do with all that attention. Because Montréal had apparently spent so long teaching him how to survive being watched that he no longer recognised what it looked like to simply be wanted.

“Hey. Keep those eyes open, Rozanov,” Shane snapped, nudging Ilya’s thigh with his skate when he closed his eyes again. “You close them and they’ll call concussion protocol. They’ll probably end up benching you for the rest of the game, which—fine. I hear the bench is pretty comfortable this time of year. Lots of warm towels. No Voyageurs.”

Shane frowned then, turning toward the Boston bench with growing irritation. His gaze swept across it like he expected someone to appear out of nowhere with a flashlight and a concussion protocol clipboard. “Where the fuck are your medics?” He muttered under his breath.

For a second, Ilya couldn’t understand why Shane suddenly looked so furious with the entire Bears medical staff. But then it clicked—

“SolnyshkoSunshine,” he said carefully. “I didn’t hit my head.”

“You don’t know that,” Shane shot back immediately. “You just—”

“I’m fine,” Ilya interrupted. “Shane, look at me,” he added, waiting until Shane’s eyes actually settled on him instead of darting back toward the Boston bench. “I’m fine,” he repeated, slower this time.

Under different circumstances, Ilya might have laughed. Or teased him for the little crease forming between his eyebrows. He might even have let Shane fuss over him for a while, just to see how long it took him to realize Ilya was fine and only wanted his attention.

But he could hear the fear hidden underneath the sarcasm now. He’d grown up around enough of it to recognise the sound of someone pretending to be calm while panic clawed at their insides.

“I promise,” Ilya said. “I’m not concussed. Just sore.” He gestured vaguely toward his ribs, then instantly regretted it when the movement pulled at his side. He hissed through his teeth before forcing himself to relax again, and it was only then that his own words caught up with him. “Ah—do not tell the Voyageurs, solnyshkosunshine,” he added quickly, frowning. “They are filthy cheats who will try to steal the game from us.”

Shane arched a brow at him. “Uh—are you forgetting that we’re already ahead in points?”

Ilya snorted, despite knowing it was going to fucking hurt. “Hm. But Shane Hollander is the only person who can score on the Voyageurs. He already got three goals all by himself—and he will be stuck in the penalty box now.” He let himself grin fully then, teeth flashing. “I think this game is ours, Hollander.”

“You wish,” Shane muttered.

Some of the tension finally started to drain from his shoulders. But he still looked down at his hands instead of at Ilya’s face when he spoke again. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I don’t—I know you can look after yourself, I just—” He shrugged awkwardly. “Worry, I guess.”

Ilya nodded slowly. “Mne tozheMe too,” he whispered.

The words slipped out before he could stop them, quiet enough that they should have disappeared beneath the noise of the arena. But Shane must have heard them anyway, because his eyes snapped back to Ilya immediately—open and searching in a way that made something ridiculously warm unfurl in Ilya’s chest.

For a second, he forgot how to breathe properly. But then he cleared his throat and forced himself to look away first. “Ah. Your punch was very good,” he said, because it was either that or accidentally confess his feelings in the middle of an NHL game, when they had both agreed, years ago, that coming out was a Bad Idea™.

It had been true at the time, and probably still was. But watching Shane throw a punch for him might have been one of the most romantic things Ilya had ever experienced.

Maybe one day, he thought, glancing back just in time to catch the slight tilt of Shane’s head.

“Which one?” Shane asked, his mouth pulling into a smile now. “I thought the second one was a bit sloppy.”

“Maybe,” Ilya admitted, before switching back into Russian. “No my mozhem porabotat’ nad etim etim letom na dacheBut we can work on that this summer at the cottage.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “You just want an excuse to get me under you again,” he muttered under his breath.

“DaYes,” Ilya replied immediately. “It is a stupid thing to even question, Hollander.”

Shane bit hard against the inside of his cheek, his shoulders shaking slightly as he tried not to laugh out loud, and Ilya found himself watching him instead of the ice. Which was stupid, probably. But it felt natural now, looking for Shane first. Like some part of him had quietly rearranged itself around the expectation of finding Shane looking back.

“Ty tam tak khorosho vyglyadelYou looked so good out there,” Ilya heard himself murmur, the words slipping into Russian halfway through without him meaning them to.

Shane blinked at him, visibly caught off guard by the comment. His face was still pink from the fight, his visor shoved crooked halfway up his helmet, breathing hard enough that Ilya kept getting distracted by the shape of his mouth every time he exhaled.

“Pravda, ah—Though, ah—” Ilya smiled helplessly. “Mozhet, tebye stoit ostavit’ draki mne, yesli khot’ odin iz nas khochet zavtra vybrat’sya iz posteliMaybe you should leave the fighting to me, if either of us wants to get out of bed tomorrow.”

Shane ducked his head slightly, his mouth twitching as the flush spread higher across his cheeks. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to reinforce bad behavior,” he mumbled.

Ilya watched him glance away, still smiling despite himself, and a sudden, ridiculous rush of affection hit him so hard it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs all over again.

“You know,” Shane added as he looked back at him, “it’s really not fair when you talk in Russian to me.” He laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head. “Especially when we’re in public and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Ilya laughed before he could stop himself.

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane said, though he was still grinning as he nudged Ilya’s thigh again with his skate. “I hope they do bench you.”

“You have no chance of benching me this season,” Ilya said. “Like fuck I’m letting you take the Stanley Cup home.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Or leaving you alone with those idiots you call teammates.”

“They’re not that bad,” Shane said, looking away from him again.

“SolnyshkoSunshine—”

“Hollander!” Cliff’s voice cut across him before Ilya could finish. He turned to watch him skating toward them, and Shane looked over too—but only when Cliff stopped beside them with a spray of ice. “Hey,” he said, grinning down at them. “You realise you’re not supposed to hit your own players, right?”

For a second, Ilya thought Shane might not answer him at all. His attention had already snapped toward the movement near the boards, where Hayden and JJ were dragging Comeau upright with matching looks of irritation. Neither of them looked especially concerned as they hauled him toward Montréal’s bench, where the medical staff were already moving out to meet them.

A flicker of relief moved through Ilya when he realised their anger seemed aimed at Comeau instead of Shane. But he still couldn’t stop the thought that followed. They were handling this like it wasn’t the first time they’d had to drag one of their own teammates away from Shane after things had gone too far. Maybe it was the first time Shane had fought back, but something about the way the Voyageurs had all reacted to the fight made Ilya doubt it.

“It was a dirty hit,” Shane said finally, his jaw tightening as he watched Comeau go.

“Oh, I dunno,” Victor said, sounding faintly amused as he came to a stop beside Cliff. “I thought that hit of yours was pretty good, actually.” His eyes dropped to Shane’s hand, which was already swelling at the knuckles. “Hm. Is that why you don’t get into brawls, Hollander? Been saving it for when it really counts?”

“No,” Shane said. “Just haven’t met anyone I wanted to punch before.”

Victor let out a startled laugh before turning to check on Ilya. “Hey—you good down there?”

“DaYes,” Ilya said, tightening his fingers around the ankle of Shane’s skate to stop him from moving away. “Hollander told me to sit down,” he added, grinning at their surprised looks, then laughing when Shane just rolled his eyes in response. “I am being very obedient.”

Cliff blinked at him. “Are you—” He hesitated, looking between them like he was trying to understand what the fuck he was actually looking at. “Roz,” he said slowly. “Are you waiting for fuckin’ permission to get up?”

“DaYes,” Ilya said again.

And it was ridiculous, maybe, how much he liked Shane fussing over him. The way he got bossy in that very particular way he did whenever he was worried. But it made Ilya smile every time—the way Shane cared for him so openly. The way he chose to do it again and again without hesitation, even when Ilya complained and acted like a little shit about it.

“Hollander is very scary when he’s mad,” he added. “He threatened to bite me if I tried to stand up again.”

“I did not,” Shane said, frowning at him. “Oh my god—you’re such a dick sometimes.”

Ilya smiled at him. “Hm. But you love when I am dick.”

Shane groaned. “Not right now I don’t.”

Cliff stared between them for another long second before groaning. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Are you two actually friends?”

Ilya wasn’t sure there was an answer to that that wouldn’t just make things worse, but before he could decide which lie would cause the least damage, Hayden came to a hard stop on their other side. His shoulders were already squared like he was preparing for a fight, and Ilya almost groaned out loud at the sight of him.

“What the fuck, Shane?” Hayden demanded, looking at Shane first, then at Ilya. “Are you forgetting that we hate him?”

Ilya’s glare was sharp enough that Hayden really should’ve had the sense to look away. Which, of course, he didn’t. From the corner of his eye, he caught the way Cliff’s broad shoulders had tensed too, the way Victor had shifted like he was preparing to step in—but Shane just shrugged.

“I’ve never hated him,” he said.

Hayden groaned. “Shane.”

“Hayd, c’mon. You know I don’t hate him,” Shane said. “I mean, I’ve known him since I was seventeen—”

“Eighteen,” Ilya corrected.

“I was seventeen,” Shane repeated, rolling his eyes. “Ilya was basically a senior citizen. If the three months between our birthdays actually count for anything, then he should’ve been sitting on the fucking bench with Scott Hunter.”

There was a brief, stunned silence—the same kind that always seemed to follow whenever Shane said something genuinely funny and caught people off guard with it—before Ilya let out a loud laugh.

“Look,” Shane said with a sigh. “I’ve known him since before we got drafted. We played against each other more times than I can count when we were still in juniors—hell, we even played in the same fucking Olympics.” He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, fingers catching in the damp hair beneath his helmet. “He’s probably my best friend—”

“Rude,” Hayden muttered.

Shane shot him a look that clearly meant shut the fuck up, his jaw clenching hard enough for the muscle beneath his skin to jump. It was a ridiculous thing for Ilya to notice in the middle of that conversation, maybe, but his brain immediately fixated on the idea of leaning over to bite it.

“We’ve been competing against each other for a decade,” Shane continued, still glaring at Hayden, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed for a full two seconds. “But everyone just—they bought into the rivalry the media and the league built for us. It’s like they all forgot that we’re allowed to be fucking friends.”

There was probably something funny about the phrase fucking friends, Ilya thought. But he got stuck on the word friends before he could find the joke in it.

It was just—it was such a small word for something that had changed his life so completely. But it wasn’t wrong, exactly. Because they were friends. They were just the kind who had fallen for each other far too quickly. The kind who’d spent too long hiding behind labels and not-labels, convincing themselves they could still walk away from this if they called it a situationship, or just sex.

The kind who’d spent years finding every excuse to come back to each other whenever their schedules and cities and locked hotel doors allowed it. Hiding behind fake names, late-night calls, and conversations neither of them ever seemed willing to end first. And Ilya still didn’t fully understand how they’d survived wanting each other too much, too young, and at exactly the wrong times.

He only knew that somewhere along the way, he’d found the courage to tell Shane he’d fallen in love with him. And, somehow, Shane loved him too. So while the world might never fully accept them—hockey had certainly done its best to make that feel impossible—the truth itself was painfully simple in a way nothing else ever seemed to be: nothing about loving Shane had ever felt wrong to him.

“To be fair,” Victor said, dragging Ilya out of the spiral his thoughts had been trying to disappear into, “you two spent, like, eight years trying to kill each other.”

“We were competing,” Ilya corrected.

“You high-sticked him in Stockholm,” Cliff pointed out.

“He tripped me first!” Ilya shot back immediately, pointing at Shane before he could deny it.

Shane rolled his eyes so hard Ilya thought he might actually injure himself worse than Ilya already was, and the thought landed badly enough that he had to force himself not to look at the blood near his shoulder. Because—fuck, he still couldn’t let himself think about what would’ve happened if Comeau had collided with Shane instead of Ilya.

“It’s just—it’s easier to just let people come to their own conclusions about us,” Shane said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that we’ve known each other longer than anyone else in the league.”

“DaYes,” Ilya said. “They will all be very jealous when they realise I had Shane Hollander before any of them.”

The shove Shane aimed at his hip lacked any real force behind it, but Ilya still grinned anyway. “Ah, see! I’ve been telling people for years that Shane Hollander is a massive asshole,” he said. “Maybe now they'll finally believe me, dayes?”

“Y’know, now that I’ve seen you two together when you’re not, like, playing up the rivalry bit—I can kind of see it,” Victor said, arching a brow. “But, ah—not that this isn’t fascinating—but are you two planning on staying down there for the rest of the game?”

“Hollander has not told me I can stand yet,” Ilya said seriously.

“Comeau just knocked you on your ass,” Shane said, already sounding tired about the argument they were apparently about to have. “You really should get checked over before you move—”

“Ugh,” Ilya groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “We have already gone over this, sol—uh, Hollander,” he corrected quickly, wincing at the near-slip. “I’m fine,” he added, before glaring toward the Montréal bench where Comeau was still surrounded by medics. “Comeau is—”

Shane’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah, I know. He’s a fucking asshole,” he said, frowning. “And he’s not even that good at hockey—I still don’t get what the fuck Pelletier was thinking when he put him on the first line.”

Hayden snorted. “Oh, I never would’ve guessed you hated ‘im,” he cut in, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I’ve spent all season trying to keep you two from fighting. Or trying to keep one of your fights from spilling out onto the ice.” His eyes flicked pointedly toward the red smear beside Ilya’s shoulder, faintly pink around the edges now where the blood had started melting into the ice.

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned further into Ilya’s hip.

“Donc les rumeurs sont vraies, alorsSo the rumours are true, then?” Victor said, switching to French as his attention settled more carefully on Shane. “À propos de la tension dans le vestiaire des VoyageursAbout the tension in the Voyageurs’ locker room,” he clarified, his eyes narrowing slightly at Shane’s panicked expression.

“Oh,” Shane mumbled. He looked away from Victor, biting into his bottom lip before giving a small, reluctant nod. “Ouais. J’imagine. Il y a eu beaucoup de transferts ces dernières années. Il ne reste, euh, plus beaucoup des joueurs d’origine. Le vestiaire estYeah. I guess. There’ve been a lot of trades in the last couple of years. There’s, uh—not a lot of the original players left anymore. The locker room is—” He hesitated, then shrugged. “C’est juste différent maintenantIt’s just different now.”

“It is not fair if you talk in French when I am not allowed to talk in Russian,” Ilya murmured to Shane. He didn’t need to understand the words to recognise the defensive tone, and he didn’t like the way Shane looked when he said it either.

“Eto chiterstvo, solnyshkoIt’s cheating, sunshine,” Ilya added in Russian, smiling helplessly when Shane glared at him—but at least he didn’t look so sad anymore.

“Roz,” Cliff said, frowning at Ilya while Victor nodded thoughtfully beside him. “C’mon, how the hell did you forget to tell us you’re friends with Shane Hollander?”

“I didn’t forget,” Ilya said. “I just didn’t tell you he is mine, ah—my friend?” His hand slid absently across Shane’s lower back, his thumb brushing once over the padding there even though he doubted Shane could actually feel it through all the gear. “Shane didn’t want the—how do you say? Boundaries? Lines?” He frowned slightly when the word still didn’t feel right. “Shane, what is the word?”

“Hum? Oh. Implications,” Shane said, frowning slightly. “And that’s not what I said. I just don’t want anyone thinking they get to take a run at one of us because of something we did, or said.” He hesitated, lips pressing thin for moment. “Or because they think they can get to me through you. Or you through me.”

Ilya watched him for a moment, trying to decide if Shane realised how much that confession sounded like fear disguised as something practical. “People are stupid,” he said. “They see something they do not understand and make up a reason for it. They see what they want to.”

Shane nodded slowly, still frowning.

“They think our rivalry is permission,” Ilya said, his thumb brushing over the padding at Shane’s back again. “Or—excuse? To cross lines they would not go near otherwise.”

“Permission?” Shane repeated, and for one brief, unpleasant second, Ilya wondered if he had chosen the wrong English word again. It happened more often when he was angry, or when Shane was watching him with those dark eyes of his. Or when Ilya got distracted counting the freckles scattered over his nose and cheekbones instead of paying attention to the actual conversation.

“Ilya,” Shane said slowly, “I think that sounded way more threatening than you meant it to.”

Ilya considered that for a moment, then shrugged with one shoulder so it wouldn’t pull at his ribs. “Is not that threatening,” he murmured, only to grin again when Shane shot him a look. “Okay. Maybe a little bit threatening.”

Victor barked out another laugh behind them.

“There’s no way we’re making nice with the fucking Bears right now,” Hayden muttered as he dragged a hand over his face. “For fuck’s sake, Shane—we are not calling this—this—this blatant territorial bullshit professionalism.” He pointed accusingly at Ilya’s hand, which had settled into a slow path along Shane’s spine. “He’s a fucking Bear.”

“He’s also not your problem,” Shane said, but Ilya could feel how tight the muscles of his back were. He pressed his hand a little harder, trying to work the tension out without drawing attention to it.

Shane forced a smile as he watched Hayden roll his eyes at them. “Try focusing on the game instead.”

“The game?” Hayden repeated, arching a brow at Shane. “What—the fucking game you just stalled when you hit Comeau?”

Shane nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “They’ll probably give me a major for it, and Pelletier’s petty enough to bench me as well,” he added with a shrug. “Which means you’ll have to take over at centre for me.”

“Oh, great,” Hayden said flatly. “Love that for me.”

“You’ll be fine,” Shane said, rolling his eyes. “Just don’t let Ilya get under your skin during the faceoff. He only does it so you’ll get distracted at the dot and lose track of the puck.” He huffed. “Ugh. Please don’t let him steal my fucking lead.”

“You’re giving away all of my secrets, solnyshkosunshine,” Ilya murmured, his voice low and amused.

Shane hummed, then let out a small laugh when Ilya’s thumb pressed slightly harder at the base of his spine, ducking his head like he could hide the way he was smiling. But the sound carried anyway, slipping out into the arena until the crowd shifted, curious, like they wanted to catch it before it disappeared.

It was rare, Ilya thought, to hear Shane laugh like that on the ice anymore. And for a moment, everything else—the shouting, the tension, the blood on the ice—felt distant. But then the sharp sound of a whistle cut through it as one of the referees skated over, glancing between them.

“You need medical?” He asked, eyeing Ilya suspiciously.

Ilya shook his head. “No,” he said. “Am just enjoying short break. Catching my breath.”

The referee stared at him, unimpressed, before snorting. “Get back to your bench, Rozanov,” he said, then turned to Shane and Hayden. “Hollander,” he added, frowning now. “You’re getting a five-minute major for fighting and a warning for game misconduct. You’ll be lucky if this doesn’t get you fined.”

Shane stared at him, his chin tilting up stubbornly as he met his gaze. “Is Comeau gonna get a penalty too?”

The referee’s eyes narrowed. “All of you,” he said, turning away from Shane. “Back to your benches. We’re resetting at the dot once the ice is cleared.” His gaze flicked briefly to the blood melting into the ice near Ilya’s shoulder, his mouth tightening. “Move.”

“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” Cliff muttered under his breath. “Ah, no offence, man—but I fuckin’ hate playing in Montréal.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, me too,” he muttered, missing the look Cliff and Victor shared.

“Hey,” Hayden said, glancing at their coach over his shoulder. “Pelletier’s waiting for us.”

Shane didn’t move right away, his jaw tight as he avoided looking at the Montréal bench, who, ironically, were all staring at him now he’d turned away from them.

“C’mon, man,” Hayden pressed, reaching out like he might physically drag him up if he had to. “You can’t just stay here. And d’you really want to give the team another reason to be pissed at you? ’Cause sitting on the fucking ice with Rozanov, of all fucking people, isn’t exactly gonna—”

“Pretty sure they’re gonna be pissed anyway,” Shane cut him off.

“I mean—” Hayden hesitated, grimacing like he hated that Shane was probably right. “Yeah, probably,” he admitted, before turning back to glare at Ilya. “But him?” He groaned dramatically, dragging both hands down his face. “Shane, c’mon. He’s a Boston Bear,” he repeated slowly, like Shane might have forgotten in the last thirty seconds.

“And he is a Voyageur, but I don’t hold it against him,” Ilya said. “Ah—well, not much.”

“See!” Hayden snapped.

“Oh, c’mon. Since when are you professional?” Shane shot back. “And your wife’s from Boston. You don’t get to pretend you hate the whole city just because you don’t like the Bears.” He snorted at Hayden’s outraged expression, his mouth curving into something sly. “I’m telling Jackie you said that.”

Hayden winced immediately. “Please don’t,” he muttered, still glaring at where Ilya’s hand was moving along Shane’s spine. “Ugh. I thought we agreed not to acknowledge you were friends with him?”

Shane blinked at Hayden. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“Shane,” Hayden groaned again.

Ilya watched Shane snort and turn away, only to sigh and look back a second later. “Fine,” he said, sounding reluctant even as he reached for Ilya’s forearm and pulled them both to their feet without asking first. Ilya let himself be hauled upright without complaint, for once, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep the wince from showing when his ribs immediately protested.

“Your coach is probably gonna have a stroke if we stay here any longer,” Shane added with a sigh. “And, uh—we probably shouldn’t have—I mean, I really shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Ilya cut in firmly, steadying himself once he was upright. “I told you, it was a good punch. Do not apologise for—”

His gaze flicked to where Cliff and Victor were watching them with badly hidden amusement, while Hayden looked like he was seconds away from physically dragging them apart. Ilya decided he didn’t care enough about their opinions to stop himself.

“—it was very hot, Hollander,” he said, adding a quick wink just because he could. “You should play aggressive more often. Everyone will be so distracted they won’t even realise they lost the Cup. Too busy looking at how khoroshen’kiypretty you are.”

Shane stared at him for a second, his cheeks flushing faintly beneath the visor. “Shut up,” he muttered, though he kept a tight grip on Ilya’s arm until he seemed satisfied Ilya wasn’t about to fold in half on him again. “You good to play with those ribs?”

“DaYes,” Ilya said, clearing his throat as he straightened, forcing his spine into something closer to his usual composure. “Yes,” he repeated, before turning toward the Boston crowd and lifting one gloved hand above his head.

They answered immediately, his name rolling through the arena in a wave that hit the glass and seemed to came back even louder. It should have made him grin, or play to the cameras so they knew he was fine, but it only made him more aware that everyone was already waiting to see what this injury meant for Boston’s chances for the playoffs this year.

He let the noise wash over him for a second, then let his attention drift away from the crowd, pulled back to Shane—who was smiling like the sound of the arena chanting Ilya’s name belonged to him too.

“Good,” Shane said quietly. “It’s not as fun to beat the Bears if you’re stuck on the bench.” He glanced toward Cliff and Victor. “Try and keep him on his feet this time, yeah?”

Victor grinned. “Are you trying to tell us how to look after our own captain, Hollander?”

“I mean,” Shane shrugged, “you did let him get flattened by a second-rate asshole like Comeau.”

Cliff snorted, stepping in close enough to bump his shoulder against Ilya’s. “We’ve got him.”

Shane looked like he was about to say something else, but Hayden swore under his breath and grabbed the collar of his jersey, dragging him toward the Montréal bench like he was a misbehaving rookie instead of their captain.

“There’s no way you’re making friends with the fucking Bears when I struggled for two years just to get you to talk to me after practice,” Hayden muttered, tightening his grip. “I can’t believe you sometimes. I swear, whenever you and Rozanov are in the same room, you lose your fucking head.”

Shane snorted. “Pretty sure I lost it long before that, actually.”

Ilya watched them go, his expression settling into something neutral enough for the cameras. It held, even as irritation flared in his chest.

He didn’t like the way Shane’s shoulders had tightened, or how the easy line of his posture folded in on itself the closer he got to Montréal’s bench—where Coach Pelletier was already red-faced, veins standing out in his neck as he waited for them to get close enough to start shouting.

So Ilya did the thing he always did when something threatened to get under his skin—he made himself impossible to ignore.

“Don’t be jealous, Pike!” He called after them, cupping his hands around his mouth so his voice cut through the noise of the crowd. “Maybe someday you’ll find a man who fights for you too!”

Hayden glared at him from over his shoulder, his grip tightening in Shane’s collar when it looked like he might stop and turn back again. “Fuck off, Rozanov!” He called back, dragging Shane the rest of the way toward their bench.

But Ilya just grinned, because he saw the subtle shift in Shane’s shoulders, the way he hesitated like he might turn around anyway, might shrug Hayden’s hand off and do something completely un-Shane-like. Except maybe it wasn’t so un-Shane-like anymore. Because he’d already crossed the ice for Ilya once tonight—so why wouldn’t he do it again?

“What the fuck just happened?” Cliff muttered, still leaning into Ilya’s shoulder as they watched Coach Pelletier start shouting the second Shane and Hayden reached the boards.

Hayden’s shoulders tensed immediately as he snapped something back at Pelletier, but Shane just shrugged. He turned away from the Montréal bench mid-rant and headed for the penalty box without even looking back.

“Ah, mon dieuOh my god,” Victor muttered, half-laughing. “He just walked away from his coach like that?” He shook his head, still grinning as he glanced at Ilya. “Hollander doesn’t usually—” he trailed off, searching for the words, but Ilya knew what he meant.

Shane was the kind of player who never gave anyone the satisfaction of knowing they’d gotten under his skin. He took hits, took cheap shots, and answered them all in the only way that mattered—by putting the puck in the back of the net over and over again. And yet there was always something sharp underneath it all, something dry and wicked that flickered out just often enough to make people chase it, to try to drag it into the open.

Ilya snorted softly at the thought. “Hollander just doesn’t care enough about other people to correct them,” he murmured. Which wasn’t entirely true, because Ilya knew exactly what it cost Shane to let things go like that.

“Hollander!” Pelletier shouted. “Get your ass back here—”

A whistle cut through Pelletier’s shouting as the referees gathered briefly at centre ice, one of them raising his arm to signal the call before skating toward the scorer’s table. “Montréal's number twenty-four, five minutes for game misconduct,” he announced. “Montréal's number twenty-four, additional major for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

The arena seemed to pause for half a second, all of them waiting for Comeau’s number nineteen to be called next. When it didn’t come, the silence broke into a disbelieving roar as the crowd surged back to its feet. Boos rolled down from the stands, someone throwing an empty beer cup over the boards toward the referee.

But Ilya’s focus had already shifted back to Shane to watch the way he stepped into the box without argument. He acted like the injustice of it didn’t matter, even though Ilya knew that was the one thing he’d be struggling with right now.

Because Comeau deserved a fucking penalty as well. Not for what he’d done to Ilya, but for what he’d tried to do to Shane. Ilya could imagine it too easily if he let himself think about it for too long. The way Shane’s body would’ve gone slack as he dropped to the ice. The way Comeau would’ve skated away grinning.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, something tight and uncomfortable settling in his chest at the thought. “Of course that’s how they fucking called it,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Victor looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. He nodded slowly instead, like he understood exactly why that kind of call made Ilya’s hands itch for the fight they all knew was coming, even if it hadn’t happened yet.

“The refs are blind half the time,” Cliff offered, shrugging.

“Hm,” Ilya agreed, before smiling almost sweetly. “Next time we’re back on the ice with Comeau, I’m going to put that pridurokidiot into the boards so hard he forgets what team he plays for.”

Cliff huffed out a laugh, already sold. “Yeah, yeah—just make sure it’s clean enough that the refs don’t call it,” he said, before sighing. “Eh, you’re shit at being subtle.”

Victor snorted, shaking his head as he leaned into his stick, arms crossed over the shaft, chin resting on the taped top. “Even your threats sound like Hollander’s now,” he added, lowering his voice into a terrible impression of Ilya’s Russian accent as he repeated Shane’s threat: “Stay the fuck down before I put you there again.”

Ilya smirked, knocking Victor’s stick aside with his own. “I don’t like to share,” he said, his gaze flicking briefly over to Shane. “Especially not Hollander. It took me a long time to earn his, ah—” he snorted softly. “Friendship.”

“Oh, so that’s why you didn’t tell us—‘cause you’re a jealous asshole,” Cliff said, rolling his eyes, though he was still grinning. “Jesus, Roz. You robbed us of being friends with Hollander this whole time!”

“You would’ve been weird about it,” Ilya said as they started skating toward their own bench.

Victor scoffed. “I would have been completely normal about it.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Cliff shot back immediately. “None of us would’ve been normal about it. Are you kidding me? Hollander just popping over from Montréal to say hi to Roz? Nah.” He laughed under his breath. “It would’ve been fun to watch the rookies lose their minds about it, though. Could you imagine Luke?” He added, already laughing at the thought. “Oh god. No one tell him. He’s gonna lose his fucking head.”

“Baby boy has a massive crush on Hollander,” Victor said sympathetically. “I’m surprised he even manages to skate straight when they’re on the ice together.” He tilted his head, considering. “Though I gotta admit—Hollander has no right looking that hot when he throws a punch. Someone needs to tell him this is hockey, not a fuckin’ GQ cover.”

Ilya’s stick snapped out, knocking Victor’s skates from under him.

“TabarnakHoly shit—” Victor swore, stumbling as he lost his balance, only to catch himself on the boards.

“You good there, Vic?” Ryan laughed.

“OuiYes,” Victor muttered as he pulled himself up. “Our captain is just trying to kill me.”

Ryan barked out another laugh. “Eh. At least that means he’s probably alright if he’s still being a dick.”

“Rozanov,” Coach LeClaire called out, already frowning by the time Ilya reached the boards. “Are you actually alright or just being stubborn about it?” He asked, his eyes fixed on Ilya.

“I’m fine,” Ilya said, bracing against the rubber kickplate for balance.

LeClaire’s expression didn’t change. “You went down hard.”

Ilya shrugged one shoulder to avoid moving the left side of his ribs. “Will be the highlight of Comeau’s career,” he muttered, grumbling when the whole bench laughed at his scowl. “I should send him flowers.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure he’d love that,” Ryan said, his head tilting slightly as he looked toward the penalty box. “But fuck, man. That was one hell of a hit from Hollander.”

Ilya hummed softly as he followed Ryan’s line of sight. Shane still had his helmet on, his jaw locked in that stubborn angle Ilya knew too well. His dark eyes were bright, and even though he was sitting still, he looked restless with leftover adrenaline—like someone had tried to force lightning into a cage and done a piss-poor job of it.

Even the crowd around the penalty box wasn’t slamming the glass the way they usually did. Everyone was watching him carefully now, like maybe they could feel the anger coming off him too.

“DaYes,” Ilya said before frowning slightly. “But his backhand is still weak.”

Ryan snorted. “Good thing his right hook isn’t, then.” He whistled low under his breath. “Fuck, did you see how Comeau went down?” His grin widened. “Man, I hope it makes the highlight reels. TikTok’s gonna lose its fucking mind over this.”

“You’re weirdly obsessed with TikTok,” Luke muttered around his mouthguard.

Ryan shrugged. “Eh. It’s more fun than Instagram Reels.”

“DaYes,” Artos murmured. “Is, ah—why you are always speaking with Becky?”

“No,” Ryan said quickly. “I mean, she’s our PR rep. And we talk about, like, videos and stuff—”

“More like she keeps telling you nobody wants a thirst trap of you on the ice when they’ve already got all those videos of Ilya in tiny shirts,” Marcus muttered.

Ryan pointed at Ilya accusingly. “Those compression shirts are a hate crime.”

“Oh sure, that’s the reason you don’t wear them,” Cliff said, rolling his eyes.

“Not all of us have tits as big as Ilya’s!”

Ilya snorted at Ryan, but his gaze drifted back toward the penalty box. Because out of the two of them, Shane definitely had bigger tits. And if he ever gave in to the pressure from Montréal’s PR team, Ilya was sure there’d be a dozen TikTok videos for him to jerk off to whenever he was alone, either stuck in Boston or out on the road. It’d be better, surely, than relying on all those “artfully undressed” photos from the sponsorship deals Yuna had set Shane up with.

Because even after ten years together, Shane was still terrible at flirting. And he was even worse at sexting. Ilya had only managed to get him to send one slightly suggestive photo in all those years, and that had only come after weeks of dick pics and voice notes describing every filthy thing Ilya wanted to do to him the moment they were together again.

Though, Ilya thought, distracted, Shane was a vixen when they were face-to-face. Or when he was face-down, arching into Ilya’s hands like he knew exactly what he was doing, even when he pretended he didn’t. All sharp breaths and bitten-back sounds, rolling his hips just to laugh at the way it made Ilya lose his mind.

Sometimes Ilya thought Shane liked the way he got a little rough with him, the way he held Shane down until he went breathless beneath him. It was like some part of Shane needed to feel that lost control just to—

“—the refs aren’t going to wait for you to recover,” LeClaire was saying, with absolutely no idea he’d just interrupted Ilya’s drifting thoughts. The words blurred together into something mildly irritating at the edge of Ilya’s mind, his attention still split between his team and Shane.

“But, look—they’re resetting the ice right now. It’ll take the Zamboni a couple of passes to clear the blood, which buys us five, maybe ten minutes.” LeClaire frowned as he looked him over again, his gaze catching on the way Ilya was still holding his shoulder a little too stiffly.

“You good enough to play, Rozanov?” He asked. “Or do I need to actually listen when the medics tell me to sit your ass out for the rest of the game?”

“Comeau is not making me sit out of a game,” Ilya said, frowning.

“You sure?” LeClaire asked.

“DaYes,” Ilya said again, already rolling his shoulders and ignoring the way it pulled at his ribs.

“Okay,” LeClaire said with a sigh. “Pelletier’s gonna put Hollander back out there. There’s no way he’ll pass up using his best scorer tonight, not with tensions this fuckin’ high.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked Ilya over again. “You gonna be okay playing against him?”

Ilya nodded. “Never been a problem before.”

LeClaire paused at that, like he understood that Ilya was really saying, “It will not start being a problem now.”

“You know he’s not gonna go easy on you when he gets back out there, right?” LeClaire asked.

Ilya glanced toward the box. “He never does,” he said. “Neither do I.”

LeClaire huffed out a laugh. “Right. Well, we’re down by two points. But Hollander is stuck in the box for the next ten minutes,” he said, frowning like he didn’t like the ruling but would take advantage of it anyway. “That gives us exactly ten minutes to even the score when the game restarts.” He glanced toward the clock, grinning now. “And it only gives Hollander twenty minutes to try and claw those points back when he gets out there again.”

Terrance, his assistant coach, nodded slowly, his eyes darting across the empty ice like he was trying to keep up with the play LeClaire could already see unfolding. “But that’s only if Pelletier puts him straight back out.”

“He will,” LeClaire said without hesitation. “He’s barely given Hollander a chance to sit down all game. And his shifts are running longer each time,” he muttered, before turning back to Ilya with a smirk. “Ten minutes is enough time for you to score again, yeah? The Voyageurs are all shook up right now, but you know damn well Hollander’s coming back onto the ice rested and ready to take whatever points we get right back.”

He rolled his eyes then, adding under his breath, “Fucking Pelletier. I swear that asshole just loves making my life harder.” He sighed, half groaning. “Ugh. We should’ve snapped Hollander up when we had the chance. Kid’s fucking wasted on that team.”

“Fuck, could you imagine Rozanov and Hollander on the same team?” Terrance asked. “It’d be like the All-Stars all over again. You two were unstoppable in Tampa.”

“Pretty sure Hunter almost cried when he saw you two lining up against him, actually,” Victor murmured.

Ilya’s teeth flashed as he grinned. And maybe he shouldn’t have enjoyed hearing people talk about them like that, but he did. There was just something so satisfying about the way other people reacted to the idea of him and Shane sharing a line again. The immediate dread. The way no one ever seemed to know which of them would make the play that buried the other team first.

Shane moved through pressure like he expected it to bend to his will, and Ilya had spent years learning exactly how to force the ice into the play he wanted. He still remembered when people had mocked the All-Star lineup for putting them on the same team. Convinced there was too much ego between them. That they wouldn’t be able to work past their rivalry long enough to remember how to play offensively.

But he also remembered the way Shane had laughed breathlessly against his shoulder after their first goal. The way he’d looked at him with that bright, wild light in his eyes after every goal that followed. Ilya remembered thinking that feeling was probably the closest thing to flying he would ever get.

“Voyageurs will cry tonight,” Ilya said, still smiling at the sight of Shane Hollander sitting in the penalty box, counting down the seconds until he could come back onto the ice. Or maybe, Ilya thought, until he could come back to him.

“I will score two goals,” he added. “One for me, and one for Hollander.”

LeClaire snorted before he could stop himself. “Cocky bastard.”

“Well,” Cliff said when Ilya dropped onto the bench beside him, “at least the competitiveness is alive, even if the rivalry isn’t.” He barked out a loud laugh at Ilya’s glare, clapping a hand against his shoulder, careful not to jar his ribs too badly.

Ilya barely registered it, too busy staring at Shane. He’d finally leaned back against the wall behind him, one knee bouncing beneath all the pads and equipment. But then one of the medics stepped into his line of sight, crouching in front of him and blocking Shane from view.

“Any pain?” The medic asked, fingers pressing briefly along Ilya’s side, quick and impersonal, testing for a reaction Ilya refused to give.

Ilya shook his head, even though his ribs ached every time he breathed too deeply. But it was a mere annoyance compared to the anger still crackling beneath his skin. Every second the medic spent poking at him was another second Montréal thought they could get away with taking a run at one of the Bears without retaliation.

Or at Shane, who wasn’t a Bear, but maybe he should be if his own team had started treating him like something they wanted to break.

“What about dizziness?” The medic asked.

“No,” Ilya lied.

“Hm.” The medic very clearly didn’t believe him. “Follow my finger,” he said, forcing Ilya to track it across his field of vision. He nodded, satisfied, then motioned for Ilya to raise his arms, guiding him through a twisting motion that forced him to turn from side to side while he kept a palm pressed against Ilya’s ribs.

“Well, I can’t feel anything out of place, and there’s nothing sharp—which means you probably haven’t broken them.” He frowned before straightening with a sigh. “Come see me after the game,” he added, already turning away. “They’re probably bruised to hell, and it’ll only get worse as it settles. I’ll wrap them before you head back to the hotel.”

“SpasiboThank you,” Ilya muttered, even if he hated the thought of wasting more time before he could get his hands on Shane properly.

Across the ice, Shane still hadn’t looked at him again. His gaze was fixed on the ice instead, eyes slightly unfocused, like he was replaying the game in his head and trying to figure out where everything had gone wrong. Ilya knew that look too well. Shane always carried responsibility like it belonged to him alone, even when the damage had started long before he stepped onto the ice.

It was only the sound of the whistle that finally dragged Ilya out of his thoughts. He blinked, realising he must’ve been so lost staring at Shane that he’d missed the rest of the game resetting.

He pushed off with the rest of his line, stepping back out onto the ice with his ribs aching at every motion. It was barely enough of a reminder to keep him from looking back at Shane, already desperate for the moment he could face him at the dot again.

Instead, he had to put up with Hayden Pike for ten whole minutes.

Chapter End Notes

Solnyshko (солнышко) — RussianSunshine / Little Sun — English
A tender, affectionate diminutive often used toward a romantic partner in moments of vulnerability or fond teasing.

Russkiy skua (Русский поморник) — RussianRussian bird — English
A mangled slur that's meant to reflect Comeau’s ignorance and indifference toward Ilya's language. The insult is less about accuracy and more about throwing out something he thinks is demeaning.

Suka (Cука) — RussianBitch — English
A very common Russian insult.

Ilyusha (Илюша) — RussianIlya — English
A Russian diminutive or affectionate nickname of Ilya. The meaning remains the same, but the shift from Ilya to Ilyusha signals closeness and warmth—used in personal, familiar, or intimate contexts rather than formal address.

Da (да) — RussianYes / And / But — English
A flexible affirmative that Ilya uses instinctively, especially in emotional or unguarded moments.

Connard — FrenchAsshole / Idiot / Dickhead — English
An insult used to describe someone considered stupid, obnoxious, or arrogant. Common in everyday spoken French, it can range from playful irritation among friends to outright hostility depending on delivery and context.

Pridurok (придурок) — RussianIdiot / Jerk / Git — English
A common insult that implies stupidity, recklessness, or obnoxious behaviour. Less extreme than harsher Russian slurs but clearly contemptuous.

Tabarnak — Quebec FrenchHoly shit / Holy fuck / Goddammit — English
A profane oath derived from Catholic liturgical vocabulary. One of the most forceful Quebec French swear words used to express anger, frustration, or shock. Culturally rooted in Québec’s religious history, where sacred terms became secular profanity.

Concussion Protocol — English
A league-mandated medical evaluation and restriction process following a suspected head injury. Designed to prevent premature return to play and reduce the risk of further neurological harm. Commonly referenced in professional contact sports.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Chapter End Notes

Da (да) — Russian
Yes; A flexible affirmative that can also mean "and," "but," "indeed," or function as a conversational filler (similar to “well”), depending heavily on tone and context; Ilya uses it instinctively, especially in emotional or unguarded moments.

Solnyshko (солнышко) — Russian
Little sun; Sunshine; My sunshine; A tender, affectionate diminutive used for someone cherished; Conveys warmth, emotional safety, softness, and intimacy; Often used toward a romantic partner in moments of vulnerability or fond teasing.

Sin Bin/Bin — English (slang)
Short for “penalty box”; Informal term for temporary disciplinary confinement in sport; Casual, mildly mocking tone; Suggests playful trivialisation of punishment rather than formal sanction.

Non — French
Translates to “no”; Direct and firm; Not inherently rude, but tone determines whether it sounds neutral, sharp, or dismissive.

Tu vois ce que je veux dire — French
You see what I mean; Do you understand what I’m saying; Conversational clarifier; Often used to check comprehension or gently anchor someone’s attention; Carries informal, concerned tone in this context.

D’accord — French
Alright; Okay; Agreed; I understand; Conversational acknowledgment of understanding or acceptance; Neutral to mildly formal tone; Signals reluctant agreement or disorientation when slurred.

Durak (дурак) — Russian
Idiot; Fool; A blunt but flexible insult; Tone ranges from teasing exasperation to sharp contempt depending on context; Here used dismissively, with familiarity rather than pure hostility.

Blyat (блядь) — Russian
Literally translates to “whore,” but idiomatically functions as “fuck,” “shit,” “damn it”; A sharp, emotionally reactive expletive; Expresses frustration, disbelief, anger, shock, or emphasis; Common in colloquial Russian and often reflexive rather than directed.

Beskhrebetnyy trus (бесхребетный трус) — Russian
Spineless coward; Literally translates to “backboneless coward”; A cutting insult implying moral weakness and lack of courage; Strongly condemnatory, often used in heated confrontation.

Kak ssyklivaya suchka (Как ссыкливая сучка) — Russian
Like a pissy little bitch; Literally translates to “like a cowardly bitch”; Highly vulgar insult combining cowardice and gendered slur; Intensely aggressive, meant to humiliate.

Khuy (хуй) — Russian
Dick; Fuck; A coarse profanity used as an expletive; An extremely vulgar Russian term referring to male genitalia; Extremely informal and offensive; Often spat in anger to dismiss or curse someone.

Ils ont blessé votre capitaine et vous n’en avez absolument rien à foutre — French
Translates to “They injured your captain and you absolutely don’t give a fuck”; A direct accusatory statement; Contains vulgar phrasing (“rien à foutre”) indicating outrage and disbelief; Intensely confrontational tone.

Va te faire foutre — French
Go fuck yourself; A strong vulgar dismissal; Expresses anger or defiance; Common profanity in heated arguments.

Tabarnak — Quebec French
Holy shit; Holy fuck; Goddammit; A strong Quebecois swear word derived from religious terminology; Used to express anger, frustration, or emphasis; One of the traditional Quebec French “sacres.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Chapter End Notes

Da (да) — Russian
Yes; A flexible affirmative that can also mean "and," "but," "indeed," or function as a conversational filler (similar to “well”), depending heavily on tone and context; Ilya uses it instinctively, especially in emotional or unguarded moments.

Etot beskhrebetnyy trus (этот бесхребетный трус) — Russian
That spineless coward; Literally “this backboneless coward”; A cutting insult implying moral weakness and lack of courage; Strongly condemnatory, often used in heated confrontation.

Telenovela — Spanish
Television soap opera; Melodramatic serialised drama; Often associated with exaggerated emotional expression; Here used self-deprecatingly to describe dramatic speech patterns.

Gde ty, zvyozdochka moya (где ты, звёздочка моя) — Russian
Translates to “Where are you, my little star?”

Zvyozdochka moya (звёздочка моя) — Russian
My Little Star; A tender phrase of endearment; “Zvyozdochka” is a diminutive of “star,” implying affection and warmth; Carries nostalgic, familial intimacy; Suggests someone precious, bright, and deeply cherished; Often used with a gentle or protective undertone.

Solnyshko (солнышко) — Russian
Little sun; Sunshine; My sunshine; A tender, affectionate diminutive used for someone cherished; Conveys warmth, emotional safety, softness, and intimacy; Often used toward a romantic partner in moments of vulnerability or fond teasing.

Mudak (мудак) — Russian
Asshole; Jerk; A coarse insult implying stupidity or moral deficiency; Informal and confrontational, often used in anger.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

There was no answer. Not even a change in status that told him the messages had been read.

Ilya locked his phone and stared at the dark screen, jaw tight, chest pulling thin around the ache that just wouldn’t settle. He looked up at last, forcing the familiar mask back into place like it was just another piece of gear.

“So,” someone said from the far side of the room, hesitant. “You—good?”

“I am fine,” Ilya said, setting his phone screen-down beside him.

It was an old habit, but hockey players were known to play pranks on each other. Cliff had created a Grindr profile for Brad when he’d joined the Bears, having guessed his password in just four attempts. And Brad was still getting guys coming up to him offering to “show him around the city” with a little too much enthusiasm.

It had been a laugh for everyone else. Ilya had laughed too. But some jokes landed differently when your entire life could become one. He’d learned the lesson—an unattended phone was just asking for someone to try and break into it and cause a little “good, harmless fun.”

Besides, Ilya had more secrets to keep than most.

“You sure?” Victor asked.

“Da,” Ilya said.

It was a lie. Everyone knew it. But no one called him on it as he hooked his fingers under the hem of the Boston hoodie and pulled it up over his head, tossing it aside before reaching for the compression top underneath. The fabric dragged stubbornly over his ribs, and he winced despite himself, breath catching at the pull in his left side as he lifted his arms.

The bruise was already starting to spread across his ribs, and Ilya’s mind betrayed him with the image of Shane noticing it. Shane frowning. Shane clicking his tongue in that quiet, fond way of his. Shane’s hand warm and careful at his side, thumb pressing in lightly as if he could coax the ache away by sheer stubbornness. Shane murmuring endearments under his breath in the dark.

The thought made the ache in his chest almost unbearable. 

Ilya had to force himself to look away before his eyes started burning again. 

He dragged his own worn-out top over his head instead, already reaching for the soft grey jumper at the bottom of his bag without thinking. The cotton was thin from overwashing, the collar stretched out, the cuffs frayed where his thumbs were always worrying at them.

It smelled like Shane’s laundry detergent.

“What the hell was that out there tonight?” Ryan blurted, unable to hold it back any longer. “I mean—what the hell is Montréal playing at?”

A few of the guys murmured their agreement. Someone swore under their breath as a stick clattered to the floor. Ilya closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, but even that couldn’t stop him from answering.

“They are playing exactly how they always do,” he said. “Hollander is the only reason they even matter. He carries that team every fucking season and they resent him for it.”

“Bunch of insecure assholes,” Patrick muttered. “Who the hell lets that happen when you’ve got Shane Hollander on your roster?”

Cliff shifted slightly, arms still crossed as he leaned against the lockers beside Victor. “They’ve let guys take runs at him all season.” He flicked a look at Ilya. “That’s not normal, right?”

“Da,” Ilya said quietly.

“Why?” Victor asked, frowning. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a bad thing about him. He’s never even seriously chirped at anyone.” He stared at his bruised knuckles. “What could he have possibly done for his entire team to turn on him like that?” He shook his head, cursing under his breath. “It doesn’t make sense. Maybe they just think they can get away with it because they know he’ll still be the perfect capitaine, even when they’re the ones failing him.”

Ilya snorted softly, distracted as he ran his thumb along the rough edge of the tape on his ring finger. “They think he’ll never leave,” he said quietly. “So they treat him like shit.”

A couple of the guys exchanged looks. They had seen Ilya angry before, but they had never seen this quiet, contained version of it. It was more terrifying than when he was shouting or throwing punches—because at least then they knew where the line was.

“He’s one of the best players in the league,” Ryan said more softly. “His team should be protecting him. Not leaving him exposed.” He frowned. “We all saw it, right? The way they left him open all game. I swear they were doing it on purpose.” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, Hollander played like a fucking beast tonight. But he’s going to get hurt if they keep leaving him alone out there.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. Because of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about Shane. The way his own defensemen peeled away a half-second too early. The lazy backcheck. The hesitation on the boards that left him exposed just long enough for a hit to land.

They would never call it sabotage.

They would call it mistakes. Misreads. Chemistry issues.

But Ilya had watched Shane’s shoulders tighten every time he had to reset coverage alone. Watched him compensate. Watched him overextend because no one else was filling the gap.

“They do not like that he does not need them,” Ilya said finally.

“They need him,” Victor said.

“Da,” Ilya agreed. “But he does not need them.”

Luke Hughes, one of their rookies, let out a loud sigh. “Fucking hell, did you see Hollander on the ice, though?” He asked. “I didn’t even think edge control like that was possible.” His eyes were wide, still slightly breathless as he continued. “I used to have posters of him on my wall. But he’s somehow more impressive in person. It’s kinda—intimidating, y’know? I didn’t think you could look that calm while everyone’s gunning for you.”

A few of the guys chuckled.

“Careful,” Cliff said dryly. “Your crush is showing.”

“Fuck off,” Luke laughed. “He just—he doesn’t play like anyone else. He moves different. It’s like he’s seeing the game half a second before everyone else. Like he already knows what everyone else is about to do.”

“He does,” Ilya said. 

A couple of heads turned back toward him, but he kept his gaze on the floor, jaw tight. 

“He reads the ice before the play happens. Knows where people will be before they do.” A short, humourless huff left him. “And he’s stuck in fucking Montréal.”

The memory came back too easily. 

Of being eighteen and terrified. Fresh off the draft. Alone in a country that did not feel like his, trying to earn approval from a father who would never give it. A gym that smelled like disinfectant and sweat. Shane Hollander sitting across from him on the dirty floor—too kind, too bright, three months too young for all the things Ilya had already wanted to do to him.

He remembered asking—in careful, broken English—if Boston was a good place. He remembered Shane’s breathless smile. The way his eyes had lit up when he talked about it. The way he’d said, “Yeah, it’s a good place. The people are a little rough. But they’re good people. It’s not—it’s not Montréal.”

Years later, a low, bitter sound scraped out of Ilya’s chest. Maybe, he thought, he should have asked if Montréal was a good place, too.

“He was supposed to be somewhere better,” Ilya muttered, voice tight as he reached for his discarded skates, fingers shaking over the laces.

The tremor in his hands made the knots harder to pull free. Ilya exhaled sharply and gripped the leather instead, knuckles white before he forced them to loosen. He tied the laces together clumsily and shoved them into his bag harder than necessary. Reached for his trainers. Pulled them on. Avoided looking at anyone.

For a moment, no one said anything.

Finally, Cliff cleared his throat. “You sound like Luke with the posters.”

“Oi,” Luke said.

Victor glanced at Cliff, then back at Ilya. “You’re talking like this isn’t just about hockey.”

“It isn’t,” Ilya replied too fast, and the room stilled.

For half a second, Ilya froze—so brief it might have been imagined—and then he straightened. “We play each other ten times a season,” he said. “You get to know someone when you spend that much time trying to beat them—” He flicked a glance up, smirking. “Beating them,” he corrected.

“Sure,” Ryan said slowly, unconvinced. “We were beating them right up until Hollander got back on the ice.”

“Ah, do not feel so bad,” Ilya replied, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Shane Hollander is a good challenge. There is no shame in losing to him.” He huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “Most teams do.”

“We’re pretty evenly matched in stats,” Artos Vishnevsky, another one of their rookies, said. “But—he is good player. This Hollander,” he added in Russian, glancing at Ilya to check his pronunciation, “his individual stats are impressive. Especially considering the rest of his team.”

“There is no shame in losing to a good player, bratishka,” Ilya replied in Russian, smiling helplessly at the blush that flooded the younger man’s face. “If you must lose,” he continued in English, “at least lose to someone worth respecting.”

Luke shifted on the bench, nervous. He hesitated. Then blurted out, “You ever think he’ll leave Montréal?”

The question landed too close to the thing Ilya was not allowed to want out loud. “He should,” he said before he could stop himself. “He deserves a team that doesn’t treat him like—” like he’s wrong for loving me, Ilya thought, “—like Montréal does.” 

His fingers curled briefly against his bag. “He is Shane Hollander,” he added, rolling his eyes. “The only person who ever forgets that is him. Any team in this league would fight to sign him.”

“Hm.” Cliff lifted a brow. “You recruiting from Montréal now?”

A ghost of a smile flickered over Ilya’s mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes. “If I was,” he said, “I would not need to try very hard.”

“Yeah?” Marcus Johansson chuckled weakly. “You gonna tell him that?”

Ilya zipped his bag shut with a decisive tug. “He already knows,” he said quietly. 

The room went still.

“Be straight with us, Roz,” Ryan said. “What’s really going on here?”

For a split second, Ilya had the absurd urge to laugh. 

Straight, he thought, almost snorting. 

But before he could turn it into a joke and smirk it away, the room suddenly felt like it was shrinking around him, like someone had quietly turned down the oxygen. He tried to breathe past the tightness in his chest anyway, unable to look at them. If he did, he might see the exact moment they realised how completely he’d just given himself away.

His eyes flickered to the television on the wall instead, where another replay of the hit looped in silence. “What’s going on,” he said eventually, voice low, “is Montréal nearly killed their captain tonight. And everyone keeps calling it a fucking incident instead of an attack.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ryan said gently. “You and Hollander are—” He hesitated, licking his lips nervously. His hands fidgeted with the KT tape around his wrist as he avoided looking at Ilya. “What’s going on with you two?”

Ilya traced the edge of the tape on his finger again. “We’re not something I get to explain in a locker room,” he said quietly. “Someone I care about is hurt. He’s in hospital. And I’m here. Pretending to be fine.”

Victor shifted, suddenly uneasy. “You sound—kinda pissed?”

“I am pissed,” Ilya admitted as he finally looked up. His eyes were too bright, and something unguarded flashed there before he turned away again. “And I’m tired of pretending I’m not,” he said softly, before letting out a breath that shook more than he intended. “Enough,” he added suddenly. His voice had gone flat. “Blyat. I’m already tired of trying to explain this.”

“What does that mean?” Artos whispered to Luke.

“North American idioms,” Luke murmured. “None of it makes sense if you think about it for too long.”

Artos huffed through his nose. “English is stupid language.”

“Look. I know your boy got hurt tonight,” Cliff said quietly, watching Ilya a little too closely. His voice was casual, but there was nothing casual about the look in his eyes. “But, Roz—c’mon, man. You had to expect some questions after what happened out there tonight.”

“Yeah,” Patrick added with a snort. “You and Hollander have hated each other for years. Or—well. Publicly, at least.”

Ilya ignored him, eyes locked on Cliff. “My boy,” he repeated slowly. “Is that what you call it in this country?”

He snorted and leaned forward on the bench, forearms braced on his knees, hands hanging loose between them as he traced the rough edge of the tape on his ring finger. His eyes narrowed as he watched them share uneasy looks. Something in his expression shifted, and the room went quiet without anyone quite meaning it to.

“Cliff,” Victor warned. “Maybe this isn’t the time to—”

“Nah. Fuck that,” Cliff scoffed. “You seriously expect us to just ignore this? You turned round in the middle of a fuckin’ game and told us you and Hollander have been friends for years. And sure. Whatever. We’ll pretend that’s totally fuckin’ normal. But you reacted like it was fuckin’ personal when Comeau hit him.” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Cliff added quickly. “The hit was fucking nasty, but you looked like—” he hesitated, then committed, “like you were actually gonna kill him, man.” He shrugged. “The asshole definitely deserves it. Just didn’t think you’d risk your visa over Hollander.”

Something hot roared in Ilya’s ears at those words. For a second, the room tilted, and he was on his feet before he realised he’d moved. The bench rattled behind him, metal legs scraping sharp against the floor. “You think this is joke?” He snapped, blue eyes flashing as his gaze cut across the room, never settling for long. 

His pulse thundered in his ears. The adrenaline from the game was still coiled beneath his skin, tightening into something dangerously close to panic. “Blyat. Fuck you,” he snarled, the words tangling between languages as his control started to fray. “You want me to pretend I don’t care? That would be the real lie.” 

Someone in the room sucked in a sharp, surprised breath, and Ilya’s jaw flexed as he tried to mimic them, but it barely filled his lungs. “I have spent ten years pretending not to care. Ten years measuring how I stand next to him. How I look at him. How I say his name. You think that is easy? You—”

“Hey,” Ryan cut in gently, hands lifting when Ilya’s glare snapped toward him. “Relax, man. We’re not trying to—We’re just saying—I mean—yeah, Hollander’s your friend. We get it.” He winced. “Shit. That came out wrong. I forgot he’s still hurt. In the hospital.” He paused. “And you’re clearly—not okay about that.”

Ilya’s lip curled. “Do not tell me to relax.”

Ryan hesitated, then tried again. Because they had all seen Ilya Rozanov angry, and it had never been an experience anyone wanted to repeat. “No one’s laughing, man. And we weren’t trying to make light of it,” he said, voice dropping into something more careful. “It’s—good, yeah? That you two managed to be friends. Especially with everything else going on.”

“Friends?” Ilya repeated. “You think I am upset because Shane Hollander is my friend?”

The word curdled in his mouth.

Because maybe, once, all Ilya would have wanted was for the world to believe he was friends with Shane Hollander. To live in a world where he could throw an arm around Shane’s shoulders without anyone caring. To say his name out loud without it turning into a risk. To love him somewhere that wasn’t just hotel rooms, locked doors, and careful silences.

Ilya dragged a hand down his face and let out a short, bitter laugh. 

“You think this is about friendship?” He asked. 

His hands trembled at his sides. He curled them into fists to hide it, and something in his chest loosened when the tape around his finger cut into his palm. “I’ve spent the last ten years building a rivalry so no one would look too closely,” he said quietly. “Ten years pretending my heart only tries to crawl out of my chest because I like to win.”

Cliff’s mouth opened, then closed.

“He is not my friend. He is—” Ilya stopped, jaw tightening. 

“So—they’re not just friends?” Artos whispered to Luke, both of them still staring at Ilya.

“You would not understand even if I said it,” Ilya murmured under his breath, a string of angry Russian curses slipping out before he could stop them. “I could fuck every woman in this country and no one would care,” he said bitterly. “I could bring a different girl to every game and you would all call me legend. But I love—”

The word caught in his throat.

For a split second, he almost swallowed it. There was still time to pull it back, he thought desperately. He could pretend it was all just adrenaline—just pride or ego—or a poorly timed joke, even though the thought of turning it into something to laugh at made his stomach turn.

But his voice broke loose before he could stop it.

“—I love Shane Hollander,” he said.

He was furious at himself for saying it out loud, here, like this. And terrified of what it might cost them as the room went completely silent. 

Even the television on the wall, still replaying the hit on mute, felt too loud.

His next breath tore into his lungs, burning all the way down to his bruised ribs. His chest rose and fell too fast. But his eyes stayed bright, unblinking and defiant. “I love him, and suddenly it’s a problem?” He let out a short, brittle laugh and almost flinched at how empty it sounded. 

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once, as if movement might help him outrun what he’d just said.

“The man I have loved for ten fucking years is hurt,” he said, voice rough, chest still heaving. “He’s in the hospital. And I am here—doing interviews, smiling, joking— pretending that this is still just some stupid rivalry. When all I’m doing is counting the minutes until I can get out of here. Trying not to think about what it would feel like if I lost him—”

A body slammed into Ilya, the impact knocking the breath halfway out of his chest.

He absorbed it with the instinct years on the ice had trained into him, remaining upright even as adrenaline flared sharp and hot beneath his skin. His jaw set as he braced for the familiar rhythm of confrontation. The spike of temper. The fist to his face. The slurs. The hate. The disgust.

That was usually how this went.

Instead, Victor stepped in and wrapped both arms around him, one hand settling at the back of his head to pull him closer. Ilya barely had time to register it before Victor turned him inward, pressing his forehead into his shoulder to block his view of the room—or maybe to shield him from the stunned silence of the men he considered friends.

Victor’s fingers brushed through Ilya’s hair, just once. He didn’t comment on the wet sheen in Ilya’s eyes or the dampness soaking into his shoulder. He just held him like this wasn’t the most exposed Ilya had ever been in front of them. And then he whispered, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us?”

Ilya’s breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. The anger that had carried him this far burned out just as quickly as it’d come, leaving only embarrassment and fear behind. And he knew, with a deep, sick certainty, that he couldn’t take those words back now. 

His hands hovered, useless for a long second, before settling against Victor’s back. His fingers curled into the fabric of his jumper, holding on tighter than he thought he would. “I wasn’t supposed to—” he managed when he could finally speak. “I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

Victor tightened his arms around him. “T’es un putain de crétin,” he murmured. “Of course you should have told us. We’re your fucking team. You think we wouldn’t have had your back?”

Across the room, someone cleared their throat. Someone else whispered his name, hesitant but not unkind. And then Cliff spoke, his voice stripped of its earlier bite. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “That, huh—” He paused, then huffed out a breath. “Yeah. That actually makes way more sense. I mean—” He shrugged. “You’ve always been kinda weird about Hollander.”

A couple of the guys snorted before they could stop themselves.

“I kinda just thought you hated him,” Marcus admitted.

“Same,” Luke said. “Enemies-to-lovers is crazy, though.”

Ryan shifted his weight like he might stand, then just looked back at Ilya, visibly unsure what to do with himself. “That’s—shit, man, that’s a lot,” he said, awkward but earnest. “But it’s not a problem.”

For a second, the silence turned ugly. The kind that came from men who had never rehearsed this moment, who were suddenly too aware of their own hands, their expressions, the weight of saying the wrong thing in the face of something this raw. Someone shifted their feet. A bench creaked. A stick tapped once against the floor, then stilled when the sound echoed across the quiet room.

Then Patrick snorted. “Honestly, I’m more offended you didn’t trust us enough to tell us sooner,” he said. “And maybe a little pissed you didn’t tell us you managed to pull Shane fuckin’ Hollander.”

Frank Kane leaned over and smacked Patrick in the arm. “Shut up,” he hissed under his breath, but it was drowned out by another voice from the back of the room.

“We just care that you’re alright,” Brad Hammersmith said quietly. “This doesn’t change anything, man.”

“Yeah,” Patrick added, ignoring Frank’s warning. “We’ve all ended up in the bin for less than defending our captain. Fuck anyone who’s got a problem with it.” He shrugged. “At least it’s Hollander and not—like—Barrett.” 

“Troy Barrett?” Luke asked, scandalised. 

“Ah, he is guy who is friends with Dallas Kent,” Artos muttered darkly. 

“Yeah,” Patrick nodded, wincing slightly. “Gotta admit, the guy’s attractive. And if Ilya was gonna fall for anyone, it had to be a stunner, right?” He shrugged again. “Troy’s pretty. He’s no Shane Hollander.”

Ryan made a face. “We are absolutely not playing smash or pass with the rest of the league again.”

Cliff scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Also, maybe don’t name-drop known homophobes when we’re trying to be supportive.”

Patrick looked mildly affronted. “What? I’m making a point.”

Ilya risked a glance up from Victor’s shoulder and looked around at these men—his team, his friends—and suddenly realised none of them looked angry. None of them looked disgusted. No one looked like they were about to flinch or walk away. They looked a little stunned, maybe. Grinning in that careless, too-loud way that passed for support, even when it was clumsy.

They were being, Ilya realised, loudly and disastrously accepting in the most aggressively straight way imaginable. And somehow, that made the tightness against his ribs ease just enough to breathe again.

“It is okay to be upset,” Victor said, finally easing back so he could cup his hands on Ilya’s face instead. He squished Ilya’s cheeks slightly, smiling until his eyes crinkled at the sight of Ilya’s unwilling pout. “Your, ah—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Your boy is hurt. And we were all discussing it like idiots, non? We would not have been so—so very careless if we had known.”

He gave Ilya’s cheeks one last squeeze, snorting. But then his voice softened, and so did his smile.

“I’m sorry, Ilya.”

Ilya let out a breath that trembled on the way out. He stepped back, rubbing at his sore cheeks before dragging the heel of his hand across his eyes, as if he could wipe away the knot of embarrassment and gratitude that was still burning there. His eyes stung, but he blinked it back. “You are all terrible at being normal about this,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Cliff said, wincing a little. “But we’re trying, man. You didn’t exactly give us a lot of warning.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Luke muttered. “That leopard shirt of his was always questionable. Y’know—the silk one he never bothers to button up.”

A few of the guys snorted. Someone groaned. And even Ilya found himself huffing a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

“That shirt is fashion,” he muttered, sitting down heavily on the bench—because his knees were still shaking, and he wasn’t sure he could keep himself upright much longer. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and dragged both hands over his face as he let out a slow breath. “You have no vision for these things,” he said, voice rough but amused. “You still wear shirts your mama bought for you.”

“At least mine button up properly,” Luke said defensively, but he was grinning, eyes a little too bright at the sound of Ilya’s laugh.

“Ugh. Shut the fuck up,” Ilya groaned. “I am never speaking again. You will all forget this ever happened.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Patrick snorted. “This is the highlight of my career.”

“Fuck your career,” Luke muttered. “This is the highlight of my fucking life.”

Someone threw a rolled-up sock at Luke. A few of the guys groaned. Someone else laughed a little too loudly. It was awkward and messy and so fucking accepting that Ilya almost cried again. But then one of the younger guys, still wide-eyed, blurted out, “So, uh—ten years?” and the near-tears evaporated on contact.

“Oi,” Cliff warned, though there was no real edge to it.

“It’s fine,” Ilya muttered. “Mock me. Get it out of your system. I deserve it.”

“We are not mocking you,” Victor murmured gently, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze. “We’re just—enjoying you being a disaster about Shane Hollander.” He snorted. “Especially after you loudly declared you would never fall in love with some boring American who doesn’t understand real hockey. Because you were destined for ‘a great, tragic Russian romance.’”

“He’s Canadian,” Ilya muttered.

“That’s worse,” Ryan said immediately.

“Hm,” Ilya mumbled. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, almost sheepish. “But at least I am very good at being a disaster about him.”

“Like,” one of the guys ventured, tentative, “a—gay disaster?”

“Fuck, no,” Ilya snorted. “Like bisexual disaster. You’ve seen all the women I slept with.”

“Why is that the least surprising thing you’ve said today?” Luke muttered.

“Wait,” Cliff said slowly. “How the hell were you with Hollander—Shane—for ten years if you were whoring around like that?” He shook his head. “Cassie’s still convinced she gonna see you in the ER with an STD every time she goes on shift.”

Ilya rolled his eyes at the mention of Cliff’s wife, more out of reflex than irritation. Cassie was lovely, really. Kind in that blunt Boston way. And Cliff adored her openly, without hesitation, without fear. Like it had never once occurred to him that he might have to hide it from anyone. And yes, fine—maybe Ilya envied that.

“We weren’t exclusive at first,” Ilya said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “It was supposed to make things easier. But it just made things—harder,” he admitted more quietly.

Cliff frowned. “Harder?”

“Hm. Realising I was in love with him. Waiting for him to stop being scared. Waiting for myself to stop pretending I didn’t care.” Ilya’s jaw tightened. “Both of us acting like it wasn’t real. Like it would be easier if we never said it out loud.” He shrugged. “We wasted a lot of time being stupid,” he muttered in Russian, and something about saying it in his own language made it easier to admit. “It was all very stupid.”

Ryan shifted, leaning forward so his arms rested on his knees. “So—you caught feelings?”

Ilya snorted, rolling his eyes. “Caught feelings,” he repeated flatly. “Yes. Like idiot. Blyat.” His jaw tightened, but there was a softness behind it he couldn’t quite hide. “Shane is just—he is very difficult not to care about.”

Luke exhaled, shaking his head. “Ten years is a long time,” he murmured. Then his brow furrowed as the timeline settled into place. “Oh my god. Isn’t that—that’s from before your rookie year, isn’t it?”

“Da. The summer before,” Ilya corrected, distracted by the memory. “In Saskatchewan, at World Junior Championships. Took me years to say that stupid name properly.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “But I knew of him before that. Coaches in Russia made us study other players, to make sure we knew our competition.”

Artos, who grew up in the same training camps Ilya had, nodded. “Watch their habits, find their weaknesses,” he murmured.

Ilya hummed, his mouth twisting fondly despite himself. “Even then, there was this pretty boy flying across the ice in that horrible Canadian sweater, with incredible footwork and a terrible backhand he still refuses to fix. Shane fucking Hollander.” He snorted. “Everyone in Russia kept saying he was overrated. Too pretty. Too soft.”

His lip curled faintly. “They were wrong. Obviously.” A breathy, almost embarrassed huff of laughter escaped him. “I thought he hated me at first—turns out he was just shy.” 

Cliff smiled. “Huh. It’s hard to imagine him being shy,” he muttered. “He always seems so put together.” 

“Hm. It was hard to believe,” Ilya admitted. “He was so fucking talented, even then. Not as good as me, obviously,” he added reflexively, like he needed the joke as armour for this kind of honesty. “But then we started talking. About hockey. About home. About how terrifying it is to want things you’re not supposed to.” His voice dipped lower. “And suddenly I was waiting for practice just to see him skate past me.”

Ilya looked down at his hands, fingers tracing the familiar edge of the tape. “Caught feelings,” he repeated more quietly. The words felt too small. Too casual. “No,” he murmured. “It felt like something I didn’t have words for.” 

Victor tilted his head. “You don’t sound like you regret it.”

Ilya hesitated. “I regret many things,” he said slowly. “That I had to pretend it meant nothing. Joke about it. Hide it. Lie about him.” His jaw firmed, resolve settling in. “But no. I do not regret him. Never.”

No one laughed at that, and Ilya was at least glad that they seemed to understand the weight of those words. 

He found himself looking at Artos instead of the rest of the room. He was another Russian boy far from home, and they were alike in all the ways that mattered—and impossibly different in the ones that didn’t. But he was, maybe, the only person in the room who truly understood how dangerous this secret was.

“In Russia,” Artos said quietly, in their shared language, “they would arrest you for this.” He hesitated. “It is not just shame now. It is a crime.”

He wasn’t wrong, Ilya thought sadly. Those laws had names now—the so-called “propaganda” bans. Quiet permissions given to the police to harass, fine, detain without cause. To make examples of anyone who refused to disappear. The way the news either hid the stories completely—raids on clubs, parents losing custody, careers ending before they ever began—or sneered through slurs on national television as if people like them were no longer human.

“Yes,” Ilya said, refusing to look away. Because maybe a part of him would always miss the Russia he’d once known. But he hated that it had learned to hate men like him.

“That is why you got dual citizenship?” Artos asked.

Ilya nodded.

Artos exhaled slowly. “Then it is a good thing we are not in Russia,” he said under his breath.

Ilya let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “It is a very good thing, bratishka.”

“Hey—wait,” Ryan suddenly blurted out, eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. “Oh my god, is Shane Hollander the reason you stopped being such a whore?”

Ilya shot him a look.

Ryan continued anyway. “Oh, come on. You don’t really think we didn’t notice when you stopped going home with random women? We just figured you were getting serious with someone. Like, maybe with that Montréal girl you keep texting. Jane Hol—”

He stopped mid-word, horror flickering across his face as he realised what he had just said.

Jane had always been this conveniently vague woman Ilya texted constantly but never explained. And sure, the mystery of his Montréal girl had fuelled an embarrassing amount of locker-room speculation for years. But there was something about the name—Jane Hollander—that made Ryan’s eyes widen as the syllables rearranged themselves in his head.

Recognition hit. Then horror. Then delight.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “Please—please, please—tell me you didn’t save Shane Hollander’s number in your phone as Jane.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ilya muttered weakly.

Cliff lit up instantly. “Oh no. Oh no. You did.”

Victor covered his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking. “You absolutely did not.”

“Ilya,” Luke said, leaning forward, “please tell me his contact name is not Jane with a little heart next to it—”

“I do not use hearts,” Ilya snapped on reflex. “I am not twelve.”

Marcus snorted. “I thought you said she was a model?”

“He is a model,” Ilya muttered.

But then Cliff groaned, long and pained, and his eyes widened in a slow, dawning horror. “Have I been sitting next to you while you’ve been sexting Shane Hollander this whole time?” He asked, pointing at him. “Man, I’ve glanced at your phone so many times thinking you were flirting with some girl named Jane.” He dragged both hands down his face. “I’ve seen you promising her all nine inches and swearing you’d have her screaming your—”

“I told you not to look at my phone,” Ilya snapped, but it came out breathless. “You will all regret this conversation when Shane finds out. He will score such a beautiful goal against you that you will regret ever stepping onto the ice. And I will reward him very well after, da?”

Victor grinned. “Did you just threaten us with your boyfriend?”

It was the first time anyone had ever said that to Ilya who wasn’t Shane Hollander—or one of Shane’s parents. The circle of people who knew their secret was, in truth, uncomfortably small. So hearing it now, spoken so casually by a man who had been Ilya’s friend for years and his teammate for even longer, almost hurt. It felt like his ribs were too tight to hold the emotion pressing against them.

Ilya’s mouth tilted before he could stop it. And the grin that broke free was wide, unguarded, almost boyish.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I did.”

“Ah. Vengeful romance,” Victor sighed. “It’s beautiful, non?”

“Da,” Ilya agreed, because Shane was always beautiful. But never more so than when he was on the ice. Or when he was tangled in their sheets, breath breaking around Ilya’s name. Or when he glanced over his shoulder and murmured those soft Russian words Ilya had never dared to hope he would hear.

Or maybe he was simply always beautiful.

Maybe Ilya was just a fool in love.

“You all act like you would not do worse,” Ilya murmured, still faintly stunned by the simple fact that he could say these words out loud now. “If you had Shane Hollander smiling at you like you’re the only person in the world, you would fold immediately.”

“Bold of you to assume we could even get a text back,” Luke said dryly.

“Speak for yourself, rookie,” Ryan added. “I’m very charming.”

“You are very single,” Ilya shot back without missing a beat.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cliff said, shoulders dropping as he snorted. “We get it.” His voice softened, the teasing edge giving way to something more sincere. “You love the guy. We’re just—fuck, man. I’m having a minor crisis about what your pillow talk with Shane Hollander must be like. And some of the things I’ve accidentally seen you text Jane.”

He exhaled like he’d only just realised he’d been holding his breath. Then he froze.

“Am I a prude?” He asked suddenly. “Some of the things I’ve seen you text Jane—Shane—fuck,” he rolled his eyes. “Ugh. I suddenly feel like I need to apologise to Cassie, and that usually means I’ve done something wrong.”

“You are a prude,” Ilya said flatly. “Apologise to your wife. She deserves better than boring sex from a man who treats intimacy like a scheduled meeting. If you’re going to commit to monogamy, at least don’t commit to mediocrity.”

A few of the guys choked on their laughter.

“Oh my god,” Cliff muttered. “Did he teach you those words?” He laughed, then pointed at Ilya, delighted. “And fuck you! I’m not taking this from a guy who was in a situationship with Shane Hollander for years before he realised it was serious!”

“Was not a situation,” Ilya snapped, rolling his eyes. “Just took a long time to convince Shane to choose me.” The words landed heavier than he meant them to, warmth and defensiveness tangling tight in his chest. His posture firmed, chin lifting. “And do not act like we were reckless. We kept everything professional in public.”

“Yeah, maybe he did,” Ryan added with a smirk. “Before tonight’s game, anyway. But you? Fucking hell, Roz. You’ve always been so weird about him.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Like that time you stormed off the ice because Hollzy got a penalty. Fuck. We all thought you were mad about the call.”

“I was mad about the call,” Ilya muttered, jaw flexing.

“Sure,” Victor said lightly. “And not about the man.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya muttered, rolling his eyes.

And maybe that should’ve been the end of it. But Luke was still staring at Ilya with wide eyes, elbows braced on his knees, mouth hanging slightly open like he was watching history rewrite itself in real time. “How the hell are we supposed to chirp you ever again?” He asked, still staring.

“What?” Ilya frowned.

Luke shook his head in open disbelief. “That’s not fair. You don’t get to be Ilya Rozanov and also be dating Shane Hollander.” He sat up straighter, pointing accusingly. “How the hell did you even seduce him? ’Cause no offence—but you’re kind of a dick most of the time.”

“Seduce?” Ilya repeated. “What is seduce? He seduced me.” He snorted at their disbelief, shaking his head. “Ah. You all think he is good boy. No. Shane Hollander is vixen. Smiles all polite, plays all perfect—and then ruins you with one look.” He huffed out a self-mocking laugh. “I didn’t stand a chance. Was just a poor little Russian boy faced with all those krasivyy freckles.”

The confession slipped out before Ilya could stop it, and he exhaled like he’d been holding it in for years. Maybe he had. Something tight and aching loosened in his chest. But beneath the relief, dread started to creep in. It suddenly felt reckless, and the guilt followed a heartbeat later—sharp and unwelcome—at the thought that he’d dragged Shane into this without asking.

“It took me a long time to earn exclusive rights to him,” Ilya admitted quietly. Then he scoffed under his breath. “Ugh. He is going to make me sleep on the couch for a month for this.”

A couple of the guys laughed, delighted.

Victor snorted. “Yeah. Don’t be a dick, rookie.”

Luke flushed. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Was supposed to be insult?” Ilya cut in, brows lifting. His pulse was still skating too fast under his skin, adrenaline humming, but he let the smirk take over anyway. “Or are you just upset he chose me and now you know your little crush will stay one-sided forever?” He leaned back on the bench, all teeth and wicked satisfaction. “So sad.”

“You’ve been out for five minutes,” Luke muttered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth to hide his grin, “how the hell did you already get meaner?”

“He’s always been mean,” Cliff said. “It was the one thing the Bears didn’t have to teach him when we drafted him.”

“Idi nakhuy, pridurok,” Ilya snapped back, but there was no real bite in it now.

“Err—for the record,” Luke said, hesitant, cheeks flushed as he avoided Ilya’s eyes, “I don’t actually have a crush on Shane Hollander. I didn’t mean to make it weird for you by talking about him all the time. I just—” He exhaled, embarrassed. “Man. He’s like hockey royalty.”

“Shane Hollander is not royalty,” Ilya said instantly, defensive on reflex. “He is annoying.”

The words tumbled out faster than he could stop them. “He folds his clothes before sex. He never wears his glasses when I tell him to, then complains about headaches.” He crossed his arms, feeling oddly protective even as he listed the offences. “And he drinks those stupid green smoothies every morning and never lets me get McDonald’s—even when I give him really good head first.”

He grinned at their horrified laughter, then snorted. “He turns the AC up at night and somehow it’s my fault that he’s cold.” His eyes narrowed. “And he never lets me win an argument. Even when I’m right.”

“Oh yeah,” Ryan said, grinning. “He sounds awful.” Then he paused, head tilting, eyes sharpening with interest. “Wait—are you two living together?” He blurted. “Is that where you were last night?”

“No,” Ilya said too quickly. Then, through his teeth, “Sometimes. Yes.” He huffed out a sigh when they started laughing, growling out a low string of Russian curses under his breath. “Oh, fuck off already, khui,” he muttered, but he was laughing too now, shaking his head at just how ridiculous this team was being—and maybe at the way they were letting him talk about Shane without turning it into something ugly.

“I can’t believe we were so fuckin’ stupid,” Marcus muttered. “It’s so fucking obvious in hindsight. You and him, I mean.” He shook his head. “How the hell have you two kept this quiet?” His brows lifted as he studied Ilya. “What was the plan, Roz? Just keep it hidden until you both retire?”

Ilya shrugged. “Da,” he said quietly. 

Because that had been exactly the plan. To just wait it out and learn how to survive loving each other in the margins while pretending it was enough. 

“Maybe leave,” he admitted, and some of the heartbreak must have shown on his face, because the room went quiet. “Live in the same city. Sleep in the same bed. Join another team—maybe a divisional one. Ottawa is a good option. Less press. Less noise. Doesn’t worship hockey players the way Montréal does. Is closer to Yuna and David, too. Closer to where Shane grew up.” 

He shrugged, almost apologetic, and there was a moment of stunned silence, before—

“Nah,” Cliff muttered, already pulling out his phone. “Fuck that.”

“Yeah. Why the fuck would you leave?” Ryan said. “To Ottawa? Seriously?” He shook his head, gesturing sharply like the idea itself annoyed him. “You’re one of the best players in the league. Ottawa can’t even afford to say your fuckin’ name. And you think you’re leaving us for that piece of shit team?”

“Da,” Artos agreed quietly. “This is bad plan. Very bad, I think.”

“It’s like you forget we’re from Boston,” Cliff muttered, still texting furiously.

Because Cassie was beautiful and kind and terrifyingly competent. And maybe because, if he had to walk away from hockey to stay with her, he would. Without hesitation. But he also knew she would never ask that of him. Knew the way she worried when he came home bruised and limping while she was still in her nursing scrubs, exhaustion clinging to her as she patched him up with soft hands and a smile just for him.

He thought, briefly, of Shane Hollander, and wondered what he thought of this plan. If he even knew it existed.

Cliff scoffed under his breath, thinking of the quiet, infuriating competence with which Shane took a bad play on the ice and reshaped it into something that worked for him. No, he thought. The Shane Hollander he knew—which might just be the public version, if Cliff was being honest with himself—would have already torn Ilya’s plan apart and rebuilt it into something that didn’t require them running.

“Oi, Roz!” Cliff called, raising his voice so the whole room heard him. “We’re from Boston.” He pointed at himself, then at Ilya. Because fuck anyone who thought Ilya Rozanov hadn’t been claimed by the city that drafted him.

“Have you seen how many pride flags are on the streets in Boston? Like, all year round?” He gestured with his phone. “Or how management keeps shoving rainbow warmups and Pride merch in every interview? Or the fact that half the city would riot if anyone tried to run you out for loving Shane Hollander of all fuckin’ people?”

“Your boy might be Canadian,” Cliff said, shaking his head, “but everyone and their fuckin’ grandma loves him. He’s a fuckin’ nightmare to play against, and somehow you got him to fall in love with you.” Another scoff. “Overachieving asshole.”

“Which one?” Victor asked, smirking now.

“Both of them,” Cliff snapped, still glaring at Ilya.

“Cliff—” Ilya started.

“No,” Cliff cut him off. “Fuck you and this stupid fuckin’ plan of yours. You don’t get to run from us.” He jerked his chin toward the room. “We’ll figure out something better than whatever bullshit just came outta your mouth.”

For a second, Ilya just stared at him. Then he huffed out a breath that almost resembled a laugh. 

Cliff rolled his eyes and grabbed—stole, really—Ilya’s bag on his way to the door. “C’mon,” he said, already moving, Victor and Ryan rising to follow. “Cassie knows someone at Montréal General. They trained together. Nurses.” He snorted as he slung the bag over his shoulder. “I swear, they’re almost as weird as hockey players.”

He pointed at the rookies. “You lot cover for us if anyone asks. I don’t want LeClaire on our asses for missing curfew again.”

Luke and Artos nodded immediately.

“Cassie’s friend is gonna sneak us into Shane’s room,” Cliff added, like this was the most reasonable plan in the world. Then he turned back to Ilya, smirking with something fierce and fond shinning in his eyes. “C’mon, Roz. Let’s go get your boy the fuck out of Montréal.”

Chapter End Notes

Blyat (блядь) — Russian
Literally translates to “whore,” but idiomatically functions as “fuck,” “shit,” or “damn it”; A sharp, emotionally reactive expletive; Expresses frustration, disbelief, anger, shock, or emphasis; Common in colloquial Russian and often reflexive rather than directed.

Da (да) — Russian
Yes; A flexible affirmative that can also mean "and," "but," "indeed," or function as a conversational filler (similar to “well”), depending heavily on tone and context; Ilya uses it instinctively, especially in emotional or unguarded moments.

Capitaine — French
Captain; Team captain; Standard French noun; Here used in a hockey context to reference leadership status; Used as a title or form of address, often carrying respect or dry irony depending on context.

Bratishka (братишка) — Russian
Little brother; Bro; An affectionate, informal Russian term used to address a (usually younger) male friend; Conveys warmth, familiarity, and protective fondness; Common among close male friends or teammates.

T’es un putain de crétin — French
You’re a fucking idiot; A vulgar but often affectionate insult; “Putain” intensifies the phrase; Tone can range from genuinely angry to bluntly fond depending on context; Here used with frustrated affection.

Non — French
Translates to “no”; Direct and firm; Not inherently rude, but tone determines whether it sounds neutral, sharp, or dismissive.

Krasivyy (красивый) — Russian
Beautiful; Handsome; Attractive; Standard adjective describing physical beauty; Here used admiringly and intimately, emphasising affectionate attraction.

Idi nakhuy, pridurok (Иди нахуй, придурок) — Russian
Go fuck yourself, idiot; “Idi nakhuy” literally “go to dick,” a strong dismissal; “Pridurok” means fool or moron; Highly informal, aggressive insult often used in heated banter.

Khui (хуй) — Russian
Dick; Fuck; A coarse profanity used as an expletive or insult; Extremely informal and offensive; Often muttered in frustration.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Chapter End Notes

Solnyshko (солнышко) — Russian
Little sun; Sunshine; My sunshine; A tender, affectionate diminutive used for someone cherished; Conveys warmth, emotional safety, softness, and intimacy; Often used toward a romantic partner in moments of vulnerability or fond teasing.

Ilyusha (Илюша) — Russian
A Russian diminutive or affectionate nickname of Ilya; The meaning remains the same, but the shift from Ilya to Ilyusha signals closeness and warmth—used in personal, familiar, or intimate contexts rather than formal address.

Svoloch (сволочь) — Russian
Bastard; Scoundrel; A sharp insult implying someone is contemptible or morally vile; Carries strong emotional bite without necessarily being obscene; Often used in anger toward someone who has wronged a loved one.

Da (да) — Russian
Yes; A flexible affirmative that can also mean "and," "but," "indeed," or function as a conversational filler (similar to “well”), depending heavily on tone and context; Ilya uses it instinctively, especially in emotional or unguarded moments.

Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy (Я люблю тебя всей душой) — Russian
I love you with all my whole soul; I love you with all my heart and soul; A deep declaration of love; “Vsey dushoy” intensifies the statement beyond casual affection; Conveys sincerity, emotional depth, and wholehearted devotion; Typically used between romantic partners; A more passionate and emotionally vulnerable variation of ya lyublyu tebya (Я люблю тебя), meaning “I love you.”

Très chic — French
Very stylish; Very elegant; A common French phrase used in fashion contexts; Carries playful sophistication; Often used teasingly to imply exaggerated elegance.

Vous êtes horriblement mignons — French
You are horribly cute; You are disgustingly adorable; “Horriblement” intensifies affection through mock severity; Playfully dramatic tone; Often used to express exaggerated fondness while pretending mild exasperation; Has the same effect as calling them disgustingly cute; With thanks to Syifrae for the translation help!

Non — French
Translates to “no”; Direct and firm; Not inherently rude, but tone determines whether it sounds neutral, sharp, or dismissive.

TTO — English (medical abbreviation)
To Take Out; To Take Home; A medical abbreviation referring to medications provided to a patient at hospital discharge.

Concussion Protocol — English (sports abbreviation)
A league-mandated medical evaluation and restriction process following a head injury; Designed to prevent premature return to play and reduce risk of further harm.

AMA — English (medical abbreviation)
Against Medical Advice; A formal hospital term used when a patient chooses to leave care without medical approval or against clinician recommendations; Carries clinical and legal implications; Suggests liability and documentation concerns in healthcare settings.

MVP — English (sports abbreviation)
Most Valuable Player; Award designation for the most outstanding contributor on a team or in a game; Used colloquially to praise someone’s importance or contribution in non-sport contexts.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

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Edit: Try scrolling in the media post!

Chapter End Notes

Solnyshko (солнышко) — Russian
Little sun; Sunshine; My sunshine; A tender, affectionate diminutive used for someone cherished; Conveys warmth, emotional safety, softness, and intimacy; Often used toward a romantic partner in moments of vulnerability or fond teasing.

Krasivyy ty (красивый ты) — Russian
You are beautiful; You are handsome; A direct statement of admiration combining “krasivyy” (beautiful/handsome) with the pronoun “ty” (you); Intimate and personal in tone; Often used softly in romantic contexts where admiration is expressed without irony.

Da (да) — Russian
Yes; A flexible affirmative that can also function as emphasis (“indeed”), agreement (“right”), soft insistence, or conversational filler depending on tone; Ilya uses it rhythmically and instinctively, especially in emotionally charged or unguarded moments.

Ty v poryadke, solnyshko (Ты в порядке, солнышко) — Russian
You’re okay, sunshine; Are you alright, my sunshine; A reassuring phrase combining concern with a term of endearment; Conveys protective tenderness and calm reassurance; Spoken softly to soothe someone who is distressed or hurt.

Ah, bien — French
Translates to “Oh, good,” “Ah, well,” or “Alright then”; Can convey mild satisfaction, acknowledgment, or ironic acceptance depending on intonation.

Non — French
Translates to “no”; Direct and firm, but not inherently rude; Tone determines whether it sounds neutral, dismissive, or emphatic.

Ochen’ milo (очень мило) — Russian
Translates to “very cute” or “very sweet”; Often used sincerely to express fondness or affection, but can also be delivered dryly or sarcastically depending on context and tone.

Ilyusha (Илюша) — Russian
A Russian diminutive or affectionate nickname of Ilya; The meaning remains the same, but the shift from Ilya to Ilyusha signals closeness and warmth—used in personal, familiar, or intimate contexts rather than formal address.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Chapter 7

Ilya Rozanov Is A Great Boyfriend, Actually
But He’s Also An idiot, Sometimes

Shane Hollander took a long moment to realise he hadn’t been woken by gentle hands and warm lips at his ear.

Another moment passed before he registered the absence of the soft click of an alarm, silenced before it could properly begin. There was no quiet murmur of solnyshko, spoken like a secret meant only for him. No slow, practiced pull back into consciousness through touch and breath and low Russian murmurs that had come to shape the edges of his stolen mornings with Ilya.

Instead, there was that fractured memory again.

Then the memory slipped away again, leaving behind the uncomfortable sense that this wasn’t the first time he’d tried and failed to hold onto it.

The first thing he really registered was the warmth pressed along his back. A solid chest. A heavy arm draped over his waist. Ilya’s fingers curled beneath the fabric of his vest top, splayed low on his stomach like he’d fallen asleep making sure Shane couldn’t roll away without him knowing.

Shane went very, very still.

He knew Ilya’s breathing even in his sleep. The exact rhythm of it. How it moved against the nape of his neck. The way Ilya’s face was tucked there, stubble scraping faintly against his skin. The way his entire body curved around him like a barrier between him and the rest of the world.

But something was off. A tension that lingered even in sleep. Shane could feel it in the way Ilya’s arm stayed locked around him, his fingers flexing slightly every few breaths, like he was checking Shane was still there.

He frowned, but kept his eyes closed and let himself listen. There was no crowd noise. No distant hum of traffic, which he’d almost expected. No muffled hotel hallway voices bleeding through thin walls. Just Ilya. The faint rustle of sheets when he shifted. The low, familiar rhythm of his breathing. The tiny hitch at the end of each exhale that Shane catalogued without ever meaning to.

He swallowed and almost immediately regretted it. His mouth felt dry, and his head felt wrong—tender enough that he didn’t want to move it at all. A slow, pulsing ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he groaned softly. Behind him, Ilya shifted in his sleep. His grip tightened reflexively, fingers curling more firmly into Shane’s stomach.

Shane opened his eyes, wincing at the soft light spilling through the gap in the curtains. It was too bright, but the room came into focus in pieces through his blurry vision.

He registered the familiar slant of the ceiling first. Then the dresser across from the bed. The chair in the corner with clothes thrown over the back in a way he recognised immediately, because Ilya always dropped them in the same place. A Bears hoodie lay on the floor beside the bed, next to a pair of crumpled sweatpants and two sets of socks, both half inside out.

This is Ilya’s house, Shane thought, dazed. 

In Boston.

He had no memory of how he’d gotten here, and he frowned faintly as that realisation settled in. His thoughts were still moving too slowly, like they had to push through something thick and sluggish just to get where they were going. It hurt too much to focus on them directly, so Shane traced the edges of the room instead, letting the details ground him while his head throbbed.

There was a new lamp on the bedside table, which made sense after they’d broken the old one. A shirt hung over the chair in the corner, and he was fairly sure it had been there the last time he’d been in Boston, too. The curtains were pulled to the exact height Ilya always left them—not quite closed, but enough that the thin line of light on the wall landed in the same place it always did.

“What the fuck?” Shane whispered.

Behind him, Ilya’s breathing shifted again—still not quite awake, but closer. The steady rhythm went uneven, then smoothed out again. His bare chest pressed more firmly into Shane’s back, and his arm tightened slightly around him.

Shane hummed softly as Ilya exhaled against the nape of his neck again. He waited until he thought Ilya had settled, then carefully lifted his arm, wincing when Ilya instinctively tried to pull him closer. He froze, breath held, until Ilya settled again, warm and solid at his back—only then did he risk a brief look over his shoulder.

Ilya’s eyelashes were pale gold in the dim room, fanned against his cheeks—long and absurdly delicate for someone with enough muscle to throw grown men into the boards without breaking a sweat. His brow was still faintly furrowed even in sleep, and his lips were slightly parted, pressed against Shane’s shoulder like he’d drifted off mid-breath.

Shane took him in—the quiet familiarity of seeing Ilya Rozanov in a way no one else ever had—before attempting to sit up. He didn’t make it far. The room lurched violently to the left, and Shane groaned, dropping back into the pillow and pressing his face into the fabric, mostly because the pressure helped his head stop feeling like it was drifting loose inside his skull.

“Hm,” Ilya murmured behind him. His arm slid back around Shane’s middle, and he pressed a sleepy, absent kiss into the back of Shane’s neck. “Solnyshko,” he said softly, his voice rough with sleep. “You woke up without me.”

The movement of Ilya’s mouth against his skin was warm and familiar, a sensation that made the rest of the room feel farther away instead of closer. But Shane couldn’t bring himself to turn around again, not when he didn’t trust what would happen if he tried to move his head.

He forced himself to exhale slowly, the sound catching halfway through when Ilya’s mouth brushed the back of his neck again. It wasn’t a kiss this time—just the warm drag of lips over bruised skin—but it still sent a familiar rush of heat through him, coiling low in his stomach under Ilya’s hand, as if it had only been waiting for permission to be acknowledged.

“You’re tired,” Shane said quietly, because Ilya had been waking him every two hours for longer than Shane could keep track of—pressing water and painkillers into his hands, guiding the glass to his mouth when his grip went slack, easing him back down when his head tipped and the world tilted with it.

“You’ve been awake every two hours,” Shane added, a small knot of guilt and something painfully fond tightening in his chest. “You should go back to sleep, Ilya. M’okay.”

A low, rough sound brushed against his skin as Ilya huffed a quiet laugh. “Hm. Already trying to get rid of me, Hollander?” He murmured, his accent slipping deeper as he shifted closer, until Shane could feel the full length of him along his back. “I’ve been so good to you, and you already want to send me away.”

Shane felt the curve of Ilya’s smile against his skin, and he almost tipped his head back against his shoulder before remembering—just in time—that it would probably make the ache in his head worse. He stilled instead, exhaling slowly, letting the warmth of Ilya’s body settle around him.

“This is the first time you’ve woken up without me,” Ilya whispered, his teeth catching lightly at Shane’s shoulder, careful to avoid the bruises along his neck. “And you’re already trying to get me to behave?” He huffed a quiet, amused breath. “You’re so mean to me, Hollander.”

Shane almost laughed at the near-pout in his voice, but the sound came out as a tired breath that snagged in his chest instead. “Shut up,” he mumbled, softer this time. It sounded fond, worn thin at the edges as he pressed his face deeper into the pillow and let his eyes close again. “My head feels like shit. I can’t deal with your flirting right now.”

“Hm,” Ilya murmured. His hand shifted slightly on Shane’s stomach, settling more deliberately. His thumb resumed its slow, steady path, like he was soothing something that hadn’t quite settled yet.

Shane noticed it. Of course he did. He always noticed the small repetitions—the way Ilya fell into rhythms when he was anxious, the way his touch turned careful when his mind wouldn’t stop moving. The way he repeated the same motion over and over, like if he kept it steady enough, nothing else would slip out of his control.

Ilya was quiet for a long moment, and Shane could feel the hesitation in the way he breathed—the way his mouth hovered against Shane’s skin without moving. “I missed you,” he finally whispered. “I missed you being awake and knowing what was going on around you. I missed your eyes looking at me and knowing me.”

Shane’s chest tightened at that, something soft and aching slipping past the fog of pain. He shifted slightly under Ilya’s hand, just enough to press back into the touch. “Pretty sure you’re stuck with me,” he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. “You’d have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me.”

Ilya’s arm tightened, just slightly. “You were hit hard,” he said, softer now. “It was very bad, da? You went down, and they had to take you off the ice on a stretcher.” His voice dipped lower, the words more controlled than calm. “You were unconscious. Kept those pretty eyes closed for ten minutes and left me all alone to make terrible decisions.”

He paused, breath catching as he hesitated, and Shane felt the way he licked his lips before continuing. “I did not want you to be alone when you woke up,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the back of his neck.

“Hm,” Shane said slowly, trying to convince himself it wasn’t a moan as Ilya’s mouth brushed his bruised skin again. “I remember that bit. But that doesn’t explain why I’m in your bed. In Boston.”

“Ah,” Ilya mumbled, his lips brushing softly over the bruises on Shane’s neck, lingering there a moment longer than necessary before he added, quieter, “I brought you home.”

Shane closed his eyes as he breathed out Ilya’s name, and kept them closed—more out of self-preservation than avoidance. The room still felt faintly tilted, like it might shift if he trusted it too much, and Ilya’s voice, low and close, was doing absolutely nothing to help his balance.

“You can’t just—” He faltered, then tried again, slower this time. “You can’t just decide to, ah—to relocate me when—”

“Hm.” Ilya cut him off with a soft exhale against the back of his neck, something almost like a laugh caught in it. “You are very opinionated,” he murmured, “for someone who could not remember his own name two hours ago.”

“I remember my name,” Shane said, biting back the urge to roll his eyes. “I just don’t remember agreeing to cross the border from Montréal to Boston.” He groaned again as a spike of pain throbbed behind his eyes, because he definitely hadn’t caught that urge quickly enough. 

“We were in Montréal, right?” He asked, eyes still closed. “You were supposed to come to my house after the game so we could sleep for a few hours before you left.” 

There was a brief moment of silence as Ilya’s lips hovered over his skin, and Shane felt the exact instant his mouth began to curve into that familiar grin. “Sleep?” Ilya repeated, voice low. Because they both knew the last thing on their minds after a game—when adrenaline was still burning through their veins and the roar of the crowd hadn’t quite faded—was sleep.

Shane ignored him. Mostly because he couldn’t deal with the consequences of following that line of thought right now. “How the hell did we end up in Boston?” He asked instead.

“You did not object,” Ilya said, sounding infuriatingly reasonable. “You were asleep.”

“That’s not an answer, Ilya.”

Ilya’s thumb paused, then resumed its slow, deliberate path along Shane’s stomach. “You were hurt. You needed quiet. Hospital said no flights for days, but they also said no stress, no media, no strangers. Montréal has all of that. My house does not.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “And I needed you with me.”

Shane hummed, letting the words settle instead of pushing back immediately. He could feel how carefully Ilya was holding himself, how much of this explanation had been rehearsed—and how much hadn’t. “You should’ve told me,” he murmured, sighing. There was no annoyance in it this time. Just a fond sort of weariness. “When I woke up, you should’ve—”

“I tried, solnyshko,” Ilya murmured. “You fell asleep again halfway through. You snored.”

“I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do.”

Shane opened one eye, then closed it again when the world kept spinning. “I’m still mad,” he said, because not saying it felt like letting him get away with it. 

“I know.”

“And I’m not saying this is fine,” Shane sighed, annoyed and amused in equal measure, which somehow made it worse. “But I’m glad I’m here,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could overthink them. He hesitated, then added more quietly, “I’m really glad I’m with you.”

Ilya’s arm tightened around him in response, pulling him in until Shane’s back was flush against his chest, leaving no space between them at all. Shane was acutely aware of him—of the weight, the heat, the way Ilya’s hand stayed firm against his stomach, fingers hooked just inside the waistband of his boxers like he had no intention of letting him drift even an inch too far away. 

But beneath the warmth curling low under Ilya’s touch—beneath the dull ache in his skull and the fog clouding his thoughts—something else surfaced. Because Ilya’s touch was tentative in a way it never was. Like he was still waiting to be pushed away. Like he didn’t quite trust that Shane was really here, or like some part of him was braced for this quiet moment to vanish before he could hold onto it.

“Hey,” Shane said softly. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Do not,” Ilya said as his nails bit into Shane’s stomach, like he didn’t like the direction his own thoughts were going. “Do not apologise to me for this.”

Shane’s hand coming up to rest lightly over Ilya’s wrist. “You hate hospitals,” he murmured, because he knew it as well as he knew the way Ilya played, the way he thought, the way he loved. He’d seen the way Ilya avoided them—the way his shoulders tightened at the sterile smell and the quiet beeping of machines.

Ilya hummed softly in response.

“You hate not being able to fix things,” Shane continued. “And you definitely hate when I’m unconscious and you can’t yell at me.”

A quiet, reluctant sound escaped Ilya that might have been a laugh. His mouth brushed Shane’s skin again, slower now. Less teasing. More like he was checking for the steady flutter of Shane’s pulse beneath it. “I did hate it,” he admitted. “I hated it very much.”

Something in Shane’s chest tightened, sharp and unfamiliar, like the feeling had nowhere to go now that it had been let out. “I’m okay,” he murmured. “My head’s fucking killing me, and I’m probably making even worse decisions than usual.” His mouth twitched faintly. “But I’m alright. I’m not gonna keel over or anything.”

Ilya shifted slightly behind him, his hand pressing more securely against Shane’s stomach, dragging him closer even though there was no space left between them. “You say that,” he said, “but you also tried to sit up thirty seconds ago and nearly fell over without moving.”

Shane made a small, annoyed sound into the pillow. 

“And you still sound like you swallowed gravel,” Ilya added.

“I swallowed a mouthguard for half a game,” Shane muttered. “And I just woke up. Give me a minute.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but he lifted his head slightly anyway. “I’m fine.”

“You are terrible liar,” Ilya said.

“Leave me alone,” Shane grumbled, though there wasn’t much bite behind it. 

Ilya huffed softly, his breath warming the back of Shane’s neck with a smug edge. “Hm. I much prefer it when your voice is all rough like this from sucking my—”

Shane elbowed him on instinct, and felt an immediate flicker of satisfaction at the soft oof that followed—right up until Ilya hissed, low and pained, and the reality caught up to him.

“Oh—fuck, Ilya, sorry,” Shane said quickly, twisting around to check on him, concern tightening low in his chest before he could think it through. His hand came up without thinking, hovering near Ilya’s ribs before settling more carefully at his side. “I didn’t—are you okay?”

Ilya sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, his expression tightening for a moment before he exhaled. “It’s fine,” he said, though his voice was a little strained.

Shane didn’t believe him for a second. His hand shifted slightly, more deliberate now as he laid his palm flat against the warm skin at Ilya’s side, careful where he pressed. “That didn’t sound fine. Are you—”

Ilya caught his wrist lightly, stilling him. “Solnyshko,” he said, dragging Shane’s hand up to his mouth to press a slow, deliberate kiss against his palm. His thumb brushed over Shane’s knuckles, his lips following to trace the fading bruises there. “They’re just bruised,” he said quietly. “But much better when you don’t elbow them, da?”

Then his mouth curved faintly, something teasing slipping back into his expression. “Maybe you kiss it better now, hm?” He said, voice low, fingers tapping lightly against his side. “Would be good apology.” 

Shane narrowed his eyes at him, tracking the way Ilya leaned back into the pillows without a hint of shame, his bare chest rising slow and steady with each breath. He folded his arms behind his head with a faint, challenging lift of his brows, the corner of his mouth tugging like he already knew exactly what Shane was going to do next.

But, well—Shane had always loved a challenge. Especially when it came wrapped up in someone as insufferably confident as Ilya, who knew exactly how to provoke him and enjoyed it far too much. Who looked at him like this was a game they’d been playing for years—because it was—and neither of them had any intention of losing.

His vision swam slightly when he leaned over Ilya, but he ignored it as he pressed a kiss to the skin along his ribs. He hummed softly when Ilya hissed at the contact, his breath catching just enough to give him away, and Shane felt a flicker of satisfaction settle in his chest.

He let the moment stretch, unhurried, as he moved lower, pressing another kiss just beneath the curve of his ribs. His lips lingered there for a moment before continuing, tracing a slow, deliberate path across the sensitive skin just below Ilya’s navel. Then he paused—just to feel the way Ilya’s body reacted beneath him.

“Hm,” he murmured, pulling back slightly to glance up at him through his lashes. “Are you going to admit your ribs are hurt,” he asked, voice low, “or do you want me to keep going?”

Ilya’s head tipped back against the pillows, a strained laugh breaking out of him as he scrubbed a hand down his face. His blue eyes flicked down to Shane, dark and a little unfocused, like he was trying very hard to stay in control of himself.

“I definitely want you to keep going,” he groaned, before reaching out to pull Shane back up and settle him across his chest instead, wrapping both arms around him as he rolled them onto their side. “But you have a concussion,” he added, sounding equal parts reluctant and amused as he pressed a slow kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth. “And my ribs still hurt,” he admitted. “Maybe just a little.”

Shane snorted softly, his hand flattening briefly against Ilya’s ribs before sliding around his side, fingers curling lightly at his back as he settled into his arms.

“Hm,” Ilya murmured, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding line along Shane’s spine. “We should behave,” he said, though the faint curve of his mouth suggested he didn’t believe that for a second. “You are very bad influence.”

“Me?” Shane said, tipping his head back just enough to look at him properly. “You’re the one who started all of this.”

“I made reasonable suggestion,” Ilya replied.

“Sure,” Shane murmured, shifting closer instead of pulling away, his knee sliding between Ilya’s legs as he settled in. His lips ghosted over Ilya’s once more, teasing, before he added under his breath, “Was that before or after you started talking about me sucking your cock?”

Ilya huffed as his hand tightened at Shane’s back. 

“Shane,” he warned, low and rough.

“Hm,” Shane hummed, entirely unconcerned, his mouth brushing Ilya’s again in a way that might have been innocent if not for how long he lingered. “Tell me to behave again.”

Ilya’s grip shifted, firmer now, fingers pressing into the fabric at Shane’s back to keep him exactly where he was. “You should behave,” he said, though there was nothing convincing about it.

Shane smiled faintly against his mouth, tilting his head just enough to almost kiss him again—and then stopped short. He felt the sharp exhale Ilya couldn’t quite hide, saw the way his forehead dipped briefly against his, like he was caught between instincts and couldn’t decided which one to follow.

“No one ever believes me when I tell them you are vixen,” Ilya said, his eyes narrowing. “You are enjoying this.” His thumb pressed a little harder into Shane’s hip. “You like seeing how far you can push me before I lose patience.”

Shane’s mouth curved slightly.

“Mm-hm,” he agreed, and then finally pulled him into another kiss.

Ilya made a low sound in his throat, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Shane’s head. His fingers curled into his hair, careful around the bruises at his neck where he would have usually held him tighter. He was so obviously holding himself back, stopping just short of tipping Shane’s head up the way he clearly wanted to.

His thumb brushed lightly at his nape as he kissed him, the heat between them catching somewhere low in Shane’s chest—right up until Ilya pulled back, just enough that his lips still brushed Shane’s as he murmured, “Behave now.”

“Absolutely not,” Shane mumbled, leaning in to kiss him again—only to pout when Ilya wrapped him so firmly in his arms that he couldn’t move. He tried to shift anyway, wincing when it sent a dull throb through his skull. He huffed out a quiet, frustrated breath.

“You know,” he said slowly, “sex is supposed to be good for a headache.”

Ilya snorted softly against his temple, his arms tightening just a fraction. “You are concussed,” he muttered. “Maybe later,” he added, his voice rougher now despite himself. “When you can stand without swaying.” He exhaled slowly. “Just let me take care of you for now. Please.”

Shane went still at that, the teasing slipping as he leaned into him instead, his forehead brushing lightly against Ilya’s shoulder. “M’not concussed anymore,” he said. “It’s just a headache.” He paused, then added more quietly, “I really am fine, you know.”

Ilya stilled slightly at that, his arms still wrapped around Shane like he didn’t quite trust himself to let go yet. “I know,” he said, his hand sliding up to settle more securely between his shoulder blades. “But you hit your head. I am allowed to worry.”

Shane huffed again, but this time there was no argument in it. After a moment, he tipped his head back just enough to look at him. “If I behave,” he said, voice softer now, “will you stop looking at me like that?”

Ilya’s fingers flexed lightly against his back as he considered that. “No,” he said, his arms tightening slightly around him. “Just stay here with me.”

“Hm?” Shane murmured, the sound barely more than a breath as his eyes drifted closed, his body settling into the slow rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. “‘Kay,” he mumbled, his fingers curling loosely against the warm skin at Ilya’s back.

He knew how rare it was for Ilya to let himself be vulnerable without trying to turn it into a joke first. And sure, they often fell into fucking first and talking it through later, but they’d spent years working toward the kind of honesty that let Ilya be open about what he needed from Shane.

And Shane wasn’t about to ruin that now. Not when Ilya had finally asked for something out loud.

His mind drifted back, almost unconsciously, to the quiet Russian endearments Ilya used whenever he couldn’t quite bring himself to say something in English. Shane had asked him every time what they meant, because he hadn’t learned the language yet, and Ilya had always just smiled and lied.

“It means you blush like tomato, Hollander,” he’d said once—when what he’d actually said was “fuck—I love you,” long before either of them had admitted it out loud. Sometimes Shane still wondered what other secrets Ilya had told him in those moments, long before he understood the words.

He sighed softly, leaning further into the warmth of Ilya’s body. The slow drag of Ilya’s thumb against his back made the room feel a little less like it was tilting, giving him something solid to focus on instead of the dull, persistent ache in his head.

And maybe, if Shane was being honest, he was guilty of deflecting too. But even if Ilya wouldn’t let them fuck the fear and adrenaline out of their systems—even if it really was just a headache at this point—Shane found he didn’t mind staying here like this a little longer. It was nice, being held in Ilya’s arms.

Maybe if they stayed here long enough, the world outside would quiet down into something he didn’t have to face just yet.

“Hm,” Shane murmured again, his eyes still closed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Because he could feel how tightly Ilya was still holding him—like letting go was something he didn’t entirely trust himself to do yet. Like some part of him was still bracing for Shane to disappear if he loosened his grip even a little.

Ilya’s lips brushed lightly against his shoulder, his stubble scraping faintly against Shane’s skin. “You already tried,” he said quietly.

Shane blinked up at him. “Huh?”

“You tried to get up off the ice,” Ilya clarified. “Had to be held down.” He snorted softly, his arms tightening around him as he spoke. “You were very stubborn, solnyshko. It was very—ugh—it was very Captain Hollander of you.”

Shane huffed out a tired breath that almost passed for a laugh.

Then, softer, almost to himself, Ilya added, “You do not get to leave me like that again.” His voice dropped to a low whisper, edged with something raw and unguarded that made Shane’s stomach tighten painfully. 

“I am the one who gets into fights on the ice, da?” Ilya continued. “It was very hot to see you punch Comeau—you looked so good standing over him, I would have kissed you right there if my head wasn’t still spinning—but it was never supposed to be you who got hurt.”

Shane didn’t have the energy to unpack everything wrapped up in that, so he just nodded into the pillow, murmuring a quiet, “Okay,” as Ilya’s mouth pressed softly against his shoulder again.

He let out a slow breath as they settled back into the stillness of the room. It was quiet in a way that felt almost unfamiliar—unhurried, uninterrupted—and it made something in Shane’s chest ache. It had been months since waking up with Ilya hadn’t come with the immediate calculation of where they needed to be next, or who might be watching.

Mornings like this always felt borrowed, already half gone before they’d properly begun. And Shane found himself starting to hate the way he woke up alone in Montréal, when all he wanted was to be somewhere else entirely. Boston. The cottage. Anywhere that let them exist like this for a few hours without already planning the end of it.

And maybe that was the part that lingered most—not the distance itself, but the constant awareness that moments like this were temporary. That every quiet moment came with a countdown already ticking somewhere in the back of his mind. 

So Shane pressed his face deeper into the pillow, eyes half-closed, and let the world narrow to the slow rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. There was still an ache pulsing faintly behind his eyes, but it dulled into something manageable when he focused on the weight of Ilya’s arms, the firm line of his body against his, the thumb still tracing that same familiar path along his spine—

Ilya’s phone rattled harshly against the bedside table where it was charging. The sound was silenced, but the vibration loud enough to make Shane wince. He pressed his face harder into the pillow as Ilya hissed, “der’mo,” under his breath, reaching out for it blindly.

“Please make it stop,” Shane mumbled without lifting his head.

“I am trying,” Ilya muttered, shifting so he was half-braced over Shane, one arm planted against the mattress to keep his balance. He leaned over him, giving the cord a sharper tug than necessary until it finally came loose in his hand. “Ah,” he said as he fell back against the bed. “Is Yuna,” he added, tilting the phone just enough for Shane to see her name on the screen.

“Oh,” Shane murmured as the phone continued to vibrate in Ilya’s hand. Guilt rolled through him at the thought of his mother worrying from halfway across the world, trying to manage everything even without being here. “She’s probably been calling all morning,” he said, his eyes already slipping closed at the thought of her voice. “You should answer it. She won’t stop until she knows I’m okay.”

“Hello?” Ilya said, running a hand through his hair as he picked up.

“—Ilya,” Yuna said, and even through the phone her composure was unmistakable. “I’m sorry, darling. They warned us there would be no signal if a storm hit, but I didn’t think—” She exhaled quietly. “We should have warned you. I didn’t see your messages until an hour ago, and my inbox is already full of people asking for statements. There are so many interview requests I don’t even know where to start.”

She took a slow, controlled breath. “Is Shane okay? Is he with you? His phone’s off, and I can’t get through to him. But I saw the photo Cliff Marlow posted, and I—” She cut herself off, choosing her next words carefully. “He didn’t look like he should be alone,” she added, her voice shaking despite her effort to keep it steady.

“Da,” Ilya said immediately. “Yes. He is with me. I would not let him be alone.”

“Good,” Yuna said, the word leaving her in a long breath, as if she had been holding it in. “Where are you right now?”

“We are—” Ilya hesitated, wincing slightly. “We are in Boston.”

“Ah,” Yuna murmured, almost to herself. “I did wonder when I saw that picture,” she added, before her attention returned to him. “I’ve had Hayden Pike leave me six voicemails,” she continued. “Which is strange in itself. That man is notorious for never picking up his phone.”

She paused, then sighed again, quieter this time. “And I’ll admit it made me a little—well. Concerned, I suppose,” she said, like she wasn’t entirely convinced the word covered what she was feeling.

“Pike enjoys the sound of his own voice,” Ilya said dryly.

Yuna made a soft, thoughtful sound. “More than is strictly necessary,” she agreed, a faint thread of amusement in her voice. “And he does have a tendency to leave very dramatic voicemails. Several of them, in this case. He left the first one just after the game, I think. Then again when he left Shane at the hospital to let us know he was okay.”

Her voice softened slightly. “We got your text messages too, which were lovely—thank you, darling. But then Hayden suddenly started talking about Shane being kidnapped, and I didn’t quite know what to think.”

“Hm,” Ilya murmured. “Shane is famous enough that a stalker could try something like this,” he added dryly, his hand settling more firmly against Shane’s stomach as he shifted beside him, encouraging him onto his side so he could pull him closer against his chest. “But I am not sure even his fans are this, ah—” 

He paused, searching for the word. His mouth tightened slightly as if deranged felt both too accurate and not quite right. “Bold,” he finished instead. “But it was not a kidnapping,” he added quickly, a touch defensive despite his even tone. “No matter what Pike told you.” He adjusted his hold on Shane, more careful now. “Shane wanted to come with me.”

Yuna went quiet for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “Right,” she said. “Do I want to know what actually happened?” She asked carefully. “Hayden made it sound like someone broke into the hospital in the middle of the night and just—well. Like someone took Shane. None of the nurses would tell him anything, and then he started spiralling because Shane’s texts didn’t sound like him.”

Ilya snorted softly at that, remembering the messages he’d sent Hayden from Shane’s phone. He’d thought the wording was close enough to pass as Shane, but apparently it had been wrong in all the ways that mattered. And yes, maybe he’d found it quietly satisfying to mess with Hayden—even knowing it would come back to bite him in the ass later.

Maybe especially knowing that.

He could already picture Shane’s expression when he found out. The sharp, betrayed glare. The brief pause. The long-suffering exhale that meant Ilya had crossed a line he absolutely knew existed. 

The thought made him smile. 

Because of course he would let Shane scold him. He would stand there and take it with that same quiet patience he never offered anyone else. He would even agree, eventually. But it would still be worth it. Just knowing Hayden Pike was somewhere losing his mind over Shane’s disappearance from Montréal General was deeply satisfying. Ilya imagined him pacing in tight circles, trying to get ahead of a situation he had absolutely no control over, and grinned as—

“Ilya,” Yuna warned, her tone edged with suspicion.

Ilya cleared his throat softly, making a visible effort to keep the smile out of his voice. “Ah. He is the thirteenth-best player on the Voyageurs for a reason,” he muttered. “And Shane is not allowed to look at his phone anyway. Especially not for Aiden Pike—”

“Hayden,” she corrected automatically.

“Da. Is what I said,” Ilya lied, entirely unapologetic. “We turned Shane’s phone off yesterday. It kept, ah—buzzing every five seconds with notifications we did not want to deal with. He needs quiet, not journalists asking the same stupid questions.” He shrugged lightly. “If something is actually important, Farah will call me.”

He shifted the phone slightly against his ear, his expression sharpening just a fraction. “And if it is not important,” he added, his voice cooling, “then it can wait until Shane is better.”

There was a brief pause on the line, the kind that meant Yuna was deciding whether it was worth engaging with Ilya’s petty vendetta against Hayden or if it would be easier to simply ignore it. She sighed, something almost like a laugh escaping before her tone sharpened. 

“Is Shane awake?” She asked.

Ilya glanced down automatically, his hand tightening at Shane’s waist when Shane turned toward him. “Yes. He woke up a little while ago,” he said, his voice soft as he watched Shane’s expression for the slightest sign of discomfort. “He is sore,” he added quietly, “and unhappy about it, but he is being stubborn—keeps trying to pretend it is just a headache.”

His thumb moved absently against Shane’s side, a small, grounding motion that didn’t quite hide the tension in his shoulders. “He does not like being taken off the ice,” he added, almost to himself. “He’s been sleeping mostly, but he is not panicking. He is—” He snorted softly, pressing a kiss to Shane’s shoulder before continuing, “he is pretending he is fine, which is how I know he is not.”

Shane made a quiet, disgruntled noise at that.

“Shane,” Yuna said immediately, her voice changing as if she’d leaned closer to the phone. “Darling?”

Ilya clicked the phone onto speaker and angled it toward Shane from over his shoulder, wincing with him when the sudden volume crackled too loudly through the line. Shane tensed despite himself, then forced his shoulders to relax, grounding himself in the familiar weight at his back, the steady pressure of Ilya’s hand settling again on his stomach.

He managed a quiet, “Hey,” shifting slightly so Ilya could hold the phone more comfortably between them. “I’m okay,” he added, trying to sound steadier than he felt. “Don’t listen to Ilya. He’s just worrying when he doesn’t need to.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “If anything, he’s probably not worrying enough—”

“Please don’t tell him that,” Shane muttered with a groan. “He won’t let me do anything. I think he’s about five minutes away from putting me on bed rest.” He exhaled softly. “I’m fine, mum.”

“Fine is not a medical term,” Yuna said, and Shane could almost picture the frown that came with it.

“Mum—”

“Are you dizzy?” She asked, cutting him off before he could try to distract her again. “And don’t you dare lie to me, Shane. I’ve watched you play through injuries and pretend you were fine. I know exactly what it looks like when you’re trying to tough it out.”

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning again. “I’m a little dizzy,” he admitted. “It’s not constant. Just when I stand up too fast.”

She made a quiet sound of disapproval. “Ilya said you have a headache,” she said. “How bad is it? Do you have any nausea? Or sensitivity to light?” She paused briefly, then added under her breath, “or is it sound with headaches?”

“It’s not that dramatic—”

“Concussions never seem dramatic until they are,” Yuna said. “You know that. You’ve had concussions before, and you were just as determined to downplay it then, too.” She sighed softly. “You’ve always been terrible at admitting when something actually hurts.”

There was a pause, then her voice softened slightly. “Have you taken the medication they gave you? And are you actually resting, or are you bothering that poor boy in his own kitchen?”

“We’re not in the kitchen,” Shane mumbled.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Shane could practically see the way she was narrowing her eyes at the phone.

“Shane,” she said.

He stilled instinctively.

Which was ridiculous, because it was just his name. But he still felt himself straighten slightly. Muscle memory, he told himself. The reflex of someone who had spent his entire childhood being called like that when he was about to be caught doing something he absolutely should not have been.

“A bit of both,” he admitted, shooting Ilya an irritated look when he pressed his smirk into Shane’s shoulder, muffling the quiet sound of his laughter. “But I’m lying down, so it’s not so bad right now.”

“You’re lying down?” Yuna repeated, like she was checking she’d heard correctly. “It’s two in the afternoon. Are you still in bed?”

“Yes,” Shane said, slightly defensive. “I told you, Ilya has me on bed rest.”

There was another brief pause, the kind that usually meant she was thinking very carefully about what to say next. “Good,” she said after a moment, though the tension in her voice didn’t ease. “Now. Did the doctors discharge you properly, or did Ilya kidnap you before the paperwork was finished?”

“There was paperwork,” Ilya said.

“Ilya,” Yuna said flatly, and despite the headache pressing behind his eyes, Shane felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Because at least he wasn’t the only one being told off anymore.

“I’m fine, mum,” he said when Ilya just pouted at the phone. “Please stop worrying.”

“Hm,” she said, and Shane knew that particular sound meant she had several opinions she was choosing not to voice yet. “Are the Montréal medical staff even aware you’re in Boston?” She asked, and he could practically hear the sharp edge of her concern tucked neatly beneath the question. “I’m assuming they do now, with how public everything’s gotten. But did you even tell them you were planning to leave?”

Shane shifted slightly against the pillow, trying to bite back a sigh. He should have expected his mother to skip right past the headlines and go straight to the part where he’d done something reckless.

“They discharged me,” he said carefully.

“I’m pretty sure they assumed you would be staying in Montréal for your follow-up care,” she said. “And being monitored by someone slightly more medically qualified than your boyfriend. You realise travelling with a concussion is dangerous,” she added. “What if something had happened to you on the way?”

“James said it was fine as long as we didn’t fly,” Ilya said, his fingers pressing lightly into Shane’s stomach as he pulled him closer. His thumb traced a slow, absent line just above Shane’s hip as he pressed another soft kiss to his bruised neck, lingering there as if he could soothe the injury out of him by sheer stubbornness.

“James was my nurse,” Shane added helpfully, frowning slightly at Ilya’s expression. “And I didn’t go AMA. I was officially discharged, so you can stop worrying about the league using that as an excuse to suspend me.”

“Da. They discharged him into my care,” Ilya added, sounding far too pleased with himself. “I have been monitoring his symptoms very closely. I am keeping him safe, Yuna,” he said, answering the question she hadn’t yet asked. “I would not let him be alone when he is hurt.”

“Well,” Yuna said dryly. “At least he’s not alone.” She sighed, but the pause that followed wasn’t disapproving. If anything, it sounded faintly relieved. “Thank you, Ilya,” she added, her voice softening as the sharp edge eased out of it.

“Of course,” Ilya replied, his eyes lifting to Shane with something bright and unapologetic in them, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as if daring him to object when he pressed another kiss to Shane’s shoulder.

Shane groaned quietly and closed his eyes. The contact was grounding, loosening something painful and knotted in his chest, but the look in Ilya’s eyes was distracting—especially considering his mother was still on the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Shane found himself saying, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He wasn’t entirely sure who they were meant for. “I didn’t mean to ruin your holiday—”

“I know, darling,” Yuna said immediately. “Nothing’s ruined. Don’t worry about that.” Her voice softened just a little as she sighed. “You’ve been trying not to worry us your whole life,” she murmured. “As if we didn’t know, the minute you decided on hockey, that injuries would be part of it.”

She paused, then added, dry but fond, “You’ve been trying to hide injuries from us since you were eight and played through a broken wrist because you didn’t want to let your line down. If your game wasn’t all over the internet, I doubt you would’ve even told us.” She sighed again. “You’d have probably tried to convince yourself you were protecting us from worrying unnecessarily.”

There was a beat of silence, and Shane winced, because even he couldn’t deny that was exactly what he would have done. He shifted slightly when the movement pulled at the ache in his neck, but he was distracted from it when Yuna added, softer and more deliberate, “It’s okay to admit that you’re scared. Or that it hurts.”

Shane’s throat closed. He pressed his face into the pillow, nodding once even though she couldn’t see it. Behind him, Ilya lowered his head, his mouth brushing Shane’s hair, his voice quiet but steady. “Ya zdes’, solnyshko,” he murmured, and it was reassuring in a way Shane hadn’t realised he needed.

He exhaled, long and shaky, pressing his face deeper into the pillow. “I know,” he murmured.

“Are you safe where you are?” Yuna asked.

“Yes,” Shane said. Then, because it mattered, he added, “I’m with Ilya.”

There was another pause, more thoughtful this time. “Good,” she said finally. “Then listen to him—”

“Do I have to?” Shane asked.

“Yes,” Yuna said before he had even finished talking. “Drink your water and take your medication exactly as prescribed. And don’t you dare try to get back on the ice until a doctor officially clears you.” She huffed softly. “I don’t want to hear about you sneaking back onto a rink just because you’re bored.”

“I’m concussed, not stupid,” Shane muttered, smiling faintly despite himself.

The silence that followed made it clear that Yuna didn’t believe him, but she chose not to call him out on it. “Hm,” she murmured, which was somehow worse than the silence. “Let me and Farah deal with the league,” she continued. “And the press. And Pelletier, if he decides to be an idiot.” She gave a dry huff. “And no more social media posts unless you’re prepared to explain why a photo like that does not read as platonic.”

“What photo?” Shane mumbled as Ilya snorted again.

He cracked one eye open and glanced at him, the movement sending a dull spike through his head. But Ilya just grinned back at him, completely unapologetic. 

“Spasibo,” Ilya said to Yuna, before giving Shane a look that suggested he was already cataloguing which consequences he intended to enjoy later. “Ah. It is worry for later,” he added lightly. “No more talk of pictures yet.”

“Did someone catch a picture of us?” Shane asked again.

Yuna’s snort echoed through the line. “I swear you’re both as bad as each other,” she muttered with a sigh. “There was a crowd of fans outside when Ilya brought you onto the Bears’ bus,” she explained. “I’ve been sent far too many pictures and tagged in so many mentions that I’m fairly sure I’ve seen it from every possible angle at this point.”

“What—”

“It’s fine,” Yuna interrupted calmly. “Most of them just look like two hockey players helping each other after a bad game. The internet’s already decided it’s the world’s most dramatic rivalry truce.” She paused. “I’ve seen Ilya’s interview as well. You did very well, darling. And everyone seems so fixated on the idea of you two being friends that I haven’t heard even a whisper of you being anything more.”

Shane groaned under his breath as Ilya smiled.

“Thank you,” he said again.

Yuna hummed, sounding far more amused than concerned. Then she sighed. “If anything, people are so distracted by it that Comeau’s managed to slip past a lot of the backlash aimed at him,” she said. “But don’t worry about that. Stop trying to manage everything yourself and just relax while you can, okay?”

“I expect the Voyageurs will be in contact soon—either their PR or HR team. I’ve been copied into emails from both of them,” she continued. “They’ve made it very clear that the incident with Comeau happened outside play, so it’s outside their jurisdiction.” 

She snorted, the sound sharp with disbelief. “As if players haven’t been banned from the sport for less violent attacks than this.” There was a brief pause before she continued, her voice cooling into something far more deliberate. “The league will likely fine you for hitting Comeau during the game. I’m just waiting for them to officially declare that Comeau’s actions were outside regulation so I can kill him. Legally, of course.”

Shane winced. “Mum.”

“What?” Yuna said, completely innocent. “I won’t actually kill him. Maybe just financially.” She paused, considering. “Or I could ruin his next contract.”

“Da,” Ilya said immediately. “This is good plan.”

Shane sighed and let his eyes fall shut again, torn between fond exasperation and the quiet, unfamiliar comfort of knowing that at least two people in the world were firmly on his side. Three, he amended, including his father. Maybe eight, if he counted the entire Pike family.

“Good luck,” Shane murmured.

“I don’t need luck,” Yuna said, her voice as dry as ever. “I need coffee. And you need rest.” Then her tone softened. “Both of you do,” she added, and Shane caught himself smiling when Ilya blushed and angled the phone away, suddenly very interested in the bedside table.

“Okay. Your father sends his love. We’ll be home in three days. Until then, I trust Ilya to keep you safe. Call me later.”

“I will,” Shane said. “Love you.”

“I know,” Yuna replied, warm and certain. “Goodbye, darling.”

There were a few overlapping goodbyes, Ilya’s accented do svidaniya threading through Shane’s hoarse one, and then the line went dead. The quiet rushed back in to fill the space it left behind, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

Then Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

“She likes you,” he murmured. “Sometimes I think she likes you more than me.”

“Da,” Ilya said smugly. “I am her favourite son.”

Shane huffed weakly as Ilya pressed a slower kiss into the back of his neck, lingering just long enough to make him sink into it. Then he shifted carefully out of bed, the sudden cool air making Shane shiver and instinctively curl in on himself.

“Sleep,” Ilya murmured as he pulled on the discarded sweatpants from the floor without bothering with a shirt. “I am not finished worrying yet.”

The light from the window caught the lines of his back as he straightened—lean muscle still tight with tension he hadn’t quite let go of yet. The faint shadows of old scars stood out briefly against his skin before he leaned down to press another kiss to Shane’s shoulder.

“I will make you something to eat,” he added quietly. “James said no medication on an empty stomach.”

“Hm,” Shane mumbled into the pillow. “Do I get to call you my nurse now?

Ilya snorted, fond. “Only if you promise to be very bad patient.”

Shane smiled to himself as he listened to the quiet sounds of Ilya moving around the room before the door closed behind him. He sighed and let his eyes fall shut, drifting again.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the smell of melted cheese and toasted bread reached him. It was rich enough to cut through the fog in his head and pull him slowly back toward the surface, whether he wanted to wake up or not.

He groaned faintly and rolled onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling.

Eating in bed would have been easier, Shane thought. Ilya would happily have brought the food upstairs, settled beside him, maybe even fed him if Shane let him. The thought alone made something soft and dangerous stir in his chest. But crumbs in the bed had always been a hard line. Even the idea of grease or bread flakes ground into the sheets made Shane’s skin itch.

“Of course he’s making fucking tuna melts,” Shane muttered to the empty room, trying not to laugh at the memory of the first time Ilya made them for him. The thought left him warm and a little embarrassed as he lay there, eyes slipping closed as he tried to will the room to stop tilting. It had been so much easier to ignore the dull ache in his head and the lingering dizziness when he had Ilya to focus on instead.

He scrubbed a hand down his face at that thought, dragging himself back into his body as he pushed himself upright slowly, carefully, pausing when his vision swam. He stayed there for a moment, keeping his eyes closed until the nausea settled into something he could ignore, telling himself that a few bites and some water would fix it the same way it always seemed to when the hunger of a missed meal finally caught up to him all at once.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled to himself, steadying with both feet planted firmly on the floor before reaching for the first clothes he could find. He was over six feet tall and a professional athlete—standing up shouldn’t be difficult.

Only doing it without Ilya there to steady him when the room tilted took more effort than he expected. Shane had to pause, breathing through the wave of dizziness before he finally took a step. Then another. The hallway felt longer than he remembered, and the wooden floor cold under his feet. He briefly considered looking for a pair of socks instead of walking around barefoot, but the idea of turning back now honestly felt worse than continuing.

So he kept going, one hand pressed against the wall as he took the stairs one at a time. He reached for the railing when he misjudged a step and tilted forward slightly, pausing there to catch his breath, waiting for the world to settle back into place before forcing himself to keep going. Ilya might have preferred he stay in bed, but Shane was determined to prove he was fine—even if he was starting to regret not listening to him.

By the time he reached the bottom he was breathing a little harder, but he was upright, which honestly felt like a win worthy of the Stanley Cup. There was no applause waiting for him this time. Just the kitchen, flooded with light from the large glass walls surrounding it.

The sudden brightness made the room tilt again after the dim hallway, but Ilya was right there—standing at the stove with his back to him, solid and steady in a way that made the dizziness easier to ignore. He was focused in a way Shane recognised instantly, like the rest of the world had narrowed down to whatever was right in front of him. 

That familiar, steady ache of affection stirred in Shane’s chest as he watched Ilya flip a sandwich with unnecessary seriousness. And he hesitated before pulling out one of the chairs at the island, still watching him. For a moment, he had the sudden urge to walk up behind Ilya and lean into his back, maybe wrap his arms around him and let Ilya hold them both up. But he wasn’t sure his legs would cooperate for much longer, even if he wanted it desperately.

So he settled for watching instead.

Ilya still hadn’t noticed him yet, which gave Shane time to admire the way the muscles in his back flexed with each movement. A faint sheen of sweat caught the morning sun across his shoulders. It probably had something to do with the heat from the stove, but Shane couldn’t help the way his eyes followed the slow shift of muscle beneath Ilya’s skin as he moved in that confident, slightly aggressive way he sometimes got when he decided something needed to be done properly.

It was annoyingly hot, Shane thought, watching Ilya adjust the heat as he pressed down on the sandwiches with the spatula, then tsk at the cheese leaking down the sides.

“Blyat,” Ilya hissed, glaring at the stove as oil splashed against his stomach when he flipped the sandwiches again. He wiped uselessly at the spot with the edge of the dish towel slung over his shoulder before tossing it onto the counter with a quiet huff.

Shane hummed softly, resisting the urge to snort or say something smug. He was always trying to get Ilya to wear a shirt when he stood next to an open flame, but he couldn’t deny the view made the argument feel almost pointless. “Smells good,” he murmured instead, still mostly distracted.

He found himself grinning when Ilya startled hard enough to nearly drop the spatula.

“Shane,” Ilya said, spinning around and pointing the spatula at him. “What are you doing out of bed? You should still be resting.”

Shane rested his chin on his palm where he leaned against the counter, watching him with lazy amusement. “Crumbs,” he said, because it made sense in his head, and he knew Ilya would understand exactly what he meant.

Ilya stared at him blankly for a moment. Then his mouth twitched. “Ah,” he said quietly, turning back to the stove. He shut it off quickly, slid the sandwiches onto a plate, then cut them neatly in half—and then again—before setting it in front of Shane. “Sit up,” he said, frowning down at the plate like something wasn’t quite right. “You will eat, then we will go back to bed.”

“Hm,” Shane murmured, because that sounded like a good plan even if it felt like it had taken all of his energy just to make it down to the kitchen. 

He obeyed without thinking, pushing himself upright even as the room wobbled. It settled slowly as he blinked down at the blurry outline of the plate in front of him. “Oh,” he said, staring at it—the edges perfectly aligned, nothing touching that shouldn’t—and fighting the sudden, ridiculous urge to cry. 

It was exactly the way he liked it, even if he had never once asked for it out loud.

“You, ah—” Shane’s voice caught slightly as he tried to steady it. “You cut them?”

“You take smaller bites when you’re dizzy,” Ilya replied, distracted. Then, suddenly, “Ah—medication,” he groaned, mostly to himself, already turning away.

He moved back toward the counter where he’d left the medication Shane had been discharged with, grabbing the blister pack to pop the pills out. Only he used a little too much force, and one of the pills nearly slipped from his fingers before he caught it again with a quiet curse.

“Is fine,” he said as he returned, setting the pills carefully beside the plate, along with a glass of water he’d just filled from the tap. “No ginger ale yet,” he added softly. “They said no fizzy drinks until the nausea is gone.”

Shane’s mouth curved, faint but fond as he glanced down at everything Ilya had set out for him. “I can’t believe people think you’re mean,” he said. “When you’re—” He gestured weakly with his free hand, taking in the plate, the water, the pills. The way Ilya was still hovering, his weight tipped forward like he might catch Shane if he leaned the wrong way. “When you’re like this at home.”

He expected Ilya to come back with something smug, or some ridiculous attempt to pretend he wasn’t doing anything unusual. Instead, Ilya just stared at him. 

And then something in his expression shifted. 

It was subtle at first, just a gradual easing of the lines between his brows as the frown left his face. Then his smile came, tentative at first—like it surprised him as much as it did Shane—before spreading into something wide and bright and almost disarming.

It was the kind of smile Ilya usually only forgot to hide when he was caught off guard. And Shane was as mesmerised by it as he always was, the sudden warmth of it catching low in his chest.

“What?” Shane asked, hoping it didn’t sound as breathless as he felt.

Ilya shook his head once, like he was clearing it. “Nothing,” he said, still smiling.

“No,” Shane said, narrowing his eyes at him. “That was a look. What was that look for?”

Ilya leaned closer, resting one hand on the back of the chair. His voice dropped, quieter now, and his smile softened as something steadier settled beneath it. “You just called this home.”

Shane blinked. “Well—yeah,” he said slowly. “Was I not supposed to?”

“We are in Boston,” Ilya said carefully, still failing to hide his smile.

“Yeah,” Shane repeated. “You know you’re still going to have to explain that part to me at some point, right?” He asked, because he definitely wasn’t letting it go that easily. 

He shrugged lightly, meaning to show it wasn’t a big deal, but he winced when the bruises along his neck pulled with the movement. His hand came up automatically, rubbing at the stiffness there before he added, “But you’re here. That’s always been home.”

The words seemed to land harder than Shane had intended. He paused, watching something unreadable flicker across Ilya’s face. Shane’s brow creased slightly. His thoughts still felt a step behind where they should have been, but they weren’t so slow that he missed the fact that Ilya should have already known that.

After all the years of stolen weekends and off-season visits. After the quiet mornings where they’d woken up tangled together in Ilya’s bed. After every time Shane had found himself booking flights to Boston without even thinking about it. Ilya should have known there had never been a single moment Shane doubted where he belonged when the two of them were together.

“Ilya,” Shane said slowly. “I thought you knew that?”

For a long moment, Ilya just looked at him, like the words had landed somewhere he hadn’t quite expected them to. His expression shifted gradually, something uncertain flickering across it before he pushed away from the counter and walked around the island. 

He settled beside Shane, close enough that their knees bumped lightly as he leaned his hip against the counter. “I did know,” he said after a moment, though the words came out quieter than usual. “But it is different,” he added quickly. “Hearing you say it in my clothes.”

Shane blinked at him, then glanced down at the Bears hoodie and the grey sweatpants he’d grabbed without thinking, both hanging off him in that familiar, borrowed way that always made his stomach flutter helplessly. “Oh,” he said slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching as the pieces clicked into place—sluggish, but unmistakable. He looked back up at Ilya, who was suddenly very interested in something across the room that definitely wasn’t Shane’s face. 

“You’re trying to distract me from—”

“I am doing no such thing,” Ilya lied, crossing his arms over his chest.

Which was, unfortunately, extremely distracting all on its own. Shane’s eyes dropped automatically to the broad line of Ilya’s shoulders, the flex of his biceps as they tightened, the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on his bare skin from the kitchen heat. He blinked once and dragged his attention back up to Ilya’s face when he started speaking again, only his voice was kind of distracting too—

“You have concussion,” Ilya added, frowning. “And no filter. You should not be encouraging me to misbehave right now,” he mumbled as he leaned forward slightly, one hand gripping the back of the chair beside Shane. The movement brought him closer again, close enough that Shane could feel the steady warmth of him, but he stopped just short of crowding him, like he was actively resisting the urge to step into Shane’s space completely.

“You are giving me terrible ideas, Shane Hollander,” he added softly.

“Everything about you is a terrible idea,” Shane muttered.

Ilya’s mouth twitched at that, the corner of it pulling upward in a way that suggested he took that as a compliment rather than a complaint. “Yet you keep making same mistake,” he said. “Don’t act like it is first time we have broken rules together.”

“Hm,” Shane mumbled. “Pretty sure it’s the only mistake I’ve ever enjoyed repeating.”

Ilya watched him for a second longer, then pushed himself upright again with a quiet huff, stepping back a pace like he was physically removing temptation to touch him. “Concussions make you dangerous,” he said, folding his arms again. “You are never usually this good at flirting.”

“Oh, so it’s the concussion’s fault?” Shane said, his voice shifting into a tone of exaggerated realisation. Then he snorted softly, only to immediately regret it when his head throbbed in protest. He pressed his lips together until it passed. 

“Did it also make me steal your clothes?” He asked when the pain finally eased. “Or is that just what happens when you leave things lying around and expect me not to get ideas?”

“Ah,” Ilya said, his eyes narrowing slightly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “So now it is my fault you are thief.”

Shane laughed under his breath at that, the sound warm and quiet. “You didn’t seem to mind when I was wearing this hoodie and nothing else back in Montréal,” he said lightly.

“Shane,” Ilya warned, his voice dropping lower in a way that sounded less like a warning and much more like a promise.

“Ilya,” Shane said, mocking and sweet. 

Ilya huffed quietly through his nose, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned his hip against the counter beside Shane’s chair, close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of him again. Close enough that Shane’s attention drifted right back to the waistband of his sweatpants that sat low on his hips.

He caught himself staring and didn’t even bother pretending otherwise. “I’m pretty sure you’re trying to distract me again,” he murmured as his gaze dipped again, slow and deliberate this time before he lifted it back to Ilya’s face. “You’re standing there half-dressed. How the hell am I supposed to focus on anything else?”

Ilya’s gaze flicked back to his face again, quick and sharp before he could stop himself. The reaction was small, but Shane caught it anyway. The way Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was trying very hard not to smile and failing a little. For a moment his fingers tightened against his arms, restless, like he didn’t quite know where to put the feeling that had just surfaced.

Then his expression softened in a way that made Shane’s chest ache all over again. “Solnyshko,” he said. “I thought your head was hurting too much to deal with flirting?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying Ilya with open amusement. “You’re the one who started this,” he said tipping his head back slightly, eyes still on Ilya. “I was perfectly happy to keep talking about how you’re trying to distract me with your extremely subtle attempts to change the subject.”

He let the silence sit there for a moment, watching the way Ilya’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Which,” he added mildly, “means you definitely don’t want to keep talking about the hell I ended up in Boston.”

Ilya’s mouth flattened immediately. “You are concussed,” he said again. “You should be resting. Not interrogating me like this.”

Shane hummed thoughtfully as he reached out to pick up the tablets Ilya had left out for him. He swallowed them with a grimace, the chalky coating leaving an unpleasant taste on his tongue. He chased it down with another mouthful of water before setting the glass back down carefully. There was no immediate relief, just the dull, persistent throb behind his eyes reminding him he was supposed to be taking it easy.

Which would have been sensible, Shane thought. But instead of listening to that small, reasonable voice in his head, he propped his chin back into his hand again and looked back at Ilya. 

“So,” he said, smiling slightly, “Boston.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes at him immediately, like he could see the trap closing and wasn’t entirely sure whether to admire it or refuse to step into it. He made a low sound in the back of his throat that could have meant several things. None of them sounded particularly cooperative.

“You are supposed to be eating,” he said instead of the answer Shane was looking for, nodding toward the plate that had been sitting patiently in front of Shane the entire time.

Shane glanced down at the sandwich, then back at Ilya. “That sounds suspiciously like a condition,” he said, lifting one eyebrow.

“It is,” Ilya said flatly. “You should not take pills on an empty stomach.” 

Shane’s mouth twitched. “You’re negotiating with a concussed person?”

“You are still very good at arguing,” Ilya replied. “Which means you are well enough to eat.”

Shane sighed as he reached for one of the neatly cut pieces. “Fine,” he said, taking a small bite. “But if this sandwich isn’t incredible, I’m going to be very difficult about it.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “You are already very difficult.”

“Untrue,” Shane said, leaning back into the chair with a quiet exhale. “I’m extremely charming.”

“Da,” Ilya said dryly. “Very charming. Eat.”

Shane rolled his eyes faintly but took another bite, slower this time, like he was actually paying attention to it now. His expression shifted almost immediately, something pleased and a little surprised flickering across his face before he could hide it.

“Okay,” he admitted, after a second. “This is actually really good.”

Ilya made a soft, satisfied sound under his breath as he watched him take another bite. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and leaned his hip more firmly against the counter, crossing his arms again as his gaze drifted briefly toward the window before returning to Shane.

For a moment he looked like he was turning over several different ways to say something, discarding each one just as quickly. Then he leaned in and pressed a brief, careful kiss to Shane’s temple. “I will tell you how we ended up in Boston now,” he said. “But we go slowly, da? And you tell me if your head gets worse. Or if you want me to stop.” He winced faintly. “Or if you want to yell at me.”

“Hm,” Shane murmured. “That’s always a good backup option.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “I was—maybe not in a good way after the game,” he said. “I did not want you to wake up alone. And I did not want to leave you alone with a team that hurts you like Comeau did.” His jaw tightened briefly, anger flashing in his eyes before he forced it back under control. “None of them even looked worried when you were taken away.” 

He huffed, a short, annoyed breath. “Ah. Maybe Pike,” he admitted reluctantly. “Boiziau was, ah—more complicated? He seemed worried, but not—” He broke off, searching for the right words. “He seemed more worried about the fight with the Bears than about you,” he finished with a faint wince.

“I could not stand the thought of them coming to see you in the hospital when they were the reason you were there.” He paused, his gaze dropping briefly to the unfinished sandwich in Shane’s hands. “Or maybe I could not stand the thought of them being allowed to see you when I was questioned for even asking about you.”

“I hated that they looked at me like I had no right to be worried about you,” he admitted, his mouth tightening slightly. “We have been together for almost ten years. But I couldn’t even come to see you in the hospital like a normal person. Cliff’s friend snuck us in after visiting hours, and I had to pretend I was just another player asking about an injured opponent then, too.”

He exhaled quietly through his nose, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he lifted his gaze back to Shane. “You were probably still a little out of it,” he said. “Do you remember?”

Shane’s expression softened despite himself. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember that part.”

Because he did remember some things. Like Ilya sitting beside him on the hospital bed. The weight of his hand. The way the world had steadied the moment Shane focused on the sound of his voice, how it had sounded low and controlled and terrified all at once.

He remembered their kiss. And maybe another one.

Or maybe there had been a thousand more he’d lost count of somewhere between Montréal and Boston.

It was just the rest of it that had blurred. A hazy stretch of time marked by alarms silenced too quickly, lights that felt too bright, Ilya’s hands moving him when he didn’t have the energy to object. Falling asleep before he could ask questions. Waking halfway through explanations and losing them again.

“Cliff suggested that maybe you could come with us instead of staying in Montréal,” Ilya said, lifting one shoulder in what was probably meant to look like a casual shrug. “So we took you with us,” he added quickly, wincing. “Temporarily. Maybe.”

The words came faster now, as if he couldn’t stop them once they’d started.

“You rode with us on the team bus. You slept most of the way. Victor snored the entire time. Luke tried to Google the legality of kidnapping you. Coach LeClaire had—uh—feelings.” He hesitated. “And maybe there were people with cameras outside who saw you in my clothes?” He grimaced. “It was not the most subtle plan.”

Shane placed the unfinished sandwich slice back on the plate, frowning slightly. He was so distracted that he didn’t even look for anything to clean the grease from his fingers, and he blinked in surprise when Ilya handed him the dish towel without being asked.

He wiped his hands absently, his eyes narrowing as the pieces of the story started lining up in his head.

“Ilya,” he said slowly. “Did you—please tell me your team didn’t actually kidnap me?”

He leaned back in the chair, searching Ilya’s face for any hint of how bad this actually was. “Is that where the picture came from?” He added, remembering their conversation with his mother earlier. “Wait,” he said as the rest of what Ilya had said finally caught up to him. He sat forward again, staring at him. “I was—was I on the Bears’ bus? Oh my god, did your entire team watch me—”

“No,” Ilya said immediately, before wincing. It was subtle, but Shane saw it anyway. The tiny pause. The way his shoulders squared as his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. “Well, yes,” he corrected himself, looking briefly past Shane as he rubbed the back of his neck. 

“You were on the bus with us. But they weren’t watching us. We were, ah—” Ilya hesitated, then added, quieter,  “We were at the back of the bus, so they couldn’t really see what you were doing. And you, ah—you slept through most of it?”

Shane stared at him. “Okay. Let me just make sure I have the timeline right,” he said after a moment. Mostly because his thoughts still felt like they were refusing to line up properly. “You came to the hospital. Found me concussed and probably high on meds. And your solution to that problem was to put me onto a bus with the Boston Bears and take me across the border?”

Ilya hesitated, before nodding slowly. 

“Oh my god,” Shane muttered, pressing his fingers against his temple as he groaned. He stared down at the island as he tried to catch up with the sheer scale of what had apparently happened while he’d been half-conscious. “You actually kidnapped me,” he mumbled, slightly dazed, before lowering his hands slowly so he could look at Ilya again. 

“Ilya,” he said faintly. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that you were injured and I did not know if you were okay,” Ilya said. “Your team was useless. They let Comeau hurt you. And then they looked more annoyed about the fight than concerned with you.” His mouth twisted faintly. “None of them even tried to follow you when the medics carried you away.”

“That’s not—”

“And they didn’t even try to come and see you,” Ilya added, talking right over him. “Except Pike. Maybe.”

But Shane just looked away from him, jaw tight. “You don’t get to just—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together as he pushed himself more upright despite the way his head protested. “Do you have any idea what this is going to look like if anyone finds out?”

“I do not care what it looks like,” Ilya said, sighing. “Solnyshko, your head is still—”

“Well, I do,” Shane snapped, the words coming faster, sharper. “Because I’m still under contract with Montréal, Ilya. And apparently I just fucking disappeared on them.” He dragged a hand through his hair, before stopping short when the room tilted. “There are league protocols when a player gets injured. People checking in. And—fuck—there are medical staff at Voyageurs who are going to notice that I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”

His pulse was starting to race now, thoughts spiralling too quickly for him to think clearly. “And if anyone connects you to this? That’s tampering at best. At worst it’s—” He broke off, shaking his head slightly. “This could blow back on both of us—Jesus Christ, Ilya—this isn’t something we can just—”

“You were not safe there,” Ilya cut in, voice low. “And everyone already knows you’re in Boston, remember? There were people outside with cameras when we got on the bus. But they all think it’s a prank,” he added with a small shrug. “Hockey players do stupid things all the time. So this is very, ah—very on brand?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Shane demanded.

“Ah,” Ilya said, suddenly less certain. His gaze flicked away again. “Cliff, ah—he posted Instagram story,” he admitted quietly. “Small picture. But it was—” He exhaled. “He made it seem like rival team stole Montréal’s captain for few days.” 

He lifted one shoulder, defensive again. “It is not even strangest prank league has ever seen. But more impressive than Crosby’s skates, da? And I, ah—may have told press we are friends. So now they think I am just angry with Comeau and Voyageurs and took you with me to recover after attack.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Or maybe because I am petty man with vendetta.”

Shane just stared at him. “You—” he started, then stopped, pressing his lips together hard. He looked away, then back again, like he couldn’t quite decide which reaction to land on. “You told the press we’re friends,” he repeated slowly.

Ilya winced, just slightly.

Shane huffed, something caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement breaking through the panic. “Of course you fucking did,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s actually—” he paused, deliberately easing the edge out of his voice, “that’s not the worst cover story you could’ve come up with.”

“They think it is joke,” Ilya said again, a little more firmly this time.

Shane let out another breath, slower this time, the spiral easing just enough for him to think again. 

“That’s insane,” he said.

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Da.”

Shane looked at the stubborn set of Ilya’s jaw, the quiet certainty behind all of it, and exhaled slowly. There was still a tight coil of unease sitting in his chest, but it had stopped clawing its way up his throat. “Do I want to know about that picture?” He asked finally.

“Ah. Maybe later?” Ilya said, wincing again. “Yuna did not seem worried about it.”

“My mother would probably cover for you if you murdered someone,” Shane muttered, narrowing his eyes. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, shaking his head slowly. “This is actually insane,” he said again, softer now. “You get that, right?”

Ilya huffed, annoyed. “You were safer with us.”

Shane groaned as he dragged a hand down his face, though he was definitely laughing now. The disbelief kept bubbling up no matter how hard he tried to look stern. And maybe there was something a little hysterical about it too, because this was so far outside anything he could have planned for that all he could do was laugh.

But the embarrassment arrived a moment later. The image of himself half-conscious—clinging to Ilya in front of an entire rival team, cameras catching every angle, every unguarded moment—flashed behind his eyes. The thought made his stomach drop, heat crawling up his neck.

“Ugh,” he groaned. “I can only imagine what the Bears had to say about me clinging to their captain.”

“You did not cling—”

“We both know what I’m like when I’m asleep,” Shane said. “If you let me anywhere near you, I was definitely fucking clinging.”

Ilya opened his mouth to argue again, then stopped. His expression shifted, some of the defensive edge draining out of it as he seemed to reconsider whatever he’d been about to say. “They said you looked tired,” he said simply.

Shane blinked at him.

“And,” Ilya added, quieter now, “that I looked like someone who would kill them if they joked about you.”

Something in Shane’s chest loosened at that. Not the embarrassment exactly, but the sharp edge of it. The part that expected ridicule by default. He let out a breath that shook despite his best efforts. “You always did have a good reputation,” he muttered.

Ilya huffed a soft, humourless laugh. “Ah, I am big scary Russian,” he said. “Da. It has been very effective in keeping, ah—pridúrki from asking too many questions.”

Shane shook his head slowly. “Jesus,” he murmured. “I really don’t remember any of this.”

“I know,” Ilya said gently. “You were not well, solnyshko.” His gaze stayed on Shane’s face, careful, like he was watching for cracks. “You would not let go of my hand. Even when you were half-asleep.” He hesitated, his voice softening. “Like you were afraid I’d leave.”

Shane’s fingers flexed uselessly against the arms of his chair. “I’m sorry,” he started, reflexive, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Ilya said, stepping closer, cutting him off like he could physically block the apology. “Stop trying to apologise for things that aren’t your fault.” He huffed a short, frustrated breath. “I watched you go down on the ice and had to wait hours before I could see you again,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “You think I did not cling to you, too?”

Shane swallowed, his throat tight. “I thought—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head once like he didn’t trust himself to finish it.

Ilya’s hand found his again, firm and grounding. “I know what I thought,” he said quietly. “And I know how it felt like to stand there and not be allowed to do anything when you were hurt.” His jaw flexed. “I do not ever want to feel that helpless again.”

Shane let out a shaky breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction. “Still,” he muttered, “kidnapping feels a bit extreme.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Maybe,” he allowed. “There is, ah—more that I should tell you,” he added, already wincing.

“Hm?” Shane prompted, glancing up at him. “Well, it can’t be as bad as the kidnapping, can it?”

Only, Ilya didn’t smile or deflect this time. He went very still instead, his gaze dropping briefly to their joined hands before lifting again. “I may have—” he hesitated, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “There was a situation in the locker room. And I—” He exhaled sharply, like the words refused to come out cleanly. 

Ilya groaned softly, his eyes slipping shut as he dragged a hand over his face. “I—may have accidentally come out to my team?” He said, the words rushed, his accent thickening around them as his grip on Shane’s hand tightened just slightly.

Shane looked up slowly, his breath catching somewhere between his ribs and his throat. “Ilyusha,” he breathed, staring at him helplessly. Because he knew how quickly a room could turn on you for something like that.

His chest tightened, his thoughts pulling in too many directions at once to settle into anything coherent. The edges of the room seemed to tilt inward, the light sharpening and blurring all at once, echoing the dull pressure pulsing at the base of his skull every time he tried to focus too hard.

But it was the fear that took hold, sharp and familiar, as Montréal’s locker room rose up uninvited in his mind. Jokes brushed off as nothing. Silences that lingered longer than shouting ever could. Coaches who looked away because it was easier. Or because they agreed. Or because acknowledging it would mean admitting the room itself was hostile.

Shane’s mouth opened, and he didn’t even know what he planned to say. Then he closed it again, the words slipping away as his gaze dropped, landing on the sandwich cut into careful triangles in front of him. It was a quiet, undeniable reminder of how much thought Ilya had already given him. Of a care that hadn’t been conditional, hadn’t waited to see if it would be safe before he’d decided to show it.

Shane wasn’t sure, after years of being together, how he could still be caught off guard by the depth of what Ilya felt for him. By the plain, unguarded way Ilya sometimes let it surface. Like it was the simplest thing in the world to say it out loud. Like it had never occurred to him to be afraid of it, even though he knew Ilya had more reasons than most to be.

And maybe there was a kind of quiet bravery in what he was doing right now, too. He could only imagine how long Ilya had agonised over the possibility of Shane shouting, or being upset, or angry that he’d taken that choice out of his hands. If he would pull away from him, or look at him differently for it.

Finally, he drew in a quiet breath and asked, “Were they good?”

Ilya blinked. “What?”

“Your team,” Shane clarified, his voice low. “Were they—how did they take it?” His fingers curled against Ilya’s, betraying the anxiety he was trying to keep out of his voice. “I didn’t—” He stopped, swallowing. “I never wanted this to make things harder for you, Ilya.”

“They were fine,” Ilya said immediately.

Shane frowned. “Fine?”

Ilya exhaled, something caught between a laugh and a sigh slipping out of him. “They were annoyingly normal about it,” he said. “Asked too many questions, maybe. Wanted details I did not feel like giving. Were upset, a little, that I hadn’t told them sooner. For me—for us,” he corrected quickly. “That we’d kept it secret for so long.” His mouth twitched faintly. “But none of them cared. Not in the way I expected.”

Shane blinked at him. “That’s it?” He asked. “They didn’t—”

“That’s it,” Ilya repeated, the words coming a little too quickly now, like he couldn’t quite stop once he’d started. “I mean, Luke freaked out when he realised you were on the bus with us. Artos called us cute and I considered throwing him off the bus,” he added, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice. “Then Patrick said we looked like something out of The Notebook and I almost threw him off the bus too,” he added dryly, his mouth twitching as he glanced at the tape on his finger.

“Cliff is, ah—well,” Ilya went on, a quiet snort slipping through his nose. “He is rather aggressively supportive of it, actually. And Ryan is—” he paused, frowning slightly as he searched for the word, “overexcited. Like puppy.”

Shane huffed softly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he listened to him.

“Victor slept most of the way, but he said we looked at each other with the kind of love people wait their whole lives for.” Ilya hesitated briefly, jaw tightening before he added, “But no one laughed. No one said anything cruel. No one made it a problem.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice like the truth deserved to be handled carefully. “They were worried about you. And they were worried about me,” he said. “And when LeClaire asked why you were on the bus later, and why you were in my arms like that—” His mouth twitched, helpless and fond. “It felt wrong to lie when my team already knew.”

“Oh,” Shane said softly, mostly because his mind had gone strangely quiet, like everything that usually rushed in to fill the silence had stalled all at once. Something fragile and disbelieving flickered across his expression, like he didn’t quite trust any of it to be real. 

Ilya made a quiet sound in response, watching him more carefully now. Shane could feel it, the way his gaze tracked every small shift in his expression, like he was bracing for something that hadn’t happened yet. “You don’t seem angry,” he said eventually. “That I told them about us.”

Shane blinked, the words landing a moment too late. “Huh? Why would I—” he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and shook his head. “No. I—I’m not angry.” 

“I mean,” he added after a second, rubbing his thumb absently along Ilya’s wrist. “I’ll probably panic about the rest of it later. But you should be able to tell your team—your friends,” he corrected quickly. “Without worrying about my reaction.”

I know we’ve spoken about coming out before, but I never wanted you to feel like you had to wait for permission if you wanted to tell someone.” Shane’s voice softened slightly. “I’m, ah—I’m glad that you felt safe enough to do that.”

“I’m not sure if it was safety or stupidity that made me do it,” Ilya huffed, though there was no real regret in his voice, only a lingering edge of nerves.

Shane’s mouth twitched faintly. He squeezed Ilya’s wrist once, hoping it came across as reassuring. “I think part of me was waiting for you to tell me it went badly,” he admitted. “Or that someone made a joke. Or that it changed how they look at you.” His mouth twisted faintly. “That you were leaving, maybe, because of what they said.”

“No one said anything like that,” Ilya said, his voice low. “If they had, I would’ve dealt with it.” His expression hardened briefly, something bright and unyielding flashing in his eyes. But then he shook his head, forcing some of the tension out of his shoulders. 

“They really were fine,” he continued. “They were annoying. Asking too many questions when all I wanted was to get to you. But they were not cruel about it.” His expression softened as he watched Shane nod slowly. “Are you okay?” He asked, searching his face like he was trying to catch whatever Shane might not say out loud.

“I’m okay,” Shane said quickly, trying to head off Ilya’s worry before it could settle. Then, softer, like it was the part that mattered most, he added, “I’m happy for you.” His eyes closed before he could stop them, relief washing through him in a way that felt almost disorienting. He tipped his head down, focusing on the table as if it might help him keep the feeling contained. Or manageable.

“And I’m glad,” he said, his voice rough, “that it was a good experience for you, Ilya.” A faint, wry edge crept in. “And maybe a little jealous,” he admitted. “Which I don’t love about myself.”

Ilya’s mouth curved. “You are allowed to feel that, I think.”

Shane looked up at him again. “You don’t regret it?”

“No,” Ilya said immediately. “I regret many things. Like not standing on top of the Empire State Building and shouting about us for the whole world to hear, maybe.” His mouth curved. “But this?” He shook his head slightly, his thumb brushing once over Shane’s wrist. “No. This is not one of them. They are idiots, but good people. I am—” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “Relieved. Maybe that is the right word?”

Ilya watched him for a long moment. He recognised the relief in Shane’s expression, but he also saw the way Shane kept his head slightly lowered, his shoulders still half-braced. Like he was waiting for the good news to sour. Like acceptance was something fragile, something that might turn on him the moment Shane let himself trust it.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane looked up at him, startled. “For what?”

“That this was not how it was for you when you came out to your team,” Ilya said honestly. “That you had to learn how to survive your own locker room. That even now, the first thing you worry about is whether I will be punished for being honest.”

Shane’s throat worked around Ilya’s name, but Ilya shook his head before he could finish.

“No,” Ilya said gently. “You will let me say this, da?” He licked his dry lips, his eyes darting between Shane’s like he was trying to judge how much of the truth Shane would actually let himself hear. “What happened to you—what is still happening to you in Montréal—it isn’t normal,” he said. “I know hockey is, ah—a masculine sport. Men who like to push each other to see who will break first. But the way they’ve been treating you—”

“You make it sound like I’ve been dealing with this kind of shit forever,” Shane cut him off, looking away before the expression on his face could give too much away. “You know that’s not true.”

“Da. You are the golden boy of hockey,” Ilya said, folding his arms as he studied him. “Everyone loves Shane Hollander. On the ice.” 

He frowned slightly, before finally admitting, “Pike said your team has been taking cheap shots at you for a while now. And I couldn’t figure out why you didn’t tell me about it.” He sighed softly. “So I started trying to figure out when things changed. But I couldn’t remember the last time you told me that you’d enjoyed being with them.” 

Ilya paused, clearly choosing his words with a care he rarely bothered with. “You used to mention them making comments you didn’t get, or that they were going to bars while you were with me. But you’ve hardly mentioned them unless I ask how practice was, or if something went wrong.” 

He shrugged lightly. “I used to think it was because you were with me that you were missing out on things with them. And I felt guilty about how selfish I was being, maybe. But I’m not so sure anymore if that was actually the reason.”

Shane groaned softly and ran a hand through his hair. It felt rough and a little tangled beneath his fingers, catching on knots he hadn’t bothered to work out yet. It was longer than he’d ever worn it before, and he usually liked the way it curled out from under the back of his helmet, but right now it was just annoying—falling into his eyes when all he wanted was to think.

“Hayden told you all that?” He asked, frowning up at Ilya. “Of course he fucking did,” he muttered under his breath. “Look. It’s not as bad as it was last night. Err—the other night?” He corrected himself before shaking his head. “You’re making it sound worse than it is.”

“I’m not sure I am,” Ilya said carefully. “You have a bad habit of brushing off things that matter, solnyshko,” he added, almost fond. “If you tell me it hasn’t been this bad, I’ll believe you. Maybe it was just one homophobic asshole with a chip on his shoulder—angry that he got knocked flat on his ass by a super gay man,” he said, a small flicker of amusement creeping into his voice.

“I’m a normal amount of gay,” Shane said automatically, because it was what he always responded with whenever Ilya called him super gay like it was some sort of measurable statistic.

“Maybe,” Ilya allowed, his mouth twitching faintly. “But I still think it’s been worse than you’ve admitted.” He paused, his gaze lingering on the tension in Shane’s shoulders, the way his fingers kept worrying at the edge of the counter. “You don’t have to protect me from the truth,” he added carefully, like he knew they were already standing on the edge of an argument they couldn’t avoid.

He watched Shane’s shoulders stiffen, the way his fingers stilled against the counter as he let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he said, dark eyes flashing up at him. “And what’s that?”

“That Montréal’s locker room is, ah—toxic?” Ilya asked, nodding when Shane huffed but didn’t argue with the word. “And what they’re doing—what they’ve been doing to you—it’s not fair. And it’s not your fucking fault that they’re treating you like this. “I don’t—” He sighed through his nose, trying to pull his anger back, because it wasn’t Shane he was angry at. “I don’t get why you’re not angry at them.”

“Because it doesn’t change anything,” Shane said honestly. “You’re right. It’s not fine,” he admitted, but even as he said the words his shoulders lifted slightly, like he was bracing for the argument he knew was coming. “But I’m managing it,” he added. “The team is just adjusting to—”

“Da,” Ilya cut him off. “I have seen how long you’ve been waiting for your team to adjust.”

Shane’s heart kicking harder in his chest at the look in Ilya’s eyes. He dropped his gaze to the counter for a moment, buying himself a second to breathe. Because Ilya wasn’t wrong, and that somehow made it harder to say anything at all.

“It’s better than it used to be,” he said, still not looking at him.

“And what Comeau did on the ice,” Ilya said through gritted teeth, “is that getting better too?”

“Ilya—”

“He tried to kill you,” Ilya finally said, his blue eyes flashing as his voice dropped into a near growl. “Do you understand that? He hit you in the back of the neck. Even for a normal person, an injury like that can cause serious spinal damage. It could have ended your career, Shane. You would have never skated again if he’d used enough force.”

“He could have easily killed you,” Ilya repeated, his voice shaking now, though Shane recognised the stubborn tilt of his jaw, the one that meant Ilya was barely holding back his temper. “Did you not hear how often the nurses said you were lucky when you were in the hospital? Or how easily he could’ve broken your fucking neck?”

Shane dragged a hand over his face, the motion slow with exhaustion. “Of course I fucking heard them.”

Ilya’s hands curled slightly at his sides. “Then why are you acting like this is just—?”

“Because that’s how this works,” Shane snapped, cutting him off a little sharper than he’d meant to. “Players get hit all the time. We get hurt, and then we get up and keep playing anyway.”

“It wasn’t a fucking hit,” Ilya shot back. “It was a deliberate attempt to—”

“It doesn’t change anything, Ilya,” Shane said, before forcing his mouth shut when he heard the sharp edge in his own voice. He took a slow breath through his nose and tried again. “If I make a bigger deal out of this than it already is, what happens?” He asked, his voice still tight. “You think the league suddenly grows a spine? You think Montréal’s locker room will suddenly decide they’re all on my side?”

“Even the league will take a hit to the back of the neck seriously,” Ilya insisted. “Player Safety can’t just ignore something this dangerous, especially if it risks a player’s career.”

Shane snorted before he could stop himself. “How long have I been here? A day? Two?” He huffed a quiet breath when he saw the look in Ilya’s eyes, the way they flickered just slightly—like he already knew Shane was right and hated it. “It’s been at least forty-eight hours since the game, right? And what has the league done in that time? Probably issued a statement about player safety. But I bet Comeau is still on the fucking ice.”

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye. The room tilted faintly again when he dropped his hand, but he ignored it. “You already know how this works,” he said more quietly. “Maybe the league suspends Comeau for a few games if the video looks bad enough.” His mouth twisted. “Maybe they don’t.”

Ilya’s gaze didn’t move from him.

“Maybe they’ll just give him a fine in a couple of months when everyone’s forgotten what it was even for.” Shane shrugged faintly, like it didn’t matter. “They don’t care about Comeau. But they’ll care about the captain who hit his own player in the middle of the game. Especially when he’s a franchise player they’ve spent years pouring advertising money into.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. “That isn’t—it’s not the same thing,” he said stubbornly.

Shane shrugged again, the movement small and tired. “Eh. It’s close enough. Comeau hit me after the horn, right? I remember that much. But not much after,” he admitted. “If anything happens after play, then it’s outside their jurisdiction. It’ll be a misconduct at best. You know that.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Ilya said, sharper than before.

Shane looked up at him, blinking slowly like the sound had caught him off guard. Ilya rarely raised his voice. When he did, it usually meant something—or someone—had pushed him too far.

“I’m not saying it is,” Shane said after a long moment where the silence stretched long and ugly. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “You’re missing the point. The league doesn’t care what actually happened, just what it looks like. And right now it looks like Montréal’s captain lost control and took a swing at his own teammate. Comeau’s actions will just be seen as a retaliation to the violence I started.”

His mouth twisted again.

“Which is a much bigger embarrassment for them than some fourth-line idiot trying to take my head off.”

Ilya stared at him like the words had physically offended him. “Stop being so dismissive,” he snapped. “You are allowed to be angry about this.”

“I know that,” Shane snapped. “I’m not the one who’s pretending this is normal. But being angry doesn’t fix it. It just makes everything worse.”

“And pretending it is fine makes it—what?” Ilya shot back. “Easier?”

Shane looked up then, meeting his eyes properly. “Yes,” he admitted. “Fucking—yes, okay? It makes it easier to survive when I don’t give them anything else to use against me.”

Ilya’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his shoulders still tight with the anger he was trying very hard not to unleash on the wrong person. “You should not have to survive your own team.”

Shane let out a tired breath, his gaze dropping back to the counter. “Yeah,” he said. “Well. Not everyone has a team like yours.”

The fight bled out of him in a way he hadn’t quite meant to allow, and he leaned back slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush Ilya’s arm. He needed that contact more than he wanted to admit—the quiet reassurance that Ilya was still there, still his, even in the middle of a conversation that felt like it could turn into a fight at any moment.

“I don’t want to make this a thing,” Shane added. “I don’t—I don’t want it to be another problem everyone has to deal with. Pretending everything’s fine is the only way I know how to get through this season without everything blowing up.”

Ilya’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes going wide. He reached out slowly, taking one of Shane’s hands in both of his, his fingers trailing carefully over the bruises on his ring finger. For one horrible second, Shane thought Ilya might actually cry when he felt the way his hands were trembling.

“That is lie,” Ilya said, his thumb still brushing gently over Shane’s bruised knuckles. “You are not a problem. And you are Shane Hollander, best hockey player in the league—”

“I thought you were the best hockey player in the league?” Shane asked, brow raised.

“Da,” Ilya agreed immediately. “But I also fuck best hockey player, so maybe that means I win twice.”

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as warmth crept into his chest. “I’m not sure that’s how it works,” he muttered as some of the tension eased from his shoulders.

Ilya’s mouth twitched, pleased with himself, but the expression softened as he looked at Shane again. “I do not like the way you talk about yourself,” he admitted quietly. “Or the way you have learned to accept other people’s version of you like—ugh—like it is the only one that matters.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Ilya said. “You are very good at surviving rooms that were not built to accept you,” he added, pausing like he knew those words would land harder than Shane wanted to admit. “But that is not the same thing as being safe. And it is not the same thing as being treated the way you deserve.”

He stepped closer as he spoke, his voice quieter now, though the intensity in it hadn’t faded. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met, solnyshko,” he said, holding Shane’s gaze. “But bravery is not the same thing as pretending someone didn’t deliberately try to hurt you.”

Ilya hesitated, his eyes darting between Shane’s like his thoughts were forming faster than he could voice them properly. “Ah. I am not explaining this well,” he said finally, sighing through his nose. “English is a stupid language,” he muttered.

Shane watched him for a moment. He knew that look. It showed up whenever Ilya was upset enough that his English started tangling itself into knots. The sharper the emotion, the harder he pushed for the exact word, like the language itself had become another opponent he refused to lose to.

“I think you’re doing fine,” Shane admitted softly. “Do you—” he hesitated, licking his lips slowly. “Do you want to tell me in Russian?” He asked in Russian, because sometimes it was easier for both of them that way.

For a second Ilya just looked at Shane, but then something in his shoulders loosened slightly. 

“Ty uveren?” He asked quietly. 

Shane nodded once, slow but certain. “Da.”

Ilya let out a breath that sounded almost like relief. His thumb brushed absently over Shane’s knuckles as he shifted closer, words coming easier now that he didn’t have to filter them into another language.

“I remember you at seventeen, when you were a menace at Juniors,” he started, his accent thickening, the words coming more easily now that he’d slipped back into Russian. “You walked into that locker room like you already knew exactly what kind of player you were going to be.” His thumb traced another slow pass across Shane’s knuckles, grounding himself as much as Shane.

“You did not shrink for anyone then. Not for older players, not for coaches, not even for the media when they tried to twist your words.” His gaze softened slightly as he studied Shane’s face. “You spoke like someone who believed he deserved to be there.” A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You were a little terror, actually. Always arguing with referees in three languages.”

“And now,” Ilya continued gently, “I watch you sit in rooms where your own team treats you like an inconvenience. Like you should be grateful they tolerate you at all.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And you let them.” He tilted his head, studying Shane with that same careful intensity. “I do not understand when that changed,” he admitted.

Shane let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though there wasn’t much humour in it. He stared down at their hands for a moment, watching the slow movement of Ilya’s thumb across his knuckles like it might offer him an answer.

“It didn’t change all at once,” he said finally.

Ilya stayed silent, waiting.

“It’s just—gradual,” Shane went on, his voice thoughtful, almost detached, like he was narrating something that had happened to someone else. “You show up, and everyone already has an opinion about you. Then you say one wrong thing in an interview, or you celebrate a goal a little too much, or you don’t laugh at the right joke in the locker room.” His mouth twitched faintly. “You realise pretty quickly which version of you makes life easier for everyone else.”

Ilya made a low, dissatisfied sound in his throat. “That is bullshit,” he said. “You still meet me on the ice like you are ready to fight for every goal. You should hear what other players say about you.” A faint, almost incredulous smile touched his mouth. “They talk about you like you are something unreal. Like you see the ice differently from everyone else. I have heard grown men sound almost reverent describing a pass you made three seasons ago.” 

His thumb pressed a little more firmly against Shane’s knuckles, grounding the words. “There is awe when they say your name. Respect. Sometimes even fear.” His gaze softened, but the intensity didn’t fade. “And all I can think when I hear it,” he added, “is that they are talking about someone who belongs to me. That he is the best, but he doesn’t seem to remember it anymore.”

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.  “It was just easier, I guess,” he admitted. “To let the room move around me instead of pushing back against it all the time.” His fingers curled faintly against Ilya’s hand. “I’m holding so many secrets, Ilya. I can never really be myself around them.” His gaze dropped again, voice softening as the words became harder to say out loud.

“And they hate you,” he continued, almost apologetically. “Oh my god, they hate you so much, Ilya. Every time your name comes up in Montréal it’s like—I don’t know. Like someone flipped a switch.” His mouth twisted faintly. “And I want to defend you. Every time. I still do.” His fingers tightened a little around Ilya’s knuckles. “But I can’t. Because no one knows about us.”

He paused there, the weight of that truth settling in the quiet kitchen. 

“When I came out,” Shane said slowly, almost like he was piecing the thought together as he spoke it. “I thought maybe it’d be better. That if I was honest about one thing, maybe the rest of it wouldn’t feel so heavy all the time. Like I wouldn’t have to keep pretending quite so much.” He let out a quiet breath. “But it didn’t really work like that. I realised pretty quickly that I wouldn’t be, ah—safe, I guess.”

“Shane,” Ilya said slowly. His voice had gone low and careful, the way it did when he was forcing himself to stay calm. “You think they would hurt you?”

Shane shrugged one shoulder, the motion small. “I think some of them would want to,” he admitted. “I mean, Comeau kind of proved that fucking point, right?”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. 

“They just—” Shane hesitated, searching for the right words. “They already resent you so much for being a Bear. Or maybe just because you get into their heads whenever we’re on the ice. No one seems to be able to figure out that you’re just fucking with them.” His mouth twitched faintly. “But if I admitted I was gay and in love with you?” He snorted. “It’s just easier to keep my head down and let them believe whatever version of me makes them comfortable.”

Ilya’s expression didn’t soften the way Shane expected it to. If anything, it seemed to grow more intent. “And what about what makes you comfortable?” He asked quietly, his fingers tightening slightly around Shane’s hand. “Does that not matter?”

Shane huffed a breath, like the question catching somewhere low in his ribs on the way out. “That’s not really—”

“You are choosing their comfort over your own,” Ilya cut in, not raising his voice, but not letting him dodge the question either. His thumb pressed once, deliberate, into the inside of Shane’s wrist. “Of course it fucking—”

“I’m choosing not to make things worse,” Shane shot back, sharper now, the edge slipping in before he could smooth it out. “There’s a fucking difference, Ilya. It’s just—I just need to get through this season,” he said. “My contract is up after this year. I just need to wait it out until my UFA status comes in, and then I can walk away on my own fucking terms.”

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose. “Solnyshko,” he said, softer now. “There are still months left in the season. Teams are fighting for every point just to make the playoffs.” He shook his head slightly. “You are asking yourself to endure this for much longer than you should have to.”

Shane didn’t answer straight away. He simply watched as Ilya’s thumb finally started to move again, tracing another slow line across his knuckles as if reminding himself that Shane was here and not lying in a hospital bed with wires in his arms and a neck brace holding him still.

“I don’t have a choice,” he muttered eventually. “I can’t magically make them all less shitty.”

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, but not all of it. Never all of it, not when it came to this. “I do not like the idea that loving me makes your life more dangerous,” he said quietly.

“The most dangerous thing I ever did was falling in love with you,” Shane said with a faint, tired smile. “And I don’t regret a single moment of it.”

“You could—” Ilya began in English, licking his lips slowly as his eyes darted briefly down to their joined hands before lifting back to Shane’s face. “You could leave before your contract is up,” he said slowly. “You should not have to keep putting yourself in a room full of men who would rather break you down than admit you belong there.”

Shane’s mouth twitched faintly. “Ilya—”

“You have no-trade clause, da?” Ilya asked. “Waive it. Tell them you want out.”

Shane let out a quiet breath, leaning back slightly against the counter. “I could do that,” he said as he studied marbled surface beneath their hands. “But that’s not exactly a quiet move. The second I waive it, every reporter in the league is going to ask why. Management will want answers. My teammates will want answers.” His mouth pulled to one side. “The fans too.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed. “So you say you want change.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Shane said gently. “If I leave now, people’ll start connecting dots. They’ll assume it’s because of what Comeau did—”

“Good,” Ilya said. “Let him deal with the backlash of Montréal losing you.”

Shane huffed softly, more amused than offended. “If I waive it now, I lose the protection of my no-trade clause,” he said slowly, even though he knew Ilya already understood that perfectly well. “I go wherever they decide to send me. Could be somewhere better.” His lips twitched faintly. “Could also be somewhere worse.”

“Montréal is already worse,” Ilya muttered.

Shane smiled a little at that. “Maybe. But at least I know the ice there.” He squeezed Ilya’s hand gently. “If I ride out the rest of this season, I get to choose where I go next. It’ll be a clean break. No drama. No speculation about why.”

“And you think that will protect you?” Ilya asked.

Shane shrugged one shoulder again. “It might.”

Ilya was silent for a moment, thinking. Then his brow furrowed more deeply. “So we ask Farah to start pulling strings,” he said slowly. “She can make sure the next place you end up is somewhere safe. Somewhere with teammates who are not idiots.” His mouth tightened slightly. “Somewhere they will value you properly.”

Shane studied him for a moment then, really looking. It wasn’t just frustration sitting in Ilya’s expression. It was fear. Quiet and tightly contained, but unmistakable. The kind that came from watching someone you loved get hurt and realising you hadn’t been able to stop it. The realisation settled heavily in Shane’s chest, because Ilya wasn’t just arguing about strategy. He was trying to get Shane out of Montréal as quickly as possible.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Ilya’s gaze flicked back to his face immediately, sharp and searching, like he was bracing for another argument.

Shane shook his head a little. “We can talk to Farah,” he said. “That part’s not a bad idea.” 

Some of the tightness in Ilya’s shoulders eased, but only slightly.

“But I don’t like the idea of running away from this,” Shane added gently. 

Ilya’s jaw flexed. “It is not running to remove yourself from a bad situation.”

“Maybe,” Shane allowed, lifting one shoulder in a near shrug. “But if I disappear right after Comeau tried to take my head off, that becomes the story.”

“That is stupid narrative,” Ilya muttered. “Much better story is letting them cry about Shane Hollander abandoning abusive team right before playoffs and watching their Cup dreams shatter.”

Shane let out a soft laugh at that, the sound surprised out of him. “You’re incredibly vindictive for someone pretending this is about my safety.”

“I am capable of caring about two things at once,” Ilya said. His thumb was still moving over Shane’s knuckles, slow and restless, like he couldn’t quite stop checking that Shane was still there. “It would be good lesson for them,” he continued, his voice quieter but no less firm. “You carry that team all season and then you leave. Suddenly they realise what they lost.”

Shane tilted his head slightly, studying him. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

Ilya nodded, not even pretend otherwise.

The honesty of it made something warm and heavy settle in Shane’s chest. “You’re really serious about getting me out of there?”

Ilya’s expression didn’t change, but his hand tightened around Shane’s just a fraction. “They already hurt you once.”

Shane opened his mouth to argue that hockey injuries happened all the time, that Comeau had just taken a bad shot, that the league would deal with it. But the words caught in his throat before they could even form, and found himself going quiet instead when he saw the look in Ilya’s eyes. It wasn’t anger this time. It was something quieter. Something stubborn and protective and a little bit frightened.

“I do not want to wait for second time,” Ilya said simply.

Shane held his gaze for a long moment, the quiet certainty in Ilya’s voice settling somewhere deep in his chest. He understood it. The instinct behind it. The fierce, stubborn need to remove the threat before it had another chance to hurt the person you loved. It was the same way Ilya played hockey. If something endangered the play, he eliminated it. But real life didn’t move quite that cleanly.

Shane let out a slow breath and tipped his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at him. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last. It wasn’t agreement, and they both knew it. But it also wasn’t the flat refusal Ilya had been prepared for.

Ilya studied him carefully, then gave a single, small nod. 

Shane squeezed his hand once, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hm. You’re bossy when you’re worried.”

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched, just barely. “I am always bossy,” he said, his gaze lingering on Shane’s face as his smile widened. “You knew this when you fell in love with me.”

“Yeah, well—I was young and easily influenced,” Shane muttered, the words softened by the way his mouth curved. Then he sighed quietly. “I don’t even know where the fuck I’d go if I did leave,” he admitted, picking at the sandwich Ilya had made for him. It was cold now, but he took a small bite anyway. “I’ve never—” He exhaled softly through his nose. “I thought I’d stay in Montréal until I retired.”

Ilya’s thumb stilled briefly against his knuckles.

Shane shrugged a little. “You sign your first contract somewhere, you build your life there. Your routines. Your people.” His mouth twitched faintly. “The same rink, the same streets, the same stupid pregame habits you never bother to change. It just—becomes yours after a while.” He glanced up at Ilya again. “I never really pictured starting over somewhere else.”

Ilya was quiet for a moment, watching him with that same steady intensity. “Any team would fight for the chance to sign you,” he said finally. “You change a game just by being on the ice.” His thumb resumed its slow movement against Shane’s knuckles. “You wouldn’t be just another player to them. You know that, da?”

Shane huffed softly, not quite dismissive, but not fully convinced either. He stared down at the plate again, turning one of the sandwich halves slightly like he needed something to do with his hands. “That’s not really the same thing as belonging somewhere,” he said after a moment.

Ilya tilted his head, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes.

Shane’s eyes narrowed as he watched him, suspicion already sliding neatly into place. “What?” He asked, because he knew that look. It was the same one Ilya got right before he did something either reckless or deeply intentional, and usually both.

Ilya shrugged. “Was just thinking about teams you could trade to if you want to stay in Eastern Conference,” he said slowly, like he was testing the words before fully committing to them. “New York is good city—”

“You want me to play with Scott Hunter?” Shane asked, brow raised.

“No,” Ilya said immediately, shaking his head. “Not New York then. And not Toronto either,” he added, his expression tightening slightly at the thought of Shane sharing a locker room with Dallas Kent. “Hm. Buffalo’s team is terrible. Solnyshko, promise me you won’t consider them even if they make you an offer? Please. But—ah—Pittsburgh is okay. They have Casey, who is decent defenceman. And also not an idiot.”

He paused, clearly already running through rosters in his head. “Columbus has Pierce. He is tolerable as long as he keeps his mouth shut. New Jersey is still young team. They won’t win any Cups until they learn how to defend properly. You’d end up waiting years before getting a chance at playoffs again.” He glanced back at Shane briefly. “I would prefer you not waste your time like that.”

Shane blinked at him, momentarily overwhelmed. “Huh?”

But Ilya kept going, his gaze drifting slightly as he worked through it, then flicking back to Shane. “Tampa is constantly trading players, so you would not be only new one there. Florida is good city. And their team is—okay, I suppose.” He made a small, dismissive gesture with his hand, like Florida had barely earned even that much praise. “Boston is good city too,” he added, far too casually.

Shane blinked at him as Ilya’s real intentions clicked into place. “Oh, is it?” He asked dryly, holding his gaze for longer than necessary. “And this is coming from an entirely unbiased source, I’m sure.”

Ilya kept his expression carefully neutral, though there was a faint glint of something suspiciously pleased in his eyes. “Hm. It has very good hockey culture,” he said. “And Boston isn’t so, ah—they are not as complicated about things as Montréal is. There is strong team here. Passionate fans. Good organisation.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And I have heard the team has very handsome captain who lives all alone in big, empty house.”

Shane stared at him for a moment, then huffed out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

“This is not the time to be laughing, solnyshko,” Ilya said, trying and failing to sound stern. “I am making very practical suggestion. You would be happy here. And I would also be happy with you here,” he added, like that was just a minor, irrelevant detail. “Boston would be even happier, da?”

Shane shook his head, but the fondness in his expression gave him away. What he’d planned to say dissolved somewhere between Ilya’s earnest delivery and the sheer absurdity of the pitch. He ended up laughing again, dragging a hand over his face. 

“Ugh,” he muttered. “You know what people would say if I ended up signing with the team you already play for, right?”

“Da,” Ilya nodded. “They would all say ‘we’re fucked,’ and it would not be in fun way.” 

“Ilya,” Shane groaned.

“What?” Ilya asked, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug that was entirely too innocent to be convincing. “It would solve several problems with very simple solution.”

Shane shook his head. “Yeah. And create about ten new ones,” he muttered, before exhaling softly as the humour faded from his expression. “The media would tear it apart,” he added, quieter now. “They’d want to know why I left, why Boston—why now. The Voyageurs will have opinions on it too. None of them are shy about talking to the press,” he winced slightly, “and none of them are going to be kind about it if I leave to join our the fucking Bears.”

“Management will probably put out some vague statement about my lack of leadership depth,” he muttered, jaw tightening at the thought. “It’s too risky,” he said, sighing. “We can barely keep our hands off each other when we play on separate teams. And you want us in the same locker room? We’re not really—uh—we’re not the most subtle people, Ilya.”

“We have kept it secret for ten years,” Ilya pointed out.

“That’s because we’ve lived in different cities for most of it,” Shane said, his mouth twisting faintly. “You know no one’s going to support us if we get caught. Crowell sure as fuck won’t rally the league behind us. The second anyone starts looking too closely—” He broke off, frustration flickering across his face.

“Team already knows,” Ilya said. “Coach knows. The organisation will not care as long as it does not affect the way we play.” He paused, hesitating. “And we are—not coming out yet,” he added carefully. “We are just not hiding so much.” 

“People’ll start asking questions—”

“Let them. They always ask wrong questions anyway,” Ilya interrupted him, shrugging. His gaze remained fixed on Shane even as he gestured vaguely toward the city just beyond the windows. 

“Boston is good place,” he said. “Ah. It is not perfect. But different in the ways that matter. The people here are all too interested in themselves to care what we do. But they are good. Loud. They don’t waste their time looking for reasons to tear someone apart. And the ones that do—” he shrugged lightly. “They do not matter as much. Most will not even care that two men are together.”

“Montréal isn’t the problem,” Shane said, shaking his head slightly. “And it’s so much gayer than—”

“Ah,” Ilya said again, dragging out the word to drown him out. “I do not care about Montréal,” he repeated, just as stubbornly. “Montréal let them hurt you.” His jaw tightened. “So Montréal can go fuck itself.”

Shane opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, the words catching somewhere behind his teeth as Ilya gave another small shrug. Maybe it was the way Ilya glanced back at him, lips curving into something soft and quietly hopeful. Or maybe it was the way he said it—like Shane mattered more than any city ever could.

“Boston is very dramatic about very small things,” Ilya added suddenly. “They shout about it in the street, like whole world is ending. Then laugh about it five minutes later. Oh—and they hate New York here. I do not get it, but they are very committed to it. And the Yankees,” he added, like this was equally baffling but deeply important. “Or which Dunkin’ is best. They will fight about this like it is life or death.”

“This is—it is not Russia,” he said slowly. “But it is my home now, I think. And maybe—maybe it is the kind of place where we would not have to be brave every single day just to exist.” 

Shane studied him for another second, then huffed out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at pretending this is a casual suggestion,” he murmured, because Ilya wasn’t pretending Boston was perfect—but he was making sure Shane knew it was safe.

“I am not pretending,” Ilya said simply. “Boston would not let our team treat you the way Montréal’s does.”

“What—because Boston would’ve stopped Comeau from being a dick?” Shane asked, a hint of incredulity slipping into his voice.

“They would have fucking rioted,” Ilya said, and the certainty of it made Shane blink in surprise. “And the Bears wouldn’t have let Comeau walk away after an attack like that,” he added, huffing slightly.

“You wouldn’t have even been in that situation if you were ours,” Ilya continued, something possessive slipping into the words before he could stop it. “Everyone knows the Bears love a good fight. Most minutes in the penalty box last season, and we enjoyed every fucking minute of it,” he added, a faint, unapologetic edge of pride in his voice.

“Solnyshko,” he said, more gently now. “Didn’t you hear how Boston fans chanted your name when you hit Comeau? They are just waiting for the excuse to love you—only reason they think they can’t is because you are Montréal’s captain. And—” his lips twitched, something wicked flashing in his eyes. “They will love you even more for giving them the chance to steal you and rub it in Montréal’s face.”

That, more than anything else, made Shane laugh again. Mostly because the idea of an entire arena full of Boston fans deciding they loved him overnight felt completely absurd—and also just plausible enough, when Ilya said it like that, to be a little bit dangerous.

Ilya grinned back at him, his expression softening almost immediately into something more earnest. “You would not be alone in my locker room,” he said. “And—we would be together.”

Shane’s laughter faded slowly, the warmth of it lingering for a moment before the weight of Ilya’s words settled in. He looked down at their hands again, turning the thought over carefully in his mind. “You—” he licked his lips. “You really want this, don’t you?”

“Da,” Ilya said. “I would like to stop pretending you are just another player I hate.” His gaze remained steady on Shane’s face. “I would also like to stop acting like I do not watch every one of your games.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And I would like to stop flying red-eye just to steal a few days with you.” He sighed. “We’ve spent all this time trying to convince everyone that we’re rivals—”

“We are rivals,” Shane said.

Ilya snorted. “We are,” he agreed. “But I am tired of pretending that is all we are.” He paused there, just for a moment, like the next thought had caught somewhere in his chest before he could say it properly. “I want to be able to talk about how good you are without people acting surprised,” he said finally. 

Shane huffed a quiet breath, something soft and startled flickering across his expression.

Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly. “Or how much I like the way your brain works. Or how you see plays before anyone else.” His thumb brushed slowly across Shane’s knuckles again. “I am tired of living in different cities when all I want is to wake up next to you in the morning and come home to you every night.”

Someone really should have warned him that Ilya Rozanov had the ability to say things that knocked the air straight out of his lungs, Shane thought. Because how was he supposed to keep pretending this was just another conversation about contracts and trades when Ilya looked at him like that? 

The bluntness of his words made his chest tighten a little, and he squeezed Ilya’s hand once, thoughtful, as he murmured, “You’d have to share a locker room with me every day.”

“Da,” Ilya said, still smiling.

Shane snorted, eyes narrowing. “I steal people’s tape.”

“You hate using anyone else’s tape,” Ilya shot back. “You get annoyed when the tension is wrong and always blame it on the brand being inferior.”

“I take the last coffee pod and pretend it wasn’t me,” Shane said, head tilting as he watched him.

“You hate coffee,” Ilya said. “And you are terrible liar.”

Shane’s mouth twitched. “I chirp defensemen when they get grumpy.”

“I’ve seen you chirp,” Ilya said dryly. “You are terrible at it.”

Shane shook his head again, though the smile was softer now. He leaned his arms a little more comfortably against the counter, holding Ilya’s hand between both of his now. For a moment he just looked at him, like he was memorising the expression on his face. Then he exhaled slowly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. 

“I’ll think about it,” he repeated, softer this time, like the idea had moved from impossible to something he could, maybe, start to imagine. “But if I end up in Boston, you are absolutely not allowed to act like this was your idea.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched immediately. “I would not,” he lied.

Shane narrowed his eyes at him. 

Ilya’s thumb brushed once more across Shane’s knuckles, slower now, like the tension that had been coiled through the entire conversation was finally loosening a little. “But maybe you could say you’ve always admired Boston’s defensive structure,” he suggested mildly. “And the historic franchise.”

Shane snorted. “I hate their defensive structure.”

“Hm,” Ilya agreed. “But it sounds convincing.”

Shane let out a quiet laugh at that, the sound warm and tired all at once. For a moment neither of them spoke. The city lights beyond the windows flickered softly in the glass, the kitchen still and warm around them. Shane squeezed his hand again, thoughtful. “Boston,” he said under his breath, like he was testing how the word felt.

Ilya didn’t respond, but the small, satisfied curve of his mouth said more than enough.

“It wouldn’t fix everything,” Shane said quietly. “You know that, right?”

He looked down at their hands again, thumb tracing the edge of Ilya’s knuckle like he was grounding himself in the contact. “A different city doesn’t suddenly make me a different person.” He exhaled softly. “I still don’t know how to walk into a room without already deciding how much of myself I’m allowed to—” he bit back the words, his mouth twisting. 

“I know,” Ilya said softly. “You still listen for footsteps when you kiss me in hallways. Even when we’re alone.”

“Oh.” Shane huffed, embarrassment and affection tangled together in the sound. “Yeah. That’s a, ah—a bad habit, I guess?”

“Hm. I don’t mind,” Ilya said quietly, his tone softening as he watched Shane. “But I notice how you always hold back, just a little, until we’re alone,” he added. “We have spent a long time pretending we are something we are not.” He hesitated slightly, his accent thickening as he searched for the words. “I, ah—I think I am guilty of it too. It is easier, sometimes, to play up the rivalry everyone expects than—than admitting I look for you in every room, or notice the second you are not there.”

“I guess we—” Shane licked his lips as his gaze drifted briefly to their hands before lifting back to Ilya’s face. “We’ve been hiding this for so long that it started feeling like—” His mouth twisted faintly. “It’s kinda fucked up, right?” He said suddenly, and Ilya let out a quiet, surprised snort.

“I kinda hate that I can’t tell anyone about us,” Shane admitted. “I watch everyone else being so obvious about who they want. And they get to go on dates, and post about stupid things online or talk about them in interviews, and I’m just—” He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly as his frustration broke through.

“I’m in the most loving relationship I could’ve ever hoped for, with you, and I can’t even look at you the way I want to when other people are around. Like I’m supposed to keep it hidden instead of—” Shane broke off, shaking his head faintly. “Instead of it being something I get to be proud of.”

Ilya frowned slightly, something in his expression tightening as he nodded. “Da,” he said. “But it is not just you. I hate it too,” he admitted, the words coming slower now, more deliberate. “I hate pretending I do not know you. That I have to look away before someone notices me watching you. That I cannot touch you when I want to.”

He exhaled slowly, his grip on Shane’s hand tightening just slightly. “I hate that when you play well, I must act like I am annoyed instead of proud. And I hate that when you are hurt, I have to wait like everyone else to know if you are okay.” He hesitated as he looked back at Shane’s face, catching on the hitch in his breath, the shine in his eyes that made it clear he was fighting back tears.

“I think maybe we both learned bad habits in trying to, ah—protect our relationship,” Ilya said quietly. “And maybe it was necessary when it was still new. But now?” He exhaled slowly. “Maybe bad habits can be unlearned—not all at once,” he added quickly. “But maybe one day neither of us will be scared to be seen like that.”

“Maybe, one day, we will realise we have gone an entire afternoon without expecting something to be taken from us. Without waiting for the joke. Or the look. Or the moment when the room turns.” He tilted his head slightly, thinking it through as he spoke, and a small smile touched his mouth—quiet and hopeful in a way he didn’t often allow himself. 

“That will be a good day, I think.” He paused, then, seemingly unable to stop himself, added more lightly, “In Boston.”

Shane laughed weakly, blinking fast. Because even with the joke to soften it, the words still managed to land somewhere deep enough to ache—and it hurt, but in a way he didn’t want to let go of. For a second, he just breathed through the sudden tightness there, like the idea itself was almost too much to hold. It felt almost reckless to want it this much.

“—and if that never happens?” He asked, because maybe he still needed to hear the answer.

Ilya’s hand tightened just slightly around his. “Then I will still be here,” he said. “I know I have not always made things easy,” he added, wincing slightly. “But I love you. That part has always been easy. And I think, maybe—” He hesitated, licking his lips as he searched for the right words. “I would like to try being a little braver about that.”

He looked nervous, Shane thought, but he was also watching him with the same steady focus he brought to the ice when he was reading a play no one else had noticed yet, and Shane felt vaguely like he was the only thing Ilya could see in that moment.

“I love you,” Ilya said again, like it was the least complicated fact in the world. “The rest we can figure out.”

“God,” Shane muttered softly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Because the truth was, Ilya saying it like that—so plainly, so easily—did something dangerous to him. It made the idea of a life where they didn’t have to hide feel almost unbearably possible for the first time, and he heard himself say, “I love you,” before he’d even fully decided to say it back.

And then Shane just laughed. Soft, breathless, a little disbelieving. At himself, mostly—but also at how utterly ridiculous the man in front of him was. Because who the hell just says something like that in the middle of what was probably a fight, even if neither of them had raised their voices or reached for the softer, more cutting insults they both knew how to use?

It had felt like they’d been tiptoeing around most of the painful parts of their entire conversation, and Shane got, suddenly, why Ilya had wanted to wait. His head was still foggy, a dull pressure lingering behind his eyes, the world just slightly out of focus at the edges—but it was overwhelmed by the thought of what it might feel like to stop hiding.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Shane muttered as he reached out and curled his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants, grounding himself in the familiar heat of the gesture as he pushed himself onto unsteady feet. He leaned in, letting the kiss come to him instead of thinking it through.

“Most people,” he murmured against Ilya’s lips, “would probably build up to a speech like that.”

Ilya’s hands came up instinctively, thumbs digging into Shane’s hips as he pulled him closer. “I’m not most people.”

“Hm,” Shane agreed, a slow, dangerous edge slipping into his voice as his gaze flicked briefly back to Ilya’s mouth. “Don’t you dare start something you’re not ready to finish, Rozanov,” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath between them. “I’ve fought you for every single title we’ve ever won—” his hand curled behind Ilya’s neck, fingers threading lightly into the curls at his nape to pull him closer. “Like fuck I’m letting you be brave without me.”

Chapter End Notes

Solnyshko (солнышко) — Russian
Little sun; Sunshine; My sunshine; A tender, affectionate diminutive used for someone cherished; Conveys warmth, emotional safety, softness, and intimacy; Often used toward a romantic partner in moments of vulnerability or fond teasing.

Da (да) — Russian
Yes; A flexible affirmative that can also function as emphasis (“indeed”), agreement (“right”), soft insistence, or conversational filler depending on tone; Ilya uses it rhythmically and instinctively, especially in emotionally charged or unguarded moments.

Blyat (блядь) — Russian
Literally translates to “whore,” but idiomatically functions as “fuck,” “shit,” “damn it”; A sharp, emotionally reactive expletive; Expresses frustration, disbelief, anger, shock, or emphasis; Common in colloquial Russian and often reflexive rather than directed.

Der'mo (дерьмо) — Russian
Shit; Crap; Is often used as a more common, slightly less harsh term for "shit" while govno (говно) is generally considered slightly a more vulgar, crude, or intense term.

Spasibo (спасибо) — Russian
Thank you; Can carry understated sincerity, especially when spoken quietly or without embellishment

Do svidaniya (до свидания) — Russian
Goodbye; Until we meet again; Polite but can carry warmth depending on tone; Less casual than poka (пока), making it more appropriate for respectful or emotionally loaded farewells.

Ya zdes’ (я здесь) — Russian
I am here; I’m here; A reassuring statement of presence; Used to comfort someone; Conveys grounding, safety, and emotional availability.

AMA — English (medical abbreviation)
Against Medical Advice; A formal hospital term used when a patient chooses to leave care without medical approval or against clinician recommendations; Carries clinical and legal implications; Suggests liability and documentation concerns in healthcare settings.

Pridúrki (придурки) — Russian
Idiots; Morons; Plural of “pridurok” (придурки); Casual and dismissive rather than deeply offensive; Often used jokingly or with affectionate exasperation.

Ty uveren? (Ты уверен?) — Russian
Are you sure?; You certain?; A direct question; Can carry concern or gentle challenge; Often used to check emotional or situational readiness; Contextually can imply “are you ready to hear what I’m about to say?” before revealing something important; In this context, it functions as a quiet check that Shane is prepared for the emotional weight or consequences of what Ilya is about to say.

Red-eye — English
An overnight flight; Late-night travel that disrupts sleep; Common in North American; Often associated with exhaustion and short turnaround trips.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Chapter 8

Ilya Rozanov Is Obsessed With His Feet, Apparently

Shane Hollander was now absolutely certain he’d been kidnapped. Which was a ridiculous thought, and yet the alternative didn’t make much more sense for why he was still in Boston.

His head still ached faintly, the last of the concussion symptoms fading slowly instead of all at once, but it no longer throbbed with every movement. He could think clearly now. Mostly. Which meant there was nothing actually stopping him from calling a car, booking the next flight out, and going back to Montréal like he was supposed to.

His gear was still there. His clothes were there. So was his apartment. His team. Fuck—his entire fucking life was just waiting for him to step back into it like nothing had changed.

And yet he hadn’t left. He’d stayed. One day, then another, like he was waiting for something to push him out the door and back into the version of his life that made sense. But nothing had. Not the missed calls from his coach. Not the pressure from the league building in the media with each passing day. Not even his own sense of obligation, which had always been the loudest voice in his head.

Instead, there was just this quiet, stubborn stillness. And Ilya, moving through it like it was the most natural thing in the world to keep Shane there. 

He didn’t ask him to stay. It might have made it easier to leave if he had. Instead, he just made space for him in small ways they’d never gotten to experience before. He left a spare key on the counter like it had always belonged there. Stocked the fridge with ginger ale and enough fruit and protein powder for Shane to make a dozen low-calorie smoothies without commenting on it. Moved through his usual routines with an unspoken expectation that Shane would still be there the next morning.

And it was—it was nice. Maybe not in the loud, overwhelming way Shane was used to chasing on the ice, where everything was sharp and immediate and earned. This was quieter. Softer. The kind of nice that settled into the edges of his day without asking permission. A glass of water pressed into his hand before he even thought to want it. The way Ilya adjusted the thermostat without asking when Shane complained once about the cold. The steady, unspoken presence of someone who didn’t need anything from him except that he stay.

It felt dangerous in a way Shane couldn’t quite name. Not because it was bad—but because it wasn’t something he knew how to leave behind once he’d let himself have it. And maybe that was why he’d let Ilya wake him up at four in the morning and pull him out of bed without explanation.

He’d barely been awake when Ilya had bundled him into two extra layers of warm clothes, uncharacteristically quiet as he tugged another hoodie over Shane’s head and pressed a borrowed jacket into his arms. Then he’d steered him out the door and into the car, the city still dark and half-asleep around them.

Shane hadn’t bothered asking where they were going. He just watched the old buildings blur past in the dim pre-dawn light, streetlights flickering over brick and glass as the city slowly woke around them. Then Ilya pulled into the players’ entrance at TD Garden, and something in Shane’s chest had tightened at the sight of the Bears’ home rink—familiar and foreign all at once.

“Ilya,” he’d started to say, and he didn’t even know what he meant to ask. Maybe for an explanation. Or for Ilya to deny that they were about to break into his own arena before sunrise.

But Ilya had just leaned across the console, catching Shane’s mouth in a kiss that lingered just long enough to make his thoughts stutter.

Or maybe that was still the concussion.

“Trust me, solnyshko,” he’d said.

And it shouldn’t have worked. Because Shane knew that tone. It was the same one that could mean anything from Ilya starting a fight on the ice to him confessing something that stole Shane’s breath with how certain he sounded. It was reckless and impossible to refuse all at once. And yet, even knowing all of that, Shane found himself saying yes every time Ilya used it.

It was a character flaw. And Shane was—fuck—he was working on getting better at it, okay? He was. At least in theory. In practice, it was significantly harder to deny Ilya anything when he looked at him like that.

“—ah,” Ilya said now, grinning in triumph. “I did not buy the wrong skates.”

“Hm?” Shane blinked, dragged back into the present as Ilya leaned on the boards behind him, nudging Shane’s socked feet with the toe of his own skates, already laced and scuffed from years of use.

Shane looked down automatically at the weight in his hands, his thumb pressing along the stiff curve of the boot Ilya had apparently bought for him without asking—just pulled from the back of the car and handed over with a wink while Shane was still complaining about borrowing a pair from the equipment manager, who probably wouldn’t even be here this early anyway.

He turned the skates slightly, taking them in with a more practiced eye now.

They weren’t off-the-shelf. Whoever had sized them had known exactly what they were doing, and they’d been meticulous in accounting for the shape of his foot, the pressure points that would take the most strain, the way he liked his heel locked in place without sacrificing flex through the ankle. They’d been baked, set, and probably tweaked again until Ilya was satisfied with them.

People liked to assume Ilya was as reckless as he was on the ice. That everything he did was instinct and aggression. But no one ever seemed to notice when he slowed down like this—how intentional he was with every word, every choice. Or how stubborn he got about getting things exactly right.

It frustrated Shane sometimes, that people didn’t see how careful Ilya was. Or that they didn’t see him the way Shane did. But he was selfish enough to admit he liked that some parts of Ilya still belonged only to him.

“Ilya,” Shane murmured, slightly breathless as his gaze dragged across the familiar Bauer branding along the side of the skates.

The tongue had already been swapped for pro felt instead of the stock injected one, and the waxed laces were pulled tight through the forefoot but looser through the midfoot. The extra length of laces were wrapped loosely around the ankle so he could tension it himself.

His eyes lingered on the way the top two eyelets had been left open for flex, and at the top of the right boot, on the outside, where there was a single gold eyelet that stood out from the rest of the black. He turned it over in his hands before he could linger on the absurd thought that it looked almost like Ilya had given him a ring—and glanced down at the steel mounted in the holder instead, running his thumb lightly along the edge to check the profile.

“Tell me you didn’t,” he said quietly, biting back a smile as he sat back down on the bench. “Ilya, these are really fucking expensive—”

“Oh, are the Voyageurs not paying you enough?” Ilya asked, one brow lifting slightly. “Or maybe they cannot afford to put you in proper skates?” He clicked his tongue softly. “Ah. Do not worry, solnyshko. The Bears pay me very well. I will keep you as my much-kept boy, da?”

He tilted his head as he watched Shane closely. “I’ll dress you in every pretty thing I can get my hands on,” he added, his mouth curving faintly as he flashed him a wink. “And then I will watch you embarrass grown men on the ice—and tell you how good you are for me when I take you home after we win our next game.”

His gaze lingered, blue eyes darkening with quiet satisfaction, like he was fully aware of the effect he was having and had no intention of stopping. “In Boston,” he added—which had become a habit over the last few days, like he couldn’t help slipping the city into their conversations whenever he could.

It was a quiet, persistent reminder of the promise Shane had made to at least consider it. And, just like every other time Ilya brought it up, Shane found himself letting out a small, breathless laugh instead of shutting it down immediately.

“That’s not—” Shane cut himself off, shaking his head as heat crept up his neck.

His hand slid over the quarter again, testing the stiffness, grounding himself in something that wasn’t Ilya’s deliberate attempt to distract him. Because even if the way Ilya’s voice dipped made it near impossible for him not to react, Shane was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much it was working.

“You, ah—” he licked his lips as he turned the skate slightly in his hands. “You had these profiled?”

“Hm,” Ilya nodded, leaning back against the boards with his arms loose at his sides, legs spread slightly to keep his balance on his skates. “They are the same radius as your last pair,” he said. “Forward pitch is slightly more aggressive. Gives you a little more bite when you lean into your edges.” He tilted his head. “Or when you’re showing off.”

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, because of course Ilya had noticed the way he shifted his weight at the last second, the way he trusted his edges more than most players ever would. Of course he’d paid attention to something that specific, something that small, and decided it mattered enough to get exactly right.

But there was something in the way he said it that caught Shane off guard, too. Because it was teasing, sure—but it wasn’t edged in that familiar, dismissive humour Shane had learned to expect from other players. He said it like it was obvious that Shane’s edges were something to be admired.

Which they were, Shane admitted. Even he was vain enough to admit he’d put a lifetime of obsessive, deliberate practice into perfecting the way he moved on the ice. Every micro-adjustment of his weight, every shift in pressure through his blades, every fraction of a second where balance tipped into control. And yet—that didn’t stop other players from calling him a figure skater.

They’d been doing it since juniors, always with that same half-smile. Like it was harmless. Like it was funny. Like it didn’t mean anything at all. And he knew exactly what those words were standing in for—too soft, too pretty, too fucking delicate—things none of them would ever dare say outright. 

At seventeen, it might have gotten to him more. Back when he was just breaking into the league, and every offhand comment felt like it would expose something he wasn’t ready to admit yet. But the ice had always been the one place where nobody else got to decide what those things meant to him. And Shane had never been the kind of player to dull his edges just to make other people comfortable—no matter how much they might want him to.

“Oh,” he mumbled, frowning slightly, because even he could admit he’d been dulling himself off the ice—and it left him off-balance in a way he didn’t quite know how to fix. He looked back down at the skates in his hands instead of meeting Ilya’s eyes, turning the blade under the lights, watching the clean curve of it catch and reflect.

“I really wish you’d given these to me at home,” he said eventually, sighing.

Ilya glanced at him, frowning slightly. “Why?”

“Because,” Shane shrugged as he bent down to start pulling the skates on, his fingers working the laces with practiced ease, “I kinda really wish I could fuck you right now,” he said, voice low and entirely too casual for the way his pulse had just picked up.

He tried to play it off like it was nothing, the way Ilya had earlier. But the tension pulled tight between them when Ilya’s gaze dropped immediately to his mouth, then lower, like he was following the thread of the thought Shane had just handed him. Heat flared in his eyes, and Shane shifted slightly on the bench when he felt his attention linger on his hands, his thighs, his mouth—like he was already imagining every place he wanted to touch him. 

Shane adjusted his grip on the laces, deliberately casual, before glancing back up at Ilya with a faint, crooked smile. Maybe, he admitted, it was because he wanted to see Ilya lose that careful control he clung to so tightly. And maybe it was also because he had no intention of being the first one to give in this time.

“But even I’m not enough of an exhibitionist to risk your teammates walking in on us,” he added, because it was honestly the only thing stopping him from letting Ilya bend him over those boards and fuck into him.

He could almost imagine it—the way the rink would echo with every sharp breath, the way the empty arena would watch as Shane lost every sensible thought he had left under Ilya’s hands. And maybe that was an idea to return to, later, but not here. Not where anyone could walk out from the tunnel or down from the stands at any second, not where the glass would throw their reflections right back at them and Shane would have to, quite literally, face his bad decisions head-on.

“Ah,” Ilya said, a slow grin spreading across his face, his eyes still dragging over Shane in a way that made his stomach tighten. “Team is not due for practice for a while yet. We could—”

“No,” Shane cut in, laughing softly when Ilya’s mouth tightened in immediate, obvious disappointment. “You’re the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met. We are literally in your rink.” He snorted. “You’re just gonna have to control yourself for five minutes.”

“Shane,” Ilya groaned, his head tipping back as he dragged a hand through his hair.

Shane had to look away from the distracting line of his throat before he did something stupid. Like lean in and bite down just to see what kind of sound he could pull out of him next.

“You promised me ice time, remember?” He said instead, tapping his skate lightly against the rubber mat to seat the blade before reaching for the other. “And you, ah—” he cut himself off, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “you really should’ve given these to me at home if you wanted me to thank you properly.”

“You are still concussed,” Ilya said, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not concussed anymore,” Shane replied, fingers pausing on the laces as he blinked up at him. “Just being honest.” 

“Da. You must be,” Ilya said, folding his arms. “You had no filter when you were injured. And you are terrible at flirting. Is the only excuse I can think of for why you’re saying things like this without getting shy halfway through.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “It is my favourite thing, watching you blush under those freckles. You are depriving me of it, Hollander.”

Shane laughed again. “Maybe I’m just too happy to be shy,” he admitted, shrugging. “Here, with you,” he paused, and he almost managed to bite the temptation back, but then he added, “in Boston,” and got to watch as Ilya threw his head back again and laughed.

He felt something in his chest loosen at the sound, like maybe this version of the future didn’t feel quite so impossible anymore. “I know we both earn a stupid amount of money,” he said as he finished tying the laces off, “but you can’t just buy me professional-grade skates like they’re—” he snorted, “like they’re fucking flowers.”

Ilya hummed thoughtfully. “Flowers die,” he said eventually. “These make you faster. And—” he shrugged slightly, “they are pretty, da? You deserve more pretty things.”

Shane shook his head, half exasperated but mostly just fond. It was such an Ilya solution—quietly making every extension of him more dangerous—and he looked like he’d absolutely keep doing it if Shane let him. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “But there are limits to how easily I can be seduced, y’know?”

Ilya’s mouth curved slowly as he stepped closer, the toe of his skate nudging lightly against Shane’s new one.

“Ah. But I like when you’re easy,” he said, his voice dropping. “I like when you are dangerous too.” His gaze lingered on Shane’s mouth before flicking back up to his eyes. “It’s very, ah—it’s addictive, watching you forget to think and just move.”

“Hm,” Shane said, his mouth twitching faintly. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Da,” Ilya agreed softly. “Is very good problem to have.”

Shane’s gaze dropped briefly to where their skates were still touching, then lifted again. “I’m still not sure I want to be breaking in new skates at four in the morning,” he admitted with a sigh. “If these blister, it’s going to take weeks before I can skate properly again.”

“They have extra lining. They will not blister,” Ilya said, reaching out to steady Shane as he pushed up to his feet. He watched him flex into the unfamiliar stiffness, his gaze tracking the careful shift of weight with a pleased smile. “But if your, ah—” He frowned, searching for the word. “What is word for krasivyy?”

Shane tilted his head as he tested his balance, rocking slightly onto his edges on the rubber mat. “Huh? Oh—beautiful,” he said, distracted by the way the blades caught against the surface. “Or maybe pretty. Depends what you mean.”

“Da,” Ilya said, smiling wider. “If your beautiful feet blister, I will carry you off the ice myself.”

Shane snorted. “I’m over six foot tall. There’s no way you’re carrying me anywhere.”

“You’re five-nine,” Ilya said immediately.

“I’m six foot,” Shane shot back. “We’re the same fucking height, you liar.”

“Is not true,” Ilya said, looking almost offended as he glanced down at Shane’s skates. “You are shorter when you are not on skates.”

“Everyone’s shorter when they’re not on skates,” Shane muttered, only Ilya didn’t laugh. Which was almost more concerning than if he had. 

“Hm. But you forget that I have fought grown men on this ice,” he murmured. “It will be much easier when I carry you. Especially when you wrap those beautiful thighs around me.” He groaned softly. “Have I ever told you, it makes me feel like I’m fucking a king when I—”

“Ilya,” Shane warned.

Ilya hummed, clearly not listening. “Maybe we stop at a few walls on the way back to the locker room, da? Maybe we kiss. Maybe we see how long it takes you to start begging for my—”

“Oh my god,” Shane groaned, tipping his head forward to rest against Ilya’s shoulder. “Shut up. We are not actually going to fuck in your team’s rink. It’s freezing out here, and there’s no way either of us could even get—” But the sound of Ilya’s laughter cut him off and he straightened, narrowing his eyes at him. Heat crept up the back of his neck at how easily he’d walked into that setup.

“Ah. Was going to say ‘my attention,’” Ilya said, head tilting. “Why? What did you think I was going to say, Hollander?”

“You’re such a dick,” Shane muttered. “I have no idea why I love you sometimes.”

“Hm. I do,” Ilya said, his hands settling on Shane’s hips as he pulled him closer, lips brushing against his ear. “Because I fuck you against walls in empty arenas and—”

Shane’s hand shot out to cover Ilya’s mouth. “See, this is why I don’t flirt back with you,” he said, eyes narrowed. “I give you a fucking inch and you try to turn it into us fucking in your locker room.”

Ilya’s eyes crinkled instantly, delight written all over his face, even with his mouth muzzled. Then, just to be insufferable, he dragged his tongue slowly against Shane’s palm.

Shane recoiled with a disgusted noise, immediately wiping his hand on his sweatpants. “Ugh. You’re actually a child.”

“Is French kiss,” Ilya replied—and before Shane could retaliate, he leaned in and stole a real one.

His hand came up to cup Shane’s jaw, thumb brushing along his cheek as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Shane melted into it instantly, tension slipping from his shoulders as he leaned closer, one hand catching in the front of Ilya’s hoodie to keep himself steady.

A soft sound slipped from his throat, the kind he might have been embarrassed about if anyone else had been around to hear it. The kind he only let himself make when it was just them—when he knew he could be soft, or desperate, and Ilya would just hold him closer for it.

He found himself chasing Ilya’s mouth when he pulled back, only to sigh when Ilya pressed their foreheads together instead.

“And you love me,” Ilya added, slightly breathless, “because I kiss you like you are the only person in whole world.”

He smiled, softer now, something unguarded slipping through the teasing edge he’d been wearing all morning. Then he stepped back, offering his hand as he opened the gate toward the rink. “Don’t worry, solnyshko. I promise I’ll behave from now on.”

“I don’t believe that for a fucking second,” Shane muttered, eyes narrowing. But he still took Ilya’s hand. “I know you’ve been distracting me on purpose,” he added, not sounding nearly as annoyed as he meant to.

Ilya just hummed, holding his gaze as he guided him onto the ice.

“First time back after an injury can get in your head, if you let it,” he said softly. “I wanted to give you a better memory than your last time out here.” He shrugged lightly. “Maybe for me, too,” he admitted after a small pause. He cleared his throat and quickly added, “But, ah—my face is much more handsome than Comeau’s, da? You will remember me now instead of that asshole.”

For half a second, Shane’s stomach tightened at the name, the memory threatening to creep in where only muscle memory belonged. He shoved it down before it could take shape, forcing his focus back onto the way his new skates seemed to sing as they glided across the untouched ice.

“Your face is very distracting,” Shane said as they pushed into a slow lap along the boards.

“Hm. Then keep your eyes on me,” Ilya said, skating backward in front of him as he guided him through an easy warm-up.

The familiar rhythm settled into Shane’s body before he could overthink it—the clean bite of steel carving into the ice, the light spray kicking up as he leaned into the turn. His strides evened out, weight shifting automatically, ankles loosening as he rolled from inside edge to outside and back again.

“You make it sound like I was out for months,” Shane muttered. “It’s been three days since—”

“Ah,” Ilya cut in with a grin. “But you have been sighing and staring longingly at my skates by the door for days now. You looked like a heartbroken, ah—devochka-podrostok whenever I left for practice.”

Shane snorted. “Did you just call me a teenage girl?”

“Da,” Ilya said, grinning. “Hospital said no ice for two days and you acted like it was end of your career.”

“How are your ribs?” Shane asked instead of responding. “You’ve still been going to practice and then coming straight home to ice them.”

Ilya’s expression shifted, just slightly, as he rolled his shoulders. “They are fine,” he said. “Will heal much quicker if you stop fussing over them, solnyshko.”

Shane slowed, eyes flicking over him automatically. “Oh, so you get to worry about me but I can’t do the same?”

“I worry because your teammates are fucking idiots. You worry because you enjoy it,” Ilya said with a faint smile. “My ribs are fine.”

It didn’t sound like a lie, but Shane still narrowed his eyes anyway.

“Ah. They are just bruised. But we have a game in a few days, so I can’t rest them properly,” Ilya admitted. “After the game, I will let you fuss as much as you want.” He flashed him a crooked smile. “You like having excuse to look after me.”

“I don’t need an excuse,” Shane said, offended. “I fucking love you. Of course I want to look after you when you’re hurt.”

Then he blinked. Because he hadn’t actually meant to say it out loud this time. Not that it was the most embarrassing thing he’d ever said to Ilya—but still. 

He was just surprised, maybe, at how automatic it had been. And because he’d spent days brushing Ilya off—rolling his eyes at his fussing, acting like he was just being overprotective, or worrying about nothing—but he understood it, suddenly. How instinctive it was. How impossible it was to separate loving him from worrying about him.

“Oh,” he mumbled.

“Hm,” Ilya murmured, something smug flickering through his expression. “Then maybe I should stop being stubborn and just let you look after me.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Da,” Ilya grinned.

Shane shook his head, groaning softly, before pulling Ilya with him into a faster lap around the rink. They circled once, then again, falling into an easy rhythm that felt like muscle memory. After a moment, Ilya eased them into something slower, their pace tapering off until they were gliding side by side.

“You are quiet,” he said, glancing at Shane.

Shane shrugged slightly. “Just thinking,” he said eventually. “You’re being suspiciously well-behaved right now. I half expected you to start chirping at me just so you’d have an excuse to watch me blush.”

“Hm. Maybe I just want to keep holding your hand,” Ilya said.

Something in Shane’s expression softened before he could hide it.

“Or maybe I’m just very good at getting Shane Hollander to do exactly what I want on the ice,” Ilya added, his mouth curving faintly. “Or off the ice,” he went on, his voice dipping just slightly. “I am very good at motivational techniques.”

“God, you’re actually insufferable,” Shane muttered.

“Is not true. My motivational techniques are extremely effective,” Ilya corrected. “I have very simple plan,” he added, his tone turning mock-serious in a way that didn’t quite hide the teasing underneath. “Is, ah—like three-step programme? But not alcohol for you, solnyshko,” he added quickly. “Step one is to hold Shane Hollander’s hand. Step two—”

“I swear to god,” Shane narrowed his eyes in warning, “if step two is another innuendo about pinning me to the boards—”

“Step two is telling Shane Hollander he is doing very good,” Ilya said. There wasn’t even a hint of teasing in his voice. “Ah. See?” he murmured, watching him closely. “Your body remembers ice before fear.”

“My body also remembers that fucking concussion,” Shane muttered.

“Da,” Ilya agreed easily. “But it remembers this more.”

“What’s step three?” Shane asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

“Ah.” Ilya grinned, something sharper slipping back into his expression. He leaned in just enough for Shane to feel the heat of him, his voice dropping slightly. “Step three is reminding Shane Hollander that I am right here.” His lips twitched. “In Boston.”

Shane wobbled for half a second as he bent at the waist, laughing. He reached out to catch himself on Ilya’s forearms just as Ilya caught his waist to steady him. His grip tightened immediately, one hand sliding more firmly around Shane’s side, the other braced at his back.

“You’re okay,” Ilya murmured, his voice lower now.

“I’m fine, Ilya,” Shane said softly, though he didn’t pull away. “We’ve both taken more than a few tumbles on the ice,” he added, his mouth twitching faintly. “This is nothing.”

But Ilya didn’t look convinced. His hands lingered where they were, like he didn’t quite trust Shane not to sway again the second he let go of him. 

Which was vaguely annoying, Shane admitted—considering he was a professional athlete and not some rookie who hadn’t figured out how to keep his skates under him yet. But he forced himself to exhale slowly, reminding himself this wasn’t just Ilya being overbearing. It was the hit, the hospital, the way Shane had gone still on the ice. Ilya was still coming down from that just as much as Shane was.

So Shane let his hand slide once over Ilya’s wrist before stepping back from the solid line of his body, easing them into a more comfortable distance. “You know,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, “I always knew you were a good captain.”

Ilya huffed quietly, but Shane pressed on.

“Hayden tried to convince me and JJ that you had, like, hazing rituals and made your team bag-skate every practice until they threw up,” he admitted, pulling them back into another easy glide. “But I always thought you must be doing something right, with the way your team jumps in to defend you.”

Ilya huffed again, like he didn’t quite believe he deserved to hear something like that out loud. “Bears are loyal,” he said. “And you are good captain too,” he added, though his grip on Shane’s hand tightened just slightly, betraying the quiet pride beneath the words.

“I dunno,” Shane murmured, testing the edge of his blade before pushing more confidently into the next stride. “I mean, I push my team to be better. I make sure we put the work in so we have a real shot at the Cup, and I sit with them in our losses. But I’m not sure if that makes a good captain.”

He glanced sideways at Ilya, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Half the time it just feels like I’m trying to hold everything together with what used to work,” he admitted. “But I don’t know if—” He exhaled quietly. “I don’t think I’ve ever done this for someone. But you? You make people believe in you. Even when you’re being an absolute nightmare about it.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “Your team trusts you. You—fuck.” He shrugged lightly, a little embarrassed by how much he meant those words. “Sorry. I guess I just keep thinking about what it’d be like if you were my captain.”

“Ah. You would hate it,” Ilya said, glancing at him briefly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I would tell you what to do all the time.”

“You do that already,” Shane said after a moment, more thoughtful now. “But I’m serious, Ilya. The way you adjust everything around you without making it obvious—even if you’re a dick the minute you’re playing a game—I kinda get why your team would follow you anywhere.”

He snorted softly. “The Bears love you. They’d take a hit for you without even thinking about it. I never really figured out how to inspire that kind of loyalty.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You are talking about yourself in a bad way again,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Montréal’s locker room is full of idiots. The rest of the league says your name like it is something too dangerous to ignore, and you choose to listen to a handful of loud assholes who do not know what they have. I do not like the way—”

Shane leaned forward and kissed him, cutting him off mid-sentence. He lingered just long enough to make the point, then pulled back with a faint grin. “Hm. You talk too much.” Then he pushed off from Ilya’s chest and skated in the opposite direction.

Which was mean, maybe, but also very necessary. 

Because if he let Ilya keep going, he’d say something Shane wouldn’t be able to brush aside. And right now—with the ice under his blades and Ilya looking at him like that—it was easier to turn it into a game than admit how badly he wanted to believe every word.

So he focused on the ice instead. Maybe because it felt like the one thing that hadn’t shifted under him while he’d been stuck in bed—the world tilting every time he tried to stand, or when he’d been too dizzy to even look at his phone. The ice was still his in a way nothing else quite was. It was the one place where everything still made sense, without him having to think too hard about what came next.

And he knew Ilya had been trying to ease him back onto the ice, but there was no pulling him back now that he’d remembered what it felt like to move like this. He began picking up speed almost immediately, drifting away from the relative safety of the boards now that he no longer had Ilya there to keep him from the centre ice. 

He exhaled slowly as the familiar burn in his legs sharpened into the clarity of clean, controlled movement. The new steel answered every shift of his weight like it had just been waiting for him to trust it enough to push harder. And he felt that tremor—the one that had been tucked beneath his ribs since his fall—finally settle into something cleaner, more focused.

Behind him, Ilya let out a startled laugh.

Shane glanced back when he reached the far blue line, just in time to see Ilya push off, matching his speed stride for stride as he cut cleanly across the faceoff circle to intercept his next pass. Shane snorted, amused, then leaned into the outside edge of his skates, angling just enough to slip past him at the last second. 

Their shoulders brushed as he cut a tight circle around Ilya and came to a sharp stop just behind him. He dodged Ilya’s hands with a smirk and a shake of his head, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing when Ilya tried to pull him into another kiss. 

But he couldn’t quite help the quiet laugh that slipped out when Ilya just laughed right back when Shane cut him off once, then again, forcing him to pivot hard each time to avoid colliding with him. He knew Ilya wouldn’t risk checking him when he was this close to recovering from his concussion. And he was probably taking a little advantage of that. 

And it was fun to be on the ice like this, with Ilya—no pressure, no systems to follow, no one watching for mistakes. Just the familiar rhythm of their skates, the easy instinct of knowing exactly how the other would move before they did. It felt like slipping back into something that had always belonged to them, something uncomplicated and entirely their own.

“You are cheating,” Ilya said, easing back slightly, eyes bright as he gave him just enough space—only to follow again. Their blades carved tight, overlapping lines into the ice as they picked up speed once more, still laughing, still breathless with the thrill of it.

“Still think I’m cheating?” Shane asked, slightly breathless, when they finally slowed to catch their breath at the far side of the rink.

“Always,” Ilya murmured, his grin slow and unmistakably fond. “I should have known you would not be able to help yourself from showing off if I brought you here. Even concussion cannot stop Shane Hollander from being menace.”

Shane shot him a look over his shoulder, breath fogging in the cold air. “You’re the one who dragged me out here,” he said, skidding to a stop near the boards. Ice sprayed beneath his blades, soaking into the thin fabric of his sweatpants and melting almost instantly against his skin.

“And you bought me new skates,” he added, unable to hide the grin pulling at his mouth as he turned back toward Ilya. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Ilya just hummed, closing the distance with lazy, unhurried strides. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jumper now, probably just as cold as Shane’s were, because neither of them were properly dressed to be out on the ice for long. No gear, no gloves—no helmets, which was probably the most important thing they were missing, all things considered.

“I thought,” Ilya said dryly, though his voice still carried easily across the ice, “that we both agreed to behave.” He tipped his head to the side, blue eyes glinting. “But I see now that was, ah—a very unrealistic expectation.”

“Hm. Probably,” Shane admitted, his blades cutting cleanly over the ice as he drifted toward Ilya. “Hey,” he added, leaning back slightly as he dug the inside edge of his skate into the ice.

Ilya mirrored him with a slight tilt of his head, his skates spraying ice toward Shane’s skates as he came to a sudden stop. “Hm?” he said, amusement threading through his voice. “Had enough fun being chased, solnyshko?”

“No. I mean, yes,” Shane corrected himself quickly. “Look—I know I scared you,” he murmured, his voice softening. “When I went down. When Comeau—uh—and I—” He frowned, searching for the words and coming up short.

“I know you’re still thinking about it,” he said instead. “And that you’re probably still pissed about everything that happened.” He exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully instead of defaulting to their usual deflection. “I get it. I just—I don’t want that to be the only thing we focus on.”

“Shane—” Ilya began, only to be cut off by Shane fisting a hand in the front of his jumper and dragging him into another kiss.

Their skates knocked lightly together, throwing them a little off balance as they drifted sideways. But Ilya’s hand came up instinctively to steady them, fingers curling at Shane’s hip as the ice shifted beneath them.

“I’m still here,” Shane murmured against Ilya’s lips. “And I love you,” he added, because it was the simplest, most certain thing in his entire life. “But we’ve been talking absolutely everything to death the last couple of days,” he said with a soft groan.

“Which I get,” he added quickly, before Ilya could argue. “And we probably needed it. We’ve been avoiding it for a while,” he admitted, his voice quieter. “Things always just—worked out before. And maybe we let that stop us from being honest about what we—”

He hesitated, pulling in a slow breath. “About the fact that we were both tired of hiding,” he said slowly, frowning, “and scared that saying it out loud would change everything.” He shook his head slightly. “We should’ve probably talked about this sooner.”

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice low, cutting cleanly through the rush of words. “Look at me, solnyshko.” He reached up, tilting Shane’s chin gently. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have been, ah—overprotective, maybe. It is easier to joke about it than admit—” His fingers tightened slightly where they held Shane, betraying how badly it was still affecting him.

His accent slipped thicker as he went on, his voice quieter. “It was nasty fall. And nasty reason for it.” He frowned. “But I did not mean to make you feel like I was—”

“I know,” Shane said quickly, his grip tightening in the front of Ilya’s jumper. “It’s fine. I mean—I don’t love that it took a head injury to get us here, but—” he huffed a small, self-conscious laugh. “I guess we’ve always had communication issues. I thought we’d got better at that, y’know—after it took us years just to get together instead of just, ah—”

“Ah,” Ilya echoed, nodding—because he loved watching Shane blush, but he could also tell when Shane was starting to spiral under his own thoughts.

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing over Shane’s jaw before dropping to cover the hand pressed against his chest. “We are better,” he said finally. “You are talking now instead of pretending everything is fine. And I am not pushing you away every time things get difficult.”

“Yeah. Well. It took us a long time to get here,” Shane huffed softly, not entirely convinced he was explaining himself properly—but some of the tightness in his chest eased when he noticed the way Ilya was looking at him.

“You’re my favourite person in the world,” he admitted. “And I want to try to be more honest about that.” He shrugged lightly. “Maybe let other people realise they don’t even come close to how I feel about you,” he added with a small smile, his shoulders loosening as he looked around the empty rink. 

The rink stretched out around them, quiet except for the faint hum of the building. It felt strange—being here like this. Not hiding, exactly. But not fully seen either. Somewhere in between.

“You brought me to an empty rink,” Shane murmured. “And I kinda want to enjoy being with you somewhere that’s, ah—” he gestured vaguely toward the open ice, “somewhere that’s almost open. To, ah—to see how it feels to stop holding back every time you do something ridiculously attractive.” 

He smiled again, a little unsure, a little hopeful. “Is that—okay?”

Ilya nodded, slowly at first, then more firmly as he leaned in to kiss him again. “Razve ty ne znayesh', chto ya sdelayu dlya tebya vso chto ugodno?” He murmured against his lips.

“Yeah,” Shane hummed softly, his mouth brushing back against Ilya’s as his hand curled into the front of his jumper. “I’m starting to get that, I think.”  

He pulled back just enough to look at him, and the relief sitting in his chest felt almost too big, too quiet—but for once, it didn’t feel like something waiting to collapse in on him. It felt like maybe there was something new there. Something that didn’t have to be hidden or explained away before it even had a chance to exist.

“Okay,” he said, more to himself than anything.

Ilya nodded slowly, his smile softening—like he understood the shift in Shane without needing it explained. “Okay,” he echoed, shrugging like it really could be that simple.

“Okay,” Shane repeated, laughing under his breath as he nudged Ilya lightly—more mindful of his ribs than he’d been a couple of days ago.

“Hey,” he added suddenly, grinning as a thought hit him. “Race you to the blue line,” he said, jerking his chin toward the open stretch of ice in front of them, already shifting his weight as he drifted backward toward the boards. “Just, ah—try not to cry when I win.”

Ilya’s eyes flashed as he followed him. “You will lose.”

“In your dreams,” Shane said, snorting.

It probably shouldn’t have been so easy for them to slip back into that competitive edge—but it was the one thing that had never changed. Never needed translation. Never gotten tangled up in years of missed timing or things left unsaid.

And maybe that was the part people had always missed, or misread entirely. The quiet challenge in the way they lined up across from each other at the faceoff dot. The split-second reads. The push and counter-push. The way they chased the same puck like it meant something more than a game.

The maddening thrill of finding someone who pushed exactly as hard as you did. Who met you at your best and demanded more without ever having to say it out loud.

It was enough to feel like winning before the puck even dropped.

“Shall we put bet on it, Hollander?” Ilya said, his voice edged with that familiar, teasing challenge.

“Sure,” Shane snorted. “But rules first. I’m not dealing with you trying to fucking cheat again.”

Which meant, inevitably, that it turned into an argument about where the start and finish lines actually were. Because of course it fucking did. Ilya snorted when Shane suggested they start from centre ice, and Shane rolled his eyes so hard the rink tilted for a second when Ilya insisted they start from opposite blue lines.

In the end, Ilya took off early anyway—cheating by half a second, despite the ground rules they’d agreed on. Laughter trailed behind him as his edges bit cleanly into the ice, and he shouted over his shoulder for Shane to meet him at the far blue line instead. Which was, of course, on the opposite end of the fucking rink.

Shane swore under his breath as he pushed off hard to follow.

He was already hitting his stride by the time he caught up to Ilya, and the thrill of it sent something bright and electric through his chest. Maybe it was the way the cold air hit his lungs differently. Or the way that competitive edge between them snapped back into place like it always did.

Everything else just seemed to fall away in that moment. The headache. The tension. The league. Montréal. Boston. There was only the ice beneath his blades, and the way his body remembered what to do even when the rest of him still felt slightly off-balance.

They were neck and neck by the time they hit the neutral zone, and Shane refused to give him the satisfaction of winning when he’d fucking cheated. Again. So he dropped lower into his stride, driving through each push to steal inches with quick, powerful extensions. It felt like his edges really were singing under him now, the ice—or maybe just this ice—giving back everything he put into it.

By the time they tore across the far blue line, Shane’s legs were on fire. They stopped almost at the exact same moment, edges biting hard as ice sprayed up around them. It caught the overhead lights before drifting back down, and when it settled, they were shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard, grinning like idiots.

Neither of them had crossed first by more than the width of a blade.

“I won,” Ilya said immediately, already smug.

“You did not,” Shane shot back.

Ilya tapped the toe of his blade against the blue line like he was making a point, then turned to him with exaggerated innocence. “Is okay, solnyshko. You are still recovering from injury,” he said, his tone almost sympathetic, though he couldn’t quite hide the grin tugging at his mouth. “Maybe you’ll win next race, da? I know it is difficult for you to admit when—”

“You fucking cheated,” Shane cut in, rolling his eyes. “And we finished at the same time, you asshole. Which means I would’ve still been waiting for you to finish if you hadn’t jumped the start like a fucking child.”

Ilya snorted, shaking his head like Shane had just said something ridiculous. “Ah. This is lie, Hollander,” he said, his grin widening. “I won by at least this much,” he added, holding his hand up to pinch his forefinger and thumb together, one eye closing like he was measuring something only he could see.

“They’re literally touching,” Shane said, bending slightly at the waist so he could brace his hands on his thighs. The laughter ripping out of his chest left him more breathless than the race had. “You can’t fucking call that.”

Ilya laughed too, bright and unrestrained. “You are, ah—sore because you lost?” He asked, frowning faintly like he knew his phrasing had slipped.

“I’m not a sore loser,” Shane shot back, watching Ilya drift backward in a lazy half-circle around him. “I’ve won more Lady Byngs than you,” he added, because Ilya had never even come close—and because, fuck it, he was petty about their awards. 

“If either of us is more sportsmanlike, it’s me,” he added, huffing slightly. “And I can’t be sore because I didn’t fucking lose. You jumped the start.”

Ilya laughed again. “Then you should be faster.”

“Try not to cheat this time and we’ll see who loses,” Shane shot back, eyes narrowing as he shifted onto his inside edge to keep Ilya in sight—because the asshole was still skating in literal circles around him.

Ilya’s eyes lit up. “You want to lose twice in a row?”

“You know what? Yeah. Fine.” Shane huffed, straightening as he rocked onto his outside edge before pushing off toward the boards. “Blue line to far goal line this time. First touch wins. But you jump early again and I’m fucking calling it.”

Before he could get far, Ilya’s arms wrapped around him from behind, knocking them slightly off balance. Their skates carried them forward a few inches before Ilya dug his edges in to steady them both. His chest was pressed tight against Shane’s back, and even through the layers Ilya had bundled them in, Shane could feel the low rumble of his voice when he spoke.

“Next one you lose properly,” Ilya said, his breath warm against Shane’s ear. “There will be no excuses this time, solnyshko.”

The words sent heat curling through Shane’s chest, settling low and heavy in his stomach. It wasn’t just what Ilya said—it was the way he said it. Like a challenge he’d already decided Shane was going to accept, whether he agreed or not.

And suddenly everything—the scrape of their blades on the ice, the sharp hitch of his breath, the burn of cold air in his lungs—it all blurred at the edges for a moment, drowned out by the dizzying awareness of Ilya’s arms holding him close. Right there. Where anyone could wander in and see them.

God. He wanted to turn into it. Wanted to push back, just to see how far they could drag this game out. It made him want to win, just to make the waiting worse. Or maybe lose—just to find out what Ilya would do about it later.

He licked his lips, a slow smile pulling at his mouth as that heat settled deeper in his gut. He let his weight rest briefly against Ilya’s chest before tilting his head to look at him over his shoulder. Ilya’s grip tightened in response, his gaze dropping to Shane’s mouth like he’d forgotten what they were supposed to be doing—

“Oi!” A familiar voice cut across the rink. A laugh followed, along with the sharp clatter of a stick hitting the boards by the Bears’ bench. “Hollzy!”

Shane groaned under his breath, his eyes closing for half a second before he shifted his weight forward, putting just enough space between them that he was no longer pressed up against Ilya.

He waited for the embarrassment of being caught like this to catch up with him, for the heat to turn sharp and uncomfortable under someone else’s gaze—but it didn’t. Not all at once. It came slower, tangled up with something that felt almost like defiance.

Which was new.

Because usually Shane would have pulled away immediately. Laughed it off, maybe, or skated off in the other direction and pretended like nothing had happened until everyone else believed it too.

But Ilya’s team already knew about them. And he’d made a point of explaining, in that slow, careful way of his, that they hadn’t turned it into something ugly or small when they’d found out. They’d just—accepted it. Like it was normal. Or maybe like it didn’t change anything except the way Ilya looked at him.

So Shane stopped himself from pulling fully out of Ilya’s arms, even if he wasn’t leaning into him anymore. And instead, he watched as the rest of the team started filtering onto the ice, trailing out from the tunnel that led to the Bears’ changing room.

Ryan still had his hands cupped around his mouth, still grinning as he leaned halfway over the boards to call out to them. He was dressed just as badly as Shane and Ilya were—in thick sweatpants and two layers of sweatshirts, with a jacket thrown on over the top. But at least he had a helmet on. Even if it was only half-strapped.

A couple of the Bears players leaned on the boards beside Ryan, watching them with absolutely no attempt at subtlety. Brad lifted his chin in Shane’s direction from where he was still strapping on his leg pads, shifting awkwardly with that familiar goalie half-waddle.

Behind them, Cliff dropped one of the team’s equipment bags onto the bench with a huff. Victor swore under his breath as he bent to retie one of his skates. Off to the other side, Luke and Artos hesitated at the open gate before stepping out onto the ice.

Shane frowned as he caught the very unsubtle look the rookies shared—something like awe, but edged with embarrassment. Like they weren’t sure where to look now that their morning skate had a witness they hadn’t expected. 

But then Marcus clapped a hand on Artos’ shoulder and shoved him out onto the ice with a laugh, Patrick right behind with the hood of Luke’s jacket caught in his hand, dragging him a half-step behind him as Luke tried to twist free.

“Ugh—c’mon, don’t do this to me right now,” Luke groaned, half-tangled in the twisted layers of jumpers as he tried to escape Patrick’s grip.

“Awh. Your crush is showing again,” Patrick cooed, snorting as Luke dug his skates into the ice and tried to wrench himself loose.

“Oi! Leave off,” Marcus said, slapping Patrick’s hand away when he started pinching Luke’s cheeks instead. He sighed, then turned to hand the rookies a bucket of pucks and a tall stack of cones. “LeClaire’ll be here soon. Go set these up in the far end so we’re ready for drills,” he added, narrowing his eyes when they hesitated. “Now.”

They scattered quickly after that—Artos dumping pucks along the boards while Luke dragged cones into place for whatever drill they were about to pretend had been planned all along.

Shane didn’t buy it for a fucking second.

“I thought your team wasn’t getting here until later,” Shane muttered to Ilya, watching as Ryan skated toward them with a wide grin. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Me? I did nothing,” Ilya said, mildly offended. “And, ah—team practice is not until later. They were not supposed to get here this early.” He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. “I was supposed to get you alone for longer than an hour,” he muttered, quieter now, like he didn’t quite want the rest of them hearing that part.

Shane snorted. “I’m pretty sure you’ve had me all to yourself for days now,” he muttered, before glancing pointedly at the growing number of people on the ice. “So this is—just a coincidence?”

Ilya huffed softly against his shoulder. “They are all nosy,” he admitted. “And idiots.” He watched them for a second, expression flattening into fond exasperation. But then his mouth did that guilty thing where it tried to look innocent and failed.

“I, ah—I may have mentioned there would be a very special guest skating at an unreasonable hour this morning. But only so they would leave us alone,” he added quickly. “They are incapable of minding their own business,” he muttered in Russian.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Well. Clearly that fucking worked.”

Ilya let out a loud, startled laugh behind him, and his arms, which had gone slack to give Shane space, tightened again as he pulled him back against his chest. “Ah, they are excited to meet Shane Hollander,” he murmured, amused. “Will you disappoint them?”

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered, just as Ryan skidded to a stop a fraction too close, his edges biting hard into the ice with a sharp spray of shavings across Shane’s skates.

Ryan’s hands lifted instinctively like he meant to clap Shane on the shoulder, then he visibly reconsidered and pulled back half a step, like someone had warned him not to startle him with any unexpected contact. His eyes scanned Shane instead, from skates to collarbone in one quick, assessing sweep.

“Wait—you brought him onto the ice?” Ryan demanded, turning on Ilya. “Were you fucking racing? At five in the morning? Without a helmet?” He punched Ilya’s shoulder. “He’s just had a concussion, you fucking idiot.”

“It was barely a race,” Shane said, too quickly.

“I won,” Ilya said immediately.

“You absolutely did not,” Shane shot back.

Ryan blinked. “That’s—not even the part I’m actually concerned about,” he said, shaking his head as he unclipped his helmet. He shook his hair out, running a hand through it before reaching over to settle the helmet onto Shane’s head instead. “Do it up,” he added. “I know it’s not what brand you’re currently sponsored by, but there’s no way I’m having anyone accuse us of not looking after our hostage.”

“Hostage?” Shane echoed, tilting his head slightly with a huff as Ilya readjusted the helmet before reaching over his shoulder to fasten the chin strap for him.

“Yeah. It’s fucking everywhere, man. ‘Bears kidnap rival captain, no ransom note issued yet,’” Ryan said, watching them with a grin. “Though I think the rookies might’ve made one, just for fun. Saw them cutting letters out of a magazine during video review the other day. I don’t think they posted it,” he added quickly.

Ilya made a low sound, one corner of his mouth pulling up despite himself. “They are idiots,” he said again, not sounding particularly displeased. His gaze flicked briefly to Shane, softer for a moment before flattening in that particular way that usually meant someone else was about to have a very bad day. “If they actually post it, I will make them regret it,” he added, voice low enough that only Shane heard.

“That’s, uh—” Shane started, glancing between them.

“Fucking insane?” Ryan offered, still grinning. “Yeah. But it’s all in good fun. Uh—mostly,” he corrected, shooting Ilya a quick look. “But, hey—you’re upright,” he added suddenly, like it was an achievement worthy of immediate praise. “And you’re actually back on the ice. Not all—y’know—concussed-looking.”

“I’m, uh—not sure if concussed-looking is a medical term?” Shane said, wincing at how uncertain he sounded.

“Eh.” Ryan waved a hand. “You know what I mean.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Oi—Cliff!” he called, raising a hand. “Roz forgot his fucking helmet!”

Cliff sighed from where he was halfway over the boards, one hand braced as he stepped onto the ice. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already turning back to the bench. He grabbed a couple of spare helmets from the equipment bag before skating over.

Victor followed a second later, pushing off from the boards to glide up alongside him with obvious interest. “How’d you forget a helmet?” He asked when they reached them. “You were the one reminding everyone we couldn’t check him because of the head injury—”

“No one’s fucking checking him,” Cliff cut in quickly when Ilya narrowed his eyes, handing one helmet to Ilya and the other to Ryan.

“Why are you even here?” Ilya asked, already adjusting the chin strap with quick, practiced movements. He growled under his breath when he couldn’t get it to snap into place with one hand, and Shane could almost feel his pout when he had to step back to fix it properly.

“Well,” Ryan said, snapping his own helmet on, “there’s this thing called practice—”

“Practice is not for another hour,” Ilya said.

“Ah,” Victor said. “But we heard there was a very special guest here this morning, so we thought we’d come early.” He grinned, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his own Bears hoodie. “What time did you two even get here?”

“Four,” Shane and Ilya answered at the same time.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Ryan demanded. “Four in the morning is a time for sleep. The Zamboni guy isn’t even awake yet.” He frowned. “Wait—how the fuck did you even get in? The rink’s usually locked till, what, five-thirty? How did you even—”

“Seriously, why are you here?” Ilya muttered again.

“You’re not gonna answer, are you?” Ryan said, sighing.

Shane leaned back when Ilya stepped up behind him again, watching the exchange with quiet disbelief. Maybe because he’d been bracing for something—he wasn’t even sure what. Tension. Suspicion. That familiar awkwardness when people started policing their words too carefully, or overcompensating in ways that felt just as loud.

Instead, this felt almost normal. Annoying and loud—but familiar in a way that caught him off guard.

“Hey,” Cliff said suddenly, his gaze drifting back to Shane as Ryan and Ilya kept bickering. “You look better,” he added, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to say it without making it sound like a bigger deal than Shane would want it to. “We were, uh—fuck, we were really worried about you.”

The words were so unexpected that Shane let out a quiet “Oh,” before he could stop it. “I’m fine,” he corrected himself quickly. “But, uh—maybe don’t try checking me just yet?”

Cliff huffed out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Roz’ll probably kill us if we tried anyway,” he said, glancing sideways at Ilya. “You scared the shit out of him when you went down, y’know?” He added, a little quieter, like it wasn’t meant to carry.

Shane glanced at the mess of Ilya’s golden curls peeking out from under his helmet, frowning. “You don’t have any grey hairs?”

Ilya shot him a flat look, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that gave him away. “I will,” he said. “Because of you.”

“Dramatic,” Shane muttered, trying to smile, though it came out a little crooked.

“Hm.” Cliff rubbed at his jaw, where his own bruise had faded into a patchwork of yellow and green beneath his stubble. “Hell of an excuse for a fight, though,” he said, obviously distracted. “Pretty sure we were all just waiting for one after Roz went down.”

“Ugh,” he added suddenly. “Still can’t fuckin’ believe Comeau hasn’t been suspended yet. That hit was dirty as hell.” His eyes flashed. “Shouldn’t matter what fuckin’ team you’re playing for. Err—” He flushed, his gaze flicking briefly toward Ilya as if he’d just realised how that might’ve sounded. “I mean—look. Even if you weren’t with Roz, it’d still be bullshit. That kind of hit could’a been really fuckin’ dangerous. People have died from hits like that before.”

Shane’s shoulders tensed slightly as he listened, something uneasy settling under his skin at how angry Cliff sounded on his behalf. “I’m, um—pretty sure I remember telling you I didn’t want to defend them,” he said, his voice a touch more careful than usual.

Cliff held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then lifted his hands in a small, conceding gesture. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he said, softer now. “Can’t be easy wanting to defend them when they’re all fuckin’ idiots.” 

He shrugged. “Eh, don’t worry. I’m not gonna keep going on about it. I’m just saying—that wasn’t fuckin’ hockey. And everyone knows it. You should see the stuff people are saying about Comeau online, ah—what?” He asked, frowning when Ilya shot him a sharp look, like he was trying very hard to get him to stop talking.

Ilya sighed. “We are taking a break from social media,” he said, his accent slipping a little thicker as he stressed the words.

Ryan frowned. “Both of you?”

“I am being supportive,” Ilya said without looking at any of them.

“He’s struggling without his TikTok videos,” Shane said dryly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But, ah—we agreed it probably wouldn’t help anything right now if we kept reading what people are saying.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It just spirals.” He hesitated. “And I don’t really need a running commentary on whether I deserved to get my head taken off.”

“Ah,” Cliff said, sounding embarrassed all of a sudden. “So you know about the picture then?”

Shane narrowed his eyes at him. “I know about it,” he said slowly. “But I haven’t actually seen it yet,” he admitted, watching the sudden, awkward guilt flash across Cliff’s face.

Something uneasy flickered in his chest—but Ilya had said it was a nice picture, and his mother hadn’t sounded worried when she’d mentioned it—so Shane had made the conscious decision not to go digging for problems that weren’t there.

“Figured if it was bad, someone would’ve told me by now,” he murmured.

“Da. We agreed to worry about it later,” Ilya said, sighing as he dragged a hand over his face, clearly irritated but trying to hold himself back. “Right now he is resting. That is more important than whatever people are saying online.” His lip curled slightly. “And I don’t want to see him go down on ice again,” he muttered.

Shane’s chest tightened at that, the quiet fear in Ilya’s voice cutting through the irritation. He reached out without thinking, brushing his fingers briefly against Ilya’s wrist. “Hey,” he said softly. “Ilya, it’s alright—”

“It is not,” Ilya said, more sharply than he intended. “The clips are everywhere, solnyshko. I saw them on the bus before we got to Boston, and people were not always kind enough to put a warning before showing it.” His jaw tensed, eyes flashing as the memory caught up with him—too vivid, too immediate—like he was still watching it happen in real time.

“Hey,” Shane said again, a flicker of hesitation catching in his chest at the awareness of the eyes that might be watching them, of lines he usually kept firmly in place. But Ilya looked like he needed this more than Shane needed to be careful.

“I—” He paused, then switched to Russian, his voice softening. “I’m fine,” he said again, his thumb brushing lightly against Ilya’s wrist, grounding. “And we don’t have to watch it again if you don’t want to. But you’re making yourself upset right now, sweetheart,” he added gently. “Just breathe with me, okay?”

“Da,” Ilya said, uneven. “I know,” he added in English, dragging a hand over his face like he was trying to pull himself back together. “I just—” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I do not like seeing you hurt and having to pretend it is normal.”

“Hm,” Shane murmured. “But that’s why we’re offline, right?”

“Ah,” Victor said, wincing slightly when the tension between them didn’t ease. His voice remained careful, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he should be interrupting. “Are you sure that is a good idea?” he asked, glancing between them. “People can get, uh—creative when there is no one around to stop them. Or to tell the truth.”

Shane’s mouth twitched faintly, though his shoulders stayed tense. “They’re creative either way,” he said.

Ilya glanced at Victor, shrugging. “And Farah is keeping a close eye on it for us,” he added. “She will let us know if it becomes a problem.”

“Huh,” Cliff said.

“Wait,” Ryan said suddenly. “Are we all seriously ignoring that Shane just spoke fuckin’ Russian?” He pointed at Ilya with a glare. “I’ve known this asshole for years, and the most I’ve picked up is blyat,” he said, with a horrible mispronunciation of bale-yad. “And I still can’t figure out if it means whore or fuck.”

Shane blinked. “Huh? Oh.” He shrugged lightly. “Yeah. Russian’s kind of a nightmare to learn. Everything changes depending on case or gender, and half the time the words don’t even look the same anymore.”

“How many languages do you actually speak?” Ryan asked. “You do half your post-game interviews in French, right?”

Shane hummed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Most of Montréal’s bilingual, so I ended up doing interviews in both. But I grew up speaking English and French, so it’s not really that impressive,” he said. “I’m still learning Russian, obviously. And, uh—mum tried to teach me some Japanese when I was younger, but I didn’t keep it up.”

He glanced sideways with a faint smile. “Ilya likes to say that I speak loon, too. But that’s mostly because he thinks he’s being, ah—cute.”

“What the fuck is a loon?” Cliff asked.

“Stupid Canadian wolf-bird,” Ilya muttered.

“Okay. That’s really fuckin’ cool,” Ryan said, before shaking his head. “I can’t even remember my French from high school.”

“Do you want to learn French?” Victor asked, genuinely curious.

“Fuck no,” Ryan said immediately. “That shit’s hard.”

Victor shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Ah, of course,” he said, before turning back to Shane. “So—you are staying offline, and your agent is keeping track of the situation?”

Shane shrugged. “Yeah. I can imagine it’s bad,” he said, wincing slightly. “Look. I know that’s kinda weird, ’cause I’m definitely gonna have to deal with it eventually. But I just—don’t want to yet.” He hesitated. “I’m kind of avoiding everything about Comeau and the game until I actually have to.”

He sighed, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “Which might be the worst decision I’ve ever made, to be honest. But it’s working right now, so—” he trailed off with a small, helpless shrug.

“Da,” Ilya said, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his expression. “He is staying with me instead of being responsible Captain Hollander.” His smile sharpened when Shane shot him a look. “In Boston,” he added, clearly pleased with himself.

Victor nodded slowly, even if he didn’t quite get why they were both grinning, before exchanging a glance with Ryan that seemed to carry an entire silent conversation.

“Yeah,” Ryan said after a second, easy and unbothered. “That’s fair.”

Cliff huffed quietly, folding his arms. “You just got rabbit-punched by your own teammate,” he said, shrugging. “You’re allowed to take a minute before dealing with all the media shit.”

Shane glanced between them, something in his expression loosening slightly, like he hadn’t quite expected that level of uncomplicated understanding. “Thanks,” he said, a little quieter. “I think I just—needed a couple days where it’s not the first thing anyone brings up.”

“Hm. I am excellent host,” Ilya replied. “Boston is good place to escape the media noise.”

“You say that like I had a choice,” Shane muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

“So,” Ryan said slowly, rocking on his skates as he looked between them, “you staying in Boston then?”

Shane shrugged, looking away from the way they were all watching him with a quiet sort of anticipation. “I’m pretty sure I was kidnapped,” he said, which was the closest thing to an answer he actually had right now. “I’m not sure if I, uh—get to just walk away yet?”

Cliff rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, you look real distressed about being held against your will,” he said dryly, watching as Shane huffed a quiet laugh, ducking his head a little as the tension eased out of his shoulders.

“Ugh,” Shane muttered, rolling his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You’re allowed to tell us to fuck off, y’know?” Cliff said, shrugging like the offer was normal. Maybe it was. “We heard you tell Roz to fuck off on the ice, and none of us are gonna get offended if you do. Don’t, ah—feel like you have to stop yourself from reacting normally around us, yeah?”

“Hm,” Victor murmured, nodding. “It’s basically every other word in Boston,” he added.

Shane snorted, glancing between them. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Sure.”

“Eh. Whatever makes you comfortable, Hollzy,” Cliff said, wincing slightly when he slipped into using Shane’s nickname. “We’ll tell you if you step on any toes. But it’ll be fine, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ryan nodded. “And, uh—” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know Cliff already said it, but I’m glad you’re okay. We all are.”

Shane nodded, a little awkward. “Thanks,” he said. “Yeah. Me too,” he added, shifting his weight slightly on his skates as he glanced between them. He gave a faint, crooked smile, laughing under his breath as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll take ‘not dead’ as a win for the week, honestly.”

“Not funny,” Ilya muttered, stepping closer until his skate nudged against the back of Shane’s. His hand came up briefly, brushing against Shane’s elbow like he was checking his balance without making it obvious.

“I’m fine,” Shane said again, firmer now.

Ilya sighed. “Shane—”

“Ilya,” Shane cut him off with a sharp look. His shoulders squared slightly, chin tipping up just enough to make it a challenge. For a second, it felt like the opening of a faceoff—quiet, tense, both of them waiting to see who would break first.

Ilya held his gaze for a long moment, something stubborn flashing in his eyes like he was deciding whether to push back or not. Shane saw the calculation, the restraint, the choice—but then the fight seemed to ease out of him as he exhaled slowly through his nose. He wasn’t backing down, not exactly, just choosing to trust Shane instead of arguing the point in front of everyone.

“Oh my god,” Ryan whispered. “Do it again.”

Shane blinked at the interruption, his focus snapping sideways as he tried to work out what Ryan was grinning about now. “Do what again?” He asked, frowning as he glanced between them.

“The thing you just did,” Ryan said, sounding delighted. “Where you told him to shut up and he actually listens? Oh my god—no one can ever get him to stop when he gets going,” he added, clearly thrilled by the discovery. Then he turned to Ilya. “Can we keep him for the rest of practice?”

“No,” Ilya said immediately.

“Pretty sure we weren’t asking you,” Victor said, snorting.

Ilya turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Do you want to skate today, or do you want to keep talking?”

Ryan immediately straightened. “Right. Skating. Love skating.” He winced. “Love the bench a little less.”

Shane dragged a hand down his face as he listened to them bicker, acting like they weren’t aware their rival’s captain was standing right there, still trying to figure out how he’d ended up here at all. “I’m not—” he started, then stopped, because there was no version of that sentence that didn’t sound either defensive or ridiculous. “Uh—I mean, I’m not sure if I’m cleared for a full-on practice yet?”

Victor’s mouth twitched. “Ah, but you’re already back on the ice, non?” he said, sounding almost casual—if not for the way his eyes sharpened with interest. “Sure we can’t convince you to play some hockey before you go?” He tilted his head slightly. “We can play no-contact. Maybe four a-side?”

“Or,” Ryan said, dragging the word out, “we can play three-puck—”

“No,” everyone said at once, including Shane.

Because three-puck was chaos disguised as a drill—three pucks thrown onto the ice with no structure, no mercy, and absolutely no reason for it to exist beyond making everyone involved miserable. Especially the poor goalies who had to try and defend against three shots at once.

Ryan groaned in disappointment.

“No-contact might be okay,” Ilya said after a moment, glancing at Shane.

Shane caught the look and sighed softly, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Define ‘no-contact,’” he muttered, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Mostly because he had the distinct feeling that whatever unpredictable mix of chaos and control made Ilya who he was, it hadn’t developed on its own. Either someone had encouraged it, or he’d dragged the entire locker room into the same brand of unhinged nonsense with him.

Possibly both, Shane thought, eyeing them with something faintly amused despite himself.

“No touching. No high sticking. Someone keeps an eye on Ryan to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” Cliff said, shrugging. His lips twitched. “Y’know. Our usual rules.”

“Fuck off,” Ryan said, laughing.

“Hey,” Victor said suddenly, “aren’t you sponsored by Bauer?”

“Huh?” Shane blinked at him, thrown by the abrupt shift. “Yeah, why?”

Victor let out a low whistle. “They must send you some really nice stuff,” he said, and Shane realised he was looking down at his skates. “Though, I admit—I thought you were wearing those blue winged ones this season,” he added. “The black and gold suits you, though. It, ah—” his lips twitched, “it’s always a good colour combination, non?”

Shane glanced down properly then, and for a second his brain didn’t quite catch up with what Victor was seeing. Because sure, the skates were matte black—but they weren’t—huh.

He paused. 

And maybe it had just been the light earlier, but he hadn’t actually noticed the fine gold threading along the seams. That single gold eyelet still stood out at the top of his right boot, and the combination was subtle enough that you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking for it. But now that he was looking, it felt a little too deliberate to be accidental.

Ilya had put him in the fucking Bears colours. 

“Oh,” Shane said slowly, trying very hard not to look at Ilya. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or kiss him—it was much safer to just clear his throat and look back up instead of giving in to either of those urges. “No,” he added. “These are, uh—new.”

“Eh. You must be feeling better if you had time to buy new skates,” Cliff said, huffing out a quiet laugh.

Shane glanced at Ilya, who just sighed.

“You’re giving all my secrets away, Hollander,” he muttered, clearly amused, before turning back to the others. “Was gift,” he said, shrugging. “They are pretty, da?”

Ryan blinked, then immediately bent down to get a closer look at the fresh steel and pristine holders. Cliff let out a low, incredulous laugh beside him, his brows lifting slightly as his gaze flicked between them. But Victor’s grin just widened, something curious and entertained settling into his expression.

“I was just gonna suggest you break them in by playing a game with us,” he said, lips twitching. “They are very pretty,” he added. “Ilya gives good gifts, then?”

“Sometimes,” Shane muttered, crossing his arms.

“Da,” Ilya added before Shane could redirect their attention, pride clear in his expression. “They make for very pretty flowers.”

Shane glanced at him, trying not to frown as his fingers curled slightly against his arms. He instinctively braced for the fallout of those words—

But Cliff just nodded, looking impressed. “Hell of a fuckin’ gift,” he muttered, glancing at Shane again. “Y’know I used to think Roz was terrible at anything but one-night stands,” he said, then winced. “I mean—just, he never really let us know about stuff like this. It’s a bit weird, knowing he’s an attentive boyfriend as well as being a fuckin’ asshole.”

He sighed through his nose. “Fuck. I need to buy Cassie better gifts. When she finds out about this, she’s gonna lose her fuckin’ mind. Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “But in a way that means I’m about to be compared very unfavourably.” He snorted. “To fuckin’ Roz.”

Shane blinked at him. “Ilya’s great at one-night stands,” he said before he could stop himself. He almost felt embarrassed about it—but then he had to bite the inside of his cheek when Cliff guffawed, raising a hand to try and muffle the snort that followed. 

“Technically,” Shane added. “We were having a one-night stand for four years, so—” he shrugged, like that explained everything. Because it kind of did.

“Oh my god,” Cliff said, still laughing. “I thought he just seduced you with his face or something—but you’re both the same kind of asshole, aren’t you?”

Victor snorted under his breath. “This explains so much,” he muttered.

“Da,” Ilya said, lips twitching. “Was only one-night stand I wanted to keep.”

“Hey,” Ryan cut in quickly, still bent slightly at the waist and staring at the skates with wide, impressed eyes. “Did you get these profiled?” He asked, before letting out a low whistle when Ilya just grinned. “‘Course you fucking did. And you got him Bauer skates,” he added, shaking his head. “These are like—expensive-expensive.”

“Hm. Shane cannot wear another brand while he is under contract with them,” Ilya said. “And he likes Bauer—was very excited when Yuna got him the contract. He used to complain all the time when he wore other brand.”

Ryan snorted. “Yeah, yeah—we all know Yuna fucking Hollander gets him insane brand deals every season,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and somehow still managing to sound impressed. “They’re beautiful—but you could’ve at least gotten them to put some actual fucking flowers on ’em.”

Ilya shrugged. “Shane would not use them if they did not fit regulation.”

“I would,” Shane muttered before he could stop himself—and the words surprised even him. He frowned slightly, trying to understand his own answer while Ilya glanced at him, head tilting with a smile.

Rules had always made sense in a way everything else sometimes didn’t. But Shane couldn’t ignore the quiet certainty settling in his chest, because if Ilya had given him the skates like that—bright and obvious and completely against regulation—he would’ve worn them anyway. Because it would mean carrying something of Ilya with him onto the ice.

And there was something almost dangerously appealing about that thought.

“Huh,” Shane muttered. “Yeah. I’d definitely still wear them if they were, ah—if they had flowers.”

Ryan hummed thoughtfully as he straightened, groaning as he stretched out his back. “You could do something subtle,” he suggested. “Like tonal embroidery. Or laser-etching,” he added, snapping his fingers. “Oh—you could do it on the blade, then swap ’em out for new flowers every time you need a new pair.”

Cliff just stared at him, baffled. “Why are you like this?”

“What?” Ryan said, offended. “It’s a good idea!”

“Everyone would probably just assume it was another brand deal,” Victor added, glancing back at Shane. “He’d probably get away with it, too.”

“Hm,” Ilya murmured, watching Shane a little too closely. His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly—and Shane was instantly suspicious of the way his expression shifted, like he’d just decided this was no longer hypothetical.

“Ilya,” Shane warned.

Ilya just winked back at him, already turning to wave Luke and Artos over, who’d been slowly edging closer along the boards, lingering near the half-wall like they thought they were being subtle about it.

“Get over here,” Ilya called, groaning softly. “Come meet very impressive guest, da?”

“Uh—hi,” Luke said when he finally worked up the nerve to skate over, nearly catching an edge as he came out of his turn. He recovered quickly, straightening up and coming to a stop a few feet away, but the tips of his ears were red when he said, “H-Hi. Captain Hollander. I mean—” he squeezed his eyes shut for a second, dragging in a quick breath, “not my captain. Obviously. But. I mean—”

Shane found himself smiling without quite meaning to as he watched the kid stammer. It wasn’t the first time someone had been nervous meeting him, but it always felt a little surreal when they acted like he was someone worth being nervous around.

He shot Ilya a look, and some of his own nerves loosened at the familiar curve of his mouth. “Is this one of the rookies who thinks I’m royalty?” He asked quietly.

“I do not—” Luke began, but Ilya spoke over him before he could finish.

“Da,” Ilya said, his tone amused. “This is one who has your face staring at him from his bedroom wall,” he added dryly. “Luke, his name is Shane—do not make him blush by calling him Captain Hollander,” he said, almost gentle—right up until he added, “Only I get to call him that.”

The group around them groaned in unison.

“Wait,” Ryan said, gasping as his head snapped toward Luke. “You didn’t tell us you have a shrine.”

“It is not a shrine!” Luke snapped back, completely mortified as he scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. “I can’t believe you just told him about that.” He narrowed his eyes at Ilya, who just grinned at him from over Shane’s shoulder. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“Lies,” Ilya said easily. “I’m your favourite.”

“I’m pretty sure we all know Shane’s his favourite, actually,” Cliff muttered.

Luke groaned again, staring up into the rafters. “You promised to be cool about this.”

“We are cool,” Ryan said, nudging him lightly.

Ilya ignored all of them, wrapping an arm back around Shane’s shoulders. “I tell him everything,” he said lightly. “He is very good at keeping secrets.”

“You don’t tell me everything,” Shane corrected quickly, before anyone could take that too literally. “I asked about your playoff strategy last month and you laughed at me.”

“Ah.” Ilya grinned. “Then I tell you almost everything,” he amended. Then, more quietly, “And we agreed teams do not count. You laughed at me too for trying to guess the Voyageurs’ power-play units, da?”

“Hm,” Shane murmured, lips twitching before he turned back to Luke, only— 

He was currently locked in a one-sided struggle under Cliff’s arm, who was trying to hold him still while Ryan reached over to pinch his cheeks. It should have looked mean, or at least a little rough, but Luke was laughing too hard for it to land that way, even as he twisted and tried to duck out of Cliff’s grip.

Shane frowned faintly as he watched them, the realisation coming to him slower than he would have liked. Luke wasn’t annoyed at their teasing—he was just embarrassed, maybe at himself for getting so flustered. And instead of leaving him to deal with it alone, Cliff and Ryan had turned it into something shared instead of something isolating.

Shane’s mouth twitched slightly.

That was—really nice, actually.

“He is very big fan of Shane Hollander,” Artos said quietly, watching him with a careful kind of focus that reminded Shane, vaguely, of the way Ilya had looked at him when they were still rookies.

“He, ah—talks about you all the time. Says you skate very clean. Very fast edges,” he added, glancing briefly toward Luke when he finally managed to escape from Cliff and Ryan. “He likes how you see plays before they happen. And your hands,” he finished, a little more awkwardly. “Very good hands.”

Shane blinked, caught off guard by that, then huffed a quiet breath through his nose. “Yeah?” he said, glancing back toward Luke before shifting his attention to Artos again. Then, more gently, he switched to Russian, the words coming a little slower but easier in a different way. “English is a hard language to learn if it’s not your first.”

Artos flashed a surprised look at Ilya, and Ilya shot him an unbearably smug grin back.

Artos’ shoulders eased almost immediately, something in his expression softening with relief as he spoke quickly, more fluid now, though a faint flush still crept up his neck.

“He says your edge work is very beautiful—uh, efficient,” he continued in Russian, more confident now. “He is always trying to copy the way you change direction without losing speed. And the way you read defensive coverage early—before the lanes close—so you always have options with the puck.”

He paused briefly. “He thinks your crossover acceleration is very good, especially on the power play. He wipes out every time he tries it, but he still keeps trying to get the timing right.”

Shane listened quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching as the praise got more specific, more technical than he’d expected.

When Artos finished, he ducked his head slightly, a little embarrassed now himself. “Ah,” he said in English. “He is a little intense about it, sometimes. But he cares very much about your opinion, I think.”

“Hm,” Shane mumbled. “Are you telling me to be nice to your friend?”

“Da,” Artos said, nodding.

“Hi,” Luke said, knocking into Artos’ side as he came to a stop beside him.

“Hey,” Shane said, a little awkward. “So, you, ah—you have my posters?” He added, trying not to embarrass Luke, but also very aware that he was rarely good with social interactions unless it was about hockey.

Thankfully, Luke nodded immediately. “Yeah, they’re signed,” he said quickly. “It was for a charity auction a couple of years back. My mum got it for me, ’cause I was still in juniors then. And I swear it wasn’t, like, creepy—but everyone thinks you’re fucking amazing, so the bids went insane, and it ended up being—”

“You’re rambling,” Artos said gently, nudging Luke’s shoulder.

Luke winced. “Sorry.”

“No, no,” Victor insisted, grinning. “Tell us more. I bet it does not hurt that your posters have Shane Hollander’s face all over them, does it?”

Luke buried his face in his gloves again, groaning.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Artos added. “They are very good posters. Mama Hughes framed them and—”

“Artosha,” Luke hissed, elbowing him. “Don’t tell them that.”

Shane caught the way Artos’ expression softened at the name—which didn’t make sense, not really, because Artos didn’t actually translate into Russian like that. But even knowing that, Shane couldn’t really explain the way it made Artos smile, something quiet and a little helpless flickering there, like it meant more than just a nickname.

“You don’t have to apologise. For being nervous, I mean,” Shane said. “I’m pretty sure I was worse when I met Scott for the first time.”

Which might have been a slight exaggeration, but he was fairly certain he’d called him “Mr. Hunter,” at least once. The difference was, Shane hadn’t had a group of veterans willing to step in when his voice faltered. He’d only had himself—and the pressure that came with his name, the expectations it carried before he’d even opened his mouth.

Even then, they’d all been waiting to see if he’d live up to it.

Ryan perked up immediately. “Okay. I need that story, like—”

“You’re not getting it,” Shane said, not looking away from Luke. “You’re allowed to think someone’s good at what they do,” he added. “Just—don’t turn them into something they’re not.” He hesitated briefly. “Everyone was just some kid trying to make the team at some point. Same as you.”

“There’s no way that’s the same thing,” Luke said.

“Of course it is,” Shane replied. “You just don’t see it yet. But how many kids do you think have your posters up in their rooms right now?” He asked, smiling faintly when Luke just blinked at him. “Look. All of us were terrified of messing up when we started. No one wants to be the guy who fucks up. And all of us probably have at least one embarrassing story about meeting players we admired.”

He shrugged slightly. “Most of us are just people. Good ones, usually. And none of us are gonna bite your head off.” He paused, frowning. “Well. Mostly. Some of them are dicks—but if they don’t treat you with respect when you’re coming up, then you probably shouldn’t be looking up to them.”

Luke huffed out a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing as he ducked his head.

“Hm,” Ilya mumbled, his chin hooking over Shane’s shoulder. “Captain Hollander,” he said slowly, his voice dropping as he murmured against Shane’s ear, “are you trying to steal my rookie?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “If your ribs weren’t injured, I’d fucking elbow you right now,” he hissed.

“You’re—” Luke hesitated, then pushed through it. “You’re the reason I started working on my edgework properly,” he admitted. “I’ve watched all of your juniors games, like, a hundred times. And yeah, you’re insane on the ice—fuck, everyone knows that. But you do interviews and you talk about systems and teammates and reading a play like it’s something anyone can learn.”

He shrugged, awkward but sincere. “It made me feel like maybe I could do it too. So yeah,” he nodded, “I have your fucking poster on my wall. Because I think you’re amazing.”

Shane blinked at him, caught off guard, then let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Okay,” he said, because he honestly didn’t have anything better to answer with. “It’s, uh—it’s nice to meet you, Luke. Ilya’s told me a lot about you.”

“Oh god,” Luke groaned. “It’s all embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“No,” Shane lied, very carefully keeping his expression blank. “But he told me about your goal in the game against Buffalo last month.”

Artos grinned. “Da. That was very good goal.”

“It was,” Victor agreed. “He cut through two defenders and pulled the goalie completely out of position.” His mouth twitched faintly, his pride obvious. “Whole arena went quiet for a second, and then everyone lost their minds.”

Luke made a strangled noise, dragging both hands down his face. “You told him that?” He murmured, peeking out between his fingers at Ilya.

“What part of I tell him everything did you not understand?” Ilya said, lifting an eyebrow. “You score goal like that, of course I tell him about it.”

“You—”

“Oi!” Patrick’s voice echoed off the boards, loud enough to cut through everything. He had his gloves off and his hands cupped around his mouth, staring straight at them with the long-suffering expression of someone who had been waiting far too long already. “You lot done terrorising the rookies yet?” He shouted.

A few of the guys nearby snorted, and Patrick didn’t even bother to hide his grin. “Either give them back or get your asses over here so we can actually play some fucking hockey.” He paused. “Ugh. Before Coach shows up and ruins it for everyone.”

“I’m telling him you said that!” Ryan called back, before turning to Shane with a grin. “You in, Hollzy?”

Standing beside Patrick, Marcus was juggling a bundle of sticks in his arms, slightly off-balance as he tried to keep them from sliding loose and clattering onto the ice. “Yeah,” he added, nudging a puck lightly toward Shane with the toe of his blade. “We need someone who can actually score.”

Ilya snorted under his breath. “You already have best player in the league standing right here,” he shot back, nudging Shane’s skate with his own. “Why would you need second-best?” His mouth twitched faintly. “And you are already set up for drills,” he added before Shane could retaliate, pointing toward the cones Luke and Artos had carefully arranged across the ice, still perfectly spaced like they were waiting for LeClaire to appear out of nowhere and start barking orders.

Marcus glanced over his shoulder, then back at them with a shrug. “What, you can’t play a game around a couple of cones?” he shot back, grin widening. “I thought you were supposed to be creative, Roz.”

Ryan laughed as he pushed off hard, skating toward them with an easy, confident stride. He grabbed one of the outstretched sticks Patrick was holding, spinning it loosely in one hand. “We’re playing no-contact if Hollzy’s sticking around,” he called out, dragging the words just enough to make it sound like a challenge.

A couple of sticks tapped against the ice in approval, someone whooping from the far end as the loose cluster of players started shifting into something resembling teams. The cones were already being ignored, pucks sliding through them and around them like they’d never been carefully placed in the first place.

Victor followed after Ryan at a slower glide, Luke trailing close behind him, still looking half-distracted as he adjusted the straps of his helmet. Artos came last, bumping shoulders lightly with Cliff as they joined the group, all of them already talking over each other about who was taking which side.

Over in the goal, Brad rocked side to side in an exaggerated warm-up, tapping each post with his glove before dropping into a dramatic butterfly and popping back up again, rolling his shoulders like he was prepping for a playoff game instead of a casual skate. He swiped at imaginary shots, glove flashing, then shook his head at himself with a grin like he knew he was being ridiculous and was enjoying it anyway.

Shane glanced at Ilya, a familiar spark lighting in his chest as the noise picked up around them. “One game,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly as a slow, competitive grin pulled at his mouth. “Don’t worry,” he added as he kicked off, “I’ll try not to embarrass you in front of your own team.”

Ilya’s laughter followed him as they headed toward Patrick, both of them grabbing a stick and testing the flex automatically. Shane rolled his shoulders as he adjusted his grip, while Ilya spun his stick loosely in one hand, eyes already scanning the ice like he was mapping it out. Whatever softness had been in him earlier was gone now, replaced with something sharp and familiar.

“It’s been a long time since we played on the same team,” Ilya murmured, flashing him a smile. “Ready to show them why everyone fears a Hollander–Rozanov line?” He nudged Shane lightly with his shoulder. “Or are you worried you won’t be able to keep up with me?”

Shane huffed softly, shooting him a sideways look. “Keep up with you?” he echoed dryly. “Just try not to get too distracted watching me score now that you’ve finally got me on your line.”

For a second, Shane’s gaze dipped, catching on the way Ilya’s mouth carved into a grin, before snapping back up again. His own grin sharpened, something warmer slipping under the edge of it. He tapped the toe of his stick against the ice, like he could shake the thought loose with the motion alone.

“Focus, Rozanov,” he added lightly, though his voice had gone just a shade rougher. “I’ve still gotta thank you properly later, right?” His head tilted, watching the way Ilya’s eyes darkened, pupils blown just enough to notice. “Oh. But maybe try not to think about that while you’re on the ice,” he added, smiling innocently. “Could be dangerous if you’re too distracted.”

Ilya groaned low in his throat. “What am I going to do with you,” he muttered as he followed him across the ice, Shane skating backward just so he could watch him.

Behind them, Cliff had already grabbed Artos and dragged him into one of the teams. “Hollander’s with us—”

“Oi!” Ryan protested. “Why the fuck do you get him?”

Cliff pointed to his chest, right where the ‘A’ of Alternate Captain would have sat if he’d been wearing his jersey. He winked. “‘Cause I fuckin’ said so,” he grinned. “And ’cause we’ve got an uneven number—fuckin’ Frank probably slept through his alarm again,” he added, groaning softly.

“We’ll play a man down with Hollander until he gets here,” he said with a shrug. “He’s got new skates and half a concussion—that should make it fair.”

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?” Ryan shot back immediately. “Have you seen what that man does when he’s on the ice? And you’re putting him on the same side as Roz?” His gaze flicked between Shane and Ilya, narrowing. “That’s just asking for us to get walked.”

“Yeah,” Victor chimed in, snorting. “Feels like our captain and alt are stacking the teams against us.”

Cliff just grinned wider. “Sounds like you’re all scared.”

“Of course we fuckin’ are,” Ryan said flatly. He pushed his helmet back slightly, glaring at him. “Swap teams with me and we’ll see how brave you feel when you’re the one getting embarrassed in your own arena.” He jabbed a finger toward Shane and Ilya. “You’ve basically built a cheat code and called it fair.”

Cliff laughed, already backing toward centre ice. “Not happening,” he called over his shoulder.

Marcus, now free of the pile of spare gear he’d been hauling, rested his chin on the top of his stick, watching the whole exchange with a grin. “Feels like this should come with some kind of warning,” he said. “Or at least a mercy rule.”

“Ugh. You’re all wasting ice time,” Cliff called, clapping his hands once. “C’mon—get moving.”

“Da. I will drop puck,” Artos said, kicking a puck off the boards before skating toward the faceoff circle. He trapped it with his stick, then scooped it up easily, turning it over in his hands as he glanced between Shane and Ilya, both hesitating at the dot.

After ten years of lining up across from each other, it felt wrong not to be on opposite sides of the circle. Muscle memory kept pulling Shane forward, like he should square up across from Ilya instead of beside him—but Patrick was already set on the other side, tapping his stick impatiently on the ice, waiting for someone to take the draw.

Shane snorted softly, jerking his chin toward the dot. “Go on,” he muttered, already pushing off to drift back into position on the wing as Victor shifted to give him space. “You take it.”

Ilya glanced sideways at him, surprised first, then pleased in a way that softened his mouth before sharpening it again. “You want me to take it?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Shane kept his eyes fixed on him, tracking the set of his stance, the angle of his blade. “Yeah,” he said easily, already shifting his weight onto his inside edges. “I just want to win. I don’t really care about taking the faceoff.” He settled into position, knees bent and stick held steady in his hands, watching the play like it had already started. “Besides, I’d rather read it from out here.”

For a second, Ilya just watched him. “You don’t play wing,” he said. 

“It’s a pickup game,” Shane snorted. “What—you gonna fine me if I stop taking draws for five minutes?”

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Then he stepped in, rolling his shoulders once as he settled over the dot, his stick dropping to the ice as muscle memory finally caught up.

There was something unexpectedly freeing about not lining up at centre for once, Shane realised. About not being the one everyone was watching for that first touch that would set everything in motion.

In Montréal, everything ran through him—and that naturally meant he was targeted from the moment he stepped onto the ice. It made sense. If the other team could shut him down early, Montréal’s offence stalled before it even got going. But here, sliding onto Ilya’s line instead of driving it himself, he’d have a second to read the ice before the puck found him. 

Which could be fun, he thought, even if the idea of not having to force the play every shift was strange enough to feel almost foreign.

For a split second, Shane heard his mother’s voice in the back of his mind—sharp, proud, always pushing him to lead, to stand front and centre, to be the role model kids like him had never had growing up. But maybe he’d mistaken leading for standing alone.

The tension eased from his shoulders as he settled into position. It was familiar, even if it wasn’t his usual spot. And maybe that’s what made it easier—that no one here was waiting for him to carry everything. No one keeping score of who drove the play or what role he was supposed to fill. A pickup game wasn’t about systems or structure—it was just about reading the ice and making something out of it. And it might be fun to change the play when no one expected it, he thought quietly.

Patrick leaned in across from Ilya at the faceoff dot, his stick blade tapping lightly against the ice. “Try not to embarrass yourself in front of your boyfriend, Roz,” he murmured.

“Impossible,” Ilya replied calmly, eyes narrowed on the dot, something amused in the tilt of his mouth as he waited for the puck drop.

Shane exhaled slowly as the rink seemed to settle around them, the noise of the team dimming into something sharper, more focused. For a second, everything narrowed to the circle—the players set, the tension coiled tight between them. Then Artos dropped the puck, and Ilya won it clean, hitting it back to the left—

—and straight onto Shane’s blade.

He was already moving by the time it reached him, taking it off the draw without breaking stride, cutting wide immediately, selling the outside lane just enough to drag Ryan with him.

The steel sang under his skates as he shifted his weight, knees bending deeper, edges biting into the ice as he carved tight around a line of cones. He snapped into a quick transfer to his other edge, adding a subtle shoulder fake that sent Luke lunging in the wrong direction by half a stride.

“Holy shit—” Luke breathed as Shane slipped the puck cleanly through the gap he’d just created. “How is that even fair?”

Ilya laughed, low and delighted, already accelerating as he followed Shane up ice. He cut through the neutral zone with easy power, reading Shane’s movement without hesitation, angling himself into open ice like he already knew where the puck would go next.

Cliff received the puck along the boards and slid it back with a one-armed sweep, sending it spinning into open ice in front of Shane. Victor anticipated the play, but Shane knocked the puck wide and cut around him anyway, shoulders brushing just enough to register the contact without losing speed.

“This is supposed to be no-contact!” Ryan shouted from behind him.

Shane snorted under his breath but kept his eyes on the ice ahead, pulling the puck across his body in one smooth motion as he crossed the far blue line, keeping it just out of reach of Ryan and Marcus as they closed in behind him.

He could see Ilya slipping up along the weak side, uncovered, and Shane almost grinned as the rest of the play opened up in front of him.

“Oh, come on!” Brad groaned from his knees when Shane slipped a pass across the crease without looking. Ilya’s follow-up shot rang off the post with a hollow metallic crack that echoed into the rafters before snapping clean into the back of the net.

The team erupted in a mix of groans and laughter, sticks tapping against the ice and boards in loud, chaotic applause. Someone swore loudly from the far side of the zone, and Luke had already launched himself at Artos, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him while rambling something incoherent and vaguely awestruck.

But Shane just raised a brow at Ilya, slightly breathless, watching as his grin widened when he barrelled straight into him without slowing. His hands caught at Shane’s ribs as he crashed him into a hug that nearly knocked them both off balance—then pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to Shane’s cheek, the sound echoing embarrassingly across the near-empty arena.

“Ah, you see?” Ilya called over his shoulder, grinning shamelessly at the rest of the team. “This is what happens when you leave Shane Hollander open. He is menace on ice,” he added proudly.

Shane’s breath fogged in the cold air as he laughed. “You were late on that pass.”

“I had perfect timing,” Ilya corrected, pulling back just enough to grin at him properly.

“Oh, fuck both of you!” Patrick said, pointing at them from the edge of the crease as he helped Brad back to his feet, his goalie pads making it more of a struggle than it should have been. “We’re definitely switching up teams.”

“No,” Ilya said immediately, one arm still hooked loosely around Shane’s waist. “I like winning,” he added, a wide grin spreading across his face—that familiar flash in his eyes that made Shane recognise exactly what was about to happen.

“Don’t say it—” Shane started to warn him.

But Ilya was already saying, “In Boston,” with a smug tilt to his voice as Shane groaned.

CODA: LECLAIRE

“Fuckin’ hell,” Frank said, tugging one of his earphones free as he kicked his gear bag under the bench before leaning his forearms on the boards beside LeClaire. “They’re kinda terrifying on the same line,” he added, nodding out at the ice where Ilya had just carried the puck over the blue line.

“Hm,” LeClaire agreed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “They read each other well.”

They watched in silence for a moment as Shane chipped the puck to Artos off the outside edge of his blade before lengthening his stride to accelerate up the ice, Ilya matching him stride for stride through the neutral zone. Luke tried to step up on them, but Shane had already cut a tight turn around him, buying just enough space for Artos to slip the puck to Cliff, who sent it back up the boards with a sharp crack.

“I kinda always knew they would be,” Frank went on, shaking his head slowly. “I mean, after the way they played at All Stars? Sure. But this is—”

He trailed off, watching as Shane pivoted hard, collecting the puck mid-stride before knocking it wide, eyes flashing as he clocked Ilya planting himself squarely in Brad’s sightline.

Frank grinned as Shane snapped the shot through the narrow lane in front of him. For a split second, it looked like it would clip Ilya—but at the last moment Ilya jumped straight up, twisting so his skates lifted with just enough space for the puck to slide cleanly beneath his blades.

It slipped past Brad before he’d even realised he needed to seal the five-hole, and the net rippled behind him as the puck rang off the back bar. There was a moment of stunned silence, then—

“Can we please split them up now?” Ryan’s groan rang out across the rink. “There’s no way they should be allowed on the same fuckin’ line!”

Frank let out a low whistle. “Fuck, that’s disgusting.”

LeClaire hummed in agreement.

“Just look at ’em,” Frank added as the team pulled Ilya into a messy scrum along the boards, shoving and laughing at how insane that move had been as they dragged an embarrassed Shane in with them. Shane stumbled into it while trying, unsuccessfully, to look annoyed.

“Ugh. Imagine if this wasn’t just a shinny,” he said, shooting LeClaire a look. “Or if they’d actually been training together like this instead of, uh—” he winced slightly. “Well. Whatever the fuck they’ve been doing when they’re alone.”

Even LeClaire snorted at that. “Eh. I doubt whatever they’ve been doing is that productive,” he said, before jerking his chin toward the bench. “You’re already late. Get your skates on and get out there.”

“I’m half an hour early,” Frank said, offended.

“And the rest of these assholes got here at five-thirty, according to the equipment manager,” LeClaire said dryly. “And those two got here at four.”

“There was no way I was getting up that fuckin’ early,” Frank muttered. “No matter what Cliff and Victor kept saying in that stupid group chat—”

He kept grumbling under his breath as he headed to the bench along the boards, nudging his gear bag out from underneath it with his foot. He dropped down with a sigh, spreading out his gear at his feet as he started lacing up his skates.

By the time he was done, the game had already reset on the ice, and LeClaire was still watching with that narrowed look. Frank stomped both skates hard against the rubber mat to make sure the blades were seated properly in the holders before hopping over the boards onto the ice.

“Nice of you to join us,” LeClaire said dryly. “Go see if you can beat Hollander to a puck.”

“No way,” Frank snorted as he pushed off. “Pretty sure I’m on his team, coach!”

LeClaire watched as the team greeted Frank with jeers for being late—again—before he was folded into Rozanov’s group with minimal argument from the other side. He waited until the noise swelled thick enough to cover him before pulling his phone back out.

He turned the screen back on and replayed the video he’d taken earlier. The first goal. The seam pass through three sticks. The inside-edge cut and the read that had no business existing between two rival players. Then he rewatched it again, just to watch the way neither of them celebrated the goal itself—maybe because neither of them had doubted it would work—before Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane in a hug faintly reminiscent of their first All-Star goal.

He found himself watching it twice more after that, frowning slightly as he tried to figure out what it was that kept pulling him back to it. Maybe there was something in the timing of it. Something in the way they moved, like they’d both seen the play unfolding from the same impossible angle.

The video itself didn’t look much different from the usual stupid PR clips the organisation pushed out in the lead-up to a game—just stripped of the dramatic music and flashing graphics they usually leaned on to make it feel important.

On the surface, it was just the kind of throwaway moment no one would have thought twice about, if the arena had been full, or if they’d been in the middle of an actual game. It was just a clean play, a quick embrace between two players riding the rush of a brilliant goal—but somehow it felt like more. And he wondered, briefly, if it had always felt this inevitable to them. Like they’d always been meant to find each other on the ice, no matter what jerseys they wore.

He watched the video again, still frowning, before swiping back to Instagram. The Montréal Voyageurs’ latest post still sat at the top of his feed, beneath a photo of Centre Bell—blue spotlights turning the arena Voyageur-blue, the crowd frozen mid-roar as Shane buried another goal—everything composed like nothing messy had happened in that very same game.

LeClaire’s gaze lingered on the words ‘two separate incidents,’ still just as stunned by the sheer audacity of it as he’d been the first time he’d read it.

Because of all the ways Montréal’s PR team could have handled this, he still couldn’t believe that this was what they’d gone with. Not the hit from behind. Not the way one of their own players had stayed down long enough that the entire Bell Centre had gone silent in shock—or maybe fear. They didn’t even make a vague mention that their own captain had taken a swing at a teammate.

Instead, they’d built this neat, polished paragraph that managed to sound official while avoiding the only thing that actually mattered.

He let out a slow breath through his nose—because the pettiness behind avoiding the actual issue had Pelletier written all over it, even if it had obviously been cleaned up by their PR team. The man was widely regarded as one of the best coaches of his generation for reasons LeClaire had never fully agreed with, but beneath the polished veneer he presented to the media was someone who knew exactly how to protect himself first.

His eyes flicked back up to the ice, catching the way Shane Hollander actually laughed when Ryan tripped over his own skates and immediately accused Cliff of tripping him. Beside him, Ilya was watching with a quiet, intent focus that softened just slightly whenever Shane looked at him.

LeClaire had no idea—absolutely none—how anyone thought those two weren’t in love.

But he also had no idea the last time he’d seen Shane look so happy to be on the ice. He was always so composed, giving quiet, careful answers in interviews while Pelletier stood in the background, ready to receive the praise for it. It grated on him more than he liked to admit. The way the narrative kept bending itself around the wrong people. The way talent like Shane’s got folded into someone else’s story while men like Pelletier built their reputations off the back of it.

“Oi, coach!” Ryan called out, waving his stick obnoxiously until he finally caught LeClaire’s attention. “You just gonna let them get away with this shit?” He added, pointing at where Ilya had pulled Shane in to demonstrate a bank shot to Artos. “This is cheating!”

He turned to watch as Ilya shifted Shane slightly by the shoulders, talking through his stance as Shane took the puck and snapped it forward. At the last second, he rolled his wrists and sent it skimming along the boards at an impossible angle, the puck rebounding off the kickplate and curling back toward the slot like it had changed its mind mid-flight.

Artos blinked as it landed neatly at his feet.

“That is how you manipulate a rebound,” Ilya said, grinning.

“Eh. You decided to start practice with a game against Hollander,” LeClaire said, one eyebrow raised. “Best you deal with the consequences.”

Ryan scoffed loudly, dragging a hand down his face as he turned in a slow circle on the ice, clearly expecting backup that wasn’t coming. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, jabbing his stick against the surface. “This is a hostile work environment, actually.”

LeClaire had already turned back to whatever was on his phone, utterly unsympathetic, as Cliff started chirping at Ryan from the opposite side of the ice. Victor jumped in almost immediately—despite being on the same side—offering exaggerated sympathy and entirely unhelpful suggestions.

He scrolled slowly through the comments underneath instead of paying them any attention, like he probably should have, only pausing when he noticed they were multiplying by the second. Fans from both Montréal and Boston were already jumping in—some furious, some defensive. Some were already breaking down the replay frame by frame, others throwing out half-baked theories no one had asked for.

He snorted at the all-caps debates about player safety, where complete strangers argued over intent versus impact. Then frowned at the handful of comments pointing out how devastated Ilya had looked when Shane went down—and how quickly that shock had turned into fury when he went after Comeau.

Some were already dissecting the interview Ilya had given after the game, sounding almost awed by the idea that the two of them were friends at all—like it didn’t quite fit the rivalry they’d built in their heads. But far more had apparently decided Ilya Rozanov should be suspended for simply existing within ten feet of Shane Hollander when the “incident” happened.

“Shit,” LeClaire muttered under his breath. 

Because he knew exactly what he wanted to do—

But his eyes flicked up, catching on the way Shane was laughing as Ryan tried to drag Luke away from where he and Ilya were still guiding Artos through the angle of his blade, arguing and laughing as they spoke over each other. He saw the way Shane’s dark eyes flashed when he grinned, the way he leaned in just slightly when Ilya murmured low in his ear.

—and he hesitated.

Whatever he’d wandered into this morning—and he still wasn’t entirely sure what it was—it wasn’t a version of Shane Hollander people got to see often. There was something almost disorienting about it. 

He found himself watching, quietly fascinated by how different Shane seemed on Boston ice. Maybe it was just that Shane was still here, even with every reason to pack up and go deal with the mess waiting for him in Montréal. Instead, there was something almost defiant in the way he stayed. Like he’d decided to ignore the world outside of this moment.

But the narrative was already shifting, whether Shane acknowledged it or not. And LeClaire suspected he did. It was obvious to anyone with even a little media training, the way coverage had started to tilt. Headlines were less certain now, more cautious. Even fan conversations had begun to drift into something more speculative the longer Shane stayed silent.

And Pelletier—LeClaire’s jaw tightened—Pelletier was going to have a fucking field day with it. He always did. He’d find a way to twist it, to make it Shane’s fault, or someone else’s, just like he always did.

Fuck—he hated that man. And he hated that he could already see his influence in the silence from the other Voyageurs players. Not a single one of them had posted anything about their captain’s hospital admission. But they’d been loud enough the second Cliff’s “kidnap” post went viral.

Except for Pike, LeClaire admitted, a flicker of reluctant amusement cutting through his irritation. Pike was so relentlessly chaotic it almost felt like he existed as a separate entity from the organisation he played for. Heaven forbid anyone try to control that man.

He’d even posted a blurry selfie just that morning—from what looked like a gas station parking lot, of all fucking places—with the caption: “Free My Captain!” Which had, somehow, already turned #FreeHostageHollander into a trending tag in just under two hours.

It was almost impressive. 

LeClaire swiped back to the video he’d just taken and watched it again. This time, what caught his attention wasn’t the effortless control, or the way Shane seemed to bend the pace of the game around himself without anyone noticing. It wasn’t even the way he anticipated Ilya’s movements before they happened, threading passes through spaces that didn’t exist yet.

It was the image. The familiar Bears players moving in loose, easy patterns around one another—and one lone Voyageur at the centre of it, faint bruising still visible along his neck. The stands behind them were empty. The lights dim enough that shadows pooled in the corners like ink.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, Shane looked like he belonged there more than he had anywhere else LeClaire had ever seen him play. Or maybe he just looked more like himself.

Fuck—he didn’t know what to think anymore.

He stared at the frozen frame on his phone longer than he probably should have. He had no idea what the hell Shane was thinking. He was one of the best media-trained players he’d ever seen, and his mother was damn near terrifying by all accounts—surely he knew his silence wouldn’t protect him from the speculation already happening online.

Silence like that never stayed empty for long.

It just got filled by people who didn’t care if they got it right—or by people with their own fucking agendas twisting the narrative into something unrecognisable.

LeClaire exhaled slowly before tapping the screen to reopen Instagram. Because if Shane wasn’t going to tell the story himself, then someone else would have to. And maybe that wasn’t his place—maybe it was the wrong call entirely—but it had to be better than whatever the hell the league was building out of that silence.

And maybe it was petty—but LeClaire had no intention of letting Pelletier, of all fucking people, get there first.

Still, even as the decision settled into something solid in his chest, his thumb hovered over that damn post button. Hesitation crept back in. Maybe because—even with the little he actually knew of Shane Hollander—he had a feeling he’d hate this. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell, with the way Shane had been avoiding just about everything lately, with a level of commitment that felt almost deliberate.

LeClaire couldn’t exactly blame him for that. He wasn’t sure he’d want to deal with the outside world either if his partner had handed him a place where he could just—breathe? Exist? He wasn’t entirely sure what Ilya was doing that had Shane looking so at ease in his own skin, but whatever it was, it was damn good for him.

He groaned under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. Because, sure—Shane was being looked after and actually looked happy for once in his career. Great. Fantastic. But none of that helped him right now. And it didn’t make what he was about to do any fucking easier.

He’d spent years—actual fucking years—warning his players about this exact thing. That once something hit the public domain, it was out there for good. There was no taking it back. No controlling how it spread or who twisted it into something else. He’d told them, time and time again, to stop. To think it through. To walk away and come back when their heads were clear.

Except—apparently, he was full of fucking shit.

Because he hit that damn “post” button before he could second-guess himself again. The caption had already been rewritten three times—then twice more—before he’d finally stripped it down to something that almost felt like a challenge.

He very carefully didn’t add the quotation marks he wanted to. And he didn’t tag Hollander, the league, or even the Voyageurs. He let the video speak for itself.

Then he stuck his phone back in his pocket, like it might undo what he’d just done.

He knew the Voyageurs would probably accuse the Bears of tampering. That someone in the league offices would already be drafting a politely threatening email, full of words like integrity and maintaining the standards of expected professionalism, the moment they saw the post. But the thought that, somewhere in Montréal, Pelletier’s face would be turning a dangerous shade of red when he saw it made the rest of the fallout feel almost worth it.

And yet—he couldn’t seem to bring himself to look back at the ice right away. Probably because he had no idea how he was going to explain any of this to Shane if he asked. When, he corrected himself. Because there was no way this wasn’t coming back to bite him in the ass later.

When he finally forced himself to look up again, Ilya was steering Shane straight toward him. Or, well—the bench behind him. Ilya had both hands planted firmly on Shane’s shoulders, clearly scolding him under his breath as the team let out a chorus of disappointed boos behind them.

“Hollander is not cleared for full practice,” Ilya called back. “And none of you are good enough to make him ignore that,” he added, lips twitching when their complaints got louder. “Hollander is going to wait on the bench until I can call him a car to take him home, da?” He finished, turning back to shoot Shane a pointed look.

Then he sighed. “Ah. I’m sorry, solnyshko. I meant to drive you back home before practice started—”

“It’s okay,” Shane said, cutting him off with a small shake of his head. “Should’ve probably expected we’d spend too long on the ice.”

“Da,” Ilya agreed, leaning toward him before seeming to remember where he was. He cleared his throat softly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck as his gaze flicked briefly toward LeClaire and then away again. “Did you have fun?” He asked quietly. “Bears were not too stupid?”

“They were fine,” Shane said slowly. “And it was, ah—I had fun,” he admitted, sounding almost awkward about it, like maybe he wasn’t used to saying that out loud. “Your team’s nice,” he added.

“They are idiots,” Ilya corrected, though his mouth twitched faintly as he glanced back toward the ice.

“Yeah, but they’re the nice kind of idiots,” Shane said, watching the way they chirped at each other across the rink. His expression softened slightly. “I get why you love them.”

In his pocket, LeClaire’s phone was still vibrating.

He ignored it for as long as he could manage, then, with a quiet sigh, pulled it back out. He’d expected the notifications—but the way the banners spilled over one another until they blurred into something unreadable was a bit overwhelming.

He swiped them all away with a frown. But when he reopened Instagram, it finally made sense. It wasn’t just fans commenting anymore. National reporters were also tagging him and the official Bears account with variations of “Statement incoming?” and “Is this a trade confirmation?”—which, in all honestly, he probably should have expected this close to the trade deadline.

A blue checkmark from the league office sat near the top of the rapidly updating comments, offering a carefully neutral comment about being “pleased to see Shane Hollander skating comfortably following the recent incident during the Bears vs Montréal game.” There was also, annoyingly, a missed call from PR lingering at the top of his screen. He didn’t even need to open the voicemail to know exactly how that conversation was going to go. 

So he just—turned his notifications off, locked the screen, and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

Let the internet do what it always did, he thought. They’d build an entire story out of a ten-second video, and run with it. But maybe this time they’d fill in the blanks instead of relying on Montréal’s version of events—where Shane’s silence, his refusal to correct anything, had been taken as proof that nothing had happened worth defending.

He sighed, admitting—if only to himself—that it wasn’t even the speculation that bothered him. That part was so predictable it barely registered. What got under his skin was how easily people skipped past what had actually happened on the ice, like it wasn’t enough on its own. Like a hit like that needed context or clarification. Like the way Shane had gone down hadn’t already said everything that mattered.

They were looking for a narrative when the truth had been right there the entire time. But maybe something about the sight of Shane Hollander on Boston ice—laughing in a way no one had seen in years, if ever—finally made people pause.

LeClaire could already see the shift happening in the comments. Because when had anyone last seen him look like that? Not the media-trained version of Shane Hollander, who offered just enough to satisfy a question and gave tight, practiced smiles in post-game interviews. But this version—bruised and sore, but laughing like he’d forgotten, for a second, that anyone was watching at all.

And suddenly everyone seemed to be asking the right question: Why hadn’t they ever seen him happy like that before?

LeClaire kept his eyes on the ice when Ilya brought Shane over to the bench—right up until he heard a quiet, “Hey,” behind him. Terrance, his assistant coach, stepped up beside him and handed over one of the two coffee cups he was carrying.

Terrance blinked, visibly bewildered, at the sight of Ilya leaning in close to Shane, saying something low and quick neither of them could make out.

One of Ilya’s hands came up briefly to brace the back of Shane’s neck as he adjusted the collar of his coat, his fingers lingering there for a fraction longer than necessary before he stepped back. Shane huffed a quiet breath as he started untying his laces, rolling his shoulders like he was annoyed—but he didn’t pull away.

“Uh—what’d I miss?” Terrance muttered.

“Not much,” LeClaire said, grinning into his coffee cup.

Chapter End Notes

Solnyshko (солнышко) — Russian
Little sun; Sunshine; My sunshine; A tender, affectionate diminutive used for someone cherished; Conveys warmth, emotional safety, softness, and intimacy; Often used toward a romantic partner in moments of vulnerability or fond teasing.

Da (да) — Russian
Yes; A flexible affirmative that can also function as emphasis (“indeed”), agreement (“right”), soft insistence, or conversational filler depending on tone; Ilya uses it rhythmically and instinctively, especially in emotionally charged or unguarded moments.

Krasivyy (красивый) — Russian
Beautiful; Handsome; Attractive (masculine form); Can refer to physical beauty but also carries undertones of admiration and aesthetic appreciation; When used possessively, it becomes intimate and lightly possessive.

Devochka-podrostok (девочка-подросток) — Russian
Teenage girl; Adolescent girl; Used teasingly; Suggests dramatic emotional reactions or visible longing; Tone is playful but can carry light mockery.

Razve ty ne znayesh', chto ya sdelayu dlya tebya vso chto ugodno? (Разве ты не знаешь, что я сделаю для тебя всё что угодно?) — Russian
Literally translates to “Don’t you know that I would do anything for you?”; Expression of deep devotion; Intimate and emotionally direct.

Artosha (Артёша) — Russian
An affectionate Russian diminutive of Artos (typically derived from Artyom / Артём); The meaning of the root name remains the same, but the shift to Artosha signals warmth, familiarity, and emotional closeness; Used in personal or intimate contexts rather than formal address; Often conveys fondness, teasing affection, or protective softness.

Note: Artos is a Celtic word for “bear” and one of the roots of “Arthur” and it not rooted in Russian. The closest cross-cultural parallel I found was Artyom, since Artyom and Arthur are sometimes treated as equivalents, though they don’t actually share the same meaning and it more of a transliteration. Artosha is (one of) the Russian diminutives of Artyom.

Shinny — English (hockey slang)
Informal pickup hockey game; Casual, unstructured play; Associated with fun, freedom, and lack of pressure compared to formal competition.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes