• For saysthemagpie.

Shane's husband squeezes his thigh under the table, a reassuring gesture as Andrew leans into him so the length of their arms are pressed together.

"It's yours," he whispers in Shane's ear. On stage, they're announcing the award for GM of the year, but after that, MVP.

And after that, Shane's career as a professional hockey player will officially be over. This was the last event of the summer before the draft kicks in and eyes turn towards next season. The final dog and pony show before he's put out to pasture at thirty nine years old.

Andrew's been going on all week about how it's Shane's to lose—"They won't pass up the chance to bookend rookie of the year with an MVP." Shane's won the Nighbor twice already, but the hockey writers who vote on the award love their narratives.

He looks over at Andrew, their bodies sharing heat, and smiles. Andrew's classically beautiful in that Greek god sort of way—hooked nose and dark brown hair, tan skin and a chiseled body that comes from being a trainer for the 49ers. "Don't jinx it," Shane says.

Across the room, he can feel Ilya, still after all these years. Like they're magnets being pulled together. Svetlana is beside him. They showed them on the screens earlier, his dapper black tux and her gold, shimmering dress, dark hair pinned back elegantly. Her two boys are at the table, Ilya's stepsons.

He's retiring too, went out in the third round of the playoffs just Shane did on the opposite coast.

"The Lester McMichael General Manager of the Year Award goes to…" the girl on stage announces, pausing dramatically even though everyone knows it's going to the Arizona Outlaws' manager after putting together the cup winning team. She's a singer, Shane's pretty sure, from Saskatchewan. Rose announced an award once with a Detroit Falcons pin in her hair, a bright red dress that was striking up against her skin. After the awards that night, they had all gone to In-N-Out together, Rose and Ilya scarfing down burgers at three in the morning still dressed to the nines.

"Leon Smith," says Andrew and the girl on stage at the same time, "of the Arizona Outlaws."

Andrew turns to give him a wry smile before saying, "Next one's yours."

On his other side, Shane's mom squeezes his hand and smiles. "Well it should be," she says, "after the career you've had."

"Right way to send you off," his dad adds beside her. Shane was looking at his draft photos the other night and marveling about how much older his dad looks now—hair white, wrinkles deepened. He didn't notice it happening day-by-day, and the difference is shocking.

But he was younger then too, he and Ilya both. When he was looking at the pictures, he traced his finger over Ilya's wide smile as he held up one finger and the Raiders' jersey. His nose was unbroken then, straight where it's now crooked, and he was missing the thin white scar he got his rookie season when he took a punch to the eyebrow that split his face open. He still had all his teeth. Both he and Shane have falsies now. Shane's got an appointment next week to get permanent replacements in.

The commissioner comes on stage, like he always does to announce the last award of the night. He's in his late 50s, a new face after Jones finally retired last year and ended his 35 year stint in the position. Shane's met the new guy once at the awards last year when they talked for half an hour about golf courses on Long Island for the new guy to try.

"Thank you everyone for such a wonderful season. We reached new heights this year—" he starts his speech, but Shane tunes him out.

He can't help it, the way his eyes find Ilya across the room. He has one of Svetlana's sons in his lap, resting his chin against Nikita's curls and listening to Svetlana whisper something in his ear. They were married seven months after the divorce was finalized. Shane thinks about seeing it on Instagram, the tasteful courthouse wedding, how he scrolled through the photos over and over again, careful not to accidentally like them.

As if Ilya can feel his eyes on him, he turns to look at Shane. Their faces are both blank, their gazes locked as the light dim.

He turns to watch the video playing. He sees their drafts—back to back, one and two followed by a montage of both their careers. Ilya breaking the goal record two years ago, the way the Raiders poured out onto the ice like spilled ink, black against crisp white, everyone screaming and cheering and piling onto him. Shane getting his 2,000th point last year and a similar celebration in San Francisco, his team in his face, their sweaty bodies pressed against him.

It ends with both of them hoisting the cup, all the various times over the years. They won together once. The video doesn't show the moment when Ilya handed the cup to Shane and kissed him as they held it up together, the moment that ended up as a Sports Illustrated cover, one of the iconic moments of modern sports.

Shane feels stupidly grateful for the video editors for sparing him that at least. He feels like he's taken a punch in the stomach, then another, then another, all the moments of their careers lined up in a two minute presentation.

He remembers every second of it all. That's the worst part of it.

When the lights come up, he and Ilya are looking at each other.

The crowd is on their feet, a standing ovation. Shane finally tears his eyes away from Ilya's to stand up and wave, accepting Andrew and his mom's kisses on both of his cheeks before he starts clapping too. For Ilya, for all his accomplishments.

The applause fades, and everyone sits back down, and the new commissioner goes on to say, "Shane and Ilya, thank for all the moments we got to witness over the years.It's been a pleasure. You'll always have a home with the MLH—" and Shane tunes him out again.

Finally, he gets around to the award. Shane's nominated and so is Ilya, but it goes to a winger in the fourth year of his contract named Esko. Everyone says he's the next generation's superstar—"the speed of Hollander and the shot of Rozanov." He captained the Finns to Olympic gold this year while Shane accepted his first bronze.

Esko thanks both Shane and Ilya in his acceptance speech, but Shane's distracted by Andrew putting an arm around him and hugging him tight, as if Shane actually gave a shit if he added one more Nighbor to his trophy room.

Everyone shuffles to the after party once the awards officially end, and this is it. The final hours of Shane's career. He swears he can hear the clock ticking down, seconds going by.

Andrew sticks to him like glue, and it's suffocating. It's all so fucking suffocating—the people coming up to him, the glass of bourbon on the rocks sweating in his hand, the sound of Svetlana's laughter from across the room, and Andrew calling him baby.

"I think I need some air," Shane says, stepping out from Andrew's arm around his waist and setting his glass down on the bar.

"Okay," Andrew shrugs. "Wanna go outside for a minute?"

Shane adds, bluntly, "Alone." Then, softer, "I just need a little while."

Andrew's easy where Ilya was hard. He just smiles and says, "Okay. Take all the time you need." Ilya would have pushed, would have followed Shane up the stairs, wouldn't have left him to be alone while Shane feels like this, like there's a hole in his chest that's expanding as the end of the night gets closer.

"Thanks," he says, and makes his way up the stairs two at a time.

It's the same hotel as their first award show. Shane can still hear Scott Hunter in his ear calling him rook, the way the Dalton Award felt in his hand as he held it up on the stairs for everyone to cheer over. His feet remember the way to the rooftop without his brain even having to guide them.

He opens there door, and there's someone else up here, and—well, he should have known.

Ilya's leaned across the railing with a cigarette in his hand. For a moment, they could be nineteen again. The whole of it all laid out before them, waiting to unfold.

Then Ilya glances over at him, and it rushes passed. All of it—all the years and memories between them. Whenever he looks at Ilya these days, that first split second it feels like looking at someone he loves, someone he'll grow old with. Then his body remembers that's in the past now.

He wonders if he'll the same way when he looks at a sheet of ice again. He hasn't been back to a rink since his last game.

"Shane," Ilya says. The sound of it is the same in his mouth as it's always been.

"Hey," he says. He steps up slowly and leans across the railing to mirror Ilya. Silence stretches between them. No matter how much he wants to be angry at the way everything ended, he can't help but relax next to Ilya. His body remembers that too—the way it felt to be held by him; kisses snuggled up together on lounge chairs with warm towels wrapped over them; slow dancing in their living room after midnight even as their grasp on each other was slipping through their fingers.

It's like hitting the ice again after the off season. Second nature, who he's always been.

"Are you headed back to Ottawa after this?" Ilya finally says. He turns his back to the glass railing and snuffs out his cigarette with the bottom of his shoe. He's gripping the edge of the railing tightly, staring off into the distance.

"No," Shane says, "no. I, uh, accepted a job with the Dragons. Assistant to the GM, so I'm going back to San Francisco for the week then tagging along to Dallas for the draft."

He sold the cottage two weeks after the divorce was finalized. Every corner of it whispered Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Their home. Soon, Ottawa became the same way—haunted by Ilya and the life they built and destroyed together.

He signed with San Francisco that off season and has only been back twice to visit his parents. They're retired now and have been talking about moving to California to be close to him.

"Makes sense," Ilya says.

"Are you going back to Boston?"

Ilya shakes his head. "Florida, for the off season. We have a house in Miami." He's quiet for a second before adding defensively, "A lot of Russians in the league do."

"I know." Then he adds, "Congrats on the job, by the way." He heard through the grapevine that Ilya accepted a position with the Raiders' broadcast team, doing some intermission color analysis.

"Thank you."

Finally, Ilya says, "I should get back."

And Shane, "I have a room."

They're staying a hotel across town, but got a room in this one just to get ready in before the awards. All their stuff is already loaded into the rental car. It's a risk, but he and Ilya have sneaked around in worse places.

Ilya looks at him, eyes meeting for the first time. The sparkle and glimmer of Las Vegas is all around them, even here on this rooftop. Finally, Ilya nods and says, "Okay. One last time?"

They go down the stairs together, and Shane is careful not to let the heavy door slam closed behind him when they get into the room.

When he turns, Ilya is already walking towards the bedroom, stripping off his clothes as he goes.

Every time they've fallen in together like this since they fell apart, it feels shockingly familiar, like they could go fifty years without touching and start back up where they left off. Ilya sits on the edge of the bed and Shane comes to straddle him, both of them naked, undressing themselves when the other used to do it.

He takes Ilya's earlobe into his mouth and sucks at it, and Ilya shudders beneath him like Shane knew he would. Does Svetlana do this for him? She must, but Ilya wraps his arms tightly around Shane's waist like he's been starving for it.

"Fuck, Shane," he says. "Feels so good there."

Shane smiles against his earlobe before biting down on it, hard, just to hear Ilya moan. He moves to the spot behind his ear that makes Ilya melt and licks at it before sucking at it gently, carefully.

Ilya pulls Shane in until his cock is rubbing up against Ilya's stomach. They're both still playoff skinny, but there's familiar firmness of Ilya's muscles that makes Shane gasp against his skin and rock his hips.

Ilya is murmuring in Russian; his fingers dig into Shane's body like he's trying to leave marks. Shane's never bruised easily though. When he leaves, there won't be any evidence that Ilya was here.

"Get on your knees," Ilya says. "Hands and knees, now."

Shane nods and moves and soon his face is buried in the crook of his arm with his ass in the air as Ilya kneels behind him.

Andrew doesn't do this, except on special occasions. Doesn't put his tongue to Shane's rim and lap at his hole, heavy hot breaths against Shane's skin. Doesn't dip down to Shane's balls and take one in his mouth, sucking a little before he licks a stripe back up to dip his tongue into Shane's ass. Doesn't moan for it like he's needy and hungry and only Shane's body can satisfy him.

He wraps a hand around Shane's cock as he licks and sucks. It's been years since Shane had a hair trigger, but he's wet and ready for Ilya to start pumping his hand, his grip firm and tight and perfect. Shane's desires were molded to Ilya's pleasure years ago.

And Shane can't do anything but breathe into his own elbow and moan God, Ilya, fuck and oh my God and keep—keep—just like that and other stupid things that they'll both forget a moment after he says it.

Ilya lets him go and sits up before he goes to the bathroom to grab some lotion from the sink and kisses Shane's ass when he comes back. "Sorry shanezhka," Ilya says. "This is all we have."

And it is, it is, it is all they have now. Stolen hours in hotel rooms, right back to where they started but instead of moving towards something, they're both trying to cling to the thing they let go.

Ilya wouldn't take his pills and Shane met Jack and the life they built together cracked wider and wider until it finally broke apart. He thinks, like he does every day, of sitting on the couch in the couples therapist's office whispering I think it might be over and Ilya beside him not arguing. Of sitting on the floor of their living room after everything had been divided up and the house had been emptied by the movers that afternoon and the overwhelming need to take it all back flooded through him. Of clinging to the hem of Ilya's shirt and saying I loved it; I loved it; I loved it.

And he had. He loved it. Them. He still loves it.

After tonight, it will be over. Shane doesn't have any reason to go to Boston, or Ilya to San Francisco. He can feel his pulse pounding though his body, and every beat feels like a countdown to the end.

Ilya sets one lotioned finger up against his wet hole and starts to push in, but Shane feels wild, desperate, everything inside him welling up uncontrollably. Manic in the way that Ilya used to get, the way that made Shane beg him to take his meds. "Wait," he says, "wait, wait, wait."

Ilya stops. Shane's voice is wet as he says, "If this is the last time—I—I want to be face to face."

Ilya's lips are soft and tender when they kiss the small of Shane's back. He barely hears it when Ilya says, "Okay."

They're both quiet as Ilya moves inside of him, their bodies pressing together, planes of skin that Shane would know until the end of time sweating against his own. The familiar weight of Ilya inside of him. He closes his eyes and lets it happen and listens to Ilya's breaths in his ear.

He's slow, at first. Rolls his hips into Shane and presses his nose against Shane's neck. His hips shutter before Shane whispers, "Come on. Make me feel you. Please."

Ilya moves one his hands to hook it underneath Shane's leg, hitching it up so it's by his shoulders before Ilya snaps his hips harshly. He moves at a relentless pace, driving Shane into the mattress. He keeps his face tucked into Shane, but Shane can hear him panting through gritted teeth. The grip he has on Shane's thigh is deliciously painful.

"Feel it," Ilya growls, "feel me inside you, not him. When he takes you, think of me." And of course, Shane always does.

They come almost in sync, Ilya first then Shane. His come is wet and warm and messy between them, staining both their skin.

Ilya stays inside him, breathing heavily through his nose whispering in Russian. He wishes he hadn't let himself forget it. There's a few words he catches here and there—perfect and beautiful and mine—but the rest washes over him, incomprehensible where it used to be second nature.

Finally, he pulls out. He kisses the side of Shane's neck, and goes to the bathroom without a word.

On the bedside table, Shane's phone buzzes. It's Andrew.

Are you okay? it reads.

Ilya comes back and grabs his boxers from the floor, already pulling them up. "I should go back to the party," he says. "Sveta—she'll want to leave soon."

"Okay," Shane says.

Ilya lingers for an extra moment, looking down at him laying on the bed. "Goodbye, Hollander," he says.

Shane can't bring himself to say the same. Ilya waits for a second, before he goes in the other room to gather up the clothes he threw on the floor.

He lays on the bed and listens to Ilya getting dressed. The door to the room opens and closes behind him before Shane texts Andrew back Yes, sorry. I'll be back down soon. Andrew hearts the message, and Shane waits until enough time has passed that it's safe to come downstairs. Ilya's probably already gone by now.

jes, i hope you enjoyed the divorce fic ive been meaning to write you for a while <3

you can find me @montrealmetros on tumblr!