Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Roger Crowell, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, pr relationship, Developing Relationship, banter as a love language, POV Alternating, Subtle Cues & Finger-Brushing, Corporate Mandated Romance, Mutual irritation, Ilya is a Fed Up American Citizen, Neurodivergent Shane Hollander, Rimming, Shane thinks he is straight, Forced Proximity, Crack and Angst, Crack, You can like the tweets, Social Media, Finger Sucking, soft and sweet

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-28 Completed: 2026-06-02 Words: 41,496 Chapters: 9/9

According to the Tags

Summary

Shane had stumbled onto this corner of Archive of Our Own entirely by accident—or at least, that’s the lie he was going to tell his agent, his teammates, and God until his dying day.

—or—

When Dallas Kent creates a massive PR disaster, rivals Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are handed a corporate ultimatum: fake date each other for the cameras, or sit out a season-long suspension. Now trapped in this shitty situation, they have to map out a public "romance strategy," they have a strict no-touching rule behind closed doors. Too bad Shane is currently treating AO3 tags like a hockey drill, and Ilya is losing his mind.

( There are interactive elements within the story! Look out for messages between characters and frames containing information. Just tap or hover on them to see the text messages! and other things just like my other story)

Chapter 1: There is a spreadsheet for romance

Chapter Notes

Click on everything till it stops showing something new!! Like the link in the mobile for the news.

“You’d like us to do what?!” Shane Hollander asked, only a beat away from screaming . To be honest, Ilya Rozanov was not far behind him .

“We’d like you to date each other,” Commissioner Crowell explained once again, speaking painfully slow and stressing each word like they were stupid .

“Yes, I heard you first time. It is not happening,” Ilya said, arms crossed tightly over his chest . This was the one thing he knew he could support the Montreal captain on .

The PR head cleared her throat. “This is a rare circumstance—”

“Bullshit,” Hollander spat out, taking the words right out of Ilya’s mouth .

But she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “As you’re both aware, the NHL is inclusive and supportive of everyone.”  Ilya barely managed to strangle the scoff inside his throat at that corporate lie . “However, the media coverage surrounding Dallas Kent on Tuesday has crossed a line.”

“Then ask that asshole to love Hollander. I have other things to do,” Ilya barked back .

“The hockey world thinks it’s a hate crime, and the sponsors are panicking,” Crowell interjected, his voice flat . “We need a massive pivot.”

Ilya stared at the Commissioner, blood rushing in his ears . He looked over at Hollander, whose jaw was clenched so tight a vein was throbbing in his temple . “Is fucking hate crime. Asshole was openly being homophobe on ice.”

“A pivot,” Hollander repeated, his voice dangerously low . “So your solution to us breaking each other's noses is to make us kiss in public?”

“Precisely,” Crowell said, entirely missing the sarcasm . “An enemies-to-lovers arc. The fans will eat it up, the bad press vanishes, and the league looks progressive. You start next week.”

“I’m not so sure this will work,” Ilya muttered darkly .

The PR head didn’t blink . Instead, she slid a sleek tablet across the mahogany table toward them . On the screen, two apps were open side by side: Tumblr and Archive of Our Own .

“It will work because it’s already working,” Crowell said, tapping the glass . “Right now, you two are the most written RPF couple on the internet after Larry Stylinson.”

Ilya squinted at the wall of text and the tags underneath . Hollander, however, just looked entirely blank .

“What the fuck is RPDF?” Hollander asked, butchering the acronym without a hint of irony. “And who the hell is this Larry person?! What does he have to do with us?”

“RPF,” Crowell corrected sharply . “Real Person Fiction. It means thousands of people are already spending their free time imagining the two of you in love . The foundation is built . All we are doing is giving the public exactly what they want so they forget about Tuesday.”

Ilya rubbed his temples, feeling a massive headache coming on . “This is crazy. People write stories about us punching each other, not kissing.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Crowell replied with a terrifyingly corporate smile .

“I hate him,” Hollander provided, jerking his chin toward Ilya like the man was a piece of rotten garbage left on the table .

“Yes, I do know how difficult this asshole is!” Ilya countered, slamming his hands flat on the wood . “He thinks because he wears the ‘C’ for Montreal he owns whole damn ice!”

“And you think being Boston’s golden boy means you can slash anyone who looks at you wrong,” Hollander snapped back, leaning in until they were practically nose-to-nose .

They truly, deeply hated each other . It wasn’t a manufactured media narrative; it was years of bad blood, dirty hits, and intense playoff series between the Metros and the Bears . The entire league knew that if you put Ilya and Hollander in the same room, ice packs and penalties followed .

“Perfect,” Crowell said smoothly, leaning back . “That raw energy is exactly what we are going to channel . The line between intense hatred and intense passion is very thin, boys . We just need you to cross it . And as your Commissioner, I'm telling you it’s either this, or a season-long suspension for both of you.”

“Season-long suspension? You cannot do that,” Ilya said, his eyes narrowing . “We are best players in this league right now . You bench us, you lose half your TV ratings.”

“He’s right,” Hollander added, finally agreeing on something . He leaned back, folding his arms . “The fans pay to see us play, not sit in the press box . You wouldn't dare suspend the two top scorers in the NHL over a fight that Dallas Kent started.”

Crowell didn't even blink . The man just leaned forward, his creepy smile widening . “Try me . The Board of Governors is already on my side . The sponsors don't care how many goals you score if your names are attached to a PR disaster . I will bench you both, and I will make sure the public narrative says you were suspended for conduct detrimental to the league . Your choice, boys . Play along, or don’t play at all.”

Ilya searched the Commissioner’s eyes for a bluff, but there was nothing . Crowell meant every word .

Beside him, Hollander let out a long, ragged breath, rubbing a hand over his face . His shoulders dropped just a fraction . He looked defeated, but his eyes were sharp when he finally looked up .

“Fine,” Hollander said .

Ilya’s head snapped toward him, his jaw dropping . “What? You say yes to this madness?”

“I’m not sitting out a whole season, Rozanov,” Hollander bit out, focusing entirely on the Commissioner . “I’ll do it . But under one condition . Dallas Kent doesn’t get away with this . You suspend that homophobic piece of shit, or the deal is off . I don't care about the ratings.”

“He is right,” Ilya chimed in quickly, recovering from his shock . He leaned over the table, glaring at Crowell . “If we must pretend to love each other because of his mouth, that asshole needs to pay . Maximum fine . Five-game suspension . At least.”

Crowell didn't hesitate, making a small note on his tablet . “Done . Kent’s suspension will be announced tomorrow morning for unsafe on-ice conduct and verbal abuse . And your first public appearance together will be this weekend.”

He clicked a sleek, silver pen and placed it in the center of the table alongside a printed document . “You both need to sign this non-disclosure and behavioral clause before you leave . It legalizes the arrangement . If either of you breaks character in public, speaks to the press, or acts hostile on camera, it triggers an automatic breach . The season-long suspension activates instantly.”

Hollander snatched the silver pen, his knuckles turning white, and scribbled his name at the bottom of the page . He threw the pen down across the table toward Ilya .

Ilya picked it up, staring at Hollander’s neat signature . His stomach twisted into a hard knot . With a dark curse in Russian, Ilya leaned forward and signed his own name right next to Hollander’s .

“Excellent,” Crowell said, pulling the paper back with a satisfied smile . “Details for your weekend appearance will be emailed to your agents tonight . Discharged.”

Because their first scheduled appearance wasn't until the weekend, they needed a private space away from prying eyes to figure out how the hell they were going to pull this off. They drove straight to Shane’s apartment.

The moment the heavy front door clicked shut behind them, the tense silence shattered. Shane immediately walked over to his kitchen island, tossing his keys onto a small ceramic tray. He took a long, sharp breath to steady his racing thoughts, his hands trembling slightly from the sheer frustration of the meeting. He felt like his head was about to explode.

He turned around, his posture completely rigid.

“Rule number one,” Shane said, his voice dropping into a harsh, tight whisper. “No touching unless a camera is pointed directly at us. I need a clear boundary. I do not want you near me, I do not want your hands on me, and I absolutely cannot handle you in my personal space when we are behind closed doors. Clear?”

Ilya dropped his duffel bag onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud and crossed his arms, a dark, mocking scoff escaping his throat. He looked at Shane like the Montreal captain was being completely ridiculous.

“Trust me, Hollander, I have no wish to touch you either,” Ilya barked back, his lopsided grin returning as a pure, defensive smirk. His Russian accent was heavy and thick with irritation. “You think I want hold hand of Montreal captain? Is nightmare for me too. We do what contract says in public, but in private, you stay on your side of room, I stay on mine. I am not rushing to get close to pretty boy.”

Shane let out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand through his hair to keep from completely losing his temper. “Fine. Good. We establish the boundaries right now so we don't screw this up. Crowell is looking for any excuse to bench us, and I am not letting you ruin my career.”

Shane marched over to his couch, slumping down onto the leather cushion, and pulled up his laptop. He hated this entire chaotic mess, and right now, the entire public expectation of their "relationship" was a massive, unpredictable nightmare.

“We need to look at what Crowell showed us,” Shane said, his eyes glued to the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard, his face tight with embarrassment. “If we have to fake this, we need to know what the fans are actually expecting. Otherwise, our behavior will look totally unnatural to them, and the league will flag it immediately.”

Ilya groaned loudly, walking over to lean against the back of the sofa, making sure he kept a careful two feet of distance from Shane. “You cannot be serious, Hollander. You want to read fairy tales written by teenage girls? You are obsessed with what people think.”

“It’s not an obsession, Rozanov,” Shane snapped back, his voice sharp as he navigated to Archive of Our Own. He filtered the search tags for Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, his skin hot just looking at the sheer volume of results. “We are analyzing the public perception so we don't fail. It's like studying game tape.”

Shane clicked on the top story, which had over ten thousand ‘kudos.’ He began reading the tags out loud, trying to keep his voice flat and professional to mask how deeply weirded out he was.

“Enemies to lovers. Fake dating. Slow burn.” Shane paused, his brow furrowing as he stared at the screen, pointing at a tag that made absolutely no sense to him. “Banter as a love language. Miscommunication. Hurt/Comfort.” He looked up at Ilya, his face entirely deadpan. “What is comfort? Do they think we are injured? We both passed our physicals on Monday. I don't need you comforting me.”

Ilya let out a choking sound, his face instantly turning red under his stubble as he stared at the screen over Shane's shoulder. “Oh, bozhe moy... shut up, Hollander! Do not read that nonsense out loud! Is embarrassing!”

“Why?” Shane asked, turning his head slightly, completely defensive because Ilya was mocking him. “Look at this one. It says clandestine finger-brushing and intense eye contact from across the ice. Those are things people are looking for. We can easily do that during warm-ups just to throw them a bone.”

Ilya rubbed his hands over his face, laughing out of pure, horrified disbelief. He leaned closer, his hazel eyes sparkling with that obnoxious, teasing light. “You are crazy machine, you know this? You want to schedule finger-brushing like hockey drill? 'Okay Ilya, at five minutes we brush fingers, then we score goals.' You are ridiculous.”

“If we don’t pay attention to details, we will forget,” Shane reasoned, his fingers gripping the side of his laptop tighter. He hated when Ilya made him feel foolish. “The data shows the public looks for small, subtle cues. If we just show up and immediately start acting like a couple, it violates the narrative progression they have established. They will know it is fake, and Crowell will suspend us.”

Shane scrolled further down the page, his eyes tracking the long list of bold text. He stopped on one specific phrase, his head tilting slightly as he analyzed the words, completely missing the dirty context.

“Watersports,” Shane read aloud, his voice dropping into a confused cadence. He blinked at the screen. “We play hockey on frozen water. Why is it tagged as a specific category? Is it a translation error for ice hockey or something?”

Ilya, who had started pacing near the kitchen counter again, froze mid-step. His eyes went wide, and his jaw practically hit the floor. “Oh, suka... Hollander, close the computer. Do not look at that. You are too innocent for this.”

“Why?” Shane asked, looking up, his expression entirely demanding. “What does it mean, Rozanov? If it's part of the narrative, I need to know.”

“It does not mean hockey, okay? It is... very different thing. Involves... fluids. Not ice.” Ilya rubbed the back of his neck, his face burning a furious shade of red, though his lopsided smirk was still trying to break through. “Just do not click it. Trust me on this one, pretty boy.”

Shane looked back at the screen, his mind trying to find a logical pattern, his face flushing as he realized from Ilya's reaction that it was something highly inappropriate. He quickly scrolled past the tag and noticed a few others nearby. “The next tag is Russian culture shock. They write a lot about you being from Russia. Is this related to that? What about Russia? Do they think you're going to drag me to Moscow?”

Ilya let out a sharp, exasperated laugh, throwing his hands in the air. He was completely sick of the media treating him like a cartoon villain. “What about it? I have green card, Hollander! I am American now! I live in Boston, I pay American taxes, I buy American groceries! Why do these people think I am walking around wrapped in Russian flag all day? I like my sports cars and my money here!”

“Because it provides a stark cultural contrast to my upbringing in Montreal,” Shane explained, his voice quieter now as he tried to bring the conversation back to logic. He kept tapping his fingers rhythmically against the laptop shell, a nervous habit to keep himself grounded because Ilya's booming voice was making the room feel incredibly small. “It creates a clearer narrative friction for the readers. But if you are American now, we should probably update your public profile data so the media stops focusing on it.”

“Government already did that,” Ilya muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter with a heavy sigh, his smug demeanor fading into actual exhaustion.

Shane looked up from his laptop. The rigid, hyper-competitive focus in his eyes softened just a fraction, replaced by a flicker of genuine tiredness. He closed the laptop halfway, the blue light fading from his face. He felt completely drained by the stress of the day.

“Right,” Shane said softly. He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders dropping as the sheer exhaustion of the last four hours finally caught up to him. “Sorry. My brain just... when things get this messy and my career is on the line, I start treating everything like a game tape. I know you’re not a stereotype, Rozanov. I’m just trying to find a script so I don't panic on our outing day. I like to win, okay?”

Ilya blinked, a little caught off guard by the sudden honesty from the usually rigid Montreal captain. He let out a much quieter, less defensive breath, his hazel eyes softening. “Is fine. This whole day is disaster. My head is spinning too. We are both in this shitty situation.”

Shane offered a small, hesitant nod, appreciating the temporary truce. He opened his laptop fully again, but his tone was much more grounded now, focused back on the reality of their nightmare. “The league just emailed the itinerary. Our first appearance is a mandatory charity gala this weekend in New York. We have to arrive in the same car.”

“In the same car? No, absolutely not,” Ilya shot it down immediately, cutting Shane off with a sharp wave of his hand. He stepped away from the kitchen counter, his lopsided smirk returning with a competitive, clever edge. “Think about it, Hollander. We don’t need to jump straight into back seat together. It violates the 'enemies' part of this stupid story they are making up.”

Shane blinked, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He frowned, his analytical mind trying to process the deviation from the league’s strict itinerary. “The Commissioner’s instructions were precise, Rozanov. We are supposed to travel together to maximize the media impact.”

“Crowell wants progressive PR, yes, but he also wants people talking,” Ilya countered, leaning his hip against the edge of the sofa, just outside Shane’s personal space. His hazel eyes sparkled with the familiar thrill of outsmarting an opponent. “If we show up holding hands in New York, everyone knows it is corporate bullshit. It is too fast. But if we keep the rumor going? If we play the media like we play on the ice? We don't violate contract, and we give them exactly what they want.”

Shane looked from Ilya to the laptop screen, his analytical mind spinning. “Explain the execution.”

“We travel separate,” Ilya said, gesturing between them. “You take your Montreal car, I take my Boston car. But we arrive at the exact same minute. The paparazzi see us walking into hotel at same time from different vehicles. Then, on red carpet, we do what your little fanfiction stories say. We give them the... what did you call it? Clandestine eye contact.”

Shane’s brow furrowed, but he was listening. “Intense eye contact from across the ice. Or the carpet, in this scenario.”

“Exactly,” Ilya grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “We look like two guys who are desperately trying to hide something big. The media will go completely crazy. They will write articles speculating if the fight on Tuesday was actually a lover's quarrel. We fulfill the behavioral clause by fueling the story, but we don't have to sit in a tight car together for four hours breathing same air. It leaves a safety margin.”

Shane evaluated the proposal, his eyes tracking the logic. It was risky to alter a league directive, but mathematically, Ilya’s strategy actually created a more believable narrative progression. It gave them a shield.

“It leaves a safety margin,” Shane agreed softly, his shoulders dropping a fraction as the relief of not having to share a confined vehicle with the Boston captain washed over him. He made a neat note on his digital itinerary. “Fine. We coordinate our arrival times with the drivers to the exact second. But if Crowell calls us out on it, you take the blame.”

Ilya let out a booming laugh, his thick Russian accent warming up the tense apartment. “Deal, Hollander. I am American citizen, remember? The league cannot deport me for arriving in nice car.”

Shane stared at him, his face suddenly turning a deadly serious, tight shade of pale. He shut the laptop the rest of the way, the plastic clicking loudly in the quiet room.

“Just remember, Rozanov,” Shane said, his voice dropping into a defensive, rigid line, his eyes darting down to his own knees. “I’m straight. This is a business transaction. I have a girlfriend.”

Ilya rolled his eyes so hard it practically hurt. He threw his head back against the wall, letting out a loud, theatrical groan that echoed through the apartment.

“Yes, Hollander, I know,” Ilya scoffed, his heavy Russian accent dripping with absolute amusement as he looked down at the Montreal captain. “I know you are straight guy. I think everyone in North America knows you are straight guy. I do not think Rose Landry is in business to be anyone’s beard, okay? She is too smart for that nonsense, and you are too boring to hide a secret.”

Shane’s jaw tightened, his skin flushing a quick, hot pink at the mention of his girlfriend. He hated when Ilya talked about his personal life, especially with that smug, all-knowing look on his face. “Rose has nothing to do with this. I just want to ensure we are completely aligned on the parameters of the arrangement. No unscripted implications.”

“Parameters are perfectly aligned, pretty boy,” Ilya chuckled, leaning off the wall and picking up his duffel bag from the floor. He checked his watch, completely unfazed by Shane’s sudden spike of panic. “You are straight, I am straight, and we are both trapped in this shitty nightmare. Now, I am going to hotel down the street because your couch looks like it is made for robots. I will see you at exactly 18:00 on Saturday for our grand romantic eye-contact battle.”

Shane didn’t answer, he just watched rigidly as Ilya walked toward the door, his heart hammering against his ribs from the sheer exhaustion of the threat to his spotless reputation.

Chapter 2: This Is Not a Date

Chapter Notes

You can like the tweets !!!!

“You said no, right?” Hayden asks, looking like his last two brain cells are fighting for custody.

Shane goes dead silent. The pause stretches on so long you can practically hear the dial-up internet noises echoing inside his skull.

“Wait—you said yes? Bro, what?” JJ’s brow furrows so hard it looks like a tectonic plate shift. “Are you actually serious right now? You are dating him? The enemy captain? The guy who literally tried to trip you into a locker last Tuesday on that Charity game?”

“I didn’t exactly—” Shane pauses, delivering each word at the speed of a dying snail. It’s like he’s running a beta test on human speech, desperately praying for a system glitch. “...have a choice in this. You know Crowell. The man literally held a metaphorical gun to our heads.”

Hayden’s eyebrow shoots up so fast it nearly exits his hairline. “What? Did he pull out a blood contract? Did he make you sign away your soul just because one homophobic asshole tied to the league can't mind his business? We are supposed to destroy them on the ice, Shane, not in a star-crossed lovers PR stunt!”

JJ suddenly gasps, the realization hitting him like taking a puck right in to the face. “Wait. If you two are ‘dating,’ that means you have to go on dates. Publicly. In front of witnesses. Shane, you looked like you were going to vomit when he breathed near your water bottle yesterday.”

Shane buries his face in his hands, letting out a sound that belongs in a haunted house. “Crowell said if we don't look convincing, he'll have sponsors breathing down our necks and make our lives miserable. He called it 'strategic community bridge-building.'”

“Well, I call it cruel and unusual punishment,” Hayden says, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“This is a hate crime against you specifically,” JJ adds solemnly, placing a heavy, sympathetic hand on Shane’s shaking shoulder. “But look on the bright side. You get to practice your acting skills. Maybe you’ll win an Oscar for 'Best Performance by a Straight Guy Pretending Not to Poison His Boyfriend's Protein Shake.'”

Right on cue, Shane’s phone buzzes on the bench between them.

The screen lights up with a text from an unsaved number, though the contact name is currently set to an aggressive string of skull emojis.

💀💀💀: Crowell says we must get coffee tomorrow at 10 AM. Pick good place. I do not want food poisoning. If you wear that ugly green shirt, I leave you at altar.

JJ reads the preview over Shane's shoulder and lets out a high-pitched wheeze. “Oh, he is committed to the bit. He’s already planning the wedding, bro.”

Hayden’s brow scrunches in confusion. “I thought you guys didn’t have a public appearance scheduled until the charity gala next weekend?”

“Yes, me too,” Shane mutters, his fingers flying across the screen as he rapidly scrolls through his unread emails, desperate to find out whether Rozanov is just messing with him or if his life is actually collapsing in real-time.

But apparently, Commissioner Crowell wanted Shane dead. Because right there, sandwiched between a parking ticket and a spam email, was an urgent, high-priority message from League office.

“...effective immediately, Captains are required to establish visible, positive community engagement. Recommend a casual public outing (e.g., coffee/tea) prior to the weekend press pool.”

“He’s not messing around,” Shane groans, dropping his phone onto his lap like it’s a live grenade. “Crowell literally ordered us to get tea. Tomorrow. In broad daylight.”

“Tea?” JJ echoes, a massive, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Oh, that is so much worse than coffee. Tea implies feelings. Tea implies you’re trying to understand his soul, Shane.”

“Shut up, JJ,” Shane says, though the lack of heat in his voice betrays his sheer exhaustion. He picks up the phone again, staring at the flashing skull emojis. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

To: 💀💀💀

It’s a good one, and it brings out my eyes. 10 AM. The Daily Grind on 4th. They have organic chamomile. Maybe it’ll calm your toxic personality.

“You’re actually texting him? Ilya Rozanov?” Hayden asks, watching Shane type with a look of profound concern. “The man has a mean streak wider than the state line. If he dumps hot tea on you, we lose our starting center.”

“Let him try,” Shane grumbles, hitting send. “At this point, a third-degree burn might get me a medical exemption from this entire nightmare.”

The response from Rozanov is immediate.

💀💀💀: The Daily Grind has too many windows. We’ll be on display like zoo animals. Perfect for Crowell’s propaganda. See you there, ‘sweetheart.’

Shane stares at the word sweetheart in quotes until his vision goes slightly blurry. He can already feel the phantom migraine brewing right behind his eyelids.

“Well,” JJ says, clapping his hands together cheerfully as he stands up from the bench. “Look at it this way. Tomorrow at ten, you start your glamorous new life as a bonfire. Don't forget to hold hands where the beat reporters can see you.”

“If either of you shows up to watch,” Shane threatens, pointing a stern finger at both of them, “I will personally ensure your gear bags find their way into the river.”

Hayden holds up his hands in surrender, though he’s biting back a laugh. “Hey, I’m an innocent bystander. Just make sure you survive until Monday's practice. We still have a championship to win, even if you’re sleeping with the enemy.”

“We are not sleeping together,” Shane yells at their retreating backs as JJ and Hayden jog off toward the showers, their unified laughter echoing off the locker room walls.

Shane drops his head back against the locker, closing his eyes. Tomorrow was going to be an absolute disaster.

Shane stares at the screen, the blunt, no-nonsense phrasing practically echoing in his ears with Rozanov’s thick, low accent. There were no flourishes, no wasted words—just a straight-up threat delivered with the clinical precision of a guy who looked like he could snap a hockey stick over his knee without blinking.

“He is direct, I’ll give him that,” Hayden says, leaning against the lockers as he pulls his own shirt on. “No big words. Just 'do this or I leave.' Very Soviet of him.”

“He’s Russian, Hayden, not a time traveler from 1980,” Shane mutters, though he can’t argue with the assessment. He rubs his temples, feeling the start of a massive headache.

He looks back down at his phone. He needs to reply, but how do you even argue with a guy who types like a Terminator?

JJ snatches the phone right out of Shane’s hand, his eyes widening as he reads the reply. “Oh my god. 'I do not drink tea. I drink coffee. Black.' Is your fake boyfriend allergic to happiness? On a second note, don’t answer that, stupid question it’s Rozanov. On a serious note if he kills you, I’m taking your gaming console.”

“You are a multimillionaire, JJ,” Shane sighed.

“No, Shane, I get JJ. If he hadn’t called dibs on that, I would’ve,” Hayden provided.

“Give me that,” Shane grumbles, yanking the phone back and shoving it deep into his gym bag. He stands up, grabbing his towel. “I need a shower. I need to wash the sheer stress of this conversation off my skin.”

“Don't forget to pick out a nice, non-ugly outfit for your big date tomorrow!” JJ calls out, dodging the dirty sock Shane flings at his head.

“It is not a date,” Shane yells back over the roar of the locker room showers.

But as the hot water hits his shoulders, Shane can’t shake the heavy sinking feeling in his chest. Tomorrow morning, he has to sit across a tiny wooden table from a six-foot-two Russian defenseman who looks at him like he wants to check him into the boards. They have to look like they are falling in love, all for the sake of the League’s PR department.

Shane closes his eyes against the steam. 10:00 AM couldn't come fast enough, and yet, he wished it would never arrive at all.

By 9:55 AM the next morning, Shane was standing outside The Daily Grind, feeling like a man waiting for his execution.

True to his word, he wasn't wearing the neon green jersey. Instead, he’d opted for a completely plain, aggressively neutral grey hoodie, hoping to blend into the brick walls of the coffee shop. The morning air was crisp, but his palms were sweating.

The bell above the door chimed. Shane flinched and spun around.

It wasn't Rozanov. It was just a random intern clutching a laptop. Shane let out a breath, checking his phone: 9:58 AM.

And then, a shadow fell over him.

Shane looked up. Rozanov didn't just walk; he sort of loomed into a space. He was wearing a heavy black leather jacket that made his shoulders look even broader than they did on the ice, his blond hair pushed back and his jaw set in its permanent scowl. He stopped two feet away, looking down at Shane with cold, pale eyes.

He swept a glance down Shane's front, lingering on the grey hoodie.

“Good,” Rozanov said, his voice a low, gravelly roll, his heavy Russian accent turning the word into ‘Gud.’ “You did not wear the shirt. I would have walked away.”

“Good morning to you too, Rozanov,” Shane said, crossing his arms to keep from fidgeting. “Nice to see you’re punctual.”

Rozanov didn't answer. He just gestured bluntly toward the door with his chin. “Inside. Crowell said we must be seen. Let us get this over with.”

The coffee shop was packed with half-asleep students and usual morning crowd. The moment the two rival captains walked in together, the ambient noise in the room dropped by half. Shane could practically feel the whiplash of fifty people turning their heads. A couple of girls at a corner table immediately pulled out their phones, whispering furiously.

Shane tenses up, his survival instincts screaming at him to turn around and run, but Rozanov didn't even blink. He marched straight to the counter, ignoring the stares like a tank rolling through a field.

“Black coffee. Large,” Rozanov told the barista, not bothering with a greeting. He glanced at Shane. “What do you want?”

“Just an iced chai,” Shane muttered.

Before Shane could even reach for his wallet, Rozanov slapped a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. The movement was so fast and aggressive it looked less like a polite gesture and more like he was paying a ransom.

“Rozanov, I can pay for my own—”

“Crowell said I must take you out,” Rozanov cut him off, his tone flat and unyielding as he grabbed his change. “If you pay, people think I am bad boyfriend. I am not bad boyfriend. Now move. People are looking.”

They grabbed their drinks and headed toward the only empty table—which, naturally, sat right next to the massive front window, putting them on full display for the entire sidewalk outside.

Shane sat down, pulling his iced chai toward him like a shield. Across from him, Rozanov sat perfectly straight, his large hands wrapped around his hot coffee cup. He didn't look like a guy on a casual coffee date; he looked like an interrogator waiting for Shane to crack.

“So,” Shane started, clearing his throat awkwardly under the weight of Rozanov's stare. “We’re supposed to look... convincing.”

Rozanov took a slow sip of his black coffee, his eyes never leaving Shane’s face. “Yes.”

“Right. And how do you propose we do that when you look like you’re planning where to hide my body?”

Rozanov leaned forward slightly, the table creaking under his weight. “I am trying my best, Shane. In Russia, we do not smile unless something is funny. If I smile right now, everyone will know it is fake.”

“Okay, valid point,” Shane sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you could at least try to look less... homicidal. Look at me like I’m a teammate. Or a puppy. Or something you don't actively hate.”

Rozanov stared at him for a long, agonizingly silent five seconds. Shane could practically hear the dial-up internet noises buzzing in his own head, waiting for Rozanov's brain to process the request.

Slowly, the corners of Rozanov’s mouth twitched upward into a stiff, terrifyingly rigid grin. It didn't reach his eyes at all. He looked like a vampire trying to mimic human emotion.

“Is this better, sweetheart?” Rozanov asked, the term of endearment sounding incredibly menacing in his thick accent.

Shane covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Oh my god. Stop. Stop doing that right now. You’re going to scare the barista.”

The vampire grin vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, calculating look that made Shane’s stomach do a slow flip. Rozanov leaned back in his chair, the leather of his jacket creaking ominously. He didn't look like a guy trying to cooperate anymore; he looked like a predator who had just spotted a flaw in the fencing.

“You are very sensitive, Shane,” Rozanov said, his low voice cutting right through the coffee shop hum. The heavy Russian accent dragged out the syllables, making it sound deliberate, like he was tasting an early victory. “You sweat. You look at the door every two minutes. If I am scary, it is because you are easily frightened.”

Shane’s jaw dropped. The sheer arrogance of the man. “I am not frightened of you, Rozanov. I’m stressed because my entire athletic future depends on a guy who communicates entirely in grunts and death threats.”

“And my future depends on a little boy who cries because a shirt is green,” Rozanov fired back smoothly. He took a slow, agonizingly loud sip of his boiling black coffee, his eyes locked onto Shane’s. “You think you are the only one losing something here? My team looks at me. They see me sitting with you. The guy who turned the puck over in the third period on that charity game.”

Shane flinches like he'd actually been struck. That turnover had been replayed for a week straight, and Rozanov knew exactly which bruise to press a thumb into.

“The ice was garbage, you absolute caveman,” Shane hissed, leaning across the small wooden table, his voice a fierce, quiet whisper. “And at least I didn’t spend three games in the penalty box for trying to decapitate a referee.”

Rozanov’s eyes narrowed, a dark, dangerous spark igniting in their ice-blue depths. He leaned in too, until they were barely a foot apart, their breath mingling in the tense air between them. From the outside, to anyone watching through the window, it looked intensely intimate. Inside, it was nuclear war.

“He was in my way,” Rozanov said flatly. “Like you are in my way.”

“Oh, I’m sorry my existence inconveniences your schedule of lifting weights and staring blankly into space,” Shane snapped, his fingers curling tightly around his plastic cup. He wanted nothing more than to dump the iced chai directly into Rozanov’s lap. “But we have to look like we like each other. So do something boyfriend-y before I lose my mind.”

Rozanov stared at him, his face an unreadable block of stone. Then, a slow, cruel smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. It was a look of pure, malicious competence. He knew exactly how to break Shane, and he was going to enjoy it.

Without taking his eyes off Shane's face, Rozanov reached across the table. His hand was massive, calloused, and shockingly warm. He didn't gently take Shane’s hand—he wrapped his heavy fingers around Shane’s wrist, his thumb pressing firmly against the racing pulse point there.

Shane froze, his breath catching in his throat at the sudden, suffocating weight of the grip.

“Look at the window, Shane,” Rozanov commanded softly, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that vibrated right down Shane’s spine.

Shane mechanically glanced toward the glass. Two girls in hockey jerseys were walking by, staring open-mouthed at Rozanov’s hand wrapped around Shane’s wrist. One of them quickly raised her phone, snapping a picture.

Rozanov didn't let go. Instead, his thumb slid slowly, deliberately up the inside of Shane’s wrist—a mocking caricature of a gentle caress that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight through Shane’s system. It was an aggressive display of dominance disguised as affection, and they both knew it.

“Smile for the camera, lyubimyy,” Rozanov murmured, using the Russian word like a weapon. “We are very in love. See? I touch you, and your heart goes boom, boom, boom. You are a terrible actor.”

Shane tried to yank his hand back, but Rozanov’s grip was like a steel handcuff, tightening just enough to warn him not to make a scene. Shane forced his lips into a tight, venomous smile, his eyes flashing with absolute hatred.

“If you don't let go of me in three seconds,” Shane whispered through his glued-on grin, “I am going to kick you under this table so hard your ancestors will feel it.”

Rozanov’s smirk deepened, looking thoroughly amused by the threat. He held on for a count of three, letting his thumb brush against Shane's skin one last time before releasing him with a careless flick of his fingers.

“You have no power here, Shane,” Rozanov said softly, picking up his coffee cup again.

Shane rubbed his wrist where Ilya’s fingers had just been, the skin still burning from the contact. He glared at the giant across from him, trying desperately to steady his breathing.

“Hold hands?” Shane echoed, his voice dripping with sudden amusement. He leaned back, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as he deliberately let his gaze drop to Ilya's massive hands before looking back up. “Tomorrow? Are you really that desperate for contact, Rozanov? We haven't even survived fifteen minutes of drinking coffee together.” Shane drawled.

“Is strategy, yes?” Ilya said calmly, leaning back. The leather jacket creaked again, a sound Shane was growing to despise. “Holding hands is what public expects. It is efficient. Minimal dialogue required.”

“Oh, right. Because god forbid you have to form a complete sentence in public,” Shane shot back, leaning his elbows on the table. “Let me guess your next strategic move. A romantic stroll where you just grunt at the birds?”

“If birds are in my way, yes,” Ilya replied without a hint of irony. “But tomorrow, you will hold my hand, and you will not look like you are holding a dead fish. You will hold it like you mean it.”

“I’ll hold it like I’m trying to cut off your circulation,” Shane hissed. “Which, honestly, shouldn't be hard given how tight your grip just was. Do they teach you how to treat people like prison inmates in Moscow, or is that just a natural gift?”

Ilya’s eyes flashed, amused rather than insulted. “In Moscow, we learn to hold onto what is ours so it does not run away. You look like you want to run, Shane. I am simply keeping you in your seat.”

“I’m not running from you, Rozanov. I’m just trying to avoid being collateral damage in whatever psychological warfare game you’re playing.” Shane took a long, irritated drag of his iced chai. “And stop calling me lyubimyy. I don’t know what it means, but coming from you, it sounds like a curse word.”

“It means ‘my darling’,” Ilya said, his voice dropping an octave, the gravelly Russian accent making the words sound heavy and deceptively soft. “Does it make you uncomfortable, sweetheart?”

Shane nearly choked on his straw. He swallowed hard, his cheeks flaring with a sudden heat that he desperately hoped Ilya would mistake for anger. “It makes me want to throw myself into oncoming traffic. Stop it.”

“Then do not give me reason to use it,” Ilya said, his smirk returning. “You react too much. Every word I say, your face tells a story. You are like an open book, Shane. A very loud, very annoying book.”

“And you’re a brick wall,” Shane snapped. “A boring, grey brick wall with an attitude problem. How Crowell expects anyone to believe we’re dating is beyond me. Couples are supposed to have chemistry, Ilya. We have the chemistry of bleach and ammonia.”

“Toxic?” Ilya asked, raising a blonde eyebrow.

“Explosive,” Shane corrected sharply. “One wrong move and the whole city blows up.”

Ilya let out a short, unexpected bark of laughter. It was a rough, unpolished sound, but it was the most genuine thing he’d done since he sat down. The dark, intense cloud around him lifted for a fraction of a second.

“Good,” Ilya said, his eyes locking onto Shane’s with a newfound, dangerous spark. “I like explosions. They keep me awake on the ice.”

Shane stared at him, caught off guard by the laugh. He quickly masked it by crossing his arms. “Great. Glad my impending psychological breakdown is keeping you entertained. What's the plan for tomorrow, then? Since you're the mastermind.”

Ilya took the last sip of his black coffee, setting the paper cup down with a definitive thud.

“Tomorrow, 2:00 PM. The arena plaza,” Ilya stated, his business-like tone returning. “We walk from the hotel lobby to the practice facility. The peak hours for Fan traffic. You will wear a normal shirt. You will look at me like you do not want to murder my ancestors. And you will hold my hand.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t actually going to back down from the challenge. “Fine. But if your hand is sticky or cold, the deal is off.”

“My hands are never cold, Shane,” Ilya murmured, standing up and towering over the table once more. He looked down at Shane, his eyes dark and calculating. “As you already know.”

Before Shane could launch another insult, Ilya turned and marched toward the exit, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded coffee shop like a blade.

Shane sat frozen at the table, his pulse still hammering against his ribs. He looked out the window, watching Ilya’s tall figure vanish into the downtown crowd.

Tomorrow was going to be a complete circus. But as Shane took another sip of his melted chai, the panic in his chest slowly hardened into something familiar: pure, stubborn competitiveness. Ilya thought he could shake him. Ilya thought he could win this little psychological game and play the dominant boyfriend while Shane crumbled.

Not a chance. If they had to play-act a romance to save their seasons, Shane was going to be the best damn fake boyfriend this league had ever seen. He was completely fine with holding hands—in fact, he was going to hold Ilya's hand so flawlessly, look at him with such perfect, dazzling affection, that he would make the big Russian break first.

Shane Hollander did not lose. Especially not to Ilya Rozanov.

Chapter 3: Smile for the Camera, Sweetheart

Chapter Notes

this was originally meant to be a college hockey AU, but halfway through writing i realized i know nothing about college sports, so i switched it back to professional hockey canon-compliance. if any campus terminology survived the edits, pretend you did not see it ! :)

Chapter End Notes

Hope you clicked/hovered on the insta layout to read the comments

Chapter 4: You Cannot Look Terrified

Chapter Notes

Currently between jobs, which means this fic is basically my full-time occupation now.

Ilya Rozanov hated Shane Hollander. It wasn’t a new thing; everyone remotely tuned into the hockey world knew how deep the mutual animosity ran. Or at least, they thought they did. The media fed on it, churning out headlines every time they shared ice time, dissecting every sharp shoulder check, icy glare, and post-game shrug. It was a classic, textbook rivalry that sold jerseys and packed arenas: the brooding Russian powerhouse versus the golden-boy Canadian prodigy. On paper, they were perfect opposites destined to collide.

But beneath the broadcast lights, the reality of that "hate" was a far more complicated beast. For Ilya, it was an obsession masquerading as animosity. He didn’t just despise Hollander; he tracked him. He knew the exact rhythm of Hollander’s skating stride, the subtle tells that signaled a sudden deke, and the sharp, frustrated tilt of his chin when a play went wrong. It was the exhausting, all-consuming weight of a rivalry that had defined both of their careers. Everyone knew they hated each other, but no one understood how deeply that friction bound them together.

Then came Crowell’s solution to the league's latest PR nightmare. It was as brilliant as it was terrifying: weaponize the rumors. To distract from Kent’s absolute mess, the front office decided to give the hockey world exactly what it had been whispering about for years by forcing them into a fake dating arrangement. On the surface, it was a masterstroke of crisis management. It pivoted the media narrative, shifted the spotlight away from the scandals, and satisfied a ravenous contingent of the fanbase. The optics were perfect—a bitter rivalry beautifully resolved into a high-profile romance.

They had spent their entire lives operating on raw, adversarial friction. Forcing him to suddenly hold Hollander’s hand for the cameras, share staged smiles, and pretend there was warmth where fire used to burn was going to push him to his absolute limit. They weren’t just trying to save the league’s skin anymore; Ilya was just trying to survive Hollander without letting his mask slip.

“I’m straight, you know?” Hollander said.

They were doing their first mandatory public walkthrough in Boston, and it had only been an hour since they started. Ilya was already fucking done.

The late morning air was crisp, but Ilya felt suffocated under the weight of the lenses tracking them from across the street. Ilya didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his jaw tight.

“Do you think I care?” Ilya muttered in Russian, the sharp syllables cutting through the cold air before he remembered he had to speak English for Hollander's benefit. He switched back, his voice flat with exhaustion. "I know what you are, Hollander. And right now, you are my boyfriend. Keep your fucking voice down."

"I'm just saying," Hollander muttered back, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He was walking too close, their shoulders brushing with every few steps—a proximity mandated by the PR team, but entirely unnatural to two men who usually only came this close to slam each other into the glass. "In case you got ideas."

Ilya let out a sharp, cynical breath that looked like smoke in the chilly air. The sheer arrogance of the Canadian prodigy never failed to astound him. As if Ilya wanted anything to do with Shane’s golden-boy life, let alone his bed.

"Do not flatter yourself," Ilya snapped, finally cutting a sideways glance at him. Shane’s blonde hair was perfectly messy, the exact look the media loved, but his blue eyes were defensive. "I am trying to save my career, not take you prom. Now, put your arm around me before the photographer thinks we are planning murder."

Shane didn’t back down. Instead, he leaned in a fraction closer, his shoulder pressing firmly against Ilya’s. "Yeah? Because you sure spend a lot of time watching me on the ice for a guy who doesn't care," he challenged, a smug, competitive smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ilya slowed his pace, forcing Shane to halt with him on the crowded sidewalk. He turned fully, crowding into Shane's space until the Canadian was forced to back up half a step against a brick storefront. If Hollander wanted to press him, Ilya was more than happy to show him how dangerous playing with fire could be.

"I watch you because you are predictable, zolotoi malchik," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly purr that barely carried over the city traffic. He leaned down, his breath brushing the shell of Shane's ear before his gaze slid deliberately down to Shane's mouth. Ilya let his eyes linger there, explicit and blatant, before meeting Shane's gaze again. "I know exactly how you move. I know what makes you flinch, and I know exactly how to make you lose control. Do not confuse my attention on you for anything innocent."

The smug smirk vanished instantly. A sudden flush crawled up Shane’s neck, staining his cheeks a brilliant, undeniable red under the crisp Boston sun. He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in a quick, shallow breath, completely trapped by the sudden shift in the air.

Seeing the untouchable golden boy look so utterly undone and breathless beneath him did something strange to Ilya’s chest. For a fleeting, treacherous second, a sharp hit of satisfaction—and a faint, genuine pull of amusement—warmed him. Looking at Shane like this, completely stripped of his defensive hockey-player armor and radiating heat, was... endearing.

The realization hit Ilya like a brutal check into the boards. He caught himself instantly, his jaw tightening as he ripped his gaze away. Chort. He was losing his mind.

"Walk," Ilya ordered roughly, turning on his heel and marching down the sidewalk before Shane could see the sudden tension in his own shoulders.

“You’re crazy,” Shane said, shaking his head as his ex-best friend Rose sat there looking very sorry.

“I’m not saying you’re fully gay…” Rose began, but Shane interrupted her.

“We dated, didn’t we?”

“And it was a disaster.”

Rose was right; it had been a disaster. But Shane stubbornly convinced himself it was only because dating your best friend was awkward. It had nothing to do with what she meant. Nothing at all.

“Shane, listen to me,” Rose pleaded, leaning forward over the table. “The way you talk about Rozanov—you’ve gone beyond rivalry with him. And another issue is the league wants you to share a room on camera. Why you two? Think!”

Shane let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. “It’s PR, Rose. Crowell's orders. I’m doing it to save the league from Kent’s mess, not because I want to... to look at him.”

“Sure,” Rose said, her voice full of doubt as she took out her phone and tapped the screen. “Well, just so you know, the internet is losing its mind because your terrifying Russian rival left three red hearts under a Hollanov fan edit last night.”

Shane froze. "He did what?"

“Isn’t that what you two are supposed to do?” Rose asked.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them!” Shane snapped, his heart racing as he grabbed her phone.

At the top of the comments were the verified blue tick, along with Ilya's username, and three red hearts. This was just like how Ilya provoked him on the Boston sidewalk, but now he did it for millions to see.

Shane stared at the screen as heat crawled slowly up the back of his neck. Ilya’s threat to make him lose control came flooding back so vividly that it made his stomach twist.

"He’s messing with me," Shane said, pushing the phone back to Rose. He felt unconvincing, but still, “It’s just to upset me. Well, too bad for him, I'm better than that.”

Rose raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh? If you’re so sure, it seems like it’s working. And don’t forget, you’ll be sharing a hotel room with him starting next week for the MVP award."

Shane groaned. “Ugh, don’t remind me! I just don’t get why the league can’t book me a room under a different name!”

Rose shrugged. “Maybe they want to avoid leaks.”

“Or they just want to squeeze out all the drama for every cent it’s worth,” Shane grumbled, dropping his head into his hands. His palms felt hot against his face.

Rose didn’t argue. She couldn't. Crowell and the front office were desperate to clean up the league’s image, and if that meant presenting two of their top stars as a hatred-turned-romantic spectacle, they would do it with a smile.

"Look on the bright side," Rose offered, though her tone had no real comfort. "At least the MVP awards are in Vegas. There’s plenty of space to avoid each other in those huge casino suites."

"Not when the camera crew is set to capture our 'domestic arrival' at the hotel," Shane muttered in frustration through his fingers. He let his hands fall, staring blankly at the table. "He’s going to be unbearable, Rose. You didn’t see him in Boston. He was… it wasn’t just his usual arrogance. He was doing this thing where he..."

He trailed off, his throat tightening as the memory of Ilya pinning him against that brick wall came back all at once. Even now, he could still feel the rough vibration of Ilya’s voice against his ear, low and deliberate as he promised to make Shane lose control.

"Doing what thing?" Rose asked, her eyes narrowing with keen curiosity.

"Nothing," Shane replied quickly, a fresh wave of heat rising in his neck. He stood up, needing to escape the conversation before his face betrayed him. "Just... hockey mind games. I need to pack. I have to figure out how to survive a week in a room with a guy who clearly thinks red hearts are a smart PR move.”

“Are you alright, brother?” Cliff asked, leaning against the doorframe of the spare bedroom. He watched his captain stuff clothes aggressively into a heavy leather suitbag. A dress shoe was shoved inside too hard, threatening to rip the lining.

“What do you think, Marlow?” Ilya grumbled, not looking up from his bed. His jaw was set so tight that the muscles in his cheek strained against his skin.

“Is this about Hollander?”

Ilya threw his hands up, abandoning a wrinkled dress shirt to the bottom of the bag. “Of course it’s about Hollander. What else?”

Cliff raised his hands in a calming gesture and walked further into the room with a faint smirk. “Hey, man, I’m just asking. The whole team group chat is losing it over that social media stunt. We didn't know you had a romantic side, Rozanov.”

“Idioty,” Ilya spat under his breath as he violently zipped the bag closed. He stood up tall, his dark eyes flashing with irritation. "Is PR. Crowell wants show, so I give them show. I am trying to protect my career, Marlow, not plan a wedding."

“Right, right. A show,” Cliff said, leaning his hip against Ilya’s desk, clearly unconvinced. “But you usually don’t play the media games this hard. Leaving hearts on fan pages? You looked like you were trying to eat the guy alive out there at the side walk.”

Ilya's hands paused on the handles of his bag. For a brief second, the quiet comfort of the house disappeared completely, replaced by the vivid image of Hollander pressed against that brick wall—breathless, furious, flushed red beneath the cold Boston air, all that sharp defensive arrogance cracked wide open. The memory of Shane’s breath against his neck hit him hard enough to make his grip tighten around the leather handles.

"I am establishing dominance," Ilya lied smoothly, his voice dropping to a flat, gravelly tone as he swung the heavy bag over his shoulder. "If I must pretend to love him for the cameras, I will make sure he is the one who breaks first. Now, grab your keys. You are driving me to the airport and bfore that to the PR."

The private conference room felt cramped. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation. Ilya sat with his arms crossed, a solid mass of muscle, while Cliff leaned against the back wall, quietly watching the scene with amusement.

The glass door clicked open, and Hollander walked in, accompanied by league’s publicist. He looked completely out of his element, his hair a bit messy and his brown eyes darting to Ilya before quickly looking away.

"Great, everyone is here," the lead publicist said, tapping her tablet with authority. "Let's review the Vegas protocol. The arrival at the resort needs to make an impact. The media is already speculating wildly after the Boston photos and Ilya's digital contribution last page."

Shane let out a sharp breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, about that. Was the internet meltdown really necessary, Rozanov? My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since yesterday."

Ilya didn’t move. He fixed his dark eyes on Shane and spoke in a low, flat tone. "It got results, Hollander. That’s what we’re here for."

"It did," the publicist interrupted, stepping between them. "But the stakes are higher now. When you two arrive at the VIP entrance for the MVP awards, the press will be aggressive. They won’t just want you standing next to each other. They’re going to shout for a kiss."

The words hung worryingly in the air.

Shane tensed up, his jaw dropping slightly. "A kiss? Whoa, hold on. Crowell said hand-holding and casual walks. Nobody mentioned anything about—"

"It’s the natural progression of the narrative, Shane," his publicist said gently. "If you refuse, it looks staged. It seems like a corporate cover-up for the mess."

"It is a corporate cover-up!" Shane snapped, turning a frantic, wide-eyed look toward Ilya, clearly searching for support in the chaos.

Ilya remained still, but a strange heat flared in his chest. He watched the panic radiate off the Canadian athlete—how he trembled slightly and how fast his chest rose and fell. It was the same look Shane got just before he lost his temper on the ice. It was raw.

"We do not kiss," Ilya said smoothly, his gravelly voice cutting through the rising tension in the room. He stood up, towering over the table, locking his eyes on Shane’s. "Not yet. If we give them everything at the airport, the story ends in one day. We make them wait. We tease them."

Shane swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Ilya’s gaze. "Tease them?"

"Yes," Ilya murmured, stepping closer until he could smell Shane’s crisp, wintery cologne. He leaned down slightly, speaking in a dangerous whisper only Shane could hear. "When they ask, you look at me. Get nervous, and let me lead you away. Let them wonder, zolotoi malchik. It drives them crazy."

Shane stopped breathing for half a second with Ilya standing that close. Another wave of heat spread across his face so fast it almost hurt, and when he opened his mouth to argue, absolutely nothing came out.

"Perfect," the lead publicist smiled, entirely missing the intense tension between her stars. "The slow burn sells better anyway. Now get to the private gate. Your flight leaves in an hour."

The door of the room hadn't even closed behind the publicists when silence broke.

"What the hell was that, Rozanov?" Shane spun around, his hands flying out of his pockets as he faced Ilya. The defensive flush on his face transformed into an angry crimson. "Tease them? Drive them crazy? Are you out of your mind?"

Ilya didn't react. He picked up his suitbag, his movements careful, completely unfazed by the Shane’s outburst. "I am playing game they set up. Unlike you, I do not freeze when a woman mentions a kiss."

"I didn't freeze!" Shane snapped, stepping right into Ilya’s path, forcing the taller man to stop. His chest heaved, and his blue eyes flashed with intense anger. "I’m trying to keep some part of my real life intact! You’re out there dropping hearts on fan pages and whispering creepy stuff in my ear in front of the handlers like you enjoy this."

Ilya’s expression turned completely dark. He dropped the suitbag onto the conference table with a heavy thud, stepping forward until he pressed Shane against the edge of the chairs. The sheer weight of his presence loomed over Shane, just like when they clashed on the ice.

"You think I enjoy this?" Ilya's voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl, thick with genuine anger. "You think I want to hold your hand? You think I want everyone looking at me and seeing you? I am doing what I must to protect my contract, Hollander. If I have to pretend you shit sunlight, I will do it without a doubt. Because I do not like to fail."

"Oh, right, the great Ilya Rozanov never fails!" Shane shoved a hand against Ilya's chest, a hard push that didn’t budge Ilya but filled the air between them with tension. "You're just using this to mess with my head, just like you do on the ice. You love seeing me flustered. You love having control."

"Then don’t let me have it!" Ilya shot back, grabbing Shane's wrist before he could pull away, his grip tight and unyielding. He pulled Shane a fraction closer, their breaths mingling in the tight space between them. "Stop whining like a child because the rules changed. You want to prove you are better than me, zolotoi malchik? Then stand at the hotel, look the cameras in the eye, and pretend you can handle me."

Shane stared up at him, trapped between the chairs and the full force of Ilya’s attention, his wrist still locked inside Ilya’s grip. His jaw tightened hard enough to ache as anger tangled violently with something far more dangerous underneath it. He should’ve pulled away immediately. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, glaring up at Ilya like breaking eye contact would mean losing.

From the doorway, Cliff cleared his throat loudly. "Hey, as much as I love watching you two argue, the private jet is burning fuel. Let’s go."

Ilya released Shane's wrist as if it had burned him, tearing his gaze away and grabbing his bag off the table. He walked past Cliff without another word.

Shane stood by the table for a moment, his wrist still tingling from Ilya's grip, his heart pounding against his ribs. He took a sharp, shaky breath, wiped his face with his hands, and followed.

“Maybe we should practice,” Rozanov said casually, barely twenty minutes into the flight.

Shane nearly choked on air. “Practice what?”

Rozanov turned his head slowly, dark eyes unreadable. “Kissing.”

A hot wave of disbelief shot straight up Shane’s neck. “I know how to kiss.”

“Do you?” Rozanov asked smoothly. “Because right now you look like you are about to die from hearing word.”

“I know how to kiss Rozanov.”

“You know how to kiss girls,” Rozanov corrected smoothly, not even looking over from the small galley kitchen where he was casually making tea. He sounded entirely too clinical for a conversation taking place at ten thousand feet inside a private jet. “And the fans are looking for a passionate, deeply committed husband. Not virgin Mary!”

Shane stared at him, his throat still burning slightly from that phantom choke. The cabin air suddenly felt incredibly thin.

“I am not some nervous virgin,” Shane managed, his voice dropping an octave as he tried to claw back a shred of dignity. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and leaned back into the leather seat. “And it’s a cover, Rozanov. We walk in, we hold hands, we kiss for, like, two seconds, and that’s it. There is absolutely no scenario where we need to practice.”

Rozanov stared at him for a long moment.

Annoyingly, he didn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. He looked calm. Analytical. Like Shane had just failed to grasp the world’s most obvious point.

Slowly, Rozanov set Shane’s coffee mug down on the console table between them. Then he leaned one shoulder against the edge of it, broad arms folding across his chest as he looked down at Shane with steady, unreadable eyes.

“Hollander,” he said patiently, in the same tone someone might use before explaining basic mathematics to a particularly stubborn child, “you almost had heart attack because I said word ‘kissing.’”

“That’s because it’s disgusting,” Shane shot back automatically.

Rozanov placed a hand over his chest with exaggerated offense, letting out a slow, theatrical gasp loud enough to echo slightly through the private jet cabin. “Oh no,” he said dryly. “Are you homophobic, Hollander?”

“Are you rage baiting me, Rozanov?”

Rozanov only shrugged one shoulder, infuriatingly calm. “I need to know you will not hesitate.”

Shane let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I won’t hesitate.”

Rozanov’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. “You hesitated when publicist said word ‘kiss.’”

“Because it caught me off guard!”

“You are still defensive now.”

“I’m defensive because you keep talking like some weird Bond villain trying to psychologically profile me.”

“Hm.”

Shane pointed at him immediately. “See? That. That little ‘hm’ thing you do. You do it specifically to annoy me.”

“Is working very well.”

“Oh, my God.”

Rozanov straightened from the console table and took a slow step closer to Shane’s seat. Not threatening. Not aggressive. Somehow that made it worse.

“If cameras ask for a kiss in Vegas,” he said evenly, “you cannot look terrified.”

“I won’t look terrified.”

“You already do.”

“I literally don’t.”

Rozanov tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking down to Shane’s mouth before returning upward with deliberate slowness. “Your pulse says otherwise.”

Heat climbed instantly up Shane’s neck. “You’re insane. And you are not Superman, Rozanov. You can’t hear my pulse from over there.”

“And you are nervous.”

“I’m not nervous about kissing you,” Shane snapped.

A beat of silence passed between them.

Then Rozanov’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Good. Then prove it.”

Shane blinked. “Prove it?”

“Yes.” Rozanov’s voice stayed maddeningly calm. “You keep talking. I am giving you opportunity.”

Shane stared at him in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am completely serious.”

“That’s actually psychotic.”

“Maybe,” Rozanov allowed. “But if reporters corner us in Vegas and start chanting for kiss, I need to know you will not look like hostage on live television.”

“I would not look like a hostage.”

Rozanov gave him a long look. “Hollander. You looked nervous when I stood too close to you near coffee machine this morning.”

“That was because you were standing weirdly close!”

“And now you are yelling.”

“I’m yelling because you keep saying insane things with your weird calm serial killer face!”

For the first time, something dangerously close to amusement flickered across Rozanov’s expression.

Then he pushed off the console table completely and walked toward Shane’s seat.

Slowly.

Shane immediately sat up straighter without meaning to.

Rozanov stopped directly in front of him, close enough now that Shane had to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. The private jet suddenly felt much smaller than it had ten seconds ago.

“Well?” Rozanov asked quietly.

Shane’s throat tightened. “Well what?”

“You said you are not nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“Then kiss me, Hollander.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“Kiss me now,” Rozanov said simply. He didn’t move any closer, but the sudden stillness in his posture somehow made the space between them feel microscopic. “Show me you can do it without overthinking. No hesitation. Just a normal, affectionate gesture between two people who have unfortunately been married for three years.”

Shane’s heart flipped violently against his ribs.

He looked at Rozanov’s mouth for one reckless second before immediately dragging his gaze back upward to meet the taller man’s steady, unreadable expression. The confidence radiating off Rozanov was infuriating. Calm. Certain. Like he already knew Shane would fold first.

Fine.

A sharp spike of adrenaline cut clean through Shane’s panic.

You want professionalism? Fine. Let’s be professional.

Shane unbuckled his seatbelt with a loud click and stood up in one quick movement. He crossed the narrow space between them before his brain could catch up with what he was doing. He refused to think about the warmth coming off Rozanov’s broad frame, or the dark wool sweater stretched across his shoulders, or the by now familiar scent of cedarwood and expensive tobacco that always clung to him like something unfairly distracting. He reached up and grabbed Rozanov by the jaw.

Then Shane kissed him.

It was supposed to be quick. Aggressive. A point-proven sort of kiss.

A there, are you happy now? kind of kiss.

But Shane hadn’t accounted for the fact that Rozanov wouldn’t pull away. The second their mouths met, Rozanov’s hand slid up to the back of Shane’s neck with startling confidence, fingers spreading warm and steady against his skin. His thumb settled directly over the racing pulse beneath Shane’s hairline like he had been looking for it. Then Rozanov tilted his head slightly and parted his lips just enough to completely ruin Shane’s attempt at making this feel detached.

The kiss changed instantly.

What should have been stiff and sarcastic turned slow, seamless, and dangerously warm. Rozanov kissed like he approached everything else on the ice—controlled, thoughtful, devastatingly sure of himself. He guided the angle effortlessly, turning Shane’s defensive challenge into something deeper before Shane even realized it was happening.

It only lasted a few seconds.

Maybe four.

Maybe five.

Long enough for Shane’s grip on Rozanov’s jaw to loosen completely.

Long enough for the adrenaline in his chest to melt into something dizzying and hot.

Long enough that when Rozanov finally pulled back, Shane realized with horror that he had leaned into it.

For one suspended second, neither of them moved.

Rozanov’s hand was still resting against the back of his neck. Shane’s fingers still lingered loosely against Rozanov’s jaw. Their faces remained far too close together, breaths mixing in the cramped cabin air. Rozanov looked down at him silently.

He didn’t look smug.

That somehow made it worse.

There was something darker in his expression now—something heavier and more focused that sent another sharp pulse of heat through Shane’s chest.

“Better,” Rozanov murmured, his voice rougher than it had been moments earlier.

His hand slid slowly off the back of Shane’s neck, fingers brushing down along the side of his throat and grazing his collarbone before finally falling away completely.

“But,” he continued calmly, like they were reviewing missed plays after a game instead of standing inches apart in the middle of a private jet, “you kissed me like you were trying to win a fight.”

Shane stared at him.

Rozanov’s mouth twitched faintly. “Relax your shoulders next time,” he said. “We try again in twenty minutes.”

He turned back to the galley before Shane could even find the breath to reply, leaving Shane standing in the middle of the aisle, his tea growing cold and his mind completely compromised.

Twenty minutes, he thought, panic surging through him. He expects me to do that again in twenty minutes.

Shane sank back into his leather seat, his legs feeling heavy. He stared out the window at the endless sea of clouds, though his mind was elsewhere. He was focused on Ilya Rozanov’s steady, unwavering gaze.

Chapter 5: Gay Little Algorithm and a Completely Heterosexual Panic Attack

Chapter Notes

You know the drill you can click on everything !

It took a agonizingly long time for Shane to finally push himself up off the cold marble floor. Shaking violently, he stripped out of the soiled boxers, practically shoving them to the bottom of the trash can to hide the evidence, and hurriedly pulled on a clean pair along with his sweatpants.

Shane Hollander was not gay. He knew this for a fact. Like—he’d dated girls, right? Yes. Exactly.

Okay, fine, he’d only dated two. And sure, both had been complete disasters, but that didn't count. The first one was just because he was inexperienced and clueless. And the second one was Rose Landry. He’d been an absolute nervous wreck the entire time around her, his heart hammering against his ribs, but who wouldn't be? It was Rose Landry. Anyone would be sweating bullets around a girl that beautiful. It had absolutely nothing to do with him being into guys. It especially had nothing to do with Rozanov of all people.

Shane leaned heavily against the vanity, staring at his own pale, hollow reflection. His chest was still a tight, agonizing vice. His breathing was dangerously shallow. It was a glitch. A bizarre, stress-induced biological fluke brought on by the suffocating pressure of being forced to share a room—and a bed—with a guy who actively made his blood boil. That was the only logical explanation.

The silence of the penthouse bathroom was deafening, broken only by the faint, low hum of the city seventy floors below. He turned on the tap, splashing freezing water onto his face once, twice, a third time until his skin stung from the chill. He needed to shock his system. He desperately needed to wipe away the lingering, hazy heat of the dream that was still trying to claw its way into his brain.

He gripped the edges of the marble vanity, his head hanging low between his shoulders, his mind racing in a frantic loop. Two girls. That was his entire track record. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to prove a point. He liked women. He was supposed to like women. The disaster with Rose wasn't a sign of some hidden, repressed sexuality; it was just a classic case of a guy fumbling under pressure. It had to be. Because the alternative—that his subconscious was actively betraying him with a violent, arrogant Russian who treated him like dirt—was completely unacceptable. It was horrifying.

Shane drew in a sharp, trembling breath and finally forced himself to look back at the mirror. His hair was a messy, dark ruin, and his lips were bitten raw from his own escalating panic.

Get it together, he told himself, his jaw locking so tight it ached. It was a dream. A biological fluke. Men have them. It means absolutely nothing.

But the real problem wasn't the dream itself anymore. The problem was stepping back out through that bathroom door.

Rozanov was still out there. Rozanov, who had just been pinning his wrists down, whose heavy forearm had been crushing his chest, whose thick, broken accent had been spitting curses into the quiet of their shared room. Shane’s skin still prickled where Rozanov had touched him, a ghostly, irritating warmth that he desperately wanted to scrub off with boiling water.

If he stayed in the bathroom too long, Rozanov would notice. A guy like that noticed everything, constantly looking for any sign of weakness to exploit, any excuse to call him pathetic or a "freak" again. Shane couldn't give him the satisfaction. He couldn't let Rozanov think a stupid nightmare had rattled him this badly.

Shane reached for a hand towel, roughly drying his face until his skin went flush. He tossed the towel onto the counter, squared his trembling shoulders, and reached for the doorknob.

When he clicked the lock open and pushed the heavy door inward, the bedroom was entirely dark, save for the ambient silver glow of the city lights cutting through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Shane stood in the doorway for a fraction of a second, his eyes adjusting, his pulse spiking anew.

Rozanov was back on his side of the massive platform bed. He was lying on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. To anyone else, he looked asleep. But Shane knew better than to trust the stillness. The tension in the room was still thick enough to choke on.

Shane walked as quietly as he could across the polished hardwood, his bare feet making no sound. Every muscle in his body was coiled like a tight spring, terrified that Rozanov would snap his eyes open or drop a low, mocking comment into the dark.

He reached his side of the bed. The sheets were still slightly rumpled from where he’d been thrashing. Shane swallowed the massive lump of anxiety in his throat, slid beneath the heavy duvet, and kept himself as close to the absolute edge of the mattress as humanly possible, facing away from the center. He lay frozen, staring out at the sprawling city skyline, his eyes wide, knowing sleep was miles away.

"You are still breathing too loud," a rough, gravelly voice cut through the dark from the other side of the mattress. Rozanov hadn't moved his arm from his face. "Go to sleep, Hollander. Before I throw you out of window."

Shane lay frozen, his eyes wide as he stared out at the silver grid of the city skyline. Rozanov’s threat still hung in the air, cold and heavy, but it was the booming silence that followed that really began to suffocate him. Every time Shane tried to quiet his breathing, his lungs revolted, forcing him to take shallow, trembling sips of air.

His skin felt tight. The phantom sensation of Rozanov’s fingers locking onto his wrists wouldn't fade.

A fluke, he repeated to himself, his fingers curling into the edge of the mattress. A stress reaction.

But the logic wasn't sticking anymore. The panic was morphing into a sickening, hyper-fixated desperation. He needed proof. He needed an objective, third-party confirmation right that second, or his brain was going to cannibalize itself before sunrise.

Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, Shane slid his hand under his pillow and slipped his phone out. He turned the screen brightness down to the absolute minimum, shielding the glow with his body as he curled inward, facing away from the dark mass of the Russian on the other side of the bed.

With shaking thumbs, he opened a private browser tab. He paused, his heart hammering against his ribs so violently he was certain Rozanov would hear it. He stared at the blank search bar, his throat dry.

He typed: Am I gay quiz

It felt pathetic. It felt like a massive admission of guilt just seeing the words on the screen, but he pressed search anyway.

The browser window didn't crash or glitch like Shane wanted it to. The screen just sat there, a mockery of neat geometric confetti blocks framing the bold, pink letters that felt like a slap on his face.

🎉 You are gay 🎉

Shane froze, his thumb locking up against the glass screen. He didn't dare slam the phone onto the bedside table. He couldn't risk making a sound. Rozanov was sleeping a mere two feet away on the exact same mattress, a massive, unpredictable weight breathing in a slow, heavy rhythm just over his shoulder.

Instead, Shane shoved the phone face-down against his own chest, his fingers white-hot and trembling as he squeezed the device like a lifeline.

"Bullshit," he breathed into his pillow, the word nothing more than a silent, frantic exhale. It's an internet algorithm. A stupid, rigged script. It doesn't know anything.

He gripped the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles popped under the strain. He wasn't in the safety of the locked bathroom anymore; he was trapped right here in the open, the suffocating panic attack mutating into a cold, dizzying horror that made his chest constrict. Air wouldn't go down. His ribs ached as his lungs caught only ragged, shallow sips of oxygen, his vision vignetting into black at the edges.

He was straight. He had to be straight. He’d lived twenty-odd years anchoring himself to the simple, uncomplicated reality of liking women, even if his actual track record was a clumsy, fumbled disaster. This had to be a biological fluke. A symptom of intense isolation and stress. You lock two guys in a high-rise room, you force them to share a bed, you let one of them look at you with that brutal, predatory intensity—

Shane stopped breathing.

His brain, completely rogue and entirely treacherous, instantly replayed the phantom weight of Rozanov’s forearm crushing his chest hours ago. The harsh cadence of that thick accent growling suka right against his neck. Shane knew he only heard that word from dream Ilya because it was the name he had called him the other day. The ghostly, burning warmth was still prickling against his skin. It wasn't disgust that was making his blood run hot under the duvet. It was something else—something heavy and dark and completely unacceptable.

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to drown out the racing thoughts, but the absolute proximity of the man next to him was making his skin crawl. He could feel the faint, radiating heat of Rozanov’s massive frame just two feet away.

From the other side of the mattress, Rozanov let out a low, deep breath, shifting slightly as he settled deeper into the pillows. He didn't stir as he rolled onto his side, completely unbothered, his breathing instantly sliding back into a rhythmic, effortless drone.

A sharp wave of bitter resentment washed over Shane, cutting through the panic.

It wasn't fair. It was infuriating. Rozanov was the one who had invaded his space, who had pinned him down, who had sparked this entire horrifying, internal wildfire—and yet, there the Russian was, sleeping like a log. Rozanov didn't have to lie awake with his chest splitting open. Rozanov didn't have his whole identity shattered by a stupid five-question quiz at three in the morning. He could just switch his brain off, completely oblivious to the absolute chaos he had caused two feet away. Shane stared fixedly at the dark wall, his jaw locking so tight it ached, his chest burning with pure, helpless anger at how easily Rozanov could just exist while Shane's world crashed down around him.

He drew his knees up higher, keeping his body pressed against the absolute, microscopic edge of the mattress, staring blindly out at the sprawling, silver city skyline. Every muscle in his body remained coiled like a tight spring.

He forced his eyes to stay closed to block out the city lights, but behind his eyelids, the pink confetti was still falling.

Chapter End Notes

Like I said, still unemployed, so you’re probably getting another chapter today.

Chapter 6: And the Hart Memorial Trophy Goes To…

Chapter Notes

I hope you clicked on the wrapper and took the quiz from the previous chapter.

Ilya leaned against the wet bar, crossing his arms as he watched Hollander. On paper, everything was perfect. They were in Vegas for the MVP awards, the absolute highpoint of NHL glitz. They were pulling off the ultimate stunt: the bitterest rivals in hockey, fake dating for a massive PR redemption arc that had the entire sports world choked up.

But Hollander was keeping something from him.

Ilya knew it. He knew Hollander better than he knew his own reflection. He knew the exact rhythm of Hollander’s breathing when he was relaxed, and he knew the sharp, tense set of Hollander’s shoulders when he was holding back. Right now, Hollander was pacing the suite, checking his phone every three minutes, his usual chirpy, golden-boy confidence replaced by a hyper-focused jitteriness.

It was driving Ilya insane. He wanted to corner Hollander against the wall, dig his fingers into those broad shoulders, and force the truth out of him.

But he couldn’t.

Ilya had no right to Hollander’s secrets, no legal claim to his honesty—all of this was just a deal to save the league’s image and survive the media circus. If he demanded to know what Hollander was hiding, he’d be crossing a line, admitting that this fake dynamic was affecting him a little too real. He couldn’t afford to show that vulnerability, especially not to Hollander.

Hollander stopped pacing, catching Ilya staring at him in the mirror. He quickly forced a bright, media-ready smile onto his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"What's with the staring, Rozanov?" Hollander asked, his voice a little too light, a little too rehearsed. "Just admiring how good I look in a tuxedo, or are you getting nervous about the red carpet?"

Ilya’s jaw tightened. The deflection was textbook. He had absolutely zero proof, no leverage, and no right to push past the boundary of their deal.

"Neither, Hollander," Ilya said, his Russian accent thick and flat as he picked up his glass. He forced his expression into one of pure, indifferent boredom. "Just wondering how long it takes for your Canadian ego to collapse under all this neon."

Shane let out a sharp, scoffing laugh, but it lacked its usual bite. He tossed his phone onto the plush mattress of the king-sized bed, though his eyes lingered on the device for a fraction of a second too long before he turned his back to the glass.

"My ego is perfectly fine, Rozanov," Shane shot back, adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo jacket with quick, jerky movements. "You should worry about your own. If I win tonight, you're going to have to look happy for the cameras while I take the trophy home. That takes real acting."

Ilya didn't move from the wet bar. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the neon pink light from the strip catch the ice cubes. The silence in the room stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the faint, low rumble of the Vegas traffic below.

Standing two feet away from Hollander in a room that smelled like expensive hotel linen and Shane's cologne, the boundaries were blurring. Ilya could see the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in Shane's hands. He could see the faint, dark circles under his rival's eyes that the PR team's makeup artist had tried—and failed—to completely hide.

Shane was drowning in something, and he was doing it right in front of Ilya.

"You speak too much, Hollander," Ilya murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against the quiet of the suite. He set his glass down on the marble counter with a deliberate, heavy click. "You always speak when you are trying to hide the fact that you have nothing to say."

Shane’s smile vanished instantly, the media-ready mask slipping away to reveal the raw, exposed nerves underneath. His jaw locked, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared across the short distance separating them. "I'm not hiding anything."

"You are terrible liar," Ilya said flatly. He took a step forward, his massive frame cutting off the pink glow of the window, casting a long, heavy shadow over Shane. "You check phone like it is oxygen. Your shoulders are tight like you are waiting for hit on the boards. If you fumble on the red carpet tonight because your head is somewhere else, it ruins my reputation too."

Shane scrambled backward half a step, his spine hitting the edge of the vanity counter. He looked up, his breathing shallow, cornered by the sheer proximity of the Russian. For a second, the hostile, volatile energy between them felt exactly like the battlefield of their shared room months ago—punishing, tense, and entirely too close.

"It's just... personal stuff, okay?" Shane hitched out, his voice dropping its rehearsed lightness, sounding suddenly small against the vast space of the penthouse. "Just drop it, Ilya.” Then like it physically pains him “ Please."

Ilya stopped. The use of his first name—not 'Rozanov', not the mocking titles Shane usually threw at him—hit him like a physical blow. He stared down at Hollander, feeling the wild, frantic rhythm of the Canadian's pulse practically radiating through the air between them.

The boundary was right there, invisible and sharp. One more step, and Ilya would be admitting he cared. He would be admitting that this fake dating nightmare had turned into something entirely consuming.

Ilya huffed a short breath through his nose, his expression hardening back into that cold, indifferent mask.

"Fine," Ilya muttered, his accent thick and jagged as he reached out, his heavy fingers brushing against Shane's lapel for a fraction of a second to straighten the fabric. The brief friction left a ghostly, burning warmth behind. "Fix your tie, Hollander. Limousine is waiting downstairs."

The leather interior of the stretch limousine smelled of chilled champagne and polished wood, but the luxury did nothing to calm Shane’s racing pulse. He stared fixedly out the tinted window, watching the neon blur of the Strip slide past in distorted streaks of hot pink and electric blue.

His fingers were clamped tightly around his phone inside his pocket. He was completely hung up on it. The vivid, punishing heat of that shared bedroom nightmare still burned in his mind, instantly followed by the mocking image of that digital quiz result. Questioning. Suppressing. Gay. The words were practically branded onto the back of his eyelids.

He was a jittery, tangled mess of exposed nerves. He felt a sickening drop in his stomach every time the limousine jostled, terrified that the slight movement would shift his shoulder against Ilya’s massive frame.

"What is the plan?" Ilya’s voice cut through the hum of the engine.

Shane jumped slightly, his head snapping around. "What plan?" he shot back, his voice coming out too fast, too defensive.

Ilya rolled his head back against the leather headrest, his dark eyes fixed on Shane with cold, evaluating intensity. "The plan for red carpet. And for what happens when one of us wins MVP tonight."

Shane swallowed hard, his throat tight as he forced his posture to stiffen. "The plan is the same as always, Rozanov. We smile, we do the interviews, we tell the media how much we respect each other's game, and we collect the PR points. Standard corporate playbook."

"And if I win?" Ilya asked, his jaw tightening into a hard, dangerous line as he leaned slightly closer, narrowing the two-foot distance between them. "What do you do when they call my name?"

"I applaud," Shane muttered, bracing his hand against the leather seat to keep from shrinking back. "I act like a supportive boyfriend. Isn't that what the league is paying us extra for?"

A huff escaped Ilya’s nose. He shifted his weight, his shoulders cutting off the ambient neon light filtering through the opposite window.

"When I win," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly rasp that vibrated right through the tight space, "I am going to kiss you."

Shane froze, his entire body locking up as his breath trapped itself like jagged glass in his chest. Every muscle in his spine went rigid. The phantom pressure of the dream—the ruthlessness, the burning friction, the absolute dominance of the man sitting next to him—slammed back into his consciousness with terrifying force.

"What?" Shane choked out, his vision vignetting slightly at the edges as his panic spiked anew.

"For cameras, Hollander," Ilya flatly clarified, his expression melting back into a cold, completely unbothered mask of indifference. "The media wants high drama. If I take trophy, a kiss on live television seals it completely. It makes public choke up. Unless your Canadian ego is too fragile to handle it."

"No," Shane blurted out, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it lower. He ripped his gaze away from the window and turned to face Ilya, his chest heaving under the stiff fabric of his tuxedo. "No way. A kiss is too much in there, Rozanov. That wasn't in the initial briefing from the PR managers. They only asked us to do that when we do PR walks!"

Ilya didn't even blink. He just stared at Shane, one dark eyebrow tilting upward in lazy amusement. " A handshake look fake. A hug look stiff. A kiss closes mouth of every critic on the sports networks."

"We can do a hug!" Shane argued quickly, his voice rising in an anxious pitch as the limousine slowed down, the muffled roar of the red-carpet crowd outside growing louder. "A normal, aggressive boyfriend hug. We slam our shoulders together, we pat each other on the back, it looks organic. People love that, Ilya."

"That does not look like we are dating," Ilya stated flatly, his thick accent chopping through Shane's desperate negotiation. He leaned in just an inch closer, his massive frame completely dominating Shane’s field of vision. "You are getting feeling cold? Cold hands?”

“Cold feet,” Shane provided, his jaw tight.

“Yes, that. Over a script?" Ilya let out a dry huff. "You check phone every two minutes, your hands shake, and now you want to rewrite contract in back of car? You are acting weak."

"I'm not weak," Shane snapped, his posture stiffening as the limousine crawled to a complete stop. Outside, the rhythmic, explosive flashes of the paparazzi bulbs began to bleed through the tinted glass, turning the interior into a strobe-lit cage.

"Good," Ilya muttered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that made the hair on the back of Shane's neck stand up. He reached across the small gap, his heavy, calloused fingers wrapping around the handle of the car door. "Then we stick to plan. I win, I kiss you. You win, you do whatever your ego wants."

Shane opened his mouth to protest again, to tell him no, to demand they just stick to a simple press statement—but the words trapped themselves like jagged glass in his throat. He looked at Ilya’s sharp jawline, the cold determination in the Russian's eyes, and the sheer authority radiating from his broad shoulders. It was a suffocating rerun of his subconscious thoughts.

He was completely trapped. The door handle clicked.

"Fine," Shane choked out, his fingers curling into tight, white-knuckled fists inside his pockets as he surrendered to the layout of Ilya's script. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

Ilya huffed a short, breathy sound through his nose, his expression instantly shifting into his cold, media-ready mask as the chauffeur threw the door wide open to the screaming crowd.

The chauffeur threw the door wide open.

A wall of noise exploded over them—screaming fans, chanting their names, and the relentless, blinding clack-clack-clack of a hundred paparazzi camera shutter lenses.

Ilya stepped out first. The second his massive frame cleared the door, the crowd went completely feral. Ilya didn't blink. He smoothly turned around, his cold expression instantly melting into a soft, perfectly practiced look of affection as he reached back into the car to offer Shane his hand.

Shane stared at the large, open palm. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his mind flashing back to the digital quiz screen. Don't show weakness. He forced his trembling fingers forward, letting Ilya wrap his heavy grip around his hand to pull him out onto the asphalt.

The flashbulbs erupted into a solid sheet of white light.

"Smile, Hollander," Ilya muttered through a perfectly curved, media-ready grin, his voice barely audible over the roar. "You look like you are going to execution."

"I am," Shane hissed back, forcing his lips to stretch into his signature golden-boy smile.

The PR handlers quickly guided them toward the main media platform, where a flashy, over-caffeinated sports reporter named Kiki was practically vibrating with excitement.

"Oh my gosh, the boys are here!" Kiki squealed into her microphone as the camera red light locked onto them. "The two biggest rivals in the NHL, now the absolute sweetest power couple in sports! Ilya, Shane, welcome! You both look absolutely devastating. Ilya, rumors are flying that if you take the MVP trophy home tonight, a major celebration is planned. Any hints for the fans?"

Shane braced himself, ready to jump in with a generic, safe corporate deflection.

But Ilya didn't let him.

"We do not need hints," Ilya said, his thick Russian accent dripping with an incredibly smooth, romantic warmth that made Shane's jaw almost drop. Ilya turned his head, looking down at Shane with eyes so soft and full of synthetic devotion it was borderline criminal. He reached out, his heavy thumb gently brushing along Shane’s jawline. "If I take trophy, I have already promised my beautiful Shane a proper reward. Live on television."

Shane froze, his smile locking into a tight, terrified grimace. Beautiful Shane? Proper reward?

"Oh! My! Gosh!" Kiki gasped, clutching her chest as the crowd behind the barriers erupted into high-pitched shrieks. "Did you hear that, folks? Live on television! Shane, how does it feel to have the league's most fearsome goal-scorer completely wrapped around your finger?"

The sheer absurdity of the moment hit Shane’s competitive hockey-player brain like a lightning strike.

He looked at Ilya. Ilya was performing at an Oscar-winning level. He was completely selling the narrative, looking like a deeply smitten, doting boyfriend while secretly holding Shane hostage with a threat to kiss him on national television.

Shane hated losing. He absolutely loathed being outperformed, especially by Rozanov. If Ilya was going to turn this into a high-stakes dramatic theater piece, Shane was going to win the scene.

"Oh, you know Kiki," Shane said, his voice instantly snapping into a bright, chirpy, completely unhinged theatrical sweetness. He leaned heavily into Ilya’s side, wrapping both arms aggressively around Ilya's thick bicep and looking up at him with wide, mock-adoring eyes. "It takes a lot of work to keep a big, scary Russian bear tame. But honestly? He's just a giant, dramatic teddy bear behind closed doors. He actually cries during romantic comedies. Don't let the penalty minutes fool you."

Ilya’s media-ready smile twitched. For a fraction of a second, pure, unadulterated irritation flared in his dark eyes.

"Is that true, Ilya?" Kiki laughed, completely eating it up.

"Shane likes to make jokes," Ilya growled through his teeth, his grip tightening around Shane’s waist, pulling him so close their ribs slammed together. The phantom heat of the dream flared up in Shane's chest, turning his nervous panic into a bizarre, adrenaline-fueled competitive mania. "But he knows exactly who is boss when we are at home."

"Oh, please," Shane chimed in, leaning his head against Ilya's shoulder and beaming directly at the camera lenses. "The only thing he's the boss of is the television remote, and even then, I usually steal it. We're just so incredibly, deeply, nauseatingly in love, Kiki. It’s a sickness, really."

Ilya let out a low, breathy huff that sounded dangerously like a threat, his hand pressing firmly into the small of Shane's back. "Yes. Very sick."

"We have to get them inside before they melt the ice!" Kiki yelled into the mic as the handlers started nudging them toward the auditorium doors. "Back to you in the studio!"

As they turned away from the cameras and headed down the corridor, the adoring looks vanished instantly. Shane ripped his arms away from Ilya's bicep, his heart racing as he wiped a sudden burst of nervous sweat from his brow.

"Cries during romantic comedies?" Ilya rasped, his accent turning cold, jagged, and furious as he glared down at him. "I’m going to kill you, Hollander."

"Hey, you started the theatrical performance, Rozanov," Shane shot back, his voice trembling slightly from the lingering panic, though his eyes flashed with competitive victory. "I just finished it. Get ready."

Shane felt like an absolute fraud as the usher guided them down the sloped aisle, the heavy, rhythmic clapping of the audience echoing off the high ceilings like a countdown timer.

They reached the front row. The white place cards on the armrests were clear: Ilya Rozanov and right beside it, Shane Hollander.

The second Shane sat down, the fake, chirpy adrenaline from the interview evaporated, leaving him completely exposed to a fresh wave of suffocating panic. The plush seat felt like a trap. The stage was only twenty feet away, surrounded by massive television broadcast cameras on cranes that kept sweeping over the front row, tracking their every breath for the live feed.

"You are shaking the row," Ilya’s rough, gravelly voice muttered from his left.

Shane forced his knees to lock into place. He hadn't even realized his left leg was vibrating a frantic rhythm against the carpeted floor. He clamped his hands flat over his thighs, his knuckles turning white against the dark fabric of his tuxedo trousers.

"I'm fine," Shane whispered back, keeping his face aimed straight ahead toward the stage. His voice sounded thin, reedy, and pathetic to his own ears.

He wasn't fine. He was unravelling. The physical proximity was even worse here than it had been in the limousine. The front-row seats were packed tightly together, meaning Ilya’s shoulder and thigh was practically pressed against his, the faint, expensive scent of the Russian's cologne invading Shane's space with every shallow breath he took.

Shane's mind plunged straight back into the terrifying loop of the nightmare. The crushing pressure of Ilya's body. The harsh cadence of that thick accent growling in his ear. The digital quiz result flashed behind his eyelids like a neon neon sign—Repressed attraction. Questioning. True feelings.

His stomach did a violent, sickening flip. He was sitting in front of millions of viewers, fake-dating his bitterest rival, while actively having a quiet identity crisis about the fact that his subconscious might actually want the man next to him.

Get it together, he screamed at himself inside his head. It’s a corporate stunt. It's a PR script. You are straight.

"The category is next," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping low as the house lights began to dim further, signaling the start of the MVP presentation.

Shane swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out along his hairline. He looked at the giant projection screens on either side of the stage. Ilya’s face was up there, a brooding, lethal snapshot from the regular season, alongside Shane’s own smiling publicity photo.

The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, deep and theatrical, introducing the nominees. Shane’s chest tightened until it felt like a vice was crushing his ribs. Air wouldn't go down. He could feel Ilya shifting slightly in the seat next to him, straightening his jacket, getting ready for the moment his name was called.

The plan was locked in. Shane had agreed to it. If Ilya won, Ilya was going to turn around and kiss him on national television.

Shane stared blindly at the brightly lit podium, his heart hammering so violently he was certain the broadcast microphones would pick it up. He wasn't terrified of the media backlash, and he wasn't terrified of the league's reaction. The true, horrifying source of his panic was the dizzying, treacherous heat pooling in his gut—because deep down, under the terror and the pride, Shane was absolutely terrified of how much he wanted Ilya to win.

"And the Hart Memorial Trophy for the National Hockey League's Most Valuable Player goes to..."

The presenter paused, the crisp white envelope snapping open under the harsh glare of the stage lights. The entire auditorium held its breath. Shane felt the air trap itself like glass in his throat, his lungs completely locking up.

"...Ilya Rozanov!"

The arena erupted into a deafening, thunderous roar of cheers and applause, but to Shane, the sound instantly compressed into a high-pitched, distant ringing. The massive projection screens overhead immediately flashed with Ilya’s brooding publicity photo, and a primary tracking camera crane swung violently around, locking its lens directly onto their faces for the live broadcast.

Beside him, Ilya stood up. He turned smoothly, his expression a perfectly sculpted mask of triumph as he looked down at Shane.

Shane forced himself to rise from his seat, his legs feeling like lead, his signature golden-boy smile plastered onto his face through sheer, panicked muscle memory. Shane expected something quick. Controlled. A staged little press-angle kiss for the cameras before Ilya pulled away.

Instead, Ilya closed the distance instantly.

Ilya’s large, heavy hand slaved itself around the back of Shane’s neck, his calloused fingers digging firmly into his hair to anchor him. He leaned down, his massive upper body completely cutting off the auditorium lights, and drove his mouth down onto Shane's.

It wasn't the shallow, dry press of lips they had rehearsed behind closed doors to show the corporate lawyers.

It was deep. It was punishing, relentless, and heavy with a raw, demanding friction that slammed Shane straight back into the terrifying landscape of his midnight dream. Ilya pushed forward, his broad shoulders pinning Shane’s posture back against the front row seat, his mouth opening with an intense, volatile hunger that completely derailed Shane’s train of thought.

Shane’s mind short-circuited. The blinding camera flashbulbs turned the world into a white vignette, his white-knuckled fists clutching blindly at the lapels of Ilya’s tuxedo jacket just to keep his knees from buckling. He was drowning in the expensive scent of the Russian's cologne, completely consumed by the sheer authority of the grip holding him hostage.

Then, Ilya’s tongue slid past his lips.

The sudden, wet heat of the intrusion sent a violent shockwave right through Shane’s chest. The last pathetic explanations of his straight defense fell apart —the two girls, the logical excuses, the internal mantras—shattered into absolute dust. His subconscious betrayed him completely. A low moan tore from the back of Shane’s throat, vibrating directly against Ilya’s mouth, his hips involuntarily twitching forward against the heavy pressure of the Ilya’s frame.

The sound of the moan registered like a physical jolt, vibrating straight through Ilya’s teeth and hitting him like an illegal check from behind.

Ilya pulled back abruptly. His hand dropped from Shane’s neck as if the skin had suddenly turned to fire, his breathing turning rough, shallow, and ragged as he broke the contact.

For a fraction of a second, the media-ready mask Ilya had spent months perfecting was completely gone. He stood there frozen, his dark eyes wide and blown-out, fixed on Shane with a look of raw, unadulterated shock. A sudden, volatile realization flashed across his tense jaw, cold and heavy: this had gone entirely too far. That wasn't a PR script. The synthetic devotion they were supposed to be selling to the network executives had just dissolved into something terrifyingly, dangerously real. He had felt the desperate wrap of Shane’s fingers on his jacket, had felt the helpless tilt of the Canadian’s hips against his own, and it had made his own blood run roaring hot.

But the tracking camera crane was still swinging, its lens locked onto them, broadcasting his split-second breakdown to millions of households.

Ilya blinked, his jaw locking into a hard, defensive line as he violently forced his professional expression back into place. He gave Shane one last heavy, unreadable look—watching the golden boy collapse back into his seat, completely pale and wrecked—before turning on his heel. He strode up the carpeted stairs toward the brightly lit podium to accept his trophy, his boots heavy, completely leaving Shane behind in the dark of the auditorium.

Up at the microphone, the spotlight was a blinding white wall, but Ilya couldn't feel the weight of the trophy in his hands. His lips were burning, wet, and stained with the phantom taste of the rival he was supposed to loathe. He stared out at the sea of applauding faces, his chest heaving under his tuxedo as he forced a smooth, flat victory speech past his throat, while the horrifying echo of Shane’s moan replayed in his head louder than the cheering crowd.

Ilya gripped the heavy silver trophy, the cool metal solid against his palms, though his fingers were still trembling. He looked out past the blinding white glare of the spotlight, his eyes instantly tracking down to the front row. Shane was sitting there like a ghost, his dark hair a messy ruin and his mouth pressed into a tight, pale line.

Ilya pulled the microphone closer, the feedback humming faintly over the speakers.

"Thank you," Ilya said, his Russian accent thick, flat, and carrying cleanly over the high ceilings of the auditorium. The crowd began to quiet down, thousands of faces waiting for the standard, rehearsed victory script.

"To win this trophy... it takes everything," Ilya continued, his dark eyes fixed firmly on the front row, refusing to look away from the wreck he had just caused. "You need the right team. You need the right motivation."

He paused, a sudden, volatile impulse overriding the safe speech the PR managers had written for him. If he was going to sell this lie, he was going to make it unbreakable.

"But most of all," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping into a deeper, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the audio system, "you need person who forces you to be better every single day. The person who handles my volatile temper behind closed doors."

He took a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he delivered the final line. "Shane. Thank you. This belongs to you too."

For one microscopic second, the arena fell dead silent, processing the absolute gravity of the statement. Then, the entire auditorium went completely, utterly feral.

A thunderous explosion of cheers, stomping feet, and high-pitched shrieks rocked the velvet walls of the theater. The broadcast tracking cameras violently swung back to Shane’s face, catching the absolute, wide-eyed shock freezing his features as the spotlight bled over his seat.

Ilya didn't smile. He just held Shane’s frantic gaze through the blinding white light, his chest heaving under his tuxedo as the arena roared around them, knowing he had just locked both of them into a trap they could never escape.

The ride back from the auditorium was a suffocating, absolute silence. The limousine’s tinted windows blocked out the neon glare of the Strip, but inside, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Ilya sat on his side of the leather seat, the heavy MVP trophy resting between his boots, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Two feet away, Shane sat completely rigid, his face turned toward the dark glass, his shadow casting a sharp line in the dim interior. Neither of them said a word.

When they entered the penthouse, the quiet followed them. The sprawling high-rise was dark, save for the silver moonlight cutting through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Shane immediately stepped away, his shoulders tense as he stood by the window, his back to the room.

Ilya dropped his keys onto the marble counter with a sharp clink. He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, his dark eyes tracking the stiff line of Shane's spine.

"Is first time I am here without woman in my arms after the awards," Ilya rumbled, his Russian accent thick, low, and flat in the vast space.

Shane went instantly tense, his shoulders locking up. He forced his breathing to stay low, a jagged intake of air before he turned around, trying desperately to slip his golden-boy mask back on. It failed. His lips were still swollen, stained from the stage.

"Okay," Shane forced out, his voice a little too light, a little too strained. "Too bad to be you."

Ilya didn't answer with words. A dark, predatory impulse flared in his chest, overriding the cold boundaries of his commonsense. He crossed the short distance, and pressed himself firmly against Shane’s back, pinning him against the cool glass of the window.

Shane didn't stop him. He froze, his head dropping back slightly against Ilya’s shoulder, an unkempt breath escaping his throat as Ilya’s hand tentatively moved down, resting heavy on Shane's hip bone.

"Is because of you, you know," Ilya rasped right against the nape of Shane's neck, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.

"What..." Shane hitched, his fingers tightening as the weight of the moment settled over them. "What am I supposed to do?"

Ilya leaned closer, the space between them disappearing as he maintained his firm hold. "Let me fuck you."

"I'm straight," Shane managed to say, his voice completely unsteady as he looked at their blurred reflection in the window.

Ilya let out a low, breathy huff against the back of his neck, the tension between them reaching a breaking point. "Okay. I will make you a deal, I won't touch your dick," Ilya murmured, his hand remaining rock-steady on Shane's hip, asserting a heavy, undeniable presence. “If you do not come untouched, I won't do anything. But if you do come..."

Shane’s pulse raced, his resolve tested by the suffocating proximity and the heavy challenge in Ilya's voice. He was terrified of the cracks forming in his carefully constructed armor, but his pride refused to let him back down.

"You won't make me come," Shane insisted, his voice cracking slightly as he stared at their silhouettes against the glass.

A sharp, knowing look crossed Ilya's face, his expression unreadable in the pale moonlight. "So, we understand each other then."

"Yes," Shane choked out, his knuckles turning white against the window frame. "We understand each other."

Chapter 7: Not Gay. Obviously.

Shane’s pulse spiked, a frantic rhythm against his ribs as Rozanov closed the distance behind him. The heat of Rozanov’s body trailed him, a predatory shadow, before the phantom graze of a nose brushed along the sensitive skin of Shane’s neck.

“Very pretty,” Rozanov purred, the words a low, vibrating hum against his skin. “Like a doll.”

“Shut up!”

Shane meant for it to be a snap, a sharp bark to reassert control, but it tore from his throat sounding painfully thin—pathetic, even to his own ears. Every shred of his focus narrowed, zeroing in entirely on the deliberate drag of Rozanov’s hand moving up and down his arm, and the terrifyingly warm pressure of those lips hovering just at his neck.

Think about something else. Anything else.

Shane gripped onto the thought like a lifeline, his mind spinning in a desperate, suffocating panic. Because Shane Hollander was not gay. He wasn't. And he was going to prove it to Rozanov if it was the last thing he damn well did.

The air between them turned suffocatingly thick, the quiet of the room suddenly amplified by the harsh, uneven rhythm of Shane’s own breathing.

“May I?” Rozanov’s voice was barely a murmur, low and raspy, but it vibrated straight down Shane’s spine.

Before Shane could even process the words, he felt the slow brush of Rozanov’s knuckles against his throat as he caught the knot of Shane’s already crooked tie. The tug was slow, agonizingly tentative, yet completely commanding. Shane froze, caught in a dizzying vertigo, his mind entirely blank. He didn't know what he was agreeing to—couldn't even remember how to form a coherent thought—until the silk fabric slid smoothly from his collar, leaving his neck exposed and cold.

Then, Rozanov’s hands shifted.

A firm, heavy palm gripped the back of Shane’s neck, his fingers tangling into the hair at the base of his skull to guide him around. Shane was turned, his chest flushing flat against Rozanov’s, and before he could steal a breath, Rozanov closed the distance.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was warmth and pressure all at once. Rozanov’s lips were firm, parting Shane’s with a quiet, demanding intensity that utterly shattered whatever remaining defenses Shane had left.

The dam broke.

An involuntary gasp caught in Shane’s throat, and suddenly he was reaching out, his hands clawing at the fabric of Rozanov’s shirt to pull him closer, desperate to anchor himself. The denial that had been screaming in his head just seconds ago vanished, replaced by an urgent, frantic hunger. He kissed the taller man back with a wild, breathless desperation, tilting his head to deepen the angle, chasing the heat of Rozanov’s mouth as if his very survival depended on it.

“Are you hard yet?” He asked.

The question was whispered directly against Shane’s mouth, dark and dripping with a cruel, knowing amusement.

“No,” Shane gasped out.

It was a blatant, pathetic lie, and they both knew it.

To punish him—or perhaps just to prove a point—Rozanov instantly broke the kiss and leaned back, severing the heavy heat of their bodies. The sudden rush of cold air hit Shane. He choked on a sharp intake of breath, his teeth clicking together as he narrowly, desperately clamped his jaw shut to swallow the high, desperate whine that clawed its way up his throat at the sudden loss of contact.

Shane’s entire face burned, a furious, agonizing flush spreading all the way down his neck. Rozanov just stood there, watching him with those sharp, tracking eyes. Shane was still fully dressed, save for the missing tie, but under that intense, unblinking gaze, he felt completely stripped bare. Every place Rozanov had touched felt like it was simmering, exposed and raw.

Rozanov’s eyes flicked down Shane’s trembling frame before locking back onto his face, a cold, mocking challenge settling into his features.

Shane’s mouth went dry. “Now?”

Rozanov raised a single, mocking eyebrow, his expression a picture of pure, detached amusement. “Yes, now. You know how sex works, yes?”

The casual condescension hit Shane like a splash of ice water, sparking a sudden, volatile burst of heat in his chest. The humiliation flipped instantly into raw defense.

“Fuck off, asshole, that’s not what I meant,” Shane snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut, though his heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

“What you meant then?” Rozanov asked, his Russian accent thickening slightly, wrapping around the syllables with a lazy, dangerous weight. He didn't move an inch, completely unbothered by Shane's flare of temper.

Shane shifted uncomfortably, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he gestured vaguely between the two of them. “Are you… are you not going to take off your clothes?”

A low, brief laugh huffed out of Rozanov’s nose, a sound completely devoid of warmth. He tilted his head, looking down at Shane as if he were an amusing puzzle he’d already solved.

“Uhh… No.” Rozanov took a half-step back, crossing his arms over his chest, deliberately emphasizing the fact that he was still perfectly, immaculately dressed. “Is about you, Hollander. You are the star today.”

Rozanov must have caught the subtle shift in Shane's face—the fleeting shadow of hesitation or the sheer, suffocating weight of the silence—because the mocking edge suddenly vanished from his expression.

"That okay, yes?" Rozanov asked, his voice dropping into a quieter, unexpectedly serious register.

Shane’s jaw tightened. There was no way in hell he was backing down now. He refused to lose whatever frayed remnants of control he had left in this room. Humiliation be damned.

"Yes," Shane said, his voice hard, forcing a tight, defiant confidence into the words. "For sure."

Rozanov didn't move. He simply watched him, his sharp eyes tracking the stiff line of Shane's shoulders, weighing the sincerity behind the bravado. The silence stretched between them, thick and deliberate, until Rozanov spoke again, his tone completely level.

"We don't have to if you don't want to."

It was a green light to run, an easy out. But to Shane, it felt like a dare.

Instead of answering with words, Shane reached up, gripped the lapels of his suit coat, and shrugged it forcefully off his shoulders. He let the heavy fabric drop from his hands, a silent, defiant declaration that he wasn't going anywhere.

The room seemed to constrict the moment the suit jacket hit the floor.

Shane didn’t let himself pause. If he stopped to think, if he let his brain catch up to the frantic, dizzying heat racing through his veins, he’d shatter. Keep moving. Keep proving it.

His fingers were slightly uncoordinated, trembling with a volatile mix of adrenaline and stubborn pride as they reached for the top button of his dress shirt. Rozanov hadn’t moved a muscle. He remained standing exactly where he was, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Shane’s hands. The sheer weight of that unblinking, heavy gaze felt like a physical touch, burning right through the cotton fabric.

Shane popped the first button. Then the second.

With every inch of skin exposed to the cool room air, his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He parted the fabric, his knuckles grazing his own collarbone, and the stark contrast of his pale skin against the dim light seemed to draw Rozanov's eyes like a magnet. Shane pulled the cuffs loose and shrugged the shirt off, letting it fall to join the jacket on the floor.

He stood there in just his trousers and boxers, his skin flushing a faint, betraying pink under Rozanov’s relentless scrutiny.

"Satisfied?" Shane challenged, his voice a little rougher now, a little more breathless than he wanted it to be.

Rozanov didn’t answer right away. His gaze dragged slowly down the hard line of Shane’s chest, tracing the lean muscle of his stomach, down to the waistband of his pants. A muscle leaped in Rozanov’s jaw. The detached, mocking amusement from earlier was gone, swallowed by a dark, simmering heat that made Shane’s stomach flip.

"Pants," Rozanov commanded, the word low and thick with his heavy Russian cadence.

Shane swallowed hard, his throat tight. He reached for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding incredibly loud in the dead silence of the room. He unzipped them, his hands shaking noticeably now, and pushed the heavy fabric down his legs. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside, leaving him standing there in nothing but his boxers.

Shane felt stripped bare, exposed, his heart hammering so violently against his ribs he was certain Rozanov could see it pulsing beneath his skin. He braced himself, lifting his chin in a last, desperate act of defiance, forcing himself to lock eyes with the other man.

For a long, agonizing second, Rozanov just stared. The discipline he usually carried seemed to fracture, his pupils blown wide as his eyes raked over the firm, beautiful lines of Shane’s bare body.

A low, involuntary sound ripped from the back of Rozanov's throat.

"Fuck," Rozanov muttered, the curse thick, rough, and entirely undone.

The absolute undoing in Rozanov's voice sent an electric jolt straight down Shane's spine. Before Shane could even process the shift, Rozanov closed the distance between them in a single, predatory stride, his hands coming up to grip Shane’s bare waist with a bruising, desperate intensity that finally burned away the last of the distance between them.

Rozanov closed the distance in a single, predatory stride. His hands clamped onto Shane’s bare waist, fingers digging into the skin with a bruising intensity that squeezed a sharp gasp right out of Shane’s throat. The unvarnished, heavy hunger in Rozanov's eyes was terrifying, stripping away the last of Shane's defenses. But before Shane could even brace for the impact of being thrown back, Rozanov abruptly shifted.

Instead of shoving him toward the bed, Rozanov caught Shane’s wrist and steered him toward the en-suite bathroom, the abrupt change rattling Shane more than the rough handling would have.

"Wait—what?" Shane stumbled, his bare feet skidding against the cold floorboards. The sudden derailment rattled him, sending his adrenaline spiking in a completely different, chaotic direction. "Where are we going?"

"Shower," Rozanov said flatly. He didn't look back as his free hand flicked the wall switch, flooding the space with warm, recessed light. He reached into the glass stall, twisting the handle until the aggressive hiss of steaming water filled the room.

"I'm not—I don't need a shower!" Shane snapped, his face burning with a mix of fury and raw exposure.

"You are sweaty. Your heart is racing," Rozanov countered, finally turning to face him. His eyes traveled slowly down Shane’s bare, flushed torso, dark and entirely uncompromising. "I want you clean. Every inch of you. Understood?"

The demand made Shane’s throat click tight. It felt like humiliation—just another way for Rozanov to dictate exactly what happened to his body, stripping away his autonomy before he could even process it. Forcing his jaw shut, Shane swallowed his protest, bitterly assuming this was just Rozanov being a meticulous bastard, or worse, intentionally slowing the pace just to torment him.

Rozanov didn't undress. He stayed perfectly clothed, merely rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows with slow, deliberate precision.

“This okay?” Rozanov asked, his hand dropping to the waistband of Shane’s boxers.

Shane couldn't even find his voice; he could only nod, a tight, breathless jerk of his chin. Satisfied, Rozanov slid the fabric down Shane's legs, leaving him completely bare before guiding him under the warm spray. The water drenched Shane instantly, plastering his dark hair to his forehead and running in hot, heavy streams down his face.

Then, Rozanov stepped into the narrow, steaming stall with him.

Standing naked while Rozanov remained fully dressed should have felt degrading. Instead, as the heat enclosed them, a dizzying realization hit Shane: he was terrifyingly vulnerable, yet entirely safe. Wrapped in the heavy steam and Rozanov’s absolute focus, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.

Still, the intimacy of it was suffocating. Rozanov grabbed the bottle of body wash, working up a thick, rich lather between his palms. When those slick, soapy hands finally made contact with Shane’s skin, Shane nearly choked on his own breath, his eyes flying shut.

Rozanov washed him with a slow, agonizingly thorough weight. There was nothing rushed about it; his large hands swept firmly over Shane's chest, tracing the line of his ribs before moving down the flat plane of his stomach. Every stroke was a deliberate command, anchoring Shane right where he stood.

Then, with a firm, unyielding pressure against his hips, Rozanov turned Shane around to face the wet tiles.

“Lean," Rozanov murmured, his breath a ghost of hot air against Shane's dripping shoulder.

Shane placed his trembling hands against the slick, cold glass of the stall, his mind spinning in the heat. He felt Rozanov’s soapy fingers slide down the backs of his thighs, a firm, heavy weight that parted his legs just slightly.

“Still okay?” Rozanov asked, his hand pausing right at the junction of Shane's thighs. He didn't budge, waiting deliberately until Shane forced a tight, verbal "Yes" past his throat.

Only then did Rozanov continue, cleaning between his cheeks with a meticulous, firm pressure. Shane’s eyes squeezed shut, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the glass tighter. A raw, burning flush crept all the way up his neck.

"Good," Rozanov whispered, the water rinsing the soap away a moment later, leaving Shane’s skin dripping, heated, and perfectly prepped.

Rozanov grabbed a towel, working with a surprisingly brisk efficiency as he dried Shane off, before suddenly catching Shane completely off guard. With a swift, effortless shift of his weight, Rozanov scooped him off his feet, lifting him up bridal style.

"Put me down, you absolute asshole!" Shane squeaked, his dignity fracturing for a fraction of a second before his brain caught up. He immediately began flat-out wrestling against Rozanov’s chest, his wet elbows shoving hard against Rozanov’s perfectly dry shoulders. "I have legs, Rozanov! Use yours and put me the fuck down!"

Rozanov didn't even stumble. He just let out a low, mocking huff of laughter, his grip tightening like iron bands around Shane’s thighs and back as he carried him straight out of the bathroom. "You yell a lot for someone who looks like drowned bird, Hollander."

"I am going to bite you," Shane threatened, his eyes flashing with genuine, stubborn heat, completely refusing to just lay there and play the compliant, delicate victim.

"I swear to God, let go—"

His threat was cut short as Rozanov reached the bed and, without a shred of ceremony, flipped him over and dropped him face-down onto the mattress. The impact knocked the wind out of Shane, leaving him buried nose-first into the sheets, his breath coming in ragged, highly offended pants as he scrambled to turn around.

Shane barely had time to blink before he managed to roll over onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows to face Rozanov. His chest rose and fell in ragged, highly offended pants, his dark hair still damp and messy against his forehead. He fully expected Rozanov to finally start unbuttoning his own shirt, or to lean over him and slide a hand back up his thigh.

Instead, Rozanov stayed perfectly dressed, stepping up to the edge of the mattress and looking down at Shane with a heavy, unblinking intensity.

Slowly, Rozanov leaned over him, smothering Shane’s frantic movements with a deep, heavy kiss. Shane clung to it, his lips parting with a fractured moan that Rozanov drank straight down, turning the sound into a low hum between them.

Rozanov’s free hand began to wander up Shane's side, trailing a torturous path over his ribs while his other hand kept a heavy, unyielding grip on Shane’s thigh. Shane shuddered, arching instinctively into the heat of that palm.

Then, Rozanov's thumb caught Shane's nipple, rolling the tight peak with a sudden, firm pressure. A sharp jolt shot straight down to Shane’s core, tearing a desperate gasp from his throat that broke the kiss. His fingers tangled blindly into Rozanov’s shirt, completely unable to tell if he was trying to push him away or pull him closer.

The sudden, electric heat of Rozanov’s thumb on his chest snapped something inside Shane. The last remnants of his rigid discipline just crumbled.

Forget proving a point. Twenty-four hours ago, he would have sworn on his life that he was straight. Right now, his body was completely hijacking his brain, and he was absolutely flabbergasted by how desperately he wanted this.

A wild, reckless heat surged through him, entirely consuming any lingering thought of his own pride. Shane's fingers hooked violently into the crisp collar of Rozanov’s shirt—some ridiculously expensive, high-thread-count fabric—and yanked. He didn't care about the cost, didn't care about the damage; he just needed the barrier gone.

The fabric strained with a sharp, loud tear, seams splitting open as buttons tore free, pinging sharply off the wooden headboard and scattering across the mattress. And Rozanov let him do it, a dark, dangerous look of pure satisfaction crossing his features as Shane effectively shredded the shirt down the middle.

Shane didn't stop until he forced the ruined cotton down Rozanov’s arms, desperate to clear the path. Finally, his hands scrambled directly onto the bare, heavy expanse of Rozanov’s shoulders. His nails dug in, scratching helplessly down the warm, smooth skin of Rozanov’s back. Without even thinking, driven by a raw, demanding urgency, Shane shifted his hips and flung his legs wide, aggressively dragging Rozanov flush into the empty space between them.

Rozanov let out a low, dark growl against Shane's neck at the invitation.

Before Shane could even recover his breath, Rozanov leaned down and closed his mouth over one aching nipple, drawing the tight peak in with a deep, heavy suction. At the exact same time, his large hand clamped over Shane's other breast, his fingers aggressively squeezing the sensitive flesh.

The double onslaught of sensation was too much. Shane’s head slammed back into the pillow, his vision blurring as a high, splintered gasp tore from his lungs. He was utterly undone, his fingers clutching blindly at Rozanov’s hair, completely helpless against the intoxicating reality of what he was letting this man do to him.

Rozanov didn't let up. Keeping one large, heavy palm clamped over Shane's chest, aggressively squeezing his sensitive nipple, Rozanov began to move down. His mouth trailed a path of searing, wet heat down the flat plane of Shane’s stomach, making Shane’s core violently switch and contract. Rozanov tracked all the way down, his lips brushing the inside of Shane’s knee, before he began a slow, deliberate ascent back up the pale, trembling skin of Shane's inner thigh.

Rozanov’s mouth was ruthless. He nipped at the tender flesh, his teeth catching and suctioning hard enough to ensure a dark bruise would bloom there by morning.

"Rozanov—ah, fuck, wait," Shane cried out, his voice cracking into a high, desperate moan as those sharp nips sent jolts of pure electricity straight to his groin. He was leaking, a heavy, agonizing throb building between his legs that was driving him insane. He tried to shift, trying to rub his aching length against Rozanov's chest, but Rozanov's heavy frame pinned him down.

"Please," Shane begged, his head thrashing against the pillow, his pride entirely evaporated. "Rozanov, please... touch me. Just touch me there, fuck, I need—"

Rozanov paused, his lips resting right against the burning skin of Shane's upper thigh. He tilted his face up, his dark eyes blown wide, glittering with a cruel, absolute dominance.

"No," Rozanov murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "You are going to come untouched, Hollander."

Before Shane’s brain could even comprehend the words, Rozanov acted. With terrifying efficiency, he hooked his strong arms under Shane’s knees and hoisted his legs high, bending them back toward his chest. The position was shockingly open, completely exposing Shane's slick, clean center to the cool air of the room.

Shane let out a panicked, breathless hum, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Looking down, the sheer, raw vulnerability of the position hit him all at once, his face burning a furious red.

Rozanov didn't rush. He held Shane there, perfectly still, his dark eyes locked onto Shane's face, reading every flicker of panic and desire. He leaned in close, his breath fanning hot over Shane's inner thighs, but paused just inches away from his center.

"Hollander," Rozanov murmured, his voice a low, gravelly command that demanded absolute focus. "Look at me. Is this okay?"

Shane swallowed hard, his fingers bunching into the sheets as he stared into Rozanov's blown-out, predatory gaze. Every straight-laced instinct he had left was screaming at him, but the heavy, intoxicating ache between his legs drowned it out completely.

"Yes," Shane choked out, a tight, desperate confession. "Yes, just... fuck, Rozanov, yes."

A dark, satisfied smirk touched the corner of Rozanov's mouth at the surrender. Then, he leaned in closer and blew a sharp, cool stream of air directly against Shane's hyper-sensitive hole.

The temperature contrast hit like a physical shock. Shane let out a high, desperate keen, his spine arching completely off the mattress as his fingers violently bunched the bedsheets. It was an agonizingly sharp thrill, a devastating spike of vulnerability that left him completely raw.

And then, the heat returned with a vengeance.

Rozanov closed the distance and buried his mouth against him. The first heavy, flat swipe of Rozanov's wet tongue directly over his rim made Shane’s whole world tilt. His brain completely short-circuited. What the fuck was he doing?

It wasn't just a touch; it was an aggressive, deep penetration of heat. Rozanov's tongue worked with a relentless, swirling pressure, parting the sensitive folds and licking him with a heavy, wet friction that drove straight into Shane’s central nervous system.

Shane had never felt anything so violently pleasurable and humiliating all at once. The sensation was acute, radiating from that single, hidden point and melting every muscle in his body into a heavy, helpless puddle of fluid. He tried to twist his hips away, completely overwhelmed by the intensity, but Rozanov’s heavy hands locked onto his thighs like vices, pinning him down and holding him perfectly still for it.

He was trapped beneath Rozanov’s iron grip, held open and unable to do anything but take the relentless drag of Rozanov’s mouth against him. Every pass of Rozanov’s tongue pulled another broken sound from his throat, his hips twitching helplessly against the mattress. Every lap of Rozanov’s tongue pushed Shane closer to a cliff he didn't know existed, his breath turning into a continuous, shabby chain of broken whines as his hips twitched involuntarily against the absolute, undoing pleasure of it.

Shane’s fingers clawed so hard into the sheets that the fabric groaned under the strain, his knuckles locking white as the relentless heat between his thighs pushed him completely past the brink.

He was drowning in the sheer, physical scale of what Rozanov was doing to him. The wet, rhythmic friction of Rozanov’s tongue was no longer just a localized sensation—it had overtaken his entire body. Every heavy, swirling lap sent a violent, echoing throb straight to the base of his spine, radiating outward until his thighs shook uncontrollably in Rozanov's iron grip.

"Rozanov—please, I'm—" Shane choked out, the words breaking into a high, splintered gasp. He couldn't finish the sentence. He wanted to beg him to stop, wanted to beg him to never let go, the conflict tearing through his chest as his hips involuntarily hitched upward, practically begging for the devastating pressure of Rozanov's mouth.

Rozanov didn't slow down. He drank down Shane's broken whines, his thumbs digging bruisingly deep into the soft skin above Shane's knees, holding him wide open, completely unyielding as he accelerated the pace. The deep, heavy suction and the sharp, wet slide of his tongue became a relentless, driving force, deliberately pushing Shane over the edge.

The buildup was agonizingly tight, a coiled spring of pure electric tension spinning faster and faster in Shane's lower stomach. He was completely untouched, his length throbbing and weeping with a heavy, aching weight, yet the friction at his center was dragging the climax out of him anyway.

Then, with one final, deeply anchored swipe of Rozanov's tongue, the coil snapped.

Shane’s entire body went completely taut, his toes curling as his back arched so violently off the mattress that only his heels and shoulders touched the bed. A loud, raw sob tore from his throat, completely unbidden and entirely undone.

The release hit him in waves. Without a single hand touching his front, Shane came hard, the heat spilling over his stomach in uneven pulses. His vision flashed white for a split second before everything narrowed again—the rough drag of his own breathing, the ache in his muscles, Rozanov’s mouth still pressed against the inside of his thigh like he had no intention of letting him go.

Even as his body violently switched and shuddered with the force of the orgasm, Rozanov didn't pull away. He stayed buried against him, his hot breath fanning over the hyper-sensitive, pulsing skin, a grounding, dominant anchor while Shane slowly crashed back down to earth, his chest heaving in ragged, sobbing breaths as the world gradually blurred back into focus.

Watching Shane come apart beneath him was enough to make Ilya feel briefly, dangerously satisfied. The kid had been an absolute, shattered mess—pale skin flushed a violent, bruised crimson, chest heaving in ragged, sobbing hitches, his dark hair plastered sweat-slicked to his forehead. Standing at the edge of the mattress, entirely unbothered by his shredded, ruined shirt, Ilya had felt a dark, smug satisfaction settling deep in his chest. He genuinely believed he had broken through the rigid, straight-laced armor Shane wore like a shield.

He was dead wrong.

Ilya watched the exact millisecond the haze cleared from Shane’s eyes. It wasn't a gradual recovery; it was a sudden, viciously sharp snap. The vulnerable, undone boy vanished, and in his place stood the stubborn, fiercely competitive bastard Ilya had been tracking for months. Shane wiped a stray trace of saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand, sitting up with a fluid, predatory deliberateness that made Ilya’s pulse give a strange, heavy thud against his ribs.

Before Ilya could even open his mouth to deliver a cutting, arrogant remark, Shane crawled over the mattress. A pale, steady hand shot out, fingers hooking violently into Ilya’s belt, and yanked.

Ilya stumbled a half-step forward, his breath catching as one eyebrow lifted in amusement. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of the kid.

"My turn, Rozanov," Shane murmured. His voice was rough, quiet, and carried a chillingly steady, dominant weight that Ilya had never once expected to hear from him.

Shane slid off the mattress, sinking to his knees on the cold floorboards. Ilya looked down, his chest tightening, his breath hitching slightly at the sight. Shane looked up through his messy, dark bangs, his jaw set with an intense, unwavering confidence that utterly defied the fact that his thighs were still literally trembling from his own release. With steady, agonizingly efficient movements, Shane unbuckled Ilya’s belt, cleared the heavy denim of his trousers, and freed him.

Ilya let out a low, gravelly hiss as Shane’s warm fingers wrapped around his length. The contrast of the cool room air and the sudden, unyielding pressure made his head spin. He instinctively went to shift his hips, to lean into the touch and take control, but Shane’s grip tightened to a bruising, punishing clamp right at the base, anchoring him ruthlessly.

"Don't move," Shane commanded.

Ilya’s chest rumbled with a faint, incredulous laugh, but the sound died completely in his throat as Shane leaned in and parted his lips.

The first slide of Shane’s mouth over the broad head of his length was hot and deep enough to make Ilya’s grip tighten against the mattress. Ilya’s hands immediately sought the edge of the mattress behind him, his knuckles turning stark white as he braced his shifting weight. Shane wasn't just accommodating him; he was actively attacking. He took him in with a slow, deliberate, torturous rhythm, his tongue swirling aggressively around the sensitive crown before drawing him further down his throat, forcing Ilya to endure the crushing heat.

The pleasure was instant and blinding, a sharp spike of white-hot tension that shot straight to Ilya's core. He felt his control slipping, the calculated dominance he always maintained fracturing under the ruthless, practiced suction. Desperate to regain the upper hand, Ilya reached down, his large palm coming up to grip the back of Shane’s head to force a faster, harder pace—to remind the kid exactly who was in charge of this room.

Shane didn't even break the suction. He just reached up and violently slapped Ilya's hand away from his hair, his eyes snapping upward to lock onto Ilya’s with a fierce, warning glare. To emphasize the point, Shane squeezed the base of his shaft tightly, forcing a choked, pained grunt from Ilya’s lungs.

Jesus Christ. Ilya’s mind went entirely blank for a fraction of a second. The realization hit him like a physical blow: Shane Hollander didn't get managed. He wasn't a dog to be broken; he was a wolf that would tear your throat out the second you let your guard down. And right now, Ilya was entirely, completely at his mercy.

A raw, intoxicating surge of adrenaline mixed with the agonizingly good heat of Shane’s mouth. Ilya surrendered the control completely, his head tossing back against the wood of the headboard as Shane went to work with a literal vengeance. Shane accelerated the pace, bobbing his head with a deep, consuming suction, his hand pumping the base in perfect, punishing synchronization. He used his tongue ruthlessly, tracing the heavy, throbbing veins, drawing out low, fractured groans that Ilya couldn't suppress if his life depended on it.

The build-up was too fast, too violently intense to fight. Ilya’s thighs began to shake, his hips twitching forward involuntarily as the wet friction drove him right up to the edge of a cliff. He growled, a low, animalistic sound ripping from deep in his chest as his entire body fully locked up.

When he broke, he came hard, his spine snapping taut. The first thick rush hit the back of Shane’s throat, and the sound Ilya made was low and wrecked enough to feel like a victory all on its own. The first thick, hot rushes hit the back of Shane's throat, and Ilya fully expected him to choke, to pull back in surprise—but Shane stayed right there, taking the absolute brunt of the release, his dark eyes tracking Ilya’s undone, ruined expression with a chillingly triumphant focus. Shane swallowed down the first few heavy pulses before slowly dragging his mouth back, deliberately letting the white, hot fluid coat his lips, his jaw, and smear down the pale, long column of his throat.

Ilya leaned heavily against the bed, completely wrecked, breathless, and trembling from head to toe. He looked down through blurred, unfocused vision at the man still kneeling on the floor between his legs. Shane was covered in his mess, breathing hard, but he looked like a king sitting on a hard-won throne. With a slow, agonizingly deliberate swipe of his thumb, Shane wiped a stray line of come from the corner of his mouth, never once breaking eye contact, letting Ilya know exactly who owned him now.

Chapter 8: Before the Grand Finale

Chapter Notes

“May I?”

Rozanov’s voice was barely a murmur, low and raspy, but it vibrated straight through the marrow of Shane’s bones.

Shane couldn’t breathe. His fingers were still anchored to the window frame, his knuckles so white they looked translucent under the silver Nevada moonlight. Every analytical part of his brain was screaming at him to track the play, find the safety margin, call a timeout. But Ilya was too close—a massive, broad-shouldered perimeter that completely blocked out the rest of the penthouse, trapping Shane against the glass.

“Do whatever you want,” Shane choked out, desperately trying to inject his trademark cocky, center-ice swagger into the words. “You’re going to lose the bet anyway.”

A low, rumbling huff of laughter vibrated against the back of Shane’s neck. “Always competing, zolotoi malchik,” Ilya murmured, his thick accent dragging over the syllables. “Even when you are trapped.”

Then, Ilya’s hands moved.

Instead of reaching down, Ilya’s hand crawled up the side of Shane's throat. His thumb traced the sharp curve of Shane's jaw before tilting his head back. Shane’s breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as Ilya’s fingers brushed across his lower lip, parting the sensitive skin. Without a single conscious thought, Shane’s mouth opened automatically. He sucked in on Ilya’s thumb, his tongue swirling instinctively around the rough, warm skin, tasting the faint hint of expensive tobacco and the sharp, metallic tang of pure adrenaline. A low, helpless moan tore from the back of Shane's throat, vibrating directly against Ilya's flesh.

Ilya let out a harsh, Worn exhale, his thumb pressing deeper into the wet warmth of Shane’s mouth, claiming him with a sudden, possessive hunger. “Shit, sweetheart,” Ilya growled, his voice dropping into a thick, undone register that Shane had never heard before. “Look at you.”

True to his ridiculous, arrogant word, Ilya kept his other hand entirely away from the front of Shane’s sweatpants. Instead, his large palm slid down from Shane’s hip bones, using the sheer weight of his massive presence to press Shane entirely flat against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. The contrast was dizzying—freezing glass against his forehead, and a literal human furnace flattening him from behind. Shane’s eyes clamped open, dragged back to reality by the downright intensity of the friction. Without his vision to protect him, his other senses immediately turned up to a punishing volume. He could feel the scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and post-gala sweat invading his lungs. He heard the metallic, heavy click of Ilya’s belt buckle undoing behind him, followed by the ragged, heavy cadence of Ilya’s breathing, completely losing the clinical calmness from the private jet.

“Look at the glass, Shane,” Ilya commanded softly, his gravelly voice dropping into that dangerous, authoritative register as he slowly withdrew his wet thumb from Shane's lips, leaving them slick and aching.

Shane mechanically looked at his reflection. In the dark glass, overlaid against the glittering neon pink of the Las Vegas Strip, he could see them. He could see the dark mass of Ilya’s towering frame, the crisp fabric of his unbuttoned dress shirt, and the way Ilya’s heavy fingers were dug ruthlessly into the soft fabric of Shane’s gray sweats, pulling them down past his hips. Shane’s breath hitched. His own faint reflection looked completely wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed a quick, hot pink under the silver light.

“Tell me you are straight guy now,” Ilya whispered, his lips grazing the wet shell of Shane’s ear as his thumb slid slowly, deliberately along the bare skin of Shane’s lower back.

“I am,” Shane gasped, his knees trembling so violently he was terrified he’d slide straight down the marble wall. “This is… science. Adrenaline. A fluke.”

“If you say so,” Ilya growled softly against his skin, his teeth lightly nipping the sensitive tendon of Shane's neck.

Ilya purposely slowed the intense momentum they had built over the last hour or so. Using the smooth, cool lubricant, he applied an easy but measured pressure with his fingers, drawing a sharp, high-pitched gasp from Shane. This preparation was both physical and emotional, gradually releasing the deep-seated tension that had kept them bound tight for nearly a decade. Keeping his hot breath pressed against Shane's neck, Ilya guided him through the intense ache of the stretch until the resistance finally melted, leaving Shane shivering and completely vulnerable beneath him.

““Not so many words now,huh? ” Ilya growled softly against his skin, his teeth lightly nipping the sensitive tendon of Shane's neck.

The mechanics of what happened next completely wiped the vocabulary from Shane’s head. Ilya didn't rush; he used the slick, wet friction of the tension they'd been building for years, guiding himself against Shane with a firm pressure that made Shane let out a breathless cry.

“Chort…” Ilya groaned, his forehead dropping heavily against Shane’s shoulder blade as he pushed inside, his grip on Shane’s hip bones turning completely unscripted and bruising. “You are so tight, Hollander. Like trap.”

Shane couldn't answer. A jolt of pure, terrifyingly hot adrenaline shot straight down his spine. His fingers clawed helplessly at the window frame as Ilya began to move—a slow, punishing rhythm that had absolutely deviated from the corporate rulebook or Crowell's behavioral clauses. Every slide of Ilya’s cock inside him hit the exact bruise Shane had been trying to suppress since that night. It was heavy, volatile, and suffocatingly intimate.

Shane’s head rolled down, resting against the cool glass. Ilya bent him further forward, broken sounds tearing from Shane's throat and betraying every defensive instinct he had. He wasn't thinking about what does this make him. He wasn't thinking about his spotless reputation or the Montreal Metros. He was entirely consumed by the thick, rough vibration of Ilya’s voice growling curses in Russian against his neck, and the terrifying reality that his body was adjusting to the intrusion with a frantic, desperate hunger.

Ilya’s pace quickened, his movements turning rough and dominant, mimicking the exact landscape of Shane's midnight nightmares. He slammed forward, his chest crushing Shane’s back against the glass, driving them both toward a breaking point.

“Hollander,” Ilya rasped, his voice breaking through his gravelly armor, sounding raw and entirely undone. “Hollander, look at me.”

Shane forced his head to turn, catching reflection of Ilya’s eyes in the dark. They were blown out, dark with an intense, unreadable obsession. With a final, punishing surge, Ilya hit the exact spot that made Shane’s vision go entirely white. Shane’s hips involuntarily twitched forward in a violent, helpless spasm. Without a single touch to the front of his body, a thick, hot wave of pleasure ruined his defense entirely, spilling blindly against the cool glass of the window.

Ilya let out a loud, harsh sound, burying his face in the dark mass of Shane’s hair as he followed him over the edge, his body locking rigid against Shane’s as he came.

In the weeks that followed, the routine they had settled into broke down, leaving only a painful blur of silent, fragmented moments.

MONTREAL — ANOTHER MIDNIGHT, DAYS LATER

The arena is empty and quiet. There are no public appearances to make, no staged confrontations at center ice for the cameras, and no romantic outings scheduled for the fans obsessed with #Hollanov; today, the performance is done. The only sound is the distant hum of a Zamboni

Shane sits alone on the bench with his skates untied, staring at the smooth, untouched ice. Ilya should be out there, skating his usual silent laps just to annoy Shane whenever he is in Montreal, but he isn't . Shane is forcefully willing himself not to think about Ilya at some nightclub with a woman—or worse, a man who is not him.

The emptiness weighs on Shane more than he wants to admit. It settles in his chest as a dull ache . He hates feeling it because, according to the terms of their contract, he isn't supposed to care when Ilya is gone—let alone miss him .

BOSTON — THE MANDATORY WALKTHROUGH

Their lives have become a series of carefully managed media obligations. Ilya walks beside Shane on a crowded Boston sidewalk, their shoulders brushing as cameras trail their every move.

The attention should be familiar by now. Instead, Ilya is trapped inside his own thoughts.

He remembers a different kind of closeness—the crushing loneliness that followed whenever Shane Hollander wasn't there to invade his space. He remembers being backed against a brick storefront, Shane standing impossibly close, leaving him breathless. He remembers the rough vibration of Shane's voice near his ear, the promise hidden in every word, the threat of losing control.

To the paparazzi, the scene unfolding on the sidewalk looks like a romance steadily taking shape.

To Ilya, it feels like standing too close to an explosion.

THE METROS LOCKER ROOM — DAYS LATER

A tight close-up follows Shane's hand as he signs a stack of corporate promotional jerseys for the Montreal Metros, his marker gliding across the fabric with the effortless precision that comes from years of repetition. Around him, the locker room moves through its familiar rhythms as teammates drift in and out of conversations, equipment managers organize gear, and staff members prepare for another day of obligations, yet the activity barely registers in his awareness. His attention catches on something else entirely when his index finger pauses against a faint bruise on the inside of his wrist, the mark faded enough that no one looking at it would think twice.

The bruise is insignificant by any reasonable standard, little more than a shadow beneath the skin, but the sight of it draws his thoughts immediately back to the coffee shop where it had been left behind. He can still picture the cramped table tucked into the corner, the narrow space that had forced them closer together than either of them should have been comfortable with, and the moment Ilya had reached across that distance and closed his hand around Shane's wrist. The gesture had not been painful, nor had it been particularly dramatic, yet there had been something undeniable in it, a quiet certainty that had stripped away every possibility of misunderstanding.

No team trainer would look at the fading mark and see anything unusual. No teammate would glance at it and imagine that it carried any significance. To everyone else, it would be nothing more than an accidental bruise acquired somewhere between practices, games, and travel. Shane knows better. The memory attached to it remains frustratingly vivid, preserved in precise detail despite the passage of days, and he finds himself recalling the warmth of Ilya's hand, the steady pressure of his grip, and the effortless confidence behind the touch.

What unsettles him most is not the memory itself but the reaction it still provokes. Even now, sitting safely inside the familiar confines of the locker room, surrounded by people and routine, he can feel his pulse quicken at the recollection. The sensation arrives before he has the chance to suppress it, spreading through him with the same immediacy it had possessed in the moment itself, and he hates how little control he seems to have over it. For several seconds he remains staring at the fading bruise, his thumb tracing its edge while the noise of the room recedes into the background, before he finally forces his attention back to the waiting jerseys and resumes signing his name as though nothing at all has happened.

FLASHBACK — THE LUXURY PRIVATE JET

Ten thousand feet above the ground, the private jet is quiet in the way only private spaces can be, insulated from the world below yet strangely unable to escape the pressure building inside it. The cabin is lined with polished wood and soft leather, and the air carries the faint mix of cedarwood and expensive tobacco, but none of it matters much to Ilya in the moment because all of his attention is fixed on Shane.

He is pacing at first, moving through the narrow aisle with that familiar restless energy that always seems to surface when he is determined to make something into a point rather than a conversation. Ilya watches him without interrupting, aware that whatever this is has less to do with logic and more to do with the public narrative they have been asked to maintain, a narrative that has begun to slip in ways neither of them fully admits out loud.

When Shane finally stops in front of him, the space between them collapses in an instant. The aisle is too narrow for distance to mean anything, and Shane makes no effort to correct it. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that Ilya has to tilt his head slightly just to keep him in view, and there is something in Shane’s expression that feels deliberately provocative, as if he is waiting to see whether Ilya will retreat or react.

“You keep acting like this is something you can control,” Shane says, his voice carrying the same tone he uses in front of cameras when he wants to appear unbothered.

Ilya studies him for a moment before answering, careful not to give him the reaction he seems to be looking for. “I am not the one trying to turn every moment into performance. Yes? ”

That lands exactly as intended.

Shane exhales through his nose, almost like a laugh, and the challenge in his eyes sharpens rather than fades. He steps even closer, as if proximity itself is part of the argument he is trying to win, and Ilya can see the exact moment Shane decides that words are no longer enough.

"Fuck you Rozanov, I'm not doing that."

"Then Prove it." Ilya says, and there is a clear edge of provocation in it, the kind that usually works on him.

Like he predicted in his head Shane is the one who moves first.

He reaches up and grips Ilya by the jaw with a decisive confidence that is more performance than hesitation, as though he has already committed to the outcome and is simply moving through the motions required to get there. The intention is obvious, at least on the surface, a quick kiss meant to puncture the tension and reassert control over the dynamic between them, to reduce everything back into something manageable and easily explained.

But Shane does not give himself enough time to fully inhabit that intention.

Ilya sees it in the fraction of a second before it happens, the way Shane’s certainty wavers just enough to reveal that he is not as detached as he is trying to appear. It is not fear exactly, but something closer to awareness, a recognition that he is closer to crossing a line than he wants to acknowledge.

Ilya does not move away.

Instead, he lifts a hand and places it at the back of Shane’s neck, guiding rather than restraining, his touch steady as it settles into place. His thumb comes to rest against Shane’s pulse point, and the effect is immediate in a way neither of them ignores.

Shane goes still.

The confidence that brought him forward does not vanish, but it shifts, no longer as sharp or as certain, replaced by something more complicated that he does not seem prepared to name. Ilya can feel it beneath his hand, the quickened rhythm of Shane’s pulse, the way his breath changes in the smallest, most telling way, and the realization settles in quietly that whatever Shane thought he was doing a moment ago is no longer the full truth of the situation.

Ilya does not move, and Shane does not pull away, and for a brief stretch of time that feels longer than it should, neither of them corrects what is happening.

What had begun as a provocation has turned into something neither of them can convincingly reduce back into a joke, and Ilya understands, with a clarity he does not yet have language for, that Shane Hollander has this power over him, more than he is willing to admit, but far less able to hide the consequences once he says it out loud.

MONTREAL — PRESENT TIME

Shane leans heavily against the vanity in the dim bathroom, bracing himself on the cool surface as he splashes cold water over his face again and again, trying to force clarity back into his thoughts. The shock of it is sharp enough to ground him for a moment, but it does little to erase what lingers beneath the surface, the heat of memory that refuses to settle no matter how many times he runs his hands through the water.

He lifts his head slowly and looks at his reflection in the mirror. The glass shows him exactly what he is trying not to acknowledge, a version of himself that looks too still, too unsettled, as if something inside him has been quietly rearranged without permission. His throat tightens as he studies his own expression, searching for the familiar structure of control, the mental framework he usually relies on to categorize and contain whatever is happening between him and Ilya Rozanov.

It is gone.

There is no internal script left to follow for him, no corporate-approved distance to fall back on, no convenient explanation that reduces everything to optics or obligation. Whatever boundaries he used to rely on feel irrelevant now, as if they were never as solid as he once believed.

He straightens slightly, one hand still resting on the edge of the vanity, and the realization settles more fully as he understands that what he has been trying to manage is no longer manageable in any recognizable way. The media narrative, the staged appearances, the carefully maintained version of their relationship that once made everything feel contained, has stopped functioning altogether. It does not guide him anymore. It does not protect him from the parts he is no longer willing to ignore.

Instead, what remains is something quieter and far less structured, something that does not respond to logic or strategy. It has no clear shape, no label he can comfortably assign to it, and yet it occupies more space in his thoughts than anything else.

He exhales slowly, the sound uneven in the quiet bathroom, and turns away from the mirror as if breaking eye contact might loosen its hold on him. But even as he steps back, he knows it is not something he can simply step away from.

Later, under the dim cover of the duvet, he lies on his side with his phone held close, the glow of the screen the only light in the room. His fingers move through a private browsing tab without real direction, searching for anything that might distract him long enough to feel like himself again. Nothing he scrolls through holds for more than a few seconds before it dissolves into the same underlying awareness he has been trying to avoid all night.

The room is too quiet without Ily— no, Rozanov in it.

That is the thought he refuses to name directly, the one that keeps returning no matter how often he pushes it away, and it leaves him staring at the screen long after whatever he was looking for has stopped mattering at all.

BOSTON— PRESENT

On the bed, Elena moved beneath him with practiced ease, her hands resting comfortably on his shoulders, her breathing soft and uneven against his collarbone. She was beautiful, the kind of presence his agent tended to select for post-season galas, but none of it quite held his attention. Hell, he wasn’t even entirely sure her name was Elena, and that thought passed through him more as a detached observation than anything meaningful.

There was no tension between them, no need to adjust or navigate anything uncertain, only a steady, mutual rhythm that neither of them seemed interested in complicating. The ease of it should have been simple, even comfortable, but instead it left everything feeling slightly distant, as if he were watching himself from just outside the moment rather than fully inside it.

When the rhythm failed to align, Ilya didn’t stop immediately. He adjusted instead, not out of hesitation but out of an unspoken sense of consideration, shifting his weight and allowing the moment to change course without making it abrupt or uncomfortable. The transition happened quietly, without words, as if both of them understood there was no need to name what was or wasn’t working.

Yet even that attempt at continuity began to dissolve the moment his focus drifted.

When his eyes closed, the room seemed to slip out from under him. The scent that had been present a moment ago faded and gave way to something sharper, more intrusive, a memory forcing its way in without permission. What had been immediate and physical became distant and fragmented, replaced by images that did not belong in the present.

The scent of lavender and skin faded, replaced by a sharper, intrusive memory. His hands, anchored at her hips, stopped feeling like they held her; instead, they mapped a broader, leaner body defined by a tension that never fully released.

He was somewhere in Montreal, the walls collapsed into the memory of the glass and steel where he had held Shane, the dark city pressing against the windows like an accusation.

Every sound Elena made became something else. Each breath reshaped into sharper, fractured moments. His jaw tightened as his mind dragged him backward into a sequence he could not interrupt.

He remembered freezing glass beneath a hand pressed too hard, low light spilling across an exposed room, and fabric pulled out of place. He remembered the disorienting realization that neither of them held control. The memory forced itself forward with surgical precision.

What unsettled him most was his body's immediate response. The biological certainty of reaction bypassed thought, refusing to follow the structure he had built for himself.

Elena shifted, her fingers tangling in his hair to draw him back, her soft voice failing to land. Ilya forced his eyes open, surfacing from somewhere deep.

He looked at her, but the image remained incomplete, overlaid by the reflection of Shane against the glass.

Ilya blinked and opened his eyes, slowly pulling himself back into the present as the room came into focus piece by piece.

The silence was occupied.

A sharp blue-white glow cut through the dark. His phone lit up on the bedside table.

Chapter End Notes

I wrote 40k words in one sitting, This is either genius or mania and I’ll find out in two weeks.

Chapter 9: Clause 4

Chapter Summary

💡 Quick Head's Up: This finale includes fully interactive story features! Make sure to tap or hover over the text-message graphics, and the final image box at the very end to reveal hidden details, text messages, and a special final title card. Enjoy the ride! 🍿🎬

Shane stood outside the heavy glass doors of the league office, his body ignoring the command to look professional. His right leg was vibrating on a hair-trigger rhythm, his heel tapping against the polished granite floor searching for a distraction.

A deep, heavy ache was already creeping up from his ankle to his hip. It was a bizarre, detached sensation—as if his joints were loosening, his limbs threatening to unhinge themselves completely if he couldn't force them to lock down.

He couldn't lock them down.

To force the static somewhere else, he jammed his hand against his mouth. His teeth caught the ragged, raw edge of his thumb, biting down with a mindless, brutal focus. He had already chewed the nail back past the quick while waiting in the lobby, but he kept digging into the soft skin of the nail bed.

A sharp, wet sting.

The flash of pain barely cut through the tight, suffocating pressure in his chest. The corporate air conditioning felt freezing, yet his ribs felt too small for his lungs, making every attempt at a breath shallow and useless. He locked his gaze onto a tiny metallic seam in the door frame, his heel continuing its heavy, relentless thumping against the floorboards, trying to swallow back the sour taste of rising panic.

The fact that Ilya wasn't standing out here with him was the exact point where everything collapsed.

Every minute the boardroom door stayed shut, the vibration in Shane's leg grew heavier, rattling through his entire posture. The quiet of the high-rise hallway wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, a vacuum. The wording of the notification on his screen seemed to loop behind his eyes, a bureaucratic threat dressed up in league letterhead.

Where the hell was he?

Shane bit down harder, tearing at the skin beside his thumbnail until he tasted the hot, copper tang of blood. He didn't move his hand to wipe it away. The split second of physical pain was easier to manage than the spinning weight in his head. Without Ilya there to absorb the noise, to hold the hallway steady by just existing in it, the modern glass walls felt like they were leaning in.

He let out a sharp snuffle that cut off before it could turn into a sob. His eyes dragged themselves toward the elevators, then dropped right back to his shoes.

The heavy chime of the elevator bank cut through the quiet of the hallway.

Shane didn't look up immediately. He forced his hand down from his mouth, dropping it into the pocket of his suit trousers to hide the raw, bleeding skin of his thumb. When he finally raised his eyes, Ilya was stepping out of the car, adjusting his cuffs with a casual, unbothered slowness that made the blood in Shane’s veins instantly turn hot.

The terror that had been choking Shane for the last twenty minutes twisted sharply, turning into a bitter, familiar armor.

"Where the fuck were you?" Shane hissed, stepping directly into Ilya’s path before his brain could filter the rage. He kept his voice low, his jaw clamped tight enough to crack a tooth. "Is punctuality not in your dictionary?"

Ilya didn't even blink. He stopped, looking down at Shane with a cold, exhausted indifference that made the corporate hallway feel ten degrees colder.

"Fuck off," Ilya said, his voice flat, dismissing the panic vibrating through Shane’s frame. "I was busy."

"With who?"

The words cut through the space between them before Shane could catch them. They slipped past his teeth, sharp and unprompted, carrying a possessive edge that he hadn't intended to let show. The sudden silence in the hallway felt massive, the question hanging heavily in the air between them.

Ilya’s eyes narrowed, his chest rising as he drew in a breath to deliver a harsh retort.

Before the words could leave his mouth, the heavy glass door to the main office clicked open. A young assistant in a tailored gray suit stepped out, holding a digital tablet tight against her chest.

"Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov," she said, her professional tone cutting cleanly through the tension. "The Commissioner is ready for you now. Please follow me."

Ilya held Shane's gaze for one fraction of a second longer, his expression unreadable, before he turned his shoulder and stepped past him toward the open door .

Shane followed a half-step behind, his knuckles clenched inside his pockets. Walking into the boardroom felt like stepping onto the ice for a brutal third period, but his focus was entirely fractured. He was supposed to be mapping out a public "romance strategy," but his brain was hyper-fixated on the rigid set of Ilya's broad shoulders in front of him. Ilya wasn't sweating. Ilya wasn't looking at the exit every two minutes . The realization that he was the only one losing his mind in this shitty situation made Shane's jaw tighten until it ached.

Commissioner Roger Crowell sat at the head of the massive mahogany table, a sleek silver pen balanced perfectly between his fingers. He didn't look up when the heavy doors clicked shut behind them. He just tapped the glass of his tablet, letting the silence stretch until the air in the room felt thick enough to choke on.

"Sit," Crowell said smoothly, his voice carrying that terrifyingly corporate weight that made Shane want to launch a hockey stick through the floor-to-ceiling glass .

They sat. Shane deliberately pulled his chair back a few extra inches, enforcing the strict no-touching rule the moment they were behind closed door. He kept his eyes locked onto the printed copy of the behavioral clause sitting in the center of the table, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Crowell finally raised his eyes, his gaze sliding between the two of them with clinical precision .

"I assume you both received the correspondence sent to your agents on Friday evening," Crowell began, leaning back in his leather chair and crossing his hands. "Because based on the metrics our public relations team has been tracking over the last forty-eight hours, it appears one or both of you has forgotten the parameters of Section 2."

Shane tensed, his heel instantly wanting to resume its heavy thumping against the floor. Beside him, Ilya remained fully still, a solid mass of unreadable muscle .

"We signed the agreement, Commissioner," Shane bit out, trying to force his voice into a flat, professional line. "We've been sticking to the script."

"Have you?" Crowell slid his tablet across the polished wood, the screen lighting up with a series of flagged social media bookmarks and high-resolution paparazzi captures . Crowell leaned forward, slamming both hands flat against the mahogany table.

“Yes.” Shane said with a confidence he does not feel.

"I don't give a damn about the script, Hollander," Crowell said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, clinical register. "Our handlers aren't stupid. The press pool isn't stupid. We brought you in here to project a carefully controlled, progressive narrative to save our sponsors. Instead, I’m getting reports from hotel staff, handlers, and security that the tension between you two behind closed doors is completely off the charts."

He locked his eyes onto Shane, then slid them slowly over to Ilya.

"Are you two fucking behind the scenes?" Crowell asked bluntly.

Shane’s brain violently short-circuited. The corporate boardroom suddenly felt devoid of oxygen. A brilliant, suffocating heat rushed up his neck, staining his cheeks an undeniable crimson as he frozenly stared at the Commissioner. He opened his mouth to launch a fierce, defensive denial—to yell that he was straight, that this was just a business transaction—but his throat was too dry to form a syllable.

Beside him, Ilya didn't even flinch. He leaned back in his leather chair, crossing his broad arms over his chest with an icy, unbothered arrogance.

"What we do in private is none of your business," Ilya said, his voice flat. His Russian accent was thick, dismissive, and utterly calm.

"It is our business!" Dana Whitmore interjected sharply. The Director of League P R snatched her tablet off the table, her face tight with frustration. "Do you two even understand the fragile network you are messing with right now? The only reason this entire PR nightmare hasn't blown up in our faces is because both of your locker rooms have been given absolute assurances."

She stepped closer to the table, her eyes darting between the Montreal captain and the Boston defenseman.

"The Voyageurs and the Bears are tolerating this because they think it's pure drama," Dana warned, her voice rising. "They think it's a corporate stunt. Nothing real. Do you have any idea what happens to team morale—what happens to this entire league—if your teammates find out this isn't just for the cameras? You are the league's two absolute best players. You are the biggest rivals in the sport. You need to have integrity."

Ilya let out a short, mocking scoff, his lips curling into that familiar, lopsided defensive smirk. He didn't look remotely intimidated by Dana’s lecture on locker room morals.

"So, what you saying?" Ilya asked, leaning forward until his broad chest nearly pressed against the edge of the table. His hazel eyes sparkled with pure, malicious amusement as he locked his gaze onto the PR Director. "I cannot fuck Hollander when my dick gets hard?"

The boardroom went still.

Shane felt a hot, dizzying flash of blood slam straight into his ears. His entire face flared a bright, furious pink. He ripped his hands out of his pockets, turning a wild, venomous glare toward the giant sitting next to him. The sheer audacity of the man-made Shane's stomach do a sickening flip. Ilya was doing it on purpose, using his lack of a filter like a weapon just to test his boundaries and watch him squirm .

"Fuck off, Rozanov," Shane hissed through clenched teeth, his voice a tight, defensive whisper. He leaned away from Ilya, his posture going totally rigid as he tried to claw back any shred of professional dignity in front of the front office. "Shut the fuck up."

Ilya didn't even look at him, his smirk only deepening as he kept his eyes fixed on Dana, thoroughly enjoying the mayhem he’d just dropped onto the mahogany table.

Dana stood frozen, her mouth slightly open as her professional composure cracked right down the middle. Beside her, Commissioner Crowell’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping his silver pen so hard the metal clicked in the dead silence of the room.

"Oh, for God's sake, Rozanov, grow the hell up!" Dana snapped, stepping up right beside Crowell's chair. Her corporate voice was fully gone, replaced by a sharp, furious edge. "We are not talking about your private anatomy. We are talking about the multi-million-dollar contracts holding this entire league together. If you think the Montreal and Boston general managers are going to let you two tank their season over your lack of self-control, you are living in a fantasy world."

"She's right," Crowell interjected, slamming his silver pen onto the mahogany table with a sharp, echoing clack . He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into cold, furious slits as he looked between the two players. "I don't care whose dick is doing what, Rozanov. What I care about is the Board of Governors pulling my funding because the Montreal Voyageurs and the Boston Bears are about to start a literal locker-room riot."

Crowell tapped the printed document in the center of the table, his finger landing squarely on Clause 4.

"Your teammates think this is corporate fiction. If the Voyageurs or the Bears get even a whisper that this is real—that their captains are actually sleeping together behind the scenes—the locker room morale will collapse," Crowell hissed, his voice dangerously low. "They will lose their absolute shit. Do you think Boston is going to block shots for a guy they think fakes a rivalry? Do you think Montreal is going to follow Hollander into a playoff series? No. They will tear both of your teams apart from the inside out."

He leaned back, his expression turning wholly ruthless.

"A season-long suspension," Crowell repeated, letting the words hang in the dead air until the reality of them scraped raw against Shane's nerves. "Which is why we are putting an end to this little experiment. Today. You wanted public drama? You’re getting it. Dana has already drafted the timeline for a clean, permanent public breakup. You have exactly two coordinated appearances left to phase it out, and then you are strictly business on the ice. No crossovers. No private overlap. Done."

Shane’s heart did a violent, sickening drop against his ribs, but he locked his jaw before his face could give anything away. A public breakup. The absolute end of the safety net, handed down like a corporate execution order.

He didn't look at Ilya. He couldn't. He just kept his eyes glued to the sleek wood grain of the table, waiting for the massive Russian to say something—anything—to fight it. To push back against Crowell’s timeline the way he usually pushed back against everything else in the league.

Instead, Ilya just let out a quiet, indifferent grunt.

"Fine by me," Ilya said, his gravelly voice smooth and unbothered. He shifted his weight in the leather chair, lazily checking the face of his watch as if the entire thing were an annoying meeting that was running five minutes over. "The script was getting tedious anyway. If is not Hollander, someone else will make a headline next month. Is all same."

The casual indifference of it blindsided Shane.

An absolute, burning wave of humiliation rushed up his throat, making his chest feel tight and hollow all at once. If not Hollander, someone else. It was that simple to him. A fucking someone to fuck when he needed to. A game. And Shane was easy. Shane felt like a complete and utter idiot for the way his heart had been thrashing, for the raw panic that had been eating him alive in the hallway, for ever thinking—even for a split second—that the tension between them actually meant something real to Ilya.

But hell if he was going to let Ilya see him break. Hell if he was going to give Crowell or Dana the satisfaction of a reaction.

Shane forced his lips into a dry, mocking smile, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms with a perfect mirror of Ilya’s detached arrogance.

"Yeah, works for me too, Commissioner," Shane said, his voice flat, steady, and empty of emotion. He even managed a small, dismissive shrug, tossing a casual glance toward Dana. "The media circus was getting exhausting anyway. Two more dates to wrap up the contract, and we can go back to normal. I'm fine with it."

Dana's eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze tracking the brittle, frozen nonchalance vibrating between the two of them, while Crowell simply reached forward to pull his silver pen back into his pocket.

The hotel room was dead quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning.

Shane didn’t even bother turning on the lights. He just kicked his shoes off into the dark and dropped onto the edge of the mattress, his body finally collapsing under the weight of the last forty-eight hours. The final public appearance was done. The cameras had clicked, the staged smiles had been filed away by the league handlers, and the permanent breakup narrative was officially in motion. It was over.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen lit up his face, revealing the stark, hollow quiet of an empty notification tray. No texts from Boston. No lingering arguments. Nothing. Ilya had walked out of the final arena lobby without a backward glance, checked out, already moving on to whatever headline or whatever body was coming next.

If it is not Hollander, someone else.

The line looped in his head, a brutal, mocking echo that cut straight through the frozen nonchalance he had been forced to wear like armor all afternoon. The armor was gone now. In the dark of the hotel room, the sheer, burning weight of the humiliation came rushing back, so heavy it made his chest ache.

With trembling fingers, he scrolled through his contacts and hit the only name that felt safe.

The phone rang twice before a soft, familiar voice filled the quiet room. "Shane?, is everything okay?"

Hearing his mom’s voice was the exact moment the dam broke.

The suffocating pressure in his chest cracked and gave way. Shane let out a sharp, ragged breath that caught in his throat, turning into a weak, pathetic sound before he could stop it. He clamped his free hand over his mouth, trying desperately to lock down the sob rising in his throat, but it was useless. The tears came fast and hot, spilling over his eyelashes and tracking wet lines down his face.

"Shane? Oh, baby, what's wrong?" Her voice spiked with immediate, protective panic. "Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"No," Shane choked out, his voice breaking under the strain. He leaned forward, burying his face in his knees as the tears kept coming, heavy and unstoppable. "No, Mom, I'm... I'm okay. I'm just..."

He couldn't even finish the sentence. He sat there in the dark, his shoulders shaking violently as he wept into his jeans, the raw, ugly pain of the rejection tearing him apart from the inside out. He had spent months convincing himself that the heat between them was real, that the quiet, unscripted moments behind closed doors actually meant something to the Russian defenseman. He had let himself care. He had let himself get attached to a ghost.

"I was so stupid," Shane sobbed, his voice muffled against his knees, thick with misery and self-loathing. "Mom, I was so fucking stupid. I actually thought—I thought he actually gave a shit about me."

"Oh, sweetie..."

"He didn't care at all," Shane whispered, a fresh wave of hot tears burning his eyes as he pressed the phone tighter against his ear. "It was just a game to him. A fucking contract. I'm such an idiot. I'm such an absolute idiot."

He stayed like that on the edge of the bed for a long time, the quiet comfort of his mother's voice through the speaker the only thing keeping him anchored while he finally let himself bleed in the dark.

In the Boston locker room, the management and coaching staff were thrilled. The Bears were on a six-game tear, tearing through the Atlantic Division like a freight train, and Ilya was playing with a terrifying, borderline psychotic edge. He wasn't talking to the media, he wasn't talking to his teammates, and he was taking roughing minors almost every period just to feel the crunch of plexiglass against someone else’s ribs. The front office didn't care about his sour attitude. As long as he was putting up multi-point nights and keeping the sponsors happy now that the "PR drama" was safely buried, they let him do whatever the hell he wanted.

They thought he didn't give a fuck. They thought he was relieved to be done with the contract.

But back in his apartment, with the lights off and a bottle of expensive vodka sitting untouched on the kitchen island, Ilya was suffocating in his own skin.

He wasn't fine. He hadn't been fine since the second he watched Shane’s posture go brittle and frozen in Crowell’s office.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the sharp, furious pink that had stained Shane’s cheeks when he made that graphic comment about his dick. He had done it on purpose—not to hurt Shane, but to shock the corporate bastards, to push them until they broke the contract themselves. Ilya knew what he was. He was a volatile, media-hated Russian defenseman with a reputation for being an unhinged brute. Shane was the golden boy. Shane was a beautiful, pristine captain with a legacy to protect, a locker room that respected him, and a career that shouldn't be dragged into the mud by a public scandal.

If it is not Hollander, someone else.

Ilya had said it to end it. He had said it because if the league found out they were actually sleeping together, the Voyageurs would have destroyed Shane from the inside out. Shane deserved a real life. He deserved someone who didn't come with handlers, conditional clauses, and a locker room riot attached. He deserved someone better than a broken-down rival who only knew how to communicate through violence and defensive armor.

So Ilya had lied. He had acted nonchalant. And in doing so, he knew he had made Shane look and feel like an absolute idiot.

The anger was an endless, churning engine inside him now. He was angry at Crowell, angry at Dana Whitmore, angry at the board of governors, but mostly, he was furious with himself. He had thrown the only person who had ever truly seen past his defenses right under the corporate bus just to keep him safe from a suspension.

And now, the schedule was catching up to him.

Ilya sat on the bench during the morning skate, staring down at his skates as the blades bit into the fresh Boston ice. Tomorrow night, the Montreal Voyageurs were coming to town. The permanent public breakup narrative was active. They were supposed to ignore each other during warmups. They were supposed to be bitter rivals again. No private overlap. No text messages. Done.

The whistle blew, echoing loudly through the empty arena, but Ilya didn't move. His knuckles tightened around his stick until the composite frame groaned. He had been playing like a demon possessed for two weeks, but tomorrow night, he was going to be standing at center ice for the opening puck drop.

He was going to be looking right into Shane Hollander's eyes, and for the first time in his entire career, Ilya Rozanov had absolutely no idea what the fuck he was going to do.

The TD Garden was loud, but centre ice felt completely dead .

Lining up at the dot, Ilya felt the stiffness in his shoulders, his heart thumping an erratic rhythm against his ribs . He kept his eyes locked straight ahead, desperate for even a split second of eye contact, but Shane was locking him out . A few feet back, Shane pulled the Velcro straps on his gloves tighter, refusing to look at Ilya or toward the Boston bench . His expression was completely blank .

A cold weight settled in Ilya’s stomach . He wanted nothing more than to cross the red line, to give Shane a hard slash to the shins just to force him to look up—to do anything other than pretend Ilya was a ghost .

Then the linesman blew his whistle, waving a winger out of the circle and delaying the drop . In the sudden pocket of quiet, the chatter from the Montreal bench carried perfectly .

Pike leaned over the boards, giving Shane a heavy pat on the shoulder . "Hey, good for you, Shane," Pike said, his voice cutting clearly through the arena noise . "Seriously. Saw the headlines this morning. Glad you got back with Landry. She's great."

JJ drifted closer to the circle, a small smirk on his face as he bumped his jersey against Shane's side . "Yeah, look at you, golden boy. Back to normalcy. Good for you, capitaine."

Hearing Rose Landry’s name made Ilya freeze . Shane didn't deny it . He didn't say a word, choosing instead to let the teasing hang in the air while keeping his face entirely unreadable .

Ilya didn't stay to hear anything else . Before Shane could even open his mouth to reply, Ilya dug his edges violently into the ice, turning his back to skate hard toward his own blue line . His chest felt hollow, a hot, chaotic anger blurring his vision . If it is not Hollander, someone else. He’d given Shane the script to walk away, and Shane was playing the part perfectly . He was safe, his captaincy was secure, and he was back to a clean, acceptable life .

The thought made Ilya want to tear his own skin off .

When the puck finally dropped, Ilya played the worst sixty minutes of his life . He was completely unrecognizable . The smart, heavy defensive presence he usually anchored vanished, replaced by a reckless, stupid desperation . He blew his coverages, turned the puck over at his own blue line, and chased hits deep into the corners . He wasn't playing hockey anymore; he was just trying to break his own body against the boards .

As the goals piled up, the Boston bench went dead silent . Montreal tore them apart, easily skating away with an embarrassing win .

When the final horn sounded, Ilya didn't look at the scoreboard or at Shane celebrating with his team . He skated straight down the tunnel with his head down, ripping his helmet off and slamming it against the concrete wall of the corridor .

He stripped his gear in the locker room amidst a tense, freezing silence . Nobody came near him, and the coaches didn't even try to talk to him . After a quick shower, Ilya threw on his suit without bothering with his tie . Bypassing the media scrum entirely, he slipped into the quiet, under-belly hallways of the arena to find an exit .

"Ilya."

The sharp voice cut through the shadows near the loading dock . Ilya stopped, his neck tensing as Marlow stepped out from behind a concrete pillar with his arms crossed . He’d been watching from the press box all night, tracking every missed assignment and every angry, desperate stride .

Marlow walked over, stopping just a few feet away . "You want to tell me what the hell that was out there?" he asked quietly . "Because that wasn't just a bad game, Ilya. You looked like you were trying to get yourself killed. What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Ilya said flatly, his rough voice scraping against the quiet concrete corridor . He adjusted the strap of his heavy leather suit bag on his shoulder . "Bad game. It happens, Marlow. Move."

He took a step to push past him, but Marlow didn’t budge . He stayed planted right in the center of Ilya’s exit path, his posture unyielding .

"Bullshit," Marlow countered, his voice sharp but low . "You don't play like a man having a bad game, Ilya. You play like a man trying to rack up enough penalty minutes to get suspended on purpose . You were chasing hits into the corners like the puck didn't even exist." Marlow leaned forward, eyes narrowing . "You looked like you were falling apart . Then I heard the Montreal bench mentioning Rose Landry right before you completely lost it . That's not a coincidence."

"I said is nothing," Ilya snapped, a dark edge creeping into his voice . "I do not need review of everything I screw up tonight. I want to go back to my home."

"It's about Hollander, isn't it?" Marlow cut in, catching the way Ilya's jaw tightened .

The silence stretched between them . Ilya went still . He didn't look at Marlow; instead, he stared at the floor, his grip tightening around the strap of his bag until his knuckles whitened .

"The whole internet is trying to figure out what's going on between you two," Marlow said, his voice losing some of its edge . "The fake walkthroughs in Boston, the social media posts, the contract situation with Crowell . You told me it was all a game—that you were trying to get under his skin and make him crack first." Marlow shook his head . "But look at you. He's back with his girlfriend, acting like nothing happened, and you're the one who can't let it go. You're the one carrying it onto the ice."

Ilya let out a short, humorless laugh and finally looked up .

"He plays part because he does not like me, Marlow," he said quietly . "He wants his reputation. He wants captaincy. I gave him way out, and he took it. That is all."

"And what do you want, Ilya?" Marlow asked .

Ilya's expression tightened . For a moment, he said nothing . Then he brushed past Marlow and headed toward the exit . The cold air hit him as he stepped outside into the night . He kept walking, hands shoved into his pockets, not looking back . Marlow watched him go, knowing the silence had answered the question better than any words could .

The front door shut behind him .

Ilya stood in the dark for a moment, listening to the silence of his house . The only light came from the city outside, filtering through the living room windows and outlining the furniture in pale gray . He dropped his suit bag onto the bench by the door and rubbed a hand over his face . Normally, he would have headed straight for the shower after a game, but not tonight .

Instead, he slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter . He stared at them for a second before tapping one loose .

Ilya stepped out onto the back patio, the cold New England wind cutting through his suit jacket . He flicked open his lighter and shielded the flame with one hand until the cigarette caught . Taking a deep drag, he leaned against the metal railing and stared out into the darkness beyond his yard . The familiar burn settled in his lungs, but it did little to quiet his thoughts .

If it's not Hollander, it'll be someone else.

The words had been circling in his head since he'd first thought them . He tightened his grip on the railing . For years, he had known Shane's game better than almost anyone . He knew the rhythm of his skating stride, the tells he gave away under pressure, the split-second decisions he made before the rest of the ice caught up . Tracking him had become second nature .

That was why the fake-dating contract had felt so simple at first . A game . Another competition . Ilya had been convinced he could outlast him, push harder, get under his skin until the untouchable golden boy finally cracked .

Instead, Shane had walked away . He was back with Rose Landry, slipping easily into the life everyone expected him to have . The rumors had quieted, the story made sense again, and Ilya hated how much that bothered him . Shane was hundreds of miles away, living his own life, and yet he seemed impossible to get out of Ilya's head .

Marlow's question echoed back to him . And what do you want, Ilya? He still didn't have an answer, and that was the problem .

His phone buzzed against his thigh, but Ilya barely reacted . He stayed where he was, leaning against the railing with the cigarette burning lower between his fingers . A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again, followed shortly by a third notification .

With a quiet holiday curse in Russian, he finally reached into his pocket and pulled it out. He was expecting a message from his coach or Marlow asking what had gone wrong, but the name on the screen stopped him cold.

Ilya read the message twice. Under normal circumstances, he would have fired back something sarcastic. Instead, he found himself staring at the screen, irritated by how easily Shane had cut through the noise. Everyone else had spent the evening talking about the mistakes, but Shane was the first person who made it sound like something was actually wrong.

The cigarette tip glowed orange in the dark, briefly lighting Ilya’s face before fading. He had stopped looking at his phone; it lay face-down on the iron table after he sent a single word: “Fine.”

He was on his third cigarette in a row, feeling the burn settle heavily in his chest. Each exhale turned to smoke in the cold night air, drifting and thinning against the window frames of his house.

He felt like something that had been burning down for hours, leaving only a spent shell behind. The house was dark except for the faint glow of the Boston skyline through the living room glass. He preferred it that way. Darkness meant he didn’t have to look at the space around him or think about how empty it felt after a long game on the ice.

A high-end rental car pulled up the quiet street, its engine low and steady. Ilya stayed where he was on the patio railing, cigarette still in hand. He watched as the black sedan stopped at the curb, its headlights shutting off immediately. The driver got out and closed the door firmly.

Shane Hollander didn’t look like an away-team captain who had just won in Boston. His stride up the stone path was tight, his shoulders raised against the wind, though the night wasn’t especially cold. He was still in his post-game suit—dark, sharp, and perfectly kept—but his hair was slightly damp, falling loose at the nape of his neck.

He didn’t ring the bell.

Ilya met him at the side gate instead, face set and unreadable as he opened it. He didn’t move aside to let Shane in. He just stood there, blocking the entrance.

“You are idiot,” Ilya said, voice roughened by smoke. “"You cross lines to come here after game? In Boston? If Marlow or some media rat sees your rental car, they have field day with contract.”

Shane didn’t react to the accusation. His attention stayed fixed on Ilya—on the exhaustion around his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, and the faint shake in the hand holding the cigarette.

“Move, Ilya,” Shane said.

His voice wasn’t the polished one used for cameras and post-game interviews. It was lower, thinner, sharpened by something less controlled—like the edges of his composure were finally starting to slip.

"No," Ilya spat, taking a long, deliberate drag of the cigarette and blowing the smoke directly over Shane’s shoulder into the wind. "Go back to your team hotel, Hollander. Go back to Montreal. Go back to Landry and your nice, clean life. You do not belong here." Shane’s jaw tightened so hard a small muscle jumped near his ear He didn't argue. Instead, he simply stepped forward, using his entire weight to shove past Ilya’s shoulder.

"Hey—" Ilya hissed, turning violently on his heel as the gate clicked shut behind them.

Shane was already walking up the wooden steps of the back patio, his leather dress shoes clicking sharply against the timber. He stopped right by the iron table, turning around to face Ilya as the Russian followed him up, Ilya can feel his irritation building up behind his eyes.

"You're smoking again," Shane said, his eyes dropping to the glowing ember between Ilya’s fingers. Ilya knew he absolutely hated it—the same way he had hated it since the day they met as teenagers behind that dumpy rink in Saskatchewan, when Ilya had deliberately ignored the non-smoking area just to be a cocky dick. Shane's disgust with the habit was an old, familiar friction, a reminder of the barrier between Ilya's reckless vices and his own tightly controlled life.

For years, Ilya had been a serial smoker, burning through packs in the dark corners of international arenas and city streets just to quiet the noise in his own head . The only time he ever went without a cigarette—the only time he actively forced himself to chew toxic nicotine gum until his mouth was numb—was when he was anywhere near Hollander. He did it solely because Shane hated it, but tonight, everything was broken.

I thought you stopped it."

"Well you thought wrong." Ilya growled, stepping into Shane’s space until their coat buttons nearly brushed. He was taller, arrogant, and broader, his massive shadow completely swallowing Shane against the silver light of the porch.

Shane was unphased "You played shitty tonight."

“I have bad day. That is it. You want to break down my game now? Tell me what I did wrong at the blue line?” Ilya let out a short, sharp breath, smoke trailing with it. “I do not care what you think about my stats, Shane.”

The words came out hard, clipped—too controlled to be fully true. Because what Shane thought of him did matter. A lot. But that was something Ilya didn’t let reach the surface. If Shane didn’t see it, it couldn’t be used against him.

“I don’t care about the stats,” Shane cut in, his voice breaking slightly in the quiet yard.

He reached for Ilya’s wrist and closed his hand around it—firm, grounding, not painful, but enough to stop him mid-motion.

“You think I care about three turnovers?” he said, eyes locked on him. “I watched you on the bench. You weren’t playing hockey—you were throwing yourself into every hit you could find.”

His grip tightened just a fraction, not to restrain, but to keep Ilya from pulling away.

“You got freedom, yes? ” Ilya hissed, voice dropping low and rough in the wind.

He tried to pull his wrist free, but Shane didn’t let go—his grip steady, anchored, the fabric of Ilya’s sleeve bunching under his fingers.

“You’re the one who wants normal,” Ilya continued, bitter now, sharp around the edges. “Golden boy.” He flicked his fingers in a mocking imitation of air quotes. “You say you’re straight. You want your captaincy. Your clean image.”

His jaw tightened.

“I gave you the out. I let you walk away so you could go back to your perfect life.” A beat. “You should have stayed gone. You have Rose Landry”

“Because I didn’t know what else to do,” Shane burst out. "My whole life I have been this person. I was scared."

His composure cracked fully then—eyes wide, breathing uneven, like he couldn’t get enough air into his chest. Whatever version of himself he showed in arenas, in interviews, in sponsor rooms—it wasn’t here anymore.

“Rose and I broke up months ago,” he said quickly. “You know that. That headline this morning—PR cleanup. Her agent trying to bury old noise.”

His grip on Ilya’s wrist stayed, but it wasn’t controlling now so much as desperate—like letting go would mean everything collapsing at once.

“I didn’t deny it on the ice because I was scared,” Shane went on, voice tightening. “If I said anything—if I even looked at you for half a second—everyone would’ve known.”

“Known what, Shane?”

“Known that I’m losing my mind,” Shane said, barely above a whisper.

His hold loosened, sliding down from Ilya’s sleeve until his hand met Ilya’s—cold fingers against his palm. The cigarette slipped free.

“I’ve been reading stupid fan posts in the dark trying to understand what’s wrong with me. And I’m scared, Ilya—because I don’t think you’re pretending anymore.”

His voice broke slightly.

“And I know I’m not either.”

The anger in Ilya didn’t disappear so much as change shape, losing its sharp edges until it felt heavier, harder to hold. He looked at Shane properly for the first time since he’d arrived, really looked, and something in his expression shifted.

Shane hadn’t come here to win anything. Not an argument, not a point, not even control of the situation. He looked like someone who had run out of places to put his thoughts and ended up here because there was nowhere else left.

“You are an idiot, Hollander,” Ilya said, but the words came out quieter than before, almost tired.

Shane let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s your takeaway?”

“It is still true.”

That pulled something small and unguarded across Shane’s face, gone as quickly as it came, but real enough.

Ilya caught the front of his coat, not pulling him in, just holding him there so he wouldn’t drift away again. “You think too much,” he said.

“Someone has to,” Shane replied, but there was less bite in it now.

“No. You think for whole league.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore. It settled around them instead of between them.

Shane’s gaze dropped briefly before coming back up. “I thought you wanted me gone.”

“I tried,” Ilya admitted after a moment.

“Tried?”

“You make it difficult to stay away.”

That landed differently. Not dramatic, not explosive—just real enough that Shane’s expression changed, something tight in him loosening.

“I don’t know what this is,” Shane said quietly. “And I don’t know how it survives everything around it.”

“I know,” Ilya said.

“And the league—”

“I know.”

“My career—”

“I know that too.”

Shane stopped, searching his face.

Ilya didn’t look away. “We don’t fix all of it tonight.”

A pause.

Then Shane nodded once, small and unsteady, like he’d been holding his breath for too long and finally remembered how to let it go.

“Still idiot,” Ilya said after a beat.

A faint smile appeared. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

The cold wind off Boston Harbor died all at once, leaving the back patio in a strange, sealed stillness that felt almost unreal.

Ilya didn’t hesitate. He stepped in close, one hand sliding up the line of Shane’s throat, thumb settling under his jaw as he tipped his head back with steady, absolute certainty. There was no calculation in it anymore, no angle left to consider, only the decision finally made.

Then he kissed him.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t the controlled version they had circled around in private conversations or half-joked about under fluorescent airport lights. It wasn’t anything shaped for cameras, boards, or contracts. It was simply what remained when everything else had fallen away.

Shane didn’t pull back.

The moment it happened, something in him broke open instead of shutting down. A sharp, involuntary sound left him as his hands came up fast, gripping the thick wool of Ilya’s sweater, holding on like he needed something solid to stay anchored to. The space between them disappeared completely.

Ilya pulled him closer in turn, one arm firm around his back, steadying him as much as claiming the distance between them. The kiss deepened without effort, not rushed but unavoidable, like neither of them had ever really learned how to stop once they started.

There was nothing polished about it. Their breathing collided, uneven and messy, and at one point their teeth caught awkwardly, sharp enough to sting, but neither of them broke away. If anything, it only made the moment feel more real, less like something that could be misinterpreted or edited into something safer.

Shane tilted into it instinctively, following where Ilya led without resistance now, his grip tightening at the back of Ilya’s neck as if letting go would mean losing something he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding onto. The world narrowed to warmth, breath, and pressure, everything else dropping away into the cold night air.

When Ilya finally broke it, it wasn’t distance that pulled him back so much as breath—both of them needing air more than restraint.

For a suspended second, he just stared down at the Montreal captain, his hands still framing Shane’s flushed, breathless face. Shane’s eyes were wide, completely glassy, and his lips were bitten a brilliant, unmistakable crimson from the sheer force of Ilya’s mouth.

Then, the permanent, stony scowl that Ilya had worn for a decade completely vanished.

A massive, brilliant grin split Ilya’s face—not the stiff, terrifying vampire smile he’d forced through the coffee shop window to scare the baristas, but a raw, unpolished expression of pure, chaotic joy. He let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed straight through the dark, quiet yard, his hazel eyes sparkling with an absolute satisfaction that had nothing to do with hockey stats or division leads. He was so violently happy his entire broad frame shook against Shane’s hands.

Shane stayed frozen against Ilya’s chest, his hands still clutching the wool of his sweater, his mind completely short-circuiting as his internal logic dissolved into the cold night air. He blinked up at the big Russian defenseman, his chest rising and falling in shallow, trembling pants.

The dial-up noises that usually buzzed in Ilya’s head whenever his structured world glitched went dead silent.

He swallowed hard, his voice dropping into a deadpan, clinical whisper that sounded exactly like an elite center delivering a highly accurate data analysis after reviewing game tape.

"Ilya," Shane muttered, his face entirely serious. "I think I'm gay."

Ilya choked on his own breath, his head throwing back as another loud, unexpected bark of laughter tore out of his chest.

"Bozhe moy, Hollander!" Ilya roared, his heavy Russian accent thick with absolute, unbridled amusement as he squeezed Shane's waist tighter. "You are All-Star genius! Took you eight years of hitting me into plexiglass and running internet quizzes under your pillow to figure this out?!"

Shane’s cheeks flared a brilliant, furious shade of hot pink, but the stubborn, defensive armor he’d worn his entire life was completely gone . A breathless, genuine laugh broke through his own lips—a light, soft sound that completely cleared the lingering panic from his throat.

"Shut up," Shane laughed, hiding his hot face against the crook of Ilya’s broad shoulder, his arms locking around the Russian's neck as they stood together in the dark. "Just... shut up and take me inside. It's freezing out here."

“Yes, capitaine,” Ilya chuckled, his gravelly purr vibrating warm against Shane’s skin as he lifted Shane just enough to make him laugh before carrying him toward the dark living room door, the script forgotten on the patio floor.