Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Wilderness Survival, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), References to Depression, Mutual Pining, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, book and TV canon mashup, Autistic Shane Hollander, Medical Trauma, Medical Procedures, Hospitalization, Hospital Sex, Exhibitionism, no beta we die like ilya's shitty dad, Author is Open to Hearing about Dead Batteries, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Frottage, Coming Untouched, Bottom Shane Hollander, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Playing fast and loose with medical recommendations, Finger Sucking, Semi-Public Sex, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Anxious Ilya Rozanov, Fanwork Creator Knows Nothing About Hockey, Gym Sex, extreme liberties taken with PT exercises, Porn with Feelings, Miscommunication, Communication Failure, Shane Hollander Is Bad at Feelings, Ilya Rozanov is Trying His Best

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-08 Completed: 2026-03-22 Words: 59,873 Chapters: 20/20

make the water your bones

Summary

After Ilya's plane crashes in the ocean, no one knows if the hockey star is alive or dead. Shane sets out to find him and reconcile their relationship.

***COMPLETE!***

Notes

well, well, well. I've crawled out of my fandom hole fully in the grips of Heated Rivalry. And you know I can't resist some angst with a happy ending. This story asks: what if Ilya's plane had crashed? What lengths would Shane go to find him? How would they reconcile that last argument before the plane incident? Canon divergence for The Long Game, starting at the plane crash. Rating may increase in future chapters.

I apologize in advance for any Russian errors in this story. I also make no claims to the accuracy of any of the plane-related drama that happens in this story, or survival skills/lack thereof. I just love a deserted island story and a dramatic rescue. Thanks for reading!!

Title from "Rubber Band Man" by Mumford & Sons.

Chapter 1: you can’t win for losing

Chapter Summary

He’s going to miss the fucking flight.

Ilya

January 2021

He’s going to miss the fucking flight.

Ilya’s thigh bounces up and down in irritable, nervous energy in the back of the Lyft, willing the car to somehow levitate through the traffic. A sea of red taillights stretch out before them, crawling along past a three-car accident blocking nearly the entire road. Traffic has slowed to a single lane, being directed by an exhausted-looking police officer. The driver apologizes, but there’s nothing she can do, either. The car has moved maybe ½ a kilometer in twenty minutes.

Ilya curses himself for forgetting his phone in the locker room.

He shoots another text to Harris. The response comes almost instantly:

Dude. We’re boarding.

Well, I will not be boarding. Because I am still eight km away from airport.

OK. Don’t panic. Let me make some calls.

Ilya frowns at the phone. “Calls to who? Airport boss?” The Ottawa Centaurs are in no way important enough to change the airport’s flight plans over. Resigned now, Ilya texts him back and then tosses his phone on the seat next to him.

Do not bother. I will get next plane. Is not so far to Tampa.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. The Lyft has inched forward another few cars’ lengths before Harris’s reply comes through:

Great news! Coach knows someone who does charters. I can get you on a plane in two hours. I’ll send you the new gate information.

OK. Thank you, Harris.

“I’m really sorry about this,” the Lyft driver says again.

“It’s fine,” Ilya reassures her, and he means it this time. “But I will need to go to different terminal.”

***

Ilya makes it to the new flight with 30 minutes to spare. But when he arrives at the gate, he’s sure there’s been a mistake.

He stops an airline worker and asks if he’s in the right place. The man checks the info Ilya offers on his phone and nods.

“Yep,” he replies. “Your team’s manager called ahead, Mr. Rozanov. I’ll drive you over to the plane. Do you have any bags?”

“No,” Ilya replies. “Just backpack.” All his gear went ahead of him on the team’s bus. Ilya obediently follows the man out onto the tarmac. The wind is cold and whips dirt and grit through his curls. He folds himself awkwardly to fit in the little golf cart the man indicates and they speed down the runway to a plane that looks more like a toy model of a plane than an actual aircraft. Ilya feels his eyes grow wide and his stomach twist.

“Is tiny,” he says, voice flat.

The airline worker chuckles but doesn’t reply. Instead he parks the cart, engine still humming, and gestures towards the pilot who waves from the cockpit. Shouldering his backpack, Ilya gathers his courage and climbs the short stairway into the plane.

“Good evening, Mr. Rozanov,” the pilot calls from the cockpit. The plane is just as tiny inside as outside - it can fit four people, facing each other in pairs - but it’s well appointed, with cream leather seats and shiny mahogany trim. Ilya returns the greeting and settles in by the window, buckling his seatbelt securely and resting his backpack on the floor at his feet. Something of his nerves must be showing on his face, because the gray-haired pilot smiles with amusement. “My name is John Andre, and I’ll be flying you down to Tampa Bay tonight. First time on a VLJ?”

“A what?”

“Very light jet,” the captain explains. “They can feel like tin cans the first time you’re in one, but they’re more comfortable than you think. I’ve been flying for longer than you’ve been alive. Nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so,” Ilya replies. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks his texts. He fires off a quick message to Harris confirming he got to the plane - the VLJ - and will see them that night at the hotel. He briefly wonders if he should text Shane, but stops himself.

Maybe a bit of distance is good right now?

I think so. Yes. We will talk when we are in the same room again.

Resolutely, he puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Flight time is just under two hours,” Captain Andre continues. He runs briefly through the standard safety talk with an attitude that tells Ilya he's never needed to activate any emergency protocol. “Feel free to shout if you need me, but we’ll have you back with the Centaurs before you know it.”

“You are a hockey fan?” Ilya asks, as the pilot flips a few switches and the cabin lights dim. The engine roars to life underneath him.

“Oh, yeah,” Andre says with a laugh. “I was goalie for my high school team. I have to admit it, though, I’m a Montreal fan. That Shane Hollander is something else - just phenomenal.”

Shane’s face - his dark eyes, his beautiful freckles, the way his nose crinkles when he smiles - flashes through Ilya’s mind.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “He is.”

***

Captain Andre wasn’t lying: the plane is extremely comfortable. Within twenty minutes, exhausted from the game and the anxiety of missing his initial flight, Ilya nods off against the window.

He comes to when he feels the plane jerk, dropping suddenly through the air.

“Captain?” Ilya says, voice groggy, coming back to himself. The cabin is still dim, but he can see the outline of John Andre against the lights of the cockpit dashboard. There seem to be a lot of lights flashing and alarms going off.

Captain Andre does not reply.

The plane seems to be rapidly losing altitude. “Captain Andre,” Ilya says loudly, his voice cracking a little. He unbuckles his seatbelt and staggers to the front of the plane and grabs John’s shoulder.

John’s head lolls to the side, unresponsive. His eyes are wide and staring and Ilya realizes with a sickening jolt that he’s on his own. Trembling, Ilya looks out of the plane’s windshield and realizes that not so very far below the plane is a vast expanse of blue-black water.

Panicking, Ilya darts back to his seat and digs under his seat for a lifejacket, trying to remember Captain Andre’s safety spiel at the beginning of the flight. Mercifully, the lifejacket is where it’s supposed to be, and Ilya’s hands are shaking as he pulls it on. He throws himself back into his seat, mind spinning, and buckles his seatbelt before laughing at himself because what the fuck is a seatbelt going to do? He grabs his backpack and hugs it to his chest.

They say, at the end, your life flashes before your eyes: all of your important memories racing through your brain, a chemical reaction to soothe your terror at impending doom: your body’s last attempt to protect you.

If anyone had asked Ilya, hypothetically, what would have been his final thoughts he would have given you some token answers: his mother’s laughter. Winning his first cup. His niece’s scrunched-up little face on the day of her birth.

And Shane, of course.

But it turns out, as Ilya frantically hits the CALL button, that it’s only Shane.

Shane, the first time that they met: huge brown eyes, nervous smile, the warm grasp of his hand. Shane, whipping effortlessly across the ice, a triumphant grin on his face. Shane, gazing up at Ilya from his knees. Shane, and the way the early-morning sunlight highlights his cheekbones at the cottage when Ilya kisses him awake. And Shane, the night he told him that he loved him.

I’ll never see Shane again.

The call won't connect. He's running out of time.

Somehow, despite his shaking hands, he opens Instagram and finds Shane’s profile to send a direct message. He can’t call, can't text, but the plane’s WiFi is thankfully still working. As Ilya hurtles towards the water, he manages to type out a few messages that do not nearly come close enough to everything he wants to say:

You are the best thing in my life.

I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

Then, slamming his eyes shut, he shoves the phone deep into his backpack and clutches it against his body again, ducking his head and trying his best to protect his neck. There’s a final roar and then Ilya is plunged into darkness.

***

Shane

By the time Shane gets off the ice, he’s made up his mind. He has a missed call from Ilya but he's not ready to talk. Not until he can see him face-to-face, touch him, kiss him.

Apologize.

His last conversation with Ilya is replaying in a loop in his head: Maybe a bit of distance is good right now? I think so. Yes. We will talk when we are in the same room again.

And so they need to be in the same room again, because nothing has been right since Shane left Ilya that night in Ottawa, and Shane has a sinking suspicion that actually, it’s all his fault.

Why did I act like such an asshole when he told me about his therapist? My first thought was about me: am I safe, is my secret still a secret - and not about Ilya even needing to go to a fucking therapist in the first place.

And we fought about - what, Ilya wanting to go to a party? To show me off to the people who matter to him?

Yeah, he’d definitely fucked up.

But he has a plan. Shane, master of overthinking, has spent most of his time since that last conversation thinking of some plan that would show Ilya that Shane is sorry, that he knows he fucked it up, that he wants to be better. Wants more. There’s got to be a safe way to have more.

A vacation, is what Shane has landed on. They’ve never actually gone somewhere together, somewhere they aren’t just pretending to be colleagues for the camp, or just meeting up at a hockey function or a gala for the Irina Foundation where they’re both expected to be anyway. But there are so many places on the planet that don’t give a fuck about hockey, and there are exclusive villas, and there are countries that have strict paparazzi laws.

He can do a vacation. He can take Ilya somewhere where they can practice for a future where they’re together in public all the time.

On the bus he sends several texts to Ilya. He doesn’t reply, which doesn’t surprise Shane; he’s probably just landing in Tampa. Shane lets the chatter of his teammates wash over him, a deep feeling of contentment coming with them.

He’ll get to the hotel, and then he’ll book everything: tickets, and a luxury suite, and then he’ll surprise Ilya with the news.

Shane says goodnight to everyone early and heads up to his room. He throws his bag on the bed and takes a shower, washing the day off. He’s just shampooing his hair when he hears the phone ring. Ilya, he thinks happily.

The phonecall ends and then immediately rings again.

Shane laughs. Here he was, caving in almost immediately after their argument, and turns out Ilya is caving in too. God, he loves him.

The phone rings again. And again.

“Jesus,” Shane mutters, turning off the water and stepping out of the shower in a cloud of steam. He towel-dries his hair and wraps the towel around his waist. He starts to put toothpaste on his brush but the phone continues to ring, over and over, and so he pads into the bedroom and picks his iPhone up from the bed.

He frowns. All of the missed calls are from his mother.

Dad, he thinks instantly, panicking. He fumbles with the phone, trying to type in his passcode with wet fingers, when the phone rings again and he swipes the call.

“Mom? Is everything okay - is Dad -”

“Shane, thank God,” his mother’s voice crackles across the line. It’s noisy behind her and her voice is raised. “Honey, where are you?”

“I’m at the hotel in Washington,” he replies. “Mom, what’s going on? Is Dad okay?”

“Your dad’s fine,” she says, at the same time Shane hears his father’s voice in the background.

“Okay, so what’s the emergency? I have like twenty missed calls from you -” A loud announcement blasts in the background. “Wait, are you at the airport?”

“Shane, honey, it’s Ilya,” Yuna says and at first he thinks he’s misheard her.

“What?”

“It’s Ilya, Shane, he -”

“Ilya’s in Tampa, Mom, the Centaurs flew there after the game.”

“Shane, listen to me,” Yuna says firmly. “I just got off the phone with Coach Wiebe. Ilya missed the commercial flight with the Centaurs, so they got him on a chartered plane. Some little Cessna, experienced pilot. It was due to land an hour ago but air traffic control lost contact with the pilot. It never arrived in Tampa.”

“That’s wrong,” Shane’s ears start ringing. “You’re wrong, Mom. That’s wrong. Ilya - he’s in Tampa -”

“Shane,” David’s voice is loud in his ear. “Shane, is anyone with you? Can you go find Hayden or your coach?”

“You’re wrong,” Shane says again. “I don’t - Ilya is -”

“I texted Hayden,” his mom says in the background, muffled.

“Shane. Your mother is Ilya’s emergency contact. Coach Wiebe called her after the FAA lost contact with the plane. It was scheduled to land in Tampa at 10pm but they lost contact somewhere over the Georgia coast. Your mother and I are getting on a plane to Atlanta. We need to - we need to make a plan, son. The news is already calling the Centaurs for a statement. I think you should be here.”

“I don’t understand,” Shane says. His vision is going dark around the edges.

“Hayden should be there,” David says patiently, like he’s explaining something to someone very young. As if on cue, there’s a hammering on Shane’s hotel room door. “Shane, honey. Ilya’s plane is missing. Let Hayden in, we need to talk to him.”

Robotically, Shane crosses the room and opens the door. His legs feel like they belong to someone else. Then, rough hands are on his upper arms suddenly, and someone takes the phone out of his hand.

Shane, distantly, can hear his mother and father. In front of him, Hayden’s bright brown eyes are full of concern. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ve got him. Yeah, I already called an Uber. Ten minutes. I’ve got him, Mrs. Hollander. I’ll get him there.”

“Shane,” Hayden says and then reality crashes over him. His legs give out, and Hayden bodily moves him towards the bed so he lands on something soft.

“Shane,” someone is saying. “Shane, we need to go.”

“Ilya,” he chokes out, tasting bile, and all the voices blend together.

Ilya’s plane is missing.

We need to go.

Chapter 2: cause the cracks to start showing

Chapter Summary

A thought hits him then: maybe Ilya’s phone is still working, wherever he is. He immediately calls him but it goes straight to voicemail: This is Ilya. I will never listen to your message.

Shane, for the first time that evening, lets out a sob. 

The cold hits him like a fist.

Ilya gasps and opens his eyes. He’s treading water and the impact has either thrown him from the body of the plane, or it’s broken apart around him. Something hot and wet is flowing down his face but the rest of him is freezing. 

Treading water in the open ocean is nothing like lazily moving through a pool or the gentle waves of the lake at the cottage. These waves are relentless, breaking over his shoulders and threatening to pull him under. He remembers the lifejacket and yanks on the cord, feeling it inflate around him, a tiny LED light flickering on. It glitters on the black surface of the waves, debris from the crash illuminated briefly as they bob and then begin to sink.

Fuck.

“Think, Ilya,” he says aloud, in Russian. He rotates slowly, letting the lifejacket do most of the work. His backpack is still with him, the straps tangled with the lifejacket, keeping them all together. He kicks his legs again, waves his arms. Nothing seems irreparably injured. 

As his eyes adjust, he realizes the sky over his head is full of stars. The gauzy streak of the Milky Way is a tear in the darkness and as he turns, he realizes there is a dark bulk towards the horizon. 

Land, he thinks.

Ilya begins to swim. The water is stupefyingly cold and his limbs are beginning to feel heavy, but he is strong, and a determination beats alongside the pounding of his heart. He’s fucked if he stays in the water, but there’s hope ahead. He swims, arms cutting through the waves, being pushed back with every stroke but making slow progress.

He has no idea how long he swims, but the dark expanse of land grows closer. He’s exhausted, but his thoughts snag on Shane’s bright eyes, his smooth tan skin, the freckles across his nose. And he swims.

His feet hit sand, the sensation disorienting before he realizes he has some purchase. He digs his toes in and throws himself forward and now his hands bite into rocks and crushed shells and the water is warmer. He drags himself the rest of the way onto the beach, sides heaving, and then collapses in a heap. He lays in the sand for a long time, waves washing over his legs and his head pounding but the land solid underneath him.

I’m alive, he thinks. With shaking hands he opens his backpack and takes out one of the plastic water bottles he had stolen from the VLJ. He takes a huge swig of water and nearly aspirates. As he coughs he realizes, with a wave of nausea, that John Andre is almost certainly dead.

He digs through the backpack for his phone, but it’s gone. It must have fallen out when he was swimming. He screws the cap back on the bottle of water. His head is itchy; when he brings his hand away from his wet curls, his fingers are red with blood. 

Exhausted and frightened, he lays back down, closing his eyes against the terror churning in his stomach. 

He must fall asleep, because when he wakes up the sun is rising. The sound of the ocean is deafening in his ears, with the squall of seabirds cutting through the roar of the surf. 

When his head stops spinning, he slowly pushes himself up. The ocean is less terrifying from the beach, a wide expanse of green-blue water with white-capped waves. They look deceptively gentle, but now he knows better.

He’s on a wide, white sand beach that stretches gently towards a tangle of dark trees. Gulls flock overhead, the sun a bright glare on the sand and glittering off the ocean. It’s disorienting, but when he touches his head it’s sore but not bleeding anymore, and when he eases himself to his feet, he’s able to walk. His muscles feel like he’s been punishing himself in the gym, but on the whole he seems relatively unscathed.

He tries to wrangle his brain, which is still a blur of panic and Shane and fear, into some kind of order. First, he needs to figure out where he is. Next, he needs to try and find a town or at least a vacation cottage; he’s not sure where exactly he is, but he knows there are hundreds of barrier islands off the southeastern coast of the US. Surely most of them have hotels and civilization. He hoists his backpack onto his back and walks towards the treeline. At least he can stay out of the sun while he walks.

The forest here is unlike anything he’s used to. Near Shane's cottage, huge pines and hardwoods soar overhead but there’s plenty of open space, lakes and rivers dotting the landscape and, no matter how remote it may feel, there’s plenty of people around. Here there’s a profound sense that no one has walked in these forests for centuries, if ever. Gnarled live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, are eerie and strange; the smell of salt marshes are overpowering. Cabbage palm trees and saw palmettos ring the beach. This island should feel like a paradise but to Ilya, it’s a prison.

By midday, Ilya has finished the first bottle of water and has seen absolutely zero signs of human life. He realizes that this is possibly not an island like St. Simon or Hilton Head. It feels desolate, and though there’s another full bottle of water in his backpack, Ilya’s painfully aware that he’s not equipped to be out here on his own for long.

He stops under a live oak to rest and try and make a plan. But the only thing running through is head is the thought of Shane. By now, news of the plane crash must have gotten to him and his family. What was the team doing? Would the authorities be able to track the location of the plane going down? Could they even find it, with it sinking in the ocean? Who's even responsible to look for planes after they crash? Head spinning, Ilya is tempted to fish out his other bottled water but stops himself. He checks the rest of the backpack. The protein bars at the bottom are ruined, bloated with seawater and completely inedible. There is a candy bar, which he knows he should save but instead crams into his mouth, barely tasting it.

He inspects the rest of his supplies: no more edible food. A 950mL bottle of water, along with the first, now-empty bottle. An Ottawa Centaurs hoodie. A phone charger for a phone that’s now on the bottom of the ocean. A blank notebook with waterlogged pages and a pencil. A useless pair of earbuds. A book of matches wrapped inside of a plastic baggie, thank God. An extra pair of socks and boxers. 

That’s it. 

Without water, he’ll be dead in just a few days, and insane long before that. 

“Думать,” he says. Think. This is an island with lush vegetation and a thriving bird population, if nothing else. There’s got to be water somewhere.

But it’s probably somewhere away from the beach.

He hesitates. If Ilya leaves the beach, he’s likely to miss any search and rescue operations that may already be in place. But if he stays, he’ll be unable to source any kind of food or water.

“Fuck it,” he says aloud, and then shoulders the backpack and heads into the forest.

***

Shane

Somehow, Shane is sitting in the back of an Uber with Hayden, who has his hand on his knee, as if to physically hold him down. Shane’s phone is in his other hand and once they’re moving, Hayden hands it to him like he’s forgotten it doesn’t belong to him. He’s talking to Jackie on his own phone, and Shane stares at the phone in his hand. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

What good is this hunk of metal and glass, if I can’t use it to talk to Ilya?

A thought hits him then: maybe Ilya’s phone is still working, wherever he is. He immediately calls him but it goes straight to voicemail: This is Ilya. I will never listen to your message.

Shane, for the first time that evening, lets out a sob. 

“Buddy, hey,” Hayden says, squeezing his leg instinctually, in the same tone he might speak to one of his children.

“Hayd, what if he -”

“No,” Hayden says immediately. “No, we aren’t talking about that. Everything is going to be fine.”

“But -”

“No,” Hayden says again. His voice is hard, like he’s trying to convince himself, too. “No, Shane.”

Shane looks back down at his phone. He has an Instagram notification. 

He never really uses Instagram. He has to have one, per the team’s social media contract, but he never posts anything unless he’s asked to by the manager. Sometimes Yuna will give him an idea, or he’ll repost a brand story as an ambassador, but he’s never used it for anything personal. 

And he isn’t sure he’s ever slid into Ilya’s DMs, as Rose would say. 

But sure enough, that’s what the notification is: a direct message from the man he knows now, for certain, he cannot live without. 

Ilya’s messages are brief and controlled, as though written in a hurry. Tears spill down Shane’s cheeks without realizing until Hayden hands him a wadded up Kleenex. 

Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

But he isn’t, he isn’t safe, he’s - he is somewhere out there, God knows where, alone or hurt or maybe -

Shane covers his mouth with his hand. He can’t look at the messages any longer. 

He flicks back to Ilya’s Instagram. He rarely looks at his profile, because he doesn’t really even think to - he’d rather talk to Ilya on the phone or send a spicy text. The most recent post is a photo of a small, sleek jet, lights shining against the darkening sky around it. 

He scrolls back through the posts - seemingly random shots, scattered detritus of Ilya’s life - and realizes that, actually, every single post is a covert reference to Shane. 

Sunrise at the cottage, Ilya sitting on the dock with his feet dangling in the water. A shot of a crowded dining room table at his parents’ condo. His loon tattoo, a pair of tickets stuck to the fridge, a book resting on Shane’s side of Ilya’s bed. 

The whole fucking account is a giant love letter. 

And Shane has never even bothered to look. 

“Oh my god,” Shane says, halfway between a sob and a laugh. 

“What’s wrong?” Hayden says a hurried goodbye to Jackie and then turns towards Shane fully. 

“Me,” Shane says with a wild edge to his voice. “Me, Hayd. I’ve been wrong. Everything I’ve said, and done, and making him wait - I was wrong. And now, I don’t even know if I’ll get the chance to tell him.”

“Shane,” Hayden says with uncharacteristic patience, “You guys have both been doing your best. And you’ve had a lot at stake. I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. I think you’ve been trying. And Ilya obviously is okay with it, he’s been trying too -“

“But you don’t understand how much I’ve asked for, how much he’s had to compromise,” Shane continues. “He’s been so unhappy, Hayd, fuck - he’s started seeing a - a professional. Like a shrink.”

“Okay,” Hayden replies, uncertain what else to say. 

“He’s fucking miserable. I made him miserable, I’m the only reason we have to hide - he would have told the world years ago,” Shane says, voice rising, a look of panic crossing Hayden’s face. “I did that. What kind of person does that to the person he loves? Would you have done that to Jackie, forced her to pretend to the point where she has to see a fucking therapist?”

“Shane, buddy,” Hayden tries. “I think you’re beating yourself up a little bit. I’m sure that there are a lot of reasons why Ilya wanted to see someone to…talk about things.” Hayden looks helpless and Shane knows, he knows that Hayden’s out of his league here but he’s trying so hard and Shane’s never done that, not once, he’s never even tried to meet Ilya halfway. Even his stupid fucking vacation idea was just another way to control things, to hide. 

“Let’s just focus on what we can control,” Hayden continues, trying to be practical. “We’ll get to the airport, we’ll meet your parents in Atlanta and then we’ll see where we go from there. Your mom said Centaurs management are doing everything they can to get search parties out tonight. Okay? We take it one step at a time and we let the professionals help, and we are not giving up.” Hayden looks more certain now. “No one’s giving up, pal. This is just a bump in the road, and Ilya will be home before you know it.”

Shane doesn’t reply. He can’t say anything because if he does, he knows he will fly apart in the back of this Uber and he’ll never make it to Atlanta. And he has to be there. When they find him. Find Ilya. 

Or find whatever’s left. 

Shane turns in the seat and buries his face in Hayden’s chest, and cries.

Chapter 3: all knowing all glowing with the light

Chapter Summary

The two weeks of Ilya’s visit - the very first time they’re together at the cottage - pass in a heartbeat. His flight is early the next morning and his bags are packed and waiting at the door. He is ready. It’s fine. It’s over, and it’s fine.

Ilya can’t think about it too much. If he does, he won’t be able to get in the car tomorrow.

Ilya

Ilya, collecting handfuls of dried plant material in one of the extra socks as he goes, eventually breaks through the stretch of forest onto a sheltered cove that seems a little more protective than the wide expanse of beach he’s found so far. He slips down into the sand on the edge of the beach, the pounding of the waves a little less deafening. There are a few tide pools cradled in the rocks, and a cursory examination reveals mussels clinging to the rocks. He pulls the shellfish free and brings them back to his backpack and pile of what he hopes will be flammable material. He eyes it with trepidation.

He’s never had to try and make a fire on his own. He’s not a fucking boy scout.

Ilya closes his eyes and tries to conjure up anything that might be useful to him. A memory floods his mind, unbidden: Shane building a fire in the firepit at the cottage, explaining to Ilya how he arranges the kindling to channel oxygen to feed the flames. Ilya had teased him at the time, of course, but now he’s grateful for Shane’s intense dedication to mastering any skill he puts his mind to. He reaches into his backpack and rips several sheets of paper out of the notebook, crumples them up and arranges them into something resembling a bundle of kindling.

Ilya fumbles it several times, but using the matchbook he eventually gets a fire going. He sits back for a moment, inordinately pleased with himself. He feeds some of the twigs in around the paper, watching the fire grow.

But the flames, more than anything else, make him think of Shane: the way the firelight slid along the planes of his face, gilding his hair and burnishing his skin gold.

He closes his eyes, scrubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to stop the tears from coming. He’s refused to let himself cry but the memories of Shane are overwhelming.

***

July 2017

The two weeks of Ilya’s visit - the very first time they’re together at the cottage - pass in a heartbeat. His flight is early the next morning and his bags are packed and waiting at the door. He is ready. It’s fine. It’s over, and it’s fine.

Ilya can’t think about it too much. If he does, he won’t be able to get in the car tomorrow. 

He watches Shane carefully build the fire, their final fire. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, arranging everything to his exacting standards. 

“You have been doing that a long time,” Ilya says from his Adirondack chair.

“Shut up,” Shane replies without heat. “It needs to be just right.”

“It is just right. It’s hot. And burning. Perfect fire. Textbook.”

“Shut up,” Shane says again. “If the temperature is too hot, it’ll burn the marshmallows.”

“Marsh-whats?”

In response, Shane flourishes two long skewers with soft sweets impaled on them.

“What is this? Why are you giving me white blobs on a stick?”

“To make s’mores.”

“What the fuck is a s’more? Is this another weird Canadian thing?”

“It’s a delicious Canadian thing,” Shane retorts. “Here.” He thrusts the skewer into the fire, his brows still drawn together in concentration.

Ilya thinks, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that Shane is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Ilya watches Shane watching his marshmallow as the blob goes from white to pale gold to a deep tan. Shane whips it out of the fire and regards it critically before smiling. He busies himself with a bar of chocolate and two Graham crackers. Ilya eyes it skeptically when Shane reaches across the firepit, nearly singeing the fine hair on his arms, and pushes the molten snack into Ilya’s hands.

“I would have just eaten the chocolate without all this…drama,” Ilya says mildly, but Shane has such an earnest look on his face that he has no choice but to bite into the gooey mess.

“Holy fuck,” Ilya says a moment later, mouth full. “Shane. It looks like dogshit but it tastes incredible. How do you know how to make these disgusting delicious things?”

Shane stands a little straighter, the way he does when he’s scored a particularly complex goal. Ilya gestures to him with his free arm and Shane comes willingly. Ilya pulls him onto his lap, wrapping his arm around his waist and tucking him close against his chest while taking another huge bite of the s’more. 

“Everyone makes these,” Shane conceded, settling easily into Ilya’s arms like he belongs there, his thighs bracketing Ilya’s hips. “I grew up making these. Very popular at summer camps. Um, scout camp.”

“You were a scout. Da, of course you were. Well, I love the scouts, and I love you,” Ilya says, crumbs sticking to his lips, and then pulls Shane’s chin towards him and kisses him, long and lingering. Being able to say them, these three words that have burned in his stomach for nearly a decade, makes him lightheaded with gratitude. Shane says it back, still kissing him, love pouring straight into his mouth.

“You taste like marshmallow,” Shane says, smiling.

“Mm,” Ilya agrees. “Is sticky, though, My hands are gross now.”

“Mine too,” Shane laughs, holding his hand out for inspection. Even though he hasn’t eaten any, his hands shine with sticky marshmallow residue in the firelight. 

Ilya lifts Shane’s hand, lips parting, and draws his fingers into his mouth. Shane’s eyelids flutter closed as Ilya works his tongue around Shane’s fingers, letting them lay heavy in his mouth and press towards his throat, savoring the taste of marshmallow and Shane’s skin underneath. He knows he's making wet, filthy sounds and Shane's mouth falls open, his teeth gleaming in the golden light of the flames.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane whispers. Ilya releases his hand and pulls Shane’s shirt over his head, running his fingers over his back to the swell of his ass, holding him firmly against his lap so Shane can feel the strain of Ilya’s cock in his shorts. Shane lifts his hips eagerly to help Ilya slide his shorts off, naked and exposed in the cradle of Ilya’s arms. Gooseflesh rises along his skin, despite the warmth of the fire and the mild July night. 

“You are so beautiful like this,” Ilya says against the tender skin of Shane’s throat, teeth grazing along his pulse. “I hope you know. When I think about you from now on, моя любовь, I will always think of you like this: you, with nothing to hide. Everything you are feeling on your face. And your body uncovered, just for me.”

“Ilya,” Shane says again, voice soft and dreamy. He dips his head to kiss him, mouth open and inviting, rolling his hips against Ilya’s and eliciting a moan from the man underneath him. “I…”

“Tell me,” Ilya says lazily against Shane’s mouth, fingers finding Shane’s cock and wrapping around him. “Unless you can think of something better to do with your mouth.”

Through kisses, Shane mumbles, “I don’t want you to leave.” And Ilya freezes, his hand stilling on Shane’s cock. 

“I just - I mean, we have time left,” Shane says quickly, face buried in the crook of Ilya’s neck. “Before the season starts. Before we have to go back for off-ice training.”

“Not much,” Ilya points out.

“Forget it,” Shane says immediately. “I don’t - I just…you could stay. If you wanted.”

“I have non-refundable ticket.”

“I’ll buy you another.” Shane looks at him, an expression of naked yearning plain on his freckled face. “We’ve waited years for this, Ilya. Two weeks isn’t enough. Don’t go back to Boston. Not yet. Stay here, with me. Just a little longer.” His eyes are huge in the darkness, and wet, and Ilya realizes he’s crying, tears clinging in his soft eyelashes. “I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t love you.”

“And you do?” Ilya’s heart beats a little faster, still unused to hearing those words from Shane.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane says with a wet laugh. “Yeah, I fucking love you. You think I’m out here making s’mores for just anyone? Or taking random guys to dinner with my parents? And making plans for the future? You’re the only person I want any of those things with. I love you - я тебя люблю,” he says carefully. His accent is terrible and the words come out clunky and Ilya thinks he might die right here because he never, never thought he’d be here, with Shane, and that it could last.

That Shane could want it to last.

“You are very clever,” Ilya says, trying to recover. “Russian is very hard language to learn for English speakers.”

“I Googled it,” Shane says defensively. “And watched pronunciation videos on Youtube. Like, a lot of videos. Did I say it okay? I’m going to learn it. I’m going to learn everything.” Shane’s voice is determined and his hand wraps without hesitation around Ilya’s cock, and suddenly nothing could be more important than staying here until August.

He would stay here forever, if Shane would ask.

“You said it perfectly,” Ilya replies. “I will stay. Of course I will stay. Where the fuck could be better than here with you?”

***

The fire is almost out, and Ilya is crying, and he’s also half-hard, which is just…ridiculous, considering the circumstances.

Ilya quickly buries the handful of mussels in the ashes of the dying fire, hoping the shellfish will cook through. 

“You would never believe this, Shane,” he says out loud. “You would probably be doing much better than me. With your Canadian scout skills.” 

The mussels are smoky and gritty, but Ilya is so hungry they taste like a Michelin-starred entree. They’re gone in a moment and leave him more thirsty than before. He dusts off his pants, stiff with dried seawater, and he takes a few unwilling swallows of the remaining bottle of water as he stands and watches the sun sink low in the sky.

He’s in real trouble, he can admit it at this point. If he can’t find any more water, he’ll have no chance of making it until a search and rescue party arrives. Unwillingly, he turns back towards the forest. His best chance of fresh water is in those woods.

It’s slow going, picking his way through the undergrowth, and he’s afraid of taking a wrong step and twisting his ankle. Before it’s fully dark he hears the sound of running water. He bursts into a clearing, startling a small group of white-tailed deer drinking from a spring in the ground. Moss clings to slick gray rocks, but the water looks clear, and his last water bottle is getting low. If it's good enough for the deer, he thinks, it must be safe enough for a person, too.

He kneels by the spring and plunges the empty plastic bottle into the free-flowing stream. It’s ice cold and he grits his teeth as the water glugs into the bottle. He heads back to the beach with two bottles full to the brim of spring water, feeling a little more hopeful than he did this morning.

He watches the sun set over the cove, his first full day on the island. The sky is a blaze of color, orange and purple and flame, and he wishes Shane was here with him to see it. Despite the nightmare he’s living in, it’s stunningly beautiful, unlike any sunset he’s ever seen before. Maybe because he realizes now it could be one of his last sunsets. 

When the sun sets fully, the cold sets in. He pulls the Centaurs hoodie out of his backpack and uses another three precious matches to get another fire started. He huddles close to the heat, his mind spinning. How long will it take them to find him? Will they be able to track his phone, even at the bottom of the ocean? Will the plane’s navigation systems lead them to this island? He has no idea how far he drifted as he swam for the shore.

Eventually, though, his thoughts come back to Shane. He must be in agony, thinking Ilya is gone. If their positions were reversed, Ilya would be in an absolute frenzy trying to get to him. Shane’s game in Seattle puts an entire continent between them, never mind the ocean. But Ilya knows with certainty that Shane won’t rest until someone finds him. 

If he makes it that long.

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and pulls the hood up over his head. He lays back in the sand and stares up at the sky, at the incredible expanse of stars overhead, and thinks about Shane and how, surely, in only a matter of hours he’ll see him again. He believes, with his whole heart, that Shane will find him. He has food, he has water, and he has faith in Shane Hollander. 

A few hours later, the vomiting starts. 

Chapter 4: you’re a world away, but you're still the same

Chapter Summary

“Unfortunately, small aircraft often break apart in an accident,” Winters answers. They’re both talking in such soft voices, like they’re at a wake; it makes Shane want to scream. “It’s sometimes difficult to locate the exact area of impact.”

Area of impact. Shane’s going to throw up.

Shane

The plane ride is the longest of his entire life.

Not literally, of course. Technically, the plane trip to Sochi was the longest: twenty hours including a five-hour layover in Dubai. But he’d been 23 years old, surrounded by the best names in hockey, and he was a fucking Olympian. The entire world was before him.

Now the entire world has narrowed to one agonizing point: Ilya. 

Ilya is gone.

He shakes his head violently, clearing the thought that has haunted him from Sea-Tac to this moment, descending into Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. His mom texts midflight - the first time in his life Shane has disobeyed cabin crew and left his phone’s cell reception engaged - that she and David are already on the ground in Atlanta and talking with authorities. The NSTB is working the case and trying to locate the exact area the plane disappeared. 

Shane stands up as soon as the flight lands and drags Hayden from the first-class seat (he doesn’t even know how much it cost; he just threw his credit card at the gate agent) to the door. 

As he impatiently waits to depart, he watches a redheaded fight attendant show her coworker something on her phone.

“I can’t believe it,” the redhead says. “He’s only 29.”

“Such a huge talent,” her colleague replies, shaking his head. “He was at the top of his game. What a tragedy.”

That’s how Shane learns the crash is now all over the news, and no one expects to find Ilya alive. He nearly drops to his knees in the vestibule of the plane, but Hayden’s hands are like iron around his shoulders and he drags him into arrivals. 

His parents are waiting at baggage claim, two NSTB officers standing a discreet distance behind them. Yuna’s face is pale and drawn; his father’s eyes are rimmed red. 

“Oh, honey,” Yuna says and Shane collapses into her arms, and wails like a wounded animal. He feels his mother's small body struggle to hold him up but he can't stop sobbing into her graying hair. 

Dimly, he can hear Hayden speaking urgently to David. It takes Shane a minute to realize what Hayden’s saying, although if he turns his head he can see him gesticulating frantically:

Move. Shane, move.

There are hundreds of people at the baggage claim in the world’s busiest airport, and they have a front-row seat to Shane’s meltdown. More than a few have their phones out, clearly filming him weeping in his mother’s arms, practically on the floor. And why, exactly, is Shane Hollander so devastated? And why have his parents arrived in the company of the authorities who investigate aviation accidents? And why does Hayden Pike have a death grip on his dad’s arm, like the four of them might fall apart at any moment?

“You have got to move, buddy,” Hayden hisses. “Everyone is watching you.”

It hits Shane all at once: all the years of hiding have been pointless; his closet has suddenly become glass. There’s no denying that the entire world is going to see this crashout for exactly what it is.

A broken man, grieving the love of his life. 

And he finds, actually, that he doesn’t fucking care. Let them look, let them all see. He wishes he and Ilya went public back in 2017, he wishes he’d kept Ilya by his side every single fucking day since then. He should have moved to Ottawa, should have joined the Centaurs, should have quit hockey all together if that’s what it took. They could have had a beautiful life without hockey, if that’s what it came to. None of it matters now that Ilya is gone. 

Ilya is gone.

Yuna and David move as one, quickly pushing Shane towards the door as Hayden follows closely behind. The federal officers follow too and they’re ushered into a waiting Suburban. Ears ringing, Shane is aware that one of the officers is addressing him directly only when his father gently elbows him in the side. 

“Mr. Hollander,” the agent says, not unkindly. The badge around his neck reads LUKE WINTERS in all capital letters. “I was asking if you had been able to get in touch with Mr. Rozanov since the plane was lost.”

“No,” Shane says robotically. “No, his phone goes straight to voicemail.” He swallows. “Have you found the plane? Have you - have any survivors been found?”

“We haven’t found the plane,” says his partner, a tall Black woman with the name LUCINDA ALLEN printed on her identification. They’re both wearing black jackets with yellow NSTB logos on the breast. “But there’s no need to jump to the worst case scenario just yet.”

“He was flying to Tampa,” Yuna interjects. “Surely a plane going down along that flight path would have been seen.”

“Not if they swung out over the ocean,” Allen answers. “The usual flight path doesn’t cross any bodies of water, but with a medical event or injury, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that we’re looking at a water landing.”

“So look in the water,” Shane says stupidly. “You’d see it floating on the surface.”

“Unfortunately, small aircraft often break apart in an accident,” Winters answers. They’re both talking in such soft voices, like they’re at a wake; it makes Shane want to scream. “It’s sometimes difficult to locate the exact area of impact.”

Area of impact. Shane’s going to throw up.

“Don’t planes have, like, GPS trackers?” Hayden asks. “There’s gotta be some way to find it.”

“Do you even know how many people were on board?” David asks.

“Yes and yes,” Agent Winters replies. “There were only two people on the Cessna’s flight manifest filed in Raleigh: Mr. Rozanov and the pilot, John Andre. He’s a Navy vet and an experienced pilot. And yes, even small planes are equipped with GPS units. Our agents are working on determining the last location of the plane’s GPS system. We’re also reviewing the satellite data to narrow down the flight path.”

“What about the black box?” Yuna asks. “Don’t all planes have those?”

“Unfortunately, smaller private aircraft are not required to have black box equipment,” Allen says softly. “But they do carry Emergency Locator Transmitters, which send an alert to emergency services when a crash is detected. The Coast Guard and other NSTB officers are already convening in Savannah to launch a search.”

“So they do think it crashed in the ocean,” Shane says, voice hollow.

“It’s the most likely scenario, at this point,” Agent Allen confirms. “And so we’re taking you folks to Savannah to meet the team on the ground. I understand you are Mr. Rozanov’s emergency contact, Mrs. Hollander, but -” 

“Ilya,” Shane cuts her off. “His name is Ilya.”

“Ilya,” Agent Allen agrees. “Did Mr. - did Ilya have any family we should notify?”

Before Shane can answer, his mother speaks up.

“No,” Yuna says firmly. “We are his family.”

***

The drive to Savannah takes decades, or maybe minutes. Shane doesn’t have any concept of time anymore. 

Hayden is uncharacteristically quiet and, about ten minutes before they arrive, he reaches out and takes Shane’s hand.

They pile out of the Suburban, stiff and disoriented. Yuna and David are quickly ushered towards the command tent while Hayden helps Shane out of the car. He feels sore, like he’s been beaten to a pulp, and his stomach is still roiling like he might puke at any moment. But he swallows it down and he shakes his head and says “Hayd, I’m okay.” 

They arrive at the tent just as the agents are sharing the news from the emergency response team: they’ve located a possible site, the coordinates of where Ilya’s phone last pinged a satellite.

“Then we can go out there,” Shane says instantly.

The agents all exchange meaningful glances. “Of course,” says Agent Winters. “We’ve got a recovery team already on the way.”

“But I need to go,” Shane says. 

The agents stare at him as though they don’t quite understand what he’s saying. David and Yuna are staring at him, too.

“I need to go,” Shane says again, voice rising. “Obviously. I need to be there. I need to - I need to see.”

“Shane. Honey. The team is specially trained,” Yuna says gently. “They need room to work.”

“And they already left,” David adds. “They didn’t want to waste any time.”

“What happens if they don’t find him?”

“We widen the search,” Agent Allen responds. “There are a lot of barrier islands along the coast here, Mr. Hollander. There’s a lot of mileage to cover.”

“I’m going,” Shane insists. “I need to go.”

“We can’t have an untrained civilian on a NTSB search,” Agent Winters says. “It’s better if you stay close to headquarters. There’s a hotel just two blocks from here, we called ahead and they’ve held rooms for your party. That way you can get some sleep, come back in the morning fresh.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Shane says. He means it to come out in a reasonable tone, but he realizes he’s screaming when Hayden flinches away from him. “In what fucking universe do you expect me to sit in a fucking hotel room while Ilya’s out there, maybe injured, maybe - dehydrated or - or -”

Oh, he’s really going to puke now.

Shane bends double and vomits all over his own shoes. 

Hayden’s holding on to his arm and he feels his mom’s hands on his back, then on his cheeks. 

“Shane, baby, please,” Yuna’s voice is scared. He’s never heard her sound scared before. “Shane, we have to let them work. They know what they’re doing. They’re our best chance to find him.”

“You’re exhausted, pal,” Hayden says as Shane wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “C’mon. He wouldn’t want you to make yourself sick. You have to take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t say it, but Shane hears it all the same: you have to take care of yourself, in case there’s worse coming.

“I’m coming back at first light,” he says, jabbing his finger towards the agents. “And you call me. You call me if there’s any word. Anything at all.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Hollander,” Agent Winters says cooly. “Your mother, as Mr. Rozanov’s emergency contact, will be updated with any relevant information.”

They walk to the hotel. The staff is almost painfully gracious, whisking them up to two connecting suites on the top floor of the swanky Art Deco building. Shane is pushed onto the bed and he’s aware that David and Yuna are pulling off his vomit-soaked shoes. 

“This sucks,” Hayden says, breaking the weird silence inside the room.

“Yes,” David agrees. “It does.”

“Shane, what were you thinking?” Yuna scolds him gently, sitting beside him and pushing his hair back from his face. “Those agents have to work the case. They can’t have you out there, potentially getting hurt or damaging any evidence they might find.”

“If it were dad,” Shane says flatly, mouth sour, “would you just go sit in a hotel suite and let them call you - no, call Grandma - when they decide they’re ready to tell you something?”

Yuna and David exchange a look. “Shane, Ilya asked me to be his emergency contact because you two aren’t - well, you’re not official, honey.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Shane says. “I have become pretty fucking aware of that fact in the last twenty-four hours. I woke up and then I played a hockey game and then I flew across an entire country and then I drove out here just to learn that I don’t actually matter at all, in any of this, and I feel like I’m dying and no one in charge of this will even look me in the eye and say, we know this is the man that you love. Believe me, if I could go back in time and redo the last four years I would have fucking married him that summer he first came to the cottage and I would have told everyone exactly where the fuck I stood with him.” His voice is rising again and it’s not his mom’s fault, it’s not anyone’s fault, but he’s angry, he wants them to be angry, to stop looking at him like he might break any minute. “And I’m aware I’m the biggest fucking idiot. And now Ilya’s gone and I can’t even claim him and no one’s gonna even tell me when they find him floating in the ocean -”

“Shane, buddy,” Hayden says helplessly.

“In any other world I could have just loved him,” he says savagely, “except I’m a fucking coward. I wanted hockey, and I guess if I’m honest I wanted the fame, too. I wanted to be the best and that was more important than Ilya. And yeah, I wanted him, and I was petty enough to try and make him small and convenient. I said it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter that we couldn’t be out in the light - because we were going to have it all. And now I won’t even get a phone call to tell me that he’s -”

“Shane, stop,” his mother says. Her voice is coming from very far away.

“To tell me that he’s dead,” Shane says, the words slipping out. 

Horrified silence greets that statement.

“I need a drink,” David says, crossing the room to the minibar. He pulls out four nips of vodka, and passes them out. Shane takes it but his hands don’t seem to work. The bottle slips from his fingers and falls dully to the carpet. 

“I don’t think that will be enough,” Shane says, voice ragged. 

Yuna and David exchange another long look and then Yuna takes an orange bottle out of her purse. She shakes two tablets into the palm of her hand and holds them out to Shane.

Shane Hollander, who’s only ever taken narcotics after fracturing his clavicle and has never used anything stronger than ibuprofen at home, doesn’t ask questions. He takes them without hesitation and tosses them down his throat. He swallows them dry. 

“I’m going to find him,” Shane says. “Tomorrow. I am going to find him.”

“Shane, you need to be realistic,” Yuna says but David shakes his head.

“We know you will, Shane.”

Chapter 5: I know you by your heart

Chapter Summary

He reaches up to touch his cross, sends a silent thought to his mother, wherever she is: Please let me get out of here.

Ilya

He’s been throwing up for hours. There’s nothing coming up anymore, but his stomach is heaving and cramping and he can’t stop retching into the sand.

The sun is coming up as he’s curled up on his side, his head pounding and his limbs weak. He’d thought that running water would be safe, but apparently he was mistaken.

He drifts in and out of sleep until he finally wakes in the late morning, the sun baking his face. He’s able to sit up after a moment, head still throbbing, but his stomach seems to have unclenched. He reaches up to touch his cross, sends a silent thought to his mother, wherever she is: Please let me get out of here.

He manages to crawl down to the edge of the water and put his feet into the ocean, which helps to ground him. He toys with the drawstring of his hoodie, wondering if he could catch a fish. He immediately dismisses the thought as ridiculous. 

Something familiar is bobbing in the waves and washes up on the beach as he watches. It takes a minute, in his weakened state, to recognize what it is: a coconut.

He’s already looked at the palm trees here; none of them have coconuts. But this big green oblong fruit is undeniably a coconut. The last time he played in Tampa, he’d slurped a fancy cocktail served in a green coconut at the tiki bar by the beach. But Shane had just stuck a straw straight into the raw fruit. It has electrolytes, he'd said. It’s basically a Gatorade.

This unassuming coconut might just be his savior.

He tucks it under his arm and crawls back up the beach to a tidepool filled with jagged rocks. With the last of his strength, he smashes the coconut against the rock again and again until he cracks the thick green hull and greedily lifts the fruit to his lips, sucking the electrolyte-rich liquid out of the core. 

When the coconut water is gone, Ilya sits beside the tidepool and continues hammering the coconut against the rocks until it splits down the middle. He scoops the gelatinous white flesh out with his fingers and slurps it down, hardly chewing. He scrapes the hull clean in minutes, his gaze drifting down the beach. 

He realizes there are a dozen green coconuts scattered along the tideline.

“Mama,” he whispers. “Спасибо.” Thank you.

***

Shane

When Hayden opens his eyes, Shane’s already awake, having a heated conversation with someone on his phone. He holds up a finger when he sees Hayden and wraps up the call quickly.

“What’s up?” Hayden asks, trying to keep his tone light.

“I’ve got a ride out to one of the barrier islands,” Shane says. 

“I don’t think you’re allowed to do that,” Hayden says cautiously.

“I don’t care what’s allowed,” Shane says. “I’ve been following other people’s rules my entire life and I’ve been safe, and I’ve been professional, and I’ve lost out on so much happiness because I’ve been too busy worrying about what I’m allowed to do. And now I’m here, and I’m locked out from the one person who means more to me than my own life, and I’m tired of doing what other people tell me to.” His tone is carefully neutral, but inside he’s shaking apart.

“But the investigation -”

“The investigation has nothing to do with me,” Shane interrupts. “I’m not interfering. I’m simply hiring a boat ride out to one of the barrier islands. And if I don’t find Ilya, I’m going to hire a ride to another island. Those agents said there were over one hundred islands off the coast. I will go to all of them if I need to. If I can find him - if I can find out what happened -”

“I’m coming with you,” Hayden says.

“You don’t need to do that,” Shane says immediately. “I’ll be fine. Stay here with my mom and dad. You can call me if there’s any news.”

“Sorry,” Hayden says, “but you don’t seriously think I flew all the way across the US and left Jackie with the kids just to let you carry this by yourself, do you? What am I doing here if I’m not helping you, man? Rozanov’s your family. I get that, because you’re part of mine, Shane. You need someone with you. I'm coming. Now, what are we going to tell your mom?”

“I don’t need to tell her anything,” Shane says. “I’m an adult -"

“You don’t need to,” David interrupts, “but it will hurt her if you don’t.” He is leaning in the doorway that connects the two suites. 

“Dad,” Shane says. 

“I think you’re forgetting,” David says, “that we love him too, Shane. Your mother and I think of Ilya as another son. Finding him is important to us, and we’re as frustrated and scared as you are.” He swallows. “I’m afraid to let you go, Shane. I’m afraid of what you might find. But I know you need to see this for yourself. Please take Hayden with you, and please - please call me, not your mom, if you find something. Anything. I don’t - I don’t know if your mother can hear you say those words.” He swallows again. “I - I should offer to come with you, too. I don’t want you to be alone out there. But I can’t leave your mom alone if it - if it’s the worst news.”

Shane crosses the floor in three strides and throws his arms around his dad.

“Thank you,” he says, “for not trying to stop me. For understanding.”

“I’m going to pray,” David says into Shane’s dark hair. “I don’t - I’m not a churchgoer. Too many Sundays spent at the rink, I guess. But - well, it can’t hurt.” He smooths Shane’s hair back from his face like he used to when Shane was little and tries to smile. “I hope he’s safe. But if he’s not - well, at least we'll know.”

“He’ll be safe,” Hayden says, loyal as always.

“I called the owner of a water taxi company. He’s meeting me at the docks in an hour,” Shane replies. “I told you, Dad. I’m going to find him.”

“Bring him home to us,” David replies. 

***

The man is already waiting when Shane and Hayden arrive. He introduces himself as Pascal. He has a heavy French accent and a warm smile.

“I started watching hockey when I moved to America,” he explains. “When you call me, Mr. Hollander, I am ready to help. Nice to meet you too, Mr. Pike. I wish it was under different circumstances.”

“I really appreciate this,” Shane says, shaking his hand. “Please call me Shane. How far is it to the first island?”

“Not far,” Pascal reassures him, starting the engine and gesturing for the men to both sit. “Just a few miles. Some of the Sea Islands, you can drive to - big causeways. But these ones, more remote. But we will go. We can probably hit a few today, some are not too large. I have beer and sandwiches in the cooler, so we can stay out as long as it takes.”

“You don’t know what this means to me,” Shane says as they pull away from the slip.

“I think that I do,” Pascal replies. “I saw the videos of you and your mama at the airport. My husband and me, we been married since it became legal here. Still not legal back home. So I would be out on the water too, Shane.”

It crests over Shane like a wave: everyone knows about him and Ilya. It doesn’t feel scary anymore. It feels, instead, like relief. Like sinking into a warm bath at the end of a long practice. 

Or like coming home might feel, if Ilya was there to meet him.

He pulls his phone from his back pocket. He’s had it on silent all morning. He has a few voicemails that he can’t bring himself to listen to - Coach Wiebe, Rose, Harris Drover from the Centaurs - and dozens of texts. He’s not brave enough to check social media or ESPN yet.

He taps on the most recent message, a number he does not recognize.

Please tell me it is not true.

Who is this?

Svetlana Vetrova. I got your number from Troy Barrett. Is Ilyusha alive?

Shane blinks. This is not at all how he imagined being introduced to the woman he was once terrified Ilya would marry.

I don’t know yet. But I’m not leaving until I do.

You will call me when you know.

I will. I promise.

I always knew Jane would be someone special, but I did not realize he would be second-best player in the league. Thank you, Shane Hollander.

The boat ride is, as Pascal promises, quick. The first island is low on the horizon before Savannah has fully disappeared behind them. Pascal gestures to a few larger islands visible in the distance, dismissing them swiftly: “Those islands, they’re full of tourists. Anybody would have found him and called cops by now, if he was there. Hell, Tybee Island is only a twenty-minute drive from the harbor. We’re going to the uninhabited ones, friends. We’re not gonna waste any time.”

They anchor as close to the beach as possible, splashing through the shallow water onto the beach of the first island. It’s got a cluster of forest at the center. A cloud of birds rise overhead as they approach. Shane’s yelling Ilya’s name long before they breach the trees.

They spread out, but besides a few terrified gulls, there’s nothing alive on this island.

“Do not give up,” Pascal encourages Shane with a clap on the arm. “This is the first of many, my friend. We will find him.”

The second and third islands are both fruitless, too. They pause only to choke down dry turkey sandwiches and swig Modelos, glass bottles sweating in the weak January sunshine. Then they’re on to the next. Pascal is part getaway driver, part tour guide: sharing facts about each island, pointing out local landmarks, telling stories about the ruined colonial buildings that haunt some of the larger islands.

They search four islands by the time the sun is setting. The ride back to Savannah is quiet with all the fears they’re afraid to say out loud.

“I will meet you both here tomorrow,” Pascal says firmly. “First light. We will find him, Shane.”

Shane clasps his hand, and Pascal pulls him in for a fierce hug.

Hayden and Shane don’t talk on the walk back from the harbor. It takes them past the command center, but Shane can’t bring himself to stop - they won’t talk to him anyway. Instead they go straight to the suites.

His parents whip around when the door opens, but it must show on his face because Yuna’s expression crumples immediately. 

“There’s news,” David says. “Not much. Nothing about Ilya. But they confirmed the site of the wreck.”

“It did crash in the ocean, baby,” Yuna adds. “Right off the coast.”

“It means your instincts were right on, Shane,” David says. “It went down within spitting distance of those islands. Shane. He’s a strong man, he’s in incredible shape. He could have made it.”

Shane’s breath hitches.

“We’re going back out tomorrow,” Hayden says, when Shane can’t speak. He nods towards the television, which is tuned to ESPN. “What’re they saying?”

David unmutes the television. “It’s been nonstop all day. Pieces on Ilya’s career, segments about the Centaurs.” He swallows. “Stories about Ilya and Shane.”

“What kind of stories?” Hayden asks, because Shane can’t. 

“Really positive,” Yuna says soothingly. “Really, really supportive, Shane. And Rolex and Reebok have both called, they want you to know nothing changes with the deals.”

The news has come out and it - it changes nothing. 

They've hidden for years, for nothing. 

He could have given all of himself to Ilya all along.

Shane covers his face with his hands. He can almost feel his parents and Hayden looking at each other, lost for words.

“It’s okay,” he says finally. “I’m okay. It’s - it’s not how I would have chosen to break the news. But maybe, if it wasn’t broken for me, I never would have been brave enough. All of this has - it’s different now. I’m different now. Even if this is end and I - and I don’t find him alive -”

“Don’t say that, Shane,” Yuna says fiercely.

“Even if,” Shane continues. “I know now there are worse things than living in a way that might make people uncomfortable. And that you can be uncomfortable and happy at the same time. Fuck, we wasted so much time.” He clears his throat. “I’m not doing that any more. I’m going to do things differently. I owe him that. Regardless of how this ends. I should have done it all along. I hope it’s not too late to show him that I can be as brave as he deserves.”

Ever since Ilya’s plane went down, he’s been forced to face a lot of thoughts he’d rather keep buried deep. He’s not good at talking about his feelings; he knows that people think he’s flat and withdrawn and he knows, too, that somehow what he wants to say never comes out quite right. And recently, the fucking emotions won’t stop coming, welling up inside of him, threatening to drown him. 

He hates it.

He hates it, but he feels it all the same. And maybe it’s time to let it all out.

Chapter 6: and I will call you by your name

Chapter Summary

He lays back among the trees, his head pillowed on an exposed tree root carpeted with moss, and thinks about Shane.

He’s always thinking about Shane, if he’s honest. He’s been thinking about him since they first met.

Ilya

The pile of coconuts at his feet is substantial enough to last a couple of days. A feeling of relief settles deep in Ilya’s gut.

He scavenges a handful of few blue-black berries still clinging to the saw palmettos, soapy and astringent and tough as chewing leather. He waits, tense, for the stomach cramps to return but he’s cautiously optimistic that these will stay down alongside the coconuts, washed up on a merciful tide. 

For the first time since the crash - and he thinks it’s the close of the third day now, but he’s not entirely certain how much time he lost in the water - he feels like maybe he’ll make it.

He lays back among the trees, his head pillowed on an exposed tree root carpeted with moss, and thinks about Shane.

He’s always thinking about Shane, if he’s honest. He’s been thinking about him since they first met.

He imagines Shane stretched out beside him - not another castaway, but maybe something more benign. Maybe they’re on a camping trip. Just the two of them in the wilderness.

Shane would make them a pile of s’mores. And after, Ilya would lay Shane down on the green velvet moss and take him apart. His mind drifts back to last summer at the cottage. 

“What I would not give to be there now,” he says to the island.

***

July 2020

Ilya is smoking a cigarette on the dock when he feels Shane’s warm arms loop around his neck. He tips his head back and smiles. The plume of gray smoke curls around Shane's head like a halo, or a crown.

“Thought I’d find you out here.” Shane sits down behind him, his long legs on either side of his own and his chest pressing against Ilya’s back. “You promised you were going to quit.”

“Is just one,” Ilya lies easily.

“Uh huh,” Shane snorts. Ilya feels the breath moving the damp curls at the nape of his neck, closing his eyes to soak in the feeling.

“Back to real life tomorrow,” Ilya says carefully. “Another summer behind us.”

“Seems like it comes faster every year,” Shane answers, equally reserved. Ilya feels his lips ghost across his skin. “But we still have tonight.”

Ilya crushes the cigarette out against the dock and slips the butt into his pocket, knowing Shane will kill him if he catches him littering. Shane’s hands stroke firmly up and down his bare chest, tangling briefly in his crucifix as he kisses the side of Ilya’s neck.

“Shane, I’m tired,” Ilya says quietly. “It’s not you, it’s just - I hate this day. Every year is worse and I don’t think I am up for anything tonight.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Shane says against Ilya’s spine. “Let me take care of you, Ilya.” His hands drop lower to Ilya’s thighs, waiting for the invitation. “Please, мой маленький батут. You do so much for me. I want to make you feel good.”

“You know that means ‘my little trampoline’, da?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane says. “I really liked that one.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Ilya leans his head back again until it rests against Shane’s shoulder. “I will let you ravish me. As apology.”

Shane’s hands grip his thighs tightly in response, then smooth up to Ilya’s hips. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and tugs. Obediently, Ilya lifts his hips and yanks the shorts off, flinging them off into the gathering darkness and hoping he hasn’t just tossed his new pack of cigarettes into the lake.

“You’re always trying to get me naked out here,” Shane says in a voice that sends heat curling deep in Ilya’s belly. “Now it’s my turn.” His hands, possessive and sure, drag up the flat planes of Ilya’s stomach to his chest, rolling his thumbs across his sensitive nipples and making Ilya moan. Shane sucks a bruise just under his jaw while he strokes him, brushing almost low enough to graze the head of Ilya’s cock, jutting up against his belly and already desperately hard. 

“Turn around,” Shane commands in a low voice. 

Ilya obeys, turning as fast as he can without knocking them both off the dock into the water. His mouth crashes against Shane’s, all teeth and tongue, and he tastes Shane’s laugh more than he hears it. Shane’s hands tangle in his curls, deepening the kiss, licking into Ilya’s mouth the way he knows Ilya loves - filthy, unapologetic, unmistakably hungry. 

“Touch me,” Ilya pleads, his gaze dropping to Shane’s cock. He’s already leaking, of course, Shane is always so wet it drives Ilya insane. He reaches for him but Shane moves as quick as lightning, catching Ilya’s wrists with both of his hands.

“No,” he says in that same dark voice. “Not yet.”

Instead he pushes Ilya back, a hand flat on his chest, right over his heart. Ilya goes willingly, letting Shane guide him to the smooth composite boards of the dock. Ilya lands with a grunt and Shane covers him with his body, his broad shoulders blocking out the stars. He starts kissing his way down Ilya’s body, slow and reverent, careful not to touch Ilya’s straining erection. The precome leaking from his cock drips down onto Ilya’s skin, burning like a brand.

Ilya’s laugh sounds like a sob in the darkness.

“You will kill me, Hollander.”

“Not until I’m done with you, Rozanov.”

Ilya, expecting to feel the flat heat of Shane’s tongue run up the underside of his cock, instead gasps when Shane grabs his knees and folds him like a lawn chair. Before he can think, Shane’s mouth is against his skin, tongue lathing over his hole with unbridled enthusiasm. Ilya shouts into the night. Shane is relentless, Ilya can feel the saliva dripping down to puddle under his ass, swearing in Russian and fingers clenching into fists at his side. Shane’s hands slide off the curve of his ass and stroke alongside his tongue, gently working him open while Ilya falls apart. Ilya’s leaking now too, and his eyes are hot like maybe he’s going to cry because Shane’s single-minded focus is making him feel like he’s peeled his skin off in front of hundreds of cameras. He’s entirely exposed and tomorrow they go back to pretending to be strangers in public and Shane’s whispering я тебя люблю, I love you, я тебя люблю with swollen lips against the most sensitive part of his body and tomorrow they’ll drive to the airport holding hands and then get on different flights.

Ilya grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and stop the tears even as every nerve in his body is singing.

“Come for me, Illy,” Shane says against his core and then bites the inside of his thigh, smearing sweat and spit all over him before curling his fingers and milking that sweet spot inside of Ilya. His other hand grabs Ilya's cock, pumping in time with the thrust of his fingers. “Come for me, приди за мной, I want the neighbors to hear you all the way across the lake, fuck-”

Ilya comes with a cry, biting his own hand so hard it breaks the skin, spurting over Shane's stomach and chest, head swimming and blood trickling down the inside of his wrist.

Shane sits back on his heels, stripping his cock so fast his hand blurs in the pale light from the quarter-moon overhead, shining on the lake and the sweat on their skin. Ilya kneels too and takes Shane in his mouth and feels Shane shoot into the back of his throat as he cries out, pulling Ilya’s head down against him. Ilya’s enveloped by the heady scent of him and he wants to crawl inside this moment and live here forever.

Shane pulls him up, kissing him, heedless of the mess. “I told you I was taking care of you,” he scolds softly, brushing against his lips and then the tip of Ilya’s nose. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Ilya says, resting his forehead against Shane’s.

“Was that all right?” Shane’s thumb swipes through the tearstain on his cheek, tone suddenly anxious. “I know sometimes that can be…a lot for you. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya says simply. “I am always okay when I am with you.”

***

Ilya’s sitting just inside the treeline, broad hand wrapped around himself and the thought of Shane’s tongue filling his mind as the sky fades from rose to purple dusk when he suddenly hears the buzz of a motor, barely louder than the crashing surf and the rush of blood in his ears.

He staggers to his feet, squinting in the twilight. At first, his brain can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. It looks kind of like a flying box fan.

Ilya realizes it’s a drone.

Oh, great. Now the rescue footage on the news will be of me fucking my own fist next to a pile of coconuts.

He begins to laugh, swinging his arms over his head and yelling in Russian. Then he realizes he’s fucking stupid and the drone’s camera probably can’t see him in the dark mass of trees. He scrambles over the tree roots and then trips over the pile of coconuts he’s amassed from his day of scavenging, right leg twisting in an unnatural angle. He goes down hard and feels a sickening pop in his knee, a hot flare of pain bursting up either side. 

“Ah, fuck!” He’s not bleeding but the pain is so intense that he thinks he’s going to pass out, or puke, or both. The drone buzzes out of sight as he clutches his knee to his chest, moss in his hair, and by the time he gingerly limps out of the trees and onto the beach, it’s fully dark and the drone is nowhere to be seen.

He sits down heavily beside the remains of his earlier fire and uses his last two matches and the final scraps of notebook paper to light the featherlight brush he’s been collecting in his sock. His knee is throbbing but he feels lighter than he has in days, maybe weeks. Once the flames are high, he throws the dirty sock on the fire, too. 

“This is my last night on this fucking island, one way or another,” he says grimly to the seagulls settling down for the night. 

***

Shane

Pascal’s boat passes several sleek federal vessels on the way out to the islands the next morning. They’re ringing a suspiciously large space in the ocean. A slick of oil shimmers on the surface of the water like a rainbow in the sunlight. A large drone is set up on a platform and a couple of technicians appear to be adjusting its settings. 

Hayden pulls him away from the edge, waves rocking under his feet.

Pascal takes this all in with one clear sweep of his olive-green eyes, then points the nose of his boat out towards the open ocean. “I have an idea,” he yells over the buzz of the engine. “The currents, they sweep out to sea from here. And there is one tiny island that no tourists ever visit because it is full of stinking marshes and shitting seagulls. Many nicer islands with bike paths close to shore.” Pascal gestures broadly from the cluster of federal boats towards a gray shape in the distance. “But if your plane goes down here, and the currents arcs out, then a strong swimmer might get lucky and hit this island I am thinking of before the current goes out to sea.”

Heart hammering, Shane just nods. 

A strong swimmer might get lucky. He thinks of Ilya in the lake, lapping him easily, holding his breath for as long as he can just to try and beat Shane.

Hayden nudges him. “I feel like we’re getting close.”

Shane just nods.

They pull up to a white sand beach; Pascal hasn’t even cut the engine before Shane hops over the side into ankle-deep water. Shells crunch under his shoes. The island is much as Pascal described: hundreds of seabirds, squawking at this invasion, and the smell of salt marsh on the breeze. Hayden’s helping Pascal with the anchor, and Shane doesn’t wait; he sets off along the beach, eyes scanning the treeline for any movement besides the flight of birds. The beach is littered with shells, and a few green coconuts, and some bleached sand dollars too. 

And footprints, leading away from where Shane stands. 

“Oh my god,” Shane says. 

He starts to run.

The sand slips under his feet and he stumbles, nearly falling. He kicks his stupid fucking Reeboks off and digs in, breath coming fast, scattering gulls who shriek at him as he passes them by. The smell of the unseen salt marsh is sharp in the air and the sun is so bright off the ocean that when he comes around a curve in the beach he’s blinded for a moment, forced to a halt.

And then he blinks, and everything comes into focus, and there’s a man sitting maybe 70 meters away on the sand, facing the water. One of his legs is stretched out in front of him at an awkward angle, and there are leaves in his hair, and his shoulders are sunburned, and it’s -

“Ilya,” Shane whispers. 

The man’s shoulders stiffen like he’s heard a ghost.

“Ilya,” he says again, louder this time, and then he’s screaming it over and over, Ilya Ilya Ilya, and Ilya’s trying to get to his feet but he only manages to get one knee under him when Shane crashes into him, spraying sand everywhere and knocking the wind out of them both.

“Oh my god,” Shane says, aware that he’s still yelling and then he’s kissing Ilya, sand getting in his mouth and Ilya’s saying his name too, his fingers in his hair. 

Dimly he’s aware that he’s pinning Ilya against the beach and he sits up, hauling him up with him and running his hands over his face and his neck. There’s a huge gash on his forehead and running into his hairline, just nicking his left eyebrow, staining his curls a nauseating rusty color, but it doesn’t look purulent or inflamed. His face is raw and peeling from the sun and his eyes are red-rimmed, hollow. His cheekbones stand out even more than usual, he’s certainly lost weight, and he looks like he's been awake for a thousand years. Shane attempts to pull him into his lap and Ilya winces, guarding his leg. The fabric of his pants is torn and beneath the rip in the fabric he can see Ilya’s knee is grossly swollen and when he touches it lightly with his index finger, it’s hot under his skin. Ilya hisses through his teeth.

“It’s fucked,” he says. “I tripped. There was a drone, and I tripped running for it.”

“Everyone is looking for you,” Shane says. “Ilya, I can’t believe you’re -”

“Yes,” he says. “Me neither.”

“Are you okay?”

“Maybe. Probably. I think so. I’m fucking hungry, and I can’t walk, but…Shane, how are you here?” His hands are on Shane’s face again, his eyes slit against the dazzling light bouncing off the water. “You were in Seattle. How did you get all the way to Florida? Is middle of road trip for Montreal.”

“We’re in Georgia,” Shane replies. “You never made it to Florida. You think I’d be playing when you’re - god, Illy. What the fuck happened in that plane?” 

“I think the captain had heart attack or something,” Ilya replies. “When the alarms went off, I ran to cockpit and he was staring straight ahead, and his body was all limp. I think he was dead before we hit the water.” His hands, Shane can feel, are shaking. “How are you here?” He asks again, dazed.

“Holy shit,” Shane hears from behind him. “Oh my god, Rozanov, holy shit.”

“Hayden Pike is here?” Ilya asks with horror. “This is not real. I am having nightmare. He is here to take you away from me. Oh, god. I am in hell.”

“Not today,” Shane says. “I don’t know how we’re going to get you out of here. You can’t stand at all?”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “Like I say. Coconuts.”

“We heard you scream, Shane,” Hayden says, “and I ran out here while Pascal radioed the police. Those boats weren’t far away, I’m sure they’ll be here any -”

As if on cue, federal agents and Coast Guard medics swarm the beach. Agent Winters tries to pull Shane away from Ilya, but Ilya doesn’t let go.

“No,” he says, roughly, and he’s shaking harder now. “Tell them no, Shane, не отпускай меня.” Don’t let me go. His voice rises an octave in panic and his fingernails dig into Shane’s skin.

“Stop,” Shane says, but one of the agents wraps an arm around his middle and heaves him to his feet. “Stop -” He fights against the restriction, ready to throw punches to get back to Ilya who is shaking on the ground with two medics kneeling at his feet. 

“Shane,” says the familiar voice of Agent Allen close to his ear. “Shane, listen to me. Stop fighting. Everything is all right. No one is going to make you leave if you stop fighting us. In fact, if we hadn’t seen your boat rip past us, we wouldn’t have gotten back to this island until nightfall, if not tomorrow. But the medics need to take a look at Ilya and make sure he’s not in any immediate danger. He’s been through an extreme amount of stress. And if you punch a federal officer, you’ll be spending the night in jail.”

Shane goes limp and the agent holding him cautiously releases him. He can’t reach Ilya but he crowds as close as he can. He manages to stick out his foot and tap his toes against Ilya’s ankle.

Ilya keeps his eyes locked on Shane as the medics take his vital signs and start an IV - he’s dangerously dehydrated - and then help him slide onto a plastic spineboard. It’s eerily reminiscent of Shane’s injury four years ago, when Marleau rang his bell and he called out for Ilya on the ice. The team lifts him easily, Shane trailing behind, and Hayden presses a phone into his hands.

“Shane, what’s going on?” Yuna’s face is on the screen, David peering over her shoulder. “Hayden called us and then just shoved the phone at you.”

“He’s here,” Shane gasps, unable to look away from the spineboard. “I found him. I found him, Mom. He’s alive. He’s okay.”

“Oh my god, Shane.” His mother’s hand claps over her mouth and she starts to cry. David wipes his eyes. “Let me see him. I need to see him.”

Shane taps the screen to turn the camera around and jogs to catch up to Ilya’s side. “Ilya, my parents say hi.”

“Hi, mama Yuna,” Ilya calls, lifting his hand. “Hi, David.”

“Ilya, oh my god. We love you. Are you okay? We love you, honey.”

“Da, I love you too,” he says easily, taking the phone from Shane. “And I am fine. I will be just fine.”

“Keep your arm straight, Mr. Rozanov,” one of the medics warns, but he’s smiling. All of the agents are smiling, Shane notices. He realizes that plane crash recoveries don’t usually end like this. It’s a good day for this team, too. 

“I think they will not let me come to you tonight,” Ilya says. “They are making me go to American hospital so they can send me gigantic bill. They do not know I have Canadian healthcare.”

“Everyone knows you have Canadian healthcare, Mr. Rozanov.” The medic at his shoulder is young, maybe 21 or 22. She smiles at Yuna on FaceTime. “He’s going to need at least a few nights in the hospital, Mrs. Hollander. Do you want to meet us there?”

“Yes, of course. We’ll be there. Thank you. Thank you all so much.” The medic plucks the phone out of Ilya’s grip and hands it back to Hayden as the team begins to load Ilya up for the trip back to the mainland. Shane climbs up after him but the unsmiling face of Agent Winters stops him at the deck.

“Mr. Hollander,” Agent Winters says. “You need to get off this ship.”

“Uh, no,” Shane replies, planting himself next to Ilya. “I’m going with him.”

“You do understand that Mr. Rozanov is the subject of a multiagency search, do you not?” Winters asks, voice cold. “Tens of thousands of dollars and countless hours of manpower have been expended to bring him home safely. You are not his next of kin. You are not his family member, or his spouse. You are not anything. So you need to get off of this vessel before I have you taken into custody.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Hayden protests, knee-deep in the water. “Shane fucking found him!”

“You are both wasting my time. Mr. Rozanov needs to go to the hospital,” Winters says. 

“Okay,” says Shane. “So take us to the hospital.”

“Once again, Mr. Hollander, you cannot be here. You have no official relationship to the subject. This is a federal operation -”

“Oh, Luke,” Agent Allen interrupts. “The man just found his boyfriend after four days stranded on an island with no food and no fresh water. He thought he was dead. We all thought he was dead. You weren’t even going to check this island until you spotted the water taxi. Let Shane come with us.”

Winters blinks and then shakes his head, turning towards the crew at the helm and gesturing to get a move on.

“Sit down and shut up,” Winters says over his shoulder, “and don’t make me regret letting you ride along, Hollander. For God’s sake, don’t touch any of the evidence.”

“You can touch one evidence,” Ilya says, tugging his hand to his chest. “Please.”

“One piece of evidence,” Shane corrects out of habit. He leans down and kisses the crown of Ilya’s head, careful to avoid the scabbed-over laceration in his hair. 

“One piece,” Ilya agrees, voice heavy with contentment and pain medication. He presses the back of Shane’s hand to his lips as his eyes slip closed. “Я скучал по тебе.”

“Fuck, I missed you too. Illy, I -”

“Later, Shane. Just let me hold your hand.”

Chapter 7: it's a long way

Chapter Summary

Shane appreciates, now, how scary it must have been for Ilya to visit him at the hospital in Boston.

Shane

The harbor is a media circus; cameras flash as Ilya, higher than a kite on narcotics for his knee, waves happily from the stretcher to a chorus of cheers. The paramedics absolutely refuse to let Shane ride along with him to the hospital. Ilya kisses the back of Shane’s hand again, heedless of the audience, before it’s wrenched out of his grip and the doors are slammed in Shane’s face and the ambulance takes off without him.

Shane's prepared to walk - there’s no way he’s going to be able to get a rideshare in this chaos - when Pascal taps him on the shoulder. 

“You come with me, Shane. You think I’m not gonna take you the rest of the way?”

Shane follows Pascal to a cherry-red scooter and climbs on the back, a little worried their combined weight will be too much for the 150cc engine. Hayden promises to check in later as Pascal zips out of the congested traffic towards Memorial Health University, Savannah’s level I trauma hospital. 

When Shane finally makes it up to the ICU, his mother meets him at the door.

“Only one visitor at a time,” she explains, “so I’ll wait out here while you’re with him. Dad went to find me a cup of coffee.”

“I'm going to stay all night,” Shane says. “You and Dad can go.”

“Shane,” she says gently, “they need me to be here as his next of kin. He’s going to need surgery sooner rather than later, so they want me close by to make any medical decisions if he’s unable to make them himself.”

“So I can’t even stay with him?”

“Of course you can,” Yuna says. “Of course, Shane. Just…I have to be here, too. We’ll have to take turns. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is. You’re not family -”

“He is my family! He’s my whole fucking life!”

It’s the first time in his nearly thirty years that he’s ever screamed at his mother. Yuna freezes in shock, eyes wide, and he's immediately horrified. What the fuck is wrong with me?  He opens his mouth to apologize but before he can say a word, Shane feels a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Shane,” David says. “I think you should go back to the hotel. You’re obviously overwhelmed.”

“No,” Shane snaps, shrugging him off. “I need to see him, Dad.”

“I don’t think you’re in any fit state to be here.”

“I swear I’m fine,” Shane says. “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I’m just - I need to see him. Please. I’m going to be sick if I don’t see him.”

“Shane -”

“It’s all right, David,” Yuna says, her voice tired. “I think Shane has earned some grace.” 

She buzzes the intercom at the door of the unit. “I’m taking a break,” she announces. “My son is here to visit Ilya Rozanov. He can stay until the doctor needs me.”

***

Shane appreciates, now, how scary it must have been for Ilya to visit him at the hospital in Boston.

Ilya’s asleep, his face bathed in the greenish glow of the monitors. He’s hooked up to several things that are beeping: telemetry for his heart, a pulse oximeter that measures his oxygen saturation level, and a blood pressure cuff that inflates and deflates at regular intervals. Oxygen tubing runs under his nose and over his cheeks, highlighting his sunburn. He’s tucked in neatly with several drips running on a pump beside his bed. Shane peers at the labels. One’s an antibiotic, he’s pretty sure. The other is for continuous pain management, and the third is a huge yellow bag of electrolytes and fluids to rehydrate him after his time on the island. A Foley bag half-full of dark yellow urine hangs neatly on the side of the bedframe. His knee is immobilized with a dark blue brace stretching from his ankle to mid-thigh. A new iPhone - Yuna works fast - sits, still in its box, on the bedside table.

Ilya looks tiny, with all these tubes and wires attached to him, and his skin is sallow underneath the burns. The gash on his head has been sutured, neat tiny stitches running from his hairline to his eyebrow. The reality of how sick he is hits Shane like a punch to the gut. 

Shane sinks down into the high-back chair next to Ilya’s bed. He wants to crawl under the blanket with him, but the charge nurse is watching him suspiciously and he suspects the whole unit heard him yell at his mother. He’s not going to do anything to risk this time with Ilya, even if he’s sleeping. Also, the room is like a fishbowl - its walls are entirely made of glass. He knows if he tries anything, the nurses will have him out of here before you can say “visiting hours”.

Ilya’s hand, with the IV catheter secured with transparent dressing, is resting on top of the blanket. Shane’s own hand hovers over it, afraid to touch him. 

“Hi,” Shane whispers. Ilya doesn’t stir, but his chest rises and falls reassuringly under the starched white sheets. Shane wonders if he’s cold, after days baking in the refracted sunlight.

“I want you to wake up,” he says in a low voice, “even though I know you need to rest. But I really, really want to see your eyes open.” He gently rests his hand on Ilya’s wrist, above the IV catheter. His pulse is steady and strong under his skin. “You scared me. A lot. I’m still scared now. Because I know that not only is everything different for you now…it’s different for me. It’s different for us. Out there, everything has changed. We can’t be Jane and Lily anymore. Everyone knows, Ilya. It’s my fault.

“But I think…no, I’m glad they know. I want everyone to know. The worst part about this, besides not knowing if you were still with me, was that no one would tell me anything because we don’t belong to each other. Not in any way legally recognized. Which is insane, isn’t it? Because of course I belong to you. Completely. I don’t have a home if you’re not in it.” He strokes the tender skin on the inside of his wrist. “I’ve gotten so much wrong. You’ve tried to give me everything and I threw it away with both hands. I’ll do better. I swear it. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. I love you. Holy shit. I love you so much.”

He leans over until his head is resting on the bedrail beside Ilya’s, the hard plastic digging into his cheek, soaking him in. He stays like that for what feels like an eternity until the door slides open and a doctor in green surgical scrubs walks into the room.

“Oh, hello,” the doctor says, startled. “I’m looking for Yuna Hollander.”

“Sorry,” he answers, not moving his head from the siderail. “I’m just Shane.”

“Well, my name is Mari Sandovi. I’m one of the orthopedic surgeons on the sports medicine team here at Memorial. You're not in his chart, but from the way Mr. Rozanov talks about you, you really should be. I’d be happy to fill you in, Just Shane,” she says, sitting down on the edge of Ilya’s bed. Shane wants to snap at her to get off, but he doesn’t have the energy. “Obviously, he’s been through the ringer. I saw on the news you’re the one who found him.”

“Yeah,” Shane answers, still looking at Ilya. “I am.”

“That must have been really awful for you.”

A tear slides down his nose and drips onto the floor. “Better than the alternative.”

“I suppose that’s true.” She pauses for a moment. She’s maybe six or seven years older than Shane, with smooth brown skin and long dark hair tied up under a scrub cap. She looks completely unbothered, even though she’s surrounded by the wreckage of Shane’s careful plans. “I’m assuming you know what an ACL tear is.”

“Every professional athlete knows what an ACL tear is.”

“Fair enough. Mr. Rozanov’s right ACL is torn pretty significantly. It was displaced so violently it also caused avulsion fractures on his tibia and his femur.” She gestures at the medieval-looking device securing his leg. “This brace prevents his knee from bending and causing more pain and damage to the ligament and bones. I’m sure you understand better than most what I’m saying.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies, voice dull. “It’s a career-ending injury.”

“It usually is,” Dr. Sandovi agrees. 

“So why hasn’t he had surgery yet?”

“We have to get him stabilized before we put him under anesthesia,” she explains, gesturing at the IV fluids hanging from the pole. “The banana bag is replenishing electrolytes. Most of his labs were dangerously low, to the point where he could have suffered from a fatal arrhythmia.”

Shane’s own heart clenches at that.

“He’s doing much better,” she reassures him. “He’s stable, and progressing steadily. The antibiotics are more preventative than anything. Replacing electrolytes is pretty straightforward, but you can’t rush it or you can go too far in the other direction. But he’s young and healthy, which makes such a difference. He should be ready for surgery in the next few days.”

“And then? PT for the rest of his life?”

“Probably not as long as that,” the surgeon replies. “But likely for six or eight months, maybe up to a year. It’ll really depend on how motivated he is, and how surgery goes. Imaging gives us a reference point, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until we get in there.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Shane says, surprising himself. “About any of this.”

“Well, this is a pretty good start,” she says, gesturing at Shane, cheek still pressed against the siderail. “Being here for him. Emotional support. That’s something we try to provide in the hospital, but we’re no replacement for family.”

“You're the only person who puts me in that category,” Shane says bitterly. “Legally, medically, officially - I’m nothing.”

“I think we both know that’s not true. And I don’t think Ilya would agree with you, either.” She smiles at Shane, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “Let me put it this way. I have never watched a hockey game in my life, but your boyfriend made sure to inform me that you set the record for the youngest captain to ever win the Stanley Cup. And I only met him a few hours ago.” 

Hearing the surgeon use the word boyfriend so naturally makes Shane flinch. 

“I think your mom told me she was going to hunt down a cup of coffee,” Dr. Sandovi says, standing up. “That sounds pretty good to me, too. You stay here. I’m sure she’ll share any details I’ve missed when she comes back up.” She reaches out and squeezes Shane’s shoulder lightly. “It’s really nice to meet you, Shane. I’m glad Ilya has someone like you to help him through this.”

Shane falls asleep without meaning to, after Dr. Sandovi leaves. He wakes up to Ilya’s fingers in his hair and a stiff neck from the awkward angle.

“There is bed right here, if you are sleepy.”

“Illy,” Shane breathes, and sits up fast. It leaves him lightheaded.

“You have great big welt on your cheek,” Ilya says, frowning. His eyes are dilated in the dim room and his voice is a little slurred from the pain medication. “Come here. Let me see.”

“I can’t,” Shane says. “You’re not allowed to do that in the hospital.”

“Is my room,” Ilya insists. “I am celebrity, Hollander. I can do what I want. Please come here to me.”

Without another word of protest, Shane hitches his leg over the bedrail and climbs in next to Ilya. It’s a tight squeeze for them both but Ilya sighs in contentment to be pressed the length of Shane’s body. Shane’s careful to avoid the knee immobilizer and the catheter tube, and tucks Ilya’s head under his chin.

“Better,” Ilya says. He reaches up to lightly touch the indentation on Shane’s cheek. “Don’t worry, I will still love you even with this horrible disfigurement.”

“Says the guy with a giant gash on his head.”

“My nurse says it will be a really cool scar,” Ilya retorts.

“Your nurse is going to kill me when she catches me like this.”

“Let her catch us,” Ilya says. “It was killing me, you being where I could not touch.”

Shane kisses the top of his head. He feels Ilya wince a little when his lips graze the laceration but he doesn’t complain, just tries to squirm a little bit closer to him. 

“Yuna came by but did not stay when she saw you are still here,” Ilya says once he’s comfortable, head pillowed on Shane’s chest. “She says I must have surgery.”

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs. “Your ACL is busted. They told you that?”

“And mild concussion, too. Maybe one concussion too many, doctor says. Mama Yuna does not like the phrase “career-ending”. She has many business deals left to close for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to have surgery,” Ilya says simply. “Then I will go home to Ottawa and start…getting better, I guess. Go to horrific PT torture sessions. Hire some handsome nurse to drive me around and give me spongebaths.”

“I can do all that,” Shane protests. “Don’t hire anyone. My parents and I will help you. We can figure it out.”

“Shane, you live in Montreal,” Ilya says. “Have you forgotten?”

“I’ll take time off.”

“мой ёжик, I think you are the one with head injury. Is middle of season, Shane. You cannot just take time off. And what are you going to tell them? My secret boyfriend got stranded on desert island and fucked up his entire life, so I need to go play house with him?” He snorts. “Somehow I don’t think that fits into your ten-year plan.”

“I’m not your hedgehog,” Shane says. “And yeah, that’s pretty much exactly what I’m going to tell them.”

“Doctors and nurses can't out us, they have Hippocratic oath. The same is not true for media or commissioner of the League, Shane.”

“I guess you haven’t watched the news since you’ve gotten here,” Shane replies.

“Even now you have found me?” Ilya pats around his bed for the remote. “I had better be at top of each hour.”

He turns the wall-mounted television to ESPN News. Sure enough, the anchor is running through the limited details surrounding the crash, speculating about Ilya’s condition. Shane’s tense, waiting, and then -

“But the biggest story of all, Jeff, is probably the news that the famous rivalry between Montreal’s Shane Hollander and Ottawa Centaurs captain Ilya Rozanov has never been a rivalry at all.”

“I don’t think that’s fair, Mark,” the reporter posits. He looks like he’s reporting on location outside of the hospital. “I think the dynamic we saw on the ice between them was real. The competition between Montreal and Boston is older than these two, don’t forget. What’s obvious is that, somewhere along the way, a personal relationship developed between them.”

Shane feels a tremor run through the length of Ilya’s body as realization hits.

“They’ve been playing against each other for a long time,” Mark, the anchor, observes. “I can appreciate that you come to understand one another after so many years in the same game together.”

“And don’t forget, they’ve been working together off the ice with their Irina Foundation for the last several years,” Jeff points out. 

“Who doesn’t love a workplace romance?” Mark jokes, which elicits a smile from Jeff. 

“Hollander, of course, is being hailed as a hero after locating Rozanov with the help of a local water taxi captain. Apparently he just didn’t think the authorities were working fast enough, Mark. Some commentators are criticizing him for interfering in a federal investigation.”

A photo of Shane flashes up on the screen, perched next to Ilya on the federal boat as it pulls into the harbor. His hand is cradling Ilya’s cheek, his other hand on his chest. Ilya’s hand is wrapped around Shane’s wrist. 

There’s no denying the look of love and relief on Shane’s face, even in the low-resolution paparazzi photo.

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya breathes.

“I can’t say I blame Hollander for that. If that was my wife, I’d be doing everything I could to help search efforts,” Jeff concedes.

“Now, what’s more interesting to me is what this means for next season - with Hollander’s contract coming to an end in May, will he re-sign with the team that drafted him or will he use his free agent status to be closer to Rozanov?”

“I think it’s bold to speculate Rozanov will even be cleared to play,” Jeff counters. “There’s minimal information coming out of Rozanov’s camp about his injuries, and no sighting of the Montreal captain yet here at the hospital - but Shane Hollander’s parents were both spotted leaving just an hour ago, looking serious.” 

“What a way to meet the in-laws!” The anchor exclaims. Both men laugh again. 

Ilya turns the television off. He's quiet for a painfully long moment.

“Shane, what’s going on?”

“After the crash,” Shane says, “a bunch of people saw me…filmed me…crying in the airport. Then Rose texted me - there are paparazzi shots of my family and I talking to the authorities, of us getting into the car with them. And pictures of them bringing you back from the island with - with me. My mom and Farah have been trying to make a plan for whenever you’re ready to make a statement. I haven’t talked to anyone from Montreal; I don’t know if anyone from Ottawa has called. I assume Farah’s doing a lot of heavy lifting.”

Shane pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps the link Rose sent to him. He hands the phone to Ilya. It’s a shaky TikTok of Shane in the Atlanta airport, practically on his knees as his mother tries to keep him off the ground. Hayden’s hovering in the background, trying to shield him. The caption reads “Rozanov Crashes - Hollander Crashes Out”.

Ilya’s thumb swipes up to another video, then another. All the angles of Shane’s devastation, blasted across the entire world. 

“My god, Shane,” Ilya says quietly.

Ilya swipes to the next video, which is a blurry cell phone video of Ilya being loaded into the ambulance at the docks. Shane is talking to him, low and urgent, even as they’re hoisting the stretcher into the truck.

Ilya kisses the back of his hands before the paramedics slide him out of view. 

“I thought I had lost you.” Shane murmurs against Ilya’s hair. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Well, I’m never really thinking straight, am I?”

“You are joking,” Ilya says, working his elbow underneath his body so he can prop himself up and meet Shane’s eyes. “Shane. We are out. Everyone knows. Why aren’t you freaking out?”

“I thought I lost you,” Shane repeats. “I thought my life was over. Ilya, if you had died…if we had never gotten a chance to love each other out loud…it would have been my fault. I would have died, and no one would have known. No one would realize they were talking to a ghost. You would have haunted me. How I failed you would have haunted me. 

“You’re braver than me; you always have been. You would have come out years ago, you would have stood by my side and stuck it out with me and I gave you nothing back.”

“Shane, stop,” Ilya says. “You have given me a beautiful life.”

“It’s not enough,” Shane says fiercely. “It’s not nearly enough. And then everyone was speculating, and now…well, I haven’t had to say anything. I used to agonize about how I’d tell the commissioner, and the team, and the world. How do I stand up and tell them that I’m gay, and I’m in love with a man, and that man happens to be my biggest competitor? And now, it turns out I didn’t have to say anything at all.”

“So is not too late? To do it together?”

“You want to respond to all of this?”

“Shane,” Ilya says. “You are telling me that the thing I have wanted for years has happened and everything is fine. Everything is good. The only thing left for us to do is say yes, this is true. This is real.”

“It’s real,” Shane affirms and ducks his head so Ilya can kiss him. “It’s always been real to me. I just was so afraid.” Shane kisses him back, kisses him again and again. “I’m not afraid anymore. I know what real fear is; talking to ESPN is nothing. I’ll do anything, Ilya, to keep you with me.”

“I was not sure I’d ever hear you say this,” Ilya says, forehead pressed to Shane's, eyes glowing with unshed tears. 

“I should have said it years ago.”

Chapter 8: from the crack to the break

Chapter Summary

They’re all talking over his hospital bed, making plans for him, when Ilya speaks. 

“I want to do it today,” Ilya says.

Ilya

Farah arrives the next day, perfectly pressed, but her immaculately made-up face wobbles when she sees Ilya laying in the ICU with Shane curled up around him. 

He’d been mostly joking when he told Shane that he’s a celebrity and can get whatever he wants, but he keeps asking the flustered nurses if just one more person can stay. And it works every time.

“Please,” he begs, pouting. “It has been so scary. You’ll be my hero.” He’s practically batting his eyelashes at them, but either the victim card or his face card pays off. They even move him to a bigger room that can accommodate more visitors. 

It’s full now: David and Yuna lean against the windowsill, while Farah sits primly in the chair beside his bed. The surgeon and the Physician Assistant are briefing them about Ilya’s upcoming surgery, planned for later in the afternoon. The nurse is changing the IV tubing and Shane is tucked under Ilya’s arm, exactly where he belongs. 

They’re all talking over his hospital bed, making plans for him, when Ilya speaks. 

“I want to do it today,” Ilya says. 

“Do what, honey?” Yuna asks. “The surgery? It’s scheduled for 4pm, remember, that’s why your surgical team is here.”

“Not that,” Ilya waves dismissively. “The statement. About me and Shane. I want to do it today. Now.”

“That’s kind of last minute, Ilya,” Farah says, meeting Shane's eyes across the room. 

“No,” Ilya says. “Is perfect timing. If anything happens -”

“It’s a very safe procedure,” the PA interrupts. 

“Still surgery,” Ilya says. “I am not taking any chances. And I’m not waiting any more.”

“Are you sure?” Shane’s voice is quiet. Of all these people, it feels like he’s the only one talking directly to Ilya. 

“Yes,” Ilya says firmly. “I am not letting you back out after all of this.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but he feels Shane go stiff against him and realizes how poorly it landed. “I’m sorry,” he says instantly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just -”

“Whatever you want,” Shane interrupts. “I’ll do it. If Ilya wants it to be today, it’s today.”

“Do you want me to call ESPN?” Farah asks. 

“No,” Ilya says. “I already texted Harris. He says if we film it on my phone, he will clean it up and post it to Centaurs socials. And then it is done.” He holds his phone out to Farah. “So. What are we waiting for?”

***

Shane

They don’t watch it back. They don’t overthink it, not after all of this. They film it once, then Ilya fires off a text to Harris and tosses his phone on the bedside table.

“There,” he says. “Is done.”

The nurses are back, getting Ilya prepped for surgery. He signs the surgical consent on an iPad while the nurses switch him over to portable monitors and flush his IV, disconnecting him from some of the tubes he’s been tethered to.

“I am almost a free man,” he jokes. 

“Mr. Hollander, I need you to get up now,” one of the nurses says. “We’re going to take him down.”

“Okay,” Shane agrees, but he doesn’t move. The nurses roll their eyes at each other.

“I need you to take your necklace off,” the primary nurse says to Ilya.

“Oh,” Ilya says. 

“It’s standard during surgery,” she explains. “Maybe your friend can hold it for you.”

“He is not my friend,” Ilya says, unclasping the gold chain behind his neck. He clenches it in his fist for a moment and then passes it over to Shane. “He is my boyfriend.”

To hear Ilya say it like that - easily, out loud, with unswerving delight - does something funny to Shane’s stomach. He holds the necklace up against his neck, a clear gesture. It hangs against the hollow of his throat, settling there like Ilya’s thumbprint. 

“I want to do one more thing,” Ilya says, looping his hand around Shane’s neck and pulling his dark hair against his nose and mouth, inhaling deeply. Shane feels his fingers on the nape of his neck, fastening the chain, turning the action into a caress. Then Shane moves, regretfully, and Ilya’s alone in his bed. “Before we go.”

“What’s that, hon?”

“I want to make Shane my emergency contact. Power of attorney. All of those things.”

“Uh,” one of the nurses says. “It’s - it’s a little more involved than that, Roz.”

“They call you Roz?”

“They have seen my balls, Shane,” Ilya says. “Are they supposed to call me mister?” 

“We can get the process started when you come back,” the primary nurse promises. “Let’s get you through this and once you’re back on track, you can meet with case management and get the paperwork in order.”

“Okay,” Ilya concedes. “But listen. When I am out of surgery - I want you to call him first.”

“Him?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Not Yuna. Shane.”

“Sure,” she says easily. “I’ll add it to your chart. I’ll be off shift by then, but I’ll make sure the night nurse knows.” 

“Thank you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Shane says quietly as the nurses signal the transport team that Ilya’s ready to go.

“I did,” Ilya says. 

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Shane says. His lip wobbles and Ilya tugs him down towards the bed. 

“Yes,” he says against Shane’s lips. “You will.”

“я тебя люблю,” Shane whispers, and why is he so afraid? After this past week, this should be easy. This is nothing like the unknown terror that gripped him after the crash.

“I love you too,” Ilya says. “I love you, Shane, and I will be seeing you.”

Shane watches them wheel Ilya out of the room before he leans over and throws up into the trash can.

***

He’s staring out the window when his dad finds him.

“Brought you a ginger ale,” David says. Shane takes it automatically. “How you holding up?”

“Fine,” he says automatically. 

“Hayden’s driving Farah back to the airport,” David says. “She wanted me to tell you that the post is live, on the Centaurs’ Instagram page.”

“Okay.”

“It’s really good, Shane. You did a great job.”

“If you say so.”

David sighs and pulls his chair close to Shane’s. He pulls his own phone out of his pocket and holds it out to Shane. 

“I was there, Dad. I don’t need to see it again.”

David just holds the phone out. Shane sighs, relenting, and takes it.

The reel opens on Ilya sitting in his hospital bed, looking sunburned and scarred and beautiful. Shane sees he’s sitting to Ilya’s left, but he doesn’t look at himself at all. 

“Hello,” Ilya says cheerfully. “I am back from the dead.”

In the video, Ilya is animated but succinct, expressing his condolences to John Andre’s family, before he reaches over he takes Shane’s hand.

“I am thankful for all of the staff at Memorial, and to everyone who worked on search efforts for me. Really, I think one Russian is not worth all this effort, but I am grateful many people disagree. More than anything, I am thankful for one person. My partner, Shane Hollander.

“I met Shane when I was seventeen years old and barely spoke English,” Ilya continues. “We have been playing against each other ever since. Is a long time to know someone. And for many of those years, we were rivals. So this relationship may seem very strange and surprising. But it is simple: Shane is a good person. The best. And I love him.

“Hockey has given me many opportunities. It has let me come to this wonderful country - Canada, my second home - and to travel, to meet many wonderful people from all over the world. It has allowed me a chance to live in places like Boston, like Ottawa, where I can safely be myself. I am so grateful to the league and to my teammates for letting me build a family and community here.

“We have always managed to keep our relationship private, and have never let it interfere with our games. I am a better hockey player for loving Shane. I am a better man because of him.”

On the phone, Ilya looks over at Shane. But the Shane on the phone doesn't move. That Shane’s been looking at Ilya for the entire video. Never once does his gaze flick to Farah. 

“We hope you can understand the difficult position we found ourselves in,” Shane says on the video. “And we understand our fans probably have a lot of questions. But right now, our focus is on Ilya’s health and wellbeing. He’s the most important thing in my life, and we ask that you please respect our privacy while he recovers.”

“Thank you all,” Ilya says simply, looking back at Farah. “I appreciate all of the well wishes and kindness. I ask you to extend that kindness to Shane and our teammates as well. I promise I will share another update soon. Your support means everything to us.”

The video ends with the Centaurs logo. 

“Keep watching,” David says quietly.

The reel cuts to Ottawa’s rookie coach, Brandon Wiebe, sitting behind his desk. 

“The Ottawa Centaurs are tremendously thankful to all of the people involved in the recovery efforts for Ilya Rozanov,” he states. “And I am also taking this opportunity to express our wholehearted support for Ilya and his partner, Shane, as they navigate this next phase of his recovery. Hockey has a certain reputation, but I believe there’s room for everyone in this sport. I want to be perfectly clear: the Ottawa Centaurs are an inclusive and welcoming team and we expect the same from our players, our fans, and our partners in the NHL. We look forward to welcoming Ilya back on the ice when he’s ready. In the meantime, we’re sending him all of our thoughts and prayers for a speedy recovery.”

“Wow,” Shane says. “That’s…unequivocal.”

“It’s no less than you deserve,” David says with quiet triumph. “I know there’s going to be some blowback, Shane, but the Centaurs getting out ahead of any official statement by the League…that means something. They’ve got Ilya’s back, and yours, too.”

“Let’s hope Theriault has a similar reaction.”

“Well, Farah has a meeting booked for you and him next week,” David says, trying to break the news gently. It still lands like a gut punch. “Your mom and I can be there, Shane, if you want us. And Farah says she’ll fly up if you want.”

“No, it’s okay,” Shane says. “I knew I’d have to talk to him eventually. I just…I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say yet.”

“Your mom would tell you to plan a script with Farah and stick to your talking points,” David says. “But I think that you know exactly what you need to say already. If that statement is any indication, I have no doubt you’ll be able to handle Theriault.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“You don’t need it,” David says, laying a comforting hand on his knee. “You just need to be yourself.”

Chapter 9: you know that I remember everything

Ilya

Ilya is cleared to fly back to Ottawa three days after his ACL repair. Dr. Sandovi delivers the message herself, grinning.

He’s making good progress, “graduating” from the ICU down to a regular med/surg ward, working with PT twice a day. Predictably, he’s charmed all of the nurses and most of the other patients, teasing the little old ladies who are also learning to walk on newly repaired joints and signing autographs for hospitalized fans. 

“You can’t resist the opportunity to show off, can you?” Shane asks, shaking his head, as he watches Ilya hobble past his neighbor and pump his fist in the air. 

“Is part of my recovery, Hollander,” Ilya says, acting wounded. “I am supposed to limp around the unit four times a day.”

“How many laps is this?”

“Six,” Ilya says with deep satisfaction. “Come, you can spoonfeed me pudding.”

“Your arms work, last time I checked.”

“Ah, you are a terrible nurse,” Ilya laments as they pass the nurses’ station. “Is not too late for me to hire someone beautiful to tend me at home, Hollander. With gentle hands, not giant hockey player hands. I have plenty to choose from here, I think.” He winks at the handful of nurses watching them, who start to giggle. 

“Leave them alone,” Shane says. “They have to be nice to you. It’s their job.”

“I don’t think is much work, being nice to me,” Ilya says with a grin. 

“Shut up,” Shane says. “Get back to your room before you start a riot.”

Ilya limps obediently to the last room at the end of the unit, the only private room on the floor. Shane holds the crutches so Ilya can ease himself backwards into bed. He checks his phone and makes a satisfied sound. 

“Your parents will be here in thirty minutes with Thai food,” Ilya says with relish. “They are very good at taking care of me. Always feeding me.”

“I literally just brought you snacks last night.”

“You brought me egg white protein bars,” Ilya says, making a face. 

“Being laid up is no excuse for poor nutrition, Ilya.”

Ilya leans back on his hands, his immobilized leg sticking straight out in front of him, and his gaze drops to Shane’s lips. His eyes are half-lidded, an expression Shane knows all too well. 

“There is something else you could do for me,” he says in a low voice. 

“Ilya,” Shane says. “You just had surgery.”

“Three days ago!” Ilya extends his hand towards Shane, beckoning with his fingers. Shane, against all better judgement, walks towards him.

“That is better,” Ilya says with smug satisfaction, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of Shane’s jeans. “Fuck, Shane, where did you get these? I can see your - what is the word? Your dickprint.”

“Shh! Rose took me shopping last time I was in New York,” he replies, flushing. “This is a hospital.”

“Da,” Ilya agrees, tugging Shane closer, into the vee of his thighs. “And so you should take care of me.”

“I don’t -” Shane swallows at the expression on Ilya’s face. “Ilya, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Ilya says, trying to open the fly of Shane’s tight jeans. “There is nothing wrong with my dick. Why are there so many buttons?”

“I don’t know, they’re designer,” Shame swats Ilya’s hands away. “You are definitely not in any kind of shape for that.”

Ilya frowns and lets go of Shane’s hips. “You are no fun.”

“They’ll throw me out of here if they catch us.”

“Probably,” Ilya sighs. “It’s just… ten days ago, I did not think I would ever see you again. And now you are right here, and I am alive, and you look so fucking good in these jeans. And you won’t touch me. I am going to go crazy if you treat me like I will break, Shane.” His eyes are locked on Shane’s and he puts his hands back on Shane’s hips, squeezing. “I want to take you in my mouth and taste you. I know you’re already so wet for me in these tiny little jeans. I bet you can’t even wear boxers, they are so tight.”

Shane shakes his head mutely, reaching out to run his fingers through Ilya’s curls. Ilya leans into the touch.

“I want to blow you until you come down my throat, and then I want to work you open with my fingers until you beg me for more. I want to yank off this stupid hospital dress and sit you on my cock and fill you up until I bottom out inside your tight fucking ass, and I’ll use my one good leg to hold us up while you ride me.” 

“Christ, Rozanov,” Shane whispers, trembling. 

 “I want you to have to bite your lip so the nurses do not hear us,” Ilya continues, playing with the button fly, fingertips teasing Shane’s straining erection. “I want to hear you choke on my name. But this one tiny thing that I want, you tell me I cannot have.”

“Fuck you,” Shane mutters. And without thinking about it any further, Shane kneels on the linoleum floor of Ilya’s hospital room, rucks up his gown, and swallows him down in one breath. 

“ебать, Shane,” Ilya gasps, and he’s so fucking loud, and the door’s wide open with only a flimsy curtain between them and the rest of the ward. 

Shane works him with his lips and tongue, breathing hard through his nose, lips stretching around the familiar width of him. Without thinking he grabs both of Ilya’s thighs and Ilya inhales sharply. Shane freezes and starts to pull off but then Ilya drops his hand to Shane’s hair, palming his skull like a fucking basketball and holy shit, that’s really doing something for him.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Fuck, Shane, don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Shane moans around him, vibrations pulling another curse from Ilya’s lips, and works him even deeper, the head of Ilya’s cock nudging up against the back of his throat. He swallows and he feels Ilya shudder, and his fingers clench so tight in Shane’s hair it hurts a little, and then Ilya grabs the side of his jaw with his other hand and pants, “Shane, fuck, I’m going to -”

Shane swallows again, eyes watering, saliva running down his chin. Ilya comes with a muffled grunt, eyes squeezing shut and his thighs like solid rock on either side of Shane’s head, shaking as Shane takes him through the shocks of pleasure wracking his body. 

“Come here, come up here, Shane - sweetheart -” Ilya is gasping and tugging at Shane’s hair. He gets to his feet, knees cracking, and Ilya pulls him down into the bed. Their legs tangle together, the metal hardware on Ilya’s brace biting into Shane’s thigh. 

“You are shameless,” Ilya says, kissing his face and then his lips. “I think maybe you want to get caught.”

“Shut up,” Shane says. “Oh my god. You basically guilted me into that.”

“It worked,” Ilya says, deeply satisfied, kissing Shane tenderly, his hand catching Shane’s chin. “I will have to remember that. You are easily manipulated, my love.”

“Shane Hollander!”

Ilya and Shane both jump, Shane rolling off Ilya over his good leg and sitting up in alarm. Ilya hastily tugs down the hospital gown. 

“I cannot believe you two,” Rose Landry is laughing in the doorway, curtain pulled wide, her arms full of lilies. “Leave him alone, you monster. Didn’t you hear he just survived a plane crash?”

“Oh my god,” Shane says, his voice cracking. “Rose, what are you doing here? Aren’t you in the middle of filming?”

“You think that matters more than making sure you’re okay? Although, from the looks of it, I think Ilya might be faking this whole thing.”

“Hello,” Ilya says, awkwardly. 

“You are unbelievable, Ilya. How do you make a hospital johnny look good?” Rose teases, shoving the huge bouquet at Shane. He frowns down at the lilies, white and pink and orange, and wonders if he should have bought Ilya flowers too.

“Cute,” Shane says, a little miffed. 

“Couldn’t resist,” Rose says. She turns back to Ilya. “Can I hug you? You didn’t have to do this to get my attention, Ilya. I was planning to invite you both to New York, take you out to dinner. Make it a whole weekend!”

Ilya lets her hug him, glaring at Shane over her shoulder. His face is still flushed, and Rose grins. 

“You are so lucky I beat your parents here,” she says.

“Seriously, Rose. What’s going on?” Shane sets the lilies down on the windowsill. 

“I’m filming in Atlanta! I tried to get down sooner, but I didn’t want to bother you while Ilya was…while things were so unsettled. But your mom called me this morning and asked for a favor. She said Ilya’s ready to discharge and asked if she could borrow my jet. So, you know. I just popped down for the day.”

“Since when do you own a jet?”

“It’s a smart investment!” She tweaks the flower arrangement. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Shane! I lease it out all the time. And now, I’m lending it to you. You deserve the best to get Ilya home safe, and it’s brand new. Let me help. I feel just awful with everything you’ve been through. Let me do this one itty bitty little thing for you.”

Shane looks over at Ilya.

“How do you feel about getting on another private plane?”

“I mean, not great,” Ilya says flatly. 

“It’s much bigger than the one you were -” Rose stops herself. “Than the other one. It can seat twenty people and you’ll have plenty of room to stretch out. And I always fly with two pilots.”

Shane’s watching Ilya carefully. “It would be much faster than driving. And we could all be together.”

“I suppose if I am going to visit my famous hockey captain boyfriend at his games,” Ilya says slowly, “and join his very famous friends in New York, I will need to get back on a plane. And I am sure Rose Landry has the very best of everything.”

“Hockey groupie. Real Housewife. Aim for the stars, Ilya,” Rose cackles, ignoring the sour note in Ilya’s voice even as Shane rolls his eyes. 

“I just want to get you home,” Shane says, touching Ilya’s cheek. 

“Okay,” Ilya sighs, leaning into the touch. “We will take Rose Landry’s fancy A-list plane.”

Chapter 10: i’ll call you anything you like

Chapter Summary

“When I thought I was going to die, I went home in my mind.” Ilya’s voice is soft. His hand strokes Shane’s forearm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

“Back in Russia? With you mom?”

“No,” Ilya says simply. “To the cottage. With you.” 

Chapter Notes

Shane

Shane’s hovering.

He knows he’s hovering, and he knows it’s annoying the crew helping them get settled on Rose’s plane, but he can’t get out of the way. He can’t bear to let Ilya out of his sight, even for a moment. 

The transport team helps Ilya get settled on a plush leather couch - seated sideways to support his immobilized leg - and loads Ilya’s medical equipment into the cabin for ease of access. Hayden and Shane’s parents are buckled in already and Ilya’s got the ice machine up and running for his knee and Shane’s just looming over him like some kind of obsessive Frankenstein's monster.

“Sit down, honey,” Yuna calls across the aisle.

Shane sits on the edge of Ilya’s couch and strokes a finger down the sole of Ilya’s foot. Ilya jerks in surprise, barking out a startled laugh. Shane startles too.

“I didn’t know you’re ticklish,” Shane says. 

“There are many things you don’t know about me,” Ilya replies. “I am a man of mystery.”

Shane’s mouth twists, and he pulls his hands back into his lap.

“What’s the matter, моя бутылка кетчупа?”

“Ketchup is a new one,” Shane replies. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Shane,” Ilya says. 

“I just…I should know your feet are ticklish. I should know everything about you.”

“You know, I’ve been married to Jackie for nine years, and I just learned her favorite color is green,” Hayden says helpfully.

“That is because you are bad husband,” Ilya says. Hayden scowls and flips him off. “Shane, we have our whole lives to learn all of the things about each other.”

“But we almost didn’t,” Shane whispers. 

“Sir, we need you to sit down now,” the cabin host says gently. Shane relents and moves to the seat across from Ilya’s couch, buckling the lap belt. 

“Good boy,” Ilya says, smirking. Shane sucks in a breath.

There’s a delay taking off - this airport only has two runways - and Ilya is chatting easily with the cabin host as the plane gently rolls along the asphalt. Shane pretends to play on his phone but his eyes are locked on Ilya as the plane lifts off from the ground, its wheels grinding as they retract into the belly of the aircraft. Shane’s vibrating with intensity until the plane levels out at their cruising altitude, then he’s out of his seat in a flash and back on the sofa with Ilya.

“I think we should buy a plane,” Ilya says as Shane gently lifts his feet into his lap. “Of course Rose Landry must have best of everything.”

“It’s all right,” Shane shrugs. “I’d rather buy another commercial property.”

“Mister Landlord,” Ilya says fondly.

“Shane, let Ilya sleep,” Yuna scolds from across the aisle. “He’s had a long day. I can’t believe they made you squeeze in another PT session before your discharge.”

“I need to keep working, mama Yuna,” Ilya says, “I am fine.”

“I still think you should have received one last IV dose of pain medication,” she says, opening her book.

“I have best medicine right here,” Ilya says, leaning forward and patting Shane fondly on the cheek. The glint of gold in Shane’s collar catches his eye. “Oh,” he says, arching his eyebrow. "I did not realize you still had it on."

“I didn't want to lose it,” Shane says, touching the cross with his fingertips. “Here. Let me give it back -”

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “You keep it for right now. A piece of me.”

***

Ilya

Much as he hates to admit it, taking Rose’s plane does save a lot of time - there are no direct flights from Savannah to Ottawa, so they are able to skip the layovers and cut the flight down to two and a half hours. Shane and Ilya both doze, Shane’s head tipped back against the wall of the plane, Ilya’s feet cradled in his lap. 

Ilya wakes with a start when the plane begins to descend.

His heart starts to race, blood pounding in his ears, and he sits up straight, ignoring the instant stab of pain in his knee. Everyone else is sleeping too, the cabin lights dim. The cabin host is sitting at the back of the plane, scrolling his phone, completely unbothered. 

Ilya’s pulse is slamming in his throat. 

“Shane,” he whispers, his ears beginning to ring. The plane is going down, and Shane is here, and his parents, and even stupid Hayden Pike. Ilya is cursed, and the plane is going down, and this time he is not going to survive. 

His vision swims and he gasps, loud enough it wakes Shane up. His eyes, groggy and unfocused, snag on Ilya’s face, and he must look terrible because Shane sits up straight, reaches for Ilya’s hand.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you okay? Is your leg bothering you? Do you need some pain medicine?”

“Shane,” Ilya says in a strangled voice, “the plane is dropping.”

As if on cue, the plane bounces a little, losing some altitude, its nose tipping gently towards the earth. Ilya feels all the blood rush out of his face and he sees stars and he lets out a loud, embarrassing noise.

“Hey,” Shane says again, and he slides his body out from under Ilya’s legs and comes to kneel on the floor beside him. “Ilya, it’s okay. We’re just getting close to Ottawa, that’s all. This is normal. You can’t remember but this is normal. I promise. I’m here, okay? Illy. I’m here.”

“It’s going to crash, Shane,” Ilya pants, “it’s going to crash and you’re here and - oh my god, you shouldn’t be here - боже мой -”

“Ilya, shh,” Shane says, chafing his hands. “Everything is okay. I’m here, I’m safe. You’re safe, too.”

Ilya looks wildly across the aisle, realizes Shane’s parents are staring at him. Fucking Hayden Pike is staring at him too. The edges of his vision are black and he feels a little drunk, his heart is going to pound out of his chest. He feels woozy, like he’s been checked from behind, thrown off-kilter and defenseless. 

They’re all going to die.

Through the static of his body he’s aware of Shane’s hands on his face, in his hair, his forehead pressed to Ilya’s. He’s kissing him and his mouth is moving but Ilya can’t hear him because there’s a roaring in his ears like when the Cessna broke apart in the water and they’re going to crash and Shane is here, he’s right here, and Shane is going to die. 

Shane says something else, sharp and tight, the same tone of voice Shane uses when he’s arguing with a ref. Yuna moves like a snake striking, an orange bottle of pills suddenly in Shane’s hand, and he’s pressing a white tablet into Ilya’s mouth, closing his chin gently. 

“Ласточка,” he says. Swallow. Ilya does, eyes burning, and then Shane says “дышать, Ilya, breathe with me” and he’s breathing in as Shane breathes out, and he feels closer to him than even when he’s buried inside of his body. 

It makes it even worse, that he cannot stop hyperventilating, that he is scaring everyone around him, that he is shaking and he cannot stop.

“I’m right here,” Shane is saying, but to Ilya his voice sounds like he’s underwater.

“I will lose you,” Ilya says, his teeth chattering even as his whole body is flushed and clammy. 

The image of his mother’s arm, dangling at an unnatural angle, forces its way to the inside of his eyelids. It twists and now it’s Shane’s arm, lacerated, growing cool amongst the wreckage of Ilya’s life.

He will not survive this.  

“You won’t,” Shane says. “Not today. Not ever.” 

Shane’s still speaking in Russian, a little stilted but in the same steady, soothing tone of voice that is so uniquely Shane. Part of Ilya, the part that’s hovering outside of himself watching the plane plunge through the sky, is amazed at how fluent Shane has become. He’ll never sound like a native speaker, but the joy of it cuts through the terror just a little bit: the language he still dreams in, spilling from his lover's mouth.

Ilya’s hands and feet are tingling, but his chest doesn’t feel as tight and his heart rate is slowing down. Shane’s arms are around him and the plane is descending, but Shane’s right; it’s controlled, smooth and practiced. It’s not crashing. It’s just getting ready to land.

Ilya opens his eyes, and Shane’s looking back at him. Whole, and unharmed, and his breath is warm on Ilya’s face.

“We’re almost home,” Shane says. 

“Okay,” Ilya says, closing his eyes and leaning into Shane, letting him take his weight. 

The medication begins to work through his blood as the plane sets down. He almost doesn’t care when the plane jolts, making contact with the ground. And when Shane, who manages to stay next to Ilya’s couch until landing, slides across the floor while the plane is taxiing and into the seat on the other side, Ilya actually laughs.  

***

Shane

It’s nearly midnight by the time Shane pulls into the long driveway of Ilya’s Ottawa home.

Yuna and David pull up behind them, headlights illuminating the modern facade. They handle getting all of Ilya’s equipment into the house while Shane helps Ilya up the stairs.

“Can we get you anything before we leave?” Yuna asks, as David drops the final bag in the kitchen. “Grocery delivery will be here in the morning. We can come by, if you need us.”

“No,” Shane says. “We’ll be all right.”

Part of him is terrified, actually, to be alone with Ilya. What if something happens? What if his stitches open up, or he panics again?

What if Shane can’t do enough, can’t be enough, to keep him safe?

Shane stands in the kitchen as his parents leave, the door shutting softly behind them. The house is dark and it feels strange, though of course Shane’s been here countless times before. But it feels different, now. Everything is more raw, more vulnerable, and he doesn’t know how to hold it. 

Shane can hear water running in the bathroom, hears the buzz of Ilya’s toothbrush, hears him spit into the sink. Domestic sounds he might have never heard again. 

“Hollander,” he calls, voice loud in the empty house. “Come help me take my pants off.”

Shane takes a deep, tremulous breath and bows his head, bracing his hands on the edge of the kitchen island. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He pads barefoot down the long hallway to the primary bedroom and pushes open the door. Ilya’s waiting, perched on the edge of the bed, his immobilizer discarded on the floor. His knee is exposed, the ugly scar uncovered, a packet of clean gauze dressings stacked neatly on the nightstand. The raised, angry red line stands out against Ilya’s fair skin, the joint still swollen and tender.

Ilya feels his gaze, flexes his knee experimentally, winces. “I did not think it would be so big. Dr. Sandovi says usually they can fix through two little holes on either side, but my ligament was blown to shit.” He doesn’t sound bitter until he swears. “блять. And it was so stupid. I did not even need to run. You found me the next morning.”

“Coconuts,” Shane says, crossing to the ensuite to wash his hands in the sink. He dries them on a clean hand towel. It’s the same one that was hanging here the last time Shane visited and it’s jarring, the realization that this room has been untouched for weeks. His senses are so attuned to the hospital: the constant beeping and the glare and the overpowering scent of bleach. Here in the home Ilya has made, the silence is disorienting. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. His voice is warm and relaxed, the medication from the plane still blurring his edges. “Like I said, it was stupid. I had found many, made a big pile, and then when I thought I had been found I ran and I fucking tripped over it.”

“That’s all you had to eat?” Shane turns off the bathroom light and sits beside him on the bed, opening a fresh bandage, careful not to touch the sterile surface.

“Ah, no,” Ilya says, gritting his teeth as Shane dresses his wound. “I cooked mussels, one night. In the ashes of the fire. Found some weird purple berries. Tasted like soap.”

Shane’s own stomach cramps in sympathy. “At least you had water.”

“I wish I had not,” Ilya says. “The water made me so sick, I don’t even know how long I was throwing up. That was not the first time I thought I was going to die, but it was maybe the worst. Hurt the most.”

Shane finishes taping down the dressing, not meeting Ilya’s eyes. “Jesus, Ilya.”

“The coconuts saved me,” he says. “They do not even grow on those islands, did you know that? I looked it up. After.”

“Where’d they come from?”

“Ocean currents,” Ilya says, waving his hand in the air. “Felt like gifts from another world. I was so sick, I kept thinking my mother sent them to me.”

“Maybe she did,” Shane says, helping Ilya pull on a loose pair of sweatpants and then easing Ilya’s leg back into the immobilizer. He hates it, hates strapping Ilya down in this thing, hates the way Ilya’s eyes go tight against the discomfort. 

He hates all of this. 

“I don’t know how you did it,” Shane says after a long moment. “I don’t think - I don’t know if I would have made it.”

“When I thought I was going to die, I went home in my mind.” Ilya’s voice is soft. His hand strokes Shane’s forearm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

“Back in Russia? With you mom?”

“No,” Ilya says simply. “To the cottage. With you.” 

The words are so certain and so soft that Shane covers his face with his hands. He tries so hard to keep the tears in. It won’t help anything, and it’ll just make Ilya feel bad, he has to be strong -

A sob tears out of him, through his clenched teeth.

It’s the first time he’s done this: crying where Ilya can see him. He thinks about the first time Ilya cried in front of him: the hotel room in Tampa, Shane straddling his lap and holding him, Ilya’s tears soaking into the fabric of Shane’s shirt.

I would not be able to go home again, Ilya had shouted. And Shane had been so ignorant of the world that he had been surprised. But he understands Ilya’s heartbreak better now.

If you had died, Shane thinks, I wouldn’t have ever been able to go home again, either. Because there is no home without you.

“Come here,” Ilya says.

And once again, Shane climbs into his lap, feels Ilya’s arms around him, strong and sure. 

“A lot has changed since that All-Star Game,” Ilya says quietly like he’s reading Shane’s thoughts. “And I did not know how good my life would become.”

“You nearly died, Ilya,” Shane sobs, snot running freely from his nose. He wipes it against Ilya’s sweatshirt, knowing he won’t care. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I did. But if I had, it would have been worth it, Shane. All the choices that brought me to the plane that night - those same choices gave you to me.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Shane’s throat is burning. “Oh my god, Ilya, you almost died and I made you a fucking secret.” 

“I chose this, Shane,” Ilya says, his hands tight around Shane’s waist. “I have told you before. I already chose you. You did not lock me in a tower and keep me prisoner. I would have you any way you would let me. You know that, da? That I would follow you to any corner of the earth? That I would wait forever for you?”

“You should have never had to wait,” Shane can barely get it out. “I’m sorry, Illy, fuck, I’m so - so sorry -”

“Enough,” Ilya says firmly, anchoring Shane to him, to this moment. “Enough now. I am happy, Shane. My knee is fucked but I love you, and I am happy, and I am safe. I am not sure how else to show you this.”

Shane thinks of Ilya’s hooded eyes in the hospital, hips arching off the bed into Shane’s mouth. How desperate he’d been for the connection, for the unspooling, to put his trust in his body. How the weight of him in Shane’s throat had anchored him to the earth.

And Shane understands that need, here in the dark, breaking apart in his arms.

“Can we - I just -” Shane swallows, sucking back snot and tears. “I need - I need you.”

Ilya understands immediately and he drops back on the bed, pulling Shane down on top of him, wrapping his uninjured leg around his ass, hips flush together. His hands are under Shane’s shirt, nails dragging lightly over his spine, and Shane’s crying into the kiss even as his dick's getting hard.

“This is so weird,” he half-sobs, half-laughs against Ilya’s cheek, his hands fisted in Ilya’s curls like he might never let go. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Ilya says, chasing his lips. “You are alive, and so am I, and your body wants to remind you.” 

His hands slip over Shane’s round ass and he kisses Shane open-mouthed, without hesitation, letting Shane struggle out of his own jeans and push Ilya’s sweatpants down so his cock, thick and uncut and perfect, can curve up against his stomach. Shane spits loudly in the palm of his hands and catches them together, the tight tunnel of his fist sliding roughly over the head of Ilya’s cock as he pumps them. He’s rewarded when Ilya swears into his shoulder, fingers digging into the meat of his ass. 

Ilya thrusts his long, blunt fingers into Shane’s mouth and groans when Shane closes eagerly around them, coating them with saliva. He pulls away roughly, Shane’s teeth catching his knuckles, and Shane feels the slick touch against his hole, firm but teasing at the same time.  Shane’s still stroking them together, his cock leaking freely over his hand and Ilya’s shaft, when Ilya sinks a finger into him. He gasps, rocking back against him, chasing the stretch. He fucks himself down onto Ilya’s hand and Ilya bites down on Shane’s lower lip in response. 

He feels the tears caught in his eyelashes and he swipes them away with the back of his hand. Ilya catches his wrist, presses a kiss into his palm as he fingers him, adding another digit and scissoring him open as Shane pants and begs for more.

“You are such a slut for me, even when I am broken like this,” Ilya growls, releasing Shane’s hand and thrusting aggressively into his eager body. Shane gasps against Ilya’s open mouth and grips the base of his own cock to stop himself from spilling over the edge. “I know you, Shane. I know you are still thinking too much. I am going to fuck you until there’s nothing left in your head except for me, right now, and you.” 

His free hand joins Shane’s on their cocks, the pad of Ilya’s thumb swiping through his slit and then he drags the slick of him over Shane’s bottom lip.

“I want you to taste,” Ilya commands in a low voice, “how fucking wet you are for me.”

Shane’s tongue flicks out, and Ilya’s gaze follows its path along his swollen mouth. 

He withdraws his hand from Shane’s hole and gropes blindly for the bottle of lube tucked under one of the pillows. Shane hears him squirt an extravagantly large amount into his palm and then he knocks Shane’s hand out of the way, coating his length with a vulgar noise. Then he slaps Shane’s ass, leaving behind a viscous handprint. 

“I am going to make you beg for it,” he warns, and then Shane sinks down on him slowly, inch by inch, his eyes fixed on Ilya’s face, his gritted teeth, the cords standing out in his neck, the dull line of the sutures plaited into his skin a reminder of how close he came to never feeling this again: Ilya, stretching him like he was made for him, guiding his hips down until he’s fully seated in the hot core of his body.

Shane begins to move, Ilya’s hand clamped on his hipbone and the other on Shane’s dick, stroking him slowly in time to his rhythm. His hips rise up to meet Shane's, filling him completely, the ache of him settling into Shane’s very marrow. 

He’s trying to avoid Ilya’s bad knee, but Ilya isn’t being careful at all; he bounces Shane like he weighs nothing at all, hips snapping up into his pliant body. 

“I wanted you like this in the hospital,” Ilya grunts, mouth pursed in concentration, pupils blown wide. “I wanted you like this the first time I saw you, when I was smoking outside that rink in Regina. I want you like this always, Shane, breaking you down and putting you back together until you cannot think, cannot worry - until you cannot say anything but my name.”

Shane’s head rolls back on his shoulders with the force of Ilya's thrusts rolling into him, but Ilya's hand grabs his chin, forces him to meet his eyes.

“Say it,” he growls, sweat beading on his forehead and his upper lip and sliding down his jaw. His hand leaves Shane's cock and drags down the smooth column of Shane's throat, slides over his flushed skin and the swell of his Adam's apple, then the crucifix swinging gently at the hollow of Shane's throat before he anchors his grip on the nape of his neck. Shane curls towards him, hands planted on Ilya's chest, his elbows locked and frisson rippling over his skin, sudden and overwhelming.

“Ilya,” Shane sobs, sweat and tears dropping onto Ilya’s upturned face, his nose, the bow of his lips. The sound of their bodies moving together is so loud in the safety of Ilya’s room, this sanctuary that Shane was certain, for a moment, he’d never share with Ilya again.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, шлюшка, my little slut, my love,” Ilya croons, slamming up into the heat of Shane’s clenching body. 

“Ilya,” Shane says again, and Ilya crushes his mouth against Shane’s, as Shane begins to shake apart. “I’m - Ilya, I’m close -”

“Let go,” Ilya says into his mouth, “Let go for me, Шаня.”

“What - say that again,” Shane demands, heat building at the base of his spine. 

It sounds like Shah-nya, soft and tender in Ilya's mouth, and when he says it again, it tips Shane over the edge. He comes with a sob, his body convulsing in Ilya’s embrace. He spasms around Ilya’s cock and for one wild moment he thinks he might come again, and Ilya’s teeth sink into his shoulder as he empties himself into Shane, that unfamiliar word still ringing in Shane’s ears.

Shane collapses in Ilya’s arms and against his chest, all the strength running out of Ilya at the same time. Shane catches himself with an elbow before he lands on him with his full weight, but Ilya pulls him tight against him anyway and buries his face in Shane’s hair, damp with sweat. Shane can smell himself all over Ilya’s skin, and Ilya tightens his arms around him, possessive and content. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Shane says after a beat. “Шаня.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Ilya answers. “It is just a name that you might have. If you were Russian.”

“But you told me there’s no Russian version of Shane.”

“There’s not,” Ilya agrees. “But if there was. I think this is what it would sound like.” He kisses Shane again, their sweat cooling on their skin. “And what are you thinking about, Шаня?”

“You,” Shane replies. “And me. Right now.”

Ilya smiles, satisfied.

Chapter End Notes

In my feverish research for this fic, I recently learned that some Russian fans call Shane Шаня, pronounced SHAH-NYA, since Shane does not have an easy way to make a Russian diminutive like Sveta, Ilyusha, etc. I became immediately obsessed with this fact and had to incorporate it.

Chapter 11: put a shiver on your skin

Chapter Summary

A striking woman, almost as tall as he is, is standing with her mouth pursed and a giant black suitcase on the doorstep.

“You did not call me, Shane Hollander,” she says.

Shane

Shane’s fast asleep on Ilya’s chest when the doorbell rings.

He cracks open one brown eye at the second ring. It can’t be his parents, because they have a key. And he doesn’t know who else would be ringing the bell at - Shane checks his watch - 7:30 in the morning on a Sunday. 

The bell rings again. Whoever’s on the other side doesn’t want to wait.

Shane rolls out of bed, instantly irritated, and closes the door behind him in the hope that Ilya hasn’t heard yet. He jogs down the hallway to the front door and rips it open before the doorbell rings again.

A striking woman, almost as tall as he is, is standing with her mouth pursed and a giant black suitcase on the doorstep.

“You did not call me, Shane Hollander,” she says.

Svetlana.

He is instantly intimidated by how beautiful she is, his competitive mind snapping into a panic when he compares how utterly incomparable he is to Svetlana: her perfect, glossy curls and her flawless Russian, her history with Ilya, her high, round ass.

He’s fucked her, like, so many times, his brain supplies helpfully.

“Are you going to make me stand out here all morning?”

Shane automatically takes a step back and she brushes past him, spike heels clicking against the hardwood. She rolls the suitcase at Shane like he’s a bellboy and continues up the stairs, straight towards Ilya’s bedroom with no hesitation, and Shane’s stomach is churning.

Has he fucked her in this house?

“Hey, uh, Svetlana,” Shane calls after her, trailing her down the hallway like a shadow. “He’s asleep.”

“He will wake up for me,” she says, and pushes open the door.

As if to prove her point, Ilya sits up when the door opens, and the way his face lights up hits Shane like a slap. 

“Sveta?”

Svetlana unleashes a long and incomprehensibly fast string of Russian and crosses the room in an instant. She sits herself right down in Ilya’s lap like she belongs there and kisses both of his cheeks before he folds her into his arms.

“Um,” Shane says from the doorway.

Ilya takes her face in both of his hands and laughs, he fucking laughs, and she hugs him again. Shane can only catch one in every dozen words flying between them.

“I’m…I’ll go put on some coffee,” he says helplessly.

“I take mine black,” Svetlana says, not looking at him at all. 

Dismissed, Shane walks robotically down to the kitchen and starts the espresso machine and then half-sits, half-collapses onto one of the stools by the island. He can hear the sound of their conversation, and Ilya’s unguarded laughter, and he feels like an intruder.

“Get it together,” he says under his breath. 

He’s never understood Ilya’s jealousy of Rose, but it’s starting to make sense now. Of course Ilya’s best friend would be an absolute stunner. Her legs are about ten miles long. And Shane knows without a doubt that Ilya was a much more enthusiastic bedmate to Svetlana than Shane ever was to Rose.

“Fuck,” he whispers. He fixes Ilya’s coffee and then pours Svetlana’s into a Montreal Metros mug he bought to piss Ilya off. He brings it back to the bedroom, feeling more like a waiter than a boyfriend.

She’s dismounted, thank God. Shane frowns as he passes her the mug. 

“He is well trained,” she says to Ilya, her English is perfect because of course it is, and the fucker smirks. 

“He is perfect,” Ilya replies, and it’s just three words but they stop Shane in his tracks, are seared forever into his bones: being claimed by Ilya in front of this stranger, someone beautiful and intimidating and who knows how Ilya sounds when he comes. Ilya extends his arm for the coffee and Shane holds it out, but Ilya catches his forearm and reels him into his chest. “Thank you, моя любовь.”

“I did not think I would find you so…domestic,” Svetlana replies. Her lip trembles a little. “I was afraid I would not find you here at all.”

“I’m here,” he says, putting his other arm around her waist. “Because of Shane.”

Svetlana regards him with her big hazel eyes, perfectly framed with sooty black lashes, and smiles at him for the first time across Ilya’s broad, bare chest.

“Then I owe Shane a great debt,” she concedes.

***

Shane’s on a long run, trying to clear his head, when his phone rings.

It sends a bolt of fear through him, even though he knows Ilya is safe, wrapped up in his king-sized bed with Svetlana and pastries she brought from a Russian bakery. He half-expects it to be his mother, panic in her voice, and that his life is going to slide sideways again.

It’s Farah.

“Are you ready for your meeting with Theriault tomorrow?”

“No,” Shane says, “but I’ll be there.”

“You’re not in Montreal?”

“Obviously not,” Shane says, wiping his sweaty face with his tee shirt. “I’m with Ilya in Ottawa.”

“Shane, this meeting is important,” Farah says in a tone that suggests Shane is not taking this seriously, as if anything could be more important than keeping Ilya where he can see him. “We shouldn’t even have to have this conversation, but you came out in probably the most dramatic possible way and now we have to deal with the aftermath.”

“More dramatic than Scott Hunter?”

“More desperate than Scott Hunter,” Farah says severely. “And way, way more off brand. You circumvented any statement the League might have wanted to make about Ilya’s accident. Every single arena for the past two weeks has highlighted you and Ilya, and every player’s being interviewed about you two. You’ve sucked up all of the air in the room. No one’s talking about hockey. They’re talking about you. The fans can’t move on, and the media can’t moderate the conversation, and it’s turning into something the League can’t control. And you know that’s something they won’t tolerate, Shane.”

“They’re going to have to,” Shane says. “I can’t take it back, even if I wanted to.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you do owe it to them to take accountability. And to be there on time.”

“I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” Shane promises. “It’s a two hour drive. I’ll be there. Hey. Um. While I’m in Montreal…can you do something for Ilya?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do you think you could arrange to get him over to Kanata? I think it would mean a lot to him, if he could drop in and see the team.”

“Absolutely,” she agrees. “I was actually just emailing Brandon Wiebe about that yesterday. I know the whole team will want to be there. They cancelled the rest of the series in Florida, obviously, after…after everything that happened. But they’re playing at home this week. It’s good timing. Can your parents drive him over, or should I have them send a car?”

“He has a friend visiting,”  Shane says. “So I’m sure she can take him.”

“I’ll call Brandon right after we get off the phone,” Farah promises. “Let me know how it goes tomorrow with Theriault.”

“I will.”

He’s managed to push the impending meeting with his coach to the back of his mind, as preoccupied as he’s been with Ilya’s recovery, but now doubt and worry is creeping in at the edges. 

He doesn’t regret that the world knows about them. But tomorrow he’s going to have to answer a lot of questions about the future, and he doesn’t have any answers.

***

When Shane gets back to the house, Ilya’s hobbling around the kitchen, his crutches discarded in the corner. Shane’s instinct is to scold him, to double-check the tension of his brace and insist he go sit down. But Ilya looks so much lighter. Shane forces himself to smile and instead wraps his arms around Ilya’s middle. He catches Svetlana’s eye over Ilya’s shoulder, and squeezes possessively. 

"You should be using your crutches."

He buries his nose, just for a moment, into the crook of Ilya’s neck and inhales. The antiseptic hospital scent is gone. He smells like he’s supposed to: of his go-to cologne and clean laundry and, faintly, of cigarettes. 

This could have been all I had left, he thinks suddenly. Just his smell on his clothes. Just the scent fading out of them.

“Is just lunch, Hollander,” Ilya answers, unbothered. “I am not total invalid.”

“Only ninety percent,” Shane agrees. Svetlana says something in rapidfire Russian, and Ilya laughs, and Shane feels locked out again. 

He lets Ilya go. 

“I’m going to jump in the shower,” he says. 

Shane heads to the master bathroom. He throws his sweaty clothes in the hamper and realizes that Ilya’s sweatpants from the night before are already in the bin. 

Which can only mean Svetlana helped him get dressed. 

Shane turns on the water and slams the glass door so hard it rattles. 

He’s washing his hair like he might be able to scrub out the anxiety swirling in his brain when the door opens. 

“Leave me alone,” he says automatically. 

“Mm, no.” He hears Ilya sit down on the teak bench, stretching out his leg with a grunt. “Many interesting things happening here.”

“More interesting than Svetlana?” Shane asks, flat and a little bitchy, wiping water out of his eyes and glaring through the fogged-up glass. 

“You are jealous котенок,” Ilya says, with delight. It pisses Shane off that he speaks much more slowly than he does with Svetlana.

“I am not a jealous little kitten.”

“You are,” Ilya is grinning. “Why? Because Svetlana and I used to f-”

“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane cuts him off. “I’m not talking about this.”

“Now you know how I feel when you play dress up with Rose Landry.” Ilya says with smug satisfaction. “It has been years since Sveta and I were lovers.”

“Ugh,” Shane grouses. He reaches for the body oil and misses, the bottle clattering to the floor. Ilya’s eyes follow the stretch of his muscles with obvious interest. 

“I should come in and help you,” he says. The tone of his voice sends a frisson of heat down Shane’s spine. 

“You’re not allowed to get the scar wet,” Shane points out. “And we shouldn’t be fooling around yet, either. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“You were not saying this last night when you were riding my cock,” Ilya growls, genuinely irritated, and the possessive edge to his voice does something for Shane, actually. Ilya's wearing only a sleeveless undershirt, neckline scooped low; his chest and his shoulders and his chest are flushed red desire. “I am tired of so many boring rules. No showering, Ilya. No driving your car, Ilya. No heavy lifting or fucking your boyfriend, Ilya.”

“Since when have you ever let the rules stop you from doing what you want?” Shane retorts, but he’s smiling. 

“I want many things,” Ilya admits. “And right now I want to touch you.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” he says softly. “I am making up for lost time.”

He’s looking at Shane like he’s starving, jaw working, eyes very wide. Shane nearly gets out of the shower and climbs into his lap, dripping wet. 

Instead he drops his hand to his stomach, fingers trailing through the lather, and Ilya sits forward like Shane’s blown a whistle. 

Interesting. 

“If I show you,” Shane asks in a low voice, “will you be good and keep your stitches dry?”

Ilya nods, lips parted. 

Shane lets his left hand slide up his chest, stroking his dark nipples until they grow taut. His right hand stays splayed on his lower belly, tracing over his wet skin. Ilya’s eyes are locked on him. 

Christ, he’s already hard. 

Shane’s left hand slips higher, fingers running over the column of his throat, closing lightly as if he’s holding himself down. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says in a strangled voice. 

“The occupational therapist said that after this week, we can get you a shower chair,” Shane says conversationally, his right hand dipping lower, clenching around his prick.  “If you just behave yourself and listen to the doctors, you’ll heal faster. And next time you could be in here with me.” He pumps his hand lazily, cock aching and heavy, and tips his head back against the marble wall. 

“You would not need to touch yourself, if I were in there with you.”

“Maybe,” Shane replies. “But I think you’re happy to watch.”

“Fuck.” Ilya is squeezing his dick through his joggers, eyebrows furrowed. “I always love when you put on a show.”

Shane lets go of his throat, leans forward and presses his palm to the glass. He’s leaking now, his hand slick and tight around himself, and he rests his forehead against the door too. He flicks his thumb over the tip and hisses. When he looks up again, Ilya’s face is wrecked. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice hoarse. 

Shane huffs a laugh. He lets go of his dick and slides his hand over his ass, lets his fingertips brush against his hole, still sensitive from Ilya taking him last night. He props his foot up, using the marble threshold as a footrest, and pours some of the body oil on the shelf to slick his fingers. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, helplessly. 

Shane moans, sliding a finger into himself, stretching the rim gently and biting his lip. “Can still feel you,” he pants, pressing another finger inside. “God, Ilya.” 

He fucks himself back on his fingers, hungry little noises dropping from his throat, feeling vulnerable and powerful and a little delirious all at once. Ilya looks about a second away from drooling. All of a sudden he’s back in Vegas, 20 years old and terrified and hornier than he’d ever been in his whole life, realizing that none of this was casual. 

It’s never been casual for either of us.

Shane pumps his fingers in a staccato rhythm, all pretense of control gone, keening low in his throat as he brushes against his prostate again and again. Ilya’s whole body is rigid. He doesn’t stroke himself, he doesn’t move at all, hunger naked on his face. 

Shane told him to wait. And Ilya’s about to come in his pants, but he’s willing to wait for what he wants. 

“Touch yourself,” Shane says, and Ilya’s fingers release, stiff and cramped from holding himself back. He shoves the waistband of his joggers down and almost sobs in relief when he gets his hand around his cock. “Show me what this does to you.”

Ilya swears and leans forward, spits onto his dick like his mouth has been watering, and fucks into his fist with short ragged strokes, his eyes never leaving Shane’s. 

Shane is reaching his limit, all of his senses taut. He’s getting close, heat curling in his belly and spreading in tendrils down his legs. He’s flushed, and his hair is hanging in his face, but he keeps his eyes on Ilya as he works himself open, cock bobbing against his stomach and leaking freely. He chases the ache, the reminder that it’s real, that Ilya is still here with him, still breathing, still unraveling Shane down to what matters: he loves him, and he wants him, and they are alive.

“Come for me,” he says in Russian, and it sounds like he might shake apart.

Ilya’s head hits the wall behind him and he gasps Shane and he shoots all over his stomach, come soaking into the cotton of his tank top and his thighs shaking so hard it makes Shane’s fingers still inside of himself because Ilya sagging back against the wall, his whole face glowing, his stomach rising and falling and covered in come is maybe the hottest thing Shane has ever seen.

“I could come just like this,” Shane pants, thrusting brutally again so the ache will last all day, “if you told me to.”

Ilya’s eyes never leave his. “Such a slut, my Шаня, to want me so badly you come untouched.

Shane clenches his teeth together, holding back Ilya’s name behind his teeth as his orgasm slams into him. His back arches and he lets go, thick ropes spurting onto the glass door. He’s panting, like he’s just finished wind sprints. His body trembles as he eases his fingers free, coming down slowly. 

He stumbles out of the shower but Ilya is right there, bracing himself with his good leg and wrapping Shane in a towel, pressing gentle kisses all over his face, murmuring tenderness against his cheeks. 

“Svetlana will wonder where you are,” Shane points out. 

“She is the one who told me to come down here,” Ilya says easily. He smiles at Shane’s shock. “She tells me, Ilyushka, that man needs you to remind him exactly where he stands.”

“And where is that?” Shane whispers, letting Ilya gently dry his hair. 

“It is only you,” Ilya says simply. “For the rest of my life, Shane. There is no one who even comes close.”

Chapter 12: red lips in the dark

Chapter Summary

Commissioner Crowell is sitting on a couch across from Shane, arms crossed. He smiles, but it’s more like baring his teeth. 

Shane

“You will call me when you get there,” Ilya orders. He’s standing in the driveway in his bare feet, Svetlana tactfully waiting just inside the door, watching Shane throw his overnight bag into the trunk of his Jeep. 

“I might forget,” Shane says, putting on his sunglasses. He forces himself to open the door. The smile on his face is stiff, wrong.

“You will not,” Ilya growls, grabbing Shane’s face with both hands. He kisses him, softer than Shane wants him to. 

“Of course I won’t,” Shane agrees. He swallows, throat dry. “Maybe I should stay. I can do a Zoom call with Theriault.”

Ilya looks like he wants to agree, but then shakes his head. “Farah will murder you if you blow this meeting off. And I need you unmurdered. Who else will drive me to my appointments in big, ugly car?”

“I’m leaving,” Shane says.

“I love you,” Ilya says softly. 

It takes everything Shane has to climb into the fucking car. He watches the house in the rearview mirror until he turns out of Ilya’s street. 

He usually listens to an audiobook on the long drives between Montreal and Ottawa, or a podcast, but today he drives in silence. His hands clench on the steering wheel. It’s just him and his thoughts for two hours, and all of them are terrible. 

Ilya, floating facedown in the ocean, or being dragged under the surface in the wreckage.

Ilya, broken and bleeding and alone, delirious with thirst, calling out for Shane.

Out of reach. Shane, never getting to bring his body home. Or only pieces of him, having to identify the remnants of his heart. 

His stomach heaves.

“Shut up,” he whispers. “Shut up, shut up”.

This suffocating anxiety should be getting better, but it’s not. He’s not sleeping much, and he hasn’t since the accident; he wakes up throughout the night to check that Ilya’s still safe, still breathing beside him. He knows he looks awful: dark bags under his eyes, pale, on edge. 

He’s fine, Shane keeps repeating like a mantra. He’s safe.

So why can’t Shane fucking unclench?

“One night,” he says aloud. “One night, that’s all. This time tomorrow, I’ll be on my way back home.”

As he says it, he realizes that Montreal isn’t home anymore. He’s lived there for a decade, and he loves Montreal, but if he never steps foot in the city again, he would be okay with that. 

The only place that feels like home is Ilya. 

He parks at his condo, tossing his bag inside the door without even bothering to step inside. The condo smells weird, a stale cloud that drifts into the hallway and leaves him unsettled. Everything is a little lopsided, a little warped, and he shoves his hands deep into his pockets and keeps his head down as he walks the few short blocks from his building to the arena. 

The team isn’t on the ice. He expects to feel disappointed not to see them - he hasn’t seen them since Seattle - but all he feels is relief. He doesn’t want to face their teasing, or their jeers, or their coldness. Even if they’re supportive, he knows if he has to open his mouth and describe the last two weeks he’ll break down. 

They’re supposed to know him better than anyone else. They’re supposed to be his brothers. Shane imagines saying the words: I thought I would go to my grave never admitting out loud to you all how much I need him. I thought I would be alone for the rest of my life. 

And he can picture it: at best, blank looks. At worst, disgust. As if anyone could think about Ilya with disgust. When Shane thinks about him, he feels warm all through. 

The elevator dings open and Shane steps into the executive suite. Theriault’s office door is closed. His assistant smiles at Shane, stands to take his coat. She’s worked here as long as Shane’s been on the team, and she looks like she’s about to cry.

“Thanks,” he says. She hovers, trying to make up her mind about something. She flicks a glance at the closed door.

“I am so proud of you,” she says in a quiet voice. “Just so you know. I think you’re a hero.”

“I’m really not,” he says, his eyes on the floor. He’s never been good at taking compliments, his ears burning red. “I didn’t have any choice.” 

Impulsively, she reaches out and takes his hand. 

“I’m not just talking about the crash, Shane. You made a choice that a lot of guys in the league probably wish they could,” she says quietly. “Other people will be braver because of you. I hope you know that.”

The door opens and she drops his hand quickly, slips back to her desk. Theriault’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hollander. Glad you made it. Come on in.”

Shane catches the assistant's eyes and offers her a small smile as he is swallowed up by Theriault’s cavernous office. 

Shane has been in here only on a few occasions: after his draft, re-signing his contracts, the day he was confirmed as captain. Theriault gestures to a leather chair by the window that overlooks the ice below. Shane feels pinned into a corner, and when he sits, he sees he’s not alone. 

Commissioner Crowell is sitting on a couch across from Shane, arms crossed. He smiles, but it’s more like baring his teeth. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hollander,” Crowell says, standing up to shake Shane’s hand. “Been an eventful couple of weeks for you.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Shane manages to reply. 

Theriault offers Shane a glass of water which he takes automatically. His coach then sits down next to Crowell on the couch, handing him a glass of bourbon. 

“Hollander doesn’t drink during the season,” he explains. 

“Sensible,” Crowell nods with approval. “Which makes your behavior these last couple of weeks even more confusing.”

Shane looks at his coach. Theriault clears his throat. 

“What the Commissioner means,” he clarifies, “is that your personal life has attracted a lot of attention lately. We’re not used to that kind of thing from you.”

“I’ve never been in that kind of situation before,” Shane replies. That feels like a safe answer. 

Crowell nods. “Of course. And let me just say, of course we’re all thrilled that Rozanov made it out of there alive. What an incredible loss to the hockey world that would have been.”

It would have been a bigger loss for me, Shane thinks. 

“Absolutely,” Theriault agrees. “But let’s get down to brass tacks. I suppose it comes as no surprise that we need to ask you, Shane, where you think we should go from here.”

“Go?”

“Can’t exactly unring this bell,” Theriault attempts to joke. Shane doesn’t smile. “We’re going to have to move forward with what you and Rozanov put out there.”

“The League,” Crowell says, “is prepared to support you. Within reason. Hockey is a mainstream sport with fans in all walks of life. We won’t make a comment about your personal life, the same way we wouldn’t comment about a player getting divorced or some other scandal.” Shane bristles. Our relationship is not a scandal. “But we’re not gonna be trotting you out every Pride Night like some kinda mascot.”

“I would never expect that,” Shane replies, gritting his teeth at the insult. “I just ask to be treated with respect.”

“Of course,” Crowell agrees, in a soothing tone. “We expect all players to be treated fairly. I’m glad you’re seeing this the same way we are.”

“You keep your private life off the ice,” Theriault echoes, “and we won’t have an issue. No special treatment. We don’t want another Scott Hunter, with every other interview veering into activist territory.”

“Hunter is a loudmouth,” Crowell agrees. “Always wants to rock the boat.”

“I don't think that's fair -” Shane begins, but his coach interrupts him.

“Shane’s not like that. He’s a team player. He wants to keep the focus on the game.”

Shame opens his mouth to agree, to accept what they’re feeding him. It’s better than he thought. They’re not benching him. They’re not going to try and make him deny his relationship. 

As long as he shuts up, and keeps his head down, and doesn’t say anything too gay. 

It’s not good enough. Not anymore. 

Fuck you, he thinks, and then he says: “I need to take the rest of the season off.”

“Excuse me?” 

Crowell’s avuncular nature evaporates instantly. His eyes narrow and he sits forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. 

“Don’t be absurd. The Metros are poised for the playoffs. You already missed the second half of the Washington series. The boys are counting on you.”

“Ilya’s counting on me. I need to be with him,” Shane says. “While he recovers. Like anyone would need to be with their partner.”

Theriault frowns. “We could maybe let you sit out another series, Shane, but the team needs their captain.”

“Think about your priorities, son.”

Shane stands up so fast the chair under him clatters to the floor. 

“Ilya is my priority. I don’t know what’s so hard to understand about that.”

“You’re the captain,” Theriault says again. “You made a commitment to this team. What happened to Rozanov is unfortunate, but don’t tank your own career just because Rozanov’s on the bench.”

“Unfortunate.” Shane’s voice is rising but he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to be polite. He wants to be heard. “You keep saying that. You know he might never skate again? He’s the fucking heart and soul of the Atlantic division. The Raiders are iconic because of him, Boston fans still wear his jersey. Not to mention he’s been rebuilding Ottawa from the ground up, and he’s fucking succeeding. Don’t you care about that? Don’t his achievements count for anything? Or is he easy to throw away, now that he’s not useful to you anymore?”

“Shane. You're overreacting,” Theriault replies. “Centaurs management will work with Rozanov on a deal, if this ends up being a career ender. He’ll be compensated.”

“I’m taking the rest of the season off,” Shane says, “or I’m walking.”

Theriault looks genuinely shocked. Crowell sets his bourbon down with a decisive clink. 

“I don’t appreciate being threatened, Mr. Hollander.”

“It’s not a threat,” Shane replies. “I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You’re going to excuse me for the rest of the season so I can be with my partner. You’re going to issue a statement about it, making it clear this is not punitive. You pledge you’re going to support us, and you put me back on the ice as captain this fall. This is how you make good.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate like this,” Crowell says. “You do realize, I assume, that if you walk you’re benched indefinitely? You signed a contract. If you resign, you forfeit your remaining salary for the season. We can suspend you without pay going into next season. You can be terminated - unconditional waivers, remember? And you can’t just leave and think some other team will take you on, if that’s your game plan here. You can’t sign to another team unless the League gives its blessing.” Crowell stands, takes a step closer to Shane. Shane could reach out and shove him if he wanted to. “And no one will touch you if you do this. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Now who’s threatening?”

“That’s a promise,” Crowell growls, jabbing a finger at Shane’s chest. 

“Shane, think about what you’re doing,” Theriault urges. “Think about everything you’ve accomplished - everything you’ve got ahead of you. You’ve got ten years of good hockey still to come. Don’t throw it away on an impulsive choice. Not for…not for him.”

Shane can hear the slur under those words. 

“I’m not being impulsive,” Shane says. “Ilya is my partner.  I choose him. I choose him over everything. You can suspend me, and withhold my salary. You can say whatever you want about me, about us. It doesn’t matter. I have a feeling if we were talking about my wife, this would be a very different conversation. I think we’re done here. I’ll see myself out.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Crowell warns. 

“No,” Shane says, pushing past Crowell and wrenching open the door. “The only mistake is not coming out sooner. I’ve loved him for years, Commissioner, and you’re not going to scare me into sitting down and shutting up. My agent will be in touch. And my lawyer.”

He doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him, raking his hands through his hair with saliva pooling in his mouth, fighting down bile. Theriault's assistant rushes to get his coat. When she presses it into his arms, she’s beaming. 

“That right there?” she whispers, “That’s what makes you a hero.”

***

Shane slams into the locker room, hot and nauseous, with the intention of grabbing shit out of his locker and never seeing this fucking stadium again. He startles JJ, Hayden, and Miitka, half-dressed in street clothes and clearly on their way to the gym to warm up. Hayden takes him in: hair standing up, pale and sweaty and shaking from adrenaline. 

“Dude,” he says. 

“Whoa, Hollander,” Miitka is equally alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

“Shane! We did not know you are back!” JJ says, grinning and standing up to slap Shane’s hand, pulling him into a hug. “Come warm up with us.”

“I can’t,” Shane replies. 

“Why not?” JJ asks, genuinely alarmed at Shane’s cold response. He pulls back, eyes sweeping over him. “You look awful, my friend. It’s not -” He pauses. Swallows. “Everything is…okay? At home?”

“You can say his name,” Shane replies, eyes dull. “Ilya.”

“Rozanov,” JJ says with a sneer. “I will not pretend to understand the appeal. C’est un connard!”

“Dude,” Hayden warns, grabbing Shane’s arm before he can haul off and punch him. JJ puts his hands up, takes a step back. 

“Ah, Hollander, this is not the first time I have questioned your taste. I have seen what you wear to the club.” JJ shakes his head. “The heart wants what it wants. Who am I to judge.”

“He’s probably insane in the sack,” Miitka offers. 

His teammates all turn and stare at him. The younger man blushes. 

“What? Have you seen the guy? He’s unbelievably jacked. His abs could shred you like a cheese grater.”

"Wow," Hayden says.

“This is…” Shane clears his throat. “You guys are okay with this?”

“I do not get it,” JJ says solemnly, “but I know you, Shane. You would not put it on the line like this if he is not worth it.”

Shane sits down on the bench and rubs his eyes. “What are they saying about me?”

“The guys? Nothing,” Miitka says. “Pike shuts it down whenever someone starts mouthing off. He’s been acting captain while you’ve been away.”

“Coach has been quiet,” JJ adds. “I think he does not know what to say to us.”

“One of the rookies decked a guy from Seattle, when he said he hoped that Rozanov was -” a look from Hayden freezes Miitka. “When, uh - when he was chirping you.”

“Penalty box for the whole game,” Hayden says with satisfaction. “Knocked his teeth out.”

Shane feels a sudden rush of warmth. He’d been prepared to defend himself, maybe throw a few punches himself. He didn’t expect this kind of loyalty. 

“You’re their captain,” Hayden says, knocking his shoulder. “They want the best for you. You’re one of us, Shane.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “I’m benched. Probably for good.”

“C'est-quoi ce bordel?” JJ is horrified. “What the fuck, Hollander. They cannot do this.”

“Seriously,” Hayden agrees. “There are like, laws, aren' there? Civil partnership laws. You’re entitled to compassionate care leave. I took time off when the kids were born, and when Jackie sprained her ankle.”

“I’m not in a civil partnership,” Shane reminds him. “I’m not married. Legally, I may as well not exist. I’m not even entitled to get updates from his medical team.” He laughs. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I spend years hiding, and then when it all comes out…I’m nothing. My mom has more say when it comes to Ilya than I do.”

“So get married,” Miitka says. 

Shane’s head snaps up. 

“What?” 

“Get married,” Miitka shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Then you belong to each other. Legally, I mean. It's been a decade, right? It’s not like you’re gonna change your mind.”

“Shane just imploded his entire career for Rozanov,” Hayden points out. “I think this is it for him.”

“So get married,” Miitka says again. “And then you’re protected, and Rozanov’s protected, and you can both tell Coach and the whole NHL to go fuck themselves.”

“You do not get married for benefits,” JJ says dismissively, waving his hand. “You get married for love.”

Miitka shrugs. “Why not have both?”

And Shane doesn’t have an answer to that. 

***

Hayden walks Shane to the players’ exit.

“Are you sure you won’t come for dinner, buddy? Jackie would love to see you. The kids too.”

“I just want to get back to Ilya,” Shane replies. “But thanks, man. I mean it. For everything. You didn’t have to do all that, Hayden. Not just the island, I mean. But the stuff with the team, too.”

“Uh, yeah, I did,” Hayden says. “You’ve played for this team since you were eighteen, Shane. They’re not treating you fairly. It’s not right. It fucking pisses me off. I love you, man. You’re my best friend. I’m not gonna just stand there and let people talk shit about you. Or Rozanov. ”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Shane says. “And I love you too. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“What do any of us do to deserve each other?” Hayden shrugs, and it’s weird for him to get so profound but this entire day has been weird. “Life is random. We got lucky.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “We did.”

Hayden pulls him in for a tight hug. “I’m gonna miss playing with you, though. Until Coach gets his head out of his ass and realizes what a mistake he’s made.”

“We’re family, whether or not we’re on the same team.”

“Text me when you get home, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, of course. See you, Hayd.”

Hayden slips back into the stadium, leaving Shane huddled in his coat. It’s snowing, fat white flakes drifting down from a dirty gray sky, and he pulls out his phone to FaceTime Ilya. He answers on the first ring, to Shane’s immense relief.

“Finally,” he complains. 

“Hi,” Shane says, feeling better just looking at him. He’s propped up against the unholstered headboard and Shane can hear the Boston vs LA game low in the background. “Everything okay?”

“Da,” Ilya says. “How was the meeting?”

“Um,” Shane replies. 

“You will tell me everything tomorrow,” Ilya says simply, reading the reluctance on his face. “I have news too. Good news, моя любовь, do not panic,” he adds, watching Shane’s face fall. “Nothing scary, nothing bad. Everything is fine.”

“Is Svetlana spending the night?”

“She had redeye to catch,” Ilya replies. “Some big deal at work that needs her back in Boston.”

Shane’s heart kicks up a beat. Ilya is alone, and Shane is 200km away.

“She was supposed to stay.”

Ilya shrugs. “Plans change.”

“I’ll drive home,” Shane offers. “So I can help you.”

“You should stay. Visit with Hayden or someone maybe more interesting,” Ilya replies. “Everything is fine here.”

“I can be there in two hours,” he insists. 

“In such a hurry to get back to me? You are insatiable, Hollander.” Ilya pitches his voice low. “I am cleared to unlock my brace. Increase range of motion. Do you have any ideas how I might practice increasing range of motion, Шаня?” 

The diminutive drips off Ilya’s tongue like blood: searing, shining, vital.

“Holy shit,” Shane whispers. 

“I will see you at home,” Ilya winks. The call ends, and Shane’s standing at an intersection with his heart racing and an embarrassingly obvious erection and he forgets, for a moment, how utterly fucked he is.

As he waits to cross the street, Shane realizes he’s in front of a jeweler. His eyes snag on a simple band, matte black with a gold interior, displayed in the window. 

Shane thinks about that afternoon last October, in Hayden's living room strewn with stuffed animals, his twins solemnly pronouncing them husbands. Ilya, with a flower crown on his golden-brown curls and his eyes shining. The way he wants that future so fucking badly, wants to grab it with both hands. 

Why not have both?

Without another thought, Shane pushes open the door. 

Chapter 13: don’t hold to yourself with hard mortar and stone

Chapter Summary

Ilya stands outside in the driveway watching Shane until he’s out of sight. There’s a strange tight spot in his chest, like an invisible cord is tied around his heart to the bumper of Shane’s Jeep.

Ilya

Ilya stands outside in the driveway watching Shane until he’s out of sight. There’s a strange tight spot in his chest, like an invisible cord is tied around his heart to the bumper of Shane’s Jeep. 

He finally turns back to the house. It must be all over his face because Svetlana tuts and says in Russian, “Limp your ass up to the kitchen so I can wash your hair. We are going out.”

Ilya drops his head back and groans.  “Sveta, please. I have the whole morning free, I do not have to be downtown for PT until 3pm. I want to lay in bed and eat junk food and -”

“And mope about Jane?” Svetlana cuts him off. “You’re lucky you have a meeting before PT because if it was up to me, I’d have you down in the gym doing exercises until dinner. Do not look at me with big sad eyes, that does not work on me. Come on.”

He lets her gently bully him, a deep sense of contentment washing over him as he sits at the kitchen sink and lets her lather up his hair. It’s different than with Shane. He fucking hates having Shane fuss over him, hates the reminder that needs the help. He wants to throw up every time Shane kneels down to help him tie his shoes. 

“What meeting do I have?” He asks, closing his eyes with a sigh as she massages his scalp. For a moment, he’s back in Moscow and he’s thirteen again and she's leggy and awkward and they’re supposed to be doing homework but they’re having a spa day instead. Later he will paint her nails and wish he could wear varnish on his hands, too, and then they’ll dance around his room to bright, punchy pop at full blast before his father gets home and he has to force himself back into a life that has never fit. 

“Something your agent set up with Wiebe,” she replies, carefully avoiding the sutures. “I checked your emails while you were busy playing grabass with Jane yesterday. You need someone to keep you on track. Say thank you, Sveta.”

“Thank you, Sveta. He probably is going to cut me from the team,” Ilya says. He knows Svetlana is not going to bullshit him, at least. “Now that I am just a very expensive benchwarmer.”

“Probably,” she agrees. “That would be the sensible thing. But you keep saying the Centaurs aren’t like the Raiders. Maybe they will surprise you.”

“Maybe.”

Her hands slow and then stop, and he opens his eyes. She’s just looking at him, her hands in his hair, and he feels all the years between them. 

She has known every version of him. 

“I am okay, Sveta,” he says softly.

“I know you are,” she answers. “I am just thinking about how mad I would have been if you were not. You do not even have a will, do you? What a mess you would have left me.” And now her mouth wobbles a little, and she holds his head steady and she kisses him. He feels her breath tremble and knows how much it’s costing her to let this out. 

“Svetochka,” he says softly. 

“Who would take care of all your beautiful cars? Hollander has already made you sell most of them. I would have to come and steal the last two.”

“He would probably get a good price for them.”

“Not as good as me,” she says, forcing a smile. “I would have looked after them for you. I would have had to look after him, too, I suppose.”

He studies her face, almost more familiar to him than his own. “I do have a will, just so you know,” he says. “There is a trust for my niece, of course, because God knows Alexei won’t plan for the future. And there is some set aside for you, and for the Foundation, and for Shane.” He swallows. “Even when it was a secret, I needed to know that I could still leave him something to prove how much he matters. It is stupid, because he is worth more than me, but I just…I was raised this way. You understand. When you love someone, you provide.”

“Ilyusha,” she says. “I cannot believe you never told me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says softly. “He did not want me to.”

“And yet in the two days I have been here, I have heard him talk to no less than four people - including Rose Landry! - and it does not seem like this was such a surprise to any of them.”

Ilya’s mouth tightens and he looks away. 

“You must love him very much,” she says.

“More than anything,” he answers without hesitation. She runs the warm water and rinses his curls, stroking him affectionately like a lapdog. 

“So why is he not your secret husband, instead of just your secret boyfriend?” She asks. “You have always wanted a family, Iluyshka. Children. And a new passport, but I suppose that is much less romantic.”

“Practicality is your love language. I know this.”

“And yet you have never asked him.”

He’s quiet as she works conditioner through his wet hair, gritting his teeth a little when she brushes the line of sutures from his eyebrow to the crown of his head. 

“I think,” he says finally, “it is because I am afraid he will say no. That it would be too much. He has always been so afraid of what would happen if everyone knew. I was afraid that I would break everything if I asked. I cannot function without him. I could not risk him running.”

“Everyone knows now,” she points out, “and he is still here.”

“It is different now,” he concedes. “But so am I. I am going to have to figure out who I am, if I am not Captain Ilya Rozanov. I will just be dead weight.” 

“You will always be Ilya Rozanov," Svetlana says severely. "And it is far too early to know if this injury is permanent."

“I know, Sveta. I can pretend for Shane and his parents, and I can go meet with Wiebe but I think, really, everybody knows but just does not want to say it out loud. My knee is never going to let me play again. And it is okay. I don’t love hockey like he does. Eventually, I will be good at something else. But it is a little nerveracking, not knowing what something else will be. I’m not sure I know who I am, without hockey.” His mouth twists. “And I am afraid that if we do not have this in common, he will get bored of me.”

“This is your brain lying to you,” Svetlana says. She helps him sit up and drapes a towel over his hair. “I may not know him very well. But even a blind man could see how he looks at you, Ilya. You love him, yes? You have loved him for years.”

“Since the first moment I saw him,” he admits. 

“And would you get bored of him, if he was no longer a world-famous hockey captain?”

“Of course not.”

“So why do you not give him any credit?” She demands, handing him a fresh shirt. “Why do you act like Hollander is settling? Have you forgotten who you are?” She takes his face in her hands again. “You are the best hockey player to ever come out of Russia. You are maybe the best player this League has ever seen. But you are more than this. You are the most generous, most selfless person I have ever met. You constantly put yourself last, because you are too busy taking care of everyone else. I think that you know this. So you listen to me now. Shane Hollander should be on his knees thanking the universe that he gets to love you.”

“He is frequently on his knees,” Ilya says, because if he doesn’t make a joke he’s going to cry. 

She pats his cheek. “You cannot scandalize me into letting you wallow, Ilyushka. Hollander is lucky. And now you are out, and there is no one standing in the way of your future except you.” 

She smooths the collar of his shirt, satisfied. Then she turns and strides down the hall, calling out, “Now hurry up. I will not let you disrespect your coach by turning up late to the meeting that decides your future.”

“I love you,” he calls after her. 

“Who does not?”

***

He knows Shane would want him to take the G-Wagon. It’s better in the snowy weather, and it has more room for his leg to stretch out. 

He makes Svetlana drive his Porsche. He has to hold his crutches on his lap, but it’s worth it. 

She screeches up to the curb of the stadium in Kanata but she doesn’t even get a chance to help him, because Troy Barrett and Wyatt Hayes are already waiting for him. 

Troy gets there first, practically hauling Ilya off his feet into a bear hug, leaving Wyatt to juggle the crutches. 

“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” Troy says. 

“Okay,” Ilya replies, a goofy smile on his face. 

Svetlana takes the crutches from Wyatt and, rolling her eyes, helps Ilya balance while he adjusts them under his armpits. “I am going shopping,” she says, eyeing the two hockey players flanking him. “You must promise not to hurt him. Shane will be very unhappy. Probably will not let him out of house again.” She tosses a wave over her shoulder and tears off into traffic. 

“Everyone’s dying to see you,” Wyatt says, holding the elevator door for Ilya. 

“Dude,” Troy says, horrified. “You can’t say that.”

“I am not so fragile I cannot hear the word die,” Ilya snorts. “Hurry up, Hazy, I am very busy and important.”

The doors open right outside of the locker room. An explosive cheer greets him. 

“Stop, stop it,” he says but he’s grinning. “My leg is already fucked, don’t make me go deaf on top of this.”

The team gathers around him, trying to hug him around the crutches. He returns their welcome. Some of the guys are tearing up; Ilya feels his own eyes burn and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“All of you get out of my way,” he commands. “Where is my favorite teammate?”

As if on cue, Harris appears from the dressing room with Chiron on a leash. The dog starts barking when he sees Ilya, yanking on the lead and scrabbling towards him. And normally, Harris is a pro at handling the excitable young animal.

Except for today, when he sees Ilya and bursts into tears. 

Chiron wrenches the lead out of Harris’s grip and barrels towards Ilya. Ilya tries to squat down but can’t get there on one leg and nearly topples over before Bood and Hazy each grab an arm to steady him. Chiron bounds up to him and puts his paws on Ilya’s shoulders. The weight of him knocks Ilya on his ass. 

That’s how Coach Wiebe finds him: flat on his back with 35kg of dog pinning him to the floor, whining with joy. 

“Somehow I doubt that’s part of your rehab plan,” Wiebe says with a dry smile. 

“He is therapy dog,” Ilya objects. "Nearly."

“I’m so sorry,” Harris is saying over and over again, still crying, and Ilya knows he’s not talking about the dog.

“You did not make pilot have cardiac arrest, Harris,” Ilya says patiently as the team heaves him to his feet, Luca passing over the crutches and Hayes wrangling Chiron, whose tail is wagging so hard Ilya’s afraid he might break it. Troy is chafing Harris’s shoulders, trying to get him to calm down. In the chaos, Wiebe puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, leans in.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” he says quietly. 

“As am I,” Ilya replies. “I am ready for my pink slip now.”

“I think we have time for a drink first,” Wiebe smiles. “Come on. You can visit with the boys after we catch up.”

Ilya follows Wiebe down the hall to his office. Wiebe holds the door for him and Ilya sinks down into the chair with relief. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I am slow. Like an old man.”

“Or like a survivor,” Wiebe replies. “I can't begin to imagine what you've been through, Ilya. The whole team was holding their breath.”

“Would be hard to lose their captain,” Ilya concedes. “We have only just started winning games.”

“You know it’s not about that.”

Ilya clears his throat. “Do you want to ask me about Shane?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

“I - we appreciate the message at the end of our statement,” Ilya says. “It is not a small thing to us.”

“Has Shane had a conversation with his team yet?”

“He is in Montreal today.”

“I see,” Wiebe says. “I’m hopeful that they will be similarly supportive. Shane has given everything to that team.”

“Somehow I do not think so. I think it will be more like when Scott Hunter came out.”

“You’d know better than me,” Wiebe sighs. “It’s discouraging that players today are still dealing with the same bigotry I saw in the ‘90s. And we do things so differently on our team that sometimes it’s easy to forget the rest of the league is still in the Dark Ages.” Wiebe shakes his head. “No use trying to predict what Theriault will say. We're here to talk about you, and next season.

“Now, the team doctor has reviewed all of the notes your orthopedic surgeon and your outpatient rehab office sent over. You were fortunate that they were able to manage the repair, even with the torn meniscus on top of the ACL and the fractures. I’m concerned about the concussion, too. The initial MRI was reassuring but you've taken a few hard hits before this. I’m concerned about your safety, Ilya. Your health has to be your priority.”

There it is, Ilya thinks. 

“I understand that you have to think of the team,”  he says slowly. “And I will be off the ice for a long time. Too long. PT says I am making good progress but injury like this…is unpredictable. My surgeon says I am unlikely to ever get back to peak condition. She is right. I have become liability.”

“I think you are misunderstanding me,” Wiebe says. “I’m sorry. Let me say it this way: you will always have a place on this team.”

Ilya blinks. 

“Don’t think that management is unaware of the tremendous amount of work you’re put in over the last three seasons,” Wiebe says. “You’ve nearly single-handedly revived interest in this franchise. You stepped into a frankly feral, ill-matched group of players and united them into the most cohesive team I’ve had the privilege to be a part of. You’ve revitalized community interest in our games, and you’ve mentored some very promising talent - Troy Barrett could have easily been pushed down to the minor league and buried forever if you hadn’t helped him channel his anger into something productive.”

Ilya’s just staring at him, brain struggling to catch up. 

 Wiebe pauses for a moment. “I probably shouldn’t say this, because it’s blurring the lines between professional and personal. But during my second season with Detroit, I had a…fling is the wrong word, because it meant more to me than that. A situation, I guess. With another player on my team. I was young. I was terrified. Worst of all, I was in love,” he says wryly. “And we thought we were discreet, but you know how it is in the locker room. By the end of the season, everyone knew. Including management. They traded me.”

“And did your…situation,” Ilya says, “turn into more?”

“No,” Wiebe says. “I never spoke to him again, actually. He died a few years ago.” He smiles, eyes focused on something Ilya can’t see. “Everything worked out. I met my wife, and realized what a real love - a healthy love - could look like.”

“Ah. You are like me. Men, women. Both are good.”

“I always thought it might have been different, if I’d been born twenty years later. But the reaction to Scott Hunter tells me there’s still a lot of work to do.”

“I will not tolerate it on my team,” Ilya says.

“Neither will I,” Wiebe says, and the smile is genuine now. “That’s why I’d like you to join me to keep this franchise the kind of place where people like us can focus on what matters: bringing out whole selves to the ice.”

“I thought I was already integral part of team,” Ilya says.

“I want you to come on as assistant coach, Ilya.” Wiebe leans back a little in his chair, taking in the stunned expression on Ilya’s face. “If you recover, and you want to play again, I’ll put you back out on the ice in an instant. But there’s so much we could do to build this team into something truly remarkable, Ilya. Your instinct for talent is second to none. The way you lead the team - with humor, and patience, and high expectations but without the usual ego you see in captains - you have no idea how rare that is. This team is poised to take the next step because of the work you’ve done in the barn. With you stepping into the role of a coach, we can go all the way. I have no doubt that we could take the Cup next year - especially with your guidance.”

“I do not know what to say,” Ilya’s voice is embarrassingly wet. 

“You don’t have to say anything today,” Wiebe replies. “I’ll give Farah a call, we’ll talk some numbers. Next steps. We wouldn’t make any moves until off-ice training starts at the end of the summer. I want you to get your strength back. I won’t bullshit you - coaching’s long hours and grueling in a different way. It’s emotional. Your boys become like family.”

“They are already like my family,” Ilya acknowledges.

“I know that,” Wiebe smiles. “That’s just one more reason why this is the perfect next step for you. Take some time. Talk to Shane, talk to Farah. We can go over the details when you’ve had some space to process. For now, go have a drink with the team - they’ve missed you.”

“I will,” Ilya says, levering himself up from the chair and hooking his arms over the crutches. “I…I want you to know how much this means to me. Your confidence in me. Letting me belong.”

“I haven’t let you do anything. You’ve earned your place, and you’ve earned the team’s trust. It’s yours, if you want it. I wouldn’t offer this to anyone else.”

***

Ilya goes straight from his meeting with his coach to a grueling PT session. He should be exhausted but he’s never felt more awake, still reeling from Wiebe’s offer. Svetlana, however, is triumphant.

“This is what you deserve,” she says, reaching over to pat his thigh while she confidently handles Ilya’s Porsche, the car responsive and almost alive under her hands. “Job offer. Progress at PT. You will be back on the ice before you know it.”

They’re driving fast, and Ilya doesn’t have to use crutches anymore, and he can stay with the Centaurs even if he can’t play, and the world knows Shane loves him.

And most of all, he is alive.

He hugs Svetlana, hard and fast, at the door. She has a late flight back to Boston.

“You will come and visit me soon,” she insists as she loads her suitcase into the Lyft. Her Russian is bright, sharp, warm: she is all fire. “You do not have your usual excuse of being a globe-trotting hockey sensation. Soon you will be the bright new star for the Centaurs management team. But right now, you are just my friend. And I want to see my friend. I suppose you can bring Hollander, too.”

“I love you,” he replies, and he kisses her curls, and then he is alone for the first time since the island.

It’s disorienting. He locks the front door and he leans the crutches up next to his shoes. He crosses the living room, testing his new freedom, his brace unlocked. There’s no pain, just a lingering stiffness and instability at the edges. 

He stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks up. He’s standing in his house, 7000 km from the city where he was born, but down in the bottom of his heart he’s seven years old and his mother has just taken off the training wheels on his bike and he’s not ready to push off from the curb. 

In his memory, his mother’s wavy blonde hair falls over her long neck and tickles his cheek as she straightens his shoulders. The crucifix around her neck winks at him in the watery spring sunlight. 

Yes, it’s scary she says gently, and her hands cover his, white-knuckled on the rubber handlebars, but you are brave.

He lifts his bad knee, and he climbs.

Shane calls him five minutes after he collapses into bed, knee aching. It took him an eternity, but he made it to the top. He tries, and fails, to keep the triumph out of his voice.

Shane, predictably, immediately tenses up when Ilya tells him Svetlana is gone. Ilya knows he’s achingly anxious, can see it in the way his eyes go tight at the corners. Shane is trying so hard to be casual, but he’s so worried, and Ilya will do anything to wipe that look off his face. 

“In such a hurry to get back to me? You are insatiable, Hollander.” 

Ilya drops his hand to his lap, caresses his cock, already more than half-hard. He lets his breath hitch, wants Shane to know exactly what he’s missing. Ilya sees his own eyes go dark on the camera, sees Shane’s pupils dilate in response. 

“I am cleared to unlock my brace. Increase range of motion. Do you have any ideas how I might practice increasing range of motion, Шаня?” 

Shane’s ears turn red and his whimpers, just a little, under his breath. There are snowflakes in his hair and he’s flushed pink under his freckles and he is so fucking beautiful it almost hurts.

Ilya takes a screenshot.

“Holy shit, Ilya,” Shane says in that strangled tone Ilya loves so much. It sends a bolt of desire shooting straight to his dick.

“I will see you at home,” Ilya says, and hangs up before he bursts into delighted laughter.

He rolls gingerly onto his side, savoring the feel of his bare skin against the sheets. The brace is waiting in the chair beside the window, but for tonight he is free, and Shane is coming home to him.

He closes his eyes and pictures Shane: sloe-eyed and freckled and his, panting underneath him. 

“I am going to take a nap,” he says to the empty house. “And then I am going to fuck Shane Hollander senseless.”

Chapter 14: when I said forever, you said get back in the car

Chapter Summary

“I missed you,” Shane says, because it’s true.

“You have not even been gone one day,” Ilya laughs against his mouth. “Before, we would go six months without talking.”

“And it was fucking terrible,” Shane replies, catching his jaw and pressing his lips along the knife-sharp edge. 

Shane

The house is dark when he pulls into the driveway. Shane steps out of the car and is struck with a wave of homecoming so strong it makes him a little nauseous. 

This house has always made Shane feel unsettled. It’s so unlike the modern house Ilya owned in Boston - very Craftsman-inspired, on a tree lined street, part of a real neighborhood with kids and dogs and minivans - that it made Shane feel off-kilter the first time he stepped inside because it didn’t feel like the Ilya he knew at all. 

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Ilya’s been looking for something different all along.

The house doesn’t feel out of place or incongruous anymore. It feels like a place to put down roots. 

Snow muffling his footsteps, Shane toes his boots off at the door and heads straight to Ilya’s room, resisting the urge to run. He doesn’t even bother taking off his coat.

The TV is on in the bedroom, muted, and the lights flicker over Ilya, his arm thrown up over his head and his face so soft and slack that it scares Shane and he drops his bag by the door with a thump.

Ilya stirs. Relief crashes over Shane like the tide.

He crosses the room and pulls back the covers and slides between them, pressing his chest to the warm bare expanse of Ilya’s back, buries his face in his curls, and inhales. He runs his hand down Ilya’s right thigh to the bend of his knee, reverently tracing the lines of his muscles without the brace in between them.

“блять, you’re cold,” Ilya gripes, but he turns in Shane’s arms and burrows into his chest. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, even though he’s not, not even a little bit. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“I think that is lie,” Ilya says, nuzzling against Shane’s neck. “I think you do it on purpose.” He tips his head up and kisses Shane, soft and slow. 

“I missed you,” Shane says, because it’s true.

“You have not even been gone one day,” Ilya laughs against his mouth. “Before, we would go six months without talking.”

“And it was fucking terrible,” Shane replies, catching his jaw and pressing his lips along the knife-sharp edge. 

“Da,” Ilya agrees. 

“You can go back to sleep, if you want,” Shane offers, even as his breath ghosts against Ilya’s ear and his fingers slide down the line of his spine. “It’s nearly midnight. I understand if you’re too tired.”

“No,” Ilya says, and Shane can feel the smile when he kisses him. “Do you know something? Suddenly I am not tired at all.” 

His hands find the front of Shane’s pants, stretched taut over his erection. “So eager,” he says, and Shane tips his head back, lets him mouth at the long column of his throat, feels him sucking a bruise into his skin. Normally he hates when Ilya marks him up - it’s such a pain in the ass to cover - but tonight he’d let Ilya sink his teeth into every inch of his skin, claim him entirely, let the whole world see.

He fumbles for Ilya’s hips and kisses his way down Ilya’s body, fingers digging into Ilya’s round ass as his lips find his cock, taking him eagerly into his mouth with a sigh of relief. Ilya hisses above him, threading his fingers through Shane’s dark hair, his other hand going to Shane’s neck, sliding over the swell of his Adam’s apple. 

“Fuck, Shane,” he gasps as Shane swallows around him, so frantic to feel him he gags slightly. His massive hand covers Shane’s neck entirely, like he’s trying to feel his cock through the muscles of Shane’s throat, and when his fingers flex involuntarily around him Shane’s entire body shakes. 

“You missed me,” Ilya teases, thrusting a little into Shane’s throat, lovedrunk, eyes hazy with desire.

In response, Shane pulls off and tugs at Ilya’s hips until he rolls onto his stomach, and then Shane’s hands are back on him, spreading him to expose his hole and lathing his tongue roughly across him. He hears Ilya swear into the pillow as he works him, his bad leg cocked at an angle to avoid getting pinned. Shane operates with such single-minded purpose he barely registers Ilya's wince.

Shane’s world narrows to a single point: Ilya’s hole, fluttering against his tongue. Ilya reaches back and fists his fingers through Shane's hair, grinding against Shane’s face, a stream of desperate Russian spilling from his lips. Shane's whole face is soaked, the musky taste of Ilya heady on his tongue; Ilya’s so gone for him, begging for more and rutting against the mattress, and Shane feels dizzy with control.

“My turn,” Ilya gasps, and then he’s turning to his back and pulling Shane up to crush his mouth against Shane’s, tasting himself on his tongue. His big hands slip under Shane’s armpits and he urges him up until Shane’s straddling Ilya’s face. Ilya’s hands clamp down on his hips and then he feels his tongue, hot and slick and insistent, against his entrance and he sobs when Ilya licks into him and then brushes his lips over his sensitive hole, chasing the taste of him, Shane’s hand clenching around his cock and stroking to the rhythm of Ilya’s mouth.

Shane’s keening wordlessly, balanced heavily on his knees, trying not to put too much weight on Ilya when he hears an irritated growl beneath him. Ilya slaps Shane, hard, on the thigh and when Shane hitches his hips up he feels Ilya’s fingertips dig brutally into his ass.

“Fucking sit,” Ilya orders, “so I can do this right. You are not so big, Hollander. You think I cannot handle it?” And then he yanks Shane down onto his tongue, breaching his body with one smooth motion. Ilya is relentless, lips sealing around Shane’s hole while Shane’s legs shake on either side of his cheeks, Ilya’s stubble scraping the inside of his thighs. 

“Fuck, shit,” Shane’s chin falls to his chest, stroking himself erratically, precome leaking through his fingers. “Oh my god, Ilya, I’m not going to last -”

He feels Ilya’s hands shove him up and Ilya wriggles out from underneath. “Do not dare,” he says, and props himself up on his elbow to take Shane in his mouth, running the flat of his tongue over the shaft to the tip. “The only place you are allowed to come tonight is down my throat.” Shane sobs when Ilya swallows him to the root, fisting his fingers in Ilya’s curls, and thrusting into the almost unbearable heat a handful of times before he’s coming so hard his vision whites out, Ilya’s face buried between his thighs, holding him steady as he shakes through it.

Ilya releases him and pulls Shane down beside him, kissing him ferociously: mouth open, tongue searching, the taste of Shane’s release sharp and slightly bitter in Shane’s mouth now too. Ilya’s expression is tight and desperate and he ruts up against Shane’s body, cock sliding over the crease of his thigh, his fingerprints will leave bruises on Shane’s hips and Shane kisses him as he spurts, hot and viscous, over Shane’s stomach and chest.

Shane presses against him tightly, heedless of the mess cooling sticky on his skin, as close to Ilya as he can get. Ilya buries his face in the crook of Shane’s arm and inhales like he’s trying to imprint the scent of him on his memory forever.

“I love you,” Shane says into his hair, and Ilya replies, muffled, into his armpit: “Was worth the long trip home?”

“I would crawl across the fucking earth for you,” Shane says, his voice unsteady, and Ilya slings his good leg over Shane’s hip, anchoring him in this moment. 

***

Ilya

Ilya almost regrets it in the morning, when they have to be up at 7:00 am to get to his appointment with the sports medicine doctor, but then he watches Shane wake up and smile at him.

It’s not the first time he and Shane have stayed up all night. It won’t be the last.

Ilya clomps, stiff-legged, down the stairs behind Shane and out into the grey morning. The snow has stopped but the clouds are heavy, promising more weather is on its way.

“Let me drive,” Ilya pleads. “I will even drive your ugly Jeep.”

“You’re not driving,” Shane says, holding open the door for him. “I don’t feel like getting plowed into a tree because you can’t hit the brakes hard enough.”

“I have never heard you object to getting plowed before,” Ilya says sulkily, but relents and gets into the passenger seat. “At least take me to McDonald’s for breakfast.”

“No.”

“Ублюдок,” Ilya swears savagely. “I am hungry.”

Shane is entirely unsympathetic as he backs out of the driveway. “You should have gotten up earlier.”

“I could not get up earlier,” Ilya retorts, “because my boyfriend kept me up all night with his tongue in my -”

“Shut up, oh my god,” Shane says. “Look, we’re almost at Timmie’s. I’ll go through the drive-through. You can get egg white bites or something.”

“I am getting Timbits.”

“I’m not enabling your junk food habit.”

“If you get me Timbits,” Ilya says sweetly, sliding his hand up Shane’s thigh, “I will blow you on the way to appointment.”

Shane turns bright red and puts on his turn signal. 

***

Shane

By some miracle, they make it to the clinic with three minutes to spare. His legs feel like jello and Ilya’s curls are sticking up all over the place and Shane suspects that anyone who looks at them will know that Ilya just sucked Shane's soul out through his cock, but at least they're on time. They’re about to get on the elevator when Shane’s phone rings.

Farah.

His heart sinks. There’s no doubt that by now she’s been in touch with Theriault, knows all about his disastrous meeting yesterday.

Ilya glances at his phone, sees Farah’s name on the screen. “You can meet me up there,” he says.

“I promised I would come with you -”

“Shane,” Ilya says patiently, “is just a checkup. I will be done in twenty minutes. Take the call.” The doors close behind him and Shane swipes the call open, walking back towards his car. 

“Hi, Farah.”

“Shane,” her voice crackles over the phone, “I don’t like surprises.”

“Okay,” Shane says with trepidation.

“You couldn’t have given me a head’s up before you blew up your entire career?”

“In my defense, that’s not what I set out to do,” Shane says in a low voice. “I asked for a reasonable accommodation. They ambushed me with Crowell. What should I have done? Told Ilya to fend for himself?”

“Of course not,” Farah sighs, “but there are other ways you could have gone about this.”

“I’m not sure that there are,” Shane replies. “I’ve been with the Metros for ten years, Farah. I’ve never even thought about another team. I’ve never been up for a trade. And I ask for this one thing - just a few months to take care of the person I nearly lost forever - and they blackball me. So much for loyalty.”

“Loyalty is for fans,” Farah replies. “You’re smart, Shane. You know there’s rules about this kind of thing.”

“And the government has rules about leave to care for a sick or injured partner!” Shane’s angry now. “I thought you’d have my back on this. I called my lawyer yesterday, too, asked him to dig into the red tape. Farah, I swear they’re punishing me because we’re a PR vacuum right now. I know Ilya and I aren’t married, but you know this is because we’re both men. If this was my girlfriend, they’d be falling all over themselves to accommodate me.”

“They would not,” Farah says severely. “Because compassionate care laws are for family, Shane. You know this. You know how it was after the crash. Ilya is not your spouse. He’s not even your common-law partner. You aren’t registered, you don’t file taxes together, you don’t live together. There’s nothing that says they need to honor that request. Your lawyer will tell you the same thing.”

Shane stares at his phone. Because she’s fucking right, of course. He said it himself to his teammates: in the eyes of the law, he and Ilya may as well be strangers. It’s still hard to process. It makes him sick, actually, to know there’s nothing he can do, no recourse he can take. His mouth fills with bile and he swallows it down; he will not lose his shit in this parking lot, he cannot be a disaster when Ilya comes out of his appointment. Ilya is the one that needs support. Shane has no choice but to pull himself together. 

Impulsively, Shane shoves the last Timbit into his mouth. The sugar on his tongue feels almost as good as jerking off. Fuck, I miss carbs.

“Now, I believe Theriault is reasonable,” Farah continues. “I think he’ll try and salvage this. But you’re going to have to be realistic. Montreal is well positioned to go to the playoffs this year. You are the captain. You can do the math here.”

“Hayden can step in,” Shane says and he knows, even as he’s arguing, that’s never going to be an acceptable compromise. “Please, Farah. There’s got to be something I can do to weigh this in my favor.”

“There is one thing I thought of,” Farah says, a little tentatively. “It feels a little underhanded, but it just so happens I agree with you, Shane. You and Ilya aren’t a brand-new couple. You’ve been together for years. It’s unfortunate that isn’t reflected in your legal status, but the narrative is out there now. And based on what I’m seeing online, the vast majority of fans are incredibly supportive. I know you don’t spend a lot of time on social media, but you and Ilya are still trending. You even have a couples’ hashtag.”

“A what?”

“#hollanov,” Farah says and Shane can hear the smile in her voice.

“Like fucking Brangelina?”

“Evidently. I think you can use the court of public opinion to sway this in your favor.”

“I’m not sure how to do that, Farah. I’ve never even used half of those apps.”

“Shane, you and Ilya both pay me a very generous amount of money to handle things like this for you. And as it so happens, I know how to use all of those apps. I think I can get this to grow some teeth, if I have your blessing to try.”

“Anything,” Shane says. “I need your help, Farah.”

“All right. Have you talked to Ilya yet about this?”

“No,” Shane says quickly, “and I don’t want to. He needs to focus on his recovery, not worry about me being suspended.”

“If I’m going to do this, I really need his buy-in,” Farah says, doubt creeping into her voice. “I represent you both -”

“Just make it about me,” Shane interrupts. “Don’t put the focus on Ilya. Put it all on me, and on Montreal, and on the fucking commissioner.” 

She’s silent for a long moment. “I’ll do my best. But I think he deserves to know, Shane. He’d want to support you just like you’re supporting him.”

“I’ll tell him,” Shane promises. “I’m going to. I just…I’m waiting for the right timing.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Farah warns. “If this works like I think it will, it’ll be out of your hands sooner rather than later.”

“Do it,” Shane says. “Whatever it is. I trust you, and I’ll handle Ilya.”

“I’ll call you once I see how this takes off,” Farah promises. 

***

Shane’s waiting in the lobby, and he looks almost normal, when the elevator dings and Ilya steps off.

He’s grinning and Shane immediately sees why: the ugly line of sutures in his forehead is gone, leaving a slightly puckered pink scar behind. It still cleaves his eyebrow and runs up into his hairline, but it’s a huge improvement.

Ilya, looking enormously pleased, kisses him loudly in the lobby of the sports medicine clinic. The handful of other patients in the lobby are looking at them, but Shane realizes that they are all smiling. One young woman takes a photo of them. Ilya waves, and she waves back with a grin.

Farah is right, Shane thinks. A lot of people are behind us.

“It must feel so much better,” Shane says, touching the scar with the tips of his fingers.

“Da,” Ilya agrees. “No more itching. And I look like badass.”

“Very sexy,” Shane agrees. “I’ll pull the car around front for you.”

“No need,” Ilya says easily. “I want to walk.”

In front of everyone, he takes Shane’s hand. Shane hesitates for just a moment before he laces their fingers together.

“You did not tell me about your meeting,” Ilya says on the drive home.

All of the feelings of contentment evaporate out of Shane immediately.

“I’ve been kind of busy,” Shane replies, eyes on the road, feeling the same combination of nausea and anger low in his gut that he felt in Theriault’s office. 

“Yes, I know you were very busy getting impaled on my tongue last night,” Ilya says conversationally, and Shane sees him grin out of the corner of his eye. “But maybe you can take just a minute to tell me what Theriault says to you, Mr. Big Shot Hockey Captain.”

“You are also a big shot hockey captain,” Shane says fondly. “In case you forgot.”

“Not anymore,” Ilya says softly. Shane’s back stiffens and he whips his head to look at him so quickly he pinches something in his neck. “Fuck, Shane, do not drive us off road!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Shane says, and he’s angry, he’s so fucking angry that Ilya believes he’s diminished now. “You’re just benched until you recover. Wiebe isn’t going to cut you, you talk all the time about how the Centaurs are a family -”

“Shane,” Ilya cuts him off. “Farah set up meeting with Wiebe while you were in Montreal.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shane says without thinking. “But she never said he was going to fucking cut you.”

“You know?” Ilya’s voice goes hard around the edges. “Why would you know about this before I tell you?”

“Farah called me to talk about Theriault and I - I may have mentioned to her I thought you should drive over to Kanata to see the team. She said she’d set it up.”

“So now you are my mother? You are making plans for me without telling me?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shane insists. “Tell me what Wiebe said.”

“Is a big deal to me!” Ilya snaps. “I am an adult. This is my career, my team. You should not be knowing before me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for trying to make your life easier,” Shane snaps back. “I was trying to help. Jesus Christ.”

Ilya doesn’t reply. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest and he’s looking out the window, irritation radiating off of him in waves.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again, softer this time. “You’re right. I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should have,” Ilya grumbles. “Wiebe is not being asshole. He is being realistic. Everyone but you wants to be realistic. Ligament ruptured, meniscus fucked, damage to bone. Knee joint was already in bad shape from years on the ice. Dr. Sandovi was very clear: I will probably walk normally, and maybe even run, but I am never going to be able to skate like I used to. Even if there is a miracle and I can get back on the ice, I will have lost years of conditioning. Is too much time. I will never be able to get back to the top of my game.”

“There are a lot of players in the league with solid careers who have never even come close to your level,” Shane argues, and even as the words leave his mouth he knows it’s exactly the wrong thing to say. 

“Wow,” Ilya says quietly. “Is okay for the rest of us, then, to settle. Only Shane Hollander is allowed to have high expectations. I would rather never put on fucking skates again before I would embarrass myself, my legacy like this.” 

“I didn’t mean -”

“I am done talking about this,” Ilya says. “You can tell me about your meeting, or not.”

“It was fine,” Shane says automatically.

“Fine,” Ilya repeats in a tone that suggests he knows Shane is full of shit.

“Yes,” Shane doubles down. There is no way he’s burdening Ilya with his disastrous meeting - not after insulting him, not after everything he’s already been through. “I told them I’m taking the rest of the season off.”

“And Montreal is happy to let their star captain abandon team for the rest of season, and walk away from playoffs, and give up shot at the Cup.” He’s dropping a lot of articles, still seething, and he sounds very much like the skeptical, defensive young man Shane met in Saskatchewan all those years ago. “There is no problem here.”

“They were fine,” he says again, firmer this time. I can do this, he thinks. I can hold this for us, so he can focus on healing. We can deal with the Metros later. “They were actually great. I’m just taking some time off. Once things settle down, I’ll be back out there.”

It’s not really a lie, because he’s confident he’ll be able to ride this out. Farah’s plan, whatever it is, will work; she’ll find a way around Theriault and even Crowell. It’s what Ilya needs to hear.

“I do not ask you to do this,” Ilya reminds him.

“You shouldn’t need to ask,” Shane replies. His face is hot. “You’re my boyfriend, Ilya. You’re injured. Of course I’m gonna put your recovery ahead of everything else. They’ll survive without me for half a season.”

It’s true, and if the Metros cared about Shane as more than just their captain they would have agreed instantly. Ilya’s face settles a little, and it’s exactly because the Centaurs care about Ilya beyond the ice that the lie sticks. He’s been with this soft hockey team and supportive coach and Shane can see it in his expression: it’s exactly how Ilya was treated at his meeting with Wiebe, and Shane feels both relief that he believes him and jealousy that Ilya would never need to lie about this. 

“Wiebe didn’t cut you,” Shane says. It's not a question. 

“He did not,” Ilya confirms. “He offered me job as assistant coach.”

“Illy,” Shane says softly. Ilya’s still looking out the window, but Shane can see a smile curling the edges of his lips. 

“I did not say yes,” Ilya says, finally looking over at Shane. His face is soft, and a little sad. “Is a good offer. I just…I did not think I would be done with all of this before I turn thirty.”

“Any team would be lucky to have you on their coaching roster,” Shane says, and he’s never meant anything more. 

“This is true,” Ilya concedes, which makes Shane laugh. “What? I am very modest."

“You are not,” Shane says, “but you shouldn’t be. Not about this. You’d have earned this even if you had played until your fiftieth birthday.”

“NHL already has one queer dinosaur: Scott Hunter,” Ilya says dismissively. “I would not want to take that away from him.”

Ilya takes his hand again and holds it in his lap, thumb gently tracing over the pulse in Shane’s wrist. He starts talking about how big the Centaurs’ team dog has gotten, and hinting he’d be more motivated to take a lot of walks to strengthen his leg if he had a dog, and Shane lets his voice wash over him, a little guilt nipping at the edges of his mind.

It’s better this way, he tells himself firmly. Farah will help me get everything straightened out before Ilya ever even knows there was an issue.

Chapter 15: nothing lasts forever, babe

Chapter Summary

“You are distracting,” Ilya growls, adjusting the angle of his calf, feeling his own cock swell in response to Shane’s performance.

“You can’t multitask?” Shane asks innocently, and then he rolls his hips up into his hand and fucking whimpers.

Ilya

The resistance band snaps back with a sharp thwack against the squat rack.

“Again,” Shane says.

Ilya sits on the end of the weight bench, one leg stretched out, the other planted, sweat dampening the back of his shirt and sticking his curls to his forehead, and he narrows his eyes at Shane.

“I just did it,” he says.

“That was five.”

“And?”

“And we’re doing ten.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, his voice a warning.

“Five more,” Shane says. He’s kneeling at Ilya’s feet, looking up at Ilya through dark lashes, and Ilya can think of more interesting activities he could participate in from this angle. Shane, however, is irritatingly focused, already reaching back for the band to adjust the position.

“I am not doing anymore,” he says evenly, and he imagines putting his foot between Shane’s shoulder blades and pinning him to the mat. 

“Your PT plan calls for ten reps,” Shane says, sitting back on his heels and looking up expectantly at Ilya with that expression he gets just before the puck drops, and he wants to grab his chin and kiss him until he shuts up. 

“I am tired of these fucking exercises!” he snaps. “Leave me alone, Shane. I want to sit on the couch and eat ice cream and feel sorry for myself. I get stitches out but my leg still aches like fuck. I cannot extend past eighty degrees. Flexion is even worse. I hate that I even know these fucking words! I am tired, Shane, and I am not cut out for this.”

“Bullshit,” Shane retorts. “You are the most single-minded bastard I’ve ever met and you’ve never, never let an injury stop you before. I watched you play in the finals with broken ribs. Now move your fucking leg.”

“Fucking make me,” Ilya growls, and Shane pulls back, his eyes wide. Something in his eyes shifts, and without a word, Shane gets up and walks out of the gym. Ilya can hear him running up the stairs to the main floor of the house.

He’s stunned, actually, that Shane has given up so easily and then is hit with a wave of guilt. He’s only trying to help. It is not his fault you are so pathetic you cannot complete ten measly leg curls. 

Swearing under his breath, he leans down to try and slide the resistance band down his calf, gritting his teeth as the latex band snags in his leg hair, but then he hears Shane’s footsteps approaching again so he leans back against the backrest of the bench and tries very hard to look bored.

When Shane steps back into the gym, his face is flushed and he’s breathing more rapidly than he should be, and his eyes are very dark, and he’s got a bottle of lube clenched in his fist. 

Ilya sits up so quickly that his knee protests.

Shane sits back down on the mat in front of Ilya’s legs, knees splayed, and plants his feet flat on the floor. Ilya realizes he’s half-hard inside his gym shorts and Shane palms himself through the thin material.

“Come here,” Ilya says in a strangled voice.

“Not until you finish your set,” Shane replies, stroking over his length with a little hitch at the end of his voice. 

“You are distracting,” Ilya growls, adjusting the angle of his calf, feeling his own cock swell in response to Shane’s performance.

“You can’t multitask?” Shane asks innocently, and then he rolls his hips up into his hand and fucking whimpers. When his eyes flutter open again, he locks his gaze with Ilya’s, and then he hooks his thumbs into his waistband and lifts his ass and slides his shorts down his long legs.

Ilya swallows, like something is stuck in his throat. Shane makes a big show of pouring a generous amount of lube into his palm, letting it drip through his fingers, his eyes never leaving Ilya’s face. He strokes himself efficiently, cock fully hard now, flushed dark and already leaking, and Ilya flexes, the band biting into his skin.

“Six,” Shane says low in his throat, and then he circles the rim of his entrance with his finger before sinking it slowly, teeth catching his lower lip.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya whispers reverently. His fingers dig into the padded bench seat so hard he’ll leave lasting indentations, tethered where he cannot reach Shane, and he wants him so badly his teeth ache. 

“Count,” Shane orders in a low voice, his breath hitching as he works himself open.

Ilya’s expression is tight as he extends his knee again, shaking from both effort and desire. Shane’s eyes are very dark and he slides another finger alongside the first, his hands moving in a familiar motion, and Ilya’s breath catches in his throat when he realizes that Shane’s prepping himself to take Ilya right here in the gym. 

“Seven,” Ilya says, and Shane tips his head back a little, letting out a pornographic moan. “Shane, please. You will murder me.”

“Are you going to finish the set?”

“I will do anything if you will touch my dick right now.”

Shane gets to his feet and bends briefly to yank Ilya’s shorts down, where they tangle a little around the resistance band. Shane slides his hand over Ilya’s cheek and kisses him, mouth open, tongue sliding over his lower lip. He reaches past Ilya and pulls the pin in the back of the bench, laying Ilya out flat. He turns away from Ilya and plants his feet on either side of the bench, the muscles of his back working as he positions himself over Ilya’s straining cock. 

“I want perfect form,” Shane warns, “or I’ll stop and you’ll have to start over.”

“You will not be able to see form like that,” Ilya breathes, dragging the blunt head of his cock against Shane’s entrance, slicking himself, and then groaning as Shane sinks down on him.

When Shane’s fully seated, he squares his hips and nods towards the far wall of the gym, the full-length mirrors reflecting him back: Ilya buried to the hilt and his abdomen taut, heels of his hands anchored on his own thighs. In their reflection, Ilya can see the crucifix against the notch of Shane’s collarbones, gleaming in the light.

“I can see just fine,” Shane replies, and begins to move. 

Ilya’s hands clamp onto Shane’s hips as he picks up momentum, squeezing Shane’s round ass appreciatively. Shane grinds back against him and Ilya’s eyes are locked on the spot where their bodies join, watching Shane’s hole swallow him as Shane rolls himself down over and over.

“Count,” Shane says again, voice wrecked.

His hands tight on Shane’s hips, Ilya clenches his teeth and completes another extension.

“Eight,” he says.

Shane tosses his head back and drops his hand to his own prick, and Ilya strains to catch a glimpse of them in the mirrored wall. 

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Ilya growls, his hands almost crushingly tight on Shane and thrusting up into his body, but Shane stills instantly.

“No,” Shane orders. “Your job is to count. Let me take care of the rest.”

Ilya’s head drops heavily back onto the bench, his hands sliding up Shane’s narrow waist, thighs shaking, and completes his ninth rep. Shane arches his back and takes Ilya deeper, a rivulet of sweat slipping between his shoulders and trickling down his spine.

“One more,” Shane says with a gasp as Ilya’s length brushes against his prostate, fucking himself down relentlessly on Ilya’s cock, legs starting to shake.

“You do not get to finish before I do,” Ilya commands in a brutal voice.

“Then you’d better hurry the fuck up,” Shane moans.

Swearing, Ilya braces his right hand against the top of his knee and extends. His muscles are trembling with effort, but his form is on point.

“Ten,” Ilya says, and then he wraps his arm around Shane’s waist and yanks him back against him, pulling him flush against his chest. Shane yelps at the sudden change in position but Ilya just holds him tighter, fingers splayed on his pecs, nails grazing his taut, dark nipples. Shane cries out as Ilya drives up into him, hips snapping into Shane’s eager body. 

“Fuck, you are so tight, Hollander.” His other arm curls possessively around Shane’s hips and he wraps his hand around Shane’s cock. Ilya’s lips find Shane’s neck and he pants against his skin as Shane writhes in his arms, his name spilling over and over from Shane’s throat.

“You like to watch my cock sinking into you, da?” He tweaks Shane’s nipple again just to hear the gratifying whimper he makes. “Such a slut for me.”

“God, Ilya,” Shane half-sobs, reaching for his own cock. Ilya slaps his hand away.

“No,” he growls. 

“Ilya - I need -” Shane’s voice is wet and desperate and Ilya grins against his throat.

“Oh, I know what you need,” Ilya replies. “You will feel me for days, when I am done with you.”

Shane dissolves into incoherence, Ilya’s cock dragging over that bundle of nerves inside him over and over as Ilya thrusts up relentlessly, his own orgasm building in his core. And when Ilya whispers “come for me, Шаня,” against Shane’s throat, Shane shakes apart with Ilya’s name on his lips. The clench and spasm of Shane’s hole around his cock has Ilya following right behind him. 

“Fuck, that was hot,” Shane laughs weakly, and Ilya can feel it vibrating through his ribs into his own chest. 

“I suppose that is one way to motivate a lazy man like me,” Ilya replies.

Shane pulls away carefully and then helps Ilya to sit up, too, and takes Ilya’s face in his hands.

“I don’t think any part of you is lazy,” Shane says softly. “I never have. It kills me you don’t see yourself the way I do, Illy.”

“And what way is that?”

“A survivor.”

Suddenly Ilya’s throat feels tight.

“You forget sometimes,” Shane says, running his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone, and his eyes are so soft. “How fucking incredible you are. So I’ll remember for you.”

***

Shane

Later, the house is quiet again, and it settles under Shane’s skin like an itch he cannot reach. He rolls his shoulders and does a few lunges, savoring the pull in his hamstrings, but it does little to relieve his nervous energy. From the bedroom he can hear the television, the sound drifting through the house like background noise. 

His phone buzzes once: his mom, texting both him and Ilya, inviting them over for dinner. He yells up to Ilya, who grunts in acknowledgement.

He pads around the kitchen, rinses out two glasses, wipes down the counter because he needs something to do with his hands. Outside, the sky has that heavy, woolen look it gets before a real snow. The forecast is calling for flurries, maybe an inch or two by morning, but the clouds hanging over Ilya’s house are low and swollen like they’re holding their breath.

Good running weather.

Shane walks up to the bedroom to change into a pair of fleece-lined joggers and a lightweight jacket. Ilya is sprawled on the bed, scrolling through his phone. The TV hums low, hockey replays running before the game tonight.

“Admirals are playing at Montreal,” Ilya observes. “Should be a good game.”

“An easy game,” Shane says dismissively. 

“Ah yes,” Ilya says easily, swatting Shane’s ass playfully when he passes the bed. “I forget we are a Montreal household. Boo, Scott Hunter.”

Shane hesitates, lets his fingers tangle with Ilya’s for a moment. Even here, in this easy domesticity, and the worry of the last several weeks behind them - Shane finds it’s hard to let go. 

“Think I’m going to go for a run,” he tries for casual. “Can I get you anything before I go?”

“I am not going to break if you leave the house for an hour, Shane,” Ilya replies.

“I know,” Shane replies, unconvinced. Ilya watches him for a second, something softer flickering through his expression.

“Go,” he says, nudging Shane’s hand away with his thumb. “I do not need babysitter. Even if he is very fuckable.”

“Shut up,” Shane retorts, but there’s no heat in it. And he lingers a little longer anyway, long enough to press a quick kiss to Ilya’s temple, warm skin under his lips, familiar and grounding. Ilya makes a contented noise, leaning into it for half a second before pulling back.

“Go,” he says again, a lazy smile on his face. He’s already half-turned toward the television again, one hand still idly resting where Shane left it, like he hasn’t fully let go either. “Mama Yuna says dinner at six. You are very slow, Shane. If you don't go now we will be late.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, and the glint in Ilya's eyes threatens to undo him entirely. 

"You will have to sprint if you want time for that before dinner."

***

Shane

The path around the lake is relatively empty. Shane passes a dad with a stroller, a dog walker bundled in a parka, and another fellow jogger trying to get in a few laps before the snow settles in.

He bets himself he can squeeze in the 10km loop around the lake before he needs to head back to the house. As his legs stretch out beneath him, the tension he’s been carrying for weeks is finally starting to burn out of his muscles. For the first time since the island, he feels…normal. He feels good.

By the time he hits the wooded home stretch of the trail, his thoughts have drifted somewhere softer: the ring. It’s still where he hid it the morning after he got home from Montreal, tucked inside a battered shoebox in the back of his closet where Ilya will never look. He pictures the moment the way he has a dozen times already. It needs to be perfect. Ilya deserves perfect.

Maybe after dinner tonight. His parents will cook something Ilya loves, they’ll all yell about the game, Ilya relaxed and warm and safe. Maybe they’ll walk home through the snow, slow and quiet, the whole city soft and white.

Maybe he does it then: no big speech, no audience, just the two of them and the moon overhead and Ilya, I love you more than my own life. You are my home. Marry me. Say yes. The words settle warm in his chest.

By the time he turns back toward the house, the first flakes are starting to fall, thin needles of snow that catch in his hair and melt against his skin.

He runs the last stretch almost laughing.

Chapter 16: you know it breaks my heart

Chapter Summary

Shane bursts through the front door, stamps the snow off his shoes and peels off his jacket, his whole body humming with that loose, exhausted happiness that only comes after a good run.

Chapter Notes

Shane

Shane bursts through the front door, stamps the snow off his shoes and peels off his jacket, his whole body humming with that loose, exhausted happiness that only comes after a good run.

“Ilya?” he calls.

He pads through the living room and the kitchen, planning to steal a quick shower and maybe drag Ilya back into bed before they have to leave for dinner. He takes the stairs two at a time. He pushes open the bedroom door.

“Ilya, how fast can you get undressed -” 

Ilya’s sitting on the bed in the dark, the gray sky pressing against the window, and Shane’s face is plastered all over the television screen in lurid, vivid saturation. Shane’s eyes snag on the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

#LETSHANEPLAY: METROS SUSPEND HOLLANDER FOLLOWING PARTNER’S SEASON-ENDING INJURY

“Is your turn to be on news,” Ilya says in a tone Shane has never heard before.

His attention flicks to the ESPN broadcast, and his name is in the anchor’s mouth.

“- fans are lighting up the internet with #LetShanePlay, trending on Twitter, on Reddit, and taking over the discourse across NHL message boards. News has leaked from Hollander’s camp that the Montreal captain and former Olympian has been benched indefinitely following Ilya Rozanov’s plane crash in January. Rozanov, of course, was the only survivor of the crash and suffered a devastating ACL injury requiring extensive surgical repair. Our sources confirm that the decision to suspend Hollander is related to a request for leave. One can only imagine he’s looking to take off time to take care of Rozanov.”

“That’s right, Chip,” the pretty female reporter replies. “We all expected to see Hollander back on the ice for tonight’s home game against New York, but Montreal head coach Theriault confirms Hollander won’t be in attendance. League representatives have refused to comment on the status of Hollander’s contract, but even the most casual hockey fan can infer Hollander’s request is directly related to Rozanov’s potentially career-ending injury. Hollander and Rozanov famously came out as a couple immediately following Rozanov’s accident, filming a heartfelt statement from Rozanov’s hospital bed. The announcement left the hockey world reeling, but they’ve rapidly become internet sweethearts.”

“The First Husbands of Hockey,” Chip quips, earning a smile from the reporter. “And Amy, do you think there’s any truth to the rumors that Shane’s the one who walked out of his contract?”

“I think his hand was forced,” Amy says with finality. “If he made a request for a sabbatical and was refused, what else could he do?”

“Got to respect him sticking to his guns,” Chip concedes, “but it could be a short-sighted plan for the beleaguered Montreal captain. If the Metros won’t release him from his contract, he won’t be able to sign with another team - he’ll be stuck in limbo indefinitely.”

“It would be a damn shame to bench that level of generational talent to try and make a point,” Amy says severely. She’s clearly Team Hollanov, Shane thinks. “If the Commissioner has any sense, he’ll handle this quietly and with some empathy. This could be a PR disaster for the Metros franchise, and the League at large.”

“Amy, we’ve got a collection of reactions to the #LetShanePlay hashtag - let’s see what our viewers are saying.”

The newscast smash-cuts to a group of drunk hockey bros staggering out of a late-night game in Toronto. One of them grabs the mic and yells, “Bro, that Hollander/Rozanov situation is the most romantic shit I’ve ever seen in my life. Hayden Pike can lead the Metros, let Hollander be with his man.”

Smashcut to a couple of girls in Centaurs jerseys: “Shane is just doing what any good boyfriend would do! The fact that the NHL won’t respect their relationship is homophobic!”

Smashcut to Bood, Dykstra, and Hayes after a game, sweaty and still in their gear: “Hollander’s a good guy. He just wants what any of us want - to be with the person he loves.”

“This isn’t the right hill to die on,” Dykstra adds.

More clips flash across the screen: More fans. Hayden, who looks angrier than Shane has ever seen him. Cliff Marleau, still playing for the Raiders after all these years, and aggressively supportive towards his former captain. 

Smashcut to Scott fucking Hunter: “Commissioner Crowell claims the NHL welcomes players from all walks of life, but his actions don’t match those words. Ilya Rozanov went through a horrific trauma. It’s the most natural thing in the world that Hollander wants to spend time with him during recovery, instead of being on the road for the next four months. They were forced to go public by events outside of their control; they shouldn’t be forced to go back in the closet to make the League more comfortable. We have a lot of work to do to make this game truly inclusive, and it’s discouraging to see another public example of the institutionalized homophobia so ingrained in the League’s history. I’m disappointed, but not surprised.”

“What would you say to Hollander and Rozanov?”

“I’d tell them to not back down,” Hunter answers, looking directly at the camera. “Don’t let them tell you that you’re not entitled to the same rights as other players. Don’t let them pretend that this is anything less than discrimination.” 

Ilya mutes the television.

“Ilya -”

“Tell me you did not know about this,” Ilya says in that dangerously low voice. “Tell me is just some fan campaign.”

“Ilya,” Shane says helplessly, stepping toward the bed. “It was Farah’s idea -”

“You said everything is fine,” Ilya snaps, pushing to his feet so fast he hisses in pain. Shane reaches out to steady him, but Ilya puts his hands up. “You told me the Metros understand. They want what is best for us.”

He spits, something Shane has never seen him do off the ice.

“You fucking lied to me, Shane.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Shane says, heat flooding his face.

“I want to know why.”

“You need help,” Shane says instantly. “You got hurt. You almost died, Ilya. I nearly lost you. You need someone to help you carry this, keep you safe.”

“I did not ask for this!” Ilya explodes. “You cannot keep me locked up here like zoo animal! I am tired of telling you I am fine. I know it is scary, but you need to be brave. And now what? You give up your entire career because you are too afraid to let me out of your sight? Shane, you will be miserable without hockey.”

“I’ll be miserable without you!” Shane fires back. “What do you want me to say? Pretend those days after the crash weren’t the worst of my life? You think my contract with Montreal means more to me than you?”

“This is not what I am saying,” Ilya grinds out, like it hurts. “I am saying you cannot spend your life trying to protect me. You will end up resenting me.”

“You are my whole life,” Shane says, voice breaking. “I thought you knew that.”

“Not all of this is about you,” Ilya snaps. “This happened to me. I had no choice about crashing in the ocean. No choice about surgery. No choice about losing my career because of something I did not ask for.” His voice falters, just for a second. “And then you just throw yours away like it means nothing.”

“It doesn’t mean nothing,” Shane says hoarsely. “I just - I’m trying to help you. That’s what you do for people you love, Ilya.”

“It does not help,” Ilya says. “It makes it worse. Because now, every time you look at me, I will know what it cost you. You are treating me like a tragedy. And you are loving me like I am already dead.” Ilya says, and the words land between them like broken glass.

Silence drops between them. Shane’s breath stutters, and his face is wet, and the floor is collapsing underneath him. 

“I cannot live like that, Shane,” Ilya says. “I cannot be the reason your life got smaller.”

“You’re not,” Shane whispers.

“But I will be,” Ilya says. “Every day.” He meets Shane’s eyes, something raw beneath the anger. “And one day you will look at me and wonder what your life would have been if I had not survived.”

It hits Shane so hard he’s dizzy, the words ringing in his ears, and he’s nauseous and flushed all over. “You don’t mean that,” Shane whispers.

“Do not tell me what I mean,” Ilya says, but the anger has drained out of him. Now, he just sounds tired. “You are self-destructing, Hollander.”

“I’m not,” Shane says, tears sliding down his face. “This - you and me - might be the only thing I’ve ever done that matters. I need to be here with you.”

Ilya closes his eyes.

“You are still on that island,” he says after a moment. “Still trying to keep me alive every second of the day. But we are not there anymore.”

“I almost lost you,” Shane says.

Ilya looks at the ceiling, like he’s trying to keep the tears from coming, like he cannot look at Shane and get the words out.

“And now you have lost your team. Your contract. Your livelihood. And you did it without even asking if that is something I could live with.”

“I did it because I love you.”

“I know,” Ilya says. His hands tremble where they rest on his knees. “And that is exactly why you cannot stay here.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“You need to go back to Montreal. You need to fix this.”

“No.”

“I am serious, Hollander.”

“No,” Shane says again, shaking his head harder. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“I am telling you I am fine -”

“You won’t be!” Shane says, and it comes out like a sob, stepping forward with his hands out like he can physically hold the world together. “Ilya, you can barely walk across the room without pain. What happens when something goes wrong? What if you fall? What if you -”

“Stop.”

The word cracks through the room. Ilya’s breathing is uneven now, and his eyes are so sad, and he looks destroyed but at least he’s looking at Shane.

“You are doing it again,” Ilya says. “Talking about me like I am problem you must solve.”

“You’re not a problem -”

“Da, I am not. I am a man,” Ilya interrupts, voice rough, “who has already lost enough. I will not take your life too.”

“You’re not taking anything from me.”

“Every day you stay here, you are cutting pieces off yourself. Your team. The ice. The life you built. Maybe is not problem now, because we are pretending this house is the whole world.”

He gestures weakly around the room, this place which has become their sanctuary.

“But it will become problem,” Ilya says. “Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not even next year. But one day you will wake up and realize the world is smaller because of me.” His throat works. “And I cannot live with that.”

Shane shakes his head, tears spilling over now. “I keep telling you. I don’t care about any of that.”

“But I do.”

The room goes very quiet. All Shane can hear is the swish of the snow against the window and the pounding of his own heart.

“I care,” Ilya says, soft, “because I love you. You are the only person I have ever loved like this, Shane. And that is why you are going to go back.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“Maybe not. But I can decide what I need. And I cannot move on while you watch me like you are waiting for me to break.” 

Ilya drags a hand over his face. “I need space to learn how to live like this,” he says, a sharpness to his voice that sets Shane’s teeth on edge. “And you need space to remember who you are when you are not trying to save me.”

Shane is slammed back to their fight after Christmas, when Ilya told him to walk away and he did and then Ilya got onto that plane and his life almost ended. It hits so hard he staggers, and has to reach out and hold onto the bedframe for support. 

“You’re asking me to leave again,” he whispers. 

“I am telling you to.”

Shane lets out a broken laugh. “Jesus Christ. You think I’m just going to get in the car and drive away from you?”

“I know you are not hearing me,” Ilya says. “I know you do not want this. But you are going to go, even though you are going to hate me for a while.”

Shane wipes his face with the heel of his hand. “I could never hate you. That’s the whole fucking point. I’ve never managed it, not since the first time I skated against you, and I’m not starting now. You’re really doing this? After everything?”

Ilya stands and crosses the room slowly and puts his hands on Shane’s shoulders and Shane clings to him, wanting nothing more than to kiss him until he wakes up from this nightmare unfolding all around him.

“Is not forever,” Ilya says softly. “I just need to know I can stand on my own.”

“Illy,” Shane whispers, small and wrecked. 

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya says. Gently, he pulls his arms out of Shane’s grip and walks stiffly out of the room. The door shuts behind him with a sharp snap, and Shane feels it like a crack in the bottom of his heart. 

Dimly, he realizes he can hear Ilya walking down the stairs, the jingle of his keys; the front door opens, and then Shane runs.

He’s aware that he’s yelling, and his feet are slipping in his socks, and the neighbors can probably hear everything but all he can think is stay, stay, stay.

Shane tears through the house and skids down the slushy front steps, breath ragged, panic cutting through every word. “Ilya, stop. You’re not cleared to drive. Get out of the car.”

Ilya pauses with one hand on the car door, keys dangling limply from his fingertips. Shane knows he must look insane: socks soaked from the icy gravel, hair a mess, falling apart because he’s watching the worst thing in the world happen in slow motion.

Ilya looks at Shane like he’s never seen him before.

“If you love me half as much as you say you do, you will get back on the ice.”

And then he shuts the door of the G-Wagon and the sound lands like a gunshot and Shane’s knees lock up and he’s afraid he might actually collapse on the spot and that might be preferable to watching Ilya leave him.

“Ilya -” Shane chokes. The engine turns over.

“No. No, no, no -” Shane stumbles forward as the car starts backing out of the drive. “Stop the car. Ilya, stop the fucking car!”

Ilya doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the road as the tires crunch over the gravel. Shane is standing in the middle of the driveway now, arms hanging useless at his sides, like he’s forgotten how his body works.

The car reaches the road and for one stupid second Shane thinks it’s going to stop, his heart pounding raw and enormous in his throat. Instead, the taillights disappear down the hill. And Shane is left standing there, shaking, staring after him like if he just waits long enough Ilya might come back.

***

The snow is falling harder now.

Shane sits on the front steps in his socks, elbows on his knees, staring down the dark driveway where Ilya’s taillights disappeared. The cold should bother him. His toes are already numb. Snowflakes catch in his hair, melt down the back of his neck.

The house behind him is as Ilya left it. The front door is open and the television is still on in the bedroom, voices speculating about trades and injuries and Shane and Ilya like the world hasn’t just split open. And the fucking ring is still in a shoebox in his closet, and he doesn’t know if he will ever get the chance, now, to slip it onto Ilya’s finger.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers to the empty yard. 

As if summoned by this confession, headlights sweep across the trees and Shane’s heart launches into his throat. He pushes to his feet so fast the porch railing rattles.

But it’s not Ilya. It’s his parents’ SUV turning into the driveway, and all the strength leaves his body and he thumps heavily back down onto the steps, bruising his tailbone. He hardly feels it. 

“Shane?”

Yuna takes two steps toward him and then stops short, taking him in: wet socks, shaking, snow clinging to his hair, rank with dried sweat. “Oh, honey.” She closes the distance and sinks down next to him, wraps her arms around him.

The moment she touches him, whatever is left holding him together just…gives. Shane folds into her like something broken.

“I fucked up, Mom,” he chokes into her shoulder. “I fucked everything up.”

Yuna holds him tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. David comes around the front of the car, slower, his expression already grim. He feels his mother lift her head, her eyes meeting his dad’s, feels the rising anger in the gesture. She's always had his back, and he can feel her shoulders set resolutely. 

“What happened?” he asks.

Shane tries to answer, but it comes out in pieces, fractured and jumbled up.

“He saw the news,” he says, words hitching between breaths. “About the suspension. I didn’t tell him, I didn't tell anyone. He thinks - Ilya thinks I quit because of him and now he’s gone and I -”

His voice collapses again. Yuna and David exchange a look.

“He drove away,” Shane finishes helplessly. “He’s not even cleared to drive, Mom.”

“We saw the news too,” David says gently, sitting down on the other side of Shane, taking his hand, steadying him. “Your mom was setting the table, and I just turned it on to check the starting lineup between Montreal and New York, and, well…the hashtag is everywhere.”

Shane pulls back just enough to stare at them.

“I spoke to Farah,” Yuna says. “She called me maybe twenty minutes ago. We drove straight here.”

“She didn’t call me,” Shane says hoarsely.

“She did. We all did, Shane. You weren’t answering your phone. And when you didn’t show up for dinner…”

“We were afraid it all went sideways,” David finishes. “Did you really give Crowell an ultimatum? What were you thinking, Shane?”

Shane looks at his parents, really looks: these two people he has always relied on and who even now will not fail him. They love him, and love Ilya, and they’ve never asked him to be anything but honest.

“I was thinking about him,” he says. “Everything I said, everything I did -” He swallows down a sob. “I was thinking about him.”

“Farah said the commissioner is requesting a meeting,” Yuna says. “Tonight, after the Metros game. With him, and the owners, and Theriault.”

Shane lets out a hollow laugh.

“Great,” he says. “Good for him.”

“Shane -”

“I don’t give a fuck about hockey right now,” he snaps. “Ilya just walked out of here, and I don’t know where he went. I don’t know if he’s okay.”

“I know,” Yuna says. Snow settles on her dark hair, catching in the wool collar of her coat. “I know, baby. But you need to go.”

Shane stares at her like she’s lost her mind. It’s exactly what Ilya had told him, and for one paranoid moment he wonders if they are all in on this, if the universe has united the three most important people in his life to crush him into the ground, humble him to dust. 

“Are you serious?”

“You need to be there, Shane.”

“No,” he says immediately. “No chance. I’m not leaving the house.”

“Shane.”

“What if he comes back?” he demands, voice cracking. “What if he comes back and I’m not here?”

Yuna strokes her fingers through his hair, the weight of his head heavy on her shoulder. 

“What did he say before he left?”

“He told me to go back,” Shane says, voice muffled against her shoulder. “That if I love him, I won’t give everything up. And I can’t do that.”

“Can’t,” she repeats, “Or won’t?”

“He left Boston for me,” he says, quieter now. “Signed with the worst team in the League just so we could -” His breath hitches. “So we could try. He didn’t even flinch.”

“And you think the answer to that is to do the same thing?” Yuna asks.

“Yes,” Shane says immediately.

“That’s not a partnership,” his mother says gently. “That’s two people taking turns disappearing for each other.”

“I’m not disappearing,” he insists, but there’s less certainty in it now. “I need him to know I choose him. That I will always choose him. That I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that, sweetie,” she says. “But if you want to build a life together, you can’t do that by setting yours on fire every time he’s hurting.”

His dad sits down beside them too, puts his hand on Shane’s shoulder, warm and steady.

“If he asked you to drive to Montreal and figure this out,” David says, “maybe that’s the first step, Shane.”

“I can’t drive,” he admits. “I feel like I’m going to shake apart. I don’t think I can even get there.”

“I’ll drive,” Yuna says.

He blinks at her, and she reaches out and brushes back the dark hair falling into his eyes, the way she used to when he was just a kid.

“What?”

“I’ll take you to Montreal.”

“I’ll stay here,” David volunteers. “Keep an eye on things. Leave the light on, in case he changes his mind.”

Shane's looking at them, and sees all the same love and fear and determination he saw in them the night of the crash. And just like Ilya, they're not asking him to have it all figured out.

They're just asking him to go. 

“Okay,” he says.

Yuna stands up, brushes off the seat of her pants, and holds her hand out for the key. 

Chapter End Notes

I promise you all a happy ending. I just really need to put them THRU IT first.

Chapter 17: dying just to live

Chapter Summary

The rational part of his brain - a part that sounds irritatingly like Shane - keeps pointing out that he should not be doing this. His leg aches from working the pedals and his reaction time is slower than it should be. The PT very specifically told him not to drive yet.
Ilya is tired of other people telling him what to do.

Ilya

The snow gets heavier the further north he drives.

At first it’s just flurries, fluffy white confetti skittering across the windshield; but by the time Ilya turns off the highway the road is already dusted over, the dark asphalt disappearing under a thin, treacherous layer of ice.

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

The rational part of his brain - a part that sounds irritatingly like Shane - keeps pointing out that he should not be doing this. His leg aches from working the pedals and his reaction time is slower than it should be. The PT very specifically told him not to drive yet.

Ilya is tired of other people telling him what to do.

The cottage road appears suddenly out of the trees, a narrow strip of packed snow that curves along the edge of the lake. In summer the place feels open and bright, water flashing through the pines and the call of loons, eerie and alien, echoing off the far shore.

Now it’s all monochrome: white and gray and lonely.

The cottage has always been a miracle. It’s the first place he and Shane were fully themselves together, and the first place he told someone the truth about his mother’s death. It’s the first place Shane kissed I love you into his skin, healing something in Ilya he’d long since given up hope of ever fixing. The cottage is the one place on earth that feels the most like home.

Or at least, it used to be.

The tires slip slightly when he turns into the driveway, and he slams on the brakes, and his knee screams in protest.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

The plow has come through once, maybe two days ago, leaving a shallow berm of frozen snow at the entrance. The G-Wagon bumps over it with a heavy jolt and the rear tires spin before finally catching.

The cottage sits at the end of the drive, dark and quiet under the falling snow. Ilya throws the car into park, hands still clenched around the steering wheel. The anger is still roaring through him, hot and ugly, but underneath it is something worse. That look on Shane’s face: broken and confused and so fucking scared. 

Ilya rests his forehead against the leather steering wheel, warm from his white-knuckle grip, snow starting to pile up on the hood of the SUV. Then he opens the door of the SUV and steps out into the snow. His right leg buckles inside the brace, but he refuses to cry out. Instead he leans against the car, locks the brace, and trudges the few meters to the door. His knee complains with every step and he left his pain medication at home, tucked into his nightstand, resolute that he would not need them anymore.

The snow on the front steps is higher than his ankles. He realizes he never even bothered to put boots on as he was leaving Ottawa. His sneakers are soaked by the time he fumbles the key into the lock. 

I need space to learn how to live like this, he’d said. But why would anyone think he’s got his shit together, if he can’t even put on the right shoes? 

Snow spills over the threshold and into the cottage and he slams the door shut, trying not to slip on the tiles. The cabin feels enormous and lonely and Ilya stands in a cold, slushy mess of his own making, and he’s got plenty of space now.

“Good,” he says aloud to the dark room, voice rough with anger he’s not sure where to put anymore.

The cottage is as they left it in August, as if Ilya’s entire world has not turned upside-down in six short months: blankets folded neatly on the couch, and two mugs in the dishrack, a deck of cards and an open cribbage board still scattered across the coffee table.

For a second the memory comes back so clearly it almost knocks the air out of him: Shane sitting cross-legged on the floor and wearing Ilya’s hoodie, accusing Ilya of cheating.

“You absolutely counted that wrong.”

“You lose,” Ilya said, delighted. “Take off your pants.”

“There is no such thing as strip cribbage -”

Ilya drags a hand down his face.

From the massive windows in the living room, he can see the moon over the dock, glowing silver on the ice. It’s beautiful, like something from a postcard. Impulsively, he snaps a picture and posts it to his grid: another piece of ephemera, his poor attempts to capture what cannot last.

He walks stiffly to the wood stove and throws a cord of seasoned hardwood into the grate, his knee protesting loudly when he stoops to light the fire. It makes him think of the island. The island is pressing in all around him tonight: isolated and in pain and missing Shane, even after everything. 

He sits down hard on the floor, knee throbbing, and his face gets warm slowly but the rest of him is so cold. He’s never been in the cottage without Shane. And so this place that is supposed to feel like home just feels like somewhere Shane isn’t.

The anger starts to melt out of him like the snow on the floor.

“This is what you wanted,” he says to the empty space.

***

Shane

Shane can’t sit still. 

He tries to think about his yoga practice, tries to channel some of that inward control, and he is failing desperately. He keeps tugging his hands through his hair, and cracking his knuckles, and his leg is bouncing so much it’s sloshing the coffee in the paper cup next to his mom.

Shane’s already finished his, burnt and cheap and doing absolutely nothing to settle his nerves. It churns in his stomach, acidic, and feels like it’s burning a hole in his gut.

Shane refreshes Ilya’s Instagram profile obsessively, because Ilya has turned off his phone and so Shane cannot track his location. But there are no new posts, no new story, nothing that tells Shane the next right step to take.

His hand shaking, he taps his DMs and opens the messages from the night of the crash, messages that he’s been avoiding since then, messages he cannot read without crying because holy shit, he thought these would be his very last words.

You are the best thing in my life.

I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

Shane scrubs his face with both hands and lets out a broken breath. His mother’s eyes flick to him, and then back to the dark highway, swirling with snow.

“I should’ve just told him Theriault suspended me. I should’ve told him everything. Instead I -” He gestures helplessly. “I tried to fix it. Tried to fix him, even though he doesn’t need fixing. And  I fucked it up, like I always do.”

“Shane,” his mother says, “do you remember when you were twelve and tried to fix the washing machine? You flooded the entire basement.”

“That’s not -”

“You have a good heart,” she continues mildly. “Then and now. You saw a problem. You wanted to make it better. But you ended up making it much worse.”

Shane drops his head back against the seat.

“Great,” he mutters. “Fantastic. Glad we’ve established I’m an idiot.”

“That’s not what I said.” Yuna sighs softly. “Listen to me, Shane. You two just went through something people spend their entire lives trying to process. Trauma like that changes people. It makes everything seem upside-down, and all you want to do is hold on to how things were before. It would make anyone lash out, to try and control whatever he could.”

“I wasn’t trying to control him,” he says weakly. “I was just…”

“Afraid,” Yuna finishes.

He nods once. The word feels too small, but it’s all he’s got. It cannot begin to describe the hollow, gnawing sensation of thinking he would never see Ilya again, like standing outside of a burning building and knowing the one thing you want is inside, and that you will never be able to salvage it. Knowing that, for the rest of his life, he would have lived with the guilt, and the shame, and the loss. It turns his stomach, even now. He can’t even articulate it in words. 

Afraid is close enough.

Then Yuna says gently, “And he’s afraid too.”

Shane turns toward her.

“He’s not afraid. He’s furious.”

“He may have been,” she agrees. “But anger is often fear wearing a big coat.”

“You sound like Dad.”

“Your dad is smarter than you give him credit for,” Yuna points out.

“Yeah,” Shane mutters. “Everyone’s very smart tonight.”

“You are smart, Shane. You are brilliant. But feelings are not always logical when people are hurt.”

Shane looks down at the phone in his lap, at the messages that tore him open. 

Whatever happens, I am with you.

Shane locks his phone, the screen abruptly turning black, because he can’t look at it anymore without screaming.

“Shane,” his mom continues, her voice firm now, “he almost died. And now the man he loves is rearranging his entire life around him. That is terrifying. Not only does he have to figure out how to move forward, but he has to figure out how to be enough that you move forward with him. And you’re not letting that happen, honey. He needs you to do this with him, not do it for him.”

Shane swallows, and then the truth crashes through him like an avalanche.

“I want to marry him, Mom,” he whispers. “I told you, after the crash - I should have asked him years ago. But I didn’t, because I was so fucking scared. And if I had, if I’d done it after surgery, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I would have married him, and I would have gotten leave to care for him - I would never have been suspended, Theriault would have been forced to honor our commitment - and he wouldn’t have needed space. I wouldn’t have driven him away.” 

“Then why haven’t you asked him?”

“I don’t want him to think I’m doing it out of fear,” Shane says slowly. “Or obligation. Or some knee-jerk reaction I haven’t thought through. That I’m just asking because of everything that happened.”

“I actually don’t think there’s anything on earth more normal than wanting to get married after what you’ve been through, Shane,” his mom replies. “Stuff like that…well, it shows you what matters pretty clearly, honey.”

His breath hitches. “All I’ve wanted, this whole time, was to find him and keep him safe with me forever. And now he’s gone, and maybe hurt, and it’s all my fault. What if this is it? What if I already broke it?” He sniffs loudly, fighting down a sob with his whole body. “What if he’s done with me?”

Yuna snorts, and Shane turns bodily in the passenger seat to stare at her.

“Sorry,” she says fondly. “But that is ridiculous.”

“Mom -”

“Let me ask you something,” Yuna says. “If you do marry him someday, do you think this will be the worst fight you ever have?”

Shane thinks of a future with Ilya: kids, and a dog if he wants one, and summers at the cottage. Arguing over where to live, what school to send the kids to, and if they’ll play hockey; fights about career moves, and what color to paint the bedroom in a house that belongs to them both.

“Probably not,” Shane concedes. 

“Then this is just practice.”

After a minute Shane says, “God, I hope he’s okay.”

Yuna reaches over and squeezes his shoulder.

“He will be,” she says. Then she adds, gently but firmly: “But you still have to show him you’re coming back.”

***

Shane

They arrive in Montreal just as the crowds are flooding out of the arena. Shane pulls a toque from the glovebox and pulls it low over his hair. His mom hands her his sunglasses, which feels ridiculous, but he’s grateful for a shield between himself and the rest of the world, rubbed raw like he is.

The chatter of the departing fans tells him Montreal lost to the Admirals, 3-2, which will make this conversation even more painful. Shane and his mother slip in the players’ entrance and head straight for the executive suite. 

When the elevators open, Theriault’s assistant is there, even though Shane knows it’s way past her working hours. Her cheeks are blazing and her eyes are furious and when she sees Shane, her nostrils flare like she’s going into battle. 

“You came,” she breathes. 

“I did,” he says, and he holds out his hand to shake hers but she hugs him instead.

“Tell him exactly where to go,” she whispers in his ear, and then the office door opens and Crowell steps out. He’s flanked by Theriault on one side, and a man he’s never met in person on the other.

Brandon Wiebe shoots him a quick, triumphant smile.

“Mrs. Hollander,” Crowell says in an unctuous voice that barely conceals the rage underneath. “Shane. Let’s get this over with.”

Shane straightens his spine and locks eyes with the commissioner as he walks into the office, his mother close behind. His eyes skim over Farah, sitting in the same leather chair by the window Shane himself was in just weeks ago, hands folded quietly in her lap over a stack of paperwork. 

When Crowell gestures to a chair, Shane says, “I’d rather stand.”

“I’d like us to be cordial,” Crowell says. 

“Funny. I was hoping we could be honest,” Shane retorts.

Crowell grimaces, but he sits down heavily in the chair behind Theriault’s desk. Wiebe stands beside the door, Theriault to his right, and Yuna moves to perch on the arm of Farah’s armchair.

“Mr. Hollander,” he says carefully, but Shane can see a muscle working in his jaw, “you’ve managed to generate… quite a bit of attention.”

“I didn’t generate anything. The fans did, and then the media amplified it."

“The hashtag campaign has created an unfortunate narrative,” Theriault offers. “It’s detracting from everything you built here, Shane. Your legacy.”

“You love that word unfortunate, Coach,” Shane says in a carefully neutral voice. “But my legacy isn’t Montreal. It’s not winning at the Olympics in Sochi. It’s not even all the Cups I’ve brought home. I want my legacy to be standing up for what’s right when this entire league wants to silence me. My legacy is the love I have for Ilya, and putting that first, and living authentically. The fans see that. And you can’t shut that down.”

Crowell looks like he wants to punch Shane. His hands are curled into fists on the desk, and a vein throbs in his temple. 

“The league has an obligation to protect its reputation. Curate its public image. Enforce our values. Your brand has always been surgically crafted, Shane. You can appreciate the position we find ourselves in.”

Shane scoffs. “Your position is trending.”

Crowell’s eyes narrow.

“Yes,” he says flatly. “Which brings us to why you’re here.”

He gestures at Farah, who stands and hands Shane a folder from the stack of paperwork in her arms.

“We’ve decided the best solution is a fresh start.”

“For who?”

“For everyone.” Crowell leans back slightly, clearly irritated he has to say the next part at all. “Ottawa is prepared to buy out your contract.”

“You told me, very clearly, that you’d ensure no one would touch me if I didn’t get in line.”

Crowell ignores that comment. He grinds the words out like they’re stuck between his teeth. “Seven years. Free agent status. Immediate eligibility.”

Shane stares at him.

“You’re trading me. To the Centaurs.”

“A transfer,” Crowell corrects stiffly. “Not a trade. New franchise. No lingering controversy.”

“Starting center,” Wiebe finally speaks from his spot next to the door. There’s a small, smug smile on his face. “Our team holds a formal vote for our captain. But I plan to put your name forward for consideration.”

Shane finally opens the folder. The numbers inside make his eyebrows lift.

“This is more than my package from Montreal.”

“It’s in line with what your experience and reputation dictate.” Crowell looks like he wants to throw up.

“Right,” Shane says. “Because the internet’s on fire.”

Crowell’s patience visibly thins, and he runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth.

“Because the league would prefer to move forward, Mr. Hollander.”

“Let me guess,” Shane replies. “I would make a statement that’s supportive towards the League, and would express gratitude for allowing me to be at home with Ilya. Then this transfer puts a period on the conversation. This move shuts me up and lets you save face and swerve the heat you’re taking.”

“That,” Crowell says tightly, “is the hope.”

Shane closes the folder slowly. “You bench me, you let the media put my private life under a microscope, the fans riot online -”

“And now we are offering you the opportunity to carry on your career with a franchise that wants you,” Crowell cuts in sharply. “You can accept the deal, Mr. Hollander, or we can all continue enjoying the current media circus until the fans move on. And they will move on. I can’t promise this offer will still be there when they do.”

Shane’s gaze cuts from Farah, to his mother, to Brandon Wiebe, his body tight with anticipation. He thinks of how Ilya talks about this man, how the Centaurs rally around his partner, how they’re building something different.

And Ilya’s words come back to him: If you love me half as much as you say you do, you will get back on the ice.

“I need to talk this over first,” he says, “with my partner.”

Crowell looks like he wants to spit, but he compresses his mouth into a thin line.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, Hollander.”

Crowell extends his hand, his palm sweaty in the harsh light of the office. 

“I trust you’ll make the right choice.”

“You know, I was willing to walk away from all this,” Shane says, almost conversationally, although his heart is racing. “Turns out I’ve got something to prove. Not to you,” Shane adds, his gaze never faltering. Shane stands too and, even though his skin is crawling, takes Crowell’s hand. Crowell shakes it, a look of distaste clear on his broad face. He looks away first.

“Congratulations,” he says sourly. 

***

The arena vomits up Shane, Yuna, and Farah into the icy night. The streets are still busy, but most of the fans have left the immediate vicinity, and Shane is vibrating, and as soon as the doors close behind him his mother hugs him. He picks her up and crushes her to his chest.

“Ow, Shane.”

Sheepishly, he puts her down. Yuna’s already got the offer in her hand, skimming it quickly. Farah smiles at Shane.

“It’s airtight,” she reassures them both. “Shane, this is better than any of us could have hoped for. I’d tell you to go buy some lottery tickets, if I was a superstitious woman.”

“You did this,” Shane says with gratitude.

“No,” she says. “I just took the momentum that was already out there and channeled it. You have your new team to thank, too. Harris Drover is the Ottawa social media guy. He’s only 26, but he’s a genius at this stuff. He came up with your hashtag. He filmed a ton of soundbytes and packaged them up for ESPN and the NHL Network. He hunted down your teammates, and Scott Hunter, and Cliff Marleau along with all of those fans. Blasted them all over the internet. And your new coach gave his blessing, too - told us to do what we needed to close the deal, no questions asked.”

As if summoned, the door opens again behind them and Wiebe approaches, offering Shane his hand. Shane shakes it without hesitation.

“I’m proud to welcome you to the Centaurs,” Wiebe says, his dark eyes glinting with triumph. 

“It’s a really generous package, Coach,” Shane says. “I’ll do my best to earn it.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Wiebe replies. 

“And Ilya - the assistant coach offer -” Shane swallows. “It’s not my place to say much about it. It’s his career. But I want you to know how much it meant to him, that you’d ask him that.”

“His official offer is in that folder, too,” Wiebe nods towards Farah. “You can take it home to him, if you want.”

“No,” Shane says. “No, it’s important that it’s - that it’s his own decision. Coach, I’ve never let my feelings for Ilya get in the way of my game. I’m not going to start now. You’re going to get 100% from me, regardless of whether or not Ilya takes that job.”

“Glad to hear it,” Wiebe replies with a smile. “Farah, give me a call after you have a chance to review the offer with Rozanov.” He shakes Shane’s hand again. “We’re going to do great things with you on the team, Shane.”

Shane takes his copies of his new contract and walks back to the car with his mom, holding them to his chest. His hand is on the car door when his mom’s palm lands on his forearm. He looks at her, and her eyes are shining.

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’m proud of you,” Yuna says simply. “You didn’t let them push you around. You didn’t let them tell you who you are.”

Shane covers her hand with his own. She touches his cheek before getting into the car and engaging the ignition. Shane slides into the passenger seat, setting the paperwork carefully on the dashboard. He checks his phone, heart crawling up into his throat when he sees a text message pop up on his lockscreen, but his stomach sinks when he realizes it’s from his dad.

He hasn’t come back.

Yuna leans over the console and reads the message, too. Her eyes flick up to Shane’s face.

“Do you know where he is?” she asks gently.

Shane shakes his head. “He turned location settings off,” he says, but when he unlocks his phone, Instagram opens again on Ilya’s profile. There’s a new post. It’s so dark that he doesn’t recognize it at first, but the shape resolves as he stares at it. Moonlight stretches across frozen water, illuminating a lake thick with ice, trees dusted white like a Christmas card. A familiar dock is framed at the center of the photo.

When I thought I was going to die, I went home in my mind. 

To Russia?

No. Home, to the cottage, with you.

“Mom,” Shane breathes. He holds the phone out to Yuna with shaking hands, and she takes it, and he sees her eyes go round with recognition.

“I’ll call Hayden and Jackie,” she says immediately, her mind already formulating a plan. “They’ll let me stay the night, and Hayden can drive me back home in the morning. Head up to Lanaudière. Make sure he's safe.”

“No,” Shane says, happiness and disbelief fizzing in his stomach like ginger ale. “I need to go back to the Ottawa house first.”

“Just take the car,” Yuna urges. “You can go straight there, Shane.”

“No,” he says. “I’m not doing this halfway. I bought him a ring. It’s in my closet. I’m going to need it.”

Yuna's smile splits her whole face and without a word, she hands him back his phone and turns the engine over. Shane grips his phone a little tighter, seeing the cottage in his mind, the snow, the dock at the edge of the lake: already halfway down the road in his head.

He and Ilya know better than most how fast everything can end. Shane’s not wasting another night.

Chapter 18: but if nothing lasts forever

Chapter Summary

He’s back on the island.

He can hear that deafening roar of the plane breaking apart in his ears, but it doesn’t stop. It drones on and on as he staggers through the rough undergrowth of the live oaks, the stench of smoke and salt marsh stinging in the back of his throat, blue-black juice from saw palmetto berries staining his hands. The ground is uneven under his feet, a mix of splintered metal and rough sand and razor-sharp shells, every step threatening to crumble away beneath him.

Ilya

He’s back on the island.

He can hear that deafening roar of the plane breaking apart in his ears, but it doesn’t stop. It drones on and on as he staggers through the rough undergrowth of the live oaks, the stench of smoke and salt marsh stinging in the back of his throat, blue-black juice from saw palmetto berries staining his hands. The ground is uneven under his feet, a mix of splintered metal and rough sand and razor-sharp shells, every step threatening to crumble away beneath him.

Ilya.

Ilya jerks, and the island plunges into silence, the kind that comes after something has already gone very, very wrong.

Ilyushenka, the voice says again, and there’s only one person who ever called him that.

“Mama,” he whispers.

He swats at the Spanish moss hanging from the trees, tendrils tangling around his neck and threatening to choke him. 

He bursts through the trees onto the sand, and the sky is a soft blue the exact color of her eyes, and she’s standing knee-deep in the ocean as the plane fuselage smolders behind her, threatening to suck her under the waves as it breaks apart. Her blonde hair, burnished gold in the too-bright light refracted off the sea, falls over one shoulder just like he remembers.

He takes a step towards her, and she takes a step back, deeper into the water.

He freezes, and she does too.

“Mama, help me,” he says in Russian, and his voice is high and scared, and he is a little boy again.

Ilyushenka, look where you are going.

The beach slopes wildly, pitching down towards the water, and he’s sliding forward, hands out to catch himself, and the ground rushes up to meet him and there’s a searing pain in his knee but his mother’s hand is on his head, twisting his curls around her fingers like bright golden rings.

He reaches up and grabs both of her forearms, the water ice-cold around his chest, threatening to pull him under. She smiles down at him and he hears her voice right behind his eyes. The sun is so bright he cannot make out the features of her face. 

You have to get up.

“Help me,” he pleads. “My knee - I can’t -”

I am helping you.

He shakes his head, frantic.

“No, you’re not - you’re just -” His voice breaks. “You’re just watching me drown.”

Her thumb brushes once, briefly, over his hair, and she knocks all the air out of him: You cannot learn if I carry you, my darling. You have to learn to stand.

The ground shifts again under his feet, and the water’s up to his chin, and he can feel it rising. His fucking leg won’t hold him, it’s buckling underneath him every time he scrabbles in sand that feels like it’s melting into glass. 

Stand up, Ilyushenka.

“I can’t,” he says, and the water fills his mouth and it tastes like getting your teeth knocked out on the ice. “I can’t do it by myself -”

You are not by yourself anymore, his mother says.

“Mama,” he sobs, and then he is submerged, and someone calls his voice from very far away.

Ilya, over and over, and it’s his name in Shane’s mouth, the way it sounds when Ilya’s buried safe in his body. But the water is over his head and his mother is gone and Shane will not be able to find him on the bottom of the sea.

Ilya jerks awake, wrapped up on the bed in one of Shane’s old flannel shirts that still smells like a campfire. It’s still dark outside, the snow coming down harder and swirling against the glass in a ghostly haze. His face is wet and his knee is throbbing. 

He grabs his phone off the nightstand and checks the time - it’s so late that it’s turning to early, and he is alone, and his mother is not here and never will be, and he has walked away from Shane, has walked away from everyone - Yuna, David, his team, Sveta - who have been trying, in their own loving, imperfect ways, to hold him up. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. The word disappears into the dark.

He drags a hand over his face, trying to scrub off the remnants of his dream, the feeling of falling still lodged somewhere behind his ribs. His phone buzzes faintly in his hand.

Notifications stacked on notifications: text messages and missed calls and voicemails and FaceTime requests. He’s both surprised and disappointed that none are from Shane. His eyes snag on Svetlana’s name. He swipes open the messages, a blast of frantic Cyrillic mixed with English assaulting him immediately.

Ты, блять, издеваешься?

what the fuck! why is Jane all over newscasts??

#LETSHANEPLAY?? #HOLLANOV? You have broken internet.

This is absurd - Это нелепо

Ilyushka please call me

CALL ME RIGHT NOW

He stares at her name for a second, long enough that he almost talks himself out of it. The vulnerable feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach makes him want to vomit. 

You are not by yourself anymore.

He taps on the FaceTime icon. 

Svetlana answers mid-motion, pacing, curls tied up in a silk kerchief, her expression sharp and already furious.

“Finally,” she snaps, her familiar rapidfire Russian washing over him like sunshine. “I was about to - ”

“I made a choice I’m not sure I can take back," Ilya interrupts.

She stops mid-stride, brings the phone up sharply to her face so her huge hazel eyes fill the screen. 

“What is going on up there?” she asks. “The day I left, everything was good. You get this incredible job offer from your coach. Jane meets with Montreal and comes home smiling. Now I am watching these talking heads losing their minds over an indefinite suspension! It’s a full-blown media meltdown, Ilyusha. There are hashtags. It is all over NESN, and ESPN, and even sad little local news. I have never been trending. I am almost impressed.”

“You are learning it all at the same time I am,” Ilya says, mouth twisting in a poor imitation of a smile.

She arches an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“I did not know he was suspended, Sveta. He came home from Montreal, and he looked me in my fucking eyes and said everything is fine, Ilya, when really everything has been falling apart.” Ilya sits up on the bed and leans forward, elbows on his knees, phone braced in both hands like it’s the only steady thing in the room. “So I told him to leave.”

“You did what?”

“He made a decision without me,” Ilya says quickly. “About his career. About everything. He never said a fucking word. And I -” He gestures, and even on the phone screen he can tell it’s inadequate. “I lost my mind. Maybe. Probably. And he wouldn’t leave, he wouldn’t even talk about going to make this right with Montreal. I couldn’t look at him anymore. So I left instead.”

“You left.”

“I am at the cottage.”

“In the middle of the night.”

“Yes.”

“In January.”

“Yes.”

“With your knee like that.”

“Yes, Sveta.”

Svetlana inhales slowly through her nose, like she’s deciding whether to yell or hang up or get on a plane from Boston and come directly to the cottage to strangle him herself.

“You amaze me,” she says finally. “Truly. No notes.”

He huffs, a little breath of something that might almost be humor.

“Alright. So he blew up his career and then…what? Hoped you wouldn’t figure it out? That the NHL would blink before he did?”

“He quit because of me,” Ilya says, and his voice catches. “He asked for the rest of the season off to be with me. And when the League tells him no, he quits.”

There’s a very long pause while Svetlana scrutinizes his face. He feels like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“It’s insane. He can’t throw away his entire life because I got hurt. I will not be the reason - he will resent me forever, Sveta, even though he doesn’t see it yet -”

“Enough,” she cuts in. “Stop. You’re not wrong. That’s a huge decision. And yes, he absolutely should have talked to you first. But,” she adds. “You went nuclear. You didn’t say ‘this isn’t okay,’ you said ‘get out.’ And then you did all the things he is most afraid of: you vanished, where he doesn’t know how to follow and cannot be sure that you’re safe. I saw how he was when I visited, Ilyusha. The man does not know where to be if it’s not next to you. He is terrified. He is walking around with his heart outside of his body, and he goes through his worst nightmare, thinking you have died - and then he gets you back, he gets a second chance, and you push him away.”

Svetlana regards him with a soft look on her face, but the words that come out next hit him square in the chest. “You should know better than anyone what a second chance can mean. That not everyone is promised one.”

Ilya thinks of his mother, and her long blonde hair falling over the edge of the bed on the night that she died. Of his father, and Alexei, and how they will never know how hard he tried to make himself smaller for them because he loves them, even now. He thinks of the country he will never see again, the home he cannot return to.

Svetlana continues, ruthlessly practical as always. “Do you think he did this to hurt you?” 

His answer is swift, immediate. “No.”

“So why?”

“He looks at me like I am going to die,” he says. “Like if he stops paying attention for one second, I will just -” he cuts himself off, because he can’t bear to say the rest.

Svetlana’s expression softens.

“It makes me feel like I will never move past this,” Ilya admits. 

“I get that. You are used to standing on your own, Ilya. But you also drove three hours on a bad leg in a snowstorm,” she points out. “You are not exactly winning any awards for emotional regulation tonight.”

A reluctant laugh escapes him. “Dr. Sandovi would be very disappointed in me. Putting all her hard work at risk.”

“As she should be. This was stupid, Ilya, and you are not a stupid man. So why?” she asks again.

Ilya looks away from her face, from his phone, and out of the plate-glass window. He is reflected back at himself, floating in the middle of the ocean that is Shane’s king-sized bed and clutching Shane’s plaid shirt around his shoulders like a life vest that won’t inflate. 

“Because I am so angry I cannot even think straight,” he admits. “About all of it, not just the stupid fucking hashtag. I am angry that Shane did not trust me enough to tell me what happened. I am angry about my career. I am angry that I can never really leave that island, not entirely, and I am angry that an innocent person died because I missed my flight.”

The worst of it sticks somewhere in his throat, and he nearly chokes on the words. 

“I don’t know who I am to him now,” he tries again. “Not like this. He met me when I could do everything. When I was -” He exhales, frustrated. “When I was the best fucking player in the Atlantic division. When I was number one draft pick. When we were equal. Now I need help to walk across a room and I have probably set myself back months by driving up here.”

Svetlana doesn’t reply, her expression so soft, and the sympathy in her face threatens to undo him.

“And he says he’s choosing me,” Ilya continues, voice tightening. “But what happens when this is just…all I am now? What happens when I am not worth that choice anymore?”

Svetlana’s expression doesn’t change. “Maybe you do not realize, Ilyusha, but he already knows this version of you,” she says. “And he is still here anyway, making bad decisions because he is trying to be what you need.”

“I don’t know how to not be angry,” he admits. “About all of it.”

“You don’t have to know that,” she answers. “You can be angry. And you can be sad. But don’t turn it into a door that he can't open.”

Ilya balances the phone on his knees, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“I know.”

“I love him,” Ilya says.

“I know this too,” she replies. “And he loves you. Enough that he's trying, even though he got this wrong.”

“Sveta, I don’t want to lose him over this.” The truth of it brings him up short.

“Then don’t,” she says simply. “Stay where you are. Sleep. Call him when you can talk without starting the same fight again. Also,” she adds, pointing at him, “do not die in the woods.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m serious, Ilyushka.” She studies him for a second longer, softer now. “And you can call me any time. You aren’t alone, you know that.”

Ilya closes his eyes, hears his mother’s voice echo from somewhere he can’t touch: You are not by yourself anymore

He ends the call and the cottage is silent again. The only light is from the moon outside over the frozen lake, glowing in the snow blanketing the branches of the pines. And here, in the dark, he feels held. 

He lays in the bed that smells like Shane as the storm blows itself out, watches the sky outside go from black to gray to a pale nebulous color he has no word for in English. Then finally he gets up, locks his brace against the ache, and picks his way slowly to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He wraps one of the blankets from the couch over his shoulders and finds a pair of Shane’s old boots in the closet, slips them on even though they’re a little too small. 

The mug is warm in his hands and he slides open the back door to the wide, snowy porch. He kicks the snow away with his good leg until it’s mostly clear, then settles down to soak it all in. Across the lake, a loon calls. It doesn’t make him jump anymore. It just sounds far away.

He’s watched the sunrise here countless times before. It’s different without Shane. But it still might be beautiful. 

***

Shane

The house in Ottawa is dark when they pull up, the neighborhood asleep. David opens the door before Shane even makes it to the steps, like he’s been listening for the car.

“Hey -” he starts, then stops when he gets a good look at Shane. “Jesus. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, already moving past him. “I’m good. I just - I need to grab something.”

David steps aside immediately. “Your mother texted that it went well,” he says, following him inside.

“It’s fine,” he says, brushing past him with single-minded focus. “Everything’s fine.”

It is. It isn’t. It’s going to be.

Yuna is already in the living room, shrugging off her coat, watching him like she can see straight through the word fine and everything hiding behind it. She puts a hand on David’s arm, stops him from following Shane. David meets her eyes and then looks back towards his son.

“Shane, slow down,” David calls after him. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I need to go,” Shane says, taking the stairs two at a time. David tosses a wild-eyed look to his wife, but Yuna’s eyes follow Shane up the stairs.

“I’ll explain it to you,” she says softly, “on the way home.”

“We’re not waiting for Ilya?”

Yuna shakes her head, just a little, and then Shane’s on the landing and heads straight for the bedroom at the end of the hall.

The bedroom feels like Ilya might walk back in at any moment. The TV is still on, still muted; Shane doesn’t spare even a glance to see if he’s still the top story. He pulls open the closet door and stares at the shoebox, still exactly where he left it. With shaking hands, Shane picks it up. He doesn’t open it, just tucks it under his arm like if he looks too closely it might become something else entirely.

He moves fast: back downstairs, jacket, keys, his phone in his hand and his parents waiting by the door, gloves on, ready to lock up after him. 

“You’re going to freeze,” David says.

“I’ll survive.”

David eyes him. “Where are you even going?”

“The cottage.”

David’s eyebrows shoot up. His gaze flicks to the window, to the snow coming down harder now. “In this?”

“I have to, Dad.”

David glances at Yuna, who shakes her head once as if to say there is nothing on earth that can stop him. Don't be the one to stand between them. 

David exhales. “Alright. We’ll follow you out.”

“You should just stay,” Shane says. “It’s late. Roads are getting bad.”

“Says the guy about to drive three hours into a snowstorm,” his dad replies fondly.

Shane glances over at his mom, and she reaches out, adjusts Ilya’s crucifix where it still hangs around his neck. Shane can see it all over her face: Yuna looks at him and sees the man fighting for the life he’s choosing, and the boy who never stopped working for the things he loved. He knows all she wants is to fix this for him, the way she used to fix all of his little hurts. Everything she doesn’t say - love, worry, understanding - is pressed into that single touch.

Then, with soft eyes, Yuna lets go. 

“Drive safe,” she says. It’s not a suggestion.

Shane’s out of the house without a backwards look, pulling out of the driveway and into the falling snow. 

Chapter 19: can we make a start

Chapter Summary

Everything he’s been holding in presses up against his ribs all at once. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m going to make it right.

Shane

The road stretches out in front of him, long and narrow and half-swallowed by snow.

Shane keeps both hands on the wheel, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on the tracks left by whoever passed through before him. The world beyond his headlights dissolves into white; trees, sky, horizon all blur together like something unfinished. The drive is taking twice as long as it does in the summer. Every instinct in him is screaming - go faster, get there now, fix this - but the weather hems him in. He taps his foot on the gas, keeps the Jeep steady; the wipers drag back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that he times his breathing to.

For a while, that’s all there is: Shane, and the road, and the distance between him and Ilya closing with every revolution of the wheels. 

He tries to focus on the drive, tries to count the seconds in his head, but his mind slips, as it always does, to the man that he loves.

Ilya, sprawled on the bed, one arm flung over his eyes, laughing at something Shane said that wasn’t even that funny.

Ilya on the ice, effortless and giddy and present in a way Shane has never known how to be.

Ilya, his chest pressing him down into the bedsheets, his lips on his face and his hands in his hair and his body one blaze of heat, lighting Shane up.

Ilya on the island, his expression breaking open under sunburned skin when he saw that Shane had found him, the whole fucking miracle of him.

And Ilya, his face devastated, begging Shane to make things right. One day you will look at me and wonder what your life would have been if I had not survived.

Except he doesn’t have to wonder. Shane knows, without a doubt, exactly what his life would have been: empty, and hollow, and cut down to something so small and silent where the best part of him never saw the light.

That’s the thing that keeps circling back, no matter how many times he tries to outrun it. He's only brave because Ilya showed him how to be. The world knows about him because fate brought him up short, forced him to look at a life without Ilya and realize, all at once, that there was nothing in it worth protecting if it meant losing him. His career, his reputation, his legacy - none of it means a fucking thing if he’s not sharing it with Ilya.

He hadn’t meant to decide anything without Ilya. He’d been trying to finally give him the life he deserves. 

Everything he’s been holding in presses up against his ribs all at once. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m going to make it right.

“Fuck,” he says out loud.

The road curves gently ahead and the Jeep begins to slide. He slows even more, steering into it, patient now in a way he hasn’t been all night. He feels the wheels lock underneath him, and his stomach drops for a moment, but he’s not letting some fucking snow get between them. Not after everything. 

He’s driven through worse storms than this one.

He eases off the gas, hands steady, lets the car find its balance again instead of fighting it. He feels the tires catch, the Jeep straighten out, headlights picking up the snowflakes like distant stars.

The minutes creep by into hours. The sky ahead is changing too, black giving way to something softer, and he realizes the snow is thinning.

The clock on the dashboard reads 5:50 AM as he turns down the final stretch towards the cottage. He’s driven across the night, back and forth through two provinces, and he’s been through the wringer, and he doesn't even know where he'll be in another twelve hours if Ilya does not let him stay. 

He leans over and pulls back the shoebox from where it slid during his skid. His hand lingers on top, the promise that it represents.

“I love you,” he says, something that exists whether or not Ilya can hear it.

***

Shane pulls into the driveway twenty minutes later. He slows, carefully guiding the car onto the narrow road, tires crunching. If Ilya’s car left tire tracks, the snow filled them in hours ago. Everything feels like it's holding its breath out here. The trees close in on either side, heavy with snow, branches bowed low.

The sky is lighter now, Shane observes. Not sunrise yet but that eerie limbo of nautical dawn, the stars low and pulsing on the horizon even when hidden by the clouds. The snow has slowed considerably, a few stray flakes lazily settling to earth. The cottage looms ahead, low and dark, and he feels a rush of gratitude for this place, for the gift of time, unguarded and free, that the cottage has given them both. 

Shane pulls into the driveway slowly, rolling the car forward until it settles, and even though he saw the Instagram post, felt in his gut he’d find him here, seeing Ilya’s G-Wagon in the driveway fills him with a relief so overwhelming he nearly starts to cry. 

He flips the lid off the shoebox and his fingers close around the leather ring box, Ilya’s ring - if he wants it - nestled safe inside. It feels small in his hand. Something so monumental should not feel so insignificant, but everything has been upside down for weeks, so why not this too? He slips the box into his jacket pocket and tries to fluff up his hair in the rearview mirror, cognizant of the bruised shadows under his eyes and the tight set of his mouth, and he’s never looked so exhausted and he’s never been so ready.

He steps out of the car into the powder, footsteps muffled, and vaguely he thinks, I want to see the lake like he saw it last night, before the sun comes up and changes everything. He shoves his hands in his pockets and lowers his head and walks around the far side of the cottage. 

The light is growing stronger, night lifting like fog, and Shane picks his way carefully through the shin-deep drifts, and when he fully rounds the corner Ilya is sitting on the back steps.

He’s wrapped in an old fleece blanket, wearing Shane’s old flannel and with his braced leg sticking out straight in front of him. He holds a steaming mug in his hands and his eyes are on the horizon, mirrored with light. The lake beyond him is still, a sheet of milky white ice. The sky is breaking open slowly, pale gold bleeding into gray.

His face is soft, and he looks wrung out but he’s here and he’s whole and Shane loves him so fucking much it hurts. It hits him so hard it almost knocks the wind out of him.

“Ilya,” he says, and it cracks through the stillness of dawn like ice giving way.

Ilya doesn’t startle, like it’s the most natural thing in the world that Shane would be here. He turns his head, looks over his shoulder fully at Shane, and their eyes meet. And everything - every mile, every word, every mistake - collapses into that one look.

Shane walks towards him and snow is falling into the tops of his boots and he doesn’t take his hands out of his pockets because he’s afraid if he grabs Ilya he might never let go and he’s a little worried the ring will fall out and he’ll look like an idiot before he even gets a chance to ask.

Ilya tilts his head and that reflected silver glow clears from his eyes and they’re blue-green again, Shane’s favorite fucking color. His face is pale like he’s been awake all night, too, and he leans towards Shane, just a little, as Shane crosses the distance between them.

“You drove in this?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I - yeah.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Ilya says automatically.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Probably not.”

Shane’s just standing there staring at him and silence settles between them again, the kind that feels like it could tip either way. He’s close enough now to see everything: the exhaustion in Ilya’s face, the tension still held in his shoulders, the way his hands curl around the battered mug like he’s holding on for dear life. 

“Why did you come here, Shane?” Ilya asks, and his voice is so tired, and everything Shane has planned - if he planned anything at all - is gone in an instant. All that’s left is this: he loves Ilya, and he wants to build a future with him where he can claim him in every way that counts. In a way that no one can dismiss. 

“I need to make this right,” Shane says. Ilya doesn’t reply, but Shane sees the way his eyes lock in, a sharpness settling into their depths. 

“You. Us. All of it.” Shane swallows. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting to be with you. I can’t be sorry for wanting to keep you close. But I am sorry about how I did it. I thought I was helping, but I wasn’t listening. And I should have been. I should have…”

He trails off because Ilya is looking at him like he’s bracing for something and hoping for it at the same time.

“I drove to Montreal last night. I met with Theriault, and Crowell. They are not impressed with me.” He lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “But they offered me a deal,” he adds. “Ottawa. Seven years, free agent. Starting center. Wiebe is talking about captaincy.”

Ilya opens his mouth to speak but Shane rushes onward. “I didn’t sign it,” he says. “I told them I wouldn’t agree to anything until I talked to you. I’m not making decisions like that without you, not again. Not about my life. Not about ours."

Ilya's gaze shifts, something unsteady flickering through it.

“Shane -”

“But there’s something else,” Shane cuts in, because he can’t stop now. “There’s something I need. And I - I can’t wait,” he admits. “I wanted it to be perfect but I can’t wait - not anymore. I should have asked you years ago.”

“Shane -”

He sinks down onto one knee, right there in the snowdrifts in the half-light, cold soaking through his joggers almost instantly.

“I thought I lost you,” Shane says. “And it broke something in me open that I don’t think is ever going to close again. I don’t care about anything the way I care about you. Not one fucking thing.” He fumbles in his pocket for the box and holds it out with shaking hands, afraid that he might drop it.

“I know I got it wrong,” he adds, voice catching. “I know I made you feel like you didn’t have a say in your own life, and I’m - I’m so fucking sorry for that. I will spend the rest of my life listening to you, if you let me.”

Ilya is staring at him now like the ground has shifted underneath him.

“I don’t want a life where I have to pretend you’re not the most important thing in it,” Shane says. “And I can't listen to anyone tell us that we don't belong to each other. Never again. I don’t want a life where I love you halfway, or like it’s something I have to justify. I want all of it. The hard parts, and the messy parts, and the parts that are terrifying. I want to build something with you that nobody else gets to touch. A life that no one can take away from us.”

He finally gets the fucking box open, and the ring glints faintly in the early light.

“Marry me,” Shane says and his voice is shaking but the words keep tumbling out, “because I don’t want to waste another second of my life not knowing that I get to keep you. I love you so fucking much, Ilya. Marry me. Please.”

Ilya swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and it’s maybe the first time Shane’s ever seen him speechless. 

“Are you asking me,” he says finally, his voice cracking a little, “because I almost died?”

“No,” Shane says. “No. I’m asking because you lived.”

Ilya’s face is broken open, and his eyes are so soft and Shane wants to crawl on his knees into his arms and kiss him until he says yes.

“I thought about this,” Ilya says, voice rough. “On the island. When I didn’t know if anyone was coming, this is what I kept coming back to. That somewhere in the future, there’d be a day when we wouldn’t have to hide anymore, and you’d want me like this. Forever. But then the crash happened and I’m - everything is slower, and harder, and I look different, and I just - I thought you wouldn’t want this anymore. Not like this.”

Shane, who has been watching the shape of Ilya’s lips because he needs to see him say yes, freezes at that, and his eyes snap up to Ilya’s. 

“What?” he says, sharp, immediate. “Ilya, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Ilya just shrugs, a little helplessly. 

“I have never -” Shane stops, shakes his head, like he can’t even believe this is a thing he has to say. “Not for one second have I looked at you and thought you were anything less than -” He exhales hard, wrecked with it.

“You’re everything,” he says. “You always have been. You are not what happened to you, and none of it changes anything for me.”

Ilya puts the mug down on the back deck and braces his palms flat against the boards, and manages to get his good leg underneath him but he can’t get traction on the slick surface and then he sags back with a wet laugh, his voice wrecked.

“Shane, help me up,” he says. “I’m not saying yes from down here.”

For a second, Shane doesn’t move, like the words have to travel all the way to his bones before he can react. Then a storm of emotions crash over him - relief, disbelief, something brighter than either - and he lets out a broken, breathless laugh that fogs in the cold air. He stumbles up the steps, nearly crashing into Ilya, and Ilya catches him, his hands sliding from his shoulders up to his face and his thumb strokes along Shane’s cheekbone, tracing his freckles like he’s done a thousand times before. 

Shane’s arms are under Ilya’s and he crushes him to his chest, his nose buried in his hair, and then he says “I’ve got you” and he waits for Ilya to lean his weight forward, and then Shane levers them upwards. Ilya comes up against him, unsteady for a second, and Shane doesn’t let go, his arms around his waist and his eyes locked on his face.

Ilya steadies against him, breath still uneven, his hands resting against Shane’s chest like he needs the anchor, needs to feel his heart, steady and sure, beating under his touch. Then he slides one hand up, grips Shane’s chin like he always does right before he kisses him until Shane loses his breath.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me this for years,” Ilya says with a smile. “You are a little bit late. да, любовь моя. Of course I say yes.”

Before Shane can reply or even exhale, Ilya pulls him in and kisses him. 

Shane’s lost count of the number of times Ilya has kissed him over the years. Soft and tender, feral and desperate - Shane has catalogued them all. But none have felt like the way Ilya’s kissing him now.

Shane shifts his stance, instinctively adjusting to keep them balanced, and Ilya lets him; lets himself be held, lets himself lean. When they part, it’s only by a fraction, their foreheads brushing, breath shared between them.

“Wait, shit,” Shane says, remembering the box still tight in his fingers, and he pulls back just a little further to work the ring free from the velvet pillow inside. Ilya kisses him again while Shane fumbles for his hands, slides the ring onto his fourth finger where, miraculously, it fits. “Hang on, wait - don’t Russians wear it on their right hands?”

“Da,” Ilya says, pressing his lips to the tender spot behind Shane’s ear, “but before the wedding, is okay on the left. I do not want to wait too long to switch it.”

“Fuck, me neither,” Shane says, and then Ilya’s hands are on his jaw and he’s kissing him deeply, mouth open, teeth grazing Shane’s lower lip. “But for now, just take me to bed.”

Ilya’s breath hitches against Shane’s mouth and lets Shane steer him backwards to the sliding door, his back hitting hard and his fingers tangling in Shane’s hair possessively, tugging his head back and pressing his lips to the hinge of Shane’s jaw. Shane swears and gropes blindly for the handle behind Ilya, managing to get it open and letting Ilya tug him through.

Somehow they get to the bedroom and Ilya turns, guiding Shane down onto the bed, and Shane looks up at him with wet, dark eyes and he’s so fucking gone for him he can’t put it into words.

Ilya taps his brace and Shane reaches for him, fingers brushing the hardware, and he almost asks are you sure before remembering he’s vowed to let Ilya set his own limits. Wordlessly he unlocks the brace, eases it off Ilya’s thigh and lets it fall to the floor. His pants and underwear follow and he shucks off Shane’s flannel, goosebumps on his skin and nipples taut in the cool air. Ilya pushes Shane onto his back and crawls over him, hips flush with Shane’s, cock already hard and aching.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasps against Ilya’s mouth as he leans in, claims him again. Ilya’s tongue chases his breath and he rolls his hips against Shane and swallows the answering moan. “Want you so much. Don’t make me wait.”

Ilya growls into the kiss and yanks at Shane’s pants, wet and clammy and freezing cold from kneeling in the snow and Shane helps to kick them off where they puddle on the floor next to Ilya’s brace and his own discarded clothes. Ilya grabs Shane’s calves in both hands, resting heavily on his good knee, and bends him practically in half, and Shane feels him spread him open and his spits, hot and slick, over Shane’s hole. Shane nearly comes off the bed when the pad of Ilya’s thumb drags over him roughly and he opens him without any preamble, his eyes never leaving Shane’s face as Shane tosses his head back against the bed and begs for more, more of anything.

Ilya sinks another finger into him and Shane bucks his hips, begging wordlessly, hooking his heel behind Ilya’s elbow and urging him deeper. Ilya kisses him again in response, stretching Shane, and it’s just the right edge of painful and Shane’s begging for real now, tugging at Ilya, and Ilya takes pity on him, gropes in the bedside table for a bottle of lube and slicks his cock while Shane shivers on the bed, exposed and desperate.

Ilya covers him with his body again, Shane’s knees bent on either side of Ilya’s hips and his feet planted flat on the bed, and the blunt head of Ilya’s cock nudges up against his hole and then Shane can’t wait anymore, wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist and gasps against his mouth as Ilya drives in, the burn and the stretch threatening to undo him. 

Ilya begins to move, his hand on Shane’s cheek and his eyes hazy with desire. “Is okay?” he asks, and nothing has ever felt better, and all Shane can do is nod as Ilya presses his forehead into Shane’s shoulder and starts to fuck him for real, bracing his forearms on either side of Shane’s chest. The sun is just cresting the horizon and the room floods with light, gilding the planes of Ilya’s face and the ridges of his muscles as he bottoms out, again and again, inside Shane’s wiling body. Shane clings to him, lifting his hips to take him deeper, and he’s never going to last like this but he wants to live inside this moment forever, with Ilya’s breath against his skin and his cock buried in him like it was made for nothing else. 

He thinks of how close he came to losing him for good and it echoes in his head to the rhythm of Ilya’s thrusts until Ilya kisses it out and the only thing Shane can think is mine, mine, forever. Ilya’s hips snap frantically and his teeth dig into Shane’s shoulder and apparently something very similar is happening in Ilya’s brain too because he’s whispering Я тебя люблю, Я тебя люблю over and over again into Shane’s skin.

Ilya’s hand snakes between their bodies and when it wraps around Shane’s cock, Shane can feel the cold, smooth press of the ring against him and he nearly comes undone just from that. And Ilya knows, knows the way his muscles tense before he comes, knows the way his body telegraphs ever feeling and every fear, and he pulls back, just a little, so he can watch himself sink into Shane.

“Let go,” he says roughly, knowing Shane will do this, will do anything, and it’s the same for him. “I want to watch you let go, любимый мой.”

He adjusts his body so Shane’s knee can hook over his shoulder and he sinks his weight into his good knee again and then he drives into Shane at the perfect angle and Shane gasps, lightning-struck. Shane couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He comes with a sob, spilling over Ilya’s fist, his hole clenching spasmodically as his hands fist into the sheets, desperate to hold on to something that might tether him to the ground. Ilya collapses against his chest with a shout, and he feels him flood white-hot into the core of his body, and he wraps both legs around his waist and curls into Ilya as he shakes through it, Shane’s name pulled from his throat like a prayer. 

They lay tangled together for a long time, Ilya pressing tiny kisses into what feels like each of his freckles, and Shane can’t stop clinging to him. 

"You are perfect," Ilya murmurs. Shane huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but he doesn’t argue, just curls in closer like he’s finally allowed to believe it a little. Ilya settles against him, warm and solid, his hand resting over Shane’s heart.

Shane doesn’t feel the need to fight for it. After the crash, he’d thought this was something he might never have again, something already slipping out of his hands even as he held on.

But Ilya is here and solid and alive and Shane has everything right here, in his arms and Ilya isn't something he's just waiting to lose. This moment and this man and this life - everything he wants, he gets to keep.

***

Shane comes to first, blinking against the brightness, disoriented for half a second before everything comes rushing back: the snow, and the ring, and Ilya. 

He rolls in Ilya’s arms and studies the man he loves: here, and whole, and perfect, half-buried in blankets and his hair sticking up all over the place. Shane nuzzles against him, inhaling deeply, imprinting this memory on all of his senses forever.

Ilya groans. “Too early.”

Shane looks at his phone, where he’s got about ten thousand texts from his parents, and Rose, and his former teammates. “It’s past noon.”

“Tragic.”

Shane laughs against his neck, and then lets Ilya tip his chin up, kiss him softly, before he allows reality to wash over them again.

“Now what?”

Ilya smiles, soft and quiet, and runs his thumb along his cheekbone in a way that suggests he’s never seen something so beautiful.

“Whatever we want,” he says simply.

He helps Ilya get dressed, locks the brace for him and lets him kiss him over it. They walk out of the bedroom holding hands.

The kitchen is bare. There’s no food, just stale coffee grounds and a half-empty bag of sugar left out from where Ilya had used it early in the morning, but Shane manages to make something resembling coffee anyway. They sit at the table by the window, knees knocking together under it, and Ilya considers the folder Shane slides over to him.

“I haven’t signed,” Shane reminds him. “I wanted to decide with you.”

Ilya makes a noise under his breath, eyes flicking over the paperwork. “This is insane amount of money, Shane. I am almost offended.”

“They can only afford me because you raised their salary cap,” Shane insists. “You’re the whole reason the franchise is off life support.”

“Is not just the money,” he says, considering. “They’re giving you real control. Influence.”

“They’re giving me the opportunity to come home to you every night,” Shane replies. “And that is worth more than anything to me.”

Ilya reaches out with a casual movement and gestures for Shane’s hand. Shane gives it easily. Ilya scans the rest of the proposed contract, thumb circling the center of Shane’s palm. Finally, he looks up.

“You would be very good there,” he concedes.

“We would be,” Shane replies. “Because I don’t want to do it without you.”

“I am not sure I’m ready to be coach,” Ilya admits. 

“I have zero doubt in my mind you will be amazing,” Shane says, covering Ilya’s hand with his own and tracing his fingertip over the ring on his left hand.. 

“You would have to do what I say,” Ilya says, a little edge to his voice. “You would not be calling the shots, even if you are elected captain. Are you going to be a good boy, listen to your coach?”

Shane’s eyes go dark at that, and his tongue darts out, wets his lower lip. Ilya’s eyes follow the movement, the desire plain on his face.

Shane laughs. “It’ll never be boring,” he promises.

They talk through the logistics a little more, call Yuna and David on speakerphone, conference in Farah. Ilya wraps the ankle of his strong leg around Ilya’s calf and stays there. They sit for a long time, coffee growing cold, disagreeing about small things: logistics. Timing. Rehab. Travel.

At some point, Shane realizes - this is it. This is the thing that’s been missing. It’s never been about the stolen weekends or the late-night calls or the desperate, fleeting time they’ve carved out of everything else, even if that’s where it started for them both. It’s this: a table in a cottage that feels like home to them both, and bad coffee, and time. It hits him, sudden and sharp, that if Ilya had never missed that flight, if the VLJ hadn’t gone down, if everything hadn’t broken open the way it did…how long would it have taken them to get here? How much more time would they have lost?

“Are you ready?” Ilya asks. It sounds like I love you, because it is. Everything they say to each other has I love you at the core.

Shane leans back in his chair, Ilya’s foot still hooked around his ankle, grounding him in this moment, in this life.

He dials Brandon Wiebe’s number, and lets it ring.

Chapter 20: epilogue - be a rubber band man

Chapter Summary

September comes in sharp and bright, the air inside the barn carrying that familiar early-season bite of cold ice and fresh tape and possibility. The Centaurs have just finished their first full on-ice practice, and the locker room had been loud with excitement, crackling with energy. 

Chapter Notes

Shane & Ilya

September 2021

September comes in sharp and bright, the air inside the barn carrying that familiar early-season bite of cold ice and fresh tape and possibility. The Centaurs have just finished their first full on-ice practice, and the locker room had been loud with excitement, crackling with energy. 

The C on Shane’s chest had felt heavier than he expected when he first pulled the jersey on. Now it was less like a badge and more like a responsibility he could actually feel pressing into his ribs. When he’d dressed and reported to the ice, Ilya had kissed him loudly, slapped his ass, and then proceeded to put him and the rest of the team through more complex drills than Theriault had ever attempted at the start of the season.

Even though Shane’s wearing the C, it’s obvious that the Centaurs' new assistant coach is the heart of the team. 

Shane’s so fucking proud of him.

By the time Shane finishes showering, the locker room has emptied out. A few stray voices echo down the hall, someone arguing about dinner plans, the dull thud of doors closing. He heads back to the ice, aiming towards the executive suite where Ilya now has his own little office, a photo of his and Shane’s wedding proudly displayed on his new desk. 

Shane drags a towel through his damp hair, bag slung over his shoulder and car keys in his hand, thinking about the new Asian fusion place he and Ilya are going to try on the way home. The rink lights are still on but something’s out of place, and it takes Shane a minute before it clicks, for what he's seeing to solidify into something defined.

Ilya, out on the ice.

It’s not pretty. His stride is uneven, the right leg lagging just slightly behind the left, careful where it should be automatic and deliberate where it used to be effortless. There’s a stiffness there Shane can spot from even at a distance - a hesitation at the turn, Ilya waiting just a fraction of a second too long before he shifts his weight: all the hallmarks of someone who is afraid of cutting too sharply and falling. If he didn’t know better, he’d guess this was his first time out on the ice.

His eyes shift from his form to his face. Ilya is grinning, wide and unfiltered, his white teeth gleaming under the lights and his blue eyes blazing with determination. 

He’s not even wearing a fucking helmet, Jesus Christ.

Instinct boils up in his stomach, threatening to spill out before Shane thinks: it’s too early, your PT specifically told you not until the 12-month mark, this isn’t the plan.

And then he stops, leans against the boards, and just watches. Ilya completes another slow loop, edges carving tracks into the fresh ice, they're going to have to run the Zamboni again, and when he turns, he spots Shane.

“Don’t,” Ilya calls, before Shane can say a word.

Shane huffs a laugh despite himself. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You want to,” Ilya replies, gliding closer, slower and controlled. “I can see it on your face.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane says, leaning forward just enough to meet him at the edge, “your rehab plan does not include unauthorized victory laps.”

“It does now.”

Ilya grins again, unguarded, his joy infectious. He carefully pivots, propels himself towards the boards and catches himself with a grunt, forearms flexing. Shane eyes his muscles working appreciatively, and Ilya does not fail to notice. 

They stand there for a second - Shane in his sneakers on the rubber mat, Ilya on the ice, hands resting lightly on the boards between them. Ilya interlaces their fingers so their bands line up: Ilya’s on the right, Shane’s on the left. They fit together perfectly.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” Shane says, but he’s smiling too.

“I am already sore.”

“Yeah, well. It’s going to be worse.”

Ilya lifts Shane’s hand easily, presses it to his lips. 

“Da. But I needed to feel it.”

Ilya pushes off again, just a short glide this time, turning back toward center ice. “I have time for one more lap,” he calls over his shoulder, “before reservation. And later, I will not be the only one who is sore, Шаня.”

Shane leans into the boards, letting them hold his weight, watching the man he loves carve slow, stubborn lines into the ice. 

It’s going to be a good season. Shane knows it the same way he knows how Ilya will turn before he does, how he’ll argue, how he’ll laugh, how he’ll push too far and then pretend he didn’t. How he’ll kiss him late at night, take him to bed and unravel Shane beneath him.

He knows it in his bones.

And even if it isn’t - even if the season is an unmitigated disaster, and even if they never fill a single seat, let alone make the playoffs - they’ve already won. Because every night, he gets to come home to him.

“We need to go,” he calls across the ice. “Come on, coach. Before you get fined on day one.”

Ilya returns to him, his face still cracked open in joy. Up close, there’s sweat at his temples, color in his cheeks, that same stubborn, satisfied look Shane has loved since he was seventeen years old. The scar that runs down his forehead and cleaves his eyebrow has faded to the pink of the inside of a seashell, and Shane thinks he’s never looked more beautiful.

Ilya hops the boards awkwardly and lands with a wobble, blades biting into the rubber mat, and instinctively Shane reaches out and steadies him, hand cupping the back of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he says, almost under his breath. Ilya’s hand comes up, catching his wrist for a second, holding him there.

“I know,” Ilya replies, bending slightly to kiss him, full and soft and tender and in front of anyone who might still linger. He lets Shane kneel and pull off his skates, hand resting lightly on the crown of Shane’s head while he does, and his eyes are so soft.

“We’ll have to get you a functional brace,” Shane says, “so that you can keep practicing.”

“I like seeing you down there,” Ilya says, sliding his fingers through Shane’s hair, horny and out of pocket and so typically Ilya that it makes Shane laugh. But his eyes are shining, and Shane knows his acquiescence means more than Ilya can say out loud.

“Ilya, we need to be downtown in twenty minutes.” When he stands again, Ilya wraps his arms around Shane and buries his nose into Shane’s damp hair, inhaling appreciatively. 

“Ah, but you are Shane Hollander. You are very efficient,” Ilya says persuasively, taking the lobe of Shane’s ear between his teeth.

“Later,” Shane promises, and even though Ilya huffs a long-suffering sigh into Shane’s neck, he feels his lips curl into a smile against his skin. 

“Later,” Ilya agrees. 

Later used to be a wedge driven between them, to keep their hearts at a distance. Then later was a promise he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep, sitting on a beach and praying it cannot end like this. And now later is easy: no longer something to fear or bargain for, but something that stretches out in front of them, wide and open and theirs, again and again, something waiting for them just up ahead.

“Illy, I was thinking…we got married so fast this summer, we never got to have a real honeymoon,” Shane says, as Ilya loops the laces of his skates over his shoulders and leads Shane away from the ice.

“There’s nowhere better than the cottage in the summer,” Ilya replies defensively.

“No, I know,” Shane agrees. “It’s just…we’ve never been anywhere as a couple. Like, on a real vacation. And before the plane crash, before everything…I wanted to take you somewhere. Anywhere you want to go.”

“Somewhere warm,” Ilya says automatically, lacing his fingers with Shane’s as they walk towards the exit. “Maybe during Olympic bye-week? February?”

“Sounds perfect,” Shane agrees. “Just…are you okay with…you know. Flying again?”

“I am going to have to fly for away games, Shane.”

“I know,” Shane says. “I mean - I guess I just…I want to be sure. We’ll only go if you’re okay.”

“I am okay,” Ilya affirms, “because I will be with you. I would go anywhere with you, Shane. And right now, I want to go to very expensive restaurant, and then I want to take you home and fuck you until the only word you can say is my name.”

Shane flushes bright red, and Ilya smiles in satisfaction.

They push through the doors together, out into the sharp evening air, the season waiting for them, the future wide open.

Chapter End Notes

thank you so, so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, or taken the time to write comments. This show hit me so hard in the chest and has been living there ever since. This show brought so much queer joy into my life, and it's obvious it did for so many others too - may we continue to amplify it as we wait for season two and Unrivaled!

Thank you, thank you, thank you.