Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Goalie!Shane, POV Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, technically, oh no hes hot happens in real time in this fic, POV Shane Hollander, POV Alternating, ah the erotic tension between an unstoppable force and an immovable object, is ragebaiting a legitimate romantic strategy? mayhaps, peer reviewed to add: slow burn

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-07 Updated: 2026-09-25 Words: 222,288 Chapters: 23/27

Rule 69.3 - Contact Inside the Goal Crease

Summary

“Just got the word from the officials, Metros are shutting Miitka down for the night," LeClaire says almost dispassionately. “Third period we’re up against,” LeClaire consults his clipboard, “Shane Hollander. Drafted 2009, current starter for the Laval Maples, posts a .905 save percentage.”

Ilya stays where he is, rolling the name around in his head once, without much interest.

Hollander.

Doesn’t ring a bell.

---

Inspired by that one twitter post, what if Shane was a goalie?

Notes

First and foremost shout out to @narivaaaal on Twitter, my writing buddy sent me a screenshot of your post, and I was like haha I want someone to write that, and then the brainworms went brrrr

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

The puck goes bar down and in, a clean metallic ting that hangs in the air for half a heartbeat before the stadium explodes.

Not with cheers—no, the Bell Centre sounds like an angry mob braying for the Raiders’ blood—but Ilya can barely hear any of it from underneath the weight of his linemates dogpiling him and crushing him into the boards.

He’s got two goals and an assist so far tonight, and an entire arena cursing his name. He feels fucking fantastic.

“Holy shit, Roz,” Carmichael says once they’re back on the bench, sucking in air like he might actually pass out, “that was a beauty of a one-timer, what the actual fuck was Miitka doing there—”

“Bad goal,” Ilya says, still breathing hard. “Goalie needs glasses, yes?”

“He’s a backup for a reason,” Anderson says with a snort, as the first line heads out to take the faceoff. It’s a formality more than anything—less than seven seconds left in the second period—but hey, stranger things have happened and with how shit Montreal is playing tonight you just never know.

He’s got two goals, and his brain keeps looping back to the same simple thought: Just one more.

Just one more and the night gets a whole different shape.

“They should just forfeit now,” Ilya says, and feels a smirk tick its way up his face as the ref waves the Metros center out of the faceoff. Embarrassing. “Save us time.”

“Fuckin’ Montreal man,” says Feller from further down the bench and a general chorus of agreement rises up from their teammates. Ilya’s not entirely sure what Feller means by that, but the period ends before he can think too hard about it and they all shuffle down the tunnel to the visitor’s dressing room to reset for the third.

For all that they still have an entire third period to play the locker room is boisterous; a 4-0 lead over anyone going into the third is a great feeling, but a 4-0 lead over fuckin’ Montreal is enough to make the Raiders downright rowdy.

And Ilya soaks it all in and tries to breathe.

Hat trick. He could do it. A fucking hat trick, his first one in the MLH, so close Ilya can almost fucking hear the phone call debrief he’ll have with Sveta later tonight, can already feel the impact of the helmet slaps he’ll get from his teammates, can already taste the drink he’ll convince Marleau to buy him later—

“— did you hear anything I just said, Rozanov?”

Ilya blinks his eyes open (whoops, fuck, coach) and says “No,” truthfully enough, and the other guys just laugh as LeClaire sighs and starts over.

“I said–,” and Ilya sits up straight because this sounds important, “Just got the word from the officials, Metros are shutting Miitka down for the night. Seems like he pulled something on that last play, and they’ll be sending in the backup for the third.”

It’s nothing unusual, teams swap goalies between periods often enough, either for injuries or if they let in four shitty goals in a single period like Miitka just did, but—

“Kid’ll be making his MLH debut,” LeClaire says almost dispassionately, and if it were even possible, the energy in the room picks up even further. Like sharks with a hint of blood in the water. “Third period we’re up against,” LeClaire consults his clipboard, “Shane Hollander. Drafted 2009, current starter for the Laval Maples, posts a .905 save percentage.”

There’s a hum at that, decent numbers for a rookie goaltender in the A, but LeClaire lowers his clipboard and shrugs. “Don’t see him being an issue here. No changes for the third. Let’s finish this one out, boys.”

There’s a chorus of “Yes coach, yes coach”, and the intermission noise swells back up—guys drifting off to stretch or piss or bother the trainers, Feller raiding the snack table, the vets pulling out their phones.

Ilya stays where he is, rolling the name around in his head once, without much interest.

Hollander.

Doesn’t ring a bell.

Marleau leans over from his stall and fixes Ilya with a wide grin. “You’re on fire, Roz,” he says and Ilya barely restrains himself from looking down at himself with mock horror. Marly clearly catches this thought in Ilya’s face because he snickers a little before continuing. “You need anything before we go out there to ruin a new goalie’s night?”

Ilya snorts. “No, nothing.” He shakes his hands out once, like he can burn the energy off, but there’s absolutely no fucking way he can tamp down on his excitement. “Two goals already. Maybe tonight—”

“Uh-uh,” Marleau cuts him off immediately, and wags his finger. Ilya is absolutely appalled. “We are not saying anything tonight. Rookie error.”

Ilya frowns, and pulls up an appropriately confused expression, like he’s got no idea what Marly is implying right now. “Saying what?”

Marleau just stares at him.

Ilya’s mouth twitches. He leans in anyway, voice dropping but still way too pleased with itself. “Hat trick,” he says, soft but clear.

Marleau somehow groans and laughs at the same time, reaching out to smack Ilya’s arm. “Jesus, Rozanov. You trying to curse us?”

“I think, yes,” Ilya says, and tries not to grin too obviously as Marleau laughs and punches his shoulder affectionately. Ilya had already passed a number of milestones in his first season in the MLH: first game, first fight, first point, first goal—but if there was anything Ilya was still looking forward to doing during the regular season it was a fucking hat trick.

Eventually one of the trainers gives a signal and the energy in the locker room shifts again, guys re-lacing their skates, pulling pads and jerseys back into place, choking down last minute sips of water and electrolytes before marching back into the tunnel and lining up to head back out. Ilya slots himself between Carmichael and Dubek and flexes his fingers in his still-damp gloves, already thinking ahead to the lamp lighting, the boos from the crowd—

Carmichael jostles his shoulder slightly and Ilya lurches forward, down the tunnel back out into the lights and onto the ice for the third.

At a first glance, backup goalie Shane Hollander is nothing special. Even from all the way down on the visitors bench Ilya can see the way that Hollander’s shoulders are hunched up slightly towards his ears and the way he’s tapping the toe of his stick rapidly at the top of his crease. Too tight. Too amped. Rookie shit.

Nervous, Ilya decides. Good.

“Poor bastard,” Dubek mutters from beside him, and Ilya is inclined to agree with him. The Metros have been playing like shit all game, and with a four goal deficit starting the third it’s safe to say that Montreal’s newest goalie is about to start his MLH career off with a loss—but Ilya is going to get his first fucking hat trick tonight, and he can’t bring himself to really care about a goalie he’s about to make a highlight reel out of.

The ref skates to centre with the puck. Top lines out. Fresh ice.

Just one more, Ilya tells himself. No rush.

To their minimal credit the Metros don’t just roll over—clearly their coach had given them a lecture during the intermission, and their second line manages a goal off the second face off, a brutal scrambly thing that just slips under the edge of Millsy’s pads and causes a groan of disappointment to ripple down the Raiders’ bench. The goal horn sounds and the Bell Centre surges to its feet, like a 4-1 score was something to be proud of.

Nothing happens for the next five or so minutes, the Metros and Raiders trading shifts and possessions, neither team able to set up properly and make anything meaningful happen on either end of the ice.

Icing. A sloppy line change that has Ilya playing with the fourth liners for a full frustrating minute. A dump-and-chase that achieves nothing. Icing. A Metro’s stick in the passing lane. Fucking icing again. Somehow every time Ilya’s line hops over the boards the Metros top D-pairing is on the ice, big bodies gluing themselves to him and not giving him any space to breathe. It takes Ilya three full shifts to realize the Metros coach is sending out his best defensemen to counter Ilya’s line specifically.

It’s a nice feeling, being taken so seriously as a threat. A TV timeout stretches out impossibly long, and Ilya rocks on his skates, jaw working, energy coiled tight under his pads. When LeClaire smacks his shoulder to send him out for the faceoff, Ilya’s already grinning.

It's too easy—he tosses out a carefully enunciated, completely meaningless chirp about Albright’s mother, digs in, and wins the draw clean. The puck kicks back to Carmichael, who surges through the neutral zone.

Go, Ilya thinks, and goes.

The breakaway happens in moments: Ilya digging in and sprinting after Carmichael, skates pounding on the ice, hesitating for a heartbeat on the blueline to make sure the puck goes over first, cutting left as Carmichael sets up in the middle, the lone Metros defenseman hesitating for a millisecond before lurching towards the puck, a beat too slow as the pass goes cross-ice, right into the cradle of Ilya’s stick.

Time slows.

He settles the puck. Head up. Hollander’s square, but he’s too stiff—glove a little low, blocker drifting. Open net if he goes high.

Ilya shoots—

—and the puck disappears into Hollander’s glove with a sharp, final thwap.

Ilya skids to a stop, breath heaving as the ref whistles the play down, the fans surging to their feet to applaud a (honestly decent, if Ilya isn’t being pissy) high glove save, but Ilya is feeling pissy.

“Fuck,” Ilya spits, then adds several more inventive variations in Russian as he circles back toward the dot.

Nobody really reacts—nobody on the Raiders speaks a lick of Russian, and Ilya doesn’t particularly care enough to check on any of the Metros—but out of the corner of his eye Ilya spots Hollander’s head turning slightly towards him. For a second Ilya freezes, but no, that’s a head tilt that absolutely means curiosity not comprehension, so Ilya just sends Hollander a nasty glare, before settling back in for the next faceoff.

The faceoff drops.

Ilya loses.

The next shift, Ilya doesn’t even get the shot off.

Carmichael chips the puck loose along the boards and Ilya cuts toward the slot, stick cocked, already measuring the release. For half a second it’s there, space, angle, net—

—and then it’s gone.

Hollander’s set, square to the puck, knees bent, chest forward. The opportunity gone, like it’s been rehearsed, like someone flipped a switch. The Metros defenseman barely has to do anything except exist.

Ilya hesitates, adjusts, tries to pull it wide, but Hollander tracks the movement cleanly, head snapping with the puck. No overcommitment. No bite.

Fuck.

One of the Metros forwards knocks the puck off Ilya’s stick and it’s over. Ilya makes a halfhearted swipe for the puck anyway, because his body refuses to accept the ending, but turns back and flings himself over the boards onto the bench.

The next line is already out there, fresh legs, fresh energy, trying to set something up. Ilya watches them for a beat, half-expecting to see the space he just lost reappear.

It doesn't.

Again, two shifts later, Ilya snaps a low shot through traffic.

It’s nothing fancy—no setup, no screen he can trust—just quick hands and muscle memory, the puck sliding off his blade before anyone can tie him up. He aims for the legs, for chaos, for a rebound if he needs it—

—and Hollander’s pad slams down, sealing the ice.

No rebound. Nothing.

That was in, he thinks wildly. That had to be in.

The whistle finally comes, and the clock keeps bleeding out while Hollander stands, calm as anything, like his defense isn’t fucking useless and the Metros aren’t losing by three fucking goals.

It happens again with five minutes left.

Net-front chaos. Bodies stacked up in the crease, Dubek hacking away, the puck loose for half a second too long. Ilya lunges, shovels it on his backhand from point-blank—

—and Hollander is there, sliding cross-crease, plucking the puck out of the air like it's nothing.

Clean. Dead.

No rebound. No scramble. Just the puck swallowed whole as Hollander stays down, glove pressed to the ice.

Ilya stands there, staring at the crease like the puck might materialize out of spite.

Hollander doesn’t even look at him. Just pulls himself upright and tosses the puck to the linesman, and taps his left post once, calm as anything.

Fuck you, Ilya thinks almost disbelievingly, and skates off before he says it out loud.

The Raiders eventually get a goal past Hollander on the powerplay with 2:21 left to go in the third, its Anderson on the first unit, of fucking course, and Ilya, stuck on the second unit, only feels the faintest prickle of resentment as they line up for fistbumps by the bench.

And then that’s it.

LeClaire gives them chance after chance. Ilya’s line is out for nearly the entire final two minutes, lungs burning, legs screaming, but it isn’t enough.

It’s a good game, a good result—5-1 over a historical rival, the Raiders winning three out of their four total matchups against the Metros this season—but as the horn sounds the end of regulation time Ilya can’t help tilting his head back and groaning at the score on the jumbotron.

“Sorry about that.”

Ilya spins so fast he almost falls on his ass. “Fucking— what?”

“Sorry,” Hollander says again, the Montreal goalie standing there and shuffling a bit on his skates like he’s embarrassed or something, and all Ilya can do is just stare at him. “I mean– for your hat trick. You really almost had it there, on the last faceoff.”

Ilya must’ve gotten hit during the last scrum. This is a concussion. That’s the only possible explanation for why the Montreal goalie, the goalie for the team the Raiders just beat in their own barn 5-to-fucking-1 is… apologizing to Ilya. For denying him a hat trick.

Ilya manages a second, weaker “What?”, and Hollander pulls a hand out of his glove and fiddles with the straps of his mask for a second before pulling his helmet up, and oh–

Fuck.

Brown eyes, perfect fucking skin, freckles standing out in sharp relief against his flushed cheeks—

“‘Course you could always work on your backhand,” Hollander says and Ilya pulls his dazed thoughts back in time to notice the tiniest twitch of a smile forming at the corner of Hollander’s (perfect) mouth.

Ilya probably couldn’t form a sentence in English right now if his life depended on it.

Hollander blows out a breath, shrugs and says “Better luck next time”, almost like an afterthought, then lifts his helmet off completely. His hair is plastered to his forehead, dark and damp, a few strands sticking out like he’s been fighting his mask the whole night. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, past those (fucking stunning) freckles and disappears down his neck and into his jersey.

Hollander glances at him again before skating off towards the Metros’ bench, and Ilya—

—stares.

Chapter End Notes

Never thought I would write an HR fic but here we are, when inspo strikes it strikes fast I guess. I am a lifelong hockey fan (to my detriment, go canucks) but have never actually played, so this was a fun writing exercise.

Some notes:
1) It is very funny to me specifically that goaltender interference is rule 69 in the NHL rulebook, and I don't think enough fic writers are using that to their advantage.
2) Shane is a goalie, and goalies (usually) don't get drafted in the first round. While Shane might have been chosen for the World Juniors, I'm choosing to have this be his and Ilya's first on-ice battle against each other (If I ever wrote a Shane chapter I would probably dive into this a tad more, but modern NHL goalies are usually fuckin massive, so anyone 6ft or under (ie Shane) would be 'undersized' which wouldn't help with draft stock/placement at Juniors. Or maybe Shane was a late bloomer for a goalie and wasn't amazing at 17, most of the time they don't get good till their early 20s)
3) In the original twitter post @narivaaaal says "shane lifts up his mask to get water in a game, ilya sees his freckles and all his anger becomes confused lust", and I hope I preserved the spirit of that moment in the ending here, it was fun making Ilya blue-screen a bit

Want more? I can be peer pressured. Drop your plot ideas in the comments.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Woe! 5k of Shane Hollander goalie backstory be upon ye!

Chapter Notes

Well this was supposed to be a one shot, but you guys sent ~160 very nice comments of peer pressure so here we are

Shane Hollander’s career as a forward ends before it really begins—with a trip on the ice and a twisted ankle that takes him out on day two of tryouts for the U11 Gatineau Grenadiers.

It happens fast. Too fast for him to catch himself, too fast to throw his hands out properly, too fast to even have a hope of it not happening. His right skate catches an edge and then the ice is rushing up and his ankle folds wrong, pain flaring sharp and hot enough to steal the air from his lungs.

He cries out before he can stop himself, and as he curls over his leg, he doesn't even try to get back up.

Coach Gagnon skates over while Shane is still sitting there, helmet tipped back, breath coming in short, panicked pulls as the arena lights blur overhead. Someone helps him to the boards. Someone else lowers him onto the bench. Coach G unlaces his skate and tuts slightly, the knob of Shane’s ankle already starting to swell, hot and angry. Shane looks down once, and immediately regrets it as his stomach churns.

“Sorry, kid,” Coach G says, not unkindly, but Shane can hear the finality in it. “If you can’t skate, there’s not a whole lot you can do here today. Hang tight, we’ll get Adam to call your mom, okay?”

Shane nods because that’s what he’s supposed to do, but the nod breaks something loose and suddenly he’s crying for real. Loud, hiccupping sobs he can’t get under control. His chest hurts with it. His face feels hot and wet and humiliating.

Tryouts. He’s missing tryouts.

The bench feels too hard, too cold. The rink is too loud. The drills have started up again and every whistle from Coach G makes him flinch. He buries his face in his gloves and wishes—stupidly, desperately—that if he just doesn’t look, this will all stop happening.

No hockey, his brain insists, mean and relentless. No team. No Grenadiers. He’s going to be stuck back on his AA team for a whole year, skating circles around kids he’s already better than, listening to stupid Tyler Mason brag about being a stronger shooter even if he can’t even do a hockey stop without falling, and, and—

“Hey, hey, hey buddy,” a voice says, closer now. “Shane. Shane, look at me.”

Assistant Coach Adam crouches in front of him, blocking out Shane's view of the ice, and his voice is low and steady, like it’s no big deal that Shane’s crying in front of the whole rink.

“Your mom’s on her way,” Adam says. “She’s in Stittsville though, so it’ll take a bit. But she’ll be here soon, okay?”

That’s a lie—it’ll be an hour. More than an hour, with traffic. Shane shakes his head, tears streaking down into the padding of his gloves.

“I want to play,” he manages. It comes out cracked and miserable. “My foot is fine. I don’t want to sit.”

Adam hesitates—his eyes flicking down at Shane’s ankle—but he’s thinking about it. Shane can tell, can see it in his eyes, and he watches adults closely, always has. Adam glances out at the ice, at the rest of the kids lining up for drills, then back at Shane.

“Okay,” Adam says slowly. “Okay. I’ve got an idea.”

It takes a few minutes. Shane doesn’t really know what’s happening at first—just that Adam is helping him up, steering him toward the equipment room, pulling out gear that looks enormous and strange. Pads taller than his legs. A chest protector that smells like old sweat and plastic. A helmet with a cage that feels too close to his face.

“You don’t really have to skate to play goalie,” Adam explains, adjusting straps. “Just… stand. Try to use your stick to stop the pucks. You good with that?”

Shane nods immediately. Anything. He’ll do anything.

Adam leads him back onto the ice and tows Shane to the net in a way that hurts, but the swollen twinge in his ankle isn’t that painful if he isn't trying to actively push himself forward. The pads are heavy, weighing him down in a way that he isn’t really used to feeling on the ice, but it's a good reminder not to pick up his feet and try to skate anywhere right now. He shuffles carefully into the crease, skates barely moving, and suddenly the world feels smaller. Instead of the whole rink, all Shane has is a tiny, blue-painted island in an ocean of white.

He hardly notices the other kids lining up, doesn’t react when Coach G dumps a bucket of pucks between the faceoff dots.

“Okay,” Adam calls. “Just easy shots, guys. Shane, just do your best, all right?”

The whistle blows and the first puck comes in low and fast. Shane drops to his knees without really thinking, ignoring the pull in his ankle, pads flaring out, and the puck thumps harmlessly into his left leg pad.

Shane stares at it for a heartbeat—just a circle of rubber, he’s seen ones just like it a hundred times—but Shane stopped this one. A quick burst of applause snaps him out of his staring, and the next kid in line steps up to take a shot.

Shane stays down and bumps away the next two that make it to him.

Another shot, this one rising up and wobbling through the air, slow enough he decides to try his glove—and he catches it. The sound of it hitting his glove is solid, final, and something eases in his chest as the other kids cheer for him.

Another one, floating through the air on the blocker side. He misses it—but he knows why, immediately knows that his reaction time is slower on his right side because he’s holding a bigger stick than he’s used to.

The noise of the rink fades. His breathing evens out. He snatches the next puck out of the air with a lurch that sends him toppling to the ice—but he still stopped the puck.

By the time Yuna arrives, coat half-zipped and worry written all over her face, the team is running drills around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, shot after shot flying in his direction—

And Shane stops almost everything.

Two days after they lose to Boston, Shane is back on the Metros bench, trying (and probably failing) not to look too intense.

He’s the backup again today. Same seat, same sightlines, the familiar stretch of ice framed between the glass and the far boards. The difference is that this time, he knows he’s going to be here more than a couple of hours in advance. This time, he finished all of his pregame routines without rushing, without improvising. This time, his parents are in the crowd, along with a few Maples teammates: Bones, Jonesy, Tuts, Win, and Johnson. They’re clumped together in decent seats in the lower bowl—easy enough for Shane to spot if he lets himself.

He doesn’t.

He watches the game. Skates planted on the rubber mat, gloves on his knees. Angles, lanes, timing. The puck moves and his eyes follow, notes and patterns trickling in without him actively looking for them. Houston cycles the puck way too much, he thinks, as the Metros defense easily breaks up a pass and clears the zone again for the second time in two minutes. Drillers 90–is that Lehtinen? 90 isn’t confident enough along the boards, Dagenais’ll win this battle—

And yup, there they go. The glass rattles slightly as the players collide and Dagenais sprints away with the puck, number 90 trailing almost haplessly in the wake of the breakaway he caused. It's an effort that doesn’t go anywhere—Houston’s goalie, Marks (29, 0.888 save percentage, far too flighty), makes an easy stick save. The Drillers charge back up to Montreal’s zone, the Metros bench tensing slightly as Houston’s RW (14, Svensson? He’s moving too fast for Shane to see his jersey properly) sets up for a slapshot—

But Miitka is sharp tonight, controlled, patient, tracking clean through traffic. He catches the shot tight into his chest without drama, swallows up any chance for a rebound, and Shane feels the automatic, professional satisfaction of it.

Good. That’s good goaltending.

On the next rush, though, Miitka drifts a half-step too far out of his crease. It’s subtle, but Shane sees it immediately, tracks the way that he has to lurch his way left instead of smoothly squaring himself. He recovers though, gets in front of the puck and manages to control it for the whistle.

Shane’s fingers curl against his glove before he can stop himself.

He forces his shoulders to relax. It doesn’t matter. Miitka made the save. The play is over. There’s nothing wrong with noticing things—that’s literally his job. That’s how you get better. That’s how everyone gets better.

The nasty thought settles anyway, thin and sharp: Bet I wouldn’t have drifted there.

Montreal wins.

In the locker room afterward, Shane listens more than he talks. He nods at the right moments, peels off his gear with practiced efficiency, accepts a bottle of water he didn’t ask for and drinks it anyway. Someone mentions Houston’s top line being quieter than expected, but hockey talk is quickly buried under other conversations. Someone else loudly invites the team out to a bar, to a chorus of yeses, that Shane doesn’t join in on.

“Good work up here,” an assistant coach says in passing, and Shane nods, because that’s still (thankfully always) a correct response to a coach.

He won’t be here tomorrow. Management already told him—Drapeau’s groin strain isn’t serious enough to keep him on IR, and with the team out of playoff contention and only four games to go in the season, Miitka can definitely hold the net until it’s over.

Shane packs his bag neatly, and lets the noise of the locker room wash over him. Same gear, different rooms. AHL, MLH… it’s the same game, the same pressure, the same expectations Shane has for himself.

So he doesn’t understand the sting of disappointment he can feel building inside his chest.

Unlike the Metros, the Laval Maples are playoff-bound. Shane is the undisputed starter. He’ll get every game unless something goes catastrophically wrong, which it won’t. Shane’s proven himself—more than proven himself. He wasn’t supposed to see the ice during this call-up, but he did, and even if the single line on his MLH stat card reads as a loss, that isn’t the whole story.

Twenty minutes on the ice. Seventeen shots. Only one goal.

He was set up to fail. Didn’t.

He proved, objectively, that he belongs up here at the professional level, and that should absolutely feel like validation, like momentum.

Instead it feels like standing on the wrong side of the glass.

Shane’s hand tightens on the zipper on his bag, before he forces himself to unclench and zip it the rest of the way, carefully, slowly. He exhales through his nose, frustrated, then immediately scolds himself for feeling like this: This is how it works. This is how it’s always worked. You wait. You perform when asked to. You wait until it's your turn.

Thirty teams in the MLH. Thirty starters. Thirty backups. Just sixty spots for a goalie in the entire league.

He’s proven—without a shadow of a doubt—that if the Metros call him up again, he can play at that level. He’s ready for one of those spots.

He shoulders his bag, the weight familiar.

He’s practically there.

Just… not quite yet.

His parents take him and two of his teammates out to dinner after the game, some vaguely Italian restaurant that smells overpoweringly like garlic and hot oil and has, miraculously, no problem serving him a piece of completely unseasoned white fish on brown rice. Shane eats methodically, focused on the clean, predictable work of it, and is distinctly grateful to be in a group of people who aren’t expecting him to say much.

His parents are more than happy to fill the space.

“I still don’t understand why they keep running Fournier on the second pairing,” Yuna says, spearing a piece of pasta with clear intent. “He’s been underwater all season. Every time he’s out there, the expected goals spike like a heart attack.”

Bones perks up immediately. “Oh my god, yes. Thank you. I thought I was crazy– bud looks like he’s sleepwalking out there.”

Yuna grumbles a bit under her breath before saying, “He’s chasing the play, not trying to actually put in the effort and do his own job. He’s a stay at home defenseman—I don’t know why Theriault is letting him get away with this. What’s the point of a player who refuses to play his position?”

Jonesy laughs into his drink. “Damn, Mrs Hollander, you don’t pull punches.”

“I don’t need to,” Yuna replies. “They called him up from Laval two years ago and he still plays like he’s an AHLer."

Jonesy nods, agreeing enthusiastically. “Thing is, he was better when he was on the Maples. He was there during my first season, and dude used to log, like, twenty minutes a night. Now he looks allergic to the puck.”

“That happens,” David says mildly. “Some guys don’t adjust well once the pace jumps.”

“The pace didn’t jump,” Yuna says immediately. “The expectations did, and he’s overextending himself. Both of Rozanov’s goals on Wednesday were directly caused by his mistakes.”

That gets Bones’ attention, in a different way. “Speaking of,” he says, already pulling his phone out. “Hollzy, did we show you this?”

It takes Shane a couple seconds to pull himself together enough to speak. “Show me what?”

Jonesy scoots closer immediately. “Wait, is this the clip?”

Bones grins, sharp and delighted, and props his phone up against Shane’s glass of water. “You’ve got a famous fan, bud.”

His parents get up and join them, the five of them clustering on one end of the table and probably drawing the attention of the rest of the restaurant. Bones taps the screen, and suddenly all Shane can pay attention to is Rozanov, framed from the chest up in a Raiders hoodie, clearly mid-interview.

A reporter’s voice crackles through the speakers. “–strong season of course, and it must feel good to get one final win over the Metros with two goals and an assist—though, you didn’t quite manage to get a third to finish that hat trick out.”

Rozanov shrugs, the motion careless. “Is fine, I will get one next game. Metros didn’t even have a goalie until the third, so it wasn’t a fair contest.”

Bones makes a noise like he’s been personally insulted, but the clip isn’t done and there’s a smirk winding its way up across Rozanov’s face now. “Will be fun to play him again.”

“Oh– the Metros? Well you’ll have to wait until next season, or the Winter Classic of course—”

“No,” Rozanov says, cutting the reporter off, and oh, Shane feels something coiling up inside his stomach. “No, not the Metros. Hollander.”

The clip ends there, and Shane’s head is full of static. Yuna makes a strangled noise, and David hums thoughtfully. “That was… specific.”

Bones nudges Shane’s knee under the table. “Looks like you made a big impression in twenty minutes there, Hollzy.”

Shane huffs out a breath that might pass for a laugh if Bones is feeling charitable. “Ha. Yeah. Cool.”

Cool, he repeats disbelievingly inside his head, while his pulse stutters and something alarmingly like panic ripples out through his body. Very cool. One of the most physical forwards in the entire MLH has apparently decided I’m a problem. And he’s looking forward to playing me again. Specifically.

His parents and his teammates start talking again, something about the Maples’ chances for the upcoming AHL playoffs. Shane drops his gaze back to his plate, appetite gone, pulse skidding in a way he doesn’t yet have language for. He takes another careful bite of fish anyway though, because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

Cool. Yeah. No pressure.

“C’mon Hollzy, I’ve got fifty bucks riding on Lemaire winning Rookie of the year over your best friend Rozanov—”

“You shouldn’t be gambling Bones,” Shane replies on autopilot, eyes fixed on the slow, careful extension of his hamstring. He counts under his breath—ten seconds, release, switch sides—and pointedly ignores Bones’ laughter. Hang on, how old is Bones? Wait, is the gambling age different in the States? Bones is Canadian, is this even legal—

The Maples’ playoff push has been… messy. Shane doesn’t want to jinx anything, but they’re heading into the deciding Division finals game against the Buffalo Banshees tomorrow—and he can’t think about that. He has to keep his mind on track, not on the pressure, not on Bones’ dumb bets. He needs to keep it together.

Johnson’s been in a sling since he hit the boards wrong in game two, and a minor concussion has sidelined Lee since the last round. The D-core is paper-thin, and the forwards are running on fumes after two straight overtime games. Shane’s been the only thing keeping their end of the ice from completely collapsing, blocking shots, clearing pucks, and corralling rebounds the way he’s drilled in practice.

—but none of that will matter if Bones, their last fully healthy defenseman, somehow gets himself arrested in fucking Buffalo of all places.

The thoughts stack up too fast, jostling for space. Shane swallows and focuses on the mat beneath him, the familiar texture pulling him back. Relax. Routine matters. Stretch, shower, protein bar, lights out. Same order, every time. It keeps things tidy.

“We literally have the final game tomorrow,” he says out loud, because that’s simpler. Definitely a more normal response than contemplating New York state gambling law. “Who cares who wins the Corner award? It’s almost 9, we should be getting ready—”

“Hollzy,” Win says, and Shane winces a little because Win has joined in now, which means this is becoming a thing. “Come on, man. The game isn’t till 5 tomorrow, and it’s just one night. Couple hours in Marty and Lee’s room, watch the awards, that’s it. Call it team bonding, if you need an excuse.”

Shane does need the excuse. He needs a reason that isn’t if I don’t do my routine exactly right my body won’t feel like my body tomorrow. He knows from experience that trying to explain that part just gets him blank looks and jokes about goalies being strange.

Usually, that’s enough to get his teammates to back off—but he also knows he’s far past the limit on how antisocial he’s allowed to be on roadies, so he rolls up his yoga mat and stands with a sigh, to Bones’ and Win’s sarcastic applause.

“Fine,” Shane says. “Couple of hours.”

He tosses the mat toward his bag and toes into his sneakers, already cataloging what parts of his routine he’s skipping, what he can salvage later. If he’s back in under two hours, he’ll be able to salvage his hip flexor routine at minimum. Still, he can’t stop himself from saying, “But if we lose our next game because I’m not stretched out, I’m blaming both of you.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” Win says easily, steering them out into the hallway where the noise level jumps immediately, probably to the ire of the other people staying at this hotel. “Just a couple of hours. We’ve got this in the bag. What we should be worried about is Bones losing his last fifty on a stupid bet and having to ask his girlfriend to bail him out again—”

“That was one time dude!”

It is, predictably, not just a couple of hours.

Shane spends most of the night perched on the edge of Marty’s bed, spine stiff, feet planted flat on the carpet like he’s bracing for contact. He’s wedged between Win and Jonesy with the rest of the d-core packed in tight around them, knees knocking every time someone shifts. The mattress dips and rebounds beneath him whenever someone laughs too hard or flops backward, and the unfamiliar give of it makes his shoulders tense reflexively.

He nurses the same Coke long after it’s gone warm, condensation drying tacky against his fingers. The smell of it—sugary, cloying, awful—mixes with sweat, cologne, and the lingering tang that always sticks to hockey players. Every time someone jostles his arm he checks the rim instinctively, making sure it hasn’t sloshed over.

He laughs when everyone else laughs, a beat late but close enough not to be noticed. When the shouting spikes—when Morgenstern of all people wins the fucking sportsmanship prize and the room erupts—Shane subtly lifts his shoulder, presses the heel of his hand just behind his ear like he’s scratching an itch. The noise vibrates through his skull anyway, layered voices stacking and overlapping until it’s hard to pick any one of them out.

He tracks the room the way he tracks the ice.

Counts bodies. Registers who’s sitting, who’s pacing, who’s leaning too close. He adjusts when Jonesy shifts again, angling his knees just enough to hopefully avoid the spill when Jonesy’s soda will inevitably tip out onto Marty’s bedspread. He doesn’t look down, but he knows exactly where the can is at all times.

The TV volume is just over the edge of too loud. He knows it is because his jaw aches faintly from clenching, because the dialogue feels like it’s pressing directly against his eardrums instead of coming from across the room. The remote sits on the TV stand less than three feet in front of him, black plastic, unmistakable. He knows exactly how far it is without looking.

He doesn’t reach for it.

He keeps his hands wrapped around the bottle instead.

Rozanov wins the Corner Award for MLH Rookie of the Year to absolutely nobody’s surprise. The room quiets enough to hear the broadcast though, and Shane watches the screen, relieved for the brief reduction in noise. Rozanov’s speech is short, mostly in Russian, his cadence smooth even when Shane can’t follow the words. Bones groans theatrically the second it’s over and slumps sideways across Lee’s bed, accepting his fate and the loss of his money with exaggerated misery.

Shane finishes his Coke at last, throat working around the lukewarm stickyness, and returns to his room nearly three hours after he first left it, far too late to properly finish his nighttime routine, and he can’t ignore how much it throws him off.

The next evening, the Laval Maples are eliminated in the Divisional final of the Coulson Cup in an embarrassing 1–0 collapse.

Shane does not say I told you so, because even if his teammates couldn’t score, he was still the one who let the single goal in. The puck had slipped through traffic, caught him half a beat late. He’s replayed it enough times to know that.

He does, however, skip the pity party his teammates are having in the hotel bar to stay in alone, and lets himself stretch for an extra twenty minutes past his usual routine that night. Methodical, exact, counting every breath until the tightness in his body finally, blessedly eases.

Shane goes back to Ottawa three days after the Maples are eliminated, and once they reach his parents’ cottage for their annual July stay, his life settles into something comfortably structured.

Run. Stretch. Breakfast. Drive into the city for ice time, twice a week. HIIT or weight training, alternating days. Maybe a swim in the lake if he’s feeling particularly adventurous. Lazy summer days blur together into a rhythm he doesn’t have to think about to execute perfectly.

It’s easier like this.

No new people. No travel. No wondering where he’ll be playing next week. Just controllable inputs and measurable outputs. If he runs hard enough, lifts heavy enough, tracks pucks cleanly enough, the results will follow. That’s math. Input effort equals output results. No surprises, no interruptions to his summer bliss.

Mostly.

His teammates have scattered across the continent or back overseas, and they like to send him an occasional message or picture, even if Shane never sends anything out first. They’re persistent though, so Shane amends his schedule and makes a point to check his phone at least twice per day, responding to at least half of the messages he receives.

There are systems to manage things like this. He likes having systems.

Greg Bohner: Dude I’m telling you, this game is going to change everything
Greg Bohner: MW2 is already so good, how on earth could they even improve on perfection?
Greg Bohner: You’ll like it, you need good reflexes to play it

Well that sounded exhausting, and Bones didn’t need any more encouragement in his quest to teach Shane how to play COD against his will. Ignored. Next

Luc Turcotte: Toujours en ville? Fête, chez moi, le 19

Shane feels a sudden, visceral surge of appreciation for the approximately four hours of highways separating him from Laval right now.

Me: Non, désolé.

Immediate response. Efficient. Done. On to the next one.

Winston MacLean: I just thought she was the one, you know?
Winston MacLean: Like, I’m heartbroken, but I’m done
Winston MacLean: For good this time, I promise
Winston MacLean: What do I even do now man

Oh boy. Privately, Shane hopes Win’s girlfriend has finally wised up and decided to dump him for good this time (the breakup/makeup cycle had been exhausting this season, even secondhand) but he can’t exactly come out and tell that to Win directly.

He types, deletes, retypes. Reconsiders, then thinks, fuck it, and presses send.

Me: Go to Tut’s party.
Me: Give yourself a chance to actually get over her.

Winston MacLean: You’re ice cold Hollzy

Shane stares at that for a second, immediately offended. That was so much nicer than Win deserved, for all the relationship bullshit he unloaded on Shane and the rest of the team last year, but whatever. Win asked for advice, and Shane had given it his best try. Next.

Jonesy sent a caption-less picture of himself in front of a massive red barn, arms crossed like he personally built it, presumably from somewhere in his hometown in bumfuck nowhere Ontario. Shane is halfway through typing how many cows do you actually have you poser when his phone rings in his hand.

Montreal area code.

Not saved.

His stomach drops hard enough that it almost feels like vertigo. He watches it ring in his hand once, twice, almost uncomprehendingly, before startling and accepting the call before the next ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi Shane,” it’s a man's voice, light Quebec accent. “It’s Ben Michaud. I’m a part of goaltender development with the Metros, we spoke briefly at last year’s training camp?”

“Oh.” Shane straightens instinctively, like the man can see him. “Yeah. Hi. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted you to hear this from us before it hits the media in a couple days, but…” Ben releases a slow breath, and Shane braces himself. “Drapeau’s going into surgery this offseason. We won’t know for sure for a bit, but there’s a real chance he’ll be out for the entire 2011-12 season.”

The words land with strange softness. The lake is dead quiet behind him. Somewhere in the trees, a bird shrieks.

“Okay,” Shane says, because that’s the correct response, and his brain is screaming at him.

“There’s going to be an opportunity at camp,” Ben continues. Calm. Professional. “We expect you to come in ready to compete for the backup spot.”

Compete. Not fill in for. Compete for.

Ben’s still speaking: “Coaching staff is going to send out the full camp schedule in a few weeks.” A small pause. Weighted. “Enjoy the rest of your summer, Hollander. We’re looking forward to seeing you in September.”

“I– thanks,” Shane says, 'cause what else is he supposed to say right now? He clears his throat awkwardly. “Have a good summer as well.”

Shane lowers the phone from his ear slowly, like it might still be connected, and just stares at his lock screen. It’s 2:37 on a Tuesday.

The lake is quiet behind him. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel amplified—the wind through the trees, the faint slap of water against the dock, his own breathing, too loud, too fast.

2:38 now.

Drapeau. Surgery. Entire season?

Thirty teams. Sixty total goalie spots in the MLH. And one of them just opened up.

Miitka is the starter by default now, but the competition to be the second half of that tandem is wide open. Shane won’t delude himself into even thinking he’s going to just get the call—he’s good, but twenty minutes in the big league isn’t enough to get the job outright. That means there will be at least three bodies at camp fighting for it: Shane, probably the other Laval goalie Martin, maybe someone from one of the European leagues looking to make the jump to North America.

2:39

Fuck, there’ll probably be four people trying out, if they sign a veteran on a PTO. They might. They probably will. Smart management hedges.

Shane presses the heel of his hand briefly against his sternum. His heart is beating too fast. Not panic. Just an acceleration, like it’s the first shift of a game.

He thinks about that Boston game: Seventeen shots. One goal. Twenty minutes cold off the bench. No prep. It’s too small of a sample size to really mean anything but… a .941 save percentage. Completely unsustainable for longer than twenty minutes, but still a damn good showing, if Shane isn’t being modest about it.

Rozanov’s voice from that video months ago, low, dangerous, creeps up without Shane consciously thinking about it: “Will be fun to play him again.”

Fuck.

He’s standing at the edge of the dock looking out across the lake, completely unfocused. The surface is flat, sun glinting off it in sharp, bright flashes. For a second, it feels like looking at ice.

He was ready back in April. He’s ready now. He just has to prove it.

Chapter End Notes

Once again, I wrote that first chapter intending it to be a one shot. I did absolutely no higher level thinking about the 'why' of the canon divergence, and once it became obvious that I was going to write a second chapter, I had to lock in. Brain went BRRRR and now I have 5000 words. Oops. Most of the time when I write anything (fic or otherwise) I have the entire story plotted and most of the chapters done; that is not happening here. I am flying by the seat of my pants, so bear with me if I go back and make retroactive edits.

With that out of the way, some notes:
1) For any non-hockey readers I think it's important to emphasize just how unlikely it is that anyone actually makes it into the big leagues of the nhl. According to google, across 32 NHL teams in the 2025 season there were 436 forwards, 228 defensemen, and 62 goalies. Yes, that’s right, 62 goalies. In this fic Shane is in a good position, but he is still up against ridiculous odds of actually 'making it' in his career, and that was a tasty bit of tension to add into his character.
2) He's got some (OC) friends here. Of course, we have Hayden and sort-of JJ in the show, but we don't really see too much of them interacting, and I took the opportunity to give him a bit more of a community. He’s still kind of stiff and awkward, but he has people he can let his guard down around (especially over text). A few comments on the last chapter touched on this (shout out users TABrown and Punderfulfandoms), but his ‘Shane-ness’ is much more tolerable when he’s a goalie, as sad as that is
3) Shane has a much more "its all on me, it's my fault if we win or lose" mentality (shout out to user lovescynic for your comment about this), and this ties in beautifully with his canon habits.
4) No Ilya in this chapter, but please know I'm starring a comment by twinster on this point
5) Miscellaneous. Why was Yuna in Stittsville? Dunno, but thats the funniest of Ottawa's neighbourhoods. Why is the team being called U11 when in real life it would've been Atoms? I wanted it to be easier to understand for non hockey readers, dont @me. Team names/player names? I hate it when IRL stuff is put in fiction so these are all OC. Is Bones' last name Bohner for a reason? Eh, I thought that was a great joke from Wandavision, and I'm envisioning a future scenario where Ilya sees Shane say "Bohner" on TV LMAO

I'm going to be writing more, but I also am still begging on my knees for plot ideas. Please. Sound off in the comments.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Y'know how I was shocked I came up with 5k of Shane stuff? Well. Ilya is one verbose guy it seems

Chapter Notes

Sorry to all the national capital region people I apparently gave heart attacks to by mentioning Stittsville last chapter. I spent 8 months living in Ottawa when I was an undergrad in university, and if the story ever meanders back to that area I will 100% be using my insider knowledge to inflict more psychic damage

Sixteen days into the 2011-2012 season, the Boston Raiders beat the Colorado Mudslides, the reigning MLH Cup champions, 5–2. It’s a warning shot, clean and unmistakable; it's enough to put the rest of the league on notice, and it's the kind of game people will be talking about weeks later. Ilya scored twice in the game and assisted on another goal, which means it's already a good night for him, even before the Raiders spill out onto the streets and descend upon a local bar.

It’s loud in a comfortable, post-win way—the bass is a shade too heavy, a low, insistent thrum that lives in the ribs and blurs the edges of conversation, making everything just a touch too loud. Glassware clinks; someone whoops; a burst of laughter ricochets off the tin ceiling and dissolves into the hum. Teammates drift in loose, satisfied bands, jackets slung over chair backs, ties loosened but not quite undone. Most of them are still in their game-day suits—charcoal and navy and the occasional reckless plaid—because no one wanted to go back to the hotel and let the night thin out into room service and SportsCenter. Victory still clings to them like cologne.

Marly is holding court near the pool tables, cue balanced over his shoulder like a scepter, grin bright and wolfish as he fields questions and compliments from a semicircle of women. Connors has commandeered the jukebox, Feller has spilled at least one beer over himself already, and Olsson has, predictably, found the tallest woman in the room and is attempting to explain something with sweeping, earnest gestures that nearly take out a server’s tray. At the other end of the bar, Anderson is perched with the careful posture of a man who will later insist he is not acting like an anxious parent, even as his gaze flicks—one, two, three—across the room. He lifts his drink only when someone is looking.

Ilya claimed a sliver of sticky wood at the bar the moment they walked in—a calculated spot at the maximum distance from Anderson, but also a minimum distance from the drinks and the attention of the room. It worked almost immediately; the girl in front of him is pretty in an aggressively curated way, perfect eyeliner, sleek hair, radiating something faintly floral and expensive in a way that didn’t belong in a place that smells like citrus cleaner and beer foam. She’d approached him first, which is always a good sign.

It had been a good sign, at the start. Now she is squinting at him.

“No but really,” she says slowly, like she’s conducting an interview, “what’s your stance?”

“On?” Ilya prompts.

She gestures vaguely. “You know. Everything.”

That clarifies nothing.

“I like cars,” he tries. “And expensive watches.”

This visibly does not impress her. “No, I mean like—” She leans closer. “With everything going on. Globally. Geopolitically.”

He blinks at her.

“Geopolitically,” she repeats, as if he might not have understood the word the first time. “I just feel like it’s important to know where people stand. Especially, like… given your accent.”

Does she actually want to fuck him or not? Ilya squints slightly at her, trying to determine if this is a test, a trap, or some new American foreplay ritual he’s unfamiliar with.

“My accent,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” she says, drawing it out like he’s slow. “It’s very… relevant.”

He opens his mouth, not entirely sure what he’s going to say to that, but before he has to figure it out, a hand thumps down hard on his shoulder and breaks the moment.

“Time to get going, Roz,” Anderson says, his voice gruff and unwelcome, like the walking cockblock he usually always is.

Ilya groans immediately, leaning back against the bar like a martyr. “Anderson. I am in middle of important cultural exchange.”

The Raiders’ captain is unmoved. “C’mon, kid. Curfew’s coming up, and we’re flying out early tomorrow. Wrap it up.”

Ilya turns back to the girl—and she’s already gone, probably off to bother anyone else who has a Slavic accent and grill them on their—what was it that she said? Oh, right, ‘geopolitical stance.’

What a waste of a perfectly good evening. Ilya abandons his mostly empty glass at the bar and slouches his way outside, joining Marly, Connors, and the rest of their teammates for the walk back to their hotel. Mid-October in Colorado is unseasonably warm, and the night air sticks unpleasantly to the back of his neck, his suit jacket suddenly feeling like a punishment. He spends most of the walk sweating and stewing under his breath.

“Geopolitical,” he mutters darkly.

“What?” Marly asks.

“Nothing. Fucking Americans.”

Back at the hotel, the mood shifts from public bravado to controlled chaos as two dozen fully grown men adhere to their strict bedtime, scattering into their rooms to be in bed with the lights out by 11-fucking-pm. Ilya kicks off his shoes and collapses onto his bed, and looks over with mild fascination as his roomie pulls back the covers on the other bed.

“Yuck,” he says, watching Connors crawl under his covers, still mostly dressed. “Connors, will you not even brush teeth?”

“Fuck all the way off, Roz,” Connors replies mildly, not bothering to open his eyes as he settles in.

Disgusting.

Sensing he has already tested his roommate’s patience enough for one night, Ilya grabs his toiletry bag and heads for the washroom. He brushes his teeth thoroughly—because he is civilized—splashes a handful of water over his face, studies his reflection critically.

Perfect hygiene.

He tiptoes back out to his bed. Connors is already dead asleep, somehow, snoring faintly like a malfunctioning appliance, so Ilya strips down to his boxers as quietly as he can and pulls back his own covers to settle in.

Normally he’d spend some time on his phone, ignore a few messages from Alexei, check in with a previous hook up to try and arrange a meeting for the next game in her area, maintain morale—but Connors makes a snuffling noise in his sleep and rolls ominously in Ilya’s direction, so Ilya quickly shuts his phone off for the night, not wanting to risk being smothered in the night with a pillow.

Sleep doesn’t come easily with the restlessness still bubbling there, but eventually his thoughts blur, his breathing evens out, and his eyes slide shut.

Ilya fumbles for his phone on the third buzz and immediately regrets being alive.

“What,” comes Connors’ voice from the other bed, thick with sleep and menace, “is happening.”

“Is international emergency,” Ilya whispers, already untangling himself from the sheets, and takes the opportunity to use his newest vocabulary entry. “Geopolitically.”

“Roz, if it’s one of your girlfriends calling before five am again, I swear to God—”

“It is not,” Ilya half-lies, and scurries into the washroom before a pillow hits him.

He shuts the door, flicks on the harsh overhead light, and answers.

“What,” he says in Russian, trying desperately for dignity despite the fact that it is 4:47 in the morning and he’s barefoot and pantsless and shirtless and hiding from his roomie in a hotel bathroom. “What couldn’t wait until morning.”

Sveta doesn’t even say hello. “Did you hear the news?”

Ilya leans back against the counter and runs an exhausted hand down his face. “If you are engaged, I refuse to approve of him.”

She snorts, and Ilya can feel her eyeroll through the phone. “Please. As if I would tell you first if I was engaged.”

“You would,” he says automatically, because they both know she absolutely would. “You crave my guidance.”

“Mm. Sure. Anyway—guess what?”

“What?”

There’s a beat of silence. Immediately suspicious.

“My dad has a new favorite hockey player.”

Ilya silently mouths several swears to himself before speaking again. “Sveta, this is not worth waking me up for. Do you want me to be murdered? I am roomies with Connors again this year, he has already threatened my life many times—”

“It’s well past due,” Sveta says, fully ignoring Ilya’s exhausted misery. “With the way you’ve been playing lately, it was only a matter of time before dad started looking for a replacement.”

Rude. “I have six goals this season!”

“And yet.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, already knowing Sveta won’t let him go back to bed until he asks. “Who is it.”

“You remember that goalie you would not shut up about?”

“I have never—”

“The one who robbed you of your precious hat trick.”

Ilya stills.

“I’ve never said anything about him,” he says carefully.

She scoffs at him. “You absolutely have. Anyway. He had his debut last night, against the Philly Founders, and Dad was watching. He liked him.”

“Your father likes all goalies.”

“Not like this,” she sing-songs. “He said—and I quote—‘That boy is very composed.’”

Ilya scowls at his reflection. “He’s not even Russian. Why would Sergei even look twice at him? That is deeply offensive to me, personally.”

“Aw, are you jealous?”

“Of a rookie goalie?” Ilya scowls deeper. “Please.”

There’s shuffling on her end. “Hold on.”

Well that isn’t ominous at all. “What are you doing?”

“Shh.”

A second later, tinny arena noise fills his ear: the sound of a post-game interview. Svetlana has clearly just shoved her phone at her television.

“…successful debut tonight,” an interviewer is saying. “You must be feeling pretty good. Anyone you’re looking forward to facing as the season goes on?”

Hollander’s voice comes through—calm, even, perfectly clear despite the two layers of shitty speakers. “There’s a lot of good teams this year; Toronto, Tampa, Vancouver.” A short pause. “Oh, and of course Boston’ll be a challenge.”

Ilya’s stomach tightens in a way he immediately resents.

Svetlana makes a little noise. “Oh ho.”

The interviewer laughs. “Because of Rozanov?”

“No,” Hollander says. “Not just him. But—” Ilya presses his phone even closer to his ear. “—he still hasn’t gotten that hat trick, has he?”

Ilya’s brain goes completely, catastrophically blank. He doesn’t even register Svetlana’s (extremely disloyal, rude, and extremely loud) laughter for several seconds, but gets ahold of himself enough to swear at her, weakly.

“Well?” she prompts, still snickering.

Ilya isn’t nearly awake enough to deal with this. “Well what.”

“He remembers you!”

“That’s normal,” Ilya protests faintly. “I am memorable. Rookie of the fucking Year, Sveta.”

“He didn’t say anything about that—he specifically remembers denying you a hat trick.”

“That is not—” He stops. Clears his throat. Resets. “That is tactical awareness.”

“Oh my God,” she says delightedly. “Ilyusha. Tell me, are you blushing?”

Ilya chances a glance at his reflection in the mirror—damn it—and doesn’t dignify that with a response as Svetlana starts laughing at him again. He pushes off the counter and paces the length of the bathroom, which is approximately three steps long, several times before biting out, “Send me that clip.”

She stops laughing almost immediately. “For what?”

“For– analysis.”

“Analysis.” Svetlana repeats, incredulous. She sees through him immediately. “You just like that he said your name.”

“He didn’t say my name.”

“He might as well have.” A shuffle on her end. “I’ll send it,” she says. “So you can… analyze.”

His phone buzzes once in his hand, and she speaks again before he can. “Don’t be too weird about it.”

Oh come on— “I’m never weird!”

“You are always weird.”

He huffs. “Goodnight, Sveta.”

“Don’t work too hard. Sweet dreams, superstar.”

The line goes dead. Ilya runs another exhausted hand down his face and tiptoes out of the washroom back into his bed. He absolutely does not open the link she sent him.

He, for entirely unrelated reasons, also absolutely does not look up Montreal’s schedule at the same time.

The Bell Centre is always loud in a way that feels distinctly hostile, but tonight there’s something extra in it. Ilya lets the thrum of anticipation build up inside him, and waves occasionally to the crowd, collecting boos.

He takes wide laps during warmups, lets the jeers from the crowd roll over him like static, fires the occasional puck on the net as his teammates do their warm up rituals around him. First Boston–Montreal game of the season. Rivalry night. The crowd is already vibrating, frothing at the mouth anticipating the brutality of the night's game.

Ilya’s not thinking about that right now—not yet at least.

Hollander is stretched out along the center line, near the boards by the penalty boxes, one leg extended, stick laid neatly to the side. Controlled. Intentional. Like he’s alone in a quiet practice rink instead of in front of twenty thousand screaming people.

Ilya absolutely does not alter his trajectory: he simply allows his route to curve in that direction, and drifts to a stop, a couple feet away.

“You look comfortable,” he says, as if they are continuing a conversation from yesterday instead of months ago.

Hollander tilts his head back to look up at him and even through the mask Ilya can see recognition flicker immediately. No surprise. No visible nerves. Hollander doesn’t speak and Ilya doesn’t say anything else, and neither of them speak for a long moment, and Ilya is just about to make an excuse and backtrack when—

“Home ice,” Hollander says, completely neutrally.

“Ah,” Ilya replies, embarrassingly delighted to have garnered a response. “So you admit you Metros need the advantage.”

Hollander pushes up onto one knee, but before he can do anything else, another Metros player comes skidding to a stop at his side, planting himself between them with the subtlety of a brick wall.

“You lost?” Pike asks pissily, and Ilya barely restrains a derisive scoff.

“I am socializing,” Ilya says and rolls his eyes dramatically. He was being nice!

“With our rookie goalie,” Pike replies flatly.

“Yes?”

Pike looks down at Hollander. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Hollander says, voice even, not even pausing the motion of his stretches.

Ilya presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “I am not trying to intimidate him.”

Pike raises a deeply unimpressed eyebrow. “Sure.”

“We were only talking about the game.”

“That’s absolutely worse.”

“My intentions are not hostile,” Ilya says petulantly and oh, isn’t that the truth. The words are crowding his mouth, I am being perfectly fucking respectful, conducting a polite cross-team exchange for reasons that are… mostly non-hockey.

Ilya doesn’t say any of that out loud thankfully, and Pike shoos him off with a pointed, “Warmups are for warming up, Rozanov,” that Ilya takes with a scowl, because there is nothing he can say back to that, really. He resumes his lazy circles of the ice and only chances a glance back at Hollander on his second lap; Pike has fucked off but Hollander is still there, crouched on the ice beside the center line, calm as anything. He doesn’t look in Ilya’s direction even once.

Ilya turns away from him. This is fine. He’ll just score a goal or two (or three) today, and that’ll make this whole Hollander… thing, go away.

Ilya does not score a goal or two or three today. In fact, almost none of the Raiders score a goal this game, only Feller, with a tipped in shot from the point on a power play. It’s an unbelievable showing from the rookie Metros goaltender, as the clock winds down and the final horn blows on a 2-1 Montreal victory, the noise from the crowd hits Ilya like it's a physical thing.

The Metros are celebrating their win in a huddle on the opposite end of the ice, and Ilya turns to start making his way back towards the visitors bench and off the ice—

—and nearly collides with Hollander. Ilya hadn’t even noticed him approaching.

“Why does LeClaire keep pulling you out of the offensive zone faceoffs?” Hollander asks, sounding genuinely confused, like that’s a normal thing to be asking an opponent after a game. Ilya still answers him though.

“Anderson and Feller are better,” Ilya offers, but Hollander is shaking his head almost immediately, rejecting that outright.

“No way,” he says, and Hollander’s right hand reaches up to fiddle with the front of his mask, pulling it up and away from his face. Even though Ilya has more than enough time to brace for it, the sight of Hollander’s flushed cheeks and (gorgeous fucking) freckles still hits him like a cross-check to the gut.

Up close, he looks—

Ilya forgets how words work.

“You cheat your weight left before the drop,” Hollander continues, and Ilya drags his eyes up to meet Hollander’s with great effort. “It’s subtle, but I’m shocked the linesman isn’t catching it. But if it works it works, I guess.”

All Ilya can do is choke out a slightly strangled, “Thank you?” before Hollander is skating off to join his celebrating teammates.

The next time they play Montreal it’s late November and the season has been going exceedingly well for the Raiders. It’s far too early to think it—practically in jinx territory if you listen to Marly, which Ilya occasionally does now—but if they keep on the pace they have been, Boston will be making the playoffs at or near the top of their division.

They are nowhere near the point in the season where games become must-win things, but every goal counts in the scoring race, and Ilya knows the Rocket Richard Trophy isn’t won by waiting for “big” games—he has to stack them now, goal by goal, especially against a team like Montreal.

He’s made a plan for this. Sort of. If he can just make it onto the ice during warmups and get a word to Hollander—maybe about the faceoffs, maybe about… something, anything else—he could salvage a little dignity before the game even started, and Hollander would be less of a brick wall and more of a goalie Ilya can work around, same as any of the others in the league.

Probably. It was a shit plan. He knew that. He could see the cracks forming in it already.

When the horn sounds and the team pushes onto the ice, reality is disappointing and immediate. Hollander stands in the Metros’ net for the first half of warmups, batting away pucks and sliding around, completely unavailable. At the seven-minute mark, there’s a flicker of hope: Hollander skates to the center line by the penalty boxes to stretch, same place as last time—but unlike last time, Pike and Boiziau go with him. The two Metros players plant themselves on his sides like tiny, yappy guard dogs, leaning on their sticks and chatting over Hollander’s head. They don’t look in Ilya’s direction even once, but Ilya can feel the weight of their attention as he continues his usual circles around the warmups.

Fuckers, Ilya thinks, and snags a loose puck to carry with him on the next lap. Overprotective and not helpful. Does nobody else care about the Rocket scoring race? He shoots the puck at the net from the left dot. Misses by about a foot.

Impolite and presumptuous, these Canadians, changing their entire warmup to mother hen an adult man. Hollander doesn’t even need their hovering. He pushes off and snags another puck, this time stealing one out from between Connors’ feet and ignores his swearing and shaking fist and continues circling. Hollander would probably want Ilya to come talk to him. He did it last time, and the Metros won that game. Weren’t goalies supposed to be superstitious? He skids to a stop at the top of the right dot and flicks a quick wrister on net, snappy and unpredictable, and feels a curl of satisfaction form in his gut as it hits the netting with a clean swish.

Maybe that was it—Ilya spoke to Hollander last time, and the Metros won. If he doesn’t even try, he’s changed something, and that would be enough to start the game off with a clean slate. The arena’s horn blares out, signaling the end of warmups and Ilya skates back to the locker rooms before he can think too much about it. It’ll work.

Probably.

“Tough game for the Raiders here Ilya, 6-2 the final, with both Dubek and Olsson leaving mid-game. Obviously you can’t account for injury, but even before that—what went wrong in today's game?”

What didn’t go wrong with this game? It would probably be easier to talk about the things the Raiders did well.

“We gave up many goals,” Ilya says eventually, because that’s true and he has to say something, and he just wants to go home and lick his wounds in private. Fucking coach, making him do fucking media.

The interviewer, a short blonde Ilya vaguely recognizes from last year, is evidently used to hockey players and terrible answers because she accepts this with a nod before saying, “Any comment on the number of penalties? Over 25 total penalty minutes for Boston, and three of Montreal’s six goals came on the power play.”

Why was that even a question? It was fucking Boston and Montreal—fans went to these games for the blood on the ice. Ilya and the Raiders always did their best to give them their money’s worth. He can’t say that though.

“No Olsson, worse penalty kill,” he says, and runs a frustrated hand through his damp hair. Fucking media, Ilya can still feel sweat running down his back, he hasn’t had a shower and they want him to speak about hockey in English? “No Dubek, Coach shifts lines for rest of game. No harmony.”

And wasn’t that the truth—once Dubek left Ilya had to make do with Houchin as a left winger, and it just didn’t fucking work. Carmichael did a decent job to keep feeding passes to Ilya, but there was nothing they could do when they were playing on a line with someone who had fucking rocks for feet. It had been a shit game almost from the start, and all Ilya wants to do now is leave.

An eternity later the interviewer lets Ilya go, and by the time he showers and finally gets into his car to drive back to his apartment, his mood has blackened into something truly hideous.

He can’t even tend to his wounded pride in peace once he gets to his apartment: Sveta had evidently decided to abuse the privileges of her spare key and break into Ilya’s home, and she’s waiting for him, sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, watching (of fucking course) highlights from the game broadcast on the TV.

“Was it performance anxiety?” she asks in English, peering at him critically over the top of her phone.

Ilya scowls at her, as nastily as he can manage. She just raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to defend himself, and that’s all the provocation he needs. His chest tightens, a low heat spreading through his limbs, and he lunges. She twists, laughs, but he still manages to pin her to the couch, the adrenaline and something else—something sharper—fusing together. For a good while, nothing else exists: not the 6-2 loss, not Dubek’s shoulder, not his zero points in the game, not the endless media questioning, not the echo of the arena crowd still ringing in his ears. Just her, the couch, and the heat between them. When they’re done he rolls onto his back breathing heavily, muscles still humming from the fight and relief, and ignores the look she’s giving him.

Sveta lets the silence settle for a few moments, before she props herself up on one elbow and leans over him, still smirking. “You’re quieter than usual,” she teases in Russian, thankfully for his exhausted brain.

“I am thinking,” Ilya says, as if that explains anything. He’s still wearing his shirt, but despite the uncomfortable way it’s twisted around his torso and the way his hair is damp again and sticking to his forehead, he’s infinitely more relaxed than he was when he walked in. “Thinking about hockey.”

“As if it would be anything else,” she says with a roll of her eyes, and uses his chest as a leverage point to push herself upright, ignoring his pained grunt. Sveta digs under the coffee table for her underwear, turns back to the couch, and very helpfully drops his pants on his face before she wanders off into the apartment.

For a while it's completely silent as Ilya watches the highlights of other games—the Nomads lost in overtime, and the Missions get shut out in a 4-0 collapse—but eventually Sveta comes back, holding a glass of water in each hand. She hands one to him before collapsing onto the other end of the couch, fixing him with a speculative stare. Ilya braces himself for the inquisition.

“So,” she says, drawing the word out. “That was some shit hockey.”

It’s not a question, but Ilya already knows what she wants to know.

“Houchin needs to be put down like a lame horse,” Ilya says because it's true and it’ll probably make Sveta smile. She does, and he continues, “He skates like he’s blindfolded. The game was fucking cursed from the start, nobody could make a clean pass if their life depended on it, our line changes were shit, and, and—”

“And Hollander.”

“And Hollander,” Ilya agrees, because what’s the point in denying it? Shane Hollander is a very good goalie, and probably is going to be a thorn in the Raiders’ side for years to come. And of course there’s the other part—the part where he and his fucking freckles have burrowed into Ilya’s mind, to the point where Ilya is starting to daydream about constellations.

Sveta already knows (most) of this, so she doesn’t push when Ilya lapses into silence, just reaches out to pat him on the ankle comfortingly. “Still time to fix things. And at the very least, Hollander won’t be the one playing at the Winter Classic.”

Wait, what? “He won’t?” Ilya asks, and tries to keep any sort of disappointment out of his voice. Judging by Sveta’s face, he doesn’t quite manage it.

“Of course not,” she says, very kindly not punishing him for his slip. “Doesn’t matter that he’s got a fucking incredible record right now—Hollander’s a rookie backup and they’ll never put him in over the starter for a special game. Miitka will get the start, and you’ll actually be able to be useful against Montreal for once in your life.”

“Hey,” Ilya says, mildly offended, but lets it drop. They pass the next while in comfortable silence, watching the highlights, before Sveta pushes herself up with a groan, circling the couch to press a kiss to the side of Ilya’s temple before making her way to the guest bedroom.

Ilya doesn’t stay on the couch for very much longer—just long enough to watch the highlights from the Boston Montreal game again before heading to his room.

The Winter Classic game is the absolute fucking pinnacle of American excess and material waste, and Ilya has to make sure his teammates understood that.

“We have a hockey rink,” he says, because it apparently needed to be pointed out. “TD Garden. Perfectly working, yes? Why the fuck do they build new rink in a stadium? Or, if the league insists we play outside, why not a lake?”

“Definitely not cold enough for shinny on the Charles,” Marly says, which makes no fucking sense, but he doesn’t stop to explain. “And the ice would be shit. This game is all about the spectacle, Roz, and this? Arena-grade stuff at the very least.”

Ilya squints at the boards, the crowd, the temporary glass, and the faint smell of turf that had somehow drifted onto the ice, then up at the open sky above their heads. Marly was probably right, but it was still a fucking temporary rink in the middle of an American football stadium, and that didn’t stop him from muttering under his breath, “Impractical. Everything is terrible.”

He skates a few wide laps with Marly, passing pucks back and forth, dodging teammates and winding pucks across the net, feeling the scrape of skate on ice and the satisfying vibration of rubber hitting mesh. The rhythm of warmups was familiar, but the edges of the rink were different—slightly uneven, slightly off. Not enough to be dangerous, but just enough to make Ilya twitchy.

Montreal seemed to be doing fine on the other end of the ice, and Ilya pointedly doesn’t look over there until there’s just a couple minutes left in the warmups. Even though Hollander isn’t playing he’s still in his customary spot, perched right on the center line, stretching carefully, right in front of the penalty boxes.

Both Montreal and Boston are wearing specialty jerseys for this game, which is why it takes Ilya a few laps to notice that something is… different, about Hollander’s gear. Another lap, and the realization hits him with the force of a check: instead of the scuffed pads he’d been using the last two games, Hollander was now fully kitted out in CCM. Pads, blocker, stick… new enough and prominent enough to only mean one thing.

Ilya very carefully does not think about the CCM branded protective gear he’s wearing under his own jersey, and turns his attention back to the puck he’s stickhandling.

Warmups are winding down around them, and Marly leans in slightly. “Ready for it, Roz?”

Fuck yes. “I have a good feeling about this,” Ilya says out loud, and winds up for one final slapshot at the open net. Bar down and in.

Boston wins 5–1, and the Winter Classic feels like a movie Ilya is starring in.

Snow packed into the seams of his gloves. Breath fogging in the floodlights as thousands of fans packed the stands of the outdoor arena. Cameras everywhere. Two different bands playing concerts during the intermissions, loud enough to shake the temporary dressing rooms. Corporate logos larger than life plastered to every available surface. It is theatrical in exactly the way he always envisioned his victories would be.

He scores once, a snapshot that sneaks past Miitka’s blocker midway through the first period, and assists on both Carmichael’s breakaway goal and Marly’s tap in late in the third. Three points is enough to send a curl of satisfaction thrumming through his body, powerful enough to energize him through the chaos of the post-game media scrum. It’s worse than media availability usually is: reporters shouting, microphones thrust under chins, a thousand voices trying to ask everyone questions at the same time. Someone had the brilliant idea to only prepare one conference room for both teams, so there’s a disorienting blend of English and French being lobbed at two different teams from multiple angles all at once.

Ilya lasts about five minutes before ducking behind Marly’s colossal bulk and slipping out a side door, back down the entrance tunnel out towards the field and the peaceful semi-darkness of the temporary rink. No noise, no shouting, no indecipherable English questions out here—just the distant hum of generators and the muted echo of the chaos inside.

He hadn’t noticed it when he was playing, comfortably buried in the layers of his hockey gear, but the air out here is cold to the point of being distinctly uncomfortable. For half a heartbeat Ilya considers sucking it up and turning back inside, but abandons the thought as soon as it forms and leans against the concrete wall of the tunnel to fish a cigarette out of his coat pocket.

The first inhale scrapes warm down his throat, almost enough to push away the cold. He exhales slowly and watches the smoke dissolve into the night.

For a minute Ilya has the open air all to himself, but just as he feels himself starting to unclench, footsteps echo out from some indeterminable point inside the concrete tunnel. He doesn’t look—it’s Marly, probably, sent to drag him back into media torture.

The footsteps get louder, then stop. Ilya blows out a long plume of smoke before saying, “Marly, if LeClaire sent you, tell him—”

“You smoke?”

Ilya turns so fast his cigarette almost goes out. Hollander is a few feet away from him, bundled up in a dark puffy coat and a Metros-branded beanie, looking cold. The few lights left on around the rink catch in his dark eyes, and there’s just enough glow for Ilya to see the flush in his cheeks, the freckles scattered across them.

Freckles.

“You weren’t playing today,” Ilya says, because that is the safest possible opening out of the dozen suddenly crowding on the tip of his tongue.

“No. Congrats on the win, by the way.”

There’s no edge in it. No resentment. Just a fact. Ilya still winces a bit.

“Ah. Sorry.”

Hollander shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a team sport.”

Ilya studies him. Hollander’s chin is tucked into the neck of his jacket and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets like he’s trying to conserve heat.

“You looking for someone?” Ilya asks when it’s clear Hollander isn’t going to say anything else.

“Just quiet. Fresh air.”

Ilya glances very pointedly at the cigarette tucked between his fingers, then back at him.

The corner of Hollander’s mouth twitches. “This still counts.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The press conference noise feels far away out here where the sky is open and black above them. Their breath fogs in uneven clouds, and it’s quiet enough that Ilya can hear the faint rasp when he inhales through his nose.

“You’re sponsored by CCM now,” Ilya says without fully meaning to, because he hates silence, and his brain has been waiting for an excuse to bring it up, and he has apparently given up on subtlety.

Hollander blinks at him, surprised. “Yeah.”

“That’s… new?”

“Official as of this morning.”

Ilya nods like this is a neutral fact, and not something he filed away the second he saw it prominently displayed on Hollander’s pads and blocker during the warmups. Like he doesn’t have half a plan in place to use this to his advantage in the near future.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a pause. Longer this time, and Ilya settles more comfortably against the wall he’s leaning on and Hollander’s gaze drifts.

It starts at Ilya’s shoulder, where frost is probably collecting in the fabric of his coat. Slides down to the cigarette between his fingers, and follows it up as Ilya takes another drag. Lingers there near Ilya’s face, even as the hand holding the cigarette comes back down to rest by his side.

For a moment—just a flicker of a moment that he almost misses—Hollander’s gaze drifts down a bit further to Ilya’s lips.

Just for a second, but Ilya feels it like a physical touch. Hollander looks back up to his eyes quickly, expression unchanged, but, just maybe, his cheeks are now a bit pinker than the cold alone can justify.

“You played well,” Hollander says, and there’s nothing in his voice to give any hints to whatever he’s thinking. “LeClaire is finally smart enough to give you proper offensive zone starts?”

Ilya lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You noticed that?”

“‘Course I did. You’re still being wasted on the second line.” He tilts his head slightly. “Your puck retrieval in the neutral zone—clean. Really worked around the chaos in front of your net, and you were the one who started that great odd-man rush in the third.”

A brief, strange warmth passes through Ilya, and something in him shifts, just a fraction.

“Bit too pushy there in the second period though,” he adds, almost conversational, and Ilya bristles slightly.

“Not enough for a major penalty,” Ilya counters, absolutely defensively, because he knows Sveta and every single commentator is going to be bringing this up soon.

“You have to admit, you absolutely got away with a slash on Comeau there,” Hollander says, but shrugs easily. “But not enough for a major penalty.”

There’s something different about this, talking to Hollander without a stick in hand and the thrill of the competition thrumming between them, a win or a loss hanging over their heads. Hollander isn’t braced for impact, isn’t a tight little ball of tension Ilya is trying to poke at. Not a brick wall, not a curiosity in Ilya’s way—right here Hollander is just a person, standing there, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, talking hockey.

It’s completely disarming. Hollander commenting on Ilya’s actions. Hollander watching Ilya close enough to comment on him. Hollander, remembering everything Ilya did in a game.

Ilya takes another drag, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands. “You don’t talk to me this much when we’re playing,” he says, and the words hang there, half accusation, half… something.

“No,” Hollander says. That twitch at the corner of his mouth is back. “I don’t think you’d be able to shut up long enough for me to try.”

That earns a real laugh, and Ilya’s ready this time—ready for Hollander’s eyes to flick down again, and for the tiny, telling pause that follows.

This time, it’s unmistakable, but Hollander also seems to realize, a second too late, where his gaze has gone. He clears his throat and shifts his weight and looks away, out towards the darkened rink, and abruptly changes the subject.

“You excited for All-Stars?” Hollander asks, then immediately adds, “if you get on a team, that is.”

It’s a clumsy chirp. Too casual. Very smooth Hollander.

Ilya arches a brow, and indulges the change in topic without comment. “Hollander, you really think they’d leave me off?”

“They’d be stupid not to take you,” Shane says, saying it like it’s an unremarkable, statistical fact. “25 goals so far, on pace for over 60 in your sophomore season. Top five in points, second in goals scored. I wouldn’t be surprised if they made you one of the captains.”

Ilya lifts his shoulder. “Is just a popularity contest.”

“Sure,” Hollander says, still not looking away from the rink, awkward in a way he hasn’t been all conversation. Ilya takes a fortifying drag of his cigarette, and decides to be brave.

“You’ll be there too, next year.”

That catches Hollander’s attention, and he finally turns back to look at Ilya with a dumbfounded expression. “No way. I’m a backup goalie, I’ll never get enough starts—”

“All Stars is fan voted, yes?”

“It is,” Hollander confirms after a pause, and Ilya lets a smile trip up on his face.

“Then you’ll be there next year,” Ilya says, final. No room for doubt.

Hollander’s brow lifts, just the faintest crease between his eyes, a hesitant flicker of hope crossing his features, before it settles into something more cautious. “You think so?”

“Hollander you have the sixth highest save percentage in the league,” Ilya says emphatically. It’s deeply embarrassing that he knows this offhand, but he needs to make the point clear. “You should be there this year, but league is full of stupid idiots who hate good storylines.”

Hollander’s mouth opens then shuts soundlessly a couple times, then he ducks his chin and looks down at the ground. For a second Ilya panics—but oh, no there’s a proper blush crawling up Hollander’s face now, making his freckles even more prominent.

“You’ll be there next year,” Ilya says again, and means it.

Silence settles between them again, but it’s different now. Less tentative. More charged.

Hollander blows out a slow breath. “I should head back inside.” He hesitates, then adds, “Guess I’ll see you at our next game in February then.”

Ilya drops the cigarette into the snow and crushes it beneath his heel.

“Yes,” he says. “You will.”

They step closer at the same time—some sort of unconscious convergence, and Hollander pulls a hand from his pocket and offers it. His fingers are cold when they close around Ilya’s, but the handshake is firm, steady. Hollander’s gaze flicks down again.

There. Gone.

“See you soon, Rozanov.”

“Bye Hollander.”

Hollander goes back through the tunnel into the stadium without looking over his shoulder, but Ilya stays where he is for a second longer than necessary, staring up at the stars in the dark sky.

Chapter End Notes

6.6K words of Ilya... how are we feeling? If you can believe it I actually cut about 2k worth of actual hockey gameplay from this chapter. It wasn't anything important (just a lot of Ilya being stopped in his tracks and bitching out his ineffective winger), but it was definitely way over the threshold for a casual reader's desire for hockey action I think.

Some notes:
1) We're back in Ilya's head, and from the get go I needed this chapter to show the evolution of Ilya's feelings. We know what caught his attention (freckles!), but I really wanted his attraction to go from surface level crush>interest out of professional rivalry>seeing shane as an actual person Ilya feels a deepening interest for. I worry I went a bit too heavy handed there at the end, but eh, it worked I think. A little redux on the cigarette/handshake first meeting :)
2) Sex. How explicit will I go? Idk yet, I've written smut in the past for all types of pairings and was genuinely bad at it. Ilya and Sveta fuck in this chapter but that is absolutely not the focal point of their relationship so I kept it minimal and non-descriptive. I feel like what I did write places us firmly at a teen rating, but this may go up depending on how brave I get once Shane and Ilya are bumping uglies.
3) Shout out to users Hephastia, guest user Ren, Goldpen, and lilyfarfalla specifically for your comments and plot bunnies. I am kissing you all (platonically, non-sexually) on the mouth with gratitude.
4) Miscellaneous. Why is Ilya torturing Connors? Ilya's a funny little shit, and amongst his teammates he's absolutely abusing the fuck out of little brother privileges. Why are the Metros not having high scoring games? 60+ goals a season Shane Hollander doesn't exist in this universe, and that's a massive hole in the Metros offence I don't think they'd be able to replace easily. Why tf did you, a canadian, type the word beanie? Ilya is surrounded by Americans, Shane'll eventually set him right about toques. Didn't you say you wouldn't use any real names? The rocket trophy is too iconic to change. Also, I'm using using the occasional fandom name for other teams (Colorado Mudslides I've pulled from AO3 author some1_around, who writes some of the best HR fic out there)

Thanks for reading so far, I'll be back with more once inspiration strikes (if you have plot ideas, comment them, pleasepleaseplease), but for my future reference: How much actual on-ice, shift by shift hockey playing are you guys willing to read here?

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

You guys asked for more hockey, enjoy 8k of Shane Hollander special interest time

Chapter Notes

:)

Shane lines the coffee table up with the edge of the rug for the third time, steps back, and—damn it, it’s still crooked. He shifts it again, and… nope, still crooked. Shane’s fingers twitch again at his side, but he pushes the urge away almost violently.

Fuck, he didn’t have time for this. He still had to fluff the stupid throw pillows so they didn’t look like they’d been aggressively karate-chopped into submission, and decide whether the size of the stack of napkins he left out counted as “anticipatory” or “unhinged.” He hadn’t even dimmed the lights to a socially acceptable level yet—too bright and it looked clinical; too dark and it veered into movie-theatre territory, which absolutely couldn’t happen.

The snack bowls are evenly spaced (chips, popcorn, and his favourite trail mix, healthy enough to suggest balance) and the coasters are fanned out within easy reach, like that’ll actually convince a group of athletes to use them. There are drinks in the fridge, the TV is already tuned to the All-Stars pre-game broadcast, volume adjusted perfectly, remote placed precisely parallel to the console. His apartment smells faintly like wood cleaner and nervous sweat.

Why the fuck had he ever thought this would be a good idea? It had seemed so obvious at the time—his Maples teammates had been on him for literal weeks to hang out, and Hayden had asked if he wanted to watch JJ in the All-Stars game together since he wasn’t heading back to Hamilton for the six day break. Shane could knock out two tasks in a single night, and if it all went well, he wouldn’t have to split his social time in the future.

It had been way too simple of a solution to be true. He should’ve known better.

He checks his phone again. No cancellations. No last-minute excuses. Four confirmed yeses still sit there in the four text chains, deceptively casual.

This was a mistake. Inviting Bones and Win and Jonesy was one thing, they were used to him, but adding Hayden to the mix? Shane could already hear the mental cacophony of overlapping jokes, arguments about nothing, Hayden’s relentless enthusiasm clashing with the usual juvenile chaos Bones, Win, and Jonesy would inevitably create.

Was it too late to cancel?

His phone buzzes in his hand.

Winston MacLean: Here

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was it. The collision point. Hayden versus Bones’ volume versus Win’s complete lack of restraint versus Jonesy’s everything. He was going to end up refereeing in his own living room—

Two hours and twenty three minutes later, Shane is finally willing to admit that this was a fantastic idea actually, probably the best one he’s ever had.

Jonesy is crouched like a gargoyle on the floor, eating popcorn out of a bowl in a way that almost completes the illusion. Win is sprawled across the ottoman, practically nose to nose with the TV, like he’s emotionally invested in the outcome of the fastest skater contest or something. Hayden and Bones are on the couch with Shane, sitting like properly civilized humans, but they’re just as invested as the other two, loudly heckling the skaters as they appear on the screen.

It is loud. It’s messy. Someone—Bones—has dropped chips directly onto the rug and has made no move to retrieve them, which makes Shane twitch slightly and think about how many steps it would take him to get to the hall closet with the vacuum.

Seven. Maybe eight if Hayden’s feet are still blocking the hallway. He doesn’t get up to actually do that though. This is fine; this is better than fine, this is actually fantastic.

His guests were having a great time at Shane’s apartment. Conversations were flowing, Hayden had been folded into the Maples’ chaos like he’d always been there, and Shane didn’t have to do more than introduce them and point them to the snacks.

So what, there were all-dressed ruffles chips being ground to dust in his rug? Big deal. That didn’t matter. Shane could clean this all up later. Social Shane, who has just successfully integrated his Metros friend with his Maples friends, doesn’t think about silly things like that.

Nope, Social Shane should absolutely stop thinking about the approximately 100,000 chips fragments in his rug. Social Shane needs to go back to paying attention to his friends so they don’t think he’s being a bad host.

Fuck, how long has he been thinking about the chips?

He’s fine. From the sound of it Win and Jonesy have trapped themselves in an argument about net alignment—as if either of them would know literally anything about that—and Hayden just laughed so hard he choked on his drink, happily egging them on.

“If you think that’s a fucking straight line, I’m calling the math police.” Jonesy is saying, scrambling to his feet and stabbing a finger at the screen. “That net is crooked.”

“It is literally fucking parallel to the goal line,” Win snaps, also standing now, because of course he is.

“It’s emotionally crooked!”

Hayden, wheezing, gasps out, “Emotionally?”

“Jonesy, I’m starting to believe you did not, in fact, graduate,” Win says darkly. Then to Shane: “Hollzy. Buddy. Do you own a ruler? Or, like. A triangle. The math triangle.”

Shane absolutely does have a ruler and an angle measure in here somewhere, but the ice crew fixes the net to Jonesy’s (vocal) satisfaction, and that’s enough to put an end to the argument. The first contestant in the accuracy contest (Mayhill, Anaheim Hammerheads, #19, good at shootouts) steps up to the line. He hits every target dead on, but very slowly. 12.70 seconds.

“Boring,” Hayden says, and there’s a general hum of agreement.

Parrish (Calgary Outlaws, #92, shoots right handed) steps up next. Clean, efficient shots. 8.55 seconds.

“He telegraphs glove side,” Shane says absently, watching the replay.

Bones swats at him. “Stop breaking down film on your day off.”

Shane shrugs. It’s important info.

Nyles (Toronto Guardians, #33, weird tape job) steps up and misses wide immediately. He recovers somewhat, ending with a 11.15.

“Streaky,” Jonesy says.

“Needs more confidence as a shooter,” Shane mumbles into his drink, and ignores the chorus of groans.

Hunter (New York Admirals, #21, shoots right) is up next. The first three shots are clean. The fourth pings off the post with a sharp ting that’s surprisingly loud through the TV. He finishes solid but not spectacular—10.29 seconds. The camera follows him back to his bench, his jaw tight, expression neutral.

“Jesus,” Hayden says, squinting at the screen.

Bones barks out a laugh. “That was kind of embarrassing.”

“Mans is having an existential crisis in 4K,” Win adds. “He looks like he wants to kill everyone in that arena and then himself.”

Shane tilts his head slightly. Hunter’s mouth is flat, his brows drawn inward. He’s visibly clenching his teeth, but it isn’t exaggerated. Why the hell do they think he looks homicidal? Before he can figure out how to ask someone without sounding insane, the final contestant moves into position and the room collectively leans forward.

“Oh here we go,” Bones breathes.

“Record holder,” Win adds.

Rozanov barely waits for the starting whistle—his stick is moving almost before he’s allowed to. Four shots, no hesitation. Shane can feel his eyebrows raising.

Wow.

Win is on his feet. Jonesy swears loudly and delightedly. Hayden just shakes his head.

“That is fucking filthy,” he says, and Shane can hear a bizarre mixture of admiration and disgust threading through his voice.

A graphic flashes, confetti appearing across the screen, and words appear: New MLH All-Star record: 7.96 seconds!

“SEVEN?” Bones shouts, and the room descends into slightly incredulous yells. The cameras follow Rozanov back to the bench as he jumps the boards and settles on the bench beside a stone-faced Hunter. Win cackles almost immediately.

“Dear God,” he says, and laughs even louder as Rozanov leans in to say something to Hunter, who immediately stands up to switch places with the player sitting next to him. “Poor bastard. I take it back; now it looks like Hunter wants to kill himself.”

Shane finds himself studying the TV and Hunter’s face again: Now why the hell are they saying he looks suicidal? He looks the exact same. If anything, he looks more alive than he did before, the environmental disruption that comes from proximity to Rozanov still clinging to him like a film.

He’s not going to figure this one out on his own. He opens his mouth to ask—

—and Win pivots sharply away from the TV.

“Show’s over,” Win announces, spreading his arms wide, “and the night is young. We’re going out.”

Bones turns and points an accusing finger at Shane immediately. “Yes. Hollzy, you’re coming with us. No arguing. You’re going on a bar crawl with the boys at least once in your life, and you’re gonna like it.”

Jonesy chimes in, not at all helpfully. “It’ll be good practice for you, talking to girls for once.”

Bones nods solemnly. “You’re way too young to be living like a monk already, Hollzy.”

“Bones, I don’t—” Shane starts, but Hayden, traitor that he is, cuts in loudly.

“He doesn’t live like a monk. He literally fucking wheeled a girl on our last Pacific division trip!”

The room explodes. Bones howls something inarticulate, Jonesy clutches his chest and nearly tips over, and Win looks like Christmas and his birthday are happening simultaneously. Hayden watches their reactions with a beatific smile, sipping his beer like he hasn’t just detonated a grenade in the living room, and ignores him completely as Shane drops his head into his hands and tries to melt into the couch.

Unbelievable, he thinks, and winces his way through Bones’ enthusiastic (congratulatory?) back slaps. Shane had been hoping Hayden had forgotten about that particular night in LA, but honestly, when had luck ever gone Shane’s way.

As far as hookups went that one had been… fine? The Metros had a green-light night—fifteen full hours in one city before they had to fly home the next afternoon—and Shane had been dragged out of the hotel, his weak protests about routine sleep and pre-flight hydration dismissed without much ceremony. They’d ended up at some dimly lit club with aggressively strobing lighting and bass loud enough to rearrange internal organs, and he’d been looking for a way to leave.

He can barely remember what the girl looked like now. Just a blur of enthusiasm. A dimple in her cheek when she smiled at him. Lip gloss. Dark hair, maybe.

It had been… fine.

“Atta boy, Hollzy!” Bones shouts directly into his ear and Shane lurches back to the present, shaking him off with more force than strictly necessary. Bones, of course, is undeterred. He slings an arm around Shane’s shoulders and gives him another firm shake for good measure.

“You fucking beautician,” Bones crows, delighted. “You’ve been holding out on us!”

Hayden crowds in from the other side, grinning wide and unrepentant, and hooks an arm over Shane’s shoulders as well, so the two of them effectively bracket him in place.

“Ah, you’d be surprised about him,” Hayden says. “Shane’s a quiet assassin.”

Shane is suddenly, viscerally aware of the press of bodies on either side of him. Heat. Noise. Hands. Way too close, way too much touching him.

Externally he laughs, a touch too delayed, but not long enough that any of the guys would comment on it, and shakes them off. “You guys are idiots.”

Bones squints at him. “So you’re coming out, right? We’ll find you round two. Two months is already way too long between pulls Hollzy.”

Round two? The phrasing alone makes something in Shane recoil.

“I don’t know,” Shane says carefully. Not a direct no, because that would definitely bring the mood of the room down. “You know bars aren’t really my scene.”

“It’s all right,” Win says, flapping his hand in the air aimlessly. “Nobody really likes them, but you can’t overthink anything if you can’t hear yourself.”

Shane opens his mouth to argue that he does not, in fact, overthink—he thinks an appropriate amount—but Hayden bumps his shoulder again, lighter this time. Less trapping. More coaxing. “C’mon Shane. You hosted. We owe you one.”

Damn it. “Fine,” he says begrudgingly. “But if any of you get too drunk, I’m not carrying anyone home.”

Bones whoops. Win fist-pumps. Jonesy is already standing by the door. Hayden beams like Shane just handed him a trophy. Shane stands to grab his jacket and braces himself.

Shane likes normal practice days more than he’s willing to admit.

They always go the same way: players aren’t expected in the gym until eleven, so if he starts by nine, Shane gets his full morning meal-prep routine done. The drive from his apartment to the rink takes between nine and fourteen minutes, depending on traffic. They do an hour of conditioning in the gym (mostly lower body, cardio, and focused movement drills for Shane), before heading back to the locker room for video coaching, which usually runs twenty to twenty-five minutes. Then the coaches clear out, and the team starts suiting up for the ice.

Shane always takes his time with this, making sure the straps of his pads sit as flat as possible, his chest protector tight but not restrictive, his jersey level across his shoulders. By the time he’s finished, there’s usually only Albright left in the room, retaping his stick for the third time, so there are barely any witnesses when Shane quickly taps the Metros logo on the floor once, twice, three times right on the fleur-de-lys before heading down the tunnel.

Today, though, something’s different.

Hayden, usually the fifth or sixth person dressed and down the tunnel, is still only halfway into his pads by the time Shane’s ready to go and that’s weird enough to make him pause. As Shane watches, Hayden puts his phone down, fiddles with his skates for three seconds, then snatches up his phone again, unlocks it, and peers at the screen like it might have personally offended him.

He doesn’t notice as Shane walks over (and moving around in full goalie gear is not an exercise in subtlety), doesn’t react as Shane blatantly leans over to peer at his screen, and— oh. Yup. That would definitely explain this.

“And how is Jackie today?” Shane asks, and has to suppress a snicker as Hayden yelps and almost drops his phone.

Hayden scoffs, but hides his screen against his chest, not at all subtly. “I don’t know? I was texting my brother.”

Liar. “You’ve refreshed the same text thread five times in the last minute,” Shane says, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe pace yourself. You’re going to give yourself carpal tunnel.”

Hayden huffs a laugh as he stands and finally drags his jersey over his head. “That’d be a better joke if I was jerking off or something.”

“Well,” Shane says mildly, turning towards the tunnel, “you shouldn’t be doing that in the locker room either.”

Hayden freezes for half a second before breaking into shocked peals of laughter, loud enough that Albright finally looks up from his tape and tells him to shut up.

Shane takes it like the compliment it is.

On the ice, everything narrows.

The first few minutes are always dedicated to edges and crease work with Tim, one of the assistant goalie coaches. No pucks yet, just pure mechanics. Shane starts at the top of the blue paint. T-push to the right post. Set his angle. Reverse VH—pad sealed flush, shoulder stacked over knee. Recover. Shuffle to center. Reset.

Left post. Right post. Reverse VH. Recover. Reset.

“Hold your hands,” Tim calls from where he’s watching above the hashmarks. “Don’t let them drift behind your hips.”

Next rep, Shane adjusts: hands forward, glove presented, blocker angled down. He pushes right, then left, then back again.

“Good,” Tim says as they pause. “You’re not kicking that left leg out when you push right anymore. It’s much cleaner.”

Cleaner means less wasted movement. Cleaner means he’s square sooner. Cleaner means fewer holes.

“I can do it even better,” Shane says, and drops back into his stance.

Eventually Miitka and the other goalie coach finish at the opposite end and skate over to set up full shooting drills as their teammates line up along the blue line. They’ve got the system down to a science: Miity takes twenty shots, then Shane takes twenty, two rotations before they pause, debrief, and reset for the next drill.

Miitka always goes first.

Miity likes to set up high in the crease, almost aggressively daring shooters to try him. He’s agile enough to pull it off, even if he puts a bit more flourish on some motions than Shane ever would. When McMann’s shot attempt rises glove side Miity snares it clean, but he lets his arm circle through a full windmill before snapping the puck into his trap, selling it like it needed saving.

“Ha!” he shouts after him, like he’s just robbed someone in overtime. “Nothing there!”

Different styles. Same job.

When it’s Shane’s turn, he sets his depth just inside the top of the crease, conservative, angle-first. Gusty comes down the left wing, head up, puck tight to his body, hiding the release point as long as he can. Shane doesn’t bite, watching his hands, not the puck, his weight sitting heavy on the inside edge. His stick angle is just a fraction closer to—

He’s already pushing right before the puck leaves the blade.

Butterfly. Seal. The puck dies under his right pad because he’s square and his stick is flat. No flare in his left leg.

“Boring!” Miity calls from the boards. “Make it interesting, Hollzy!”

Shane doesn’t look over. “Better,” he corrects under his breath, and hops back up.

Next rep dissolves into chaos: traffic layered at the top of the crease, point shots through bodies, the exact kind of net-front mess Shane hates in a game. There’s no angle to trust, no clean read. Just sticks and skates and the feeling of something coming he can’t see.

He has to stay taller than he wants to, peering around screens, shoulders high so he can see over them. For a split second he’s completely blind, a blank where the puck should be, and his chest tightens.

Then Fours flinches in front of him, twisting to avoid—

The puck slams into Shane’s pad and kicks straight into the low slot, right back onto Albright’s stick.

“Rebound!” Miity yells from the sidelines, and Shane is already pushing. Short, controlled slide. Stick flat. Five-hole sealed. He collapses forward and smothers the puck before a stick can jab at it again.

“Atta boy,” one of the Oghrens mutters, tapping his pads as he peels away.

Sweat runs cold down his spine beneath the chest protector, but Shane’s breathing stays even. Inhale through his nose on reset. Exhale as the shooter hits the top of the circle.

Process.

Angle. Depth. Hands. Eyes first.

A clean thwap as the puck hits his glove.

Reset.

Next rep.

Shane’s game-day alarm goes off at 7am. It’s quiet, barely enough to pull him fully out of sleep, but it’s enough to bring him to that hazy, relaxed edge of consciousness and give his mind time to wander.

The Metros are fifth in the Atlantic division right now, three points behind Philly in the Conference standings. It’s not a great spot, but there’s still a lot of time left before playoffs start, 25 games to play before the postseason. More than enough time to string together some wins and make up the difference.

His second alarm chimes. 7:15. Go time. Shane could probably do game-day mornings in his sleep, and sinks into the well worn grooves of his routine. It isn’t exciting, but it fits. He doesn’t have to think about what comes next; his body already knows.

Breakfast is something Shane has had solved for years now: banana, protein oatmeal, water. Always the same. It looks like sludge and tastes like obligation, but it sits clean in his stomach and doesn’t come back up during morning skate. That’s what matters. Predictable in, predictable out. He eats standing at the counter, reading an article about a product recall of a different protein oatmeal—a chocolate-flavoured one he’d considered buying once, when he was feeling particularly adventurous before deciding to stick to the one he always got. He pauses, commits the brand name to memory, then takes another bite of his sludge.

No surprises.

By 8 he’s in his car, and by 8:30 he’s in the practice arena’s locker room. Early enough for a quick check-in with the equipment manager, not early enough to socialize before the team meeting. Shane knows the rhythms of this day like he knows his own heartbeat.

Warmups start exactly at ten. Gym session, focusing on mobility not intensity, then its ice time. Skating drills, puck control, traffic in front of the net. Shane focuses on depth, angles, positioning, letting muscle memory carry the work, and stays on for as long as the coaching staff are willing to entertain him. By 11:30, practice wraps. He peels off gear, showers, and grabs his bag within fifteen minutes, and drives home to rest.

By the time he makes it home he has five hours and three minutes before he’s expected in the Bell Centre. He puts a carefully portioned meal package (chicken, rice, veggies today) prepared by the team’s nutritionist in the microwave for three minutes, waits the timer out, and carries it around the counter to eat it while staring at his phone.

That’s the newest element of his game day routine, a reluctant addition made after weeks of badgering from his friends at the start of the season. Now he almost looks forward to checking his texts, and the first buzz comes right on time.

Greg Bohner: It’s just rumours for now, but it would make sense for the Maples to trade out to try and get some more D prospects
Greg Bohner: IDK, it would suck though

Right, they’d been talking about this for a while now, and the guys were a bit antsy about potential roster changes. Shane chews, swallows, and types with his free hand.

Me: Prospects would literally solve the issue though.
Me: You have to admit the blue line is pretty thin right now.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Greg Bohner: Oh my god
Greg Bohner: Are you saying we need to be replaced
Greg Bohner: Traitor

Shane snorts softly and takes another bite

Me: With Lee gone you guys need a new RHD, and you know it.

Greg Bohner: I hate that you’re right
Greg Bohner: pls stop stalking us, that’s weird, you’re literally above this now

Shane doesn’t dignify that with a response. He isn’t stalking them. He’s just supporting his friends and their abysmal 6-15-3 record. Another notification slides in—Win, predictably. Bones is telling on him.

Winston MacLean: Ignore Bones he doesn’t know puck
Winston MacLean: ALSO are you starting against the Raiders??
Winston MacLean: 👀👀👀

Shane’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

Me: No.
Me: Load management. They’re putting me in tomorrow vs NY.

Winston MacLean: Ew
Winston MacLean: Talking to me about load management again?
Winston MacLean: At least buy me dinner first bud

It’s Win’s favourite goalie joke, one he’s made practically every game day Shane’s known him for. It has the same setup, the same punchline, and pulls out the same involuntary snicker every time before Shane can stop it. His phone chimes again, and it's Jonesy this time, sending him a picture of the three of them on the Maples team bus, blowing kisses to the camera. Shane laughs out loud this time, and finishes the last bite of his rice.

Four hours and thirty-seven minutes now.

He sets an alarm for a ninety-minute nap and lies down on top of his covers, hands folded loosely over his stomach. He doesn’t actually expect to sleep, but the horizontal rest is part of the routine, and eventually, he drifts.

When the alarm goes off, he sits up immediately. No snoozing. He reads a book for an hour then changes into his game day suit, the same one he’s been wearing since high school, and unlocks his door.

By 4:45 he’s in his car. By 5:15 he’s pulling into the Bell Centre lot.

Routine intact. Heart steady.

Just another game.

Shane wouldn’t consider himself to be a particularly superstitious person or hockey player. He’s heard the stories—gossip passed between lockers, fables traded across the league—about the way that Desmith in Buffalo has to put his skates on the wrong foot first before fixing it, the way that Jackson in Minnesota has been wearing the same pair of unwashed briefs every game this season, the way that Olejnik in Winnipeg taps everyone’s nameplates before stepping foot on the ice. Sure, Shane has his rituals, but all things considered he isn’t even the weirdest one on the Metros: Gilly likes to do lunges around the dressing room, Albright is fucking weird about his tape job and insists that it has to end exactly two inches from the toe of the stick, and Miity swears that the longer he can keep all his altheltic tape bundles in the air while juggling, the better he plays.

No, Shane is one of the more normal ones in the bunch. All he has to do is be the second to last person on the ice for warmups (it doesn’t particularly matter who’s behind him, just that he can’t be last), he has to be the first one warming up in net (even if he isn’t the starter), and he has to take at least one slapshot at the net before he touches the crease. All perfectly normal things. Completely reasonable. Not weird at all.

And for the most part the Metros don’t make a huge deal about it. Miity likes to be the last person on the ice anyways, and he’s fine with standing in the net for the second half of the warmups only, and Hayden has started setting him up with a pass for his mandatory slapshot on net. These aren’t superstitions, they’re just the things he does to make sure he has a good game.

He’s got a routine for when he swaps out with Miity too: Shane taps his stick against Miity’s left pad while Mitty pats him on the helmet in return, then it's right to the penalty boxes by the center line. His stick goes onto the ice, lined up exactly parallel to the line, then it’s down on the ice for stretches, butterfly first, then a lunge for his left leg, then—

“What, no congratulations from you Hollander?”

Shane looks up.

Rozanov is standing just on the other side of the center line, his skates lined up and just barely touching the paint. Congratulate him for what? The All-Stars record? That was weeks ago. Another scoring milestone? No, he would’ve heard about that, and he was pretty sure Rozanov was still only in second place for goals scored. Maybe—

Rozanov clears his throat somewhat pointedly, and Shane blinks back to the present just in time to watch him raise his hand and (oh, that) tap the ‘A’ now adorning the top left corner of his jersey.

Right, yeah. That was worthy of a congrats. Shane’s gaze flicks to the letter and back up to his face. “Congratulations. Very shiny.” Rozanov is still staring at him, like he’s expecting Shane to say more, so he deliberates for half a second, then thinks fuck it. “Did they really just give you that ‘cause you’re the best in the league at hitting stationary targets?”

“Oho,” Rozanov says, and he looks delighted that Shane is talking back to him. “Rude! Careful, Hollander. I am very good at shooting the puck at moving targets also.”

Before Shane can say anything back to that, someone skids to a stop beside him.

“Alright, Rozanov,” JJ says, nudging Rozanov’s skate off the center line with his stick. “Shoo. Go bother your own goalie.”

Rozanov doesn’t protest, just moves backward and points his stick at Shane. “We’ll talk more during the game Hollander.”

Wait, what? “I’m not in net today?” Shane says, like it’s a question, but Rozanov doesn’t respond, just waves at him and skates off.

“That’s a hook,” Hayden says conversationally, as the Boston forward (Vanik, #13, LW) skates by, innocent as anything. “That’s—no? Really stripes? We’re not calling that? Cool, cool.”

Shane snorts before he can stop himself and Hayden glances over to grin at him.

It is, objectively, not a good start to the game for the Metros. Fifteen minutes into the first and Boston was already up by a goal, an unlucky bounce that came off of Rozanov’s skate, barely three minutes into the game. For all that Miity is a good goalie, there is something about Boston’s playstyle that made him overly prone to leaving his crease to challenge the skaters head on.

Like right now: The puck drops and the Raiders’ third line (Connors (small and spinny), Nilsson (big hitter), Vanik (one of the faster skaters)) immediately carry over the line and set up in the Metros zone. They get established, cycling high to low, point to point and down to the netfront before resetting up top— but JJ gets a lucky stick in the passing lane and the puck tips out to neutral ice and over into Boston’s end.

The Raiders swing back to regroup as their goalie (Miller, 0.890 save percentage, injury-prone) takes control of it behind the net. Both teams change, Hayden swinging himself over the boards with the first line to face off against Boston’s second line, and Miller passes the puck up the ice to continue the play. There’s a brief scrabble in the neutral zone, before the puck ends up skittering out to the middle and a Boston player (Carmichael, #77, RW, passes more than he shoots) gets it on his stick, and passes it to Rozanov, who cuts left and carries it over the line into the Metros zone, and—

Whistle. Offsides. Boston’s LW (Houchin, #23, recently promoted) was just a step ahead of Rozanov over the line, and the refs move them back to neutral ice.

“Having fun?” Rozanov asks as he skates by, gliding past the benches on his way to the face off dot.

Not really. Shane shrugs. “You need to clean up your zone entries.”

Rozanov nods, like Shane was giving an order or something, sets up for the draw against Gusty—

—and wins it clean.

The second starts better.

Or at least it looks like it might. Coach Theriault hadn’t been happy during the intermission and the first line came out with enough ferocity to completely dominate the first half of the period so far. No goals, but it’s not for a lack of trying—the Metros have been in Boston’s zone for almost the entire time, and Hayden almost gets one, eleven minutes into the period, off a tipped shot that went off the post and out.

They set up for another draw and Hayden wins it, but they spend a solid forty seconds cycling without a clean shot on net, and Boston picks a pass and finally chips it out. The Raiders do a partial line change, and Rozanov is back on the ice in time to take the pass, charging into Montreal’s zone with only Fours in a position to try and stop them. Rozanov cuts to the right circle and sells the shot—just enough to fool Fours into lurching his way—then snaps a low pass across the slot to his winger #77 who one-times it.

Miity kicks out the right pad. Big save. The puck ricochets straight back into the middle, and—fuck!

Rozanov is already there. Catches it. Wrist shot over a sprawling Miity.

2-0 Boston.

Rozanov crashes into the boards, not celebrating wildly. Just a sharp fist pump before his teammates engulf him along the glass.

As the teams reset for the next faceoff, Rozanov skates past the benches, glances over, and waves.

He’s trying to provoke a reaction. Shane knows this—but a prickle of irritation flares to life anyways.

Boston doesn’t score again in the third, but neither does Montreal.

The Metros push. They throw everything they have at the net in the final five minutes—extra attacker, pucks funneled from the blue line, Hayden camped at the top of the crease taking cross-checks like it’s his job—but nothing gets through cleanly. Every rebound dies in skates. Every lane closes half a second too fast. As the horn sounds at the end of the game, the groan of disappointment from the crowd almost rises louder.

2-0 loss. And both goals came from Rozanov, because of course they fucking would. Miity skates straight off and heads to the dressing room without looking at anyone. The rest of the guys on the ice gather near the tunnel entrance, gloves coming off, sticks tucked under arms. Shane pushes up from the bench to join the line filing toward the tunnel when—

Rozanov comes to a stop directly in front of the Metros’ bench, snow spraying lightly. He leans his elbows on the boards and tilts himself towards Shane with a smile, like they’re about to chat. Like this isn’t deeply unnecessary.

This fucking guy. Shane says the only thing he can think of. “Still not enough for a hat trick.”

Oh, that was a mistake. Rozanov is smiling wider now, and he leans on the boards even more. “Oh Hollander,” he says, sing-song, and Shane braces himself. “I think I am saving that just for you, yes?”

What the fuck.

“You fucking wish,” Shane snaps, but Rozanov just nods, and with a final wave over his shoulder, he skates away to join his celebrating teammates at center ice.

Shane’s game-day alarm goes off at 7am.

Up at 7:15. Breakfast—banana, oatmeal, water. On the road by 8. Practice arena by 8:30. Meeting at 8:45. The steps slot into place without friction, muscle memory carrying him through the familiar sequence. If yesterday fit, today fits too.

When he’s starting, the details shift but the structure holds. More stretching. More hand-eye drills. It’s always a lighter workload for the entire team on the second game of a back-to-back, and it’s even lighter for him. He steps off ice early and goes straight into a one-on-one with the goalie coaches for video review, absorbing adjustments, angles, corrections. Controlled inputs. Controlled outputs.

He’s back in time for Theriault’s line announcement, then he’s showering and shouldering his bag and on his way home within fifteen minutes.

Back home, he pulls out his nutritionist-provided meal (chicken and whole wheat pasta today), microwaves it for four minutes, and carries it to the counter. Phone in hand. Same as yesterday.

Mom: Game day!
Mom: Good luck tonight sweetheart
Mom: Vaughn is still playing injured, he took another big hit during their game on Wednesday and he was favouring his left side for the rest of the night
Mom: That should be enough to destabilize the Hunter line, and NY doesn’t have anything going for their other three lines

Perfect. That was exactly what Shane wanted to hear; his mom wasn’t kidding when she said the Admirals’ other three lines weren’t anything to worry about. Nearly two-thirds of New York’s goals came from their top line, an absurd statistic that commentators brought up constantly, and if it weren’t for their goaltender (Bennett, 0.938 save percentage, actually fucking incredible) putting up constant Vox trophy-level numbers, the Admirals would’ve been at the rebuild level for years now.

Me: Awesome.

Mom: When you get a chance after the game, check out the emails I’ve forwarded you. Seems like CCM might set something up for the summer.

Me: 👍

Shane takes a big gulp of his water, deciding not to think about that till much later, and switches over to his chats with the Maples. They’re playing in Cleveland right now, so he isn’t expecting much, but—

Andrew Jones: Brooooo
Andrew Jones: Can you believe this guy?
Andrew Jones: [Link]

Shane clicks it without thinking.

Jonesy sent him an interview clip from SportsCenter, and Shane is only half surprised when Rozanov appears on his screen. The first few minutes are harmless enough — press answers, polished and bland. Shane takes another bite of pasta, chewing methodically. Then the question shifts.

“Two goals in last night's game, one off your skate in the first and another one off the rebound in the second. Still second in the scoring race, but that gap is closing rapidly. Ilya, what do you have to change to finish the final 25 games of the season out strong, and maybe get that scoring record?”

“Nothing,” he says easily. “I am very good at shooting the puck.”

Shane stops chewing.

The reporter laughs. “And you have the record to prove it!”

“Yes.” Rozanov tilts his head slightly. “Yesterday’s game, is not good show of my aim. Second goal was wide open net. Some people might think I can only hit stationary targets.”

What the fuck? Who the fuck did this guy think he was? Shane’s so viscerally offended that he barely hears the rest of the clip, the reporter saying something back to that with another laugh, then Rozanov turns and winks (winks!) at the fucking camera.

He sends Jonesy back a nonchalant Haha damn, that he absolutely does not feel, and spends the rest of his lunch stewing, before he cleans up and forces himself to take a nap.

He doesn’t sleep for even a minute.

The drive back to the rink, warmups all pass in a blur, and almost before he knows it Shane is standing in his net and watching the top lines arrange themselves for the puck drop at center ice. He’s still carrying a twinge of irritation below his skin, a low hum of discomfort that hasn’t found its outlet—but there’s no time for that right now. Hockey requires focus, and every ounce of attention, every microsecond of reaction, needs to be in the crease and nowhere else. Shane exhales, lets the tension pool at the base of his chest, steels himself, and very carefully locks it away.

The puck drops. The world simplifies. Nothing else exists—all Shane has is the crease, his private island of blue paint. His pads weigh on his legs, pressing against his hips and knees with a steady, familiar resistance, and the blades of his skates bite into the fresh ice with every tiny shift of weight. The cold air stings the back of his neck, seeping through the collar of his jersey, filling his lungs with the sharp smell of cold as he settles in to wait.

The Admirals gain possession fast, hurtling over the blue line, and the first shot comes barely forty seconds in: a high wrister from the left point through traffic.

He tracks it the whole way.

Glove save. Caught and immediately dead. No rebound.

“Atta boy, Hollzy,” Oggy calls as Shane resets himself in his crease, and breathes.

The Admirals try again about five minutes later. Controlled entry, then Hunter chips it deep and chases, shoulder checking to see where the pressure’s coming from. Shane leaves it for Oggy behind the net instead of moving to play it himself. No unnecessary wandering. Stay home in his crease.

The Admirals come up with it and they set up in the zone. The puck cycles high to low. Quick touch to the slot. Shane settles back slightly, just enough to see around the screen, and spots Hunter tapping his stick as he veers to the middle. Vaughn (his mom was right he’s definitely favouring his left side) passes, Hunter catches it, winds up—

Shot.

Blocker save. Hard. Controlled. Out to right boards, and Oggy’s there to chip it out to neutral ice, and the rush goes back the other way. Shane resets himself in his crease, and breathes.

Second period. The Admirals need a change so they dump it, a hard rim around the boards, and—fuck, the puck takes an awkward bounce off the stanchion and kicks straight into the low slot before Oggy can get to it. Shane drops immediately, sealing five-hole as a white and navy jersey lunges for it and charges forward.

Chaos.

Vaughn reaches the puck a split second before anyone else and tries to shovel it through the seam under Shane’s pads. Shane clamps down, stick blade flat, knees tight, chest folding forward to smother the rebound—but Vaughn doesn’t even try to stop his momentum.

There’s no space in the crease. No lane to peel off.

Vaughn's left skate clips Shane’s right pad and the rest of him follows, thigh and hip driving straight through Shane’s shoulder as he crashes over top of him. The impact knocks the air from his lungs and wrenches him sideways, his mask glancing off Vaughn's ribs as the net jerks violently off its pegs.

The whistle screams.

For a second all Shane can hear is the hollow ring inside his helmet and the roar of the crowd swelling in delayed reaction. He’s on his back, glove still clamped stubbornly over the puck pinned beneath him, Vaughn half-sprawled across his legs.

What the fuck, Shane thinks, and kicks him off with more force than is strictly necessary. What the fuck! Vaughn didn’t even try to avoid him, he went barreling into the crease like it was open air. Shane’s heart is pounding, but he’s not hurt—he’s just fucking pissed. Oggy gives Vaughn a sharp shove with his stick, just on the edge of a cross-check, and that’s enough to set both teams off—gloves in chests, shouting in each other's faces. The linesmen rush in, arms out, like that’ll stop anyone who actually wants a fight.

JJ comes to a rapid stop beside him. “Ça va?”

Shane nods. Just a bit of a bump, nothing that’ll linger, but… “Vaughn is playing hurt,” he says back in French, and the sharp edge of his irritation delights in the way JJ’s eyes light up. “I’m not saying you should do anything, but…”

“I’ll tell Gilly if any of them run you again,” JJ promises, and skates into position for the faceoff. Shane resets himself in his crease, and breathes around the shiver of adrenaline.

About a minute into the third, New York’s rookie (Brisebois, #77, flighty) trips JJ in the neutral zone trying to slow him down on a partial break.

Lazy stick. Easy call.

Shane skates out to the top of his crease as the penalty is announced, tapping each post once while the power play unit hops the boards. Hayden, Albright, Gusty, JJ, Oggy.

The first minute is controlled but fruitless. Clean entries, perimeter movement, a couple of low shots that Bennett swallows without trouble. New York’s penalty kill is aggressive, collapsing hard to the slot and forcing everything wide. For the first minute it’s just mindless circles, then an Admirals defenseman gets a stick on it and flips it over the blue line.

Shane tracks it immediately. It’s not a hard clear—more of a panicked lift—and it tumbles end over end toward his zone. No one from New York is chasing.

He leaves his crease without thinking about it.

The puck lands inside the right circle. He settles it with the blade of his stick, head already up. Hayden is in the neutral zone near the center line, technically on his way to the bench, but looking back at Shane. The Admirals are mid-change. Only one defenseman is flat-footed near the far blue line, glancing over his shoulder.

Clear ice.

Shane steps into it and snaps a firm, flat pass up the middle. Tape to tape. Hayden doesn’t even pause his stride, and he’s sprinting back into the Admiral’s zone. He crosses the blue line and the defenseman backs in too far, respecting the speed. No one else is even close.

“Shoot it,” Shane breathes, and watches as Hayden’s stick pulls back and he does.

Slapshot from just above the right circle, full weight transfer, no hesitation. The puck screams past Bennett’s blocker and snaps the top corner.

For a split second the building goes silent—then the goal horn sounds and the Bell Centre explodes.

Shane retreats back into the crease like nothing unusual just happened, but his heart is pounding harder now than it has all night. Hayden is pointing down the ice even as he’s being crushed into the boards by their celebrating teammates. Pointing at him.

Shane tries not to react. Fails a little, as he feels a flicker of a grin pull up his face.

He just got a fucking primary assist. His first MLH point.

1-0 Montreal. 17:44 left to go in the game.

Shane plants his skates back in the blue paint and forces the grin down.

The horn sounds and the noise in Bell Centre crashes over him, a literal wave of sound, thirty thousand people on their feet at once. 1-0 Montreal victory. Hayden had the game’s only goal, the game winner, assisted by Shane.

Shane had his first ever MLH point. Shane had his first ever MLH shut out.

Holy shit.

For a split second he just stands there in his crease, breathing hard, staring up at the rafters like he needs to confirm it’s real—then the team is on him.

Gloves thump against his mask. Someone grabs him around the shoulders hard enough to jostle his balance. JJ barrels in last and nearly sends him sprawling with a final celebratory smack to the side of his helmet. Normally Shane hates this part, the chaos, the suffocating crush of bodies, the forced exuberance. Tonight he feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin.

Hayden hooks an arm around his shoulders as they turn toward the crowd, raising their sticks in acknowledgment. The noise swells again, warm and thunderous.

“First apple and a shutout?” Hayden half-yells into his ear over the roar. “You fucking overachiever. We’re never letting you sit again!”

Shane laughs, completely embarrassingly breathless, and for a second he honestly believes he could levitate straight off the ice. They skate toward the tunnel in a loose pack, gloves coming off, helmets pushed back, legs still buzzing, waving occasionally at the still-cheering crowd. Shane’s pads feel almost light after sixty minutes of compression.

Across the blue line, the Admirals are clustered near their bench, queuing up to give their captain a fist-bump before moving down the visitors tunnel. Hunter looks exhausted now that the game is over, like every single minute of his 30+ years was hitting him all at once. Sweat-soaked, annoyed, jaw tight.

Their eyes meet as they pass, and for reasons Shane will not be able to explain later, he hears himself say, “Hope you guys have better luck tomorrow in Boston.”

He didn’t mean to say it, but it's sort of sincere. New York and Boston are tied in the standings, and while it’s way too soon to be talking about the playoffs, points always matter.

He meant it sincerely. Hunter still stares at him like Shane just told him to pack it in and retire.

“…You’re not funny kid,” Hunter says flatly.

Well shit. Shane splutters and says, “Oh, I wasn’t–”, but Hayden makes a strangled sound and drags them away at a faster pace. Behind him, JJ snickers.

“Jesus, Shane,” JJ says, and Shane can hear the laughter in it. “He’s already fragile.”

Shane glances back once at Hunter’s retreating figure, at the stiff set of his shoulders as he disappears down the visitors tunnel. For a fleeting second he wonders if he did actually say something wrong—but the thought is abandoned almost immediately, ‘cause it’s kind of hard to think about anything other than first fucking shut out and first fucking point.

He’s still buzzing, still replaying Hayden’s goal off his pass, still feeling the solid thud of pucks hitting his chest and dying there. Sixty minutes. Twenty-something shots and no goals, which means (holy fuck) a perfect 1.000 save percentage. His name is going to sit in the box score with a 1 beside it and a 0 beside them. His chest tightens with a weird, almost overpowering sensation of pride, and everything else fades out for a moment.

23 games left to go in the regular season.

Then a second, smaller thought: Plenty of chances to get another one.

The thought pulls a grin out of him, wider than he usually allows, and he finally lets Hayden drag him the rest of the way off the ice and into the noise of the celebrating locker room.

Chapter End Notes

At this point I'm just going to stop being surprised at the word counts. If I don't look at them, the numbers can't scare me.

Some notes:
1) Shane Hollander is a king of compartmentalization. This chapter was a deliberate effort to show the ways he splits his life into segments (hockey shane, social shane), and the ways he has routine for almost all areas. At the same time, I want to make sure I am not turning him into a robot/caricature of an autistic character. He is someone who is most comfortable with a routine, but he absolutely enjoys being around others and their disruptions to said routines (even bones and his diabolical chip dropping).
2) The boys. I said I wanted to give Shane friends and that includes Hayden and JJ. If Hayden seems oc, this is pre-jackie/pre-1000 children Hayden; right now he's just an early-20s guy, young and stupid like the rest of them
3) Shane is still having sex with women. This may be controversial, but in a world where Shane's life didn't take him to world juniors/Ilya at age 17, I very much doubt that he would’ve even thought to examine why interactions with women aren't actually doing it for him. In the show it's ambiguous whether he's seeing anyone other than Ilya (or not, debates vary), but in this au he hasn't had that "oh shit" moment yet
4) Ilya is very fun to write about from Shane's POV. While we, the reader, know that Ilya has a crush, all Shane knows is this guy is trying to get his attention and push all his buttons. He's confused, his routine is being disrupted, and Rozanov is acting kind of insane (waving at him mid-game, leaning over the boards towards him with a smile, saying he's going to save his eventual fucking hat trick to score on him specifically???). Absolutely bonkers. Everything Ilya is doing is reading as a professional threat to Shane right now. Poor guy is going through it.
5) Miscellaneous. First shut out? Shane is a fucking good goalie and should theoretically have more, but maybe the Metros just suck. His star is rising within the hockey world, this is only the beginning. Scott Hunter? I love it when Shane and Ilya bully that old man. Expect to see more of that in future chapters. Was Shane putting a hit out on Vaughn? Contact with a goalie is an absolute no-no in hockey, and goalies are territorial about their space (partially because they have a harder time maneuvering out of the way of collisions with all the extra gear that they wear). Also, because Shane isn't a forward/captain, he's allowed to be a lot more unhinged about these sorts of things/isn't held to as high of a standard by the refs. Miitka? Goalies can be pretty goofy guys. Look up marc-andre fleury pranks (also, while you have google open, look up "what is a goalie controversy" for... very distant future plot reasons 😉)

So what did you think, was that too much hockey? I'm sending us to the playoffs next chapter, so sound off in the comments if you want things to change (ALSO, I'm reading every single comment you guys send in, I'm still writing as I go along so everyone giving me plot ideas/yelling about their favourite parts is helping me SO much).

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

A late-night phone call from your brother can't be that bad, right?

Chapter Notes

To everyone in the comments last chapter saying that the hockey action was great/getting them to actually look things up about the game, ILY <3

On a personal note though, being a female hockey fan is a neverending humiliation ritual. I accepted a long time ago that the sport I love is one with a culture/fanbase/industry that will never love me back, but the events of the past week have just made this clearer than ever. To anyone new to hockey/brought in by HR, just know that it’s a beautiful game with the worst culture. There are a lot of good conversations happening about the deep-rooted, systemic issues in the sport, but to anyone new to it, prepare to be disappointed about what you see.

Ilya fumbles for his phone on the third buzz, and as soon as he sees the Cyrillic letters glowing on his screen, he immediately regrets being alive.

He doesn’t answer it though; just watches it buzz its way to voicemail, the vibrations burrowing into his palm, crawling up his wrist, settling somewhere behind his ribs. When the screen finally goes dark, the silence that follows feels thin and brittle.

2:30 a.m. New York City.

Fourteen hours until they play the fourth game in the first-round series against the Admirals. Fucking figures Alexei couldn’t be bothered to check the time difference before calling. His brother was such a piece of—

Bzzz, Bzzz, Bzzzzzzzz—

“Fucking what,” he snarls into the phone, and Alexei has the gall to laugh at him.

“Ilyusha,” Alexei croons, and Ilya shoves the covers to the floor and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Whatever bullshit is coming, he knows he’ll need to be standing for it. “So angry baby brother! What if I just wanted to say hi?”

Fat fucking chance. “What do you want,” Ilya says, as flat as he can, suddenly supremely grateful the Raiders management splurged on single hotel rooms for playoffs. He doesn’t even want to imagine what Connors would’ve done to him if this happened during the regular season. He starts pacing almost unconsciously—five steps to the window, five steps back, the carpet rough under his bare feet. “It’s fucking two in the morning Lyosha, I have a game today.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Tolya told me something interesting the other day.”

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a very slow breath. “Did he.”

“Yessss,” Alexei says in English, drawing it out like a hiss before swapping back to Russian. “Tolya tells me that your little American league gives out bonuses for championships. Big bonuses. That’s very interesting, isn’t it?”

Of course. Of fucking course. It was always about money with Alexei—it was always about him needing something Ilya was supposed to provide because he was the one who left, the one who had a contract in dollars instead of rubles, the one who decided to chase American money across an ocean and therefore became the emergency fund by default.

And in this case, his brother’s stupid friend couldn’t even tell him the right things about the money he was begging for.

“We don’t get the money till we lose, Lyosha,” Ilya says, and hates himself a little for the thread of pleading clinging to his voice through the anger. “MLH has a fund, they divide the money between eliminated teams—”

“Ah it won’t be long till you’re paid then,” Alexei says, and Ilya immediately stops pacing to stare out the window. “Papa said your team is playing like shit.”

Papa is watching his games? He ignores that thought immediately. “We’re winning the series three-zero,” Ilya says instead after a moment, staring out the window at the smear of city lights. “What do you even need the money for? Didn’t I give you a loan a month ago?”

“Ah you know.” No, Ilya definitely doesn’t fucking know. “House repairs.”

“House repairs?”

“Yes you fucking idiot,” Alexei says easily, and Ilya bites back a snarl. “The roof leaks when it rains. The winter was very bad, you know? Polina is worried, and we don’t want Polina to worry, do we?”

He lies so casually. As if their father would ever let something so significant happen to their family home without immediately hiring someone to fix it. As if Polina would ever go against their father and confide in Alexei for anything. As if Ilya didn’t know for a fact that Alexei lives in an apartment outside of Moscow with his girlfriend, and hadn’t lived in their childhood home in years.

Ilya can’t say any of that though—not without a fight, not without Alexei immediately running to tell their father. He already knows which one of them their father will believe.

“You make good money now,” Alexei continues, when it’s clear Ilya isn’t going to say anything. “Family helps family. I’ll wait for you to send it.”

“Don’t fucking call me for this,” Ilya spits out, but it’s a second too late. The line is already dead, Alexei hung up on him. He briefly considers throwing his phone through the hotel window—but no, no that would go against LeClaire’s instructions to fucking relax until the game tonight, wouldn’t it.

Ilya sets his phone on the nightstand as softly as he can manage, but the anger doesn’t go anywhere. It just sits in his chest, tight and hot and useless, and Ilya already knows he isn’t going to be sleeping more tonight.

Fourteen hours until puck drop.

He’s in a shitty mood for the rest of the day and doesn’t bother pretending otherwise.

For the most part the Raiders give him space. Marly asks him who pissed in his cornflakes—which makes no fucking sense and Marly doesn’t have the decency to explain—and when Ilya just stares at him blankly instead of responding, Marly raises both hands and backs away like he’s approached a feral animal.

Actually that might be accurate—he’s usually pretty good at keeping his expression empty (“Fuckin Russian sociopath stare,” Marly had once slurred, drunk enough to think that was clever), but right now Ilya sort of wants to see how far he can throw his coffee cup.

Breakfast is quiet. Too quiet. Forks scrape against plates, the hotel coffee is too bitter, the low murmur of ESPN recapping games Ilya already knows the outcomes of is a droning noise he can’t ignore. He scrolls through his phone once, twice. No new messages.

Good.

The bus ride to the rink for morning skate is worse; even with his head leaning against the seat’s headrest, every vibration of the road feels like it lands directly behind his eyes. Vanik in the seat in front of him makes some joke about the Admirals looking defeated already and Ilya’s laugh comes out thin and sharp, wrong enough that Vanik glances over his shoulder at him once before turning right back around.

Fine. Good fucking choice. Ilya presses his head harder into the headrest. Feels his molars grind. Makes himself stop.

Morning skate is where it starts to bleed out.

The drills are light, loosely structured things. Recovery pace. The Raiders have been comfortably fucking the Admirals for three straight games, and that’s unlikely to change without a statistically improbable miracle from New York’s gutless roster. This ice time is more of a formality than a necessity, pucks low and easy, flow reps, passing drills, nothing that should require effort.

Ilya puts in the effort anyway.

He snaps his first shot hard enough that it clangs off the crossbar and ricochets all the way to the blue line, and the sound is sharp enough that a couple of heads turn. The second one he buries short side from a bad angle, more force than finesse, and ignores Marly’s offered fist bump. On a simple neutral-zone scrabble and regroup, he finishes his route straight through Olsson instead of peeling off.

“Jesus, Roz,” Olsson mutters, shoving him back lightly.

“What?” Ilya says, already circling back for another puck. “I am just skating.”

LeClaire’s whistle cuts through the rink. “Rozanov.”

Oh boy. Too much. Ilya glides over and forces his breath steady, his expression blank, and prepares to be scolded.

“Dial it back,” LeClaire says evenly, not even looking up from the ipad being held by one of the assistant coaches. Nothing in his voice: not angry. Not impressed. “We don’t need hero reps in a morning skate.”

“I am feeling good,” Ilya replies.

That makes LeClaire look at him. “That’s not what I said.”

There’s a beat.

Ilya presses his tongue hard against the back of his teeth until the urge to argue passes, and nods once. “Okay. Yes Coach.”

And he does. Mostly. The next rep, he pulls up half a stride earlier and very generously doesn’t send an unprepared Connors headfirst into the boards. The drill after that, he places his shot instead of ripping it; Millsy almost gets a piece of it.

He doesn’t run anyone over for the rest of the skate.

For all that the Admirals are about to be swept out of the postseason, their fans don’t act like it. They scream their way through warmups, all eighteen thousand of them on their feet, trying to breathe life into a team that looks half a shift from collapse.

The noise drills straight through Ilya’s skull.

There’s a headache working its way out from behind his right temple now, dull and insistent, and his usual tight circles through Boston’s end of warmups drift wider and slightly more aimless than they theoretically should before a big game.

Right near the end of warmups Anderson skates over and falls into step beside him, and they do two full laps together without speaking. It’s a kindness, which makes both an odd feeling of appreciation but also his headache spike, bad enough that he asks one of the athletic trainers for an Advil in the locker room once warmups are done. The man gives it to him, but not without a concerned look Ilya resolutely ignores.

“I am fine,” Ilya says, dry-swallowing, and turns right back around and heads straight for the tunnel without another word.

His first shift on the ice, his first touch, he chips the puck past Hunter into space for Carmichael—and then doesn't think, just goes, driving his shoulder straight through Hunter's side instead of angling off. Clean. Heavy. The impact judders up through his shoulder socket harder than it should two minutes into a game, and for a half-second Ilya's vision sparks white at the edges.

Hunter stumbles half a step and very nearly falls on his ass before catching himself.

Ilya doesn’t look back. He pivots hard off his inside edge and accelerates into the zone, stick down, calling silently for the return feed.

Next rush, the Admirals try to slow things down, their defenseman stealing the puck out of Dubek's skates and hiding behind New York's net, clearly expecting the Raiders to sit back and take a line change.

Ilya doesn't sit back.

He reads the outlet pass before it happens (the turn of the defenseman's head, the quick motion to still the puck to pass it flat) and cuts hard across the zone. He should be faster closing this angle. On a normal night he'd have a full stride more on this play, would've had the hit lined up cleanly before the pass even left the defenseman's stick. Tonight he's a beat too slow and he knows it, so he compensates the only way available to him: he doesn't pull up. The puck leaves the blade, and Ilya’s shoulder arrives a fraction of a second later.

It’s on the edge of a late hit. Not late enough for a whistle, just late enough to rattle. The other man crumples, and stays down on the ice half a beat longer than he should.

The crowd howls its outrage, and the ugly thing inside Ilya howls back.

On the next forecheck he ties up a stick in front, then gives the goalie’s pad an extra jab as he hides the puck under his outstretched body. Subtle. Annoying. Entirely deniable.

Bennett clearly doesn’t agree with him—the sharp parting sting of the goalie’s stick whacking against the back of his calf feels a bit like a prize he’s absolutely earned.

Ilya makes sure to turn just enough to make eye contact before he skates off.

His jersey is sitting wrong on his pads now, the weight of it pulling differently against his shoulders than it had at puck drop, and there's a dull throb starting to reassert itself behind his right temple that the first shift's adrenaline had briefly convinced him was gone.

The whistle blows. Offsides. New York took their first actual possession of the game and ran with it, a bit too eagerly.

Hunter skates past him.

“We’re only five minutes in,” Hunter says, half a lecture half a desperate plea for mercy. Ilya can smell it like the hint of blood in the water it absolutely is. “Fucking relax Rozanov.”

Ilya feels himself smile, slow and nasty, as he crouches across from Hunter to take the draw.

“You’re down three-nothing,” he replies, and tilts his voice up into something snotty and sing-song insincere. It works—Hunter’s grip visibly tightens on his stick. “Embarassing. Maybe time to actually try to play hockey, yes?”

The puck drops.

Ilya wins the draw, and for the three seconds it takes to get the puck deep in New York’s zone, he feels almost normal — sharp and quick and present, the exhaustion shoved somewhere it can't reach him. Then Carmichael gets pinned along the boards and the play stalls and Ilya circles back to the bench to swap out with the third line, and the weight comes back down like a hand on the back of his neck.

He leans on his stick and breathes.

Sixty minutes of hockey. Three full twenty minute periods of play.

The New York Admirals have been eliminated from the 2012 MLH playoffs in four games.

The buzzer sounds and the building seems to exhale all at once, something collapsing in on itself in the space between noise and crushed silence. It’s not like the result was a surprise to the fans—the Raiders had scored two quick ones right at the end of the first period through the Admirals’ overworked defense, and even with a good goalie you could only do so much if the team in front of you couldn’t even score to save their season. The jumbotron reads 2-1 Raiders, and Ilya feels—

—tired.

He skates one slow arc through the zone—Carmichael shoves him hard in the chest in passing, Olsson yells something triumphant and unintelligible into his ear—before turning toward center ice where the handshake line is already forming with ritual precision. There is something orderly about it, the way playoff violence resolves into structure in under a minute. Sticks tucked under arms. Gloves pulled off hands. Helmets off and faces reset after a sixty minute grind.

He had zero points this game. Zero goals, zero assists. At the very least Ilya knew he’d have four hits credited to him, at least two more that should’ve counted but won’t. And one penalty.

It hadn’t even been malicious, or even all that intentional: he’d been cutting across the slot mid-second period, lifting his stick as Thompson bent forward to corral a high puck along the boards. Wrong height, wrong timing. The whistle had come sharp and immediate, Thompson clutching his mouth and dropping his stick. Blood bright against the ice.

Double minor. Four minutes in the box.

Soft, in Ilya’s opinion. It hadn’t even caught Thompson clean, just grazed him, but blood is blood and the extra two had been automatic. He’d watched the officials confer without arguing, jaw tight, knowing it wouldn’t matter.

One penalty. Four hits credited, at least two more that wouldn’t be. Zero points. Zero goals.

Ilya’s had pointless games before, but there's something specifically useless about a zero-point game in the playoffs. Boston had won this one without him.

The handshake line lurches forward, and Ilya is moving on autopilot, spitting out completely toneless platitudes like “Good series.” or “Have a good summer” that mean nothing and are barely worth the air he’s using to say them, but the appearance of gracious civility after a victory is important to this league. Some of the Admirals meet his eyes; most don’t. One looks furious and barely touches his hand, one looks hollow and doesn’t even nod. One or two of New York’s players are barely older than Ilya is, and they all share a haunted expression that absolutely means that this will follow them into the summer, but Ilya can’t really muster the energy or care for sympathy.

Five straight years of playoff appearances for New York; five straight first-round exits. That kind of futile repetition probably doesn’t feel very good.

Hunter’s at the end of the line, the captain having the dubious honour of getting the last word to all of the players. He looks less alive than he had during the game—disappointment sitting plainly in the set of his shoulders, the sad efforts of a short-lived playoff beard shadowing his jaw. There’s no fight left in his expression, nothing sharp enough to push against, but Ilya rallies himself just enough to try as they shake hands.

“Good luck with the rebuild,” he says lightly, and squeezes Hunter’s hand.

Hunter’s mouth tightens. “Fuck you,” he replies, but the words land flat. There’s no spark behind them, no edge. Just fatigue. Disappointing.

Hunter is already moving past him before Ilya can decide whether to say anything else, and that, more than anything else, feels like the end of it.

The call comes as soon as he kicks his shoes off, and Ilya doesn’t even look at the name on the screen before answering.

“If this is about my penalty,” he says in Russian, dropping heavily onto the edge of the hotel bed. “I would like it officially noted that Thompson is approximately four feet tall, and crying about a split lip was overdramatic.”

There’s a soft snicker on the other end. “I know. If you were going to decapitate someone, you would have done it properly.”

Ilya closes his eyes. He wants to sink into the echoes of laughter clinging to Sveta’s voice back in Boston, but he knows it won’t last for very long.

“Ok,” Sveta continues, brisk and businesslike, right on cue. “So. Zero points. Penalty, and you’re very lucky the PK bailed you out. Only 40% on the draws you took, thrown out of the faceoff circle twice. Under 19 minutes of time on ice, and LeClaire didn’t send you out with your powerplay unit on that hooking call in the third. What did you do to get yourself benched? Was he that mad about the penalty?”

“Don’t know,” Ilya mutters, though he does. LeClaire doesn’t bench players for being mean; he benches them for being sloppy.

“Not that you would’ve helped. With the way Bennett was playing, Feller and Connors were lucky as hell to get anything past him at all.” Sveta’s voice goes speculative. “Do you think he retires first, or forces a trade to an actual contender team? Everyone knows New York isn’t going to get a cup any time soon.”

He makes a noncommittal noise and lets his head tip back against the wall, listening to the faint hum of the hotel air conditioning. Normally Ilya would push back, pick apart her analysis, tell her that Connors has been lucky on all of the goals he’s ever scored in his career, or that the Admirals are a failed franchise and should just sell while their value is still high.

He doesn’t say anything, and Sveta catches on immediately.

“…You sound strange,” she says, all teasing immediately gone from her voice. “Did you hit your head, or are you just sulking?”

“Neither,” he says automatically.

Another pause. She’s waiting him out.

He scrubs a hand over his face. Now that he’s stopped moving, the exhaustion presses down harder, thick and slow behind his eyes, but she’ll never let him go without an explanation. “Alexei called,” is what he comes up with eventually. Just that. No elaboration. It’s not needed.

“Ah,” is all she says back.

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose. “Two in the morning.”

“Of course it was.”

“He had requests.”

“I’m certain he did.”

There’s no follow-up questions. No request for detail. She knows the conversations only ever go one way.

“Well,” she says after a moment, lighter now but not flippant, “if you were running on no sleep, that at least explains why you tried to remove Thompson’s head.”

“I did not try—”

“Mm.”

He almost smiles, and she shifts topics with deliberate ease. “The Nomads are also out,” she says. “Overtime loss again, two in a row is just tragic. And the Missions managed to implode in under ten minutes, which was impressive even for them. That series is tied up, and I might have to reevaluate my projections.”

“Their team is just way too young,” Ilya says automatically.

“Yes, you’ve mentioned.”

It’s absolutely true, but Sveta likes to claim she can see the potential in San Francisco's core group. It’s a well worn argument, but she doesn’t try to push her side.

“Philly crushed Carolina, and…” A brief pause, then: “The Metros won over Toronto,” she says, casual. “Which means you’ll probably see them next round.”

He opens his eyes at that, staring up at the textured ceiling.

“Series is 3–1. It’s almost a certainty,” she continues. “Unless something very stupid happens.”

“Something stupid could always happen,” he says.

There’s an offended scoff. “Not that stupid.”

There’s a small beat of silence, and Ilya lets his eyes fall closed again.

“But you’ll have time to worry about that later,” she says instead. “For now you are going to drink water, shower, and sleep. In that order.”

With his eyes closed it’s almost as if she’s actually here, bullying him in person. “I am not five.”

“You are worse than five.”

That pulls a quiet laugh out of him, the edges of it dulled by fatigue.

“Get some rest, Ilyusha,” she says. Not teasing, not indulgent; just steady, with no room for argument. “Hockey will still be there in the morning.”

“Bossy,” he mutters.

“Correct.”

They hang up without ceremony, and the room suddenly feels very quiet.

Down the hall, someone shouts—distant laughter, the muffled thud of a door. The team will be gathering in the hotel bar by now, LeClaire having expressly forbidden them from leaving the hotel premises, but not bothering to pretend he could stop them from celebrating when they’ve absolutely earned it. Ilya sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, elbows on his knees, phone loose in his hand.

He could go down to join them.

He probably should.

He stands, makes it to the washroom, splashes water on his face but it does nothing to cut the exhaustion threading through his body. The mirror catches him pale under the shitty hotel lighting, eyes shadowed and sunken. He just looks exhausted and damp now, which is not an improvement.

Three hours of sleep. Sixty minutes of hockey. Four games in eight nights. One phone call at two in the morning that never really ended.

Ilya perches on the edge of his bed again, fully intending to ignore the way he’s tilting slightly, and picks up one of his dress shoes to undo the laces and put it back on. The next thing he registers is the dull thunk of the shoe slipping from his hand onto the carpet as he tips sideways across the bed, still fully dressed.

He doesn’t even make it under the covers before he’s asleep.

You have (1) missed call from Alexei.

The practice rink feels different without the immediate pressure of a game hanging over it. It’s quieter, but not empty or all that idle. The Raiders’ sweep of the first round has taken the edge off the air; the arena staff move at an unhurried pace, equipment carts rolling without urgency, trainers chatting near the bench. The music in the locker room is louder than it had been during the series, Feller’s shitty country playlist bleeding banjo death rattles through the walls.

LeClaire had very graciously given them a full twenty four hours off from practice once they’d returned from New York, a considerate gesture which Anderson had almost immediately undermined by sending a strongly worded message to the group chat promising consequences if anyone used that time for anything except sleep or family. Ilya had (very reasonably in his opinion) rankled against the nannying, but none of his teammates were willing to join him in opposition; captain’s word was law it seemed, even when it was tyrannical.

He’d spent most of the off-day asleep in various places around his apartment, but still, it was the principle of the thing.

For all that the rest of the league is still battling out their first round matchups, LeClaire doesn't let up very much once they're back to work. The schedule on the whiteboard in the locker room reads 10:30 — ice every fucking morning, which is not nothing, and Ilya stares at it for a second while lacing up.

"We have a full week," he says to no one in particular.

“That’s less time than we probably need,” Connors replies from the stall beside him, entirely unbothered as he pulls his jersey over his head. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Roz, but you still have to practice in the playoffs.”

Unbelievable. Connors is barely older than him and has no additional playoff wisdom to justify that tone. Ilya opens his mouth but Marly beats him to the punch.

“I might agree with Roz here, Cons,” Marly says, thoughtful. “You’re being a bit of a fucking keener.”

A fucking— what? Ilya and Connors turn in unison and stare at him.

“A what,” Ilya says.

“A keener,” Marly repeats, like that helps.

Connors looks at Ilya. Ilya looks at Connors. An immediate temporary truce is wordlessly negotiated.

“Marly,” Connors says carefully. “What does that mean.”

“It’s– you know. Like. Eager. Trying too hard.” Marly gestures vaguely. “I don’t know man, everyone says it.”

“Everyone,” Connors repeats, clearly disbelieving.

Marly flails a bit. “Alright, maybe not everyone, but it’s a normal word. Heard it all the time growing up.”

Connors folds his arms. “Spell it.”

“K-E-E-N-E-R,” Marly says, and looks between the two of them with visible confusion. “Are you two seriously telling me you’ve never heard it before?”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “That is not a real word,” he says slowly. “That is something you made up.”

Connors nods gravely, immediately joining in on the bit. “Yeah. Sounds like something you’d get diagnosed with. ‘Sorry, man. Bad case of keener.’”

“It’s a normal word!”

“Normal where,” Connors presses. “In Narnia?”

“Fuckin– Canada!”

Connors scoffs and turns back to his stall. “Well that explains everything.”

“Hey,” Marly protests, but before he can mount a defense, the locker room speakers cut the banjos mid-wail. The sudden silence carries for half a beat before LeClaire’s voice comes through, flat and unmistakable.

“Five minutes.”

Helmets snap on. Sticks are grabbed. The easy laughter thins into something sharper.

Connors claps Marly once on the shoulder as they stand. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll get you a dictionary.”

The first shift on fresh ice after a day off always feels like this, like his edges are new again, like there’s more rink than he remembered. Ilya takes two long strides out of the gate and just glides for a second, letting the momentum carry him through the neutral zone while the rest of the guys filter out from the tunnel behind him.

LeClaire runs them through structure first: neutral zone reads, breakout patterns, nothing that requires much more than controlled pace and clean decisions. It’s deliberately low intensity, and Ilya settles into it easily, the familiar rhythm of the drills smoothing out something that had been wound tight in him since New York. Chip the puck. Read the lane. Be where you’re supposed to be.

They move on to light scrimmages and Ilya takes every shot that comes his way, but places them instead of rips them—no crossbar clangs, no aiming at Millsy. Just clean releases, good weight, puck finding the back of the net with a satisfying whisper of twine.

The video room fills up in the usual way—anyone who wasn’t at morning skate filtering in, guys raiding the snack table for coffee and water bottles, everyone finding their usual seats as LeClaire’s assistant coach Beaumont fiddles with the projector. It’s warm in here, the kind of close warmth that makes Ilya’s eyelids feel heavy after sixty minutes of ice time, and he claims his usual spot two rows back from the screen and tips his chair back slightly.

“Alright,” Beaumont says, clicking his clicker once, and the hum of conversation dies instantly. “As you already heard, Montreal officially booked their ticket to the second round last night. Here’s what we know going in.”

The first reel is team structure—the Metros’ forecheck patterns, their breakout tendencies, their usual zone setup. Standard stuff they could all analyze at a glance. Ilya watches and takes notes with the low-level attention he’d give any opponent, jotting down the occasional sentence if it’s anything particularly interesting. Their first line is dangerous, the second line is opportunistic, the bottom six are fucking passengers. Their top pairing defense is solid, but the rest are nothing spectacular.

Then Beaumont pulls up the goaltending reel.

“Miitka,” he says, and the screen fills with saves. “Your primary concern. A .912 save percentage on the season, strong lateral movement, tendency to challenge aggressively at the top of the crease—”

Ilya watches. Miitka is good, genuinely good, not just in the way of a guy having a hot streak but in the way of a goalie who has figured out his game and is executing it consistently. He has a slight weakness high on his blocker side that the Raiders will absolutely be told to target, and his rebound control gets sloppy when he’s been peppered with shots in quick succession.

Exploitable. Good to know.

“—and Hollander as the backup,” Beaumont continues, moving the reel along, and Ilya straightens slightly in his chair before he can stop himself. “You’ll likely only see him if Miitka gets pulled or goes down. But worth knowing.”

The screen changes.

It’s their game from November. Hollander making the glove save off an Anderson wrist shot, completely unhurried. Then a game from last month—a late season scrabble against Winnipeg, Hollander coming in cold in the third period, stopping a two-on-one that should have been a goal by every reasonable metric. His movements are economical, nothing wasted. No panic in his recoveries.

Beaumont talks over the tape—positioning tendencies, strong glove hand, how he handles traffic—but Ilya is only half listening, because he already knows most of this. Has been on the wrong end of it twice this season, the glove save specifically. He watches Hollander’s feet instead, the way he sets his edges before a shot comes, the half-second read before he commits. There’s a particular save against Winnipeg where he goes down early and still managed to adjust mid-butterfly, a correction that shouldn’t have worked but did, and Ilya watches it twice before he realizes Beaumont has moved on.

“That’s basically it for Hollander,” Beaumont says. “Limited sample size, they didn’t play him at all against the Guardians in the first round. If we do face him, we’ll be screening more and aiming low—traffic and deflections give him more trouble than straight shots. Otherwise, primary focus stays on Miitka.”

The screen changes again, this time to special teams. Someone asks a question about the Metros’ penalty kill. The conversation moves on entirely.

Ilya flips to a new page in his notebook and writes Miitka — blocker high, rebound control in rapid cursive, then underlines it twice.

Then, after a long pause he resolutely does not think about, Ilya writes go low in much smaller letters, and turns to a clean page.

Anderson’s house is exactly what Ilya expected, which is to say it looks like a house in a movie about houses. Two stories, a porch with actual furniture on it, a backyard big enough that the kids currently tearing across it have genuine space to run. There’s a flag in the front yard. Of course there’s a flag.

“Nice place,” Ilya says to Marly, because it is.

“Man has a family,” Marly says simply, like that explains the flag and the porch furniture and the aggressive normality of all of it, and maybe it does.

The backyard is already full when they arrive—the veterans clustered near the grill where Anderson is doing something competent with tongs, the younger guys gravitating toward the coolers. Someone has a speaker going, something inoffensive and vaguely country that Ilya suspects is Feller’s influence spreading like a disease beyond the locker room. The smell of charcoal and cut grass and someone’s sunscreen is very specific and very American and Ilya files it away without being entirely sure why.

He gets food. He eats a significant amount of it, because Anderson apparently takes grilling with the same seriousness he takes everything else and the results are frankly unfair. Marly makes a joke about Ilya’s plate and Ilya makes a worse one back and they both laugh, and it’s easy, it’s genuinely easy, and Ilya leans against the fence post and lets the afternoon wash over him.

A kid—one of Feller’s children, possibly, Ilya has stopped trying to distinguish them—crashes into his legs with no warning and bounces off, completely unbothered. Ilya looks down at him. The kid looks up.

“Hi,” the kid says.

“Hi,” Ilya says.

The kid runs away like that was always the plan. Ilya watches him go.

Anderson taps a beer bottle against the side of the grill and the backyard quiets in that automatic way spaces always do when the captain wants to speak: not immediate silence, just a gradual settling, wives and girlfriends turning, guys straightening incrementally without seeming to notice they’re doing it.

“Good series,” Anderson says. Not a speech, not really, he’s not the sort of guy who makes them. Just Anderson, standing there with his tongs and a beer, looking at his team in his backyard. Perfect attendance for semi-mandatory team bonding. “First round is supposed to feel like work. That one did. Proud of the room.” He pauses. “Montreal’s going to be different, but we’re going to get it done. Let’s make every minute count.”

The veterans nod. The younger guys straighten a little more. Someone starts clapping and that takes over for a minute before it all dissolves back into noise, and that’s it, that’s the whole thing.

Ilya claps with everyone else. Means it, even.

He drifts, eventually, to a quieter patch of fence at the edge of the yard where the noise is still there but slightly muffled. Not leaving yet, just—breathing. Taking it all in. The afternoon light is going gold at the edges, kids still running, someone laughing loudly near the grill. Marly catches his eye from across the yard and raises an eyebrow, but Ilya waves him off.

Everyone stays until the food is gone and the light goes flat and Anderson starts stacking chairs, and when Marly finds him by the gate he’s ready to go.

It was a good afternoon.

He’s not entirely sure what to do with that.

You have (5) missed calls from Alexei.

The third day back the drills have teeth in them again: tighter structure, less flow, LeClaire running them through zone entries against a defensive shell until the reads are automatic. Ilya finds the rhythm easily, slides back into the competitive hum of it like he’s flipping a switch. Carmichael and Dubek are paying attention. Almost every pass they try connects, and his line doesn't step offsides even once.

“Better,” LeClaire says to the team, to no one specifically, but he’s looking right at Ilya.

Ilya takes it.

The restaurant is small enough that Svetlana has apparently already called ahead, because the hostess takes them straight to a corner table without consulting anything. Ilya sits with his back to the wall out of habit and Sveta takes the chair beside him rather than across, angling slightly so they're both facing the room. She picks up both menus, studies them for approximately four seconds, and sets them back down.

“You’ll have the lamb,” she says.

Typical. “Will I?”

“You’ll have the lamb,” she confirms, and flags down the server.

He has the lamb. It's excellent. He doesn’t mention this.

The conversation moves the way it always does with Sveta: no particular destination, no agenda other than what’s top of mind. She has opinions about the Missions' defeat and their utter collapse out of the playoffs in seven games, complains about the TA from her business administration course for a full five minutes (Ilya’s only conclusion is that she desires that woman carnally, but only out of academic hatred), before pivoting back to the Raiders’ playoff strategies and drilling him for information on their plans for the Metros.

“Their forecheck has completely changed in the last six weeks of the season,” she says, cutting into something that isn’t the lamb. “Theriault adjusted the pressure timing after that bad Colorado game—it was too predictable before, now they’re reading the outlet and collapsing into a 1-1-3 if the first read isn’t clean.”

“Saw that,” Ilya says.

“Did you.”

“Beaumont had it in the review.”

“Beaumont is playing catch up,” Sveta says grouchily, with the tone of someone who only noticed the change recently. “The question is whether your d-pairs can handle the increased zone pressure. Collingwood and Olsson, yes, but I have concerns about Peters and Mahon. If they can't move the puck cleanly out of your end, you'll never make it to Montreal’s zone enough to wear Miitka down.”

Ilya considers this and doesn't argue, because she's probably right and he should bring this up to Marly before practice tomorrow. The restaurant hums around them, low music and other people's conversations, and the candle between them has burned down to something small and steady.

“Miitka’s rebound control gets sloppy under sustained pressure,” Ilya says after a few bites. “If we can keep cycling and force him to work, third period he usually starts giving things up.”

Sveta makes a considering noise. “And Hollander?”

“Better under pressure, but he’s a backup,” Ilya says immediately. Too immediately—Sveta definitely caught that. He focuses on sawing off another chunk of lamb. “Unlikely to see much of him.”

A beat.

“You’ve been watching him, haven't you,” Sveta says, and Ilya doesn’t need to look up from his plate to know she’s looking at him.

He looks up anyways, and receives the full effect of her raised eyebrow before answering. “Everyone watches tape,” he says lamely, and her second eyebrow raises to meet the first.

“Mm,” she says disbelievingly. “Everyone does not watch backup goalies enough to know if they’re better than the starter under sustained pressure.”

He exhales through his nose. “It’s relevant.”

“To what?” she asks sweetly. “Your professional development, or your hopeless love?”

He glares at her.

“This is worse than your usual crushes,” she adds conversationally. “He dresses like he owns multiple identical navy sweaters.”

Ilya grumbles a little and takes a sip of water.

Sveta leans back in her chair, looking far too pleased with herself. “It’s tragic,” she continues. “His haircut is abysmal. He looks like he owns —” she switches into English for emphasis, “jorts.”

"That’s not —" he starts, and stops, because the problem is he genuinely cannot say with certainty that Hollander doesn’t own jorts.

“Statistically speaking, you’re setting yourself up,” she says.

“I’m not setting myself up for anything,” Ilya protests. “You’re making assumptions.”

Sveta isn’t even close to done. “It’s fine as long as you’re aware of the bad odds,” she continues breezily. “You always did prefer painfully straight men with bad fashion.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. He thinks of an outdoor rink in January, a cigarette and a conversation under an open sky, and keeps it to himself.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she adds when he doesn’t say anything. “You’re very consistent. And at the very least this one has some potential beauty hidden under that terrible gameday suit.”

Unbelievable. Ilya attempts a glare but it's halfhearted at best—she has him pinned and they both know it. This was the problem with knowing someone for twenty years; Sveta had all the ammunition she would ever need, ready at her fingertips. Ilya can do it right back though.

“Ermakov,” Ilya says out loud, because it's been sitting in his back pocket as an ace for weeks now, and this is definitely the time to use it. “I heard he's taking meetings.”

That gets her attention, exactly like he’d hoped it would. Her knife stills.

“Where did you hear that,” she says, very carefully neutral, and that, more than anything, tells him exactly how much leverage he’s actually holding in his hands.

“Around,” Ilya says, and takes a casual sip of his water.

“Around,” she repeats, and the quality of her attention sharpens considerably. “Which teams?”

“Don’t know. Someone mentioned LA.”

She sets her knife down entirely. “LA would be—” she stops herself. Recalibrates, takes a sip of her drink, picks her knife back up. “That wouldn’t be surprising, if he wants to play with Pimenev again before the old man retires. It’s… good.”

“Mm.”

“Good for the league,” she adds.

“Of course,” Ilya agrees, and decides to push his luck a little. “I haven’t spoken to him since we were in Superleague together. If Kolya does sign a contract somewhere, I’ll have to arrange a time to catch up.”

She gives him a look that means she knows exactly what he's doing and is choosing to let him do it, which is more than he was hoping for. She spends the next twenty minutes discussing Ermakov’s transition game and what he’ll find different from the KHL, and when the check comes Sveta takes it before he can argue, which is how it always goes. Outside, the air is cold enough that their breath fogs and she squeezes his arm exactly once before they go in opposite directions.

Ilya walks home without hurrying.

The fifth practice back is all shooting drills; while Millsy is apparently taking a rest day, LeClaire is putting Bucks and the third goalie Oregan through their paces, even though there isn’t a chance in hell the backup-backup will ever see ice time.

“That’s not true,” Carmichael says as they shuffle forward in line. At the front of the pack Vanik misses the net spectacularly. “1928. They had to put one of the coaches in the net.”

“Doesn’t count,” Dubek says, as Connors steps up and sends one directly onto Oregan’s chest, hard enough to make the goalie’s pads thump audibly. “Anything before the sixties is practically a different league.”

Ilya doesn’t weigh into the debate, largely because he doesn’t particularly care. He steps into his shooting lane, waits for the feed, and snaps one high glove. Cleanly in. Back in line.

Next rep, same corner. Oregan gets a piece of it with his glove, but the puck still goes post and in. Back in line.

Third, high glove again. In. Back in line.

Fourth rep, he adjusts only slightly—opens his blade a fraction more, changes nothing else. Higher shot, tighter to the crossbar. Smaller margin for error.

In.

Oregan glares at him for that one, and LeClaire’s whistle cuts sharp across the ice. “Rozanov! Over here.”

Ilya glides over.

“You picking a corner on purpose?” LeClaire asks mildly once he comes to a stop.

“No,” Ilya says, without hesitation. “Just practicing.”

LeClaire studies him a beat longer than necessary, and Ilya very carefully does not fidget.

“Uh-huh,” LeClaire eventually says, and waves him back into line.

His apartment is quiet in the late afternoon, the shadows stretching like tendrils across the floor. Ilya drops his keys on the counter without turning the lights on and sits down on the couch in the dark for a moment, not doing anything.

Then he opens his laptop.

The Montreal file is already there from last night. The Raiders have been studying the tape more than they ever have in Ilya’s time with the team—Beaumont’s been sending out reel after reel, tape compiled and organized by period and situation. Ilya skips past the most recent options, scrolling down until he reaches the first one the coaching staff sent out. He skims past the first forty minutes. Pulls up the goaltending clips.

There aren’t that many compared to the ones on the Metros offense and defense. Just twelve odd minutes of clips in this first video, Beaumont having trimmed it to the most relevant saves. Ilya watches them through once at full speed, then goes back to the beginning and slows it down.

Eight minutes of Miitka, bold at the top of the crease, willing to charge forward to challenge skaters first. Four minutes of Hollander, and his improbable glove saves.

Ilya watches the Miitka clips twice, takes a few notes, and closes that tab.

Then he watches the Hollander clips.

The first thing Ilya always notices is the stance: dropped a little wider than most goalies, lower than one might expect, and it shouldn’t make that much of a difference but it does. The free ice under Hollander just disappears. Onscreen one of Winnipeg’s forwards is cutting across the zone, setting up for a low angle shot—and falters. There was space in the net, then just as suddenly there wasn’t, and Hollander hadn’t even moved.

Next clip: Anderson moving up fast, off-angle wrister. Glove save.

Hollander doesn’t push out to challenge much. Doesn’t come out to meet skaters, doesn't try to take the angle early. Just sits in his paint, waits, and only moves when he absolutely has to. Ilya has played against patient goalies before, but this is something different.

There’s nothing loud about his game. Nothing showy, no scrambles unless he has to. The only thing that looks like an actual preference for Hollander is his glove-side, snatching pucks clean out of the air like he knew exactly where they’d be. It's irritating in a way Ilya can’t quite articulate: there’s no overcommitment to punish, no extra foot out of position, no tell to read. No panic. Even when the puck moves east–west he doesn’t bite early.

There’s one clip in particular though—that two-on-one against Winnipeg, the pass hasn’t even left the blade and Hollander’s already leaning in the right direction. Ilya watches it at half speed. Watches it again. Rewinds to the moment just before Hollander commits.

Ilya rewinds it a third time.

Not because it’s pretty. Because there’s something in the timing he can’t quite place yet, a decision happening earlier than it should, and it’s sitting wrong in the back of his head like a word he can’t remember.

His phone buzzes on the cushion beside him and for a half-second his heart stops. It’s just the team group chat though: the veterans went out together and someone has posted a golf score, Feller’s apparently, and the responses are immediate and merciless. Ilya watches the notifications stack up without touching his phone.

Below all of the team chats, unopened: You have (7) missed calls from Alexei.

Ilya turns back to his laptop. Watches the two-on-one clip one more time. At normal speed, it’s a half-impossible correction. No extra rotation. No wasted slide. Perfect.

The apartment settles around him in the dark, and Ilya lies back and stares at the ceiling and lets whatever is sitting in his chest just. Sit there. It’s not nerves—Ilya’s never had nerves for hockey, not for years. No, this is something with more edge to it than nerves, something that wants the puck on his stick, eighteen thousand people screaming, and Hollander square in his crease at the other end of the ice, watching him. Waiting for him to make a move.

Two days till the first game of the second round.

Ilya closes his eyes.

Chapter End Notes

Playoffs are stressful times: minimum four, maximum seven games in a row against a single opponent, plenty of room for beef to form. Add in a stressful conversation with your brother, no sleep, and a ton of emotional stress you don't know how to regulate, and you have the perfect recipe for a very bad hockey game and a long mental/physical recalibration for Ilya.
This chapter was less hockey than I wanted, but teams work really hard between games and I wanted to show the non-gameday schedules and Ilya's non on-ice life.
 
Some notes:
1) Alexei. Bastard. Hate that guy, but he's useful as a destabilizing force in Ilya's life. While all us fic readers know about Ilya's nickname Ilyusha, did you know that Alexei should technically be called Lyosha/Alyosha under the same rules?
2) Sveta. Love her, she's a fun person to write, and she's a perfect hockey voice for Ilya's chapters. In the show it's not entirely clear what she's doing when she's not hanging out with Ilya, so I've decided to make her a student at university. Something about her just screams business major (complimentary)
3) Ilya and Sveta think Shane is "painfully straight". Look, hockey is an aggressively heterosexual sport. Ilya might be catching a vibe from shane, but he absolutely does not know anything for sure, and statistically he is wrong to assume anything other than hetero. Right now, at best Shane is just a fun flirting target, some eye candy he can rile up a little bit for a thrill during a game; do not worry, this will change very, very soon
4) Miscellaneous. Why are the Admirals (a metropolitan div team) playing against Boston (atlantic div) first round? I'm piling on the humiliations for Scott Hunter, Admirals barely made the playoffs in the wildcard spot (it's a small annoyance, but it always takes me out of a fic when the playoff matchups are nonsensical. BOSvsNYR can happen irl). Is Ilya a dirty player? No, he's a rat. It's an important distinction, there have been many beloved rats throughout hockey history, and I'm drawing on all of them simultaneously for inspo (also, to any fic writers out there: brad marchand (current king rat of the nhl) has very famously licked other players mid game, and I am supremely disappointed that nobody has put this in an Ilya/Shane fic yet. If there is a fic where this happens, please link it). Keener? Canadian slang is the best, and is underutilized. JORTS??? Look me in the eye and tell me that a 10% more bro-y/socially integrated Shane Hollander wouldn't own a pair of jorts. You can't. Live with that mental image forever.

I've laid down a couple of potential future plot points here, bonus marks if you can spot them. Playoffs part 2, coming soon! Surely Shane will be just fine facing off against a fully fixated-and-wanting-to-score-on-him-specifically Ilya.

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

Playoffs part 2: Electric Boogaloo (Shane's Version)

Chapter Notes

A long, slow, snowball of a realization ;)

ETA: If you've noticed the added scene, shhhh, pretend it was always there 🤫

Shane has almost a full year of flying with the Metros under his belt now, and he’s got his plane strategy down to a science. Playoffs, thankfully, don’t change this.

It’s an early evening flight to Boston, the day before Game One of the second round. An hour and a half in the air. Boarding at four, wheels up closer to four-thirty because half the team likes to loiter in the terminal until the last possible second. Fifty seats. The front third unofficially reserved for coaches, the back rows for anyone who wants to be loud.

Shane does not like to be loud.

He’s stepping onto the tarmac at 4:08; early enough to have the entire plane to choose from, not early enough to be the one caught by the media team looking for a last minute clip to put on the internet. Shane likes to think he and the socials people have come to an understanding, and the intern with the microphone only spares him a brief glance before refocussing on McMann, letting him scurry up the stairs without trying to stop him.

The seat assignments on team flights are completely arbitrary, but Shane kind of likes sitting in near the wings, and he drops into a window seat with a sense of deeply-rooted satisfaction. His headphones are firmly in his ears but completely silent, his book and waterbottle are in the seatback pocket, and Shane settles in to watch the rest of the team trickle on.

The veterans board first: Albright, McMann, Gusty settling in automatically behind the coaches. Then the rest of them, Gilly and Oggy heading straight for the back with Dagger, the noise level rising accordingly.

It’s usually Hayden or JJ beside him, and today it’s Hayden, dropping into the aisle seat without a word, already unlocking his phone as JJ keeps moving toward the back. The lights dim, the flight attendant does her pre-flight routine that Shane could probably recite by memory by now, and then they’re off.

Normally this is when Shane would start his book. Maybe turn on one of Bones’ playlists if he’s feeling adventurous—but Hayden’s leg is bouncing in the seat next to his, and Shane can already tell he’s not going to stop till he tells Shane something, so he just sits there. Starts a countdown inside his head, ‘cause if Hayden wants to say something, he’ll crack in under two minutes.

It takes twenty-five seconds before there’s an elbow jabbing into Shane’s side, and Shane pulls one headphone out with exaggerated patience. “Hayden, most twenty-two-year-olds can go more than five minutes without—”

“I’m going to marry Jackie,” Hayden says, cutting him off, and Shane chokes a little bit.

That was not what Shane was expecting him to say, not at all. Hayden had been seeing Jackie since the All-Stars break, since that night they’d all gone out after watching the skills competition and Hayden had tripped and poured his drink on her nearly as soon as they’d arrived. Shane still didn’t understand how Hayden had managed it, but amidst all of his groveling apologies Jackie had given him her number for some reason, and they turned a puddle into a relationship and were still going strong.

But marriage?

“You’ve been dating for three months,” Shane says, slowly, after a definitely way too long pause. Hayden doesn’t point that out though.

“Four,” Hayden corrects, like that’s somehow significantly more, and leans back in his seat with the easy satisfaction of someone who, apparently, has his life worked out. “Nearly five. But yeah. She’s it. I just— already know, y’know?”

No? Shane does not know. Wait, shit— “You haven’t, like, proposed, have you?”

Hayden laughs, short and genuine. “Jesus, no. Way too soon, I’m not insane. No, not yet.”

“Not yet,” Shane repeats faintly.

“Not yet,” Hayden confirms, completely unbothered by Shane’s tone, and stretches his legs out into the aisle. “But I will, one day. She’s it for me man. You’ll understand when it happens to you.”

You’ll understand when it happens to you.

Shane has dated. Not extensively, not…enthusiastically, but he's dated. There was a girl in the AHL, three months together, mutually fine until they drifted apart. The occasional hookups, like that one in LA that Hayden’s still chirping him about. A few dates that hadn't progressed past a couple of dinners and a mutual quiet agreement to stop there.

None of them had ever felt like it. None of them had ever made him want to text through a team meeting the way Hayden does now, or invite them to a game and scan the stands during warm-ups looking for one specific face. That’s what Hayden does when Jackie’s there.

None of them have ever given him that particular settled certainty that Hayden is currently radiating like it was nothing, like it was obvious, like of course this is what it feels like when you find the right person.

“You won’t ask her till playoffs are over, right?” Shane says instead, cause that’s important to know and with the look on Hayden’s face he can’t be sure he isn’t thinking it. Hayden laughs again.

“Not going to ask for a while,” Hayden confirms, and tilts his seat back and closes his eyes. “Maybe next season. We’ve got to win first.”

Shane makes a noncommittal noise and puts his earbud back in.

He opens his book. Reads the same paragraph three times without it going anywhere. Outside the window, the sun sinks into a wash of red-gold over the clouds and the horizon blurs, darkening at the edges.

He watches until the light disappears.

TD Garden is full of 17,000 people screaming at the top of their lungs, and Shane is doing his level best to tune all of them out. At the very least warmups are always the same, no matter where he’s playing or how loudly people are yelling—step onto the ice, one slapshot on net, crease work first, edges, angles, then right to the center line to stretch. It's routine. Grounding. The crowd noise obligingly fades to the furthest corner of his brain.

He’s midway through his second set of lunges when a shadow stretches across the red line in front of him, two skates carving shallow half-moons into the ice. Shane finishes his rep and doesn’t look up, ‘cause he’s pretty sure he already knows who it is.

“Hollander.”

Yup. He looks up. Rozanov looks far too relaxed for the first game of a playoff series, stick held loosely in front of him, watching Shane on the ice with a cheerful expression.

“Rozanov,” Shane says, and waits.

“You watch our series?” Rozanov asks, tone balanced delicately between curiosity and provocation. Knowing what he knows about him, it’s probably both. “A sweep was very exciting. I’m looking forward to getting another one.”

Fucking unbelievable. It was both.

“Come on,” Shane says, because he has a professional obligation to respond to that blatant of a chirp. “It was a sweep over New York. If they ever make it out of the first round, it’ll be because hell froze, thawed, and Scott Hunter finally learned how to run a power play.”

Rozanov’s eyes light up, but he frowns a little. “Was still good hockey.”

Eh. Shane shrugs, because that was good hockey, but he doesn’t have to say it. “Beating New York in May is basically a given.”

Overhead the buzzer sounds to announce the end of warmups, and Shane pushes up from the ice, grabs his stick, and skates away without a backwards glance.

“Hey– Hollzy.”

Shane looks up to find Miity leaning over from his stall, peering intently at the stick tape Shane’s using on his blade. He leans over even more and makes a grabby motion with his hand. “Give it over. Albright’s going so fucking slow.”

Oh– right. Miity’s pregame ritual. Shane’s hands pause on his half-finished tape job and he lowers his stick to squint at him. “Are we completely out of tape or something in here? Why do you need this one?”

Miity rolls his eyes at him. “You and Albright are the only other people who use the white ones.” The extended hand opens and closes and opens again. “Hollzy you know I can’t use the black tape. Hand it over.”

Oh come on— Shane glances mournfully at his tape, but another grabbing motion from Miity has him obediently tearing the roll early and tossing it over.

“Time me.” Miity barely waits for Shane’s answering nod before the rolls are in the air, arcing through his hands in an easy loop as his eyes stay fixed at the top of the circle. At twenty seconds his right hand fumbles a catch but he recovers. At forty seconds Miity increases the height of his loop. At a minute Miity starts showing off, adding flourishes with his elbows, trying a a crossover under one arm—

And the rolls are clattering to the floor, Miity’s juggling abilities evidently not enough to accommodate tricks. One of the rolls nearly clips him in the face as it comes down, but Miity flinches back and darts a hand out to catch it before it makes contact.

Shane checks the clock. “A minute eleven. Not bad till you got greedy.”

“Still over a minute though.” Miity grins at him, eyes bright, and tosses the tape back to Shane. “Good enough. Now we’re going to win.”

And they fucking do: the Metros take Game One of the second round 4–2.

It’s a massive upset and an extremely good game for Montreal: the top lines are buzzing, JJ and the rest of the defense are on fire, and Miity stops 22 of 24 shots. The only two that get past him both come with the man advantage—a sharp tip-in off Feller’s stick in the first, and a blocker-side slapshot from Rozanov that briefly ties it in the second before the Metros pull ahead again for good.

Albright scores twice, JJ and McMann add the others, and even though Shane watches the whole thing from the bench, satisfaction settles low and steady in his chest as the final buzzer sounds.

He hops the boards with the rest of them, gloves thumping against Miity’s pads in a tight cluster before the team breaks apart, already recalibrating toward Game Two. As Shane turns toward the tunnel, a thin prickle runs along the back of his neck—that unmistakable sense of being observed.

Across the ice, near the Boston bench, Rozanov hasn’t moved from where he ended the game; gloves dangling loose in his hands, leaning against the boards while his teammates file past him toward the exit. He’s not looking at the scoreboard or the officials or even his own bench.

He’s watching the Metros celebrate.

Shane could ignore him. That would probably be the smart thing here, just turn toward the tunnel with everyone else, let Boston deal with their loss, let Rozanov stand there and stare at nothing. There’s no upside to engaging. No reason to invite a chirp, or a gesture, or whatever else Rozanov might decide to do in front of several thousand disappointed fans after Montreal kicked their ass. Shane should ignore him.

Instead, just before he steps off the ice, they make eye contact—and Shane raises his hand and gives Rozanov a little, friendly wave.

Rozanov rocks back on his skates slightly, redistributing his weight on the boards, and something moves across Rozanov's face—too slow to be surprise, too sharp to be simple annoyance. Not quite frustration. Not quite a smile. Something threaded tight between the two, like he’s recalculating in real time to something that Shane can’t really read cleanly.

It’s a weird expression, one he’s definitely never seen from Rozanov before. Shane files it away, turns back toward the tunnel, and steps off the ice.

Warmups at TD Garden for Game Two feel sharper than they did forty-eight hours ago—tighter, somehow, like the building has recalibrated its hostility. Boston’s still the heavy favourite in their series, but the first loss has curdled into something meaner, and seventeen thousand people have apparently decided to take it personally.

Shane runs his warmup the same way he always does. Second-last off the bench, set up for a touch pass from Hayden, settle the puck, draw it back and send a slapshot that threads cleanly under the bar with a satisfying, tight whip of netting. No wobble in the air, no flutter; just that crisp swish that tells him his hands are awake.

Then it’s crease work, edges, post-to-post, swap out with Miity at the halfway mark, turn towards the center line—

“That is a good slapshot,” Rozanov says conversationally from a few feet away, as Shane drops to the ice for his stretches. “For a goalie, especially.”

Wait, he saw that? “Thanks,” Shane says, ’cause that’s a compliment and that’s what you’re supposed to say. Rozanov doesn’t stop there though.

“No, I mean—” Rozanov tilts his head, and Shane can read open curiosity on his face. “Goalie stick. It is different, yes? Heavier. Flatter blade. Is harder to get power on it.”

It is, actually. Most people don’t know that, or don’t think to ask, and it’s kind of weird that Rozanov is taking the time out of his warmups to ask this.

“It took a while to figure out the weight transfer,” Shane says, which is true but not the whole answer.

Rozanov’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s heard the omission. “But?”

Shane extends his right leg, and looks down to focus. “But nothing.”

“Hollander.”

Shane looks up.

“Why do you always take it first thing?” Rozanov asks. “Every warmup. Same shot, similar spot. Why?”

That’s—a way more specific question than Shane was expecting from him.

It’s not an easy question to answer, ’cause the real answer is that it started at fourteen, in a rink in Guelph, his first season of serious goaltending, maybe a year after his first dream of being a shooter, a star forward, had quietly stopped being realistic. His coach told him goalies who could shoot were goalies who understood the shooter—and it became a ritual so gradually he couldn’t identify the exact moment it stopped being practice and became something he needed to do, every single game to make his brain move into game mode. That’s the whole answer. He can’t really say all that to Rozanov though.

“Habit,” Shane says instead.

Rozanov looks at him with a completely blank expression, and Shane lasts about four seconds. “It helps me think like a shooter before the game,” he adds, which is close enough to true that it counts.

Rozanov is quiet for a moment, turning his stick over in his hands. “That’s—” he pauses, like he’s deciding something, “smart.” He tilts his head. “Makes you annoying to play against.”

Shane blinks. He’d been prepared for a joke.

“You might be the best shot on Metros roster, as a goalie,” Rozanov adds, and there’s the chirp, but it lands softer than usual.

And Shane isn’t sure what to do with the fact that a near-compliment came first.

The game is tight from the drop. Boston's top lines are buzzing early, cycling deep, and Rozanov is on the ice for almost every meaningful shift in the first period. Shane watches from the bench with maybe a fraction more focus than he’d allocate to any other forward he might eventually face. Not just because it’s Rozanov, but because Rozanov is absolutely the one to watch on this Boston team.

It comes to a head seventeen minutes in.

Rozanov collects a pass at the right circle, and Shane sees the shot forming a beat before it happens—the brief squaring of shoulders, the quiet sink of his hips, the weight shifting decisively onto his front leg. There’s no wasted motion, just load and release.

It’s fast. Stupidly fast. He has the enviable kind of shot that deletes the thinking part of a goalie’s brain and leaves only reflex.

Miitka already out front to challenge, and for a half second Shane thinks it’s too far, too aggressive, leaving too much net—but Miity reads the angle just right and gets his pad across just as the puck leaves Rozanov’s stick. Kick save. Clean. No second chance, puck out to the boards.

The Garden groans.

Good save, Shane thinks, and means it.

But Miity pushed early there, and when the Boston coach reads that tendency, tells Rozanov and the others to delay their release by half a beat next time—

Mid second period, a TV timeout stretches the game out and Boston’s players drift toward their bench. Rozanov, cycling back from the far end, slows as he passes the Montreal bench, glancing over without breaking his stride.

“Your goalie moves very far out,” he says, to no one in particular. To Shane specifically.

“Sure,” Shane says, at the same time Gilly says “Fuck off, Rozanov.”

Rozanov nods once and keeps skating, and the Metros bench rustles a little, unsettled.

“He shouldn’t be starting shit with the bench,” McMann says to a chorus of agreement, that Shane doesn’t join in on.

The goal comes in the third, and it’s an absolutely filthy piece of hockey that Shane watches with the specific helpless appreciation of someone who understands exactly what just happened.

Rozanov receives a pass in the high slot, two defenders converging, no angle, no time. He doesn't even try to make space, he just shifts his weight forward and shoots, with a release so quick and a trajectory so precise that Miitka’s glove is still moving when the puck is already in the net. Top corner. Off the crossbar and in.

The Garden erupts.

It’s a filthy fucking goal.

Wow, Shane thinks, before he can stop himself.

He watches Rozanov’s brief fist pump, his teammates converging, and doesn’t quite manage to feel bad about the thought.

Boston wins Game Two 3-1 He catches Rozanov’s eye at center ice as the Metros bench files down the visitors tunnel, but all Shane can muster is a tight nod before turning away.

Three nights later they’re back at home in Montreal, in the Bell Centre for game three, and the home crowd sounds just as hungry as the one in Boston did. Shane runs his warmup the exact same way. Second to last one on ice. Slapshot. Crease work, edges, posts. Skate toward the center line.

Rozanov is already there.

Shane doesn’t pause his approach: just continues to the line, puts down his stick and drops into his stretch like this is a completely unremarkable development, which it is, because it’s the third game in a row he’s done this and apparently this is just what they do now.

“Still not playing?” Rozanov asks, by way of greeting when Shane doesn’t say anything first.

“Nope,” Shane says, even though Rozanov definitely already knows this, has probably known this for a couple hours already. Playoff rosters are obsessively reported on by the media, and this is Shane’s first ever post-season. He’d definitely know if Shane was playing. It would be all over the pregame coverage.

“Mm,” Rozanov says, which is not another question, and spins his stick once in his hand. The motion is completely automatic, something he probably does a hundred times a game without noticing, and Shane’s eyes snag on the tape at the handle, worn thin in one precise spot. Same grip every time, probably.

He extends his left leg and looks down at the ice.

“Your city,” Rozanov says after a moment, conversational, “is very French.”

“It’s Quebec,” Shane says. “Yes.”

“The signs. Everything is French.”

Well yeah. “That’s how it works here.”

Rozanov makes a considering noise, like this is genuinely new information he’s processing. “Your French is good?”

Shane glances up. Rozanov looks genuine, but Shane can’t ignore the obvious chirp sitting right there. “Better than your English at least.”

The corner of Rozanov’s mouth moves first—the left side lifting before the right catches up, a small, uneven expression that is not quite a smile but very much not not a smile. Shane immediately looks back down at his stretch.

That’s a normal thing to notice. The asymmetry of someone’s expression, which side of their face starts to move first when they’re amused. Completely standard, objectively observational thing to notice.

Rozanov pushes off from the line about a minute later, and Shane stays where he is, stretching, until the buzzer sounds.

The hit happens twenty-three minutes into the third, and Shane sees it coming half a second before it does.

Boston’s been pushing hard and Miitka’s been aggressive all night: challenging high, cutting angles clean, and he’s already committed when the puck kicks loose from the left boards out to the low slot. Two Boston forwards pivot at once. There’s no space. No time. Miitka is exactly where he shouldn’t be.

The forward on the left hits him head on, and Miity’s already on his way down when the second forward crashes into him.

Miitka crumples backwards into the crease, and the Boston forward—it’s Connors, usually nimble enough to avoid contact so Shane is fairly sure he didn’t mean it, just lost momentum and body control—goes down on top of him. For a brief second the Bell Centre is completely silent—then the crowd is screaming and then gloves are dropping on the ice and all five Metros surge in before the whistle finishes blowing.

Both benches are on their feet. Shane can hear Theriault bellowing.

The brawl is sprawling and ugly: shoves, fists knotted in jerseys, Comeau and Boston’s enforcer Stidwell trading haymakers. The linesmen wade in and out, immediately losing control of anyone they aren’t physically holding apart. Shane doesn’t pay too much attention to that though; all Shane can really see right now is the crumpled, blue-clad body, still down in the net, one of Montreal’s medical staff on his knees beside him.

For one ugly second, Shane is already imagining protocols. Concussion spotters. The shitshow that’ll be a rookie backup goalie scrambling in for his first ever playoff game, cold off the bench—

Miity rolls on to his side, and the Montreal bench exhales at once, a collective, audible release of breath.

He’s on a knee. Then upright, with the medic bracing his elbow. He shrugs the man off almost immediately, shaking out his arms and picking up his stick again, skating off to the corner, away from the scrums still happening between the players.

He’s okay. Shane lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and watches Miity skate his tight little loop in the corner—the same one he always does after a hard stop, like he’s checking his own parts are still attached—and feels something loosen in his chest.

The relief arrives first. Then, approximately two seconds later, a second realization hits Shane like a truck.

Miitka is up and moving but it isn’t right—it’s careful. Controlled, in a way that definitely doesn’t read as comfortable. Shane can see it in extra half-beat in his edges, a deliberateness that wasn’t there earlier.

He’ll finish the game. That's not in question, not if Miitka’s standing and moving right now.

The question is Game Four.

Shane sits back down on the bench and watches the penalties get sorted out and doesn’t say anything to anyone.

Somehow the Raiders end up with a man advantage, and they convert on the ensuing powerplay. Of course they do. Rozanov picks up the assist, a sharp cross-ice feed that sets up Anderson perfectly and beats Miity clean, and Shane watches it happen with an odd detached clarity.

He’s going to be starting Game Four.

Theriault hasn't said it yet. Nobody has said it yet. But Miity looks stiff as hell, and the Raiders are going to have tape on everything Miitka has shown them in three games, and Shane already knows.

Boston adds an empty netter and wins it 3-1 again. The Metros file toward the tunnel, and Shane is the last one down the tunnel and doesn’t look over to the other bench even once.

Theriault tells him officially at 5pm the next day, in the practice arena hallway outside the team meeting, quiet and matter of fact like it’s a logistical update rather than the thing Shane has been bracing for since yesterday.

“You’re starting tomorrow,” Theriault says. “Get some rest.”

That’s it. Shane nods once and goes back into the locker room to shower, and is home within fifteen minutes. Normally he’d be microwaving his nutritionist-approved white fish and brown rice within five minutes of walking in the door—but tonight he lets himself sit on the edge of his bed and stare into space for approximately four minutes.

This is fine. This will be a game like every other one he’s ever played.

He forces himself up after another minute, stumbles out of his room to his fridge and his fish, and cuts down on his pre-bed reading time by five minutes to offset the time he lost staring at the wall.

Everything in its place. Routine intact.

He sleeps fine. He always sleeps fine.

Game day moves the way game days always move, which is the only thing saving him. The structure holds him upright: alarm, breakfast, drive, meeting, ice. Shane moves through each step just below the surface, not quite absent, just not quite… there. His teammates give him space, which means they kind of know, but he appreciates it in the abstract way you appreciate something you can’t fully feel yet.

He’s at the center line for his stretches when he realizes Rozanov is already there.

He doesn’t know how long Rozanov has been there. Just becomes aware, gradually, that his shoulders have dropped from somewhere near his ears to somewhere more reasonable, and that he’s been answering something Rozanov is saying about—hotel breakfast, apparently, and whether the eggs at the Boston Marriott are better than the eggs at the Montreal Marriott, which genuinely might be one of the least important questions Shane has ever been asked.

“The ones in Montreal are better,” Shane says, because it’s true, but he has no idea how he got here.

Rozanov looks vindicated. “I knew it. Boston eggs are very sad. Though the bacon is much better.”

Can eggs be sad? Shane shakes the thought away. “Don’t know about the bacon,” Shane says. “I use meal prep for the rest of breakfast.”

Rozanov stares at him. “You— what, you bring food on the road?”

“I’ve got a nutrition plan—”

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, with the gravity of someone delivering difficult news. “That is the saddest thing I have ever heard.” He leans over the line slightly. “Not even hotel waffles?”

Hotel waffles are always gritty somehow— sandy and spongy at the same time. Shane can’t say that though. “I just like the same things every time. It’s not that weird—”

“Next season,” Rozanov says, cutting him off, “you try the waffles. Everywhere. Will be a project for us, yes? Find the city with the best Marriott breakfast.”

Shane blinks. He’s not sure if that’s a chirp or an offer or a what, and his brain is still processing things when Rozanov pulls his glove off to adjust something at his collar.

It catches the arena light, a brief bright line against flushed skin. It’s a pendant, small and unidentifiable from this distance, and the chain of it shifts against Rozanov’s neck, interrupting the slow progression of a line of sweat tracing its way from his hairline, skating between moles before disappearing under the collar of his jersey. Rozanov rubs the pendant briefly between his fingers before hiding it away again.

It’s an absentminded motion. Practiced. Familiar.

Shane keeps watching for a second. Notices the way Rozanov’s mouth pulls slightly to one side when he’s concentrating on something minor and physical, the way the moles at his throat move as he swallows.

Two seconds.

Shane looks back down at his stretch.

“I eat fine,” Shane says to his legs.

“Mm,” Rozanov says, which is not agreement, and pulls his glove back on.

Neither of them says anything for a moment. The crowd noise is still there but it’s further away than it was twenty minutes ago, which Shane notices without examining why.

JJ skates by without stopping. Glances at them once. Keeps going.

The buzzer sounds. Shane gets up.

“Marriott waffles,” Rozanov says, as he pushes off the line.

“Bye Rozanov,” Shane says.

The first period is Boston pressing hard and Shane answering every time.

The first save that matters comes seven minutes in. Rozanov in the high slot, one touch, no setup—just the puck and his stick and a release so fast Shane is already moving before he’s consciously decided to. Pure muscle memory. His glove hand snaps up and the puck hits leather with a clean, solid thwap that he feels all the way up his arm.

The Bell Centre erupts.

Shane doesn’t react. Just opens his glove and lets the puck fall to the ice for the linesman, resets himself in his crease, and breathes.

His heartbeat is finally where it belongs.

The stoppage comes mid second period, Comeau and one of Boston’s forwards holding on to each other’s jerseys, both of them screaming in each other’s face while the linesmen try to separate them. Shane leans back and props his elbows against the crossbar and watches the show.

“Cats or dogs, Hollander?”

Shane doesn’t look over immediately. Rozanov has materialized at the edge of the crease, skates just over the line of the paint which Shane would normally have something to say about, but the question is— actually he doesn’t know. He’s never thought about this before.

Mr Smith’s dog always used to bark at me when I went by for school, but that doesn’t really count in the grand scheme of things since I was probably waking it up. Jonesy once told me a funny story about his neighbour’s pitbull… Rozanov shifts slightly at his side, like he might skate off before Shane answers—but Gilly and Feller still aren’t letting the refs separate them so there’s really nowhere else for them to be right now. Have I ever actually pet a cat before? Oh, yeah wait, there was a stray who used to come through the backyard who let me pet it once, and most of the funny pictures Hayd sends me are of cats—

“Cats,” Shane says after a moment, then doubts himself immediately when Rozanov frowns. Wait, was that the right response? Is there a correct response? I’ve never had a—

“Of course you say cat,” Rozanov says, and unless Shane’s misreading it—always possible—there’s an almost warm undertone to his voice. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face though, and Shane immediately braces himself for whatever chirp he’s accidentally set Rozanov up to deliver. “To match your face, yes? When you focus on the puck, you get all–” Rozanov screws his face up into an exaggerated pursed-lip scowl, then gestures at himself like that made any fucking sense, “– you know?”

“... no?” Shane says, but Rozanov is all too happy to explain himself.

“Is like an angry little kitten,” says Rozanov, and of course, there’s the chirp hidden inside all of his chatty bullshit. Shane sighs deeply and Rozanov fucking laughs at him, and continues in a sing-songy voice, “So upset! So focused on the puck, is like cat with a feather, da?”

Cat with a feather—who the hell comes up with this sort of thing? Shane’s next breath comes out sounding like a laugh without Shane fully meaning it to, but it’s kind of worth it for the way the corners of Rozanov’s eyes go all crinkly as he smiles.

It’s a 1-0 game for Montreal right now. Is this really what Rozanov thinks about mid-game? Shane has to know.

“I’m surprised you can even see what my face is doing under here,” he says, squinting exaggeratedly through the cage of his mask, tapping the bars lightly with his blocker, “probably not what you should be looking at. Is that why you haven’t scored anything on me yet, Rozanov?”

Rozanov grumbles something under his breath, spinning his stick in a way that communicates displeasure clearly across language barriers, and Shane feels a pulse of satisfaction.

“Here’s a tip,” Shane adds, because he wants to be helpful. No other reason. “You’re supposed to be aiming in here.” He gestures into the net with his blocker. “Not directly at my glove hand.”

“Oh, Hollander,” Rozanov says, drawing the name out as he looks around the rink with an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Are you sure? I thought we were playing catch.”

Shane snorts. Rozanov’s a funny guy. “Yeah well. Keep doing that. Easy saves for me.”

Rozanov’s grin goes bigger. “Are you saying you don’t like to work hard? Because I thought you—”

“Hey– Roz!” A Boston player’s voice (Marleau, #7, big hitter) cuts through Rozanov’s chatter so unexpectedly both he and Shane flinch slightly. Shane glances up and (oh, whoops) both Gilly and Feller are being escorted to the box and the rest of the players are moving back to the center dot. From the looks of it the refs apparently decided to make it offsetting majors, despite Shane being almost certain Comeau instigated.

Shit, did they seriously not notice the ref making the penalty announcement?

Marleau is laughing at them. “Planning to join us any time soon, bud?”

Rozanov sighs. Pushes off. Pauses after two strides and looks back. “Just so you know,” he says, his voice deathly serious, “dogs are better.”

Ok? Shane doesn’t know what to do with that information, so he discards it and focuses on planting his skates in the crease, and watches as Rozanov glides back to centre ice.

The goal is nobody’s fault, which somehow makes it worse.

Clean defensive zone coverage, good positioning, everything right—and then Connors’ shot from the point catches Fours’ skate and redirects so sharply that Shane is moving the wrong direction when it goes right to Vanik—and it’s over the line. He turns and looks at the net and the puck is sitting there and the Bell Centre is losing its mind.

Nothing to be done about that one. Shane pulls it out and flips it to the linesman and resets.

1-1. Two minutes left in the third period.

Overtime lasts four minutes and eleven seconds.

Shane doesn't see the puck coming—there’s a scramble at the top of the crease, bodies everywhere, he’s down on the ice, and the puck is loose somewhere under him—

And then a Boston d-man’s stick finds it, and it’s in, and that’s it.

He stands in his crease for one full second, staring at the puck in his net.

Then he skates off.

The locker room is quiet in a specifically awful way; just a heavy, damp silence where everyone is thinking about the same thing and nobody wants to be the first person to say it out loud, because they could have won that one, and they all know it, but they lost ‘cause of him.

Shane sits in his stall and goes through the motions of removing his gear with the methodical focus he’d used packing it the night before, and does not look up from his hands. Buckle. Strap. Set it aside.

They’re down 3-1 in the series, just one game from elimination, and it’s absolutely his fault; if he didn’t go down to the ice on the first shot, he would’ve been positioned better for the second look. Maybe if he’d stopped the play in minute three instead of cycling it back out, things would’ve been different. Or, maybe if he’d committed just slightly more on that zone clear in the second minute, maybe—

The goalie coach Tim appears at his shoulder, quiet, and waits until Shane looks up.

“Good game,” Tim says. Not consolation, not a pity comment—just fact. “That deflection was nothing. Your positioning was right all night.”

Shane nods, ‘cause that’s what you’re supposed to do when a coach tells you something.

“Theriault wants you sharp for Boston,” Tim adds, and that’s all he says before he’s walking away, and that’s—

Shane looks back down at his gear.

Boston. Game Five. They’re putting him in net again. Fuck, how bad is Miity hurt?

He pulls his jersey over his head and sets it carefully on top of his pads, and sits with that for an extra two minutes before getting up to shower.

The flight back to Boston is an hour and thirty minutes of Shane staring at his book without reading it and his phone buzzing four times. Shane holds out until they’re taxiing down the runway at Logan airport before checking his texts.

The first text is from Win, a voice memo of approximately forty seconds of unintelligible screaming that Shane assumes is supportive.

The rest are from his mother.

Mom: Good luck tonight sweetheart <3
Mom: Do NOT read anything on TSN or Sportsnet right now, I mean it.
Mom: Call me after the game.

Shane locks his phone, puts it face down on his tray table, and picks his book back up.

He reads the same paragraph four times and lands on nothing, so he closes the book and thinks about angles and depth and absolutely nothing else until the plane stops and he can get up and leave.

The TD Garden crowd is different for Game Five. Louder than before, if that’s even possible; Boston could win it all tonight, could punch their ticket to the Eastern Conference Finals, and the thing standing in their way is him and everyone knows it. Shane steps onto the ice, second last, with his head down and lets the noise wash over him.

Warmups are the shortest they've ever been, or they feel that way. Shane runs his crease work on autopilot, post to post, edges, the familiar resistance of his pads against his legs, then skates out of the net to stretch. At some point he becomes dimly aware of something happening at the center line—a voice, maybe saying his name—but his heartbeat is too loud in his ears to make out words, and Hayden is there, standing at Shane’s shoulder, a shield between him and the entire arena.

Then the buzzer sounds. Back to the locker room, out onto the ice again for the anthems. Shane skates to his net, his own private island of blue paint, plants himself in his crease, and breathes.

And the fog starts to lift.

Montreal wins 4-2, and it's one of those perfect games; one where Shane makes his saves and the team makes everything else easy. Hayden scores twice, Gusty gets one, then Oggy gets his first ever playoff goal to close out the game on the empty netter. JJ is immovable, and the d-core does a perfect job pushing the Raiders to the very edges of the Metros’ zone, not letting any of them set up too close to Shane’s net. The Metros’ forecheck is relentless from the first shift, and Boston never quite finds their footing.

Rozanov is held pointless for the first time in this series, and while Shane usually doesn’t make a point to track opposing players too closely, he’s feeling proud of himself this game. Against Rozanov specifically, Shane turned away two clean looks—first a slapshot he caught dead centre in his chest protector, then a glove save that brought TD Garden to its feet just to boo him. The game belonged to Montreal tonight in a way that has nothing to do with any individual—but holy fuck, Shane feels good.

The series is 3-2. On to Game Six, back in Montreal.

Shane looks over to the Boston bench as he’s stepping off the ice, and Rozanov is there, like he usually is. Looking back at him.

Shane raises his hand to wave—

—and Rozanov raises his hand right back, and very carefully flips him off.

It’s deliberate. Slow. Eye contact the entire time.

Shane blinks.

Then he laughs.

It bursts out of him, quick and bright and a little disbelieving, and he can’t quite reconcile how good he feels with the fact that this is still only Game Five. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, still smiling, and waves one more time to Rozanov before he moves down the visitor’s tunnel.

On the bus to the airport Shane finally looks for the articles.

They’re not nearly as bad as his mother made them sound, but they’re still kind of bad. Rookie gamble: Theriault’s desperate move for Game Five. One headline that Shane reads twice because he can’t quite believe someone wrote it: Can Hollander Handle The Pressure?

He locks his phone and looks out the window, a bizarre sort of irritation bubbling up under his skin. Yeah, Hollander can handle the fucking pressure—he just made twenty-fucking-seven saves tonight. A .931 save percentage. This was probably one of the best games he’s played in his professional career.

Once they’re actually on the plane he puts his headphones in, doesn’t turn any music on, and just closes his eyes. Somewhere over the state of Massachusetts he falls asleep in his seat, which almost never happens, and stays asleep the entire flight back to Montreal.

Theriault tells him at 5pm the next day, in the practice arena hallway outside the team meeting, quiet and matter of fact. It’s a logistical update.

“Miitka’s in net for Game Six,” he says. “We need the experience in an elimination game. You understand.”

Shane understands. It’s the right call—any coach in any league at any level would make the same one. A rookie goalie who got hot for two games, versus a proven, veteran starter in a Game Six elimination scenario? He’d only been in net because Miitka couldn’t go. That was the job for a backup. Hold it down, then give it back. It isn’t even a conversation: if Miitka can play he’ll be in.

Shane knows this. Has sort of been expecting it, since Miity stepped on ice for practice today. He says “of course, yes Coach”, and means it.

He shakes Theriault’s hand, showers, drives home, then sits on his couch. He thinks about calling his mom, then doesn’t. Thinks about texting Hayden, or Bones, or Win, or Jonesy—then doesn’t. He just sits there, in his quiet apartment, with the objectively correct logical hockey decision, and waits for his feelings to become something manageable.

It takes about twenty minutes. Perfectly fine; that won’t mess up his end of day routine.

Shane runs his warmup the exact same way, regardless of if he’s starting or not. Second to last one on ice. Slapshot. Crease work, edges, posts. Skate toward the center line.

Join Rozanov, who is already there, waiting for him.

“Not playing today?” Rozanov asks as soon as Shane is close enough to hear him, and Shane shrugs a little before he gets down on the ice.

“Nope,” is all he says, ‘cause that’s a full answer and Rozanov has definitely already heard about the roster decision before the game. He shifts his right leg forward and tries for something cheerful. “Maybe it’s a good thing. You can try that backhand again, and let Miity embarrass you for a change.”

Rozanov scoffs loudly, then crouches down to fiddle with his skate laces. He doesn’t actually untie them, just pulls the ends of them a bit, but when he looks up they’re suddenly making direct eye contact across the center line.

Rozanov is saying something, Shane realizes somewhat distantly, but he also realizes with a jolt that he has stopped listening to the words entirely and is just tracking the movement of Rozanov’s mouth when he speaks.

That’s… probably not what he’s supposed to be doing right now. What were they talking about?

Thankfully he doesn’t need to figure it out; there’s a loud “Hey” and suddenly Hayden is skating over, skidding to an abrupt stop that sprays Rozanov slightly with snow. Classic move; Shane’s done that to him and JJ in practice before, and it’s always hilarious.

Hayden’s not laughing though—he actually sounds kind of pissed. “Fuck off and go bother someone else Rozanov.”

Rozanov straightens back up and raises both hands in mock surrender. “I am being friendly.”

“Yeah, well, go find someone else to be friendly with.”

Rozanov mutters something in Russian, before saying “What, are you offering Pike?”, and skating off. Hayden pats Shane on the shoulder and moves back into warmups without saying a word to him, and suddenly Shane’s all alone at the center line.

What the fuck was that, is his first and most immediate thought.

Why would Hayden think Rozanov was bothering him? That’s not… that conversation wasn’t anything they hadn’t been doing this entire series, and Shane knows Hayden knows he and Rozanov talk—had asked him after game two if he was feeling harassed, which he wasn’t. If the conversations were Rozanov’s way to mess with him, it was a pretty terrible strategy, since it was doing nothing to distract him from the game.

Nearby, Gusty sends a puck flying over the net and into the glass, and the crash of sound barely makes him flinch. Shane’s only moving on autopilot now, left leg extended, working out the pull in his hip. He should probably go talk to the physios about that, even if he isn’t playing—but he can’t focus on that right now. He can’t stop thinking.

This entire playoff series, he and Rozanov have this down to a comfortable rhythm: he’ll seek Shane out during warmups, if Shane’s on the bench they’ll trade the occasional chirp in passing. When Shane’s playing Rozanov ends up at Shane’s net often enough, they talk to each other during the longer stoppages, and after the game they’ll exchange a wave or a nod before skating off. Those interactions aren’t weird: Rozanov is genuinely one of Boston’s best players, and Shane needs to take note of him and his quirks, catalogue him alongside every other skater he faces during games.

It’s not personal. Awareness of other people is a tactical, strategic thing. He’s a goalie; noticing people, picking up their characteristics to identify them at a glance is literally part of the job. Rozanov is big, strong through the legs, hard to knock off balance, and Shane needs to know exactly how that weight shifts when he cuts across the slot.

And sure, maybe noticing the way Rozanov’s hair curls out wildly from the bottom of his helmet, the way the left side of his mouth tilts up before he smiles, or the exact pattern of his moles is… a little less informative. But that’s still useful information for Shane. For any goalie.

This is fine. Yes, Rozanov is a pest that likes to try and push his buttons, but it’s much more important that he’s a really good hockey player. He’s a really fucking fantastic hockey player, a power forward but also somehow the league’s second best scorer who isn’t afraid to get physical to get results.

With the way Rozanov plays, it’s a given that he’ll end up right on top of Shane at some point most games, crowding the crease, taking up space and screening the net like he has every right to be there. It would be irresponsible not to prepare for that—to prepare for the weight of Rozanov leaning in, the jolt of contact when their skates tangle, the solid press of him challenging Shane and expecting him to give up enough space for a goal. Shane hasn’t given in yet, and he isn’t planning to give in any time soon.

Shane flexes his fingers in his glove, pulse skidding, the thought looping once more, clearer now: he’s ready. He’s been ready. Shane’s been half-waiting for Rozanov to escalate past incidental contact for a while now, to just take a run at him and try to physically push Shane out of the way. Shane wants (needs) the proof that he can continue to hold his ground and still not give an inch of his crease.

He’s more than ready for that moment, and is already picturing it. He knows exactly how it’ll feel when Rozanov crowds his space, tests the boundaries, presses his entire body weight against Shane, trapping him, chest to chest and face to face—

Wait.

Oh my god, Shane thinks, almost hysterically. Wait. Fuck. That’s— that was not a tactical thought.

His ears are ringing. He blinks hard, like he can physically dislodge the last thirty seconds from his brain, but—oh. Fuck.

Shane is pushing to his feet almost without meaning to, and trips a little as he skates off toward the bench.

Warmups don’t end for another three minutes.

Sixty minutes of hockey. Three full twenty minute periods of play.

The Montreal Metros have been eliminated from the 2012 MLH playoffs in six games.

The handshake line moves forward with the same lurching precision as it did after their series against Toronto. Gloves off. Sticks tucked. Helmets off. Faces reset.

Shane moves through it on autopilot and says the same thing to everyone—good series, good series, good series—until Rozanov is in front of him.

Up close, Rozanov looks warmer somehow. Alive in a way that’s visible, mouth curved in a loose, satisfied smile. His hair is damp and pushed back from his face, his normally light curls darkened from exertion, his skin flushed high along his cheekbones, tired and sweat-soaked and glowing under the rink lights—and Shane has a bad second where he forgets what he’s supposed to do next.

Rozanov holds out his hand.

Shane takes it.

Rozanov doesn't shake immediately though. Just holds it for a beat, and looks at Shane directly, and says: “You were very good.”

Not good series. Not have a good summer. Rozanov just gave him an actual, fucking compliment.

Shane opens his mouth, closes it, and doesn’t even try to say anything back. He probably couldn’t say a single word out loud right now if his life depended on it.

“See you next season, Hollander,” Rozanov says, squeezes his hand once, then releases it and moves on down the line.

Shane stands there for a second longer than he should.

Then he shakes himself, and offers his hand to the next person in line.

Chapter End Notes

A few weeks ago when I was first sitting down to figure out how tf to turn a one-shot into a coherent dual POV story, I wrote a scene where Shane has the very horny, not at all defensible realization that he wants Ilya to press his entire body against him mid game. This is NOT a hockey thought; generally goalies want skaters as far away from them as possible, so the second he thinks it, the trajectory of his life changes. The “oh shit” moment was the first scene I wrote from Shane's POV, and while it changed slightly to fit the context of this chapter, every chapter I've written has been with the express aim of getting us to here.

Some notes:
1) Shane loses the net to Miitka as soon as Miity is up and ready for action. Sad, disappointing, kind of ridiculous because he played so well, but in real life this is what happens. A coach will go with their primary goalie over the backup every day of the week, doubly so if the backup is a rookie/less developed, and in the playoffs this won't even be a conversation. Similar scenarios have occurred in recent NHL playoffs (ie. Colorado’s 2022 run), where established starters returned to the net once healthy despite strong performances from their backups. There’s only one spot open for the goalie every game—Shane fighting for a spot is, unfortunately, going to be a recurring thing
2) The romance of it all. It was important to me that Ilya's behaviour towards shane isn't changing, it's Shane's perception of the whole thing that shifts. Equally important is that this growing realization of feelings doesn't impact his on-ice play. As a promise from me, his competence as a goalie will never undermined by the personal storyline
3) Miscellaneous: Hayden? That man is going to be married within the next six months (insane), but as a treat he gets to give Shane a little gut punch of a timeline comparison first. Do you hate Marriott hotels? They're fine, but I got food poisoning from their breakfast bar once, and I'm indirectly pushing that trauma onto shane. Is Shane kind of a sore winner? He gets to be a bit of a bitch as a treat, waving at Rozanov after games when Montreal wins, flat out ignoring him when they lose. Wow shane was really beating himself up after that OT loss huh? Way back on chapter 1, ao3 user lovescynic made a comment about that, and I've internalized it completely.  

This chapter was going to go up a couple days ago, but the AO3mageddon happened lol (actually extra shoutout to tumblr user hollonova, your post during the outage crossed my dash as a "for you" suggestion and I was like ":O. that's my fic?" ). I'm actively writing the next chapter (CCM...), but I'm going to be so real with you guys: it's going to take a bit of time, while I figure out just how brave I'm going to be (see my author's note on chapter 3). If you want things to get up to an E rating, you'll need to (gently) peer pressure me in the comments.

I kind of consider this fic to be a group project with all of you: if you guys have any ideas at all, drop them in the comments and I will legitimately write them if they fit. I take any and all suggestions.

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

CCM ;)

Chapter Notes

Less brave than I could've been, still pretty brave (^///^).

Coming back later to add: To anyone tempted to accuse me of ai on this chapter, the name marcus here was inspired by Marcus Pettersson, a (now former! He’s been traded) defenceman on my favourite hockey team. When I need a random name I either have a theme or I just use the name of an irl hockey player (usually on the canucks): in this instance, it's just my fuckin luck I chose the literal worst possible option. You guys can stop sending me dms about this.

NSFW description below the cut if anyone wants to skip it.

Ilya jorks it a little in the shower, pretty obvious where it starts, goes back to non nsfw at the line break.

Ilya jerks awake to the violent lurch of wheels hitting the runway and the immediate, invasive, tinny flood of English over the cabin speakers.

“Welcome to Toronto Pearson International Airport—”

He squeezes his eyes shut again on instinct, like maybe that will rewind the last ten seconds. Maybe the last twenty hours of travel. Maybe he will reopen them somewhere over the Atlantic where time is still theoretical and nobody is announcing that it is 4:43 Toronto time.

After a moment he peels his face off the window and the world swims back into focus.

Still a plane. Still Canada.

Outside the glass, the endless grey of the Toronto tarmac drifts past like someone copy-pasted the same slab of concrete in every direction. Ground vehicles crawl through it with the slow, purposeful determination of insects. Nothing about the view suggests escape.

His neck aches. His mouth tastes like airplane air and regret. Ten weeks of Russian, blissfully uninterrupted Russian, and the first thing he hears upon reentering North America is the cheerful brutality of a flight attendant announcing that it is currently a humid 33 degrees celsius outside the plane. He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face.

Fucking delightful.

Back to English. Back to explaining himself in a language that makes everything feel slightly flatter around the edges—not wrong, just less, like a song played in the wrong key where all the notes are technically correct and something is still missing. Back to searching for words that never quite line up the way the Russian ones do, the way there's always a beat of empty air between what he means and what comes out.

The plane lurches again as it stops and the woman across the aisle is already on her feet, fighting with the overhead bin like it personally offended her in her quest to retrieve her belongings. Ilya stays seated because he knows better. There is nowhere to go; there is never anywhere to go at fucking Toronto Pearson International airport, the place where dreams, efficiency, and occasionally luggage come to die. Every time the Raiders fly in on the team plane to go play the Guardians there is always something wrong with this fucking airport.

He reaches for his phone instead—seventeen messages, mostly from teammates checking in ahead of training camp, one from his agent about the commercial shoot tomorrow, three from Sveta.

And underneath all of that, there is one missed call.

He opens Sveta’s messages.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: landed yet?
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: try not to insult anyone at customs
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: remember you have to speak english now (((

He snorts softly and types back with one thumb.

Me: i am capable, thank you very much
Me: i simply do not enjoy it, but i will endure in silence

The typing bubbles pop up almost immediately.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: silence
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: says the man who told a journalist “that is a stupid question” to his face last season

He smiles despite himself.

Me: it was a stupid question
Me: also you are supposed to encourage me
Me: i’m an international businessman now. big commercial star

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: oh i’m sure
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: text me later, i’m at a mixer and i need to kill the other interns
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: remember, your goalie only speaks english

He stares at that for a second longer than necessary.

His goalie.

She’s not being serious. He knows that. Sveta knows that he knows that. It is a crush in the most unserious sense of the word—a convenient, entertaining fixation on a (jaw dropping, stunning) man born entirely from hockey competence and pent up frustration. Shane Hollander, 2012 MLH Rookie of the Year nominee, Montreal Metros backup goalie, .922 save percentage and four shutouts over 34 games, quite possibly one of the prettiest men Ilya has ever seen—is not Ilya’s anything in any meaningful sense of the word. Ilya is not delusional.

The flirting is just… texture. Something to push against.

Me: he also speaks french

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: it is so embarrassing that you know this

Ilya pockets the phone as the doors at the front of the plane heave open, and pushes his way out of his seat to finally begin the slow, shuffling crawl toward the exit.

Toronto Pearson greets him with the same oppressive grey concrete floor and fluorescent lighting that makes every human being look vaguely unwell. The air smells like burnt coffee, disinfectant, and the accumulated fatigue of several thousand travelers who haven’t slept enough on their flights. Somewhere ahead, a child is screaming with unwavering commitment.

He adjusts the strap of his carry-on and joins the pilgrimage toward customs, the crowd thickening the closer they get, funneling toward the same inevitable destination. The line is already coiled in tight, miserable loops several turns deep; Ilya stares at the snaking queue and feels a deep, spiritual fatigue settle into his bones.

There is no hell. There is only airport arrivals on a Sunday afternoon with a foreign passport.

An employee waves a laminated sign that says Have your passports ready! as if anyone here is capable of surprising her with a different document. Ilya shifts his weight from one foot to the other and lets his thoughts drift instead.

His agent had been very clear about how things were going to go this year.

Ilya’s on his last year of his entry-level contract—the leash they put on every rookie, no matter how good, for three years before they can start making real money—and if Ilya wants to start making real money, he’ll need to stay focused and make a case for himself this season.

His numbers are already doing their part: he was Rookie of the year in his first year, second in goals scored in the entire league in only his second year playing. Ilya is outplaying his rookie contract by a margin that’s impossible to ignore, and the Boston Raiders will recognize that and respond accordingly. Probably.

“Leverage is not only numbers,” his agent had told him over Skype two weeks ago, glasses reflecting spreadsheets and projected cap ceilings and other indecipherable numbers. Simon Ivanovich was a dinosaur of a man who’d probably last smiled when the Soviet Union was in its prime, but Ilya had placed the entirety of his professional hockey career in that man’s hands and he had yet to regret that decision.

“It is marketability. It is name recognition,” Ivanovich had continued, voice steady and unimpressed by anything as trivial as hockey stardom. “CCM wanted you because you are young and exciting and have personality. Give them that. You are the future of this league and the Raiders know this, even if they do not say it. Make yourself expensive.”

Make yourself expensive.

Ilya had liked the sound of that, and when an email arrived a few days later from the CCM rep begging for a moment of time to discuss a new campaign, Ilya made himself easy to convince. CCM wanted a star for it’s commercials, to be the face of the fucking league and CCM’s most successful living billboard. Ilya could certainly do this.

But—

“Back-to-back Corner Award finalists,” he’d said into the phone, holding it a little too tightly to his ear, keeping his voice and his English steady, unmistakable. “Last year, me. This year, Hollander. Newest stars of the league in one commercial. Is good marketing story, yes?”

The rep had audibly frothed at the mouth at the possibility, and had fallen over himself to agree. Yes, the man assured him, yes cameras love a narrative. Marketing teams love a contrast, love two opposing forces they can pit against each other. Two different teams, two different countries—exactly the kind of tidy structure that advertisers could build an entire campaign around.

Ivanovich had texted him immediately after: Good. Lean into it, and Ilya fully intended to. It’s a solid pitch: brand synergy, market positioning, cross-market visibility in two Original Six cities. Nice, shiny business phrases Sveta has been feeding him for years, a category of English words he can parrot back without consciously thinking about them.

Hockey contracts don’t materialize out of thin air. The Raiders head office will want to talk about loyalty, but Ilya wants Ivanovich to be able to talk about value, his value, in concrete enough terms to justify a contract that breaks records instead of politely approaching them. That’s what pushed him to fly across an ocean four entire days earlier than he needed to for training camp. Contracts, numbers, business.

Absolutely not a goalie he hasn’t played against since May—but it’s nice when his interests occasionally align like this.

The line lurches forward a foot, and somewhere overhead, another announcement crackles through the speakers in painfully clear English.

He exhales slowly and tries very hard not to think about tomorrow. He manages this for approximately four seconds before his brain produces, unbidden and unhelpful: .922 save percentage, 34 games. He shoves it back down. The line moves forward three inches.

Ilya gets to the rink forty minutes early, which he will attribute to jet lag if anyone asks.

Nobody has yet, possibly because he hasn’t yet gone inside the community rink they’re using for the commercial, and is loitering in the parking lot. It’s grungy in a way that Ilya suspects is natural to all small ice rinks, cinderblock walls sweating through old paint, the asphalt cratered with potholes and old snowmelt stains, a sun-faded banner for a 2006 regional tournament still zip-tied to the chain-link fence. The air smells faintly of car exhaust and something fried. It feels aggressively municipal—the kind of building that has survived three budget cuts and a beer league riot—which seems at odds with the fact that he was under the impression Toronto was made entirely of glass condos and corporate sponsorship.

(“Technically we’re in Mississauga,” the driver who picked him up from the hotel said, and Ilya had resisted asking whether that was actually a real Canadian word.)

He’s doing a loop of the parking lot on foot—just to move, just to get the travel stiffness out of his legs, just because he’s already smoked a cigarette, not because he’s waiting for anything. He checks his phone. Nothing useful. He pockets it, and does a second loop. There is a dumpster by the rink that is overflowing enough to suggest it has been someone else’s problem for several days now, and a scrubby margin of dead grass between the asphalt and the chain-link where nothing has made any effort to grow, and there is genuinely nothing to do here in this parking lot except a third loop, so he does a third loop.

He’s seriously debating the merits of a fourth when a car pulls into the far end of the lot, parks—and Shane Hollander gets out.

Ilya stops walking.

Hollander hasn't seen him yet. He's got a gear bag over one shoulder and he’s looking down at his phone, and he’s wearing a terrible polo shirt and khaki shorts, and Ilya has apparently been in Russia for too long because his first coherent thought upon seeing him is that it is genuinely, inexplicably good to see him.

“Hollander,” he calls, already moving.

Hollander looks up. Something moves across his face—quick, unreadable—and then it’s gone, and he’s just standing there with his bag and his phone and his terrible clothes and his beautiful face.

“Rozanov,” he greets, when Ilya reaches him, and says nothing else.

“Good flight?” Ilya asks.

“Drove,” Hollander says, and locks his car (ugh, a Jeep?) with a little chirp of the alarm.

“Ah.” Ilya falls into step beside him as they move towards the entrance. “Good drive, then.”

Hollander doesn't answer that—and Ilya flounders slightly.

“Long summer?” he tries.

“Not really.”

“Mine was good,” Ilya says, because apparently he’s doing this conversation himself. “Moscow was—”

“Is Henderson already inside?” Hollander asks, abruptly, pulling the door open and holding it without looking at Ilya.

Who the fuck is Henderson? “I—yes? I think so.”

“Okay,” Hollander says, and walks through the door. Ilya has to scramble slightly to make it through before it closes.

They’re intercepted almost as soon as they cross the threshold: Paul Henderson—apparently the man who has been contacting Ilya, the CCM marketing executive in charge of the entire production—is a short man with a blindingly white smile and the manic energy of someone who has been awake since five in the morning thinking about brand synergy. He captures them both in the lobby and launches directly into a detailed explanation of the concept of on-ice staging to two professional hockey players, and speaks for a full, uninterrupted fifteen minutes.

Ilya endures the monologue with a level of patience he does not actually feel and absolutely does not listen to it; instead, he passes the time running through possible opening lines in his head, discarding each of them because every conversation requires Hollander to look at him—and Hollander is currently engaged in a very thorough study of the middle distance.

Ilya tries one anyway though, leaning slightly closer when Henderson pauses briefly to consult his clipboard.

“You’re—” he starts.

“I think he’s about to talk about the shooting schedule,” Hollander says to a point somewhere over Ilya's left shoulder, cutting him off immediately.

Henderson does talk about the shooting schedule. Ilya listens to it. Hollander listens to it. Their shoulders are three inches apart and Hollander might as well be in a different building.

When Henderson finally releases them to get changed, Hollander picks up his bag, says “See you on the ice” to no one in particular, and leaves.

And Ilya just stands there.

Okay, he thinks. So.

Something is up with Hollander. That wasn’t– that wasn’t anything like the way their conversations usually went, and Hollander had just redirected him without even looking at him.

Something is different; something has changed between the end of May and now, and he doesn’t know what it is. Or maybe it's just the commercial, and Hollander hates this kind of thing, and is counting down the minutes until he can leave in his Jeep. Maybe he doesn’t want to be away from Montreal so close to the start of training camp and the new season. Maybe it has nothing to do with Ilya at all.

Something is up with Hollander—and Ilya doesn’t know what, and standing here in the lobby of a community rink in Mississauga is not going to tell him, so he heads to the locker room and feels himself frown.

The first hour of shooting is fine; which is to say it’s professionally competent and completely joyless.

The production team wants clean, controlled footage—nothing fancy, nothing flashy: they’re just trying to get close up shots of his gloves with the prominent white stitching near the cuffs. Same thing every time, the director had told him, and Ilya can absolutely do clean and controlled shots because that’s easier than thinking about the other person on the ice who still has not looked at him.

Ilya still has no idea what he’s done; for the past sixty straight minutes Hollander has responded to the director’s instructions and literally nothing else. He executes every requested movement with precise efficiency and then returns to the bench between takes, sitting there quietly with his gloves resting on his knees like someone who has decided, very deliberately, to become the least reactive human being in the building.

He does not look at Ilya when he skates past, doesn’t react when Ilya pauses at the bench for a sip of water; Hollander might as well be a cardboard cutout wearing goalie pads.

It’s kind of driving Ilya insane, and the fact that they keep asking him to do the same fucking thing because the idiot controlling the camera keeps missing the shot is not helping matters at all.

Ilya makes it through two more takes before boredom wins.

Up until now he has been doing exactly what they asked—simple wrist shots from the high slot, clean and mechanical—but as soon as he gets the word, Ilya pulls the puck wide, fakes the release, lets the imaginary defender he’s moving around shift, and roofs it backhand from an angle that has no business working.

It goes in clean.

There’s a short silence from the production side.

“That’s not,” the director—Marcus, very professional, visibly does not care who either of them are—says carefully, “quite what we discussed.”

“My apologies,” Ilya says, fully without meaning it. “I will do it correctly.”

“Your backhand is still off,” Hollander says.

Ilya turns.

Hollander is looking at him. Actually looking at him, for the first time all morning, with narrowed eyes and the unmistakable look of someone who’s spotted a tactical error and can’t let it go.

“The release point,” Hollander continues. “You’re holding it a half-second too long. Someone who reads you is going to start anticipating that.”

“No one reads me on that shot,” Ilya says.

“I’ve read you on that shot,” Hollander says, and finally, finally Ilya can hear something in his voice other than professional blandness. “Game Five. I knew where you were going before you did.”

“You got lucky,” Ilya says, even though he doesn’t believe it, and yes—

Hollander raises a skeptical eyebrow before answering. “I got lucky twice?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, and feels something loosen in his chest because this, finally, is normal. This is what they do.

The side of Hollander’s mouth twitches slightly but he turns his focus back to the ice. Ilya decides to push his luck.

“You think you can do better?” he asks.

“At your backhand specifically?” Hollander says. “No.” Then he tilts his head up and looks Ilya dead in the eyes and says “At everything else, probably.”

Something in Ilya’s brain says yes please to that, completely without permission—and like the universe is finally listening to his wishes, Marcus says from behind him, “Ok, that’s probably all we’ll get there, let’s break for fifteen and reset—”

That’s all the invitation either of them needs.

“Here,” Ilya says, and holds his stick out.

They’ve drifted to the far end of the rink, abandoning the side crowded with cameras, cables, and the portable floodlights that bleach everything into hard, artificial daylight. On this side the lighting is much more normal—dimmer, faintly green from the old overhead fluorescents, same as any of the infinite number of small rinks Ilya’s been inside in his lifetime. The commercial crew’s voices carry thinly across the rink, but it’s distant enough to be irrelevant; it’s just them, a lonely net, and a dented bucket of pucks someone has left by the boards.

Hollander looks at the offered stick like it’s a weapon, then looks at Ilya with a faintly disbelieving expression. “You want me to—”

“You wanted to show off, Hollander,” Ilya says, and wiggles it in his direction briefly. “Show me everything else.”

Hollander takes the stick.

The first thing he does is check the tape job with the narrow-eyed gaze of someone taking inventory, which is very Hollander. He rolls his wrists once, testing the flex. Adjusts his lower hand an inch down the shaft.

Then he looks at the net, glances at Ilya—just once, just for a second—and pulls a puck in close to his skates.

He doesn’t back up. Doesn’t try to create space. Hollander just moves the puck in a tight, fluid motion from one side of his body to the other, rolling it across the blade of the stick so smoothly it barely seems to leave contact. It lifts for a fraction of a second—just enough to clear an imaginary defender’s stick—drops back down under control, and in the same continuous motion he flicks it upward.

The release is almost invisible. No wind-up. No warning.

The puck rises sharply and disappears into the top corner from point-blank range, the kind of shot that would give a goalie no time to react because there was nothing to read.

Ilya stares at the net.

“Goalie stick,” Hollander says, and Ilya jolts slightly. “Has a different weight distribution. You compensate by opening your blade earlier.” He picks up his own stick and offers it. “Try it.”

Ilya takes it. It’s heavier than his, the blade completely flat, and he can feel immediately what Hollander means—the balance point is wrong for the way he loads. He already kind of knows he’s going to miss, but Ilya pulls it back and tries a slapshot anyway.

It goes wide by two feet.

Hollander makes a sound that is definitely a laugh, and Ilya sends him a betrayed frown that makes Hollander press his lips together tightly and visibly swallow back his amusement.

“I’m not laughing,” Hollander says, clearly lying, and nudges over a new puck. “The weight transfer is—here.”

He moves closer. Close enough that Ilya feels the shift in air before he actually registers the step. Close enough that Hollander’s shoulder nearly brushes his, that the scent of cold air and clean sweat and something warm folds into Ilya’s lungs and stays there. Close enough that Ilya suddenly becomes intensely, immediately aware of how much space Hollander takes up when he’s not contained in his net.

“Your top hand,” Hollander says, and reaches over to tap Ilya’s knuckles. “Loosen up. You’ll need more rotation.”

It’s barely anything—just a correction, a brush of skin on skin—but Ilya has to fight off a sudden stutter in his breathing. He’s never been more hyperaware of every single finger he possesses.

Hollander, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice anything—just leans back to study Ilya’s stance with a squint, then nods sharply. “Try it now—you’ll have a bit more control over the release angle at least.”

He steps to the side again and Ilya adjusts his grip where Hollander indicated. Winds back up and tries again.

It goes in. Not cleanly, not with very much power, but the puck wavers through the air and actually hits the back of the net this time.

“Hm,” Ilya says.

“You’re welcome,” Hollander replies, and he sounds so smug Ilya feels something hot and electric coil low in his chest, equal parts irritation and challenge.

He can work with this—Ilya reaches over and slowly pulls in another puck from the pile.

“Again,” he demands, and Hollander’s answering smile spreads slowly, unhurried, pulling deep into his freckled cheeks until it takes over his whole face—bright, sharp, and entirely too pleased with himself.

He’s not sure how long they stand there shooting on the net. Long enough that they’ve had to pause and gather the pucks once already. Long enough for Ilya to sort of get a handle on the weird way a goalie stick swings through the air. Long enough for Hollander to prove that he definitely knows what he’s talking about when he critiques Ilya’s shooting technique.

Long enough that Marcus has to send one of the PAs to drag them back to work at the correct end of the ice.

Hollander looks vaguely guilty about that. Ilya couldn’t care less.

“Right,” Marcus says somewhere around hour three, “Shane, Ilya. We’d like to do some dynamic scenes, a few shots on net and some saves. Nothing fancy. Just things you can repeat consistently on camera if we need multiple takes.”

Ilya looks at Hollander. Hollander looks at Ilya. The decision is an easy one that takes approximately zero seconds.

“I’ve been practicing,” Ilya says slowly, and Hollander has the fucking audacity to laugh at him.

“It won’t help,” he says, already skating for the net and Ilya parks himself at the blueline.

Hollander sets himself in the crease and Ilya takes a moment just to look at him—the stance, the depth, the specific way his weight sits on his edges. He’s seen this from the ice before, split-second reads when he’s mid-stride; has seen it from the bench, has reviewed it from game tape; but it looks different when he’s standing at the blueline with time to look. Marcus gives the signal. Ilya pushes forward.

He takes it wide left, drawing Hollander’s weight, then cuts back hard across the slot—watching for the shift in his pad, the moment his glove hand opens. Hollander drops deeper into his crouch, square to the shot, tracking him with that irritating, clinical focus, and Ilya winds his stick up, and shoots—

Top left corner.

Directly into Hollander’s glove with a thwack of sound that lands somewhere behind Ilya’s ribs.

The moment Marcus says something about needing to stop so the lighting crew can adjust the angle of one of the flood lamps, the two of them are already skating back toward the quiet end of the rink.

Hollander reaches up and pulls his mask off as soon as he reaches the net—the hollow plastic clacking against the crossbar as he drops it on the netting—and he pushes both hands through his hair, flattened by sweat, almost absentmindedly until it settles into something disheveled but functional.

Ilya realizes, a beat too late, that he’s stopped moving.

Hollander’s face always looks sharper without the cage, but somehow also younger too, thanks to the freckles dusted over flushed skin. There’s a faint red line pressed across his forehead, just below the hang of his hair, and Ilya's brain briefly produces an image of himself skating forward, reaching out and—

He hooks the nearest puck with the toe of his stick and starts a quick handling drill instead, circling it around another puck, in and out in a tight loop. The movement is automatic, something his hands can do without his brain, which is currently useless.

Hollander turns around to watch him and Ilya picks up the pace slightly, snapping the puck through the little pattern faster, sharper. The sound of rubber tapping lightly against his blade echoes in the quiet end of the rink.

Actually—that gives him an idea.

Ilya lets his puck go skittering off to the side and nudges three pucks into a loose staggered line with the blade of his stick. Then two more. Not perfectly spaced—messy enough to require real control.

“Through these,” he says. “No knocking them.”

Hollander looks down at the little obstacle course. Then at his goalie stick. Then back at Ilya with an openly disbelieving expression. “You’re joking.”

Payback. Ilya smiles, slow and sharp. “Watch your blade angle.”

That earns him a look—but Hollander pushes off anyway and collects a puck.

The first loop goes fine. The second is a little clumsy, the bulk of the goalie pads Hollander wears limiting his agility somewhat. The third—his stick blade clips one of the stationary pucks and sends it skittering sideways.

Ilya makes a soft, disappointed sound, and Hollander immediately bristles, bites out a “Shut up,” and pulls another puck in.

This time he slows down. Gets deliberate. His entire focus narrows to the puck at the end of his stick, and Ilya watches the movement of his hands, the tension across his shoulders, the way the flat blade forces wider sweeps instead of quick taps.

Not bad. Just—

“Too much reach,” Ilya says, skating closer. “You’re stabbing at it.”

Hollander is scowling with real commitment. “I am not.”

“You are.”

Ilya circles in, skating backward, watching Hollander shuffle forward through the pucks. Close enough now to see the flex in his body as he moves. Close enough, also, for other things Ilya is not going to think about.

“Short touches,” Ilya says instead. “Think closer to skates.”

Hollander's eyes flick up. “Show me.”

Ilya takes the puck and does, keeping the blade tight to the rubber as he moves it back and forth with quick rotations of his wrists instead of wide arm movements. It takes about four seconds. He looks up when he’s done.

Hollander is watching his hands.

“Like that,” Ilya says, when Hollander doesn’t say anything for several seconds.

“Yeah,” Hollander says. Breathes. “Okay.”

He takes the puck back. Tries again. Ilya skates back to a reasonable distance and watches Hollander’s face settle into concentration—that particular focused stillness, the furrow between his brows—and says nothing else.

Marcus is very clearly getting tired of them, but he still consults his shot list with the grim air of someone who is going to persevere through his trials through sheer force of will alone. “For the next sequence we’d like you without the mask, Shane. The campaign really wants to see the faces behind the helmets.”

Hollander goes very still beside him.

“I’m a goalie,” he says, in a voice that is impressively and very deliberately flat. “I’m not getting in net without a mask. There’s a reason—”

“It’ll just be a few static shots,” Marcus says quickly, palms lifted in a placating gesture. “Nothing dynamic. No pucks on the net. Completely safe.”

Hollander looks at the ice. Looks at Marcus. “Nothing dynamic,” he repeats.

“CCM really wants—”

“Fine,” Hollander says (snaps), and pulls his mask off.

Ilya breathes carefully through his nose.

He’s seen Hollander without his helmet plenty of times by now—literally just now when they were taking shots at the spare net, in the parking lot before the shoot, the handshake line in May, the outdoor rink in January—but under the floodlights at this end of the rink, the flush in his cheeks, the dark of his eyes, the freckles across his skin all feel uncomfortably vivid, like the arena lights are making it impossible not to notice every detail.

“Great,” Marcus says, obliviously, repositioning his camera. “Actually, the light is really good on you—eyes over here Shane, can you look up just a smidge—yes, that’s it. Tilt your head left for me—”

It is, objectively, very good lighting. The floodlights show the sharp angles of Hollander’s face, catch the line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. Marcus keeps talking, adjusting him slightly, making him crouch in and out of a ready stance, asking him to hold his shoulders just a little looser, just a little more toward the camera, and Hollander obeys with that tight, professional patience that makes Ilya think, faintly and unhelpfully, about restraint.

Hollander’s expression is neutral. Careful. Controlled in the way athletes learn to be when cameras are involved. Except—

Ilya knows what Hollander’s neutral media face looks like. He’s seen it in interviews, on the big screen at the MLH awards, on the bench when he’s backing up the starter. Calm, blank, mildly pleasant. This isn’t that.

Hollander’s mouth is set a little too tight. His eyes are sharper than relaxed. If anything he looks faintly pissed off, and Ilya can’t deny the small, petty thrill of seeing perfect, professional Hollander annoyed enough by Marcus’s increasingly useless instructions that it’s starting to show.

It is very good lighting. Very distracting lighting.

But still, underneath that perfect lighting there is something else—something coiled and tight in the set of Hollander’s jaw that Ilya can't quite place.

“Did you know,” Hollander says, leaning his elbows on the boards and tilting himself towards Ilya on the bench, “that for the first forty years of professional hockey, goalies didn’t wear masks at all?”

Ok? Ilya just blinks at him.

“Jacques Plante was the first to wear one in a game. 1959.” Hollander continues, voice light. Casual. Completely wrong. “And the league basically thought he was being dramatic about it. People just… faced down hundred-mile-an-hour pucks with their actual faces.” He considers that for a moment. Waves a careless hand through the air. “For forty years.”

All right, something is definitely going on. “Hollander—”

“The average shot speed now is higher than it was then,” Hollander says, cutting him off, looking faintly offended on behalf of history. “Which means it was actually safer then than it would be now, and it was already completely insane then, so.” He shakes his head. “Anyway.”

Ilya watches him for a moment, with the sinking certainty that he’s missing something important. He has to say something though.

“They,” Ilya says, because despite the strange set to Hollander’s voice Ilya is still thinking about lighting and angles and why Hollander looks like that under them, “probably just wanted to see your face.”

He hesitates.

Then, because apparently he is stupid, he adds, “Very pretty face. Very good for the commercial.”

Hollander’s expression doesn’t change much.

“Sure,” he says slowly. “That’s definitely one of the reasons.”

Marcus cuts in and says something about repositioning the camera, take five. Hollander pushes away from the boards immediately, back to their end of the ice and their pile of pucks, and Ilya still has absolutely no idea what just happened.

“One more,” Marcus calls, and Ilya can’t restrain his groan of frustration. Hollander hears it and gives him an amused look, but the director clearly also hears him and frowns disapprovingly at him from behind the camera. “This is the last scene Ilya, all we need is a full speed stop, right into the camera.”

Fucking fine, that’s easy enough to do even if he’s sick and tired of five straight hours of filming—but Marcus opens his mouth again. “Shane, you’re good to go, thank you so much for your work here today, we’ll be in touch.”

Unbelievable. These are unjust working conditions—unequal, unconscionable, or maybe some other fucking English word that could be used to describe the injustice being done here to him. Inequitable? Yes. Ilya tries not to sulk too obviously but clearly fails, as Hollander snickers at him and raises his hand for a cheerful wave—and Ilya doesn’t think twice before pulling his hand out of his glove and flipping him off.

Marcus makes an offended little noise but Hollander just smiles at him wider and waves again before stepping off the ice and heading for the locker room.

He hears the water before he's through the door.

The locker room showers are exactly what he’d expected from a community rink—white tile walls that look identical to every rink in existence, showerheads along one wall with no dividers, a drain in the middle of the floor that has seen better decades. Functional. Completely without privacy.

Hollander is at the far end, furthest from the entrance, face turned upwards into the spray.

Ilya gives himself exactly three seconds.

Shoulders first—the specifically beautiful architecture of someone who moves the way Hollander moves. Broad through the upper back, tapering down, the kind of build that makes sense when you think about what a goalie actually does with his body. Then lower. The thighs, which are honestly unreasonable. The ass, which is—Ilya spends a full second on this—like something designed specifically to be inconvenient to him, which he resents.

He gives himself another second to admire, because he’s earned it.

Four seconds.

He turns to face the wall, picks the showerhead two down from Hollander's, and turns the water on.

“That last shot,” Ilya says, to the tiles in front of him, “Marcus looked like he was going to cry. Happy crying. I don’t think he smiled once today and then I spray him and his fucking camera with ice shavings and suddenly he is different man.”

The water is too cold. He adjusts it and keeps talking.

“Did you read the full commercial proposal? I read the first page. There was a section on brand synergy that I did not continue past. Very long document for something that is essentially just: stand on ice, look good, display branded items.” He pauses. “I assume that was it.”

“It was just eleven pages,” Hollander says.

“You read eleven pages?”

“I read everything.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, “this I believe about you completely.”

He hears Hollander make a sound that might be agreement or might be nothing. He sticks his entire head under the spray and keeps talking.

“Is too bad they did not book us at Marriott,” Ilya says, and eyes the nearby soap dispenser somewhat warily. Does he trust free arena soap? Probably. He collects a handful and starts lathering up his torso. “We could have started our project early. Are you also at airport Best Western? Or will you drive back to Montreal tonight?”

“No, yeah, I’m also at the Best Western. Driving back, uh, tomorrow.”

“Hm,” Ilya says noncommittally, and reaches out for more soap. It’s not turning him green so it’s probably fine to keep using. He starts washing his stomach. “Is it a very long drive?”

“Ah– about six hours?”

“And you drove?” Unbelievable. “Hollander, you are hockey star now—brands will give you free flights.”

Hollander makes a sound that might’ve been a laugh in another life, so Ilya keeps talking. “Next time, tell Henderson: I require flight. Business class. Also, Marriott breakfast.” He moves his hands further down, washing the sweat of the last five hours from his skin. “You could expense the waffles. Put it on CCM. They can afford it. This is what sponsorship is for, Hollander.”

Hollander hums slightly so Ilya continues.

“We start games in— what, three weeks?” At least he thinks it’s three weeks; the preseason is an abstract period of time that both matters significantly but also doesn’t. “Raiders open in Chicago, which is always miserable. Very pissy team. Montreal is up against… Centaurs? Should be easy win then, yes?”

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind from thirty seconds ago; this one has texture to it. The water is still running at the other end of the room, so Hollander hasn’t left, but he’s stopped engaging with Ilya’s chit chat, and when Ilya turns his head to the right he’s—

Staring. And not at his face.

Ilya goes very, very still.

There are several types of stares you can get from other people, and Ilya has learned over the years to identify them all. Anger is probably the easiest one to catch; loathing is the other, but that one tends to tangle together with a variety of other things that makes it hard to spot cleanly but is still easy to pick up.

Desire is the one that matters, and Ilya has learned to read it carefully—not because he’s always going looking for it, but because in certain rooms, in certain cities, misreading it in either direction has consequences. Missing it means nothing. Seeing it where it isn’t means something much, much worse. So he has learned to be sure before he moves, to run the data twice, to not trust the first read when the stakes are high enough to matter.

He runs it now: and when he looks at Hollander's face—really looks, the way he’s been carefully not doing all day—and what he finds there is not ambiguous. No professional neutral. No careful control. Nothing performed at all.

Just Hollander, standing under running water, staring at Ilya’s body with an expression that has no category except want, and apparently no longer in possession of the ability to do anything about that, which doesn’t make sense.

Because Hollander is supposed to be straight. This is the world Ilya has been living in since January. Hollander is straight, painfully straight, obviously straight, the kind of straight that doesn’t notice when a man is flirting with them because the possibility doesn’t even register as an option. Sveta had said your goalie like a joke, because it was a joke. Ilya had taken it like a joke. He had built his entire understanding of this situation around it being a joke.

But—there have been moments, over the course of this past year. Things that Ilya had noticed and then immediately not-noticed. The way Hollander’s eyes drifted during their first conversation at the Winter Classic. The particular quality of his attention during their warmup conversations, the way he kept chirping back at Ilya in a way that was far too invested for someone just killing time. The handshake line once their series was over, when Hollander had held his hand for slightly too long and looked at him with something Ilya had turned over once or twice in quiet moments before putting firmly away, because there was no version of Hollander’s expression that made any sense, and Ilya has learned not to see things that aren’t there.

Except Hollander is still looking at him. And it looks—it looks exactly like that, actually. It looks precisely like the thing Ilya had decided couldn’t possibly be what it looked like, and the universe has decided to make one of his most ridiculous wishes come true, and has chosen this exact moment, in a community rink shower in fucking Mississauga, to grant it.

The feeling that moves through him is mostly giddiness, and a little hysterical, and is accompanied by a single thought that sounds embarrassingly like holy fuck.

“Hollander,” he says.

Hollander’s eyes snap up to his face. His expression moves through approximately four things very quickly and lands on mortified.

Ilya wets his lips with his tongue. Enunciates very clearly, “Do you see something you like?”

“Fuck off,” Hollander says, immediately, reflexively, but he doesn’t look away and he doesn’t move, and Ilya lets his eyes drift past Hollander’s face, drift downwards and oh—

He’s hard.

Not completely– but his cock is definitely paying attention, and Ilya can feel himself stiffening somewhat as well, now that he’s, apparently, allowed to look as much as he wants.

He looks.

The water runs over Hollander's shoulders, tracking down the lines of him, and Ilya lets himself take inventory and linger in all the ways he didn't allow himself to earlier: the generous spread of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the slight rise and fall of muscles under the water. The more he looks the more there is to see: the curve of Hollander’s arms, the definition of his ribs where he’s breathing harder than he should be, the way water tracks down his stomach and keeps going—and Ilya follows it, and doesn’t pretend not to. Hollander has gone very still under the stream of water, because he’s watching Ilya look, and is looking right back, not blinking, like he’s forgotten he's allowed to. His face is doing something Ilya has never seen it do, blushing red and open in a way that has nothing professional left in it, and his breathing has changed, and he still hasn’t looked away.

Ilya feels something dangerously close to laughter bubble up inside his chest—because Shane Hollander is standing in a shower in fucking Mississauga getting hard because Ilya is looking at him and this is genuinely the best day of his entire life.

He makes a decision in a split second. It’s the easiest thing in the world for Ilya to let his hand drift across his body, to take himself in hand because he’s actually hard now, well past the point of casual interest, and give himself a long, leisurely stroke. It’s good but Ilya doesn’t care about that right now, because Hollander’s eyes are following the motions of his hand.

Hollander’s mouth has fallen open slightly, Ilya notes somewhat hazily, and he’s breathing heavily enough that Ilya can practically see each exhale carving its way out of his lungs and into the humid air.

Fuck, this is the best day of Ilya’s life.

He speeds up the motion of his hand—not enough to actually push himself to finish, more to add in an extra twist of his wrist near his tip that—fuck—makes Hollander’s face flush even deeper, and makes his breathing hitch into something devastatingly close to a gasp.

Unfortunately this clearly shakes him out of his mesmerized trance, because his eyes flick up and away from Ilya’s cock, up to meet his eyes—and suddenly Hollander is moving, moving past Ilya without looking at him, around the corner and gone.

His shower is still running.

Hollander is mostly dressed when Ilya rounds the corner, which means he moved fast. His hair is still wet, dripping slightly and flat to his head, and he’s sitting on the bench with one shoe on and one shoe in his hands and he looks like someone who sat down to do a task and then forgot what the task was.

He looks up when Ilya comes in.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, in a very small voice.

Ilya stops.

No. Fuck. Wrong direction. He can see exactly where this goes if he lets it—Hollander apologizing his way out of the room, filing this under mistake, do not revisit, retreating into professionalism and distance and eleven pages of commercial briefs. The damage control happening behind his eyes right now is visible from across the room.

“Hollander,” Ilya says.

Hollander’s shoulders creep up toward his ears.

“Hollander,” Ilya says again, more carefully, and crosses the room and stands in front of him, close enough that Hollander would have to actively work to avoid looking at him. “Is fine.”

Hollander looks down at the shoe in his hands.

“Is nothing to apologize for,” Ilya continues, helpless, because he means it, really means it, and tries to find the words for the rest of it—I was also looking. I have been looking for longer than today, you did not do anything wrong, you did not do anything I didn't want, that was so fucking hot—but the English isn’t arriving in the right order and he trails off into silence instead.

Hollander still hasn’t looked up.

Ilya fidgets with the towel around his waist—just settling it, a completely mundane motion—and watches as Hollander’s eyes flick up. To the towel. To Ilya's stomach. Then up to his face, quick and almost helpless, like his eyes moved before he decided to move them.

Ilya could walk away. The logical part of his brain that sounds faintly like Sveta points out that this would be the cleaner option—they play in the same league, they will play against each other three or four times a season, this is seventeen kinds of complicated here already. It would be the easiest thing in the world to say ‘let’s just forget about this’, and move on from this forever.

But he’s not going to do that.

“Did you,” Ilya says carefully, oh so carefully because this is it, this is the moment he can’t come back from. “See something you like.”

It’s not quite a question when he asks it, this time.

Hollander’s entire face goes red. Not a just a simple flush—a full, committed red that makes every freckle stand out like punctuation, starting at his jaw and moving upward, across his face and all the way to his ears. He doesn’t say anything, and for a heartbreaking second Ilya thinks he’s going to say no.

Instead Hollander nods. A single bob of his head, nothing ambiguous about the motion.

Ilya’s brain does something it has never done before, which is stop working entirely. Because Shane Hollander—who reads eleven-page marketing briefs for fun and drives six hours in a Jeep instead of flying and critiques his hockey in ways that Ilya might actually listen to—just admitted that, apparently, yes. Yes, he sees something about Ilya’s body that he likes.

He sits with that for a second. Then another.

Okay, he thinks.

Okay.

“What is your room number?”

Chapter End Notes

Oh baby, what a chapter. IDK if this is fully my vision, but I'm sick of re-reading it.

Right away I knew my biggest challenge was to manufacture a believable scenario where Shane is so fucking obvious about his attraction/appreciation of Ilya's form that it could convince a closeted Russian bisexual to jerk it a little in public. I probably made Ilya a bit too sappy, but this chapter was all about wish fulfillment for him: time alone with his secret crush, secret crush is fucking good at hockey in ways that are impressive to ilya, secret crush is breathlessly staring at his hands, secret crush is bantering, secret crush is getting hard in a public shower staring at Ilya's wet naked body. What's a guy to do, not get a hand on himself?

Some notes:
1) YOU JUST ENDED IT THERE? Yup. Nothing I could write would be better than the og hotel scene, and I don't see it playing out differently. Maybe small differences, but (uh) mechanically no.
2) No E? Nah, this is a medium M at best I think. As a personal aside, I'm someone who would describe her sexuality as "enigmatic" or "ambivalent", so writing open sexual desire is kinda hard. A couple of people pointed out that they saw my version of Shane as being demisexual (shout out ao3 users Hephastia + puncturing_plotlines) to which I say: whoops. Not intentional that might be me showing through the character lmao.
3) Contracts and ELCs: TLDR, most young players come into the league on a capped entry-level contract (ELC) that lasts three years (or shorter, if they sign older than 22). When that deal expires they become restricted free agents (RFAs), meaning their drafting team still controls their negotiating rights (they can re-sign them, trade them, or match outside offers). Players stay RFAs until they turn 27 or hit seven NHL seasons, at which point they become unrestricted free agents (UFAs) and can sign anywhere. Ilya, as the undisputed #1 pick/rookie of the year/second in the Rocket trophy race is in an excellent position to get a massive payday. We'll have to see if Shane (drafted in the mid 100s/finalist but didn't win rookie of the year/backup to a good goalie) has the same leverage when his deal is up.
4) Miscellaneous. Damn it's still 2012? Haha yup, I might need to add the slowburn tag. Do you hate YYZ? Toronto Pearson airport is my mortal enemy. Mississauga? It's a word I can never spell, and having Ilya repeat it several times is funny to me specifically. Is it unrealistic for Shane to be good at shooting? Eh, he's stickhandling (giggity) from a stationary position so it's possible. Dynamic movement situation, hell no. What was Ilya missing when shane was asked to take his mask off? CCM's looking for their token POC moment and Shane knows it. Realistically Ilya wouldn't have the cultural context to spot this. No Yuna at the commercial? In a world where Shane isn't a megastar right off the bat I don't think she would be able to leave her day job to manage her son's contracts. Will that ever happen? Dunno yet.

Anyways, questions? comments? concerns? I'm looking for validation ＞︿＜

What do you want to happen next? Will we go into situationship hell, or will Shane be voted in as a (improbable) second-season All Star? How much compartmentalizing do you think Shane's able to do while actively giving a blowjob? Will this giddy feeling of 'holy shit wish fulfillment' ever actually go away for Ilya? This story is in your hands, dear reader, and I want to hear from you. Give me all of your plot ideas <3

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary

We're seeing levels of compartmentalization never before seen in the modern age

Chapter Notes

Buckle up buckaroos, Shane's decided to rationalize his gay awakening

NSFW?

In the elevator, Shane gives a passing post-game analysis of a blowjob

The 2012–2013 season is twelve games old, and Shane Hollander has already started five of them.

Five out of twelve isn’t a starter’s workload. Shane knows that—has always known it. He’s built his entire approach to this season around understanding exactly what a starter’s workload is and what it isn’t, but five out of twelve is still more than last year. More than anyone projected for a second-year backup whose roster spot, until July, wasn’t entirely guaranteed.

Drapeau got traded to Calgary in July: Shane had found out via a text from his agent that simply said drapeau's gone, you're staying, which was both the best and most unceremonious way to receive that particular piece of news. He'd read it standing in his parents’ kitchen in Ottawa at six in the morning, still in his sleep clothes, and it took almost five minutes of staring before he could actually make himself believe it was real.

He's safe for another year. His place on the Metros bench is his, for now, and Theriault has been using him in a pattern that suggests trust, and Shane's numbers through twelve games are—good. Genuinely good. Five starts, a .915 save percentage, and one shutout already.

Everything is going exactly right.

Shane's sophomore season in the MLH has brought a lot more attention onto him—more cameras, more interviews, more little surreal moments where he catches sight of himself where he's not supposed to be. A highlight reel on a bar TV in Toronto. His name on a sports radio segment his mom texted him about before he'd heard it himself. The occasional glimpse of a CCM billboard on the drive to the Bell Centre—him and Rozanov, twenty feet tall, looking like they've never had a disagreeable moment in their lives—and the sight of it does not make Shane think about a September night in Mississauga.

He doesn’t. Everything is fine.

Everything is, in fact, more than fine. He's twenty-one years old, playing professional hockey, and if his sophomore season has come with some experiences that fall outside the parameters of what he'd previously understood about himself—well. He's a young guy. Young guys are allowed to be curious. Young guys are allowed to try things and see how they land and keep the parts that work and put the rest in a box. Shane is extremely good at boxes, and the boxes all have nice secure lids, and he didn't build a .915 save percentage by letting things out of the boxes they belong in.

The commercial shoot: box. The shower: box. The specific weight of Rozanov's hand in his hair in a hotel room afterward, which Shane is not—box. The way the door had felt clicking shut behind him and how that feeling had been—box, lid, done, not a thought he's having.

He is extremely good at lids.

He has not thought about any of it, because he has much better things to be thinking about. Like the fact the Metros are facing the reigning cup champions in four days and there’s now a 50/50 chance, a genuine 50/50 chance, that Theriault’ll give him the start.

“Welcome back to Man in the Crease, your one stop hockey shop for the latest MLH news, and what a start to the season it’s been John. What’s on the schedule today?”

“Today’s first period topic is a poignant one this year Glen—”

“Ah I knew you’d want to start with this—”

“We are three weeks into what is shaping up to be a fascinating 2012-2013 season, and Glen, I have to say—this is the year of contract negotiation. The potential RFA and UFA classes this year are going to make the next few months very interesting for a lot of front offices.”

The thing is, Shane is an overthinker by nature.

This is not a character flaw. This is how he approaches everything—film study, nutrition, equipment, the specific mechanics of a butterfly save in a tight angle situation. When Shane doesn't understand something he finds information about it, processes the information, and uses it correctly. This is a system that has served him extremely well for twenty-one years, and will likely continue to serve him well for twenty-one more.

So.

It's a Tuesday in late October, eleven pm, two days after their game against Brooklyn and a day before their game against New York, his apartment quiet around him, and Shane opens his laptop with the understanding that this is a task that needs to be done exactly once and then never done again. He types carefully into the search bar, fixes a spelling mistake, tries again. Scrolls past the front page, looks at the options in the categories, finds it, and clicks.

He stares at the results page for approximately four seconds.

He closes the laptop.

He sits on his couch in the dark for a moment.

Then he gets up, goes to the kitchen, drinks a full glass of water, comes back, picks up his laptop, puts his laptop back down, and goes to bed.

The box has a lid, he reminds himself, staring at his ceiling. This is fine. This is a completely normal thing for a person to do—gather information, process it, file it correctly. The preliminary information has been gathered. The preliminary information is now in the box. The box has a lid and the lid is on and Shane is twenty-one years old and a professional athlete with a .915 save percentage and a game against New York tomorrow and he is absolutely not going to lie here thinking about what he just saw for longer than is strictly—

He does not open the laptop again.

He does open it again, briefly, at two in the morning, and then closes it again almost immediately, and that is the last time he thinks about this for at least a week.

The Shane Wallander thing starts on a Wednesday in early November after their game against Pittsburgh, and the only reason Shane knows about it is because his mom texts him about it on a Friday in November while the Metros are starting out on a four game road trip and Shane is lying on a hotel bed in Philly staring at the ceiling because Shane didn’t manage to fall asleep first and all he can think about is Hayden’s snoring.

Mom: Saw something funny on the internet about you
Mom: Don't look it up
Mom: It's very sweet actually but I know you
Mom: Seriously sweetheart, don't look

Shane puts his phone face down on the bedspread.

He picks it up again.

Mom: I mean it

Shane types his name into Google.

On a Saturday in November three hours before their game against Philadelphia, Shane’s phone won’t stop buzzing.

Greg Bohner: SHANE WALLANDER
Greg Bohner: SHANE
Greg Bohner: are you seeing this
Greg Bohner: hollzy i'm actually crying this is the best thing that's ever happened

God, he should’ve expected this. He was there when Bones set up the Google alert. He has nobody to blame but himself.

Me: Bones.

Greg Bohner: buddy, it’s fucking incredible
Greg Bohner: the reddit thread has almost 5k upvotes
Greg Bohner: TSN is talking about it

Well— fuck. TSN? If legitimate sports media is covering stupid internet jokes, that means it’s spread way past what it should’ve—ok, he needs to email Farah about this—

Greg Bohner: don’t freak out
Greg Bohner: i know you’re freaking out
Greg Bohner: hollzy i need you to understand that this is entirely affectionate
Greg Bohner: like genuinely these people love you

Me: Bones.

Greg Bohner: they're calling you shane wallander
Greg Bohner: because you're methodical and precise and you never show any emotion ever in interviews
Greg Bohner: and also because someone on reddit said you look like you're solving a murder every time you face a shot

His phone buzzes again.

Winston MacLean: Don’t freak out
Winston MacLean: But MY mom texted me about it

Andrew Jones: bro be chill
Andrew Jones: but SHANE WALLANDER
Andrew Jones: i'm literally crying in the Provigo

Shane puts his phone down.

Picks it up.

Types shane wallander reddit, because he is an adult and he can make his own decisions about what to do with information, and his mother does not get to tell him—

The newest thread has 4,200 upvotes.

The top comment says: he's not a goalie he's a chess piece that someone forgot to tell it was allowed to have feelings.

The second comment says: Shane Wallander saw god once and filed it under 'noted, irrelevant to current save percentage'

The third comment says: I genuinely cannot tell if he likes playing hockey or if hockey simply cannot escape him.

Shane closes the tab.

Opens it again.

The fourth comment says: the man makes a glove save like he's identifying evidence at a crime scene. I would die for him.

The fifth comment says: does he actually enjoy playing or is it all he’s programmed to do

Shane closes the tab again and puts his phone on the nightstand and lies back down and looks at the ceiling.

He doesn’t have to think about this. This is a stupid internet joke, and the fact that nearly five thousand people are talking about him isn’t going to bother him whatsoever. He’s literally about to play hockey in front of 18,000 people—5000 is less than a third of that. This doesn't bother him. His friends will chirp him about it for a week and then it'll be over, and the people saying these things don't actually know him. They've got the outside right but the inside wrong, and Shane knows what the inside looks like and it doesn't look like—

His phone buzzes.

Lily: shane wallander 😂😂😂

Shane stares at the notification for a long moment—then grabs the nearest pillow and puts it over his face and groans into it.

Back in September, in a terrible Best Western next to the Toronto airport, Ilya Rozanov had put his number in Shane’s phone about two minutes after making Shane come so hard he’d briefly lost track of several fundamental facts about the universe. Little things, like where he was, how breathing worked, and why his legs felt like someone had quietly replaced the bones with overcooked pasta.

Shane had been flat on his back on the hotel bed, body still humming like he’d stuck a fork in an outlet, staring at the ceiling and trying very hard to remember how thoughts formed into sentences while Rozanov calmly took his phone, unlocked it when Shane fumbled the passcode twice, and added a new contact. He still hadn’t fully reconciled himself with what the fuck had just happened when Rozanov handed it back with a satisfied little smile and a contact under the name Lily 🌸💋🔥

The second Rozanov left to go back to his own room, Shane removed the emojis.

He’d kept the name, though.

Rozanov didn't text all that often, or that's what Shane would say if anyone asked, and when he did it was mostly stupid things: referee complaints, teammate anecdotes, breakfast commentary, questions about Shane’s day. The texts came at unpredictable hours—in the middle of the night, weekends, weekdays, mid-game—no rhyme or reason to Rozanov’s messages; Shane usually replied with short messages back or thumbs up or stop texting me during games, which did nothing to stop Rozanov from texting him during games.

Occasionally there were images included in the texts: Once, it was a clip of a winger from Ottawa missing the net by six feet: professional hockey player allegedly. Another time it was a picture of a referee standing beside the box with the caption: this man should be investigated by police. Shane had actually responded to that one, with a what does that mean, but Rozanov just immediately texted back the word crimes, which didn’t actually answer anything.

Rarer still there were texts about the Metros: short things like congrats on the shootout or did pike get slower, which Shane did not respond to. They didn’t talk about hockey. Which, given that hockey was the only normal, defensible reason for them to be talking at all, was probably a problem, but Rozanov, to his credit, had enough sense not to push.

This was, Shane had decided after a few days of texts, fine. Manageable. The box titled experiments had a lid, and the lid was holding and Rozanov texting him about referee crimes at two in the morning was not a complication, it was just—chirping. And chirping didn't need a lid.

He was handling it.

One day after the Metros get back from their central division road trip, JJ picks Shane up outside his apartment for one of the day-off hangouts that Shane looks forward to more than he’d ever admit.

JJ's car smells like the pine air freshener he's had hanging from his rearview mirror the entire time Shane’s known him, and he starts talking in French before Shane has even closed the passenger door—rapid-fire Quebecois that Shane had spent his entire first season in Montreal learning to keep up with, and can now follow without effort as long as JJ doesn't get too excited.

JJ is currently pretty excited about Gilly's suspension.

“A game, minimum,” he's saying. “Maybe two if the league is in a bad mood, which, have you seen the DOPS lately, they're definitely in a bad mood.”

“Gilly deserves three,” Shane says, because it’s true even if it’s his own teammate. “He jumped Kaprof like it was personal.”

“It was personal. You know how he is with Tampa. He's hated them since 2007.”

“I’m starting to think Gilly hates the entire league.”

“That's true.” JJ grins and gestures with one hand off the steering wheel—Shane has learned to brace for this. “But now he has to sit and watch for at least a little while. It'll be good for him.”

“It’ll be good for us to have less penalty kill,” Shane agrees, which makes JJ laugh.

The restaurant is a narrow little plant-based place vaguely near the university that Shane found in his first month in Montreal and has been returning to with religious consistency ever since. He knows without looking that his usual has 40 grams of protein and fits cleanly into his remaining macros for the day, and JJ is happily progressing through his quest to try everything on the menu without even reading about it. JJ orders by pointing at the menu and saying "Ça" without looking, and the waitress who has seen them both enough times to stop looking starstruck, accepts this without comment and leaves.

JJ’s fingers go tap tap tap on the edge of the table like he’s impatient, but Shane already kind of knows what he wants to talk about, and JJ never makes him wait too long.

“Theriault,” JJ says after a few seconds of silence, shifting slightly in his seat. “Asked me who I thought should get the C next season.”

Shane looks at him. JJ looks back, something underneath his usual easy expression—not quite fear, more just… uncertainty.

Theriault wasn't asking to be polite. “It’ll be you,” Shane says. That's not even in question.

“It's rumours.”

“JJ.”

“It's not confirmed—”

“It's you,” Shane says again, and means it, and something moves through his chest—a small sharp thing that has nothing to do with JJ or the captaincy and everything to do with Shane's own particular brand of future uncertainty, the kind that surfaces when everyone around him is landing somewhere solid while he's still— “Management can’t make it official, not when things with the team are…”

Shane trails off but JJ has known him long enough now to read his silences, supplies “En suspens,” without being asked, which is exactly what he was looking for.

The Metros had surprised everyone last year, making it all the way to the second round of the playoffs when nobody had predicted them even making the postseason at the start of the year, and now the question hanging over every front office decision was whether that was a foundation or a fluke. Management wasn't selling, but they weren't buying either, and until someone decided which story they were telling, nothing was getting confirmed—not contracts, not letters, not anything.

None of the players know what the plan really is yet. En suspens—they're all waiting for the decision to be made. Shane knows this, JJ knows this, everyone knows this; but that definitely isn’t what JJ wants to hear.

“No matter what, you'll be a perfect captain,” Shane says, and means it.

JJ looks at him for a moment. “You sure?”

“You're the best player on the team and everyone likes you,” Shane says, because that’s true. “Yeah. I'm sure.”

JJ's grin returns, slower this time, more genuine than the easy one he wears for general use. “Okay Hollzy, feelings.”

“Shut up,” Shane says, because their food has arrived and he's said what he needed to say and that's enough.

They eat. JJ returns to Gilly's suspension with increasing creativity—by the time they're halfway through the meal he's escalated his predicction to five games and a strongly worded letter—and Shane listens and contributes and doesn't think about the small sharp thing, which has already receded somewhere manageable.

It's fine. Everything is fine.

They have a game against Minnesota in two days.

“— and that's the thing about the Metros this year, Glen, they have an embarrassment of riches in net and nobody wants to say it out loud because Miitka's contract situation is so delicate right now.”

“Right, and Miitka's camp has been very quiet, which usually means one of two things, John— either the number they want is so far from what Montreal is offering that there's nothing to say yet, or they're already talking to other teams.”

“Which, if you're a Metros fan, is not a comfortable thought. Because Miitka is—he's becoming a Vox-level goalie on his best nights, Glen, and you don't just replace that.”

“You don't. But then you've got this kid Hollander behind him, putting up numbers that would practically be starter numbers on half the teams in this league. So now the question becomes: what do you do with that? You can't keep both of them happy forever.”

“The Metros have time to decide. But not too much.”

The night of their overtime win against Minnesota, the club is loud in the very specific way that makes Shane's brain go slightly sideways—bass through the floor, voices bouncing off every surface, lights doing something complicated that he stopped trying to track twenty minutes ago. The Metros have taken over a corner booth and a stretch of the bar, and Shane is wedged in beside Hayden with a drink he's been nursing since they arrived and a posture that he's working to keep from broadcasting I want to leave to everyone in the vicinity.

He's decided he's going to be social for two full hours before he’s allowed to go home; it’s barely been forty minutes.

Hayden has Jackie tucked under his arm, which is new enough that Shane is still calibrating—she's in her fourth year at McGill, studying architecture, and she also takes photos for the student paper. Shane has learned all of these facts tonight through conversations that went approximately as well as conversations go when one person has a rich interior life full of things to discuss and the other person's interior life is mostly hockey.

Shane had tried. He'd asked about her thesis and she'd explained it and Shane had nodded, tracking about half of it and fully losing the rest somewhere around the second mention of spatial theory, and then there’d been a pause—brief, but long enough that it felt like something was expected of him—and he’d reached for the closest thing he had. Which had been arenas. Sightlines. How design changes the way people move through a space. It had almost made sense as a bridge when he started talking, and then he’d kept going, because once he’d found the thread he knew how to follow it, and stopping mid-sentence without somewhere else to go felt worse than just continuing.

He’d realized, about two minutes in, that this was not the right kind of answer. He's realized at minute three that he was talking too long, and at minute four he finally managed to stop, the words cutting off in a way that felt abrupt even to him.

Jackie had been kind about it: she had listened to him attentively and asked a followup question, like this was a normal exchange they were both participating in equally. That was almost worse.

His phone buzzes.

Lily: mint chocolate chip is not a real ice cream flavour

Me: It's the best one.
Me: It tastes like toothpaste in a good way.

Lily: there is no good way to taste like toothpaste hollander what is wrong with you

Shane is typing his response when Hayden's arm appears over his shoulders.

“You've been on your phone with her for twenty minutes,” Hayden says, directly into his ear because otherwise nothing is audible in here. “Tell me.”

“I'm reading an article,” Shane says, and tries to shrug Hayden off as politely as he can. Hayden doesn’t even move an inch.

“I can see your screen you know.” Hayden's face is making a bizarre expression, caught halfway between teasing and smug that just makes him look constipated. “So. Lily?”

Shane pockets his phone.

“Shane,” Hayden says, grinning now.

“Just a friend,” Shane says, which is a lie but is neutral enough to reveal nothing. Hayden opens his mouth, presumably to push back on that and say something else, but Jackie says something Shane can't catch over the music and Hayden turns back to her, his arm finally disappearing, and Shane is left alone again.

He looks at the dance floor.

JJ is out there, had tried to drag Shane with him, but accepted his no with a fond ruffle of his hair. He's dancing with someone now, easy and laughing, completely in his element in the way JJ always is—in a club, on the ice, in front of a camera—JJ just knows how to be comfortable anywhere.

He turns away again—and Hayden and Jackie are making out in the booth beside him, so that is definitely his cue to leave them alone, so Shane finishes his drink and picks up his jacket and stands up.

Nobody notices, and Shane pushes his way through the crowd and out the door into the night air, which is cool and quiet and significantly less complicated than the last however long, and he can finally take a breath.

His phone buzzes.

Lily: toothpaste jane. TOOTHPASTE.

Shane reads this and feels something uncomplicate in his chest in a way the last two hours haven't managed, and pockets his phone and goes to find a cab.

Fifteen days before the Boston Raiders play the Montreal Metros for the first time in the 2012-2013 season, Shane has an afternoon to himself.

It's a Tuesday, which means Shane had film review in the morning, a light practice at noon, and nothing after two pm except his own apartment and the intrusive hum of a low-level awareness that he has unfinished business.

He makes his coffee. He eats his lunch. The Maples are on a roadie in the States, Hayden is MIA, and JJ is busy. Shane has no distractions left between him and the laptop.

The thing is, if Shane is going to approach this correctly—and Shane approaches everything correctly, that's just who he is—then he needs more information. The October attempt at this had been instinct-driven and therefore compromised from the start. Instinct is not a methodology. Instinct is what you use when you don't have time to think, and Shane has time to think about this today, so what he needs is data.

Specifically: he needs to understand what he's actually experimenting with before he can decide whether the experiment is producing meaningful results. This is just logic. You wouldn't go into a game without watching tape on the opponent. You wouldn't try a new piece of equipment without understanding its specifications. Shane has been operating for almost three months on extremely limited information and the information gap is starting to affect his ability to figure things out correctly, which is a problem he can solve.

So.

He opens his laptop so he can return to unfinished research, which is what this is. It's research.

Shane researches for about forty minutes. Types some questions into Google. Reads three reddit threads. Actually manages to watch one of the videos.

Watches for long enough to get some new ideas and start to think some thoughts he has been, abstractly, maybe aware he’s been having for maybe his whole life.

He closes the laptop.

He sits with it for a moment—not long, just long enough to let the shape of it exist—and then he gets up, washes his coffee mug, and puts his laptop away.

The thoughts are noted, and are also, almost immediately, crammed into the box titled ‘experimentation’ where Shane keeps all of the things related to… that.

The thoughts might be significantly larger than the box he is putting them in—which is fine, Shane can build a bigger box.

The thoughts are also completely irrelevant to his current save percentage, or the fact he has to pack his bag for tomorrow and get ready for the Metros’ first trip down south to face the Florida teams this season.

Fifteen days till the first Montreal-Boston game of the season.

Six days before the Boston Raiders play the Montreal Metros, and his parents are in town for the Metros’ game against the Centaurs.

The restaurant his mom picks is nice enough that Shane has to check the menu for nutritional information on his phone under the table, which he does efficiently and without guilt. His dad is explaining, with genuine enthusiasm, the specific merits of a Weber kettle grill versus a gas grill, and Shane is nodding at the appropriate intervals because his dad's tangents have a rhythm he learned to follow early and finds genuinely comfortable.

“—and the charcoal gives you a completely different flavour profile,” his dad is saying. “Your mother disagrees.”

“I don't disagree,” his mom says, without looking up from her phone. “I just think the gas grill is more practical for the cottage.” She scrolls something, taps something, puts her phone down. “Shane, Farah and I have been talking to Under Armour.”

“Okay,” Shane says.

“They're interested in a campaign for next fall. Nothing confirmed yet, but Farah thinks if your numbers stay where they are through the new year—” she pauses to take a sip of her drink, “—and they will, they're going to want to move forward.”

His dad nods seriously, apparently filing the Under Armour campaign alongside the grill specifications. “That's good, bud.”

“It's good,” Shane agrees.

His mom picks her phone back up, scrolls again, puts it back down extremely carefully—and Shane is immediately on alert. “There's also,” she says, “some noise online. About the All-Stars fan vote.”

Shane looks at her.

“Don't look it up,” she says.

“Mom—”

“There's a whole campaign, it's very sweet, I just know you and I know what you're going to do if you read the comments and I'm telling you not to.”

“I'm not going to read the comments.”

“You're going to read the comments.”

His dad reaches for the bread basket. “I'm also thinking about the Weber smoker,” he says, to no one in particular.

(Shane reads the comments the moment his parents' car turns the corner.)

“—and it’s complete mismanagement for the Admirals too, but we’re used to embarrassment from New York, aren’t we John.”

“Right you are Glen, but a little more on contracts, since we're on the subject. Rozanov.”

“Rozanov.”

“Rozanov. Third year of his entry level, last year before restricted free agency, and the Raiders have been very, very quiet. The word arbitration keeps coming up, Glen, and if it gets there it gets ugly fast.”

“Because what do you offer a player who's been second in league scoring two years running?”

“Whatever he asks for, probably.”

“Whatever he asks for. And Rozanov's camp knows that.”

The day the Boston Raiders come to town, Shane's game-day alarm goes off at 7am.

He's up at 7:15. Breakfast: banana, oatmeal, water. On the road by 8. Practice arena by 8:30. Meeting at 8:45. The steps slot into place without friction, muscle memory carrying him through the familiar sequence. Shane's in net for this game, the last of their five game homestand before they set off for the west coast, and he can't lie to himself and pretend he isn't a little bit excited.

Practice wraps at 11; he's showered and in his car within fifteen minutes, and when he gets home he has six hours before he's expected at the Bell Centre for the game. Today's nutritionist provided meal is a whole grain pasta salad, and he pops it in the microwave for four minutes before carrying it to the counter to eat, and once he's settled in with his fork in hand he picks up his phone and—

Lily: ready to lose

Shane feels a smile curl across his face.

Me: You fucking wish.

The Bell Centre is loud the way it always is for a Boston game: twenty thousand people who have been waiting for this one since the schedule dropped in July, the hostile energy of a crowd that remembers the playoff series and hasn’t quite forgiven them for losing against Boston. Shane goes through his warmup at his end of the ice without thinking about any of it, because he's done this enough times that his body doesn't need his brain's input, and it's fine, everything is fine, the routine is holding and he's loose and ready and—

He heads toward the centre line for his stretches. Rozanov is already there.

Not doing anything special—just standing there with his stick across his shoulders and his helmet pushed back slightly, watching Shane cross the ice toward him with an expression that his brain acknowledges, then moves on from immediately.

Shane's stride hitches. Not enough for anyone to notice probably.

Rozanov notices.

“Hollander,” he says, and his voice has a different weight in person than it does through texts on Shane's phone at eleven pm, which is a thing Shane has apparently forgotten over the past two months and is remembering now, inconveniently, in front of twenty thousand people.

“Rozanov,” Shane says, and waits.

They look at each other for a moment.

“Are you lost,” Rozanov asks, tilting his head slightly, and there’s the asshole hockey player Shane needs to be remembering right now, not the one who texts him photos of the dogs he sees.

“I'm stretching,” Shane says.

“Standing up?”

What a dick. Shane places his stick parallel to the centre line and goes down on the ice to start working his hip flexors. Rozanov crouches beside him, apparently unbothered by the fact that this is an unusual thing to do, and Shane focuses on his left hip and waits.

“Mint chocolate,” Rozanov says.

Shane looks up.

“Still wrong,” Rozanov says pleasantly, and stands up and skates away, and Shane watches him go and then looks back at his hip flexors and thinks about absolutely nothing for the remainder of warmups.

When warmups end and he pushes upright to skate back to the locker room, Shane feels considerably more like himself.

The first period goes the way Shane expects it to—Boston pressing hard, testing angles, looking for a read on him the way they always do in the first ten minutes of a new game. Shane tracks everything and gives them nothing and by the midpoint of the period his defense has settled and the crowd has settled and Shane has settled into that zen mode that means his body and his brain are running on the same frequency.

It's a good feeling. It's the best feeling, actually.

The second period is when it gets interesting.

Rozanov’s line comes out for the first shift—a promotion. Boston’s running blended lines, Anderson moving to LW, Rozanov staying at center, and Shane noticed it immediately: they want him on the ice as much as possible, which means this is a real test.

They pick up speed through the neutral zone and Shane tracks him automatically, the way he tracks every shooter—weight, angle, hands—but there’s an extra layer to it, because he knows the way Rozanov crosses the blue line, has watched it on tape too many times by now, and he predicts the move he uses to deke out Fours a split second before it happens—

—and then suddenly there’s just open air between them. Rozanov, in alone with the puck on his stick.

Shane is already moving.

He’s square before the shot is fully there, knees set, chest forward, edges engaged. Rozanov adjusts—because of course he does, because that’s what elite players do—tries to pull it wider, change the angle just enough so when it comes off his stick it’ll have just enough lift to—

The puck hits Shane’s upper shoulder and bounces off, and Shane is just fast enough to fall forward and trap it under his glove for the whistle before Rozanov can try for the rebound.

Two shifts later, Anderson snaps a low shot through traffic—quick, ugly, no skill involved, just aiming for a rebound if he can get it. Shane's pad slams down and seals the ice before the puck arrives.

No rebound. Nothing.

Shane stands and tosses the puck to the linesman.

With five minutes left in the period, net-front chaos—bodies in the crease, the puck loose for half a second too long. Shane sees Rozanov lunge, backhand, point blank—

Shane is already sliding cross-crease. The puck disappears into his glove clean.

He stays down. Glove pressed to the ice. Lets the whistle come to him.

When he pulls himself upright Rozanov is still standing at the top of the crease, his skates just barely over the line of the paint—so Shane feels fully justified in reaching out with his stick and shoving Rozanov's skates backwards out of Shane’s crease. It's his right as a goalie to do things like that, and it’s also just a petty sort of satisfying to watch Rozanov stumble backwards and nearly fall on his ass.

“Fucking rude,” Rozanov says.

“Yup,” Shane says.

The linesman appears between them before Rozanov can get another word in, herding him back toward the faceoff dot with the practiced patience of someone who has been doing this for twenty years, and Shane turns back to his net.

He can still feel Rozanov looking at him.

The Metros win 3-1. Shane stops twenty-three of twenty-four shots and the one that gets through was an absolute bomb off of Carmichael’s stick that nobody on earth could have stopped, which Shane knows and accepts and files under not mine in the time it takes to fish the puck out of the net.

The crowd gives the team a standing ovation when the final buzzer sounds, which Shane accepts by tapping his posts and skating to the bench with his head down as soon as the celebratory huddle is done, because twenty thousand people making noise in his direction is still twenty thousand people making noise in his direction and that doesn't change just because it's positive.

JJ slaps him on the helmet, Hayden taps his pads with his stick, and just before Shane steps off the ice he makes sure to turn towards Rozanov and nod back at the wave he sends over.

Postgame, Shane answers three questions from a reporter in the corridor outside the locker room completely on autopilot—yes I'm proud of my game save percentage, no that was a full team effort, we're taking this one game at a time—before he's allowed back in and can duck away from the celebration to shower and change.

The locker room is loud in the good way, the chaos of twenty men who just won a hockey game over their rivals and know it, and Shane moves through it as someone who loves his teammates but needs to be horizontal in approximately ninety minutes. He gets his pads off. He showers. He stands under the water for exactly as long as he needs to and not a second longer, and when he's dressed and sitting in his stall lacing his shoes his brain finally stops running at game speed and he gets a single quiet moment to just —

God, that was a good game.

That was exactly what hockey is supposed to feel like—everything running on the same frequency, body and brain and instinct locked in, every read clean, every decision made before it needed to be made. Twenty-three saves. The shot from Carmichael was bad luck and everyone in the building knew it and it didn't matter. Nothing had mattered except the next shot, and then the next one, and then the buzzer, and Shane had felt—

He'd felt exactly like himself. The best version of himself. The version that exists when everything else goes quiet and there's just the ice and the puck and the angles.

He's still sitting with that when his phone buzzes.

Lily: Le Centre Sheraton Montreal
Lily: 702

Shane stares at the screen.

His brain, which has just spent sixty minutes operating at peak efficiency, chooses this moment to produce approximately seventeen thoughts simultaneously, none of them useful.

Ok. He can be objective about this.

He's a young guy. Young guys are allowed to want things. Young guys are allowed to try things. His boxes are ready and waiting and he isn't about to doubt his filing system. Not right now, not ever, and especially not after the best game he's played all season. Shane knows what he's dealing with now in a way he didn't in September, and September was fine, September was more than fine, and this is the same thing. Controlled. Finite. A thing that lives in the box.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Me: Give me half an hour.

He ties his other shoe and stands up.

Shane shows up at room 702 at the twenty-two minute mark, which he doesn't acknowledge, and Rozanov opens the door and looks at him for a second.

“Took you long enough,” Rozanov says.

“I said half an hour,” Shane says, because honestly this doesn’t matter and because the hallway is very public and Shane would like to not be in it.

Thankfully Rozanov steps back to let him in, and the door clicks shut behind him, and Shane has approximately one second to think the word experimenting before Rozanov says, with great feeling:

“Fuck you, by the way. For the save in the second period.”

“That's hockey,” Shane says, but he can feel himself smiling.

“That was personal,” Rozanov says, and kisses him.

The elevator is empty when Shane steps into it, which is good because he needs approximately thirty seconds to process this, and the ride down to the lobby is exactly that.

He leans against the back wall.

The evening had been—significant, in the way that new things are significant, when you're still figuring them out, but this is why Shane has his guidelines. This is exactly what his boxes are for and it is working correctly and Shane is twenty-one years old and playing in the MLH and he just stopped twenty-three shots against the Boston Raiders and then walked into a hotel room and let one of his opponents come in his mouth.

And that’s totally fine.

That was only his second time putting his mouth on Rozanov’s dick and it went so much better than the first—this time he actually knew what to do with his hands instead of letting them hover uselessly by his sides. This time he managed to get more than the head of Rozanov’s dick in his mouth without gagging and pulling away. And this time, Rozanov pulled him up from the floor after less than a minute of a blowjob because it was too good, which is just—that's a glowing performance review. Objectively. It was an objective assessment, that's not Shane being smug about it, that's just what happened.

Shane’s not an expert in guy on guy hookups, but he’s pretty sure that was a standout success by almost every metric. He’s feeling pretty proud of himself right now, clearheaded, capable, because he handled it well.

And if Rozanov's hand had been warm and nice on the side of his face the entire time, and if Shane maybe hadn't wanted to get up when Rozanov pulled him up, and if he's standing in an elevator right now replaying that exact moment over and over again, like there's something more in it worth finding, that’s—

That’s fine, actually. It's—good. He's allowed to feel good about this. The guidelines he’s set for himself here say this thing with Rozanov is a controlled environment that gets tested then put away in the box, and the box has a lid, and Shane is very good at lids and boxes, and everything is—

The elevator opens on the lobby.

Shane straightens up, rolls his shoulders, and walks out into the Montreal night.

He is handling this extremely well.

“— big news out of Montreal today, Glen, and I think this changes everything we thought we knew about their goaltending situation.”

“Right you are, John: coming on the heels of their very successful west coast trip, we can officially report that Soren Miitka has signed a five year extension with the Metros. Five years, which tells you everything about how Montreal values him and what they think their window looks like.”

“It's a huge commitment. Huge. And look, Miitka is worth every penny of it, we've said that, Vox-level on his best nights —”

“—arguably even near Vox-level on his worst—”

“— but now the question is Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

That was a fun little foray into Shane's psyche, wasn't it? I don't want to call him repressed or say he's lying to himself but... as we saw, he's policing the hell out of his thoughts right now, and I really can't blame him. Think about it: he has horny thoughts about another man for the first time in May, has an entire summer to panic. Turns out that man has horny thoughts about him as well, and rocks his world in September. For the next two months that man is texting him every day, and Shane's enjoying making a connection with another person outside of hockey, then he has another encounter in November that is better than the first one??? Shane's only had gay thoughts for six months, he's allowed to hide from himself a little bit for now, as a treat.

Some notes:
1) Boxes and lids: something I've pulled from my IRL friend with autism, I think its a tidy way to show the ways Shane manages his life. He's STRICT with himself, so if he has any thoughts that might impact hockey, they go in a box, out of sight and out of mind. We can already see the framework straining (deciding to just build himself a bigger box for his gay thoughts probably isn't how its supposed to work buddy) but for right now Gay Sex Shane is a different entity from Social Shane and Hockey Shane.
2) Hookup but not on screen: Nope, and you shouldn't be surprised. It took him almost two whole months to type the word 'Gay' into google and actually go on pornhub, do we really think he's up for narrating right now? We get a post-game analysis in the 30 second elevator ride, and I'm surprised I thought he was even up for that (but hey, Ilya probably won't have the same problem as narrator next chapter)
3) Man in the Crease: Do those guys have canon names? Anyways, they're a useful tool to show how the hockey world is moving outside of Shane's bubble. Surely this contract stuff doesn't have future implications.
4) Kisses on the mouth go to: reddit user u/ferret-mom (I DM'd them with hockey questions and they spent like a full hour talking to me, also gave me the idea for Shane Wallander), u/itriedit2947 (scrolling through the subreddit and seeing my name was a jumpscare, but thank you), ao3 user kidsoup (excellent ideas >;) ), nobodyevenknows (restaurant suggestion), 7killua (excellent Shane thoughts)
5) Miscellaneous. Lily? Listen, Ilya just had one of his wishes come true, do we really think he'd walk away without Shane's number (nope). Shout out users Sirenia and Wine for backing me up on this. JJ? I said I'm giving Shane friends and I meant it. In a universe with no star-forward shane, I think JJ gets the captaincy (Do we think that Shane feels a bit jealous/feels the passing breeze of a lost alternate timeline when it was him? dunno). Jackie? god help me I'm giving that woman a life and interests outside of being a Mother (also funny/sad to imagine shane's struggle with conversational topics not related to hockey).

Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?? What do we think Ilya is up to right now??? I'll be back soon with more ;)

Chapter 9

Chapter Summary

Peep the rating change

Chapter Notes

Computer, play Candy by Big Data 😏

NSFW?

As soon as you see "Ilya is having a fantastic time", skip to the scene break line. It's a pretty explicit blowie.

Also, hey @ghostiesdagger on twitter, fuck you for accusing me of AI usage. To all of you readers, I would like you to know that I 1) don’t have a beta reader, and 2) use grammar checkers to check my work (eta more info: grammarly on ch,1 (stopped when it tried to americanize my spelling), grammarcheck.net ch.2 to ch. 10 (my goat has canadian english mode)). That is the only possible point of “contagion” I can think of here. I’m already being accused of “““copying””” the other goalie fic that I haven't even fucking read (i'm sure it's great but I haven't looked, for obvious reasons!!!!) so I don't need AI bullshit on top of that. Life is a learning curve, all writing mistakes are literally my own, and three university degrees apparently weren’t enough to teach me how to write like a human 🙄.

Ilya’s phone buzzes at 2:45am.

He doesn’t move at first. Just lies there, blinking himself half-awake, watching the screen flare dimly against the dark of the room, the light catching on the ceiling and the edge of the nightstand.

It’s late enough—or early enough—that it registers as wrong before he’s fully conscious. Almost no one calls him at this hour; the people who matter see him every day, and there is precious little in his life that requires urgent, middle-of-the-night contact. Urgent belongs to other people.

The vibration cuts off, the screen dimming again. He watches it go dark without reaching for it, something sluggish and resistant in him refusing to engage, as if not answering might turn this back into a dream.

A beat passes.

Then the phone lights up again.

This time he’s more awake for it, eyes tracking the glow as it pulses insistently against the dark, the vibrations terrifyingly loud against the nightstand. He still doesn’t pick it up. Just lets it ring, jaw tightening slightly as he turns to stare at the ceiling instead, counting the seconds without meaning to.

It stops. Silence rushes back in.

Something cold drops into his chest, immediate and practiced. His body is already awake now, already ahead of him, running through the same calculation it always does: who, what, how bad, and how much.

When the second call ends, he finds himself bracing for a third, the expectation settling into his muscles like a held breath. He waits, listening.

Nothing comes.

The absence feels wrong enough that, after a moment, he sits up and reaches for the phone despite himself. The screen lights under his thumb, and the call log resolves into something that tightens his chest further before he can stop it: two missed calls, both from Alexei.

And below that, a cluster of messages from earlier in the night from Sveta.

Ilya exhales, eyes closing for a moment as the tension drains out of him all at once, leaving something dull and residual behind. Not relief exactly. Just the absence of something worse. He scrubs a hand over his face, then looks down at the screen.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: okay so I just found out that croissants were actually invented in austria and not france
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: and I genuinely don't know how to process this
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: are you awake

“What the fuck,” Ilya mutters out loud, already feeling his pulse settle, the spike of adrenaline bleeding off into something flatter.

He leans back into the pillow, staring up at the ceiling while the adrenaline unwinds slowly, leaving him awake in a way that has nothing to do with the message. The room looks the same as it always does at night, the comforting glimmer of faint city light through the gap in the curtains, but it feels different now, like something has already happened.

Svetlana has never handled exam stress particularly well, and over the years it has developed into a pattern of late-night spirals over increasingly questionable revelations, as though her brain refuses to fixate on anything remotely related to her business degree. Compared to some of her past crises, this one barely even registers.

His thumb drifts, almost idly, to another thread lower down the screen. It’s slipped a little further since the last time he checked it, buried under newer notifications. He doesn’t open it. Not at 2:49 in the morning, not with whatever answer it requires sitting somewhere just out of reach.

He scrolls back up.

Me: croissants are french now. Austria lost.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: that’s not how it works

Me: go to sleep Sveta

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: you go to sleep
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: you just played a game, why are you awake

Ilya looks at the ceiling for a moment before typing.

Me: I wasn’t

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: 🐸

He sets the phone back on the nightstand and closes his eyes.

His body takes longer to believe it than his brain does. The quiet stretches back out around him, familiar but not quite the same, and it takes a while before sleep follows.

Ilya wakes up for real at 8am, which is already an improvement over yesterday.

He stays where he is.

There’s no reason to move yet. Practice isn’t until eleven, and his body has logged enough early mornings over the years to justify a certain amount of stillness when it can get it. He lies there, eyes open, not thinking about anything in particular, just existing in the quiet until it starts to feel like a decision.

Then he gets up.

Clean boxers. Water. A brief glance at his call log. He doesn’t open it.

Coffee: brewed, poured, and then abandoned on the counter while he stands at the sink scrolling through last night’s game clips on his phone, watching the same sequence twice, then a third time, adjusting angles in his head, thinking about his positioning, about the timing of his shot—

He leaves the coffee there. Forgets it completely when he goes looking for the TV remote, only remembers it after he’s made himself comfortable on the couch, but doesn’t bother getting up to grab it.

It’s a Monday. Ilya has nowhere to be for another three and a half hours, he has his phone, and SportsCenter is saying something terrible about the Admirals. The coffee can wait.

Ilya turns the volume up.

“—and the league’s ruling is pretty unambiguous here, Emily. You can’t trade a player with a no-movement clause without his written consent, full stop.”

“Right, and what’s remarkable here isn’t just that they tried—it’s that they got far enough along in the process that this became public. That suggests a breakdown at multiple levels.”

“Or a front office that thought the rules didn’t apply to them.”

“Which, to be clear Mike, is not how contracts work at the professional level.”

“And you’ve probably just made it harder to negotiate with every player on that roster who needs a new contract—especially a star like Bennett, who, as we’ve been hearing, is quietly exploring his options for free agency.”

“Exactly. Now you’ve got a locker room that knows management is either careless, or willing to cut corners. That’s not something you fix with a press release.”

There is something genuinely soothing about other organizations being catastrophically bad at their jobs. He watches them get dissected for another full minute, feeling better with each segment.

Eventually, the noise starts to blur into itself, the same points circling back around in slightly different wording. Ilya pushes himself up off the couch and goes to retrieve the coffee he abandoned earlier.

It’s already cold but he drinks it anyway. He made it; he’s going to finish it. That is simply the kind of morning this is, and listening to the copious failings of hockey front offices can only do so much to cheer him today.

He leans back against the counter, mug in hand, and then, inevitably—

“—no movement reported on the Rozanov contract, but that’s not terribly out of the ordinary.”

“No it’s not, and I honestly wouldn’t expect to hear anything until well into next year. They have this whole season to hammer out the details Emily, and with a contract of that magnitude I expect they’ll be making sure it’s just right.”

“Exactly. You’re not just signing Rozanov, you’re setting precedent. Agents across the league are watching this one closely.”

“There’s also the question of term. Do you lock him in long-term now and jump right to UFA years, or play it safe and go shorter and risk paying significantly more later?”

“If this drags, you start getting media pressure, fan speculation—”

“—and it’s not happening in a vacuum either. Boston’s got an older core, a lot of miles on that roster, and they’ve already been dealing with significant injuries this season. There’s a real sense this next contract isn’t just about Rozanov, it’s about what the team looks like in three years.”

“And that’s where it gets complicated, right? Because Boston wants to keep him, but once you start throwing around franchise-player numbers, suddenly every comparable contract in that locker room becomes a negotiation problem.”

Boston wants to keep him. That part isn’t in question. What’s frustrating isn’t that they’re trying to lowball him—it’s that the numbers, the phrasing, the slow, careful pacing of the first offer, all of it feels like an unnecessary test.

Simon had called back in October with the first offer and Ilya had listened in silence, phone pressed hard against his ear, jaw tight enough that Simon had probably heard it. Nothing in the words themselves was insulting. The content, the numbers, the careful framing—it was all standard. But Ilya couldn’t help it.

He knows it’s just how these negotiations work: teams start at the bottom of the range, see how far they can push, and leave space to adjust.

“This was a good start,” Simon had said, unflappably monotone like he always was. “It’s an opening position, not a serious number. They establish a floor. We do not engage with it. We wait.”

Ilya had said nothing.

“Rozanov.”

“I understand.”

“You’re making a noise.”

“That’s breathing.”

It had not been breathing. He’d made the noise again after hanging up, alone in his apartment, because the number had been… acceptable. Technically. Objectively acceptable for a stand-out third-year player on any other team.

Which was the problem. He is not any other player.

The second offer came in just last week, and it had been… better. Better in every measurable way, but not in a way meant for him, specifically. Vast improvements on term, a corresponding regression on AAV. Nothing insulting, nothing aggressive, but still: a prickly reminder of the process.

Ilya had, briefly, considered sending Simon a single question mark and nothing else, and then immediately pictured the reply he would get, and decided against it. Because he was being patient and professional.

Ilya finishes the coffee and sets the mug down on the floor beside the couch because the table is slightly too far away to justify the effort. On the TV the contracts segment wraps and transitions into something about Anaheim’s overabundance of defence prospects, the inevitable result of the Hammerheads snapping up every available LHD and not working to backfill literally any other position.

Ilya watches it without seeing it.

Be patient, Simon had said. Ilya manages it for approximately four minutes.

Me: any updates

Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: Good morning.
Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: We have progressed to using Grant Havelock as a comparison point.
Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: But we are not there yet.

Ilya reads the message twice.

Grant Havelock. Both sides of the table have agreed that fucking Grant Havelock, the Warden, the man with a literal fucking statue outside of Minnesota’s arena, is a reasonable point of comparison for Ilya as a player… and Boston still had the balls to send an offer that wouldn't crack the top fifteen AAV in the league.

He puts the phone down. Picks it up again.

Me: you said that last week

Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: Because it is still true. I am scheduled to meet with the assistant GM next week.
Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: Continue to be patient.

Ilya looks at the message for a moment. His phone buzzes again.

Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: Do not speak to the press.

Ilya sets the phone down and stares at the TV without seeing it.

Then he gets up to find his gear, because his three hours of leisure are over, because Simon is right, and Ilya pays him to be right about these things, and Ilya hates that about him specifically.

LeClaire runs the special teams drills like a man possessed, which Ilya respects in theory and finds slightly exhausting in practice when his brain keeps drifting back to contract numbers and AAV figures and the phrase movement on the term, not enough on the AAV running underneath his skin.

It threads through everything, a low, constant irritation—fine, sharp, impossible to ignore. Not enough to throw him completely, but enough to catch on the edges of things, to make the mundane repetition of zone entry drills feel abrasive.

The Raiders have the best power play in the Eastern Conference, and they are third in the league for the penalty kill; why the fuck are they drilling zone entries over and over and over again on a Monday in December when they’re about to fly out and play Calgary tomorrow, Calgary, who are second-to-fucking-last in the league right now—

The puck comes across neutral ice from Marly and Ilya has to lunge to catch it, half a step behind where Marly expects him to be. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to force an extra half-second spent settling the puck on the ice, and that half second is enough for Carmichel to end up a heartbeat ahead of Ilya over the blueline.

LeClaire’s whistle screams, and Ilya tilts his head back to groan at the ceiling.

“Rozanov.”

It’s just his name but LeClaire doesn’t need to elaborate. Ilya can tell what the expression on Coach’s face is just from the tone.

“Yes, yes,” Ilya says, already pushing himself back into position, shaking it off like it’s nothing.

He makes the next one clean. And the one after that. By the fourth rotation he’s back on the right frequency, timing snapping into place like it never slipped, and he stays there for the rest of the drill.

LeClaire’s whistle screams out again but it’s a little less shrill when it isn’t directed at Ilya. Drill over. Time to watch the second unit try to do better.

Marly is already on the bench by the time Ilya flings himself over the boards, and he doesn’t complain when Ilya steals his water bottle for a sip, just sighs and accepts it back once Ilya’s done, bumping their shoulders together. “You good buddy?”

Ilya pauses.

What to even tell Marly? What is he supposed to say—that he’s distracted by numbers that already put him ahead of most of the league? That he knows exactly what he’s worth and refuses to pretend otherwise, and that the waiting is what’s getting under his skin, not the money itself? That every time his contract value climbs, there’s a second calculation running alongside it, quieter and uglier, one that has nothing to do with money and everything to do with who will come asking for a piece of it—and who won’t take no for an answer?

“Ask me after roadie,” is what Ilya eventually comes up with, and Marly does the thing where his expression communicates several thoughts at the same time. He doesn’t verbalize any of them though, which is one of the reasons Ilya likes him, and he doesn’t stop Ilya from stealing his water bottle again.

Connors slides in on his other side as he comes off the ice, all easy energy and complete lack of concern for anything that doesn’t exist in the next six hours.

“Question,” Connors says. “Are we sticking to the usual or are we feeling adventurous?”

Really? Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. “This is a real question?”

“No,” Connors says immediately, because they’ve been doing the same thing for three years now and have never once changed. “But should we actually order extra spring rolls for once?”

“Marly will say we don’t need to change anything,” Ilya says.

Marly, still sitting on Ilya’s other side, immediately protests “I don’t—” but Ilya ignores him.

“And then he will eat half of what arrives.”

“I eat a reasonable amount,” Marly says, lying.

Connors leans around Ilya to give Marly an incredulous stare for that one. “You ate ten spring rolls last time.”

“They were small.”

“They were not small.”

Marly considers this, then shrugs. “Everything looks big from down there, Connors. It’s a perspective issue.”

There's a beat of silence.

“I’m five ten,” Connors says, with great dignity.

“Sure,” Marly says.

Ilya laughs at Connors’ offended expression, and whatever prickly feeling he’s been carrying all practice finally falls away as he sits back to watch them argue.

He makes it approximately eight feet into the corridor before Anderson says his name.

Ilya stops.

Anderson is leaning against the wall outside the locker room with his arms crossed and the expression of a man who has been waiting and is not going to pretend otherwise. He's still in his gear, which means he went off the ice early for dramatic effect when he could’ve just stayed on the ice with Ilya and done some extra reps, or talked to coach, or something other than lurking ominously in the tunnel. Either way, the deliberateness of it is not subtle.

“Got a minute?” Anderson asks.

Ilya looks at the locker room door. Looks at Anderson. Considers, briefly, whether he can get away with just walking away and not having a conversation he probably doesn’t want to have right now.

No chance.

“Ok,” he says, because what else is there to say.

Ilya ends up on Marly’s couch by seven, which is where he usually ends up on nights when there's a road trip the next morning and none of them feel like doing anything that would risk the ire of their coach or captain.

The takeout is from the Thai place three blocks over, the same order and same amount of spring rolls they usually get. Connors has claimed the good chair, which Ilya has accepted because he got here second and the couch is fine, and Marly is already booting up NHL 13 with the singular focus of someone who has been planning this since the second practice ended.

“Chel,” Marly says, and Ilya jolts slightly before accepting the outstretched controller.

“I know what it is,” Ilya says.

“You always look confused by the loading screen.”

“I am not confused. I am reading it carefully.”

Connors, from the good chair, says “You tried to start a season mode last time instead of a game.”

Why does he remember that? “Was one time.”

They’re three minutes into the first period—Ilya has already scored once, which he feels is worth mentioning and does—when Marly asks, without looking away from the screen: “What did Anderson want?”

Ilya executes a fairly impressive deke around Marly’s defender before answering. “Captain stuff.”

“Captain stuff,” Connors repeats.

“Team stuff.” Ilya amends, then adds “You know how he is.”

Marly glances at him sideways. Ilya keeps his eyes on the screen.

What Anderson had wanted was a conversation: thirty minutes outside the locker room, voice steady, deliberate, the way it always got when he’d already decided what needed to be said and needed going to say it properly. Not about anything concrete, not really. Anderson had wanted to talk about responsibility. About presence. About what the room needs, and who’s expected to provide it. About Ilya, specifically.

Not a suggestion so much as a quiet assignment, the kind that comes with the expectation that you’ll take it without argument, adjust accordingly, grow into whatever shape has already been outlined for you.

It sits strangely with him in a way he can’t quite articulate. Familiar, in the worst way—someone older, more established, deciding the shape of things and expecting Ilya to fall in line. It’s not the same. It’s not. But it presses in the same place anyway.

“The team is so fucking old,” Ilya says, which, as far as he’s concerned, is a natural followup.

Marly, the oldest of the three of them immediately says “We’re not that old,” but Ilya waves him off.

“Anderson has three kids. Feller has two. Stidwell’s wife just had twins.” Ilya gestures with his controller. “What do we do on team days? Golf. Mandatory team dinner with craft beer and everyone talks about child hockey leagues.”

“The craft beer thing was genuinely offensive,” Connors mutters.

“It’s a team bonding exercise,” Marly says, in the voice of someone repeating something he's been told, but obviously not believing it enough to make much of an effort.

“It was a Tuesday,” Ilya says. “I don’t need to bond on a Tuesday.”

He scores again. Marly makes a sound of profound grievance.

Connors snorts. “You know you could fix that, right? Organize something for the rest of us. Young, fun, not child-friendly.”

Ilya shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “Sounds like work.”

“Of course it does,” Connors says. “God forbid you put in any effort off the ice, you lazy fuck.”

It’s light, thrown away, not even aimed properly—but it’s a hit Connors lands without even realizing.

Ilya doesn’t look away from the screen, and doesn’t respond.

“Oh, hey,” Connors adds, easy as anything, because he’s an idiot who has never learned how to leave anything alone, “how are the contract talks going? How many years will we have to deal with you?”

Ilya’s thumbs go still on the controller for exactly one second.

“We are not talking about this,” he says pleasantly, and scores a third time. Connors shuts up, some neglected self-preservation instincts finally kicking in, and the next five minutes of gameplay passes in only lightly strained silence.

Marly hits pause after Ilya’s fourth goal and goes to get more spring rolls, Connors following him to argue about the last of the pad thai, and Ilya is alone with the paused game and his phone.

He opens his text messages. Has to scroll down, too far, to open the one he’s looking for.

The last message is still his, two days ago, still unanswered. He looks at it for a moment, then opens his camera, angles it at the TV screen—NHL 13 frozen mid-play, his player inexplicably horizontal on the ice from a hit he didn't see coming—and sends it without a caption.

He puts the phone face down on the cushion beside him.

Picks it up again after thirty seconds.

Nothing.

He puts it back down and tries to remember what it was like to not check his phone for a specific thread, which used to be something he was capable of doing, which should not be as difficult as it currently is.

Marly comes back with the spring rolls.

“We’re taking you down,” Connors announces, dropping back into the good chair.

“You have been saying that for three years,” Ilya says.

“This time,” Marly says, with great dignity, sitting back down and picking up his controller, “we have a strategy.”

They do not have a strategy. Ilya scores again before the period ends.

Sveta has been in his apartment for four days when she looks up from her laptop and says, completely unprompted: “Berzins re-signed with Colorado.”

Ilya is on the other end of the couch eating cereal at 7pm, which is a valid dinner no matter how judgemental she’d looked when he sat down. “How much?”

“Seven years, 9.2 AAV.” She pulls her legs up onto the couch and slouches down further. “Which is— interesting, actually. Colorado wanted him badly enough to go long on a winger who’s never cracked thirty goals.”

“They won the cup with him two years ago,” Ilya says, which is true. Berzins is not flashy but he shows up every game and every playoff series, and teams pay for that. “And he’s twenty-six. Seven years makes sense if they think he’s their guy.”

Sveta makes a thoughtful noise and types something. Ilya eats his cereal.

They have been doing this for four days—Sveta appearing from behind her wall of textbooks to dispense hockey opinions or bother him for food and attention at irregular intervals, both of them orbiting each other in the comfortable way of two people who have known each other long enough that silence doesn’t need filling.

She’d been asleep on his couch when he’d gotten back from the west coast road trip, surrounded by a graveyard of takeout containers and three textbooks splayed open at different pages, and he’d put a blanket over her and gone to bed and by the next morning she’d established herself so thoroughly in his apartment, like a fungus or black mold, that it would’ve taken far too much effort to remove her.

It was good, having her here. Easier than being alone with the contract numbers running the same useless loop in the back of his head. Easier than a lot of things, actually. There had been two nights this week where ‘easier’ had meant other things too, which was its own kind of simple and straightforward in the way that things with Sveta always were, and then she’d gone back to her exam prep and he’d gone back to his cereal and that was that.

“Colorado is only in a contender window if Larkin stays healthy,” Sveta says after a few minutes of silence. “Which is no guarantee. Western conference goaltending is getting interesting.”

“Mm.”

“Arizona just gave Young a two year extension. Vancouver’s starter is thirty-five and they haven’t started talking to anyone yet, which is—” she shakes her head, “—a choice. And LA is alternating two idiots who are not good enough to be playing in the MLH at all.”

“That could always change,” Ilya says, because this is true. “Look at your precious Missions; even you said they should’ve traded McNeil, and look at him now.”

“It’s a buyer’s market though,” Sveta says, always ready to disagree with him. “For now. Teams that have good goaltending locked up long term are going to look very smart in about two years when everyone is scrambling.”

She lets that sit for a moment, and Ilya has a brief, entirely uninvited thought about Shane Hollander and his .915 save percentage and the Miitka extension that people were still talking about weeks later—

“Speaking of,” Sveta says, very casually, not looking up from her laptop.

There it is.

“Are you,” Ilya says, “asking me something?”

“I’m not asking anything,” Sveta says. “I’m just talking about goaltending. Montreal’s in an interesting place now, aren’t they?”

“Hm,” Ilya says.

“Hollander is a good backup. Too good.”

“Starter numbers, yes.” He says it like this is a neutral observation, which it is, which is all it is. “But ELC keeps him cheap until next year.”

Sveta finally looks up. Her expression is doing something annoyed and specific that Ilya has learned over twenty years to treat with caution. “How is he?”

“Fine probably,” Ilya says, because it’s probably true, and—“I wouldn’t know.”

“But you are—” she makes a vague gesture.

“Do you think we talk about things like that?” Ilya asks, incredulous, because they don’t. They don’t. He and Hollander don’t— “That’s not what that is. It is just a convenient thing.” Ilya takes a determined bite of cereal before continuing. “Very convenient, actually. Boston plays Montreal four times a season, he’s established and it’s—” he waves his spoon— “easy.”

Sveta looks at him for a long moment without saying anything.

Ilya maintains the easy expression.

“Hm,” Sveta says, and goes back to her laptop, and he jumps on the opening immediately.

“Did I tell you,” Ilya says loudly, because this is a much more interesting topic. “That Anderson has decided I need to develop a charitable personality this season? So now I’m following him to the children’s hospital next week.”

Sveta hums.

“I don’t mind the children,” Ilya says, because that was a distracted hum and Ilya needs Sveta to be thinking of his plight and nothing else. “The children are fine. It’s Anderson’s vision that concerns me. Because Anderson has a vision, and he did not fucking ask me if I wanted to go do charity at a children’s hospital next week, but when the Captain tells you to do something—”

“That sounds terrible,” Sveta says, not looking up from her laptop.

“He is so irritating,” Ilya says, faster. “And he wants me to stay after for a Q&A, which—fine, I can do a Q&A, I am charming, I can answer questions, but the timing is completely—”

His phone buzzes.

He glances down. A picture fills the screen: an extremely speckled dog rolling on its back on a snowy sidewalk, its mouth open in an enormous doggy grin.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Found your twin.

Ilya reads this twice, and something in his chest does something abrupt and unhelpful because he's already typing back, already halfway through typing steal that dog, before he catches himself.

When he looks up, Sveta is not looking at him.

She's looking at her laptop, expression neutral in a carefully blank way that means she is thinking something and is deciding what to do with it. Ilya knows that expression. He has been on the wrong end of that expression many times in his life, and the fact that she isn't saying anything is absolutely, undeniably worse than if she had.

He sends the text.

His phone buzzes again almost immediately, and Ilya looks down at it, suddenly very grateful to have a very good reason not to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

The All-Stars announcement drops on a Thursday afternoon, and Ilya finds out the way he finds out most things—someone texts him before he's seen it himself.

Marly 🗻🐻🍺: congrats man, well deserved

Cons 🙄😡👹: You fucker, can you let one of us go next year

His phone starts buzzing like it has a vendetta, a relentless stream that signals the news has moved from teammates to the general public. Ilya silences it, tucks it into his pocket, and forgets about the whole thing for several hours, right up until the moment he steps out of the locker room and turns towards the ice for practice—

—and gets intercepted halfway down the tunnel.

There are already two cameras and a microphone waiting for him, each bearing the SportsCenter logo which means this is happening whether he wants it to or not, and the reporter is good at her job, which means she starts talking before he can escape.

“Just a moment, Ilya—congratulations on the All-Star selection. Can we have a quick chat?”

He pauses just long enough that it technically counts as stopping, which is apparently enough agreement for her to stick the microphone in his face and ask more questions.

“Any update on where extension talks stand with the Raiders?”

“No comment,” Ilya says pleasantly.

“Can you give us anything?”

“No comment,” Ilya says, less pleasantly, and she pivots without missing a beat—a professional. He can respect that. The next few minutes pass in a blur of standard answers: the Raiders are playing well (they are), the room is confident (it is), he’s focused on the next game (he always is). His place in the scoring race comes up (still in first place, comfortably) and he gives them something noncommittal about consistency and good teammates.

The reporter smiles when she finds her opening again.

“And again, congratulations on being named Boston’s All-Star representative for the third year in a row. The fan vote is still open for several spots on the roster—anyone you’d like to see voted in?”

Ilya shifts his weight, already half-turned toward the ice. It’s an easy question. A throwaway question. The kind you answer without thinking. The easy answers are on the tip of his tongue—Marly as his favourite liney, Connors as a peace offering, Anderson as his captain…

Or.

“Hollander,” he says slowly. “From Montreal.”

The reporter’s smile gets slightly more interested and her left eyebrow twitches up slightly. “Any particular reason?”

“He is—” Ilya shrugs. “He is very good. Would be fun to play with him.” He shrugs again, like he doesn’t see anything unusual about that. “For the fans, also.”

“You two had quite a notable CCM campaign this fall—”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Very good campaign. Very good goalie.” He turns his head slightly and smiles directly at the camera. “Next question.”

He’s in his car after practice when Simon’s text arrives.

Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: Finished the meeting. Be patient.

Ilya stares at this for a long moment.

Me: how patient

Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: Very
Ivanovich 😴🥱😔: I will call you tomorrow.

Ilya drops his phone into the cupholder and very narrowly resists slamming his head into the steering wheel. Fuck being patient—he has been so goddamned patient, which is what Simon keeps telling him to do, and which he is doing, technically, in the sense that he has not yet called the Raiders’ front office to tell them exactly what he thinks of them and their endless rounds of negotiations.

He is being extremely patient.

His phone buzzes and he snatches it back up immediately.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: What the fuck Lily.

Ilya reads it, and something in his chest lurches—quick, inconvenient, and absurdly giddy. A laugh threatens to escape, bubbling up before he can stop it, and he exhales through his nose in an attempt to settle it. It doesn’t.

Me: oh I just think the fans will make the right decision 😇
Me: also. next week’s game. are we on?

The typing bubbles immediately appear, then disappear after about a minute. Ilya waits, but they never reappear.

Ilya has his phone on the table, screen dark, within reach but not in his hand. Nominally he is helping Sveta study—using her terrifying collection of cue cards to toss phrases like ‘stakeholder salience model’ and ‘categorical imperative’ at her in Russian so she can respond with a stream of English that makes absolutely no sense to him.

His screen stays dark the entire time. Ilya checks it anyway, and Sveta gives him a look that he ignores.

When the text does come in it is hours later, late enough that Sveta has vanished into the spare bedroom out of actual necessity instead of procrastination, and late enough that even Ilya is contemplating turning in for the night.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Sure.

Ilya reads it, and something settles, and he types back a 😘 and turns off his phone and turns towards his room. As he passes by the spare bedroom there is the faint sound of Sveta's laptop keys, steady and unhurried.

TD Garden is the way it always is for a Montreal game, loud and anticipatory in a way that Ilya can feel humming through the air of warmups. It’s a different texture than in Montreal—the crowd here is more interested in getting his attention with their waves and shouts, begging for a scrap of acknowledgement from one of their local stars rather than trying to murder him with the force of their French booing. Hockey fans are intense in every arena, but on home ice the noise sits heavier, spreads out, a low, constant pressure that fills the space between bodies and boards and glass.

He skates loose circles through Boston's zone, tapping a puck back and forth on the ice, dodging his teammates as they do their warmups, waiting, waiting waiting—

There.

Hollander approaching the center line, slowing to a stop beside the penalty boxes. His stick hits the ice first, perfectly lined up with the center line before he follows, dropping to stretch out his legs. Ilya doesn’t approach right away—does another few circles, fires his puck on net—but when he does Hollander is already looking up. Waiting for him.

“The Marriott in Pittsburgh,” he says the second Ilya is close enough to hear him, “has terrible breakfast.”

That matches with what Ilya knows; the last time the Raiders played the Puffins, Feller found an unboiled egg in the breakfast station, a cherished memory that had briefly united the entire team in horrified solidarity and is a moment that nobody has let Feller forget yet.

But Ilya wants to hear why Hollander thinks it sucked. “Which part?”

Hollander is still looking up at him. “The fruit.”

Ah. “Was it moldy?”

“It was all honeydew,” Hollander says sadly, then looks back down at his stretching, like that's all there is to say about it.

Ilya stays where he is for a second longer, but Hollander doesn’t look up again. A puck clatters off the boards nearby. Someone shouts. The noise rushes back in.

Ilya pushes off again, and goes back to his circles.

It’s a miserable game from the start.

Montreal comes out swinging from the first shift—fast, aggressive, finishing every check like it means something—and the Raiders spend the opening minutes reacting instead of setting anything of their own. It doesn’t feel like panic, exactly, but it’s close enough to it to be noticeable and they are very obviously scrambling.

By the end of the first period, they’re down by two.

It’s not for lack of effort. That’s the irritating part: the Raiders are skating, they’re pushing, they’re trying to force something to click, but nothing holds together long enough to matter. Passes die halfway to their targets. Clean zone entries turn into offsides more often than not. Every time it looks like they might settle, something small breaks and the whole sequence collapses with it.

The second goal is the worst of it—fourth line gets caught on a change, too many men on the ice, and Montreal converts on the ensuing power play with less than a minute left in the period.

The buzzer sounds like an indictment.

Connors is the first one to say something once they’re back in the locker room for intermission; “I thought home ice refs were supposed to be nicer.”

“That’s corruption,” Marly says, stripping his jersey off with slightly more anger than he usually shows. It makes sense though—he was the one who made a bad turnover that led to Montreal’s first goal. “You’re asking for corruption.”

“I’m just asking for consistency,” Connors mutters as he slumps into his stall.

“Corruption,” Ilya corrects, because he can’t help himself, and needling Connors is more fun than figuring out whatever the fuck just went wrong in the first period. Unfortunately coach doesn’t seem to share the sentiment, and once Millsy limps his way into the room LeClaire claps his hands once. The low chatter dies instantly.

“Well,” LeClaire says, not loudly, but it cuts through. He glances around the room, already in problem-solving mode. “We’re not doing that again. Keep it simple, short shifts, no forcing plays through the middle.”

A chorus of muttered “yes coach” rises, followed by the usual intermission shuffle—gear shifting, tape ripping, skates thudding against the floor. But something heavier lingers in the air, a subtle dissatisfaction that doesn’t dissolve.

It builds for a few minutes—Feller pawing listlessly through the snack table; Olsson muttering under his breath as he peels off a layer of gear; Stidwell leaning back, eyes narrowing at the wall, shifting his weight like he’s trying to will the first period away—before Anderson stands up and clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says, calm, steady, like nothing about this is new. “We’re fine.”

Ilya doesn't look up from the laces he's retying, but he's listening. He's always listening to Anderson in these moments, even when he'd rather not admit it—filing away the timing of it, the specific weight he puts on certain words, the way he doesn't try to talk over whatever's in the room but just waits until the room is ready.

“They got two off our mistakes. That’s it. Clean it up, play our game, this turns.” He looks around, makes eye contact where it matters. “We don’t need to do anything special. Just be better in the details.”

It’s not inspiring, exactly. Anderson isn’t a man built for speeches or grand moments, but it’s enough to tamp down on the sharpest edges.

The TV timeout is midway through the second period. Ilya drifts wide at the whistle, not entirely on purpose, and ends up near the Metros bench.

Well he might as well since he’s already here—he glides to a stop in front of Hollander. He’s not hard to spot; no helmet, Metros cap pulled low, sitting at the end of the bench with his elbows on his knees watching the ice with an unblinking stare that he raises to watch Ilya’s approach.

“You're telegraphing more than usual,” Hollander says.

Huh? Ilya just stares at him. Hollander, unhurried, elaborates.

“When you set up left of the circle. You telegraph the pass to the point. Every time.”

“I do not—”

“Third shift,” Hollander says. “Your entire upper body shifted.” He says it the way someone might read a stat off a page. Factual. Slightly judgemental. Slightly smug. “It’s been doing it all period.”

Hollander’s expression is mostly unreadable, but there's something at the edges of it—not quite amusement, just something Ilya can only read as Shane Hollander specifically and nothing more general than that. Hollander leans back (when did he even lean in?) and raises a challenging eyebrow while Ilya continues to stare at him, because that is—

Boiziau on the bench beside Hollander leans in and says something in French, but Hollander just snorts and says in English, “It’s fine. It’s not like he’ll actually try and fix it.”

“You,” Ilya says, because he’s legitimately unsure if Hollander is telling the truth or trying to fuck with him, “are very annoying.”

Hollander shrugs slightly, and the side of his mouth twitches up slightly. “Go watch some tape and see if I’m wrong.”

Ilya skates away before he has to answer that.

(And if he immediately asks one of the trainers for an iPad and spends the rest of the TV timeout watching and rewatching his positioning—well. That’s his business.)

The third period is when it finally comes together.

It takes him two shifts to stop thinking about his upper body positioning, which is two shifts too many and entirely Hollander's fault—but Anderson wins a puck battle behind the net and kicks it out front, and Ilya is already moving.

One touch to settle it, half a second to read Miitka's weight, and he puts it in the top right corner before Miitka can fully commit to a direction. Clean. The kind of goal that looks effortless and isn't.

2-1.

Eight minutes later, a delayed penalty, Ilya walking in from the left circle with Marly screening at the net front. He’s almost painfully aware of his body positioning—which fuck you, Hollander, for putting the idea in his mind when he’s trying to play hockey—and passes to Olsson, who passes to Marly, who passes it back the the center for Ilya to tap in around Miitka’s extended leg.

A set play, executed perfectly, tic-tac-toe and in.

2-2.

Ilya is thinking about the hat trick before he's decided to think about it, and he wants it, right here, right now, in front of this crowd. Specifically.

The chance comes with six minutes left—Marly finds him in the slot, clean look, everything lined up exactly right—and Miitka reads it perfectly. Full extension, glove side, the puck disappearing into his catching hand like it was always going there.

Ilya stands at the top of the crease for a moment, and breathes out once through his nose.

The save was good. Genuinely, irritatingly good—the kind that requires you to acknowledge it even when you're the one who just got robbed.

Fine. That man is worth his contract.

He skates away before he has to think anything else complimentary about it, or start to compare his glove-side abilities to the goalie on the bench.

Montreal scores about a minute later, taking full advantage of Millsy misreading a play behind the net and passing the puck directly to Albright at the point instead of a wide open Connors, and that's the game before Ilya has fully processed that they were giving it away.

3-2 the final. Ilya did a fucking hero’s effort to get them two goals, but it wasn’t enough for a win.

TD Garden offers a halfhearted round of boos at the buzzer that sounds exactly as done with this game as Ilya feels. He stands at the blueline while the Metros pile onto the ice, and when Hollander skates past and raises a hand in his direction, Ilya manages a small salute back.

Just the one. Hollander doesn't need more than that.

There are no new texts when Ilya checks his phone after stepping off the ice, but after he gets back from the shower:

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Hyatt Regency Hotel. 817.

Ilya reads this once and starts getting changed immediately, and is halfway through struggling into his sweatpants when Marly drops onto the bench beside him.

“You’re not coming out with us tonight,” Marly says. Not a question.

“No,” Ilya says.

Marly looks at him for a second with a very serious expression before a very stupid smile spreads across his face and then slaps him on the shoulder hard enough to sting.

“Get some sleep,” Marly says, very seriously, and fucking winks before standing up and leaving him alone. Ilya watches him go and thinks about telling him to mind his own business—and doesn’t bother, because Marly absolutely will not and also Ilya is already thinking about better things.

Ilya knocks exactly thirty minutes after the text, which he is not going to acknowledge, and Hollander opens the door still in his game-day suit, tie loosened, hair flattened in a way that suggests he showered at the arena and didn’t bother fixing it after.

“Told you I was right about the telegraphing,” Hollander says immediately, before Ilya can even say hello.

He was absolutely right, but Ilya would never admit this. “Eh,” he says instead, twisting his voice into something careless, indifferent. “Was not so important. I scored twice today, remember?”

He leans in slightly, expecting Hollander to give ground, to step back and let him in. Hollander doesn’t move. Just watches him with an unimpressed glare, clearly waiting for something.

Ilya adjusts. “Also,” he adds, like this has just occurred to him, “no thank you? I am working very hard to get you votes for All-Stars.”

“Fuck you for that, by the way,” Hollander says with a narrowed look, something like genuine displeasure creeping up through the words, something less controlled. “For that interview. My agent has been sending me emails about it all week—my mom has been texting me—”

Ilya shifts, settling his shoulder more deliberately against the doorframe, close enough now that Hollander would have to move to close the door. He doesn’t.

“Why are you upset, Hollander?” he says, softer, tipping his head just slightly. “Last I checked—” his gaze drags, deliberate and unhurried— “you are winning the fan vote. By a lot, I think.”

Hollander’s mouth pulls into that familiar scowl, but the space between them has gone tight, shrinking to something almost deliberate. They’re close enough now that Ilya can hear the shift of his breathing, see the moment Hollander notices it too and doesn’t step back.

“Are you going to let me in,” Ilya says, quieter now, “or are we doing this in the hallway?”

Hollander looks at him for a second with something tight and focused, like he’s made a decision and is annoyed about it. His gaze flicks once—quick, involuntary—down and back up.

Then he steps back.

Ilya is barely through the door before Hollander lunges for him, closing the distance in a single, impatient movement.

He's not practiced at this—Ilya has known this since September, the slight uncertainty in the angle, the way he commits before he's fully decided—but he makes up for it in a way that Ilya has also known since September, something focused and genuine underneath the uncertainty. Hollander approaches kissing the exact opposite way he seems to approach goaltending: none of the stillness, none of the measured patience. Just momentum, and the kind of commitment that doesn’t leave room for second thoughts.

It's disarming every time. Ilya keeps meaning to be prepared for it and keeps not being.

Hollander makes a low, pleased sound and presses in closer, hips slotting forward in a way that snaps Ilya’s attention downward. Hollander is hard—maybe has been from the moment they started kissing, maybe from before that, back in the hallway—and Ilya’s hand follows instinctively, sliding down, pushing Hollander’s shirt out of the way to get at skin. The first touch clearly shakes him from his enthusiastic quest to stick his entire tongue into Ilya’s mouth, because Hollander is suddenly stumbling backwards, muttering “clothes, clothes”, scrabbling for the buttons of his shirt, and Ilya is all too happy to follow his lead.

It’s a familiar rhythm—he’s seen this twice before, and every time it’s the same absurdly methodical sequence that leaves him equally baffled and entertained. Hollander’s shirt comes off and gets folded. His pants come off and get folded. Ilya, halfway through tugging his own shirt over his head, pauses to watch in real time.

The pants go neatly on top of the shirt, edges aligned. Then Hollander reaches down again and his briefs come off, get folded in thirds, and are placed on top of the stack with a small, decisive pat.

Ilya pulls his shirt off and drops it, kicks his sweatpants and underwear off into a pile on the floor and doesn't bother feeling bad about it.

For a moment they just look at each other.

Then Ilya steps back, shifting his weight and moving toward the bed like it’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. He pulls the covers off, lowers himself onto it, and spreads out just enough to make the invitation obvious.

“Come here,” Ilya eventually says when Hollander doesn't move, and settles back against the pillows, making his intentions fairly clear.

“Oh—” Hollander hesitates, and something moves through his expression, a brief internal negotiation. “I wanted to—” He makes a small vague gesture downward that Ilya has no trouble interpreting.

“I know,” Ilya says. “Come here anyway.”

“But—”

“Hollander.” He pats the bed beside him. “You will like this. Come here.”

Hollander watches him for half a second longer, like he’s arguing with himself, then gives in and climbs up beside him.

Ilya is having a fantastic time.

It had taken a bit of negotiation—Hollander is, as it turns out, extremely stubborn about his plans and tried to reach down and get a hand on Ilya's cock—but eventually Ilya had managed to bully him into reclining against the pillows and letting Ilya fulfill one of his deeply-held fantasies of licking his way down Hollander’s abs.

And he’d been so responsive; threading his hand through Ilya’s hair, gasping any time Ilya moved his attention to a new area, moving despite Ilya’s arm pinning him down (which was a problem Ilya was going to enjoy solving), and freezing completely when Ilya pressed the edge of his teeth to the side of his pec. It had been just the suggestion of pressure, not enough to actually leave a mark, but his reaction and the sudden puddle of precome leaking from Hollander’s cock sent Ilya scurrying down the bed to settle between Hollander’s legs.

God, this is just—Hollander’s thighs are trembling on either side of Ilya’s head, and his hands are gripping his hair in a way that is just on the edge of too tight but feels fucking fantastic, and Hollander is gasping out a desperate sounding “Wait wait wait” that Ilya listens to because he is a nice person.

He pulls back slowly. Hollows his cheeks and gives just the slightest flick of his tongue just before Hollander’s cock leaves his mouth—and Hollander fucking whines at that and Ilya only barely resists the urge to reverse course and go right back down—before sitting back on his heels and taking in the results of his efforts.

Hollander looks wrecked; his entire face bright red, the flush carrying down his neck and past his upper chest. His breath is heaving, and his legs are still trembling slightly, and a sharp sensation of smug pride sings its way to life inside Ilya’s chest.

“Problem, Hollander?” Ilya asks sweetly, and leans in to press a very polite kiss to the side of Hollander’s knee–

—which Hollander very obviously does not appreciate, because he flinches and valiantly tries to shift away.

Well they can’t have that. Ilya gets a hand back on Hollander’s cock (and the way he shudders will absolutely be featuring heavily in Ilya’s mental masturbation folder for at least the next month), and leans forward to lick the side of his knee.

Hollander gasps out a wounded sounding “Rozanov,” and shudders again when Ilya starts to move his hand.

The thing is—and Ilya is aware this is not a generous thought, but he is having it anyway—he had known. He'd known from the very first time, had known that under all the practicality and the hockey facts and the perfectly careful persona, there was someone who could be taken apart, who would respond like this if someone just took the time.

And Ilya was willing to take the time. Repeatedly.

And he has been, frankly, exceptional about it. The return on his investment is currently trembling on either side of his head and making sounds Ilya is committing to permanent memory, so.

He is feeling very proud of his instincts right now.

Oh this is too good—Ilya continues his ministrations, kissing and licking his way back up his thighs towards Hollander’s groin, and once he reaches the ridge of his hipbone Ilya has a fantastic idea, and opens his mouth to take a little nip with his teeth—

And Hollander curls almost violently inwards and comes with a shout, and Ilya very nearly blacks out right there and then. All the tension bleeds out of Hollander’s body, and he doesn’t protest when Ilya crawls up the bed beside him, gets a desperate hand on himself to add to the mess after three strokes, and collapses with his face pressed into the side of Hollander’s heaving chest.

It takes a couple of minutes for Hollander to come back to himself, but Ilya doesn't mind. He spends the time tracing the defined lines of Hollander's shoulders, his arms, tracking the slow recession of the flush in his skin until there's only the lightest hint of pink left beneath his freckles.

Eventually Hollander stirs, shifts, makes a face at the ceiling that suggests his body is starting to report in. Ilya taps his hip twice.

“Up.”

Hollander makes a noise that is not quite a word but communicates clearly, and Ilya gets an elbow under him and levers them both more or less upright, which takes some negotiation and ends with Hollander sitting on the edge of the bed looking like a man reassembling himself from component parts.

“Holy shit,” Hollander mutters, and Ilya turns to see him standing and staring wide-eyed at the bed—which, ok yes, looks used in a way that is absolutely incriminating—and Ilya can’t help the giggle that carves its way out of him. Hollander gives him a betrayed looking frown, and Ilya raises his hands placatingly.

“Is fine, Hollander.” The frown doesn't move. Ilya steps closer and pats his cheek gently once, twice, then lets his hand linger, his thumb brushing against the worried press of Hollander's mouth. “Hotels are very used to this, yes? We can leave a good tip for housekeeping.”

“We should probably strip the sheets too,” Hollander says, and takes a step towards the bed again—before freezing, a new discomfited expression carving its way through the concerned tilt of Hollander’s eyebrows. Ilya lets his hand drop and takes a step back to see what—

Oh. Hollander’s torso is still absolutely covered in cum and it’s reaching that stage of dried that Ilya knows from experience feels kind of terrible—so Ilya puts his hands on his shoulders and turns him in the direction of the washroom. “Go wash. I can take care of sheets.”

Hollander goes, throwing a grateful smile back over his shoulder as he does, and Ilya stands there grinning at the empty space for considerably longer than is strictly necessary before he shakes himself and reaches for the blankets.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: why did i ever decide to go to university
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: is it too late to drop out

Me: probably yes
Me: isn’t your last exam tomorrow
Me: would be a waste to drop out now

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: 🖕
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: bring me mcdonalds

Me: get it yourself, i’m busy

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: 👅💦🤠👀
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: why the fuck are you texting me, get back to it
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: tell him that pike needs to stop trying Michigans, it’s just embarrassing now

The shower is still running.

It's been running for a while—long enough that Ilya had time to strip the sheets and check his phone, and at some point it had stopped being something he was aware of and started being background noise. Still running. No movement sounds, no nothing. Just water.

Ilya looks at the bathroom door. Looks at the hotel room door.

It's possible—not likely but possible, the kind of thing a person could do—that Hollander had turned the shower on and walked out. It would be a very Hollander move, actually. Very calculated. The shower still running so Ilya wouldn't notice for a few minutes, enough of a head start to be out of the hallway and down the elevator before—

Ilya gets up and checks.

He didn’t sneak out—Hollander is standing under the spray doing absolutely nothing, staring at the middle distance with the vacant expression of a man whose brain has taken itself somewhere else entirely and not left a forwarding address. He hasn't noticed Ilya. The water is running over his shoulders and he is just—standing there. In a way that is not immediately concerning but still sends a prickle of unease up Ilya’s spine, so he leans against the doorway in a way he desperately hopes is casual and drawls “Did you drown?”

Hollander startles badly, and Ilya watches the sequence of events play out across his face in rapid succession: surprise, then something that is very obviously not surprise at all as his eyes move down Ilya's body and back up, then the flush that follows immediately after, deep and immediate, spreading up from his collar and across his cheeks. He closes his mouth. Opens it again. The tips of his ears are red.

The unease dissolves. Ilya pushes off the doorframe and reaches for the shower door.

His mouth is still open slightly, and Ilya can see the way his breathing gets just the slightest bit unsteady. For a horrible second Ilya thinks Hollander is about to tell him to fuck off—but then he’s stepping back, making room for Ilya to join him under the spray, and Ilya goes.

Hollander is fully dressed when Ilya steps out of the bathroom—coat on, standing by the door and patting his pockets in the methodical way of someone running through a checklist right before leaving. Phone. Keys. Wallet.

Ilya crosses the room anyway.

Hollander looks up when Ilya steps into his space, and lets Ilya kiss him—briefly, two seconds, a hand coming up to Ilya's chest not pushing exactly, just present, just there, but Ilya gets the message and steps back.

“See you,” Hollander says, and reaches for the door handle.

He's out the door before Ilya can think to say anything other than “good night,” which is all he manages just as the door clicks shut, and Ilya is standing in the middle of the room in the oppressive silence of a hotel room that someone has just left.

Shoes, he thinks. Phone. Keys. Wallet. Sveta wanted McDonald's—Ilya knows her order by heart, crispy chicken snack wrap, large fries, Sprite. He should check if the one on Washington street is still open. He should find his jacket. He should—

The room is very quiet.

Ilya is still looking at the door.

There's nothing specific to look at. Just a door, just a room, just a space where someone was recently and isn’t anymore. He knows how this works—has been on the other side of it often enough, pulling on his own clothes, already halfway gone before the door even closes behind him.

That part is usually his.

He doesn't know what to do with it from this side.

He finds his shoes. Finds his phone. Puts his jacket on and checks the McDonald’s hours and heads for the door—and if he moves slightly more slowly than he needs to on the way out, there's nobody left in the room to notice.

Chapter End Notes

🚨🚨🚨 READER PARTICIPATION MOMENT 🚨🚨🚨
We are at a crossroads moment of this fic, and in the spirit of collaboration, you guys get to decide how this story progresses. Future plotlines all come down to one simple question: Do you want Shane to go to the Olympics

Actual plot details down here if you want

If yes: Shane gets traded after this current season (I'm open to suggestions on landing places), we get angstier when Ilya cuts him off in sochi. Edited for more context: olympic rosters typically take 3 goalies but only 1 is expected to play
If no: Shane gets traded when his ELC is up next season (2013/14), goes to boston, this stays more of a romcom. Edited for more context: to anyone still wanting angst/character work/not all fluff, there is still plenty of room for that

I am always reading every comment left on this work, but this time I'll be counting the votes.
This fic is not going to be updated for two weeks. Don't worry, this has nothing to do with the twitter chuds: I'm attending a family wedding overseas, and I don't think I'll be up to writing hockey yaoi when I'm staying at my great aunt's house (unless...)

My normal author's notes are in the first comment

Chapter 10

Chapter Summary

The flight from London Heathrow to Calgary airport is just over nine hours; I just spent nine hours plotting, writing, and editing hockey yaoi on the iphone notes app. Enjoy :)

Chapter Notes

The votes are in! With a stunning 74% of the votes on the last chapter, Shane will not be going to the Olympics. To the remaining 26% (and the additional 45 of you who asked for both versions of the story (not included in the total stats)), never fear: I have pasted in my Olympics plot outline in comments, and I might actually write that version of the story as an AU once this main-timeline romcom is done :)

NSFW this chapter?

Not really; we're in Shane's head so no graphic details. Some discussion of sex but nothing too E

Shane’s game-day alarm goes off at 7am. It’s quiet, barely enough to pull him fully out of sleep, but it’s enough to bring him to that hazy, relaxed edge of consciousness and give his mind time to wander.

Montreal’s season is going well. Better than well, actually—the Metros are sitting second in the Atlantic three games before the All-Star break, and Shane is still there on the team and still getting starts.

Technically. Theriault hasn’t said anything, nobody has said anything concrete, but things on the team have shifted as the inevitable result of Montreal’s front office making a five-year commitment to someone who is not Shane. There was no announcement and there didn’t need to be one: Shane is simply starting once every four games now, instead of once every two. Miitka gets the primary matchups, and Shane gets whatever’s left.

It’s not personal. Load management for goalies is never truly personal—it’s a logistical decision made for the best interests of the entire Montreal Metros organization, and right now the right thing to do is play the primary goalie.

It’s the right thing to do.

His agent has started emailing him though. Not too often, but often enough: little updates, check-ins, just keeping you in the loop, the subject lines careful and neutral in a way that makes them worse. Shane hasn’t—

Nope. Not thinking about that. Shane is twenty-one years old, playing professional hockey with a .912 save percentage and has one more year left on his ELC. That is the only thing that should matter to him right now. He’s living his dream, playing professional hockey, and that’s more than enough, and he doesn’t need to be thinking about anything other than that.

It’s more than enough.

His second alarm chimes. 7:15. Go time.

Breakfast: banana, oatmeal, water. On the road by 8. When he’s starting, the details shift but the structure holds. More stretching. More hand-eye drills. It’s the second game of a back-to-back and they’re up against Minnesota tonight, and the Nomads have been so decimated by injuries this season Shane isn’t expecting too much of a fight. Doesn’t mean he’s going to risk changing up his routines though.

He’s off the ice by 11, in and out of the locker room, grabbing his bag and driving off to be back in his apartment within fifteen minutes.

Back home, he pulls out his nutritionist-provided meal (some sort of lasagna today), microwaves it for four minutes, and carries it to the counter to check his phone. He’s expecting a message from his mom at least, maybe a text or two from the Maples, or—

Lily: need your cock NOW daddy 🥵🔥🥵

Right. That.

It’s been five months since Mississauga. Two hookups since then, and Shane’s been doing more research, which when paired with his growing amount of hands on experience, has made this whole thing really—

Nice. It’s been nice, to try some things out. It’s been… something. He’s not sure what to call it. Experimentation still seems like the right word. Or curiosity, maybe, if he feels like being a bit more detached and abstract about things. Arguably he should be calling this the stupidest fucking thing he’s ever done, bar none and deleting that text, but—

The texts are a separate category. They’re just Rozanov, intermittently appearing at odd hours with whatever he feels like saying, and Shane kind of likes the spontaneity every so often. Texting like a porn bot is a new strategy though, and they’ll be seeing each other again in less than a week at All-Stars, which is probably why Rozanov is—

Nope. Shane’s not going to start assigning motives. He unlocks his phone.

Me: Fucking relax maybe.

Lily: mean to me (((
Lily: you are starting tonight yes

Me: Yes.

Lily: good
Lily: i have a bet with connors that you get shutout

Did that count as sports betting? Shane spends approximately three seconds trying to remember if the player handbook covered this specific situation before realizing that he doesn’t really care.

Me: Against Minnesota?
Me: Their top line is Neske and two guys who got here because someone else got injured.

Lily: ok so yes shutout

Honestly that sort of unconditional confidence is kind of nice—but his phone buzzes again.

Lily: also. all stars
Lily: did you see hunter is team captain 💀

Me: I saw.

Lily: this is going to be so funny
Lily: he’s going to hate us so much by sunday

Me: He already hates you.

Lily: he hates US now hollander, you are implicated, this is what happens when you fraternize with the enemy

Oh god. That’s– fraternize is not a word Rozanov should be using here.

Me: I'm going to pretend you didn’t say that

Lily: 🥺🥺
Lily: Jane
Lily: my allstar teammate
Lily: my friend

Me: Don’t

Lily: the only man who truly understands me

Me: I’m blocking you

Lily: wait wait wait
Lily: when do you get in next thursday

Shane looks at that for a second longer than he needs to.

Me: Late.

He puts his phone face down on the counter and finishes his lasagna, and ignores his phone as it buzzes two more times in quick succession before falling silent. He unlocks his phone again when his bowl is in the dishwasher—swiping past the new notifications without looking at them—and opens up his chat with Bones, who was apparently awake at two this morning and tried to make that Shane’s problem.

Thank god for Do Not Disturb mode.

Greg Bohner: Ok so
Greg Bohner: I need you to know that I’ve been betrayed
Greg Bohner: [image]
Greg Bohner: This man tk SHOT ME IN THE BACK
Greg Bohner: We were on the SAME TEAM
Greg Bohner: Hollzy are you seeing this
Greg Bohner: HOLLZY
Greg Bohner: Ok you’re probably asleep because you’re a grandpa but when you wake up

Shane opens the image. It’s a grainy screenshot from a first-person shooter, the kill-cam freezing Jonesy’s username at the exact moment of impact. Shane stares at it for a beat. He has absolutely no idea what Bones wants him to take away from this.

Me: You were probably in his way?

Typing bubbles pop up immediately.

Greg Bohner: Jonesy has no honour and never has
Greg Bohner: BUT FIRST, I have trade gossip you apparently don’t know about!
Greg Bohner: Maples are making a big move

Me: I don't follow AHL trades Bones

Greg Bohner: You follow EVERYTHING
Greg Bohner: But fine: Trade’s with Detroit, and rumour has it its someone MLH ready

While Shane might be (definitely is) slightly too aware of the Laval Maples roster, his interest in the AHL doesn’t really extend past his former teammates. He spends a second trying to remember anyone notable he played against two years ago, but gives up fairly quickly.

Me: Who’s the prospect?

Greg Bohner: Don’t know yet, but I’ll tell you once it goes through
Greg Bohner: ANYWAY
Greg Bohner: Back to jonesy’s crimes against me personally

His phone buzzes in his hand. Another text message has come in from another conversation thread.

He doesn't switch chats.

He finishes reading Bones’ increasingly unhinged breakdown of last night's COD session—something about a betrayal so profound it has apparently caused him to question the nature and existence of loyalty itself—and types back something appropriately unsympathetic, and puts his phone in his pocket.

It buzzes again.

Shane heads into his bedroom for his afternoon nap and thinks about absolutely nothing in particular, which is working fine, and is completely fine.

Anaheim in February feels like a trick: seventeen degrees, palm trees, actual visible sunlight, the kind of weather that makes Shane feel faintly suspicious, like the city is trying to sell him something. He wheels his bag through the Marriott lobby in his winter coat like an idiot because he hadn't thought to check the forecast before packing and he hadn’t stopped moving since stepping off the plane, either—right from Ottawa to Montreal to here, and the part along the day where he was supposed to take the coat off just… didn’t happen.

Shane doesn’t take his coat off.

He joins the line for the front desk behind a man he should recognize: it looks like one of the primetime hosts from SportsCentre, he’s almost sure, but the certainty won’t land. It’s a stupid thing to not be able to place a face he’s seen for years; SportsCentre doesn’t even change hosts that often. Shane knows that. He does. It’s just—his brain is lagging half a step behind everything else, like the inputs are coming in clean but lining up wrong on the output.

Everything in the lobby feels slightly off: too bright, too polished, sound bouncing in the wrong directions. Someone laughs near the elevators, sharp and too loud. A suitcase wheel clicks unevenly over tile.

It’s so much louder than it should be.

Travel days are usually like that though, whole days when his routines drop out from under him, and his thoughts loosen—not enough to get out of control, just enough that they stop lining up properly.

The Metros just finished two road losses against Winnipeg and Toronto right before the start of the All-Star break, which is—just fine. Shane flew straight from Toronto to Ottawa to see his parents for three days before going back to Montreal for less than three hours to pack and leave for All-Stars—but that’s fine. The Metros are sitting third in the Atlantic after their win over Minnesota and losses to Winnipeg and Toronto, but that’s fine. The Metros have 35 games left in the season to keep their place in the standings, but the standings are fine. Shane’s only playing one game out of every four, but that’s ok because his numbers are fine.

Everything is—

A TV mounted behind the check-in desk runs highlights on a loop. Bright graphics, ‘Welcome All-Stars!’, quick cuts between words and photos. His own face flickers across it for a second—mask on, glove up, his name stamped underneath in block letters along with the words ‘Thank you fans!’.

He looks away as soon as he reads it, because that line is specifically meant for him. Shane won the fan vote by a landslide.

That’s the only reason he’s here. It’s clean, easy logic to follow from point A to B to C: the internet voted, the numbers added up, and now he’s here. He’s here because the internet voted him in, and that’s the whole story: Shane won the fan vote by a margin that his agent had called historic in a tone that suggested he was supposed to feel good about it, and Shane had said… something. He doesn’t remember what he said after that.

Something about appreciation, potentially. Maybe wow. Or maybe just thanks. It doesn’t really matter now: Shane won the All-Stars fan vote by a landslide margin and he’s feeling absolutely fine about the fact that it had more to do with the people on the internet instead of his ability to play.

The line moves. Shane steps forward because the maybe-SportsCentre host in front of him does. The strap of his bag digs into his shoulder; he adjusts it, then forgets why he did and adjusts it again.

It’s not that he thinks he doesn’t deserve it, exactly—it’s just that “deserve” doesn’t seem like the right way to describe how online attention has latched on to him, and online attention isn’t anything he particularly wants but is stuck with anyways. The Metros’ media team has stopped pretending to let him hide from them, and over the past month Shane has been featured in three separate social posts, two behind-the-scenes videos, and one carefully edited “day in a player’s life” that bore only a passing resemblance to how his days actually unfold. It’s faintly unnerving to see the final versions of the videos—like he’s watching someone else move through an alien version of his life that’s been cut down to something cleaner. Easier.

The SportsCentre man walks away, and Shane steps up to the desk. Gives his name. Watches the receptionist type it in, letters appearing one at a time, slightly delayed. There’s a gap there. A second's pause, maybe.

No, the part Shane keeps getting stuck on is the fact that the All-Stars vote happened back in December, when his save percentage that month was sitting at a .888 and he'd just come off six straight losses and was playing some of the worst hockey of his life.

The internet that voted him in isn’t paying attention to his save percentages. The internet is paying attention to something else entirely, something Shane can't fully see from the inside, and the result is that he’s standing in an Anaheim hotel lobby in his winter coat while guys who had better seasons than him are sitting at home.

Like JJ. JJ, who had actually been selected as the Metros’ All-Star representative, who had earned it through his own merit, is sitting at home right now nursing a cracked metacarpal that’ll keep him on injured reserve for at least the next month. The planning committee didn’t even make Shane the official replacement—it’s Albright who’d been chosen as Montreal's back-up All-Star, Shane is still just one of the six fan voted players, and Shane—

“Mr Hollander?”

There’s a keycard waiting on the counter in front of him, and the receptionist is looking at him with an expression that isn’t judgmental, technically, but it’s on the way there because Shane has been standing here for who knows how long and is acting like an actual idiot and—

Get it together.

“Thanks,” Shane says, and voice comes out level. Normal.

He takes the card. Nods when the receptionist says something else—directions, probably. He catches “elevator” and “left” and lets the rest go as he walks away. Finds the elevator bay and pushes the call button.

His phone buzzes.

Lily: what room

Shane stares at that for a moment.

Me: I just got here?

Lily: yes i know i can see you from the mezzanine

Shane turns around. Across the lobby, one floor up, Ilya Rozanov is leaning on the mezzanine railing with his phone in his hand, all six-ish feet of him wrapped in a bizarre combination of a floral button-down and jeans, and an expression of profound self-satisfaction.

Shane gives him a flat look. Rozanov waves.

Shane turns back to the elevators.

Me: How long have you been here.

Lily: since this morning
Lily: i have been very productive
Lily: also
Lily: waffles here are actually incredible, very disappointing for our project

The elevator doors open. Shane steps in and thinks about absolutely nothing in particular, which is honestly his current strategy for his entire life at this point. Holding up just fine.

Me: 607

“We have to be in the media room in less than twenty minutes,” is the first thing Shane says when he opens his door, because he is responsible and he actually read the itinerary the management team sent out for the weekend. Rozanov doesn’t seem to care though.

“Is fine,” Rozanov says, pushing past Shane and letting the door fall shut behind him, “you do not need twenty minutes.”

Shane opens his mouth to argue with that—because no, Rozanov, Shane would actually like some time to unpack his suitcase, maybe wash some of the airplane germs off his skin before facing any cameras—but before he can say anything, Rozanov's hands are on his face and his mouth is on his.

This is, Shane thinks distantly, not going to help him unpack his suitcase.

Rozanov kisses him slowly, mouth warm and insistent, one hand steady at Shane’s jaw like he has every right to be there, and like he doesn’t have a very real time-sensitive commitment, and like he has every intention of distracting Shane from being able to remind him.

The annoying part is that it’s working.

Shane feels his breath hitch out in a gasp as Rozanov's mouth slides from his to the line of his jaw, unhurried, deliberate. He lets his head tip back before he can stop himself, making space, which is a mistake because Rozanov immediately takes advantage of it, continuing downward until he finds the spot just under the hinge of Shane’s jaw and presses in, firmer this time, purposeful—

Ok, nope. Shane uses the hand he has in Rozanov’s hair to pull him away from his neck (and absolutely does not listen to the breathy noise Rozanov makes when he’s pulled by the hair), and leans away just enough to break the contact. He glances past Rozanov’s shoulder at the clock on the nightstand then back at his face, and tries to shape his face into something stern.

“We have media in eighteen minutes,” Shane says, and he sounds normal, and his breathing isn’t unsteady at all.

Rozanov’s expression is one of profound suffering. “I am very fast—”

“Rozanov.”

Rozanov sighs like a man being asked to carry a very heavy burden, and drops backwards onto Shane’s bed like a puppet with its strings cut. He lands face up, arms spread, staring at the ceiling with theatrical resignation.

“Fine,” he says, to the ceiling. “I can wait.”

Shane turns to his suitcase before he can get drawn into whatever performance this is going to become. He unpacks in the same order he always does: toiletry bag first, because that goes in the bathroom, and it will bother him most if it doesn’t. Suit next, carefully lifted out and hung so the shoulders sit properly on the hotel hanger. He smooths the fabric down the front out of habit even though it doesn’t actually need smoothing, and doesn’t stop himself from reaching out and smoothing it again. His dress shirt follows, then the tie folded over the hanger hook.

Behind him, the bed creaks slightly as Rozanov shifts pointedly, but says nothing.

Shane lines his shoes up by the door with their toes facing outward, parallel to the wall. It takes half a second to adjust the left one so the spacing matches the right. His gameday bag goes on the desk chair, zipper opened just enough to check that everything is where it should be: notebook, spare laces, the little roll of stick tape he likes better than the one the equipment manager hands out by default.

“You are very tidy,” Rozanov observes.

“Yes,” Shane says.

“It is almost excessive.”

“You’re on my bed with your shoes on.”

A pause. Then the soft thud of shoes hitting the floor.

Shane finishes laying out his gameday bag and finally allows himself to check his watch. Nine minutes till they have to be in the media room, which means the whole process took exactly the amount of time it normally did. He goes to wash his hands and his face and checks his reflection once, which is a mistake because Rozanov has appeared in the bathroom doorway behind him, chin propped on his hand against the doorframe, watching Shane in the mirror with an expression that Shane is not going to look at directly.

“Ready,” Shane says, to his own reflection, and Rozanov just hums a bit in response before turning to put his shoes back on.

They walk down to the media room together, which is just what’s happening and Shane absolutely does not think about the ten or so people who saw them—and then they turn the corner and the noise of the press scrum hits him like a wave.

Media is exactly what Shane expected and exactly what he was dreading—long tables, bright lights, a rotating carousel of reporters with microphones and the manic expression of people on a deadline. Shane sits at his assigned spot between Albright and a defenseman from Ottawa he’s met twice, and answers questions with as few words as he can get away with. Shane’s learned by now that the shorter the answer, the less there is to misquote.

His season numbers. The Metros’ playoff chances. What it means to be fan-voted into All Stars in just his second year in the league. What does he think of the opportunity to play with new people. The questions are not exciting and Shane can comfortably respond in the pleasant monotone he’s been practicing with his mom since his first AHL media scrum.

More questions about the Metros’ season. A question about JJ and his injury, and if he’d given Shane any advice. Another one about the fan vote and his online popularity. The same questions, over and over and over it’s all the same–

“Shane, you and Ilya Rozanov seem to have developed something of a rapport since the playoffs last season—are you excited to be on the same team for All Stars?”

Shane looks at the reporter. She has a recorder extended toward him and the expression of someone who suspects there’s a story here and is waiting to see if he’ll confirm it. Yeah, Shane thinks, and resists the nonsensical urge to laugh. ‘Rapport’ is definitely one word for what’s going on with him and Ilya Rozanov.

He absolutely cannot say that out loud.

“Rozanov’s a talented player,” Shane says after a moment, because it’s true and a nice thing to say. “He’s got the best shot in the league which is… annoying. As a goalie.”

A couple of the reporters smile at that. Shane can practically see the quote forming in someone’s notebook.

“He doesn’t do what you expect him to do,” he adds, because that part is also objectively true. “So yeah—I’m looking forward to this weekend. I’m looking forward to seeing what it’s like to be on the same team for once.” He hesitates for half a second, then, before he can stop himself, adds, “Which I’ll deny saying, if anyone else asks.”

The reporter looks delighted, and in the seat next to him Albright makes a sound that might be a smothered laugh. Shane thinks that’s the end of it—but of course, it’s not.

From one of the nearby tables Shane hears a familiar voice say something in Russian, tone unmistakably smug, and Shane has just enough time to think oh no before the same voice calls loudly across the room in English:

“I also look forward to spending more time with you, Hollander,” Ilya Rozanov announces to the entire media room, like this is a completely normal contribution to someone else’s press availability. He leans back in his chair at his own table, grinning openly across the room. “Maybe we will become very good friends this weekend.”

Everyone in the vicinity laughs. The first reporter thanks him with a beaming smile, and moves on to talk to the Ottawa player, and Shane can feel the heat climbing steadily up the back of his neck.

Maybe that was fine. That was friendly—camaraderie, a fucking rapport or whatever word they were going to use in whatever bullshit article was going to result from Shane being a stupid fucking idiot who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Nobody noticed anything weird. Shane is composed. Shane is professional. Shane is going to sit here with a completely normal expression on his face, answer questions about hockey, and not think about Ilya Rozanov. He keeps his expression neutral through what is honestly an impressive act of self-control, staring straight ahead like if he refuses to acknowledge what just happened it might somehow un-happen.

He is fairly certain he’s pulling it off, until Albright leans over and says, quietly, “Your ears are red, kid,” which is—

Fuck.

A reporter steps in front of him with a paper notebook. “Shane, can you talk about the Metros’ PDO this season?”

“Sure,” Shane says, in a completely normal voice, and he folds his hands together and sits up straight and answers the question but—

Albright has known him for two years. Albright is observant in the way veterans are. Red ears are a physiological response to a variety of stimuli. Room temperature. Lighting wattage. Shane runs hot. These are all plausible and legitimate explanations that Albright could reasonably land on without drawing any further conclusions whatsoever.

He’s probably not drawing any further conclusions.

Probably.

The reporter nods along to whatever Shane is saying about shooting percentages and regression like it makes perfect sense.

Shane keeps talking.

His ears are probably not even that red.

The knock comes at nine forty-seven, which Shane knows because he checks his watch when he hears it, not because he’s been counting down since his phone buzzed.

He opens the door.

Rozanov is leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets and an expression of complete innocence that Shane doesn’t believe in the slightest. He’s changed since the media scrum—different shirt, almost like he’s dressed for something more interesting than a hotel hallway.

“Hi,” Rozanov says, and yelps loudly as Shane grabs him by the arm and pulls him inside.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, sounding delighted, stumbling slightly as the door swings shut behind him with a solid click that feels, to Shane, like a very poor life decision locking into place. “So eager! What, you missed my cock so much—”

“Shut up–” What the hell is Rozanov doing, he was still practically in the hallway—Shane releases him and takes several steps backwards, a safe distance from Rozanov and breathes out harshly through his nose. “You can’t be saying shit like that. Hotel walls are really thin, I have no idea who's next door—”

Rozanov pouts at him a little. “Really? Do you think they are pressed to the walls, listening?”

God, maybe there was someone—but Rozanov wasn’t done.

“Relax, Hollander,” he says, and the exaggerated pout gives way to a smug-looking grin. “Everyone knows we are friends now. I said very nice things about you to reporters today.”

Damn it, he did, didn’t he. That first reporter probably went right to Rozanov after Shane said what he said, probably got a perfect matching quote from him that’ll spawn ten thousand articles and thinkpieces and make his mom call him in the morning—

This is such a bad idea. This is always a bad fucking idea, but this is so much worse than normal. Shane shoves a hand through his hair and takes another step back. “Fuck, we shouldn’t be doing this here. There are so many other players here, what if someone hears–”

“Eh,” Rozanov says, unconcerned. He kicks off his shoes and wanders past Shane, dropping onto the edge of the bed like he owns the room. “Would not be so strange to hear in hotel. My first All Stars, Orson from the Guardians was in the room next to me hosting an afterparty with three WAGs, two hookers, and a suitcase full of coke.”

Right, that was a huge scandal—Orson got slapped with a two month suspension and gets traded to a new team every single year now—but two players hooking up quietly in a hotel room is on a different level entirely from a cocaine orgy.

“Yeah, but–”

“But what?” Rozanov asks, and tilts back slightly on his hands, watching Shane easy and unbothered, the way he always is. “You really think anyone out there is listening at doors, hoping to catch something interesting?” Rozanov gestures vaguely toward the wall. “Even if someone hears—what do they hear? Someone fucking in a hotel room. They roll over, cover ears, and go back to sleep. Nobody is looking for anything, Hollander. Nobody is paying attention.”

It’s like nothing touches him. Like none of this costs him anything at all, like the monumental fucking risk of Rozanov even being here, in Shane’s hotel room isn’t even a blip on his personal radar. Like he has all the time in the world, and he doesn’t need to worry about anything, and this is just a thing that always happens and he already knows exactly how this ends and it’s nothing to be worried about.

Well. Hang on. This is a thing that happens now. Ilya Rozanov shows up in Shane’s hotel rooms. Regularly. And really only ends one way. Shane’s ears are probably red again—he has no way of knowing.

Shane is crossing the room before he realizes he’s moving, his hand twisting in the neckline of Rozanov’s shirt as he leans down to kiss him. Rozanov makes a pleased sound against his mouth, and this finally feels normal.

Or something close to it.

His hand comes up to Shane’s jaw almost immediately: fingers firm where they curl along the hinge, tilting Shane’s head to the angle he wants with the easy certainty of someone who doesn’t expect to be argued with. It’s casual. Thoughtless, almost.

It should probably bother Shane more than it does.

Instead it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight down his spine, and Shane is embarrassingly aware of how fast his body gets there—how little convincing it takes when Rozanov kisses him like this, unhurried and certain, like Shane letting this happen was never in question. A decent part of his brain is still stuck back in the hallway, running through worst-case scenarios, but he’s already hard and the longer Rozanov keeps kissing him the harder it is to remember why any of that felt urgent.

When Shane pulls back slightly to catch his breath, Rozanov doesn’t let him go right away. His thumb drags once along the corner of Shane’s mouth, slow, considering, like he’s checking something. Then he lets go.

Which—right. That’s a pretty strong sign it’s time to get moving.

Shane pulls back all the way. Straightens up, climbs off Rozanov’s lap and uses the grip he still has on Rozanov’s shirt to pull him upright as well before turning to the side.

There’s a rhythm to this part: Shane’s shirt comes off and as he folds it, he can feel the weight of Rozanov’s gaze tracking over his torso as he sets it on the TV stand. His pants follow. Folded. Briefs.

Behind him he hears the very different sound of Rozanov just... abandoning his clothing to gravity. When Shane turns back around there’s a shirt on the floor that is almost certainly inside out—but Rozanov is settling back on the edge of the bed, and Shane's brain helpfully produces absolutely no additional thoughts about this, and he just—stares.

It’s always best for Shane to get this out of the way as soon as he can because there’s just—there’s a lot to look at. Rozanov is built like something that should be illegal, the deltoids, the traps, the fucking ridiculous definition of his obliques, and the low light isn’t doing anything to make this easier, and Shane is just… he’s looking. That’s all. It’s fine to look. He’d look at anything that impressive.

And Rozanov lets him. Doesn’t say anything shitty, doesn't smirk—but he is very slightly, almost imperceptibly flexing, and it’s so deliberately stupid that something loosens in Shane’s chest without permission and he huffs out a short breath.

“Seriously?”

The left side of Rozanov’s mouth twitches up slightly, into something that isn’t quite a smile but definitely is on the way to one, and as Shane watches, Rozanov’s eyes very pointedly trace down Shane’s body and come to rest on Shane’s (very interested) dick. He doesn’t reach out to try and touch him though, just lies back slightly, drags his eyes back up to meet Shane’s, spreads his legs and very pointedly raises an eyebrow.

Subtle. Real subtle, Rozanov.

It works though, because Shane is already moving, crossing the one and a half steps between them before he really registers it. Then he’s dropping to his knees on the floor, hands finding the outside of Rozanov’s thighs, and Shane absolutely does not think about how this already feels like something he knows by heart as he moves his head down.

Afterward they’re both lying there, and Rozanov has somehow ended up with his hand in Shane’s hair, moving through it absently like he isn’t entirely aware he’s doing it, and Shane lets this happen for longer than he should because the ceiling is very interesting and his brain has temporarily stopped producing thoughts.

It’s been a day. Fourteen hours ago he was in Ottawa, he's been on two planes, in a car, through a lobby, through a media scrum, and now here, and his brain is full of too many things in no particular order—Albright’s quiet your ears are red, flashing cameras, the reporter’s beaming smile, Rozanov’s hand finding his jaw, the way the last few hours have felt like too much stimulation for one nervous system to process cleanly.

It’s nearly 11. He needs to do his evening stretches ASAP, if he wants to have any hope of going to bed on time and if he wants to feel normal playing hockey tomorrow. It’s just the skills competition, not serious hockey by any metric, but Shane’s going to be competing in the save streak competition and he needs to get his head in the game.

He needs to get started on his pre-bed stretching routine. The want for it is physical, almost, the same low pull he gets when he’s been away from the ice too long. He needs to get started so he can end his day on time. He needs to get started.

“Okay,” Shane says.

Rozanov’s hand stills. “Hm?”

“Time to go.”

Rozanov looks at him for a moment, expression unreadable, then sits up wordlessly. Shane gets up too: runs a hand through his hair, grabs his shirt and joggers from the folded pile, crouches to pull out his yoga mat from his suitcase.

By the time he straightens back up Rozanov is also dressed, shoes back on, his phone and room key ready in his hands.

“See you tomorrow,” Rozanov says—and waits, like he wants something.

“Tomorrow,” Shane confirms after a long moment, and apparently that was all Rozanov was looking for because he rocks slightly on his feet, nods once, and lets himself out.

The door clicks shut.

Shane rolls the mat out on the floor, sits down, and starts with the hip flexors, same as always, left side first. The room is quiet. The air conditioning hums its one note. Outside the window Anaheim does whatever Anaheim does at eleven pm, which Shane neither knows nor needs to know.

He breathes out slowly and works through the sequence—hips, hamstrings, thoracic rotation, shoulder mobility—the same sequence he’s been doing since the juniors, the same order he’ll do tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that too. Each completed stretch feels like something being put back in its correct place.

By the time he gets to his shoulders, the day has receded to a manageable distance and he finally, finally, relaxes.

The hotel breakfast situation is, objectively, a little pathetic.

Shane has his normal oatmeal—plain, protein-enhanced from a packet he brought with him, because he is a professional athlete and he isn’t here to go too crazy—and some rubbery eggs from a breakfast station that is clearly underprepared for a horde of fully grown hockey players looking to fill up before a day of moderate exercise. It’s still early, barely past eight, so there’s probably enough time for the staff to brace themselves before the madness really begins, but Shane has his doubts.

Only a few other players are in the dining room: Parrish, Davidson, and Berzins from Team West; a sleepy-looking Nyles, the only one of Shane’s teammates here from Team East. Apart from a nod from Parrish, Shane’s table has been left alone.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

The groupchat is called carrying shane, a gaming joke he doesn’t understand, and it’s been named that since 2011. Shane has made his peace with it: it’s Shane versus the combined power of Jonesy, Win, and Bones, and any time he tries to change it, he’s loudly outvoted in a stunning show of democracy.

Greg Bohner: ARNOLD MALLARD
Greg Bohner: HOLLZY
Greg Bohner: ARE YOU SEEING THIS
Greg Bohner: ARNOLD MALLARD IS A MAPLE

Winston MacLean: called it tbh
Winston MacLean: bones you owe me twenty dollars

Greg Bohner: i don’t owe you shit, i said it would be a package deal and it was

Winston MacLean: you also said there wouldn’t be picks traded and there are definitely picks involved

Greg Bohner: a CONDITIONAL pick, winston, conditionals don't count

Shane reads the messages twice and opens up Mallard’s elite prospects page to start cross-referencing it against what he knows about the Maples’ blue line situation—which is more than he’d like to admit, given he hasn’t played for them in two years. Mallard isn’t anything exceptional: drafted in 2010, a +21 over 31 games which is more than decent, but seemingly missed twenty games with injuries, which could mean a lot of things.

Me: Conditional picks count.
Me: That’s a decent get for you guys, even if he’s probably going to get called up to fill in for JJ.
Me: What’s the rest of the deal?

Greg Bohner: HOLLZY
Greg Bohner: really, you finally open the groupchat just to betray me??
Greg Bohner: Tuts, Marty, and the next two conditional firsts from the Maples. In return we get Mallard and some guy named Peter Landry

Doesn’t ring a bell—but holy shit that’s a hell of a package from the Maples. Shane was never really close to either Tuts or Marty—Tuts was slightly too into the kind of team bonding that ran antithetical to Shane’s entire being, and Marty had never really forgiven Shane for usurping his position as the starting goalie—but they were still good people Shane had known for nearly four years. Weird to think they were just… gone.

Me: Damn.
Me: I guess that means Sticky's the new starter?
Me: Sucks you’ll have to find a new roommate now Jonesy.

Andrew Jones: Eh, Tuts never took the garbage out
Andrew Jones: Also hi shane, how’s allstars

Me: Fine.
Me: Sunny here.

Greg Bohner: it’s like 8 in cali are you eating your sad oatmeal right now

Me: It’s not sad.

Greg Bohner: it’s absolutely sad

Winston MacLean: It’s a little sad buddy

Shane looks at his absolutely not sad oatmeal, eats a spoonful with deliberate composure, and sets his phone face down—just as someone pulls out the chair across from him.

“Hollander,” Scott Hunter says as he drops into the seat with the visible energy of someone who has definitely been awake for several hours by now. He’s wearing one of the blindingly ugly Team East charity shirts already, hours before the event starts, which is exactly the kind of thing Shane expected from him. “Good morning. You know Enman?”

Brandon Enman—the Brooklyn Scouts’ star defenseman, barely uses stick tape, built like a tank and seemingly fueled entirely by caffeine—is folding himself into the chair beside Hunter, juggling two full mugs. He lifts the right-hand one lazily toward Shane without ever looking at him.

“Enman,” Shane greets.

“Hollander,” Enman says, to his coffee.

Hunter, apparently satisfied with this introduction, produces a folder—an actual physical file folder, which Shane respects and also finds slightly alarming—and sets it on the table. “What do you have on your schedule today? Enman and I have to do Nike and Powerade segments back to back which’ll be a fucking nightmare, and for some reason the league wants me and Davidson to go on SportsCentre for a pre-game captains segment.”

“Uh,” Shane says eloquently, and doesn’t manage to say anything else because Hunter has just pulled out an actual fucking highlighter from his folder and is tapping his way down what looks to be a printed copy of the weekend’s schedule. Enman doesn’t even react to this development, and Shane shakes himself after a second of staring. “Not a lot. Just the mandatory photos, and CCM has me in for a social media thing.”

“CCM,” Hunter repeats, glancing up from his highlighter. “Right, yeah I saw that commercial you did with Rozanov. Surprised he actually agreed to actually share a campaign.”

“It was a good shoot,” Shane says, which is true and conveniently covers several things he isn’t going to get into over hotel eggs—and certainly won’t be telling Scott Hunter of all people.

Hunter hums and makes a mark with the highlighter, and Shane can’t stop himself from watching. “Rozanov’s done some good ads this season,” Hunter says, but based on his expression it’s costing him significantly to say so. “Marketable.” A pause, a sigh, then Hunter adds “Annoying, but marketable.”

“Mm,” Shane says, around a forkful of eggs.

“You two seem to get along alright,” Hunter remarks, absolutely in the tone of someone making a judgemental observation rather than asking a question, but Shane answers before he realizes that.

“He's good to work with,” Shane says, which is again true and once again covers a lot of ground he will also not be telling Hunter about. “Really nice guy, when he's not actively trying to make my life harder.”

Hunter snorts slightly, approximately as close to a laugh as Shane has ever heard from him, and glances back down at his folder.

“Shot accuracy contest might just be the most interesting part of the skills competition tonight,” Hunter says, very clearly trying to sound neutral about something he is obviously not neutral about. “First thing Rozanov said to me yesterday was that he’s going to break my record again, and that it’ll be enough to—” Hunter raises his fingers for mocking air quotes, “‘–finally convince me to retire.’”

Shane keeps his expression completely straight, biting back his first two instinctive responses—I believe it and Is there a number that could do that?—both of which he absolutely cannot say out loud. He settles on, “What's the time to beat again? Seven something—”

“Seven point nine six seconds,” says a voice directly over Shane’s right shoulder. Shane doesn’t startle, but he does set his water glass down slightly more carefully than necessary.

Rozanov is leaning over the back of Shane’s chair, chin roughly four inches from Shane’s ear, holding a plate with a pile of eggs and two muffins, and looking at Hunter with an expression of cheerful innocence.

“Good morning, Enman. Hunter,” Rozanov says pleasantly, with an unmistakable undertone of mischief. “Very nice folder.”

Hunter regards him with a perfectly neutral nod. “Rozanov.”

Rozanov sets his plate down and reaches over to drag a chair from the neighboring empty table, moving it beside Shane. There’s barely room—they’re practically shoulder to shoulder—but Rozanov makes himself comfortable anyway.

“I will be breaking my own record today I think,” he says to a stone-faced Hunter, picking up his fork and prodding at his eggs. “Seven point five maybe. Depending on how the pucks are cooperating.”

“The pucks,” Hunter says flatly.

“Some days they listen.” Rozanov picks up a muffin. “Some days they do not. Is the nature of the sport.”

“They’re standardized, inanimate objects–“

“And yet,” Rozanov agrees serenely, and takes a massive bite.

“No waffles?” Shane asks, because he’s curious but also because Hunter is starting to look like he’s debating the merits of reaching over the table and strangling him and Shane probably shouldn’t let that happen.

That works as intended; Rozanov sighs heavily. “This hotel is out of batter. You would know this if you kept your side of the experiment, Hollander.”

Rude. Shane swings his arm sideways when Rozanov scoffs, and, gratifyingly, hears him grunt a little at the force of Shane’s elbow. “We never clarified the terms. Didn’t you tell me you had some yesterday? Why do we both have to try them?”

“Because,” Rozanov says, offended, “we are doing science. Except there is no batter, because this hotel is a failure and you are a coward.” He gestures at Shane’s plate with his muffin. “Eat your eggs.”

A short cough interrupts them. Shane looks up to see Hunter watching with a strange expression: part bemusement, part disbelief, part… something. “The CCM thing this morning—is that with both of you?”

“Yes,” Rozanov says, and goes right back to devouring his second muffin.

“Huh,” Hunter says, and looks back down at his schedule.

The opening ceremony is exactly what Shane expected—a lot of lights, a lot of noise, an announcer who treats every name like it’s the most exciting name he’s ever read off a card. Shane stands on the ice in his Team East jersey and claps when he's supposed to clap, smiles for the group pictures, and tries not to let anything other than pleasant blankness show on his face.

He finds the end of the bench when the ceremony wraps and settles in. The skills competition is scheduled for the next three hours—a series of individual contests that have nothing to do with actual hockey and everything to do with giving the crowd something to watch. Hardest shot. Relay race. Breakaway challenge. Save streak. It’s all a bit ridiculous, and Shane is pretty sure at least half the players out here agree with him, but the seventeen thousand people in the stands are apparently very invested in finding out who can do laps of the rink the fastest, so here they all are.

The hardest shot competition goes to a defenseman from Tampa, who hits 105.2 miles per hour and looks deeply unsurprised about it. The relay race goes to Team West by two seconds. The breakaway challenge produces three genuinely impressive moves and one spectacular fall that gets replayed on the jumbotron twice, to the crowd’s enormous satisfaction, and Team West wins that one too.

All-Stars isn’t serious. All-Stars doesn’t actually matter, everyone knows this, and yet two seats down Shane can see Scott Hunter actually tallying the team scores on a little whiteboard, jaw set, like there’s something real at stake beyond charity donations and a good time.

Weird fucking guy. Shane does his best to ignore him and doesn’t think about anything in particular, opening and closing the bench gate as his teammates move in and out for their events.

Midway through the passing challenge Rozanov drops onto the bench beside him, close enough that their shoulders are touching, like the rest of the ample free space on the bench doesn't exist.

“Defenseman from Tampa,” Shane says, without looking over, as the man in question dumps his final pass.

“Makarov,” Rozanov confirms. “Yes. Very strong shot, very bad aim. Classic combination.” He steals Shane’s water bottle, drinks from it, hands it back. “How long until goalie event?”

Oh for fucks sake. “You didn’t read the schedule?”

“Nope,” Rozanov says cheerily, and bumps Shane’s shoulder as he sighs. “Schedule does not matter.”

"It literally—” Shane exhales. Resets. “Ten minutes.”

“Nervous?”

Shane turns to look at him. Rozanov is already looking back, and Shane can’t find anything in it to push against so he just says, “I’m not nervous.”

“Little bit nervous,” Rozanov says, and holds up two fingers very close together, not quite touching, and something about the gesture is so stupid and so unbothered that Shane almost laughs despite himself.

“I’m fine,” Shane says.

“Yes,” Rozanov says, like this is obvious. He nudges Shane’s shoulder again, light and brief, then looks back out at the ice. “Don’t think so much, Hollander.”

That—lands slightly off-center. Like he’s been caught doing something he hadn’t realized was visible. Shane frowns. “I don’t—”

Rozanov glances back at him, completely deadpan, and Shane huffs out a breath, not sure whether to laugh or protest, and just looks away.

His ears are probably fine.

Shane’s only participating in one event and he performs miserably.

All right, not miserably, just badly. It’s the save streak competition, the only true goalie event of the contest. Six goalies at All-Stars, three per team, last man standing wins it all—and Shane didn’t win it all.

Maybe it wasn’t even badly—Shane stopped fourteen shots in a row before Krogh from San Francisco threads one past his blocker that Shane gets a piece of but not enough of, and fourteen is a respectable number, a good number, a number that gets a solid reaction from the crowd. It’s just not the number he wanted. Hoffman from the Pittsburgh Puffins went after him and ended up stopping fourteen as well, and even though the points still went to Team East, Shane comes off the ice with the specific sourness of someone who played well and still fucking lost.

Fourteen saves. He’d told himself fifteen, minimum, which was already irrational for a skills competition that doesn’t count—would’ve matched the number Goldberg won with last year—but he hadn’t hit it, and Hoffman had tied him so he didn’t even win his event, and none of this matters and Shane still feels like he swallowed something sharp.

He’s loosening his pads on the bench when Rozanov appears at his elbow.

“You got—”

“Leave it,” Shane says, and doesn’t bother making the words sound pleasant.

Rozanov backs off. He sits down beside Shane without saying anything else and hands him his water bottle, and Shane takes it and drinks and stares at the ice and lets the sourness sit for a minute because it’s allowed to sit for a minute, before he forces it far away and gets over himself.

This is a meaningless skills competition. Nothing that actually matters.

They’re already setting up for the next event, the fastest-skater challenge, and when Rozanov stands to go join the players lining up, he taps Shane once on the head with his glove before he swings himself over the boards and onto the ice.

Shane watches him go.

Just because there’s nothing else to watch.

The accuracy competition setup is four targets positioned around the corners of the net and a clock that starts the moment the first puck moves. Berzins from Colorado goes first and hits the targets in 9.35 seconds, which is solid. The crowd applauds politely. Leckner from Vancouver misses one but still gets a 9.44 which is also solid. Polite applause. Makarov from Tampa, apparently a man of many talents, goes next and gets all four in 11.27 after missing the net twice, which is much less solid. The crowd applauds much less politely. Team Captain Hunter steps up and doesn’t miss, but he also only gets a 9.91 which visibly upsets him. Polite applause.

Then Rozanov steps up: skating to the line with unhurried ease, spinning his stick once in his hand before planting it. He says something to the referee that makes the guy laugh. Takes his practice swing without really looking at the targets, like they’re not worth the attention yet.

When he actually turns to the net the shift is immediate—the looseness gone, a determined set to his shoulders that Shane recognizes by now settling over him like a switch flipping. He nods once.

The clock starts.

It’s over in 8.04 seconds. Four for four, no hesitation whatsoever. The crowd goes up like the building is coming off its foundation.

Rozanov does a small, unhurried lap through center ice that manages to be both simultaneously modest and deeply cocky, blowing kisses to the crowd before skating back to the bench. He doesn’t hop the boards or make any attempt to go sit down; he just props his elbows on the ledge and leans towards Shane with an expectant expression, like he’s expecting a compliment for his performance.

Shane gives him a polite golf clap, because Rozanov did win, but he won it in—

“Eight point oh four,” Shane says, slowly.

“Yes,” Rozanov says, and he looks far too proud of himself right now.

Too fucking easy. Shane shifts a little, and settles more comfortably on the bench. “You said you were going to get a seven point five.”

Rozanov obviously catches on, because he squints a little at Shane before saying, defensively, “I said maybe seven point five.”

Nope. Shane forces a smile off his face. “I thought you were very confident about the seven point five.”

“The pucks,” Rozanov says with great dignity, “were not cooperating.”

“You literally just went four for four?”

“In 8.04, Hollander.” He says it like Shane is missing an obvious distinction. “Still better than Hunter’s ancient record.”

Alright, that’s true, but– “You were much better last year.”

“Rude!” Rozanov complains, but Shane can see a smile threatening at the side of his mouth. He leans in a little closer. “Maybe I am distracted this year.”

Wait– nope, Rozanov should not be saying things like— “You can’t fucking blame that on me, man.”

“Ok,” Rozanov says placatingly, and his head tilts slightly as his voice drops conspiratorially low. “I still won. What will you give me as a reward, Hollander?”

Shane opens his mouth—and very suddenly, very abruptly, remembers that Scott Hunter is sitting two seats down from him.

Well. Fuck.

Hunter is sitting very still. Looking at the ice, or at the ice crew setting up at the far end, or at something else entirely—Shane can’t tell, and that’s a problem. Stillness could mean anything: Scott Hunter is a man with excellent composure and excellent composure looks identical whether there’s something behind it or not, and Shane’s brain, currently occupied with… several other things, and does not have the processing capacity to quickly figure out which one this is.

Shane looks at the ice too.

After about four seconds of complete silence, Hunter says “Good shooting,” to Rozanov’s general direction and does not look at either of them as he goes back to his whiteboard.

“Thank you,” Rozanov says pleasantly, seemingly unperturbed, before finally hopping the boards and settling onto the bench between them, stealing Shane’s water bottle again.

Shane doesn’t even try to stop him. He’s too busy taking a slow breath in through his nose, then out again, trying to get his body to stand down from the spike of adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. Replaying the last minute, automatically, against his will: what was said, how it sounded, how close Rozanov had leaned in, how low his voice had dropped.

Hunter didn’t even react. Wouldn’t there have been a reaction, if he’d actually heard something? A look, at least. A confused comment. Anything other than… nothing.

Probably fine, Shane decides. Almost certainly fine.

He’s about sixty percent sure.

Shane is having a terrible time.

It’s cocktail hour with the representatives from all the major corporate sponsors: all low lighting, soft music, an open bar, the hum of a hundred people performing relaxed in semi-formal wear. Shane has been performing relaxed for twenty-five minutes now, rotating through conversations about the skills competition and the game tomorrow and what he thinks of Anaheim, and has been doing this with one eye on Scott Hunter’s location at all times.

Hunter is currently twelve feet away, talking to Leckner and Enman.

Shane moves to the other side of the room.

He finds a corner near the window with a good sightline and enough shadows to blend into the wall, and stays there for approximately four minutes before Rozanov materializes at his elbow, because of course he was going to be there.

“Are you hiding?” Rozanov asks, with great interest.

“I’m checking my messages.” His phone isn’t even out.

Rozanov raises a deeply judgemental eyebrow. “Really? From who.”

“People.”

Rozanov turns to lean against the wall beside him and scans the room slowly, and Shane watches him spot Hunter on the exact opposite side of the room. He immediately turns back to Shane with an expression that is somewhere between amused and something else that makes it difficult to look at him directly.

“You know,” Rozanov says, “Hunter probably didn’t notice anything. He’s so old, his hearing is starting to go—”

“I’m not hiding from Hunter,” Shane lies.

“Okay,” Rozanov says, in a tone of voice that very clearly means the opposite.

God, Shane is done with today. “I’m leaving.”

He moves before Rozanov can respond, putting his head down and cutting through the crowd without looking up because he knows exactly where the exit is and has been thinking about it for twenty minutes. He has no idea if anyone tries to catch his attention, but he’s free in under a minute and the noise level drops dramatically the further he goes from cocktail hour.

The elevator is waiting. Shane steps in, turns around.

The corridor is empty.

He waits a moment, then presses the button for his floor. The doors start to close, the gap narrowing, and Shane watches it happen—and then he puts his hand out to stop them.

The doors reopen.

For a second the corridor is still empty and Shane starts to feel a bit stupid—but then Rozanov is there, ducking through the door at the far end, unhurried, hands in his pockets.

It’s just—the elevator is already here, and the doors would absolutely have closed before Rozanov got here, that was just physics, and Shane stopped them from doing that. They’re going to the same floor anyway, and it’s late, and this is just. Practical. It’s the nice thing to do.

Rozanov steps in. The doors close.

“Very fast,” Rozanov says, and Shane can practically hear the laughter under the words, “For someone who was not hiding.”

Shane watches the floor numbers and says nothing.

The ceremonial puck drop for the All Stars game on Saturday is an exercise in patience. Scott Hunter faces off against Team West Captain Davidson, along with some local dignitary Shane doesn't recognize, who’s been brought in to make the official drop. It takes fifteen minutes of handshakes, photos, and awkward small talk before anyone actually moves into position—and Shane, who won’t actually be in net until the third period, wants them to just get on with it.

Finally the dignitary drops the puck—and then more handshakes. More photos. Shane exhales sharply through his nose.

Rozanov, sitting beside him, doesn’t even glance at the ice. “You have to try for one,” he says, completely without preamble.

Shane knows exactly what he’s talking about though. “A goal.”

"Yes, a goal.” On ice the puck drops for real, finally, and the game begins—and almost instantly Davidson and Nyles are dropping their gloves and starting what looks to be a slap fight at centre ice. The crowd screams its delighted approval, almost loud enough that Shane barely hears it when Rozanov adds, “Is fucking All Stars, Hollander. The people want to see it.”

The problem is he’s kind of right. Goalies score occasionally, usually by accident or by general All-Stars insanity, and JJ had actually texted him that morning: Avenge me. Shutout or score a goal. No in-between. Shane had laughed, genuinely, because JJ meant it as a joke—but maybe also didn’t. The instruction was simple enough. Go there. Play. Do your job. Prove you belong here.

The refs are towing Nyles and Davidson to the box, both men waving at the crowd, and it’s four-on-four less than three seconds in. Shane mutters, half to himself, “The people want to see good hockey.”

“The people,” Rozanov says, with great authority, “want to see something interesting. Good hockey they can watch any night.” He bumps Shane's knee with his. “This is for fun, Hollander.”

Fun? JJ’s text rattles around inside his head: Shutout or score a goal.

“I’ll think about it,” Shane says.

The first line finishes their shift and Rozanov hops the boards. Shane watches from the bench.

Shane trades places with Hoffman at the start of the third and the score is 7-6, which means Team East is winning and Team West is not, and also means that the next twenty minutes are going to be interesting.

He does a short version of his usual warmup—mimes a slapshot, sets his edges, post to post—and tries not to think about the fact that the other four goalies who played in the first two periods were playing like they were auditioning for a highlight reel. Windmill glove saves on shots that didn't need it. Splits on rebounds that were already dead. Poke checks at every opportunity, and the occasional unnecessary skate-out to play a puck the defense already had covered. The crowd has been eating it up, but Shane is not going to do that, because Shane is constitutionally incapable of doing that, because that is not hockey.

He's going to play his period correctly and keep the lead and not think about goals.

The first minute goes fine. The second minute goes fine. Rozanov hops off the bench at the third minute and swings past Shane’s crease at the whistle.

“You could shoot it any time,” he says.

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane says.

Rozanov just shrugs at him and skates away for the faceoff.

Minute five. Parrish has deked around both Enman and Makarov and has a wide open lane to shoot from the top of the slot, so Shane sets himself in his crease and waits.

Instead he slides the puck cross-ice to Davidson—who immediately passes it to Berzins. Berzins then tries a no-look, behind-the-back return pass through the slot… that misses the target entirely, and ricochets off someone’s skate and slowly spins all the way to Shane.

Shane stops it easily and wonders, briefly, if that actually counted as a save.

“Just shoot one, Hollzy,” Albright says, materializing beside him during the next stoppage.

Not him too. “I’m the goalie,” Shane says, weakly, but Albright just waves over his shoulder and skates away.

Team West has very suddenly decided that the appropriate response to a one goal deficit in a game that doesn’t count is to start playing like it counts very much, which Shane respects and also finds slightly exhausting. Their top line is suddenly cycling way too hard and the defense is fucking useless, and at 7:34 Parrish scores on a spinorama one-timer that Shane gets his blocker on but not enough of.

Suddenly it’s 7-7 and the comeback narrative is officially alive.

One minute later the Team West goalie (Dreimanis, Houston Drillers, .905 save percentage) celebrates a tied game by throwing himself sideways across the crease in a full split he absolutely did not need to do—and the puck goes in anyway. 8-7. The comeback narrative might be dead again.

The crowd is going insane, and Shane watches this unfold from his end of the ice and tries not to feel too judgemental.

Krogh has the puck behind the net, and Shane can hear both benches, West and East yelling three different instructions.

“Shoot!”

“Pass!”

“Michigan!”

Krogh does none of those things and simply loses the puck to Hunter who carries it out of the zone—and Shane refuses to feel grateful that somebody else is actually trying here.

“Hollander,” Hunter says during the next stoppage, and Shane groans loudly and doesn’t even try to stop himself because he already knows what this is about and what he’s going to say. Shane doesn’t want to talk to Hunter about this (or literally anything else), but Hunter doesn’t take the hint.

“C’mon kid, show some whimsy,” he says, which is—fucking whimsy? That might be the single most insulting thing any player has ever said to Shane on ice. “All Stars is for having fun.”

Hunter doesn’t look like he’s ever had fun in his 800 years of life—but he’s moving away before Shane can tell him that.

At the far end of the ice Berzins intercepts a passing sequence and flips it out of the zone with just slightly too much force, and the puck comes spinning down the ice with absolutely enough force for an icing call. He could leave it for the whistle, but—

Shane leaves the crease.

He catches the puck in the low slot, settles it, looks up ice. Both teams took the opportunity to rotate off, but both teams are now looking at him with the puck. Not a lot of options: a Team West forward pushes off to start skating for the zone, and Enman scrambles to move up with him. There’s a smart play Shane could make here, to keep things safe, to make sure the puck doesn’t end up out of his team’s control—but Albright is standing right at the far blueline and Shane recognizes the little flicking motion he makes with his stick.

Shane makes the pass.

Tape to tape; now Albright is in the opposite zone, Rozanov and their other winger are rushing to catch up, and Albright fakes the shot, passes it to the middle and Rozanov doesn’t even hesitate.

Bar down and in, with a ping Shane can hear all the way from the other end of the ice.

9-7.

Both teams change lines at the same time, and for a few surreal seconds there are ten players skating toward the bench who have all collectively decided to let the puck sit alone at center ice.

Nyles eventually claims it, carries it to the net, tries to weave it between his legs, and just ends up losing it.

This might be the worst game of hockey Shane’s ever been a part of.

At 16:20, Team West pulls their goalie for the extra attacker.

It happens fast—Dreimanis sprinting to the bench, six skaters setting up in Team East’s zone, the arena crowd shouting their approval—and now way too much of Shane’s brain is looking at the completely empty net fifty metres away from him.

The puck comes through traffic from the blue line, a quick low shot that clips a skate and changes angle just enough to ruin it, and Shane drops, seals the ice with plenty of time to spare.

The rebound kicks softly off his pad and slides behind the net. Nobody moves towards it—both benches started a change, and the puck is just… sitting there.

And Shane is already back on his feet.

He circles behind the net and collects it with the heel of his stick, glancing up for a quick scan through the length of the rink.

Completely open ice: six red jerseys clustered by the benches, turned in his direction but nobody close enough to pressure him. Fifty metres away, a completely open net, empty and waiting at the far end.

Somewhat distantly Shane can hear the benches screaming at him, can hear the arena crowd rising to their feet, but he can’t think about that. He’s already hesitating too much: from the cluster a Team West defenseman (Rodrigues, LA Sovereigns, really fast) is starting back toward him, long strides cutting through the neutral zone. Shane can feel the angle closing so he pushes the puck forward an inch, settling it flat.

He doesn’t wind up. Just leans into it, a clean, compact flick that lifts the puck high and straight, more of a chip than a real shot. It leaves his stick with a solid thump and seems to hang in the air for a moment, before it starts the long climb down the ice.

It hits the ice again near the center line, maybe a metre from Rodrigues, who stopped to watch it in the air instead of skating. For a split second it looks like he might dive for it—Shane can see the calculation happening, the slight shift of weight—but Rodrigues lifts his stick out of the lane, takes a full step back and spreads his arms, half-laughing, and lets the puck slide past him untouched. The crowd registers what’s about to happen before Shane does.

The puck slips over the blue line and keeps going.

Sliding.

Sliding.

Straight toward the open net.

Shane doesn’t move. He’s still standing by his net, stick down, watching the slowest rush of his life unfold fifty meters away.

His aim is slightly off: the puck hits the post first, but it’s off the inside edge and the puck disappears over the line.

For half a heartbeat there’s nothing—then the building explodes.

The rooftop bar is exactly the kind of thing Shane can handle for forty-five minutes before his patience gives out completely—open sky, string lights, the Anaheim skyline doing its best impression of somewhere interesting. There’s a bar, a spread of food Shane isn’t touching, and roughly forty hockey players in various states of post-game unwinding, which means the noise level is substantial and everyone has an opinion about the goal.

Everyone has an opinion about the goal.

Shane has accepted fourteen separate congratulations in the last twenty minutes, has said “lucky bounce” so many times it’s lost all meaning, and is now standing with Hunter and Enman at the edge of the rooftop, nursing a drink, talking about the proposed changes to the MLH collective bargaining agreement. Not coincidentally it’s the most boring conversation within a fifty-foot radius, and it’s working like a shield.

Enman is saying something about the preseason. Shane is nodding.

Hunter is listening to Enman talk with a furrowed brow and a hand on his chin because he’s a man who treats any and all discussions of schedule changes seriously—even at an All-Stars afterparty, which is exactly the kind of thing Shane expects from Scott Hunter, and which under normal circumstances would find reassuring. Shared standards for hockey. Shared language. Easy.

Except.

Except Hunter had been sitting two seats down on the bench yesterday, and Shane still doesn’t know what he heard. Hunter’s face is giving him absolutely nothing to work with because Hunter’s face never gives anyone anything to work with, and the quality of normal Hunter is performing right now could mean everything is fine—or that Hunter is a very composed man who knows—and Shane has no way of determining which it is.

“—limiting veterans,” Enman is saying.

“Right,” Shane says.

Hunter glances at him briefly. Completely neutral. Completely unreadable.

Shane takes a sip of his drink.

He’s fine. Completely fine. Standing on a rooftop in Anaheim after scoring a fucking goalie goal at All-Stars, and he is fine. Hunter is talking about contract limits with a completely neutral face. Everything is normal. Shane has been awake since six this morning, performing some version of fine for sixteen hours straight, keeping everything neatly boxed where it belongs, and he’s running out of whatever it takes to keep the lids on. Shane has to get on a flight in twelve hours. He just wants to—

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

He doesn’t check it immediately. He waits four seconds, which is a completely normal amount of time to wait before checking your phone, and then he excuses himself from Hunter and Enman, and looks down.

Lily: 1221

Shane looks at the Anaheim skyline. He looks at Hunter and Enman, who have seamlessly continued the conversation without him. He could stand here for forty more minutes and keep discussing the possibility of a league-wide lockout and then go back to his hotel room and stare at the ceiling until sleep comes. Or–

He texts back: give me five and finishes his drink in two quick swallows.

“I’m going to call it,” he says, when he steps back over. “Early flight.”

Enman makes a sympathetic face. “Tough break. Guess I should go say bye to Albright too then, huh.”

“He isn’t leaving till the afternoon,” Shane says, which is true but probably irrelevant. “Good game tonight.”

Hunter looks at him for a moment with that expression Shane cannot read—and Shane is going to have to eventually stop torturing himself by trying to read Scott Hunter’s mind.

“Good goal,” Hunter says, very evenly.

“Lucky bounce,” Shane replies, and walks away.

Shane waits outside room 1221 for ten seconds after he knocks.

It's long enough for his brain to replay, in no particular order: Hunter's completely neutral expression on the bench. Hunter’s completely neutral expression at the afterparty. Albright’s quiet your ears are red. The forty thousand people who watched him score a goal tonight, and the significantly smaller but more problematic number of people who watched everything else.

What the hell is he doing here? Shane would definitely be better off in his room, working out the lingering aches in his legs, unwinding, settling in for the night, getting ready to fly back to Montreal and the real world tomorrow—

The door opens.

Rozanov is in a t-shirt and sweats and has clearly already washed his face, which means he’s been back long enough to do that, which means Shane was definitely at that afterparty for way too long if fucking Rozanov was getting ready for bed already—

“You are very slow,” Rozanov says, and steps back to let him in when Shane doesn’t say anything.

Shane steps inside and the door clicks shut behind him and the noise in his head doesn't stop exactly, but it recedes. The Hunter thing: box. The game: box. Everything else that’s been accumulating since he landed in Anaheim—box, lid, for later. Right now all that matters is just this room, and Rozanov standing in front of him in his sweats looking unreasonably comfortable, and Shane can work with that.

“So,” Rozanov says as Shane kicks his shoes off, and waits for him to look up before continuing. “Rewards.”

Wait, what? “We already—” Shane starts but stops, because Rozanov had followed him back to his hotel room yesterday and pushed them both into the shower and convinced Shane to brace his arms against the tile wall while he knelt behind him and—Shane can feel himself flushing. “I thought that was yesterday?”

“Yesterday was for me,” Rozanov agrees, tilting his head slightly. “But today you scored a goal.”

That’s… a pivot. Shane doesn't trust it.

“It was a lucky bounce off the post—”

“Was not lucky bounce.” Rozanov’s voice is flat. No room in it. “You read the play, you moved, you scored. Do not do that.”

Shane opens his mouth.

“Do not,” Rozanov says again, and something in his tone makes Shane close it.

A beat of silence. Then—

“You had a very good game,” Rozanov says, easier now. “I want to give you something for it.” A pause, just long enough for Shane to picture several things that he honestly wouldn’t mind—“I want to fuck you.”

Oh.

Shane's brain—which had been doing genuinely well up till now, all things considered—takes that sentence and simply stops processing. He’s aware of Rozanov watching him. He’s aware that some kind of response is probably expected. He’s aware that his mouth is hanging open slightly.

“I—” he starts. Stops. “That's—” Stops again.

Rozanov crosses to him unhurriedly and puts a hand on his chest, just below his collarbone. Not pushing. Just—there. Solid and warm and present, something for Shane’s nervous system to anchor to.

“Have you done this before?” Not pushy. Just asking.

Get it together. Shane shakes his head once.

Rozanov nods, like this is useful information, not a big deal, just a data point. His hand doesn’t move. “Do you want to?”

Shane’s brain produces approximately nothing. There’s just the question hanging in the air and Rozanov’s hand on his chest and the very loud fact that his heart is beating fast enough that Rozanov can probably feel it through his shirt.

“Do you ever touch yourself down there?”

“Jesus Christ—” How the fuck can Rozanov say shit like that so casually–

Rozanov frowns at him. “What? Does touching your ass make you gay?” His hand comes up from Shane’s chest and pats him on the cheek twice, condescendingly. Shane feels himself bristle, and Rozanov looks far too pleased with himself as he adds “You know what else is gay? Sucking my dick. And you have no problem with that.”

Unbelievable—Shane shoves him and Rozanov backs up a few steps, enough for Shane to have space to breathe, enough space for his brain to start working again, to start thinking—

When it restarts he is standing in the same place and Rozanov is watching him with an expression that is now sitting on the wrong side of concerned, and Shane’s first instinct is a full-body recoil that has nothing to do with not wanting it—because he does want it. Shane’s been aware that he wants it at a low frequency that he’s been carefully not examining since approximately the commercial shoot, and there is currently a purchase sitting unopened in its original packaging on the top shelf of his closet in Montreal that he is absolutely not thinking about right now, has not thought about once, not even a little—

Rozanov steps back into his space.

Shane exhales, short and involuntary, his train of thought abandoning him mid-stride.

Rozanov tilts his head and something in his expression shifts, just slightly, and Shane is aware that whatever is currently happening on his own face is not subtle and is not helping his case and he cannot seem to do anything about it, and—

“Next time,” Rozanov says. It sounds something like a question when he says it, but not all the way.

Shane holds his gaze. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t contradict him.

Rozanov looks at him for a moment longer—at whatever Shane’s face is doing, at all the things Shane is apparently just openly broadcasting because he’s a guy with no poker face whatsoever—and something settles in Rozanov’s expression.

“Next time,” Rozanov says again, quieter, and this time it’s absolutely not phrased like a question. Declarative. Rozanov is informing him, as a statement of fact, that there will be a next time, and that next time will be different, the next time they meet up he’d like them to have (holy shit) penetrative sex. And maybe Shane should push back on that, maybe he should say something, walk it back, walk out—

But he doesn’t want to walk it back. That’s the thing. He is privately, enormously relieved that Rozanov is the one putting a timeline to it, because a timeline means a concrete future point, which means Shane has time to—to think, to prepare, to maybe try the thing that is sitting on that shelf in Montreal—

“Okay,” Shane says.

“Okay,” Rozanov echoes, and apparently that’s the whole conversation, and he steps forward and raises a hand to Shane's jaw and leans in.

And the rest of Shane’s evening gets considerably simpler.

The goodbye goes like this: Rozanov kisses him at the door in a way that starts casual and doesn’t stay that way, one hand curled into Shane’s collar, unhurried, like he’s got nowhere to be—which he doesn't. Because he’s already in his room. Shane is the one who has to leave.

Shane is the one who eventually pulls back, and Rozanov lets him, and then just when Shane has his hand on the door handle Rozanov’s palm connects firmly with his ass and Shane swears so loudly people in the neighbouring rooms absolutely heard it but Rozanov just laughs, bright and genuine, and Shane doesn’t look back but he takes that sound with him into the hallway.

The door clicks shut.

Shane stands in the corridor for a second, straightens his shirt, and then walks to the elevator and presses the button. When it arrives he gets in and presses six.

The doors close.

He leans against the back wall and looks at the ceiling, and when his heartbeat starts getting a little too loud in his ears and his breathing picks up, he lets it happen.

Because here’s the thing—and he has six floors to get through this and get it locked away and he is going to use all six of them—here is the thing:

This is starting to stretch the definition of experimenting.

He doesn’t know when that changed. The first room number, maybe, or the second, or maybe just tonight on the rooftop, when a text from Lily had felt like relief instead of another thing he had to manage. At some point between curiosity and next time the framework he’d built—the clean, sensible, everything-fits-in-a-box framework—had started doing what boxes do when the thing inside them gets too large.

The lid wasn’t holding.

Shane stares at the ceiling.

Rozanov had said next time like it was obvious. Like of course there was going to be a next time, like next time is just a thing that exists now, and Shane hadn’t contradicted him, hadn’t wanted to contradict him, and the reason Shane didn’t contradict him is not because he was being polite.

Shane also wants there to be a next time. Shane is already counting on it. Shane is already looking forward to it.

That’s the part that's sitting wrong. Not the wanting—he’s gotten surprisingly functional at managing the wanting, had developed a whole system, it had been working fine. It’s the other part of this, the part that is starting to feel comfortable, steady, something Shane can rely on. Hooking up with Rozanov is now a reliable enough thing that Shane can comfortably make a plan around it, like this is something more than—

Floor seven; the elevator is slowing down, and Shane pushes off the wall and straightens up. Gives himself another five seconds.

Because this still doesn’t have to mean anything. People have reliable hookups all the time, that’s not—that’s not weird, that’s just functional, and Shane is someone who understands function, who built his entire life around knowing which things work and using them, and this works, and that is all that is happening here. He is not going to stand in an elevator and have a crisis about it because he is tired and it has been a very long day and he scored a goal and Rozanov’s laugh followed him out of that hotel room and lingered in the hallway like a warm blanket or a bath Shane just wanted to sink into and none of that means—

Floor six.

The doors open. Shane steps out.

He walks to room 607, lets himself in. It’s well past midnight but he played hockey today and needs to do at least some of his routine if he wants to survive the flight back to Montreal, so he finds the light, finds his yoga mat, and settles in to work. Same routine, same as always.

The room is quiet. The air conditioning hums its one note.

By the time he gets to his shoulders, most of the night has been tidily packed away.

Most of it.

Chapter End Notes

Don't be surprised if you see me come back and make edits to this chapter. Writing it in a single nine-hour block of effort was fun, but I think I've made some characterization decisions that need to be edited slightly when I'm less jet lagged.

All Stars!!! Fun and ridiculous; it's an event for the fans not the players, and accordingly it's an opportunity to goof off and show off skills. The allstars game is notorious for a complete lack of defence and extreme amounts of trickshotting: AKA Shane Hollander's nightmare scenario. Whimsy isn't a natural state of being for Shane; it requires real effort, but he gets there eventually.

Some notes:
1) Hunter knows?: Perhaps. Maybe yes, maybe no, this chapter was all about introducing the outside world to Shane's nice little experimenting bubble; the media is aware of the rapport between him and ilya, albright notices his blushing ears, ilya is acting recklessly, and now scott-fucking-hunter might actually know his secret. This is the last chapter before the yes olympics/no olympics split happens, so I wanted to give us a nice juicy plot point to carry between them.
2) Shane's having a bad time: only getting 1 out of every 4 games, getting the sub-optimal matchups... yeah. It's rough, but that's life when there's only one spot. This chapter was a bit of a thesis of shane's struggle: he's made it but he's being held back; he's popular but it's not for anything he's actually done; he's an all star but a fan-voted one. Because of his fight for recognition, Shane's going to be having a lot of complex feelings about his own worth as a player: AllStars is a great opportunity, but shane still feels like he has to prove himself as a good player based on his merit (or... prove himself as good on his own accord (LMAO)). We're going to be following the thread of this for a long while, but Shane is on an upward trajectory and will get there.
3) Experimenting: Shane essentially kicks ilya out of his room after they hookup. I debated rewriting that interaction to be less harsh, but honestly? that's exactly what everything in boxes shane would be doing here, especially after an overwhelming travel and media day. The boxes are starting to fail though, and Shane is already starting to recognize this (the elevator!!! he had no justifiable reason to hold the elevator for ilya other than to keep ilya closer to him/get them to shane's room faster). I'm weaponizing the alternating POVs against you guys: we know from last chapter that ilya was already feeling some sort of way from being left behind; how do we think he was reacting to being actively kicked out? he managed to catch shane for a warm/nice/lingering kiss at the end of this chapter, what on earth was his thought process there? >:)
4) Miscellaneous. PDO? I wouldn't be a canucks fan without a reference to pdo. TLDR: its as close to a "luck" stat as we can get in hockey. Peter Landry? ...maybe that's just a popular last name ;). All those other characters at AllStars? Ignore them; none of the characters outside the Metros/Raiders/Admirals will really have staying power for this story, I just needed to populate in some names (each team does have a naming scheme I'll follow if I need to name any more players though). Scott hunter again? Shane shouldn't be so judgemental about hunter taking allstars so seriously...in another life that would be you buddy. AllStars kinda sucks for goalies: only one maybe two events specifically for them, so its a bunch of bench time. Shoutouts? Rozyroll on twitter posted a goalie goal compilation and I was like. Hm. Shane deserves one, but it won’t be enough to fix the imposter syndrome; AO3 user hozanova (reymanova) came up with the LA Sovereigns

Slightly more scattered author notes than normal; I'm so fucking jet lagged, I'm going to post this and pass out. Thanks for all your comments, and for waiting these past two weeks.

Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Screaming? Will the boys actually have sex next chapter, or will there be a bizarre spring snowstorm that cancels the next Boston/Montreal game? I want to hear from you :)

Chapter 11

Chapter Summary

I promised that the sex and romance would never impact Shane's hockey; do we think it's the same for Ilya?

Chapter Notes

Two very incredible people helped beta read/edit this chapter, and they've made it so much better than it originally was. I couldn’t’ve done it without them, and I’m giving the biggest (platonic) kisses on the mouth to:

@Megalodon: *Lady Gaga gif* Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping... your brain is so nice and wrinkly and full of incredible thoughts
@sixofstarrs: fantastic writer, if any of you want to read an insane Rose Landry-era Ilya crashout fic, I highly HIGHLY recommend 'roses are red (violence is blue)'

NSFW this chapter?

Oh boy, yeah there is. Any scene that is fully in italics is 1000% E rated.

Ilya leans in on the draw, shoulders tight, stick angled just so. Across from him, the opposing centre twitches early—too eager—and it costs him. He’s a beat behind when the linesman drops the puck.

Ilya wins it clean.

The puck snaps back to Olsson, already pivoting, already moving, collecting the puck for less than a second at the Raiders’ blue line before sending it D-to-D in a controlled pass. Collingwood peels off, becoming the trailer, while Anderson curls low to support. The Raiders shift as one, an automatic rotation the top line has drilled a hundred times.

Go, Ilya thinks, and goes.

Collingwood fires a stretch pass up the right boards; Marly takes it in stride at the center line, chips it past his mark and bursts after it. The entry into the offensive zone isn’t pretty but it’s legal, which is all they’re really looking for to cross the line. Anderson veers left, drawing coverage, while Ilya cuts through the middle lane, stick down, eyes up.

Marly reaches the puck first in the corner and doesn’t hold it. One touch—back up the wall to Collingwood, who’s just crossed the blue line perfectly in time to receive it.

Now they’re set. Collingwood walks the line, dragging a defending player with him, then slips it across to Olsson at the opposite point. Olsson visibly panics when two players immediately turn to him, but he still manages to chip it towards the middle before being bullied out of the zone. Anderson absorbs the pass on his backhand, body between puck and the opposing player, then bumps it low to Marly circling behind the net.

The sequence tightens.

Marly doesn’t stop. He carries it through the trapezoid, pulling the attention and the efforts of two defensemen, as Anderson fights to keep his positioning where he’s screening the goalie at the top of the crease. Behind the net, Marly snaps it out front—

—but not to Anderson. It cuts right past him, straight up the middle and onto Ilya’s waiting stick.

He’s been ghosting between coverage the whole time, timing it, waiting in the high slot for that seam to open for half a second. Now it’s there—a narrow gap between bodies, here in this exact second when Ilya is all alone with the puck on his stick. Just him, the puck, the goalie, the net, and a heartbeat of open ice. Ilya doesn’t hesitate.

He aims the shot through traffic—low, fast, right on target, looking for a deflection, for a tip-in, for a mistake they can capitalize on for a rebound. The puck cuts through the air, an impossible line disappearing into the chaos of bodies in front of the net—and then it’s in. A sharp snap of mesh, swallowed almost instantly by the crowd’s rising boos.

It’s exactly the shot Ilya has been trying all game, the end result of a set play the Raiders have been running unsuccessfully for days now, a passing sequence that was almost too complicated for its own good. The fact that it’s worked for the first time should be something for Ilya to celebrate.

Instead, as he hits the boards under the force of Marly’s enthusiastic bulk, all Ilya can feel is dread as Hollander fishes the puck out of his net.

That should not have gone in.

It was a screened shot, but a screened shot is something Hollander seems to read every single time—a shot Hollander seems to stop every single time. The kind that dies in his glove or gets steered safely to the corner, routine as breathing.

Except it didn’t. And now Ilya’s stomach is churning in a way that has absolutely no business being there, because this is good, this is exactly what he’s been trying to do for two years, and Hollander is already resetting—puck to the linesman, tap of the left post, stance adjusted—like that was just another shot he didn’t stop. Like it was no big deal, like Ilya scoring on him is just a thing that happened in a hockey game.

Marly says something in his ear that he can’t hear over the rising static. Ilya nods anyway, swings past the bench for fist-bumps, skates back to the faceoff dot to take the next draw, and tries to locate the part of himself that knows how to feel good about this.

It’s there. Somewhere underneath the churning and the static it’s there. It’s just not the loudest thing right now.

Boston loses the game 4–2.

It’s not like he wasn’t trying to score another one. Ilya and the rest of the first line are out there when LeClaire calls Bucks back to the bench for the extra attacker, he won both of the offensive zone faceoffs and set up in his usual place in the high-slot, dropping down to screen the net, opening the passing lanes, trying to help with the set-up. They just fall short.

It’s hockey. It happens. The Metros and the Raiders are trading second and third place in the Atlantic division right now, and both teams are nearly evenly matched. He knows better than to take any of it personally: it’s just a late season loss. It is not about him. It is never about one player, Anderson says that all the time; hockey is a team sport, it’s whole systems, five-man units, coaching, details.

Still.

He’s on the ice, but Ilya doesn’t touch the puck even once in the final minutes of the game.

The locker room is restless after.

Not in a sad way and nobody is throwing things; it’s just the usual post-game shit, just voices layered over each other, media interviews leaking in from the hallway, equipment hitting concrete, Connors already halfway through a story no one is listening to. It’s never fun to lose to anyone, especially not to Montreal, but in the grand scheme of things this game didn’t matter for anything beyond simple pride: it’s April, both the Raiders and the Metros have comfortably collected a playoff spot, and LeClaire is already starting to sit some of the more injured players out of games in anticipation of the postseason.

Anderson’s voice cuts in briefly above the din—something about curfew, something about rest and not being stupid tonight—but someone calls back something about billet parents and nannying and everyone laughs. The laughter is probably too loud for after a game they just lost, but the noise in the room just continues to swell as the guys change out. The TV in the corner has already rolled into highlights, bright ice, clean replays, the past few hours reduced to a sequence of moments that look simpler than they felt. Ilya does not look at it.

He reaches for his phone instead.

Still in half his gear, jersey off but pads still on, he unlocks it with his thumb and opens the top thread, half expecting to see a Sorry, or a We shouldn’t do this—

No new messages, so Ilya sends one first.

Me: we still on
Me: ?

He watches the screen. Waits for long enough that some guys are finishing their showers and trickling back into the locker room. The typing bubbles don’t appear.

He drops the phone onto his stall, stands, strips the rest of his gear off in a rush that is almost clumsy. Shoulder pads catch on his undershirt; he yanks them free harder than necessary; leaves it all in a haphazard pile on the floor before heading to the showers and turning the water on hot enough to sting.

Ilya stands under it longer than usual, head tipped forward, water running down the back of his neck, trying to—reset, maybe.

It was just one goal.

It was one goal, he’s scored 54 of them already this season—

No. He’s scored 55 goals now. Because Ilya Rozanov just scored his first ever goal on Shane Hollander. Tonight, of all nights.

Fuck.

Ilya scored a goal today, against the Montreal Metros, and it was a screened shot that beat Hollander blocker side. For all that Ilya is currently the league’s top scorer, that should not have happened today. That should not have happened today or any day because Hollander stops that shot ten times out of ten under normal circumstances, and the fact that he didn’t means that today, their plans for after this game, are a worse idea than they were this morning.

Ilya is going to have to leave this shower eventually, and actually make Hollander’s I don’t want to see you real, and Ilya is going to have to go back to his hotel room, alone, and deal with that.

He closes his eyes.

By the time he gets back to his stall the room has thinned out. The vets are gone, Connors is arguing with Vanik, Marly is talking on the phone, already dressed, halfway out the door.

Ilya forces himself to get changed before he reaches for his phone; enough time to brace himself, to get ready to see a Stay the fuck away from me or a I’m blocking you—

Jane 🤫🔥💦: 1425 Boul. le Corbusier
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Side entrace, off the Rue Emile

No other commentary.

Nothing in his chest loosens. Nothing. Not even close. If anything, the static-y feeling in his chest gets worse: sharper, tighter, like something has just been confirmed instead of resolved.

He grabs his bag, stands, and is out of the room before anyone can say anything to him.

The address Hollander sent him is far enough away from the Bell Centre that Ilya has to endure a half-hour cab ride with a driver that absolutely recognizes him but doesn’t seem interested in speaking to him.

It is worse than being asked for a photo. Worse than a comment about the goal.

The drive passes in complete silence: the driver glanced at him in the rearview when he first got in; then again at the first red, like he was confirming a detail; then again at every subsequent red light they encountered. After the fourth time Ilya gets bored of their staring contests and forces himself to look out the window and lets the city move past in streaks of streetlights and dirty snowbanks, his pulse still not settled from the game, from the goal, from—

He presses his tongue briefly to the back of his teeth and stops that thought before it can finish forming. His phone is in his hand but Hollander hasn’t texted him anything else, and by the time the cab pulls over to a sidewalk he’s checked the address so many times he could probably recite it from memory. It’s a collection of six identical residential apartments, all brick faced and imposing in the dark, the streets around them seemingly deserted this late at night.

Not the kind of place he would have imagined—which is a stupid thought. Why would he ever imagine anything about Hollander beyond the net?

He pays in cash. Overpays, probably, the colourful differences between Canadian bills not helping him at all right now—but the driver says nothing. Just accepts the cash and gives him a look that radiates pure judgemental suspicion.

For all that it’s early April it’s fucking freezing outside the cab, the kind of cold that goes straight through his jacket and sits against his ribs. Ilya shuts the door, waits for the cab to pull away, then checks the street once—empty enough—and starts toward the side of the building.

It’s not exactly a side entrance: just a pair of recessed doorways half-hidden in the darkness, scuffed metal doors labeled ‘Bloc C’ in white paint and nothing else. No doorhandle.

He slows to a stop. Scans his surroundings—the street is still quiet, no movement in the windows in the building across the alley, nothing but the low hum of traffic somewhere in the distance—before pulling out his phone.

Me: here?

The text has barely sent when the door on the left swings open with a hard click and a spill of light—and Hollander is there, hand on the push bar, like he was waiting for it. He’s changed out of his gameday suit, dressed comfortably in sweats and a blue hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show his wrists.

Hollander jerks his chin and Ilya goes, stepping into the stairwell as the door swings shut behind him with a solid, automatic thud that feels louder than it should.

“Took you long enough,” Hollander says.

Ilya waits for the edge that should follow—for irritation, for a snap of temper, for something—but it never comes. There’s nothing in his voice to catch on. Nothing to work with.

Hollander raises a challenging eyebrow at his silence and Ilya scrambles for the first thing he can think of.

“The cab driver,” Ilya says, his voice echoing strangely in this concrete place, “stopped for every yellow light. In Boston he would be arrested for that.”

Hollander almost smiles at that. Quick, gone just as fast. Ilya thinks of saying something else, anything else, but there’s nothing he can land on before—

“Good game,” Hollander says, and that was not what Ilya was expecting him to say at all and–

Ilya falters. Just for a second—a half-hitch in his breathing, small enough that most people would miss it—but Hollander doesn’t miss it, and his eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Thank you,” Ilya says, a fraction too late.

This isn’t the conditional privacy of a hotel hallway, not the controlled neutrality of a hockey game; there’s no buffer here, nothing between them and the fact of each other. Ilya is aware, suddenly, of everything at once—the game still under his skin, the goal sitting wrong in his chest, the fact that this is where Hollander lives, that this is—

“Want to come up?”

Hollander doesn’t wait for a response, and is already half a flight up before Ilya can convince himself to move. The stairwell tightens as they climb, sound contained and repetitive—the soft scuff of Hollander’s sneakers, the heavier, more deliberate step of Ilya’s shoes. It echoes just enough to be noticeable.

Second floor. Hollander doesn’t pause.

“You live alone?” Ilya asks.

“Yes.”

“No roommates, no girlfriends, no—”

“Nope,” Hollander says, cutting him off cleanly. “Just me.”

Ilya hums under his breath, mostly to fill the silence, like he’s actually considering that, like he needed to have that information, like it matters what Hollander’s life looks like outside of the rink. Ilya can’t see Hollander’s face, and his voice is as unreadable as ever. There’s always something efficient about the way Hollander talks, but that was—

They reach the next landing, the stairwell door propped open to reveal a nondescript hallway with six numbered doors and what looks to be an elevator at the far end. Hollander stops in front of the one marked 304 and pulls a key from his pocket, slotting it into the lock with the comfortable ease of muscle memory.

The door opens. Hollander steps in, and Ilya follows. The door clicks shut behind him.

It’s a small apartment, open concept with a kitchen and living room divided by a narrow island, a single hallway leading out of the space presumably toward the bedroom and bathroom. The entire place is immaculately clean to the point that it borders on impersonal: neutral beige furniture, straight lines, nothing soft or out of place. Showroom sterile, straight out of a catalogue—except for the small collection of photographs stuck to the wall by the door.

Hollander toes off his shoes and steps around him, already in motion again, but Ilya doesn’t look away from the wall. Some of the pictures have Hollander alongside two middle aged people who are very obviously his parents, but the rest are him along with three other boys around the same age. The same configuration repeating across years like a controlled variable: bus seats, locker rooms, hotel carpets, someone’s basement with controllers in their hands, a bar holding beers and pool cues where none of them quite look old enough to be there.

It’s disarming, seeing him like this—unarmored, out of position. Not squared to anything. Just a person who exists in rooms Ilya has never been in, a whole life that exists entirely outside of Ilya’s understanding of him.

Behind him, a cupboard closes.

“Water?” Hollander asks.

“I’m fine.”

Ilya doesn’t look away from the wall right away. His eyes stay on the pictures, the same freckles across different years, catching on expressions that aren’t exactly different but still look different than what he’s used to seeing from Hollander. Something unfamiliar stirs low in his chest—then he turns.

Hollander is leaning back against the counter, watching him with that same narrowed attention, but he pushes off and moves closer as soon as Ilya’s looking at him. He pauses a step away and for a second it looks like Hollander is about to say something—but then he’s closing the distance, his hands coming up to settle at Ilya’s shoulders like he’s checking positioning before committing. He doesn’t pause after that, just tips forward and kisses him.

It’s direct. Enthusiastic. No buildup, no hesitation.

Ilya lets himself fall into it for a second—two—the familiar slide of it, the way Hollander doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth, tilt his head, tighten his grip on Ilya’s shoulders before his hands start tracing down Ilya’s chest, pressure clean and deliberate—

And Ilya breaks the kiss with a gasp, drags himself himself back and forces himself to say around his unsteady breath—

“We are not doing this.”

Hollander blinks, leans back and says “What” in a voice that is so flat that it’s almost impressive, but Ilya doesn’t stop, needs Hollander to understand—

“This.” Hollander looks baffled, and Ilya tries again. “We are not going to fuck if you are worse at hockey because of it, Hollander.”

Ilya gestures vaguely between them, like the exact mechanics are obvious and don’t need to be named. For a second there’s complete silence: Hollander looking vaguely stunned, Ilya’s hand still hanging uselessly in the air between them—then something like genuine anger flares to life across Hollander’s face and he raises his hands and shoves Ilya, sending him stumbling a few steps back.

“Oh my god– fuck you!” Hollander snaps and turns away, carding a hand through his hair before whirling back to face Ilya. “You fucking dick. It was one goal!”

Alright, Ilya may have slightly misinterpreted things—but Hollander isn’t done.

“Are you serious, do you actually think that—” his face twists, offended on principle now, “that this would ever change how I played?”

Well, maybe not. “Hollander—”

“It was one fucking goal.”

Ilya raises his hands placatingly, but Hollander’s expression is shifting into something less angry and more focused—sharper, like he’s just identified exactly where the opening is.

“It’s not like it was a hat trick,” Hollander says slowly. “The hat trick you’ve been talking about for two years that still hasn’t appeared. You want to worry about performance? Maybe start there, you fucking fraud.”

What– rude. Ilya splutters uselessly and Hollander grins at him, the last dregs of anger fully draining out his expression and he closes the distance between them in two steps.

“You scored because I was screened,” Hollander says, and Ilya is on the verge of nodding before he adds, “And it wasn’t even a good goal. Anderson should’ve got the credit instead, ‘cause that was absolutely a tipped shot.”

Ilya feels his mouth pull upward, involuntary.

“And if you think that has anything to do with—” Hollander gestures, the same vague motion Ilya used, but more impatient—“this, then you’re actually a fucking idiot.”

“Mm.”

“A complete idiot.”

“Okay.”

Hollander stops there, like he’s reached the end of the thought and doesn’t see a reason to extend it, and Ilya fully exhales for the first time since the third period.

Eventually they move to Hollander’s bedroom, and Ilya takes approximately four seconds to look around—the perfectly made bed with dark blue sheets, the single book on the nightstand aligned parallel to the edge, the closet door shut, no decorations, everything in its place—before turning around to find Hollander reaching into the nightstand and pulling out—

An entire strip of condoms. And a large bottle of lube, in a size that suggests either extreme optimism or overpreparedness. He sets them on the nightstand with the same efficient manner he apparently applies to everything, like this is no different from lining up that book to the edge.

Ilya blinks once, slowly.

“You think that will be enough?” he asks, dry and sarcastic because really, he’s just one man.

“Shut up,” Hollander shoots back immediately before turning around and stepping into Ilya’s space, his hands diving below Ilya’s shirt and going for his belt buckle with impatient fingers. “Let’s go. I want you to touch me.”

“Yes, in a moment—” Ilya lifts a hand to Hollander’s chest to still his motions, which Hollander accepts with a grumble. “You understand what has to happen first, yes? Before I can fuck you. It takes some time—”

“I know,” Hollander says.

There’s something in the way he says it, a sense of certainty, that makes Ilya pause.

“You know.”

“I looked it up. And–” Hollander’s jaw shifts, just slightly. A small tell, but Ilya’s learning to recognize it—the moment before he decides to say something he doesn’t particularly want to say.

“I’ve tried it,” he adds. “A bit. On my own.”

For a second, Ilya’s brain simply…stops. It then offers up an image of Hollander doing something anatomically impossible that Ilya was not prepared for, then immediately rejects it, tries again, and then gives up entirely.

“On your own—” he starts.

“Don’t.”

“Hollander,” Ilya says, because now he’s invested. “How—”

Hollander exhales sharply through his nose, looking briefly, deeply put-upon.

“It’s a—” He cuts himself off, then forces it out, like ripping off a bandage. “I’ve got a dildo. That I’ve—you know. Tried.”

There is a moment—one, singular, perfect moment—where Ilya’s mind goes completely, utterly blank.

Then it comes roaring back all at once.

“Hollander,” Ilya breathes, not even bothering to keep the delight out of his voice. “What colour is it?”

Hollander’s expression tightens. “Fuck off, Rozanov, don’t make it—”

Ilya doesn’t let him finish.

Ilya catches him by the front of his shirt and kisses him—sharp and sudden and a little bit laughing, every one of his whirling thoughts collapsing into something bright and focused. Hollander makes a startled noise against his mouth, then grabs on just as quickly, like he’s been waiting for it, like the rest of the conversation was just something to get through.

Ilya pulls back just enough to look at him. He’s grinning. He can feel that he’s grinning and cannot do anything about it.

“Is it big?” he asks.

“Fuck off,” Hollander says again—but there’s no heat in it this time, just breathless impatience, and he’s already leaning back in.

The stairwell feels different on the way down.

Not in any meaningful way, it's still just a concrete staircase—but it feels closer, like the walls have shifted in by a fraction. Hollander goes ahead of him, not as fast as before, one hand brushing the railing, steps measured without looking. Ilya follows a pace behind, watching his movements without meaning to, the way it stays precise even here, even off the ice.

They don’t speak.

Hollander doesn’t go all the way to the bottom of the stairs. He pauses about five steps down and sits, a flicker of expression crossing his face before it’s gone, settling with his back against the railing. Ilya continues past him, another two steps down, before turning and leaning back against the wall.

For a second, they just look at each other—then Hollander says, “I still don’t think we can actually count that as a goal today.”

It’s so immediate, so petty, so him that Ilya almost laughs. “What, are you saying that the scorekeepers are liars?”

“Yup,” Hollander says, and there’s a sly little smile twisting up the side of his mouth. “You only scored today ‘cause you got lucky, and the league wants you to win the Rocket for once.”

Did he do that on purpose? Ilya can’t let an opportunity that good pass him by.

“Hm, lucky. I scored a lot on you today, Hollander,” Ilya says, and tips his voice into something deliberately insufferable. “On the ice. Off the ice. Productive night.”

“Shut up,” Hollander snaps, but he’s smiling when he says it and Ilya can feel himself grinning as well. Hollander leans back a little, shifting his weight, looking up at him, and something in his face tightens slightly.

“We’re not doing this during the playoffs,” he says, which is…oh.

It’s a casual statement. Dropped in like it doesn’t matter. Ilya knows what he means but still has to ask, “Do what?”

Hollander gestures between them, loose, unbothered.

“This.”

Yup. Ilya exhales through his nose. “You are superstitious now.”

“I’m not,” Hollander says, and even he doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he covers it with a shrug. “It’s just… a thing. No sex during the playoffs.”

The regular season ends in fourteen days, and playoffs start three days after that. Unless something very very stupid happens, Boston and Montreal are going to be facing each other in the first round of the playoffs. It would be the stupidest idea in the world to try and make time for this during the series. Ilya knows this. Ilya also can’t resist saying, “That worried about losing, Hollander?”

Hollander doesn’t rise to the bait and just shrugs again. “No distractions.”

They need to get away from this topic immediately. Ilya steps closer, one foot up on the step now, leaning in and closing the space between them. “You think I am a distraction.”

“I think you’re annoying,” Hollander says, but there’s a twist to his mouth because he doesn’t mean it.

“Annoying?”

Hollander is fully smiling now. “Don’t look so offended.”

Ilya gets closer, raising one hand to brace it lightly against the railing beside Hollander’s shoulder, crowding into his space on purpose now, ready to tease him, needle him a bit more about distractions—

And Hollander tilts his face up.

It’s a small movement but it stops him in his tracks, the chirp he was about to deliver dying on his tongue. There’s a determined set to Hollander’s face—no challenge in it, no cover. For the first time all night Ilya doesn’t have to work to make sense of it, because it’s an easy expression, plain and open and unmistakable: Hollander wants a kiss, and he’s waiting for Ilya to give him one.

Something tightens in his chest, quick and unfamiliar—then Ilya leans the rest of the way in and kisses him.

The kiss is softer than anything earlier. No urgency, no edge to it. Hollander shifts against him slightly, mouth soft, steady, his other hand finding Ilya’s waist under his shirt, warm and certain.

Ilya leans into it without thinking, lets his eyes fall fully shut, and the kiss lasts longer than it should.

Or maybe exactly as long as it needs to.

The cab smells overwhelmingly like old cigarettes and bad coffee, and this time the driver doesn’t recognize him, just accepts the Raiders’ hotel address with a grunt and turns up the radio, an oldies station that Ilya isn’t listening to as he watches the streets blur outside the window. For a second, nothing exists outside of him in the backseat of this cab.

Then—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

It’s not a dramatic realization—it doesn’t arrive like a revelation from god or a crisis or anything else that could conceivably be described as earth-shattering, and the fact that it just settles over him quietly, comfortably, might be the most uncomfortable part of all of it.

Ilya stares at the Montreal streets going past the window.

He has had a lot of sex in his life. This is not a brag, it’s a relevant data point—he has had enough sex with enough people in enough cities in enough variations to have a very clear sense of what he feels like afterward. The specific qualities of it: general satisfaction, occasional bone-deep relaxation, the usual way his body sinks into it and moves on. He knows what this is supposed to feel like.

It’s not supposed to feel like this.

The sex was good. The sex was—fine, great, whatever word applies. Hollander threw himself into pleasure like a man possessed, and Ilya gave him all that he was capable of and wants to give him even more. That’s not the issue. The issue is that Ilya is sitting in the back of a cab in Montreal at one in the morning, and he can still feel the warm press of Hollander’s lips on his.

Not anything else. Ilya’s not thinking about the parts of the evening that he should be thinking about, not the choked gasp Hollander made when Ilya pushed inside him for the first time, not the way that the flush in his cheeks spread down to cover his entire upper chest in the time it took Ilya to bottom out.

No. Just Hollander’s hand on his waist, steadying him on the stairs, and the soft movement of his mouth as they kissed, which had lasted maybe two minutes and was the most chaste thing that happened between them tonight by a very significant margin.

Hollander had wanted a kiss. Ilya had given him one without a second thought. Ilya cannot stop thinking about it.

Not the kiss itself—no it’s the automatic nature of it. The way it had just happened, the way Hollander had tilted his face up like it was obvious, like of course, and Ilya had leaned in and it had felt—

That’s the thing. That’s the whole thing. Ilya has just spent several hours with Shane Hollander and his body has processed all of it and moved on from all of it, except for two minutes in a fire escape stairwell at the very end of the night.

Hollander’s mouth soft and unhurried against his. Hollander’s hand just resting there, warm and comfortable underneath his shirt, pressing against the bare skin of Ilya’s waist.

He can still feel it. Hollander’s mouth against his, Hollander’s hand on his waist, as if it’s not done happening yet.

He does not text Hollander when he gets back to the hotel.

He considers it, briefly, after sneaking back into his room without waking a snoring Connors. Phone in his hand, screen already open, Jane’s name sitting there like something expectant. There are a dozen ways he could phrase it: something dismissive, something cutting, something pleading, please tell me that was ok—

He locks the phone instead.

Drops it on the bedside table and tries to go to sleep. Checks it when he gets up, takes it with him into the shower the next morning. Checks it when he gets out, water still running somewhere behind him, steam fogging up the mirror.

Nothing. No new texts. Of course there’s nothing; why would there be anything?

The Raiders get on the bus at 9:30 sharp to take the two hour drive to go play Ottawa that night, and even though playing the Centaurs won’t require any particular effort Ilya should still try and sleep to make up for his restless night.

Ilya does not sleep. He does not send a text.

And then the season keeps going.

“Is it blue?”

“I’m not fucking telling you, Rozanov, that’s private— Fuck!”

Hollander’s body seizes when Ilya curls his fingers, and his entire body shudders when Ilya does it again. He’s blushing to the point that Ilya can see freckles he has literally never seen before, a red flush escaping down his chest, and he’s panting open-mouthed as Ilya continues to move his hand. Hollander groans softly when Ilya pulls back for more lube, which turns into a moan when Ilya comes back and slowly works a third finger in. There’s a furrow to his brow now though, a new line of tension running through him that doesn’t look like pain but Ilya needs to know—

“Is this ok?”

Hollander’s eyes crack open, and he levels Ilya with such an unimpressed glare that Ilya immediately relaxes. Hollander’s eyes slip closed again as Ilya resumes the motion of his fingers, and the smallest twitch of a smile appears at the side of Hollander’s mouth.

“Keep guessing colours,” Hollander mutters, shuddering slightly as Ilya increases the pace. “You’ll get it eventually.”

Ilya has to hide his smile in the side of Hollander’s neck.

The season keeps going.

That's the thing about April—it doesn't pause for anything. Not for a goal, not for a kiss, not for two minutes of peace in a Montreal stairwell that Ilya can’t stop thinking about.

The schedule doesn’t pause. Boston wins in Ottawa on Tuesday, in Philly on Thursday, and in Tampa on Saturday. Including the one in Montreal it was four games in six days, a late season slog of hockey and travel and exhaustion.

Ilya scores in every single game. Scores twice in the one against Tampa, and averaged an assist per game as well, which means Ilya collected nine points across the four game trip. By the time the plane wheels hit the ground in Boston on Saturday night, he’s at fifty-nine goals on the season—a number that only a handful of people in the history of this league have reached, and the only other person who has ever done it multiple times at Ilya’s tender age is currently retired and has a statue of himself outside of a rink in Minnesota.

Ilya does not think about this. He is aware of it the way you are aware of weather—it exists, it will presumably affect things, and it’s something to be asked about in interviews—but the number itself doesn’t exactly change his day to day life.

Instead, it mostly just… accumulates. Attention, expectation—the sense that something is being built around him faster than he’s decided what to do with it. Ilya reaching sixty-plus goals for the second time in his career has stopped being a possibility and started becoming a countdown, and everyone knows it.

Some of the guys are starting to act differently around him. Not in a bad way, but still. Differently. It’s been like this since Tampa. Small things: Vanik passing him the good tape without being asked, Anderson holding eye contact a beat too long after practice, the way conversation sometimes dips when he walks into a room and then picks back up just slightly differently than before. Nothing he can point to. Nothing anyone would admit to if he asked why they were looking at him differently. None of them say anything—

Almost none of them.

“Fifty-nine,” Connors says from the row in front of him, where he’s standing up and leaning over the back of his seat to get closer to Ilya. “Fifty-fucking-nine, Roz. Are you fucking kidding me. Do you even know what that means?”

God, Ilya needs to be off this airplane. He doesn’t look up at Connors. “You say it again, maybe number changes.”

Connors, who still hasn’t figured out how to let anything go, just laughs loudly like Ilya’s just told a joke. Ilya’s not laughing.

“I just can’t fucking believe it,” Connors says, and brandishes his phone over the back of the seat. “Listen to what SportsCenter is saying man: ‘Rozanov isn’t just having a breakout season—he’s changing the league. Fifty-nine goals before twenty-two, and suddenly you’re not talking about potential anymore, you’re talking about the foundation. The Raiders don’t have to look for their future, they’re already building around it, and—’”

It’s amazing how a person can speak for so long without saying anything worthwhile; it’s a skill Connors has, and it’s a skill Connors has mastered. He’s not even looking for Ilya’s reaction any more: he’s just talking for the sake of talking, seemingly aiming to pass the time it takes for the Raiders’ plane to taxi to the gate by listening to the sound of his own voice. Connors keeps reading—something about future, cornerstone, building blocks—until the words stop meaning anything at all. It’s just sounds, filling the space between them.

Ilya’s phone buzzes twice: two texts arriving almost simultaneously. One is from Simon Ivanovich that is full of words he sincerely doesn’t want to look at. The other, from Jane, is a captionless picture of a red-streaked sunset, and Ilya immediately opens his camera app and aims his phone out the window, but—

“Roz. Roz, that’s literally on track for a top ten all-time pace. All time. They’re saying you could hit—”

“Connors.” Ilya doesn’t look up from his phone as he captures a slightly blurry picture of the tarmac and sends it. “I am aware. It is just talk.”

Connors scoffs so violently Ilya looks up to make sure he’s not choking or something—but Connors isn’t dying, he’s just staring at Ilya.

“That’s not just talk,” Connors says, narrowing his eyes slightly. “That’s—” He cuts himself off momentarily, searching for something bigger, like there’s a right word that’ll make Ilya get it. “That’s what happens before they hand you, like, eight figures and the keys to the whole fucking franchise. Fifty-nine is historic man.”

There it is. Something in Ilya’s chest pulls tight—sharp and quick, gone almost as soon as he registers it. He locks his phone and drops it face down against his thigh.

“Is not complicated,” Ilya says. “You score, they pay you. That’s it.”

Connors scoffs again, but it’s sharper this time. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get right on my own fifty-nine-goal season then.”

Silence stretches between them, engine noise filling it in, because there’s nothing Ilya can say back to that, really. Ilya’s jaw tightens for just a second, before he forces himself to relax.

“Sit down,” Ilya says after another couple of moments, and makes sure his voice gives away nothing more than careful indifference. “We are not at the gate yet.”

Connors blinks at him dumbly then dutifully drops back into his seat, presumably carrying on like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

The plane rolls forward.

Ilya watches the tarmac pass and keeps his face empty.

It takes Ilya three tries to roll the condom on, because his hands are—not shaking, exactly, but not perfectly steady either, but he gets it on and turns.

For a moment they just look at each other: Hollander reclining on the pillows, not completely relaxed but also not running for the door; and Ilya kneeling on the bed beside him, not entirely sure what to do next.

Ilya must’ve paused for just slightly too long because Hollander’s hand is coming up, curling around the back of Ilya’s neck, warm and steady, and Ilya lets himself be pulled down.

The injuries started to stack up in Philly.

Feller went down hard into the boards in the second period—right arm, the way he grabbed at it told the story before the training staff even got there, and by the time they land in Tampa it’s confirmed: week to week, which could mean he plays tomorrow or is done for the year.

Feller is their second-line centre, which means their top six suddenly needs to be reshuffled, and two days later Mahon—their second-pairing D, the one who eats the hard minutes against opposing top lines—tweaks something in practice that the team is calling “lower body,” which means nothing except that he’s also week-to-week and the Raiders still have six games left to play.

Millsy doesn’t finish morning skate the day they play Houston, pulled out of the practice net to go spend the day with the physios, making Bucks the last minute starter. Vanik goes headfirst into the boards in their game against Calgary, and now the bottom six also need to be reshuffled, to potentially catastrophic effect.

No one says it outright, but it’s obvious to anyone who isn’t stupid: the Raiders are running on fumes, the injuries are stacking up faster than they can adjust to them.

Four games left in the regular season.

Ilya assumes, briefly, that LeClaire is going to turn back to the basics. That Ilya’ll slide back down to his original spot in the lineup, second-line centre, back where he started, and Anderson will move back into his natural spot on the first line. It would be the cleanest solution: spread the Raiders’ depth properly, keep the Captain happy, respect the unspoken hierarchy and seniority and leadership and all the usual structures that are supposed to matter more as the season grinds on and bodies start to wear down.

It would make sense. That’s not what happens.

LeClaire calls Ilya to the side of the rink two days before their next game against Winnipeg. It’s not a long conversation because LeClaire is not a long conversation kind of coach; he says what he means and stops when he’s finished, which is something Ilya has always appreciated about him.

“We’re going to lean on you,” LeClaire says. He has a whiteboard behind him covered in lines and clipboard in his hand covered in matchup notes. He doesn’t look at either of them though; he’s looking directly at Ilya. “Anderson’s taking the second line, and I’m moving Carmichael up with you and Marleau. Got it?”

Ilya nods.

“We’ll see how it goes,” LeClaire says, still looking directly at him. Ilya does his best not to fidget. “But Beaumont was thinking about making some changes to the forecheck, now that we’ve got a bit more speed on your wing. Shouldn’t be too much of an adjustment, since we already know Carmichael can keep up with you.”

More speed means no mistakes. Ilya isn’t planning on making mistakes but– “Yes coach.”

“Okay.” LeClaire clicks his pen and makes a mark on his clipboard. “That’s it.”

Ilya is just about to skate away when LeClaire adds, almost as an afterthought: “You’ve been playing well lately, Rozanov. Keep it up.”

Praise has never felt so heavy.

Hollander’s nails bite into the skin of Ilya’s shoulders and he freezes immediately.

“Holy shit,” Hollander wheezes, and Ilya doesn’t move a muscle, even though his body is screaming at him to keep moving, keep pressing in further, deeper.

He chances a glance down: Hollander’s cock is still hard, weeping precome against his stomach—but the shuddering quality of his breath and the way his eyes have screwed shut, his face twisted up to a point that doesn’t look like it’s—

“Okay, Hollander?”

Hollander doesn’t seem to hear him—he’s still shuddering, still breathing slightly wrong, and he hasn’t unclenched his fingers from the death grip he has on Ilya’s shoulders, which is not—

Fuck Ilya doesn’t want to pull out but he will if Hollander wants him to, will pull out and apologize and leave and they never have to try this again—

“Roz- Rozanov,” Hollander bites out, and his hands twitch slightly on Ilya’s shoulders, as he pulls in a full breath of air and releases it in a slow exhale. His grip loosens, and Ilya can feel him relax slightly as Hollander cracks his eyes open. Their eyes meet, and Ilya is just about to open his mouth, to ask if he should—

“Keep going.”

The ice time goes up in the final four games. Not dramatically—nothing that gets flagged in the analytics pieces Connors finds on his phone and reads out loud before film sessions—but it’s enough that Ilya feels it. The drag of extra minutes in his legs by the third period, the way his split-second reads either sharpen or don’t.

Lately, consistently, they sharpen.

He doesn’t know exactly when that happened. It isn’t anything he’s doing on purpose, but people have started talking about it like it is—like it’s a skill you can point to, measure, break down. Hockey IQ. Vision. Processing speed.

Words for something that, to him, still just feels like playing.

He picks up two goals and two assists against the Scouts in the Raiders’ last game of the regular schedule—which means that Ilya ends his third season at 121 points and 66 goals. Seven goals ahead of second place in the Rocket race, third in the MLH for total points.

Ilya is the undisputed best player in the league. It doesn’t feel any different.

They were getting into a rhythm now: Hollander had relaxed to the point where Ilya no longer felt the need to ask him if this was still ok every second thrust; Ilya’s necklace was hitting his chin every single time but Hollander didn’t seem to mind.

His mouth was wide open, eyes closed, and Hollander was making punched out little moans, which was good but Ilya can do better than that, so he starts shifting, starts changing the angles of his movements trying to find—

Hollander jolts like he’s been electrocuted, and Ilya immediately does it again, and this time Hollander gasps out a breathy sounding “yes”, that Ilya barely has time to process before Hollander’s hands are on his face and he’s being pulled down into an open-mouthed kiss.

The day after the regular season ends, two days before their first playoff game against Montreal, Anderson falls into step beside Ilya on the way to the locker room.

Anderson is not a talkative man. Anderson isn’t a man built for speeches or grand moments, or inspiration—but he’s a very good captain.

Thirty-eight years old, no Cups, his entire career spent on a team that only recently figured out how to win, but Anderson will step into a room and the room will immediately organize itself around him. Ilya has watched it happen for three seasons now and is still not quite able to articulate what Anderson is actually doing. He doesn’t give speeches. He doesn’t do the emotional check-ins that some of the other vets do with the younger guys. What Anderson does is be there, notice things, and occasionally, say something that doesn’t get ignored.

He doesn’t say anything for about fifteen seconds. They walk. Ilya waits, and they’ve made it three steps into the locker room before Anderson speaks.

“You’re playing the right way,” Anderson says, and that’s just–

“There is another way?” Ilya asks, because genuinely, what.

Anderson just looks at him.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Alright.”

That's it. That’s the whole thing, like that made any sense at all. He peels off toward his stall and Ilya continues to his own after a brief pause, sitting down and starting to unlace his skates as the rest of the team filters in.

It takes him a full minute to understand what Anderson meant by it.

“Now the bed’s all dirty.”

They are less than two minutes out from Hollander coming so hard he’d temporarily lost the ability to speak, and this—the fucking sheets—is what he’s decided to waste his returned language on? It takes everything Ilya has left in him not to laugh at Hollander’s disgruntled expression–

Except he must not’ve hidden his amusement well enough, because Hollander’s eyes are narrowing dangerously, and the pinch he delivers to Ilya’s side is strong enough to have him flinching backwards—and Hollander makes an undignified sound at the sudden movement and Ilya simultaneously makes a worse one, and they meet each other’s eyes somewhat incredulously before—

They’re both laughing. Giant, hiccuping, hysterical gasps of laughter that make Hollander clench down on him in a way that is way too overwhelming but Ilya isn’t thinking about that right now—because Ilya is tipping forward to press his forehead into the hollow of Hollander’s shoulder, and Hollander’s hand has come up to rest on the back of Ilya’s neck.

The bed might be dirty. Ilya doesn’t care about that at all right now.

The contract talks have been intensifying the closer they get to the postseason but for the past week Ivanovich is calling him daily with updates that are increasingly less like updates and more like carefully managed previews of a number that neither of them is saying out loud yet.

Ilya knows the rough shape of it. He has known the rough shape of it for months—all of them, the Raiders’ management, Simon, Ilya, Sveta, the press—they’ve all been circling this for months but over the past week Simon’s tone has shifted, incrementally, from we’re close but don’t get excited to something that sounds almost like we’re close and you should start believing this.

He gets the call on a Thursday night, the day before the first game against the Metros, while he is sitting on his couch eating cereal with the lights off and the TV playing on mute.

“It’s done,” Simon says, without preamble. “You’ll sign the papers as soon as the playoffs are over.”

For a second, nothing registers. Ilya has to swallow twice before he can croak out, “How much.”

He tells him. Ilya sets his spoon down.

The number is—it’s not the number they’d talked about. It’s not even the aspirational one he’d kept somewhere theoretical in his head. It’s slightly higher than that. It’s higher than that by just enough that the room tilts, just slightly out of place.

“Ilya,” Simon says, and Ilya realizes he hasn’t made a sound.

“I heard you.”

“This is the one. If you want it.”

He should feel something uncomplicated right now—relief, maybe. Pride. He is aware that this is the moment where that would be appropriate, because he has imagined some version of this conversation enough times this season to know what it was supposed to feel like.

He has worked for this conversation for an entire year, an entire career; every single city, every single game, every single professional ice surface he has stepped foot on since he was nineteen years old has been in pursuit of this conversation.

He should feel something uncomplicated right now.

“I need to think,” is what he says instead.

Simon is quiet for a moment, but the hum that eventually comes through the phone is so kind, so understanding, that Ilya can feel himself tense. For better or worse, Simon knows him. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is gentle enough that something in Ilya’s throat tightens. “Don’t think too long.”

He hangs up and Ilya sits there, in the dark, with an empty cereal bowl, SportsCentre’s curated ‘Best Plays of the Year!’ still cycling on the silent TV.

He should call Sveta. He should call—there are people he should call. He picks up his phone again, opens it, and stares at the screen.

He locks the phone without using it. Sets it face-down on the couch beside him.

The highlights on the TV cut to a different game, and for one unguarded second before he can look away, he catches a flash of plain white pads tracking back across the crease—a glove save that gets replayed once, twice—and something in his chest does the thing it always does now, quiet and certain, when he's not paying close enough attention to stop it.

Ilya presses his lips briefly into the skin of Hollander’s shoulder before looking up to catch his eye. “Worth it?”

Hollander doesn’t answer right away. His hand shifts from where it’s been resting against the back of Ilya’s neck—fingers dragging slowly across skin, tracing over his ear before settling at his jaw, thumb pressing briefly beneath his cheekbone.

Ilya can’t read his expression.

Hollander tips his head in, presses a the ghost of a kiss to the edge of his cheek, something brief and almost absent-minded—

–and then he shifts, closer, his mouth finding Ilya’s properly this time.

Me: you’ve missed it
Me: the deal is done
Me: i’m signing once the playoffs are over

Sveta is not in Boston right now; Sveta is on a vacation somewhere warm, celebrating the end of her business degree on a beach she had described, in detail, as “strategically chosen for optimal laziness.” She had told him, before she left, that she intended to spend two full weeks either asleep in her room or naked in the sun.

Ilya had told her that sounded like a good way to get sand in inconvenient places.

She had told him to shut up, which had been a sufficient goodbye.

He looks at the three messages for a second, then adds, after a pause that stretches just long enough to feel desperate:

Me: you’ll be proud of the number

He sends it and sets the phone back against his thigh, watching the screen like something might still happen if he waits long enough.

She won’t answer. He knows she won’t—she’s asleep, or drunk, or on a beach in the sun somewhere she specifically chose so no one could reach her.

The screen dims. Goes dark.

He taps it back on.

Nothing.

She doesn’t text him back.

He exits out of their chat and scrolls through his other messages. There are more of them than he knows what to do with—his teammates, names he recognizes, some that are just numbers; hundreds and hundreds of texts he hasn’t opened yet and doesn’t intend to.

And midway down the screen, there is a thread with a message sent six hours ago and no reply received yet. He locks his phone.

Sometime, over the past half-hour or so since Ivanovich’s call, night had fallen over his apartment, the living room completely dark apart from the glow of the TV that’s still on, still muted. The screen keeps flashing through highlight after highlight, light stuttering across the walls in uneven bursts, but the sound is off and Ilya isn’t really watching it, anyway.

Ilya sits there, phone loose in his hand, and does not move. The silence stretches out around him, uninterrupted, because there’s nothing else he can be doing right now. There’s nowhere else he needs to be. The TV keeps going. Another play, another replay, the same angles repeating until they stop meaning anything at all.

The screen shifts. The room doesn’t.

Time passes, or something like it.

Then his phone buzzes to life in his hand—light flaring out in the dark room, sudden and sharp enough that he nearly drops it—but the call ends before the second ring.

Alexei?

Ilya stares at the name for a second, the shape of it unfamiliar in this context. Alexei doesn’t call him like this. Alexei doesn’t call him at all, really—not unless it’s for the usual reason, and Ilya has already dealt with the usual reason less than a week ago, and that should’ve been more than enough to stop him from calling again during the playoffs.

His phone buzzes.

Брат: Pick up the next call.

Ilya’s thumb hovers over the screen without touching it. He reads the text once, twice, like it might rearrange itself into something else if he gives it enough time.

It doesn’t.

Something in his stomach starts to turn over, slow and familiar, a tightening he recognizes before it fully forms—the specific dread of an inevitability. He knows what that means.

Simon Ivanovitch has been a friend of his family for longer than Ilya’s been alive. He’d almost forgotten.

The phone rings again, and it’s not Alexei this time.

Ilya is already moving before the second vibration, pushing himself up off the couch and crossing the room in a straight line toward the window. The glass is cold when he rests his forehead against it, the city below him flattened into light and motion and distance, none of it particularly distinct.

The phone keeps ringing in his hand.

He lets it go once more, just long enough to feel like he has a choice, before he hits accept and raises it to his ear.

“Hello Papa.”

Chapter End Notes

First time fucking, how are we all feeling? This was an important chapter because I wanted to do three things with it: Obviously first time penetrative sex with Shane, but also this is the chapter we see Ilya achieving all of his professional dreams (what its like for him to be alone and unparalleled at the top of the league) while also seeing the continual creep of external stresses into his life as a result. I've had the ending scene in mind for a while: him sitting alone in his dark apartment after getting the contract he's been aiming for, the person (people?) he actually wants to reach out to being unavailable, and the only people reaching out to him are the two people he doesn't want to hear from. Ouch!

Some notes:
1) Ilya scored a goal on Shane: Yup. As fun as it is for shane to have a perfect record against ilya's attempts, having ilya score a goal on the same day they plan to fuck was intended as a huge 'oh no' moment for ilya. While we the reader know that shane is perfectly capable of compartmentalizing his entire life (boxes!), ilya is not. Sex and Hockey and Life are all swirled together for ilya, so when that goal happens, ilya assumes that shane handles things like he does and that one element of his life is spilling out to impact other parts. Not a wrong assumption, and honestly him prioritizing shane's hockey over their fucking is kinda sweet (in a misguided way)
2) The sex: Yippee! The first draft of this chapter had their entire sex scene all in one go, but then the idea of it sticking with ilya over the next few weeks crept into my head and I went >:). I love italics, and it's funny in my mind that bit italic sections in ilya's chapters are fun and sexy, while in Shane's chapters its just podcasts that hurt him emotionally.
3) Miscellaneous: Hockey? Everyone is injured, everyone on the raiders is old. Probably not great for their playoffs attempt. Would LeClaire actually have moved ilya back to the second line? Not a fucking chance. The first line is where you put your impact players, thats the goal scoring engine for a team. While ilya isn't wrong about his thoughts about hierarchy, the balance of power has fully shifted on the team (and leclaire and anderson essentially tell him that to his face). Shane doesn't get ghosted after the first time? Nope. I only show one of their text exchanges, but you can imagine shane and ilya texting each other same as they have been. Boooo, shane used his dildo offscreen? Sorry. Would've killed the momentum of this fic if i delayed their sex to show that (if you want a fic rec for that though, check out 'Shane Hollander vs The Dildo' by isto4u).

Thats it! Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Did you like the sex? This was the end of the ilya contract purgatory torment nexus arc; surely shane isn't about to go through something similar but equally awful in a new and painful way.

See you guys soon ;)

Chapter 12

Chapter Summary

The five stages of grief: Shane Hollander edition.

Chapter Notes

Don't worry, this is the last chapter full of big emotional italic blocks I'll be doing for a while. I promise I'll find new ways to emotionally terrorize everyone

Once again, all my love to @Megalodon and @sixofstarrs for beta-ing this chapter <3

NSFW this chapter?

Not even a little bit. I'm saving it all for the next chapter lol

“Welcome back to Man in the Crease, your one stop shop for all things MLH action. We’ve made it to our semifinalist teams for the offseason report card, and who’s in the hot seat today Glen?”

“It’s the Montreal Metros of course, the next step on the 2013 playoffs’ biggest losers list. The Metros made it all the way to the Conference final, beating the Boston Raiders and the Tampa Bay Manatees before falling in seven games to the Brooklyn Scouts. The Scouts of course lost to the Vancouver Kermodes in five games in the Cup Final, partially due to that Montreal matchup.”

“Absolutely Glen. Full seven game series are things that teams try to avoid because of how hard it is on the players. Was an entertaining one though, every single game was a remarkably high scoring event.”

“Real barn burners the lot of them. Of course, we have to give credit where credit is due to the Metros forward group for their contribution to that, but John, the real story here is the blue line.”

“An absolute disaster of a performance from everyone not named Boiziau. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many negative differentials on a Conference finalist team! The Metros made it to seven games in spite of their blueline, that’s for sure.”

“We’ll dig into the entire roster over the course of the segment, of course. But one thing is immediately certain: the Metros need a brand new d-core, and if they want to see a Cup any time soon, they need one fast. All right, let's get started.”

The Ottawa river pathway in mid-August is hideously busy—other runners, people walking dogs and strollers, unattended children, the occasional bike trying to bully their way around pedestrians—but Shane doesn’t mind, because he isn’t looking for real exercise right now.

Shane has been running this path for years; he knows every turn, every slight grade change, every place where the gravel gives way to smooth pavement and back again, all the way from Bayshore to Parliament. His body doesn’t need to think about any of it when he runs here. That’s the point.

That’s been the point for the last forty minutes.

His earbuds are still in, the podcast is still running, and he can hear John and Glen starting in on the d-core breakdown—JJ’s plus-minus, Fours’ defensive zone collapse, the team-wide disaster that was game four—and Shane’s been paying attention to them and not his run for a full forty minutes. Somewhere around Westboro Beach it started being pretty clear that listening to this was probably a mistake, but he just… didn’t stop.

It’s information. Shane likes to have information. It’s useful to know what people are saying, especially about things that are tangentially (directly) about yourself, and Shane’s been absorbing information for weeks now, since the Metros’ hockey season ended and his life started to settle into something resembling a normal offseason.
Or, as normal as an offseason can be, when you came within one game of making the Cup final and the reason you didn’t actually make it all the way to the end is apparently obvious enough that multiple sources are agreeing with each other.

And yeah, maybe Man in the Crease isn’t the best place to be looking for information about himself and his teammates—but at the very least the podcast is hockey-accurate, and their entire summer schedule is dedicated to talking about what went wrong for teams in the playoffs. Shane’s looking for information, he’s looking for the truth, he’s doing research, and that means finding a bunch of different sources. The hosts are very opinionated, but they don’t sugar-coat what they’re saying and they’re direct and to the point.

Shane’s doing research, Shane’s looking for information, and Shane wants to know what people are saying about—

“Hollander, and John, that was such a missed opportunity—”

Nope. Shane skids to a stop, gravel shifting under his shoes, and yanks both earbuds out, chest heaving.

The world comes back all at once—humid air pressing down thick and wet, the sun bouncing off the river, his shirt plastered to his back, sweat running down along his ribs, catching at the waistband of his shorts. For a second Shane doesn’t move; just stands there in the middle of the path, trying and somewhat failing to breathe as his heart keeps pounding at a pace his legs have already abandoned.

A bike bell chimes out—once, twice, insistent—and someone snaps, “On your left, man–” as the cyclist swerves around him, close enough that he feels the rush of air off the handlebars. Shane flinches back a half-step off to the side of the path and looks up to actually take in his surroundings.

He’s gone a lot further than he thought; he’s practically all the way to Remic park. The river runs wide here, the current slow and heavy, sunlight breaking across it in scattered glare that makes it hard to look at directly. The far bank sits low and green, and in the distance the Champlain Bridge cuts across the river in a long, flat line, traffic moving over it in a steady stream—white, silver, dark, white again—constant, unbothered by anything happening down here.

Missed opportunity—

The thing is, John and Glen haven’t actually been wrong about what they’ve been saying for the past forty minutes: the series against Brooklyn started good, then game four was a mess, and the Metros never really recovered, and it was kinda the d-core’s fault. The coverage breakdowns, the missed assignments, the way that the offense and defense looked like they were playing with completely different goals in mind… Shane can still see it in his mind’s eye, even now, like he’s still there sitting on the bench, watching it happen.

But that’s not the whole story—and the podcasts and SportsCentre segments and online articles Shane’s been looking at never have the whole story. All of them agreeing that the Metros’ defensive roster issues are too much for the team to overcome isn’t the whole story, and everyone deciding that the Metros are dead in the water until the team makes roster changes doesn’t actually mean that’s what needs to happen.

It’s not decided. They don’t see the bench, the adjustments between shifts, the conversations that don’t translate into clips. They don’t see the parts that did work, don’t care about the games where it held, the reasons the team got that far in the first place. They just pick the cleanest explanation and stick to it. Defensive issues. Blue line depth. Something structural that needs fixing. Needs replacing.

None of that is decided yet. Shane probably doesn’t need to be thinking about this any more right now, because it’s August, it’s the offseason, and Shane doesn’t need to keep running and listen to people who have opinions but don’t have the whole story.

His phone is the problem, really—makes it too easy to keep checking for people’s opinions—but Shane can’t exactly live without it, especially not when there’s a bunch of texts that he should be responding to. Texts from Hayden, JJ, Bones, Win, Jonesy, and of course, there’s probably also something from—

Hollander—

Shane powers his phone off.

The ambient noise of the day has flooded in to fill the space the podcast left behind: wind moving through the trees in uneven gusts, the slap of shoes on packed gravel from a passing jogger, gears clicking as another cyclist zips past him, a dog barking somewhere, conversations overlapping and passing him by. Shane balls up his earbuds in the palm of his hand and turns back towards home to finish his run in silence.

The front door sticks slightly in summer. It always has, something about summer humidity and the old frame not mixing well, and Shane always has to shoulder it open somewhat violently, but once he does his shoulders drop, because the entire outside world disappears as soon as it shuts behind him.

Then he looks up.

His mom is standing in the front hallway with her phone to her ear.

Still in her office clothes, which means she hasn’t been home from work for very long. As soon as she sees him she holds up her free hand for a wave—then points at him, at his shoes, at the mat, then makes a swirling motion, before half-turning away from him.

Shane knows what that means though; he toes his runners off and rights the pair of flats she’s kicked halfway off the mat, nudging them back into something resembling order before lining his own up beside them. He straightens, waits.

She’s nodding at whatever the person on the other end is saying, phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder while she scrolls something on her tablet with her free hand, which is extremely typical. Yuna Hollander has been doing three things at once since before Shane was born and shows no signs of stopping.

“—right, well, that’s what I said to Marta,” she’s saying. “That situation changes things regardless. It changes things for a lot of people.” A pause. “Mm. Yes.” Her eyes flick to Shane and back to the tablet. “We’ll see. I have to go. Text me if Jason actually sends you that Rinse-Aid memo before tomorrow.”

She hangs up, sighs, then pivots to look at him properly. “You’re awfully sweaty.”

“I went for a run,” Shane says.

“How long? Hampton park?”

“About an hour. Just the Parkway.”

She makes a small sound that isn’t quite concern and isn’t quite disappointment and is somehow both—a sound Shane has been on the receiving end of for twenty-two years and can now interpret with reasonable precision. This one means you’re stress running again.

Shane makes a face back that says no I’m not.

His mom’s left eyebrow says that is absolutely what you were doing, don’t lie to me.

Shane looks at the middle distance between them, which is not quite meeting her eyes and not quite avoiding them, and which communicates nothing, which is the goal.

His mom’s other eyebrow pointedly joins the first one.

Shane says, out loud, with his mouth: “I just felt like a longer run.”

“Mm,” his mom says, in the tone that means I have twenty-two years of data on you and none of it supports that statement, and turns to set her tablet on the hallway table. It’s an obvious signal: conversational stalemate, so we’re moving on.

“Go shower,” she says. “Your dad said he’s doing something experimental to a watermelon, so dinner’s probably in an hour or so.”

Shane nods automatically, already half-turning toward the stairs, grateful for the out—then pauses, because his mom has unlocked her phone again and is tapping at it rapidly. Not a good sign.

“Who were you calling?”

Her fingers freeze on the screen. “Liz Gibson,” she says after a moment, and Liz is one of his mom’s coworkers—but she is also, crucially, the mother of a defenseman currently playing for Toronto, who was also on Shane’s U17 team back in Kitchener.

Which means the call was about hockey. Which means it was about the league. Which means it was about Shane.

“What’s happening in Toronto?”

His mom drags her eyes up to meet him with an expression he also knows well: I don’t want to tell you. “Shower first,” she says. “We can talk after.”

“Mom—”

“Shane.” And then, lighter: “Go. Take your time, sweetheart.”

‘Take your time’ she says, but she says it in the tone she uses when she means the opposite; it’s the one that’s been consistent since he was nine years old and she wanted him to hurry up and get off the ice. The warmth in it is real but the patience is a performance, and Shane has known the difference his whole life.

He turns and goes upstairs.

“—Hollander, and John, that was such a missed opportunity. It was game five, tied series after a disaster of a game four, and Theriault doesn’t make a single lineup change? That was where the Metros could’ve turned it around. That was where they should’ve rested Miitka for a game and played Hollander.”

“No changes was definitely a decision that cost them the series, you won’t see me arguing about that, but would Hollander actually have made a difference? Final score in game five was 5-1, the only goal coming from Pike on the man advantage–”

“Alright, you aren’t wrong that Hollander can’t exactly help a team who isn’t able to score. But we can both agree that Miitka let in some real stinkers that game John. Even just the tonal shift, the dynamics change of a goalie swap might’ve breathed some life into that lineup.”

His mom is at the kitchen table when he comes back.

Directly in his eyeline when he steps off the stairs, which means she moved there deliberately, and there’s two glasses on the table—low-sugar powder-mix iced tea, ice already mostly melted—which means she’s been waiting there for a while. Probably the whole time he was showering.

Shane sits down across from her and wordlessly wraps both hands around the nearest glass, and just waits, ‘cause his mom has both her phone and her tablet stacked and face-down beside her elbow, and her hands are clasped together and resting on the table. It’s another signal he recognizes; it’s one he can spot a mile away, because she taught him this one: sweetheart if you keep your hands from moving you won’t look like you’re nervous.

Outside, through the half-open patio door, there’s the sound of his dad doing something with the grill and humming along to the song playing on the radio he keeps out there for this purpose. David Hollander is maybe the only person Shane knows who listens to Nickleback unironically, and for some reason Shane has always found this deeply comforting.

For a long moment neither of them speak—but eventually the song ends and his mom clears her throat.

“Farah called me this morning,” she says.

“Great,” Shane says, because that’s a thing that happens. His agent calls his mom. This is a thing that happens, has been happening since Shane was eighteen and signed his entry level contract and Farah had looked at both of them across the table and inferred (correctly) that Yuna Hollander was the person who was actually going to ask the relevant questions. It’s a thing that happens; it’s not usually something that needs announcing.

“She wanted to know how you were doing.”

“She sent me an email yesterday,” Shane says, because she did. It was perfectly mundane, just a quick note asking Shane if he was free sometime soon to discuss the upcoming season, perfectly nice and neutral and not at all pushy… and Shane hasn’t responded to it yet. He takes a sip of his iced tea, painfully aware as he does it that it looks like deflection—and sure enough, his mom’s eyes narrow slightly. He adds “Farah wants to get lunch when I’m back in Montreal. Talk about the season.”

His mom hums slightly and picks up her drink. Sets it down without taking a sip. “And how are you feeling about this year?”

It isn’t quite a question.

“Fine,” Shane says, which gets him the eyebrow, so he averts his eyes and tries again. “No, really. I’ve known what might happen since last year so I’ve had time to– I’ve thought about it. SportsNet just did their whole writeup on each team’s cap space so I know it’s basically impossible for the Metros to…” He stops. Starts again. “It’s ok.”

“It’s not ok,” his mom mutters.

Shane exhales through his nose, and feels himself frown. “It is though. It just—” He cuts himself off. Tries again. “It is what it is.”

She doesn’t interrupt this time. Just makes a small motion with her hand: go on.

“They were never going to be able to keep both of us,” Shane says to his iced tea, because that’s the heart of it, really. It’s not a hard thing to figure out—follow the trail from A to B to C:

Miity signed five years, and the Metros are going to play him first no matter what.

Five years is a team’s competitive window, and most of the Metros’ core is signed to deals that align with that window.

Shane’s contract is up at the end of this season.

That’s it. There’s no version of that scenario that changes depending on how he feels about it. Shane knows how hockey works, and if the knowledge that he’s going to be traded away from the team that drafted him and lose all of his friends and comforts and schedules and every single routine he’s built as an adult makes something sharp and heavy crawl up his throat and build up behind his eyes—well. It shouldn’t. Shane knows how this works.

Shane turns the glass between his hands and tries for a joke. “It’s almost a compliment. I’ve priced myself out of my own team.”

Something moves across his mom’s face—not directed at Shane. Past him, at something she’s clearly been thinking about for longer than tonight. “The way the Metros have been using you,” she says, very carefully, “has not done you any favours. You sit for long stretches, you go in cold, you clean up games that are already off-structure...” A pause. “That’s not a fair evaluation.”

“Yeah,” Shane says around the lump in his throat, “Well. That’s the job of a backup.”

“But you shouldn’t be. Shane—”

“What do you want me to do about that?” The words are out before he can think twice about what he’s saying. “Seriously mom—what’s the move here? I’ll just– what, tell Theriault he’s using me wrong? Refuse to play till they fix it?” Shane shoves a hand through his hair, hard enough that it drags at his scalp. “I can’t– there’s nothing I can fucking do.”

His mom leans back in her chair.

It’s not quite a flinch, but it’s close: an unconscious movement, small and abrupt, just enough that the legs of her chair give a faint scrape against the tile before she catches herself and stills again.

Shane exhales hard through his nose, drops his gaze, and reaches for his glass. The iced tea is fully room-temperature now, but he takes a long sip—way longer than necessary, like he can drown the last thirty seconds in it, pretend that didn’t happen—and forces his shoulders to loosen when he sets it back down.

“Sorry,” he mumbles to the table.

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re allowed to be mad,” his mom says, eventually.

“Okay,” Shane says automatically.

“You’re going to be traded,” she continues, much gentler now, but still not backing off. “You don’t have to ignore how much that sucks.”

“I’m not ignoring anything, this is—” he cuts himself off. Presses his lips together, tries again. “This is good for my career.”

“And for you?”

Shane huffs out a laugh, but god, this isn’t funny at all. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

It’s a rhetorical question; his mom doesn’t answer, which is great, ‘cause Shane wasn’t looking for one anyways. They both raise their glasses to take simultaneous sips, and silence falls over the kitchen again. Outside his dad is still grilling, still humming along to the radio. It’s a Tragically Hip song now. Maybe.

Courage, it couldn’t come at a worse time—

“What was Liz calling you about?” Shane asks, ‘cause that’s a safer topic, and it’s easier to pivot than sit in that. “Sounded important.”

His mom’s face falls.

“Oh, that was just…” she trails off. Sighs. Takes another sip, puts the glass down, folds her hands back together and looks him in the eyes. “There were rumours that Toronto was about to make some moves, but according to Liz it’s not happening any more.”

It’s a weird feeling, hearing about a version of your life that almost happened. Somewhere out there there had been conversations—names on lists, numbers getting moved around—and he’d been part of it. Maybe. Maybe not. But now it’s just… gone. If there was a potential door open, it’s shut. If there was any truth to that, it doesn’t matter now—

–but Shane wonders, very briefly, what he would’ve looked like in a jersey that was a slightly different shade of blue.

He’s obviously making some sort of face because his mom rushes in to fill the silence.

“But there are other teams,” his mom continues, a little too quickly. “Winnipeg’s been looking, and a couple of the Western teams– there are a bunch of rosters that need to get younger, Shane. That’s a good thing. That’s– those are good opportunities.”

That was meant to be comforting. Probably. “Sure.”

“And you know… there’s always the offer sheet route,” his mom says, even lighter, “Some teams out there probably want to shake things up a bit. Trades have gotten so boring lately.”

She’s trying to make him laugh. “Totally,” he says, and he tries to turn his voice into something cheerful. “I’m sure there’s a long line of GMs willing to throw their entire roster strategy out the door just for me.”

Oh, that came out much less cheerful and way more bitter than Shane intended—but before his mom can reply, the patio door slides all the way open behind her and his dad pokes his head through the gap.

“All right,” he announces, like he’s been waiting awhile to say it. “No more shop talk. Time to try my experiment.”

His mom gives Shane one more look that very clearly says I’m not going to forget about that, but pivots in her seat to narrow her eyes at Dad. “Does your ‘experiment’ actually use all of the ingredients you asked me to pick up on the way home?”

Dad grins, completely unrepentant. “Well, I’m not telling you. You’ll have to find out for yourself, honey.”

She makes a face, but it turns into a smile as she stands, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek on her way past him toward the patio. Dad waits until she’s fully through the door before turning back and leaning in slightly.

“Place your bets,” he says in an exaggerated whisper. “What are the odds she gives me an honest review?”

Shane lets out a breath through his nose, something tight and awful still bubbling around inside him—but he swallows it down and drags his attention up to meet his dad’s eyes. “Zero percent.”

“Zero?” he repeats, somewhat incredulously, but he’s laughing a little as he says it. “Well great. Keeps the pressure off. As long as she’s going to be honest about the corn, I can live with that.”

Shane huffs something that could pass for a laugh. “No guarantees there either.”

Dad grins and disappears out onto the patio but Shane stays where he is for a second longer, staring at the dregs of iced tea left in his empty glass—

Then he scrubs a hand across his face, pushes to his feet to go join his parents outside, and gets over himself.

“Glen I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Hollander is only good because of how limited his sample size is. We’re only seeing the kid, what, twenty-five, thirty times a season? That’s nowhere near enough to prove he’s ready to take on a starter’s workload—”

“Are you serious, that’s what makes Hollander’s season all the more impressive. You have to look at the deployment patterns, John; Metros were playing Hollander on the suboptimal matchups, matinees, travel games, back-to-backs, that stretch in December where the entire team was fighting through the flu… and the kid made it through the season with a .915 and three shutouts. That’s a generational talent in the making.”

“I’ll concede the point that Hollander had a good year, but we have to stick to the facts: he’s only 22, he’s an undersized tendie, measuring in at 5’11” officially but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually less than that—”

“And why would you be surprised John?”

“Well- you know. Nearly six foot? Seems a bit more aspirational than realistic for someone like Hollander.”

“But that isn’t necessarily impacting his play, is it?”

“Based on the limited sample size, maybe not. But it matters for Hollander and his trade value: how much is an undersized goalie actually worth in this league?”

Farah picks a place in the Plateau that Shane has never been to, which is either because she found it recently or because she’s been saving it for meetings she wants to feel low-stakes. It’s small, narrow, the kind of restaurant where the menu fits on a single page and still looks crowded because it’s all in excessive calligraphy. Eight options, no substitutions permitted—except there’s a garden salad with an option to add a chicken breast, so Shane’s fine.

Farah arrives exactly five minutes early, which is what she always does, and greets him with a handshake first, then a brief hug.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, sliding into the chair. She’s not, but it’s her usual opening line. “Parking on the island is—”

“A nightmare,” Shane finishes. “Yeah. I know.”

She hums. “I’m pretty sure I just invented a new spot.”

“Hopefully you won’t get towed then.”

“Here’s hoping,” she says with a sigh, and reaches for the menu. Water gets poured, they exchange comments on the weather, the small choreography of it all familiar enough that Shane almost relaxes—

Until she peers at him over the top of her menu and lets out an extremely casual, “You look tired.”

Does he? “I’m fine,” Shane says.

“You look fine and tired then,” Farah replies mildly, looking back down. “They aren’t mutually exclusive. How was Ottawa?”

“Good. Great. Same as normal.”

“Your mom said you went for a lot of runs.”

Shane looks at her. “She told you that.”

“She mentioned it,” Farah says, pleasant as anything. “She worries.”

“She doesn’t need to worry.”

“She’s your mom, Shane, she’s going to worry regardless of what you tell her.” The server appears at her elbow, and they order—Shane points at the salad because he didn’t actually look at anything else and Farah orders something he doesn’t catch—and as soon as they’re alone again, Farah produces a small notebook and settles a pair of glasses on her nose. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

Shane folds his hands on top of the table and straightens in his seat.

“The calls I’ve been getting,” she starts, then hesitates. Frowns a little. “How much do you actually want to know?”

God, what a question. “I want to know everything.”

“Well I’m not going to tell you everything, but I can certainly tell you enough to keep you in the loop.” Farah opens her notebook. “Right. It’s been a pretty silent offseason for the league. There was a bit of buzz around Toronto, but their GM shut that down pretty fast. Your mom said she discussed it with you already?”

Technically. “She didn’t really go into the details.”

“There weren’t many,” Farah says and turns a page. “The Guardians were considering moving Hayes out and finding someone new for Anders’ backup, but they gave up quickly. I think they realized they’ve got a nicely stocked prospect pool so they don’t need to keep hunting for picks, even if there were a few teams who were extremely interested.”

Interested in Hayes? Wyatt Hayes is a decent goalie, a .905 over twenty games, but last year was his first real stint in the MLH and every single one of his underlying stats is worse than Shane’s.

“Right,” Shane says. “And that means?”

“That it’s a sellers market, for one,” Farah says. “Very good scenario for Montreal. If you stay healthy this season we have a lot more leverage going into this year than you probably think you do. You’re a very clean asset.”

“Clean,” Shane repeats.

“Age, contract status, trajectory, lack of injury history.” She ticks them off. “You’re twenty-two, final year of your ELC. If a team acquires you during the season they get cost control for the rest of the year, and if you get traded in the offseason they get an exclusive negotiation for your next contract. The uncertainty might scare some buyers off– but that’s actually very good for you, because the Metros will have to play you as much as possible to keep your trade value up.”

“If they trade me,” Shane says, because nothing is ever really set in stone, and the Metros theoretically could find a way to keep him on, but—

“When they trade you,” Farah says apologetically. Conclusively.

Something in his chest tightens—quick and painful, a heartbeat gone sideways and gone just as fast—and for all that Shane’s been preparing himself to hear those words, it still stings.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Shane doesn’t take the distraction. He just nods once, and takes a sip of water instead.

“Teams are aging out,” Farah continues once he sets his glass back down. “A lot of contenders have goaltending situations that are either expensive, unstable, or both. They don’t want to rebuild the position, they want to patch it efficiently. That’s where you come in.”

Shane squeezes his hands together tighter. “So I’m just a patch?”

“You’re an instant solution with massive potential upside,” Farah corrects. “Which is better. It’s a very different conversation than I was having for you two years ago.”

That makes sense: he was still in the AHL two years ago, being evaluated solely on things like positioning and rebound control. Now he’s at least somewhat proven at the professional level and can track his progress objectively—save percentage, GAA, expected goals vs saves—and while it’s nice to know those things so clearly, it also sometimes feels like those numbers are there so someone else can decide what he’s worth.

“So what’s the best-case scenario?” Shane asks, because that’s really what he needs to know right now. “For me.”

Farah squints at him slightly. “Define best.”

“I want starter reps,” he says immediately. “Or at least a real tandem split. Not—” he gestures vaguely “—under thirty games and backup duty.”

“No matter where you go you’re almost certainly going to get that,” Farah says easily, like Shane didn’t need to be worrying about a silly thing like that at all. “There’s a real lack of young MLH-ready goalies right now. You’re a hot commodity.”

Shane looks down at the table and tries to look like he’s thinking that statement over. “My mom thinks someone might float an offer sheet.”

“Your mom is optimistic,” Farah says, which is not a no, but it’s pretty close to a no. “Offer sheets are complicated, expensive, and GMs hate the optics. But—” she taps the edge of the notebook, “—the threat of one changes the math. It would mean Montreal has to decide what you’re actually worth to them before someone else does.”

She pauses. Adds: “You’re probably not getting an offer sheet. But teams are going to start making very compelling trade offers, and the Metros are going to have to decide whether to take the first thing that’s offered, or wait to move you in case you’re worth even more later in the year.”

Neither of them speak for several moments, before Farah clears her throat delicately. “The market is on our side at least. And Shane– I know you don’t like it, but your online popularity is helping us as well here.”

God of course it was. Of course that’s part of it. The interviews, the comments, the same question every time—anything you want to say to the fans? Like that’s the only thing he’s good for.

Right,” Shane says, and tries to keep it off his face.

“Shane,” Farah says, more carefully now. “You’re going to go somewhere that wants you. Competitive teams. No organization is going to trade for you just to stick you on the bench for another two years.”

He nods, once.

“Your job this season—your entire job, the only thing I want you thinking about from September until whenever this gets resolved—is to play well,” Farah says. “Because when the Metros move you, I expect there to be multiple teams lining up for the chance to get you.”

For a second, something sharp flickers—pride, maybe, or the thrill of a challenge—but the server arrives with their food and breaks his train of thought. There’s a brief pause for thank yous, plates shifting, glasses refilled, and when it settles again Farah doesn’t move right away. She just watches him, waiting to see if he’s going to say anything else.

Shane looks down at his salad, then back up to meet her eyes.

“Ok,” he says. “Tell me which teams need new goalies.”

Farah smiles—quick and real. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” She picks up her fork. “Eat first. Then we’ll go over the league team by team.”

Shane picks up his fork.

Outside the window the Plateau moves through its afternoon, indifferent and unhurried. Inside, Shane eats his salad, listens, and asks questions as Farah talks him through the league—team by team, option by option.

“Winnipeg?”

“Desperately need a new start—Borgin just isn’t consistent enough to keep the Aviators competitive. San Francisco?”

“McNeil is a perfect goaltender and Reynolds is a serviceable backup. The Missions aren’t looking. New York?”

“Just signed Bennett to a three year deal. It’s a gamble because that is very obviously a ‘last chance to make the team better or I walk’ signing, but it means New York is set for now. LA Sovereigns?”

“They could use a change—I honestly don’t think Arvidsson or Phillips were developed properly, and now the team is suffering significantly from their hot-and-cold performances. Vancouver?”

“Cup champions, but they’re definitely open to updates. Kynoch is 36 now and missed twenty games with a groin injury—”

There’s no polite way to say it: Jonesy’s apartment stinks.

Not in a ‘something-died’ kind of way, just… lived-in. Equipment bag in the corner that’s definitely not empty, dishes in the sink that have crossed from “soaking” into something more permanent, a dead plant on his windowsill, a full garbage can, and over all of it there’s a faint, lingering smell of… something.

Jonesy’s spaces have always been like this though; Shane had roomed with him once in his first year with the Maples, one road trip, early in the season, and they’d almost killed each other by morning. Jonesy had hung his jock and hockey socks over the heating unit; Shane had opened a window in November at two in the morning. There had been a whole thing about it.

By the end of the trip they’d figured out where the line was, and they’d gone to the assistant coach side-by-side to beg for a permanent change in rooming assignments. It had been the kind of bonding experience that only works in hindsight, but Shane likes to believe that learning to tolerate his mess was the true start of their friendship.

Shane has learned to tolerate it. Shane doesn’t need to question why Win and Bones gave him the middle seat of the couch as soon as he walked in; it’s because that’s his spot, not cause there’s a weird new stain on the cushion. Shane doesn’t need to wonder about the veggie chips Jonesy set out; they’re probably not the same ones Shane brought last time he was here in April. Shane doesn’t need to worry about that damp smell; it’s probably always been there and he's only noticing it now because he’s been away.

Nope, Shane doesn’t think about any of that, when he needs to be thinking about—

“Are you fucking kidding me—” Mario falls over the edge of the platform.

Shane is not good at videogames: he knows it, his friends know it, and yet for some fucking reason Shane lets himself be talked into playing Smash Bros every time he comes over to this smelly fucking apartment. From the floor, Jonesy makes a hooting noise and shouts, “No way. No way”, which is incredibly unnecessary in Shane’s opinion because Jonesy’s been winning this entire time.

“It’s the controller," Shane says, as Mario doesn’t execute the combo Shane’s absolutely sure he hit the buttons for and just moves uselessly through the air. “Jonesy, I think this needs new batteries—”

“It’s not the controller,” Jonesy says, and performs a perfect edge cancel that (fuck!) sets him for a wavedash into an up-smash, which is so extra and showy that it’s almost offensive.

Mario launches off the platform again. “Jonesy there’s legitimately something wrong with the buttons—“

“There is nothing wrong with the buttons, Hollzy, you just have to get good.”

Shane loses his third game in a row, exactly the same way he lost the previous two, and just hands the controller to Win once the end screen flashes away. This is significantly more fun than actually playing, because Win vs Jonesy is a different sport entirely—they’ve been playing each other long enough to have actual strategies, actual grievances, a whole multi-year rivalry with no clear victor. Shane tends to root for Win on principle, because Jonesy's funnier when he loses, and right now Jonesy thoroughly deserves whatever’s coming to him.

“Oh,” Jonesy says a few minutes later, when there’s finally a break in the action—after his Fox loses two stocks in quick succession and he pauses the game to check the console cables, because now there’s a problem with the controller, the fucking hypocrite. “By the way. Petey’s back in town next week.”

“Petey?” Bones repeats.

“Landry. You know Peter,” Jonesy says, turning to look at Bones with genuine concern. “Peter Landry. Peter, whose stall is next to yours. Has been in our locker room since…” He pauses. Snaps his fingers.

“Since February,” Win says.

“Since February,” Jonesy repeats. “Are you feeling alright, Bones? Did you manage to get a concussion in the offseason?”

“Fuck you Jonesy, I just didn’t know we were calling him Petey instead of Laundry,” Bones says and leans across Shane to grab a handful of chips. “Are you ready to deal with the—” he makes a vague claw gesture with his hand, “thing every morning?”

“A sacrifice I’ll have to make,” Jonesy says, solemn. “Every single morning.”

“What thing?” Shane asks.

They both look at him.

“He makes this—” Jonesy starts, then stalls out, waving his hands uselessly.

“It’s like a smoothie, but wrong,” Bones supplies. “Like, if you described a smoothie to an alien who’d never had one, and they just went for it.”

“It smells bizarre too,” Jonesy adds, which—given the general state of his apartment—probably means the smoothies are genuine biohazards or something. “Dunno how else to describe it, Hollzy. He’s brewing potions.”

That gets a laugh from all of them. Shane joins in, a beat late, and waits for a lull to ask, “It can’t actually be that bad though?”

“Hollzy, it’s a fucking insane thing to experience,” Bones says with a shudder. “Coach Vic had to tell him to stop making them at hotels.”

What the fuck. “He brings a blender on roadies?”

“Not like, a full sized one,” Jonesy says, like that makes it any better. “A personal blender. Portable sized one.”

Shane tries to picture this and actually mostly succeeds—largely because he’d considered buying one of those for himself at one point, before he’d settled on oatmeal for his breakfasts. “And what does this guy make his smoothies out of?”

“Dunno,” Jonesy says. “I’ve asked. He just says ‘stuff’ and then drinks it.”

Bones shakes his head slowly, the way you shake your head at something that is genuinely beyond comprehension. “Bud’s an alien,” he says. “Straight up. But—” he shrugs, “—Petey’s cool.”

Cool, Shane thinks. Yeah. Sure.

Because Peter Landry is twenty five years old and good in the room and is moving into Jonesy’s second bedroom, which used to belong to Tuts before Tuts got traded, and Jonesy was the only one who could really stand Tuts for long stretches of time but apparently everyone likes Petey and Shane knows exactly what that sentence means even if nobody in this room is saying it out loud.

Jonesy isn’t saying it. Bones isn’t saying it. Win definitely isn’t saying it. They’re just talking about their teammate with a personal blender, which is a completely real and funny thing that is happening, and Shane is also talking about the blender but he’s a step outside the loop—and nobody, absolutely nobody, is addressing the fact that his friends are making inside jokes with someone inside a friend group that doesn’t have Shane in it.

Landry’s probably a cool guy. He’s a serviceable hockey player. Easy to get along with too, apparently. On a theoretical level Shane’s got nothing against Landry. He’s probably cool.

Shane does not like Peter Landry.

“Well there’s one team we haven’t mentioned that’s a possibility; we know for a fact that they need a goalie who isn’t injury prone—”

“We’re not even going to go there John. In no universe would—”

Much, much later, after the sun has set and Jonesy has staged a string of comeback victories against Win in Smash and celebrated by unilaterally putting on Fellowship of the Ring without asking anyone’s opinion, the room has settled into a lazy sort of quiet as the movie plays.

Shane’s not watching it though. Shane is half-leaning back on the couch with his phone angled low in his hand with the brightness turned all the way down, because he’s got about ten new text messages from Ilya Rozanov and there’s more coming in practically every minute.

It’s nothing that makes a ton of sense; most of it just a rambling collection of complaints about the drink selection in a club that Rozanov is currently suffering through. The specifics are a little lost on him—Shane doesn’t drink often enough to have real opinions about it, and Rozanov is apparently drunk enough that most of the messages are arriving in Russian—but the tone is unmistakably aggrieved.

There’s also an impressively blurry photo attached to the latest text that Shane hasn’t fully processed yet: it’s maybe a table in a club covered in a variety of drinks and what might be Rozanov’s hand in the corner, flipping off the glass closest to the camera, presumably to help Shane infer that whatever liquid is inside of it is terrible.

Maybe. It’s kind of hard to tell what he’s supposed to be looking at; Rozanov is not the best photographer.

Shane is still staring at it when Bones stretches his arms above his head and says, to no one in particular, “We should get ice time this week.”

“Yes,” Shane says way too fast, and shoves his phone in his pocket before turning to face Bones properly. “Absolutely yes.”

Bones doesn’t tease him for the speed of his response; he just grins at him. “Yeah?”

“I need to actually skate,” Shane says, which is true. He’s been running, he’s been in the gym, but no amount of land training will ever be as useful as stepping foot on the ice, and having his friends there to skate with him is just a bonus. “When were you thinking?”

“Wednesday maybe. Jonesy, you in?”

“Obviously,” Jonesy says, from the floor, not taking his eyes off Legolas.

“Win?”

“Yeah for sure.” Win hums a bit, then adds, “Isn’t Sticky flying back in soon? If we loop in Petey we’d actually have enough for scrimmages. Two goalies, two on two.”

“Oh, sick,” Bones says. “When does he get in?”

“End of the weekend I think,” Win says. “Maybe Monday? I’d have to check with him, but it’ll be nice to have two actual goalies if we’re going to play.”

Stephen Ickringill-Young, known universally as Sticky, nineteen years old, a .888 in the regular season. Shane knows his numbers and they’re not great: skilled lateral movement, but way too slow on his blocker side. Good positioning in the first period, but tended to get sloppy in the third when his legs got tired. He’s Laval’s starting goalie only because there is literally nobody left in the development pipeline.

He's got developmental stats, developmental numbers, developmental technique problems. Sticky has the kind of play that won’t get him a second look literally anywhere in the league now, but he is 100% going to be on the Metros’ radar the moment Shane’s name moves off the roster.

“It’ll be nice to see him again,” is all Shane says out loud.

And then, because he's apparently become the kind of person who thinks mean things about a nineteen year old who has never done anything to him personally, he makes himself stop.

Sticky’s fine. Sticky’s a good kid who worked hard to get where he is and doesn’t know he’s a variable in someone else's equation, and none of what’s happening is his fault, and Shane is not going to sit on his friend's couch and be awful in his head about a teammate just because the situation is inconvenient. That’s not who he is.

His phone buzzes in his pocket; Shane doesn’t look at it. He turns his attention back to the TV, and makes himself keep it there.

On screen, the Fellowship is forming. Jonesy is mouthing along to a character’s lines—Boromir, probably, he has strong opinions about Boromir—and Shane already knows how the rest of the night goes from here. Movie until someone (Jonesy) gets hungry, then they’ll decide they need pizza, then a ten minute argument about which place to go to, and none of the pizza places have anything that’ll fit Shane's offseason diet but that’s fine because he’s with friends and is allowed to have cheat days occasionally.

Jonesy will spend the entire walk conducting a passionate case for the place three blocks further and switch positions completely the second they reach the counter. Bones’ll offer to buy the pizza, then decide they’re having Hawaiian, and Shane will eat it anyway because of course he will, even if he doesn’t like pineapple on pizza all that much. Win won’t weigh in until the order’s already doomed, then will point out he also hates pineapple on pizza, and since no one listened to him they might as well stop at a convenience store on the way home so he can get candy, then refuse to share with any of them.

It’s one of the least complicated parts of his life, this. His friends on a couch in a disgusting apartment, a movie nobody chose democratically, the guaranteed pizza argument sometime in the next forty to sixty minutes. No performance required. No boxes. Just… this. It’s good.

It’s really good, actually.

He’s going to miss this so much.

“Well we can’t spend this entire day discussing the league’s goaltending woes, unfortunately, so let’s wrap things up. Last thoughts on Montreal, Glen?”

“Metros are in a really good place John. They have things they need to work on, most of their blueline needs an intervention, but the forward core is rock solid, and I can see them being competitive for a very long time.”

“Right you are, and as an added bonus the Metros just put out a presser officially announcing Jean-Jaques Boiziau as Montreal’s 28th captain. I have high hopes for the Boiziau era, and this team is going to be one to watch this year.”

“The future is certainly bright for Montreal, and if they can make some trades this year to fix up their defensive woes, then they’re set.”

“Thanks for tuning in to this episode of Man in the Crease. Next week we’re going to dig deep into the Western Conference losers, the Anaheim Hammerheads, and really try to figure out what they need to succeed—”

Two days before the start of the Metros’ 2013-2014 season training camp, Shane walks into a private dining room at the back of a very nice restaurant and tries not to wince too obviously.

It’s a very nice place because JJ knows his stuff when it comes to restaurants, but all the ambient mood lighting and elegant place settings in the world can do very little to make up for twenty fully grown adult men speaking over each other at full volume—and every single one of them turning in unison to shout a greeting at him.

He endures the welcome—fistbumps with the forwards, affectionate slaps from the defence, a ruffle of his hair from Miity, a hug from JJ—before Albright steps through the door behind him and everyone’s attention shifts to him and Shane can escape to the side of the room, where Hayden is leaning against the wall with a beer in one hand and a can of ginger ale in the other, ready and waiting.

“Hey bud!” Hayden says, loudly, as soon as Shane’s within range, handing over the ginger ale with a wide grin, and that’s just… weird.

“Hi?” Shane says back, and doesn’t even bother hiding the fact that he’s eyeing him.

Something’s off, immediately. Hayden’s a consistently cheerful guy but he’s usually not this cheerful, not usually smiling to the point where Shane can see his eyeteeth on full display. Maybe nobody else would be able to notice, but Shane knows him well enough to spot it instantly: the extra brightness, the way Hayden is holding himself a little too still, like he’s too full of energy and is barely holding himself back from fidgeting.

The start of the season is an exciting time, but nobody should be that excited for a mandatory team dinner.

Shane glances at the ginger ale in his hand, then back up at Hayden's face.

“Okay,” he says. “What.”

“Nothing,” Hayden says, instantly, which is how Shane knows it’s not nothing—but Shane’s not going to push, ‘cause if Hayden wants to say something, he’ll cave in under two minutes, so Shane just says “Sure” as flatly as he can manage, and settles in to wait this out.

He leans on the wall beside Hayden. Cracks open the can and takes a sip of ginger ale. Starts counting silently in his head and hits ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty. Raises his can to his lips for a second sip right when Hayden heaves in a massive breath and—

“Jackie’s pregnant,” Hayden blurts.

Shane chokes.

Not all the way, but it’s close enough—ginger ale burning down the wrong pipe, a few sharp inhales that actually hurt a bit, bending over as he coughs into his hand, blinking hard around his watering eyes. Above him Hayden makes a noise that’s half-laugh, half-apology, and pats his back twice, too soft to actually help Shane if he was actually choking.

“Sorry– sorry Shane, I just—” Another set of useless pats.

Shane gets it under control. Drags in an actual breath. Straightens back up.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“Holy shit,” Hayden echoes, immediately, like he’s been holding that one in too. They look at each other for a second, both of them a little wide-eyed now, the words sitting there in the air between them.

“Holy shit,” Shane says again, more deliberate this time, and finally looks at Hayden properly, takes in the grin that’s still extra-wide across his face, the barely-contained energy that is… honestly actually pretty justified right now. “Holy fuck. Dude. Hayden. Congrats man.”

Hayden just stands there, grinning, looking like he might actually start vibrating out of his skin, and Shane can’t help it—he laughs.

“You’re losing it a little,” Shane says.

“A lot,” Hayden agrees, not even trying to deny it. “I’m so fucking excited dude.”

No shit. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Hayden huffs out a laugh, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, then looks back at Shane, something softer threading in under all the excitement.

“Don’t say anything yet,” Hayden adds, but he’s beaming when he says it, so fucking obviously that anyone who looked over at them could probably figure it out. “We’re only telling a few people right now, ‘cause it’s still too early to actually tell people for real, but– yeah. Jacks and I figured a few people couldn’t hurt, y’know. Selectively.”

Only telling people selectively, and Shane made that list. “I won’t say anything.”

“I know you won’t.” Hayden knocks his shoulder against Shane’s once, quickly, before pushing off the wall and saying something about finding a pre-dinner snack.

Shane stays where he is. Pulls out his phone, sends Jackie a quick ‘Hayden told me, congratulations’, pockets it again, and just leans against his wall to watch the room.

Most of the team is here now: Miity is holding court at the far end with Gusty, both of them loud about something, gesturing; Fours is near them with Gilly and Albright, all of them peering down at Gilly’s phone and drawing a crowd. Hayden is weaving his way around the d-core clustered in the middle with their heads together, and Dagger is nodding along to whatever an exhausted looking Oghren 1 is saying, and it’s all so familiar that it hurts a little bit.

This is his team. These are the guys Shane spends nine months of the year playing, training, and travelling with—and he knows them. Knows how Dagger always steals the blue Gatorades during practices and never acknowledges it. Knows how Fours and the two Oghrens have an elaborate handshake they perform with each other before they step foot on the ice. Knows that Albright is scared of spiders, knows that Gilly and JJ gossip like nobody’s business while they’re on-ice, and knows the specific way the Bell Centre sounds during warmup versus during a game.

He's going to have to learn all of that again. Somewhere new, from scratch, and it’ll take a year, minimum, before any of it stops requiring effort—before he stops translating, stops mapping, stops being the new guy who’s still figuring out where everything is, and it’s going to suck so bad, and he’s losing this—

The clink of a glass cuts through the noise.

JJ is standing on a chair on the other end of the room, and Shane spends a single second worrying about structural integrity before JJ taps his glass again and clears his throat.

“Okay,” JJ says. “I’m not going to make this long–”

“Sure you’re not,” someone heckles from the crowd, but JJ just grins and continues.

“I’m not going to make this long,” he says again. “I just— we had a good year last season. We had a really good year, and we made a fucking incredible run in the playoffs and we went further than anybody thought we would.” He pauses. “Everyone was doubting us, and we proved them wrong. And I know, and you all definitely know, that they’re going to doubt us again this year.” Another pause. “But we don’t need to worry about any of that, because we are not a team that’s going to be underestimated for long. We made it to the fucking Conference Final, and we fought all the way to seven games. That’s a start, and we build on it, and we go back to work, and we do it again this year, and we do it better.”

He looks around the room one more time, and raises his glass.

“I’m incredibly proud to wear the C for this group,” JJ says, simply. “Let’s make this year count.”

Everyone raises whatever they have in their hands to join the toast—then the noise swells, people clapping, someone letting out a short cheer, Gilly catcalling JJ in French, and even though only a portion of the team can understand him, it makes everyone laugh. Shane takes a sip of his ginger ale and watches JJ jump back down from his chair and get immediately pulled into conversation on both sides, pingponging between them, completely at ease and laughing all the while.

Hayden eventually makes his way back over, settling against the wall beside him again, but this time he doesn’t say anything and Shane just lets the noise of the room carry on around them. From here it’s easy to see the whole thing all at once—JJ laughing loudly, pulling attention without trying, Miity talking to Albright, Fours and the rest of the d-core still in a huddle, Gilly, Dagger, all the rest of them milling around and having a good time, and Hayden next to him, looking down at his phone now, not even attempting to hide his happiness about the way something in his life has shifted for the better.

Shane lets his head tip back against the wall and closes his eyes for half a second, just enough to feel where the thoughts want to go—

Back to Hayden, actually. Hayden next to him with a beer and a secret and a whole life reorganizing itself around something that has nothing to do with hockey, and the completely uncomplicated way he's happy about it. Hayden’s just… carrying it around. Holding it just under the surface, in plain sight if you know where to look, happiness leaking out of him at the edges as he texts Jackie, smiling too big to keep in.

Shane is aware, in the way he’s aware of most things he doesn’t like to examine directly, that he doesn’t have anything like that. Something that’s his outside of all of this. Nothing outside of hockey, nothing to distract him when a podcast or a TV host says something that gets under his skin, nobody to text during a team dinner to make him smile like that, like there’s something outside of hockey that could make him happy—

Shane’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out without a second thought.

Lily: [image]
Lily: reminds me of you 😘

It’s a picture of a cat. Or– no, it’s one of those joke pictures that Bones likes to send him from time to time, the ones with weird animals and edited pictures of people. This one has a brown and white cat frowning exaggeratedly into the camera, with a white text box saying “NO” overlaid on top of it. No additional context.

What the fuck.

Me: ?
Me: Was that meant for someone else?

Lily: no hollander
Lily: that is you in the net

What the fuck. Is Rozanov actually serious, this is just—

“Everything ok, bud?”

Shane looks up.

“You’re smiling pretty big,” Hayden says, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Just having a private good time over there?” He leans over to try and peer at the screen and snickers when Shane hides the phone against his chest. “Wow. Alright then. Keep your secrets.”

Shane doesn’t dignify that with a response, just pulls his phone out from his chest just enough to send back a ‘Sure, uncanny’ that Shane is reasonably certain Rozanov’ll be able to interpret as a positive response, before pocketing his phone and looking back out at the room in front of him.

He takes it all in—Hayden right back to beaming down at his phone beside him, the team socializing around them, JJ laughing at the centre of it all—and lets the realization settle over him.

One more year.

He has at most one more year in this exact version of things, on this team, with these people who know him without asking. One more year, and after that, whatever comes next is completely out of his hands and there is nothing he can do about any of it. Right now all Shane has certain is this last season with the Metros, and he needs to think about it in a way that is actually going to be useful.

One more season. That’s the decision that was made and Shane is not going to waste a single shift this season being sad about it. Shane is going to play every game of this season like he has something to prove—because he does. Because the coaches are probably only going to give him thirty games again this year, which means Shane has thirty games to prove himself. Shane has thirty games to play and make count, and by the time the Metros trade him away from here, he’s going to make damn sure that every GM in this league knows exactly what Montreal is giving away.

One year, he thinks. No ambiguity in it now. One season left, and that's it. Let’s do this.

Shane can do a lot with a year. He’s going to have to.

Chapter End Notes

First and foremost I would like to remind all of you: this is a love story. This is a romcom, this is mostly going to be light and nice and fun; that said, there’s a lot of emotional depth to cover. This goalie shane that i’ve got spinning in my mind defines himself/his whole life via hockey, so when hockey betrays him, what is he left with?

This chapter was born out of a desire to really figure out how Shane would come to terms with the end of his time with the metros. Answer: something that resembles the five stages of grief. It’s not a perfect analogy, but it was a useful framework as I worked through this chapter.

Some notes:
1) So he’s going to be traded: Yup. Two reasons; one, because as a fic writer I want to get him and ilya in the same location; two, because the metros are a professional dead end while Miitka is there. Shane wants to play more, his agent wants him to play more, the Metros need a new d-core. Hockey players are assets to be exchanged; one shane hollander prodigy goalie can be exchanged for (potentially) many things. Shane is still on his ELC which means the metros hold his rights, and while Farah can advocate for him, ultimately the metros decide his fate.
2) Yuna: That was the ‘anger’ part of the whole 5 stages. While I don’t think shane is going to have a total breakdown about his situation, he is absolutely going to lash out and be prickly about this, and who better to push you to a point of emotional stress than your mother? My beta reader @megalodon raised the potential of shane being the type of on-the-spectrum kid who maybe had meltdowns, and thus the shane and yuna interaction was born. Lotsa nonverbal communication, lots of friction coming from knowing someone too well, and lots of love undercutting all of it.
3) Not a lot of Ilya this chapter: Nope, and originally there was no ilya at all. When writing this chapter I got so sucked into shane’s sad headspace that ilya wasn’t even a blip on the radar lol (you all have @sixofstarrs to thank for him being there even tangentally). Don’t worry, we’ve got some big chapters coming up ;)
4) Miscellaneous. Vancouver got a cup? LISTEN, if i’m going to (spoiler) make good things happen to fictional boston, i 100% had to give my fictional team a fuckin cup first. They’re called the Kermodes, but I very nearly called them the Marmots (real BC-knowers will know why). Maples scene? If you’ve ever hung out with 22-25 year old boys, you know they’re nasty sometimes. First draft had them playing Nidhogg instead of smash, but google says nidhogg didn’t come out till 2014. Ilya sent shane a meme? fun fact, if you google ‘2013 cat meme’ grumpy cat is like the only option. What’s an offer sheet? Legal negotiation sabotage, go google them, they’re insane

Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? I’ve got some hockey-intensive chapters plotted out for the next few, so buckle up! Emotionally, things are only up from here (unless…)

Thanks for all your comments, I read each and every one of them! See you all soon

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary

2013-2014 season baby! I wonder if there are any new players in the league

Chapter Notes

As always all the kudos in the world to @sixofstarrs and @BearsAndFireflies for beta-ing this chapter! This fic is all the better for your help <3

NSFW this chapter?

One slur and two blowjobs. The slur is from the lovely troy barrett during a faceoff, the blowjobs start when Ilya drops to his knees and continue till the end of the scene

“All I’m saying,” Marly says, not looking up from his display readout, “is that it’s technically a vegetable.”

“It is not a vegetable,” Connors says. “It’s a condiment.”

“A condiment is a sauce.” Marly exhales sharply through his nose. “Pickles aren’t a sauce.”

“Pickles aren’t a vegetable either, Marly.”

“They were a vegetable,” Marly says. “Before.”

“Before they were pickled, yes, they were cucumbers, but—”

"So they retain the fucking… the essence.”

Connors actually turns his head to glare over at him for that one. “They don’t retain the essence, Marly. That’s not how food works.”

The debate has been going for twenty minutes, measured in steady revolutions of the bikes, abandoned and resumed between intervals of rising RPMs like it’s part of the training plan, and shows no sign of resolving itself. Morning workouts at the Raiders’ facility tend to settle into predictable rhythms like this—music, the TV on the wall showing a talk show of some sort, the steady spin of bike wheels and treadmills, the clang of a weight rack, and somebody complaining about something inane to help pass the time.

Today, it’s pickles. Nobody has told Marly and Connors to shut up yet, which probably means they’re still being entertaining enough to be tolerated. Ilya, occupying the bike to Connors’ left, has not weighed into this issue and does not plan to.

“St-Simon,” Marly calls from his other side, appealing to the fourth bike in the row like this is now a formal polling exercise. “Pickles. Vegetable or condiment?”

Victor St-Simon—the Raiders’ newest player, acquired over the summer in a trade with Houston that the front office had described as a depth and versatility move but everyone else understood as fast winger under thirty, please and thank you—glances over from his bike.

“I do not think I have a position on this,” St-Simon says wisely, very obviously knowing the signs of a useless conversation when he sees one.

“Good answer,” Ilya says, without looking over. “This is stupid.”

“Oh yeah?” Connors immediately fires back. “What do you think a pickle is then, Roz?”

“Is a fucking pickle,” Ilya says, and reaches out to turn up the resistance on his bike.

The trainers have them on a longer interval set today, less recovery between efforts, their session numbers tracked week over week like they’re trying to turn the Raiders’ suffering into data. The burn settles in quickly but the point is endurance not speed, and Ilya sinks into the meditative blankness that only cardio can produce, where his legs are doing their thing and his brain has mostly vacated the premises.

The pickle debate keeps going somewhere to his right, but it stops meaning anything in particular. It’s just training room noise on a Tuesday in late November, nothing he has to think about.

His phone buzzes against the handlebars and Ilya grabs for it immediately, expecting to see—

Oh. Or that, actually. He sits up and unlocks his phone, ignoring the stream of incoming text messages in favour of jabbing at the call button.

“Oi,” Connors says as Ilya raises his phone to his ear, “we’re in the middle of—”

Ilya’s already ignoring him. “What,” he says in Russian, settling back into his pedaling.

“Ilyusha, you fucking bastard,” Sveta’s voice comes crackling out of the phone hot and sharp-edged, like she’s been mid-rant since before he even picked up.

An auspicious start. “What did I do this time?” Ilya asks, because genuinely, it could be anything. Maybe this is about the car he’s been half-heartedly trying to buy through her dealership connections, the one she keeps telling him is ‘the ugliest thing she’s ever seen’ while still sending him listings. Or maybe he agreed to dinner recently and forgot, which in Sveta-speak is functionally the same as mortal betrayal. Or maybe it’s because he ate her last packet of sushki the last time he slept at her place and didn’t replace them. Or—

“The captaincy, you nimwit—” Oh. Or that. “I know you knew before today. I need you to explain to me why I’m finding out that you’re going to be captain in Sochi from a press release—”

Ilya lets her talk herself out, which is usually the fastest way through one of Sveta’s barrages. He keeps his pedaling pace steady, counts out a set of twenty in his head, and says, “Mm,” at intervals that suggest he’s listening and is apologetic without committing to anything incriminating—but she knows his tricks, and catches on fairly quickly.

“Ilyusha,” she says again, sharper this time. “Don’t ‘mm’ me. You knew.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, and this is, strictly speaking, not a lie. It is also not the truth in any meaningful way, because they both know there was never a version of the Russian Olympic roster that didn’t include Ilya, and Simon Ivanovitch forwarded him a suspicious pair of emails from the Hockey Federation just last week. “I suspected.”

“You suspected,” Sveta repeats flatly. “And you didn’t think to mention it to me.”

“You would have yelled at me if I told you and was wrong,” Ilya points out. “Now you are yelling at me later because I waited until it was official. That was strategic, Sveta.” He pauses, then adds, somewhat hurt, “But who did you think it was going to be? Who else could it’ve been?”

A pause. Then– “Pimenev?”

Oh that’s just insulting. “Pimenev is two hits away from retirement,” Ilya says and scowls into the air. “Pimenev was literally at the Olympics in 2002, he’s practically fossilized. You thought it would be Pimenev over me?”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end—a dangerous thing, considering—before Sveta exhales loudly. “You’re insufferable. A press release.”

“It wasn’t my announcement to make,” he says, a little more seriously. He bumps the resistance up another notch, feels the immediate burn in his quads. “You know how it is.”

She doesn’t answer that because she does know, and the conversation lapses into silence.

Ilya is an alternate captain here in Boston; the A sits on his jersey for games, it’s a fact that gets mentioned in passing on SportsCentre, and he occasionally has to speak to the refs if Anderson’s on the bench. It matters, in theory. In practice the A feels practically decorative.

Captain is different, and the C on an Olympic jersey won’t be decorative.

The bike chirps sharply beneath him.

Ilya looks down and realizes, a second too late to save his current interval, that he’s dropped twenty RPM below target without noticing. He cranks the resistance up.

“Fine,” Sveta says eventually, like she’s choosing to shelve that particular grievance for later. “Whatever. It’s done. But we need to talk about the roster.”

Ilya huffs out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. That’s not forgiveness, but Sveta’s priorities have always been reliable.

“It’s November,” he says. “There is still time–”

“We don’t have as much time as you think,” she says, cutting him off efficiently. “And if you think I’m letting the Federation put together lines without at least attempting to interfere—”

“Of course not,” Ilya says. “Interfering is your favourite.”

“Don’t be an ass. Are you free this week?”

He considers his schedule in the vaguest possible terms. Practice, a quick pair of away games, more practice. And of course, at the end of next week they’re playing… “Maybe,” he says. “Come by after I get back from the roadie.”

“Don’t go too hard against Toronto,” Sveta says immediately. “You’ll need Lebedev and Medvedenko intact for February.”

Predictable. “They have enough time to heal before then.”

“Fine! Don’t listen to me then.” There’s another pause, shorter this time, softer around the edges. “Congrats,” she says, finally. It’s gruff, like she’s not entirely pleased about having to be sincere over the phone, but it’s there.

Ilya’s mouth twitches, just a little. “Thank you.”

“Still should have told me,” she adds, because she can’t help herself, and hangs up on him.

Scotiabank Arena always feels a little off.

Maybe it’s because of the banners—the Guardians are another original-six franchise, just as storied as the Raiders—but it’s palpable here in this rink. Every inch of the rafters is clogged with fabric, layers on layers of blue and white, commemorations of championship years stacked alongside division titles, memorials, retirements. And then there’s the faces: enormous printed banners of past greats staring down at the ice, expressions frozen in time and watching all of them. It’s less like legacy and more like surveillance, and even all the way down on the ice it’s claustrophobic.

Doesn’t help that the seats are already remarkably full for warmups, either. A low, constant buzz of noise pressing in from all sides, the particular pitch of Canadian hockey fanatisicm—anticipation sharpened into something almost restless. Jerseys everywhere. Blue and white, old names stitched across shoulders like relics, carrying the ghosts of better seasons.

Ilya pushes off from the boards and starts his usual wide laps through Boston’s end, lazy and controlled, easing into the edges, weaving in and around his teammates, letting his body settle into the familiar rhythm of hockey. He finds a puck and flicks it back and forth on the end of his stick; fires a quick look on net that beats an unsuspecting Bucks through the five-hole; finds another puck and flips it onto the flat side of his blade, balancing it carefully—

Until a new wave of cheers cuts its way across the rink, and the puck rolls off of Ilya’s stick. He turns to see Toronto’s newest rookies, leaning against the glass, posturing for the crowd.

It’s almost impossible not to know about them: Dallas Kent and Troy Barrett. Centre and winger, respectively. A middling franchise’s newest hope to drag their team out of mediocrity by sheer force of optimism.

Highly skilled, or so the media says. Both of them drafted by Toronto this year in the first round—Kent first, then Barrett—stepping into the league together like a matched set. Kent the playmaker creating chances; Barrett the finisher making sure the puck actually goes in. Built-in chemistry, best friends, the kind of narrative people latch onto because it’s easy to sell.

The media’s latest project is to run their rookie numbers against Ilya's from his first season, which is the kind of comparison that only makes sense if you ignore several inconvenient facts—namely that Ilya was already among the best players in the league at nineteen, and it’s already clear neither of these two are.

Neither of these two are even close: Kent is on pace for twenty-ish goals, approximately forty below what Ilya was doing at the same age in his same position, and while Barrett is doing slightly better with his scoring, the rest of his on-ice performance isn’t anything compelling.

Neither of them are close. SportsCentre knows they’re not close but they’re putting out the articles anyway, because Boston’s Young Superstar versus Toronto’s Future! writes itself as a headline. Sveta had sent him a particularly egregious example last week with no message attached, just three question marks, and Ilya had responded with a single period and moved on with his life.

Across the ice, Kent finally peels away from the glass, pushing off into a lazy line, lifting a hand in one final acknowledgement of the crowd. Barrett follows a half step behind, the two of them moving like they’re tethered together.

Ilya watches for a moment longer, before turning back to his circles.

Ilya takes his time getting to the dot.

There’s no strategic reason for this—the linesman is waiting, Kent is already there, the crowd is impatiently doing its thing—but Ilya has found, over the years, that arriving to a faceoff slightly after everyone else expects you to sets a certain tone. It costs him nothing. It, occasionally, costs the other guy something significant in frustration.

Kent is bouncing lightly on his skates when Ilya glides up, fidgeting with his stick, restless in a way that screams impatience. He’s bigger in person than he looks on tape—big for an eighteen year old, broad through the shoulders, has maybe a couple inches on Ilya. The rookie’s eyes come up immediately, tracking him as Ilya sets himself across from him.

“Took your sweet time,” Kent mutters, his voice a nasally little whine. “Slowing down already, Rozanov?”

Ilya considers this. It’s not terrible as far as openers go, a bit generic, but chirping someone about age when the person in question is twenty-two probably isn’t the most effective path for an insult. This rookie has a lot to learn—and Ilya is more than willing to demonstrate.

“You sound nervous,” Ilya says, and really takes the time to savour the words as he crouches down. “Maybe I should let you win this one. For the cameras.”

That’s how you chirp someone—Kent’s hand visibly tightens on his stick, just as the linesman’s hand twitches between them and the puck drops.

Kent moves fast—and he is fast, genuinely, good hands and a quick reaction combining to create a split-second quickness that probably wins a lot of faceoffs against a lot of people—but Ilya’s faster. He snaps his wrists, clean and sharp, pulling the puck straight back through Kent’s reach.

By the time Kent turns to chase, Ilya’s long gone, charging through the neutral zone.

By the end of the first period Ilya has learned several things about Dallas Kent.

First and most importantly: he is skilled. Kent has an admirable combination of size and stickhandling talent and the way Kent moves, physical and decisive, lets him chase pucks up ice like he already understands his own body as a weapon rather than just something he has to steer around the rink.

Secondly: he is a bit of a cowardly bitch. Midway through the period, Kent catches Connors cutting through the neutral zone and absolutely levels him—shoulder through the chest, clean and heavy enough that Connors is separated from the puck and the whole Raiders bench rattles for a second after it—but he doesn’t manage to hold it. A minute later Nilsson pins Kent along the boards and leans in to make him work for it, and Kent gives ground almost immediately, coughing the puck up under pressure instead of digging in.

Big enough to throw his weight around when he has the advantage; not nearly so eager when somebody pushes back.

“Fucking asshole,” Connors mutters a few minutes later, and Ilya is inclined to agree with him.

Third and finally: while Kent is undoubtedly Toronto’s best player, he is not yet good enough to singlehandedly drag his whole team forward. Twenty minutes into this game, and the Raiders are already up 2-0.

When Ilya glides to the dot to start the second period, Kent is looking up to watch his approach.

“You’ve got such a big contract,” Kent says, just as low and snotty as he was the first time around. “But you haven’t done shit all game. You always take this long to get it up?”

Ilya settles into his stance. Considers that, because that was a significantly better attempt at a chirp, but still—

“You had the whole intermission,” Ilya says slowly. “And that is all you came up with?”

The linesman’s hand drops.

Kent is angrier this time, which means he’s less precise; he puts too much weight forward and he overcommits to the first swipe, and Ilya reads it in the first fraction of a second and is already moving. Clean. Same wrists, same snap, the puck pulled back through Kent’s reach because it was never really a contest.

Still not close.

By the end of the second period Ilya has learned several things about Troy Barrett.

First and foremost: Barrett is patient. He plays much less aggressively, seemingly preferring to drift in Kent’s wake until it’s time for him to get into position and close out a play. It makes him an effective winger, and five minutes into the second the Guardians finally get on the board to make it 2-1 after Barrett beats Bucks with a quick wrister.

Secondly: he isn’t afraid to be physical, but he doesn’t know how to get away with it yet. Barrett spends half the period chirping at the defence between whistles, and at the twelve minute mark he makes the sound tactical decision to jab his leg between Olsson’s for a trip that sends them both sprawling—right in front of the ref. With just about the clearest possible sightline.

Immediate penalty. Raiders’ power play, and they convert on it about twenty seconds later. 3-1.

Third and finally: he has severely underdeveloped defensive instincts. Late in the period, St-Simon picks a pass off in Boston’s zone and immediately fires it forward, threading it cleanly through Toronto’s players, right onto Ilya’s stick at line.

And just like that, it’s a breakaway.

Barrett is the only Guardian close enough to recover, the last skater between Ilya and the goalie, but instead of stepping up, instead of forcing Ilya wide or taking his body or doing literally fucking anything—he hesitates. It’s the kind of mistake that’ll probably be unthinkable in three or four years, but right now Barrett is eighteen and new to the league, and decisions don’t come fast enough.

And Ilya doesn’t slow down to wait for him. He charges over the blue line, straight down the middle between the circles, Barrett reaching uselessly across his hip from half a stride behind, and Ilya reads the goalie’s stance in a split second—the slight drop in his glove, the way he’s already cheating back instead of holding his depth—and Ilya pulls his stick back and snaps the puck forward—

Glove side, up high, past the goalie in the back of the net. Barrett snarls something at his back as he veers off, but Ilya can’t hear it.

Forty minutes into this game, and the Raiders are up 4-1.

Kent doesn’t say a word as Ilya glides to the dot at the start of the third period, and a burst of satisfaction flares to life in Ilya’s chest.

“Nothing to say?” Ilya asks because he’s an asshole, and watches a flush bloom across Kent’s face. He keeps his jaw clenched shut, so Ilya adds, “Is okay. I know it is probably hard for you to talk and think at the same time.”

“Fuck you,” Kent snarls and whacks his stick against Ilya’s—viciously, maliciously, and well before the linesman was even in position to drop the puck—and gets waved out of the faceoff for his efforts.

Ilya lets a smile crawl across his face as Barrett sets up across from him to take the draw. He doesn’t bother with a chirp this time, just sends him a saucy wink (that makes Barrett rear his head back and hiss out a vicious “Fag,” in a way that sounds more like a question than an insult), before leaning forward and focusing.

The puck drops; Ilya wins the draw clean.

Most of the way through the third period Ilya has learned several things about the 2013/14 Toronto Guardians.

First and foremost: their special teams coach is an idiot. Ilya and the first unit have been comfortably cycling the puck in Toronto’s end for almost a full minute, and the defenders look terrified of doing anything that might require independent thought, much less challenging any of them for the puck. It’s less a power play and more a very polite demonstration of a passing sequence.

Ilya passes cross ice to Marly, who pushes forward slightly before dropping the puck back to Olsson at the point. Olsson sends it across to Mahon, who bumps it back to Anderson at the right circle. Anderson holds it for a half-second, waiting to pass as Ilya moves into position in the high slot—

Ilya is in position in the high slot. The pass doesn’t come.

A whistle screams.

When Sveta asks him to recount the events of this moment later tonight Ilya will only be able to describe it in flashes: the referee with his arm raised, already signaling to the Raiders’ bench. The puck resting against the boards, beside Dallas Kent’s left skate. And Anderson—

Anderson, a crumpled heap at Kent’s feet, unmoving.

Sveta will ask, but Ilya won’t be able to reconstruct the thought process because there honestly wasn’t one. In this exact moment there’s just Anderson on the ice, Kent standing over him—

—and Ilya covering the distance between them.

Gloves off. He doesn’t remember doing it, only notes the absence of them a second later, the cold bite of air on his hands. Ilya’s left fist knots in Kent’s jersey, fabric bunching hard at the collar to drag him forward, and his right connects with Kent’s jaw, jolting his head sideways.

Everything goes quiet.

Not actually; there’s still noise, there’s always noise in an arena, but it drops away from him, muffled and distant, like he’s underwater. There’s only the pull of Kent’s jersey in his fist, the jolt running up his arm with each punch, the mechanical rhythm of it.

Kent swings back, but it’s messy. This rookie’s not a fighter yet, he’s just throwing his fists through the air because that’s the thing to do in this situation. One of them catches the side of Ilya’s helmet though, a solid blow that sends a white spark across his vision and makes his head ring, and for a second his grip loosens and Kent twists—

Eventually, Ilyushka, you’ll learn how to duck.

—and Ilya rebalances, gets both hands in the collar, and uses his own momentum to drag Kent down. Their skates tangle; Kent goes first, Ilya following, driving him into the ice with a force that rattles up through his shoulders.

Hands are on him almost immediately—its the linesmen, hooking their hands under Ilya’s arms and hauling him back with the brutal efficiency of men who do this for a living—and as he straightens, the arena noise cuts back in all at once: screams and cheers and boos, and under all of it, the sounds of his teammates tapping their sticks on the boards.

Ilya gets his feet under him and steps back. Lets the ref start dragging him back towards the benches. His right hand is already complaining, he has no idea where his helmet is, and Ilya is aware, distantly, that he is breathing very hard.

He turns to look back over his shoulder.

Kent is still on his knees where Ilya left him, one hand pressed to his face. There’s blood there, smeared bright against the neck of Kent’s jersey, and satisfaction sparks quick and bright—before Ilya’s eyes drift past him to where Anderson is still down on the ice.

He’s sitting upright now, but barely. Hunched forward and braced between two members of the medical staff, not making any effort to stand up.

There’s a frisson of dread starting to pool in Ilya’s stomach—but the linesman’s hand clamps harder on Ilya’s arm and he’s being steered away faster now, straight to the tunnel that leads back to the dressing room. He doesn’t resist—instigating a fight in the final 5 minutes of a game is an automatic ejection, Ilya knows this, this was nowhere near his first fight—but that doesn’t matter.

The last thing Ilya sees before the tunnel swallows him is Anderson being guided, slow and careful, toward the bench.

Ilya can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s been summoned to LeClaire’s office, but here he is, obediently presenting himself a full thirty minutes before practice is supposed to start.

LeClaire makes him wait for it too, shuffling papers around his desk and scribbling something on a sticky note for a full two minutes before he deigns to look at Ilya.

“So,” LeClaire says, tapping the end of a pen once, twice, then stilling. “Nothing from the DOPS.”

“No,” Ilya confirms, even though Coach almost definitely knows this. No supplemental discipline beyond the game ejection, no fines or suspensions coming for beating the living shit out of Kent. Just another mark on the growing list of on-ice fights Ilya has been in and won.

That was probably the freest fight Ilya has had in a while. He’d do it again in a heartbeat—and Coach very obviously knows this too.

“Let’s not make that a habit,” LeClaire eventually says, and accepts Ilya’s mildly insincere “yes coach,” with a hum before continuing. “Even if it was justified. I’ll make the official announcement during drills, but Anderson is going to be off ice for a while.”

Wait– what? “What is a while?”

“It’s a bad concussion.” Fuck, that’s not… Ilya rewatched the hit after the fact and it was a big one, sure, but it didn’t look bad enough to— “And given Anderson’s history with them, plus the symptoms he’s presenting…” LeClaire’s mouth twists. “Officially he’s week to week. Unofficially, we’ll see.”

A pause.

“In the meantime,” LeClaire continues, already moving past it, “we’re going to make Marleau another alternate captain to help split up on-ice duties. You, Feller, Marleau… the team will be looking to you three for leadership until Anderson gets back.”

You three, coach says, but Ilya is the only sitting here.

The game is tied 1-1 going into the third when Sveta lets herself in with her spare key and wanders into the living room holding a folder thick enough to be used as a weapon.

“You started without me,” she says somewhat reproachfully, looking at the papers already spread across the table.

“I live here,” Ilya says and makes a grabbing motion for her folder.

She doesn’t give it to him—just raises a single eyebrow that Ilya accepts, because yes, ok, she is technically smuggling mild state secrets in there—and takes her time settling herself on the other end of the couch. On the TV, Montreal is setting up in Anaheim’s zone, cycling slowly. Sveta glances at the screen briefly before finally opening the folder.

“Defensemen first,” she says.

“Forwards first.”

“Defensemen,” she repeats, in a tone that very clearly meant it wasn’t a suggestion, and grabs a pen off the table.

They work. That’s what it turns into—less a conversation than a shared breakdown of tape in their heads, sorting through every available Russian player in the MLH and KHL, trying to predict which combinations the selection committee might actually go for and which names are just wishful thinking. Problem-solving, the same way it’s always been with them, all the way back to being kids at the kitchen table scribbling over each other’s assignments while her mother pretended not to notice.

Sveta has her multicoloured pens, cycling through inks as she builds out a classification system she never has to explain. Ilya has shorthand notes in the margins, half-words, arrows, and fragments that would look meaningless to anyone else but they can both interpret without effort. Same system they’ve always used, working together seamlessly.

Naturally, they argue the entire time.

“Volkov,” Sveta says.

“No chance,” Ilya replies because there’s really no way, but she’s writing his name down on her sheet and doesn’t react when Ilya jabs her with his foot. “He only has six points in his last twenty games. The Federation is going to want defensemen who can score.”

“They’re going to put him in,” Sveta continues, without even acknowledging him. “Because Volkov’s brother is on the Federation’s selection committee. And besides, we already know Morozov likes him, so he’ll probably be on the first pairing.”

Damn it. Morozov?

“The coaching staff hasn’t been announced yet,” he says, but he already has a pretty good idea of how she knows this, and–

“Papa told me.” Yup. Sveta sets her pen down and shrugs at him. “It’s an open secret anyways; Sorin, Zarechny, and Morozov as the head coach. Same as it was four years ago.”

Four years ago at the last Olympics Russia was eliminated in the Quarterfinals, losing 7-3 to Canada. Same coaching staff? Same Federation politics and the same insistence on building teams around loyalty instead of chemistry. “I’m fucked then.”

“Well…” Sveta trails off into silence, then sighs. “Morozov will never change. But Sorin should have some interesting ideas for special teams at the very least, and Zarechny I actually don’t mind because he’s doing well enough with Minsk, but—”

“I’m probably still fucked,” Ilya concludes, and flops back against his couch. Sveta just pats his leg consolingly and goes back to making notes.

Nothing official yet, he thinks, staring up at the ceiling, but it’s a lie even to his own ears. It’s real enough in his head already, clear enough to picture: the expectation, the mess of it, the way everything will land on him like it always does.

Onscreen a whistle blows and Ilya’s eyes flick up to catch the score—just in time to see Hollander raising both of his hands and shoving an Anaheim player out of his crease.

What?

Ilya clearly makes some sort of noise because Sveta looks up from her papers in time to see Hollander raise his hands to shove the player again, strong enough this time to send the man sprawling to the ice.

What the fuck.

There’s a crowd forming in front of the net now, players from both teams converging on each other, referees wading into the fray, Hollander still in the midst of it. It’s over fairly quickly but as the players separate, Hollander leans in to say something to the Anaheim forward. The cameras obviously don’t catch it, but the way he’s standing—weight forward, chin up, stick held like a club in his right hand—strongly indicates that whatever he just said was not an apology.

“Oho,” Sveta says, and Ilya can hear the thread of admiration in her voice. “Since when does he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says, because that was… remarkably involved, for Hollander’s usual level of activity during games.

Onscreen, Hollander rolls his shoulders—a slow, deliberate roll that moves through his whole body like a wave cresting—and swings his stick out to whack the right post once, hard, before dropping back into his crouch. Ready stance. Like the last two minutes didn’t happen. Like he didn’t just incite a near-line brawl in front of his net. Like he didn’t just step out of his crease with the sole intention of sending someone sprawling. Like all of that action was nothing to him.

Fuck.

Ilya’s mouth has gone ever so slightly dry.

Onscreen the puck drops again at centre ice. Both he and Sveta watch for a while—eyes following the play as it moves up-ice, a clean exit from the neutral zone, then possession swings and Montreal carries it back into Anaheim’s zone and they turn back to their work. It’s quiet for a few moments–

Until Sveta says, very casually, “Papa always said modern goalies have gotten too passive.”

Uh huh. “Sergei played in a different era.”

“I agree with him though,” she says. “It’s good to see Hollander playing with some passion.”

“It was fine,” Ilya says.

She looks at him.

“It was good,” he amends quickly. “Hollander is—” He stalls, briefly betrayed by his own brain, and completely fails to find something neutral fast enough. “ –big. Commanding, in the net. Takes up space well.”

He hears it as he says it and immediately wishes he didn’t. Sveta doesn’t react out loud, but he can feel her attention sharpen.

“If he figures out how to use his body to be more physical that’ll be…” He trails off, realizing too late that there is no way to end that sentence with any dignity. “That’ll be a real problem,” he finishes somewhat lamely.

A pause stretches. Long enough that he can feel Sveta’s smile without looking at it, can feel the look she’s giving him, and can practically hear what she’s not saying. They need to get away from the topic of Hollan– they need to get back to work. Away from whatever this is doing to his brain.

“Ok,” Ilya says abruptly, lifting the paper in his hand and giving it a meaningless little shake like that will reset the conversation. “That’s all. Back to the defensemen. Where were we?”

“We can switch to goalies if you’d prefer,” Sveta says very sweetly, and has the fucking gall to laugh at him when Ilya pushes off the couch and walks away.

Me: what did Nichols even do to you?
Me: hollander I know you are playing but I want answers when you see this
Me: you should get into more fights )))

When he comes back a few minutes later Sveta graciously accepts the glass of water Ilya hands her without any additional commentary, and Ilya makes the mistake of relaxing slightly as he settles back on the couch.

“By the way,” she says, without looking up from what she’s writing. “Papa’s been officially invited to the games. Seems like there’s a full social schedule for the entire minister’s office.”

Ah. That’s about as subtle as a slap to the face, but there’s still a chance that he’s misunderstanding– “The entire office?”

“And all the usual guests.” Hope dies an unceremonious death in his chest. “You know how those events go.”

Ilya does know how these events go—he’s attended enough of them over his life to know exactly how they go—so he picks up the nearest pen and drags over the line combinations they were working on and grabs for the first diversion he can see.

“Ermakov,” he says, and even to his own ears his voice sounds flat. “What do you think? Kolya’s made the transition to the MLH nicely.”

It’s an inelegant diversion, and he knows it. Sveta very obviously sees right through it, but whatever is on his face must be bad enough that she decides not to punish him for it.

“I think his defensive zone coverage has improved this season,” she says, very very evenly. “I think it’ll either be him or Trigorin that gets the call, and either one would be a decent first pairing LHD.”

“I know,” Ilya says.

“Trigorin is probably more likely, because of his wife’s family,” Sveta says, as if he didn’t know that, and pauses slightly before adding, “And you will have to think about the rest of this eventually, Ilyusha.”

“I know that too,” Ilya says, and no matter how hard he is trying to keep everything out of his voice, he knows that Sveta can hear it.

By the time they’ve exhausted the roster it’s well past dark. The table is covered in potential line combinations, Sveta’s folder has been emptied and reorganized twice, and the game on TV has long since ended.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: It was nothing important.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Nichols just needs to get better at hockey.

Me: it was very sexy

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Ok Lily.

Me: i am very serious Jane
Me: you looked good
Me: i have been thinking about it all night
Me: want to see?

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Jesus christ
Jane 🤫🔥💦: I’m with my team right now.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Stop texting me
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Don’t send me any pictures!

Me: is ok
Me: i can wait to show you in person 😉

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Oh
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Yeah sure.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Want me to get a hotel for next week?

Me: no need

The elevator and his front door open at the same time—Ilya, pulling on the handle and Hollander stepping out into the hall.

Ilya jerks his chin, Hollander steps into his apartment.

“Shoes off?” Hollander asks, but he’s toeing his sneakers off as he says it so Ilya leaves him to it, stepping back into his living room and watching as Hollander straightens and visibly takes stock of the place.

“Nice apartment,” Hollander says somewhat distractedly, and starts looking around.

Not casually, either. His attention catches on everything as he wanders farther into the apartment, the absurdly tall windows running the length of the living room, the mostly empty built-in bookshelves, the TV and Ilya’s playstation with his stack of games, all the familiar clutter of the last four years.

It’s strange seeing him here, the same way it had been strange seeing Hollander’s too clean apartment. Hollander on the ice is a human-shaped brick wall; Hollander off the ice is… this. Standing in Ilya’s living room, head on a swivel, eyes tracing the lines of the space and humming curiously as he wanders around. It’s like those are two different people entirely.

Hollander slows near the windows, then stops altogether.

“Sheesh,” he says with palpable appreciation, leaning closer to the glass. “You’ve got the whole skyline out here.”

“Raiders found me a very nice rookie apartment,” Ilya agrees.

Hollander whistles lowly. “I’ll say. If this is your rookie apartment, I can’t even imagine what you’ll upgrade to. You can probably do a lot with 10.8 million a year.”

Ilya opens his mouth to respond, and then closes it, because the thing that almost came out was I’ve been looking at houses, actually, which is true, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Hollander would probably find this genuinely interesting rather than politely so, and that thought alone is enough to make Ilya’s brain veer sharply away from it—but before he can decide what to say instead, Hollander’s attention snags on the papers still spread across the coffee table.

He drifts over, already reaching down. “What’s all this?” he asks but doesn’t wait for an answer before shuffling through the loose sheets. Ilya doesn’t interrupt, just lets him snoop, and takes the time to watch the way his dark hair slips forward, the crease of focus between his brows, the way his lips purse ever so slightly as he tries and fails to make sense of what he’s seeing because—

“This is all in Russian,” Hollander says, and he looks so bewildered that Ilya can’t help the smile that pulls across his face.

“Really, Hollander?” Ilya says, and manages to restrain most of the mocking, but can’t help but to add, “I wonder why this is.”

“Shut up,” Hollander snaps back but it’s halfhearted. He taps on a page with a set of numbers. “These are scouting reports, aren’t they. 3 goals, 5 assists, a plus 2 over what–” he squints down at it slightly, “22 games? Who is this supposed to be?”

Ilya hesitates. They are, technically, here for a very different reason that would be vastly preferable to discussing this—but he shrugs. “Volkov. From Calgary.”

“Volkov from Calgary,” Hollander repeats, and it’s impossible to miss the way his mouth twists. “Why are you looking at Volkov’s– oh.” He shifts slightly, and his frown becomes a lot more pronounced. “He’s an… interesting choice for your Olympic team. Why him?”

“Functional defenceman,” Ilya says, because this is true, but Hollander’s face is screwing up like he wants to push back on that, so Ilya adds somewhat reluctantly— “And his brother works for the Russian Olympic committee.”

Hollander scoffs. “No fucking way. Wasn’t there a rumour that the Outlaws were going to healthy scratch him? And they’re still going to pick him?”

“Yes,” Ilya says pleasantly. “They probably will.”

Hollander gives him a look, but he doesn’t voice any of his (evidently numerous) thoughts; he just keeps shuffling through the papers until his hands still on one covered in Sveta’s impatient cursive.

He turns the page slightly, like the angle might help. “You already have official line combos?”

“No,” Ilya says and comes to stand beside him. “Just best guesses.”

“If you’re making actual mock lineups it has to be more than just guesses.” Hollander looks up. “Seriously, how do you know who they’ll pick?”

It’s a genuine question—no edge to it, just Hollander’s particular brand of straightforward curiosity—and that somehow makes it worse. Ilya looks at him for a moment and considers the shape of an honest answer: just how long it would take, all the machinery underneath that Hollander has no frame of reference for, the politics and the appearances and the ways that the concepts of best player and right choice generally aren’t going to be in alignment for this sort of thing.

Hollander’s not going to get it, and Ilya isn’t even going to try. He’s still looking at Ilya expectantly though, so Ilya pulls on a smile and shrugs.

“I just know,” he says, which is not an answer, and before Hollander can ask again, Ilya leans over his shoulder and starts reading off names.

Hollander listens, tracking along with his finger. First line, second line, bottom six, defense pairings, alternates. He’s nodding along, following the logic—and then his finger stops.

“Treplev,” he says.

“Starting goalie, yes—”

“Are you actually serious?”

What. Ilya blinks. “He’s Pyotr Treplev,” Ilya says, because that is a complete sentence to anyone with a pulse who is even vaguely aware of Russian hockey, but Hollander is shaking his head, and—

“He’s forty,” Hollander says back with exactly the same emphasis and significantly less reverence. “The Blizzards have played him, what, eleven games this season? Eleven. What about that says ‘Olympic roster’ to you?”

Hollander wouldn’t get it. “The Hockey Federation likes what they know.”

“That federation is going to get you eliminated in the play-ins then,” Hollander mutters, proving Ilya's unspoken point entirely. He taps the next name. “Who’s the backup?”

“Danchenko. From Tampa.”

Hollander makes a noise. “Danchenko is good.”

“Danchenko is very good,” Ilya agrees.

“So start Danchenko?”

“I don’t pick the lineups, Hollander,” Ilya says, and leans forward to rest his chin on his shoulder. “Coaches pick the lineups. I will just have to captain it.”

Hollander frowns down at the paper. “But that’s insane. Danchenko consistently faces, what, thirty plus shots a game? Tampa completely hung him out to dry last year, and they still made it to the second round.” He taps the page again. “And Treplev’s lateral movement is completely shot, I don’t know if that's a new thing or not but—”

“Mm.”

“—and at his age, the amount of recovery time between his starts is– actually, you know what, we played against Buffalo in the preseason. I remember he was a full step slow on anything glove side.” Hollander makes an aimless gesture with his empty hand. “If they don’t start Danchenko, they are legitimately choosing not to take advantage of someone who’s near the best in the league for rebound control, and that’s just stupid.”

“Oh really,” Ilya says sarcastically, because he does in fact know all of this. “Wow. Thank you for telling me, Mr Hockey Analyst.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge that. “I mean seriously. I can’t say I know all that much about what other Russian goalies you have out there, but there’s got to be better options than Treplev.”

Which—yes. Obviously. Ilya already knows this. That’s kind of the entire problem they’ve been circling, the one Ilya can’t do a single fucking thing about. Irritation sparks under his ribs, sharp and useless, and Ilya shifts slightly to press his lips wetly to the side of Hollander’s neck to try and redirect his attention—but Hollander doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps talking.

Rude. Ilya exhales through his nose, somewhat annoyed now, and instead of pulling back, he simply slides around in front of him—crowding into his space, a hand tracing across Hollander’s torso, leaning in to his face, and—

Nothing. The paper is still in Hollander’s hand. He is still making his case. He’s fallen into a rhythm now, his hand tapping through the air as he moves through his points, and Ilya takes in the way his shoulders are set, the slight furrow of concentration visible in his eyebrows, the darting flash of his tongue as he wets his lips between sentences, and finds this—very attractive, actually.

Ilya is very suddenly, very abruptly aware that he is not listening to the words anymore.

Hollander still talking, still gesturing into the air, eyes narrowed at nothing as he goes on and on about Treplev’s… allowed goals against league averages? But Ilya is not listening; Ilya is watching his hands, his mouth, and the way that passion has ignited a flush beneath his smooth skin that picks his freckles out in even sharper relief.

Ilya drops to his knees.

Hollander’s monologue comes to a stuttering halt.

For a second they just stare at each other: Hollander, standing there gaping down at him on the floor, slack-jawed and incredulous; and Ilya, shuffling closer, tipping forward to nuzzle his face against the front of Hollander’s pants. Hollander jolts slightly but he doesn’t otherwise react, still staring, seemingly stunned into a frozen silence.

Ilya takes the opportunity to trace his hands up the back of Hollander’s legs and that seems to shake him out of his stupor—he heaves in a massive breath and licks his lips slightly.

“Treplev–” Hollander tries, but he doesn’t manage anything else because Ilya is still tracing his hands up Hollander’s legs, dragging his fingertips up and up and up—and doesn’t protest when Ilya reaches his waistband and pulls his pants and boxers down in one easy motion.

He’s already half-hard. Is this what gets Hollander going? Hockey? Fucking– goalie save percentages and underlying statistics?

Unbelievable; Hollander is not a real person. There is almost certainly a chirp Ilya could be making right now, something he should be saying—if Ilya wasn’t already busy with sliding his hands up the outsides of Hollander’s thighs, bracing his hands against Hollander’s hips before leaning in and swallowing him down.

Above him Hollander chokes out something that sounds vaguely like “Holy fuck, Roz,” and Ilya briefly considers pulling back to say something back to that—but the roster paper is fluttering to the ground in his peripheral vision and both of Hollander’s hands are diving in to grab somewhat desperately at Ilya’s hair—so Ilya stays right where he is.

There’s a skill involved with blowjobs, and while Hollander’s cock is not quite as big as Ilya’s he isn’t exactly small either, so it takes a true conscious effort to relax, to breathe carefully through his nose, to take all of him to the point that—

“Fuck,” Hollander wheezes, right on cue. “Fucking, fuck, fuck, Rozanov. Rozanov, please—”

It’s honestly a bit flattering how surprised Hollander sounds every time he gets blown, but maybe Hollander’s other hookups don’t know how to tongue the underside of his cock quite like this on an upstroke. Maybe they don’t know how to swallow around him this deep without gagging when going back down. If he’s gasping like this, Hollander’s other hookups probably don’t know to wait for Hollander to suck in a strangled breath before increasing the suction, and they definitely don’t know to bring one of their hands up to cup his balls gently, more of a suggestion than an actual touch.

No, they probably don’t know about any of that; but just in case…

Above him Hollander’s pants have taken on a more frantic quality, and it only takes a few moments before Hollander is pulling his hair even harder, gasping out a panicky “Rozanov,” (that Ilya resolutely ignores) before he curls over Ilya’s head and comes with a punched out groan.

He doesn’t release his grip on Ilya’s hair until he’s actually finished coming but Ilya is fine to wait until the fingers unclench to pull off his cock, is fine to wait until Hollander has regained some control over his legs before standing up again—

And is more than fine to wait until Hollander opens his eyes and makes eye contact before swallowing. Hollander flushes red immediately, and lets out a slurred-sounding “holy shit,” that makes Ilya giggle.

“Might be a new record for you Hollander,” Ilya says, bringing one hand up to push back the sweaty strands of Hollander’s hair from where they’ve fallen over his forehead, and keeps his hand curled around the back of his head. “Talking about hockey really does it for you, yes?”

“Shut up,” Hollander says right on cue, but he looks more resigned than angry about that. “Hockey isn’t what ‘does it’ for me you asshole, that was just–”

“Ah yes,” Ilya says, and pats him on the cheek consolingly. “I just blew your mind with a perfect blow job.” Hollander doesn’t even try to deny this, and Ilya can feel himself grin a bit before he adds, “Do you think you can get hard again?”

They both look down. “Um,” Hollander says, and shifts to pull his pants back up. “Probably? I’ll need a few minutes though.”

“Is fine,” Ilya says, already halfway through wondering whether offering Hollander water or a snack would be weird, or somehow worse than offering him nothing at all—when Hollander’s hands land on his shoulders and start pushing him backwards.

Ilya goes, blindly stumbling back until the backs of his legs hit his couch and he sits down hard—and Hollander doesn’t stop moving. His hands trace down the front of Ilya’s chest as he sinks slowly to the floor completely unhurried, and Ilya just. Watches this happen. Doesn’t even think about stopping him.

Just parts his legs automatically when Hollander taps his knees, shuffles himself a bit closer to the edge of the cushion when Hollander reaches for his waistband, lifts his hips and shifts slightly to help him drag his sweatpants down. Hollander eyes Ilya’s cock with that same razor-sharp focus he had when he was deep in the throes of hockey analysis, and something about having that fine-tuned attention turned onto his own body makes Ilya shudder beneath his gaze.

“Hollander,” Ilya says (breathes), when Hollander finally reaches out and thumbs carefully over the head of his cock.

“Just a few minutes,” Hollander says, and leans in and gets to work.

Even in his most generous of recollections, the first blowjob Hollander had ever given him had been something of a disaster—but Hollander had improved exponentially, measurably, in every single way every single time since that first attempt in that shitty hotel room in Mississauga. He has improved to the point where Ilya has the passing thought to wonder how and where and from who, exactly, Hollander was collecting his improvements from—but Hollander moans slightly around Ilya’s cock and any thoughts that aren’t hot or wet or fuck, Hollander are forcibly removed from his active consciousness.

He is going to come. Ilya is going to come way too fucking fast from less than two minutes of a blow job. He reaches out a clumsy hand to Hollander’s face, brushing against the freckled cheekbone to try and get his attention and get a fraction of a reprieve—

Brown eyes flick up to meet his—and before Ilya can tell him to stop Hollander is sucking in a determined breath through his nose and is suddenly taking him deeper—

Ilya comes.

Embarrassingly fast, way too fast, but fuck, that was good, and the mental image of Hollander attempting to choke himself with Ilya’s cock is going to be burned into his permanent memory because holy fuck Hollander—

He doesn’t realize he’s speaking until Hollander pulls off—wiping his mouth across the back of his hand as he does it, casual as anything, killing Ilya softly— “What was that?”

Ilya’s brain surfaces slowly, like something coming up from deep water. “Hm?”

“You said something.” Hollander’s brow furrows slightly. “Just now.”

“Did I.”

“In Russian.”

“Ah,” Ilya says. He looks down at Hollander, still settled between his knees, mouth wet and slightly swollen, looking up at him and—

And there are no thoughts in his brain. None whatsoever, nothing at all.

“Does not matter,” he says instead, because it’s the first thing he can get out. Then, after another brief glance downward: “You are hard again.”

Hollander also glances down, then back up. “...Yup.”

“Very fast,” Ilya says, mostly just to say something.

“It’s not—” Hollander shrugs. “It’s fine. I can wait till you’re ready.”

“Are you sure?” Ilya asks genuinely—but because he is a bastard, he can’t resist moving his left foot in to brush (gently) against the bulge in Hollander’s pants.

Predictably this does not go over well—Hollander smacks Ilya’s leg away in a way that actually kind of hurts before shifting back out of Ilya’s reach. “Fuck off. Yes I’m sure– I already told Hayden I wouldn’t be back till late, and I’ve really been looking forward to—”

He cuts himself off and clears his throat awkwardly, but there’s a blush crawling across his entire face, bright all the way up to the tips of his ears, so there’s really only one thing Hollander could be talking about right now.

“It’s fine,” Hollander continues, avoiding Ilya’s eyes but still looking in his general direction. “Seriously. We’ve got time.”

And with that he just—settles back into place in front of the coffee table. Shifts one knee underneath him, makes himself comfortable, like this is normal.

Because apparently Hollander already cleared his schedule for the rest of the evening. Because apparently Hollander intends to stay here, in Ilya’s apartment, for however long it takes for Ilya to recover enough to fuck him for real. Because apparently Hollander wants more than just a blowjob, and is willing to wait because he’s been looking forward to Ilya to fucking him again, and there is something fizzy exploding like a firework inside Ilya’s chest, because that’s just—

“I can wait,” Hollander insists again, softer, his eyes flicking up to meet Ilya’s for half a second before he turns away to go back to the roster notes without another word.

Much later, when Ilya steps out of his washroom and wanders back into the living room, Hollander is crouched at the door, lacing his sneakers, jacket already on. He straightens up when Ilya approaches, tilts his chin up when Ilya leans in, and both of his hands creep under Ilya’s shirt as they kiss.

For maybe twenty blissful seconds, Ilya doesn’t think about anything at all.

Hollander pulls back first, but his grip on Ilya’s waist tightens briefly—just a second, just enough to feel it—before he steps back.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” Ilya agrees, watching as Hollander produces a grey beanie from his pocket and pulls it down over his hair before reaching for the door. He’s a step out of the apartment when Ilya adds, “Hope you Metros are ready to lose.”

Hollander freezes and spins back to face him with a properly affronted glare, but the expression cracks almost immediately—his mouth twitching first, then his eyes creasing at the corners. Hollander just shakes his head, like Ilya’s completely hopeless.

“You fucking wish dude,” Hollander says, and the full smile that appears in the second before the door clicks shut does something uncomplicated and terrible to Ilya’s chest.

The door clicks shut.

Ilya stands in his entryway for slightly too long, long enough to hear the chime of the elevator door opening before he wanders back into the living room. His mess of Olympic notes are still on the coffee table waiting for him—only they aren’t a mess right now. They’re stacked neatly on the coffee table because Hollander must have straightened them at some point, edges aligned, pages in order, the roster projections on top. Ilya looks at them. Doesn’t touch them.

He turns the overhead light off.

He’s not tired, exactly. It’s earlier than he normally goes to sleep, his body still thrumming slightly in the wake of Hollander’s visit but he moves through his apartment anyway, restless and purposeless, and ends up in his bedroom without quite deciding to go there.

The bed is still a wreck—sheets that definitely need a wash, a sideways bottle of lube that might not have its lid on, his pillows in a heap on the floor—so Ilya absently moves to start stripping them, gets halfway through bundling everything into a pile to bring to his laundry machine before he just—stops.

It’s muscle memory, he realizes a second too late, because Hollander always wants to strip the sheets after. At his place, in hotel rooms, wherever they end up, the sheets come off the bed after, as routine as breathing. Hollander’s habit, apparently contagious through repeated exposure. Ilya stands there, holding an armful of sheets to his chest, staring into space like an idiot, and absolutely does not notice the way the fabric smells like sex and lube and also, faintly, like the clean warm smell he’s started associating with Hollander.

Very slowly, very deliberately, he lets the sheet fall back onto the now-bare mattress.

Guest room it is then.

Sveta’s presence is everywhere in here, a low-level contagion that is everywhere he looks: a silk blouse hanging in the open closet along with two of her coats, a pile of her old textbooks on one nightstand, a half-empty makeup bag on the other, and one of her scrunchies inexplicably under a pillow when he adjusts it. The scrunchie goes on the nightstand beside his phone and the textbooks, and in the near total darkness of the room Ilya tries to relax.

Normally this is enough. Normally even the suggestion of her is enough to settle him, make his mind unclench from whatever it’s stuck to, but tonight…

Not tonight.

He lies in the dark and doesn’t think about anything in particular, just listens to the ambient hum of the city creeping through the window. Ilya stares at the ceiling and waits to fall asleep.

He doesn’t.

He’s too restless. Irritated. Wound up in a way he can’t undo, which only makes it worse because he shouldn’t be feeling like this. He has no reason to be feeling like this. It’s just sex: Hollander came over to get fucked, he did (eventually), now he’s gone, and Ilya got two orgasms and the added pleasure of watching Hollander come so hard he’d cried a bit before letting Ilya hold him in bed for almost five whole minutes before muttering something about being sticky and dragging himself off to shower.

Successful night, over and done with. Now all Ilya has to do tonight is fall asleep and wake back up tomorrow, refreshed and ready to kick Montreal’s ass.

All Ilya has to do is fall asleep; he does not have to be staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening over and over and over again.

Hollander probably isn’t staring at the ceiling right now; Hollander is probably asleep or hanging out with his teammates happy as anything because Hollander is built for this sort of thing, can do this perfectly, could kiss Ilya slow enough to leave him dizzy, pull away and say see you tomorrow like it was nothing, and smile at him before walking out the door and probably won’t think about it again until the next time.

Hollander was probably in his hotel room right now not thinking about it.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Goodnight Lily.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Treplev is still a terrible choice.

Ilya stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then he types back: goodnight hollander. treplev is fine.

He turns the phone face down. Closes his eyes. Forces them to stay that way when his phone buzzes again.

He’ll fall asleep eventually.

Chapter End Notes

Welcome to the start of the olympic arc, who’s excited? Surely this will be nice and fun for Ilya, who is obviously so proud and unconcerned to have been handed this massive responsibility with absolutely no strings attached none whatsoever everything is just fine and dandy :)

Some notes:
1) So Ilya’s the captain in Boston now: Eh, no. He’s olympic captain (ignore my fucking with the timelines, irl these things weren’t announced until january 2014), but in Boston he’s still just an alternate. Even if everyone knows that Anderson is going to be long term injured they would never strip him of the captaincy mid-season. Ilya is an A (but leclaire's loaded conversation was hopefully pretty clear lmao)
2)Holy extended sex scene: oho YUP! Blowjobs for all! The mental image of shane telling ilya he’s wrong about hockey and ilya getting irritated horny about it just wouldn’t leave my brain. You can argue that I made Ilya too quick of a shot, but really, Shane giving Ilya’s dick his entire undivided attention is a powerful thing. Fun little thought exercise: how long do you think shane and ilya were just… hanging out before round 2? Do we think they talked about anything other than just hockey? Is just hanging out together what’s breaking Ilya’s brain this time?
3)Toronto: Listen. I’m a Canucks fan, I’m a spiteful Canucks fan, and fucking Toronto just won the fucking draft lottery off an 8.5% chance when the canucks had a 25% chance. I’ve been to leafs games in toronto, they have too many goddamn things in their rafters, and canonically the gcu toronto team are a bunch of dicks. I am god of this small universe, and I’m going to write in a toronto team that just fucking sucks ass (and also, young Dallas Kent and Troy Barrett).
4)Miscellaneous: Shane’s getting into fights? Shane did say he was going to play this year in a way that makes everyone look at him, and in this instance it's making someone very special look at him in a horny way. Sveta and Ilya know who’s going on the olympic team? No, it won’t be officially announced until right before the games, but between the two of them and with Sveta’s connections they can make a pretty damn good educated guess. Russian names? I wrote a paper on Chekhov’s The Seagull in undergrad, and the other Russian names are also being pulled from literary-based sources.

Thoughts? Questions? Concerns? How much worse is the buildup to the olympics going to get for ilya? Just how much is Shane’s new attitude changing how he plays? Will we get stairwell kiss 2.0 before the olympics?

All this and more coming soon! If you have any plot ideas/things you’d like to see, comment below!

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

A wee bit of Shane status quo (the calm before the storm?)

Chapter Notes

As always all the platonic kisses in the world to the beta readers @Megalodon/@sixofstarrs/@BearsAndFireflies, the chapter would be so much less juicy and subtextual without their feedback

NSFW this chapter?

Rejoice! Shane is starting to narrate sex scenes. You get some nice fingering action that starts when they reach his bedroom and ends at the scene break

Shane’s game-day alarm goes off at 7am. It’s quiet, barely enough to pull him fully out of sleep, but it’s enough to bring him to that hazy, relaxed edge of consciousness and give his mind time to wander.

2014 has been particularly kind to the Metros so far; the team is second in the league, currently on a three-game win streak, and they’re playing with the kind of momentum that’s making even the most superstitious segments of the fanbase start doing math about playoff seeding. Two weeks until the Olympic break, four games left before everything pauses, ten days until the trade freeze, and the Montreal Metros are rock solid: their systems are working, the lines are settled, everyone is moving in the same direction.

And Shane was almost traded last week.

It wasn’t just a rumour—not the usual bullshit peddled by podcasts trying to keep their fans interested, not the speculative mock trades on the internet that are more wishful thinking than anything else—but an actual, real thing. Farah actually called him on an off day, which she doesn’t ever do unless it’s serious: Winnipeg had reached out to Montreal’s GM about Shane.

Early stages, Farah said, but that was more than enough to put Shane on high alert because he was well aware of how quickly “early stages” can turn into “already done” when it comes to trades.

For five full days, he’d lived in that space. Started every day the same way: woke up, checked his phone, waited for his life to change without warning. Started packing mentally without packing physically. Started skating every practice, every game that week fully prepared for it to be the last one in his Montreal jersey. Opened his phone constantly during his downtime to go looking for crumbs of information on the internet, digging through podcasts and blog posts and subreddits, searching for anything that could tell him what was going on. Called his mom every day listening for tone shifts that probably weren’t there, just in case Farah was telling her things that she wasn’t sharing with him for whatever reason. Five days of waiting for a call.

And then it just… stopped.

Winnipeg moved on, or Montreal didn’t like the structure of the deal, or it simply dissolved for any number of reasons, the same way most trade conversations do when they meet reality. Farah didn’t know why it all fell apart, and in the end it didn’t really matter.

And really, there was nothing unusual about it. Shane could be objective about that much. It was a bad window for deals anyway—right before an Olympic break, with teams reluctant to shake up rosters mid-flow, especially when Winnipeg had just strung together a mini win streak on the West Coast and wasn’t in any rush to touch its goaltending situation. It probably had nothing to do with Shane. Trade conversations happened all the time; most of them died quietly, and the fact that Winnipeg, fifth-from-worst in the league Winnipeg, passed on making a trade for Shane when their current goalie was barely scraping a .900 which was way below what Shane could’ve offered—

Nope. Not thinking that; there was no use thinking about that. Shane is twenty-two years old, playing professional hockey with a .922 save percentage in his third year in the league, and for about five days last week he’d been convinced that he was about to be traded, but he wasn’t. That is the only thing that should matter to him right now: there was a chance, but it didn’t actualize. Shane is still a Montreal Metro, and he has a game to go watch from the bench in eleven hours.

He’s fine. His phone is on the nightstand beside him and it’s not ringing. His mom knows exactly what time Shane starts his gamedays, and if she isn’t calling him, then he wasn’t traded overnight, and he can treat this like a normal day.

Everything is just fine.

His second alarm chimes. 7:15. Shane checks his phone before he turns the alarm off. Just in case.

Breakfast: banana, oatmeal, water. On the road by 8. Practice arena by 8:30. Meeting at 8:45. The steps slot into place without friction, muscle memory carrying him through the familiar sequence. Shane’s not in net for this game, a last minute tangle against Boston, but Shane’s only somewhat disappointed, because Shane’s been looking forward to this game for months now for—for reasons.

Practice wraps at 11; he’s showered and in his car within fifteen minutes, and when he gets home he has six hours before he’s expected at the Bell Centre for the game. Today’s nutritionist provided meal seems vaguely inspired by spaghetti and meatballs, and he pops it in the microwave for four minutes before carrying it to the counter to eat, and once he’s settled in with his fork in hand he picks up his phone.

There’s still a half-second where he’s still expecting to see something that isn’t going to be there—a reflex built in five days and still lingering a week later—but there’s no missed calls on his lockscreen. The only thing that is there, the only thing he was expecting to see there is—

Lily: 🏒 ‼️
Lily: 😈🎆🎆😈
Lily: 💦💦💦💦💦

Right there. Comforting, predictable, a gameday ritual, right on cue. Unlike some of their other conversations, that was pretty unambiguous, and for all that Rozanov liked to use emojis like hieroglyphics, there’s only so many ways to interpret those ones. That said though…

Me: ???
Me: Sorry. Don’t understand that.

Lily: hollander

Me: I don’t speak emoji.

Lily: yes you do

Me: 🤷

There’s a pause. Shane smirks faintly at his phone and takes another bite of pasta while the typing bubble appears, disappears, then appears again.

Lily: after the game
Lily: 👅🍑🍆💥
Lily: my mouth on your ass

Shane puts his phone face down on the counter.

Picks it back up.

Lily: is that more clear

Jesus christ. Yeah, that kinda was.

Me: Yeah okay.
Me: Sounds great.

Lily: yeah okay
Lily: good luck tonight hollander
Lily: you’ll need it

Me: You’ll need it more

Lily: 💦💦💦💦💦

Shane squints at his phone slightly.

Me: Does that mean something new in this context?

Lily: it can mean whatever I want it to mean

Shane swaps to his other chats, fires off a couple replies to Win and Bones, finishes his pasta, and spends absolutely no time thinking about any emojis in any configurations whatsoever for the remainder of his lunch, because he has a game to prepare for and he’s a professional.

He doesn’t think about it for most of the remaining time. At least a portion of it.

He’s thinking about it a little.

Warmups at the Bell Centre are always well-attended, but tonight there’s a little more buzz than usual: the crowd thicker along the glass, phones out earlier, way more signs than normal—and of course, it’s also kind of hard to miss the flags and the national team jerseys peppered in amongst the usual Metros blue.

It’s the last home game before the Metros head out on a three-game road trip, and more importantly, it’s the last home game before the Olympic break—which means tonight is also, officially, the Metros’ send-off for their three Olympians.

Soren Miitka for Finland. Johan Oghren for Sweden. And of course Jean-Jaques Boiziau, the Montreal Metros’ Captain, on the Olympic team with the additional honour of serving as Team Canada’s alternate captain in Russia.

The media team has been pulling the three of them out of practice all week for content, interrupting ice time constantly for photos and filming and more, and Shane has watched it happen from the ice with a kind of detached awareness he’s gotten good at. Tuesday it was a reaction video to their baby photos, apparently, which he knows because Miitka came back onto the ice looking faintly mortified while Oghren laughed too hard to skate in a straight line. Wednesday it had been something with a green screen and props. Thursday, reading letters from fans. Today, just now for warmups, the three of them had been pulled off to the side of the rink for impromptu interviews with the local press.

It’s not that Shane wants that—genuinely, the thought of sitting in front of a camera while someone asks him to react to his baby photos makes his skin crawl—so it should be the easiest thing in the world to shrug and tape his stick and focus on the game while the cameras orbit somebody else. It should be easy to look at JJ laughing through another interview and think good for him, because JJ has absolutely earned it. Oggy too, and Miity’s been playing out of his fucking mind for weeks. The three of them absolutely 100% deserve every single minute of extra camera time the media team can wring out of them.

And Shane doesn’t want that. But every single time the three of them get pulled away from the rest of the team Shane watches them go, and there’s an ugly yawning chasm that opens up inside of him—and he hates himself for it.

He doesn’t want the interviews. He doesn’t particularly want the attention. He just—wants what those cameras mean.

Which is stupid. Worse than stupid, honestly, because those are not useful hockey thoughts, and right here, standing at the edge of the rink right before a game it’s the easiest thing in the world for Shane to drag his brain away from the extra flags and jerseys and signs in the crowd and turn his attention to the ice, where it belongs.

He runs his warmup the same way he always does: second-last off the bench, touch pass from Hayden for a slapshot that hits the back of the net hard. Crease work, edges, post-to-post, the sequence so ingrained he could run it in his sleep. Then Miitka is there, free from the media, skates scraping to a stop in front of him, and Shane gets the customary pat on the helmet and taps his pads in return, and they swap. Miitka settles into the crease and Shane starts weaving through the rest of the guys doing their drills, heading towards center ice ready to—

“You’re so slow,” Rozanov complains.

This fucking guy. Shane elects to ignore that, focusing instead on lining his stick up exactly with the line, dropping to the ice into butterfly to start stretching out, and then, only when he’s settled, does he look up. “I do the same thing every time, Rozanov, this can’t be the first time you’ve noticed.” Rozanov grumbles a bit under his breath at that and spins his stick once in his hands. Shane’s eyes narrow. “Do you actually do anything in warmups?”

Rozanov shrugs. “I skate.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, that is most of what a hockey player does on ice,” Rozanov says sarcastically, like Shane is being difficult on purpose. “What else do I have to do? Warmups are twenty minutes. I am being efficient.”

“Your coach doesn’t tell you to do more?” Shane glances down the ice—Theriault has JJ running a passing pattern beside the net, all structure and repetition, because Theriault has expectations about this sort of thing. Coaches tend to have lots of expectations about this sort of thing but apparently—

“Coach knows I do not need to do more,” Rozanov says, then points his stick at him. “You are too intense, Hollander.”

What the fuck. “Too intense?”

Rozanov laughs and wisely doesn’t answer, crouching down beside him and tugging off his gloves to fiddle with his skate laces instead. Shane waits half a beat for something else to be said, then gives up on it, and his eyes drop—completely uninvited—to the motion of Rozanov’s hands. Shane watches the way his fingers work for two seconds (three, four, five, six—) before yanking his attention away and shifting to work on his other side, focusing only on the burn and stretch of his muscles—

And absolutely not on the fact that there’s a crowd on the other side of the glass, watching them both intently.

The internet figured this out last season—figured out that if it’s a Montreal Boston game Rozanov and Hollander are going to be hanging out at center ice during warmups—but recently it’s started becoming a thing online. Clips started circulating sometime after their game in November: zoomed-in footage, captions, people pulling up nearly every warmup they’ve had against each other over the past three years. It’s all a bit ridiculous but Shane is now painfully aware that there are hundreds of people studying it, reading body language like there’s something more there, like they’re international diplomats instead of two hockey players just shooting the shit.

Except there is something there. And they’re usually doing more than just shooting the shit.

Farah had actually asked him about it at one of their lunches, and Shane had to undergo the mortifying ordeal of telling his agent that he and Rozanov were ‘very good friends’ with a completely straight face while trying not to wince too obviously.

Not because it wasn’t true—it is technically true that whatever he and Rozanov have going here could in theory be categorized as a friendship—but because it was incomplete in a way that made heat crawl up the back of his neck if he let himself sit with it too long. Something easier not to examine in detail while sitting across from his agent in a public restaurant trying to look like a functional adult.

Farah’d looked fairly skeptical but she hadn’t pushed back, and Shane had changed the topic immediately afterwards, so that was that.

He’s aware of the cameras right now: aware, peripherally, that there are four or five phones angled from the glass and at least one of the broadcast cameras is lingering nearby for pregame footage. It’s like an itch at the back of his neck—you are being observed. You are on the ice right now, in front of thousands of people, talking to the guy whose dick you are hoping to suck later tonight. People are watching you speak to each other, why are you letting this happen, are you being normal right now—and his immediate instinct is to correct for it somehow, move away, change the optics, shut the whole thing down before more of this escapes containment—

Shane takes a very slow breath in through his nose.

He is just stretching. This is normal. Goalies stretch. Players talk during warmups. Rozanov is just another player on the opposing team he happens to know. Shane has a mask on right now, and the people pointing cameras at him can’t see his face. This is a routine now, and Shane always follows his routines.

He has hip flexors to stretch. The conversation is harmless. The internet knows they’re friendly.

This is fine. He stays where he is.

Rozanov finishes fucking with his laces and reaches a hand across the centre line to poke Shane’s pad. “You know what your problem is, Hollander?”

That action alone probably just spawned 100,000 new twitter threads—but Shane pulls his brain back to the present and shifts into a lunge. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

Rozanov doesn’t even hesitate. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t–” It clicks. “Come on, Rozanov. You’re a professional hockey player, you know it’s better to do more reps to loosen up—”

“You don’t believe me,” Rozanov repeats, barreling over him. “So I will prove you wrong.”

Shane pauses. “And how the hell are you going to do that?”

“Easy.” Rozanov leans in slightly. “I will score a perfect goal tonight, Hollander, and dedicate it to you.”

What. Shane blinks once. “How does that– that’s not proof of anything.”

“Highlight reel,” Rozanov continues, like Shane didn’t say anything. “Extra effort. I’ll make sure it actually goes in the net nicely.”

This conversation is spiraling rapidly out of Shane’s control. “You weren’t doing that already?”

“Eh, no.” Rozanov is literally tied for first in the scoring race again this year, if that isn’t him trying—but the smile on Rozanov’s face widens incrementally and he tilts his head slightly. “But for you I will. A new experiment for us, Hollander.”

Shane snorts once before he can stop himself. “We don’t need more experiments.”

“No?” Rozanov says with a raised eyebrow. “But we did so well with the waffles.”

Well that was true, but— “What happens if you don’t score at all today?"

The look Rozanov gives him is genuinely offended Shane only barely restrains himself from laughing out loud. “Rude! Have more faith in me.”

The buzzer sounds across the rink before Shane can answer, signaling the end of warmups, and around them, players start peeling off toward their benches. Rozanov pushes up to his skates, waits until Shane retrieves his stick and stands up as well before he skates backward a few feet, still looking smug. “It will be perfect, Hollander. Just you wait.”

Uh huh. Sure. Shane doesn’t even bother responding to that one as he skates away.

The bottom stair is not comfortable to sit on. Shane knows this because he’s been sitting on it for six minutes, elbows on his knees, staring at the fire door, and the edge of the step has been making its feelings known about his left hamstring for approximately the last four of them.

He could stand. He’s choosing not to, for reasons that don’t require any examination at all whatsoever.

Is it pathetic to be sitting here waiting like this?

No. He decides this immediately and with full conviction. This is efficiency. It’s late—the game went to overtime before Albright managed to sneak one past Miller to get the Metros the win—and the faster he lets Rozanov in, the faster they get upstairs, and the faster they get upstairs the more time they actually have together to—it’s just math.

It’s just simple logistics, a practical choice to make the most of their time, and Shane is a practical person who makes practical decisions, and sitting on this stair is a practical decision born out of pure efficiency, and he’s not going to think about the part where he came down here way before Rozanov texted because he didn’t want to be in his apartment doing nothing three flights up from the ground when he finally gets the text—

His phone buzzes in his hand.

Lily: here

He’s moving before he reads it.

Rozanov is standing in the cold like it doesn’t register as cold at all, with a fucking unzipped jacket over what looks like a tank top even as his breath is visible in the freezing night air. His cheeks are bright pink from it, wind-stung and sharp against his skin, eyes bright in a way that feels a little unfair for this time of night.

Shane jerks his chin; Rozanov steps in. The fire door clangs shut behind him.

Shane opens his mouth—and he had something to say, a greeting, something neutral—but Rozanov gets there first.

“So,” Rozanov says. “My goal.”

“Hi to you too,” Shane says.

Rozanov waves this aside and just looks at Shane expectantly. “What did you think.”

He is absolutely fishing for compliments, and Shane is not going to give in. He turns and starts up the stairs. “It was fine.”

A wounded noise. Then– “Hollander.”

“We should walk and talk,” Shane says without turning back to him. “It’s three flights you know.”

Rozanov scoffs lightly but obediently starts following him up. “I know you have something more to say about my goal, Hollander, come on.”

The thing is—and Shane will take this to his grave—he had watched the entire sequence with his water bottle halfway to his mouth and forgot to actually drink from it. He knows Rozanov’s game better than he knows every other shooter he’s faced or studied, which means he’d been tracking the puck from the moment Rozanov picked it up behind his own net. Shane knew the exact moment that Rozanov decided to go for it, noticed the set of his shoulders, read his speed through the neutral zone, admired that specific skill Rozanov has for finding gaps in the defense that shouldn’t exist. Shane had watched Fours commit to a direction a half-second early and leave the lane open, watched Rozanov catch the mistake and go, watched the final stride and the release and already knew that Miity wasn’t going to get it a full second before the puck was in the back of the net.

He had watched the entire sequence from start to end and he had one thought, completely involuntarily: Oh, that was perfect.

A coast to coast goal, starting at one end of the ice heading all the way to the other. That was the type of goal that was going to be replayed on SportsCentre for the next two weeks minimum. Probably longer. The kind of goal that ends up in end-of-season highlight packages and gets shown to kids in hockey camps as an example of reading the ice. Shane had watched it happen live from the bench and felt something that was partially professional appreciation and mostly just complete, helpless awe.

He absolutely cannot tell Rozanov any of that.

“Fours had you lined up,” Shane says instead. “You’re lucky he misread the angle.”

Rozanov makes a sound of profound offense. “Lucky.”

“Little bit.”

“Hollander.”

“It was smart to go high glove side,” Shane allows, because that much he can give, but it’s trending dangerously toward a compliment so he adds: “Miity’s trying not to get injured so he wasn’t fully committed to the post. Pure luck on the timing.”

He can feel Rozanov staring at the side of his face. Shane keeps his eyes on the stairs and silently congratulates himself on not smiling.

Second floor landing. They keep climbing.

“You know,” Rozanov says, after a beat, his tone changing to be something more contemplative, “I think if you had been in net—”

“I would’ve stopped it by a mile,” Shane says, mostly to see where this goes, but also because: yes. He would have. He’d been running the save in his head since it happened, the adjustments he’d have made, where he’d have positioned himself differently than Miitka. “I guess that’s another thing you were lucky about.”

They reach the third floor. Shane holds the door and raises an eyebrow when Rozanov doesn’t move off the top step.

Rozanov looks at him. There’s something on his face that Shane isn't quite prepared for—something that isn’t the gloating he was expecting, isn’t the teasing grin that is equally likely. This is something else that is neither of those things, and he’s looking at Shane directly.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says slowly. “I think maybe only you could have stopped that goal.”

Oh. Wow. That’s… Shane wasn’t expecting that.

Only you, his brain repeats, unhelpfully. Only you could have stopped that perfect goal.

Shane stands in the doorway and does not say anything for a moment that is probably slightly too long and something is happening in his chest—that he shoves down immediately, because Shane is not going to think like that and he is going to keep his thoughts in order. Mostly.

Shane clears his throat and steps into the hallway.

“Right, well—” he’s talking, something is coming out of his mouth, some collection of words that is hopefully coherent, he’ll find out in a second— “that’s– I mean that’s just, statistically, given my save percentage this season, that’s probably—” They get to his door and Shane gets his key out. Misses the lock. Tries again. “—probably accurate, honestly, given what my numbers look like on breakaway chances, so.”

“Probably right,” Rozanov agrees, and Shane doesn’t need to look back at him to know that Rozanov is enjoying Shane’s flailing.

The door unlocks. Shane steps through, deeply grateful that Rozanov is behind him and cannot see his face. “Right. Not a lot of goalies would be able to stop that shot, actually, because that goal was legitimately fucking—”

He catches himself before he says it, but Rozanov absolutely hears the unspoken end to that sentence, the compliment that his overinflated ego definitely did not need, and the smile that tugs across his face is so massive and happy and—

Shane looks away. Clears his throat slightly. Resets. The door shuts behind them and Shane busies himself with kicking off his shoes and stepping back from the entrance to wait for Rozanov to do the same before speaking again.

“And hey,” Shane says, because he’s feeling generous, and Rozanov is still looking at him with a smile on his face, very obviously expecting more compliments. “Maybe you can get an even better one at the Olympics. Since I won’t be there to stop you when you’re over there either.”

Oh– mistake. Shane feels it the second it leaves his mouth.

Stupid. Why would he say that? He’s been doing so well not thinking about this, not letting it get to him when his teammates start talking about it, not reacting when a reporter mentioned it last week, not paying attention to how his name is on the ‘Most notable Olympic exclusions!’ list that’s been circulating around the internet for the past few days. He’s been doing good, keeping everything about that situation boxed up nice and neatly, out of sight, out of mind.

Why the fuck did he have to bring it up?

Shane’s not going to the Olympics, Rozanov is, and now they’re going to have to dance around that one, just ignore the fucking elephant in the room, the reality that Rozanov is literally an internationally recognized hockey superstar and Shane very much is not. Shane wasn’t even included on the shortlist. Shane is going to look up and see Rozanov looking at him with pity in his eyes—

Actually.

Rozanov isn’t looking at him with pity in his eyes—Rozanov isn’t looking at him at all. Rozanov is staring off into the middle distance, smile gone, jaw shifting like he’s chewing on something. His entire body has shifted somehow; there is something fundamentally different about the way Rozanov is standing right now, and it’s so vastly different to how he was holding himself a few seconds ago that Shane leans back to get a better look—

And Rozanov sucks in a careful breath and drags his eyes up to meet Shane’s.

“Ah,” Rozanov says lightly. Too lightly. “Yes. I will have a lot of chances to score more pretty goals.”

It’s his shoulders that’ve changed, Shane decides after a moment. Something in the set of them has shifted from the start of the conversation to right now, some new tension thrumming through Rozanov’s frame. Shane has watched this man play hockey for three seasons now: has watched him in interviews, has watched him extensively on ice and (increasingly extensively) off it, and every single piece of evidence Shane has collected about Ilya Rozanov over the past three years is coming together right now to tell him—

He’s not excited about the Olympics. Why isn’t Rozanov more excited about this?

Shane opens his mouth.

He’s not sure what he’s going to say. Something about the Olympics, something about– there’s a question forming, something that matters, and he’s about to—

But Rozanov moves first. One step forward, hands settling lightly against Shane’s chest, steering him backward with surprising ease until his shoulders bump the wall.

“Hey–” Shane says, startled enough that a soft gasp leaves him on impact—but Rozanov leaning in and kissing him before he can finish the sentence.

The thought disappears instantly.

Shane’s brain short-circuits hard enough to almost be embarrassing. He’s still a bit confused—but Rozanov is warm and solid and is pressing in and kissing him like he means it, one hand sliding up into the collar of Shane’s hoodie while Shane grabs automatically at the front of his jacket to steady both of them.

Shane kisses back just as intently, because obviously he does, because he’s only human, and because there’s something a little unfair about the way Rozanov always kisses him like he’s fully locked in on exactly this and nothing else in the world. It makes it difficult to remember his own name, never mind unfinished conversations.

By the time they finally pull apart, both of them breathing a little harder, Shane’s gone pleasantly loose around the edges. Rozanov’s forehead tips briefly against his, close enough that Shane can feel the ghost of a kiss Rozanov brushes against the side of his mouth before he pulls away fully.

For a half-second the question surfaces again though—what was that, why did your face do that, what is it about the Olympics that you—

Later, Shane thinks, and very deliberately pushes the thought away as he starts off towards his bedroom.

Shane gets as far as the foot of the bed before Rozanov catches him by the wrist and turns him around.

The second kiss is much more brief—just a few seconds, closed mouthed, Rozanov’s hands cupping his jaw—and then Rozanov’s hands are moving, sliding over him, getting a grip through the fabric of his shirt, and Shane’s higher functions make a brief attempt to engage before giving up entirely.

He drags himself back before Rozanov’s hands make it to his waist; pushes Rozanov back carefully before pulling his shirt over his head.

Shane’s shirt gets folded. His pants get folded. His boxers? Folded, stacked with the other items and deposited into his laundry hamper. He's vaguely aware of Rozanov watching this entire process, but by the time Shane turns back around Rozanov is also completely naked, his clothes a crumpled heap on the floor.

He gets a half second to look: a quick scrape of his eyes over Rozanov’s musculature tracing down his torso, before—

“Bed,” Rozanov says.

Shane gets on the bed.

Rozanov goes for the nightstand, yanks the drawer open and roots around briefly, emerging with the lube after a couple seconds of searching and drops it on the mattress with a kind of intentionality that does things to Shane’s nervous system. Then he climbs on, and Shane has approximately one second of staring at his advancing form before Rozanov’s weight settles over him and every single bit of focus narrows in.

The third kiss goes on for a while: a collection of kisses, technically, and Shane stops paying attention to silly things like counting. His head goes pleasantly fuzzy at the seams, soft and warm, thoughts losing their edges and drifting, and he barely registers Rozanov shifting their weight to settle him back against his pillows, barely registers one of his hands pulling away, barely registers the quiet click of a bottle lid and Rozanov’s hand moving down his body, grazing against his dick before—

“Oh fuck–” Rozanov’s lubed finger circles his hole once, twice, before pressing in.

“Aw,” Rozanov says, and there’s something that sounds almost mocking in his tone. “What was that, Hollander?”

“Fuck off,” Shane manages, but Rozanov just works his finger in deeper and starts moving it, starts petting it around inside of Shane, and it takes every single ounce of brainpower he has available to just keep breathing around the stretch, to keep breathing when he finds—

God, why does this feel so good every single time. It’s like fireworks or sparks or some other indescribable thing starting up, building inside of him, warmth pooling low in his stomach, pleasure expanding outward like it’s got a destination in mind and is going to spill out everywhere.

Shane’s hips want to move and he won’t let them, is actively holding himself still through what feels like considerable effort, and Shane can’t—

The finger pulls away, and Shane barely restrains the whine that crawls up his throat at the sudden loss.

Rozanov’s face appears above him and quirks an eyebrow. “Feeling ok?”

Fuck him— Shane just lies there, panting slightly at the ceiling, staring intently at the way the lamp is casting shadows into the corners of the room. He needs a second. He needs several seconds. He needs a quick thirty second break and for Rozanov to stop looking at him like that, like he’s something interesting. Shane needs a full minute and he needs Rozanov not to take his lack of an answer as an invitation to—

“Fuck!”

Rozanov coos at him, absolutely patronizingly this time but this time Shane’s not going to do a single thing about that, because right now all Shane can think about is the way Rozanov just worked another finger inside of him, and whatever it was about one finger that was manageable absolutely is not applicable to two.

“Good. That’s good, yes?” Rozanov asks, but Shane can’t listen to him right now. Shane is going to have to ignore him, has to keep all of his attention on breathing through the increasing stretch and focus on not coming from Rozanov’s second finger in his ass.

The problem isn’t the fingers. Shane is fine with the fingers. His body has a strong and well-established opinion about the fingers—they’ve done this enough times now that Shane’s body knows exactly how to wring pleasure out of this, almost seems to know it’s a precursor to better (bigger) things. Hell, even on the rare occasions Shane’s doing this to himself, when he has a free afternoon and no morning practice where he’ll be expected to do squats, Shane likes to take his time fingering himself open. This part of the process is just fine. He’s fine with this part.

The problem is that Rozanov is watching him, tucked up close against his chest, catching every hitch in Shane's breathing like he’s taking notes, and Shane cannot find a single angle that gets him out from under that gaze. He fixes his eyes on the ceiling; Rozanov raises a hand to his jaw and tilts him back down. He turns his face sideways into the pillow; Rozanov just moves with him, intent and interested, like Shane is something worth the attention.

It’s Rozanov that's the problem. Rozanov is just so—there. Watching. Flushed cheeks, sweat beading lightly at his hairline, pleased with himself and with the way he’s making Shane squirm, taking in every desperate sound Shane is making despite his best efforts, and—

A hand pats his cheek. “Look at me,” Rozanov murmurs, and damn him, Shane does—he’s not entirely certain when he closed his eyes but he pulls them open, makes an effort to focus, to meet Rozanov’s unblinking gaze.

He can’t get away from it no matter how he tries. Rozanov’s fingers are heavy in him, anchoring, and now Rozanov is ducking his way down, nosing his way down Shane’s body to his groin and—oh fuck—taking his dick in his mouth and sucking him down deeper until Shane must be hitting the back of his throat. Rozanov swallows around him, twists his fingers out, pushes in again, inexorable, irresistible, and Shane—

Fuck he’s going to come– he’s going to— this is too much too good too fast too fuck—

Rozanov’s fingers disappear in an instant and Shane doesn’t even try to swallow the moan that escapes him this time, because his brain is a puddle and he’s past caring.

"Oh, Hollander," Rozanov says, with the warm, satisfied tone of a man who has just proven a point he didn't need to prove. He does let Shane lie there for a moment though—occupies himself by shifting around and pressing his lips to various spots on Shane’s stomach while Shane just lies there, breathing, trying to drag himself back down from the edge. Rozanov’s hand settles on Shane's hip, patient, waiting.

Shane takes one full breath in, ready to tell Rozanov he’s fine to continue, when—

Rozanov’s teeth press ever so slightly at the ridge of his hipbone, and Shane very nearly launches himself off the bed.

Fuck, why does that feel so good. It’s not—Shane doesn’t have a thing about teeth, he’s fairly sure he doesn’t have a thing about teeth, that has never been information he’s had about himself, and yet Rozanov’s mouth at his hipbone has him right back at the edge like the last two minutes of careful breathing didn’t happen at all. That is genuinely new information about himself, shoved away immediately and not examined, because now is not the time—

He’s still breathing way too hard, way too heavy, when Rozanov taps his hip slightly and says, “Turn over,” in a way that doesn’t really leave any room for argument, and Shane—

Shane turns over.

The walk back down the staircase passes in a satisfied sort of silence, Shane leading the way while Rozanov trails half a step behind him. Comfortable. Unhurried. He’s in no rush; Shane can still feel the lingering warmth of Rozanov’s hands on him every time he shifts his weight wrong.

Five steps from the bottom Shane turns to settle (carefully) on the step and wordlessly accepts the jacket Rozanov nudges into his hands as he props his foot on the step to tie his shoes.

Shane watches him without really meaning to.

Rozanov’s hair is starting to curl again, drying slowly after his shower, soft spirals reappearing around his temples and at the nape of his neck. There’s still a faint flush lingering high on his cheekbones, and bent forward like this, focused on his laces, he looks—

Nope.

Shane looks away before he can do something insane like reach out and brush Rozanov’s hair off his forehead, and scrabbles for the first conversation topic he can think of.

“So,” Shane says, aiming for casual. “You ready to play hockey back home? Bet it’ll feel good getting back onto home ice.”

“Is not my home ice.” Rozanov snorts softly without looking up. “I am from Moscow. Sochi is a village where Muscovites go to pretend they enjoy nature. You would know this if you’ve ever opened Google, Hollander.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“And the ice is the same as here,” Rozanov continues, deadpan. “We Russians do not need superstitious advantages.”

Shane huffs out a laugh at that despite himself. “Sure.”

Rozanov finishes tightening one shoe and moves onto the next and Shane hesitates for a second before asking, quieter this time: “You excited?”

There’s a slight pause.

“It is the fucking Olympics,” Rozanov says finally. “Sure.”

Which is not actually an answer at all. That’s it? Shane narrows his eyes a little. “You know, most people would kill for a spot, Rozanov.”

Rozanov just shrugs one shoulder. “Most people are not me.” He pulls his lace tight. “Have you been looking at the other countries’ rosters? Some bad choices. You will be watching me win gold in no time, Hollander.”

Which is— ouch. Watching. Shane feels it land somewhere stupid and tender in his chest.

“You’re not going to get that far,” Shane says, probably a little sharper than this situation calls for, but Rozanov is suddenly being an absolute bastard about this. “Russia’s going to get smoked by Canada. I want you to know that.”

“Uh huh,” Rozanov says flatly, like the concept itself is ridiculous. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Shane scowls. “And honestly? With your roster, you need to be worried about the US team as well—”

“The Americans are going to play Scott Hunter for thirty minutes a game,” Rozanov says, and scoffs lightly before adding, “would not be surprising if he dies on that ice.”

He’s not wrong—the Americans leave a lot to be desired with their forward depth but still– “Dude.”

“What?” Rozanov says bemusedly. “Is nearly his time. He is past due.”

“You’re the youngest guy on Russia’s roster,” Shane says, which is true and is meant to be a point but Rozanov just looks at him with an expression that plainly says yes, and? “There are other teams bringing MLH-heavy rosters too, you know. Sweden, Finland, Latvia—”

“Other teams have many ok players,” Ilya agrees, standing up, “But Russia has me, so.” He shrugs, and it telegraphs the sentiment of what else is there to say so cleanly that Shane just has to sit and stare at him a bit.

Rozanov is actually so fucking insufferable. Who the fuck decided that it would be ok to give that big of an ego to someone with that much self confidence and who can actually back most of it up?

But then Rozanov hesitates, shifting on his feet, and something in his expression changes. The sharp edge of it softens; his mouth kicks up at one corner, sudden and earnest.

“I’ll send you pictures,” Rozanov says. “From the village.”

That’s… a pivot. Shane doesn’t trust that one bit. “What?”

“Of the athletes village. They build them special, did you know? For every Olympics.”

What? What the fuck is he talking about. “I know what an Olympic village is.”

Rozanov makes an impatient gesture. “So you want the pictures or not Hollander?”

Which is– ok. Right. Thanks dude. Shane’s not going to the fucking Olympics, Shane is going to be right here, apparently waiting by his phone for Rozanov to send him reminders of that fact, and for a second he feels that very specifically—

But the thing is, they do this. They send each other pictures, and it’s been normal for a while: Shane’s recent text history has a photo of a dog Rozanov saw outside a rink in Denver, a picture of one of his teammates asleep on the floor of their team plane, and an impressive stack of waffles from a hotel breakfast bar. They text each other pictures. It’s a thing they do.

Shane just… didn’t really think that would still be a thing they do while Rozanov was on the other side of the world at the fucking Olympics. Didn’t think to wonder about it. Apparently didn’t need to, and that confirmation settles somewhere warm and slightly startling inside him, which he is going to think about basically never.

“Sure,” Shane says, aiming for indifference and maybe landing somewhere in the neighborhood of it, if one was being charitable to one’s self. Which Shane is going to be. “Whatever.”

“Whatever,” Rozanov repeats, amused, badly mimicking a Canadian accent. He shrugs a bit. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Maybe I will even text you. We will see.”

“As long as you're not going to be sexting me from over there,” Shane mutters, because the pictures comment has him thinking about the general texture of their communication, Rozanov’s emoji sex hieroglyphs, and lately maybe every fourth conversation they’ve been having over text has been carrying a subtext so obvious that even Shane can pick up on it—

—but Rozanov makes a quiet, aborted sort of sound that is so immediately wrong that Shane looks up.

“I will not be doing that,” Rozanov says, and a smile still tugs at the left side of his mouth—but it doesn’t match the rest of his face. His eyebrows are drawn in slightly, something tight hovering around his jaw. “From over there.”

There was slightly too much emphasis on the last two words. Shane’s brain snags on it, notices the way that tension has seeped back into Rozanov’s body, but the shape of the situation refuses to fully assemble itself.

“Right,” Shane says after a long moment, still feeling like he’s missing a piece of the conversation somehow—but he’s probably not going to be able to solve this one. “Right. Very disciplined of you. Your terrible team needs you to be focused.”

And immediately, visibly, Rozanov relaxes.

Not completely, but enough that Shane watches it happen in real time: shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching, something in his posture settling back into place now that they’re talking about hockey again and not—

Well. Whatever that was.

“I did not say that, Hollander.” Rozanov takes a step in and leans closer. “I am capable of both being the best player at Olympics and bothering you at the same time.”

Shane’s next breath comes out tilted toward a laugh before he can straighten it out, and Rozanov’s smile widens when he hears it—the real one now, both sides, the careful thing gone.

“Alright,” Shane says. “Whatever.”

Rozanov shifts even closer, crowding into Shane’s space, leaning in close enough that Shane’s eyes cross a little trying to keep him in view. He licks his lips slightly, and immediately notices the way Rozanov’s eyes flick down to catch the motion. “Your cab is definitely here.”

“Hm,” Rozanov says, and tips forward the final millimeter and presses their lips together.

The goodbye kisses are always softer than Shane thinks they probably should be, but Shane isn’t going to complain about that. Really, the entire concept of a goodbye kiss is still relatively new to him, something he wasn’t really expecting to expect from a regular hookup—but right from the start Rozanov was insistent on it, always chasing Shane down before he leaves to press their lips together at least once, no matter how briefly, before they part ways.

Maybe it’s just an… etiquette thing. Something Shane should’ve been doing with every other person he’s ever slept with, something he definitely did not know he was failing at until last year, which is—

No. That’s not a productive thought. That’s not what’s important here. Probably.

What matters is that he knows now. There are rules. A system. And Shane is good at systems—especially Rozanov’s, which he has been paying close attention to and, objectively, is getting pretty good at.

Right. Yeah. That’s it. The goodbye kiss is part of that system. A step in the routine. Something Rozanov likes, something that gets done properly now that Shane knows how it works. You don’t skip steps in a routine.

That’s all this is. Rules. Etiquette. A closing salvo. Good manners?

And it feels really nice.

The kiss is soft in a way Shane still hasn’t entirely learned how to expect from him. No grin against his mouth, no teasing bite, none of the usual smugness Rozanov carries into everything else. Just warm lips and steady pressure and one hand settling briefly at the side of Shane’s neck like he wants to hold him there.

Shane makes a small sound into the kiss despite himself and reaches automatically under the hem of Rozanov’s shirt, cold fingertips tracing against warm skin. Rozanov inhales sharply against his mouth and presses in again.

When they finally pull apart, it’s only barely.

“Bye,” Rozanov murmurs against Shane’s lips.

Then he steals his jacket back out of Shane’s hands and heads down the stairs before Shane can think of anything useful to say in response.

The fire escape door clicks shut behind Rozanov, and Shane is already turning away before the sound fully settles.

He takes the stairs back up slowly, hands shoved into his pockets, warm all over for reasons that have nothing to do with the building temperature. He’s comfortable. Loose at the joints in a way that’s probably good for him and there’s still a pleasant sort of buzz under his skin, something light and steady humming through him that makes the climb back upstairs feel strangely easy.

He’s feeling good. It’s just past midnight, and all Shane has left to do today is finish his stretches and go to bed. The thought settles over him comfortably as he pushes back through the fire door into the hallway, unlocks his apartment, and steps inside.

He toes his shoes off by the entrance and flicks off lights as he moves through the apartment in a straight line, muscle memory guiding him through the motions. Living room dark. Kitchen dark. Everything is already clean and put away from earlier; his bed is made with fresh sheets, ready and waiting for him.

By the time Shane gets to his bedroom, his body already feels halfway asleep.

Shane rolls the mat out on the floor, sits down, and starts with the hip flexors. His usual stretch, a modified child’s pose, same thing as always, leaning into it and—

He’s sore. He is absolutely, unmistakably sore. It’s sharper in some places, heavier in others, an ache settling deep through his hips and thighs because—and Shane can feel himself flushing—he used his muscles very, very thoroughly tonight. And not to stop pucks.

Shane played hockey today, sure, but that was just light work before he sat on the bench for three hours; the ache in his muscles right now has everything to do with the way he was in a position very similar to this stretch less than an hour ago, moving himself back against—

Nope. Shane cuts the thought off before it can fully form, breathing carefully through the stretch instead.

It’s a good type of sore though. Proof of good work.

He shifts up into a low lunge, feeling it open through his hips, and his mind drifts without resistance—

Rozanov’s hand gripping his hip. Rozanov’s other hand tangled in Shane’s hair, holding him down. Rozanov using his body to flatten Shane into the mattress, the warm weight of his chest pressing into Shane’s back, leaning over him to thrust in his hips in closer, deeper—

God that is just—Shane drops out of his lunge and just sits there, staring into the near distance, at the foot of his bed where he was lying less than an hour ago while Rozanov’s tongue was licking over his skin, tracing a path with his mouth along Shane’s glutes, circling in nearer and nearer until he—

Shane’s breath has gone ever so slightly unsteady—but he forces himself back up. Straightens out, shakes his head sharply, like that’ll do anything against the haze in his head. Pushes himself back into his lunge and refuses to let his thoughts drift anywhere else. Finishes the rest of his stretches—hips, hamstrings, thoracic rotation, shoulder mobility, the same sequence he’s been following since Juniors—before levering himself upright. Forces himself to take one deep breath, two, before crouching down and rolling his mat back up and tucking it away in his closet.

From there the rest of his routine runs smoothly—washroom, brush his teeth, wash his face, piss, wash his hands, stare at his reflection in the mirror for far too long looking for any traces of the night he just had—and before he knows it, Shane is slipping under the covers, right on schedule to finish his day on time.

The new sheets are his favourite set, the dark blue ones that always feel slightly cool to the touch no matter how long he’s been in them, and Shane lets himself sink into the familiar comfort of it all as he drifts off to sleep almost immediately.

Clean, quiet, normal, the events of the evening tucked away neatly. Everything back in its place and back to normal—

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Chapter End Notes

In my rough plot outline this chapter didn't actually exist. I have a (loose) plan for Ilya at the olympics and for Shane at home, but I had nothing for the portion of time right before (except for stairwell kiss 2.0). What this ended up being is a showcase of Shane's new normal. We're seeing the ways where Shane is making amendments to his compartmentalization system, fitting Ilya into his routine and boxes, and also the ways that thinking of things in clinical terms of routine/structure/boxes is failing to fully accommodate the true weight of what he is experiencing. Shane in his mind is thinking he's still handling this well, and to that I have to say: sure buddy.

Some notes:
1) Trades: Trades! Such a normal thing that happens but it's so fun (for me the writer) to imagine just how awful being in a state of limbo must be for the player. It was only five days, but those five days were more than enough for Shane's morning routine to be permanently changed.
2) Olympics: This is a study in avoidance. Shane is jealous af, he is telling himself he's over it/is fine with it, but it leaks through anyways, it's a bruise he keeps pressing on. Unfortunately for shane, ilya's specific brand of avoidance (cocky bravado, reminding himself and everyone around him that he's the best) is doing the extra work of passively making shane feel like shit thanks to the inadvertent comparisons shane is drawing. Ouch.
3) Aw, the texts: Ilya Rozanov sex emoji specialist. Shane Hollander purposefully playing dumb. They're going to be texting eachother during the olympics 😊😊😊. Cute and nice, nothing being set up here at all whatsoever ;) (ALSO fun to see the disconnect between what shane is thinking and what he's showing others (ilya) externally)
3) Miscellaneous. Soren Miitka for team Finland? Google tells me that 'miitka' is a surname created for hr, the closest thing I could find was Mitikka which is apparently finnish. Sex? Shane is narrating sex scenes now and we're so proud of him. Surely this newfound comfort/intimacy with rozanov will continue uninterrupted ;). "too much emphasis on the last two words"? Ilya is thinking about the russia of it all; shane does not have this context; shane pivots back to familiar hockey territory; ilya relaxes because he realizes shane doesn't know and he doesn't have to talk about it. Ilya's perfect goal? Coast-to-coast goals are individual efforts that start from one end of the rink and go to the other. Fucking impressive things, perfectly appropriate action for ilya to be doing to show off to Shane (oh and the intimacy of knowing exactly what someone is going to do in the moments before they do it?? ugh. shane. buddy. he'll have to think about this eventually)

That's all for now! I am actively writing the olympic chapter, so if there is anything YOU want to see from Ilya's time in Russia, sound off in the comments? Is he having fun? Is he having a terrible time with his team that he has no chemistry with? Is he texting Shane? Is he not? Tell me what you want to see :)

Thanks for reading and commenting, see you all soon

Chapter 15

Chapter Summary

Olympics baby

Chapter Notes

To that one anon who sent me three asks on Tumblr just to say that the Russian goalie already had a canon name and I shouldn't've changed it/made one up... this chapter full of non-canon names is for you 😘(and no, I'm not going to go backwards and retroactively fix it, that would be ridiculous)

Kisses as always to the beta readers @Megalodon/@sixofstarrs/@BearsAndFireflies, who catch so many of the little things and make this story so much more intricate.

NSFW this chapter?

Absolutely 0. Get ready to feel bad for Ilya though.

Me: [image]

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Are those palm trees?
Jane 🤫🔥💦: I thought it was supposed to be cold in Russia.

The restaurant is maybe six blocks away from the Olympic village—close enough to be filled nearly to the brim with diners, not so close that it is a place that would cater to athletes. It’s higher-end in the old way: heavy curtains, polished wood, waiters who move silently between tables and can probably recognize ministers by sight. Discreet, old-fashioned, frequented by bureaucrats and men who preferred to wear suits to lunch. Ilya, in his team Russia jacket, sticks out like a sore thumb.

His father chose it for that reason, probably.

“You have been practicing every day?” Grigori asks.

“Yes, Papa.”

“And the team?”

Ilya reaches for a sip of water before answering, buying himself a second to think through the safest response. There really aren’t many good options: too optimistic and his father will call him naïve. Too critical and he’ll spend the next hour defending every opinion he gives.

“Fine,” is what he eventually comes up with, but that just causes his father to raise a disbelieving eyebrow and lean in slightly.

“Fine,” Grigori repeats flatly. “You have Treplev in net. Lebedev on the wing. Half your roster has played in the last two World Championships. And your assessment is fine.”

Of course, his father wanted a real answer and not a platitude. Ilya looks down at his plate and tries again. “Practice has been… productive, so far. Morozov seems satisfied with my line—”

“And?” Grigori prompts impatiently. “What about the other lines? Will they actually use Zheltukhin properly this time around?” A brief pause. “You are the captain. That means you need to pay attention to the whole team, not just your own line.”

Ilya’s grip tightens slightly around his fork. He’s paying attention: Zheltukhin is thirty-five, half a stride slower than he was in Vancouver, and still somehow the second line centre and Team Russia’s alternate captain for the second Olympics in a row. Was that not being used properly?

He can’t say that.

“He and Murashkin seem to be building good chemistry,” Ilya says carefully. “Morozov’s been giving them a lot of reps together.”

Grigori narrows his eyes slightly at that. “Murashkin… he is the one from Dynamo?”

“He is.”

“Proper Russian player,” Grigori mutters and doesn’t continue the thought. The conversation lapses into silence and Ilya does his best to keep the motions of his fork steady.

His father’s hand stills. “Did you see the cross-country final this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Karpov trained for four years for that race,” Grigori continues. “And he finishes with silver and claims he is proud just to stand on the podium.” He scoffs lightly, disdain coating the sound. “‘Proud of his effort’. This generation is too eager to celebrate losing.”

Ah. There it is. Ilya had been waiting for the conversation to arrive here from the moment his father suggested lunch—the true purpose of the meal, finally stated out loud. A waiter appears to refill their glasses; neither of them acknowledge him.

“When I was your age,” Grigori says once the man has gone, “we understood that pride was reserved for victory. Everything else was merely what happened before victory, obstacles along the path. This is the mindset that has been lost, and without it the path is much more difficult. The Minister agrees with me.”

This is probably true—Sveta’s father has always been something of an old-fashioned man. Sergei Vetrov is cut from similar cloth as Ilya’s father, equally uninterested in celebrating anything short of absolute unambiguous victory itself.

The difference, which Ilya has never said out loud and never will, is that Sergei Vetrov has more than earned the right to speak that way. Five MLH cups and two Olympic medals are more than enough justification for that way of thinking, and when Sergei Vetrov speaks about sacrifice for victory, people listen because they can point to the banners as proof.

Sergei’s standards are high but realistic, and Sveta meets them more often than not. Top marks, scholarships, a prestigious job, endless lists of distinctions that Sergei accepts with the calm expectation of a man who always assumed his daughter would succeed.

The cruel part is that some small humiliating piece of Ilya still wants to hear those standards applied to him, but Ilya’s father—

“A gold medal,” Grigori says quietly, “is the only result people remember.”

Ilya hums slightly and avoids answering by taking a long sip from his glass. Around the restaurant, conversations murmur softly beneath the steady scrape of cutlery against porcelain, but at their table silence settles in, both of them waiting for the obligation of lunch to expire.

The waiter eventually reappears and replaces their empty plates with coffees. Outside the windows snow drifts steadily across the street, blurring the sunlight into pale smears of gold.

Ilya stirs sugar into his cup and searches for a topic harmless enough to survive the next ten minutes. If he times things correctly, he can leave immediately after coffee without making the exit feel abrupt.

“How is Polina?” is what he eventually lands on. “I’m surprised she didn’t want to accompany you here.”

Grigori goes still.

It’s a subtle thing, not anything any normal person would be able to notice, but Ilya has spent twenty-two years learning his father’s every motion and this—this is not normal. The hesitation stands out like a beacon: the slight wandering of the eyes, the faint crease between his brows, the way his mouth parts soundlessly before closing again.

For a moment, there is simply nothing there—and then he reassembles his expression into something composed. It lasts less than two seconds, but that’s ample time for Ilya to understand it; Grigori doesn’t have an answer to the question. Doesn’t know the answer to the question.

“The Olympics seem like the kind of event she would like,” Ilya adds, carefully, after the silence has stretched just slightly too long. “Is Polina well?”

“She is fine,” Grigori says briskly, after another slight pause. “Busy with social functions as always. Says she is too busy to leave the city for a frivolous thing like this.”

Frivolous? The word clangs strangely against everything Ilya knows about her.

“Of course,” Ilya says, and doesn’t say anything else.

He drinks his coffee. Outside, the snow keeps falling. He turns the moment over quietly in the back of his mind and leaves it there, because there is nothing to do with it right now and no version of asking that ends well. Polina has been married to his father for eleven years; in all that time, she has never once referred to anything Grigori cared about as frivolous.

Outside the restaurant they pause under the awning as Grigori adjusts his overcoat—the collar, the buttons, the belt, each in order—while his driver idles patiently at the curb. Ilya stands beside him and waits, hands in his pockets, for whatever parting words are coming. They always come. This, too, is part of the dance.

“You begin competition in three days,” Grigori says.

It is not a question, but the implicit expectation of an answer is there anyways. “Yes.”

His father smooths one final imaginary crease from the front of his coat and nods sharply. “Do not disappoint me.”

Years of professional hockey. Countless international tournaments, first overall in the draft, Rookie of the Year, the highest RFA contact in MLH history, four years of an adult life lived thousands of kilometers from Moscow—and somehow four words from his father can still make something tense painfully beneath his ribs.

It is only years of practice that keeps his voice even. “Yes, Papa.”

Me: [image]

Jane 🤫🔥💦: What is that.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: That can’t be what they’re serving you guys in the cafeteria.

Me: it is very good actually

Me: [image]

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Nice place.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: JJ says there’s black mold in his ceiling.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Figures they would give the nicer rooms to the home team.

Me: [image]

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Huh.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: That rink looks way bigger than I thought it would.

Me: is not the only thing that is bigger in person

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Ok Lily.

Two days before their first preliminary round matchup against Slovenia, practices settle into an uneasy kind of rhythm. The adrenaline spike of arrival is gone now; everyone has adjusted to the Olympic village, and the novelty of it all has stopped feeling new now that the routines are settling in. Every day follows the same general rhythm—wake up, eat, skate, eat, media, eat, repeat—and Ilya has readjusted to receiving hockey instructions in Russian again instead of LeClaire’s impatient English.

Olympic hockey coaching is not altogether that different from MLH coaching: Morozov is an old man who likes to bluster his way through a monologue before dispensing useful instruction, Zarechny likes to abuse his whistle mid drill, and Sorin never seems to speak above a whisper, but the hockey is the same.

The drills are the same, the structure is the same, the ice is the same; his teammates are very much not.

“I swear to God,” Lebedev mutters to Ilya around his mouthguard, “Zheltukhin’s been singing in Morozov’s ear all morning. He’s such a fucking princess.”

“Every time a line changes,” Medvedenko supplies from his other side.

Lebedev points at him sharply. “Yes. Exactly. Like a child running to their mother.”

The three of them turn their heads in near unison to where Zheltukhin is, predictably, hovering near Morozov on the other end of the ice.

“Well. He is KHL,” Medvedenko says solemnly, like that explains everything.

Lebedev clearly doesn’t agree. “Karavlov doesn’t act like him. Nunin doesn’t act like him. Even fucking Murashkin isn’t acting like him. Being KHL doesn’t explain why there’s a fucking steel rod up his ass.”

Ilya hides a smile behind the water bottle. Zheltukhin is talking to Morozov now, but he’s gesturing, big sweeping motions, waving his hands through the air with obvious agitation. Medvedenko jabs a sudden elbow into Ilya’s ribs. “Get over there.”

Fucking ow. “Why should I?”

Medvedenko just raises an eyebrow at him. “Go figure out what crawled up his ass. You have the letter, so that—” he points, not at all subtly, “–is ultimately your problem.”

Which is– right. Captain. His problem. Ilya exhales through his nose, swings his legs back over the boards, and pushes off.

Zheltukhin is mid-sentence when he reaches them, gloves tucked under one arm now, towering over Morozov as he gestures, and not bothering to lower his voice.

“I’m telling you, Volkov keeps collapsing too low,” Zheltukhin is saying. “Every outlet pass dies because of him. It’s a risk, because he can’t consistently—”

He cuts himself off when Ilya glides to a stop. Morozov glances once toward Ilya, expression unreadable, then turns away from both of them and blows his whistle sharply.

“Center ice!” he barks at the players on the bench. “Move!”

The players push off almost immediately to start lining back up for the next drill. Zheltukhin gives Ilya a sideways look before skating away without another word, which is honestly just par for the course for the relationship between Ilya and his alternate captain.

Captaincy gives him symbolic authority, media obligations, the ability to talk to the referees, and a letter stitched onto his chest. It does not make a thirty-five-year-old KHL veteran suddenly interested in his opinion.

Morozov barely speaks to him outside of obligatory practice conversations. The assistant coaches turn automatically to the older players before they remember to speak to him. This team hasn’t even played a proper game yet but Ilya already feels less like a captain than a fucking mascot—

But he’s not going to think about that. He has shooting drills to do.

Treplev takes the starting net automatically, because of course he does. Nobody even looks toward Danchenko when the goalies skate out; the hierarchy is too blatantly obvious for a misplaced glance like that. Treplev plants himself in the crease with the immense calm presence of a monument, broad shoulders filling the net even during warmups, and for a moment Ilya understands again why he and an entire generation of Russian hockey players grew up half-believing the man was immortal.

Morozov’s whistle blows. The first skater accepts a pass and starts up the ice. Ilya shuffles forward with the rest of the line and watches the net.

The problem is Treplev is still a fantastic fucking goalie. Forty years old, sixteen years in the MLH, two Cups and three Olympics to his name; it’s a resume to be in awe of, and even though the Raiders face off against Treplev’s team four times a season Ilya still gets a shiver up his spine when he hears that name in Buffalo’s starting lineup.

He is still a fantastic fucking goalie. Just– maybe not as fantastic as he once was.

If Treplev were outright bad, if he were visibly washed or missing easy saves or fumbling rebounds into dangerous ice, this would all feel simpler somehow. Instead he remains excellent through sheer positioning and experience and terrifying technical discipline. He reads shooters correctly before they release the puck. He cuts angles instinctively. He absorbs shots cleanly into his chest and gloves without wasting movement.

But he is also, visibly, forty years old.

Standing in line waiting for his turn, Ilya watches him push laterally across the crease in a way that is very clearly reserving effort wherever possible. Treplev stays deep in the net and takes a full second to drop to the ice on low angle shots. After saves he resets methodically, and every single time he uses his left arm, he shakes it out carefully.

He’s still saving more than he’s missing; he bats Ilya’s blocker side shot out of the air like it was nothing—because Treplev is still Pyotr-fucking-Treplev—but as Ilya watches him, he can’t help the thoughts about conservation, about mileage, about joints absorbing decades of impact.

Me: 🧑‍🦯🐌🏨

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Is that Schnecke? From Columbus?

Me: no
Me: 👴💀🪦

Jane 🤫🔥💦: OH
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Scott Hunter!
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Yeah I should’ve got that the first time.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: 🌲🐔🌳

Me: woods?
Me: he is not at the olympics Jane

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Not even close.

Me: you need better emojis

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Fuck off
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Fine, try these

The day before the Slovenia game the practice schedule lightens into basic systems work and controlled zone-entry reps. It’s a pathetically easy drill: three forwards, a defensive pair, 3-on-2 until the defenders win possession or the forwards score. Simple hockey; LeClaire’s made Ilya and the Raiders run variations of this probably a thousand times this season alone. Anyone who has ever played organized hockey at any level could understand what they’re supposed to be practicing here: angle the puck carrier wide, take away the middle passing lane, force a low-danger shot.

Simple, easy hockey that anyone could understand; anyone, apparently, except Volkov and Simeonov.

The second Ilya carries the puck over the line, both defensemen collapse toward him at once. Neither of them protects the cross-ice lane. Neither of them even looks at his wingers cutting in on the weak sides. It turns the entire rush into something embarrassingly easy; Ilya simply taps the puck left to a wide-open Medvedenko, who has nothing but open ice. He carries it straight to the net and flips it over Treplev’s extended left leg.

Easy goal; a pathetic defensive effort. That was the sort of mistake that would get you eaten alive in any MLH game—and apparently also in this practice, because Morozov’s whistle shrieks across the ice loud enough that even Ilya flinches a little.

“Again!”

Ilya takes the puck back in on the second rep, but this time he dishes early to Lebedev and drops half a stride behind the play in support as Lebedev crosses the blue line—
—and both defensemen swing toward him exactly the same way as before. Both players attacking the puck carrier. Nobody protecting the middle of the ice.

Morozov doesn’t even let the play finish this time. The whistle slices through the rush halfway up the ice and he’s already moving, storming over the ice toward Volkov and Simeonov while unleashing a stream of furious Russian so rapid it barely sounds like words anymore.

Practice barely pauses around it. Assistant coach Zarechny glides automatically into Morozov’s place beside the pile of pucks at center, shooing Ilya’s group out of the zone for a break and waving the next group forward while the head coach continues ripping into both players near the faceoff circle. Simeonov stands there stiff-backed and silent through most of it. Volkov looks about six seconds from putting his head through the glass.

And across the ice, Zheltukhin has stopped pretending to stretch.

Ilya watches him from the bench as he pushes to his feet and drifts to stand beside Zarechny, leaning in to say something without looking at the assistant coach directly, still watching Morozov by the boards.

Zarechny’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly. He answers once and Zheltukhin responds immediately, one gloved hand flicking back toward the others.

It’s impossible to hear from this far away, but Ilya doesn’t particularly need to. He has a pretty good idea of what’s being said.

Zarechny finally nods—just once, short and reluctant, before blowing his whistle and stepping in to bark instructions at the players in the drill. Zheltukhin lingers where he is for another second, gaze fixed on Volkov with open dissatisfaction before turning away at last. He doesn’t look at Ilya even once when he skates back to the bench.

Back to the line again.

Collect the puck at center. Bump it left to Medvedenko. Enter the zone with speed, but this time the spacing actually works the way it’s supposed to, because the second pairing defencemen Karaulov and Nunin actually understand how to play hockey.

It’s still not enough to stop the top line.

Medvedenko drives wide along the boards and pulls the near defender with him automatically. Ilya cuts through the middle lane at exactly the moment the coverage opens, stick already down, and Lebedev arrives far side in perfect support position.
Three touches. Back of the net.

Simple hockey. Easy hockey. Way too easy hockey.

Me: [image]

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Should you be eating that right before a game?
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Jesus, how much sugar is on that thing?

By the middle of the second period against Slovenia, Ilya’s jersey is damp through at the spine and Russia is only up by one goal when they should be up by three.

He sits at the end of the bench with one glove off, elbow hooked over the boards, breathing hard enough to feel the cold air burning the back of his throat, and watches the third line fumble through another defensive zone shift like he’s watching a car slide slowly toward a ditch. Slovenia cycles the puck high along the wall without much urgency, but they don’t exactly need urgency right now: Russia isn’t even trying to make them work for it.

Stay high, Ilya thinks, watching Volkov as the puck cycles to the Slovenian player at the top of the zone. Stay high, stay high, stay—

Volkov collapses in towards the puck carrier.

Just a step, but a step at this level is enough. The puck goes cross-ice to the completely open winger, Potocnik from the LA Sovereigns slipping into the open ice near the hashmarks, and Treplev has to lunge hard across the crease to seal the post—

A second too late.

Post and in, with a ting Ilya can hear all the way down the ice.

Tie game.

Ilya closes his eyes for exactly one second. It is the exact same breakdown from practice—the same mistake, the same drift, the same nobody home in the middle of the ice while the defensemen watch the puck like it’s the only thing that exists. He and Medvedenko had scored on it twice back to back literally yesterday, and apparently that hadn’t been instructive enough for anyone.

Beside him, Medvedenko mutters something foul under his breath.

Ilya doesn’t say anything. He puts his glove back on.

Me: did you watch

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Yeah.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Not your best work huh.

Me: is just the qualifiers
Me: we only have to win one of the games

Jane 🤫🔥💦: And thank goodness for that.

The restaurant is about twenty minutes outside the Olympic village, tucked into the ground floor of a narrow building with frosted windows and low lighting that makes everyone inside look richer and more attractive than they probably are. Sveta has apparently already been there long enough to establish herself completely by the time Ilya arrives; there’s a glass of wine in front of her, a basket of bread half-destroyed, and she’s speaking to the server in rapid Russian when he slides into the chair across from her.

The server leaves, taking the menus with her. Ilya raises an eyebrow at that, and Sveta raises an eyebrow right back at him.

Of course. “What am I having then?”

“The trout,” she says, and reaches for her glass. “You need protein and something resembling a vegetable. I’ve seen what you’ve been posting on your Instagram stories—you’re at risk for scurvy.”

That doesn’t sound right but Ilya doesn’t know enough about scurvy to defend himself, so he settles in with a grumble and reaches for the bread instead.

They talk about nothing for a while—the Olympic scheduling, the village, a speed skater Sveta apparently knows from somewhere, the pair of social gatherings she’s attended with her father so far—and their food eventually arrives in a blur of warm plates and practiced politeness, interrupting Sveta midway through a story about an IOC executive humiliating himself at a reception.

The trout is excellent. He refuses to acknowledge this on principle.

Sveta waits until they’re both actually eating before she begins the dissection, which is a strategy she tends to deploy when she (usually accurately) knows Ilya isn’t going to be receptive to whatever she wants to say. Captive audience and all that.

“The bottom six is a mess.” Is what she starts with, not even looking up from her plate to say it. She saws off a chunk of her chicken and chews it furiously before continuing. “I genuinely don’t understand what Morozov thinks he’s building there, because those lines aren’t clicking together at all.”

Ilya doesn’t respond, and cuts his fish into smaller pieces than necessary.

“Dyadin and Trofimov should never be separated,” she continues. “They’re on the same line at SKA for a reason and that team is top of the conference. They compensate for each other’s bad habits naturally.”

“Morozov wants Trofimov with a faster centre,” Ilya says, because that’s the justification that was given, but Sveta’s face is darkening and—

“Splitting them apart to babysit a weaker line is just idiotic,” Sveta mutters. “He thinks Zhigalov is faster than Dyadin? The old man is delusional.”

“You should probably just coach instead,” Ilya mutters.

Sveta ignores him. “And Volkov with Simeonov is a disaster pairing. Volkov keeps overcommitting below the goal line because Simeonov can’t recover laterally, so both of them panic and collapse toward the puck.”

“Mm.”

“Slovenia generated three clean slot chances because of it,” she says, and scoffs darkly. “Slovenia. Fucking embarrassing is what that was.”

Ilya could probably push back against that. Could find something in her analysis to argue against, if he wanted to—but it wouldn’t change the fact that she’s right, and they both know it. Most people watch hockey by following the puck, but Sveta watches hockey like it’s a puzzle she can undo, breaking the whole thing down into its component parts until she can name the exact pieces that are in the wrong places.

He takes another bite of his fish.

“I watched your post-game interview,” Sveta says.

Ilya takes a sip of water.

“The one with Zheltukhin from Channel One,” she continues, not at all perturbed by his silence. “You did fine. You said all the right things.”

That was probably not a compliment. “Ok?”

“But you have an extremely obvious stress expression,” she says and yup, there’s the barb. “You get very tight around the jaw.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Also your phrasing gets clipped when you’re annoyed and you stop using contractions in English.”

He– what? Who the fuck would notice something like that? This is the problem with being friends with someone intelligent—they like to use it like a weapon. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m fucking not.” Sveta leans back, and raises an eyebrow. “That question about team cohesion? You sounded like a caveman and you were glaring at Zheltukhin like you wanted to set him on fire.”

Right. That was starting to sound familiar; Ilya hadn’t been expecting international media to actually care about a stupid thing like whether or not the Russians were playing nicely with each other, and to get that question standing next to fucking Vasily Zheltukhin?

“Zheltukhin is a rat fucking bastard,” Ilya says, because it’s true and it feels good to say it. “He complains about everything right up until there’s a camera on him, and then suddenly he’s Mr Media. I have no idea why they keep pairing us together for press.”

“Because you’re the captain and he’s the alternate,” Sveta fires back immediately. “And because you make a horrible face every time someone speaks to both of you at the same time, which probably makes journalists request you two together.”

She’s right, but– “I don’t make a face.”

She gives him a look.

“I don’t.” The look gets more pointed. Ilya scowls down at his demolished trout. “He’s been whispering in Morozov’s ear since day one,” Ilya says, because he’s already in it now and he may as well leave it all on the table. “Every line change, every drill adjustment, every practice… all the fucker does is complain about the team.”

“Yes,” Sveta says. “Complaining about the team. Probably saying all the things you’ve been thinking, hm? Just out loud, and with worse manners.”

That sounds completely logical in a way Ilya doesn’t particularly want it to. He picks up his glass. Sets it back down without taking a sip.

“It’s terrible manners,” Ilya mutters. “Complaining to the coaches so openly. But that’s not the—” He stops. Clenches his jaw, then forces it out. “That’s not the problem. The problem is that Zheltukhin takes it straight to Morozov and then ends the conversation the second I get within ten feet of it, like I’m not—”

The captain, his brain supplies helpfully. Part of the team. Useful. Not worth talking to.

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Sveta watches him for a moment, and he gets the distinct impression she’s decided to let him keep that one. She reaches for her wine glass, and Ilya takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out slowly.

“Which other events are you going to?” Ilya asks, with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever.

Sveta raises one eyebrow—she knows exactly what he’s doing—but she, miraculously, allows it.

“The women’s hockey games, mostly,” she says. “They’ve been significantly more entertaining than the men’s tournament so far.”

“Oh?”

“Papa and I were at the Russia-Sweden game yesterday,”

“And?”

“Sweden was Sweden. But our team was a surprise.” She reaches for her glass. “Do you know Prozorova? Left wing—she was playing an incredibly physical game. Two big hits in the first period that I don’t think anyone was expecting from her.”

“Effective?”

“Extremely.” A pause. “Really, the whole team was playing aggressively. I suppose the coaches have been telling the girls to be more physical. Papa was happy to see it, at the very least.”

The conversation loosens after that. Sveta complains about Olympic scheduling logistics for several minutes, then launches into a deeply opinionated breakdown of international officiating standards while Ilya eats his trout and vegetables and approximately half the remaining bread basket without her noticing, staying silent because he is still, in the back of his mind, turning over what she said about Zheltukhin.

Saying all the same things you’ve been thinking. Just out loud.

The waiter eventually reappears to offer them dessert, which Sveta accepts on their behalf without even looking at him. Ilya just watches the snow coming down outside the window and says nothing, because there is nothing particularly useful to say, and because Sveta has already moved on to dissecting a controversial offside call from the German game.

He lets her talk.

By the time they leave it’s hours later.

Ilya pulls his gloves on as they step onto the sidewalk, cold air immediately biting through the warmth of the restaurant, and halfway down the block his phone buzzes sharply in his coat pocket.

His hand moves to it before he’s decided to move it—automatic, a reflexive motion created entirely over the past three weeks—but he catches himself with his palm flat against his jacket.

But Sveta is already looking at him, at his guilty hand, eyes narrowed with an expression that somehow communicates amusement, suspicion, understanding, and judgment simultaneously. He doesn’t trust the curl of her smile one bit.

“What,” Ilya says defensively.

“Nothing,” Sveta replies.

Which, from her, absolutely never means nothing.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Hunter should do us all a favour and just fucking retire

Me: oh?

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Asshole just got away with a huge slash on Oggy
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Why is he playing like this.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Hunter’s not usually that dirty.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: He and Bernier have been getting away with murder.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Bernier makes the team as a skill forward and he’s spending his ice time being backup muscle for Hunter? Because Hunter suddenly wants to start shit instead of actually playing?
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Pathetic.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: When he injures himself the Admirals are going to collapse, their team structure is still fucking garbage.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Actually you should speed that along.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: When you guys face off in the semifinals, would you mind killing him on the ice?

Me: for you? anything

Sorin is running the afternoon practice instead of Morozov, which improves morale significantly before he’s even blown the first whistle. Less lectures, more ice time, adjustments that actually have time to be tested before being overridden. They’re focusing on below-the-goal-line board battles today, working on puck support and possession under pressure, and Sorin seems determined to train them out of their bad habits.

“Don’t force it up the wall,” he says, skating backward in front of them while gesturing with his stick. “If they seal the boards, the middle opens automatically. Read it first.”

Simple adjustment, and the next rep almost works perfectly.

Murashkin wins the puck below the goal line and muscles it free along the boards while Ilya cuts through the slot looking for open space. Simeonov rotates low to support, and Volkov holds high near the blue line, sliding laterally to stay open as the safety valve. For half a second the spacing actually looks correct and Murashkin rims the puck hard around the boards—

Then Volkov hesitates.

Just a beat too long deciding whether to step down the wall for the loose puck or stay high to protect against the breakout—and the puck skips past him and out of the zone.
Sorin’s whistle blows. Everybody groans automatically.

“Again,” Sorin calls, already gathering another puck.

They go again. This time the puck stays alive below the goal line and play continues properly. Murashkin rims it hard along the boards near the hashmarks, and Ilya lunges after it, shoulder-first into Simeonov as they fight for inside position against the wall, skates grinding sharply into the ice while both of them try to free the puck—

Whistle again.

Ilya straightens immediately. Simeonov backs off a step, both of them turning toward the sound—

Right to where Zheltukhin has one glove raised and is shoving irritably at Volkov’s shoulder near the blue line.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Come the fuck on,” Zheltukhin snaps, leaning toward him. “Either step down or stay high. You keep floating in between and nobody knows where the outlet is supposed to go.”

Volkov jerks forward immediately, getting directly into his space. “Then win the puck faster! Why the fuck are you bitching at me? Focus on your own job!”

“I am. My job is not supposed to be cleaning up after you because you can’t hold the fucking zone—”

Ilya jabs his stick between them. Hard. Both of them go quiet and look at him, and for a second the only sound is skates and the low ambient noise of the rink.

“Reset,” Ilya says. That’s all.

Zheltukhin steps back first, jaw still tight, and pushes off toward the boards without another word. Volkov stays beside him for a half second longer, still wound up, before he exhales hard through his nose and turns away.

Ilya turns back to see Sorin already watching him, expression unreadable. Ilya holds eye contact for a moment, and Sorin gives him a single short nod before turning back to the ice.

“Again,” he calls.

They reset.

Volkov stays high this time, properly, and the puck finally moves cleanly out of the corner and into an actual cycle.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Do you think your bottom six will actually figure out how to skate together by Saturday?

Russia is up 4–1 with three minutes left in the game when Morozov slaps him on the shoulder to send the first line over the boards to take the next draw.

The game has been going significantly better than the one against Slovenia, but not because the bottom six have actually figured out how to skate together. Slovakia has spent most of the night trapped underwater against Russia’s top line, and the score probably flatters them slightly if anything. Their only MLH player, Varga out of Houston, is genuinely dangerous—quick hands, excellent edgework, sees the ice properly—but one good forward can only stabilize so much when the rest of the roster is scrambling to survive every defensive shift.

The building already has that late-game looseness to it, the kind where everyone in the crowd knows who won before the clock officially agrees, and the Slovakian bench just looks resigned when they see Ilya’s line hop over the boards again.

Good.

Varga gives him a brief look from across the dot, expression almost completely unreadable except for the exhaustion sitting underneath it. Ilya doesn’t even bother with a chirp; he just leans in and focuses.

The puck drops. Ilya wins it cleanly backward.

Lebedev snags it and Russia is moving north again. Medvedenko charges through the neutral zone, Lebedev carries the puck past a defender on the right side, and Ilya curls back just enough to support the middle lane while Slovakia retreats into their zone in an orderly panic.

Lebedev gets checked into the boards but he manages to spin the puck to the center where Ilya collects it. He carries it to the right circle, deking past two players before spinning the puck on his backhand and tapping it up ice to Medvedenko.

Tape to tape: Ilya didn’t even have to look, because he knew exactly where Medvedenko would be. Medvedenko catches it cleanly in stride and immediately fires cross-ice toward Lebedev, free from the boards and crashing into the slot.

Perfect pass. The Slovakian goalie somehow gets across in time and blocks the initial shot with his shoulder, but the rebound kicks directly into open ice at the top of the crease—right onto Ilya’s waiting stick.

5-1. 2:32 left in the game. The goal horn is still echoing through the building when Ilya reaches the bench, teammates crashing into him from both sides while the arena music struggles unsuccessfully to drown out the Russian crowd.

Morozov doesn’t even let them sit down; he just points two fingers sharply back toward the ice and barks out “Again!”, and Medvedenko laughs once under his breath as they turn back toward center ice.

Varga glides back into the faceoff circle opposite Ilya looking visibly resigned now, shoulders heavier than they were thirty seconds ago, but he still sets his stick carefully on the ice anyway.

Professional pride. Ilya can respect that.

The linesman steps in.

The puck drops.

Ilya wins it cleanly backward again.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: 6-1 huh
Jane 🤫🔥💦: God Varga was really out of gas by the end of that third period.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Poor bastard.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: I thought the Slovaks would’ve done a better job sheltering their goalie but who knows what their coach was thinking

Me: mr commentator

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Stop it.

Me: mr analyst
Me: which goal did you like better?

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Honestly? They were both just ok.

Me: really???
Me: 😭😫😔
Me: are you never satisfied hollander

Jane 🤫🔥💦: I have no idea why you’re complaining Lily
Jane 🤫🔥💦: That was a game against fucking Slovakia. You should’ve gone for a hattrick.

Me: i thought i was saving that for you

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Well.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: You might as well get your first one at the Olympics
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Cause you are never going to get one against me.

Annihilating Slovakia and making it to the Qualification Playoffs seems to have settled something inside the roster. Ilya notices it first at film review the morning after—he’s there twenty minutes early, but so is mostly everyone else. Full tables, at nine in the morning after a game, conversation overlapping loosely, happily. By afternoon practice the conversations have gotten louder and less careful, the kind that means people are actually comfortable rather than performing it, and when Morozov blows the whistle to summon them to the ice for another lecture everyone groans in exactly the same register.

Small things. But Ilya has learned to take the small things.

After practice Zheltukhin falls into step beside him in the tunnel, still pulling his gloves off.

“Better today,” he says, without much ceremony.

Ilya considers this. “Yeah.”

“Still a fucking mess in the corners.”

“But better.”

Zheltukhin grunts at that and peels off toward the locker room without another word.
Still a complaint technically. But it was said to him, not at the ceiling, not to Morozov, not directly to anyone else on the team. That’s something. Ilya follows slower, and lets himself feel quietly good about it for approximately the length of the tunnel before he starts thinking about Austria.

Me: [image]

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Oh you’re watching other events?
Jane 🤫🔥💦: I guess that makes sense, good way to use a rest day.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Figure skating huh.

Me: teammates cousin is in team event
Me: she is very skilled
Me: skating is fun to watch

His skate blades tick and scrape against the tunnel floor as Ilya comes off the ice with the rest of his line, pulling one glove loose as he walks. The air outside the ice is warmer, damp with sweat and rubber, and he can hear the low murmur of the German team in the other locker room as they prepare for their turn in the practice rink.

He reaches his stall without really thinking about any of it, drops his gloves onto the bench and goes for his bag, digging through his street clothes until his fingers find his phone, and—

Nothing.

He drops it back in the bag and sits down on the bench to start untying his skates.

Ilya’s phone buzzes on the table, and Ilya grabs for it immediately, expecting to see—

Oh. Or that, actually. He swaps his fork to his other hand and unlocks it.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: did you see biathlon results from last night

He taps the response out with his thumb. no.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: you missed out. absolute carnage. the French team fell twice.

Me: sounds horrible

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: did i say that?
Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: it was incredible actually

Ok? Ilya swipes out of their chat and out to his other messages, scrolling past several till he finds the one he’s looking for, and—

No new messages. Last message sent at 9:45 yesterday morning, still unread. He drops the phone facedown beside his plate and goes back to eating. Two bites later, it buzzes again.

Ilya flips it over immediately.

Svetochka 😇🐸🎇: meet me for lunch tomorrow

Ilya looks at his plate and elects not to text her back.

Me: [image]
Me: cafeteria gave us even more sugar today 😋

He almost walks past Carmichael entirely.

“Roz!” Carmichael falls into step beside him with a happy grin. He’s in Team USA gear from head to toe, star spangled hood up, arms absolutely overflowing with popcorn bags, looking alarmingly like an overgrown teenager instead of a fully adult man. “It’s weird not seeing your ugly mug every day. How’s the motherland treating you?”

“Good,” Ilya says after a moment, and realizes it’s the first English he’s spoken in about three full days. It sits a little strangely in his mouth, the vowels wider. He clears his throat slightly. “You seem happy for a man about to lose to Finland.”

That didn’t come out of his mouth correctly, but Carmichael still laughs. “Thems fighting words bucko. You guys don’t have a guaranteed path forward either—you still have to face off against Austria, and they took down Norway.”

Eh, that’s not a huge concern when— “You Americans needed double overtime to beat Switzerland.” Ilya leans in a bit. “I do not trust the analysis of someone who almost lost to Switzerland.”

Carmichael grins. “Fair.” He bumps his shoulder against Ilya’s, which is very American of him. “You and your top line are disgusting, for what it’s worth. That second goal against Slovakia—”

Ilya’s pocket buzzes.

He has his hand on his phone before Carmichael finishes the sentence. “Sorry,” he says, already slowing his stride, already stepping sideways. “I have to—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Carmichael shrugs him off. “No worries man. See you in the semifinals, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees, and turns away and pulls his phone out and—

The Colonel: I will be at the Ice Dome with the Minister for Wednesday’s game.
The Colonel: We are expected at dinner immediately after.
The Colonel: Your coach knows to excuse you from your press obligations.

Ah. Ilya ignores the messages and the pit in his stomach for a moment, swipes out to scroll down and confirm—

Nothing.

Me: [image]
Me: do they show this ugly building on the broadcasts

Me: ?

The video session is crammed into one of the smaller meeting rooms off the practice rink, the entire team squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder while the shitty projector washes everything in blurry blue light.

“Pause it there,” Morozov says.

The clip freezes on an Austrian winger getting trapped along the boards while his support arrives half a second too late through the middle.

Ilya slips his phone halfway out beneath the table and checks the screen quickly.

Nothing. Still no messages.

“Rozanov.”

Ilya jerks and shoves the phone back into his pocket so fast he nearly drops it. A couple heads turn automatically.

Morozov is looking directly at him. “What’s wrong with the structure here?”

Ilya forces his attention back to the screen. “Their weak-side support is late,” he says. “Once the winger gets pinned, there’s nowhere left for the puck to go.”

Morozov watches him for another second, then nods once. “Exactly.”

The clip rewinds again.

Ilya doesn’t touch his pocket again for the rest of the session.

“—and then he tried to tell me that I don’t seem to understand the officiating,” Sveta says, and punctuates this statement by swinging her leg forward and kicking Ilya in the shin. Hard.

Fucking ow. “What the fuck was that for?”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I am—”

“You’re not.” Sveta nods toward the phone in his hand. “Staring at it won’t make them talk to you.”

Ilya resists the urge to hide his hands under the table. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Whatever you did, just apologize.”

“I didn’t do anyth—”

He cuts himself off as Sveta calmly leans over and plucks the phone directly out of his hand, drawing back and dropping it in her purse in one smooth movement. Ilya watches her do it.

Sveta picks her fork back up like nothing happened. “Talk to me about Austria,” she prompts. “I noticed they have trouble defending against rush chances.”

Ilya exhales through his nose. Right. Hockey. He leans back in his chair. “Austria is having trouble with everything,” he says. “Morozov wants us to do less dump and chase tomorrow—”

He makes it almost all the way back to his room before he checks his phone again.

Still nothing.

Single-elimination rounds in tournaments have a funny way of turning bad bounces into national disasters, and right here, right now, Ilya is about nine minutes away from a national disaster.

It’s 2-2 after three full periods of play. There are nine minutes left in the intermission before the start of sudden death overtime. Winners go to the quarterfinals, losers go home. Next goal wins.

The game was sloppy from the drop, but maybe Ilya should have expected that, because this type of hockey turns every bad bounce into a fucking catastrophe. Russia started the game lazy because they were playing Austria, bottom ranked Austria, and all they needed to do was wait for the other team to remember they were fucking Austria and collapse accordingly. Instead, they got two fast goals—one off a blown coverage and another through traffic that Treplev absolutely should have handled cleanly—and suddenly, less than five minutes in, Russia was fighting just to survive.

What followed was fifty-five straight minutes of scrambling uphill; fifty-five minutes of increasingly ugly hockey while Morozov tore apart the forward lines every few shifts trying to manufacture momentum through sheer agitation.

It worked enough to get them to a tie at the end of regulation time. But now, as he sits in his stall and counts down the remaining minutes until they have to go back out on that ice, Ilya can’t help the dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Eight minutes to go now. The coaches are clustered around the whiteboard near the tunnel, heads bent together in a conference, arguing quietly enough that the most of the words blur together.

“No, if Murashkin rotates low there—”

“Too aggressive—”

“We need pressure on retrievals—”

Morozov snatches the marker out of Zarechny’s hand and starts scribbling aggressively on the board, while the other two lean in closer to watch. As soon as Morozov finishes Zarechny is snatching the marker back again, aggressively writing over whatever Morozov just added.

Incredibly reassuring. Seven minutes left to go. Ilya sits forward at his stall and watches the room instead.

Medvedenko is bouncing his knee too fast from the stall beside him. Dyadin is chewing absentmindedly at the inside of his cheek. Lebedev is staring blankly at the floor with dried sweat still silvering his hairline, Simeonov is stretching miserably in the corner, and even fucking Zheltukhin is silently staring at his hands. Every single one of them is so clearly just waiting for the coaches to pull their heads out of their asses and tell them what to do with themselves.

And suddenly Ilya is exhausted by it.

Exhausted by the silence. By Morozov arguing systems while half the room looks like they’re attending a funeral. By the fact that Austria, fucking Austria, is one lucky bounce away from sending Russia home.

He stands abruptly enough that several heads turn automatically toward him.

“Fucking wake up,” he says.

Twenty pairs of eyes turn his way. Ilya flicks his hands impatiently through the air at them all, “We’re acting like we’re already fucking losing. We’re not done yet.”

Nobody says anything.

Ilya drags a hand back through sweat-damp hair and keeps going before he can overthink it.

“They’re dead tired. Their defense can barely move the puck anymore and half their forwards are cheating toward center because they can’t handle sustained pressure.” He gestures sharply toward the tunnel. “You know what they’re thinking in that room right now? They’re thinking if they survive long enough maybe we’ll panic first. They’re waiting for us to hand this game away for free.”

His gaze sweeps slowly around the room as he says it, meeting eyes one by one. They’re all still looking at him, but Ilya doesn't pause to stare at anyone directly.

“They should be scared of us,” Ilya says flatly. “Not the other way around. We spent forty minutes dragging ourselves back into this game, and we did. Fine. Good. Now finish it.” His voice sharpens. “Stop sitting here waiting for somebody else to win it for you. Let’s finish this fucking game.”

For a second the room stays completely silent except for the distant rumble of the crowd bleeding in faintly from the arena outside. Then—

Medvedenko stands up beside him. It’s not a particularly dramatic motion—he just gets to his feet and grabs his gloves from his stall, pulling them on one by one before turning and looking Ilya in the eye.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Alright. Let’s finish this.”

Dyadin rises after him and tugs his jersey back on. Trofimov follows, and movement spreads outward through the room all at once after that—gloves getting pulled back on, helmets in hand, players straightening finally, miasma bleeding out of them like somebody finally opened a window somewhere.

Even the coaches stop arguing: Morozov turns from the whiteboard just in time to watch the team start moving toward the tunnel.

Ilya jams his helmet back onto his head and joins the crowd without another word.

Me: no analysis?

Jane 🤫🔥💦: Sorry
Jane 🤫🔥💦: I was busy
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Good game, I caught the recap
Jane 🤫🔥💦: Hell of a game winner.

Me: recap?
Me: not live?

Jane 🤫🔥💦: I was busy.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: How the hell did you not get a penalty for that trip in the first period

Me: wasn’t a trip, refs said so
Me: and I am the cleanest player in the tournament
Me: 😇

Jane 🤫🔥💦: I’m not sure you actually want me to respond to that.
Jane 🤫🔥💦: I think they showed the replay of your goal like five times on SportsNet

Me: does that count as a perfect goal?

Jane 🤫🔥💦: It was pretty close.

The restaurant is the same one his father chose for lunch last week—discreet, stuffy, old-fashioned—but this time Ilya knows to dress himself in something other than his team Russia gear.

Dinner is also much easier with four people. The silences have somewhere to go.

“The goal in overtime,” Sergei says, setting down his glass. “That was good work. The goalie had no chance.” He nods once. “Very good work.”

Ilya glances at his father. Grigori is cutting into his meal quietly, expression composed, and for a moment Ilya thinks he sees something—a slight softening around the eyes, a hint of a smile around the mouth—but it’s gone before he can be sure.

Which is probably for the best. From his father, in this company, neutrality was probably the best he could have hoped for.

“Thank you,” Ilya says.

The hockey conversation continues naturally after that, the way it typically does when Sveta and her father are both in the same room. They are two sides of the same coin: equally opinionated, equally direct, with the well-worn dynamic of two forces in staunch opposition who have long since made their peace with it. Sergei has thoughts on the failure of Finland’s defensive structure against the Americans. Sveta has thoughts on Sergei’s thoughts. Ilya contributes when he has something worth saying and his father stays quiet, which is its own kind of contribution.

“The goaltending in this tournament has been interesting,” Sergei says, accepting a refilled glass from the waiter without looking at him. “The Americans have been overly lucky with Bennett, if you look at it from the underlying analytics. The rest of the tournament has been nothing special.”

“No praise for Treplev?” Sveta prods.

Sergei purses his lips slightly. “Petya has been doing well,” he says, very diplomatically. “I am surprised Morozov is not giving Danchenko a round but eh–” he takes a sip from his glass, “–he knows what’s best for the team, and Treplev is still better than most.”

Sveta looks like she desperately wants to argue, but she also knows when to pick her battles so she accepts this with a hum. “Canada is who surprised me most. That team is being carried by its forwards.”

“Inconsistent.” Sergei says it like the word tastes bad. “Naylor would be better to start Hartley. Clear choice. But what they have in net now is a liability waiting to happen.” He shakes his head slightly. “A team like that, with those forwards… they can do better.”

Grigori frowns faintly across the table. “They have Rowell in net, don’t they?”

A brief pause. Ilya reaches for his water glass.

Rowell retired in 2011. Knee injury, second month of the MLH season; Ilya only remembers that name because Rowell was the goalie in net when Russia was eliminated from the Olympics in 2010. He says nothing.

“Different goaltender now,” Sergei says smoothly, and moves on without making anything of it. “My point stands regardless. With the forwards they have, you’d think they could find someone better.” He pauses, then adds, almost as an aside: “There are certainly enough Canadian options they didn’t consider.”

Sveta reaches for her wine, and Ilya can feel her looking at him without turning his head.

“Only a few, really,” she says, in the careful tone of someone being very precise about their words. “But it’s remarkable that they selected who they did, considering the younger talent left at home.”

Ilya looks directly at her for that one. She looks back at him with an expression of complete innocence, which is the most dangerous expression in her repertoire.

I will end you, he thinks, as clearly as he can.

She takes a sip of wine. It’s not even her that ends up saying it.

“Like Hollander, for instance,” Sergei says, and Ilya just barely restrains himself from turning his head too fast. “He has had a remarkable season. Quick, reads plays early, technically excellent.” A brief pause, another small nod. “Outstanding goalie. Criminally underutilized by his team.”

“Mm,” Ilya says, and takes a very long sip of his water.

The waiters appear before anyone can say anything else, moving efficiently around the table to clear their plates and set down dessert. Ilya exhales quietly through his nose while the brief movement of the service provides cover, and does not turn to receive whatever look Sveta is sending him.

Sergei unfolds his napkin. “Latvia tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“You’re prepared?”

Ilya thinks about the practice yesterday—about the way the team moved through drills without the brittle self-consciousness of the first week, about Zheltukhin’s better in the tunnel, about small things accumulating quietly into something he is not yet ready to name.

“Yes,” he says. “We’re prepared.”

Sergei studies him for a moment, then nods once, apparently satisfied, and picks up his spoon.

Grigori says nothing. But he hasn’t disagreed, and from his father, tonight, that is enough.

The locker room before the Latvia game feels different from the others.

Lighter, somehow. Not relaxed—nobody makes it to an Olympic quarterfinal relaxed—but the cloying tension that followed the team through the first week of the tournament has finally started to loosen around the edges. Medvedenko is chirping somebody across the aisle about missing an empty net in practice, while Dyadin nearly spits out his sports drink laughing. Murashkin and Trofimov are arguing about skate brands with the intensity of people who care a little too much, while Volkov eggs them both on with a grin on his face.

Ilya sits at his stall tying his laces and watches the room carefully. Lets the noise move around him, watches Treplev tape his stick with slow methodical precision near the far wall, watches as Sorin talks quietly with Morozov by the whiteboard while Zheltukhin hovers at their shoulders and nods along attentively. For the first time since the roster announcement, the team actually looks cohesive.

And Latvia is good, but beatable.

There’s a dangerous thought taking shape in the back of Ilya’s mind tonight, because if they win this game, they reach the medal rounds. Semifinals. The top four. That’s the point where anything can happen, and the possibility settles warm and bright somewhere underneath his ribs before he can stop it.

Morozov finishes speaking near the board and players begin standing almost immediately afterward, the room shifting into motion all at once: gloves pulled on, sticks lifted off the floor, helmets tucked beneath arms.

Medvedenko elbows Ilya lightly. “Ready, captain?”

Ilya looks around the room one last time—at Dyadin grinning while adjusting his visor, at Murashkin still arguing about zone entries while pulling on gloves, at Treplev standing near the tunnel entrance enormous and immovable.

His team.

He grabs his helmet and jams it firmly onto his head.

“Let’s win this,” he says.

And for one brief moment, they all look like they believe it.

Jane 🤫🔥💦: You doing ok?

Chapter End Notes

I’m sorry (kinda (not actually)).

As sad as it is, the Olympics were never going to go differently for Ilya. In the show this section of his life is just so important and it would’ve been insane and stupid for me to change it. I did change things slightly (in the show Russia loses on like day 4 of the games which is ridiculous), but for all his growth and development and the actualization of his captain tendencies we've been setting up for so many chapters... it wasn’t ever going to be enough to change the ending.

Some notes:
1) Ilya the captain: Baby boy is coming into his own. We start this chapter with ilya in the same place he is in boston: just a part of the team, one of the boys, watching someone older (Anderson at home, Zheltukhin here) direct things. He has a lot of feelings about symbolic vs actual authority, and as the games and practices continue, Ilya is figuring out where and how to exert influence/leadership. We end the arc with his first captain-y speech (which I hated writing, it feels so frickin cheesy), and for like two golden perfect days, everything is going right for him
2) Ilya the son: Did we all feel the tension in that first meal with his father? Ouch. Fun little internal paradox: ilya knows the expectations are impossible. They've been impossible his whole life, he has known this forever, but he can't stop himself from wanting to do the impossible. He’s *trying* so fucking hard this chapter, even if he succeeds he already knows it’ll never be good enough (but he has to try anyways). :(
3) Credits: Kisses on the mouth go out to @polkdots12, lumas, (russia team dynamics); @sheep_charmer (for making me look up the irl schedule of the 2014 games); @Neceros, jjsq (texting content)
4) Miscellaneous. Doping? IRL they didn’t juice the mens hockey team because they knew there was such a huge spotlight on them. They did juice the women's team though (see Sveta’s offhand comment about the physicality of that game). Why did Shane go ghost for like four days? :). No Scott Hunter interactions? You can’t even start to imagine the sheer number of deleted scenes I have from this chapter. Russian team? A bunch of characters we will probably never see again, but it was a fun challenge to try and make some one-off ocs distinct from each other. What’s going on with Shane? :)). Sveta and her dad? Another change, in the show it’s implied that Ilya only goes to that one fancy party but I wanted them to interact a bit. Some chapters ago someone commented that Sergei might mention shane, and that gave me a brainworm (@Neceros, thank you for the idea!). WTF are you plotting for Shane? :))). What do you readers think I could even be plotting for shane, obviously all he's doing is sitting at home (obviously)

Thank you again for all your comments, I read each and every one of them. Next chapter is Olympics part two! See you all soon!!

Chapter 16

Chapter Summary

In accordance with the roster freeze mechanisms adapted from Section 16.5(d) of the Hockey Players' Collective Bargaining Agreement, no Club shall make any Player transaction involving Waivers, Trades, or Loans during the designated Olympic roster freeze period.

It's not a trade; what has Shane been up to?

Chapter Notes

Olympics part two: Electric Boogaloo... computer, play It Falls Apart by Odds ;)

Massive kudos to my beta readers @Megalodon/@sixofstarrs/@BearsAndFireflies. This chapter more than any other chapter needed edits, and all three of them have such stunning insights into everything.

NSFW this chapter?

Some discussions of STDs and some not great terminology, but nothing more

Me: Hunter should do us all a favour and just fucking retire

Lily: oh?

Me: Fucker just got away with a huge slash on Oggy
Me: Why is he playing like this.
Me: Hunter’s not usually that dirty.
Me: He and that asshole Bernier have been getting away with murder.
Me: Bernier makes the team as a skill forward and he’s spending his ice time being backup muscle for Hunter? Because Hunter suddenly wants to start shit instead of actually playing?
Me: Pathetic.
Me: When he injures himself the Admirals are going to collapse, their team structure is still fucking garbage.
Me: Actually you should speed that along.
Me: When you guys face off in the semifinals, would you mind killing him on the ice?

Lily: for you? anything