Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander & Original Character(s), Shane Hollander & Rose Landry

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Original Characters, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Shane Hollander, Anxiety Attacks, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shane Hollander Quits Hockey, Homophobia, Found Family, POV Shane Hollander, Baseball, Getting Together, Falling In Love, Texting, Confident Shane Hollander, Momager Yuna Hollander, Protective Yuna Hollander, Good Friend Rose Landry, Supportive Hayden Pike, Coming Out, Ignore that I don't actually understand baseball, I promise this is not to be taken seriously, I just want to imagine Shane being not pent up, and that's never going to happen if he's playing hockey, so he's gonna play unserious baseball instead, Crack Treated Seriously, Angst, Shane Hollander Can Fight, Shane Hollander can dance, for plot reasons, Eventual Smut, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is a Mess, Depression, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Casual Sex, Strangers to Friends to Lovers BUT THE LONG WAY, Yuna Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Love Confessions, I DON'T THINK THIS IS CRACK ANYMORE, I'm actually doing this fully ernestly now, Whump, but just know, Major Character Injury, Hospitals, In my heart I know that if Shane went to uni he would have been a business major, Injury Recovery, Concussions

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-17 Completed: 2026-05-26 Words: 56,835 Chapters: 25/25

Home (running)

Summary

Shane leaves professional hockey before locker room homophobia and contractual obligations can destroy him.
Somehow, inexplicably, he winds up on the Savannah Bananas, an exhibition baseball team.
He coaches skating for kids in the off season.
For the first time in years, Shane has fun again.
(He doesn't think about Ilya Rozanov or those two nights they shared together)
(He doesn't give Rozanov his number when, years later, they reunite)
(Except actually he does)
(It's the best thing he's ever done)

Notes

Buckle up buddy because boy oh boy this is going to be something.
This is going to be insane because I think this plot is appealing to me and me alone but actually who cares because I have free will. We'll get into actual baseball related content in a chapter or two. Just a wild mix of angst and unhingedness. Yippee I guess.

Also as always I have no beta and no patience so if you see any particularly evil typos please feel free to let me know.

Chapter 1: Survivable

Shane sits on the floor of the hotel bathroom and tries to remember how to breathe. On the other side of the wall, Vegas nightlife hums. Shane should be out there, at some afterparty. He should be soaking up his win. Rookie of the Year is no small feat. He should be proud. Shane should be proud but he isn’t because the only thing he remembers from the past five hours is some veteran player passing him a shot, “don’t be a fucking fairy, Hollander.” 

Shane had escaped the bar as quickly as he could, but then Rozanov had been on the roof, and had kissed him, right there, where anyone could see. And maybe Shane is a ‘fucking fairy’ because he had kissed Rozanov right back.

It’s kind of completely horrible because Shane loves hockey. He loves hockey more than anything else in his life. But this past year, playing professionally, the only thing running through Shane’s mind has been what will happen when they find out. The fact that there even is something to find out. The fact that this massive part of him has to be a dirty little secret. 

Shane won Rookie of the Year over Rozanov and he should be happy, but the Shane Hollander that accepted that trophy isn’t a version of himself that he recognizes. Or likes. His hockey persona is necessary and Shane knows that, but he also knows that the person he pretends to be for the cameras is not the person he wants to be. 

It's too late now, though. Now that Shane is a known entity in the hockey world, second overall draft pick, Rookie of the Year, already someone Montreal is building around. He’s stuck here. In hockey. In locker rooms where slurs fly freely, and with guys who would never look at him again if they knew the truth. He can never escape, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. Hockey is everything. Shane had played other sports, and been good at other sports, but from the moment his mom had laced up his skates and beamed at him on the frozen lake behind the cottage, Shane has known that this is his destiny. Shane Hollander plays hockey. That’s just how it goes. No use in fighting it. No use in being upset about the things he can’t control. The guys in the locker room are homophobic and racist but that’s just hockey. It’s just hockey. And Shane is supposed to love hockey. Loving something means loving its faults too, and so he has no reason to be upset. This is the price. This is what he has to sacrifice to play the game he loves. 

This is the third time this month that Shane has been like this. On the floor, half naked, of some hotel bathroom. Forcing his panic to be quiet so that nobody notices the magnitude of just how much he doesn’t belong. He strips off his constricting dress pants and doesn’t even fold them before sinking back down onto the cool tile, now clad in only his underwear. Calvin Klein. Because that’s what he has to wear, because he’s one of their brand reps, and because they’re paying him more money than he can ever see himself needing or wanting. Because Yuna thought it’d be a good move.

Shane wonders desperately if everyone has this. Not the gay part, probably, but the rest. The pressure coming in from all sides. The resentment, almost, that the game that was once fun is now wrapped in with so much not-fun that it almost-

No. Shane loves hockey. He can’t not love hockey. 

Shane wonders if Hayden Pike ever sits on the floor and cries because he wishes hockey was fun like it had been before. He wonders if Rozanov ever misses the way that hockey used to be simple and exciting. He wonders how many of the hockey greats, whose numbers now hang in arenas across the country, ever sat in their contractually mandated underwear and struggled to breathe with how much of their lives was controlled by other people and fear.

That’s probably what it comes down to. Not enough control, and too much fear. Yuna started managing him at sixteen, when he finally dropped his summer sport of baseball to focus on hockey full time. He could have dropped hockey instead, but knowing his mother, that hadn’t been an option. Not really. Not for Yuna Hollander. Hockey would make him more money and give him more influence and for reasons Shane doesn’t fully understand, these are things he’s supposed to want. Maybe he does. Probably he doesn’t.

Shane wonders what Yuna would say if she found out that he’s gay. He wonders what that would do to his brand. Absolutely trash it, probably. There aren’t any out players in the league for a reason. He wonders what she would say if she knew that Shane isn’t even proud of his season because of how far from himself he’s fallen in only a few months. 

Shane wonders what Rozanov would say. Nothing, probably. Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he’d be sympathetic. Maybe it doesn’t actually matter because Rozanov clearly hadn’t wanted anything to do with him tonight; whatever weird thing they’ve been doing is over anyway. 

The cool of the porcelain tile isn’t doing enough anymore, warmed by Shane’s own body heat. He isn’t grounded and he isn’t calm and he isn’t any of the things that the lady on the hotline told him to be, that one time. She had also told him to drink water, if he could. Shane could probably drink water right now. He could also probably call the hotline again. But calling a crisis number once is a fluke. Twice is a pattern. And the only patterns Shane can have are ones that build his career and his game and his reputation. 

It’s not like Shane’s having a crisis, either. He’s just not breathing very much at all. On the floor. After what should have been one of the greatest days of his life. It’s fine though, Shane knows from experience that if he doesn’t get it under control he’ll pass out, and in the absence of his brain’s running commentary, his body will regulate. It’s fine, he’s fine, Shane Hollander is not a person who can afford to be anything less than completely, entirely, perfectly fine.

His body burns with lack of oxygen. Is this what dying feels like? Shane remembers wondering that before, so it probably isn’t. Fuck it. 

Shane’s hands shake and he reaches for his phone and who even cares because this time will be the last time he has to call the hotline and it did genuinely help before. Something about a soothing voice talking him through what he has to do. Maybe it’s telling but Shane had saved the number in his phone. No contact name, but that in itself is unique, a series of digits in a sea of Firstname Lastname (Relationship). 

The number is right at the top of his contacts, by default. It sits directly below the frequent contacts. 

Shane can’t keep his fingers still, body vibrating with tension and panic and all the things he can’t let himself feel if he’s going to survive this life he’s trapped himself in.

Not trapped. Shane Hollander loves hockey. Shane Hollander is dependable. Shane Hollander is the guy you want on the ice to make plays and score goals and

And Shane finally hits something and he presses the call button. He shoves the phone against his ear, and as soon as the call connects, it just spills out of him.

“I know I’m not dying but it really fucking feels like I am.”

A beat.

“Shane? Honey? Where are you? Are you safe? Are you okay?” 

Fuck. That is not the voice of a hotline worker. 

Shane wonders if there’s a way he can play this off to his mother as something it isn’t. 

He must have clicked the wrong contact.

His breathing only gets worse. He can’t hear anything over the frantic beating of his heart. Shane feels like puking. This is horrible. Out of all the people who could have found out about this, Yuna is maybe one of the worst options. She’ll see this as a problem. A fixable problem. She won’t understand that what is wrong with Shane isn’t fixable. 

He hangs up.

Maybe Yuna won’t come looking for him. Maybe she will just brush this off. Maybe Shane won’t have to show his mother all the messy ways he’s been letting her down for months. Longer, if he’s being honest.

He digs his fingernails into his arms hard enough to leave tiny, crescent shaped bruises. Tears flow down his face unbidden, now.

There is no way that Yuna doesn’t come here. There is no way she doesn’t use the spare key he gave her. There is no way she doesn’t see the ugly truth that Shane has been steadfastly ignoring all season in the hopes it would suddenly stop being real.

Shane Hollander loves hockey, but hockey is killing him. 

He can’t do this. He can’t go through his career trying not to flinch when men he’s supposed to trust throw around slurs like it’s nothing. He can’t live his life according to what other people think about what he eats and what he wears and when he sleeps and where he goes and who he’s seen with. It’s too much. It’s all way too much.

His mom is going to be so disappointed in him. She’s never been disappointed in him before.

A knocking at the door. Urgent. “Shane? Open the door please, I -”

Not surprising. Shane lets out some sort of pitiful groan, heaving in a breath. 

Be normal be normal be normal be normal be normal.

The lock clicks.

Footsteps. Shane knows that the room outside this bathroom is dark. He never bothered to lock the door. The handle turns. 

“Sha- oh.”

Yuna sounds like she got the air punched out of her. Shane doesn’t look up from the floor. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to see her. He squeezes his eyes shut around tears and takes in another shuddering, ineffective breath. 

Yuna moves closer, and Shane can feel it in the air. She doesn’t say anything, and he can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder and it’s gentle but Shane still flinches back violently, as though it were a hot poker. His head collides uncomfortably with the wall.

He hopes, at this point, that his body will do him mercy and let him pass out.

“Shane, baby, you need to calm down,” his mother says.

No fucking shit.

Shane risks opening his eyes, and he’s met with his mother’s concerned face. She’s crouched in front of him, hands hovering awkwardly as though she doesn’t know what to do with them. Shane imagines that he must look pathetic like this, mostly naked on the floor, but he can’t bring himself to care anymore. 

He swallows thickly once, twice. He was supposed to get water. That helps sometimes. Shane doesn’t think he can move. 

“Water?” he gasps out, and Yuna stares at him blankly for half a second before springing into action. She stands, and disappears for a moment, before reappearing with Shane’s water bottle. 

He takes it with both hands and a grateful nod. Small sip. Breath. Small sip. Breath. Repeat.

Either five minutes or an hour later, Shane feels almost like a functional human being. His mom is still there. She’s sitting on the ledge of the bathtub and watching him with an indecipherable expression but at least she is still here. She must not have written him off entirely. 

“Sorry,” Shane whispers eventually, and her head jerks, their eyes meeting for the first time. Shane looks down again. “I didn’t mean to call you, I just- I can usually handle this on my own.”

He stops talking. 

Yuna lets out a long breath. “Usually? This has happened before?”

Shane nods.

“If I-” Shane takes another sip of water, “if I say something, will you promise not to be upset?”

“Of course, honey,” she says, and her voice is so soft and it’s something Shane hasn’t heard in years.

“I kind of… don’t want to play hockey next season.” There. He said it. In for a penny in for a pound, or whatever.

The bathroom is silent except for the sound of Shane’s breathing.

“But you love hockey,” Yuna says, sounding genuinely confused.

“Yeah,” Shane replies, “I do. But this past year… I don’t think I love hockey when it’s like this.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with you Shane, or what just happened, but you can’t let a rough day get in the way of everything we’ve worked for. You just won Rookie of the Year! I mean-”

“It’s not just today,” Shane interrupts quietly, “it’s every day. Every practice and interview and everything.” He finally looks back at her. “I’ve had panic like that almost once a week. All season.” 

The confession sits heavy in the room.

“All season?”

“Yeah.”

Shane watches something not unlike grief cross his mother’s face. “If I don’t take the rookie exit clause in my contract now, I’ll be locked in for five more years and I don’t think-” Shane bites his lip, “I don’t think I can survive five more years like this.”

Yuna stares at him like she’s seeing him for the first time.

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

“A while. Since January, probably.”

“And you’re sure?”

“I’m really sorry,” Shane says, pressing his palms into his eyes, “I know how excited you were when I got drafted but I just can’t… I just can’t.”

“No, Shane, don’t be sorry. I can’t pretend I understand where this is coming from, but I am glad that you told me. I just want you to be happy.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “but you’d prefer if I was happy playing for Montreal.”

“This is your life, not mine.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m working on.”

 

Chapter 2: Regret

Chapter Notes

okok ACTUAL baseball content next chapter? maybe? Umm also some notes: I'm not going to be using actual Banana Ball players because RPF scares me a lil but I will be vaguely basing some OC's on BB players so do with that what you will. Also I know that technically the Savannah Bananas only started in like 2021? and the other teams are even newer than that. But just ignore that and pretend the whole thing started in like 2010 instead. And also I know there's like tiers to Banana Ball just like real baseball but for plot reasons pretend everyone in the league is playing the big games and everything. Oh and I don't know when the draft actually is so it's going to be in November. Um. Yippee.

This is hopefully only a little OOC but I think that is kinda inevitable given the plot

“And you’re sure about this?” Yuna asks for what is maybe the six millionth time in two weeks.

“Yes, mom, I’m sure.”

“Because if you aren’t, or you change your mind, this will be very hard to undo. You could always-”

“Mom,” Shane says softly, “I’m sure.”

He doesn’t hold her hesitation against her. Shane hasn’t told his mother any of the reasons behind this, to her, abrupt change in attitude. Of course she doesn’t understand.

Yuna swallows, and then clicks send on the email, closing her eyes. 

Just like that, it’s done. No press conference, no big statement, just the quiet ending of Shane Hollander Hockey Player. The Metros will be upset, and the most devoted of fans will speculate, but most people won’t care. A handful of rookies quit after their first season every year. Shane isn’t anything special.

“Thank you,” he breathes. Yuna looks at him.

“I just really hope you know what you’re doing Shane.”

He doesn’t. Not really. But already, the looming pressures are alleviating. If Shane wants to go on a run, he doesn’t have to check in with a physical trainer first. If he wants to change up his diet, there is no mandatory check in with the team nutritionist. Control, already, falls back in his hands and for the first time in years, Shane can do anything he wants with it.

“I’m going to be okay, Mom. I am.”

*

“Man, I can’t believe you quit. I mean, you’re Shane Hollander.” Hayden Pike groans, leaning dramatically over the table. They’re sitting in a secluded booth in the back of a cozy bar in Montreal. It’s been a month, and summer is well underway, and Shane has absolutely no idea what he is going to do with the rest of his life. “We’re never going to win the cup without you.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You’ll be fine, Hayd.”

Hayden takes a sip of his beer. “So listen, you don’t actually have to tell me but like, why did you do it? Because I can’t really imagine you not playing hockey.”

Shane debates how honest to be. Hayden is probably his best friend. Hayden is trustworthy. 

“I just wasn’t happy,” Shane says, “I love hockey, but all the other things that come with it were just making me miserable. And then with-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“With what?” Hayden asks.

Shane bites his lip and stares at his hands. His eyes flick up. “I’m gay.” 

Eyes back on the table. It’s the first time he’s said the words aloud. It feels good, maybe. Lighter. This is good. Something he can control.

“Oh shit,” Hayden breathes. Shane risks a glance back at his face, but he doesn’t seem disgusted or angry or anything. “I mean, wow, that wasn’t what I was expecting. But, uh, that’s great! Or I mean not great but not bad just like neutral. So neutral. Um.” Hayden laughs nervously, “Sorry, am I saying this right? I don’t really know…”

“You’re fine, Hayd,” Shane says, taking a sip of his drink. It’s almost endearing, how awkward Hayden has gotten, wanting to seem supportive and not knowing how.

The conversation moves on, and Shane laughs with his friend, and everything is shockingly, wonderfully, okay.

 

Hayden spots a girl at the bar, and Shane laughs, pushing him towards her.

“Go introduce yourself.”

“Dude I’m not going to abandon you here.”

“I can take care of myself. Say hi. I’ll finish this,” Shane holds up his drink, “and head out.”

“Alright man, if you’re sure.” 

Shane grins, and gives him a little wave. He watches as Hayden strolls up to the girl and smiles at her, all charm. She smiles back, extending her hand, and they shake. Hayden takes a seat next to her.

Shane is so busy watching the interaction that he doesn’t notice when someone else all but collapses in the other side of the booth.

“Oh! Sorry,” says a woman, “I didn’t notice you were here from the angle and I was just hoping to chill out back here, do you mind?”

She looks vaguely familiar, in a way Shane can’t quite place. “Sure, I mean, I’ll be heading out in a minute anyway.”

“Oh don’t rush out, please. Do you want to try some of this?” She indicates her plate of fries, “They gave me way too many, and if I eat them all I will not be able to fit into my costume.”

“Costume?” Shane asks, and he also leans over and grabs a fry, because he can. It’s absolutely fantastic.

“Do you…” the woman smiles a little, squinting her eyes, “do you not recognize me?”

So she’s like famous, famous then. Shane feels bad, grimacing.

“Sorry, I haven’t really been following pop culture.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs, “I thought you were just being like. Really cool about it. This is amazing.” The laugh softens into a smile. “I’m Rose. Landry. I’m an actor.”

“Oh,” Shane says, and that does make sense. He’s not really a movie guy. “I’m Shane. Hollander.” The introduction almost forgets to come out of his mouth. He wonders if the last name was necessary. “That’s really awesome. Do you like it?”

“That’s not usually the first question people ask me.”

“It’s a pretty important one.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Shane rests his chin in his hand, “I sort of quit the NHL last month.”

“No way. That’s crazy!”

“That’s what people have been telling me, yeah. But the league just… it only wants players that fit its image. And that wasn’t the type of player I wanted to be. Or the type of person.”

“Were you good?”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “I won Rookie of the Year.”

“Wow. It sucks that you had to quit because of that, but I think it’s really good that you were able to put yourself over them.”

“Yeah. But I’ve only really done hockey since I was a kid, and now I have all this freedom and I just… don’t know what to do with it.”

“Well, what do you like to do? Other than hockey.”

“I don’t know,” Shane confesses, “I just love competing, and sports. I was a pretty good baseball player until I had to drop it in eleventh grade to focus on hockey full time.” He thinks for a moment, “I like kids. Whenever I interact with them I always have a good time. Some of the guys on the team would bring their kids around, or we’d do fan things.”

“You could coach kids,” Rose suggests.

“That's what I’ve been thinking, but I feel like I would miss the competition. I’ve always loved winning, and working towards being the best, and I worry I’d push the kids too far to like. Live through them.”

Rose stares at him pensively. “Baseball? When you say you were pretty good…”

“I had a 0.370 batting average. A decent pitcher. I probably could have gone pro in baseball instead, but my mom is a diehard hockey fan and well…”

“You’re young,” Rose points out, “you could take a year to work on it and try for an MLB team.”

“Maybe.” Shane can’t pretend he hasn’t considered it. “But I kind of think all professional sports will have the same problem.”

“Oh? I kind of thought baseball would be less insane than hockey.”

“Maybe, yeah, but it’s just-” is Shane going to do this? Is he going to come out to a second person in the span of an hour? “I’m gay. And so anywhere I have to share a locker room I just worry. There’s no way to know team culture before signing and if I get stuck with a bad team, it would be…”

“Bad. Yeah.” 

Shane eats another fry. Rose takes a sip of a bright orange cocktail. Across the bar, Hayden slings his arm around the girl’s shoulders and leads her out the door.

Rose gets a funny look on her face. “What do you know about Banana Ball?” 

Shane frowns. “What? That sounds fake.”

“It’s mostly baseball, but it’s like, I don’t know. Fun.”

“Baseball is fun.”

“No it isn’t.” Rose quips back instantly, “but that’s not the point. Look,” Rose points a fry at him, “you miss sports. You don’t want to give it up, you don’t want to find yourself stuck on a team of assholes. What you need is a guarantee of a different environment.”

“I’m pretty sure there are assholes everywhere.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know if you don’t check it out, and lucky for you, Shane Hollander, I know a guy.”

“You know a guy?”

“He’s like, the founder of the whole thing. The league or whatever. We met at a party last year. I’ll get you a meeting with him.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. No pressure, just a talk. You’ve got me invested in this now!”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“Oh it is. But I think that might be what you need. You want competition without insane pressure? This might be your best shot.” 

Rose whips out her phone, typing at something. She places it on the table and pushes it towards Shane. On the screen, a video. Guys in atrociously yellow baseball uniforms, dancing. Someone does a backflip. A guy starts singing. As the song ends, he pitches. The batter hits the ball perfectly in time with the last beat of the music.

Shane watches it twice.

He looks up at Rose.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just- I’m not- they’re dancing.”

“So the best rookie in the NHL can’t learn to dance?” Rose raises an eyebrow. Shane frowns. He probably could, if he tried. He is good at getting his body to listen to him. “Look, these guys aren’t there because they’re perfect players or dancers or whatever. They’re the best at letting themselves have fun. And I don’t want to overstep, but that feels like something you could learn from.”

Shane sighs. A meeting. A meeting is nothing. And it’s the summer, so it’s not like Shane would be doing anything this year anyway. Lots of time to back out. And a famous actress is offering to set it up for him. They probably wouldn't want him anyway. No risk there.

As terrifying as the prospect is, Shane would be an idiot to turn the offer down. 

The fear is different from what he knows from hockey. It isn’t fear of judgement, but something else. Something unnameable.

“I just think you’d be happier if you really stopped being the person you think you have to be.”

“I’m trying.”

“You say that, but you need a plan. And as someone who just met you, this is what I can offer.”

Shane should be offended. Rose barely knows him, and she’s reading him like a book. She’s seeing him in a way he is unused to. Surprisingly, he doesn’t entirely hate it.

“Fine,” he says, “set it up. I’ll meet with the guy and see.”

“Really?” Rose sounds so excited, “this is awesome. I’ll text him tonight. You are not going to regret this, Shane.”

As Shane types his number into her phone, he really hopes she’s right.

Shane Hollander is done regretting things.

Chapter 3: Move On

Chapter Notes

HMMMM still no real baseball??? Woopsies. but now we have OC's so like... yay? Let me know.

Shane tells himself that it’s just a casual lunch, that it’s nothing big. He ignores the fact that he drove all the way to Detroit to have that lunch. 

The restaurant is nice. Nothing too flashy, but the kind of place you would be able to take your family. Dave Dupuis, founder of the Banana Ball league, sits in a booth. He waves Shane over with a smile, eons friendlier than Roger Crowell had been any time Shane had ever seen him. Shane offers his best smile back at Dupuis, sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

“Hi, Mr. Dupuis?” he introduces himself, “Shane Hollander.” He offers a hand. 

Dupuis shakes it. “It is very nice to meet you Shane. And please, it’s Dave.”

“Dave.” Shane nods. He wonders if his nerves are evident.

“I have to say, Shane, when Rose told me about you, I started getting very excited.”

“You did?” Shane asks, furrowing his brow. Maybe Rose lied about him. That would be awkward. 

“Oh yeah,” Dave replies, “I mean, a pro hockey player with a baseball background? The jokes write themselves. And I’ll admit, I might have looked into you a bit. You don’t flinch under pressure, kid. That’s the kind of thing I’m always looking for.”

“I’ll be honest,” Shane admits, “I’m not sold on the whole thing. I don’t think I’m the type of person who can do this.”

“There is no type,” Dave says, “that’s kind of the whole point. Banana ball is fast, and it’s not serious, and it’s supposed to be fun. And despite what you think, I see how hard you played in the NHL. Now, I’m not going to make any assumptions as to why you left, but I will say this: we’re a very different type of league. We aren’t looking for conformity, or twenty guys who act the exact same.”

A waiter arrives and Shane orders a caesar salad. 

“It’s not as big of a commitment as other leagues either,” Dave says after Shane doesn’t reply to his comments, “Just March to September, really. Half a year. You’d be able to spend winters in Canada doing whatever you like. And the pay isn’t as good as the NHL, I won’t lie, but-”

The salad arrives. Shane thanks the waiter. The salad is actually pretty good. 

“I just-,” Shane looks at him in the honest way he’s been trying to do most things, recently. “I don’t want to get stuck somewhere that doesn’t feel good.”

“Okay,” Dave says easily, “you’ve got time to figure it out.” Dave takes a bit of his burger. “Look, Shane, I think I’ve made this clear, but I’ll say it outright: I want you. I don’t care if your baseball is rusty, because you’re an athlete through and through, and I don’t see a world where you wouldn’t put everything you have into it. But I also get it if you want to take some time to think on it. So what I’m going to do is head out, and I’m going to leave you with the number for one of this season’s rookies. Tyler Matthews. Great guy. He’s here in Detroit all weekend, for the midseason break. If anything I’ve said today interests you, give him a call. He’s expecting it.”

A slip of paper on the table. A friendly nod. 

Shane is left staring at an empty booth with  a lot less certainty than he had an hour ago.

 

Shane checks into the hotel room he had half intended to cancel, and enters the number into his phone. Does he text? Does he call? Does Tyler Matthews know who Shane is? Detroit is a big hockey city, he might. 

A text is less intimidating. 

S: Hey - this is Shane Hollander. Dave Dupuis gave me your number. I was wondering if you might have some time to talk?

Shane shuts his phone off immediately. He breathes out. 

He can’t believe he’s actually considering this. It is so far away from the Shane Hollander brand, from everything he’d been building himself to be. Maybe Rose was right - maybe that is what he needs.

Rose has been texting him nonstop since they first met last month. It’s nice, oddly enough, to talk to someone who doesn’t really care who Shane used to be. And Rose is really funny, always complaining about things on set, or irritating scene partners. Shane can’t really relate but Rose doesn’t make him feel bad for it.

Hayden, of course, had absolutely lost it when he found out that Shane had met “Rose fucking Landry” as soon as he left. That said, Hayden also has date number nine lined up with bar girl, so he didn’t make out too badly that night. Shane has yet to meet bar girl properly, but Hayden really seems to like her, and so Shane likes her too.

His phone buzzes. It’s only been five minutes.

T: Hey man! Great to hear from you! Always down to convert a potential recruit. LOL. What are you doing tonight?

Shane has already committed to staying the night in Detroit. Might as well.

S: I’m free

S: Where should we meet?

It only takes a few seconds for another message to come through.

T: 47 Watson St. Trust me. It’s a chill place.

T: Maybe 7?

Shane sends a thumbs up. 

 

Three hours later, Shane walks into the bar. It’s industrialist, with red brick walls, concrete floors, and exposed, matt black piping in the ceiling. He takes a seat at the bar and orders a ginger ale. Shane lets his eyes wander across the space. Friends hanging out, couples on dates, employees joking with each other. ESPN is on in the corner, but it’s showing a game of golf so Shane doesn’t really care.

A tall man takes the seat next to Shane, and grins at him. “Shane?” He asks. 

Shane nods. 

“I’m Tyler. Ty. It’s great to meet you. Dave says you’re from the NHL? That’s fucking crazy dude.”

“Yeah,” Shane rubs the back of his neck, “I was pretty serious about baseball too, until the last few years when I really had to focus in on hockey.” 

“I’ll bet,” Tyler laughs, raising a hand to the bartender and ordering a beer. “Listen, man, I know Dave already gave you the hard sell earlier, so I’m down to just hang, if that’s the vibe.”

The words send a sense of relief through Shane’s body. Dave had been nice, but undoubtedly intense.

“That would be great,” he replies. They each take a sip of their drinks. “How did you get involved in all this anyway?” 

Tyler laughs. “Not the conventional way, that’s for sure.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “Is there a conventional way?”

“Fair point. But no, like, I had barely played baseball in my life before this past season.”

“Really?” Shane raises an eyebrow, “how did you end up on a baseball team?”

My background is in theater, actually. I headlined for some shows at the Chicago Shakespeare Theater in college, did some off Broadway stuff in New York. Then a buddy of mine from school tells me about this crazy baseball league. I figured, why not? I’m an athletic guy. How hard could it be to learn the sport?”

“Are you any good?” Shane asks skeptically. Tyler shrugs.

“Not at baseball. I’m working on it though. Once the season wraps, I’ll be here in Detroit doing Les Mis, but I have a private trainer lined up as well. Next year, the other teams won’t know what hit them.”

“Wow,” Shane says, “that seems like a crazy life.”

“It is, but I love it.”

Shane thinks for a moment. A question burns on his lips. “And your team,” he says, hesitatingly, “they ever give you a hard time about it?”

“About theater?” Tyler lets out a small laugh, “No. No, they think it’s cool. And it gives me a leg up on the performance side of things, so that doesn’t hurt.”

Shane says nothing to that. He can’t imagine how a hockey team would react if one of the guys spent their off season performing in a musical. Not well, that’s for sure.

“There are a lot of ways to be good in Banana Ball, and not a lot of ways to be bad at it.”

“Part of me thinks I would still find a way.”

“To be bad? Nah. I don’t see it. Awkward, probably,” Tyler says. Shane feels a flush to his cheeks. “But in an endearing way.” The clarification only helps a little.

Something about Shane’s discomfort must show on his face, because Tyler opens his phone and pulls up a document. 

“Hear me out. In two weeks, we play in Montpelier, Vermont. Come to the game. Meet a few of the guys. I’ll get you the ticket.”

Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe Tyler is just nice in a way Shane isn’t used to seeing from potential teammates other than Hayden, but Shane agrees. 

 

*

Banana Ball is unlike any sport Shane has ever seen, and he’s only in the stands. From the videos Rose has been sending him, Shane had assumed that the game was mostly a performance. Really, though, there is quite a lot of baseball involved too. The entertainment aspect is undoubtedly present, but it doesn’t get in the way of solid, fierce competition. Shane watches as the Savannah Bananas, Tyler’s team, face off against the Indianapolis Clowns. Banana Ball only has six teams, so each team faces off against each other eight times a season. The league holds games across the whole of the US, in everything from professional football stadiums to college baseball diamonds. It’s a particular kind of chaos. 

On the field, Tyler does a back flip, catching the ball midair. The crowd roars. Not only does Tyler get the Indianapolis batter out, but he also scores a trick play for the Bananas. As far as Shane can figure, a trick play is really just any way of playing the game that is flashier than it needs to be, and the team that makes the most trick plays gets an extra point before the ninth inning. 

Shane finds, throughout the game, that he can’t look away. The sport is silly, undoubtedly, but all the players are incredibly skilled. They do silly bits, and they dance to the music that blares constantly, but the actual gameplay is intense. Shane had assumed that the point of Banana Ball was more about making people laugh than winning, but he’s beginning to realize that maybe winning just looks different in this game. He studies the faces of the players after the Bananas win, and each and every one of them is grinning like they just won the Stanley Cup. They played like they were having fun, and the crowd reacted like they were having fun too, and now that all is said and done, every person in the stadium is a winner. It feels almost like a hyped up version of the All-Star game.

After the game ends, Shane finds himself in a hotel restaurant. Tyler had sent him the address, begging him to come out and meet more of the guys. To Shane’s surprise, both Bananas and Indianapolis Clowns players are there, intermingling like they’re all friends. 

It’s a culture shock, for sure. Tyler comes up to Shane, big grin on his face. Next to him is a Clown, and they show at each other’s shoulders playfully.

“Hey, Shane, great to see you made it! What did you think of the game?” Tyler asks.

Shane chuckles, shaking his head. “It was crazy. Nothing like I was expecting.”

“Good?”

“Definitely.” Shane says it with more conviction than he knew he felt. Tyler smirks at him. 

“So are we going to be seeing you at the draft in November?”

“I don’t know yet. But maybe.”

“Hah,” says the Clowns player, shaking his head. “That’s what I said too, and I’m in my third season in this league.”

“This is Juarez,” Tyler says, indicating the man, “a good friend of mine from my college days.”

Shane nods to Juarez, “nice to meet you.”

“You too, man. Shane… Hollander, right? Ty’s been talking my ear off about you.”

“He has?” Shane scratches his forehead nervously.

“Oh yeah. We even went back and found game footage of your high school baseball. You’ve got an epic pitch.”

“It was a while ago.”

“Ahhh, you got it. Easy shit. Just like riding a bike. And the thrill? It’s unlike anything else, you know? Showing up for the kids, helping them find the fun in this game like I did, years ago.”

Shane thinks about the first game of hockey he can remember attending. New York Admirals vs Ottawa Centaurs. Ottawa had won, and Shane had caught a game puck, and he must have been four years old. He had watched the players zoom around on the ice with big grins on their faces, and it had been fun. Hockey stopped being fun, somewhere along the line. All the off-ice parts of the game pushed out the joy Shane used to feel as he laced up his skates. But he remembers when that player had tossed him that puck, eyes kind.  

Shane remembers going to Metros games with his mom, clutching a bag of cotton candy in one hand and a foam finger in the other. Maybe hockey can’t bring him those same feelings of fun anymore, but if he can give that feeling to another kid, regardless of the sport, he has to do it. He has to inspire them to have fun, and to play, and to hold on to who they are while they do it.

“That sounds amazing,” Shane says, suddenly a little breathless. Tyler looks at him like he can read Shane’s mind. Like he already knows that in this moment, Shane’s mind is already made up. 

 

Shane meets a few more players, but ultimately turns in early, a drive back to Montreal looming in the morning. Tyler hugs him on the street corner. It isn’t one of those masculine bro hugs either, it’s real. Shane doesn’t know how to react, so he hugs back. The world feels present on his skin. Maybe it’s anxiety, but not in any form Shane is used to. It isn’t fear, but excitement.

And then Tyler pulls back, holding Shane by the shoulders. Their eyes lock. “See you at the draft,” he says.

Shane can’t breathe.

The words echo. They morph from Tyler’s Chicago accent to a Russian one. Tyler’s brown eyes turn blue. The wind is cool, not unlike the air on the ice.

Shane forces the memory from his mind. 

He left hockey, and he left his rivalry with Rozanov, and he left his whatever it was with Rozanov, and it’s all for the best.

And Rozanov hasn’t reached out either. Not that he could. Because Shane had refused to give him his number. 

But whatever. Whatever. 

“Yeah,” he manages to stammer out, eyes wide, “see you.” 

Tyler looks at Shane weirdly, and Shane wrenches himself out of Tyler’s grasp, all but running to his car.

He needs to fucking move on. From hockey, but also from the rest of it.

Especially from the rest of it.

Chapter 4: Draft

Chapter Notes

beginning to think that every chapter I'm going to promise baseball content next chapter. but this time for real!!! I promise. Next chapter. Definitely. :)

Also please come yell at me or whatever on tumblr at totallynormalnotreally!
I only bite when asked.

Shane signs a limited, one season contract before he has the chance to convince himself it’s a bad idea. If it sucks, there’s no pressure to do it again. If it doesn’t suck… well. That wouldn’t be so bad. The draft is in November, and Shane has a guaranteed spot in the league: the only question is which team will pick him. 

He spends fall in between Ottawa and Montreal. In Ottawa, Shane stays in his childhood bedroom and dodges questions from his parents who still can’t quite believe that he quit hockey. In Montreal, he stays in his own apartment. He’s gotten a job teaching kids to skate, and spends the rest of his time working out, relearning baseball, and hanging out with Hayden. Bar girl, Jackie, has also become a more regular character in Shane’s life, and when Hayden is on a roadie, they sometimes watch his games together. 

Shane was relieved to realize that a lot of the parts of hockey he loves haven’t lost their shine - on the ice with the kids, he has a fantastic time, and debating strategy with Hayden is still one of his favourite things to do. Shane can watch a game on TV and while a part of him wishes he was out there, it isn’t a large one. 

That part does get stronger when Montreal plays Boston. Shane tries not to fixate on number 81 or the way Rozanov plays or-

Shane doesn’t think about Rozanov because that chapter of his life is over. The new version of himself that Shane is desperately trying to create, it isn’t one that would put up with being a top secret hookup. He has already decided that as scary as it might be, he isn’t going to be closeted once the Banana Ball season starts. Maybe it’s an arbitrary time, but he’ll be in a new city, with new people. He won’t advertise it, won’t put out a statement or anything, but he’s done hiding.

If Shane still has to hide, there was no point in leaving hockey at all.

 

*

November comes quickly. Shane takes the weekend off, letting a coworker cover his classes at the rink. He doesn’t tell his parents he’s going to Atlanta at all. Shane knows, intrinsically, that his mother would not approve of Banana Ball. His father wouldn’t understand, but he would be supportive. Yuna, though. Shane knows that this isn’t the future she saw for him, and he’s okay with that. He just wants to become a little more okay with that before he has to face her.

The Banana Ball draft is a lot less intense than the NHL. The day before the big event, Shane goes through all the typical fitness testing. He is pleased to notice that his stats are fairly even with a lot of the guys coming out of the minor leagues, despite his time away from the sport. 

The night before the picks are announced, Shane is in bed in his hotel room, texting with Rose about the draft and her most recent project, when there’s a knock on the door. Shane rolls out of bed, and Tyler is there.

“Hey,” he says, confused. “How did you know which room I was in?”

Tyler laughs, “I bribed Dave. I wanted to catch up! Bug day tomorrow - you excited?”

“Yeah. It should be good.”

“It’s a lot of fun, trust me. All the players based in Georgia usually turn up to watch, meet the new guys.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Detroit? With your musical?”

“Ah, yeah. Well, what can I say, Shane? I wanted to show up for my friend.”

A beat. Shane pauses. Tyler gives a small shake of his head, accompanied by an amused smile.

“You, man. You’re my friend.”

“Oh.” Now Shane feels stupid. Of course he and Tyler are friends - they text a few times a week. And Tyler did say he’d be at the draft. “Well, thanks.”

“Of course!”

Shane realizes that he’s still standing in the doorway, and dutifully steps back, inviting Tyler into the room.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” Tyler asks, and Shane was really just planning on going to sleep but Tyler’s a nice guy, and Shane figures that more nice people in his life can’t hurt.

“Sure,” he agrees. 

Tyler turns on the TV, and by sheer, cruel coincidence, it’s tuned to a hockey game. Carolina vs Boston. 

“We could watch this too,” Tyler offers, “I’m sure I don’t get hockey as much as you probably do, but I don’t mind.”

“No!” Shane practically shouts. He schools his expression. Tyler raises an eyebrow. Shane resents that he notices the second Rozanov gets on the ice. “No,” Shane tries again, normal this time, “I, uh, I don’t really watch Boston games. There’s this big rivalry between Boston and Montreal, and even if I don’t play for the Metros anymore, it still feels weird.”

It’s not a lie. Tyler just shakes his head, small grin on his face.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re kinda a weird guy, Shane?” It’s clear from his tone that the statement is meant kindly, but a part of Shane finds offence in it anyway.

“Shut up,” Shane says, plastering a pleased expression over his face. He can do this. He can joke around with friends and know they aren’t out to get him.

He changes the channel.

Shane is a second round draft pick for the Savannah Bananas. It stings a little, after being second overall, a first round pick in the NHL, but considering that he has only been trying at baseball for three months after taking years off, it’s not too bad. When the Bananas coach calls his name, half the players in the room cheer enthusiastically. Later, Tyler comes up to him and wraps him in a crushing hug.

“We’re going to be teammates, man! You’re going to get so sick of me.”

Another Bananas player is next to Tyler, laughing. “Going to? Ty, man, I think he probably is already.” To Shane, the man adds, “I’m Smitty. Captain. Really excited to have you on the team. It’s looking like it’ll be a great season.”

“Yeah,” Shane nods, “I’m excited to see how it goes.”

Shane can’t sleep, that night. It’s not unlike the NHL draft. He stares at the dark ceiling and thinks about the future. He thinks about the past, too. About small hotel gyms and unspoken competition on exercise bikes and shared water bottles with more physical contact than was strictly necessary.

He hates himself a little for it, but Shane throws on a pair of sweats and makes his way to the gym. It’s empty, again. The layout is different. There’s still a bike.

Shane sets the resistance as high as it’ll go and begins peddling at a punishing pace. He closes his eyes and imagines that Rozanov is beside him, pushing him, making him better. 

Faster, faster, faster. Shane pushes his body to the absolute limit, determined to win against the imaginary version of Rozanov, and determined to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face.

Eventually, Shane slams the stop button, collapsing off the bike and onto the ground.

He heaves in a desperate breath.

There is nobody to offer him water. Nobody to banter with, not in that way that with Rozanov, somehow, was always effortless.

He doesn’t cry because that would be pathetic. 

 

Eventually, Shane manages to heave himself off the floor, and as he stands, his phone pings. Tyler.

T: Hey man - you up? Bunch of us are heading to the bar if you’re interested

T: I know it’s kinda late so no pressure

Shane should really just try to go back to bed, but something about this night has to change. He can’t just repeat old patterns indefinitely. 

S: Sure man - I’ll be there in a bit.

 

The bar is loud in a way Shane is trying to learn not to hate. Tyler waves him over, and Shane quickly finds himself pressed into a booth with several Bananas players, including Smitty from earlier. Quick introductions are made, and Shane swiftly forgets every name he’s told, but that’s fine. He has time to learn these guys. Someone presses a drink into his hands, and Shane clinks his glass against Tyler’s before drinking it down. Whatever it was, it was extremely alcoholic. Shane groans, and excuses himself to get a ginger ale to chase the burn from his lips.

He returns to the table, and lets the conversations wash over him. Guys excited for the upcoming season. Guys excited for the holidays. Winter plans and life updates and Shane doesn’t particularly care, but he’s happy to be included. When pressed, he talks about the skating school, and the five year olds who fall down every thirty seconds.

After maybe an hour, Tyler nudges Shane’s shoulder.

“Hey dude, I think that guy is making eyes at you,” he juts his chin in the direction of a man standing at the bar, “want me to tell him to fuck off?”

Shane frowns. “Why would you do that?” The man isn’t doing anything wrong.

“Well,” Tyler says, “you’re kind of like. You know. A nervous guy.” Shane raises an eyebrow at that, but it’s not like Tyler’s wrong. “I could understand if a man staring you down like that makes you uncomfortable, and I could also understand if rejecting him feels awkward. I don’t mind doing it for you, and then you’ll stay out with us later so we can keep hanging out.”

Shane sizes up the guy. He’s tall, with curly blonde hair tied back in a man bun, which is something Shane has never felt any particular way about, but definitely works for this guy. His biceps are practically splitting the seams of his shirt sleeves. He’s hot. He definitely doesn’t remind Shane of anybody. And Shane did promise himself not to hide anymore.

“No,” Shane says, and maybe it’s the liquor in his system, but he adds, “I’ll go talk to him. He’s kind of hot.”

Tyler gapes at him a little, but Shane decides not to worry about it, and approaches the guy. He doesn’t have much experience with flirting, but it isn’t too hard. He takes a seat next to the man, orders them both a drink, and offers a sly smile. 

Five minutes of small talk later, the guy leans in, lips brushing Shane’s ear, “my place is five minutes from here. You want to come?”

And Shane does. He really, really does. “Let me just say bye to my friends?”

“Sure.”

Shane returns to the Bananas’ table, ignoring Tyler’s stare. He leans over Smitty to grab his jacket. “Hey guys,” he says, “thanks a lot for inviting me, but I’m going to be heading out now. I’ll see you all in March.”

A round of drunken goodbyes later, and Shane walks out with a man’s arm around his waist.

The man’s name is Avery and his dick doesn’t taste the same as Rozanov’s, but his blowjob technique is better, maybe more experienced. He calls Shane beautiful and sucks a hickey into his collarbone and gives Shane his Instagram.

“For when you’re in town again.”

Shane finally gets back to his hotel at three in the morning and he falls asleep instantly.

Chapter 5: Friends

Chapter Notes

... nobody look at the chapter count lol. Also LOOK!!! real baseball content!!! as promised!!! (Now we can just ignore that I don't actually know anything about baseball)

Also I said this in the comments of the last chapter but it's very important that everyone knows - Shane thinks that he has to move on from all parts of hockey in order to be this new version of himself he's trying to build (Including Ilya) and that's like half his mentality, but the other part is that he REALLY, GENUINELY, thinks that he's succeeding at this. (Is he??? Who knows???)

The morning after hooking up with Avery, Shane opens his phone to learn that he’s been added to the team group chat. It’s chaotic, but not in a bad way. Nobody is calling Shane out for leaving with a random guy, but maybe nobody noticed. Maybe all the alcohol means that nobody remembers. Shane isn’t sure if he prefers that idea.

Shane is running on only a few hours of sleep, but his flight is at noon, so he needs to get moving. He throws on a hoodie and takes a quick glance in the mirror to make sure that he doesn’t look like a complete disaster. He calls an uber, and an hour after waking up, he gets to the airport. 

He makes towards a coffee shop, planning to grab something warm before going through the security line. The barista’s name is Amy and she smiles at him and Shane smiles back. She hands him his black americano and doesn’t quirk an eyebrow like they usually do when Shane orders an unsweetened, watered down espresso shot. 

Shane sits down at one of the tables nearby, sipping the drink. It’s a little too hot, and that first sip burns his tongue a little. Wincing, he puts the paper cup down, and pulls up his phone to scroll mindlessly for a moment. He doesn’t expect company, and looks up in surprise as he hears a familiar voice; “Shane! Long time no see!”

Tyler. 

This guy is always everywhere, a level of extroversion that Hayden would be jealous of.

“Tyler, hey. Heading back to Detroit?” Shane asks, because that would make more sense than the man stalking him.

“Yep! Back on stage tomorrow night, but you know what they say - no rest for the wicked!” Tyler laughs like he made some sort of joke. Then, his mood drastically shifts. He takes the seat across from Shane, and folds his hands on top of the table, and stares at them like they hold profound answers to life’s questions. “Can I… ask? About last night? Or is that like an off-limits, nobody-talks-about-it type thing?”

“I’m gay.” Shane says bluntly, and Tyler looks up at him abruptly. Not expecting that much honesty, probably.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He should probably say more than that. “The attitudes in the NHL weren’t - aren’t - great. And I’m still not about to run around advertising it. But.” Shane smiles a little, sipping his scalding coffee, “I’m not going to hide it anymore.”

“That’s, uh, cool. I mean, not that hockey wasn’t good about it, but you know. And there are a few guys in the league that are into dudes, and so you shouldn’t have any issues here.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.” Silence. Awkward silence, maybe, but Shane has never been good at differentiating between the two. 

“Well, I should head to security. International flight, longer wait times.”

“Totally, man. See you!”

“It was great running into you,” Shane says even though he doesn’t know if he means it, “see you next time.”

“Next time.”

*

March arrives faster than Shane could have expected. He watches his students graduate from their skating levels, affectionately tapping the top of their tiny helmets. He gets home, and packs everything he’ll need for the next six months into two suitcases and a backpack. 

He drives to Georgia, because he wants to have a car in Savannah. It’s eighteen hours, so he splits the trip into two days. It’s only when lying in his hotel in Baltimore that Shane finally brings himself to make the phone call he’s been procrastinating for the better part of six months.

Yuna picks up on the second ring.

“Hey mom,” Shane says, and he can hear the lilt in his voice, singsongy in a way that probably tells her instantly that he’s done something she won’t love.

“Shane, it’s good to hear from you!” Her voice seems artificially cheery, like she’s trying to pretend things haven’t been off between them since Shane quit hockey over the summer.

“Yeah, mom, listen,” Shane braces himself, “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be living in the States for the next six months. More or less.”

“What? Why? What about your job at the rink in Montreal?”

“That’s a seasonal job, mom. I’ll be back in September.” Shane doesn’t answer the bigger question. He breathes. He can do this. “I actually signed to a baseball league, a team based out of Georgia.”

“Baseball?” Yuna asks, as though the idea is outrageous. “You haven’t played in years.”

“Yeah, but I always liked it. And it’s not like it’s Major League.”

“So hockey was too intense, but this won’t be?”

“The hockey was never the problem in hockey. It was everything else. Locker rooms and the press and the city and… this is different.”

“Different.” The way Yuna says it, Shane feels like he has to defend himself.

“I’ve met my new team, and they’re all really great people, and they don’t make me feel like I have to be someone I’m not.”

“Shane.”

“Mom.”

“I love you, and you know that, but I want to make sure you’re not making a mistake here.”

“So what if I am?” The words come out angry, but Shane doesn’t regret it. “I’ve spent my entire life being perfect at everything, even the things I didn’t care about. I’m young. I’m allowed to fuck up sometimes. And I think that compared to a lot of people, joining a baseball team is pretty tame, actually. I’m only calling to give you a heads up so that you don’t get blindsided if you see clips online, and so if you don’t like that this is the direction I’m taking my life, I’m sorry for that, but I’m not going to change.”

It is maybe the only time in his life that Shane’s spoken to his mother like that. He’d even cursed. It probably says something that he doesn’t want to take it back. Shane watches the seconds on the call tick up, and it takes twenty-three of them before his mom says anything.

“You’re right. You’re an adult, and you can make your own decisions. This is an adjustment, for me, you have to understand, but I’m trying, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Where can we watch your games?” It feels like an olive branch.

“It’s kind of hard in Canada, because they’re usually on regional ESPN channels, but the team does a lot on social media, so you can also watch them live on Youtube. I can send you a link.”

“Please.”

“Anyway, I have to go. Talk to you soon.”

“I love you.”

Shane hangs up. Feels bad. Groans into his hands. 

If this is how his mother reacts to him joining a baseball team, how will she react to him being gay? It doesn’t matter, not for now, but it will, one day. 

He sleeps fitfully.

 

*

 

“Number 42, Shane Hollander, stepping up to bat for the first time in his Banana Ball career.”

“This is actually Hollander’s second time being a rookie, after he did a year in the NHL playing hockey in Montreal."

“Talk about a career change.”

“Oh absolutely. He was a second round draft pick for the Bananas, and despite having taken a few years off from the sport, he’s clearly been practicing because Hollander currently holds a 0.35 batting average, one of the best on the team.”

“Of course, as we’re always saying, there is a bit of a learning curve between baseball and Banana Ball. It’ll be interesting to see how Hollander adjusts to the new sport.”

*

 

Shane stands with the bat in his hands, staring down the pitcher for the Texas Tailgaters. He wonders, not for the first time, how he wound up here. Clad in the Bananas’ obnoxiously yellow uniform, he knows that he needs to make this run. The Bananas are a run down at the bottom of the inning, but if Shane can tie it, then at least the Tailgaters won’t get the point. 

The ball is bright yellow too, and it comes hurtling at Shane, but just a little bit too low. He doesn’t swing. A deep breath. Katy Perry plays loudly across the speakers.

The second pitch is better, higher. Shane swings.

Thunk.

It’s a satisfying sound. The ball goes deep into the left field, and Shane takes his chance. He drops his bat and takes off for first base. As he gets there, the ball is still a ways away. He’s fast. On the ice, always, but off it too. Shane keeps running.

The crowd screams, the ball gets closer, and Shane dives, just barely managing to get to second base on time. 

In the Banana’s dugout, the team cheers. There are three batters left before the end of the inning, and that puts Shane in a good position to finish his run.

Tyler is up to bat next, and his first two swings are a miss. On the third, he switches to hit with his right instead, and it clearly throws the pitcher off his game, because the ball comes at just the right angle and speed, and Tyler sends it all the way out of the park. Home run. 

Shane takes off and a steady jog, rounding third and making it back to home plate. Tyler isn’t far behind him. When the other man catches up, he raises his arms triumphantly, almost giddy. It’s his first career home run, and Shane is happy for him. Plus, they’ve won the point for the inning, no matter what happens with the last batter.

“Great job man,” he says, and Tyler puts both his hands on Shane’s shoulders, jumping up and pushing off of them with childlike excitement. 

Shane smiles back. This is good. This is fun.

 

The halftime show is absolutely terrifying. This is the part of Banana Ball that Shane has most feared, and even now, after weeks of lessons and practice and several drunk nights at the local honky tonk, Shane still can’t stop being self conscious about it. It’s not that he can’t dance. Shane’s body is a well tuned machine, and he’s been training it to do what he wants since he was four years old. Learning to dance hadn’t even been that hard. The issue is more that Shane still feels like dancing itself isn’t something that he should be doing. 

Tyler calls it his “toxic hockey programming”, and that probably isn’t too far off. Despite the fact that his entire team will be dancing next to him, Shane can’t help but worry that somehow, they’ll find a way to rib him about it too. 

Shane takes his position towards the back of the group, and exhales. This is just another part of the game. It’s just like anything else he’s done tonight. The lighting shifts and the music comes on and Shane has never been good at giving anything less than one hundred percent. 

Nerves fade away and Shane lets his body do what he’s been training it to do. It’s not too bad. He locks eyes with a few teammates, and they laugh with each other. Someone messes up, and it’s not even a big deal. This, Shane realizes with a bit of shock, is actually fun. Really fun, even. Kids in the crowd are cheering, and one of the social media guys comes by with a camera, capturing the joy.

As the song comes to an end, Shane prepares himself for the big finish. This is the part that he’s worked on the most, determined not to make a fool of himself. There’s a lull in the lyrics, and as one, the entire team jumps into a back flip, landing in near-perfect synchronization. Two guys don’t manage to get their feet under them quite on time, but for the most part, cleats collide with turf just as the beat drops for the final lines of the song.

Shane can’t get the grin off his face.

This game isn’t anything he would have expected, but it is good. So good. It has all the competition and adrenaline he could want. There’s the thrill of excellence, of knowing that he is well on his way to being a phenomenal player, if he isn’t there already.

It’s a joy Shane hadn’t known if he would ever find again. He’s so fucking glad he did.

 

*

 

Shane invites Hayden to a home game in May, after the Metros get knocked out of the playoffs. That night, in Shane’s Savannah apartment, they catch up, properly, for the first time since Shane left Montreal. 

Jackie, apparently, is pregnant. Twins. Hayden asked her to marry him. 

Shane thinks it might be a little fast, but he isn’t one to judge out loud. When Hayden asks him to be best man at the wedding, of course Shane says yes. He knows that he’ll have to see the Metros, but that doesn’t make him as anxious as it once did. 

Sometimes, he considers telling Hayden about Rozanov. He’s probably the only person in Shane’s life that could properly appreciate how insane the situation was. But Rozanov is still very much playing hockey, and Hayden doesn’t make a secret of how little he likes the guy, and outing someone is a bad thing to do, at the end of the day.

Hayden asks Shane if he’s seeing anyone, and Shane thinks of the handful of hookups he’s had in assorted US cities in the past two months, before ultimately shaking his head. He sees people alright, he just never sees them again. 

 

*

 

Rose comes to a game in June. She doesn’t tell Shane until she’s already in the stands, and he’s just putting his phone away in his locker. He laughs in surprise as she sends a picture of the diamond with a WRU????.

He sends back a picture of his middle finger in his locker.

S: Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?

R: The fact that I’m here at all is TOP SECRET it’s for a new movie I’m shooting… didn’t want to get you excited if the day went long and i had to miss it

S: I’m glad you’re here. 

R: Good luckkkkk!! :) 

Shane hearts the message and puts his phone away. He’s the first batter of the night, and it’s his first time doing a special walk-up.

After the usual pregame fanfare, Shane stands in the box. Instead of a bat, he’s holding a hockey stick, making it look like he’s practicing a shot. Someone on the social media team comes in close, capturing his look of concentration.

The pitcher raises an eyebrow at him, and Shane pretends not to notice. Then, an equipment manager runs out, tapping Shane on the shoulder dramatically. Shane rolls his eyes to the camera, and turns to him. The manager gestures at the hockey stick, and then at the bat that he’s holding.

The crowd laughs, as Shane frowns, and keeps miming at practicing his shot. Finally, the manager shoves the bat in Shane’s hands, and Shane pretends to finally understand what he was getting at, trading it for the hockey stick.

He winks at the camera, and fixes his stance. The pitcher winds up, and sends him a good pitch, and the game can start for real.

 

In the eighth inning, Shane is pitching. His strikeout time is usually under three minutes, which is considered pretty good. Maybe, if he kept working at it, he could look at the Major League, but Shane has had his fill of Serious Pro Sport, and he’s quite happy with where he’s at for the moment. 

He sends a fastball to the batter, and as the ball sails back towards him, Shane has a millisecond to decide if he’s going to try and grab it. It’s close, he could. How hard would it be, really. And if he’s already jumping up from the mound, he might as well come down in style.

He jumps up, extending his glove hand, and his eyes light up with satisfaction as he feels the ball make contact. He pulls it towards his chest, curling inwards in mid air. Then, he just keeps curling, until he’s back on the ground, having executed a decent front flip, and his third in game trick play. 

The batter is out, and the Bananas cheer. 

Shane finds a camera, and shrugs. No big deal. 

Rose finds him outside the stadium, jumping up to wrap him in a hug as soon as he leaves the player’s exit.

“Shane, that was so cool! And just think, without me, that never would have happened.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane laughs, putting her back on the ground, “I am forever indebted to you, Rose Landry. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.”

To his side, Smitty and Tyler are staring at them with wide eyes.

“You’re Rose Landry,” Smitty says, shellshocked. “Shane, why the hell didn’t you tell us you know Rose Landry?” 

“You never asked.”

“I-” Smitty shakes his head, and turns to Rose, extending a hand. “Ray Smith. Smitty. It’s great to meet you.”

Rose shakes his hand with a smile, "Absolutely, Shane talks about you guys all the time.”

“Oh, he does now?” Smitty looks at Shane in betrayal. Shane flips him off, and Tyler slaps him lightheartedly in the shoulder.

“Well, Rose,” Tyler says, “we’re heading to a diner nearby for dinner in about an hour. You’re welcome to join us, unless you and Shane have other plans.”

“Aw, thanks. But I have a shoot early in the morning, so it’ll probably be a quiet night in at the hotel.”

“All good. Have a great night.”

Smitty and Tyler walk away, leaving Shane and Rose in the parking lot. Shane feels a buzz in his pocket, and sees a new text from Smitty.

Smitty: I get that dudes are more your speed but don’t tell me you NEVER tried to hit that???

Shane bursts out into a fit of laughter, and shows the phone to Rose, who nearly collapses on top of him. It takes them several minutes to catch their breath properly, reeling from the way that mild mannered Smitty had phrased the question.

Shane: Some of us are capable of having normal friendships actually

Smitty: LAMEEEEE

Shane wraps an arm around Rose’s shoulders, and they talk about nothing in particular all the way back to her hotel. It’s kind of really amazing to have friends who know him. Shane had always assumed that it would be horrible, terrifying, vulnerable, but it isn’t. 

It just feels safe.

Chapter 6: Closer

Chapter Notes

Whelp. Enjoy that this chapter is twice as long as the next longest one. Tell me what you think! Or don't! Free will!

By July, things are settled. Shane might have had an exceptional rookie season with the NHL, but his unremarkable departure from the sport, paired with Rozanov’s endless showboating, has made it very easy for the hockey community to move on. As Shane becomes more confident in Banana Ball, he has been getting featured more on the Bananas’ social media. He always crossposts to his own account - not the hockey profile he made at fifteen, but his new, personal one. He shares bits of his life, and his friends, and he’s grown quite a following between posting workout routines, Banana Ball content, and restaurant reviews across the US. Around sixty thousand people follow him, and out of those sixty thousand, only a handful ever connect him to Shane Hollander, Hockey Player. It seems that, ultimately, nobody really cares what Shane used to do, they generally like who he is now.

After the initial period of adjustment, Shane has built something with the Bananas that he really does love. Games are fun, fans are great, and Shane is perpetually thinking up new ways to improve the technical and entertainment elements of his play style. A night or two each week is spent with his teammates, he calls Hayden after Metros games to debrief, and he finds himself a hookup or two a month, just because he can.

Things have been going really well for Shane and so he invites his parents down to Georgia for the last home game before the midseason break. They’ll stay in his spare bedroom and watch the game, grab dinner, and then Shane will spend the next three days showing them Savannah. And maybe, if everything goes well, he’ll finally tell them the real reason that he left hockey. Maybe. Hopefully. 

One day, Shane is going to be well adjusted enough to date someone for real, and he wants to be able to introduce that person to his parents.

 

The incoming flight from Ottawa lands at noon, and the game isn’t until six, so Shane picks his parents up at the Atlanta airport. He stands awkwardly by a pillar and clutches one hand with the other and desperately hopes that this isn’t a mistake. His parents come down the escalator with backpacks and small suitcases, and Shane locks eyes with his dad, who raises a hand in greeting. Shane mirrors the gesture with a smile. 

When his parents reach where he was waiting, he hugs them both. Yuna is stiff, and her smile is tight.

“It’s a four hour drive to Savannah?” She asks. Shane nods.

“Yeah. Sorry there were no direct flights from Ottawa.”

Yuna gives a little hum that is probably supposed to be neutral, but feels like the most judgemental thing Shane has ever had to endure - as though the Savannah airport’s lack of inbound flights were a product of Shane’s career choices.

“I, for one,” David says, “am excited for the drive. I’ve never been through Georgia, and it seems really nice this time of year.”

Shane looks at his father gratefully. “I can take your bags?” he offers, “my car is parked close.”

David accepts the gesture, but Yuna does not, and despite the fact that this is the first they’ve seen of each other in five months, there doesn’t seem to be anything to say.

“You load the car, I’m just going to use the washroom before we leave,” Yuna says as they near the door, and Shane nods. His father follows him out and into the summer heat. 

“Wow,” David says, wiping a hand against his forehead, “what a scorcher.”

“You’re lucky you weren’t here last week,” Shane replies, “it got to over thirty five degrees. But it’s always a bit cooler in Savannah than here, since the ocean is so close over there.”

It takes all of thirty seconds to load four bags into the car, and then Shane starts the AC so that he doesn’t give his parents heat stroke as soon as they get in, but there really isn’t anything else to do until Yuna gets back and she’s taking a while. A long while.

Finally, he has to ask. “Does mom…” he turns to his father, “Does she hate me a little? For dropping hockey, or for choosing this, or…”

“No,” David says assuredly, but then he sighs. “She doesn’t hate you, of course not. She’s just taking a while to come to terms with this change. It’s a big adjustment. And you’ve barely talked about it, and so it’s hard for us to know how to feel. Most of what we get of you is team stuff, and you just seem very… different. Here.”

“Oh,” Shane is, at least partially reassured, if not completely. “I am different,” he admits, “but I’m glad. I’ve been doing really well since coming out here, dad, and hopefully this weekend you and mom can both see that.”

“I think that would be really nice, son.”

Yuna emerges from the building, and spots them quickly, striding towards the car. She takes the passenger seat, and Shane drives, and David slides in the back. Shane starts the engine, and music starts playing - a CD that Tyler burned for him in an effort to educate Shane as to the supposed joys of modern music. Really, Shane thinks Tyler just wants Shane to propose they choreograph something together for a game, but it’s okay. Not all the songs on the CD are bad. 

“You listen to music while driving now?” Yuna asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says, feeling defensive for no good reason, “it’s kind of an important part of my job now, knowing popular songs. And a friend made up this CD for me.”

“I see.”

 

They make good time back to Savannah, but they still don’t have time to stop by Shane’s apartment before the game. He pulls into the player parking, and points them in the direction of a few decent places to grab food if they want to eat before the game, pressing tickets into their hands.

“I’ll meet you guys back here about thirty minutes after the game,” he says, and then jogs into the building.

 

The game itself is largely unremarkable. Shane pitches for the fourth and fifth innings, and manages a trick play towards the end, bouncing the ball between his legs before cleanly turning the movement into a pitch, getting the opposing batter out. The crowd cheers, but Shane is beginning to learn that a Banana Ball crowd will cheer at anything. It doesn’t stop the endorphins from flowing, though, and Shane can never get the grin off his face when he plays. In the ninth, when every run earns the Bananas a point, Shane manages to hit a home run, ultimately leading to the Bananas getting three additional points, and winning the game. 

After the traditional celebratory dance, Shane slings an arm around Tyler’s shoulders. They wave at some kids at the front of the stands, and then Shane, Smitty, and Tyler all run up to them, trading small bracelets and necklaces with the children. Shane has taken to wearing as many fan tokens as he can while playing, both because it’s nice for the fans to see how much he appreciates them, and because it’s good to remember why he does this: for the kids.

 

By the time Shane gets home, parents in tow, he’s beginning to feel the adrenaline crash. Yuna hadn’t so much as smiled when he had met them at the car, and the drive over had been silent and tense. “Did you guys eat enough at the game? I’m just going to heat up some leftovers, but I have enough for you if you want it.”

“I think we’re alright, thanks.”

Shane shows them where to put their stuff, and then moves back to the kitchen, taking out last night’s chicken and throwing it in the microwave. He doesn’t mean to overhear, but his parents aren’t exactly quiet.

“Yuna.”

“I know, I know. 

“You haven’t said a word to him.”

“I know.”

“When we were at the airport, he asked me if you hated him for dropping hockey.”

“He did?” A pause. “What did you say?”

“That the change was taking a minute for you to adjust to, but that obviously, you don’t hate him.”

“Good.” Thuds. A drawer opens and closes. “Did you see his face? How he interacted with his teammates? I don’t think… I’ve never seen him look like that. Never. He was just so…”

“Happy?”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever you’re thinking-”

“He basically told me that the only reason he stayed with hockey so long was because of me. And then when he started with this baseball-”

“Banana Ball,”

“Yes. Banana Ball. I just didn’t understand. And I wasn’t supportive and I wasn’t a good mother and jesus christ, David, we still don’t even know why he left hockey in the first place. We barely know our own son.”

The microwave beeps. Shane opens the door. Pulls out his chicken. He takes a seat at his kitchen island. 

He was going to wait until the end of their visit to come out, but now the guilt of hiding is eating at him, and maybe this is a good moment? Since, apparently, his mom isn’t mad at him for leaving hockey anymore. If things go too horribly, they can always leave early, or get a hotel, or Shane can fuck off to Tyler’s place for the next few days. There are options.

His parents come back from the guest room, and join him in the kitchen. “If you want,” Shane says, “I have drinks. Um. Tea, coffee, ginger ale. Or I think there’s a few beers in the back of the fridge, but they’re not great. One of Smitty’s college friends started a brewery and I got it for free.”

Yuna opens the fridge and pulls out a ginger ale for herself, and David gets a glass of water. On the fridge, Yuna’s hand pauses on a piece of expensive cardstock.

You are invited to the wedding of Hayden Pike and Jackie Gagne. August 15, 2012. 

“Hayden Pike is getting married?” She asks.

“Yeah,” Shane confirms, “I’m actually going to be his best man.”

“Really?” 

“We’re still friends, even though we don’t get to see each other as much right now. And his fiance, Jackie, she’s super nice. Before I moved down here we would watch Hayden’s games together.”

“That’s nice, then. But isn’t he only a year older than you?”

“Two. But no, when you see them together, it’s not so crazy. I was actually there the night they met, and they’re really good together.”

“Is it going to be a big ceremony?” David asks. Shane nods.

“Jackie’s got a big extended family, and Hayden’s invited all the Metros, so it’ll be pretty crazy.”

“And are you.. Excited? To see the team again?”

Shane swallows. Trust his mother to find the one part of the upcoming wedding that is actually making Shane consider ducking out of the wedding party. “Honesty, no. A lot of them are assholes. But Hayden kind of has to invite them, apparently, and I’m going to show up for him, even if I don’t like his guests. And I’m feeling a lot better about everything than I was last year, so I think I’ll be okay.”

“And when you say everything-”

“Yuna,” David grits out, elbowing her in the side. 

“Sorry. You don’t have to tell us anything you aren’t comfortable with. If you aren’t ready to talk about why hockey was so stressful, you don’t have to.”

Shane nods, clasping his hands together on the counter. He studies the way the fake grain on the countertop swirls around itself. “No,” he says eventually, voice soft, “I actually was planning on talking it through with you guys this weekend.”

“Really?”

“It’s time, I think. And I wanted to give you time to process, before-” Nope. He’s explaining this in the wrong order. “Let’s sit down?” he suggests, nodding at the couch.

They move, and Shane takes an armchair, half facing his parents and half facing the window. The sun sets over Savannah. Shane wonders how on earth people do this. It feels different from coming out to anyone else. The stakes are higher. Shane can handle his parents resenting him for his choices, but for this? For something that, try as he might, he just can’t control? It would be unbearable.

“The first hit I took in an NHL game,” Shane says, “Some Toronto player called me a faggot.”

Yuna furrows her brow, “well that wasn’t very nice, but-”

“But he was right.”

Time stops moving and Shane watches in real time as his parents realize what he’s saying. He doesn’t breathe. Just in case they didn’t understand, he says,

“I’m gay.”

It takes a beat, and then Yuna breathes, “Oh.” Her eyes are wet.

“Thank you for telling us,” David responds, tone hushed, as though it were still a secret.

“Yeah,” Shane looks at the ceiling, and the floor, and anywhere that isn’t the people he’s talking to. “I just didn’t want to have to go my whole career hiding, being scared of what would happen if people found out. Hockey isn’t good, like that. And I just- I tried really hard, to make it work. I just couldn’t.” 

His voice breaks on the last few words, and he buries his head in his hands. Yuna gets up from the couch and approaches him hesitantly, arms hovering. Shane notices what she’s doing, and nods. She wraps him in a tight hug, and Shane hadn’t even realized how much he needs the physical contact until he has it. 

“And it’s better? Here? With your new team?”

“So much better,” Shane confesses, voice wet, “I’m not hiding anymore, and my friends all know, and I feel,” he hesitates, “I feel the most like myself, ever. It’s really good. And I’m sorry I didn’t explain all of this before, but I just wasn’t ready.”

“Hey, no,” Yuna says, rubbing his shoulder, “you don’t have to apologise for this. Ever, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane whispers, and he holds his mother, and things are alright, somehow.

 

*

The season starts back up seven days later, with a roadtrip. Shane and Tyler are roommates, and in the aftermath of a Sunday afternoon game, they stumble into their blissfully air conditioned hotel room in Phoenix, Arizona. Shane immediately strips off his sweat soaked shirt, collapsing onto the cool bedspread. 40 degrees celsius is about twenty degrees hotter than he’d personally like it to be, especially for spending an entire afternoon out in the blistering sun. 

“Fuck,” Tyler groans, “if I die of heatstroke, please lie to everyone and say it was something cooler than that.”

“I’ll tell them it was hypothermia,” Shane deadpans, and Tyler bursts out a short laugh, tossing his own shirt on the floor. Shane forces himself to sit back up. “Mind if I shower?”

“Go ahead dude.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Shane emerges in just his shorts and underwear, it being too hot for anything else. Tyler is seemingly engrossed on his phone, and so Shane pulls out the book he’s been reading, some cowboy romance that Jackie put him on that is embarrassingly compelling. They pass the time in comfortable silence for nearly thirty minutes, before Tyler breaks it.

“Can I ask you something?” He asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Of course,” Shane bookmarks his page, swinging his legs so that he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, “what’s up?”

“I was just, uh, wondering. How did you know you were into guys?”

It is decidedly not what Shane had been expecting. Partially because Tyler spends half his life in theater, which presumably has people more versed in being gay than Shane, and partially because Tyler has always seemed too confident to ask that sort of thing. Maybe Tyler was too much of a jock to fit in with the gay theatre crowd. That would make sense.

“Well,” Shane says carefully, “I don’t think there was like one specific moment. But when I was younger, there was a guy.” Blonde curls, blue eyes, a devastating smirk. “We flirted, I guess, a few different times. Ended up hooking up.” Massive biceps, perfect ass, beautiful dick. “And I’d, like, had girlfriends and stuff. But with him it was just-” mindblowing, perfect, life changing, phenomenal. “It was better.”

“You didn’t feel, like, conflicted?”

“I mean,” Shane thinks, “It was complicated because of the league, you know. Hockey isn’t exactly accepting. I felt like I had to hide, all the time. But the actual feelings? No.” Large hands in his hair, fingers in his mouth, “Hollander, I want to fuck you.” “The feelings were never conflicting. Just the fact that I felt them at all was.”

“Oh.” Tyler finally looks up, putting his phone to the side. He moves to sit next to Shane, voice shaking slightly. “Do you still feel like you have to hide? Are things better here?”

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs, “things are better here. I haven’t been hiding at all.”

The evening is quiet. Tyler breathes deeply. They lock eyes. 

Shane realizes what is happening a moment before it does, but he doesn’t pull away.

Tyler’s hair is brown, and his eyes aren’t blue, and his mouth forms a small, cautious smile.

They lean into each other, and their lips meet, and Tyler might be the most tentative kisser Shane’s experienced since high school. It’s not unpleasant. Shane brings a hand up to cup Tyler’s jaw, deepening the kiss just a little before pulling away.

“Okay?” he asks, and Ty nods aggressively, moving back towards him.

The second kiss is deeper, more confident. Tyler moves so that he’s straddling Shane, and runs a hand up Shane’s bare back. He moans, and Shane can feel him getting hard between them.

Ty reaches a hand down the waistband of Shane’s shorts, breaking away to whisper, “Can I? Please?” 

Shane should end this here, but he doesn’t. “Whatever you want,” he responds instead, breathless.

Ty’s hands fumble with the drawstring, but he eventually gets there, slipping a hand in Shane’s underwear and grasping him with a callused hand. “Fuck,” he bites out, and Shane captures him in another kiss, hand carding through his hair. 

Ty moves from kissing Shane’s mouth to working his way down his body, sliding down until he’s kneeling, his mouth resting just below Shane’s navel. “I want-” he breathes, and his hand stills on Shane’s cock.

A flash of memory. “Is this your first time with a man?” Rozanov had asked it, and Shane had appreciated it, and so he parrots the words.

“Is it your first time?” He asks, “With a guy?”

Ty looks up at him, pupils blown wide. He nods. “Please,” he practically whimpers.

“Fuck,” Shane curses, “go slow. No pressure to take it all at once.”

Ty pulls Shane’s shorts all the way off, mouth hanging open a little. He looks up again, as though searching for direction. Direction isn’t something Shane is usually giving, in the bedroom, but this is what Ty needs, and Ty is his friend. Shane slips his pointer finger into Ty’s mouth, hooking it and bringing him closer. It’s seemingly all the encouragement Ty needs, because then he’s licking up the shaft, circling the head. “Good, fuck Ty,” he says, and in response, Ty takes the head in his mouth all at once, sucking eagerly.

Technically speaking, it’s not the best blowjob Shane’s had, but Ty is certainly enthusiastic, and that makes up for a lot of what he lacks in technique. After a minute or two, Shane pulls him off and back onto the bed. He holds Ty’s head against his chest, positioning the man to watch as he gets himself the rest of the way with his hand.

In the aftermath of his orgasm, Shane collapses backwards, taking Ty with him.

“Was that good?” Ty asks. Shane chuckles.

“Not bad, for a rookie.” They catch their breaths in tandem. “Here, I’ll show you how the pros to it,” Shane grins, and scoots down the bed to where Ty’s erection is painfully obvious in his jeans. “Get these off?” he asks, and Ty lurches into motion.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Ten seconds later, Ty’s jeans and underwear are somewhere on the floor, probably next to his shirt. Shane presses a soft kiss to his dick. It’s objectively nice, which is good for Ty, Shane supposes. At the head of the bed, Ty is looking at him with something that is quickly approaching desperation, and so Shane gives the man what he wants, and takes Ty all the way down, pressing his nose to the coarse hair at the base.

“Holy fucking shit, Shane.” 

“Oh my god, Hollander”, Russian accent, bear tattoo over one pec that Shane took special delight in sinking his nails into.

Shane hums, and Ty’s hips jerk at the motion. He looks apologetic for all of half a second, before Shane starts moving, sucking him off at an impressive pace. Ty doesn’t last long. His legs start to shake, and a hand comes down to grip Shane’s hair that is almost how he likes it. “I’m gonna-”

Shane doesn’t stop, and let’s Ty come down his throat, swallowing as he does so. He doesn’t pull off until he’s sure Ty is spent, rolling over onto his back again.

A full minute passes. Shane stares at the popcorn ceiling.

Ty, unexpectedly, bursts out laughing. “Was that, like, really fucking stupid?”

Shane can’t help it, the absurdity of the situation washing over him. He starts laughing too. “Ty, I’m sorry to tell you, but pretty much all of my hookups are at least a little stupid.”

“Man, and I knew that too. The amount of times you complain about them to me.”

The laughter dies out eventually, and Shane decides that he does need to be the mature adult in this situation.

“It was good, though? It helped you figure some stuff out?”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Ty rolls his head on his shoulders, “I had been wondering if I might be bi for a while now and well… I think it’s pretty safe to say the answer is yes. So thanks. I guess.”

“Hey, I’m happy I could help. But…”

“This isn’t going to happen again, is it?”

“I think it’s best that it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

A click from the air conditioner.

“We’re still, like, good, right?” Ty asks, “like we’re still friends?”

“Of course,” Shane reassures him.

An ambulance drives by, out on the street. Out in the hallway, the patter of feet as children run past their door.

“It’s too bad we’re teammates,” Ty says, “and that you’re still in love with your gay awakening hookup guy. Otherwise, you’d be quite a catch, Shane Hollander.”

“What?” Shane asks, propping himself up on an elbow. “Why would you say that?”

Ty raises an eyebrow. “It’s kind of obvious, no offense. You just wear your heart on your sleeve when you’re thinking about him.”

Shane sighs, sitting up and grabbing his clothes, tossing Ty’s back to him as well.

“For the record, I’m not ‘in love’ with him,” Shane does air quotes, “I can’t be.”

“You can’t be?”

“Nothing can ever happen between us.”

“Why not?”

Russia. The rivalry, dead or not. Homophobia. The NHL. The way social media would never let it go. The fact that Rozanov had clearly not wanted anything to do with Shane, the last time they spoke.

“Hockey,” Shane eventually settles on, because that covers most of it.

“You left hockey, dude.”

“He didn’t.”

It’s more of a confession than Shane had intended to make. Ty seems to realize that, eyes flashing for a moment before letting the subject drop.

“I’m going to take a shower. Let’s get room service? Order me something good.”

Shane nods, appreciatively. He watches Ty disappear into the bathroom, and as soon as the door closes, he presses his hands over his eyes.

What a fucking day.

Chapter 7: Change

Chapter Notes

This is the last chapter in this timeframe.... going to be a bittt of a jump next chapter, and things are going to get interestingggggggg
(cough, hollanov, cough)
(just when Shane thinks he's moved on) (no he hasn't)

Shane lands in Montreal three days before the wedding. He wishes he could have been here earlier, but the season is still going, and six days was the most he could get off. The sky is bright, and the air smells familiar, and as much as Shane loves the life he’s building in Savannah, he loves this city. It reminds him of childhood and weekend trips from Ottawa and, in some ways, freedom. This was the first place he lived without his parents, and for better or worse, it was where he realized a lot of things about himself. Shane isn’t sure if he’ll keep his condo here forever, but for now, he doesn’t see any reason to sell - besides, in just a few weeks he’ll be back, teaching at the rink again. 

His uber drops him off outside Hayden’s fancy new house, and when he knocks, Jackie opens the door.

“Shane!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around him, “it’s so good to see you, Hayden will be thrilled you’re here.”

“Is he here?”

“He’s upstairs.” Jackie laughs to herself. “Sleeping off a hangover from last night, but he won’t admit it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Shane toes off his shoes and drops his bag, “sorry I couldn’t be there, but it was an important game.” Last night had been Hayden’s bachelor party, and Shane was maybe a bad friend for it, but he is very much not sorry he had to miss it. Nothing sounds less fun than getting drunk in a strip club with Gilbert Comeau and Hayden’s brothers and whoever else.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jackie says, “he knows that sort of thing isn’t really your speed, and he’s just happy you can get time away from the season to make it at all.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Shane grins, “but how are you doing? This kind of thing can be stressful and I know you’re also…”

“Five months pregnant? With twins? Yeah. It’s a lot. But I’m really excited actually. Hayden is going to be such a good dad.”

“He is,” Shane agrees, “I know it.”

The wedding venue is very respectable, and definitely feels like something that Jackie put together. Classy white tablecloths and round tables and every little wedding trend imaginable. Shane is relieved that he’s in the wedding party, because Hayden and Jackie are kind of the only people he feels completely comfortable with. He half wishes he had brought a plus one, if only for company. Tyler probably wouldn’t have been able to make it: the Bananas couldn’t sacrifice two players at once, but maybe Rose would have done it, if Shane asked. 

Jackie’s older sister Vera is the maid of honour, and, as Hayden gleefully informs Shane, she’s a lesbian. After the rehearsal dinner, Hayden pulls them both aside, and explains with far too much enthusiasm that he and Jackie have seated all their not-straight single friends and family members at one table, just in case either of them were looking for a hookup.

“Was this your idea, or Jackie’s?” Shane asks.

“Mine,” Hayden says, “Jackie said it was stupid. But I’m just trying to help you guys out, you know. Spread the love. Whatever.”

Shane shares an exasperated look with Vera, and they share a silent vow to not argue with Hayden the night before his wedding. 

“I remember the night that Hayden met Jackie,” Shane says into the microphone, and he’s always hated giving big speeches, but this isn’t so bad. He doesn’t look at the tables that house the Metros, who all watch Shane with expressions ranging from confusion to disinterest. “We were at a bar, a little over a year ago. Having a perfectly nice conversation. Then, Hayden  locks eyes with this girl over at the bar. He wasn’t going to go talk to her.” The guests chuckle, and Jackie sends Hayden a mock offended look that ends up looking really fond. “He wasn’t going to, but I basically shoved him out of the booth, and I told him to go say hi. Imagine my surprise a month later when these two are already on date number twelve. But I met Jackie for myself, properly, and I knew that there really is nobody better out there. So happy to call you both my friends.” Shane raises his class in cheers, and the guests mirror the gesture. Hayden beams at Jackie, and it’s like the rest of the world isn’t even there for all either of them seem to notice. It’s cute.

Eventually, Shane makes his way to the bar, grabbing a beer for himself with solid plans to awkwardly hover at the edge of the room for the next several hours. He doesn’t notice that he’s parked himself on the other side of a faux marble pillar from Comeau and Drapeau until it’s too late.

“Fucking weird that Pike made Shane Hollander his best man.”

“You’re telling me, dude. The guy could barely hack it a season in the league. I don’t know why Pike even hangs out with him any more.”

“Fucking beats me. But damn, can you imagine what it’s like to be Hollander? Kid practically eats, sleeps, and shits hockey, wins the fucking Calder, and then jumps ship right when people started to depend on him? Embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing for the team, too. You know Coach would have given him the A if he’d stuck around.”

A year ago, overhearing this conversation would have thrown Shane into an anxious spiral. Today, it still does. Shane feels his heart rate spike and his palms go sweaty, and he works to control his breathing. Then, he remembers something crucial: he doesn’t actually care what these assholes think of him. He can do whatever the fuck he wants.

Shane takes off walking, taking his time and  making a wide circle around the room before approaching the men head on. They look decently surprised as he nears them.

“Comeau, Drapeau,” he greets, not even trying to make it sound like he’s happy to see them, “I overheard you talking about me earlier.” The two Metros exchange a glance. “I’m really honored that you guys think about me so much. I’ll be totally honest, I haven’t thought about either of you in a year, and I watch most of Montreal’s games. Guess that just goes to show how important you guys are to the team.” Shane delivers the words calmly and without affect, offering only the politest of smiles. Once he’s said his piece, he nods to them, and turns back towards the room before they have a chance to respond. Maybe it was an asshole move, but Shane doesn’t really care. They’ll get over it, or they won’t, and either way, it isn’t Shane’s problem.

 

The evening progresses and Shane relaxes just a fraction, making small talk with whoever, as long as they don’t want to talk about why Shane left hockey. He’s just managed to extricate himself from an awkwardly political discussion with Hayden’s demented great uncle or something, and he turns to find himself face to face with JJ Boiziau. 

“Hollander! Shane! It is so great to see you, holy shit. You were a weird little fucker but a beast on the ice.” JJ is, very clearly, extremely drunk. “I was sad when you left, dude. And then I see all these crazy tabloids about you and Rose fucking Landry? Hayden tells me it’s legit too - you guys are friends. Fucking epic, my god.” He slaps a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “And that shit you’re up to now?” He groans, “Hollander, why didn’t you tell me you were fun back when you were on the team? You kept it all a secret, and then you ditched us to play fucking baseball?” He laughs, shaking his head. Then, almost to himself, he adds, “Fucking cool baseball, but still.”

Shane rolls his eyes. He’d never had any particular issue with JJ, and the two of them probably could have been friends, had Shane been on the team longer. He seems like a good person.

“Tell you what, man. If you remember this conversation in the morning, send me a text and I’ll get you tickets to a game. We can go out after.”

“Yeah man? For real? You’re the GOAT, buddy.”

“Sure,” Shane laughs, and then JJ is gone, latching onto another one of his acquaintances. Oddly enough, Shane is charmed. If JJ reaches out, Shane will absolutely get the guy some tickets. 

In his head, Shane has two categories. There are hockey things that were bad and need to stay away, and there are hockey things that are still good, if separated from the first group. The first category is home to guys like Drapeau and Comeau, NHL politics, hyper regimented brand deals, and mandated conformity. In the second category, there is Hayden, and skating, and strategy, and watching games on the couch with people he cares about, cheering when his team scores a goal. JJ makes his way into that second category.

A lot of things remain uncategorized, or in the first category by default. 

One of those things is a man that Shane is definitely not in love with, because they barely even knew each other. And because they haven't spoken in over a year. And because he hates Shane, probably. 

It’s okay though, because Shane has a lot of time, and he’ll sort through it all eventually.

*

They’re in Kansas City, and Shane is the designated driver, but somehow also the designated buyer-of-infinite-rounds-of-beer. He doesn’t mind. Sometimes, it’s just nice to sink into the atmosphere of a place. Kansas City is not, Shane doesn’t think, a particularly nice city. It’s kind of grimy, and not very big, and the bar the team has found itself in has no doors in the bathroom. Or soap. Shane thanks his luck that he always carries a little bottle of hand sanitizer. No amount of hand sanitizer could clean this place, though, and it’s entirely possible that there is beer stuck to the table that is older than Shane himself.

If you’re drunk enough, that sort of thing doesn’t matter so much. 

Tyler loses fifty dollars at a slot machine in one corner, and that’s about when Shane realizes that if he doesn’t cut his friend off, nobody else will. When the guys demand one last round for the third time in an hour, Shane grabs Ty by the elbow and drags him to the bar, both for help carrying everything, and to save the man from his own poor financial decisions.

It’s a Tuesday night, and not a particularly busy one. The only bartender is a woman in her early twenties, and aside from the entirety of the Bananas, the only other patrons are a handful of middle aged men who have been sulking in the corner and occasionally bemoaning some woman named Linda for kicking one of their buddies out of the house. Personally, Shane is on Linda’s side, but that’s inconsequential. 

“Hi,” Shane says, smiling apologetically to the woman, whose nametag identifies her as Jordyn. “Sorry, could we have another round of beers? And some more water as well.”

Jordan nods, grabbing pitchers. “The IPA again?”

“Whatever’s cheapest. I don’t think they’ll notice.”

“You got it.”

Jordyn turns to the tap, pouring out the beer into several jugs. Shane and Ty wait patiently by the wall. On the TV, an NFL preseason game is playing, and Ty’s eyes dart across the screen, squinting a little. He smiles dopily. “Shane,” he says  quietly, looking around like he has a secret. Shane looks at him questioningly. “Shane, can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” Shane says, because there is probably nothing that Ty could tell him in this state that would be shocking.

“I think football players are hot. Like so hot. How do they look like that?”

Shane laughs, tucking his chin into his chest.

“I don’t know, man. Probably exercise.”

“Damn.” Ty whispers, looking back at the TV with an adorable sort of reverence.

One of the sad old men saddles up to the bar, wrapping on it twice with his fist. Jordyn turns away from Shane’s drinks and smiles at him much less genuinely than she had smiled at Shane. “What can I get you?”

“Your number,” the man says, smirking like that was cool or suave or in any way impressive. Jordyn fixes him with an unimpressed glare.

“Not on the menu, sorry.”

“Come on, darling,” the man practically whines, “it’s just ten little digits. And then I can show you something that is very much not little…”

“If you want something from the menu, I can serve that to you. If not, you can go back to your table, or leave.” Jordyn stays cool, and Shane admires it. It must take guts to deal with losers like this every day, especially when you’re the only employee and don’t have backup.

“Fine,” says the guy, “I’ll have a corona.” He slides a five dollar bill over the counter. Jordyn takes it, and grabs the beer from the fridge behind the bar. She cracks the cap, and slides it across the bartop.

In an instant, everything goes to shit.

The man shoots his hand forward, grabbing Jordyn’s wrist just before she releases the bottle. He leers at her, mouth open and hungry, eyes dangerous. Jordyn tries to pull away, but this guy might have a hundred pounds on her, and she can’t. Her eyes widen, and she locks eyes with Shane. 

The pitcher of water that had been filling in the sink begins to overflow.

“Let me go,” Jordyn says.

“Aww, but princess, we were just starting to have fun.”

The hand on Jordyn’s wrist grows visibly tighter, and he pulls so that she’s forced to lean over the bartop.

Shane sees red.

“Hey man, she said to cut it out.”

The man doesn’t release Jordyn, but he does turn his attention to Shane. He raises an eyebrow. “And what are you, her boyfriend?” he spits. 

A lifetime of repression has taught Shane a lot of things. It’s taught him how to stay calm, at least on the outside. It’s also taught him how to channel every ounce of toxic masculinity he’s ever absorbed into something productive.

“Let her go.” Shane doesn’t raise his voice. He glares at the asshole. Ty, to Shane’s side, sobers up just enough to clearly adjust his stance into something a little more defensive. 

“See, I don’t think she wants that.”

“I’m going to fucking call the cops on you,” Jordyn says, “see how much Linda likes that, when she has to bail you out of jail.”

“No you won’t. You love this, don’t even try to lie.”

And yep. That’s it for Shane’s rational, evolved brain. 

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes his knuckles are bloody, and the guy’s face is bloodier. 

Asshole Guy lets out an angry howl, one hand clutching his nose, which is decidedly more crooked than it used to be, while his other hand comes out swinging at Shane. That first punch is easy to dodge, and Shane takes the opportunity to push Ty back to the back of the bar, where the team sits, largely oblivious. Ty has probably never taken a hit in his life. Shane has over a decade of hockey running through his bones.

When the next hit comes, it’s a little more coordinated, and Shane isn’t as quick to dodge it, feeling Asshole Guy’s knuckles graze his jaw. In the corner of his eye, Shane sees Jordyn picking up the phone. Good.

He plants his feet, and punches with his whole body, the way he’s been taught since childhood. It’s easier to gain momentum on the sticky bar floor than on the ice. The hit is maybe too effective, because suddenly, Asshole Guy is on the ground.

Shane breathes heavily.

“Holy fuck,” breathes someone from over where the Bananas are still, for the most part, seated. Shane doesn’t look at them. He looks at Jordyn.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, about that,” Shane flexes his hand, sheepish. He doesn't like to fight. He hasn’t thrown a punch at anything but a bag in years. 

“No,” Jordyn assures him, “I’m glad you did that. I, uh, I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

“You called someone?”

“My manager. He called the cops. They’ll be here for him in a minute.”

“Do you want me to leave? I can, but I will just be loitering in the parking lot, since I have to drive a bunch of these guys home,” Shane indicates the team. He hasn’t been in a bar fight before, and isn’t quite sure what the etiquette is.

“No,” Jordyn says, “don’t worry about it. The cops will probably want to talk to you for a minute, and then you can get back to your night.”

“If you’re sure…” 

“I’m sure.” Jordyn turns back, grabbing the beer and water, passing them to Shane. “On the house.”

“Thank you.”

The cops are in and out in under five minutes, escorting Asshole Guy out of the bar. Shane returns to his table to a sea of shocked eyes and gaping mouths.

“I played hockey for fifteen years,” he says, “did you guys think I couldn’t throw a punch?”

Smitty lets out a startled laugh, and pours himself more beer, and the table resettles into something familiar and easy.

“Always full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Got to keep you on your toes.”

“Sure, man. Sure.”

Shane hides his smile behind his glass of water. His knuckles might be bruised in the morning, but he doesn’t have any regrets. He had seen something in the world, and it had been wrong, and he had stood up for what he believed in. Shane had fought, literally,  for something he believed in.

It’s a far cry from the boy that had a panic attack in a Vegas hotel room after a season of pretending.

Maybe it shouldn’t, because it does feel like a bit of a regression into the macho hockey bullshit, but it makes Shane proud of how far he’s come.

The blood on his knuckles feels like real, physical proof that he has changed. Maybe, hopefully, for the better.

Chapter 8: Evolved

Chapter Notes

OKOKOK SO.
This chapter takes place 3ish years later! I fully do not understand the actual timeline of the book so here is how it works in this AU:
2011/2012 hockey season: Shane and Ilya's rookie year, Shane leaves right after
2012/2013 hockey season: Shane plays his first season for the Bananas from March to September
Summer 2013: Where the last chapter left off
Summer 2013-Spring 2015: Time skip (some details get filled in through the chapter though)
Fall of 2015: Shane in Ottawa
February of 2016: The majority of this chapter

Shane breaks up with James, his boyfriend of six months, in July of 2015. JJ had introduced them at a new years party in Montreal, and the attraction had been instant. James had been charming and caring and really invested in their relationship, and he hadn’t even complained about the distance once Shane returned to Savannah for his fourth season with the Bananas, instead vowing to visit as much as possible. Considering that it was only Shane’s second attempt at properly dating someone, he thinks he was a good enough boyfriend. He asked James about his day, and cared when things were rough. James, however, just wasn’t the one for Shane. No ambition, no drive, perfectly content to coast through life on assorted ailing businesses and his sizable trust fund. He had wanted Shane to be happy, which was probably a good quality, but he hadn’t understood that Shane likes to feel like he earned that happiness. Shane needs a little push and pull, a little give and take. A little competition. James was always too quick to give in, always letting Shane win, and that had been the final straw.

It definitely had nothing to do with Ilya Rozanov waving his no trade clause and moving from the Boston Raiders to the Ottawa Centaurs. Rozanov had been captain in Boston, and he won’t  be in Ottawa. Rozanov has just led his team to a second Stanley Cup in a row. Boston is, without a doubt, the best team in the league, and Rozanov had left them anyway. Moving to Shane’s city, with the worst team in the league. 

A guy Shane hooked up with twice moving cities is no reason to break up with his boyfriend, which is why Shane waited an entire week after the trade announcement came through before he pulled the plug on James. Because he has tact like that.

 

As the Banana Ball season wraps, Shane bids farewell to his friends on the team and makes the drive back up to Canada. He knows the route by now, having done this drive every six months for years. This is the first time, however, that he won’t be spending his winter based in Montreal. It’s not just because of James, but it isn’t not because of James either. He had sold his Montreal condo last year, and had been planning on living with James, or maybe getting a short term lease, for the off season. Hayden had offered a guest bedroom, but Hayden has three kids under three, and as much as Shane loves his de facto nieces and nephew, he also values his sleep. 

The rink Shane usually teaches at has opened a franchise in Gatineau, and Shane’s parents are in Ottawa, and Montreal isn’t so far that Shane can’t visit his friends whenever he wants, and so Shane finds a fun little apartment above a coffee shop in Westboro and settles in for an Ottawa winter.

Because it’s convenient, and his family is there, and not for any other implausible, stupid, pathetic reasons.

At the rink, Shane is coaching a group of eight to ten year olds. Some of them also play hockey, and are using this class to hone up on their edgework, but others are just in it to get better at skating overall. It’s a nice mix. Most of these kids wouldn’t believe Shane if he told them that he used to be a Montreal Metro, and so he doesn’t. It’s not important. Part of this class does include learning how to skate on different types of blades, letting the students sample a variety of skating sports. Shane takes them through speed skating and hockey, and a coworker helps him not to make a complete fool of himself when they get to figure skating. Sometimes, at the end of a class, the kids will get their hands on some sticks and take turns shooting at a net while Shane plays goalie. Hockey with kids is undoubtedly Shane’s favourite part of the sport these days. He is able to be a positive influence in the sport, keeping out a lot of the harsher elements.

After two months, the kids move on, and Shane is faced with a new batch of children to grow fond of. He hopes that they take what he has to say to heart: not just about skating, but about life.

 

In February of 2016, the Ottawa Children's Hospital puts on their annual Kids in Sport Gala. Shane had bargained with the Bananas management, and convinced them to donate an all inclusive trip to a Bananas home game as a silent auction prize. Whoever wins will get two plane tickets, two nights in Savannah’s nicest hotel, and VIP passes to the first game of the season.

Over the past four years, and with the massive explosion of social media, the Banana Ball league has become a decently well known cultural entity. Shane, as one of the Bananas’ star players, has also grown popular in select social circles. Most people still haven’t heard of the sport, but if they have, odds are they’ve also heard of Shane Hollander. Being known doesn’t scare him anymore, though. He has nothing to hide, and the only person he ever presents as is himself, and if people happen to like that, good for them.

 

The gala is really nice, and Shane shouldn’t be surprised. He’s wearing a navy suit with a bright yellow tie, and the colour is repeated in the laces of his polished dress shoes, because Shane thought that would be funny. For whatever reason, the organizers have sat Shane at a table with a curious assortment of Ottawa personalities, including the assistant coach for the Ottawa PWHL team, an Olympic skier, and a guy who Shane is pretty sure plays on an American NFL team. It feels like a table for all the people who don’t know anyone, and Shane thinks that’s kind of hilarious. The seat next to him is empty, and Shane imagines that if he had dragged Ty or Hayden or Rose, they could have filled it for him. Unfortunately, Ty is doing some off-broadway rendition of Rent, and the Metros are on the west coast, and Rose is in Slovakia filming some Cold War thriller. Shane imagines that he could have brought a date, but that would require dating someone, and since James, he’s been feeling picky. The few hookups he’s had haven’t quite hit the spot.

Shane makes polite small talk with the NFL player, and they debate whether Kansas City is a nice place to be. Big shocker, Mr. NFL likes it there. 

Some rich old white guy steps up to a mic at the front of the room, and clears his throat. The hall quiets. He talks, in a slight Franco-ontarian accent, about how important the cause is. About how all the donations from today will go towards the construction of Ottawa’s first pediatric oncology ward, ensuring that sick kids don’t have to go all the way to Toronto for life saving medical care. It really is important, and Shane is pleased that, when the old guy starts going through the silent auction prizes, the Bananas tickets receive one of the loudest rounds of applause. The only thing that gets people more excited is Centaurs box seats, which Shane gets. He loves Banana Ball, but NHL box seats are wildly expensive, even for bad teams.

The speech ends eventually, and Shane takes his glass of champagne over to where the silent auction is happening, intent on convincing people to bid more and more money on the Bananas. He’s halfway through arguing with an elderly woman and her much younger husband as to why Savannah actually is an interesting place to visit in early March, when he feels eyes on him.

The couple bid, maybe just to get Shane to leave them alone, and leave. Shane looks up.

Blue eyes. Curly hair. Eyebrows raised, just a little. A hint of a smile. 

Oh. There you are. 

Shane feels incredibly stupid for not realizing Rozanov would be here tonight.

Of course he is, though, because despite being an asshole, Rozanov is a charitable guy, and he even runs his own mental health organization on the side. 

It’s a shame, because Shane was having such a good time, and now all he can think about is large hands, strong arms, “get on your knees.”

Fuck. 

Rozanov probably doesn’t even remember hooking up with Shane. He had probably just been one person in a long line of attractive people across North America. And it’s been four years, and Rozanov had all but told him to fuck off, last time.

Shane is supposed to be better than this. He is supposed to be calm and mature and rational. 

Rozanov is still staring at him, and Shane doesn’t know what to make of that. Maybe he does remember. Hopefully? No. 

Shane is not going to let himself forget the past four years of growing and evolving. He is not going to get sucked up into the vortex of horrible, undeniable attraction that is Ilya fucking Rozanov. He isn’t. He isn’t.

Five minutes later Shane is standing in a quiet corner, not sure what he’s hoping to achieve until it happens. 

Rozanov smells annoyingly good. He looks annoyingly good, too. One hand clutching a drink, the other a pamphlet. Maroon suit with a sheer shirt underneath. Shane wants to kiss him, or punch him, or run, or stay.

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov is talking to him now, and Shane never wants him to stop. He wishes he did. He doesn’t miss the way Rozanov’s eyes shamelessly rake up and down his body. Shane regrets the yellow tie. It’s kind of ridiculous. “Hockey is much less fun without you.”

“Oh,” he breathes, not sure what to say. “Sorry.”

“No you aren’t.” It echoes somewhere, reverberating into the past. Into a past that Shane has been working really fucking hard to move on from.

Despite himself, Shane lets out a small laugh. “No, I’m not.”

“You used to be so boring, Hollander,” Rozanov says, leaning against the wall casually, “Now I see you everywhere, dancing on the internet. I think, ah, he will not be so boring anymore. But you are! Shane Hollander will always find a way. Baseball, really?”

What the fuck? Has Rozanov been keeping up with him?

Shane’s been keeping up with Rozanov, of course, and watching Boston’s games when he can, but that’s just because he likes hockey and Boston is a good team. It’s not because…

It’s been too long. He needs to say something. It needs to be normal and casual.

“So you’ve been keeping up with me?” It comes out a little more flirtatious than he was hoping it would. Rozanov grins, delighted.

“You’re worth keeping up with.” His voice is low, and the words still send a shiver of something up Shane’s spine.

Agan, what the fuck?

“Wish I could say the same,” Shane matches Rozanov’s tone, but smiles so the man knows he’s joking, “I mean, who even won those last two Cups? Was it Philly?”

Rozanov gasps, eyes alight, “All that time in America has made you mean, Hollander. What happened to nice Canadian boy?”

It’s Shane’s turn to smirk. “He was boring.”

Bantering with Rozanov is easy in a way that nobody else has ever come close to matching. It’s thrilling, and Shane hadn’t even realized how much he’s been missing it. He makes a rash, split second decision: he needs to keep this. 

Ilya Rozanov moves from one category to another. Hockey things that are good. This is good. This is fun. 

Shane breathes softly, and lets his eyes rest briefly on Rozanov’s lips, before tearing his gaze away. Rozanov looks almost disappointed. Then, Shane reaches an arm forward, into the inner pocket of Rozanov’s suit jacket. The man’s breath visibly hitches. His eyes go wide and his mouth parts, just a little. Shane grabs Rozanov’s phone from an inner pocket, and clicks it on. Unlocked. Stupid, maybe.

He navigates to the contacts app, and inputs his number. He smiles a little to himself, and types in the contact name: Boring. 

“I have to go convince rich idiots to give away all their money,” he says, pressing Rozanov’s phone back into his chest. Rozanov’s hands come up to grab it, and their hands touch, and it’s so warm that Shane almost gives up on this whole plan to have restraint all together. “Text me.”

And then he turns on his heel and doesn’t look back, leaving before he has a chance to do something incredibly foolish like shove his tongue down Rozanov’s throat. Rozanov is still not out, as far as Shane is aware, and so making out with him in public at a charity gala would be an asshole move. It hadn’t seemed like Rozanov would have minded, though. 

Shane downs the rest of his champagne and shakes himself. He is a normal guy with a normal life and he isn’t going to think about his ex-rival situationship for at least the next three hours.

What happens once he’s home is anyone’s game.

Chapter 9: Ilya

Chapter Notes

HMMM changing it up a little for this chapter + the next one and then I promise we'll get back to our regularly scheduled program.

2012:

Ilya learns that Shane Hollander quit hockey through a fucking twitter post. He doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t believe the second post either. Or the third. It’s only when the ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer social media accounts get deactivated, and the Metros release their line makeups, that Ilya really believes. Even then, he wishes he didn’t. 

Ilya debates reach out. He could ask around for Hollander’s number, surely somebody would have it. 

He doesn’t know what he would even say. The idea of Hollander leaving hockey was just baffling. Ilya had never met someone who cared so much about the sport.

Boston’s first game of the regular season is against Montreal, and it’s some of the worst hockey Ilya’s played in his life. He keeps looking for Hollander on the ice, a strange lurch in his stomach when he remembers. Hollander will never be on the ice again. 

The media had asked Ilya about Hollander before the game. 

“How is your approach going to change this season, knowing that your rival, Shane Hollander, is out of the picture?”

“It will be even easier to beat Metros now. They will go home in tears every time we play.”

It had been a lie, Ilya’s response. In truth, Hollander’s abrupt, borderline mysterious departure from the league has thrown him more than he’d like to admit. During warmups before the third, Ilya skates up to the center line, near where Hayden Pike is standing. Pike and Hollander are friends, or at least they had been, Ilya thinks. Pike probably knows what’s going on with Hollander.

“Pike,” he calls out, and the Metro turns to him warily.

“What do you want, Rozanov?”

“Was just wondering, where is Hollander? Media has not said anything.” 

Privately, Ilya worries that Hollander had some sort of horrible, career ending injury. 

“Why do you care? It’s none of your fucking business.”

Which, honestly, fair. Only it is Ilya’s business because Hollander had been destined to be his career-long archrival, and also because they had spent two glorious nights making out and sucking each other off, and Ilya is quite disappointed that he won’t be getting to experience Hollander’s mouth for a third time.

“Just unexpected,” Ilya says instead of all that, “Hollander was last person you expect to drop. He is okay?”

Pike looks at Ilya like he’s grown a second head, frowning. “He’s fine. Now fuck off."

It’s about as much information as Ilya could have hoped for, and Marlow is looking at him funny from the blue line, so Ilya does what he’s told, and fucks off.

2013:

Ilya does his absolute best not to wonder about Hollander for most of the season. He throws his head into the game, and doesn’t dwell on the past, because that won’t get him anywhere. And then, cruelly, two days before Ilya has to return to Russia for the summer, Youtube recommends a video. Savannah Bananas Pitcher Shane Hollander: Best Walkups So Far. 

It can’t be. It cannot fucking be. It has to be a coincidence, because there is no way Hollander quit the NHL to play ridiculous baseball. 

It is. From the very first clip, Ilya knows that it is. He would recognize Hollander anywhere, even in this atrociously yellow baseball uniform. 

He looks different, but that probably makes sense. It’s been a year now, since Ilya had pushed him away on that rooftop in Vegas. 

He looks happier.

Ilya exits the video and goes straight to google. Shane Hollander. He curses himself for not thinking to search up Hollander before. He finds an instagram account. Fifty thousand followers. Would Hollander notice if Ilya was one of them? What if Ilya sent him a DM?

Best not to risk it. Ilya creates a burner account, and follows Hollander, and Hollander’s team, and, after some quick investigation, a few of the other players on the team who seem to be Hollander’s friends. The Savannah Bananas. What a stupid name. 

The more Ilya learns, the more he concludes that it’s a stupid fucking sport. Annoyingly, Hollander manages to look incredibly hot while doing it. 

Checking up on Hollander becomes a part of Ilya’s routine that summer. Wake up, brush teeth, log into the burner account. Like whatever Hollander has posted, if he’s posted. Usually it’s a workout routine or a restaurant in whatever city he’s playing in. Sometimes it’s reposts of games. It’s all irritatingly genuine. 

Ilya tells himself that it’s good sportsmanship. It’s nice of him to keep tabs on his former rival, make sure that Hollander is doing alright. If Ilya jerks off to images of Shane shirtless at the gym, or on a trail, or fully dressed on his couch with a big smile on his face and an arm draped around someone else, that is nobody’s business.

 

2014:

The Olympics is a shitshow of epic proportions, and the only good thing that comes out of it is that Ilya’s father states clearly that he never wants to see Ilya again. It stings, but it’s also freeing. Ilya hates the feeling of failure, but he loves the relief that comes from not having to feel quite so beholden to his family anymore. 

To really stick it to them, Ilya gets the Boston Raiders a Stanley Cup in his first year as captain. The youngest captain in the NHL, ever. Not that anybody is counting. Commentators talk about the Cup win like it’s the comeback of the century. Ilya holds the trophy above his head, thinking of his mother and his teammates. And then, traitorously, his brain wanders to Hollander. Ilya wonders if Hollander is proud of him. He wonders if he would still have this cup, if Hollander were around.

One of Hollander’s friends posts a series of images on instagram, all featuring Hollander at a table in some sort of restaurant, surrounded by napkins covered in scribbles. Play diagrams. He’s got a cute little pout on his face, the same way he did when facing off against Ilya. In the last picture, he notices the camera, and his face morphs into one of scrunched up annoyance. It’s cute. The caption, You can take the boy out of hockey, but you can’t take hockey out of the boy I guess. So “happy” I got to spend the night watching Shane go feral instead of getting laid.

So. Maybe Hollander is proud of him. It sends something like pride alight in Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya wins the Stanley Cup, and when he finally gets to sleep he dreams of Shane Hollander, because his mind hates him like that.

“Ilushka,” Svetlana says bluntly, plucking Ilya’s phone out of his hands, “enough is enough.”

It’s September and they’re at his Boston apartment, and Sveta had walked into his bedroom naked, clearly aiming for sex. Ilya had brushed her off to stalk Hollander’s stupid baseball team, because they’d played a game while he was sleeping and he now has three hours of content to watch.

“Sorry,” Ilya says, because as much as he has become irritatingly invested in Hollander’s life, he should be nicer to his best friend.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry, Ilya. This,” she waves a hand to indicate Ilya’s state: half dressed, in bed at two pm, watching Youtube using a sketchy VPN on his phone to get around Russian censors, “this is not normal.”

“Sveta,” Ilya says lowly, because she is clearly trying to restart an argument they’ve already had a dozen times over in the past few years.

“This is not how people react when their professional rivals change careers.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s not how people react when their hookups move on with their lives either.”

Sveta knows far more than she should, about Hollander. It had all come pouring out of Ilya after that first season without the man, aided by copious amounts of substances. 

“You don’t need to tell me it’s pathetic.”

“Don’t I? It’s been years. You’re still hung up on him. You barely knew him, even then. This isn’t healthy.”

Ilya sighs. “I know.”

Sveta flops down on the bed beside Ilya. “Have you ever…” she pauses, looking at him closely, “have you ever thought about reaching out?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not? You clearly still like him. Maybe he feels the same.”

“He doesn’t.”

Ilya has to believe that Hollander doesn’t. He can’t let any other version of the truth exist in his head, or he’ll start to spiral. Ilya turns in bed so that his back is to Sveta and tries to convince himself that he’s fine and that this is normal and that he can move on.

 

2015:

Moving on goes really great for a few months, and then Hollander starts dating some motherfucker named James. It starts with a drunken mirror selfie at new years, Hollander with his lips pressed into some guy’s jaw, the dude’s hands groping his ass. Ilya sees the post before Hollander sobers up enough to delete it. It sends a stab of something ugly and horrible right to Ilya’s core.

Apparently, it’s just him that’s hung up on those two nights and that year of competition. Apparently, what they had hadn’t been all that special. While Ilya mopes in bed and scrapes the internet for every scrap of Hollander he can find, Hollander is out here making out with random guys in club bathrooms and posting about it online like he doesn’t even care. Maybe he doesn’t. 

Hollander’s posts over the next few weeks make it clear that he doesn’t, actually. Mirror selfie guy is featured in a series of showy photo carousels, all cheek kisses and hand holding and artistically cropped shots of classy Montreal cafes. Even when Hollander goes back to the states as the baseball season starts, the posts only slow down. Whoever James is, he must have serious money for all the trips he makes to random American cities to watch Hollander play. Ilya follows him too, out of hate more than anything, and all he can think is that this man is not right for Hollander. No passion whatsoever. No spark. 

Watching Hollander’s relationship develop through social media makes Ilya angry because he’s an irrationally jealous asshole, but it also makes him angry because Hollander is out. Happier than he’d ever been playing hockey, probably. Ilya realizes that this is probably why Hollander left the NHL, or at least part of it, and he hates how much he hates that. 

It’s been years since the last time he’s played against Hollander. Years since he’s last kissed him. Today, Hollander has a hot boyfriend and a team he seems to like and a life he professes to love. Ilya has a Stanley Cup and an inescapable fear of someone finding out his biggest secret, kicking him off the Raiders and deporting him to Russia.

Hollander is winning. Fucker. 

Something has to change. Ilya needs to stop being so obsessed over something that is never going to happen, and fast.

 

The Boston Raiders win the cup for a second year in a row, and it’s easy. Ilya hates when things are easy. If Hollander were still with the Metros, there would have been a fight. The Metros might have even won. 

It would have been fun. Winning without any effort isn’t winning, it’s just going through the motions. Ilya needs more. He needs the fight, and the challenge, and to feel like he’s worked hard for his victories. Boston doesn’t offer that anymore.

 

Getting traded isn’t hard. Ilya walks into the GM’s office once the celebrations have died down, and slides a piece of paper across the desk wordlessly. The GM furrows his brow, picking up the document. It’s a notice that Ilya has waived his no-trade clause.

“What the fuck?” He asks, “Why would we trade you?”

“I’m bisexual,” Ilya says, because he doesn’t particularly want to come out but a part of him thinks that if his life goes to shit enough, maybe he’ll stop caring so much about Shane Hollander. Maybe if he makes himself miserable enough in whatever shithole Boston trades him to, he’ll stop wanting what he cannot have. Maybe he can finally move on.

“You’re joking.” The GM looks at him, begging for Ilya to laugh it off.

“I am not. I am interested in men as well as women, and I act on that interest regularly.” It’s not entirely true. Ilya hasn’t hooked up with anyone except Sveta in a while. When alone, though, Ilya hasn’t jerked off to thoughts of anyone but Hollander in even longer.

“Rozanov, why the fuck are you telling me this? You have something good here, and you want to just throw it all away?”

“I don’t know.” It’s honest. Ilya hates that it’s honest. He really just wants to want something that isn’t Shane Hollander. “I already told the team,” he adds, which is true as well. They had been shocked. Marlow had been good, and Ilya doesn’t really care as much about everyone else, but the reviews had certainly been mixed.

“Are you going to continue to act on your interests?” 

Ilya nods. “I am thinking I might come out publicly.” He isn’t. But the GM isn’t being as harsh as Ilya had expected, and so he puts the nail in his own coffin. He knows that there were easier ways to leave Boston. Better ways. Less self-destructive ways. 

But Ilya is going to be self-destructive, and this is a better outlet than the alternative. 

“Can I convince you not to?” 

“No.”

“Well I’m sorry, but I can’t justify keeping you. The brand, it just doesn’t… align. With that type of activity. You understand.”

“I waved my no-trade clause.” Ilya says in confirmation. He does understand. 

“When other teams ask why we’re looking to trade you…”

“You tell them whatever you want. I’m bi, or I’m unstable, or I’m unreliable. I don’t care.”

Ilya really should care.

He should, but he doesn’t.

Two days later Ilya is told to pack his things and move to Ottawa, because his life is a fucking cataclysmic joke and the universe hates him.

No better place to move on from Shane Hollander than on the worst team in the entire league, especially when that team is in Shane Hollander’s hometown. 

But Boston lets the world believe that the split was amicable, and Ilya had been looking for something to force him to get over his unhealthy obsession with Hollander, and maybe this will work. Maybe in Ottawa he can find some other hot guy to have a series of secret hookups with.

Maybe he can survive this.

Chapter 10: Love

Chapter Notes

Hope the last section wasn't too repetitive...... anyways get excited for the next chapter! Back to Shane's POV for the rest of the fic unless I feel like it.

Ilya can’t fucking survive this. He’s been in Ottawa for all of three weeks, and training camp starts soon, and everywhere he goes he thinks about Hollander. Did Hollander play in that park as a child? Does Hollander like this restaurant? What running trails would Hollander recommend? It’s absolutely horrible. Ilya is just consumed with thoughts of the man, and he can never do anything about them, because Hollander has a boyfriend. Because even if Hollander didn’t, he shouldn’t have to put up with Ilya and all his problems: his Russian citizenship, the league, the press.

A good step to take in finally moving on would be to delete his secret social media, but every time Ilya goes to do just that, he can’t. He’s too selfish to release the only link to Hollander he has. Ilya does cut back, however. He only lets himself catch up with Hollander every other day, and promises that he’ll switch to every third day once the preseason starts. He knows that it isn’t healthy, and probably borderline psychopathic, and yet quitting is the hardest thing Ilya’s ever had to do.

 

When training starts up, things get marginally better. The team is shit, like Boston was when Ilya first joined, and for the first time in years, Ilya has something to fight for. It’s a good distraction, and he throws himself into it. Zane Boodram is the captain, but the Centaurs give Ilya an A, and the whole locker room looks to him for guidance on a lot of things. He’s easily the best offensive player in the room. Wyatt Hayes is Ottawa’s new goalie, a trade from Toronto, and unlike Ilya, he didn’t see his move to Ottawa coming. 

Ilya doesn’t know what his teammates think of his trade, but he doesn’t really want to either. Most of the world seems to think that Ilya’s simply lost his mind. Maybe that’s true. Boston had traded him for much less than he was worth: a third line left wing, and some decent draft picks in the next few years. Ilya thinks that the Raiders probably took the first offer they received, eager to get Ilya off their hands before he did something stupid like kiss a man in public. Not that Ilya would. He needs to sort out his citizenship before he could even start thinking about actually coming out. There aren’t any queer players in the NHL, and Ilya probably could find a half decent woman with pretty freckles to settle down with and marry. He could come out after all that, and nobody would even really care, because he’d already be married.

Sometimes, Ilya still thinks about sending Hollander an instagram DM. He never does, but there are a thousand drafts in his notes app. Hi, and I love you, sorry if that’s weird, and do you ever think about the nights we shared? Most frighteningly, I miss you. They go unsent because if Hollander wanted to talk, he would. Ilya isn’t hard to find. 

By November, the distraction of whipping the Centaurs into shape is only enough to keep Ilya’s mind occupied when on the ice, or in a meeting. He only looks at Hollander’s social media once every two weeks. He only misses Hollander with every spare moment he has. He wonders if this is what insanity feels like. Hollander posts from the Montreal Biodome with Hayden Pike’s wife and kids, emojis over the children’s faces. Ilya looks at the Biodome hours to figure out if he could visit the next time he’s there. He can’t. 

It’s horrible how hard it is to let Hollander go. Ilya is fucking stalking the man online, obsessing over him like some creep, like he has no boundaries, like he doesn’t even care about Hollander as a person. He does. He cares so much. 

“You can’t keep living like this, Ilushka,” Svetlana says to him, voice soft. It’s two in the morning and Ilya is drunk on vodka and a little bit high from a joint he’d impulsively purchased after he had scored a hat trick and immediately wondered if Hollander was watching. He doesn’t remember calling her, but he must have, because she wouldn’t call him at this hour. “I’m worried about you. You’ve left all your friends, and you don’t go out, and…”

And Ilya has always been his mother’s son.

“I know, Sveta,” he whispers, and embarrassingly, he’s crying.  “I’m trying to stop. I am. I know it’s wrong. I just…”

“Hey,” Sveta says, voice firm, “it isn’t wrong. Okay? You’re in love with him. You can’t control that.”

“I-” Ilya wishes he could. He wishes he could stop loving the most unattainable person in the world. Not loving Shane Hollander would be horrible, but nothing can be worse than loving him like this. Alone.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Sveta says gently, “and you don’t have to feel guilty about it.”

“I do.”

“I noticed.” 

Ilya lets out a burst of air that might have been a laugh, if he had the energy to laugh at all.

“I’m okay, Sveta. I’m not about to…” He’s not about to follow in the family tradition of killing himself. Just the traditions of bad life decisions and self isolation and two in the morning vodka. Surely that counts for something.

“I wish-” Sveta stops herself, swallowing audibly, “I wish you had told me before going to the GM. We could have found you a way to get a fresh start without being so far away. Then I could be there with you, right now.”

“I’m not great company.”

“I don’t care.”

A beat. Ilya surveys the near-empty bottle of alcohol in his hand. He’s going to be regretting this in the morning.

“I should go to bed. Goodnight Sveta.”

“Goodnight Ilya,” Sveta says the words like a concession. “Take care of yourself? Let go of the guilt. You’re not a bad person for loving him.”

Ilya hangs up.

Ilya gets better in December. Bolstered by encouragement from Sveta, he stops viewing his feelings as a personal failure, instead acknowledging them for what they are: feelings. Feelings are fine, and natural, and normal, and Ilya realizes with no small amount of shock that under his stoic, slavic exterior, he actually has quite a few of them. Terry, the team doctor, points Ilya towards a therapist in the city, and Ilya puts her business card on his fridge for when he’s brave enough to make an appointment.

He comes out to a few team members, and it’s the first time he does it with people who he isn’t trying to sleep with, or the Raiders’ GM. But Hayes and Bood take it well, cracking jokes and making Ilya feel like maybe his life wouldn’t end if everyone knew. They ask him if he’s seeing anyone, and something must show on his face, because Wyatt raises an eyebrow at him.

“I am in love with him, but what we had, it was barely anything. Years ago. He has moved on.”

“Shit man, that sucks,” says Wyatt, and Zane nods.

“One of these days we’ll go out clubbing and find you a hot man to fuck, help you forget all about that guy.”

Ilya rolls his eyes fondly, because he really likes these guys, even if they do seem to think that Ilya hasn’t already tried fucking hot men - it just hasn’t worked. It’s fine though. Ilya has friends now, and they support him, and maybe having friends combined with pushing the Cens to victory will be enough. Maybe he’ll never stop loving Hollander, but maybe that love doesn’t have to be a death sentence.

Ilya goes to the Ottawa Children’s Hospital Gala because he’s started getting involved with a local youth mental health organization, and he’s a professional hockey player, and so why wouldn’t he? The charity stuff is new; Ilya used to be the type to spend his spare change on fast cars and substances, and the shift to spending his money helping people is good. The Canadian Center for Mental Health and Sport had been more than happy to have Ilya on board, and he’s eager to do more to help than just write checks. He’s been to a few schools to talk about mental health, and is working to develop a guidebook for youth coaches. It’s good. It’s improvement.

He still hasn’t called that therapist, but baby steps.

At this particular gala, Ilya doesn’t have anything to do but write checks, and he’s looking forward to that too. He puts on a shear white button up and his maroon suit, a look that Wyatt calls his “slutted up fit”, which is really fucking stupid but not inaccurate. He doesn’t wear a tie because ties feel too much like nooses sometimes.

Ilya doesn’t notice Hollander until all the fancy speeches are over and the uppity mingling portion of the evening has begun. It’s a miracle he didn’t notice the man instantly. Hollander sports a hideous yellow tie and dorky matching shoelaces and a confident little smile. 

Ilya promptly goes to the bathroom to dry heave into a surprisingly clear toilet. He had no idea Hollander would be here. He had no idea Hollander was even in Ottawa. As far as Ilya is aware, Hollander always spends his winters in Montreal, making only a handful of trips to Ottawa each year. Hollander hasn’t posted anything about this, and so Ilya had assumed that he would be spending his off season in Montreal, with maybe one trip to LA to visit Rose Landry like he had last year. Because of course Hollander is best friends with a hot actress, on top of all  his other successes.

Hollander had been standing near one of the silent auction items, and Ilya tries desperately to remember the speeches he hadn’t been listening to, eventually distantly recalling how the announcer guy had, in fact, talked about an all-inclusive trip to see a baseball game. 

Ilya takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can be normal. People encounter people they’re in love with all the time.

He drinks water straight from the bathroom sink and swishes out his mouth, before returning to the hall.

Hollander looks fucking delicious in his suit, ridiculous tie be damned. The sleeves hug his arms just right, and Ilya lets his mind wander to the kind of exercises Hollander probably does to keep up his reputation as one of the best pitchers in his sport. He’s confident, too. Social media hadn’t done Shane Hollander justice, because he’s talking to some old lady and she’s practically eating out of the palm of his hand. Holy shit, it’s hot. Hollander is nothing like that scared boy from the draft, or even from the NHL awards when he won the Calder. He holds himself differently in a way that might just come from age, but Ilya suspects it’s more than that. It’s freedom.

Ilya is trying not to stare, and failing miserably. The lady Hollander is talking to signs a piece of paper, and once she’s gone, Hollander looks up. Their eyes lock.

Oh. there you are.

Ilya had forgotten how stunning Hollander’s eyes are. He has to see them up close. He has to be smart. He has to be normal. Ilya reminds himself that Hollander probably is still dating Mirror Selfie James. He doesn't have to punish himself for loving Hollander, but he can’t make Hollander uncomfortable either. It’s a fine line. Ilya aims for a casual, neutral interaction. Two people who used to know each other, catching up.

He finds Shane in a corner away from the crowds. The air is still, and the noise falls away, and Shane Hollander is close enough that Ilya could kiss him, if he were a weaker man.

“Shane Hollander,” he says Shane’s name with the reverence it deserves. Shane stares at him, mouth parted just a little bit. Surprised, maybe, that Ilya sought him out. Ilya needs to say something else, to make it clear that this is a casual, neutral conversation. “Hockey is much less fun without you.” Fuck. Nope. Way too strong. Shane won’t like that. Shane will leave. Shane will never talk to him again. 

“Oh,” Shane says, and it’s awkward, and that is all Ilya’s fault. “Sorry.”

Ilya never wants Shane to be sorry for anything ever again. “No you aren’t,” he says, because they’ve done this particular conversation before, and they both know the beats, and it was fun last time.

Shane laughs and it’s the most beautiful sound Ilya has ever heard. “No, I’m not.” Good.

Ilya capitalizes on his success, going in for a second joke. “You used to be so boring, Hollander,” he says fondly, leaning back to show how neutral and casual he can be about this, “Now I see you everywhere, dancing on the internet.” Maybe not everywhere, for most people, but Ilya has his algorithm trained. “I think, ah, he will not be so boring anymore. But you are! Shane Hollander will always find a way.” That felt too flirtatious again. Fuck. Ilya swings back into less dangerous waters with a low effort chirp,  “Baseball, really?”

“So you’ve been keeping up with me?” Shane asks, and it sounds like Shane is the one flirting. It’s kind of incredible, even if he isn’t. Ilya can’t help himself, grinning.

“You’re worth keeping up with,” he says genuinely, voice lowering.

“Wish I could say the same,” Shane replies, and it sends a pang of sadness through Ilya’s heart. Shane doesn’t care, Shane hasn’t- Shane is smiling.

Oh. Oh this is a joke. 

“I mean, who even won those last two Cups? Was it Philly?”

A small gasp escapes Ilya’s mouth, and he scrambles for a joke to respond. “All that time in America has made you mean, Hollander. What happened to nice Canadian boy?” It isn’t proper English grammar but Shane doesn’t seem to care, smirking with a confidence Ilya has never seen on him.

“He was boring.”

Ilya really wants fuck this new version of Shane Hollander. Or hold him. Or just keep doing this, talking, whatever. Forever.

And then Shane is reaching forward, and Ilya could swear the man wants to kiss him too, eyes locked on his lips. Instead, Shane’s warm hand finds its way into Ilya’s jacket, fumbling with the inner pocket. Ilya can’t breathe. Shane is touching him, for the first time in years. Every graze of Shane’s finders through Ilya’s thin shirt sends a spark of something amazing right through his body. He wishes that Shane would kiss him. Instead, Shane pulls out Ilya’s phone, typing for a moment. 

Ilya doesn’t blink, in case this is all an apparition, about to disappear. Then Shane presses the phone back into Ilya’s chest, all soft pressure.

“I have to go convince rich idiots to give away all their money,” he says with a small smile. Ilya covers Shane’s hand with his own, desperate to hand onto the contact for as long as he can. “Text me.”

And then Shane is gone and Ilya heaves in a lungful of air, leaning on the wall to support himself. 

He’s doomed. Two minutes of conversation with Shane and Ilya’s done. There is no one else. There hasn’t been, in a long time, but fuck. Ilya hadn’t even remembered the half of it. The push and pull, the give and take. It’s everything.

Ilya’s eyes linger on where Shane used to be, clutching his phone to his chest like it’s solid gold, because that’s what it feels like. He doesn’t know if Shane wants friendship, or more, or if he was just being polite, but Ilya will take whatever he can get. He will take Shane’s friendship over checking up on him online. Ilya will take having Shane’s phone number over not having it, even if Shane never so much as looks at the texts Ilya sends him.

Because Ilya will text. How could he not?

Chapter 11: Subtext

Chapter Notes

I'm really sorry that this is mostly texting and it isn't formatted all pretty. I am but a humble humanities student and I very much Do Not Understand. So.

February

Shane gets home from the gala, his phone buzzing in his pocket as he steps into his bedroom. He whips his phone out of his pocket embarrassingly fast. 

Unknown: Just in case you want to catch up on what you missed

Unknown: <BOS @ EDM 2014 Stanley Cup Final>

Unknown: <WATCH: Ilya Rozanov’s 2015 Stanley Cup Campaign Goals Compilation>

Unknown: <Rozanov’s Best Fights 2012-2015 (Boston Raiders)>

Shane laughs to himself, pleased. Ilya hadn’t wasted any time in texting. Good. He lies down on his bed and smiles at his phone, briefly clicking through the links. He’s already seen all three videos, but Ilya doesn’t need to know that. He feels a little bit like a teenage girl, practically giggling and batting his eyelids at the screen. The things that Ilya Rozanov still does to him, all these years later.

Shane: So you just had those ready to go?

Ilya: And many others. I send you only the best )))

Shane: Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night

 

They don’t text again for a week. Shane doesn’t overthink it. He doesn’t let himself. He just needs the perfect opportunity to talk to Ilya again, and the man hands it over on a silver platter.

A post-game interview. Ilya, shirtless and sweaty, curls rumpled

“How would you describe your team’s performance during the third period? Was it a surprise when you were able to pull off a win against Minnesota?” A peppy sounding reporter asks.

Ilya smiles, all charm. He runs a hand through his hair. “No, is not surprising. This is a good team. Much better than Minnesota. We came hard today, and I am very proud of the whole team.”

It’s probably just Ilya’s English slipping after a long day of travel and a grueling game of hockey, but Shane can’t resist. He finds the interview online an hour later, clipping it so there’s only the segment of Ilya saying “we came hard today.”

Shane: Slip of the tongue???

Shane: <CLIP> 

He gets a response an hour later.

Ilya: I don’t like mean Shane Hollander

Ilya: Making fun of me for my second language

Ilya: So inconsiderate

Shane reacts to the last message with the thumbs down emoji.

 

Ilya gets revenge two days later, sending Shane a Bananas video that has gone annoyingly viral. In it, Ty is singing the latest Taylor Swift song, with Shane, Smitty, and a center-fielder named JP as glorified backup dancers. The game the video was shot at was way back in August, but it’s been making the rounds.

Ilya: <Savannah Bananas Perform Bad Blood LIVE in Nashville>

Ilya: You should do this again. Very impressive. Singer guy is hot too.

Ilya: Oh and I saw very smart comment

Ilya: [Youtube video comment, screenshotted. “OKAY was anyone going to tell me that THIS is where 2011/12 rookie of the year Shane Hollander disappeared to??? Holy shit I might have to start caring about baseball”]

Shane ignores the comment, because it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. 

Shane: Singer guy is my best friend 

Then he throws caution to the wind, testing the waters a little.

Shane: We hooked up once. Wasn’t bad.

Shane: I could get him your number

The response comes in a minute later.

Ilya: Sorry I’m only interested in good athletes

Ilya: He is hot but his batting average is not

Ilya: Looked it up

 

March

Shane: Pay attention to your ankles. You were looking unstable on the sharp turns tonight. Aim for a bit more of an angle and you’ll probably be able to make them tighter. I see it all the time with the kids at work.

Ilya: Didn’t know you were my coach too

Shane: You’re welcome :)

 

Ilya: Hollander did you catch my game? Scored 2 times against your buddy Pike.

Ilya: Montreal’s 14th best player doesn’t stand a chance against me

Shane: 14th? LOL

Ilya: Would be 15th but you’re not there

Shane: Hayden leads the team in assists

Ilya: And???

 

April

Ilya: Holanderr

Ilya: Holandr

Ilya: SHANE

Ilya: look at ur textsss

Ilya: I just had horirible sex and i wanna complain about it

Ilya: ZEOR freckles. ZERO :((((

Ilya: don even know how it happend

Ilya: was out with the guys n next thing i know shes suckin me off in the alley and it wasnt even goooood

Ilya: youre so much better than her

Ilya: prettier tooooo

Ilya: if you sucked me off in the alley i wouldnt be saddddd

Ilya: fuck how do i deletet tjat i gotta be chillll

 

Shane: So how is that hangover feeling?

Ilya: Might be dead already

Ilya: Should have known the Cens would go hard now we’re out of the playoffs

Ilya: Sorry

Shane: Don’t even worry about it

Shane’s worrying about it. Shane’s worrying really fucking hard about it. Those texts, drunk or not, had very heavily implied that Ilya was looking for a repeat of their nights together from rookie year. 

 

May

Ilya: Hollander I am going to ask stupid question and you can just ignore if you want

Ilya: ^^Question is not stupid. Asking it is

Ilya: Why did you quit?

Shane leaves Ilya on read for three days. When he finally writes back, it’s in an Applebees in Kentucky with Ty staring over his shoulder.

Shane: Hiding wasn’t going well. I was scared all the time that people would find out I’m gay. Paranoid I guess. And I didn’t want the league to make me into something I’m not. I love hockey, and I never haven’t loved hockey, but the rest of it

Shane: Locker room bullshit and stupid brand deals and all the media pressure

Shane: I felt like I couldn’t breathe

Shane: Why did you leave Boston? And why Ottawa of all places

Ilya: Wanted a challenge again. Hockey is no fun when even the other team thinks you’re going to win. 

Ilya: But I didn’t choose Ott. Talked to Raiders GM and waived my no-trade and they took the first offer they got

Shane: Actually? WTF you were their best player and you had just gotten them 2 cups

Ilya: I came out to them. They wanted me gone fast before I could cause problems

Shane: Why is hockey full of assholes

 

June

Shane: If you’re ever in Detroit, don’t hook up with a guy with an anchor tattoo on his neck and a nose ring

Ilya: ???

Shane: Gave this idiot the best bj of his life and he was like

Shane: Thanks bro. See you.

Shane: AND THEN HE JUST LEFT

Ilya: LOLLLLL

Shane: Don’t laugh I’m pissed

Shane: Everyone knows you don’t leave until everyone gets off

Shane: That's like basic etiquette 

Ilya: Hollander he had an anchor tattoo what were you expecting

Ilya: Raise your standards

Shane: Ughhh you sound like Ty

Ilya: That’s the hot one? Who you hooked up with? Maybe he’s trying to get with you

Shane: Ew, no and it was one time. My ex is much more his type anyway

Ilya: Your ex?

Shane: We dated for like six months. Broke up last summer

Ilya: Ok.

 

July

“Shane! It’s been too fucking long dude.” Hayden says, wrapping Shane in a hug and ushering him into the house. Somewhere upstairs, Children giggle, getting ready for bed. 

“It’s good to see you, man.”

“How’s your season treating you?”

“Good, good. Definitely needed this break though. Thanks for having me over.”

“Hey, no problem at all. And Jackie is thrilled to have you in the guest room too.”

“Because of me? Or because Rose is in town and planning to come to dinner tomorrow?”

“It can be both, Shane.” 

Shane laughs, heading to the familiar guest room and dropping his duffel on the bed without ceremony while Hayden helps Jackie put the kids to bed.

The three adults then gather in the living room, putting some oddly compelling real estate show on in the background as they catch up on anything and everything. Hayden passes Shane a beer, and then another beer, and then another. Jackie turns in for the night, and Hayden brings out a bottle of rum.

“What are we, Hayd? Pirates?”

“Fuck off. It’s good.”

Shane doesn’t love to get super drunk, especially considering he still has half a season to play after the break, but it’s one night. Odds are, for the rest of this trip he’ll be the designated driver for Hayden and JJ, maybe Rose. He can let loose for one night.

“Can I tell you a secret that you can’t ever tell anyone for any reason?” Shane says, some unknowable number of shots later. 

“Fuck yes you can,” Hayden replies eagerly.

They’re playing Smash Bros, and Shane pauses the game.

“I’m serious. Nobody can know.”

“I got you, dude.”

“Okay,” Shane says, convinced. He grins. This information is going to rock Hayden’s world. “So you remember when I was still playing hockey, and the league made a whole thing of pitting me up against Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yeah?”

“We sort of maybe kind of hooked up.” Shane says it with a grin, and relishes in the way Hayden’s eyes widen, jaw dropping. “Twice.” He adds for good measure.

“No fucking way,” Hayden says.

“Way.”

“No fucking way.”

“Before the season even started at some shoot, and then again at All Stars.”

“Holy fuck.” Hayden stares into space. “Wait,” he says eventually, “is this why he grilled me about you that one time?”

“What?”

“Our first game against Boston after you left. Rozanov comes up to me and asks all these questions. If you were okay or whatever.”

“What did you say?”

“Told him you were fine and to fuck off.”

Shane laughs. 

“Is Roz like,” Hayden frowns, “gay, gay? Or just gay for you? Cause either way, I haven’t heard many stories about him picking up in like years, bro.”

“He’s bi. And again,” the sober, smart part of Shane’s brain kicks in for a moment, “you can’t tell anyone about this. He’s not ready for people to know. I just…”

“You just cursed me with this perfect chirping material that I can never ever use.”

“Yeah.”

“I have to play against that guy in a few months.”

“Yeah.”

Shane has honestly tuned out of the conversation. Ilya had checked up on him. Ilya had worried. Ilya had gone so far as to ask Shane’s friends if he was doing okay. He hadn’t stopped caring.

 

August

Ilya: [Picture of a sunset over the New York skyline] 

Ilya: Reminded me of you

Shane: Why?

Ilya: Very pretty )))

 

Shane: [Screenshot of the weather app, showing the day’s high as 34 degrees Celsius]

Shane: [Picture of Shane in his uniform at a baseball diamond. Zero sun coverage, no clouds in the sky. Shane is drenched in sweat.]

Shane: Reminded me of you

Ilya: Because it’s so hot???

Shane: Unbearable, even

Ilya: ;)))

 

September

Ilya: <Savannah Bananas Line Dance Their Way off the Pitch for the last time in the 2016 Season>

Ilya: Congratulations. You’re time in the weird baseball cult is over

Shane: As though I’m not already signed to go back next season

Shane: And it’s not a cult

Ilya: Sure

 

Shane: Back in Ottawa

Shane: So bored until work starts up again next month

Shane: If only I had a pre-season Cens game to go to…

Ilya: Ahh. Might be hard to get tickets. Cens are such a good team now, even pre-season games will be packed. First one is only 3 weeks away you know

Shane: You didn’t even make the playoffs???

Ilya: Fuck you

Ilya: <TICKETS>

Ilya: Use my seats. Bring a friend if you want. Much nicer than regular, and free drinks :)))

Shane: You’re sure?

Ilya: Nobody else is going to

Ilya: Maybe we can hang out? Is an afternoon game, so after? Or another day? 

Ilya: Or not

Ilya: No pressure

Shane: I would like that

Ilya: 👍

Chapter 12: Finally

Chapter Notes

High-key this chapter is just mediocre smut 👀👀👀👀👀 oh well.

Shane buys a Rozanov jersey. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He’s trying to be normal about Ilya, and only flirting when Ilya starts it, not wanting to show just how embarrassingly desperate he really is. He uses Ilya’s personal seats, and he doesn’t bring a friend, and he isn’t sure if he’s going to get laid tonight or not. It’s been a while since he’s last had sex, but Shane actually likes Ilya. He likes Ilya too much, for what they are - friends who hooked up years ago, and now mostly text. If that is all Ilya wants them to be, and then they sleep together, Shane is never going to be able to get over it. Fucking Ilya might make everything better, but it might make everything worse, and so Shane decides that he won’t worry about it until after the game. Whatever happens will happen.

Ilya isn’t on the ice for long, because pre-season games aren’t really about winning, just trying out different line combinations and seeing which call-ups are going to be sticking around. Still, Shane manages to find Ilya’s eyes a handful of times. Ilya scores a goal, and looks straight at Shane. The air is electric. Shane should not be this turned on by Ilya being a skilled hockey player, but he is. He always has been.

Two hours after the game, Shane gets a text.

Ilya: You did not bring a friend

Shane: Nope

Ilya: 1258 Embrum Place

Ilya: If you still want to meet up

Shane plugs the address into his phone. It isn’t far from his apartment. A twenty minute drive.

Shane: I can be there in an hour?

Ilya: I’ll be here ))))

Shane all but runs to the shower. He doesn’t have eons of time, but he can get everything done, if he’s quick. Maybe this is presumptuous. Maybe Ilya doesn’t want to fuck, and they will just hang out. But maybe Ilya Rozanov will finally fuck him, and if that’s the case, Shane wants to be ready. Whatever happens will happen.

He pulls into Ilya’s driveway fifty-seven minutes later. Heart beating fast. It’s a really nice house. Shane knows that he missed out on serious cash but quitting the NHL, but this small mansion really highlights that fact, especially in comparison to Shane’s own apartment.

Shane dries his palms on his pants and inspects himself in the rearview mirror. His hair looks good, there’s nothing in his teeth. He isn’t wearing the jersey anymore, having traded it for a bomber jacket over a white tshirt, coupled with tight black jeans. He looks good. Shane knows he looks good. If Ilya is on the fence about fucking him, hopefully this will push him over the edge.

A vibration in his pocket.

Ilya: Are you going to sit in your car forever

Shane looks up, and sure enough, there is Ilya. Standing on the other side of large glass windows, grinning. Rolling his eyes with a smile on his face, Shane gets out of the car. He brought a bag, but he leaves it in the back seat. Whatever happens, it will happen.

This is a bad idea. Shane is a whole ass adult, and he knows all about impulsive sex, and somehow this is both the most and least impulsive thing he’s ever done. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he doesn’t really care. He plays entertainment baseball for a living, and so he’s no stranger to making a fool of himself. Might as well have some fun before regretting everything.

Shane shakes himself. Taking the stairs up to the door two at a time. What happens will happen. What happens will happen. What happens-

The door swings open before Shane can knock. It’s the first time he’s seen Ilya in person since the gala, and the first time they’ve been alone together since the Vegas rooftop. 

Shane’s heart stutters in his chest. 

Ilya is wearing a tight tank top and sweats, and Shane wants to touch him. 

“Hi,” Ilya says softly.

“Hi,” Shane replies, walking over the threshold. He toes off his shoes. The door closes behind him.

Ilya’s eyes flick down to Shane’s mouth and back up again. 

“Thanks for the ticket,” Shane says, talking a half step closer to Ilya, who doesn’t move. “I had a great view.”

“No need to thank me,” Ilya says, breathing slowly. Shane steps closer. They’re almost touching. “I wanted you there.”

Shane swallows thickly. What happens will happen, but he definitely knows what he wants to happen.

He puts a hand on Ilya’s bicep, walking forward and pushing the man until his back is up against one of those fancy windows. Ilya’s pupils are blown wide, his mouth parted slightly. He watches Shane intently. 

Shane leans in, their mouths an inch apart. He feels Ilya’s breath on his lips. “Don’t know if you noticed,” Shane murmurs, sly smile on his face, “but I wore your jersey.”

“Oh I noticed.”

And then Ilya lurches forward. Hands coming to Shane’s face, pulling him in.

Their mouths meet and it’s so incredibly perfect. Shane wraps an arm around, holding on to the back of Ilya’s neck, pressing him in closer and deepening the kiss. 

It’s everything. 

Their tongues meet in Shane’s mouth, and he relishes in the taste of Ilya. It’s sweet, and comforting, and there’s a lot less nicotine than last time. 

Ilya spins them around so that Shane is the one with his back up against the glass, and Shane moans into the kiss. 

The give and take. The push and pull. 

Shane’s fucking missed this.

One of Ilya’s hands starts fumbling at Shane’s half-hard dick through his pants, and Shane pushes him away.

Ilya backs off immediately, his gaze darting across Shane’s face. Concerned. “Sorry, Hollander, I thought you wanted- we do not have to-”

“Shut up,” Shane whispers, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s jaw, “of course I fucking want.” He presses another kiss to the hollow of Ilya’s throat. “But I’m going to come so fast if you touch me like that,” he licks a stripe up Ilya’s neck. Ilya shudders, hands gripping Shane’s waist tightly. “And I want you to fuck me first.”

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans, leaning his head into Shane’s chest, “this is the most perfect thing you have ever said to me.”

Shane laughs, already feeling a bit delirious. “Show me your bedroom.”

Ilya kisses him once more, and it’s absolutely filthy. In the span of the thirty seconds it takes them to reach Ilya’s bedroom, Shane manages to lose all of his clothes, and once the bed is in sight, Ilya pushes him down onto it. 

They pause like that, just staring at each other. Shane, naked, sprawled out on Ilya’s bed. Ilya shucks off the rest of his clothes, his dick hard. Shane wants to suck him off, now. He goes to move, but Ilya presses a hand against his shoulder, keeping him on the bed.

“What?” Shane asks breathlessly, grin still splitting his face.

“Patience, Hollander. I need to look at you first.”

“You are looking at me.”

“I need to look more.”

Shane rolls his eyes but complies, stretching his hands behind his head and allowing Ilya to take him in. It’s a strange sensation, but Shane can’t get enough of it. 

After a moment of silence, Ilya crawls onto the bed, right on top of Shane. The heat ripples between their bodies. They’re almost touching, and it’s so close to being everything Shane needs. Ilya tilts his head, sinking his teeth into Shane’s arm. The sharp pains feel fantastic, combined with the arousal pooling in his abdomen. Ilya groans, and releases Shane’s flesh.

“Love your fucking arms. Baseball is wonderful sport.”

“Literally a week ago you said it was the most boring sport ever.”

“Hmm, that was then.”

“Sure.”

Shane pushes a hand through Ilya’s hair, guiding their mouths together again. Kissing Ilya doesn’t lose its novelty. Shane thinks that he could do this for the rest of his life and die happy. 

Every touch of Ilya's hands against Shane's skin feels like an intimate form of worship.

After a few minutes of making out, one of Ilya’s warm fingers makes its way to rub at Shane’s hole. 

“You meant it? You want?”

“Fuck yes. Been wanting it for years,” Shane admits, and he stills for a fraction of a second, wondering if he pushed too far. If that was too much to confess. In response, however, Ilya curses out something in Russian. Shane doesn’t understand, but he gets the sentiment. It’s hot.

Ilya’s hand is gone, and a drawer opens, and when the hand returns, it’s accompanied by the cool slide of lube. Shane sighs happily, pushing up into Ilya’s fingers.

“You are going to destroy me, Hollander,” Ilya mutters as Shane easily takes a second, and then a third digit. 

A condom wrapper tears, and then Ilya is right there, the head of his cock resting just away from where Shane wants it.

“Come on, Rozanov,” Shane whines, and he would feel embarrassed if he wasn’t so far gone.

“Fuck, yes, okay. Tell me if it’s too much, yes?” 

Shane nods eagerly, anything to get Ilya in him right fucking now. 

Ilya sinks in slowly, and Shane feels his body melt into the bed. His knees come up to his shoulders, and he holds them there so Ilya can get the best angle.

“God, Shane,” Ilya gasps, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

The pace picks up, and Shane’s untouched dick twitches with every thrust. 

“Fuck, harder, please. I can take it.” It’s more a whimper than anything by the end, but Ilya gets the memo.

One of Ilya’s hands comes up, squeezing at Shane’s pec. His mouth latches onto Shane’s, sucking and biting at his bottom lip. 

Shane’s whole body is alight, nearly overwhelmed with pleasure. He is so full, and Ilya is everywhere, and that’s exactly where Shane wants him.

Shane’s muscles tense, and his hands grab desperately at the sheets, and he feels his orgasm coming before it hits. 

“Ilya, holy shit, I’m coming, I’m-”

Shane’s never come untouched like this before. He’s gotten close, but he’s always needed something else to get him over the finish line. It feels incredible. 

Ilya pumps his hips a few more times before stilling, and Shane feels as cum fills the condom in his ass. He wishes they could stay like this, but he knows they can’t. Still, Shane makes a move to grab at Ilya as he carefully pulls out.

“I’ll be right back,” Ilya promises, and Shane acquiesces, letting him go. 

 

True to his word, Ilya is back a minute later, warm cloth in hand. He wipes the sum off Shane’s chest, and the lube off his ass, and then he tosses the cloth into a laundry basket across the room and collapses next to Shane on the mattress. 

“You are okay?” he asks, and Shane huffs out a laugh.

“I’m fantastic. God, Ilya, that was so good.”

“Yes, I thought so too. Especially the part where I made you come untouched.”

Shane shakes his head fondly, propping himself up on an elbow to get a proper look at Ilya’s face.

“I think it was worth the wait,” he says sincerely, voice quieter than it had been a moment ago.

Ilya looks at Shane, a genuine smile on his lips. “You better not make me wait another five years before next time.”

“Oh,” Shane jokes, “well there goes my plan.”

Ilya blows a raspberry at him. “Wow. Shane Hollander is even mean to me after I give him the best sex of his life.”

“You’ll live.”

“I will.”

 

Soft silence. The evening sun streams in through half-closed curtains. 

“Are you hungry?” Ilya asks. The question takes Shane by surprise, but when he thinks about it, he realizes that he is.

“I could eat.”

“Shower with me?” Ilya offers, “And then I will cook.”

Showering with Ilya sounds like a great opportunity for Shane to finally get his mouth on the other man’s dick, and so he agrees easily.

 

If Ilya isn’t prepared to do this at every possible moment for the rest of time, Shane is fucking screwed. Ilya is a drug, and after years of resisting its pull, Shane is addicted. 

Right now, he isn’t even upset about it.

Chapter 13: After

Chapter Notes

last chapter for a while cause I'm going to another province to visit friends for a week but should be more tues/wednesday!!!

Shane wakes up with a warm arm around his bare torso and sunlight hitting his face. He rolls slightly so that he can see Ilya properly, and is surprised to see him awake. Ilya makes a little face, as though embarrassed to be caught staring, but Shane just smiles softly.

“Morning,” he murmurs, tracing one hand down the line of Ilya’s jaw.

“Hi,” Ilya responds, leaning into the touch.

“You’re really beautiful,” the words slip from Shane’s mouth before his mind wakes up enough to stop them, and he feels himself go red.

Ilya doesn’t seem to care, and leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s lips. It might be the first kiss they’ve shared that doesn’t just feel like a lead up to more. 

Shane lets himself bask in the pleasant calmness of the morning for a while, but he eventually forces himself to get up. Ilya makes breakfast while Shane hunts down his clothes, still strewn around the house. He’s not nearly as freaked out as he was expecting to be. Maybe it’s because he’s changed, since the last time he and Ilya hooked up. Maybe it’s because Ilya’s changed too. Maybe it’s because they actually know each other now, as people. Whatever the reason, Shane is grateful. It wouldn’t exactly endear him to Ilya if he had a panic attack.

They sit beside each other at Ilya’s kitchen island, legs knocking together. Shane eats eggs and sausages and a piece of whole grain toast.  

Ilya breaks the silence as Shane moves to clean his plate.

“This was fun, yes? Nice?”

Shane turns back around, and he notices that Ilya seems almost nervous. “Of course.”

“I was thinking,” Ilya continues, “I am in Ottawa most of the time. You are here for the winter. Maybe we do this again? Regularly, I mean.”

Shane is pretty sure this is Ilya formally asking to be friends with benefits. It’s an appealing idea - he would get Ilya frequently, even if it didn’t mean the same thing to both of them. 

“I’d like that,” Shane replies, walking back around to where Ilya is seated. “We’re in the same city, we clearly like each other,” he pauses, trying to find a way to say this that sounds nice and normal and not like he’s desperately in love, “my work hours are pretty flexible, since I have seniority. It won’t be hard to find time to meet.”

“What are you doing this Tuesday?” Ilya asks. It’s Sunday. Ilya wants to see him again in forty-eight hours. Shane tries to restrain his glee.

“Nothing much. Lunch with my dad, but other than that I’m free.”

“I would like it very much if we could do this again, on Tuesday.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Shane drives away from Ilya’s and forces himself to remember that this isn’t what his heart wants it to be. They aren’t boyfriends. They aren’t dating. They can’t be, because Ilya is still closeted, and Ilya doesn’t love him. Shane is just a safe way for Ilya to get his fix of fucking men, and as long as they’re both on the same page about it, it’s fine. Shane promises himself that he will never pressure Ilya into anything more. He won’t ask the man to be official, or to come out, or to tell anyone about them, because Shane remembers just how horrible being closeted in the NHL was. He won’t do anything to make that harder for Ilya, because at the end of the day he just wants Ilya to be happy.

 

By December, they’re hooking up every few days when Ilya is in town. Far too much for people in a casual, friends with benefits arrangement. Shane looks at Ilya’s calendar one day and discovers that every free night Ilya’s had in the past two weeks has been spent with Shane in his bed. Meaning that unless Ilya is inventing new hours of the day, he hasn’t had time to sleep with anyone else. 

It shouldn’t please Shane as much as it does. He has no reason to feel like this. He has no ownership over Ilya, and Ilya is free to fuck whoever he wants. And yet.

“You’ve been busier this winter,” Yuna observes over Christmass dinner, “I feel like even when you were in Montreal you had more time for us.”

“Sorry,” Shane says genuinely, “But between the supervisory role at the rink, and trips to Quebec to see Hayden and Jackie and their kids, I haven’t had as much time.”

“There’s nothing else going on?”

Shane should tell her, but he doesn’t really know what to say. Oh yeah, and I started hooking up with my old hockey rival, Ilya Rozanov? Remember him? You hated him for years and now he plays here.

Because that would go over so well. He can say something, maybe. Tell half the story.

“Don’t get too excited,” Shane prefaces, before immediately watching both his parents get way too excited. “I’m sort of seeing someone.”

“Oh honey!”

“That’s fantastic Shane,” the sentiments overlap, and Shane smiles a little to himself. It’s a long way from where they’d been a few years ago, Shane hiding his sexuality and leaving them in the dark for fear of how they’d take it.

“It’s nothing serious,” Shane says quickly, “we’re not, like dating or anything. But we have been, uh, together, a few times a week for the past bit.” 

Nobody ever prepared Shane for attempting to explain the concept of a fuck buddy to his parents.

“Still,” David says, “it’s good to hear that you have someone. We don’t want you to be lonely out here. I know you have more friends in Montreal, but it really is nice having you so close to home.”

“What’s his name?” Yuna asks, heading straight for the questions Shane can’t answer, “How did you meet?”

“We actually met years ago, but we reconnected about a year ago,” Shane almost regrets saying anything, but it is nice to be able to talk about Ilya, even like this. “I was in the states, obviously, but we’d text all the time. And then when I got back to Ottawa, we started hanging out in person.”

Yuna raises an eyebrow, as though to remind Shane that he didn’t answer the first part of the question. Shane ignores her. 

David, sensing the beginnings of tension, steps in. “And you like him? He’s good to you?”

“Yeah,” Shane says easily, “I feel like myself with him.”

His parents share a look that Shane can’t quite decipher. He hopes it’s good. He hopes that one day, he’ll be able to introduce his parents to Ilya, and they’ll like him. 

Some of Shane’s hopes are more realistic than others.

Rose is in Toronto in early March, and Shane makes the five hour drive out to spend a day with her before he has to head back to Savannah. He doesn’t mean to spend the entire time talking about Ilya, but there isn’t much else on his mind these days.

They’ve spent more nights together than apart in the past few months, to the point where Shane had joked that he might as well move in. 

“You could, if you want,” Ilya had said, and they had stared at each other in shock for a moment before Ilya had laughed it off. It had felt like a serious offer, in the moment, and Shane doesn’t know what to do with that.

Now, of course, Shane is about to spend the next six months in the states, and with Ottawa having pulled off a miracle and made it to the playoffs, they won’t be able to see each other very much at all.

Rose sits them down in a quiet restaurant in some trendy part of the city and clasps Shane’s hand over the table.

“Shane,” she says kindly, “I’m going to lay out the facts here, and then I want you to tell me what they mean.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“I’m being helpful.”

“Yes,” Shane concedes, “you are. Please continue dissecting my love life.”

Rose laughs a little. “Gladly.” She takes a sip of wine. “Number one,” Rose holds up a finger, “you’re in love with him. You’ve been in love with him for years and it’s only gotten worse now that you're doing… whatever this is.” She holds up a second finger. “Two, he approached you, at the gala, he is the one who typically started the flirting over text, and he is the one who asked you to come to his place when you started hooking up again.” Rose raises an eyebrow, takes another sip from her glass. “And three,” she raises a final finger, “Neither of you have fucked anyone else since, like, November. Because you haven't had time. Because you spent every possible minute in each other’s beds. And now he’s told you that he doesn’t plan on seeing anyone else for the foreseeable future. Because it’s, what? ‘Too much effort?’”

Yeah. Ilya had said that. Yesterday, as Shane grabbed the last of his belongings from assorted corners of Ilya’s house, preparing to leave for the better part of half a year, Ilya had more or less said that he was exclusive with Shane. And then Shane had to leave. And now they won’t see each other for months.

The crazy thing is, Shane hadn’t been planning on sleeping with anyone else either. He had tried, at the start. Heading out to Ottawa’s sole gay club and finding willing and attractive men. After Ilya, they just weren’t enough. 

“Your point?” Shane asks with a sigh, already knowing full well what Rose’s point is.

“Shane. He likes you. If you asked him to be serious, he would say yes.”

“Then why hasn’t he asked me?”

“Because he is, some how, even worse at communication than you are.”

“I’m not-” Shane starts, and Rose cuts him off with a look. “Okay, fine. But even if I want it, and he wants it, it still isn’t that simple.”

“Oh, yes, because of the league.” Rose says it mockingly. Shane frowns.

“Yes, the league. It fucking sucked being closeted when I was in the NHL, and I can only imagine it’d be harder to hide if I had been dating a guy seriously. I can’t ask Ilya to go through all that for me.”

“You and Ilya have had very different experiences with hockey, Shane. He might not see it the same.”

“If he came out, it would still be a disaster. And there’s a part of me that I’m worried would resent him, if we were together for real. Even if I’m out, we still wouldn’t be able to go on dates or whatever in public.”

“Does he want to come out?”

Shane sighs into his hands. “I don’t know. Probably. He talks about it sometimes. He thinks the Cens would be good about it, but he’s waiting for the right time.”

“So you wouldn’t have to hide forever, then. Or from everyone.”

“I guess.”

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“That I should have an actual conversation with him like an adult?”

“It’s like you don’t even need me anymore.”

Shane: Hey

Ilya: Hi?

Shane: I wanted to ask you something

Shane: And if the answer  is no thats totally fine

Shane: But I’m going to ask anyway

Ilya: Ok…

Shane: This summer, when I’m on my midseason break, you should come down here.

Shane: Because of the game schedule I’ll actually have 12 days off

Shane: I just bought this big house, you’d love it. It’s in the country, pretty private.

Shane: I want to spend time with you

Ilya: You want me there the whole time?

Ilya: I do not want to take away from your rest

Shane: I want you there.

Ilya: Then I will come.

Chapter 14: Obsessed

Chapter Notes

I return from my trip (yippee)!
Just a lil chapter but big things happen, and we'll go more in depth about them next chapter but I wanted to write something before bed so. Enjoy!

Shane hasn’t been this nervous picking someone up from the airport since his parents’ first visit to Georgia, years ago. Ilya has taken the now-typical route, flying direct into Atlanta. To Shane’s knowledge, Ilya has never been anywhere in the state, and he has half a mind to take the long way to his country house, just to show off the sights. The other half of Shane’s mind wants to fuck Ilya as soon as possible, and that side will probably win out.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Ilya says, sliding into the passenger seat and holding himself more stiffly than Shane is used to seeing. Nervous, maybe, and that thought makes Shane almost excited. If Ilya is nervous too, that could mean he cares.

“Thanks for coming,” Shane replies, and then, because at the end of the day he is a weak, weak, man, he reaches across the center console and grabs Ilya by the jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. “I think you’re really going to like it out at the house. It’s very calm, and you can see the ocean which is pretty nice.” 

Ilya hums, watching out the window as they leave Atlanta in the rear view and drive east through rolling Georgia hills. “It is very beautiful here,” he observes, “I see why you like it.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies, “there are some amazing state parks that we could visit, I have extra hiking gear. Or if you do want to go into Savannah we can, I could show you the historical district.”

Ilya stares at Shane, gaze piercing. “If you want to do these things we can,” he says lowly, “but I will be very happy if we just lie in bed for twelve days also.”

Shane grins at him, “I definitely won’t complain if that’s what we end up doing.”

 

They finally make it to the house four hours later, and Shane pulls into the driveway. 

It’s a nice house. Ten times nicer than anything he could afford in Ottawa, never mind in Montreal. Two stories, modern, and ample yard space, Shane originally bought the house because it was cheap and a good investment, but he’s mostly done the renovations now, and the country house is quickly becoming his favourite place to be. He has a dream of roping Ilya into helping him finish the deck on this trip - for the more complicated things, Shane had hired a contractor, but wherever possible he’s been doing things himself. Banana Ball might pay better than any other baseball league outside the Majors, but even in Georgia, ocean-facing homes don’t come cheap.

“Holy shit, Shane,” Ilya says, “why the fuck is your apartment in Ottawa so tiny if you can afford this place?”

“I like my apartment,” Shane defends, “and it doesn’t make sense to pay for a bigger place when I’m only there half the year.”

“You’re only here half the year too.”

“The plan is to eventually share this place with my parents,” Shane explains, “they’ve really taken a liking to Georgia, and even when I don’t live here anymore, I want them to be able to come down for a bit each winter to escape the cold. It’s called snowbirding. I think maybe when they retire, they’ll spend whole winters here.”

“You don’t think you’ll live here forever?” Ilya asks, and Shane wonders if he should be surprised that was the portion of the explanation that Ilya latched on to. They finally get out of the car, walking around to the back doors.

“No, I love it, but once I’m done with baseball, I’ll probably move back to Canada full time. It’s easier visa-wise, and I always feel more at home there. Although,” Shane pauses, “and Ilya, you really can’t tell anyone about this, because it isn’t official yet,” he gives a little smile, popping the trunk to grab Ilya’s stuff, “but there’s talk of doing another round of expansion in Banana Ball. Maybe some more teams up north. I’ve been talking about it with Dave Dupuis, the league founder. He wants to expand out of the south, maybe two or three new teams.”

“And you would move? For a new team?”

“If it was in New York or something, maybe. It would be nice to be closer to home.”

“And your team?”

“I’d miss them, but if the expansion does happen, everything is going to change anyway. And some guys, like Ty, they’re more in it for the performance side than the sport. So they’d be right at home somewhere like New York.”

Shane unlocks the door, and the conversation dies out as Ilya takes in the house. “I like it,” he says eventually, coming up behind Shane and resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder, “it’s very you.”

Shane turns around, catching Ilya in a kiss. He pulls away with a smirk. “Are you saying you like me, Rozanov?”

He means it like a joke, but Ilya answers like it isn’t one. “Yes.”

It’s crazy how much one simple word can charge the room.

“Show me,” Shane whispers, eyes dark.

Ilya takes it as a challenge, and his arms immediately go to Shane’s thighs, hoisting him up and onto the kitchen counter. Their bodies tangle in the now familiar ways, hands and mouths pressing everywhere they can reach. No amount of Ilya, Shane thinks, will ever be enough. 

The next five days are possibly the best five days of Shane’s life. He wakes up surrounded by Ilya’s warm body and comforting send and beautiful smile. They cook together for every meal. Sometimes they go into town, or for a walk, but most of the time they spend at the house, or in the ocean. They play video games on the couch, basking in the evening light and competition they haven’t gotten to know in half a decade. Shane teaches Ilya how to do a backflip off a nearby cliff, straight into the Atlantic. It’s maybe not the safest, but it’s so much fucking fun, and by the third or fourth time, Ilya’s landing the flips every time. 

One evening, Shane wakes up from a post-sex nap to find the bed empty. He frowns, rolling over, and catches a glimpse of Ilya outside on the still unfinished deck. Smoking. Shane pulls on a pair of sweats that are probably not his own, and slides open the glass door. He walks until he’s standing next to Ilya, leaning against his side.

“I thought you quit that,” he says, pretending not to be upset about it.

“Is not a cigarette,” Ilya replies, and Shane furrows a brow before allowing himself to inhale, just slightly. It is not a cigarette. It is something that, as Ty’s roommate on the road, he’s become intimately familiar with.

“How did you even get weed?” he asks, genuinely surprised, “we’ve barely gone anywhere, and it’s not even legal here without a prescription.”

Ilya laughs. A wonderful sound. “Went for a run yesterday at the public beech and an old lady offered it to me.”

“An old lady?” Shane asks skeptically.

“Yes!” Ilya insists. He looks at Shane like he’s expecting to be scolded for buying drugs from old ladies, or maybe for doing drugs at all. More to get a reaction than anything, Shane reaches up and plucks the joint from Ilya’s lips. At first, Ilya pouts. Then, as Shane brings the joint to his own lips and inhales, that pout turns into a look of absolute delight. “The great Shane Hollander smokes weed now?” he teases.

Shane passes the joint back, elbowing Ilya in the ribs at the same time. “Shut up,” he quips, “it’s not like I make a habit of it, and it’s not nearly as bad for you as nicotine products, or even alcohol. Plus, I’m on a break, so…”

“You’re fucking fun, Shane,” Ilya says, still looking like high Shane Hollander is the best gift he could ever receive.

“Can I get that in writing?” Shane teases, and Ilya kisses him in lieu of a response, breathing smoke into his mouth. It’s so fucking hot, but everything Ilya does is hot.

 

When everything changes it doesn’t feel like it. It feels safe, and normal, and perfect.

“I love you” Ilya says softly on the sixth evening. They’re sitting, pressed up against each other on the couch. Shane is reading another one of Jackie’s trashy romance books, and Ilya is scrolling on his phone, and they’re just enjoying having time together. “I love you, and I don’t think I can stop. I don’t know if you feel the same, but this week, I have felt like maybe you do.”

Shane slowly looks up from his book, placing it beside him and not even bothering to mark his page. He stares at Ilya with wide eyes. He considers if maybe this is just a hallucination, or a dream, or a strange combination of the two. Ilya loves him? It certainly seems like it, he did say the words. Twice, even. And now he’s stating at Shane, eyes glassy and mouth parted and oh fuck, Shane needs to say it back.

In an instant, he’s in Ilya’s lap, hands cradling Ilya’s face like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held. “I do,” he confirms, breathless. “Shit, Ilya, I love you so fucking much, oh my god.” 

Ilya whispers something in Russian that Shane can’t hope to understand, and then he surges forward, capturing Shane’s lips in a kiss that feels different from all the ones they’ve shared before. It feels like more than just a kiss. It feels like everything. Shane can’t stop grinning, and Ilya can’t either, and so there’s just way too much teeth involved, but neither of them can find the time to care.

“I think I’ve always loved you,” Shane confesses thirty minutes later, freshly fucked out, “before I left hockey, and before we reconnected, and my whole life. Some of my exes have even told me that, you know, I’m clearly in love with someone else.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, half joking, “so you are obsessed with me?” 

“Maybe a little,” Shane smiles sweetly.

“That is okay,” Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead, “I am obsessed with you a lot.”

Chapter 15: Forever

Chapter Notes

high key just fluff from here on out (yipee)

On the morning of the eleventh day, Shane wakes up to Ilya’s teeth in his pec. “What the fuck?” he mumbles, half asleep. He goes to push Ilya’s head off him, but Ilya only bites down harder. It doesn’t take much time for Shane to wake up properly. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“You are so pretty, Hollander. I want to eat you.” Ilya barely pulls away from Shane’s chest to respond, licking over the depressions left by his teeth.

“I noticed,” Shane laughs lightly, carding fingers through Ilya’s curls. 

“You think I am joking,” Ilya says, accent thicker than usual, “but I am not. You are so fucking hot you don’t even know.”

“Oh,” Shane breathes, and he locks eyes with Ilya for the first time that morning. Ilya’s are pitch black, pupils dilated to the extreme. Slowly, Ilya slides down Shane’s naked body, until his mouth is inches away from Shane’s half hard dick. 

“I need to taste you,” Ilya whispers, and then he dives right in.

Shane lets out an embarrassing moan, hands clenching around nothing as Ilya takes him all the way down in one go. “Fuck, Ilya,” he whimpers. Ilya hums, sucking in the way that absolutely destroys Shane every single time.

Ilya reaches to Shane’s arm, and at first Shane things that Ilya wants to hold his hand. Then, he brings Shane’s hand back to his hair. Shane lets him, watching with the question clear on his face. Ilya pulls off just long enough to nod.

“Want you to fuck my face,” he gasps, and Shane feels his own mouth gape open at the words. 

“Yeah, yeah okay.” 

He tightens his grip on Ilya’s hair, and uses his other hand to cup the back of Ilya’s head in support. Shane bucks his hips up once, fast, holding Ilya’s head in place. They both whine at the sensation. It’s intoxicating. Shane needs more. He does it again, and again, growing rougher as Ilya proves he can handle it. Ilya’s face gets covered in spit and who knows what else, but neither of them are in a hurry to fix it.

Ilya’s moans get wetter and his gasps more desperate but he doesn’t tap out. Shane watches him grow impossible harder with every thrust. He moves Ilya’s head how he wants to, selfishly chasing his own release while content in the knowledge that Ilya wants him to do this. Ilya’s crying a little, and Shane might be too, and it’s probably for a different reason.

“Fuck,” he curses, and then he releases Ilya’s head, giving him the option to pull off. Unsurprisingly, Ilya doesn’t go anywhere, resting his cheek against Shane’s thigh, blissed out expression on his face. Shane comes deep down his throat, shaking with overstimulation by the end of it as Ilya keeps swallowing him down.

Eventually, Shane pulls Ilya off, massaging his jaw with subtle pressure. Ilya sighs contentedly. “I love you so much,” he says, voice raspy, “fucking perfect.”

Shane smiles, pressing a soft kiss to Ilya’s forehead. “I’m going to get you some water.”

“Nooo,” Ilya groans dramatically, clinging to Shane with everything he can in this state, “don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be right back, and the bathroom is right there.”

“I’ll come with you so you don’t get lonely.”

“So I don’t get lonely? What are we going to do when you have to leave?”

It’s maybe not the best time to be bringing this up, but the question does need to be asked. In the past two days, they’ve barely gone five minutes without some form of physical contact.

“What if I didn’t?” Ilya asks after a moment, and he sounds hesitant about it. Shy.

“What do you mean?” Shane replies, because surely Ilya can’t mean what Shane thinks he means. Ilya can’t stay here forever.

“What if I didn’t go back to Ottawa? We could stay together all summer.”

“I can’t skip out on my season.”

“So don’t. We go back to your place in the city, I come to your games. You have fancy home gym, so I could keep up with off season conditioning. I don’t have to go back until the preseason.” Ilya looks up at him with clear emotions on his face, still coming down from the endorphin high of getting his face fucked into oblivion. “Or do you not want this?” Suddenly, he looks very, very small. 

Shane hates that. Shane hates that Ilya would ever think that he doesn’t want them to spend every waking moment of forever together. “No,” he says, tracing Ilya’s brow with a light touch, “of course I want you to stay.” He swallows. “I wish you never had to leave. But my parents are coming to stay with me in a few weeks, and you’re still with the NHL… I don’t want to risk outing you.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispers, “so I get a hotel when your parents are here. Or-”

A pause.

“Or?” Shane asks.

“Or you could tell them.

“Tell them what?”

“Maybe… that your boyfriend is staying with you?

“Boyfriend?” Shake says, stupid smile stretching across his face.

“If this is okay? We can go back to how it was before, if that is better, but I was thinking-”

“I want you to be my boyfriend, Ilya. Holy shit I want that so bad. But I also want you to feel safe, and with hockey…”

“I do not care. Cens are good, and some of them already know about me. Everyone else does not matter.”

“But if this got out-”

“I do not want to hide until I retire,” Ilya presses a kiss to the knuckles on Shane’s hand. “Because that will not be until I am at least forty-five. I do not mind if people know. If they are not good about it, I will just keep winning and beat them.”

“What about Russia?” Shane asks.

Ilya shrugs. “I am very close to being able to get citizenship. And Russia is only a problem if I have to go back, which will only happen if NHL kicks me out. But I am the best player, so they will not do this.”

“You’re sure?” Shane has to confirm.

“I am not saying I will come out with big bisexual pride flag on twitter, but I do not want to pretend anymore. I don’t want you to have to pretend either.”

Shane loves him. Shane loves Ilya so incredibly much. More than he had ever thought was possible. Certainly more than is sane. He pulls Ilya in for their first proper, bruising kiss of the day.

“My parents are going to be shocked,” he says with a bitten off laugh.\

“Why?” Ilya quips, “because their son is dating their favourite hockey player?”

“No,” Shane shoves Ilya playfully, “they fucking hated you for years. They tolerate you now that you don’t play for the enemy."

“They will love me once I get them a Cup,” Ilya says, cocky. Smirking. 

Shane rolls his eyes, but replies earnestly. “They probably will, once they get to know you.”

And isn’t that something. Shane’s parents are going to know Ilya. Truly know him. Hopefully, eventually, they might like him too.

 

*

Shane really should have told his parents earlier. On the phone, or over text, or really given them any sort of warning whatsoever. Unfortunately, he’s a coward, and waits until the three of them are trapped in a car and just nearing the Savannah city limits before he says anything. “Just so you guys know,” he starts, because that’s a normal, casual way to do this, “my boyfriend is in town. Staying with me. So you'll be meeting him. And I just- I really need you to be cool about it.”

The only sound in the car is that of tires on the road. It lasts all of three seconds.

“Your boyfriend?” Yuna asks, “Is this the guy you were telling us about in December?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve made it official?”

“Just this summer, yeah.”

“Oh, honey, that’s just great,” Yuna sounds genuinely delighted.

“We’re excited to meet him,” says David.

“Yeah,” Shane mutters, “just remember that when we get there.”

“We’re home!” Shane calls loudly as they step in the door, giving Ilya all the warning he can. Shane watches as Ilya rounds the corner from the kitchen, and his parents freeze. Shane’s mother drops her bag to the ground with a thunk.

“Shane,” she says, calm in the way she only gets when she isn’t feeling very calm at all, “why is Ilya Rozanov in your apartment?”

“This is Ilya,” Shane says, not Ilya Rozanov. Because while he loves both versions of the man, Ilya Rozanov is a character his parents already think they know. Ilya is something else. Something softer. “You already know that,” he adds unnecessarily, “but what you don’t know, I guess, is that I love him.”

The words settle in the room, and Ilya sends Shane a smile.

“It is very good to meet you, officially,” Ilya says, swinging his arm just slightly as though he is unsure if he should go for a handshake or not. They’ve probably met before, Shane reasons. At the draft, or the CCM shoot, or the NHL awards before he had his little panic attack. This is different. “I made dinner,” Ilya adds, “please sit. Long flight, long drive, you must be tired.”

Shane watches his parents have a whole conversation with just their eyes, but they do take their typical seats, so that must count for something. 

Ilya barbequed, a skill he picked up from his teammate Zane Boodram, a man possibly more well known for his grilling youtube channel than for being the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs.

Over grilled chicken and rice and broccoli, Shane watches his mother fight every instinct she has to not ask a million questions. 

She lasts about five minutes, which is honestly impressive.

“So,” she starts, “how…” surprisingly, she doesn’t get very far. Finding out your son is dating his teenage enemy would probably do that to you.

“It’s like I told you at Christmas,” Shane says, because he’s feeling brave and generous, “we first met years ago, and we reconnected at this charity gala in February of last year, and we just kept- uh- talking.”

Ilya snickers into his hand and Shane kicks him under the table in a vain attempt to stop him.

“I have to say,” David observes with his characteristically calm demeanour, “ I’m surprised. The two of you had such an intense rivalry back when Shane played hockey.”

“Well,” Ilya replies, “this is not untrue, but…”

“But we never hated each other,” Shane takes over, “I think, probably, we’ve always loved each other. In one way or another. Even if we didn’t realize it at-”

“Always?” Yuna interrupts, eyes side with surprise.

“Since the summer before rookie year,” Ilya supplies. Shane smiles at him. 

“Wow,” David breathes, “wow. Back then? Thats…”

“Yeah.”

“And Rozanov-”

“Ilya, please.”

“Ilya, sorry,” Yuna corrects, “Shane loves you. You love him back?”

Shane looks at him, watches the unashamed smile split his face. 

“I love your son more than I have ever loved anything else,” Ilya answers.

It’s a perfect response, which makes sense, because Ilya’s a pretty fucking perfect person.

 

Later, after the meal is done, Shane washes the dishes while Ilya stands to his left, drying them. Ilya kisses him after putting the last plate away, right in front of Shane’s parents. Shane watches his mom smile, just a little bit. Charmed already.

Yeah. 

This could be forever.

Chapter 16: Team

Chapter Notes

... yes the chapter count did go up again, no I will not elaborate

Shane has never known what to do with himself in September. Not since the end of his hockey career, at least. Banana Ball is over, but his job at the rink doesn’t start until October, and so he usually splits his time between Savannah, Montreal, and Ottawa, eventually settling into his life. This year, at least, he can start reviewing instructor resumes as they come in, and he can probably start interviewing by mid month, but still. Two whole weeks that, even a year ago, he would have spent restlessly wandering around and working out.

With Ilya, everything is different. 

As soon as Banana Ball wraps up, Shane makes the two day drive back up to Ottawa. He’s let his lease run out, and hasn’t bothered to find a new place. After living with Ilya for more or less the whole summer, it feels silly to pay for an apartment when his boyfriend has a whole mansion in a good neighbourhood. Ilya moved Shane’s stuff over before the lease expired, and so after Shane parks his car in the garage and steps into the home, he is greeted by an array of familiar sights. His key holder. His shoe rack. Further into the space, one of his throw blankets is piled haphazardly on a chair. Ilya moved him in.

If it had been anyone else, Shane would have been pissed. Not Ilya, though. When Ilya does it, it feels like care. It feels like being wanted. It feels like everything Shane spent years convincing himself he could never have. Love.

“Ilya?” He calls out, wandering further into the house. He was able to get through the border faster than usual, and Ilya isn’t expecting him for another couple hours. From deeper inside the house, there is the sound of a TV. Shane doesn’t think much of it, toeing off his shoes and placing them neatly on the shoe rack. Their shoe rack. 

Half his life is still in the back seat of his car, but it can wait; all Shane wants now is to see Ilya and maybe sleep for a year. Or eat. He isn’t too picky, really.

Footsteps, and Shane turns towards them, bright smile on his face. Then he realizes that the owner of the footsteps is not Ilya, and that smile fades.

“Who the fuck are you?” asks the man, who Shane has to believe is a Centaurs player based on muscle mass alone. “Roz,” he cranes his neck behind him, “there’s some dude in your house.”

His voice wavers just a little, which Shane finds amusing. He doesn’t consider himself to be a particularly intimidating person. Though, he probably would be a bit frightened by a random stranger in one of his friends' houses.

“I don’t know how you got in here,” the man says, “but-”

“Shane!” Ilya appears from the next room, eyes immediately lighting up with excitement. He runs at Shane, pulling him in for a tight hug. Shane half burrows into his chest, inhaling deeply. “You’re in early,” Ilya adds, softer.

“No line at the border,” Shane says by way of explanation. Behind them, the unknown man is staring with his jaw nearly at the floor.

“So…” he says awkwardly, “not a random dude then?”

“No, Hazy,” Ilya says, pressing his nose into Shane’s jaw, “not a random dude.” He doesn’t offer any more of an explanation, and Shane isn’t in a hurry to give one either, much more content to soak up the feeling of Ilya all around him for the first time since the NHL preseason training began. To Shane, Ilya whispers, “should have told me you were early. Would have kicked them out. We could be fucking right now.”

Shane laughs, light and open, and pushes Ilya away just enough to look at him properly. “I wanted to surprise you, idiot.”

Hazy - Wyatt Hayes, Shane realizes - clears his throat awkwardly. “So, uh, not that I want to interrupt this,” he waves a hand at their tangled limbs and heated stares, “but what the fuck? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone Rozy, especially not like. Seriously. Which this clearly is.”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, “very.” He appears to think for a moment, and then decides, “Why were you here? To get beers, yes?” 

Hayes nods.

“Then,” Ilya says, “you get drinks from the garage fridge, bring them back. We will talk in the living room.”

“Yeah,” says Wyatt, still clearly on the backfoot, “sure.” He turns to leave, then pauses, “hey, man, you want one?” he asks Shane.

Shane looks to Ilya, “are they the IPAs?”

“No, just Molson.”

Shane makes a face. Molson is easily the worst thing about Canada. It’s so bad. So, so bad. It’s the reason Shane thought he hated beer for years of his life. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he says to Hayes. 

Ilya guides Shane over to the living room, but Shane stops him at the entrance. “You’re okay with this? I didn’t mean to force you to tell anyone.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” fuck. Ilya’s never called him that before. It sends a spark of something straight to Shane’s dick, and it could not be a worse time. “The only other person here is Bood, and both of them already know I am bisexual. But…”

“But?”

“I think I might tell the rest of the Cens soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I want to bring you to the big team parties and kiss you at New Years.”

Shane can’t help the expression on his face, but it’s definitely something between incredibly in love and extremely horny. 

“I want that too,” he says, resisting the urge to jump Ilya on the spot.

Hayes comes back, and the three of them enter the room. On the couch, Zane Boodram looks up from his phone, eyebrows shooting into his ballcap as he notices Shane. 

“This is Shane,” Ilya says, wrapping an arm around his waist, “my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Boodram asks, “holy shit, Rozy, when did you find the time to meet someone?”

“2009,” Ilya replies with a smirk.

Boodram and Hayes share a look of complete and utter shock. 

“We only started dating officially this summer,” Shane clarifies before one of them passes out, “but yeah. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“Wait,” Hayes says suddenly, eyes darting between Shane and Ilya, “is this- are you- is he-” Hayes collects himself with a shake of the head, “is Shane the guy you were hung up on when you first came to Ottawa?”

Ilya immediately flushes a brighter red than Shane’s ever seen. 

“Shut up, Hazy,” he mutters, which is as good as a confession.

“You were hung up on me?” Shane teases, but he can’t get the genuine grin off his face. “That was before we even started talking again.” 

“You already know I’m obsessed with you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You are obsessed with me.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

 

*

 

Shane meets the rest of the Ottawa Centaurs a few days later, at the preseason home opener. The Cens win 3:1, and when they head out to a bar to celebrate starting off the season right, Ilya texts Shane the address.

Please come. 

Shane had been at the game, but by the time the text comes through, he is nearly ready for bed. For Ilya, though, he throws on a pair of nice jeans and drives back into Ottawa’s downtown. 

He finds Ilya easily, moments after stepping into the bar. It’s a cozy place, and almost empty, if it weren’t for the fact that the majority of a professional hockey team has squished itself into the back few booths. 

Shane is surprised to notice not just Ilya’s eyes on him, but most of the guys. He approaches them anyway.

“So I take it you told them?”

“Before the game.”

“You played well.”

“Is the preseason, I barely played at all.”

“Still,” Shane resists the urge to place a hand on Ilya’s cheek, because even if the Cens know now, they are still in public, and Ilya is still in the closet. “They were good?”

“Very good. Insisted to know who you are. They are all stalking your Instagram right now.”

“Oh?” Shane raises an eyebrow, “do they know about the secret account you have to leave thirst comments on my posts?”

Ilya doesn’t take the bait, instead his face softens, “one day,” he says calmly, “I will use my real account to leave thirst comments. Everyone will know.”

“Your PR team will hate you,” Shane replies, not knowing how else to respond.

“Good thing I do not have one of those.”

 

*

 

WAGS4EVER

Unknown: Hey everyone, as I’m sure most of you have heard from your boys, Roz has started dating someone! They’re keeping it private for now, but Zane said Ilya is cool with us adding his boyfriend, so welcome Shane!

Unknown: Oh and I’m Cassie, by the way. We HAVE to organize a wine night or something because I need to know how you managed to lock down Ilya Rozanov

Unknown: Hi Shane! I’m Lisa, it’s great to meet you!

Unknown: Hey! This is Caitlin, Evan Dykstra’s wife 🙂

Unknown: Great to have you with us Shane, I’m Selena.

Shane: Hi everyone. 

Shane: I have to say, I was not expecting this.

Shane: I thought Ilya was joking when he brought it up

Cassie: Not going to lie I’ve been dying to add you since Zane told me lol 

Lisa: I can confirm - she’s been sending me your posts 

Selena: You’re fucking epic btw

Selena: I wish Nick could do a flip while lip syncing to Taylor Swift

Shane: It’s easier than it looks. I can give him some tips.

 

Caitlin: Wait guys do we have to change our name?

Caitlin: Cause Shane isn’t a W or a G

Cassie: WAITTT YOU’RE RIGHT

Lisa: No no don’t worry

Lisa: It still works

Lisa: WAGS: Wives And Girlfriends, Shane

Shane: Comma is doing a lot of work there

Lisa: Well I like it

Selena: I like it too

 

Surprisingly, nobody related to the Cens connects Shane to hockey for nearly a month. When it does happen, it’s in maybe the stupidest way imaginable.

 

WAGS4EVER

Selena: SHANE???

Selena: WERE YOU NOT GOING TO TELL US???

Selena: HOLY SHIT???

Cassie: What’s going on?

Selena: [Picture of a TV screen displaying the character selection page for the NHL2009 video game. The “Rookies” page is visible, including a little avatar of 18-year old Shane in his Metros gear.]

Selena: I found this in the basement and pulled it up to find Roz to tease the shit out of him and LOOK WHO ELSE IS THERE 👀👀👀

Cassie: WHAT THE FUCK

Lisa: oh my goddddd is this what Roz meant when he told Wyatt and Zane you guys met in 2009??? Was it through hockey???

Caitlin: <WATCH: Shane Hollander wins 2011/12 Rookie of the Year (Full Speech)>

Caitlin: Had to click to the second page of the search results to find this but if I may say

Caitlin: What. The. SHIT. Shane??

Caitlin: You’re the guy who beat Roz for the Calder and then you just dipped? To play baseball? 

Shane:... yes? Like it was obviously more complicated than that, and it had a lot to do with league politics and Montreal specifically, but yeah. I still love hockey, and I love teaching kids to skate in the winters when I’m not playing Banana Ball, but all the pressure around the NHL made it impossible for me to enjoy

Shane: plus I was nineteen and stressed out and still reeling from my “gay awakening”

Shane: which is, to be clear, what Ilya calls the first time we hooked up

Cassie: wow. Wow. wow. 

Cassie: is this like a secret?

Cassie: if you don’t want us to say anything we won’t

Shane: It’s not. I don’t advertise it, but the overlap between the two communities is small enough that I don’t get any trouble from it, and I don’t mind people knowing

 

*

“Hayden!”

“Hey buddy, it’s great to see you. Been too fucking long.”

Hayden approaches where Shane is sat on a park bench, not too far from home. Neutral ground, Hayden had insisted, since Shane is more of an Ottawa supporter than a Montreal fan these days.

“I was at your house literally three days ago.”

“Yeah well I was in Florida three days ago.”

“So that’s my fault now?”

Shane laughs. It has been a while since he and Hayden were last able to catch up. Probably a month since they’ve last seen each other in person, which isn’t the longest they’ve gone, but still sucks.

“You’re coming to the game?” Hayden asks, and Shane nods.

“Yeah, it should be good. Ottawa is totally going to beat you guys.”

They might, they might not. They probably will. Montreal has been on something of a colossal losing streak for the past decade.

“You wish man,” Hayden says. He lowers his voice, even though they’re the only two people in the park. “So, when you go to games, do you like. I don’t know. Sit in the WAGs box? Since you’re…”

“Dating one of the players?” Shane had told Hayden and Jackie about him and Ilya at the end of the summer, and Hayden had taken it about as well as could be hoped. Happy for Shane, but grumbling all the while about all the non-rival-hockey-players he could be dating instead. “No,” Shane answers the question, “I could, I mean, the team knows and everything, but Ilya also has personal seats at the rink, and they’re a lot nicer.”

“Nicer than the private box with free drinks?”

“You can barely see anything from up there,” Shane defends, “you have to watch the jumbotron to actually see the footwork and stick handling, and who knows if the camera people will be fast enough?”

Hayden stares at him for a moment before bursting out laughing. “You go to your boyfriends professional hockey games, where he is a professional hockey player, to critique his footwork?”

“No,” Shane says like it’s obvious, “not his footwork, he’s great. The rest of the team…” Hayden shoots him a look. Shane scowls. “Shut up. I tell them things, and then they listen. I’m a professional too, don’t forget.”

“Sure, buddy,” Hayden says, but Shane knows that Hayden does respect his opinion. When Shane sends him a text about watching his angles, Hayden has always fixed the problem by the next game.

“If you don’t want me to give you advice anymore…” Shane trails off. 

Hayden shakes his head, “I never said that, man. You might be out of the league, but this game has got to be in your fucking DNA or something. If you hadn’t quit, you’d be better than Rozanov I’m sure.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“I think I’ll tell him that tonight.”

“Oh, after he scores on you?”

“You fucking wish, dude.”

Ilya does score while Hayden is on the ice, and Hayden does send Ilya that overly-rehearsed chirp, and then the three of them have a horrifically awkward drink together at the bar, the two men desperately trying to tolerate each other for his sake. Shane couldn’t be happier.

Chapter 17: People

Chapter Notes

There's a lot of moving parts in this and I hope you know that even in the chapters where they aren't mentioned, Shane is in fact still talking to his various friends (Ty and Hayden and Rose).

Next chapter is exciting..... and almost finished also so get pumped (probably also today? Or maybe tomorrow we'll see...)

“Where are you taking me?” Shane asks, blindfolded in the passenger seat of the car. They’re going somewhere, clearly, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering if this isn’t some sort of sex thing.

“It’s a surprise, Shane! Have patience! You will like it, I promise.”

It’s the second Friday of November, and the moment Shane had gotten home from the skating school, Ilya had passed him a nice outfit and instructed him to change. 

The car slows to a final stop after ten minutes, and Shane hears Ilya shifting the gear, putting it in park. “Can I take this off now?”

In answer, Ilya’s hands come up behind Shane’s head and remove the mask. Shane blinks a few times, adjusting, and then notices where they are: parked downtown, right in front of a nice restaurant. A really nice restaurant. They type of place that Shane, even on his best day, can’t really afford for anything less than the most special occasions. Ilya gets out of the car, coming around to Shane’s side and opening the door for him.

“Ilya?” Shane asks softly, already suspecting what is going on.

“I was just thinking, you know,” Ilya shuffles his feet, a nervous tell, “We have not really gone on a proper date. And you deserve that.”

“Wow,” Shane breathes.

“Wow?”

“You’re just really fucking perfect sometimes, you know?”

Ilya’s eyes do something that Shane neither likes nor understands. “I’m not perfect,” he says, and then his eyes flick up in surprise, almost as though he was surprised to hear the words leave his own mouth.

Shane doesn’t know what to make of any of it, so he responds confidently, “perfect to me.”

Ilya’s face softens, and he bites the corner of his lip, offering Shane a hand. Shane stares at it. They’re in public, and Ilya isn’t out, and Ilya is still in the NHL. They probably shouldn’t hold hands. But Ilya is offering, and Shane wants to take him up on that offer, and so he does.

Their fingers interlock and they walk into Ottawa’s most overpriced restaurant. Ilya takes one side of the table, facing the wall, and Shane sits across from him, able to see the whole restaurant. It’s expensive, and classy, and as far as restaurants go, pretty private. Still, Shane doesn’t know what to do. Is it weirder if he looks at Ilya or if he looks away? Can they feasibly keep their hands tangled on the table? Can they order something to share? What do the people at the next table think of them?

“Do you not like it here?” Ilya asks, “Bood said it is the nicest place in the city, but we can go somewhere else if that is better.”

“No,” Shane says quickly, shaking himself. “Sorry, no, it’s great. I just…” Fuck. Ilya has decided to pull out all the stops tonight, and Shane can’t even appreciate it. “I’m just worried. I know this is a lot more public than anything else we’ve done, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, and if someone sees-”

“Then they see,” Ilya says calmly, like it’s simple. “I meant what I said. I will not pretend I do not care about you. Not anymore. Not when we can finally have this. If people see, they see. If they talk, they talk. Whatever. I do not care. I just want to treat you how you deserve.” Ilya knocks their shoes together under the table. “Besides, I am European. We could fuck in broad daylight and everybody would just think I am a strange guy.”

Shane looks at him for a long moment, analysing. Ilya seems sure. He seems confident. He doesn’t seem afraid. Shane allows himself to relax, just a fraction.

“Okay,” he breathes. 

They share the appetiser, and trade bites of each other’s meals, and it’s easily the best date Shane has ever been on.

*

“Yo, Shane! Bossman!”

Shane looks up from his laptop at the seventeen-year-old junior coach standing in the doorway of his office. Jake is a good coach, and a great skater; if he is willing to come back next season, Shane will definitely be promoting him.

“Jake, what’s up?”

“Well,” Jake starts, looking a little sheepish, “after your advice last week, I started giving my classes one twenty minute break instead of two ten minutes, so we spend less time transitioning back and fourth.”

“This is with the eight to ten year olds?

“Yeah. And-” Jake runs a hand across the top of his head, “it was going great. Kids seemed to like it. Only, well, twenty minutes is a long time for some of these kids, and they all want to chat and…”

“What happened?” Shane asks, sighing.

“Macy ran off and I didn’t notice because I was showing Presley how to tape her stick, and then when I did notice I went to go find her and well. She’s stuck.”

“Stuck?” Shane raises his eyebrows. “Where? How?”

“She found the vending machine but didn’t have any money and tried to just reach up through the door thingy. And now she can’t get her arm out.”

“Fu- okay.” Shane sighs. Just another day at the office. When he had taken over as the Ottawa skate school’s manager, he had known that it would be different from instructing, or even leading a smaller team like he had in the past. He had not anticipated how many vending-machine related incidents he would have to deal with. “Brian is watching your kids?”

Brian is the head coach for the learn-to-skate program, Shane’s old job. 

“Yeah, and Jamie from reception is with Macy.”

“Macy’s doing alright?”

“As far as I know.”

“Okay,” Shane pauses, runs through the protocol. “I’ll go have a look, but if we can’t get her out we’ll probably be calling the fire department. Either way, I’m going to need you to fill out an incident report, and then I’ll call Macy’s parents. When they get here, either I can talk to them or you can, depending on what you’re more comfortable with.”

“Alright, thanks man. Sorry about this, I have no idea how she just slipped away like that.”

“Hey, don’t stress too much. It happens, and we’ll get her out. The important thing is that you did the right thing once you realized, and that you’ll be more aware going forwards.”

“Oh, definitely. I feel so bad, man.”

 

Macy is sitting quite contentedly on the floor, arm stuck upwards, pinned by the trap door that typically catches the snacks.

“Hey Macy,” Shane says, crouching down, “My name is Shane, it’s nice to meet you. You’re looking a little stuck there.”

“I wanted to get a snack but it didn’t work.”

“I can see that,” Shane tries not to laugh, but it really is funny. “Does anything hurt?” he asks. Macy shakes her head. “Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” Through the glass, Shane watches her fingers move. Good. no circulation concerns, at least for now. 

Jake asks Macy a question about her new pet, which from context clues Shane assumes is a hamster or gerbil or something. He takes the opportunity to size up the machine. Unfortunately, the skate school doesn’t own the vending machine; an outsourced company comes in every few days to restock it. As a result, Shane doesn’t have a key. Calling the vending machine company is always a headache, and the space that Macy has managed to squeeze her arm into is small - too small for any adult to fit. If they want to get Macy out in any sort of timely manner, they either have to break the glass on the machine, or call the fire department. 

This is going to be so much paperwork.

Shane doesn’t get home until nearly eight in the evening. After calling the fire department, and talking to Macy’s parents, and looking through the absolute mountain of paperwork this whole ordeal generated, all Shane had wanted to do was go home. Unfortunately, he also had to finish payroll if he wanted any of his employees to get paid on time. An eight hour day turned into nearly twelve, and that’s fine, because Shane loves what he does, but it also sucks because Ilya just got home from a week long roadtrip, and Shane wants to see his boyfriend.

Ilya is sitting on the couch watching some sort of documentary, and his face brightens as Shane walks into the room. “Hello, my love. How was your day? I thought you would be home earlier.”

“Ugh,” Shane groans, “we had an eight-year-old stuck in a vending machine for three hours. Her parents were not happy.”

“Three hours?” Ilya does laugh at that, and it’s probably a good thing that Shane’s the one that works with children, because at least he has a poker face.

“Happy to be home now,” Shane adds, collapsing onto the couch and laying his head on Ilya’s lap. Ilya’s hands immediately find his hair, rubbing in small circles. “Your trip was good?” Shane asks, “Your goal last night was beautiful.”

“I scored just for you. You were right. That Miami defenseman does favor his left side. Very helpful tip.”

“You’re welcome.”

“There is… news, maybe. About the team.”

“Oh?” Shane looks up to Ilya’s face.

“You have heard the rumors about Dallas Kent?”

“Yeah, he’s a rapist piece of shit.”

Ilya lets out a huff. “Understatement. But yes. Apparently his buddy Troy Barrett called him out for it.”

“Actually?” Shane asks, surprised. Barrett has always seemed like Kent’s wannabe henchman.

“There is a clip online. I have not seen it. But anyway, Toronto is pissed at Barrett, looking to trade.”

“Trade - to Ottawa?” 

“According to coach, yes.”

“Shit…” Shane trails off. Even if Barrett stopped putting up with Kent, that doesn’t change the fact that he has a reputation as a homophobic asshole.

“Yes,” Ilya’s hands move from Shane’s head to his chest, feeling the ridges of his muscles over his shirt. “I am worried, maybe, that it will make the locker room awkward. The whole team knows about me, about us, and Barrett isn’t…”

“If he gives you trouble, I’ll beat him up.” Shane offers, completely serious. Ilya chuckles, and Shane frowns. “You think I won’t? Ilya, I swing a heavy bat for a living.”

“Yes, yes, my very scary baseball boyfriend. Line dancing and saving children from vending machines.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya’s antics, but complies nonetheless, shifting their positions so he can capture Ilya’s lips in a demanding kiss.

 

*

 

Troy Barrett plays his first game with the Ottawa Centaurs two weeks later. When Shane asks, Ilya doesn’t have all that much to say about the man. “I do not think he is homophobic. This team will be good for him.” It’s not bad news, but Shane still doesn’t love that there is someone on Ilya’s team, and even occasionally on his line, that he can’t fully trust.

That is probably how this happened. Shane’s need to understand Barrett. That, and the relentless insistence from the WAGs that they simply needed to see what Shane and Ilya’s house is like. 

Ilya, for one, is ecstatic to be hosting a Christmas party for the team. It’s only the eighteenth of December, but the Cens have a game on the twentieth, and then a bunch of the guys are flying elsewhere for the short break the league affords them, so the party more or less has to be today. Which is fine. Shane is fine. He definitely loves hosting parties so much. Definitely. 

Barrett arrives second last, which is a good move considering his still-tenuous social position in the team. Aside from an initial odd look, Shane doesn’t notice much off about the man. Hayes, ever the good guy, takes it upon himself to introduce Barrett to all the WAGs, and somehow they wind up at Shane last.

“And this is Shane. Which you probably guessed, judging by how this is his house. But, uh, yeah!” 

“Hey Wyatt,” Shane says with a smile, to Barrett he just nods, asking, “settling into the city alright? Ilya mentioned you’re staying in a hotel still?”

Barrett blinks, as though not expecting Shane to actually say anything. “Yeah, it’s convenient, and I haven’t decided if I’m sticking around yet. But it’s nice to meet you. Rozanov doesn’t shut up about you, you know.”

“Oh man,” Hayes says with a grin, “I can attest to that. When we’re on the road he barely ever goes out, always saying oh I can’t, I need to call my beautiful boyfriend. And then when we do manage to convince him, he gets a little tipsy and all he talks about his how much he loves you. Man is whipped, let me tell you.”

“Oh,” Shane smiles fondly, “I know. When I’m on the road, he’s always calling me, asking about my day.”

“When you’re on the road?” Barrett asks, “What do you do? I got the impression you worked with kids or something.”

“I do,” Shane confirms, “I manage a skating school here in town. But in the summers I play Banana Ball - it’s like baseball, but, um,”

“Everybody is showing off,” Hayes supplies, and Shane nods.

“Yeah, basically.”

“Holy shit, really?” Barrett asks, and Shane is surprised by the enthusiasm. “I’ve seen clips of that online. Like with the dancing and stuff?”

“That’s the part of it that tends to go viral, yeah.”

“That is fucking cool, dude.”

Shane spends the next thirty minutes talking about Banana Ball with Troy Barrett, occasionally interrupted by Ilya stopping by to kiss, before running off to talk to someone else. Eventually, Cassie and her husband make their way over as well, and the four of them debate the merits of summer versus winter sports for the rest of the evening. 

It’s a surreal night, but not a bad one.

Chapter 18: Sometimes you think you've healed and then the universe laughs in your face and presents a cruel twist of fate

Chapter Notes

What can I say??? the plot be plotting......

enjoy:)

Leaving Ottawa has never felt this hard before. It isn’t just leaving his hometown, or his parents, or his job: it’s leaving Ilya. It’s leaving the bubble of safe people they’ve built around them, from Shane’s parents to the Cens and the WAGs. For the first time since getting together properly over the summer, Shane will have to go weeks without seeing Ilya, maybe longer depending on if the Cens make the playoffs. At the beginning of the season, Shane would have said such a feat was impossible, but with Barrett and Ilya on a line together, they aren’t completely hopeless. 

“You have everything?” Ilya asks, running his hands down Shane’s arms. Shane nods. “Gas? Passport?”

“I have everything, Ilya. I’ve done this drive before.”

“I know. Sorry. I just…” Ilya looks away, blowing out air. Shane realizes with a jolt that he’s crying. 

“Hey,” Shane says softly, taking Ilya’s face in his hands, “hey, it’s going to be alright, okay?” 

Ilya still avoids his eyes, the start of tears on his cheeks. “I know. I-”

“I’m going to miss you too,” Shane whispers, “but it won’t be like before. I promise. We’ll call every night, and text all the time, and we’ll see each other if we’re in the same city.”

“I didn’t know,” Ilya’s voice breaks, shattering Shane’s heart in the process, “I didn’t know that loving you would make me hurt this much.”

“Can I make it better?” Shane asks, thumb rubbing at Ilya’s jaw. Ilya closes his eyes in response.

“No… I just wish you did not have to leave. I know it is your career, I know I am selfish for thinking this, but I just- I do.”

“I wish I didn’t have to leave either,” Shane assures him, “or that somehow you could come with me. But this is just how it is, for now.”

“For now,” Ilya parrots, inhaling deeply. Shane plants a careful kiss to his forehead.

“Once your season is over,”

“I will be on the next flight.”

“I love you,” Shane reminds him.

“I love you too, sweetheart. So much.”

Shane brings Ilya’s face closer for one final kiss. 

“Goodbye, Ilya. See you soon,” he breathes, pulling away from him.

 

Shane cries in the car. He tries not to, he really does, but he can’t hold back the tears. Leaving Ilya is the most horrible goodbye he’s ever had to face.

*

 

The Cens come three points short of making the playoffs, and selfishly Shane is glad. It’s only been two months, but it’s felt like a million years since he’s last seen Ilya in person. Held him. It hasn’t been easy for either of them, but Shane worries that it has been worse for Ilya. From their interactions, not much is different, but in the WAG’s chat, Shane has heard about Ilya becoming less outgoing, and participating less in social events. His gameplay has grown more erratic, too. Some games, Ilya is overly aggressive, racking up penalty minutes. Other games, he plays almost scared, going for an assist over a goal, or passing the puck rather than inviting the check. Shane doesn’t know what it means, but he doesn’t like it. Hopefully, things will be better now that they can spend most of their time together again. 

Shane has already stocked his fridge with Cokes, and his pantry with Ilya’s favourite snacks. He pulls out the nice towels, and pulls out a fresh bottle of lube, and sits back on the couch to admire his handiwork. He still has twenty-seven hours until he has to leave for Atlanta. Shane considers reorganizing his kitchen, or maybe his home gym. He’s been wanting to get a rowing machine, but it’s not a whole lot of space. How often does he really use his treadmill? Usually, if he’s running, he just goes outside. Sell the treadmill, but the rowing machine-

There’s a knock on the door. 

Shane frowns. He hasn’t been expecting anyone, and only a few people have the code to get into the building. Ty wouldn’t, since  he has boundaries. His parents aren’t in town. Hayden is at home with brand new baby number four.

Shane opens the door. 

“What the fuck?” Ilya. Here. Thirty-two hours early.

“Hi.”

“What the fuck?”

“I got an earlier flight.”

“What the fuck?”

“Surprise?”

Something in Shane unfreezes, and he all but pounces on Ilya, dragging him deeper into the apartment and pinning him to the wall. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, asshole? How did you even get here?”

“Rented a car.”

Once he has an answer, Shane realizes that he doesn’t particularly care, and clings to Ilya tighter, slowly manoeuvring them towards the bedroom. He doesn’t even particularly care if they fuck, as long as he can feel Ilya, real and solid beneath him. 

 

*

 

Ilya is staring at him. Shane blinks. Ilya blinks back. It’s a rare four days off for Shane before he’s back on the road, and they’ve taken the opportunity to enjoy the May weather and spend time at the country home. The deck is finally finished, and they’re set up on a brand new outdoor couch, Shane’s head in Ilya’s lap.

“What?” Shane asks, a little smile on his face. 

“I love you,” Ilya whispers. He looks back at his phone for a moment, and then back at Shane. 

“I love you too,” Shane replies, confused but by no means displeased. “What’s on your mind?”

“I want you to be my date to NHL awards in June.”

“Oh.” Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. He immediately remembers his last and only previous experience at the NHL awards: nineteen, hyperventilating on a bathroom floor. It would be different, with Ilya there. Better. Instead of shoving him away, they could hold each other.

Except Ilya isn’t out. So it wouldn’t be a date, not really. It would just be as friends.

“I was thinking I would do this now? Nobody cares about hockey in Savannah, so paps won’t be bad here, and maybe if I tell everyone now, it won’t be so crazy next month?”

Shane doesn’t fully understand what Ilya is saying, but then he is passed Ilya’s phone. 

 

A draft for an instagram post. Four pictures.

Shane, in his Bananas uniform, dipping Ilya in a kiss in the Bananas’ parking lot. 

Swipe.

Ilya and Shane asleep on a couch in Zane Boodram’s basement, fingers interlocked.

Swipe.

Shane, head on Ilya’s bare chest, smiling half asleep at the camera.

Swipe.

Ilya, in his practice gear, leaning over the boards to kiss Shane on a day when Shane had come to watch practice.

The caption: him <3

Shane stares at the phone for a long time. This is real. “You’re sure?” he asks.

Ilya nods. “If you are okay with the pictures, I will post right now.”

“This is going to be a big deal.”

“It does not matter. I just want everyone to know, finally.”

“Know what?” Shane asks, even though he knows the answer.

“Know that I am yours, Shane Hollander. More than you know, I am yours.”

Shane kisses him, because how could he not. Ilya hits post. 

*

 

Reactions are, unsurprisingly, mixed. Ilya is the NHL’s first out player, and hard launching on social media wasn’t exactly subtle. Fans are mostly supportive, players are a mixed bag. There is a group of extremely vocal podcasters that seem determined to spin the story in such a way that paints Ilya as a villain. 

Shane gains fifty thousand followers in forty-eight hours. He becomes more known than he had ever expected to be again, but it isn’t nearly as bad this time. Not when he has Ilya.

Despite his hesitations, Shane agrees to go with Ilya to the awards. He has the time, and would have to be in Vegas that weekend anyway, with the Bananas playing a tour game at the Las Vegas Ballpark.

 

Shane puts on a suit, and stares at himself in the mirror. Hockey spaces like this always make him nervous until he figures out if it’s safe or not. Tonight, Wyatt Hayes will be there, as will Lisa, to give Shane allies to sit with. Hayden won’t be, which is a shame, but having a baby is probably more important. 

He wonders if anyone will recognize him from his time in the league. If there’s ever a place for that to happen, it’s here. He wonders if they’ll think he looks gay. Not that it matters, but this place brings out something in Shane that he hates. Fear. Shame? Maybe.

It’s been a long time since Shane was afraid like this.

He and Ilya hold hands and find their seats near Lisa and Wyatt, and people are staring. People are whispering. It’s fine.

“Doing okay?” Ilya asks lowly. Shane had confided in him the reason behind his nerves for tonight. Shane knows that he didn’t have to come. He could have stayed back at the hotel. But Ilya wants him here, and Ilya just became the first out player in the league, so there isn’t a world where Shane wouldn’t be here. It’s been a long time since Shane has had a bad experience with the hockey community. Even now, with his larger online profile, it hasn’t been that bad.

“Okay,” Shane confirms, matching Ilya’s tone and squeezing their joined hands.

It’s fine.

A parade of varyingly important people cross the stage, making speeches and announcing awards, before it’s finally time for the award Ilya is up for. MVP of the regular season. It’s the second to last award of the night, with the closer being playoff MVP: a position that will surely go to Scott Hunter for finally getting New York a Cup.

“And the winner of the 2017/2018 regular season’s Most Valuable Player Award goes to…” It’s the same woman. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is. 

It’s 2012 the rookie of the year is Shane Hollander.

It’s 2012 and a shot is pushed into Shane’s hand.

It’s 2012 and don’t be a fairy, Hollander.

It’s 2018 and the MVP is Ilya Rozanov and Shane doesn’t know if he even clapped.

It’s 2018 and Shane’s grip on his water tightens to the point that Wyatt notices, looking at him with concern.

It’s 2018 and are you alright? Lisa’s eyes ask. 

No. No, he isn’t. 

Ilya goes up and makes a speech and it’s probably very good and he watches Shane the entire time, eyes going from fond to concerned in the span of seconds.

Shane wonders if people would notice if he got up and left right now. He doesn’t need to leave. There is one more award and then this will all be over and he can leave and nobody will be talking about how Ilya Rozanov came out of the closet just to date Shane Hollander, NHL dropout.

Is he having a panic attack? It’s been years. Years and years. It’s hard to tell. Hopefully not. That would be embarrassing. Can Shane breathe? Maybe?

It’s fine. It’s so fine.

Of course this happens. Of course it happens here and now and Shane missed his boyfriend’s big speech and fuck.

Yep. 

This is not good.

It’s not fine.

Lisa is there, and her hand is on Shane’s knee, and she’s saying something that is probably good and kind and helpful.

Shane kind of wishes he could die and disappear off the face of the earth and never be known by anyone again.

What happened to being healed and adjusted? Everything was going so well… 

This is a disaster.

Shane forces himself to breathe, and Lisa offers him a relieved little smile.

Shane closes his eyes for half a second and when he opens them again he is in a hallway, somewhere, sitting on the ground with his knees to his chest. Ilya is there now, eyes wide with panic.

Shane appraises himself. He feels better than he had at the table. Not quite normal, but not too awful. His heart rate is back at something acceptable.

He reaches for Ilya, and Ilya comes to him immediately.

“Shane, talk to me, please.”

“I’m okay,” Shane whispers, “sorry for that. I don’t know… that hasn’t happened in years, I didn’t even realize what was happening at first.”

“Was it-” Ilya takes one of Shane’s hands, lips brushing over knuckles, “did I-”

“No,” Shane reassures him quickly, “no I think I just freaked myself out. Started thinking about the last time I was at one of these.”

“When you beat me.” It's probably supposed to be an invitation to joke but Shane can't find the energy.

“Yeah, well, I quit the league two days later, so…” Shane groans. “I just was really hoping I would be fine. Everything related to hockey has been so good lately, and I love your team, and I just.”

“I am sorry. It sucks.”

Shane lets out a startled laugh at Ilya’s bluntness. “Yeah, it sucks.”

Shane pulls himself together and gets up off the floor. Luckily, he has a ready-made excuse to leave early. The game tomorrow.

Banana Ball.

Safe, and fun, and just what he fucking needs.

Chapter 19: Life

Chapter Notes

bunch of stuff going on in this one because I need to plant some seeds for the chapters to come hmmm any guesses? (One person has gotten close in the comments but I'll be so surprised if anyone can guess the whole thing)

Shane plucks at the fabric of his polo shirt. WeAllPlay Hockey Camp, embroidered on one side of his chest. Ilya’s been doing work with the organization since he moved to Ottawa. They work towards building safe and accessible places for vulnerable kids to get involved with the sport, and for years, Ilya was the only NHL player to collaborate. This year, every single coach at the camp is an active professional player, across the NHL and PWHL. Or, almost every single coach. Because Shane is going to be there too. WeAllPlay had decided to run their annual hockey camp during Banana Ball’s midseason break. When the news came out, Ilya had said he would simply not coach this year, but Shane had pushed back. Ilya loves the camps, and he cares about the cause, and Shane hadn’t wanted to be the reason Ilya skipped out on it. He had offered to coach as well; it’s no different from his job in the off season, really. That was, of course, before Shane had his panic attack at the NHL awards. He had put off backing out, waiting to see if he wouldn’t just magically find himself completely normal again after a few weeks back in Savannah. Now, it’s too late to quit.

Hopefully, this will be okay. Some of the coaches are Ilya’s friends, and Hayden will be there too, which is nice. Hopefully this will be like Shane’s job which he loves, and not at all like the league.

Shane hears the bathroom door open, and watches Ilya approach through the reflection in the mirror. Ilya rests his chin on Shane’s shoulder, arms coming around his waist. “You are nervous,” he observes. Correctly.

“Everyone else there is a professional player, of course I’m nervous.” They both know that isn’t the only reason.

“You were a professional player,” Ilya reminds him.

“For a year. And then I couldn’t take the pressure and I quit.” 

“You left,” Ilya’s voice is soft in his ear, “to take care of yourself.” A kiss to Shane’s jaw. "And now, you are a professional skating teacher. This is probably a more helpful experience than playing in the league, I think.”

Shane sighs. Ilya’s probably right. Out of all the coaches, Shane definitely has the most experience working with kids like this.

“Thank you,” Ilya adds, “for being here. I know, after awards, you probably were thinking about staying in Savannah, but… you are here. And I know that it is for me, but I hope you are here for yourself, also.”

“I’m going to try to be,” Shane promises.

“Oh no,” Hayes mutters as soon as Ilya and Shane get on the ice. The kids won’t actually start arriving for another hour, but they don’t actually get the chance to skate together that often, and, Shane had argued, it’s important to be warmed up. Hayes is standing by the boards talking to Scott Hunter, a man Shane hadn’t known was going to be there at all. A man he had looked up to, during his time in hockey.

Hunter looks at Hayes questioningly. “I was hoping we’d have a few more minutes,” he says.

“Until what?” Hunter asks.

Hayes lets out an odd sort of laugh. “You haven’t been around Roz since he went public with Shane, but I’ve known for almost a year. Its… a lot.”

“What does that mean?” Hunter asks.

“Not because of the gay thing!” Hayes says quickly, “Just. Well. You’ll see.”

Ilya, skating next to Shane, raises an eyebrow, tilting his head in their direction. Are you hearing this? Shane rolls his eyes, but lets Ilya steer them towards the two men.

“Hazy! Long time no see!” Ilya crashes into the goalie with an unapologetic smile. Hayes shoves Ilya off, sending Shane a friendly nod. “And Scott Hunter. Did not know you would be here. I assumed you would spend the summer in your retirement home.”

“Nice to see you too, Rozanov.” Hunter turns to Shane, “And Shane Hollander. Man, I remember when you were a rookie. I hear you’re playing baseball now?”

“Yeah,” Shane confirms, “out in Georgia for the most part, but we do games across the country.”

“It is Shane’s midseason break,” Ilya adds, arm returning to its spot around Shane’s waist. Shane shoots him a look, but it lacks any heat. They’ve never been great at resisting PDA, and being at work doesn’t make it any easier. “Very lucky for us, because he is an expert at teaching children how to skate. An expert at a lot of things, really, but some of them he should definitely not teach the children. Parents would complain, I think.” A wink and a smirk. Hayes groans, looking at Hunter, half vindicated, half mortified.

“Yeah, yeah, Roz,” he says, waving a hand, “we all know that you’re only here to ogle your boyfriend while he shows you how to do your job.”

Shane barely restrains himself from laughing at the face Ilya pulls after that comment.

“Not true,” he insists, “I am here to ogle my boyfriend as he does lots of things, not just work.” 

Shane groans at that, face heating up. “I’m going to go find Hayden,” he says, coming up with a surprisingly plausible excuse to leave.

“Come back?” Ilya asks, eyes comically large. “If you spend all week with Pike I will cry, Shane.”

“I’ll be back,” Shane assures him.

He isn’t totally sure if Ilya is joking or not. Sometimes, Shane catches Ilya staring at him, face unreadable. Almost as though he can’t quite believe Shane is real. As though in a blink, everything could disappear. Shane never knows what to do in those situations. Usually, he smiles, and says I love you, and it never feels like enough. He wonders if it ever will. 

 

Hockey camp, thank fuck, is fun. So much fun. Shane loves getting to bond with the kids quickly, seeing them for seven hours each day. There isn’t a single coach on the team that Shane doesn’t like, and he even finds himself having deep, personal conversations with some of the PWHL coaches. 

On the last day, Shane talks to the oldest kids, the U14s, about having a healthy life balance. About taking breaks, and managing the pressures, and maintaining identity in a sport that would rather every single player be the same. It feels hypocritical. Shane is using his only break of the season to do more work, and he managed the pressures of hockey but quitting entirely and refusing to associate with the NHL for half a decade. The only part he feels comes across authentically is when he talks about staying true to your morals. He thinks about how miserable he was, pretending to be someone he never wanted to be. Shane thinks about how much happier he is now, playing a sport that is still competitive, but not in a way that anyone is about to commit crimes over. He thinks about Ilya.

He thinks about how even now, with his wonderful life, the thought of having to get crammed back into an NHL-shaped box sends him spiraling. 

*

 

A tweet: Ok so Rozanov DEF been fucking Shane Hollander the whole time, right??? Like I went back to that first Boston/Montreal 2011 game and let me tell you the tension was homoerotic!!!

A comment: WAITTT holy shit do we think Shane Hollander quit hockey for Roz? Cause I only just learned this but Shane is the guy who beat Roz for the Calder their rookie year… WHAT IF Shane quit hockey so that Ilya could win more?

Shane frowns at his phone. Flips back to his chat with Ty, who had sent him the link. Thumbs down the message.

Flips back to twitter.

A comment: wow at least now we finally know why hollander quit hockey. its cause he was too busy sucking rozanovs dick. bet this is the first time in 5 years mtl is glad hollander isn’t on there team anymore

How colossally stupid.

* the first time in 5 years Montreal is glad Hollander isn’t on their team

Post.

Shane scrolls back to the original tweet. Finds that comment again.

Sorry to disappoint, but I actually quit hockey because the Metros are a bunch of homophobic assholes and like 2 good guys.

In the next room, Ilya cackles with laughter. “Shane,” he calls, “I think this is enough twitter for one day. You are going to break the internet.”

“Oh, like you don’t post worse stuff on an hourly basis,” Shane yells back, making his way towards Ilya.

“Yes, but your mother is going to call if you keep this up,” Ilya says as Shane walks into the room, “and if she calls, you won’t let me fuck you before your game.” It’s more a whine than anything by the time Shane reaches him, but that’s okay.

“Oh,” Shane murmurs, inches away from Ilya but not touching, “so you think I’ll let you fuck me?”

Ilya hums. “I hope so. Is always good when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Feisty.” 

Shane smiles, endeared, and leans in. ‘I’m not feisty,” he argues, lips brushing Ilya’s.

“No?” Ilya asks, “then what is this?”

Shane thinks for a moment. “This is…” he pauses, “I’m not going to let hockey make me feel like shit anymore. I’m not going to let them shove me in their neat little boxes. The camp last week made it clear, you know, I love hockey. I won’t let people who don’t even know me ruin it for me anymore.”

Ilya is staring again, in that way that Shane both loves and hates. “You are the perfect man, Shane Hollander,” he whispers. It’s an odd compliment, especially for the circumstances. Shane laughs, loud. He crushes their lips together properly, pushing Ilya’s arms to the side so he can sit on his lap.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

But there is still something wrong with Ilya’s eyes, and as always, the smile and the words aren’t enough.

*

 

Rose: I want credit for this 

Rose: <Ilya Rozanov comes out as bisexual with ex-rival Shane Hollander, exhibition baseball player>

Shane: You want credit for my boyfriend coming out?

Rose: I was really just aiming for “Shane Hollander, exhibition baseball player”

Rose: but actually yeah

Rose: I do deserve credit for him coming out

Shane: ???

Rose: Do you not remember?

Rose: Little over a year ago

Rose: You were all “ohh Rose I love him but he doesn’t love me even though he asked me to move in and isn’t fucking anyone else and so we can never be together for real ohh woe is me”

Shane: I did not say it like that

Rose: You basically did

Rose: And I was the one to tell you to go for it and ask him out properly.

Rose: And because I said that, you did, and then you got together, and then he became so in love with you that he didn’t want to hide anymore, and then he came out.

Rose: So yeah. You should be thanking me, honestly. 

Shane: 🖕

Rose: ♥️♥️♥️

Rose: I expect to give the best woman speech at your wedding btw

Shane: ROSE

Shane: We’ve only been together a year

Shane: It’s wayyy to early for that

Rose: Are you saying you don’t want to marry him?

Shane: Don’t be stupid 

Shane: Of course I’m going to marry him

Chapter 20: Rozanov

Chapter Notes

Ilya's POV again for funsies... almost at the end and also crazy that this is now my longest fic on here to date. Whoops. Also I feel like some people won't like the planned ending so... sorry in advance? It's not an unhappy ending but I do think it's definitely unexpected so like. who can say............
anyways. enjoy!

Ilya really thought that loving Shane might fix him. 

He really believed that having everything he’d ever wanted would make him happy.

It had, for a moment.

He had been content, at least. That summer, in Shane’s bed, and that winter, with Shane in his, Ilya hadn’t been depressed.

But then Shane had left for his season, and the world had lost its colour, and looking back, Ilya can’t quite figure out how he survived those few months where they couldn’t see each other. He had, somehow.

It’s only gotten worse, the missing Shane. They’re separated for a day or two and Ilya wants to cry.

He came out in the hopes that not having to hide would make it better and, again, it had. For a moment.

Now every time he looks at Shane, he can only count the minutes until they’re separated again. 

It’s October. Five months. 

Five months until Shane has to head back to Savannah and Ilya has to pretend to hold himself together. 

Or maybe five months until he finally falls apart completely.

It’s hard to say. 

If he said something, Shane would help. He would quit his job at the rink and spend every moment by Ilya’s side, if Ilya needed it. Maybe.

Shane definitely knows that something is wrong.

He probably doesn’t know everything. Ilya has made sure of that. 

His hockey hasn’t been affected, at least since when they were separated last season. Even then, it hadn’t been too bad.

It’d been bad, though.

Bearable. But everything is bearable when your mother is dead and your father has disowned you so thoroughly that you can never go home. Everything is bearable when you have Shane Hollander in your future.

It used to be, at least.

This weekend, Shane is in LA. The Banana Ball expansion draft, four new teams. One in Canada, and Ilya had gotten his hopes up at that until he had realized that the Vancouver Rain Rascals would actually have Shane further away. 

Not that Shane is moving. Smitty’s moved on from the sport, so now Shane is captain, and he isn’t going anywhere.

Ilya has promised himself that he will never do something so selfish as to ask Shane to give it up. That’s not who he is. Shane would never ask him to leave hockey, and Banana Ball is no different.

But Shane isn’t here and he hasn’t picked up the phone because he’s probably out with his friends from across the league having a good time, like he should be. Taking a weekend off from the skating school.

Shane isn’t here but Ilya needs him, the way he needs air.

Ilya allows himself to consider, for the briefest of moments, that he doesn’t actually need Shane, that what he really needs is to feel loved. Valued. Real. That maybe, Shane just does that better than anyone else in the world.

Ilya allows himself to consider that maybe this is a sign. Something is wrong with him.

Something has always been a little wrong with him, maybe.

Something had been wrong with his mother.

Ilya thinks about how stressed Shane would be if he knew all of this. Shane would be scared. Shane would be upset. 

Ilya doesn’t want Shane to be upset. Maybe-

Nope.

Shane would be upset if Ilya was dead, too. Because Shane loves him. 

The press has already been relentless to them both, since going public with their relationship. Everyone wants a photo shoot and an interview and a sound bite and they don’t get it.

The world can have Shane Hollander. The world can have Ilya Rozanov. 

The world does not get to have Shane and Ilya too.

Ilya says no to every request he gets, unless Shane rejects them first.

It doesn’t stop half the internet from constantly bombarding them both with fanart and whatever else.

So, yeah. If Ilya died, the media would never leave Shane alone. Shane doesn’t deserve that. Shane deserves better than that. But Ilya can’t leave him, because then the media would go crazy.

Ilya can’t leave him and survive, but that’s not the point.

It’s a horrible cycle, an unfixable problem.

Ilya gets in the car before he can do something stupid, but maybe that was stupid in itself because now he’s going 60 in a 40 and he doesn’t know where he is.

And then, suddenly, he does.

 

Ilya has only been to Shane’s childhood home three times.

The first time was a little over a year ago, right when Shane got back to Ottawa after finishing out his season. It had been Ilya’s second time meeting the Hollander parents, and he had gotten the distinct impression that they weren’t sure what to make of him. Dinner had been stilted, and Ilya had tried too hard, or maybe not hard enough, and while Shane say his parents every few weeks, Ilya hadn’t gone back until Christmas.

Christmas had been better. Ilya had been normal. He had bought Yuna the flowers Shane mentioned she liked, and he had smiled in the right places, and he had desperately tried to prove to these respectable people that he was enough for their son.

The third time, the last time, had been right before Shane had left for his season. Right before Ilya had started properly spiraling again. They had ordered in and watched a movie and played card games and it had been incredibly strange and domestic. It had been good.

“Thank you for having me,” Ilya had said, and Yuna had smiled at him, a warm hand on his shoulder.

“You’re welcome here any time, Ilya. Really.”

 

Well. Here he is. 

Hopefully the invitation is still open.

Ilya wonders if lying in Shane’s childhood bedroom will soothe the ache that threatens to tear him apart from the inside.

It’s raining. It’s always fucking raining in Ottawa. Ilya parks down the street so that he can chicken out if he needs to, and by the time he is raising his hand to knock at the door, he probably resembles a drowned rat, hair plastered to his forehead. He’s freezing, too. In a tanktop and pants and it’s ten degrees out but miserable.

Knuckles on wood. Three times. Polite. Just like how his father taught him. Just like how he did, that one day, on his mother’s bedroom door.  It had been half open, light spilling into the hallway. Ilya didn’t have to knock, but he had, because it had felt right. Or maybe because it had felt wrong. It’s hard to say.

The door opens.

David Hollander is standing in a housecoat, looking incredibly confused. 

Probably because it’s nine in the morning on a Saturday. Probably because Ilya is there at all.

Ilya had been prepared for Yuna. For assertiveness. For expectations and explanations. David is an enigma, still.  

Ilya’s never known what to do around people who don’t want anything from him, or for him, or with him.

“Hi,” Ilya manages after too many seconds of nothing but the rain on the porch roof, “I’m sorry. I was just-” he swallows. This was a mistake. Nothing says fine like showing up at your boyfriend’s parents’ house at nine AM in the pouring rain. “I will go. Have a good day.” He turns to leave.

“Ilya,” David calls out, and Ilya pauses. Turns back. “Come in.”

It’s better than walking five minutes back to his car. Ilya tells himself he’ll just wait until the rain lets up. Then he’ll leave. That’s it. This is just being sensible.

Ilya follows David into the house like a lost puppy.

The kitchen. Yuna sits at a table in a sweater, reading something. “Who was it?” she asks, not looking up. “Those window cleaners again? I hope you told them to get lost.”

“Not the window cleaners,” David says. Yuna looks up, freezing for a second when she notices Ilya.

“Oh. No, I see that.”

Ilya gives a little wave. “Sorry,” he says again, apologizing for nothing in particular, or maybe for everything, “I… I don’t know why I’m here. I was going to leave but-”

“No, Ilya, don’t worry about it. A call ahead might have been nice-”

“Yuna!”

“But we’re happy to have you over. Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Or,” Yuna seems to take in Ilya’s extremely disheveled state, “why don’t you go up to Shane’s room and grab some dry clothes? I’ll put on a pot for when you’re back.”

There is nothing that sounds better than wearing Shane’s clothes and being in Shane’s room and so Ilya agrees easily, practically fleeing up the stairs.

The room smells like Shane. It might make everything a little bit worse, because it serves as a reminder of how not-here Shane is, but Ilya doesn’t even care. It feels safe.

It is safe.

Ilya strips of his wet clothes and pulls on an oversized Bananas hoodie that must be years old at this point, and a pair of sweats.  He allows himself to lie on the bed, just for a moment.

The walls are lined with hockey and baseball posters, the shelves stacked with trophies. It’s neat, of course, but lived in.

Ilya closes his eyes with the knowledge that the other two people in the room are probably the only other two people in the world that love Shane as much as he does.

They probably think that Shane deserves better than this too.

And Ilya can’t leave Shane, because Yuna would kill him. Even if he died, Ilya is pretty sure Yuna Hollander would find a way.

The only solution, as far as Ilya can see, is to make himself into someone that Shane does deserve.

The only solution is to get better.

 

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he must, because the next thing Ilya is aware of is a gentle hand on his shoulder. His face is buried under a pillow, and he resists the gentle prodding for a moment before he remembers where he is.

“Ilya? Sorry, it’s just-” Yuna. Ilya rolls over and sits up in the bed, feeling embarrassed. He really did just walk into the house and go to sleep. “I didn’t want to wake you, but Shane is on the phone. We wanted to wait, but it’s been a while, and he wants to talk before he has to get on his plane.”

“Get on his plane?” Ilya asks, groggy. Shane doesn’t have to get on his plane until ten PM local time. “Did he get sooner one?” Bad grammar. Ilya can’t bring himself to care.

“No, you, uh, you slept for a while there. You must have been really tired.”

“Fu-” nope. Not going to swear in front of Shane’s mom. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened. I…”

“Hey, it’s all good. I texted Shane that you’re here after the third time he tried to call you,” she adds, “not that I was snooping! But you left your phone downstairs, and…”

“Is fine,” Ilya assures her. Shane. On the phone. “He is on the phone now?”

Yuna nods. “He’s talking to David downstairs. I can bring it up or…”

“No, I should go down. Move. Eat, probably. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I can heat you up some leftovers?”

“Perfect, thank you.”

Ilya is less steady on his feet than he would like to be. He holds the railing as he descends the stairs, and collapses into an armchair. David looks up and smiles at him.

“Ilya is here now, I’ll pass the phone to him,” he says. 

Ilya hears the faint sound of Shane’s voice through the phone speaker, and then the device is in his hands.

“Hi Shane,” he all but whispers, voice oddly hoarse. The muscles in his face hurt like he’s been crying, but if he has, he doesn’t remember it.

“Ilya, hi, are you…” Shane seems happy to hear from him. Shane also seems like he doesn’t know what the fuck to say. “What happened? Are you okay? I was worried when you didn’t answer, I-”

“I’m alright,” Ilya answers, because he thinks that’s true. It’s definitely more true than it had been before. The awful headspace is gone, replaced with his usual, mediocre headspace. “Your parents have been very good about me showing up at their house.”

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know. I was feeling… not good. Wrong. It just happened.” This doesn’t feel like a conversation to be having on the phone. “Can we talk about it more when you get home?”

A pause. “I’m going straight to my parents’ from the airport. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay,” Ilya breathes, “sorry. For worrying you. I did not want that.”

“I know. I’m glad you’re alright. I’ll be there by nine in the morning tomorrow.”

“Sorry about your shitty layover,” Ilya says because he wants something to be normal in this conversation.

“I love you, Ilya.” 

A handful of words that always make everything a million times better.

“I love you too. More than anything.”

 

Shane is at the house by nine the next morning. He is looking exhausted, but Ilya isn’t much better. They kiss in the entryway, and it’s only the second time they’ve done that in front of Shane’s parents, but Ilya doesn’t really care right now.

They’re back at home by ten, with plans to return for Ilya’s car in the next day or two when they have time. 

On the couch. Ilya’s head in Shane’s lap. Shane’s fingers in his hair. Dance Moms on in the background because the WAGs put Shane on it and now, irritatingly, he’s hooked.

“What happened yesterday?” Shane asks softly.

Ilya sighs. 

“I was scared,” he admits. It’s as close to the truth as he can manage. Shane’s fingers stutter, and then resume their calming swirls.

“Scared?”

“Of myself. My head.” Ilya whispers. “I have not been so good, lately. My father-” Ilya clears his throat. He has to say this. He has to be what Shane deserves. “My father always told me I was too much like mama. He was right, I think.”

Some lady yells on the tv.

“Are you saying,” Shane asks, and Ilya can hear him fight to keep his voice level, “that yesterday, you were thinking about-”

“No,” Ilya assures him, “not really. I was just… I could have thought about it. And I am scared that I will, soon.” At that, Shane exhales slowly. Ilya feels, more than sees, him nod. “When you leave,” Ilya adds. He feels like kind of a horrible person for saying it, but it’s true. “I think probably I am not okay all of the time, but when you are here, I can forget. And when we are apart, I remember. And then…”

“You get scared.”

“Yes.”

Shane sits with that for a minute. 

“What about when you’re on the road? Is it bad then?”

“Not as much. I have the team, hockey. Is just when there is quiet times, my brain gets loud.”

More silence. Some nine year old does a series of flips that Ilya could never dream of executing. Shane probably could.

“What are you going to do?”

It’s a good question. Practical. To the point. 

“I think it would maybe be smart for me to go to therapy,” Ilya confesses. 

Privately, he thinks it might be smart for Shane to do the same, but that’s an issue for when he isn’t fresh off some sort of mental breakdown.

“I think that would be smart too,” Shane replies. “I can help you find someone, if you want.”

Ilya doesn’t think there is a single thing Shane could offer him that he wouldn’t want.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I love you.

Forever.

Chapter 21: Quiet

Chapter Notes

🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣
.... sorry?

I did warn you... but well.

Oh also because I haven't said it in a while but it still stands: come talk to me on tumblr! please! I am totallynormalnotreally

Shane had been scared to leave Ilya that spring. He had come along way since the fall; they both had. Still, it was impossible not to worry. 

In the end, it hadn’t been so bad. Ilya had spent more time with his team, and weekly dinners with Shane’s parents, and they had called every day, no matter what. Ilya had started seeing a therapist, and she had helped them make plans for how to deal with the time apart.

Ty had called him whipped, and Ty had been right. Shane hadn’t cared. 

The strategies had worked so well that Ilya’s play had remained consistent. Consistent enough, even, to get the Centaurs a spot in the playoffs.

The Cens had made it all the way to the conference finals, and Shane had booked a last minute flight to surprise Ilya at the game, even though he had to be back in Savannah not even a day later.

They had survived nearly three months apart, and Ilya really seems good now. Better than he has in the last year. Maybe longer.

The summer together had been bliss, of course. Days in the country when Banana Ball allowed, lazy evenings in their apartment. Shane’s midseason break had lined up with the WeAllPlay camp again, so Shane and Ilya had returned to Ottawa for the week.

 

Now, it’s August. In a week, Ilya has to go back to Canada to start preseason training. In a month, Shane will follow him.

It’s been a good game. A home game, which is nice. The last home game Ilya will be able to watch in person for the season.

“Well, top of the second inning, and first up to bat is Shane Hollander.”

“Yeah, now the crazy thing about Shane - he’s a pitcher.”

“That’s right. And pitchers are, forgive me for saying this, notoriously terrible hitters.”

“Not Shane Hollander.”

“Nope. And in some leagues, this wouldn’t even be allowed.”

“Boy am I glad it is here, though. Offense or defense, you have to love a walkup from Shane.”

“Be honest, you have to love anything this guy gives you, I mean, at this rate, he is easily the most well known player in the league.”

“And the best.”

“That too.”

 

Shane sprints onto the field. The music blares. He grins. Time to put on a show.

He finds the camera man, recording for the team’s socials. His eyes meet the camera as the lyrics of the song start up. Panic! At the Disco. It’s not a song Shane particularly cares for, but Ilya likes it, so here he is. He sprints across the grass as the chorus plays, coming to a stop for the first verse.

“Mama said: fulfill the prophecy, be something greater, go make a legacy,”

Shane lip syncs to the words, gesturing dramatically with his hands. The camera circles him a few times.

“We wanted everything, wanted everything," 

As the song slows down, Shane sways with the music, slower and slower, almost coming to a stop.

“All tied up, no more love, and I’d hate to see you waiting,”

The beat drops.

Shane throws himself into a flip, landing perfectly in time with the music. His team groups behind him, backup dancers.

“Had to have high, high hopes for a living, shooting for the stars when I couldn’t make a killing. Didn’t have a dime but I always had a feeling,”

Shane catches his bat as someone throws it to him, and it’s going to look so cool on camera. He takes a practice swing, lines himself up in the box.

The Firefighters’ pitcher smiles.

The camera comes in close, and Shane makes sure to sync perfectly to the last lines of the song,

“I always had high, high hopes.”

The pitcher throws a fastball, Shane sees it coming. He hits it deep into right field and takes off for first. He can’t make it to second, but there is time. 

Shane catches his breath while the next two hitters strike out. He is happy with his performance. No complaints. He’s good at what he does, and he loves it, and other people love it too. Win, win, win.

A rookie brought up for only this game and the next few, whose name Shane has already forgotten, hits the ball deep into the center. 

Good for him. He might be sticking around, actually. Shane takes off.

He rounds second base no problem. His team cheers from the bench. The ball is still ages away. Shane keeps going.

Third base. The third baseman used to play for the Bananas, and raises an eyebrow to Shane. Are you really not going to stop here? 

Maybe he should, but he won’t. 

The ball gets closer. The rookie hitter stays at second. Shane keeps running.

There must have been something wrong with the infield. A divot in the dirt, a slightly-too-large rock that catches Shane’s cleat the wrong way. 

One moment, he’s running at full speed, home base so close he can taste it.

Then his foot doesn’t completely leave the ground how it should. He puts out an arm to stop his fall. The momentum is all wrong, the angle too aggressive. 

He goes down hard. His helmet flies off.

His head hits the dirt with a dizzying thunk.

 

The first thing Shane notices is the horrible, ripping sensation as knives plunge into his shoulder. Burning hot pain tears down his arm.

The second thing he notices is that there’s dirt in his mouth. He spits it out. 

Fuck.

Shane can hear yelling, and it takes a second to realize that they’re yelling at him. He blinks.

Half the team is standing around him, a protective wall from any cameras. Someone yells for the medics. Ty is crouched by Shane’s head.

“Hey, man, talk to me,” he says. 

Shane groans. “I’m fine,” he manages, forcing himself to sit up, arm throbbing, “my arm is fucked though.”

“Shit, okay. Okay.” Ty looks around, peering between their teammates. “The medics are here, man. They’ll take care of you.”

“Okay.” 

Medics push past the circle of players and ask Shane a million questions. He fell, he hurt his shoulder, he didn’t lose consciousness. He knows what day it is, and who the president is, and where they are. He would quite like to get off the ground.

One of the medics helps him to his feet, and Shane walks off the field. The crowd cheers him on, probably relieved. 

Every step is agony, jostling his arm such that Shane is sure he can feel every single nerve ending come alight.

The medics aren’t even going to try and treat him here, after his description of the pain, and in a minute, an ambulance is on site and Shane is inside of it.

“Someone needs to tell Ilya where I am,” he says, and one of the Bananas’ staffers promises that they’ll call him. It’s unnecessary, because Ilya is his emergency contact, but whatever. 

The paramedics or EMTs or whoever they are, they get Shane to lie down. They say it’ll help the pain. Shane grits his teeth and nods. The world tilts a little.

A prick in his uninjured arm, and something cool floods his system. Painkillers. Thank god. 

The relief lasts for half a second, and then Shane tries to lift his head to ask a question, but he can’t. He tries to open his mouth, and nothing happens.

Blinding terror comes quickly. Something is wrong. Something is wrong, wrong, wrong wrong-

His mouth tastes funny.

Then, nothing.

 

*

When Shane wakes up in a comfortable bed and a hospital gown, they tell him.

They tell him about the head injury that the initial medics missed because Shane had stayed conscious, and had been coherent. They tell him about the drugs, administered for pain. 

They tell him that the combination of the two had caused an excess of swelling in his brain. Caused a seizure. 

His rotator cuff is torn, and maybe it would have been fixable, he hadn’t seized so aggressively.

But he had.

The doctors tell Shane that tonic-clonic seizures are violent. That all the muscles in his body had contracted and spasmed uncontrollably. 

It could have been a fixable problem. Season-ending, but not career-ending.

The seizure had worsened whatever tendon damage had already been there. Surgery might help, but they’ve never seen anyone come back to one hundred percent after an injury this severe.

They tell him not to expect a miracle.

Shane is still groggy, only half there. He falls back asleep.

 

*

 

Shane wakes up again to the sound of talking. He can’t quite make out the words at first. He recognizes the voice.

His mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. Or maybe insulation. That fiberglass stuff. His throat is sore. Why?-

Right. Surgery. His arm.

They had wanted to move quickly, repair as much of the damage as possible. They had been nervous about another seizure. They had debated over meds, and the swelling in his brain, and had ultimately decided to go ahead with it. 

“-lya?” the words scratches painfully in Shane’s throat. He opens his eyes. Ilya is standing at the foot of the bed, on the phone. His eyes flick up to Shane’s, and he breaks into a relieved smile. 

“He’s awake,” Ilya says to the person on the phone. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes?” A pause. “Yes, yes, of course… Yes… Okay. Bye.” Ilya moves to the chair by the head of the bed, standing in front of it. He takes Shane’s left hand in his own. “Fuck, Shane. I was worried.” Kisses to Shane’s knuckles. “I saw you go down, and it looked bad. And I couldn’t get to you, but you were okay, only then the hospital calls me and says you had a fucking seizure. And then it took me so long to get here, and once I got here you were already in surgery, and-”

“I’m okay.” Shane isn’t sure if he believes it or not. In the grand scheme of things, he isn’t okay. He’s concussed and in pain, despite the drugs he can feel coursing through his system. He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers what the doctor had said before the procedure, when Shane had asked about returning to baseball. Highly unlikely. 

“Your doctors explained to me, but I didn’t understand half of it.” Ilya runs a hand down the side of Shane’s jaw, gentle. Like Shane might break. “I was so scared I would lose you.”

“You won’t lose me,” Shane promises. Ilya nods. They sit in the silence for as long as Shane can stand. Then, “did the doctors tell you how the surgery went?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, “they said they had to, because tear was too large otherwise. Would heal wrong. Was, um, maybe four hours? Surgeon said it went okay, but they won’t know if it helped until later.”

“Okay.” Shane swallows, “and my head?”

“Swelling is going down now. You have a concussion, but not too bad. They want to do some tests, but is probably the same as with your shoulder. Time will say how bad it is.”

“Okay,” Shane doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t know anything. 

“It was your mom, on the phone,” Ilya adds, and Shane looks at him in surprise. “I called her. Didn’t want her to find out from the internet. I didn’t say details, wasn’t sure what you would want.”

“Thank you,” Shane says, feeling a rush of gratitude towards Ilya. Managing his mother and everything. 

“My team has asked about you. Or maybe the WAGs made them. But I told them you are alright also.”

“Has my team been here? Or called?” Shane asks. He doesn’t know what he’d say to them, but still.

“It is two in the morning,” Ilya replies, “by the time you were out of surgery, it was too late for visiting. I think they only let me stay because I begged. I don’t think any of them have my number, and your phone isn’t here. So they haven’t been able to call.”

“In the morning, though.”

“Yes.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand as tightly as he can. He mourns the use of his right arm for the foreseeable future. He looks out the window into the darkness of the night and sees only his own face reflected back.

“I love you,” Ilya says, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

But Shane isn’t okay. And he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He doesn’t know where he could possibly go from here.

“Love you too,” Shane whispers.

He lets sleep claim him again.

Chapter 22: Goals

Chapter Notes

Do you see the vision? Do you see? Is it coming together? (There is still more baseball content DONT WORRY)

Shane isn’t allowed to fly for three weeks. His shoulder hurts too bad to sit in a car for fourteen hours. As such, when Ilya has to return to Ottawa for the preseason, Shane can’t go with him.

Ty drives him home from the hospital with plans to stay the night. Somehow, despite Shane’s head injury making him all but useless, Ilya and maybe his parents have put together a plan. The plan is mostly just Rose Landry. Rose is between projects, and unlike everyone else in Shane’s close circle, she is not currently busy being a professional athlete. His parents had offered, but they’ve also had a trip booked to Turks and Caicos for a year, and he doesn’t want them to miss it.

Rose will land in a few hours, and then Ty has to run to make the Bananas’ bus for their next run of away games.

Shane gets settled on the couch, and Ty puts all the important paperwork and prescriptions on the counter.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Blanket? Ice? Heat? Meds? Food?” he asks. Shane shakes his head.

“I’m fine, Ty. You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile.” It’s uncalled for but Shane doesn’t apologise, and he doesn’t think he needs to. Despite finally getting discharged from the hospital, the doctors finally convinced he won’t have another seizure, it had probably been one of the worst days of Shane’s life.

He had had his first meeting with a physical therapist to talk about rehabbing his shoulder. It had been painful, and miserable, and the PT had ended the session by saying that even if Shane manages to pull off a perfect recovery, his shoulder will likely never be the same. The PT had told him not to hold out hope.

Unfortunately, Shane prides himself on being stubborn. He will try every therapy in the book, whatever it takes to get back. To beat the odds. 

He’s never been good at taking no for an answer.

Hayden calls that night.

“Shane, buddy, you need to get better at answering your texts, dude. Holy fuck. I’ve been worried.”

Shane winces. He knew there was someone he had been forgetting to call in the three days since the injury. “Sorry Hayd. I’m not really supposed to be looking at screens, so I haven’t seen your messages, but I should have called.”

“No, man, I’m just glad you’re okay.” A beat. “You are okay? Right?”

“The doctors don’t think I’ll ever play again,” Shane admits, biting the bullet early in the conversation.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“And… how are we feeling about that?”

“I’m not just going to give up,” Shane says, “I’ll do the rehab, work to rebuild my strength. I’ve known guys to come back from rotator cuff injuries before.”

Hayden laughs. “Glad to hear it.” In the background of the call, Shane can hear children running around and laughing. “You’ll be back in Ottawa soon?”

“Once I’m cleared to travel, yeah.”

“Let me know, I’ll make the drive up. Need to see you with my own two eyes. That fall looked fucking bad.”

“It wasn’t fun,” Shane agrees, “but yeah no, I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

“Awesome. Great. Listen, I will call back in the next day or two, because I want to keep talking, but Ruby needs me right now so-”

“Go, go,” Shane replies, “be a parent or whatever.”

“Talk soon.”

“See you.”

“Bye.”

Rose makes herself at home in the guest room, and Shane uses this first reprieve from the watchful, albeit well-meaning eyes of his friends to check his email. Technically, he probably shouldn’t be looking at screens very much with his head the way it is, but Shane tells himself it will just be for a few minutes. Really, all he has to do is check to see if the skating school has sent him anything for the upcoming winter. One benefit of the management role he’d taken on last year, is that Shane will be able to go straight back to it, or at least the off-ice parts of the job, with only baseline physical therapy. 

Shane finds the email from the head office in Montreal. Subject line, The upcoming season - Ottawa location. 

He skims through the greeting, and the well-wishing from whoever wrote the email, searching for the part where they tell him registration numbers and staffing needs and a list of candidates to interview.

It isn’t there.

Unfortunately, due to a lack of funds, and an increase in the cost per hour at the rink, we had made the difficult decision not to run classes in Ottawa this year. The Ottawa branch will be sold off to fund our continued programs in Montreal, Trois Rivieres, Quebec City, and Drummondville.

There’s more, but Shane doesn’t read it.

He stares at his laptop in quiet shock, willing the words on the screen to change, to say something different.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now? This was it. This was the thing he was holding on to. He can’t play, but at least he was going to have the school and his familiar winter routine and his cozy office and-

And now he well and truly has nothing left. Nothing to do to pass the time, nowhere to be. 

He is right back where he was years ago, that summer after quitting hockey.

Rose picks that moment to reemerge, and immediately notices something is off.

“Shane?” She asks, approaching him. Shane’s knuckles turn white on the arms of his chair. He takes in a rattling, deep breath. “What is it?”

“The, uh, the skating school,” Shane says faintly, “they’re selling off the Ottawa branch. Money issues. So-” he huffs, “there goes the only real plan I had left.”

“Shane,” Rose sounds apologetic, “I’m sorry. But I’m sure there’s something else out there. I’ll help you find it. Hell,” she jokes, “if nothing else works out, you could always become a model.”

Shane doesn’t laugh. “You don’t get it, fuck. This was all I had. And now I have nothing.”

“Nothing? Really? So your hot Russian boyfriend, all your teammates, me, we’re, what? Chopped liver?”

“You know what I mean,” Shane sighs. Rose stares at him for a moment, before pulling another chair around and sitting down, so that the two of them were face to face, knees touching. 

“Shane. Can I tell you something? As your friend.” 

Shane gets the distinct feeling that Rose will tell him either way. “Sure.”

“I think,” Rose starts, almost hesitant, “that you finally have an opportunity to learn who you are when you’re playing for yourself, instead of your team.”

Shane looks at her. “I’m not playing for anyone, Rose. I can’t move my fucking arm.”

Rose groans. “I was trying to be poetic but whatever.” She pauses, placing a hand on Shane’s knee. “You acknowledge that hockey and the NHL was bad for you,” She says softly, “and I know that I was the one that introduced you to Banana Ball, and I know that it’s been good for you, and it’s helped you grow and really become so much happier, but-”

“But?”

“But I think, even now, you base a lot of your feelings on what you can do for your team.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not necessarily, but I do think this change, it has the potential to be good for you. Really good. In the long run.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just offers Rose a small smile. Maybe more of a grimace. 

 

* 

 

Two days later Shane has something of a fantastic idea at three in the morning. He thinks about what Rose said, and he thinks about the future he wants, and he thinks about himself, for once.

At eight in the morning Shane makes a phone call to the skating school’s head office, armed with five hours of research on a notepad.

At nine in the morning, Shane calls his bank. At ten, he submits the paperwork.

At eleven, it occurs to him that he maybe should tell Ilya about this.

Luckily, Ilya picks up on the first ring.

“Shane!” he says, voice alight. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Shane says, which is true for the first time since his injury, “no more headaches, and the PT says I’m healing well.” 

“How long until you can come up?”

“I’ll fly up in ten days,” he replies, “and then I’ll come back for my car and stuff once I’m cleared to drive.” This isn’t why Shane called. “Also,” he bites his lip, wondering how Ilya will take this, “I applied for a loan for five hundred thousand dollars and I’m going to buy out the skating school.”

Silence on the line. Finally, “I am very happy you are doing this, because I know how much the school means to you, but…” Shane can almost see Ilya’s expression in his mind, “you do not have to take out a loan. I have the money. I can just-”

“No,” Shane interrupts, “I know. But I don’t want to feel like my rich boyfriend bought me a job. That’s just not who I am. But I put fifteen percent down, and I’ll get rid of my place in Savannah, keep the country house, and if- when I can get back to Banana Ball, I’ll just find a rental or something. And I know the finances for the school - it’s not a bad profit margin. If I keep the structure from the previous ownership, I’ll be paid off in five years. Sooner, if I run camps in the summers.”

“You have really thought about this.”

“I mean, only seriously since this morning, but I’ve had ideas on how to improve things there for  a while. And I figure, you know, I can get my mom on board, and I talked to head office and they like that it would be staying with someone they trust.”

“Plus, you are friends with many famous hockey players. Will make the school very popular, probably.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Do you think…” Ilya starts, “do you think that maybe you would do work with charities also? I know it would be more money, but WeAllPlay is always talking to me about doing more than just the one week of hockey camp, so maybe…”

It is a fantastic idea. Shane grins. “I’ll get in touch, once everything is for sure. That’s a really good idea.” 

To be fair, it’s also probably Ilya’s way of trying to subtly contribute money without Shane noticing, but he’ll let that slide for now. 

“I have to go,” Ilya says regretfully, “practice. But I love you, and I miss you, and I am very happy you have this project, and I can’t wait to see you again.”

Shane smiles wide, even though Ilya can’t see him. “I love you too.”

He hangs up and goes back to his spreadsheet. This is good. A plan. A goal. 

Shane has always been good at achieving his goals.

Chapter 23: Fight

Chapter Notes

hello world sorry this took longer than the usual (insane) time to get posted but I surprise got like 10 extra hours at one of my jobs and well. anyways almost done now - light, tunnel, etc

enjoy!

“Ilya!” Shane watches on the TV as a sports reporter yells in his boyfriend’s face. He’s back in Ottawa, finally, and curled up contently on the couch in the aftermath of the Centaurs game. It had been a good one, with the Cens destroying Vancouver 4-0. A part of Shane wishes he could be there, especially since it had been the first game of the regular season, but between buying the skating school and rehabbing his shoulder, he hadn’t been able to spare the time. “Ilya, what do you have to say about Scott Hunter’s recent announcement? It’s been over a year since you came out as the first openly bisexual player in the league: are you surprised to see others following in your footsteps?”

Because, yeah. That happened. Shane had opened Instagram to find out that not only has Scott Hunter gotten engaged, but he’s gotten engaged to a man. 

Ilya’s coming out had gone better than Shane could have expected, and so it isn’t really a surprise that now, a full season later, it’s happened again. Still. Scott Hunter?

“It is good,” Ilya responds to the reporter, “Hunter is very lucky to have found someone who is attracted to dinosaurs. And I am not surprised. I came out, I am very happy, I am the best player in the league. Everyone wishes they were me.” A pause. “Now, can the next question be about hockey please? I do not want to tell you how to do your jobs, but this is why we are here, so…”

Shane snorts at Ilya’s response. Hunter coming out is probably good in the long run, but right now it’s really pushed Ilya back into the spotlight, and not because of his skills on the ice.

Shane: Great game tonight. Beautiful goal in the third. 

Shane: Tell your rookie to try and shorten his passes in the neutral zone

Shane: If his linemates could keep up with him it’d be fine, but they just can’t move fast enough

Shane: Oh and dear god please talk to coach about moving Barrett to your line full time the two of you were incredible on the powerplay and he’s better on right wing than left anyway

Shane: Oh but tell Wyatt good job for that save at the end of the second… I can tell he’s been working on that move since last season

Shane: Oh and I love you. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night.

Ilya: You are the perfect man Hollander 

Ilya: <3 <3 <3

Ilya: Love you so much

Ilya: Strong agree with your ideas and good point for Haas I’ll let him know

Ilya: Will pick you up from work tomorrow? Want to get dinner together

Shane: See you then :) safe flight

Shane parks in front of the office building, and the new sign is up. It feels real, for the first time. Since the skating school had previously been managed by head office in Montreal, only really occupying a physical building for the few months classes were running, Shane’s had to find office space to occupy year round. Technically, he could probably have rented out an office at a rink for the full year, but this is cheaper, and still really close by. 

Things will be different with the school from now on. Not only will there be the classes in the winter, but Shane has big plans for March break and summer camps as well. After talks with WeAllPlay, they’ve worked out a hybrid system where half the spots in all the programs will be subsidized for families who can’t otherwise afford it. Another part of the structure that Shane is excited about - now that he’s in charge, he can do whatever he wants with the curriculum. Not only will every program be dedicated to providing high quality on-ice training, but Shane will make sure that every kid also has a normal and healthy relationship with the sport.

The sign on the front of the building, Game Changers Ice Academy. It’s kind of a stupid name, but Shane didn’t pick it - he left that particular decision to his mother. Their office space is on the second floor of a strip mall, above a pizza place that is definitely a front for something, and a weed store. In the office next door, there is a bicycle repair shop. It's an odd collection of businesses, but rent was cheap, and they don’t need much.

Shane opens the door and steps around the boxes of assorted office supplies that clutter the front hallway. They have two weeks until registration opens, and are awkwardly trying to promote the winter classes as much as possible given the state of disarray that the building is in. The floor is half covered in plastic tarps, the hot water only seems to work if you ask nicely, and they have contractors in and out constantly, trying to make the space usable after what was probably a decade of sitting empty. Shane still hasn’t locked in their ice time rentals at the community rink, but that’s the plan for the day.

At the front desk, Stacy is organizing papers into three piles. “Hey Shane,” she calls, “I have a last marketing push for you to approve, five more resumes for coaches, and then some liability stuff for our legal consultant to sign. Oh, and the contractors finally finished with the walls and flooring over the weekend so we can take the plastic covers off of everything now.”

Shane takes the papers, thanking her. Stacy is young, but also probably the best possible person Shane could have hired to help him get this insane project off the ground. He drops the papers on his desk, shrugging his laptop bag off his shoulder. He collapses into his desk chair with a wince. PT this morning had been brutal, and the ibuprofen he popped in the car isn’t cutting it today. Not that there’s much he can do about that right now. His recovery is going as well as anyone could expect. Better, really, but still. Shane is lucky he has administrative monotony to keep him distracted.

He opens his laptop and sets about sending yet another passive-aggressive email to the rink coordinator about why the handsome check he’s sent them hasn’t been deposited.

 

At three in the afternoon, Shane has been staring at the same resume for forty-five minutes. His phone buzzes with a text - Ilya, on the ground. 

Ilya: stopping for coffee on the way 

Ilya: you want anything?

Shane looks up. “Hey Stacy,” he calls, “Ilya’s on his way, and he’s stopping for drinks. You want a coffee or something?”

Stacy makes this funny little awestruck face that she always does when she’s reminded that her boss is dating Ilya Rozanov.

“Oh, um, if it’s no trouble, I’d love an oat milk latte? But it’s really not important. I don’t need it.”

“He’s a millionaire. He can buy you a latte.”

“I mean…”

“I already sent him the text.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Thanks.”

Shane doesn’t hold it against her. He wasn’t any better at nineteen.

Ilya: there is no way Shane Hollander wants a latte

Ilya: this is for stacy, yes?

Shane: yeah

Ilya: ask her what donuts she likes

 

The door opens an hour later and Shane can’t keep the smile off his face. “Hey,” he says, standing up and walking towards Ilya. Ilya puts down his tray of drinks and truly massive box of donuts.

“Hi.”

It’s probably not professional to make out with your boyfriend at work, and it’s definitely not cool to do it right in front of your young employee’s desk, but Stacy is in the washroom and the contractors are done for the day, and so Shane allows them this.

By the time Stacy gets back, they’re only hugging, which is fine, Shane decides. 

“How was PT?” Ilya asks, his voice a low rumble in Shane’s ear.

“Fine. Sore, but when am I not these days?” Shane lets out a huff, shaking his head. “How was your flight?”

“Was good. Strange to go all the way to the west coast for just one game, but I won’t complain.”

“I imagine everyone is in a good mood?”

“Yes. The team is feeling really good this season. Very connected. And Bood is throwing a party next week.”

“What’s the occasion?"

“Just for fun. I think he wants an excuse to barbeque again.”

“It’ll be nice to see your team again. It’s been a while.”

“Yes. They ask about you all the time.”

Shane smiles fondly. He doesn’t know if the Cens actually are asking about him, or if Ilya is just exaggerating, but either way, the idea fills him with a little bit of joy. It’s nice to be reminded that when they’re apart, Ilya doesn’t stop thinking about him.

 

*

 

The winter passes in a blur of games and long hours at the rink and longer hours in the office. Shane is never bored, which is good. Without being able to work out how he used to, that had been a concern, but between PT, the light exercises he is now cleared to do with his shoulder, and daily jogs that he was never explicitly told not to do, he manages to go the entire winter without losing his mind. 

By the time February hits, however, two things are abundantly clear. Firstly, as much progress as he’s made in his recovery, there is no way he can possible go back to Savannah at the end of the month. Every movement of his arm still feels like a burning pain on his nerves. Secondly, however, Shane finds that he quite likes the life he’s built for himself in Ottawa. For the first time, the skating school doesn’t feel like something he’s just doing to kill time until he’s back from the off season. He still has hopes to make it back to the Bananas for at least a game or two towards the end of the season, but he (and his physical therapist and Ilya) don’t want him to risk worsening the injury by pushing too hard too quickly. It’s okay. Shane can be patient.

 

Ilya gets invited to the All Star Game in Nashville, and he brings Shane as a plus one. It’s the first time Shane’s been able to go, since last year it overlapped with Bananas’ training. The first thing Shane notices is that the All Star weekend is just truly an embarrassment of wealth. After years in Banana Ball, Shane has grown used to league events being hosted out of Holiday Inns or on College football fields. While the NHL awards are probably more opulent, Shane had been in such a strange mindset that night that he hadn’t really realized it. It’s one thing to understand that hockey players are rich, but it’s another thing entirely to realize that the league they play for is even richer.

Ilya wanders over to the bar and clearly resists the urge to make a joke about Shane being arm candy. Shane looks around the space for any familiar, and ideally friendly, faces. Hayden isn’t here this year, instead taking his family to Mexico for the week. JJ should be, but Shane can’t see him anywhere, and honestly still doesn’t know what to make of the guy: sometimes they talk, but most of their friendship in the past few years has just been wordlessly sending reels back and forth every couple days. 

At this point, even Scott Hunter and his fancy new fiance would be welcome, but Hunter messed up his ankle a few weeks ago and so he isn’t here. 

Shane feels a little bit like a lost puppy. He feels Ilya stiffen, and turns to face him.

The source of Ilya’s discomfort is immediately apparent. Dallas Kent, league asshole. And not in a fun way.

“Rozanov,” Kent says, “I see you’ve brought your…” he trails off, giving Shane a once over. Nothing has happened, but it feels threatening. “Little friend.” Kent spits out the last word. Ilya adjusts his stance so that he’s standing between Shane and Kent.

“I see you have not brought anyone…” Ilya replies, “but please be sad and alone somewhere else. I was having a great time with my boyfriend before you got here.”

Kent’s eyes flare. The temperature in the room creeps up. Tension simmers.

“I know all about you,” Kent turns to Shane, “you did the right thing. Realized you were a fag, realized you had no place in the locker room, and left. It’s-”

Ilya lunges at Kent, fist raised. Shane acts fast, wrapping his arms around Ilya from behind to prevent a full on brawl. His shoulder twinges. 

“Ilya,” Shane says lowly, “he’s not fucking worth it.”

“He cannot talk to you like that and get away with it.”

Kent watches them, smirking. 

“I didn’t realize he kept you on such a short leash, Rozy. Jesus.”

Shane releases Ilya so quickly that Ilya doesn’t even have time to react before Shane is moving. He strides right up to Kent’s face, grabs him by the collar of his shirt, and then keeps going. Kent is forced to stumble backwards until his back is pressed against the wall.

Shane hasn’t been able to work out as much recently as he would like, but he still has a good inch of height and a solid ten pounds of muscle over Kent. He lets his eyes go dark, dangerous. He will not be made to feel like he can’t exist in this space with his boyfriend. Not anymore. Not after everything.

He leans in closer.

“If he hurts you, there will be consequences with the league.” A pause. Shane lowers his voice to a whisper. “But as you pointed out, I’m not in the league.” He pulls back, just slightly. Kent is wordless, pinned to the wall by Shane’s fist on his chest. “I swing a bat for a living, Kent. Don’t pick a fight you can’t win.”

Shane releases Kent completely, turning on his heel. Kent stays against the wall, frozen. Ilya is staring, pupils blown wide. Shane picks Ilya’s beer up off the bar and downs it. He slides their hands together, interlacing their fingers.

“That,” Ilya mutters, “is the most attractive thing you have ever done.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand in response. The adrenaline starts to fade, and suddenly the prospect of staying in this bar feels exhausting. Luckily, Ilya seems to be on the same page.

“Should we go back to the room?” Shane asks. 

Ilya nods immediately, eager.

“Please, Shane. If I do not have your dick in my mouth in the next five minutes, I think I will die.”

“Well,” Shane smiles, “we wouldn’t want that.”

In the elevator, Shane wonders if video of the altercation with Kent will make it to social media. He wonders what people will say. 

He finds, somewhat surprisingly, that he does not care.

Chapter 24: Everything

Chapter Notes

okok only ONE chapter left and it's the epilogue!!
This chapter is shorter but I didn't want to crowd it out with a bunch of things
I feel like it has the vibes of the episode of HIMYM where they move out of the apartment.

Anyways thanks for reading!

The uniform feels familiar, sticking to Shane’s skin in the late August heat. The music blares. The crowd roars. Somewhere, announcers are talking about him. About how nobody thought he’d ever get here. This is his first of only three games this season, and he can’t hit, and he really should only pitch a handful of times, but still. 

Shane Hollander beat the odds. The doctors, and the physical therapists, and everyone - they had told him not to hold out hope, but he had done it anyway. He had worked hard, and trained hard, and now he is finally able to get back on the pitch with his team, only a year after what was supposed to be the last time.

It’s been a good summer. Between the hockey camps with Ilya, and the little league team Shane got roped into coaching, he’s had a lot of fun. He’s felt settled, in a way that is unfamiliar, but certainly not unwelcome. 

Shane steps onto the mound, and Ty claps him on the back. Grinning. A thumbs up.

Shane takes a deep breath. He feels his shoulder. Feels the scarred ligaments, the damaged tissue. Notes the pains, calculates how much he can give to this.

He looks at the bright yellow ball in his hand. 

He looks up at the batter.

Step up, bank momentum. Tap the ball to his glove. Throw with his whole body, not overextending his shoulder. A twinge. A grimace. The ball sails through the air. The batter swings.

A miss. 

Strike one. 

Again.

Strike two.

Again.

Strike three.

Shane gets his first batter out in only two minutes and thirty seconds. 

It’s been a good summer.

 

*

 

The last Bananas game of the season is in New York. It’s probably the biggest crowd Shane’s ever played for - in any sport. Ilya is in the crowd, sitting next to Rose, who flew all the way out here just for this.

Shane only pitches the ninth and final inning, and even that is pushing it, but he wants to do this. The ninth inning is where everything can change in Banana Ball.

Instead of the point going to whichever team has the most runs at the end of the inning, each run counts as a point in its own right. 

The Bananas go into the game losing 2-4, with two of the innings having tied for runs. They have the equaliser point in the bag, thanks to an abundance of trick plays. It won’t take much to win the game, but it’s Shane’s job to make sure that stays that way. The Bananas are on defense first, while their opponents, the Party Animals, go up to bat. 

Shane knows what he has to do. He knows he can do it. He finds the nearest camera and winks, before winding up and throwing a fastball. The batter swings, but comes up short. 

It happens again, and again, and again.

The third hitter manages to steal first, but he’s stuck there for most of the inning. Shane watches the clock tick down.

The eighth hitter isn’t half bad, and the guy at first manages to make it home. 2-5.

It’s fine. Anything is possible.

A few more Party Animals manage to make it to the bases, but nobody else gets a run. There are fifteen minutes in the game. The Bananas need two points plus the equaliser to tie, and three to win.

Shane sits on the bench, his shoulder brace itchy against his skin, and destroys his throat with how loudly he cheers as the first Banana to pitch makes it all the way to third base.

Ty hits a home run, and the Bananas get two points as both players make it back.

Tie game.

Hitter after hitter goes up to bat, but after the early success, the Party Animals are striking them out.

Two minutes left on the clock.

Time for one pitch, maybe.

Shane holds his breath.

The ball leaves the pitcher’s hand and sails through the air.

Twack. It hits the bat. Shane watches as it goes deep into left field. 

The Banana’s pitcher drops his bat and sprints like his life depends on it. 

First base cleared.

The ball starts coming closer.

Second base.

Shane bites his lip.

The crowd is more deafening than Shane can ever remember hearing.

Third base.

Thirty seconds.

Home. 

That's a point.

The Bananas have won.

 

*

 

Shane and Ty go out for drinks after the game. They’ve already spent time with the team in some popular New York bar, they’ve since migrated to a quieter, cozier pub. Shane nurses his second beer of the night. Ty swirls the ice cubes around his own glass of Dr. Pepper. Dim lights, a football game on in one corner. Some college kids playing pool in one corner.

“I want you to hear this from me,” Ty says, staring into his glass, “before you hear it from anyone else.”

Shane looks up sharply. That could mean a lot of things. He nods.

Ty frowns a little, brows furrowed. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he continues, “about what I want my life to look like, and the sacrifices I’m willing to make for that.” The ice cubes clink against each other. “Your injury opened my eyes, I guess. About the risks of this sport. And that’s… not something I want to have to worry about. I love to put on a show, and I love the team, don’t get me wrong, but…”

“But not enough to risk permanent damage?”

“Yeah.” Ty sounds almost defeated. Like that is the wrong way to feel. “I started looking into other options, for next year, and…” he hesitates, “I found something really good, Shane.”

“Really?” Shane grins at his friend, “that’s awesome, Ty, congratulations. What is it?”

“I’m actually, “Ty grins somewhat bashfully, “I’m actually going to be on Broadway. It’s a major role, too.”

“Holy shit, man,” Shane laughs, “that’s awesome. You’ll have to get me tickets. This is a big deal.”

“I know… I’m still a bit in shock I think. I only found out a few days ago that I booked it.”

Shane pulls his friend in a tight hug. This is, he knows, everything Ty has wanted for years. It’s the result of a lifetime of small parts in off-off-off Broadway productions, or in backwater midwest tour companies. It’s also, selfishly, a little bittersweet. Banana Ball will be a different sport without its resident musical theatre nerd.

“So,” Ty says eventually, “what’s next for you?”

It’s a good question. “I don’t know,” Shane admits, and that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to. “Coming back to Banana Ball was all I could think about this past year, and now I’ve done it and…” Shane trails off, raising his eyebrows with a sip of his beer.

“And?” Ty prompts.

“I’m really happy in Ottawa, Ty.” Shane sighs, “And with the skating school running year round, I have plenty to do there. And” he scrunches nose in displeasure, “my shoulder isn’t nearly as good as it was. Everyone knows it. Every game I play I risk fucking it up past the point where I could recover, and it’s honestly a miracle I was able to come back this season at all.”

“Plus,” Ty smirks, “your super hot boyfriend lives there.”

“That’s true too,” Shane smiles fondly at the thought of Ilya, right now, waiting in their shared hotel room for him to come back. His smile only grows when he remembers the impulse purchase he made three weeks ago at two in the morning on the Tiffany and Co website. “I bought a ring,” he adds after a moment.

It takes half a second for Ty to realize what Shane’s said. His eyebrows shoot up and his eyes light. 

“Holy shit,” Ty breathes.

“Yeah,” Shane runs a palm over his mouth, “I don’t know when, but… I’m going to ask him soon.”

“I’ll be invited to the wedding I hope.”

“Of course,” Shane has already privately plotted out a way for Ty to be one of his best men. He can’t resist joking, though, “unfortunately you will have to take time out of your busy Broadway schedule to come to Canada, though.”

“Hmm,” Ty replies with mirth, “that’s a hard decision. I’ll have to think on it and get back to you.”

Shane rolls his eyes and finishes his beer. Ty mirrors him, and they go to the bar to pay their tab.

“Are you excited?” Ty asks as they walk out into the New York night. “To finally, properly, take time off from being a professional athlete?”

“I’m…” Shane thinks about it. He’s spent the past year working hard to prove the doctors wrong, to prove that he can still play the game. Before that, he was working to prove that he could be someone different from who hockey made him to be. Before that, he had been single-mindedly focused on proving that he deserved to be in the room at all. “I’m curious,” he concludes, and at Ty’s questioning look, Shane elaborates, “I wonder what life will be like when I’m just… content?”

“Have you had that before?”

“No,” Shane shakes his head, “but with the school, and Ilya, and Ottawa,” Shane looks up at the towering buildings that make up the skyline, a million pinpricks of life coming together to form a picture of something beautiful, “I feel like I could be.”

“Not worried you’ll get bored?”

“Bored?” Shane scoffs, “not when you’ll be blowing up my phone every other second with your latest drama, or lunch order, or random thought.”

They walk in comfortable silence for a minute.

“Going to fucking miss you, man,” Ty says, knocking their shoulders together.

Shane repeats the action. “Don’t worry, you aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

Cars rush past. People are in and out of restaurants, hailing cabs. Starting journeys and ending them. Shane looks at Ty, and he looks out at the world around them. 

Everything is real. 

The past is real, and important, and beautiful.

The future is real, too, and Shane Hollander can’t fucking wait.

Chapter 25: Happiness.

Chapter Notes

as promised, one last lil snippet to end this fic!

wrote this while watching the habs/canes game go into overtime for the 2nd time in a row and I am STRESSED but I believe it will be fine

Thanks to everyone who took the time to read this story! It started as a crack headcannon but it really has been a lot of fun to write earnestly, and I hope you all enjoyed!

If you want to chat, as always, please come bother me at totallynormalnotreally on tumblr!

I have some other ideas brewing right now also, so if you're a fan of my writing style, there is more to come. soon. probably. I promise!!!

Shane gets home late. November, and the one downside of skating classes being back in session is that Shane spends a truly ungodly amount of time doing paperwork. On nights like tonight, it’s especially annoying - Ilya, at home. Teammates and their wives over, people Shane considers friends. 

A ring burns a hole in Shane’s pocket. He’d been keeping it in his desk at the office, but today just feels… right. 

He trudges up the driveway and makes a note to bother Ilya about shoveling properly, not just shaving the top layer off the pavement. It’s not something Shane can do, with his shoulder, but it is something he likes to be done right. 

Shane weaves past Zane Boodram and Wyatt Hayes’ cars. He looks up at the house through the lit floor to ceiling windows. Ilya in the kitchen. Zane, Cassie, Wyatt, and Lisa sitting at the table. Someone makes a joke, and they laugh. Warm lights, soft wind. Shane’s boots crunch against the snow and he smiles to himself.

The ring is gold. He figures it will match Ilya’s mother’s cross necklace. Ilya likes gold.

Shane walks in the door, and Ilya’s head shoots up at the sound of the door. His face splits into a grin.

“Shane!” Ilya puts down the plate he’d been holding, striding over and pulling him into a kiss. Less exuberant, quieter, Ilya adds belatedly, “hi.”

Shane shakes his head, endeared. “Hi.” He raises his head to their guests, “hey everyone,” he calls. 

“I missed you,” Ilya says, voice low enough that only Shane can hear, “food is almost ready.”

“You saw me this morning,” Shane argues with a light laugh and a half-hearted shove to Ilya’s shoulder.

“Hmm, yes,” Ilya concedes, “was too long.”

Ilya has beautiful eyes. Kind eyes. Shane was planning on waiting for their friends to leave before he did this, but he kind of can’t wait any longer.

“Will the food be okay without you for a few minutes?” he asks. Ilya gives him a confused look, but nods,

“Yes, everything is just resting now.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did, Hollander,” Ilya jokes.

Shane huffs, but he eyes their full kitchen, and adds, “in private? Please?”

Ilya’s easy expression fades into something a touch more serious, and he nods. Shane tries to arrange his face in a way that indicates this isn’t anything bad, but his sudden nerves make it difficult.

It’s not like Ilya is going to say no. Ilya is obsessed with him. Shane knows this. He’s known it for years. Shane is obsessed right back at him.

Still.

Ilya takes Shane’s hand and they cut through the house and out onto the back deck.

Snow falls gently. The air is still.

“What is it, my love?” Ilya asks.

It’s everything. 

It’s them.

It’s the give and take, the push and pull, the fight. The quiet comfort in knowing that fight was worth it. In knowing that they don’t have to fight anymore, not to be together at least.

In knowing that there isn’t anything he wouldn’t give for Ilya, and in knowing that there isn’t anything Ilya wouldn’t give for him.

This is love, Shane thinks. This is love to an unbearable extent. 

It’s all consuming and beautiful and Shane can’t wait any longer.

Shane takes Ilya’s hands in his own. Their faces are illuminated by the lights coming from inside, but they can’t see the other in the house. It’s cold, but not so cold that Shane can’t take his time with this. Their breath mingles visibly in the air.

“I had a whole speech,” Shane starts, voice barely more than a whisper. He says each syllable carefully, because that’s what Ilya deserves. Care. “But there’s nothing I can say that you don’t already know.”

Ilya squints at him a little, clearly still not fully understanding what this is. Shane can’t have that.

“I love you,” he says, voice growing stronger, “I love you for everything that you are, and everything you do, and everything I do for you. For everything that we’ve fought to build together. You are everything, Ilya, and I-” Shane swallows tightly. He meets Ilya’s eyes. Ilya’s mouth is parted, just a little.

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice breaks, and he looks like he’s going to say more, but Shane needs to do this. He needs to say the words. He doesn’t get on one knee, because that feels corny, but he does reach into his back pocket, releasing Ilya to hook a finger around the solid metal band.

He leans forward, until their lips are nearly touching. “Marry me?” he asks, his breath ghosting across Ilya’s skin. 

Ilya stills, throat working rapidly. He puts his hands on Shane’s shoulders, pushing them apart enough that they can look at each other properly. Shane holds up the ring, not missing the way Ilya’s eyes zero in on it.

Time seems to still.

Shane doesn’t overthink it.

Then, like a dam bursting, Ilya cracks, yanking Shane into a crushing hug. It hurts his shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away, not yet. Not when Ilya is holding their bodies flush together and pressing kisses everywhere he can reach, whispering, frantically,

“Yes, Shane, oh my god, yes.”

Eventually, they manage to get the ring on, and then they’re kissing again. It’s only as Shane starts to notice how cold Ilya’s fingers are against his face that he realizes how long they’ve been standing outside in only their sweaters.

“We should go inside,” he murmurs, “don’t want to freeze. And food is definitely ready by now.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “you are full of good ideas.”

Shane pulls him to the door, “ah,” he quips, “that’s why you said yes then? For my great ideas?”

“And other things.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I don’t know… probably a tie between your blowjob skills and the fact that I’m very deeply in love with you.”

“It’s a tie, is it?”

“A very close one.”

They enter the house, toeing off their shoes and rounding the corner. Their friends look up from their discussion, whatever it had been, questions clear on their faces. 

Ilya shoots Shane a look, questioning. Shane nods. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says, “we can eat now.”

“All good?” Wyatt asks.

Ilya nods. “Very good.” He holds up his hand, the gold band glinting in the light.

“Holy shit,” Lisa breathes, “is that…?”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, arm around Shane’s waist.

“Just now?” Zane asks.

“It was as good a time as any,” Shane reasons. He laces their fingers together, relishing the feeling of Ilya wearing the ring. It feels good. Right. Perfect.

“Congratulations!” Cassie says, getting up and wrapping first Shane, then Ilya, into a hug.

They settle, eventually, digging into dinner and later breaking out Mario Kart, laughing in that easy way that Shane once thought he’d never have. He surveys the scene from his spot on the couch, half lying in Ilya’s lap. Lisa on the couch next to them, Wyatt on the floor in front of her. Zane and Cassie in armchairs. It’s really nice, this life he’s built.

Shane takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand and contract. He feels the way Ilya’s arm lies across his chest. He feels everything.

“Hey,” he says gently, gaining Ilya’s attention in a break between races. Ilya looks down at him.

“Hi.”

“Love you,” Shane promises, pulling Ilya down for a chaste kiss. Ilya smiles into it before pulling away.

“Ah,” Wyatt jokes, a wistful tone to his words, “young love.”

In unison, Shane and Ilya both flip him off, and the room dissolves into laughter. Shane takes the opportunity to kiss Ilya again. To kiss his fiance.

Life, he thinks, is pretty fucking good.