Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander & Original Character(s)

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Mob, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, mob boss yuna Hollander, Yakuza, Paranoia, Blood and Violence, Guns, Angst, Morally Ambiguous Character, Dubious Ethics, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Unhealthy Relationships, Organized Crime, Questionable Parent Yuna Hollander, Family Secrets, Double Life, Eventual Smut, BAMF Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Can Fight, Shane Hollander Speaks Japanese, Shane Hollander Is a Menace, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is Bad at Feelings, Fear, Coming Out, Dark Shane Hollander, Unreliable Narrator, Texting, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Murder, Guilt, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander Has a Praise Kink, and it's EXTREMELY relevant to the plot, nobody dies don't worry, though I guess it is a bit of a bittersweet ending? depending on your perspective

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Just in Case

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-02 Completed: 2026-06-17 Words: 48,803 Chapters: 20/20

The Devil on Your Shoulder

Summary

At twelve years old, Shane Hollander learned how to shoot a gun.
At eighteen, he was drafted into the NHL.
For most of his life, he's believed those two things could exist separately.
He is wrong.

Yuna Hollander is one of the most revered mob bosses in North America. (It changes nothing) (It changes everything).

The Yakuza!Yuna AU that I can't get out of my head.

Notes

Hi friends it's me again writing another strange (and dark) AU. I loveee a mafia AU but I feel like a lot of them get rid of the hockey, and that's just not scratching the itch. So. Here we are.
Early projections put this at 20 chapters, and I'll probably be updating 3ish times a week.
As always, I have no beta and no patience, so please let me know about any particularly horrific typos.

P.S. please give me suggestions of epic English (or Russian!!!) proverbs because I'm running out of ones that work as chapter titles

Chapter 1: All Roads Lead to Rome

2010.

Hustle. Bustle. Fifty million people in the room, and all of them want something from Shane. 

This is the NHL draft, though, so that shouldn't be a surprise.

His height, his weight, how fast he can skate and shoot and smile politely at the nearest camera.

There are a lot of cameras. 

Shane’s known to watch for cameras since he was 12 years old and learned the truth. Checking is instinct, now.

Instead of avoiding them, Shane smiles. That part is as far from instinctual as it gets.

“Remember,” Yuna says, hands on both his shoulders, “keep it vague, but not suspicious. You don't have to lie outright if you don't think you can pull it off.”

Shane shrugs her off, groaning, “I know, mom. Just because I'm telling the story to team interviewers now, doesn't make it any different from what I've been saying for years.” She should know by now that he absolutely can pull it off.

“Sorry, honey,” Yuna sighs, “I know you can do it, and I trust you, but once you're drafted… you'll be in the spotlight. Eyes will be on everything you do, Shane, and that’s dangerous. For all of us.” She bites her lip, the only tell she has ever displayed that indicates discomfort. That indicates that she isn’t totally sure she should let Shane do this. He has to prove it was the right decision.

“It'll be okay, mom,” he promises her, “I'm good at this, you know I am.”

Yuna gives him a tight smile and a nod, and Shane enters the first interview room. Men in suits greet him with a smile and a handshake. Shane’s grip is firm, just as he's been taught. His smile is fake, not unlike his mother’s. They'll never know that.

He doesn’t tell the Montreal Metros interviewer that the real reason he wants to be drafted to Montreal is so that he can keep an eye on the Quebec branch of his mother's criminal enterprise.

*

People seem to think that to be a mob boss, you have to live in a major US city, like New York or Chicago. They seem to think you need to be an old man.

Shane is proud of his mother for challenging those stereotypes.

She had inherited the business from her father, and expanded it expertly over the course of decades. Through manipulation, bribes, and a touch of unavoidably gratuitous violence, she's grown the empire, and managed to remain almost entirely anonymous, at least to the authorities.

Yakuza members across North America live in fear of the woman they know only as Akuma. Demon. 

It's a name she wears with pride.

It turns out that it's very easy to get away with running the largest criminal organization on the continent if you live in Ottawa, marry a mild-mannered public servant, and build up a reputation as a firce hockey mom.

Still, Yuna has to be careful. All it takes is one piece of concrete evidence for everything to come tumbling down, for her empire to crumble, for her control to end.

When Shane was twelve years old, she had told him. He hadn't understood, or maybe hadn't believed her. It hadn't really sunk in until that summer, when she had taken him out to their family cottage, placed a gun in his hands, and taught him how to shoot.

Just in case.

You don't get where Yuna Hollander has gotten in life without making enemies.

*

When Shane was sixteen, he had been billeting with a family in Kingston, the youngest player on the U18 team. He had been awakened, one night, to the sound of gunshots. Eyes darting open, he had reached for the hunting knife in his bedside table, only to realize that there was a dead man in his bedroom. A single bullet hole in his skull. 

Shane had been upset, at first, that Yuna had guards watching him all the time. He had been grateful in a secondary sort of way - if it wasn't for the guards and their sniper rifles, he would have been dead, or kidnapped.

He had disposed of the body with the help of the guards, separating limbs from torso and burying everything in the forests of the Canadian shield.

After that night, Shane slept with the knife under his pillow when away, and a gun when at home.

Just in case.

*

The problem with Montreal is that they think they are safe. Competitors to the great Akuma empire assume that she must live in one of the major cities in the US. Toronto, maybe, if they had to guess a Canadian city. They think they can get away with short changing suppliers and making sloppy, arrogant deals. They think they are untouchable.

None except the very most inner circle know that this is where it started. 

They don't know that Takashi Yamada was born in the early days of the internment camp system on the coast of British Columbia. That, after the war ended, the whole Yamada family had moved to Quebec, enticed, in a way, by the structure promised by the Grande Noirceur, so angry at the rest of the country that they were willing to stomach learning a new language if it meant sticking it to a Canada that had betrayed them so thoroughly. Takashi had fallen in love young, and Yuna had been born when he was only eighteen. In the chaos of the Quiet Revolution, Takashi had found himself in the streets, meeting people, talking to everyone, and making alliances. 

If people needed things, he was the one to ask. Stable. Reliable. 

Instability bred a power vacuum, and he had stepped in to fill it in Montreal.

Slowly, the control had spread: west, into Ontario, South, into the States. When Yuna took over the business, the power only grew, and when Takashi died - it changed. The days of quiet ended abruptly, and since then, the Akuma empire has been brutal, organized, and efficient. A masterclass in criminal control.

Fifty years from its start, Takashi would be proud of what his legacy has accomplished.

*

Shane doesn’t remember his grandfather very well, but he remembers that the man had been kind.

“You are going to be the best of us,” he had said once, not long before he died, “you will not be desperate, like me. You will not be angry, like your mother. If you work very hard, you might be able to be a good man.”

Shane thinks that it is only this wish that had allowed him to play in the NHL at all. His mother loves hockey, absolutely, and has always encouraged him to pursue it to the highest level, but Shane is also completely aware that until recently, Yuna had assumed he would drop it in favor of the family business. 

He probably would have, if the NHL hadn't admitted him into the draft.

In this way, Montreal is a compromise.

He'll be nearby, and can keep her updated on any potential dissent coming from the ranks, but he won't be in charge. Not officially, at least.

He can try to be a good man. Give to charities, use his incoming fame to help people.

He'll only be there as a contingency, in case things get out of hand.

Just in case.

*

Shane gets drafted second, which stings, but Yuna is happy because that means he’s going to Montreal. Not that he wouldn’t have been useful in Boston, but the empire is stronger there.

He lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. It feels like it should mean more, that he’s gotten here. He should be elated. He knows that any one of thousands of guys would kill to be in his place, and he can’t even fully appreciate it, because he’s too bitter. About coming in second, yes, but there had been a part of him that had hoped to go anywhere but Montreal, just so that he wouldn’t have to be as involved with the business. Losing to Ilya Rozanov hasn’t made it any better either. Hockey media had been pushing the two of them as rivals ever since Rozanov’s team beat Shane’s at World Juniors, and they’re already frothing at the mouth for a potential rematch this year. It will only be heightened now, by their first and second picks. It’s a shame - when Shane had spoken to Rozanov back in the winter, he had been… interested.

Really, Shane just wants to play hockey. 

The clock reads 1:04 AM. Fuck it. He drags himself out of bed with plans to go hard on some cardio for half an hour, and hopefully tire himself out enough to get a few hours of meaningful sleep. 

He doesn’t bother telling the bodyguard asleep in the next room where he’s going. 

The gym is empty. Mercifully. Shane gets on one of the exercise bikes, turning the resistance up, pedalling fast. Maybe if his heart beats rapidly enough, his brain will slow down. He doesn’t look at the numbers on the little display, and he doesn’t count the minutes. He pushes, and pushes, and then the door opens with a clang and he slows, one hand coming to the knife half concealed in his shorts. Just in case.

Ilya Rozanov saunters in like he owns the place, and Shane relaxes, giving him a nod, and returning to his pace. Rozanov takes the bike next to him, matching the speed. He smirks.

Shane isn’t in the mood to lose twice in one day. He pushes harder. Rozanov matches him, and then surpasses him. Shane speeds up again. More and more and more and Shane grins, despite the horrible burn in his legs. He loves when someone can keep up with him.

Eventually, it’s too much, and he practically throws himself off the bike, heaving in great gasps of air. Rozanov follows suit, similarly affected. It doesn’t bother Shane that he had to give up first, because he had started well before Rozanov, and they’re both equally tired.

They sit across from each other on the gym floor, and Rozanov takes a swig out of his water bottle. Shane tells himself that the reason he can’t take his eyes off the other man is because he’s thirsty. When Rozanov offers Shane the bottle, and Shane drinks without blinking away, that theory is proven incorrect.

Rozanov tells him to drink more, and so he does, a spike of something heady shooting down his spine. Shane blinks. It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s attracted to men, but fuck. Of all the men for him to be attracted too. He eyes the subtle bulge between Rozanov’s legs and imagines how it would feel to shove his face in there. He doesn’t act on the impulse. Even if maybe Rozanov is giving him some hints that the feeling is mutual, they are still in public, at the NHL draft, and Rozanov is Russian and, perhaps most importantly, Shane doesn’t need Rozanov to know that he sleeps with a gun under his pillow. He also doesn’t need his mother’s body guards to know he fucks men at all, and if they did this, the guards would definitely find out sooner rather than later.

Rozanov asks if Boston is nice, and Shane’s only been once, two years ago, shadowing his mother on a deal with men they’ve since had killed. He says it is, because that’s the normal thing to say. 

They leave the gym together at two in the morning and when Rozanov heads for the elevator, Shane refuses, taking the stairs. Rozanov looks at him funny. Shane just shrugs, as though he enjoys climbing ten flights of stairs after pushing himself way to hard on an exercise bike.

Takashi Yamada had been murdered in an elevator “accident” a week before Shane’s fifth birthday. At his mother’s insistence, he hasn’t been in one since.

Just in case.

Chapter 2: The Road to Hell

Chapter Notes

"updates 3 times a week" I say and then upload two chapters in 24 hours... high key maybe it'll be three because I'll be waiting at the airport for a million hours later today.
Anyways the hit-to-subscriber ratio on this fic is absolutely wild and I'm so excited that people are interested in this idea!!

Enjoy!

2011

Shane wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have to be. Wouldn’t be at this rink doing this photo shoot if Yuna hadn’t needed a half-plausible reason for Shane to be in Toronto. Wouldn't be in toronto at all if she hadn't insisted. His NHL season starts in a few months, and he really has more important things to focus on, but instead he’s about to prance around for some cameras to cover up the fact that tonight he has to go sign some deal on his mother’s behalf, since she’s tied up in Ottawa.

She had promised him she wouldn’t drag him into the life, but that is certainly what this feels like. 

The worst, or maybe best part of the whole thing, is that Shane isn’t shooting alone. No. CCM has decided, apparently, that it will be better publicity to shoot the ad with him and Ilya Rozanov. Even Rivals Agree. That’s the tagline. It’s fucking stupid. Whatever, Shane isn’t in marketing. What does he know?

Damian parks the car outside the rink. Shane likes Damian. The man is large, and strong, and technically Shane’s body guard, but the man also works as something of a driver and assistant, in order to drum up slightly less suspicion. The best part about Damian is that Shane pays him, not Yuna. He trusts Damian to let him keep his secrets from his mother. Yuna hadn’t been pleased at the idea, but Shane had laid it out in simple terms: it was a good leadership experience, and practice, maybe, for whatever his career would look like after hockey. When he’s like. Fifty. Or something.

Even a vague tease that Shane might be open to working for the family business after hockey was enough to get Yuna on board.

Shane has a brief conversation with the director of the shoot, tolerates the artists putting some makeup on his face, and nods to Rozanov as he steps onto the ice, the other man already there.

The director has them skate at each other in a near-humiliating mimicry of a face off. Shane just wants to stay focused and get this whole thing over with. Rozanov has none of the same goals, apparently, because he bursts into laughter on nearly every take. At first, Shane is pissed. Unfortunately, Rozanov’s eyes glint with joy and his mouth turns up in a smile, and Shane is a weak, weak man: he can’t help but laugh along.

Eventually, the CCM people must just get fed up with them, because they haven’t really done any spectacular takes, but it is decided that they’ll wrap this part of the commercial and finish up with some solo shots. Fine by Shane, really. 

He shoots across the ice, carving deep lines in its surface as he turns. He shows off a bit with a stick and a puck, does a few tricks that would have no place in an actual hockey game. Then, at last, they’re done with him. Shane skates up to the boards where Rozanov has been watching, taking a swig of water. It’s probably bad form to leave right away, but he can probably slip out in the next twenty minutes. Then he can take a few hours to decompress before the meeting.

Rozanov tells Shane that the idea for a joint shoot was his idea. Which is… interesting, certainly. Shane files the information away. He wonders who made Rozanov think that Shane is here for anything other than selfish reasons.

Shane watches Rozanov shoot his own solo section for a few minutes, before his phone lights up with a notification. He clicks through to his secure messaging app.

Mother: The Italians want to move up the meet. They already sent a location. 2 hours.

Mother: I need you to be there Shane.

Shane groans inwardly. There goes his decompression time. With Toronto traffic, he really needs to leave soon in order to get to the location on time.

Shane: No problem.

It’s a lie. It’s a big annoying problem. That’s not something he can say to her.

Shane would actually rather watch Rozanov skate in circles than go to this meeting, but he forces himself out of the stands and into the locker room. He still has time for a quick shower. 

The soap is cheap and oddly pink. It’s sticky in a way soap should never be. Shane doesn’t let himself think about it, washing himself with the same brutal efficiency that he applies to all aspects of his life.

Rozanov steps into the room, and, like an asshole, takes the shower right next to Shane. 

Shane might pride himself on his efficiency, but he’s only human. He can’t help the way his eyes follow the drops of water that trace Rozanov’s chest and abs, lower and lower and- fuck. 

No. Nope. No way.

Shane turns his body to the side, hoping that Rozanov won’t notice him getting half hard over literally nothing. He picks up his pace. Shane risks a glance at the other man, just to make sure. Rozanov is staring at him, eyebrow raised, little smirk on his face. Shane can’t look away. Rozanov slowly moves one of his hands lower and lower until he’s fully jerking off. At Shane. In a public shower. Like a fucking idiot. 

As much as Shane would like to enjoy whatever is happening, he has to be the voice of reason. “Not here,” he mutters, shaking himself. He perhaps should have said no, or fuck off, or even gross. Those would have been lies. 

The secret to living a life of lies is to only tell them when necessary. 

Shane leaves the shower and forces himself to calm the fuck down. He texts Damian to get the car ready. He’ll be out in ten minutes. 

Underwear, pants, shirt, socks, and then Rozanov walks out of the shower in nothing but a towel looking like a Greek God.

“Look,” Shane says, because he can be responsible sometimes, “we can forget that happened. In there.”

Rozanov gives him an appraising look. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, I mean, sure.” The words don’t sound convincing even to Shane.

“You are a very bad liar,” Rozanov says, and Shane lets out a puff of air that could have been a laugh had he not stopped it. He is, in fact, an excellent liar. Just not about this. “What is your room number?” Rozanov asks. 

Shane has a quick mental debate on if he’s really going to do this or not. It’s probably astronomically stupid. But Rozanov is hot, and interested, and it’s not like Shane is just rolling in opportunities to get laid.

“1410,” he says.

Rozanov smirks like that’s some sort of victory. “And if I were to come to 1410, at say, nine tonight…?”

Nine is too early. Shane might still be coming back from the meet. “Ten,” he says, and it’s not a request, “if you knock at ten, I might answer.”

Shane slips on his shoes and stands, grabbing his bag and walking out of the locker room without so much as another glance in Rozanov’s direction.

Shane is no stranger to the different criminal organizations in Ontario. He’s been shadowing his mother at meetings like this since he was thirteen, and taking them alone for the past two years. 

He hates it. 

Marco Braga is the highest ranking non-Italian in the New York Mafia, and he acts like that makes him entitled to everything. They’re in Toronto because it’s a decent half way point. Meeting in enemy territory is a fantastic way to die. Braga is a slimy little guy, and Shane could probably take him out with a hand behind his back. This is not that kind of meeting, though. Despite Shane’s dislike of Braga, and the Italians in general, they are technically in an alliance with Akuma’s Yakuza, uniting to hopefully run some of the smaller gangs out of their markets. Shane tries not to think about what those markets are, exactly. 

“How is your mother?” Braga asks, and Shane scowls. He hates that this man knows their faces at all. Especially now that he will be becoming something of a public figure.

“She’ll be a lot happier once you sign this agreement,” Shane replies.

Braga rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine, sorry I want to get to know my business partner.”

“Sign the fucking document and then we can go.” 

Braga pulls the papers towards him and signs. With this agreement, the two organizations will share information about possible infringements on each other’s territories, and work together to deter possible newcomers to the market. Shane signs as well. 

“Always a pleasure doing business,” Braga says, and Shane rolls his eyes. 

“Likewise,” he deadpans, grabbing his copy of the agreement. 

Damian is waiting by the door, and Shane hands him the papers as the two of them walk out of the building and into the night.

They get in the car together, Shane in the back seat and Damian driving. A song plays faintly on the radio, and Shane watches the Toronto skyline out the window, illuminated by the setting sun.

“Damian,” he says calmly, “I want you to take the night off.”

“What?” Damian asks, which is fair. In the three months he’s been working for Shane, he’s never taken a night off when they’re out of Ottawa.

“Go out,” Shane specifies, “don’t come back to the hotel until at least one.”

“Can I ask why?”

And, well, he’ll probably piece it together eventually, and Shane doesn’t want to spend his entire life dodging his bodyguard to have sex.

“I’m… meeting someone.” A pause. Shane worries that might not have explained it. “For personal reasons.”

“Ah. I see.” Damian hums. “I assume this is one of those things you would like me to carefully omit from the summary I send your mother?”

“Yes. Assume that the only things she needs to know are business operations.”

“Will do.”

Damian drops Shane off at the hotel, and Shane passes him a couple hundred bucks in thanks. It’s a completely unnecessary gesture, but Shane likes the comfort of knowing Damian is kept happy, and Damian likes having the cash, so it’s a win, win.

It’s 9:25 by the time Shane gets back to his hotel room. He strips out of his suit, because that’s a fucking weird thing to wear for a hookup. Decent jeans and a nice t-shirt and then Shane waits. He triple-checks that his gun and knife are both locked in the safe. They are. 

A knock at 9:58. Rozanov is eager.

Shane opens the door. Maybe they should talk. Probably. But Rozanov doesn’t seem to want to, striding into the room with dark eyes and a smile that is promising something. 

He gets Shane pinned to the wall, and Shane shouldn’t let this happen, it goes against everything he’s been taught, but oddly, he trusts Rozanov. More than he should.

Then Rozanov’s lips are on his, and Shane can’t help but grin into the kiss. It’s been nearly six months since he’s done this, and that time hadn’t been nearly as good as this. Before he even knows what’s happening, Shane finds himself sinking to his knees, almost on instinct. He hasn’t done this before, technically speaking, but he knows what he’s liked when others have done it to him, and he’s watched a lot of porn. It can’t be that hard, even if Rozanov is fucking huge.

Rozanov pulls him off after a few seconds, and then they’re both naked. Suddenly, Rozanov is holding his head while jerking himself off. And then Shane is lying on the bed getting his brain sucked out through his dick. Life is good. Really fucking good.

Rozanov puts on his clothes afterwards, a pleased little smile on his face. Shane likes looking at it. He probably wears one of his own. 

The door closes behind Rozanov, and Shane waits five minutes before taking the gun out of his safe and putting it on his bedside table. Safety off.

Just in case.

Chapter End Notes

Find me on tumblr at totallynormalnotreally

Chapter 3: Devil in the Details

Chapter Notes

hahahahaha 3 chapters in 24 hours I feel insane I can't stop thinking about them!!!

2011, Fall. 

Shane stares into Rozanov’s eyes. The arena screams with twenty thousand fans. The first Montreal/Boston game of the season and Shane loves it. The energy is electric. Facing off against Rozanov is electric. Their eyes lock. 

“Will you disappoint them, Hollander?”

Rozanov smirks. Shane grins, shaking his head once. He isn’t in the habit of disappointing people.

“Nope,” he replies. The puck drops and Shane moves faster than he thinks, snatching the puck away and shooting it out towards one of his wingers. The fans cheer. Everything lurches into motion. Shane darts up the ice just in time to receive the puck. He dodges around Rozanov, as well as a Boston defenseman, but neither of them can catch him. He slips the puck through someone’s legs, catching it on the other side. The goal is close. The goalie holds his mit a little too low. Shane shoots, and watches with satisfaction as the puck sails home, landing in the back of the net.

In an instant, his team is around him, shaking his shoulders and crushing him in a hug. He meets Rozanov’s eyes from across the blue line. Smirks, just a little. 

The Metros win, thanks to Shane’s goal. 

In the handshake line, Shane folds up a slip of paper. A hotel address. A room number. He palms it to Rozanov as their hands meet, catching the subtle way the man’s eyebrows raise, a poor attempt at hiding his surprise. 

Shane doesn’t have a guard at home, but he isn’t stupid enough to bring Rozanov to his place either. His apartment might be a veritable fortress, but he never lets anyone come over except his parents, and Damian. Maybe, hypothetically, eventually, a friend. Provided there was notice, and he could hide any evidence of his criminal involvements. He got the hotel room impulsively while standing in a stall in the bathroom at the second intermission, scribbling the address on a scrap of paper from his notebook. He doesn’t know if he even expects Rozanov to show up. Shane doesn’t know if he wants him to or not.

Rozanov knocks on the door ten minutes after Shane checks in. Within seconds of opening it, Shane has six feet of Russian hockey player walking him backwards and onto the bed.

“Are you a spy, Hollander?” Rozanov asks, and Shane’s heart jumps into his throat. He isn’t, but what would make Rozanov think that? Has he seen the gun? The knife? The guards?

“What?” He tries to stay calm. 

Rozanov laughs. “Passing me a secret note with a secret meetup location like a bad KGB agent.” He kneels on the bed, legs bracketing Shane’s hips, pushing him down. Shane goes willingly. “Very dangerous, Hollander. Hot.” He brings his lips to brush against Shane’s own. “Some people think you’re boring, you know.”

Shane swallows around nothing. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Rozanov admits, “but not for this.”

Shane pushes up, connecting their lips properly, one hand snaking down to begin working on Rozanov’s belt. Rozanov helps, bracing himself on one hand and using the other to tug his pants off. 

Shane grins eagerly.

He loves hockey, but he’s quickly starting to realize that he loves this too.

He takes more of Rozanov into his throat than he could last time: a fortunate consequence of the practice he’s put in since the summer, first on his own fingers, and then on a series of increasingly large, vaguely phallic toys. Rozanov seems to appreciate his efforts, digging strong fingers into Shane’s hair and pulling. 

Shane realises that, embarrassingly, he might be able to come from this alone. From a dick in his mouth and a hand in his hair and, Rozanov whispering “fuck, Hollander,” like it’s a prayer.

He swallows this time because he regretted not doing it before. Rozanov watches him with wide eyes, pupils blown out, and when Shane grins up at him, some of Rozanov’s cum slips out the corner of his mouth. It should be fucking disgusting but instead it’s just insanely hot, and Rozanov must agree because he halls Shane up so they’re eye to eye, and invades his mouth with his tongue. 

“I want to fuck you,” Rozanov says bluntly, flipping them so Shane is on his back again. Shane feels his face flush. He wants that too.

“I don’t have any lube,” he says instead, and Rozanov groans dramatically.

“You are killing me, Hollander. No lube?”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to do this.”

“You weren’t?”

“I booked this room during intermission.”

“Actually?” Rozanov looks like he wants to make fun of Shane, and so Shane preemptively hits him in the chest.

“Fuck off. Like you’re complaining.”

“No,” Rozanov admits, “is true. This is… fun. But next time we will have lube.”

“Next time?” Shane feels a little stupid for asking. Isn’t this what he wanted? He’s the one that started it after all.

“You will be in Boston next month, yes? I will get us another hotel.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will.”

Shane enters Rozanov’s number in his phone in the format that he uses for everyone he doesn’t want the world to find out about. IR (Boston). 

Rozanov puts Shane in his phone as Jane, which is insanely stupid, and much less helpful. Whatever. 

Maybe they should use a secure messaging app like Shane does with his mother.

Just in case.

*

Somehow, Shane explains Damian to his teammates as his driver and personal assistant, and they all just take that at face value. Hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent, but still. Shane had expected a little resistance, at least. Instead, everyone just nods, assuming that it’s just another part of Shane being strange and uptight. They probably talk about him behind his back, probably speculate about how spoiled Shane must be, but there’s nothing he can really do about that.

When the Metros play in Boston, Shane hands Damian some cash and tells him to have a fun night out. Damian gives him a little smile and doesn’t ask questions and this is why Shane likes him. 

“Hey, man,” Hayden Pike, a third line left wing says, “would you want to go out with me and some of the guys after the game?” 

Shane would not want to. In any other city, he would probably have to lie about having plans, or a call to make, or something else that could justify his antisocial behaviour. In Boston, he doesn’t have to lie.

“Sorry, man. Plans.”

“Oooh,” Hayden teases, sounding like a middle school girl, “does Holly have a hot date?”

The secret to living a life of lies is to tell as few as possible.

“And if I did?” Shane asks with a confident little smile that he doesn’t really mean.

“All right!” Hayden claps him on the back, “way to go, buddy. Is she hot?”

Shane rolls his eyes, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

They head out for warm-ups together. Shane likes Hayden. Hayden has a very pregnant wife he keeps trying to get Shane to meet, and is always trying to include him in stuff. It’s more than Shane deserves, for all he reciprocates. He should really agree to something soon, before the team stops seeing him as a little weird, and starts seeing him as fucking crazy. 

*

In December, Shane gets a series of screenshotted messages from his mother and a simple instruction: deal with him. 

Some idiotic low level dealer has been stealing, skimming off the top of the product and replacing it with a cheap substitute. It’s given the Akuma brand a bad name. Three people have been hospitalized as a result. 

Shane isn’t in charge of anything, at least on paper, and so he shouldn’t have to deal with it. Unfortunately, this sort of problem is only becoming larger in Montreal, though. If Shane handles it, it sends a message.

The man is more of a boy than anything, four limbs tied to a chair in a cold warehouse. Shane trudges in snow from the parking lot on his boots. He walks silently. The traitor can’t be older than he is. It’s no excuse. Nobody can be allowed to think that stealing from Akuma is something you can get through scott free.

Shane doesn’t give a sign that he’s in the room until he’s directly behind the man. A light flickers. Shane cringes. This might be a criminal organization, but they don’t need to lean on cliches to intimidate. He moves fast, two hands cup the man’s face from behind. He couldn’t turn to look at Shane if he tried. 

“Don’t move,” Shane whispers roughly, the French slipping off his tongue effortlessly, “don’t even fucking breathe.”

The man stiffens.

Good.

When Shane talks, he drops his voice half an octave, leaning deeper into the Quebecois accent he doesn’t naturally possess. Unrecognizable. A necessity, these days.

“Do you know who I am?” Shane demands. The man lets out a shaky breath, but that’s not a response. “Answer when I speak to you.”

“Yes,” it’s immediate. The man is scared.

“Who am I?” Shane is going to make him say it. That’s an important part of this dance.

“You’re her son, aren’t you? Akuma’s son. I heard rumors, but…”

“You didn’t believe them?” Shane pauses. “I’m sure you believe now, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” The man speaks so softly Shane almost misses it.

“Good. Then I don’t have to explain to you how much trouble you’re in.”

The man doesn’t even try to argue, he knows there’s no point. “Are you going to kill me?” he asks. 

Shane doesn’t reply. He keeps one hand on the man’s face, and uses his other to reach into his belt and pull out his favourite revolver. It’s not practical, but it is beautiful. He trails the cool metal of the barrel from the man’s temple to his jaw.

“Do you think I should?” he asks. It’s a mind game, and it’s cruel, and Shane doesn’t care. If this man could have just done what he was told, Shane wouldn’t have to be here. He can exact a bit of revenge. The man doesn’t answer, quite literally shaking in fear. “Ask nicely, and I won’t,” Shane offers generously.

A moment passes. The man breathes shakily. Shane doesn’t so much as twitch, the gun resting on the man’s collarbone. “Please.” The man’s voice breaks. Tears slip from his eyes.

Shane removes the gun, stepping away softly. The man doesn’t move. He has learned his lesson.

The heavy metal door clangs shut behind Shane, and he signals to his mother’s lackeys to let the man go. They look at him oddly, but Shane confirms it. If they let this guy go, he’ll tell everyone he knows that it’s true, that Akuma’s son is in Montreal. The message will be clear. Shane is not without mercy, but he does not suffer fools either.

Chapter End Notes

Find me on tumblr at totallynormalnotreally

Chapter 4: The Apple (Never) Falls Far From The Tree

Chapter Notes

SOOO excited for this chapter and the next one and the next one and the next one (lol) but especially chapter 5. Get excited. Crazy response to this fic so far, at least compared to my usual, but I'm hyped!!

January, 2012. 

Shane loves order. He loves control. Discipline. Excellence. He wakes up at 5:30 every single morning and he’s never in bed later than midnight. He drinks one of three protein smoothies for breakfast, one of four pre-packaged meals for lunch, and while he can be a little more flexible with dinner, he will only eat out at specific restaurants. He alternates his workout depending on the Metros schedule for the day, focusing on strength, endurance, or flexibility. Each day, as Shane laces up his skates, he holds within himself a perhaps egotistical conviction that he is the best player on the team. It’s a bold statement, for a rookie, but Shane leads the team in goals and is beating Rozanov in the scoring race. He deserves to have a bit of an ego. 

Now that Shane has established himself in the rumor mill that is the Montreal criminal network, business has improved: his mother’s minions are too frightened by him to act out of line. Yuna is pleased, and so she spends less time interrogating Damian as to Shane’s day-to-day activities, and so Shane doesn’t spend all his time worrying about forcing his employee to lie to one of the most dangerous women on the continent. 

All this to say, life is good. Excellent, even. 

In the aftermath of a home game against Boston, Shane gets home at 12:10, grimacing at the deviation from routine, but not regretting it. He can never bring himself to regret Rozanov. If Shane focuses, he can still feel a phantom version of Rozanov’s hands on his waist, his lips whispering praise.

He can still feel the way Rozanov had left him stretched out, he’s loose and a little floaty. It had only been their second time fucking properly, and a part of Shane had expected Rozanov to lose interest by now, but that hadn’t happened. Thank fuck. Shane doesn’t have time to find another semi-regular, discrete, impossibly attractive hookup. For his reputation, Rozanov is a very... considerate partner. He checks in regularly, making sure they’re both enjoying themselves. He starts gentle, but makes sure to fuck Shane out of his mind by the end of the night.

Now, back from the hotel that neither of them can justify spending the night in, Shane plops down onto his bed. He rolls to his left, then his right, then his stomach, and nothing works. The pillows are too soft and then they’re too firm. The blanket is too hot but without it he’s too cold.

Shane opens his phone. He scrolls mindlessly on Instagram - his private account with exactly zero followers that he only uses for the occasional guilty-pleasure internet stalking. He doesn’t know how he winds up on a page that promotes sports for at-risk kids. 

The organization runs in five major cities, all within Akuma’s empire. Cities where all crime comes back to the Yakuza, in one way or another. They run after-school programs to keep kids active, and off the streets. Their most popular program is a drop-in hockey group twice a week. 

Before Shane can think about what it  might mean, he anonymously donates thirty thousand dollars. 

Sleep comes easier after that.

Shane resolves not to tell his mother.

*

February

Shane’s flight lands after the All Star game and, because he’s trying, he heads straight to Hayden’s to finally meet his friend’s wife and brand new twin babies.

“Shane! Dude!” Hayden opens the door before Shane can knock. “You have no idea how thrilled Jackie and I are to finally have you over. Shane Hollander, NHL all-star. Damn. How was it? Or do you want to eat first? Or- oh! Jackie! You have to meet her! The twins just went down and it might be the first time they’re both asleep at the same time so you’ll have to wait a bit for them to wake up but I’m sure you will. And we cooked! Or, well, Jackie cooked. You know me.” 

Hayden finally stops his word vomit and Shane cynically wonders if he ever exhausts himself with how much he talks. Shane would never. The more he talks, the more he risks letting something slip.

“Where should I put my shoes?” he asks, because he’s considerate like that. Hayden indicates the general pile of his thirty thousand shoes next to exactly three neatly lined pairs that must belong to Jackie. Shane adds his to the line and follows Hayden into the house.

The food is great, and Shane loves Jackie, but the highlight of the night is surprisingly when the twins wake up and Shane is handed a squirmy baby to hold. Jade (or maybe Ruby?) is sweet, grabbing at the strings of his hoodie. 

Shane watches the man who may very well have accidentally become his best friend interact with his other daughter. Hayden looks so happy, with his little family. He is probably the best person Shane knows. A good father. His children will grow up supported in this house. They won’t spend their teen years shooting guns in the woods, and they’ll learn to throw a punch for hockey, not self defense.

They will never have to worry about their parents being arrested or killed. Never have to worry about familial obligation. Never have to debate whether to live authentically, or safely, knowing that the two will never be able to align.

Shane wonders what it would be like to have a childhood like that. No knives under pillows, no guns on nightstands, no body guards. No just-in-case.

Jackie takes Ruby/Jade from Shane as the night comes to an end, 

“Thanks so much for coming, Shane. It was great to finally meet you.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies, “it was great to meet you as well. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“Oh my god, yes. Hopefully by then the twins will be sleeping more than an hour at a time and we can talk properly.”

Shane smiles at her, zipping up his coat. “Have a good night, Jackie.”

“Goodnight Shane.”

Shane’s car is cold because he refuses to shell out for one of those fancy ones that you can preheat with the tough of a button. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. His breath fogs. He spends far too long fighting with the heat settings to try and prevent his windshield from clouding with condensation, but Montreal’s winter is too humid, and he doesn’t have much luck. 

It’s annoying in the moment, but maybe saves his entire life.

While Shane waits for the defrost button to work its magic, he stays in Hayden’s driveway. Anything else would be irresponsible. 

On instinct, he gives his jacket a final pat-down. This isn’t the jacket he wore to the All-Star game, but the one he keeps in his car, for colder days. Left breast pocket, wallet. Right side pocket, phone. The left side pocket usually holds his keys, but they’re currently occupied in the ignition of the car. Then, in the inside pocket-

Fuck.

Did he remember to take the revolver out of that pocket?

It certainly isn’t there anymore.

He had definitely had it there two weeks ago, because he had used it to subtly threaten some mid-tier Greek enforcer, clicking the barrel over and over in the man’s ear.

Since then, the jacket has been in his locked trunk. Safe. Secure. 

Shane can’t risk it being lost somewhere in his car. If it’s anywhere else… 

The gun has never been fired. It’s never needed to be. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t insanely incriminating for Shane to own it at all.

He slams the car door shut again, running back up the steps to Hayden’s house. He tries the door. Locked. He knocks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Jackie opens it, confused. “Shane? Did you forget something?”

Shane runs a hand through his hair and tries not to look like a crazy person. This is so unlike him. This is so stupid. This is the kind of mistake that ruins everything forever.

“Yeah, sorry, I think something fell out of my pocket when I was here?” 

“Oh! Where do you think it happened? I can run and check so you don’t have to take off your shoes again.”

Shane doesn’t deserve this kindness. His eves wander to where his coat had been hanging, trailing down. A diaper bag is half open on the floor, and Shane can just see a glint of metal sticking out where it shouldn’t. Stark against the pure kindness that radiates out of this house. 

“Maybe in the living room?” Shane asks to get Jackie to leave, “It might have fallen between the couch cushions?”

“Okay, sure,” Jackie bites her lip, “and what was it again?”

“Um,” Shane blinks. He needs something important enough to come back for, but not important enough that he can’t leave without it, “My watch?” It shouldn’t sound like a question, but it does.

“Aren’t you wearing your watch?” Jackie asks, a confused smile on her face. Shane flushes. 

“Yeah. No. This is, uh, my dad’s watch. It’s fancy, but it doesn’t have any of the metrics I like. And I don’t like wearing two at once. But it was nicer for the socializing at the All-Star game, so…”

“Oh, yeah,” Jackie nods, “I totally get that. I’ll go check for you. One sec!”

She leaves, and then there is nothing but the thundering of Shane’s heart in his chest. His hands shake. Upstairs, he can hear Hayden putting the twins back to sleep.

He reaches for the revolver. Triple checks that none of the bullets are missing, as improbable as that might be. 

It’s a beautiful weapon. Gifted to him but his mother when he was sixteen. He has others, guns that would be much better in a fire fight, but this one feels refined. Sophisticated. Everything Akuma’s Yakuza aspires to be. The polished wooden handle is smooth and well-worn. The barrel is engraved with a floral design. The chamber spins smoothly, thanks to years of care. Decades. Shane knows that it must be at least twice his age, and that his mother had won it in a game of poker while she was pregnant with him. It represents everything Yuna wishes he would be. 

Jackie’s footsteps precede her return, and Shane hastily returns the weapon to its rightful place in his inner pocket.

“Sorry, Shane” Jackie says, “I couldn’t find it.”

“That’s okay,” Shane smiles like a normal person, “I must have dropped it somewhere else. Thanks for checking.”

Jackie furrows her brow. “No problem. I’ll keep an eye out still, just in case.”

“Yeah. For sure. Well,” Shane hugs his coat around himself in an effort to hide the fact that he’s still shaking. “Thanks. See you. Bye.”

Then he’s gone.

He gets in the car. The windows are unfogged now.

Shane takes the gun out of his jacket and stares at it in his hand. He thinks about diaper bags and childhood and legacy and before he knows it, he’s standing on the pier, wind biting at his cheeks. He gazes out into the darkness of Lac St Louis, at the pinpricks of light on the other side. He looks at the weapon in his hands.

His mother had given it to him when she had still believed that he would be her heir. As long as he keeps it, he’s affirming that belief, in a way.

Methodically, he takes it apart. Sitting on frigid concrete, freezing his ass off, he takes out the screws and separates the smooth metal from itself. He holds the eight bullets in his palm. Slips one in his pocket. Just in case.

Shane takes a moment to be grateful for the cold weather giving him a reason to carry gloves, and uses a microfiber cloth to wipe any fingerprints off the many pieces. He closes his eyes. Is this insane? Is this fucking crazy? His mother is going to kill him. Damian is going to kill him too, though that will probably be more for this late-night excursion than for getting rid of the gun. 

Whatever.

Guns don’t belong in diaper bags. Not in homes as kind as Hayden's. Shane realizes that he wants to feel worthy of a friend like Hayden. He wants a lot of things.

He won’t stop carrying all together, because he isn’t stupid. Danger is everywhere. But maybe he doesn’t need to carry a testimony to glorified violence.

Shane chucks the wooden handle into the water. It splashes satisfyingly. It feels like a release. Shane picks up another piece and he does it again. Again. Again. Each throw gets harder and further and it’s so fucking cold and he’s so fucking pissed that this is his life. Why can’t he just be like Hayden? Why can’t he just be normal? A wife and a house and two kids and a normal hockey career.

The bullets hit the water with little plonks that don’t align with the emotions running rampant in his head. Once everything is gone, Shane sighs. He returns to his car. 

He gets home at two in the morning and doesn’t even notice that he’s lost track of time.

Chapter 5: The Leopard And Its Spots

Chapter Notes

evil laughter???
:) :) :)

2013, Fall

Shane plays with the trail of hair that leads from Rozanov’s chest down to his dick. His head rests on Rozanov’s stomach, and he is held there by strong, warm hands. They both catch their breath. Shane squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, soaking this in.

They’ve been doing this dance for three years, and it’s the first time they’ve hooked up somewhere other than a hotel room. Shane had told his mother he was using the money to buy a safe house, now that Montreal has grown into one of the most active cities they’re involved with. He hadn’t lied, technically. He would use the building as a safe house, if needed, but mostly he bought it for this. For him. Them.

So that they could take each other apart without having to worry about making an embarrassing mess or being too loud.

He owns all three levels of the building. The first floor is a laundromat, and if Shane had any proper friends who know about the family business, they might laugh at him for renting out the space to such a stereotypical mob business. Not that it’s a mob-affiliated laundromat. Shane’s PI had been very thorough. 

The second level is an apartment that hasn’t been touched in the better part of a decade, and Shane keeps meaning to hire someone to at least make it livable for when his parents are in town. The third level is the space he’s actually put effort into. A nice bedroom and a well-stocked kitchen and a shower with the best water pressure he’s ever experienced.

“Can I ask you a question?” Shane asks, breaking the first and biggest rule of their arrangement for reasons he doesn’t fully understand.

Underneath him, Rozanov’s breath hitches. “You already did, Hollander,” he points out annoyingly, “but yes, because I am nice, and because you gave good head today, you can ask me another one.”

Shane huffs. He almost wants to abandon this all together, let them go back to not talking beyond what is necessary. But. They’ve been fucking for years and Shane doesn’t know a single thing about Rozanov that he couldn’t find out online, save for the fact that the guy likes men. So sue him for wanting a bit more.

“Why do you do this?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“You’re attracted to women,” Shane states the obvious, “you could be having great sex without any of this…” he searches for the word, “risk. But instead, every chance we get, we do this. What’s in it for you?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Hollander. You cannot tell me there are no beautiful women throwing themselves at you.”

Shane sits with that for half a second. “There are,” he admits, “but I’m not interested.”

Rozanov half sits up, squinting down at Shane. “At all?” he asks, as though the idea of not being into women was absurd. 

Shane shrugs. “Nope,” he pops the p. He doesn’t miss the way Rozanov had skillfully avoided the question. He raises his eyebrows at the other man, searching.

Rozanov sighs, resigned. “What can I say?” he smirks, “I like trouble.”

Shane barely holds back a grin at that. He thinks of the seven guns in this very apartment. He is more trouble than Rozanov even knows.

It’s a good thing Shane likes trouble too.

*

2014, June

Shane stares daggers into Rozanov’s skull and regrets, for a moment, not putting out a maim order on the man. How fast times change. Apparently, all it takes for Rozanov to go from "I like trouble,” to “we are nothing, go away," is two weeks of shitty hockey in Sochi. 

He stares at Rozanov’s perfect fucking face and he imagines what it would look like bloodied and bruised. He imagines Rozanov, on his knees for Shane. Shane would hold his knife to Rozanov’s cheek, carving a thin line in his skin. Rozanov would apologise. Acknowledge where he went wrong. Suck Shane’s dick to make up for being an asshole and using his subpar team as an excuse to be a subpar person. 

Then they would be okay again. Rozanov would have atoned. Would have known pain, like he made Shane know pain.

Shane shuts down the line of thinking. Rozanov owes him nothing. Rozanov has just won the fucking Stanley Cup. And Shane doesn’t care about Rozanov either. Not even a bit. He’s just pissed because his regular hookup has ghosted him, right when it started to feel like they might be able to be friends. But he isn’t mad about it. Whatever.

Whatever.

It’s fine.

Shane presents an award with Rozanov and it’s the first time they’ve touched since that day at his safehouse and he tries not to vomit on stage. Stages are, just in general, dangerous places for him to be. A million sightlines and he can’t watch any of them. Unlike in an arena, he isn’t moving around. Even if nobody is trying to kill him, Shane can’t help but feel like a sitting duck. He looks up, to where he knows Damian is watching. He plasters a smile on his face. He doesn’t gut Rozanov in front of all the important NHL people using the razorblade he keeps in the heel of his shoe. He rattles of the cringeworthy script some intern came up with for them, and then he books it out of the spotlight as fast as he can.

The bathroom is kind of dingy but Shane doesn’t care. He dryheaves in the toilet. He hates Vegas. Standing on legs that have seemingly forgotten how to hold him up, Shane stumbles to the sink. He washes his hands, and then he washes them again, and then he washes them a third time, until they are red and a bit raw and they hurt in a way he knows how to deal with. He runs them down his cheeks and around the back of his neck, hoping that the water will snap him out of this. He investigates his own reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t look like a happy man. He looks just as raw has his hands feel.

Then the door is banging open again and Rozanov saunters in. He leans against the wall and looks at Shane appraisingly. He does an incredibly poor job of appearing nonchalant. Shane debates ignoring him altogether. He isn’t strong enough.

“What the fuck, Rozanov?” he demands, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. Rozanov raises an eyebrow and says nothing. His slight smirk doesn’t leave his face. “You’re an asshole to me in Sochi. Fine. You  ghost me even after the Olympics are over. Fine. But what is not fucking fine is you waltzing in here like I owe you anything.” By the time Shane pauses to take a breath, he has somehow moved closer to the other man. Their faces are inches apart. Shane glares, and Rozanov looks surprised, maybe. His mouth parted just a little. He visibly rethinks whatever plan he had held going into this, and Shane feels something akin to satisfaction. 

It takes a long time for Rozanov to speak, but he does, eventually. “You are right,” he says, and Shane feels his jaw drop in shock. “Was not… good of me. To act like that.” He looks at Shane like that will fix everything. Shane wants to let it. He resists.

“Say you’re sorry.”

“What? I just did, Hollander. Are your ears broken?”

Shane isn’t having it. He lets his eyes darken, rolling his shoulders back. He regards Rozanov the way he does traitors and thieves. Rozanov notices the difference, pupils dilating. 

“Say the word,” he demands, “or I won’t let you fuck me tonight.” It’s another moment of weakness, but Shane doesn’t care. Putting Rozanov through this is the closest he can get to his fantasies right now, watching the man shift uncomfortably. Once this is over, Shane will want to get laid, and it just so happens that Rozanov can help him with that.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, almost disbelieving. Shane doesn’t blink. They’re so close he can feel the other man’s breath on his cheek. “Fine,” Rozanov caves. He bows his head a little. “I am sorry. For being an ass. In Russia and after.” He says the words like they physically pain him and Shane smiles. Rozanov doesn’t look up, head still pointed to the ground. Shane seizes the opportunity to kiss the crown of his head, gentle. Lips meet gelled curls.

“Thank you,” he breathes, “good job.” A beat. They both sit in whatever the fuck is happening, so different from their usual dynamic. “Text me your room number,” Shane adds, and then he leaves Rozanov standing there, the door swinging shut behind him.

Damian is lying on Shane’s bed when he gets back from the boring after party, ready to change and then head straight up to Rozanov’s room. 

“Hey,” he says, cautious.

“Shane,” Damian sighs, sitting up. “I know you told me this was one of those nights where I should make myself scarce, and that’s fine by me, don’t worry, but, well…” he groans, running a hand down his face, “be careful. Okay? We both know that people are unhappy ever since your mother double crossed half the country last fall. If anyone could have learned your identity, or hers... Vegas would be a great place to make an assassination look like an accident.”

“I won’t be going out,” Shane assures him. Damian nods.

“I know, but still,” his face scrunches up, “bring the glock?” When Shane is about to protest the idea of bringing a gun to what they both know is a clandestine hookup, he adds, “for me. So I can have a good time, and not worry that someone will come for you in your sleep or some shit.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll bring it. Just for you.” 

“You’re too kind.”

Shane moves to the safe, pulling out the gun and double checking that it is fully loaded. He slips on an ankle holster because that feels like the place Rozanov is least likely to touch until they’re both naked and Shane can, like, hide it in his shoe or something.

He changes into something a touch more casual, and makes for the door again, when Damian adds, “oh, and Shane,”

“Yeah?”

“I just thought you should know… I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“You. And… Rozanov.”

Shane is going to die. He feels his pulse increase and his face heat up. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Chill, kid.” Damian says, “I don’t give a shit. It wasn’t hard to put together, I mean, I’ve known it was a Boston player for years. But Rozanov is the only one from Boston here tonight, and so…”

“Fuck,” Shane groans, “am I that obvious?”

“No,” Damian assures him, “I’m just paid to be observant.”

“My mother-”

“I haven’t said a word to her.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“I won’t.” Damian stands, “look, I’m sorry for bringing it up at all, but I figured it’d be best to tell you right away.”

Shane nods numbly. It was the best course of action. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Well, have a good night.” 

“You too, man.”

Shane leaves, pulse thundering in his ears. This is all too much. This is far too complicated. This has to be the last time. For real. His worlds are colliding and that simply can’t happen and so he will end this thing with Rozanov. Tonight. He can find some discrete man in Montreal to fuck and it won’t be the end of the world.

Rozanov is standing on the opposite side of the room when Shane finally makes it up the nine flights of stairs to the penthouse, and that makes it very easy to hide his glock half in a shoe and half under his shirt. He brings all his stuff into the bedroom, and Rozanov only looks at him a little funny. 

“Lots of windows,” he points out, but he can’t pretend that it isn't hot. He isn’t thinking clearly, already. The things this man does to him.

“Show off for me,” Rozanov demands, and Shane was planning on making him work for it a bit, but now that he’s here and naked and feasting his eyes on Rozanov’s bare chest, all of those well thought out revenge plans go out the window. All he wants to do is relax in the way that only Rozanov can make him. He shows off. Trails a hand down to palm at his dick over his briefs, uses his other one to squeeze at his pec the way Rozanov likes. He enjoys the way the other man practically salivates over him. 

In minutes, Rozanov’s self restraint is gone, and he’s standing at the foot of the bed. Shane crawls to him, mouthing at his crotch. “Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov groans, pressing his face in deeper and holding him there until oxygen becomes a real problem.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Shane asks, once he’s caught his breath. Rozanov doesn’t answer with words, instead picking Shane up at the waist and dropping him back down onto the bed unceremoniously. He lands on his back and lets his legs spread open. In a blink, Rozanov’s slicked up fingers are teasing his hole, and Shane pushes back onto them. Rozanov doesn’t spend much time prepping him, and Shane wouldn’t want him to. When he slides home, it feels just as fantastic as it always does.

“So fucking good for me,” Rozanov grunts out, and Shane could maybe come from those words, but he holds himself back, wanting to enjoy the waves of pleasure for as long as he can.

All good things must come to an end, though, and so they lie next to each other awkwardly, still sticky with sweat and cum. Rozanov smokes, even though it’s a no smoking hotel, and Shane doesn’t care enough to tell him off. He holds a glass in one hand, filled with hotel vodka that Rozanov has decided isn’t terrible. It burns his throat in a bad way, but he drinks it anyway. He's about to open his mouth and end this. For good. For real. Forever. 

He doesn’t know why he glances out the window, but he does. He looks out across at the Vegas strip. The hotel across the street is tall, taller than this one. He sees a flash of something in one of the windows. It might be nothing. It might not be. Just in case…

Shane acts on instinct. He doesn’t even think, his body moving in ways he’s been training it to do not for hockey, but for survival. He grabs both of Rozanov’s shoulders and rolls them both straight off the bed. If this is nothing, Shane can just make out with him, and it might go unnoticed.

Rozanov protests loudly, and the two of them crash to the floor, but neither of those sounds is loud enough to cover up the sound of the window shattering, or the bullet thunking into the wall where Shane’s head had been half a second earlier.

Chapter 6: Crime Doesn't Pay

Chapter Notes

Ahahahaha
Next chapter will be Ilya's POV!!!!!

Glass blows inwards. Shane is wet with spilled vodka. Rozanov’s cigarette burns away on the floor. Fire hazard. Shane grinds his palm into it, grimacing. Rozanov is under him, eyes wide. Breathing fast.

“What the fuck Hollander?” he tries to shove Shane off him, but Shane remains in place. Another bullet lands in the drywall. Shane takes a steadying breath. Clothes. Gun. Escape. Live. Preferably, Rozanov would live too, because if he died Shane would have to spend hours scrubbing his DNA out of this room.

“Don’t fucking move,” he orders, placing a hand on Rozanov’s chest while also keeping both of them completely behind the bed, hidden from the window. “Stay down.” 

Thank god his clothes are within reach. He drags them over, tugging on his pants and underwear and securing the ankle holster back on his leg. He ignores the way Rozanov’s eyes practically bulge out of his skull.

“Is that a fucking gun?” Rozanov asks, doing an incredibly bad job at hiding the fact that he’s freaking out. “Why do you have a gun?”

Shane ignores him, tugging on his shirt. He reaches across the floor and tugs Rozanov’s suitcase towards them, tossing the man some clothes. 

“Get dressed. Fast.” 

“What is happening?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Shane bites, “we need to move.” He turns off the safety on the weapon, and feels a spike of gratitude for Damian. If it weren’t for that man and his obsession with having guns in every city on the continent…

Shane glances at the door. If they stay low to the ground, he doesn’t think the shooter should be able to see them. They need to get out of here before someone comes to finish the job up close.

He army crawls out of the room, and beckons for Rozanov to follow suit. Rozanov, intelligently, complies, still looking absolutely bewildered. Shane supposes that’s fair. They reach the entrance to the suite, and Shane has to reach up a hand to turn the doorknob. Three bullets lodge in the door. One grazes his arm. Shane flinches. Glances at the ground. He can’t be bleeding here. Leaving evidence. He grabs a discarded necktie from a pile of Rozanov’s formal wear and wraps it around himself as a makeshift bandage. He pries the bullet from the door with his bare hands. No evidence.

“Did you just get shot?”

“What part of ‘don’t ask questions’ do you not understand?” Shane wants to be nice to Rozanov, because he’s sure the man is a thousand times more freaked out than he is, but it’s just so difficult.

They get into the hallway and stand up, out of view of any windows. Rozanov makes for the elevator, but Shane grabs his bicep, dragging him in the opposite direction, towards the emergency stairs.

He props the door open half an inch with his shoe, training the glock on the door to Rozanov’s suite. Not thirty seconds later, a half dozen men poor out of the elevator, breaking down the door into the suite.

Rozanov, who has been keeping up a running commentary of whispered Russian, freezes. “Hollander.” 

Shane ignores him. He has to. He is in absolutely the wrong headspace for what is happening. Rozanov’s cum is still on his chest.

He calls his mother, and she picks up on the first ring. Shane doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “My identity’s been leaked.” Shane watches as Rozanov’s eyebrows shoot up. He wonders what Rozanov is thinking. The men in the suite yell something at each other in a language Shane can’t quite place. 

“What do you mean?” asks Yuna over the phone, “are you sure?”

“Someone just shot out the window of the hotel room I was in. I’m pretty sure.”

Shane hears his mother’s breath hitch. “Where are you now?”

“The staircase. We just watched like six guys break into the room. Europeans, I think, but I can’t say for sure. I don’t know the players out here well enough.”

A beat. “We?” Yuna asks. 

Well, shit.

Whoever tried to kill him, they know about Rozanov now. At the very least, they know there is someone. Rozanov will need protection. 

“So don’t make a big deal about this,” he says, switching to French to avoid Rozanov listening in, “but I was… seeing someone.”

“What? Who?” Yuna demands, “Why have you never mentioned her before?”

“It doesn’t matter right now.” Shane bites out, more dismissive than maybe he’s ever been with his mother. Ilya seems to have stopped panicking and is now just staring at Shane blankly. Betrayal clear in his eyes. “I’ll talk to the guys in his city about keeping an eye on him, make sure nobody wants to follow up. But I’ll need the current code for the Vegas safehouse.”  

“Yes.”  Yuna says, stunted, “I’ll send that right away. But Shane-”

“We’ll talk about this later.” Shane cuts her off and hangs up. Before he can change the screen, it vibrates with an address. It isn’t far. He texts Damian.

Shane: Someone tried to kill us. Sniper. Need to go to safe house. Hurry.

Damian: WTF. Will be there in 5. Injuries? Your russian loverboy coming with?

Shane: Will do. A bullet nicked me but I have it. And yes. Don’t make it a thing

He doesn't protest the loverboy of it all.

“Come on,” he says to Rozanov, but the man refuses to move. “Rozanov. Let’s go.”

Rozanov shakes his head. “I am not going anywhere with you until you explain what the fuck is happening.”

Shane groans. Any second now, the guys in the suite will decide to start looking elsewhere for them, and they’re currently standing in the most obvious place imaginable. 

“How about you come with me, because if you don’t, those scary guys with guns are going to come in here and shoot us both.” He keeps his voice measured. Calm. Low. He is in control.

“What do you think you look like right now?” Rozanov asks, and. Fuck. That’s a good point. Shane is also holding a gun, and he isn’t exactly unthreatening. 

“Okay,” Shane says softly, flicking the safety on the glock and tucking it into his waistband. He holds his hands at his shoulders, palms up. “Okay. You’re freaking out. That’s fair. But if we stand here much longer, we are going to be dead. So let's go down a few floors, and then we can talk where it’s a little safer, okay?”

Rozanov doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t refuse either.

They go down seven flights of stairs, winding up on a floor with a conference room. Unlocked. They step inside. Rozanov positions himself on the other side of the table. 

Shane figures that Rozanov has probably seen enough to put at least some of these pieces together. He might as well spell it out. “My family…” Shane’s never actually had to explain this to anyone before. He realizes with some surprise that he doesn’t know how, really. “They are, um, very involved, let’s say.” Shane bites his lip, “in organized crime.” 

A beat. “Organized crime” Rozanov repeats, staring at some point above Shane’s head, “Hollander. You’re in the fucking mafia?” his voice raises, and Shane flinches. Way to alert the whole world as to where they are. Rozanov seems to notice, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter. “Those guys were trying to, what, kill you?” 

“Yeah,” Shane admits, “seems like it.” He scrunches his nose. “Technically, it’s the Yakuza. Not the mafia. And I’m not really in it.” Rozanov gives him a disbelieving look. “I try to stay out of all that,” Shane clarifies, “so I can focus on hockey. But my mom is, um, powerful? Let’s say.” He just keeps talking, and he can’t tell if he’s digging this hole deeper or if he’s fixing the situation, but Rozanov’s eyebrows just keep climbing higher up his forehead and that isn’t a great sign. “And so I’m sort of also powerful, by default. When there’s an issue in Montreal, sometimes I’ll handle it. But like I said, it’s not really my thing.” Shane finally forces himself to stop talking.

 “Fucking hell, Hollander,” Rozanov curses under his breath. 

Shane wonders what he’ll do if Rozanov can’t get very okay about this very fast. He wonders if he has it in him to kill the man. He hopes he doesn’t have to. He hopes he never has to kill anyone. Directly. 

“Are you coming or not?” he asks. Rozanov looks like he genuinely doesn’t know what to do, but then he seems to steal himself, and moves back around the table.

“Where are we going?” 

“A safe house. My bodyguard is picking us up.”

“Bodyguard?”

“Yeah,” then, somewhat guiltily, Shane adds, “he already knows. About you. So. He won’t ask any questions.”

They walk down the remaining flights of stairs in silence. As they exit the building through a back door, Shane shoves Rozanov in the car ahead of him.

Once they’re both seated, Damian takes off. They don’t exchange pleasantries. This is awkward enough as it is.

“Med kit?” Shane asks.

“Under my seat,” Damian replies.

Shane looks at Rozanov. “Could you…” he waves his hand at the space in front of Rozanov’s feet. Wordlessly, Rozanov bends forwards and grabs a metal tin, passing it to Shane. 

He opens it and pulls out a ziplock bag. He drops the bloodied bullet in there as well as Rozanov’s tie. He inspects the wound. It doesn’t look too bad. He swipes at it a few times with alcohol wipes, and then wraps it in a bandage. The wrappers and used wipes go in the bag. 

“You need a medic?” Damian asks.

“I’ve had worse,” Shane assures him. “I’ll put in a few stitches when we get to the safe house.”

A Katy Perry song plays on the radio. Damian turns it off. 

“Who even are you, Hollander?” Rozanov whispers. 

Shane pretends not to hear him.

When they step into the safe house, Rozanov laughs under his breath. Shane turns to him, an eyebrow raised. “Do you have the same designer for all of your safe houses?” Rozanov asks, and Shane frowns. Then, oh. Yeah. This house has the same throw pillows as his building in Montreal. The same hotel art on the walls. The same plates in the cupboards.

“Fuck off,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes. They sit. Damian leaves to deal with the hotel. The door locks behind him. 

“You should probably stay the night here,” Shane says eventually. “Just in case. I’m going to make a few calls. All your stuff will be here in the morning, and I’ll make sure you’re not charged for damages. Get some sleep.”

“Hollander,” Rozanov replies, “I do not care about the room. This is fucking insane.” 

“Yeah.” Shane can’t argue with that. 

An hour passes. Shane makes calls, and only half of them are in English. 

His mother texts.

Mother: “His city”???

Oh fuck. He used a pronoun, didn't he? Well. It's too late now.

Shane: Is that going to be an issue?

Yuna: It’s certainly a surprise.

So not only is that the least helpful thing she could have possibly said, but also she knows he’s into guys now. Which means his dad does too. Which is just fucking fantastic. What a day. 

Rozanov is still sitting on the couch, staring at him. Shane doesn’t like what he’s about to do, but he has to do it.

“Look,” he starts, “I like you.” It’s a big admission for him. For them. “I like playing against you, and I like fucking afterwards.” Shane sighs. He’s doing what he has to. “Rozanov, if you breathe a single word of this to anyone, I won’t be responsible for what happens to you.” It has to be said. If Rozanov tells even one person, Yuna’s people will find out. Shane might be merciful, but the great Akuma is not. Rozanov has to know that.

Shane likes Rozanov. He likes Ilya. But even if they never fuck again, the guy needs to keep his mouth shut.

Rozanov just nods. 

When Shane wakes up in the morning, the couch is empty. Ilya is gone

Chapter End Notes

Yes. Yes, I know that technically the french singular possessive pronoun is gender neutral and so Yuna wouldn't have noticed given what Shane said that he was seeming a man. His city or her city, at the end of the day it's all sa ville. But I wanted Ilya to have no idea what was going on and so they couldn't speak English and so it's fine. :)

Chapter 7: Кто не рискует, тот не пьет шампанского (He who doesn’t take risks, doesn’t drink champagne)

Chapter Notes

Ilya's POV!!!

Also AO3's dedication to American English is driving me crazy I can't even... is there a setting for this? Can i change it?

Ilya leaves the safe house as soon as the sun rises, before Shane can stop him. Because Shane could stop him. Because Shane is some sort of gun wielding mob boss or something. Apparently. What the fuck.

Ilya misses when Shane had been Hollander, in his head. He misses when Shane had been a boring Canadian. He can’t help but wonder, now, how much of everything he knows about Shane is even real. The scraps of information he’s begrudgingly collected over the course of half a decade, personal anecdotes Hollander has let slip in clipped press interviews and their occasional non-sex related conversation. 

It’s not like Ilya doesn’t know about organised crime. He grew up with a corrupt cop for a father, and he’s always known, in a way, what that meant. He remembers dinner parties as a child where was expected to be seen and not heard, dressed up just in case he was addressed by men more important than he would ever be. He remembers his mother tripping over herself to serve them drinks, desperate to prove something that Ilya could never understand. The Bratva men had been tall and intimidating and those dinner parties had been the only time in Ilya’s life where his cruel father had seemed small. Frightened, even.

It’s hard to reconcile those harsh men, with their cutting insults and careless demeanour, with Shane Hollander. Perfect, kind, irritatingly earnest Shane Hollander, who has had exactly one fight in his entire NHL career and always smiles at children.

Ilya wonders if that says something about his psyche.

His uber drops him at the airport and he makes it through security. He’s at his gate five hours early but it feels better to be here than in that house. Ilya recalls the times he’s seen Shane’s mother. She hadn’t looked like a mob boss. She had just looked like a mom. Maybe a bit of a helicopter parent, but still. A regular person.

Shane had told him that there would be people “keeping tabs” on him, for the next few months. Just in case whoever came for them last night tried to follow up. Maybe it was supposed to be comforting but it just has Ilya jumping at shadows, wondering if every other person is secretly watching him.

His flight lands in Boston without fanfare, and he spends the forty-eight hours between landing and leaving for Moscow in his house, staring at nothing.

In his couch, in his head, Ilya admits something to himself that he never wants to see the light of day: Shane, bloodied and holding a gun, was the most erotic thing Ilya had ever seen. If he hadn’t been freaking out so thoroughly, he would have been hard in his pants. Ilya hates that. He hates that despite everything, he doesn’t hate Shane. He should. 

If Ilya were at all a normal, sane, logical person, he would never see Shane again. He would play professionally on the ice, and ignore the man off of it, and that would be that.

He opens Shane’s contact on his phone. Jane. Three dots in the top right corner. Tap. The block button is right there. Ilya’s thumb hovers.

He should probably be concerned by the fact that this new knowledge about Shane hasn’t made him any more inclined to put an end to their arrangement. If anything, Ilya wants to see Shane again. The thought of fucking Shane, now, with no lies between them - it’s heady. He imagines Shane riding him on this couch, holding that gun. Without bullets. Probably. For safety. But still. Fuck. Ilya palms himself over his pants. He needs to calm down. This is ridiculous. What kind of idiot gets off on the idea of their professional rival holding a gun during sex? 

Ilya changes Shane’s contact from Jane to Jane🔫🔥🥵. Chuckles to himself at the pure absurdity of the situation.

He doesn’t block the number. 

*

Ilya gives himself a month. He doesn’t want to make this decision in the heat of the moment. And this is a decision. If he never clears the air with Shane, they’ll never fuck again. As confusing as this all has been, Ilya knows that he doesn’t want that. But it would be smart, and it would be safe, and if Ilya were a stronger man, that's what he would do.

Moscow is nice in the summers. As nice as it can be. Ilya sees his father for a weekly dinner, ignoring his constant barbs about the Olympics and how he’s let Russia down. After the second week, he stopped mentioning that he was also the reigning Stanley Cup champion. It didn’t seem to make a difference. 

He spends the rest of his time training and clubbing. He hooks up with a beautiful model and imagines that her shoulders are broader and her muscles are more defined and her hands grip him hard enough to bruise. 

“What’s up with you?” Svetlana asks, the two of them lounging on his bed in his apartment, “you are acting weird.”

“No I’m not,” Ilya insists. Sveta snorts.

“You are, Ilya. It’s getting ridiculous. You’ve barely picked up since you got here.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. “So what?” he asks, animated, “I do not fuck enough women for you? It’s none of your fucking business.”

“I’m worried, is all. Your mother-”

“I am not like my mother,” Ilya cuts her off, “that is not… what this is.”

Sveta hums. “So there is a this, then?” She smiles. “Does this have anything to do with… Jane?” she quirks an eyebrow.

“Leave it alone, Sveta,” Ilya sighs. 

It’s not his fault that he can’t get Shane Hollander’s stupid beautiful face out of his head.

On July 12th, Ilya is going for a run down a nice paved trail near a forest, deep in a suburban area he doesn’t often frequent. His shoelace comes untied. Ilya bends to fix it, and his eyes land on a log in the underbrush. A snail, on the log. He smiles to himself.

Shoelace fixed, he whips out his phone. Before Ilya can rethink it, he snaps a picture.

July 12 - 15:49

Ilya: saw this & thought of u

Ilya: [IMAGE: Snail on a log]

Thirty seconds later, a response comes in.

Jane🔫🔥🥵: ???

Ilya: because ur so slow ;)))))

Jane🔫🔥🥵: [IMAGE: Shane’s middle finger. The background is clearly a bedroom, and not one Ilya has ever been permitted to see.]

Jane🔫🔥🥵: I don’t know, I was feeling pretty fast when I beat you at, oh yeah, THREE out of our four games last season.

Ilya smiles to himself. This is so stupid. He doesn’t care.

July 18 - 10:26

Ilya: talk to me about Nichols

Jane🔫🔥🥵: The defenseman?

Ilya: yes

Jane🔫🔥🥵: He’s a solid guy. Reliable. Puck handling could use some work maybe, but he’s good at creating chances and keeping the other guys off your back. Was a shame when we lost him to Tampa.

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Why?

Ilya: i don’t think he liked tampa very much

Ilya: we just got him + a 2nd round pick 

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Shit, really? 

Jane🔫🔥🥵: What did Tampa get?

Ilya: first round pick in 2016 and Vasiliev.

Jane🔫🔥🥵: The 4th line center?

Ilya: Was kind of a shit deal for Tampa I think

Jane🔫🔥🥵: You can say that again

July 25 - 0:13

Ilya: shaneeeee

Ilya: SHANEEEE

Ilya: fuvk

Ilya: Я очень пьян 

Ilya: I wnat u to know

Ilya: im not scared of uuuuu

Ilya: Я хочу тебя трахнуть. прямо сейчас 

Ilya: shit u dont kno russian

Ilya: don worry bout it

Ilya: I wish i was witth u not here

Ilya: here suckssssss

Ilya: and NOT in the fun way

Ilya: u suck in the fun way

July 25 - 1:25

Ilya: sory 4 these texts this is very not chill but im chill i promise

Ilya: im so chill. goin with the flowww you get it

July 25 - 2:41

Ilya: dont tell anyone but i would do anything for you hollllander

Ilya: anything

Ilya: except lose. Will never lose

Ilya: im the greatest hockey player aliveeeeee

Ilya: maybe 2nd greatestsest

Ilya: DONT tell anyone i saidd thatr

July 25 - 3:30

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Go to bed, Rozanov.

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Text me when you wake up so I know you didn’t choke on your own puke.

July 25 - 13:27

Ilya: Alive. Barely. Sorry for texts. Was a… strange night.

August 2 - 21:58

Ilya: Hollander. U up?

Ilya: Hollanderrr

Jane🔫🔥🥵: It’s three pm of course I’m awake

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Did you forget about timezones?

Ilya: shut up. Leave me alone

Jane🔫🔥🥵: You literally texted me

Ilya: what r u doing rn

Jane🔫🔥🥵: nothing much

Ilya: at home?

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Yes. Why?

Ilya: what r u wearing? ;)))

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Rozanov. No.

Ilya: show me? 

Ilya: please?

Jane🔫🔥🥵: No. 

Ilya: I'm touching myself right now. thinking of you ))))

Ilya: your mouth would be much better than my hand 

Shane doesn’t respond and Ilya doesn’t hold that against him. This is not something they’ve ever done before. It’s a lot. Especially now that Ilya knows even more about how many secrets Shane is keeping. Then, possibly the best surprise of Ilya’s life:

Jane🔫🔥🥵: [IMAGE: Shane, naked. He is visible only from the shoulders down, splayed out on a bed. His dick, hard against his stomach. Three fingers inside himself. A bottle of lube visible on the bedside table.]

Ilya: WTF Hollander

Ilya: are you trying to kill me

Ilya cringes at the joke once it’s sent. Shane probably could kill him. Is it too soon? They haven’t talked about it, and Ilya doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up.

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Is it working?

He lets out a relieved laugh. This is good. This is familiar. Ilya shucks off his underwear and pumps himself a few times to ensure that his responding picture is equally good, if not better. Ideally better. He takes it, playing with the filters for a second before giving up and sending it to Shane, unedited. 

Ilya: [IMAGE: Ilya’s hard dick against his abs, one hand resting on the base.]

Ilya: yes.

Ilya: not a bad way to go

Jane🔫🔥🥵: [IMAGE: the same position, but now Shane’s cock lies soft against his stomach, cum splattered up his chest.]

Ilya: fuck. 

Ilya: [IMAGE: Ilya’s hand, wet with cum, wrapped around the head of his dick.]

August 18 - 14:34

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Have you seen 127 hours

Ilya: what?

Jane🔫🔥🥵: It’s a movie.

Ilya: no. why

Jane🔫🔥🥵: You said you’re always bored on the flight from Moscow

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Thought I’d send you some suggestions for your trip tomorrow

And, well, fuck. That’s maybe the nicest thing anyone has said to Ilya in months.

Ilya: What happens? In the movie

Jane🔫🔥🥵: There’s this guy, and he’s a super cool hiker, but then he gets trapped in this cavern and his arm is stuck in a bolder. And he’s trapped there for 127 hours. 

Jane🔫🔥🥵: I won’t spoil it but the ending is crazy

Ilya: Crazy? A movie about a guy in a cave is crazy?

Jane🔫🔥🥵: It’s surprisingly good

Jane🔫🔥🥵: I cried the first time I watched it

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Don’t tell anyone

Ilya laughs. Of course, Shane Hollander cries at the emotional part of movies.

Ilya: I will watch it and tell you how much of a baby you are

August 20 - 9:36

Ilya: Holy fucking shit Hollander. This fucking movie

Jane🔫🔥🥵: You actually watched it?

Ilya: Yes. Was very good.

Ilya: but I did not cry

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Sure.

Ilya: I didn’t

Jane🔫🔥🥵: I didn’t say anything!

Chapter 8: Чему́ быть, того́ не минова́ть (You can’t avoid that which is meant to happen)

Chapter Notes

:))))) Enjoy!!! Please me know what you think!!!!!
Next chapter we'll be getting back to regular scheduled programming
It's almost time for the plot I'm most excited for !!!! (I know I said it before but it's true again so lol)

October, 2014

Ilya doesn’t have any clue what he is doing when it comes to Shane Hollander. They’ve been texting consistently all summer, and a part of Ilya had been expecting the communication to dry up once the season ended, but that hadn’t happened. He doesn’t know what to make of the fact that talking to Shane has become the highlight of his week.

It’s not like he doesn’t know it’s fucked. Ilya’s done some cursory research since learning the truth, and it’s only made him more conflicted about what he wants with Shane. 

On one hand, a quick skim of the North American Yakuza’s wikipedia page made it pretty clear that they are dangerous fucking people. Drug-dealing, gun-smuggling, bribing, blackmailing, murdering people. Especially given Ilya’s legal status in the US, he absolutely should not be associating with any criminals of any kind.

On the other hand, Shane is really hot. And Ilya is, ultimately, only a man.

He chooses not to investigate any other reasons why the thought of never holding Shane again makes him want to cry.

The first Boston versus Montreal game of the season is a home game, and Ilya debates what to do for far too long.

They’ve sexted far too often for Ilya to rationalize that he can’t be involved with Shane anymore. In his head, it’s already a given that after the game they’ll meet up. The question is what else will happen.

Should Ilya bring up the mob-shaped elephant in the room? Will Shane? Would Shane even feel comfortable hooking up in-person after what happened last time? All Ilya can know for sure is that for some horrible reason, Shane fills him with an intoxicating combination of excitement and fear and horniness. He needs to craft a scenario where Shane won’t be able to resist meeting up.

There’s only one option, and it’s risky, but what is life without risk?

Ilya sends Shane his home address.

Jane🔫🔥🥵: WTF?

Jane🔫🔥🥵: Did you send this by accident?

Ilya: For tonight

Jane🔫🔥🥵: This isn’t a hotel

Ilya: my house

Ilya: Last time we were in a hotel it didn’t go so well. This is good. Private. 

Ilya: You will like

It takes Shane a long time to reply. Long enough for Ilya to regret everything and start coming up with ways to take it all back. 

Jane🔫🔥🥵: ok

There is nobody Ilya loves playing hockey against more than Shane Hollander. He grins at the other man across the face-off circle, and Shane ducks his head in response. He isn’t fast enough to hide a little smile of his own. Ilya’s distracted by the victory, or maybe Shane’s just gotten faster, because the instant the puck hits the ice, it’s gone. 

Shane shoots it to Pike, the two of them passing back and forth as they make their way up the ice. Ilya recognizes the play for what it is, getting in Pike’s face and slamming them into the board as they fight for the puck. He comes away successful, racing back down towards Montreal’s net. 

Everyone is exactly where they need to be:  Ilya fires off a pass, and his D-pair work together to take the puck deeper into the offensive zone. When he gets it back, the net is right there. Ilya loves his team. 

“Hey, Miitka,” he calls out to the Metros goalie, “I am going to shoot backhand, okay? That gap between your blocker and the net.”

Miitka’s eyes furrow comically from behind his cage. Ilya only plays these mindgames in a select few cities, and it always adds just a little bit of fun to the game.

So far, he’s lied about his plan to Miitka each time, but for his fourth shot on goal, it will be more fun to do as he’s said. He goes in with the backhand, and Miitka can’t react fast enough. The puck hits the back of the net.

The crowd goes crazy. They always do. They love him here. Ilya pumps his fist, yelling out in triumph. 

He skates back to the bench, tapping sticks with the guys. To his right, Shane does hops the boards. “You see that, Hollander?” he yells, “that’s a goal. You want to score those.”

“I saw,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes, “and who knows? If you keep that up, you might finally beat me in the scoring race.”

It’s a rare treat for Shane to chirp back, and Ilya can’t hide his delight. He wipes the back of his glove across his mouth to try and hide it.

In the end, Montreal wins in double overtime. Ilya would be upset, and he is, but he also knows that winning makes Shane a bit of a freak in bed. Given his hopes for the night, and the early nature of the season, this is almost the better option.

Shane knocks on the door around thirty minutes after Ilya gets home. He looks… off. Not like he usually does, fresh off a win. Strange. 

“Hi,” Shane says, entwining his fingers together in front of him. Ilya notices a black car driving away, down his driveway. He wonders if Shane’s body guard is driving. “Thanks. For inviting me here,” Shane looks around the entryway, still standing outside, “to your home.”

It only occurs to Ilya in that moment that he’s invited a mob boss (?) into his house. Oh well. Too late now. He steps back, beckoning Shane in with a twitch of his head. 

“Do you…” Shane hesitates, “want to talk? About everything.” They walk into the kitchen, and Ilya pulls two water bottles out of the fridge to take back into the bedroom. “I get it if you don’t want to keep… you know. After last time.”

Ilya slides one of the bottles across his kitchen island towards Shane. He debates how honest to be. “It was,” Ilya admits, “a lot. Yes. But,” he takes a sip of his water, “fucking hell, Hollander. You are too hot. My poor dick, it just can’t stay away.”

Shane rolls his eyes in response, a pleased expression on his face. “That’s a shame.”

“No,” Ilya replies, “not really.”

He practically lunges around the kitchen island, grabbing Shane by the collar of his shirt and kissing him, pressing their lips together with as much force as he can. Shane responds in kind, and Ilya groans happily as Shane’s hands come up to tug at his hair, mouth opening wider to welcome Ilya’s tongue into his throat. 

It feels feral. 

It feels incredible.

Ilya tries to bring them to the bedroom, but Shane pulls away, gasping for breath.

“Okay?” Ilya asks, just in case Shane really only was prepared to talk.

“Yeah,” Shane says, “yeah just,” he squints, “in the interest of full disclosure, since you know now,” he looks sort of awkward. It’s kind of adorable. Ilya shuts that line of thinking down fast. “I am carrying. Now. Damian insisted. Things have been pretty crazy since Vegas, and I wouldn’t normally, but…”

“Hollander,” Ilya tries to break the man out of his weirdly endearing word vomit, “will if go off and shoot either of us?”

Shane frowns, shaking his head. “Of course not. I’m not an idiot. It’ll stay in my jacket the whole time.”

“Then why,” Ilya runs a hand around Shane’s waist and up the back of his shirt, “would I have a problem with this? I understand why this is something you do. I will not ask you to change.”

Shane meets Ilya’s eyes, and they stand like that for a long time. Then, finally, “thanks.”

By the time they’re both fucked out and satiated, it’s so late it’s early. Shane glances at the clock and groans, “Damian is going to be pissed when I wake him up to come get me.”

“Just get an uber,” Ilya suggests, because that’s the obvious solution. Shane shakes his head.

“Security risk. I can’t.”

“Okay,” Ilya pauses. He takes a deep breath, “so stay.”

“Here?” Shane asks.

“Practice tomorrow is in the afternoon. Your flight is late. I don’t mind.”

Shane bites his lip, indecisive. “I’ll have to let Damian know,” he concedes, quickly firing off a text. Then he turns back to Ilya. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch or….”

“Don’t be fucking stupid, Hollander,” Ilya responds, wrapping his arms around the other man and hugging him to his chest. 

They’re cuddling. They’ve never done this before. It isn’t unpleasant. Ilya buries his face in Shane’s hair, inhaling deeply.

He sleeps better than he has in months.

In the morning, he cooks. Fruit salad, boiled eggs, bacon, toast, and a protein shake. It’s excessive. He doesn’t care. Shane comes out of the bedroom in Ilya’s sweats and nothing else, looking like something straight out of a wet dream. 

They eat on the couch, and Ilya puts on a rerun of the LA/Vancouver game last night. He doesn’t want Shane to feel pressured to talk about anything, and hockey is safe. Familiar. Probably ninety percent of their conversations that haven’t been about sex have been about hockey. 

Shane’s head eventually comes to rest on Ilya’s bare chest, and he can’t quite believe this is real. It’s almost like learning Shane’s biggest secret has unlocked a whole new level of trust from the man. Ilya suspects he doesn’t have very many people who know.

Ilya’s phone rings, and he huffs in annoyance. His father. As much as he doesn’t like the man, he’s been dodging Grigory Rozanov’s calls for the better part of the week. He glances down at Shane, still fixated on the game.

“Do you mind?” he asks, holding up his phone. Shane shakes his head. Ilya answers the call. If he has to talk to his father, at least he can do it with an attractive man in his arms.

“I hear you lost last night,” Grigory says without preamble. Ilya sighs. He’s honestly just surprised his father knows the score at all. He usually only follows the KHL, living in a fantasy world where Ilya isn’t a disappointment. 

“It’s early in the season, and Montreal is a strong team,” he defends himself, knowing it won’t help.

“Still,” Grigory says, “As captain, is it not your job to ensure your team always wins? We do not want a repeat of the Olympics.”

“We are the defending Stanley Cup champions,”

“Ah! So a stupid American competition means more than your loyalty to Russia? Do you think the minister cares about the NHL when you humiliated your country in front of the entire world?”

Ilya has long given up winning these conversations. “You’re right, father,” he lies, hoping to end this sooner, “I know.”

Shane must be able to tell from Ilya’s body language the effect his father’s words have. As Grigory talks, Shane presses their bodies closer together, holding Ilya tightly. It lessens the sting. Gentle kisses to Ilya’s sternum calm his racing heart.

“I swear,”  Grigory says, “You are just like your mother sometimes. Weak.”

“She was not weak,” Ilya replies sharply. Grigory just hums.

“Do better.” A click. The line goes dead. 

Ilya stares at his phone.

“He sounds like an asshole,” Shane says mildly. Ilya shakes his head. Understatement of the year.

“Sorry,” Ilya says. He juts his chin at the TV. “Talk to me about the game. Where did Vancouver go wrong?”

Shane grins, and then he spends the next thirty minutes breaking down both teams’ offensive strategies, and oh fuck. Ilya loves him. This is bad. Probably. It’s hard to remember why, exactly, with Shane’s body on his, but it is. 

Shane stands in Ilya’s doorway again, and the black car is back in the driveway, and this has been the best twelve hours of Ilya’s life. “Thank you for coming,” he says, unsure as to the status quo now that everything seems to be changing. “This was nice, yes?” He swallows. “Really nice. I was thinking…” this is the scary part, “maybe, next time, we do this again?” Shane’s face doesn’t betray anything. “Is easier than trying to get back to a hotel right away after sex. And… I did not mind talking about other things too.”

Shane swallows visibly, the muscles in his throat working overtime. Ilya feels his pulse speed up. Then, a tiny smile.

“I’d like that.”

“See you in December!” Ilya calls to Shane’s back, “We will beat you, don’t worry.”

“Sure you will, Rozanov.”

The black car speeds away and Ilya is left staring at the empty driveway with a dopey expression on his face.

Yep. He’s fucked.

Chapter 9: Dead Men Tell No Tales

Chapter Notes

boy oh boy shane goes on a JOURNEY in this one and I was actually so surprised because someone guessed right!!! about what was going to happen. So shout out to you if you did. This chapter was super fun to write and I hope you enjoy!!!

December 2014

Shane stares at the toothbrushes in the grocery store. Two packs, three packs, five packs. Every colour imaginable. Little cartoon characters on some of them, and he only understands half the references. And then there are the electric options. Vibrating heads, spinning heads, there are ones that shoot water through a little hole in between the bristles. It’s too many options. How is he supposed to know what kind of toothbrush Ilya likes? This is impossible. He pulls out his phone.

Shane: What is your favourite colour? 

At least this will narrow down his options. Ilya doesn’t reply immediately. Shane goes about the rest of his shopping, picking up all his usual groceries along with a six pack of cokes, and some coffee creamer. Ilya had coffee creamer in his fridge. He probably likes it. His phone vibrates.

IR (Boston): Hollander what

IR (Boston): why are you asking me this at 7 in the morning

Shane: What is it?

IR (Boston): Green

There. Problem solved. Shane returns to the toothbrush aisle. There is a two pack, with a green toothbrush and a blue one. Shane imagines that. The two of them like two toothbrushes in a little plastic package. It’s very domestic. Too much. Shane moves on. 

There’s a children’s toothbrush with a green superhero on it. It’s a battery operated one, which is known to be better at preventing cavities. Ilya definitely doesn’t own an electric toothbrush. Maybe Shane can fix that. Maybe it’s stupid.

He buys the two-pack and the electric one as well as three different types of toothpaste. It’ll have to be enough. 

Ilya scores a fucking hat trick and Boston wins, just like he promised back in October. Shane will never admit it, but he likes it better when they fuck after Ilya wins. Not that he likes losing. He fucking hates losing. But Ilya winning? If only there was a way for Shane to have the best of both worlds.

Ilya comes over right after the game. They meet in the back stairwell and barely make it up to Shane’s unit, too invested in each other’s hands and mouths. As soon as the door shuts behind them, Shane drops to his knees, fighting with Ilya’s belt desperately. “Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans, and Shane hums around his rapidly hardening cock. “I’m not going to be able to fuck you if you keep this up,” he warns.

Shane pulls off, lines of spit connecting them. “I think you’ll manage,” he says, and then he goes right back to it, swirling his tongue around the head before taking him deeper, feeling the way Ilya stretches out his throat. Shane stays there for a moment, eyes closed, breathing through his nose. It’s oddly peaceful. One of Ilya’s hands is on the back of his head, and it feels so good. Ilya moans above him, and Shane picks up the pace, all but choking himself. Ilya’s legs shake, and the hand tightens, and then Shane’s mouth is filled with the salty taste of Ilya’s cum.

He pulls off before the stimulation can get too bad, licking his lips with a grin. Ilya matches it, hauling him back to his feet. He brings a hand down, quirking an eyebrow as he cups Shane’s dick, hard in his sweats. “You want me to help you out now, or wait?” Ilya bites his lip, “I think it will be more fun if you wait, yes?”

Fuck. Shane would probably agree to anything Ilya suggested, but this is a fantastic idea. “Yeah,” he breathes, “I’ll wait.”

Ilya smirks, releasing him. 

They walk into the living room, settling on the couch. Shane puts on Interstellar. It’s a good movie. He thinks Ilya will like it. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it is beautiful and tragic and has always reminded Shane a little bit of his own life: a parent too preoccupied with the past to ever really be present. A world that seems perpetually on the verge of collapse. A sort of resigned quality, that the end is coming, that the future is inevitable. That fate is fixed.

They don’t talk much. Shane doesn’t say anything when Ilya cries at the scene where the daughter chases after her father, begging him to come back. They both change into spare clothes of Shane’s, and Ilya uses the stupid children’s toothbrush with a small smile.

“It’s better for your teeth,” Shane tells him, even though Ilya probably knows that.

“Thank you,” Ilya says softly.

They wind up in bed, curled around each other, legs tangled beneath the sheets. It’s only in the moments before sleep takes him that Shane realises that they forgot to have sex again. Strangely, he doesn’t mind. There’s always next time.

*

February 2015

Shane doesn’t freak out about hooking up in a hotel again. Maybe because it’s a second floor unit, maybe it’s because it’s the All Star weekend, maybe it’s because Shane’s just too horny to care. Whatever the reason, they have two nights together, and they make the most of them. Except. Well.

Someone keeps calling Ilya. All the time. From context, Shane can more or less confirm that it’s his father. Whether Ilya answers the call or declines it, he always ends up looking at his phone like it kicked his puppy. Shane hates it. He can’t imagine wanting to hurt Ilya. 

He tries to distract Ilya with blow jobs and kisses and hockey chirps. It’s hard to tell if it works. At the very least, sometimes he can make Ilya smile.

In Shane’s life, there are three people he takes orders from. His mother, his coach, and Ilya. He only enjoys taking orders from one of them. That probably means something.

He doesn’t remember when he started trusting Ilya so completely. Maybe it’s been this way the whole time. It’s certainly possible. Since their first time, Shane can’t remember hesitating even once. He’d given Ilya his submission that night, and every night they’ve shared since, and he has not regretted it once.

Then, almost a year ago, he’d handed over something even more precious: the secret to his downfall. Some of the safety in their arrangement lies in the mutually assured destruction. If one of them wanted to destroy the other, they would out themselves in the process. Shane’s secret, his family, that’s a one sided offering; Ilya would lose nothing by turning him in, or spreading rumors. 

Well. He might lose his life. If he got caught. But the point stands.

Shane had handed Ilya the power to end him, and Ilya now holds that power in his hands, palms cupping it gently. Protecting. Understanding. 

It’s more than Shane deserves, and so he attempts to earn it by giving Ilya even more. He offers his obedience, his time, his truth. His heart.

He wonders if it will ever feel like enough.

*

March 2015

Life is fucking fantastic. Things have been quiet in Montreal, the organization running like a well oiled machine, as it should. The Metros are ranked first in their division. Ilya Rozanov keeps a change of clothes at the safe house, and Shane keeps his expensive body wash in Ilya’s house. His mother convinced him the sponsorship would be good for his image. Maybe it is. More importantly, Ilya likes it when he smells like eucalyptus and sandalwood and whatever else the manufacturers put in there. 

He’s in LA, and he has a game in three hours, but instead of doing his usual game day routine, he’s running errands for his mother like he’s one of her minions. He might as well be, at this point.

Damian drops him off at the curb outside a scrapyard, and it’s such a cliched meeting spot that Shane cringes. What ever happened to tact? 

“I’ll wait here in case there’s trouble.”

“There won’t be. These guys have been working for my mother since I was a kid. They’re fucking terrified of her, and that makes them respect me.”

“Still, I don’t like that you’re going in unarmed.”

“They’re allies, Damian. Just because they aren’t familiar ones…”

“Yeah, yeah.” Damian huffs. “It is literally my job to worry, okay?”

“And you’re very good at it,” Shane smirks, “but I’m good at my job too. This will take two minutes.”

“Good luck.”

They don’t know he’s coming, Shane doesn’t think. That’s intentional. These are some of the only people in the world who knew Shane before he was Shane Hollander, hockey player. They could destroy him. He needs them to stay at least a little afraid. 

When Shane enters the administrative building towards the back of the building, he hears voices. Japanese. 

His Japanese isn’t what he’d like it to be, but he can get by, and his accent isn’t bad.

“I am telling you,” says the first voice, “my guy in Santa Barbara can have him dealt with by tonight.”

“Your guy in Santa Barbara,” says a second voice, “is in fucking Santa Barbara. We can give one of our runners a nine gauge and the problem will be solved in an hour.”

“He’s the chief of police, you idiot, we can’t leave this up to some kid who’s fired a gun twice in his entire life.”

Yes. Right. Because Shane is here to help these fools deal with the fact that LA’s chief of police, a man they’ve had on the payroll since his appointment a decade ago, wants out. It’s not going to be fun.

“Gentlemen,” Shane calls, striding into the room. The men freeze and turn to look at him. He hasn’t seen either of them in years. They look old, which makes sense; they had been friends with his grandfather, once.

“Shane,” says the first man, “it’s been a while. I didn’t know you were still involved with the business.”

“I’m not,” he replies, “only when my mother requests it.”

The men glance at each other. “She’s requested it?”

Shane scoffs. “She thinks you’re fucking up, and I agree. Killing the chief of police? What the hell are you thinking?”

“We can’t just let him go,” the second man defends, the first nodding along.

“So you fucking blackmail him!” Shane says, irritated, “Threaten him, bribe him, kidnap his wife, I don’t give a shit. Do you know how hard it is to get a chief on the payroll?” The men don’t respond. Shane hadn’t expected them to. “If you kill him, the whole LA operation will get a lot harder. Nobody wants that. Especially not my mother.”

“So what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

Shane drags a hand down his face. Why is he doing these guy’s jobs for them? “He has a secretary, yeah?” he confirms. The men nod. “Talk to her. Convince her to quit. Make sure whoever is hired in her place is one of ours.”

“But-”

“I need you to understand,” Shane interrupts, “this is not a debate. This is what you are going to do. If he dies…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. The threat is clear. 

Shane shakes his head. The old guard, his mother included, are always so eager to pull a trigger and call the problem solved.

They don’t understand that sometimes, it's better to end a person’s life with their heart still beating.

*

June 2015

When game seven of the Stanley Cup finals ends, nothing feels real. Shane stands frozen on the ice, staring up at the scoreboard. Montreal: 5. Vegas: 3.

He hates Vegas. Maybe that’s why they won. 

The home crowd is going absolutely insane. Hayden slams into Shane, throwing away his helmet and stick, crushing Shane in a hug.

“We fucking did it! We won the cup! Holy shit!”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a grin creeping up his face, “we did.”

The team finds itself in a big pile, and then the families start pouring onto the ice. Shane finds his mother easily, flanked by his father and one of her guards, a man Shane has been pretending to be his uncle since he was a child. Yuna would rather not be here, Shane knows. It’s a lot of eyes. But her cover of overly-protective-hockey-mom kind of goes out the window if she doesn’t come on the ice to congratulate her son after winning the Cup.

Shane hugs her first, and his dad second. He nods at the guard. 

“We’re very proud of you, son,” David says, an arm on Shane’s shoulder, “we know how hard you’ve worked for this.” 

Shane nods. “Thanks, dad.”

Yuna offers him a tight lipped smile. “You’ve really done it all now, haven’t you?”

Nobody in their little circle misses the implication. You’ve done it all, now you can stop.

As if Shane would stop now, just when he’s achieved everything he’s ever wanted. 

Almost everything.

“I don’t know,” he says, and his tone is joking but his words aren’t, “I’m planning to get at least two more. Maybe three.”

Nobody says anything to that, and the air turns stale. Shane thinks he’s probably the only person in the world who has ever survived disappointing Yuna Hollander. 

Ten minutes later, though, he’s holding the Cup, and none of that matters for a moment. He skates his lap and passes the trophy to Hayden. Shane feels on top of the world.

They eventually wind up back in the locker room, champagne thick in the air, and Shane checks his phone. He scrolls past dozens of congratulations until he finds the text thread he’s been looking for.

IR (Boston): Good job Hollander.

Shane frowns at his phone. 

Shane: No chirp? No joke? No wildly inappropriate flirting?

The response comes in a minute later.

IR (Boston): winning the cup is not easy. I know because I already did it

IR (Boston): and I said good job because I know it makes you horny

IR (Boston): when I tell you youre good

Shane rolls his eyes.

IR (Boston): is this what you were hoping for? I can keep going

Shane: no I’m good thanks

IR (Boston): yes. you are. ;)))

*

July 2015

Ilya surprises Shane with an Air B&B on the night of the NHL awards, which is really confusing, but also very nice. Shane didn’t want to be the one to say he wasn’t comfortable staying in the hotel where he was almost murdered a year ago.

They leave the after party early, and Shane melts into Ilya’s arms the moment they’re alone together. Ilya takes him apart slowly. Kisses up and down his spine. Hands caressing. It feels different than last time. Better.

Ilya is only gentle until his dick is lined up with Shane’s hole, at which point he seemingly loses himself in the pleasure. Shane relishes the feeling. 

They lie half on top of each other afterwards, and Shane lets Ilya pick the movie. They watch The Sound of Music. Ilya knows all the lyrics to the songs. It’s… cute.

“My mother loved this movie,” he whispers as the credits roll. Shane turns to look at him. Ilya has never mentioned his mother. “We had a copy that she probably bought illegally as a teenager. It came out when Western things like that weren’t allowed, but we had this old VHS tape. She was so proud of it. It had been new technology when she first watched it. I don’t think she understood any of the words, but she knew them.”

“Is your mother…?” Shane doesn’t really know what he’s asking, but finds that it doesn’t really matter. He wants whatever Ilya is willing to give him.

“Dead,” Ilya says, and Shane feels his heart break a little for the man. “I was young,” Ilya adds, as though that doesn’t make it a hundred times worse.

“Rozanov, I’m sorry.” Ilya shakes his head, turning away.

Shane realizes with shock that Ilya is crying. He swallows. Then, he moves to be sitting in Ilya’s lap, their faces inches apart. Shane threads their fingers together, touching their foreheads.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya sniffs, and Shane shakes his head.

“No, Ilya, fuck. You don’t have to apologise.” He presses a chaste kiss to Ilya’s lips. “Thank you for telling me.”

Ilya doesn’t reciprocate at first, half frozen. Then, all at once, he does, deepening the kiss.

“Shane,” he breathes, and it’s more a whimper than anything. Shane realises then that he had slipped. Had called the man Ilya. It doesn’t feel as monumental as it should. 

He tucks his head into Ilya’s chest, and they hold each other, and life is good.

*

October 2015

For the first time in his life, Shane has a hobby that isn’t a fundamentally terrible idea.

It had started innocently enough. Sometimes, over the summer, Ilya would drunk text him. Occasionally, in Russian. Out of curiosity, Shane would run the text through a translation app. 

Then he had started to recognize patterns in the language. Words. Phrases. Eventually, having to copy and paste everything into google translate just got so time consuming. 

So Shane had downloaded duolingo. And then he had downloaded three more apps, just to be sure. And then he had bought workbooks. 

By August, he had been spending over an hour a day on Russian. 

He’s by no means fluent, but now, four months in, he isn’t terrible. 

The first game against Boston is in November, and Shane spends days trying to come up with the best sentence to use to shock Ilya. The question is, should he do it on the ice? Should he do it in bed? 

The possibilities are endless.

He briefly considers that it’s really weird to learn a language for your rival that you’re consistently fucking, but a lot of things about their relationship are weird, so Shane ultimately concludes that it doesn’t matter.

He settles on doing the big reveal in bed. He imagines the look on Ilya’s face, and it’s too good to resist.

The plan is made.

*

November 2015

The plan is cancelled. 

The phrase Shane had been practiced hinged on them being mid-fuck, but they never get that far. Shane arrives at Ilya’s home, and can immediately tell that something is wrong. Ilya kisses him, but it lacks their typical heat. 

“Hey,” Shane pulls back, “what’s up?”

“Nothing is up, Shane.” Ilya says, but his tone is unconvincing. “Come on,” he reaches for Shane again, but Shane shakes his head.

“Talk to me, Ilya,” he says softly, hands on Ilya’s arms, “please.”

Ilya sighs, closing his eyes. “No. You came here to fuck. I want to give you what you need, I want-”

“I came here to see you,” Shane corrects, heart beating rapidly at the admission, “it’s not the end of the world if we don’t fuck. Besides, we have all night, and the morning.”

Ilya stares at him, wide eyed. “You’re serious?”

“Yes!” Shane says, maybe too quickly.”Not that I don’t love the sex. Because I do. Don’t worry.”

“Oh,” Ilya smirks, “I was not worried.”

They sit on the couch, Ilya’s head in Shane’s lap. It’s pleasant. Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s soft curls.

“So,” Shane murmurs after a few minutes, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, before continuing, “but also no.” He closes his eyes. “My father is… sick.”

Shane frowns. “Sick like cancer?” he asks. Ilya shakes his head against Shane’s legs.

“No just… sick like crazy.” A pause. Shane doesn’t allow his fingers to still. “He has always hated me, I think. I am too much like my mother for him. He calls, all the time. The longer I put off answering, the worse he is when I finally do. And I always do.” Ilya opens his eyes, looking up at Shane. “I answered today. It wasn’t anything worse than usual, really, but… I don’t know. It made my brain all weird for some reason.”

There are a lot of emotions Shane should probably be feeling about this. There are a lot of emotions he is feeling about this. There isn’t a lot of overlap.

He looks down at Ilya. Ilya who is strong, and competent, and a bit of an asshole but only to people who deserve it. Shane can’t imagine wanting to hurt him. It’s unthinkable.

Shane’s been able to guess, through overhearing Ilya’s conversations with his father, that the man isn’t exactly kind. That understanding has only crystallised since Shane has started to actually understand what hate the man is spewing. Hearing from Ilya exactly how badly those words effect him, well.

Shane is furious. Furious in a way he’s never felt before. Way more angry than he should be considering that he and Ilya are nothing more than sort-of-friends with benefits. Still.

That night, Shane holds Ilya close, whispers words of praise, and doesn’t let his brain get ahead of him. He doesn’t want to act rashly. He doesn’t want to do anything unnecessarily, but this feels pretty fucking necessary. 

The next morning, he weighs the pros and cons. Then, he begins to plot. Just in case.

*

“You are going to be the best of us,” Takashi Yamada says, sitting on the floor with Shane, aged four or five. They’ve just finished reading a story book. Shane had cheered when the knights vanquished the dragon, redistributing the dragon’s hoard amongst the people. “You will not be desperate, like me. You will not be angry, like your mother. If you work very hard, you might be able to be a good man.” 

Shane hadn’t understood what he meant by that. Not for years. Then, eventually, he had. He had believed it. Internalized it. Be a good man. Good. Good. Good. 

Not like his mother. Never like his mother. She is not good because she is too angry.

Not like his grandfather, who was not good because he was too desperate. 

If Shane works hard works hard works hard he can be a good man.

A good man. 

Shane’s angry.

He’s desperate.

Ilya thinks he’s good.

Maybe that’s all that matters.

*

January, 2016.

Shane makes his decision over the Christmas break. It isn’t hard to find a man in the Bratva with a reliable history of cooperation with the Akuma empire. He wishes it could happen quickly, but he doesn’t want to spend more than a hundred thousand dollars on this, and so he can be patient.

He sends a wire transfer with the money. 

He trusts the man he’s hired to do the job well. To do it right. 

Potassium overdoses have a nasty habit of looking just like heart attacks.

*

February, 2016

Grigory Rozanov is dead. 

Shane did this for Ilya. He broke the one rule he had left for him. He didn’t pull the trigger but he certainly loaded the gun. He had polished it and aimed it with the care he uses in all aspects of his life. 

Nothing about this decision had been anything other than level-headed.

And that’s exactly why Ilya doesn’t need to know.

Chapter 10: Looking the Gift Horse in the Mouth

Chapter Notes

low key a filler chapter but also not??? idk. Anyways can you tell he's starting to spiral a little? :) :) :)

It takes every bone of self restraint in Shane’s body not to reach out to Ilya immediately. When the man doesn’t make it to his next game after the hit is completed, Shane knows that he must be going back to Russia for the funeral. He wishes he could ask Ilya how he’s doing with everything. He wishes he could get confirmation that this was the right thing to do. 

Shane: Are you okay?

Ilya doesn’t respond.

Shane: You can talk to me, whatever it is. I want to listen.

Ilya doesn’t respond.

On the third day since Ilya missed his game, Shane calls.

Ilya answers. “Shane,” he breathes.

“Hey.” A beat. “Where are you? I saw you missed your game…” Technically, this is only a lie of omission. If Ilya asks him point blank, Shane won’t deny it. The secret to living a life of lies is to tell as few as possible.

“Home. Moscow.”

“Is everything okay?”

“My father is dead. Heart attack. I did not… see it coming.”

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, and he doesn’t say I’m sorry, in the way you’re supposed to when people are grieving, because he isn’t. Ilya’s father had been a cruel man. Shane is glad he’s dead, and can’t hurt Ilya anymore. “Is there anything I can do?”

Silence on the line for a minute. Some shuffling. “Can I see you?” 

A request for facetime comes in and Shane accepts it immediately. Ilya, on the other side of the world, looks like shit. He has bags under his eyes, he clearly hasn’t shaved, and he’s wearing an old hoodie with a stain on the collar and Cyrillic words across the chest. He looks as beautiful as always.

“Hi,” Shane smiles, and Ilya mirrors the action. Success. 

“What are people saying about me?” Ilya asks. 

Shane shakes his head. “Nothing. The media is being quiet about it, and people online are mostly assuming you have a bad flu or something.”

“Good.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. The bright screen against the darkness of his room is giving him a headache. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks.  

“I’m fine,” Shane dismisses the concern, “just a bit of a headache. I should probably get my glasses-”

“You wear glasses?” Ilya sounds delighted.

“Only sometimes,” Shane defends himself, but the grin doesn’t fade from Ilya’s face and Shane doesn’t want it to. Dutifully, he makes a show of taking his glasses out of the case, unfolding the legs, and putting them on. Ilya doesn’t blink. “Oh my god,” Shane lets out a little laugh, “this turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Ilya says sarcastically, “watching second hottest player in the league put on sexy glasses is not exciting at all.”

“Oh right,” Shane rolls his eyes, “I’m boring. Sorry, I forgot.” 

Ilya purses his lips. “No, Shane. You are not boring.” He looks like it pains him to say the words. Shane’s eyebrows shoot up. “You are maybe the most interesting person I know.”

Shane doesn’t know how Ilya means that, but it’s hard to interpret as anything other than I love you. 

That thought doesn’t scare him as much as it should.

Ilya calls back two days later, voice rough and fragile all at once. Shane finds himself wishing desperately that he could take away all of Ilya’s pain. He knows that in the long run, this will be best. He knows that Ilya’s unhappiness right now is more due to having to face his still-living family members than any sort of mourning. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says after several minutes of struggling to express his thoughts, “English is too hard right now. Can I talk in Russian? You won’t be able to understand, but…”

This would be a great opportunity for Shane to mention that he’s been studying Russian since the summer. He really should. If he doesn’t, now, then it will only be worse when he eventually does confess. 

He doesn’t say anything. “Of course," he breathes, “if it would help.” 

Shane tells himself this isn’t lying and wishes he could believe it and then Ilya starts talking. 

He says a lot, and Shane catches maybe half of it. He talks about how much he hates being in Russia, and how horrible his family is, always demanding more than they deserve. It reminds Shane of his own family, in a way. Impossible expectations, family legacy, the slightest undercurrent of fear.

Towards the end, he says something else. “The thing that scares me the most… fuck. I’m so in love with you, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.”

Shane understands every single word. His breath hitches. Confirmation. He puts a hand to his mouth to stifle the sound of a reaction, pushing back tears that could be mistaken for happiness.

Shane isn’t happy. He can’t be. Ilya Rozanov is in love with him, and that’s not a good thing. Objectively, it’s quite bad. There is probably nobody worse in the world. Does he love Ilya? It’s hard to tell. He thinks of the other people he loves.

His mother. He loves her because you have to love your mother. He loves her because she’d never forgive him if he didn’t. He loves her like he thinks he’s supposed to. He doesn’t like her all that much these days. When his NHL career was new, she was excited for him. Helping with sponsorship deals and contract negotiations and generally being just way too involved in his life. When his rookie contract was up, she told him it’d be smart to get an agent. She had taken a step back. Then another, then another. For years, Yuna had held two parts of her life: the Akuma empire, and Shane’s hockey. With Shane growing up, she had become less and less involved. Yuna fading away, Akuma gaining dominance. The business consumes her now. Every conversation they have boils down to Shane dodging her questions about when he will drop his career to take up the reins. He can’t imagine a worse fate.

Shane loves his father like a cool breeze on a hot day: David is refreshing and calm and consistent. He balances out his wife like it’s his job, which it might as well be. Shane doesn’t know why he married Yuna. Shane doesn’t know when, exactly, he found out the truth. David is the best man Shane knows, aside from maybe Hayden. He helps people at his job, he helps old ladies cross the street, and he always talks to the Mormons who come knocking on the door, because he believes in kindness. Shane has also seen him hold a knife to a man’s throat for insinuating that Yuna couldn’t possibly be at the head of the Akuma empire, since she’s a woman. Everything David does, he does for love. Love for his family, love for the world. David is the kind of good man that Shane thinks he can still become.

Shane loves other people too. He loves Hayden for his easy camaraderie, he loves his team for their support and their spirit and their Stanley Cup. He loves the fans and he loves the rink maintenance guys that let him have a spare key so he can skate laps at two in the morning when he can’t sleep. Shane has a lot of love in his life, but none of it feels like how Ilya feels.

Ilya feels fun. Ilya is fire and passion and movies cuddled up together. He is competition and a bit of a fight and the sound of quiet breathing. He is safe, in ways that nobody else has ever been. They are the only ones who understand each other. At the top of their game, untouchable to the rest of the league. The envy of every kid on the continent, probably, and yet they both understand that it will never be enough. No amount of hockey will ease the pressures from the league and the fans and their families. Shane tried his best to help Ilya with that last part. He had taken on that burden, to make Ilya’s life easier. He would never expect Ilya to do the same.

Yes, Shane thinks numbly, he probably does love Ilya back.

*

June 2016

They’re in Tampa for game six of the Stanley Cup finals, and Montreal is up 3:2. They could win it all tomorrow. Again. Nobody has one two Cups in a row since the nineties, and a Canadian team hasn’t done it since the seventies, and Shane is fucking excited because he knows they can do it.

He’s sharing a room with Hayden because they’ve been doing it since rookie year and it’d be strange to stop now. 

About a month ago, he’d made the decision to come out to Hayden. The guy is his best friend, and the sheer number of secrets Shane is keeping from him is getting to be too much to bear. The original plan had been to do it once their season was over, but now that feels stupid. If they win the Cup, Shane knows he’ll put it off until after the celebrations, and then rationalize that he’ll do it over the summer, and then spend the entire summer at his cottage and not tell Hayden at all. If they lose, Shane won’t be in the mood to reveal his deep personal secrets. 

If he’s going to do this, he has to do it tonight. 

He has to make it casual. Relaxed. Not a big deal. He doesn’t think Hayden will take it badly, but the less of a thing this is, the better.

“Hey, Hayd,” he says calmly, not looking up from his phone. Hayden looks up from his ipad.

“Yeah?”

“I’m gay.”

Hayden doesn’t react at first. He puts his ipad down on the bed.

“Oh fuck,” he says finally, before his eyes widen comedically. “I mean. Congrats. Not congrats. Just, like, that’s cool. Unexpected, holy shit. I mean. What?” He stares at Shane like he’s seeing him for the first time. “Sorry, dude. Fuck. Give me a second to process this.”

Shane breathes out a laugh. A minute passes.

“Does anyone else know?” Hayden asks.

Shane nods. “My parents, technically. I slipped up once and told them accidentally, but we’ve never talked about it. And…” Shane debates sharing more. Not the Ilya of it all, but maybe just that he is seeing someone? Is that accurate? If they’re in love with each other, it probably is.

“And?” 

“There’s… someone. A guy. Who I see sometimes.”

“You’re dating someone?” Hayden asks, surprised. “Shit, dude. Now I feel bad for always trying to hook you up with Jackie’s friends.”

Shane shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know.”

“Why are you telling me now?”

“I was going to do it after the season,” Shane says, “but I was definitely going to chicken out if I waited that long. And,” he adds, “I wanted you to know. You’re kind of my best friend.”

“Wow, I mean…” Hayden swallows, “thanks for telling me. And I won’t, like, run around telling people about this. Your secret’s safe with me. Okay?”

“Thanks.” Shane thinks for a moment. “You can tell Jackie, though. I don’t want to make you lie to her.”

Hayden nods. Smiles. 

“Hey Shane?” Shane looks up, meeting his eyes. “You’re my best friend too.”

*

They win the Stanley Cup again. There was never another option, not really. Not for Shane, at least. There is only discipline, hard work, and good hockey. He is good at hockey. He is good. He is good. He works hard. So hard. Too hard, some would say. He works hard and he is good and isn’t that everything he ever wanted? Shouldn’t that make his life perfect? He has Ilya, as much as he can ever have Ilya. His best friend knows one of his deepest secrets. Winning another Cup gets his mother off his back for another year about retirement and the family business and he isn’t worried about any of that anyways. He works hard and he’s a good man and he is a good leader and Ilya loves him and he is Hayden’s best friend and everything should be so fucking perfect.

Why isn’t everything perfect?

Why doesn’t he feel like his hard work is enough?

Why doesn’t he feel like a good man?

Maybe because he isn't. 

No. The voice in his head is lying to him. He can't listen to that. They warn you about that, when you're a kid. Self-doubt, imposter syndrome, poor self esteem. Things Shane has never had an issue with. He pushes away the bad thoughts like he's supposed to.

Chapter 11: Carpe Diem

Chapter Notes

nobody look at the extended chapter count pls and thanksssssssss
next chapter gets crazyyy

March 2017

It’s nine in the evening, and that isn’t really all that late, but Shane played an afternoon game, and he would much rather be at home than here. Standing in the middle of nowhere half an hour outside of Montreal. In a reasonableness, he shouldn’t be here at all. He has early morning practice tomorrow, and this meeting doesn’t even have anything to do with Montreal. 

His mother was supposed to take it, but something had come up, apparently. She had called Shane, asking him to come in her stead, towing the line between demanding and begging in that way that Shane knows means he doesn’t really have a choice. 

He stands at the intersection of two gravel roads. Twenty meters behind him, Damian leans up against the car, one hand on his gun. They’re meeting the Greeks, and the Greeks are sort of notoriously volatile these days. Shane desperately hopes that he can hand over the product, and they can hand over the money, and everyone can go their separate ways without incident.

Shane doesn’t know why his mother has decided that the best way to build a bridge with the least reliable group in the country was by giving them more guns, but Yuna’s gotten the empire this far, so he has no choice but to trust her judgement.

The Greeks show up, and they bring more men than they were supposed to, but Shane doesn’t care enough to fight them on it. One of them, a sharp woman in stilettos, walks to meet him in the center of the road. She recognizes him, an eyebrow twitching in surprise. Shane hates that. He hates it so unbelievably much. He knows that nobody here will breathe a word of his identity, for fear of the great Akuma, but still. It doesn’t feel safe.

Wordlessly, he passes her a tough plastic case. The guns aren’t loaded. Bullets weren't part of this deal. She hands over a case of her own. They both open the cases to ensure everything is as it should be. It is. 

Then, several things happen at once. Damian, behind him, yells out something indistinguishable, and Shane dives to the ground on instinct. A loud bang reverberates throughout the deserted crossroads, and Shane looks up to see one of the Greeks pointing a gun. Fuck. The woman runs back to her car, berating the shooter. Shane doesn’t think it’s likely that they’ll shoot again. He pays them no mind, turning back to Damian and-

Damian is on the ground. Damian is bleeding. Damian took the bullet that was, without a doubt, meant for Shane.

He gets to his feet and starts running, and he doesn’t notice that one of the three cars is getting closer until it makes its presence known intimately. 

Shane is knocked back onto the gravel, thrown several feet as he feels the car make a decidedly unpleasant collision with his side. It then speeds up, racing away from them. 

Shane stares up at the sky. There are a lot of stars, this far from the city. They swirl in a way that tells him he definitely has some head trauma. That’s not good. His shoulder hurts. It hurts really fucking bad. He blinks forcefully. Shane wonders if he lost consciousness. It’s hard to tell.

Damian.

With a herculean amount of effort, he drags himself upright, and the world spins so badly he thinks he might pass out again.

Damian.

He half crawls the remaining however-far it is until he’s at his body guard’s side.

“Hey,” he says roughly, “Damian. Man. Talk to me.”

Damian is bleeding from his abdomen, blood soaking the left side of his shirt. That is not a good place to be shot.

“Shit, kid,” Damian groans, eyelids fluttering, “you think she knew?”

“What?” Shane is not following.

“Do you think,” Damian shudders a bit, and that’s probably the shock kicking in, “that your mother knew this would happen? Is that why she didn’t want to take the meeting?”

Shane doesn’t even want to think about that. It’s too horrible. He reaches into the car, finding the first aid kit. He takes three of the painkillers, and hands Damian the same. Then, he rips the man’s shirt up, inspecting the damage.

It isn’t as bad as he feared, the wound close enough to Damian’s side that it might not have damaged too many vital organs. He reaches around the back for a second hole and finds it. Through and through. Better, probably, in the long run. No pesky bullet for nosy surgeons to remove. He packs both sides with gauze, pushing until Damian is screaming with the pain. That’s how he knows it’s enough. 

“Look,” he says, “you’re bleeding bad. You need a hospital. I’m definitely concussed. Can you drive, or am I?”

Damian thinks on it. “How concussed are we talking?”

“Everything’s spinning a bit, and I have a horrible head ache.”

Damian shakes his head. “I’ll drive. You’ll have to keep pressure for me though.”

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, “for sure.” 

They stumble into the car.

By the time they reach the city limits, the driving gets more complicated and Damian is clearly fading fast. Shane weighs their options.

“Pull over,” he says, and Damian complies. “You aren’t good enough to drive all the way to the hospital. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He takes a breath. “There’s a convenience store three minutes from here, up the road. Walk there, tell them you got shot while going for a run. We’re only a few minutes drive from my safehouse. I can get there, if I go slow. I’ll park the car a few blocks away until we can get someone to come by to clean it up. I’ll go home, get an uber, something, and call the team doctor. I got hurt falling on a trail during a run.” He grabs Damian by the shoulder. “Do you understand?”

Damian nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

Shane hums. “Good. Call me when you can.”

Damian clutches his side as he gets out of the car, and Shane desperately hopes that he isn’t making any mistakes.

As he planned, he calls the team doctor, a kind man named James McPhee, as soon as he gets in the door. He talks about wanting to go for a run after the game to clear his head, and tripping over a root, and tumbling down the side of a hill. He says that he had felt fine at first, but sore now, and wanted to make sure everything is all right.

James is at his apartment in an hour, and immediately demands Shane go to a hospital. Not unexpected. But now the circumstances of his injury are undisputed by his team. Nobody will question Shane Hollander going for a run.

“Did you know?” Shane asks his mother over the phone the next day. He doesn't want to ask. He hates the very idea of asking. But he can't get Damian's words out of his head.

“What do you mean?” Yuna asks in a tone that Shane has come to understand indicates that she knows exactly what he means.

“That the Greeks were going to get violent. That they were prepared to shoot first.”

“Shane, you know I would never send you into a situation where I thought you might get hurt.”

Shane wishes he believed her. “Damian’s in the CCU,” he says instead. “My season is over. My team is pissed.” He sighs. “I’m not going to run errands for you anymore. Not like this. Not when it doesn’t have anything to do with Montreal, and I don’t know the players.”

“Shane…” 

“I don’t care how you feel about it,” he adds, “I can't be taking risks like this anymore. Not at this stage in my career.”

“Shane-”

Shane hangs up on her and refuses to let himself feel bad about it.

His good arm thumps down from where he had been holding his phone against his ear, bouncing on the bed. His bad arm, in a sling. Broken collarbones suck. Being shot would be worse, though. Harder to explain. He feels a pang of gratitude towards Damian for using the split second of notice he had to save Shane, rather than himself.

Shane’s gotten a lot of well wishes from a lot of people. His father had called as soon as Shane had texted him to let him know. Hayden had come over that first night, checking on Shane every few hours. Ilya has called twice in the twenty-odd hours since Shane’s been concussed, worried the first time, and furious the second, once he knew the truth of what happened.

In his entire conversation about his mother, she hadn’t asked how he was feeling once. She had asked about his recovery, and about the deal, and about his team, but she hadn’t asked about him, and that hurts more than it should.

*

A week later, Montreal plays Boston at home, and Shane can’t even go to the game because it would be too loud for his concussion. Boston wins by a landslide, beating Montreal 5:1. Egotistically, Shane thinks it’s probably because he isn’t there.

He wants to see Ilya. Badly. Desperately. But he isn’t supposed to drive, and now that things aren’t dire he has returned to his no ubers security protocol and it’s not like Ilya doesn’t know everything anyways.

He sends Ilya his real address.

IR (Boston): ?

Shane: That’s my address. For tonight. If you want. 

Shane: I’m not technically cleared for sex but I just thought it might be nice to hang out anyways?

Shane: If you don’t want to come that's fine

IR (Boston): You are inviting me to your real house?

Shane: Yes.

IR (Boston): I’ll be there after the game

Ilya is extremely punctual. The commentators haven’t even finished their post-game debrief when Shane hears a knock at his door.

His apartment isn’t nearly as isolated as his safe house, and it would be weird if it was. This is the place where he occasionally invites Hayden and maybe one or two other guys, and he doesn’t need them raising their eyebrows. It’s only slightly more personalized though, with a few DVDs on one shelf, and a handful of awards on another. 

The windows are bullet proof.

Shane opens the door and Ilya steps in, hands coming up to cup Shane’s face, almost delicate. Eyes searching for something that Shane doesn’t understand but tries to provide nonetheless.

“Is good that you will be okay,” Ilya finally says, voice low, “was no fun playing Montreal without you. I cannot imagine how hard it must be to carry the whole team like you do.”

Shane shakes his head fondly, and the world only tilts a little bit. “Come on, Ilya. They’re good players! It was just an off game.”

“Sure it was,” Ilya says sarcastically, and he presses a careful kiss to Shane’s lips.

Shane reaches down, curling their fingers together. “Come on,” he replies, pulling Ilya into the living room, “we’re going to watch a movie.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Should you be looking at screens that much? After you already watched the game?”

“Fine,” Shane concedes, plopping down on the couch and taking Ilya with him, “I’ll listen to the movie. You’ll watch it.”

Ilya nods, positioning them so that his legs are extended in the L of the couch, Shane’s head on his lap;

“This will work, I think. What are we watching?”

Shane thinks for a moment. “Have you ever seen The Truman Show?”

Ilya hasn’t, and so they put it on. It’s a horror movie that pretends to be a comedy. The main character lives in a hyper controlled surveillance state, completely unaware that his free will isn’t real. When he finally escapes, and exercises real agency for the first time in his life, barely any of the millions of spectators stop to wonder how the world got to such a fucked up place that the ending was a thing to celebrate at all.

Shane’s seen it a few times, and he really just wants to know if Ilya interprets it the same way he does, so he lets his mind wander. Even though they can’t fuck tonight, he’s happy Ilya is here. He wants Ilya, more of him than he can have. He wants more, more, more, until he has all that Ilya is able to give him.

He’s been thinking about how they can have that. That more. He pauses the movie. Ilya looks down, questioning.

“What are you doing this summer?” he asks.

Ilya shrugs. “Will probably stay in Boston. There is… nothing left for me now. In Russia.”

Shane nods to himself. Good. Just as he suspected.

“Come to my cottage?” he asks, letting his eyes go big and round like they do when he begs for Ilya’s dick.

“Shane…” Ilya sighs, “we can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Shane questions, “it’s super remote, and private, and really nice. We could have so much time. Haven’t you ever wanted that?”

Ilya bites his lip. “Of course I want that, but…” he shakes his head.

“I’m injured,” Shane adds, “are you really going to deny a concussed man what he wants?” 

Ilya huffs out a reluctant laugh at that. “I guess that would be a bad look, yes?” He sighs. “Okay.” 

Shane feels some amazing, yet indescribably emotion bloom in his chest. “Really?”

“I can’t promise for how long,” Ilya cautions, “but I will come.”

Shane kisses him, unpausing the movie. This is good.

*

Shane is sixteen, he sits across the table from his mother, he watches her polish an antique revolver. “I want to tell you,” Yuna says, “the story of this gun.”

Shane nods. 

“I was pregnant with you,” she cleans out the barrel, “and one of my men, who had once been loyal to your grandfather, betrayed me. Betrayed the whole organization. I couldn’t stand for it.” She applies oil to the chamber, giving it a spin. It clicks satisfyingly.

“I didn’t want him to know that I knew, and so I brought him to a poker game, and I paid off the dealer to ensure that we were the last two at the table. I had a good hand, and I knew his cards were terrible, so I kept raising, and he kept matching me.” She huffs, as though to indicate what a stupid move that had been.

“Eventually, he ran out of chips. He added this revolver to the pot. He must have hoped I would fold. I didn’t. When I finally showed my cards, I watched the devastation play out on his face. I picked up the gun, and I took out one of the bullets, and I gave it a spin.” Yuna has now put the gun back together, and she demonstrates.

“I told him to pick how many more times I should spin it, and he did. I told him I knew what he had done. I don’t know why he didn’t try and run. He asked for three more spins.” Yuna clicks the barrel three more times. Slow. Practiced.

“Then I released the safety, and I fired.” She releases the safety, and Shane wonders briefly if he is about to be shot by his own mother. He isn’t. She flicks the safety back on.

“He walked out of the room that night thinking he was lucky. He wasn’t. The next day he came home to three of his five children, dead. One for every click.”

Yuna places the gun on the table, sliding it to Shane. She looks at him like she hasn't just confessed to orchestrating the murder of several children. “Sometimes,” she says, “you can end a man’s life with his heart still beating. Sometimes, you can’t. This weapon will help you in either senario.”

Shane picks up the gun, weighing it in his hands. He frowns. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” he says softly. “I want to be a good man.”

“Keep it anyway,” Yuna replies, a hand on his arm, “just in case.”

*

June 2017

David is in Montreal for work, so they agree to meet up for lunch. It’s a good thing too, because Shane was starting to go a little bit crazy. His sling can come off in a few days, and his concussion is a non-issue, but he is buzzing with the itch to do something. Anything. Damian is finally out of the hospital, but Shane’s given him the summer off to recover properly and spend time with his family. He doesn’t intend to be involved with the organization for at least that long.

“Is mom still mad at me for avoiding her?” he asks, because that’s another thing he’s been doing. He dodges half her calls and rarely feels bad about it.

“You know you mother…” David trails off.

“So she is,” Shane infers.

David sighs. “She doesn’t love it, but she understands that everything in March was a lot, and obviously it’s fair that you want some space to reconsider what your role will be with her organization going further.”

Shane nods to himself. Thinks. Suddenly, he doesn’t care for this conversation any more. He pivots, and hopes his father can keep up.

“Did she ever tell you that I’m gay?” he asks. 

David chokes on his sandwich, eyes wide. “She did,” he admits, and Shane studies his glass of water to avoid making eye contact. He had assumed as much, but after that day, neither of his parents had brought it up.

“Why have you never asked me about it?” This has always been the crux of his coming-out-to-his-parents related anxieties.

David takes a sip of his sprite. “I can’t say that it never crossed my mind that you might be…gay,” he only stumbles a little on the word, “but I think the idea scared your mother. It would make it harder to be taken seriously. In hockey, and in her line of work, and so much was going on at the time. I think we all appreciated not having the capacity to address it right away.” He folds and unfolds his napkin a few times. Shane watches wordlessly. “And then it felt like too much time had passed.” David swallows, and looks up at him. Shane allows their eyes to lock. “Shane, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“And mom?”

David smiles gently. “She wants you to be happy too.”

Shane doesn’t scoff, because his father isn’t wrong. Yuna does want Shane to be happy. She probably doesn't have any problems with his sexuality.

He just wishes she would say it.

Chapter 12: Having Cake (And Eating It Too)

Chapter Notes

should this be two chapters for pacing/drama/etc?
Yes.
is it?
No.
Free will is real guys.

July 2017

Shane spends the three days before Ilya arrives at the cottage freaking out about it. It’s been over a year since he had arranged for Ilya’s father’s death, and, because Shane is good at his job, he hasn’t found out. At least for now, that’s how it has to be. Shane worries that Ilya won’t understand, if he knew. Ilya is… emotional. As much as killing Grigory was the right thing for him, and for them, it’s hard not to fear that Ilya wouldn’t accept that. Ilya might not think he’s good anymore, and that simply cannot happen.

As much as Shane is excited, he’s also absolutely terrified that spending these weeks together will convince Ilya that this is all too much work. He’s terrified that Ilya will see the parts of him he wishes he could eradicate. That this will be the final straw, and Ilya won’t love him, and then the most honest part of Shane’s life will be over.

Shane picks Ilya up at the airport, and the moment they finally settle inside the cottage, Ilya’s hand is in his pants. Shane can’t wipe the dopey smile off his face as Ilya pushes him down onto the bed. He welcomes Ilya’s fingers, and then his dick, into his body, complete in the way that only sex can make him. Shane comes untouched with Ilya inside of him and whispered words, “so good for me Shane, fuck.”

The sun rises each morning, and Shane watches the light filter through his curtains, painting Ilya’s chest in an array of orange light. His curls glow like a halo, and Shane presses mindless little kisses to his head. 

He loves his cottage. He’s loved it for years. It takes on a special property when he gets to share it with Ilya. The birds chirp louder, the lake is more refreshing, and the air smells sweeter. This must be what it’s like for people who can afford to be good all the time. He imagines a world where he can live like this all the time.

It’s bliss. It’s perfect.  It’s easily the happiest Shane can ever remember being. They play pool, and Ilya fucks him against the table, and Shane only protests half-heartedly. They swim in the lake, playing around like children. It feels like Shane’s finally been rewarded for all his hard work. This must be what his grandfather wanted for him, all those years ago.

“Tell me something,” Ilya says. They’re sitting outside, eating lunch. It’s day four. Shane’s face hurts from how happy he’s been. 

“What do you want to know?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya shrugs, “anything. I feel like we maybe don’t know each other very well.”

Shane gives Ilya what he wants. “Well,” he thinks, “I’ve been skating since I was a little kid. My dad says I was skating before I was walking.” Shane smiles fondly. 

“Can I ask?” Ilya questions, hand on Shane’s thigh, “about your family?”

Shane catches what Ilya really wants to know. “I’ve known about the business since I was twelve,” he says softly. “It was founded by my grandfather, way back in the eighties or something, and my mom’s really expanded it.” He fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “My mom really wants me to, you know, continue the tradition. Eventually.”

Ilya’s hand shifts on Shane’s thigh. “Do you want that?” he asks, face neutral. Shane shrugs.

“I just want to be a good person,” he breathes.

“You are,” Ilya says. Shane looks at him fondly. 

Ilya thinks he’s good.

That night, Shane convinces Ilya to sit and watch a fire for a moment. He loves the warmth of the flames and the smell of the smoke and the pleasant weight of Ilya’s head in his lap. “Have you heard from your family recently?” he asks, like an idiot. He is Icarus, flying too close to the sun. He is asking for trouble. Ilya will be suspicious, he will ask, and Shane won’t be able to lie to him. Not to his face. Not after everything.

Ilya doesn’t seem to think anything of it. He shakes his head. “No,” he mumbles, words half muffled by Shane’s leg. “Is just my brother left, and he only ever calls to ask for money. I set up a trust for my niece, so now… no reason to talk to him.” 

Shane rubs a hand over Ilya’s shoulders. “I’m sorry your family sucks,” he says.

“My mother didn’t suck,” Ilya replies, voice thick.

The fire crackles.

“How did she die?” Shane asks. He could probably find out if he really wanted to, be he prefers it like this, with Ilya telling him willingly.

“My father,” Ilya starts, and Shane feels bile rise up in his throat, “was very hard on her. He would yell. Sometimes,” Ilya curls inwards, away from Shane, “sometimes he would hit her. It wasn’t- it wasn’t love. But she was scared, I think. She didn’t know how to leave. So she escaped the only way she could.” Shane understands now, where Ilya’s story is going. His heart aches for the other man. “My father told me it was an accident, but I found her,” Ilya’s voice is so soft now, Shane can barely hear it over the wind in the trees. “I don’t think she swallowed a whole bottle of pills by accident.”

Shane holds Ilya tighter, pressing their bodies together. He never, ever wants to let go.

They wake up at a luxurious nine in the morning, and Ilya declares that they must watch a movie in bed together. Absolutely fine by Shane. He pulls extra pillows and blankets from the linen closet and sets up the bed while Ilya goes down to grab his laptop.

He’s gone for a long time, and Shane heads out to the living room to make sure Ilya isn’t having any troubles finding it.

Something is wrong. Ilya is pacing. The laptop, open, facing away from Shane.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, tension clear in his voice. They’ve been using first names nearly exclusively for months. Shane swallows, heart racing. “I want to ask you something,” Ilya continues, “and I need you to tell me the truth.”

Shane frowns. “Of course.”

Ilya scoffs then, laughing bitterly. A horrible pit forms in Shane’s stomach. 

“I came to get your laptop. I wanted to make sure it was charged, so I opened it. It has power, so I was going to close it, but then I noticed what was on the screen. There was an app. A Russian app. I have never, in all these years, know a Canadian to have this random Russian messaging app.” Shane says nothing. There’s nothing to say. “I click on it, because I am curious. There is only one chat, and it has not been active in a year, and so I think, oh, Shane used it as a one time thing. Only then I start reading.” Yep. This is it. Shane is fucked. Ilya hates him, Ilya doesn’t think he’s good anymore, this is the end of the only good thing he can ever remember having, and maybe that’s hyperbolic but he isn’t thinking clearly right now. His breath hitches.

Ilya is still talking. Calm. Too calm. “In this chat,” he says, “you are talking about a fucking hit. Killing a person. And,” Ilya stops his pacing, standing directly across from Shane, “I am not stupid. I know what the mob does, Hollander, but I didn’t think this was something you would do.”

“Ilya,” Shane has to try. He has to at least attempt to salvage this.

“No,” Ilya interrupts, “you need to let me talk.” His eyes are so harsh, and Shane shuts his mouth. In any other situation, it would be hot. “I scrolled in the chat, and I saw interesting details. Specific details.” Ilya runs a hand across his mouth. “Details I already know.”

Shane doesn’t want to look at him, but this might be the last time Ilya lets him, so he does.

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice shakes with some emotion Shane can’t quite identify. He is far too still. “Did you have my father killed?”

There’s no point in denying it. Shane isn’t ashamed. “Yes,” he says simply.

Ilya blinks. He was probably not expecting honesty. “Why?” The question is desperate.

 “He was cruel,” Shane says softly, “to you, to your mother-”

 “Don’t fucking talk about my mother,” Ilya says, and all the calm is gone, his voice raising with every word. Admittedly, maybe Shane shouldn’t have gone there. “You had no right to do that, that was my father and you, what, thought you knew best?” Ilya’s accent gets stronger as he loses control of himself, some nauseating combination of betrayal and rage. “You decided it was a good idea, and then did it without consulting me?” he runs a desperate hand through his hair. “Fuck you. Fuck. You. Shane Hollander.”

 Shane doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think it would be helpful.

“Nothing to say?” Ilya spreads his arms wide, eyes wild and desperate.

“I don’t regret it,” Shane answers. He doesn’t think it’s a lie.

Ilya deflates, arms falling to his sides. The anger seemingly gone. Shane doesn’t know if he prefers whatever remains in its wake. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t deserve to deal with him.” And I love you, he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t want Ilya to feel like their first I love yous are a product of a stupid fight.

Ilya shakes his head, toeing on his shoes.“I need to go.”

“Go? Where the fuck are you going to go?” It’s thirty degrees out and Shane has the keys to the only car in his pocket.

 “Not here.” Ilya walks out the door, slamming it behind him. He takes Shane’s heart with him.

Shane gives him a twenty minute head start. He wants Ilya to have space to process everything and cool down. Then he hops in the car and follows the road until he finds Ilya, shoulders hunched, walking along the unpaved shoulder.

Shane slows the car to a crawl to keep pace, rolling down the window. “Where are you going, Ilya?” Ilya pointedly ignores him. “You can’t walk all the way back to Ottawa,” Shane rationalizes. “It’ll take days. It’s dangerous, especially without any supplies. It’s hot out.” Shane sighs. He isn’t going to let Ilya die of exposure. He isn’t that stubborn. “Look. Get in the car. I get that you’re upset with me, and I won’t force you to stay here. You’re not fucking kidnapped. I'll drive you back to the city.”

Ilya looks at him then. Searching. After a long time, he rolls his eyes and rounds the car, slipping into the passenger seat. “I might as well be kidnapped. That’s something you people do, isn’t it?” His tone is bitter, and obviously meant to provoke. 

Shane doesn’t rise to the bait. He lets them sit in silence for a minute. “You can be pissed for as long as you need to be,” be says lowly, because he’s a reasonable guy. He can’t fault Ilya for not understanding how much he’s sacrificed for him. Them. “I need you to know…” he continues with a sigh, “I only did it because I love you, and I hated seeing how much he was hurting you.” There goes his plan to wait until their love confession could happen in a more romantic scenario.

“You love me?” Ilya asks, and his tone does not betray his emotions. Shane risks a half-second glance away from the road, but Ilya isn’t even looking at him.

“So much,” Shane confesses, eyes wet. 

They drive in silence for another ten minutes.

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, pressing his palms against his eyes. He curses in Russian, and Shane understands enough to get the sentiment. “Fuck you.” He looks up at Shane, “this is so fucked up. You killed my father. This is the thing they warn middle school girls about, you realise this, yes?” 

“Yeah.” There’s nothing else to say. Shane can admit that, in normal circumstances, killing your situationship’s father is a fucked up thing to do. 

Time stretches, silence settles. Shane watches the kilometers tick down.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer honestly,” Shane says after enough time has passed. It’s the same thing Ilya asked of him, and he hopes the courtesy goes both ways.

“What?” Ilya sounds resigned.

“Are you mad that he’s dead,” Shane bites his lip, “or are you mad that I didn’t talk to you about it first?”

A bug splatters on the windshield. The clouds shift to cover the sun. 

“Does it matter?” 

“I think it does.”

Ten more minutes, and they pass a sign.

Ottawa, 54 kilometers.

“Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t me forgiving you,” Ilya says, “but we can go back to the cottage.”

Shane can’t hide his shock. Relief flows through him in waves.

“Really?”

Ilya nods. They don’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

They get back to the cottage and Shane sinks to his knees. He takes Ilya’s cock into his mouth right there in the entryway and sucks it like an apology. Not for killing Grigory, but certainly for causing this mess. This can’t possibly be healthy, and Shane is self-aware enough to realize that. He isn’t self-aware enough to stop. 

Ilya pulls his hair and moves Shane’s head how he pleases. With his bare hands, Ilya makes Shane good again.

Ilya doesn’t let Shane off until he’s soft in the back of Shane’s throat, Shane’s eyes wet with tears.

Shane pulls away with a gasp, leaning his head against Ilya’s still-clothed thigh.

“I’m still mad at you,” Ilya says from above him.

Shane’s lips are wet and swollen. He can feel some of Ilya’s cum drying on the corner of his lips. “Because he’s dead?”

Ilya lets out a long breath of air. “No.” He runs a thumb down Shane’s jaw. “You were right. I’m mad because you didn’t ask me. Tell me, at least.” Shane purses his lips in acknowledgement. “I’m mad because you still think, after everything, that we aren’t partners in this.”

Shane blinks. He wonders if Ilya has actually fucked the brains out of him. There is no way this is real. There is no way that Ilya knows the truth and is still saying these things.

“I didn’t know you wanted to be,” he breathes.

“I do, fuck,” Ilya groans. He sinks to the floor so they can be at eye level again. “I shouldn’t,” he acknowledges with a raised eyebrow, “but I do.” The hand is back on Shane’s jaw, and they’re so close now. “I love you too,” Ilya whispers.

Shane falls forward in relief. His head knocks into Ilya’s shoulder. He lets out a sob, unexpectedly, and one of Ilya’s hands comes up to the back of his neck. Shane feels Ilya’s lips on his forehead, and he lets out a happy little whine.

Everything is going to be okay.

Chapter 13: Home is Where the Heart is

Chapter Summary

Thoughts??????????
Had too much fun writing this one and I don't even know why?
Enjoy!!

Day seven. Half way through what Shane is sure will be the best two weeks of his life. He sits on one of the wooden stools at the kitchen island, and unlike when the bruises were fresh, it barely hurts. Still, the sting is satisfying, and he relishes the sensation as he watches Ilya move around the kitchen with newfound familiarity. 

Ilya, who loves him.

Who loves him enough to be honest, and to stay, even when any rational person would run. Who loves him enough to make him good anew, strong hands against skin and whispered words, always so good for me. Who loves him enough to press their sore bodies together, dreaming aloud of a world where they can have this forever.

They’ve come to an understanding, now. A product of late night conversations and soft lamplight. Shane will tell Ilya, going forward, if he is going to do anything else that majorly impacts both of them. He hopes he doesn’t have to kill anyone else, but he couldn’t promise Ilya it wouldn’t happen. He didn’t want to lie. Shane is grateful to Ilya for loving him enough to be willing to help him become the good man he wants to be.

They have a half thought out plan for Ilya to eventually move to Ottawa, and maybe Shane could follow him a year or two later, depending on the team and his contract and his mother and a million other things. 

For now, it’s enough. It’s enough because they love each other. They're committed to each other. They’re going to try really, really hard to make it all work. As partners.

Ilya finishes collecting everything he wants from Shane’s cupboards and they make their way outside. Ilya has never barbequed in his life, but he’d woken up this morning determined to try, and Shane is happy to watch. Even if the food is terrible, he’ll eat it happily, if it’s made by Ilya. 

Ilya’s doing grilled chicken and vegetables because that’s pretty hard to fuck up as long as you use a thermometer on the chicken to make sure you don’t get salmonella. Shane watches him from the table, a fond little smile. On a whim, he takes a picture. Ilya. Shirtless, despite the safety concerns Shane had voiced at that choice. He’s holding tongs in one hand and a plate in the other, a massive grin on his face. He raises an eyebrow when he notices the camera. Shane just shrugs.

“You look really beautiful right now,” he says, and Ilya rewards him with bright eyes and a wide grin.

“Only right now?” he asks.

Shane rolls his eyes, but he takes another picture. It doesn’t quite capture the radiance that Ilya exudes, shining like the sun. “No,” he says, voice warm and impossibly sincere, “not only right now.”

They sit in pleasant silence for some time, but Shane needs to break it. He needs to give Ilya this one last out, before he can completely relax. “Ilya,” he stares at the piece of carrot on his fork. He feels, more than sees Ilya turn to devote his full attention. “If we’re going to do this…”

Ilya furrows his brow. “What do you mean, if? You want to be together still, yes? The plan?”

Shane shakes his head in hopes of dismissing Ilya’s worry. “No, of course I do,” he says, “more than anything. But,” he bites the carrot to stall for time, “you know that sometimes my life can be… dangerous.”

“I’ve told you before, Shane. I am not afraid.” 

Shane places his free hand on top of Ilya’s. “No, I know,” he rubs his thumb up and down soothingly, “but even still… I want to show you how to shoot.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t pull away. “I don’t-”

“I’m not saying you should carry all the time, I get that with your visa stuff it’s riskier for you, but you should know the basics. Just in case.”

Ilya hums around a mouthful of chicken. “Okay.”

They clean the dishes together, Shane washing and Ilya drying. Then, Shane leads Ilya over to his safe, hidden behind one of the doors on his TV stand. He pulls out a solid pistol and a box of bullets. Ilya watches with rapt attention. 

“Go put on one of my shirts,” he says, “if you get randomly searched at the airport, we don’t want them to find any gunpowder residue, and it takes like a million washes for that stuff to come completely out of clothes.”

Ilya nods, disappears, and returns in one of Shane’s favourite flannels. They go outside. Shane demonstrates how to load the gun, keeping the barrel pointed at the grass the whole time. He grabs a few empty ginger ale and coke cans, and they hike out a few hundred meters into the forest. 

Shane props the cans on a log, and then they walk a good distance away.

It’s the same forest where his mother once taught him to shoot, over a decade ago.

“So,” he says calmly, “you want to hold it with two hands. In the movies, sometimes they’ll just use one, but that’s a terrible idea.” He demonstrates. “Always assume it’s live, even if you don’t think it  has bullets, even if the safety is on. Always.” Shane meets Ilya’s eyes, and Ilya nods. “It’ll be heavier than you expect, to start, but make sure to keep your arms straight. Expect the recoil, and don’t fight it or you can break a wrist.” Shane widens his legs in a stance that is rarely practical in a real scenario, but good for learning. “Stand like this, for stability. Use a thumb to turn off the safety, and shoot.” He fires, knocking one of the cans clean off the log. Ilya flinches at the noise, but only slightly. “Makes sense?” Shane confirms.

“Yes,” Ilya replies, and he takes the gun when Shane offers it. He positions his body in the right ways, following the steps. He looks at Shane for permission before he fires, and Shane nods. A quick learner. The first shot misses. So does the second. The third hits the log. “I think,” Ilya says, “you made this look easy to trick me.”

“Maybe if you got better at this, you would actually beat me in the scoring race,” Shane jokes back, and they laugh. Ilya had won the race this year.

The next bullet hits a can, as does the one after that. Ilya yells out with triumph each time.

When the magazine is empty, Shane takes the weapon back, tucking it into his belt. He pulls Ilya into a heated kiss. He hadn’t expected Ilya with a gun to be a turn-on, and yet.

They gather up the cans and walk back up the cottage. At the door, Ilya grabs Shane by the hips, hands wandering downwards, pressing him into the sliding door. The pistol digs into Shane’s back, and Ilya’s teeth dig into his neck, and everything is perfect until Ilya stiffens suddenly. 

“Shane,” he says lowly, eyes darting somewhere over Shane’s shoulder. On instinct, Shane turns, one hand moving to where the gun is concealed under his shirt. Even unloaded, it provides a threat. He can protect Ilya, he-

Shane locks eyes with his father, the older man standing stalk still, one hand in a drawer in the kitchen. Then, Shane watches as his father turns on his heel and walks out. 

By the time Shane gets inside, the family SUV is disappearing up the driveway.

If he had been with literally any other person on the planet, Shane doesn’t think this would be an issue. His parents already know he’s gay. His dad, at least, is supportive about it.

Shane seriously doubts that either of his parents will be thrilled that he’s dating Ilya Rozanov. He feels his heart speed up and his lungs constrict and he wonders if he is about to die.

This might be the worst thing he’s ever had to endure. Shane did not need his father to find out about them, especially right now. If he knows, Shane is sure his mother will know too, any moment now. Yuna will be… Shane doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t really understood her in years. Not since she started pulling away from hockey to focus on the organization. Things have been especially weird recently, though, and now it’s not going to get any better, and-

And Ilya is here. Crouched on the floor to meet Shane at eye level, and Shane doesn’t even remember getting on the ground at all. Ilya places tentative hands on his shoulders, and Shane leans in to the stabilizing touch. A kiss on his forehead. Ilya is here.

Somehow, Shane manages to collect himself enough to get them both in the car and all the way to his parent’s cottage. He realizes belatedly that the gun is still in his belt. He winces. It goes in the glovebox. Ilya stares at the building that holds some of Shane’s fondest childhood memories. “Your mother,” he says softly, “am I- will she-” Ilya shakes his head, clearly displeased with the entirety of the English language. Shane understands the question anyway.

“She won’t, like, hurt you,” Shane assures him. “I’m freaking out about this because she’s my mom, not because she’s a Yakuza boss.”

Ilya nods too many times to be convincing, but they can’t sit here much longer, and so the car doors click open and they walk up the path.

“Hey,” he calls awkwardly as they step into the house. “It’s me,” he adds, and that doesn’t help whatsoever.

Both his parents are standing, staring at him. Neither of their faces betray an emotion.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, “I didn’t mean for you to find out. Not like this, at least.”

“Find out what, exactly?” Yuna asks, voice sharp, consonants cutting. Shane has long learned not to be intimidated, but he can feel Ilya stiffen beside him.

“This is Ilya Rozanov,” he says, and then he cringes. “Which you know. Um. Obviously. But what you don’t know is that we’re…” he searches for a word that covers everything. He comes up short.

“Partners,” Ilya supplies. And, yeah. That’s what they agreed on, wasn’t it?

“Yeah,” Shane confirms.

Yuna frowns. “But you hate him, Shane. You’ve been rivals for your whole career.”

“No,” Shane grabs Ilya’s hand, squeezing tightly, “I mean, yeah, we’re competitive, but I’ve never hated him.” He swallows. “I love him, actually.”

He watches his parents make twin expressions of shock.

“Maybe,” David suggests, “we should sit down.”

Shane nods gratefully.

“So,” Yuna says, “when did all this start?”

Shane grimaces. It’s not a question he wants to answer, but he knows she’ll be relentless about it. “It’s been a long time,” he settles on. “Rookie season.” No point in lying.

He watches his parents have a silent conversation, comprised of only eyebrow movements and twitches of the mouth. He wonders how Ilya is doing with this. He wonders if Ilya feels safe. He hopes so.

Horrible conversation, and Shane tries to zone out half way, enough to rescue Ilya if needed, but enough to also not get so overwhelmed he panics. Again.

Eventually, the discussion does seem to become too much for his mother. Yuna stands up and heads outside. Shane watches her go. Her cardigan rests on her chair. He should go. Be a good son. He shoots Ilya a questioning glance, and Ilya responds with a squeeze to his thigh and a tight smile. 

The cardigan probably isn’t necessary, but Shane uses it as his excuse. 

“I know,” he says lowly, “that me being… gay, we’ve sort of just been ignoring it. For years. But, um, I really need you to know, mom,” Shane takes a deep breath, “he makes me happy. Happier than I’ve ever been. So I’m not going to, like, come out. But I’m not going to stop seeing him either. And I’m not going to apologise for that.”

The breeze blows the trees. A bird chirps. The lake laps the shore, on the other side of the house.

“All a parent wants for their child,” Yuna says eventually, “is for them to be happy.” She brushes some hair out of her face. “This isn’t what I imagined for you,” Yuna admits, “but I see that he clearly does… love you. So.” She offers a small smile. An olive branch. “We at least have that in common.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies thickly.

Time passes. He hopes Ilya is doing alright inside with David.

“Does he know?” Yuna asks, and she doesn’t need to clarify what she means.

Shane nods. “He’s known bits for years, but recently, yeah. He knows everything.” He bites his lip. “I won’t lie to him.”

“What does he think about it?” She asks.

He’s so into it that he fucks me about it, Shane doesn’t say.

“I taught him how to shoot today. Just in case. He isn’t going to say anything. I trust him.” 

Yuna looks at him with approval. “That’s smart. Is he a good shot?”

“He could be worse,” Shane says with a smile, “but we’ll work on it.”

He’s surprised she didn’t have any qualms with Ilya being in on the secret, but he isn’t about to question it.

They go back inside.

“Who knows?” Yuna asks.

“Damian,” Shane says, “but that’s it. Nobody knows. And nobody can know. It wouldn’t be… safe. For Ilya.”

“Russia is not so good about these things,” Ilya supplies, and Shane is somewhat pleased to notice that his parents appear sympathetic.

They seem to understand that, and the rest of the meal passes without incident. Yuna expresses enthusiasm, even, for their half-formed plan. She gets Ilya’s number and promises to send him the names of some great Ottawa based real estate agents and immigration lawyers. It all throws Shane, just a little. He’s pleased, of course, but he had not been expecting his parents to adapt so quickly to the Ilya of it all. Especially not his mother. Especially not when the Ottawa plan involves a potential for Shane to leave Montreal.

“What did you think?” Shane asks once the time to leave has come, and they’re driving back to the cottage.

Ilya thinks on it for a minute. “It was good,” he says, “good food, and they took it very well, considering.” He meets Shane’s eyes. “I liked your parents. They are a lot like you, I think. In a good way.”

Ilya thinks he’s good. Ilya loves him. Ilya likes his parents. 

Shane generally trusts Ilya’s judgement. It’s hard for him to tell exactly how awkward the meal had been, but if Ilya thinks it went well, it probably did. 

“I’m glad,” Shane replies. “I think they liked you too, once they got over the shock of you being, you know, you.”

That night, Shane gets a series of texts.

Mom: I really like him for you

Mom: I think he’s really good for you and helping you sort out your priorities

Mom: A keeper for sure

Shane doesn’t think about why the kind words leave a bad taste in his mouth, even when he agrees with them. He shuts off his phone, placing it down on the bedside table. Then, he rolls over, burying his face in Ilya’s chest. Strong arms come up and wrap around him, and he is safe. 

He dreams of forever, and when he wakes, he wishes his brain wouldn’t tease him with futures he can never have.

Chapter 14: The Pride Before The Fall

Chapter Notes

plsss ignore the dubious science in this one i didn't feel like doing research so i made it up!!!

ALSO: A grand total of 2 people have now correctly guessed how this will end which is excitingggg I really hope it meets people's expectations because I am super scareddd and also I can't wait!
ALSO ALSO: mind the next few chapter titles going forward!!! they actually make sense (unlike some of them woops)

ENJOY

October 2017

Shane loves the start of the season. The sweet time after the summer ends when his body hasn’t yet realised that what he’s doing to it is a little bit inhumane, still running on 110%. He’d had a longer off-season than usual, thanks to his injuries, and he is ready to go. Pittsburgh, of all teams, had taken the cup, and in Shane’s professional opinion, they shouldn’t have. Even if, yes, the Metros weren’t going to get their threepeat with Shane out of commission, there is no way that Pittsburgh should have been able to eke out a victory against New York in the conference final. Embarrassing. Shane considers having words with Scott Hunter for his disappointing performance at their next game.

With the unexpected but certainly not unappreciated newfound understanding from his mother, Shane’s even been able to set down some boundaries with her. His duties in Montreal have eased up for the first time in years. Damian is back from his leave, fully recovered from his shooting, and thank fuck for that, because Shane did not want to go through the trouble of finding another body guard who would be totally chill, if not outwardly supportive, about Shane dating Ilya Rozanov.

The only thing that sours the start of the season is that now, for the first time, Shane really knows what he’s missing. He’s missing Ilya’s hands and mouth and jokes and accent and cooking and-

And maybe, Ilya wouldn’t judge him for the desperate place that all that missing has led him to. 

Shane had fallen into bed hours ago, tired in that pleasant way from a 5:0 sweeping victory against Toronto. He hadn’t fallen asleep. It’s nearly three in the morning now, and the darkness of his ceiling isn’t getting any less boring, but Shane’s brain keeps teasing him with things that aren’t there. He imagines a phantom of Ilya’s leg sprawled against his own. He pictures the steady, comforting weight it would provide. His eyelids are so heavy but there is simply nothing for it, and so Shane throws every smart thing he’s ever read about sleep out the window, and reaches for his phone.

He opens youtube, planning to watch a short history documentary or something, but his algorithm has different ideas. Ilya Rozanov - #81 Boston (Greatest Goals).

And, well, isn’t that a great idea. 

Shane leaves youtube, navigating to the generic internet app that came pre-installed on his phone. He opens the incognito browser. His youtube account is linked to his TV, and sometimes Hayden comes over, and he doesn’t need Hayden asking why this video is in his watch history.

Shane navigates to the search bar. Ilya Rozanov. Search.

He finds the same video as before and clicks on it.

The whole thing is overlaid with aggressive dad rock, and Shane turns the volume all the way down. He doesn’t need it. He watches Ilya steal the pick from some Vancouver forward, shooting from the blue line and somehow, miraculously, getting the goal. Shane smiles. His free hand moves to subconsciously palm at his dick over his underwear.

Ilya swoops around the back of the net, dives through a pack of players, scores.

Shane tightens his grip.

Ilya fakes the backhand, switching to the forehand at the last second, tricking the goalie. He scores.

Shane’s thumb plays with the elastic waistband of his underwear.

Ilya executes a series of tight, clean passes to his linemates, before Marlow sets him up for a beautiful one-timer. Goal.

Shane gives up all pretense of not jerking off to a fan-made compilation of his boyfriend being a good hockey player, and tosses his underwear in the rough direction of his laundry basket.

Tragedy strikes: the video ends. Shane lets out a groan of frustration. He considers finding real porn like a normal person, but quickly dismisses the idea when he spots another video.

Roz fighting for 81 minutes straight

The thumbnail is a closeup shot of Ilya, lip bloody.

Shane’s cock twitches in his hand.

Yes please.

He clicks.

Ilya, one hand clutching a San Jose jersey, the other pummeling some guy’s face. Blood splatters on his visor. He smiles.

Ilya, mouth moving in an obvious chirp, teeth red with blood as the refs drag him to the box.

Ilya, dropping gloves, swinging his fists, grinning like a shark all the while.

Shane doesn’t realize he’s picked up the pace until he’s right on the edge, breathing hard.

Ilya takes a fist to the face, and when he spits blood out, a tooth comes with it.

Shane comes all over his hand and stomach.

He smiles dazedly to himself, reaching a hand over to the drawer where he keeps wet wipes for this purpose.

Cleaned up, he turns his phone back on, navigating to his texts.

Shane: I love you

Not thirty seconds later:

IR (Boston) 💛: I love you too :)))))

A minute later, Shane is asleep.

*

“Shane,” 

Shane, aged twelve, looks up from his book. It’s on the original six, and how they came to form what would become the NHL, and it’s super interesting. He doesn’t particularly want to put it down, but his mother is calling, so he does. 

He’s a good son like that.

“Yeah mom?” he responds. He’s started calling her mom, instead of mommy. That’s something kids do, and he’s old enough now that he would get teased in the locker room if he kept the habit up.

“Come here for a second,” Yuna calls back, “I want to talk to you about something.”

Shane grabs his bookmark. Last time she wanted to talk to him - last time she said it in that tone - she had told Shane that she was secretly the head of a massive criminal enterprise. 

It’s been a lot.

Shane really just wants to read his book and enjoy his time at the cottage.

He finds her in the living room. Holding a gun.

“Today,” she proclaims, “you are going to learn to shoot.”

Shane frowns, a pit forming in his stomach. “Why would I need to know that?”

“Because you are my son, and I hope, one day, the organization will be as much yours as it is mine. As it was your grandfather’s.”

Shane remembers his grandfather fondly. 

Yuna gets Shane to grab a handful of his father’s empty beer cans, and they walk some distance into the forest that surrounds the property. 

Yuna lines the cans up on a log. She shows Shane how to load the gun and check the safety, and then she hands it to him.

It’s heavy.

“So I just…” Shane points the gun at the cans. Yuna nods.

He hits the trigger and the noise is deafening. Shane’s shoulders jump up to his ears, and his wrists flick back with the recoil, and his knuckles turn white with how hard he’s gripping the weapon. A decidedly unpleasant experience all around.

His aim was so far off he doesn’t even know where the bullet went.

“Try again,” Yuna instructs, “this time, try to be less stiff. It’ll help with the recoil.”

Be less stiff. Great. Fantastic advice. It isn’t like Shane’s freaking out at all about his completely normal mother teaching him how to fire a gun on a random Tuesday in July.

Shane tries again, and again, and again. They work their way through four magazines, and by the end of it, Shane’s wrists are aching. His ears have grown numb to the sharp sound, and his muscles know what to expect.

He hits the cans more often than he misses.

“This is just the first step,” Yuna tells him as they make their way back to the cottage, “once you’ve got this mastered, I’ll be adding other responsibilities. Getting you ready for your future.”

Shane stares at the bullet-ridden cans in his arms. He imagines if they were made of flesh, bleeding all over his clothes. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits softly. “It seems really intense, and I’m not-”

“None of that,” Yuna interrupts, “I see what a great leader you are, Shane. There’s a reason they made you captain of your team for this upcoming season. As long as you continue as you are, you will do great.”

Shane nods.

He doesn’t  get a chance to finish his book for the rest of the summer.

*

January 2018

Shane hasn’t had the displeasure of working with Marco Braga in years. It hasn’t been long enough. Technically, this meeting goes beyond the scope of what he’s agreed to do for his mother, but she’s tied up on the west coast, and Shane was already in New York for a game. At least Braga is a known entity.

“Well, well, well,” the man says with no sense of urgency whatsoever, “it’s been too long.”

Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes, because he likes to think he’s better than that. “Do you have the product?” he asks.

Braga nods, sliding a duffel across the concrete between them. Behind Shane, Damian has a matching bag filled with cash.

Shane unzips the duffel and takes out three bags at random. He whips a small kit out of his back pocket. Three capped vials. With a small scoop, he places sample of each bag’s product in each vial, giving them a stir. A moment later, all three vials are pink.

It passes the test. He nods at Damian, who steps forward with the cash.

Shane isn’t sure why he does it. Maybe it’s Braga’s smarmy face. He pulls out a fourth vial. Braga’s eyes narrow.

Shane raises his hand, and Damian stops where he is.

The way Shane is crouched, he doesn’t think Braga can see what he’s actually doing with the vials. He cracks the seal on the fourth vial, but he only mimes at adding the product before giving it a stir. The liquid turns green, reacting merely to the oxygen. That’s also how it would react if the product were inauthentic. 

“No deal,” Shane says, “this product is shit.”

“Come on,” Braga whines, “it’s not like I made it. Why are you taking this out on me?”

Shane makes a show of sighing dramatically. “Do you think our people will be happy with this? If I have to tell them a quarter of the product I tested wasn’t up to par?”

Braga runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he says, “fine. A quarter wasn’t good? I can offer a twenty-five percent discount.”

Shane hums. He wonders if he can haggle further. Something about labour costs to sort good from bad, maybe. 

In the end, he decides it isn’t worth it. 

Damian takes a quarter of the money out of the bag before handing it over, and the two groups go their separate ways.

Back in the car, driving back to the team hotel, Damian says, “it’s crazy luck that you decided to test another sample. The standard is three. Imagine if we had gotten cheated like that? Your mother would have been furious. As it is, it’ll be a pain in the organization’s ass to test everything.”

Shane hums noncommittally. “I don’t think it will be a problem.”

“You don’t?” Damian asks, confused.

“There was nothing wrong with the fourth sample,” Shane admits, “I didn’t actually test the product. I faked the results to get us a better deal.”

Damian meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Shane can’t quite figure out what that means.

*

February 2018

Damian is driving, and Shane is in the passenger seat. It’s cold out, but the sun is shining and he had gotten a good night’s rest, followed by an easy video call with Ilya over breakfast. Usually, he would drive himself to practice, but Damian has some other engagements downtown, so it had made sense to go together. 

Then the texts come in and Shane’s day is ruined.

Mom: Hi honey, I know practice this morning is optional and I need to ask you a really big favour.

Mom: There’s a dead drop pick up in Trois Rivieres, and our regular guy can’t make it.

Mom: I know we agreed that you would take a step back for now.

Mom: But this is a one time thing, I promise. I’m just really in a bind.

Shane: I’m not skipping practice. If you still need, I guess I can go after.

Mom: No. This needs to get picked up ASAP.

Mom: Please, Shane

Mom: I haven’t asked anything from you in months

Shane: I’m the captain. I can’t just skip out on practice. Even optional ones.

Mom: Just this once?

Damian pulls into the practice facility. Shane doesn’t get out of the car. “Everything alright?”

Shane sighs. “My mother.” He shows Damian the texts.

“Doesn’t she know you’re a professional hockey player?” he asks. Shane suspects he hasn’t quite gotten over the shooting last year. They don’t talk about Yuna often.

“She does,” Shane reasons, “she just also wants me to pull my weight with the organization.”

Damian hums. “You pull more than your weight,” he points out, sounding frustrated.

“Look, I’ve set boundaries with her, and she’s been trying really hard to respect them,” Shane can’t help but defend his mother, “things are better between us now.”

Damian scoffs, like maybe he doesn’t think Shane’s boundaries are enough. “Are they better because she’s changed, or are they better because you’ve just stopped freaking out about how she’ll react to your Russian boytoy?”

“He’s not my-” Shane rubs a hand over his face, giving up. 

“Are we going or not?” Damian asks.

Shane shakes his head. “I’m sure she’ll find someone else. She can handle it.”

Damian nods in approval. He checks his watch. “I’ll be back in three hours then?”

“Make it four, just in case.”

Usually, getting on the ice helps Shane clear his thoughts. Today, it isn’t working. He runs stick handling drills with the rookies and he thinks about the cracks forming in the great Akuma organization: last minute cancellations, unreliable runners, risky meet-ups. Cracks his mother can’t seem to see.

He skates laps, faster and faster and faster and his brain only speeds up. Strangely, he lands on Damian. He’s known his body guard for years now, and Damian is easily one of his closest confidants. The entire time they’ve known each other, Damian has worn the same old, antique watch. Last month, Shane had finally thought to ask about it.

The watch, Damian had said, belonged to the first man he killed. He had told Shane a story of being twenty-two and staring down at blood soaked hands, one of which had been clutching a knife. Damian had taken the watch off the dead man’s wrist in the tradition of Akuma’s Yakuza, taking a trophy from the first man you kill.

Shane wonders if he should find a way to get something of Grigory Rozanov’s to wield as his own trophy, even if he didn’t commit the murder with his own hands. 

Loving and fucking the man’s son is probably close enough.

*

March 2018

At the All Star game, Ilya had proposed a new and thrilling idea: they could stop pretending to hate each other in public. 

Shane had agreed easily. It’s not like they were coming out or anything. Not that they even could, if they wanted to. There are no out players in the league, and Shane isn’t prepared for the invasion of privacy that would come from being the first. Ilya wants to wait at least until he can get permanent residency, and Shane is more than on board with that plan.

That said, this past year of being in love and not being able to so much as look at each other without forced contempt has been hard. It’s unsustainable. To aid the process of becoming publicly non-enemies, and eventually, publicly, friends, they’ve decided to start a charity.

The Irina Foundation will have Ilya’s mother’s name, squeaky clean mob-money to get it off the ground, and a mandate to promote mental health for at-risk kids through hockey. 

They’ve only been planning it seriously for a month, but today they met with all the fancy lawyers to sign the paperwork. It’s official. 

It’s the first legal document they have tying themselves together. Shane fully plans to frame his copy. It can go on his bedside table next to a printed photo of Ilya in sweats and nothing else, gazing at the camera with more love than Shane can really process.

To start, the Foundation will run a weekly drop-in hockey group during the school year in Montreal, each week featuring a different NHL player, plus the regular coaches they’ll be hiring. It will be good, Shane thinks. Maybe it can start counteracting all the damage he’s probably done to youth in this city with his involvement in the family business. Next summer, then, they have big hopes to expand and run summer camps in both Montreal, and wherever Ilya ends up.

Selfishly, Shane hopes it is Ottawa, just so they can see each other more often. 

He doesn’t think that makes him a bad person.

With Ilya’s help, he’s coming around to the fact that, actually, he might be a good person.

Chapter 15: Murphy's Law

Chapter Notes

BIG THINGS happening next chapter!!!!!

Murphy's law: if something can go wrong, it will.

Let me know what you think!!!!!!!!!!

April 2018

Shane lies back on the hotel mattress with a sigh. He tosses his phone to the foot of the bed, and it bounces close to the end, in danger of falling to the floor. He doesn’t even bother to move it somewhere safer. They’re in New Jersey, and they just lost the second game of the series, and the air is all wrong, and Damian has the flu so Shane doesn’t even have anyone to complain to about his mother. 

Well, he has Ilya. But Ilya is neck deep in his own playoff run, and Shane doesn’t want to distract from that, so he hasn’t said anything.

“Is everything okay, dude?” Hayden asks from the other bed, and Shane jumps slightly, having mostly forgotten his friend was even in the room. “I’ve noticed you’ve been on edge lately. Stretched thin, you know? And I get that the playoffs always do that to you, but it seems, I don’t know.” A pause. Shane doesn’t say anything. “You seem more off than usual.”

Shane covers his mouth with his hand and blows out a breath of air against it. He is on edge. He’s more stressed than he can ever remember being, and he can’t talk to his best friend about one single part of it.

He can’t tell Hayden that he’s been putting out fires for his mother’s criminal enterprise from a country away because she doesn’t seem to think they’re problems at all. He can’t talk about the increasing dissent in the ranks, or the rise in mistakes, or the hushed chatter among Montreal’s top men, all clambering for an upset. He can’t explain to Hayden how his family’s legacy is falling apart at the seams while his mother remains staunchly unconcerned, convinced of her own invincibility. Hayden would never understand quite what Shane has done to protect his family. Even if he doesn’t love all the aspects of the great Akuma empire, he can’t have it falling apart. The only thing that keeps him safe is the fact that anyone in that world who knows his identity is too scared to say anything about it. Every error Yuna allows only weakens that protection.

He can’t say a lot to Hayden, but the guy is his best friend, and Shane knows he’s been acting weirder than normal, and so he feels like he has to offer something.

“Can you keep a secret?” He asks.

Hayden raises an eyebrow, “you know I can, Shane,” he says, sounding just the slightest bit hurt. That’s fair, Shane supposes. Hayden has known that he’s gay for years, and never breathed a word about it.

Shane swallows. “I’m seeing someone,” he admits, because this earth shattering secret doesn’t implicate him in any crimes. “I’ve been seeing someone for a while,” he clarifies, because he knows Hayden will ask.

Predictably, the other man’s jaw hinges open in shock, but he recovers quickly, morphing it into a smile.

“Really?” he reaches over, clapping Shane on his shoulder, “congrats, man. I’m happy for you. Do I get to meet him?”

Immediately to the tricky questions, then. Great.

“I don’t know,” Shane says slowly, “maybe. It’s…” he hesitates for a moment before landing on a word that only begins to do the situation justice, “it’s complicated.”

Hayden looks disappointed, then, but he recovers quickly, “well,” he responds, “I would love to meet him, whenever you guys are ready. Jackie would too.”

Shane offers a thankful smile. Hayden can be nosey, but he’s always known when not to push, and that’s appreciated.

“He’s good to you?” Hayden asks, and Shane can’t help the smile that overtakes his face as he thinks about Ilya.

“He’s amazing,” he replies honestly, before adding, “I love him.”

Hayden is clearly thrown by just how serious Shane is, but his supportive expression doesn’t waver.

“Well then, I approve,” he says.

Shane laughs, more to himself than anything. Hayden looks at him questioningly.

“I don’t think you will,” he admits, and he hadn’t been sure he was going to tell Hayden the Ilya of it all tonight, but now that he’s in it, he wants to. Even if Hayden reacts badly, he still wants his best friend to know.

“Why not?” Hayden asks,

“Well,” Shane confesses, “you sort of already know him? And you don’t like him all that much.”

“I do?” Shane can practically see the gears turn in Hayden’s head as he mentally goes through the list of all the gay men he knows. Shane doesn’t think it can possibly be that long of a list.

“Not well,” Shane says, “but you’ve met.”

The secret to living a life of lies is to tell as few as possible. One less lie is one more truth is one step closer to being a good man and Hayden is a good man and Shane wants Hayden to think he’s a good man too and-

“It’s Ilya. Rozanov.” Shane says, not meeting Hayden’s eyes. The hotel still has a popcorn ceiling. Gross. Hayden doesn’t say anything, and so, needlessly, Shane clarifies, “from Boston.”

“I mean,” Hayden chokes out, “it’d probably be even crazier if you found another guy named Ilya Rozanov.” He breathes very loudly, and Shane tries not to be annoyed. “Holy fucking shit.”

Shane forces himself to look now, just in case Hayden’s disgust is so intense that their friendship is over forever.

“You’re not, like, joking,” Hayden says carefully, “are you?”

Shane shakes his head. “No,” he says simply. “I’m not.”

“God, Shane,” Hayden groans, knocking their shoulders together, “you don’t do anything the easy way, do you?” 

Shane just shrugs. He really, really doesn’t.

*

May 2018

Ilya’s in Shane’s house two weeks later, freshly out of the playoffs after game seven of the first round, against New York. He’s standing at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables for a stir fry, and Shane is happy to watch. He’s got a game tonight against Carolina, and Ilya has insisted on cooking him a proper meal, instead of one of his prepared frozen packages. It’s nice, like this. Domestic. It feels like they’re just two normal boyfriends sharing an afternoon together.

 “Your mother has been texting me,” Ilya says, shattering the illusion.

“Oh?” Shane asks, immediately worried that the oddly supportive attitude she’s had about Ilya has suddenly crumbled.

“Nothing bad,” Ilya reassures him, “at first, it was just to help me find lawyers, look at houses, that sort of thing. For when I have free agency this summer.”

Ilya chops onions wrong, but Shane loves him too much to correct the behavior.

“At first?” Shane feels an all-too-familiar pit form in his stomach. Maybe the reason Yuna’s been so oblivious as to the state of her organization is because she’s spending all her free time texting Ilya. 

It’s not a fair assumption, but Shane makes it anyways, the petty part of his brain coming to life.

“She tries to hide it, I think,” Ilya continues, “but she really wants you to take over.”

Shane snorts. If his mother is trying to hide that, she’s certainly not been doing a good job of it. Maybe she puts in a bit more effort for Ilya’s sake. Easing him in to the idea.

“She knows that life won’t be even on the table for me for at least another 10 years,” Shane replies, “I have some good hockey left in me.” 

Ilya grins at him then, radiant. “Oh, I know, Mr. Best-Plus-Minus-In-The-League.”

It’s true. Shane didn’t know Ilya followed his stats like that.

“But…” Ilya hesitates, “in ten years, it will be on the table then?”

And isn’t that the question of his fucking life. It used to be an easy yes. There had been no other choice. Then, as hockey got more intense, it became a less easy no.

These days, Shane isn’t sure. The money coming into Montreal goes right back to the community, now, through the Irina Foundation. It goes to charities and aid campaigns and sustainability initiatives. It’s helping people, and it’s doing good. And if the way Shane is running Montreal, with his hands-off approach, is beneficial, then maybe… 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, “maybe. Maybe not.”

Ilya can probably sense his discomfort, because Ilya’s a great boyfriend and Shane’s never had a great poker face when it comes to him. He cracks a joke.

“Then I would be, what?” he pokes Shane’s nose with a piece of carrot. Shane scrunches his face in faux annoyance. “Your mob wife?”

Shane rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself. Maybe it was just a joke, but it has implications. Ilya wants to still be together in ten years. Ilya wants to be married in ten years. 

Shane wants those things too.

He doesn’t say that. “Shut up,” he grumbles, but Ilya doesn’t.

“No,” he says, eyes shining in delight, “I like this plan. I could get a fur coat and a yappy little dog. Be… what is it called?” he frowns briefly, snapping his fingers until the phrase comes to him, “arm candy.” He grins triumphantly. “Yes, I would be arm candy at all your fancy meetings. Would be very good. Everyone would be very jealous of you.”

“You are not getting a dog,” Shane says, and only after the words are out of his mouth does he realize that there was quite a lot more there that he should have objected to.

“Ah,” Ilya catches on immediately, “but you are not against me being arm candy?”

Shane can’t help but look at Ilya fondly, watching the man cook in probably the least organized way imaginable, with the full knowledge that the food will be fantastic. “Are you?” he asks, because at the heart of it, Shane wants to give Ilya what he wants. There is little he wouldn’t do if it would make Ilya happy.

Ilya looks at him for a long moment, and Shane gets the distinct feeling like Ilya is saying more with his eyes than out loud. “I go where you go, Hollander. You should know this by now.” Ilya turns off the stove, beginning to plate their meal. He looks so incredibly right, here, in Shane’s home. He looks happy. “But don’t worry, I will pull my weight.” 

Shane gets home from his game to find Ilya still on the couch, TV running on mute, illuminating the living room. Ilya looks up as he enters the space, putting down his phone.

“Hello, my love. Great game. Very sexy goal in the third.”

Shane presses a kiss to his forehead. “I aim to please,” he jokes. 

His bones hurt. After scoring the goal in question, he had promptly taken a bad hit into the boards, and he just knows that he'll have a nasty bruise across his side in the morning.

“I’m going to take a proper shower and head to bed,” he says, threading his fingers through Ilya’s hair, “join me?"

Ilya stands from the couch with the grace of a man who doesn’t have any bruised ribs at all. “Of course.”

They lie in bed together, freshly showered and pleasantly sleepy. Ilya’s phone is the only light left in the room.

“Who are you texting?” Shane asks, voice low.

“Your mother,” Ilya responds, surprising Shane.

“About Ottawa stuff?” he asks, because that would make sense.

“She’s sending me recipes,” Ilya says instead, “it was nice to cook for you today, and so I asked her what foods you liked when you were a kid.” He presses his lips to Shane’s temple. “Is that okay?”

It is okay. It’s actually really, horribly, incomprehensibly, sweet. Ilya wants to make his childhood favourites. Ilya asked his mother for the recipes. His mother gave Ilya the recipes.

“I love you so fucking much,” he whispers, burrowing his sore body as deep into Ilya as he can get, relishing the warmth.

Ilya is safe, and comforting, and perfect. Shane wonders how he got to deserve someone this amazing, and kind, and selfless, and beautiful.

He doesn’t think the universe would let him have this, if he was a bad person.

If this is what fate has decided he deserves, he must be doing something right.

He must be good.

Chapter End Notes

PS I need everyone to know that the mob wife comments have been in the drafts from the VERY BEGINNING and i am extremely glad we are all on the same page about this

Chapter 16: Truth Will Out

Chapter Notes

:) :) :)

May, 2018

Shane’s sitting on the bench half way through the second period when he gets a tap on his shoulder.

The first time, he ignores it. It isn’t from his coach or one of his teammates, and so it doesn’t matter.

What matters is this game. Game Four. Conference Finals. The Metros could sweep New York in the series tonight. It would give them a much needed rest before the final round against either Vancouver or Anaheim. 

He has to focus.

His eyes never leave the puck.

He blinks.

The hand taps his shoulder again. More insistent. 

“Mr. Hollander,” says an unknown person, “you need to come with me. Right now.”

Nobody unknown should be allowed back here. Shane frowns. On the ice, a rookie has the puck. He’s been getting good chances, considering this is his first time playing playoff hockey.

“Mr. Hollander,” the enigma of a man says again, more insistent, and maybe it’s something in his voice that gets through the otherwise impenetrable wall of hockey hockey hockey that he erects in his mind for games like this.

He blinks.

The second his eyes leave the puck, he notices. 

He notices the wide eyes of the man and his coaching team.

He notices the fans in the stands, clad in Metros red and blue, gaze flicking from their phones to his face.

He notices them whispering.

His heart drops before he even knows which of his deepest held secrets has been aired out for the entire world to see.

He blinks.

“Mr. Hollander,”

“Yeah,” he chokes out, “yeah, okay.”

He wonders if he’s about to get put on waivers. The morality clause has always been a danger to him. He wonders-

He blinks.

“My name is Darrel Saundry,” says the man once they’re in the tunnel, “I work for the Metros PR department.”

Not legal. What does that mean?

“Okay,” Shane says, heart working faster than it has all game.

“My only job here today,” says Darrel, “is to get you out of this building without being seen by a single reporter, and advise you strongly not to say a word. Not without consulting us.”

Shane nods numbly. They reach the locker room. He takes off his skates. Untapes his socks. Tugs off his jersey and his pads and he really, really wants to take a shower so that his routine isn’t completely thrown to shit, but he can tell from Darrel’s impatient look that a shower isn’t a possibility. 

He throws on his hoodie.

It belongs to Ilya.

At least Ilya waits for him at home.

He blinks.

“Can you at least tell me what’s going on?” he asks. Darrel shakes his head.

In Shane’s hand, his phone vibrates.

Mark Jones (Lawyer).

Darrel raises an eyebrow. 

“You should get that,” he says neutrally.

Shane accepts the call.

He blinks.

“Shane,” says Mark Jones, the moment the call connects, “I saw they pulled you from the game.”

“What’s happened?” Shane asks.

“Your mother’s been arrested.”

He blinks.

“Very publicly, I’m afraid.”

He blinks.

“It’s all over twitter.”

He blinks.

“Look, kid, I’ll be representing her through this, but… you should find your own lawyer. Just in case. Someone new.” Someone not involved with the Yakuza.

“Okay,” he says.

Nothing feels real.

“Don’t talk to anyone without that lawyer present. Especially not the press.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ve already filled your body guard in on the details of the situation. He’ll be waiting for you.”

“Okay.”

He blinks.

He leaves his gear in his locker.

He wonders if this is too unforgivable for them to let him play again.

He walks down the hallway to the player entrance like a dead man walking to his own funeral.

Damian is waiting.

Shane slides into the passenger seat of the car.

He blinks.

He wonders how long he will last in prison. He can hold his own, sure, but people will certainly recognize him. That won’t help. He wonders if he’ll get protective custody. He wracks his brain but can’t think of an NHL player who’s gone to prison. Usually the guys with embezzlement or sexual assault charges just pay a bunch of money and say sorry and go about their lives. For some reason, Shane doubts he’ll get that lucky.

He wonders if Ilya will break up with him. Probably. It would make sense. It won’t be possible to keep up a secret relationship if Shane is in prison, and that’s probably not good for Ilya’s whole citizenship plan, and-

“You can take a breath, kid,” Damian says as they pull out of the parking lot. “Nobody thinks you knew. There’s no evidence tying you to any of it.”

He blinks.

“What?” How is that even possible? 

Damian shrugs. “The lawyers want you to claim you didn’t know anything. You thought your mother was running a completely legitimate operation, and were too focused on hockey to look any deeper.” 

Traffic isn’t bad for downtown Montreal, Shane thinks. They’re making good time.

“Okay,” Shane feels like that’s the only word left in his vocabulary.

What is there left to do but accept his fate as the universe hands it to him?

“You should delete the secure messaging app off your phone. Just to be safe. And when we get to your place, I’ll take your organization laptop, and any guns. The cops will want to do a search in the next few days.”

“Is the safe house…”

“I wouldn’t count on it. You’ll have to get your man a hotel or something if you don’t want his name in the reports.”

Okay. Okay. He can do that. 

Shane doesn’t want to look at his phone and the million of messages he surely has, so he doesn’t.

“How did it happen?” he asks.

Damian hums. “They arrested her in public. A mall in Ottawa. SWAT, the whole deal.”

Shane nods.”Shots fired?”

“No, but she was carrying, so.”

Grimace. 

“How is there no evidence tying me to it? As her son, I mean…” Shane bites the string of his hoodie, “even in Ottawa, people know me.” 

The Son of Akuma has become a feared figure, in his own right. Especially in the Ottawa-Montreal area.

Damian hums. “Maybe they found evidence suggesting that the Son of Akuma is… a metaphor.”

“A metaphor?” Shane isn’t quite following.

“You know, a folk tale. Whoever is in charge in Montreal takes on the title.”

“And I just happen to also live there?” He asks, disbelieving.

“It would explain why there’s so little suspicion around your involvement.”

He blinks.

It’s a very specific theory.

Too specific.

Damian pulls up to Shane’s house.

He goes into the garage, to the safe where he keeps all his incriminating material possessions - guns, knives, his laptop.

The safe used to live in his home proper, but since Ilya’s been spending so much time with him, it’s felt weird.

He can’t keep a gun under his pillow if Ilya’s in his bed.

The safe and all its contents go in the back of Damian’s car.

“Is there anything else?”

Shane shakes his head. This is it.

He blinks.

Damian is about to drive away.

“It was you, wasn’t it.” Shane keeps his voice calm. Steady. It’s not a question.

Damian doesn’t flinch. “It was only a matter of time, you saw the cracks too.” He puts the car in drive. “This way, I was able to keep you safe. Keep you out of it.” He sighs. “You’re a good man, Shane. You shouldn’t have to be dragged down with her.”

Shane stares at him.

“Goodbye, Damian.”

He doesn’t blink as Damian drives away.

Shane stands on the driveway for a long time. He hears the door behind him click open, and his first thought is that people might be watching.

His second thought is that he really needs his boyfriend right now, and he has a lot of privacy, and it’s dark.

He hears Ilya’s footsteps getting closer, sensing his presence. Shane leans back and lets Ilya’s arms envelop him.

A kiss on his skull, right behind his ear.

The game must be over by now. “Did the Metros win?” 

Ilya’s breath feels good on the back of his neck.

“They are nothing without you,” Ilya breathes.

They stand like that, breathing in tandem.

“Okay,” Ilya says eventually, “tell me the plan. How can I help?”

Shane turns to look at him for the first time.

“You’re already helping.”

*

The Metros let him play in the next game, as long as he continues to avoid the press like the plague. Maybe Ilya was right. 

The New York rink isn’t as big as Montreal’s but it certainly isn’t small. There’s a lot of fans, and no small number of Metro jerseys, but when they call his name, and Shane skates out onto the ice, it’s like nobody knows if they’re supposed to cheer for him or not.

He hasn’t really talked to any of his teammates. He avoided them like the plague until he had to get on the plane, sat alone in the front with headphones on, and only took them off twenty minutes ago to put on his helmet.

He let JJ take the pre-game speech.

He ignored the way Hayden wouldn’t stop watching him like he would crumble at any moment.

Theriault had pulled him aside, “keep your head in the game, Hollander.”

Shane had nodded roughly and pushed off onto the ice.

He wishes Ilya was here, and not in a hotel room in Montreal. He wishes the police didn’t have to go through his house and every detail of his life.

He wishes the internet would stop speculating about him, and the media would stop begging him for a statement, and-

He scores a goal, and then another, and then, at the face off, Scott Hunter says, “you alright, rook?” and Shane meets his eyes, conveying exactly how not alright he is. He doesn’t score a hattrick. 

New York wins, and Hunter gives him a sympathetic look in the handshake line.

Shane doesn’t say a word as he strips out of his gear. He avoids the eyes of everyone as he showers, and tugs on his suit, and gets shuttled straight to the team bus before anyone can ask him a question.

He wishes that the travel coordinator had given him a room to himself, but it’s too late to ask now, and he doesn’t want to hurt Hayden’s feelings.

They don’t talk for a long time. Shane thinks it might be the longest he’s ever seen his friend go without talking.

“Did you know?” Hayden asks eventually, speaking the words near-silently into the darkness of the room.

Shane doesn’t want to lie. He’s so tired of lying. The secret to a life of lies is to tell as few as possible.

He isn’t supposed to confirm anything either.

Shane splits the difference and says nothing at all. It’s enough.

“Holy shit,” Hayden breathes, “you did.”

“Not everything,” Shane tries to sound upset about it, “not enough.” Lies lies lies lies lies.

Hayden huffs, and he sounds disappointed. This is it, probably. The end of their friendship. Hayden has realized that Shane is undeserving of his kindness.

“Man,” Hayden’s voice reverberates in the room. The AC clicks. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.” He lets out a breath of air. “You must have been so scared.”

Shane realizes with a delayed shock that Hayden is disappointed in himself. 

He’s presented an angle that Shane had never considered.

It isn’t even wrong, necessarily.

“It’s been… a lot,” he says, and that, at least, is honest.

“How has,” Shane hears Hayden shift around in his sheets, “you know. How has he taken it?”

“Ilya?” Shane confirms. Hayden makes a noise in affirmative. “He’s been really good. Supportive. Helping me stay offline.”

“Good,” Hayden says, “that’s good.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, and he means it more than Hayden can know.

Shane falls asleep to the rhythmic sound of Hayden’s breathing, and he tries not to think about how the unrest in Montreal is only growing as a result of his mother’s arrest. Dissent spreading out of Quebec and across the continent.

He tries not to worry about the inevitable chaos to come. 

Someone will inevitably come in to take Yuna’s place, but Yuna’s shoes are not easily filled.

Shane will not let it be him.

He can’t.

He won’t.

He’s a good man.

He’s a good man so he can’t take over and he won’t let anyone convince him he should.

But if it isn’t him, then who?

What if it’s someone worse?

What if the organization fractures, and the men he’s known since childhood turn on each other in a bloodthirsty grab for power?

What then?

Chapter 17: Time Flies Like An Arrow

Chapter Notes

okok so I don't normally put warnings in here but they do fully fuck with a gun in this one so if you're not into that, skip everything from August 2018 to the next * break

I'm super glad you all were excited (and divided lol) by the plot twist last chapter!!!

ENJOY!!! and let me know what you think :)

June 2018

Getting knocked out of the playoffs is almost a relief. Shane thinks if he has to grit out “no comment” one more time, he might explode.

He watches the Stanley Cup final with Ilya’s head in his lap, tucked into the warm safety of the cottage. Everything, at last, is righted from when the police tore through the place with far too much eagerness. 

Slowly, the buzz around Shane Hollander’s mother being arrested for a myriad of  crimes from extortion to arms trafficking has simmered. If Shane doesn’t go searching, the think pieces and twitter posts and podcasts all stay nicely off his radar, where he likes them.

His team, now more or less convinced that he isn’t really blamable for any of this, has decided that Shane is too good of a player to ostracise. Things with the guys are going back to normal, slowly, as they all get with the program and forget anything ever happened.

For the first time in Shane’s life, he’s watching the Stanley Cup final with only half the attention it deserves. He doesn’t think anyone can really blame him for that, given the other, more personally earth shattering event happening right now. 

Right now, some two hours away, a jury is debating his mother’s fate. The trial had been beyond fast tracked, everyone involved eager to get it over with to avoid the media circus.

Ilya has his phone because he hadn’t been able to stop checking it, as though looking at his lock screen would make the lawyer call any faster.

They watch Scott Hunter win the cup, and Shane’s happy for the guy. Winning the cup is a special sort of triumph, and Hunter is a good player. A good person, too. He’s been playing for a long time, and he deserves this.

Roger Crowell gets on the ice and Ilya puts the TV on mute.

“Good for Hunter,” Shane says mildly, and it’s half to prove that he’s been paying attention.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “nice he gets a grand finale before retirement.”

Shane snorts. “He’s like three years older than us.”

“No, he is a million years old. Do not be ridiculous Shane.”

He smiles at his boyfriend. Ilya’s hair is soft between his fingers.

He glances at the TV again, and holy shit.

Scott Hunter is making out on the ice.

With a man.

“Ilya,” Shane says, voice shaking, “look at the TV and tell me if I’m hallucinating.”

Ilya’s head shifts in his lap.

“Are you also seeing Scott Hunter be the first ever gay player in the league?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I don’t think so. Unless we are hallucinating the same thing, but this is not possible.”

Shane thinks he should be freaking out about this. Maybe he will, later. Maybe, when his life isn’t so in shambles, the enormity of the way his world has just changed will sink in.

He looks at Ilya, and he thinks that’s probably what he’s going through right now. Something in his eyes that looks a lot like hope.

Shane wishes he could feel that. 

His phone buzzes on the table. There is only one number that can break his do not disturb. 

“Pass me my phone?” he asks, and Ilya blinks, visibly shaking himself.

Shane’s hands are wracked with tremors. He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t know what verdict would be better. 

Ilya hits the button for him.

The cottage is silent.

“Well?” Shane asks, voice faint.

“Guilty,” the lawyer says. Shane breathes. Ilya squeezes his thigh. “She got fifteen years,” and then he says some other things, but Shane doesn’t pay attention.

*

“Mr Hollander,”  says the cop, “thank you for taking the time out of your busy life to speak with us. I imagine this must be a difficult time.”

Shane sits on an uncomfortable metal chair next to his fancy new layer, Stephanie Cote. Stephanie is great at her job and doesn’t know anything about anything, and that’s just the way Shane likes it.

“Yeah,” Shane clears his throat, “well, you know. This is all very… I’m sorry.” He sighs into his hands. “It’s all just been a lot.”

“Of course,” the cop clears his throat, “I’m going to ask you questions, and all I ask is that you answer them to the best of your ability. You’re here as a witness, Shane, there are no wrong answers.”

Shane nods. He exchanges a glance with Stephanie, who nods as well. 

“Your mother has been arrested for several crimes, including conspiracy to commit murder, and arms trafficking. The Crown is alleging that she is the head of a notorious branch of the Yakuza. This is a very serious matter. She is looking at over a decade in prison, to start.” The cop meets Shane’s eyes. “Does any of this surprise you?”

Shane swallows around nothing. He runs a fingernail along the raised seam of his pants. “I’ve always been very focused on hockey,” He keeps his voice low. “I knew, of course, that my mom ran a business. I knew it was large, and successful, but I never-” Shane cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “Sorry. Sorry. I just never thought that she would…”

Shane stares at the table and tries very hard to be distraught.

The cop makes a sympathetic noise.

Stephanie places a hand on his shoulder.

“Actually,” Shane says, vulnerable, “can I be honest?”

The cop nods.

“Of course.”

Shane takes a deep breath and doesn’t look at anyone. “I think the worst part of all of this is that I’m not as surprised as I think I should be.”

The secret to living a life of lies…

*

July 2018

Shane staunchly refuses to answer even one of his mother’s many calls. He throws himself into his summer plans: the Foundation camps, his cottage, and Ilya. This is his chance to be a good man, free of Akuma’s empire. He can’t waste it.

Hayden, JJ, and Miitka all agreed to help out with the camp, despite grumbling about Ilya and a handful of other players being there as well. Ilya had brought Cliff Marlow, and then they had also invited a few other guys they’ve played with over the years. Camp is just running one week, despite initial dreams of two. It hadn’t made sense to run one in Boston, with Ilya having just announced his departure, but he isn’t familiar with Ottawa yet either. 

Probably the hardest part of the entire week is not looking obviously in love with Ilya. Watching his boyfriend teach the little U10s from across the rink, and it’s hard not to imagine their future. Shane is working with the U15s, which is decidedly a different thing: these kids are much more competitive, much more serious. Shane tries to make sure they manage to have fun too.

After the camp is finished, Shane makes his usual excuses and heads back out to his cottage for the rest of the summer. The best part is that this year, Ilya doesn’t have to go back to Boston at the end of it. The cottage is actually wonderfully positioned between Ottawa and Montreal, and Shane envisions meeting Ilya here every chance they get.

He doesn’t have guns here anymore. The only knives are in the kitchen. He had made sure to get rid of everything before the police came to search, but he had also consciously not gone out to one of his many security boxes to restock. He’s trying. If he doesn’t give everything he can into moving on from the only way he can ever remember living, Shane doesn’t think he will ever forgive himself.

Old acquaintances call him and report on the splinters, on the territorial disputes, on the fights. Some of it even makes it to the news: fronts destroyed in drivebys and high ranking men killed in their sleep. He looks at the sunrise over the lake, and he feels at peace, and he promises himself that he won’t get involved. He can’t get involved. Damian handed evidence over to the authorities to keep Shane out of the life, and he can’t let himself get pulled in.

Ilya is a constant presence, firm hand on his back, soft lips on his chest, keeping him grounded and present. They go kayaking on the lake, and they watch the stars from a tiny, mosquito ridden island in the middle of it. 

Even when Ilya has to leave, to sign the papers for his new house, or his contract with the Cens, he always comes back. Ilya always comes back, and Shane fucking loves him. He loves him so much it feels like he will explode with how much he feels.

Scott Hunter has only received eighty percent of the hate Shane had expected, and he’s still Captain, and it’s made it very hard to rationalize hiding forever.

Shane is really tired of hiding. He’s tired of lying. He just wants, for once in his life, to be normal.

If Hunter can have that, why can't he? Is Hunter a better man than he is? Shane doesn't think so.

Ilya goes out to get a pack of cigarettes, and Shane pretends the reason he refuses to come with is because he disapproves of the habit all together. To be fair, he does disapprove. It isn’t his only motivation. 

The car pulls up the drive, and Shane goes into his closet, pulling out a small box. He opens it, just to check. He holds the ring in his hand, thumbing over the metal. It had belonged to his grandfather, once, before sitting in storage for nearly two decades. Shane had found it again while sorting through his parent’s house, helping David start putting everything back together after the police ravaged it for evidence. It’s a sturdy thing, even all these years later, and Shane had paid an ungodly amount to get it refurbished and resized.

On the inside, it’s engraved with 光陰矢の如し, an old Japanese proverb. Time flies like an arrow. Life is short. 

Shane is done wasting time, and denying himself things because he doesn’t think he deserves them. He is a good man, and he deserves to be happy, and he’s done apologising for it.

Shane slips the whole box into his pocket. It bulges awkwardly. He takes it out and hides it in between the couch cushions, and that’s a little better.

Ilya comes home, and Shane greets him with a kiss.

“Hi,” he mumbles into Ilya’s lips, “I missed you.”

“You saw me twenty minutes ago,” Ilya points out, laughing.

“Yeah, and I missed you for those twenty minutes.” Shane takes a deep breath. “I love you,” he breathes in Russian, and Ilya’s eyes light up the way they always do when Shane says those words in his language. To this day, they’re the only Russian words Ilya has heard Shane say.

It’s time to change that.

“Ilya,” Shane says, running a hand across his boyfriend’s jaw, “you are the kindest, most beautiful person I have ever known,” Ilya looks at him with shock, mouth half open. Shane smiles to himself. “Every day, I feel so grateful that I have you, supporting me though everything, even when it’s crazy, and complicated, and hard.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice breaking.

“No,” Shane shakes his head, “just let me… I love you, and I will never stop loving you, and so,” Shane reaches back, grabbing the box, “marry me?” He snaps the box open, displaying the ring.

Ilya is still staring at him, eyes wet and glassy. He looks happy, Shane thinks.

“I figured,” Shane switches back to English, “you know, we’ve talked about forever, and even if we aren’t ready to come out, we could have this and-

“You speak Russian?” Ilya asks, sounding awed.

“I mean, I’m not nearly as fluent as that made me seem. I practiced.” Shane bites his lip, “I thought you deserved to hear it in your language.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says, slamming their mouths together, kissing Shane deeply. “Yes,” he breathes as they finally break apart.

“Yeah?” Shane confirms with a relieved laugh.

“Of course.”

Shane slips the ring onto Ilya’s finger, struck instantly by how right it looks. “It was my grandfather’s,” he says softly, “but I got it fixed up for you.”

“Shane,” Ilya replies, “I love it. I love you.”

*

August 2018

The thing is, Shane knows they’ve had a lot of weird sex. He knows. Intimately. But they’re in Ottawa, and Shane is clearing out a safe house for his father while Ilya meets his new team for the first time, and he happens on a glock. An old model. No bullets in it. 

He’s like sixty percent sure Ilya would be down, and so he tosses it in his bag on a whim and doesn’t think about it for the rest of the day.

“Where is your portable  charger?” Ilya asks several days later, yelling from across the cottage.

“I don’t know,” Shane calls back lying on the couch with a book, “probably in my bag from when we went into the city.”

Silence for a minute. Then Ilya’s footsteps. He comes in, clutching the bag. “Shane,” he says, “did something happen in Ottawa?”

Shane frowns, shaking his head. “No? Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You know that I do not mind either way,” Ilya says, calm, “but why are you keeping a gun here again?"

It takes Shane far too long to put the pieces together. When he does, he flushes bright red.

“Oh,” he says, “that’s not for, uh,” he shakes himself, “it doesn’t have any bullets. I found it in the safe house, and I was thinking, um,” fuck.

Ilya clearly is not understanding, a confused expression on his face. “You are making no sense. Why have a gun if you cannot use it?”

Shane wants to die a little. He buries his face in the nearest pillow. This is so stupid. 

Ilya might not be understanding him, but he is, as always, nearly irritatingly perfect. He rubs a hand down Shane’s back, settling half on top of him on the couch, a comforting weight. “Hey,” he says, soothing, “talk to me. I think by now you know there is nothing you can do to surprise me.”

Shane shakes his head. He groans. He decides that Ilya probably isn’t going to let this go now that Shane has had this whole freak out over literally nothing.

“Iwantyoutoholditwhileyoufuckme,” he mumbles into the pillow, as though saying the words fast enough will make the mortification of wanting it lessen.

Ilya’s hand stops moving.

“Shane,” he chokes out, breath ragged. 

“It’s stupid,” Shane says, backtracking.

“No,” Ilya whispers, his breath on the back of Shane’s neck, “is very much not stupid.” 

Shane pulls his face away from the pillow. Ilya is right there, pupils blown wide. Hungry expression on his face. 

Oh.

So maybe it’s more than a sixty percent chance.

“But…” Ilya’s voice scratches something at the depth of Shane’s brain, “I think I would like it even more if you were the one holding it,” he grinds into Shane’s thigh, "riding me, maybe. Maybe fucking my face.”

Shane groans. This is-

How did he get so lucky?

“Yes,” he whispers hoarsely.

He considers the bed, but that’s too far away. He shifts to get out from under Ilya.

Ilya sits up properly on the couch, unzipping his shorts. Shane shucks off his own, as well as his underwear. He grabs a packet of lube from a tasteful little box on the mantle. 

He opens himself up quickly, watching as Ilya takes his cock out of his briefs, stroking lazily. 

When he’s ready, he reaches into the bag, discarded on the floor. The gun is cool in his hand. He confirms one last time, just to be extra safe. Unloaded. Good. He sets it on the end table, not missing the way Ilya follows the movement with his gaze.

He straddles Ilya, pressing their chests together. Shane uses the rest of the packet of lube on Ilya’s dick, biting kisses into the man’s neck and shoulders as he does so. 

“Are you ready for it, Rozanov?” he asks.

Ilya nods. It’s nice to see him a little desperate.

Shane sinks down. Everything is right in the world. He pulls on Ilya’s hair, sucking hickies down the column of his throat. Ilya has another meeting with his team in three days, and that isn’t enough time for the bruises to fade, and Shane does not give one singular shit. 

He uses every ounce of his athleticism to control his movements up and down Ilya’s cock. Every thrust hits just right. He starts slowly, agonizingly slowly, but builds up speed as he watches Ilya lose himself in the pleasure. 

Then, Ilya bucks his hips up, and Shane smirks. “Stay still,” he commands.

Ilya shakes his head, “Hollander, Shane, please, I need-”

“You need,” Shane pitches his voice deeper, the way he would when threatening someone in a dingy Montreal warehouse, “to stay still. It’s okay. I’ll help you.”

He reaches a hand over, feeling blindly until his fingers find smooth metal. Ilya doesn’t notice at first, eyes squeezed closed. Shane takes the gun in his right hand, wrapping his left around his own leaking dick. He brushes the weapon along Ilya’s cheek, feeling Ilya’s breath hitch against his skin. He presses the side of the weapon to the corner of Ilya’s mouth.

“Lick it,” he says, a moment of inspiration taking over him, and to his immense surprise, Ilya does, reaching out his tongue, tracing the lines of the gun in spit.

It’s a miracle he hasn’t come already. “Fuck, Ilya,” he whispers, head thunking down on the other man’s chest, “I love you so much, oh my god.”

His rhythm hasn’t stopped, and Ilya pulls away from the gun for a moment to warn, “I’m close.” 

Shane shakes his head. He pulls the gun away, and Ilya tries to follow it for half a second. Shane reaches around, pressing the gun to Ilya’s temple. Ilya’s cock twitches, deep inside him, and he lets out a moan.

“You don’t get to come until I do, understand?”

Ilya nods rapidly. 

Shane picks up his speed on his own dick, free hand working fast as he brings himself to the edge.

He bites into Ilya’s bicep as he tumbles over, cum spilling all over their chests. Ilya follows not long after, hips stuttering.

Shane drops the gun.

They breathe together.

He looks guiltily at Ilya’s arm, where his bite mark has drawn blood. He laps it up with his tongue. 

“Fuck,” Ilya laughs as Shane gingerly pulls off of him, “that was…”

“Yeah.”

“We are definitely doing that again.”

*

Shane hangs up the phone angry. He knows it, Ilya knows it, and Hiroto, the man he’s just hung up on surely knows it too. It’s hard not to be, when even now, months after his mother’s arrest, people are still coming to him to fix their problems, and blaming him for the consequences when he refuses.

“Can I say something?” Ilya asks. He looks tentative. It’s not reassuring. Shane sighs.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

Ilya hums apologetically. “Probably not. I need to say it anyway.”

Shane rests his chin in his hand, looking at Ilya across the kitchen island. He gestures with his other hand. Go ahead.

“I know,” Ilya says, voice low, “that you… care… for your old body guard. And the whole time I have known, he has done a good job at protecting you. But sometimes,” Ilya swallows, “recently, I hate him a little bit.”

“What?” This is not at all what Shane had been expecting. He furrows his brow. “Damian has never done anything except try and protect me.”

“Even when he got your mother sent to prison for the next fifteen years?”

Shane furrows his brow. “He was trying to keep me out of it. Keep me safe. And it was only a matter of time... things were falling apart and she wasn't fixing them fast enough.”

Ilya groans, a hand dragging down his face. “Did it fucking work?”

Shane watches him and doesn’t say anything.

“You are still just as in it as you have ever been, only now there are a thousand more eyes on you, and all the factions in all the cities are falling apart.”

Shane wants to protest, but the words don’t come.

“Don’t you see, Hollander?” Ilya raises his voice, “he protected you from nothing. All he did was take away your choice.” Ilya looks at Shane, and at his hands, and out the window. He visibly calms himself. “Before,” Ilya says, “you might have chosen this life, You might have chosen to leave. You would have decided. Eventually. When you were ready.” Ilya’s voice cracks, and Shane realizes with shock that he is crying. “Now, because you are too…” Ilya gestures with his hand “good, to let bad men ruin everything, you are forced to stay.”

Shane is crying too, now. Silent tears tracing lines down his face and he doesn’t even understand why.

“All Damian did was take away your choice, and you know that I will follow you wherever this takes you, but fuck,” Ilya leans his forearms on the table, resting his head between them, “I wish you had been able to choose this life for yourself.”

“I’m not staying,” Shane defends himself, “I got rid of my weapons, I-”

“You answer when they call, and get upset when they do not listen.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice raw. Shane feels bad. Impossibly bad. But Ilya just doesn’t get it. This is different. He isn’t like his mother, or his grandfather. He is only involved to the extent that he can try and mitigate the damage. He will stop, soon, once everything calms down. This consulting, or whatever he’s doing, is just for now.

“You can’t possibly have a problem with this now,” he says, disbelieving. For the purpose of the argument, he won’t acknowledge that he isn’t even very involved at all, especially compared to the past few years.

“No,” Ilya replies, “I have no problems with you doing this. I understand why. I fucking love you for it. But I do have problems with the man who forced this life on your shoulders without even asking.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, a touch of desperation in his voice. He doesn’t think Ilya has ever been this mad. Even when he found out about Shane calling in the hit on his father, Ilya hadn’t looked like this. He hadn’t sounded like this.

“I am going to go for a drive. Clear my head.”

“Ilya.” Please don't go. Please don’t leave me. Please, please please. 

Shane doesn't know where he went wrong but he wants to fix things and he wants to make Ilya happy again and he wants to be good for Ilya he wants to be good be good be good.

He is good.

As long as he has Ilya, he is good.

“I’ll be back by ten.”

Ilya takes the car keys, and then he’s gone.

Shane puts himself to bed at nine-thirty, and Ilya slides in next to him an hour later.

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers, “it’s not that I don’t see where you’re coming from, I just…”

“Is okay,” Ilya responds, wrapping an arm and a leg around Shane’s body, “I am sorry too.”

Chapter 18: Honesty (the best policy)

Chapter Notes

we're soooo close to the end guys!!!! exciting but also kinda sad but it's okay!! because this work is now part of a series!!! I don't think I'll be writing another fic this long for this AU because I don't really know where I would want it to go, but I'll probably be adding some oneshots here and there so check that out if you want!!!

Anyways, as always, enjoy!!!

October, 2018

Shane sets the table for three while Ilya cooks. He likes Ilya’s new kitchen. It’s homier than his old place in Boston. More lived in. They have framed photos they put up when they aren’t expecting company.

Ilya seems to like his kitchen as well, darting across it to grab whatever ingredient his taste buds have deemed necessary now. Ilya seems to like Ottawa, in general. The Centaurs are not the greatest team, but he speaks highly of the players, and it looks like he’s pleasantly on his way to making friends.

It’s important to have friends.

Shane’s friends are pissed at him because he begged off grabbing celebratory drinks tonight in favor of this dinner. It’s his habit, to see his parents after Ottawa games, so it hadn’t been that odd, really. Especially after an entirely unimportant preseason game. 

It wouldn’t have raised eyebrows at all, except this is the first time in nearly a decade that Shane had called it dinner with my dad, and not dinner with my parents. He had reminded everyone unpleasantly of the elephant in the room: his federally incarcerated mother.

But Hayden had given him a sympathetic smile, and JJ had clapped his shoulders with assurances for next time, and so it’s not the end of the world. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe.

Shane doesn’t know what Ilya is cooking, other than the fact that it is extremely Russian, and required a specific brand of lingonberry sauce that Shane had to bring all the way from Montreal because no store in Ottawa could do it justice. It smells good, though, so he can trust the process. 

This will be his father’s first time in Ilya’s house, and it feels like a big deal. It feels like an even bigger deal that his mother might never, ever set foot in a house that belongs to Ilya. Shane is maybe freaking out a little bit, wanting everything to look nice, but he doesn’t feel self-conscious about it like he once might have. He fluffs the pillows for a fifth time in ten minutes.

“I do not think,” Ilya says from the kitchen, “your father will change his opinion of me because of my pillows.”

It’s a completely valid point that does absolutely nothing to assuage Shane’s worrying. He wants this to go well. David has been going through it, since the arrest. He had lost access to all of the money in the joint accounts, as well as his home. The Treasury Board had announced a series of layoffs too well timed to be a coincidence, he had been strongly encouraged to take an early retirement. Once he was gone, mysteriously, the planned layoffs were canceled. Now, as far as Shane can tell, his father spends his days in the apartment Shane pays for, doing puzzles and watching HGTV. It cannot be healthy, but at least now that Ilya is settled in the same city, Shane can get his boyfriend to check on his father every now and then.

He wishes it felt like enough.

David knocks on the door, and Shane lets him in. “Nice place,” he says mildly.

Shane nods, “Ilya’s realtor got him a great deal too, since the backyard isn’t developed beyond turf. I think that’s nice, though. We’re talking about putting in a garden next summer. Maybe a pool down the line.”

“I always wanted to get a pool,” David replies, “your mother, of course, was always worried about the safety of it but…” he sighs wistfully, “it might have been nice.”

Shane hopes that if he ever goes to prison, Ilya will be as hung up on him as David is on Yuna.

“Have you spoken to mom recently?” he asks, taking his father’s jacket and hanging it in the closet. 

“I went to see her a few days ago, and we spoke on the phone this morning,” David says, before adding pointedly, “she says you still won’t take her calls.”

Shane sighs. “I just think…” he shakes his head, “I need a clean break.”

David frowns at that. “Are you getting one?”

“You’ve been talking to Ilya, then,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. Ilya, supportive as always, doesn’t seem to believe Shane when he says that his role in the organization is temporary. 

Unfortunately, Shane is starting to doubt himself too.

They enter the kitchen, and Ilya looks up from the stove with a grin.

“Hello David, thank you for coming.”

Shane appreciates Ilya making it seem like his father is the one doing them a favor, not the other way around. He imagines it’s easier on the ego. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” David responds, “it’s a really nice place you’ve got here.”

Ilya hums. “The commute is long on game days, but I like the area.”

Good schools. That’s what the real estate agent had said. Shane remembers reading it in the email when she was talking about this house. 

He goes to the fridge and pulls out three beers. It’s a beer sort of night, he thinks.

Twenty minutes later they’re settled at their table, and Shane is eating what might be one of the best meals of his life. He will bring Ilya lingonberry sauce every time he makes the drive out here, if it means he can eat like this. 

It’s probably all the carbs, but when Shane had asked about carb-light  substitutions, Ilya had chirped him about never being able to survive Russian winters.

Shane eats the food happily, and he watches his fiance and his father get along, and he feels strongly that this is what it must be like to have it all.

“We have texted,” Ilya says at one point, “but I do not think I have asked properly. How are you doing? I cannot even imagine…” he trails off, and Shane catches his eyes. They exchange a small smile.

David sips his beer. “It’s been hard,” he admits, and Shane is surprised. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his father admit something like that. Certainly not without extensive prodding. “But,” David continues, “it’s also hard loving someone when you know  their own hubris will eventually be their downfall. It’s hard loving them too much to ever let them stop running at life with everything they have.” He sets the beer down on the table and looks at Ilya. Shane watches his father display more emotions in thirty seconds than in the rest of his entire life combined. “I was prepared to go down with her, if it came to that. In this life, I think you have to be.”

Shane can feel Ilya’s eyes on him, and he ignores them. He isn’t his mother. 

He isn’t.

*

December, 2018

Shane is maybe, a little bit, starting to realize that he might be stuck with one foot in the Yakuza for a while longer still.

It really wasn’t meant to happen like this. 

That said, it isn’t all bad. Money keeps coming in, and it goes to good places. Addiction recovery centers, children’s hospitals. The money is doing good things in the community. Shane puts every spare moment he has into the Irina Foundation, and coaches more drop-in weeknight sessions than he misses. He connects with the kids, watches them develop their skills, and feels grateful that he is able to use the money to give them this opportunity.

If it wasn’t Shane, it would be someone else. Someone worse. Someone who would use the money for themselves. As long as Shane is at the helm, he can keep things calm. He can keep people in line. He can prevent the territorial violence that had begun to arise before he finally put his foot down and told everyone to get their shit together. Shane has to stay, at least for now. Just in case his replacement is worse.

It’s the life he never figured out if he wanted, but that’s fine. Shane can still be a good man. He can still do good things. And it’s still just temporary. He will stop expanding, let deals lapse, and ease Akuma’s great empire into a safe, controlled collapse. 

He doesn’t quite blame Damian the way Ilya blames Damian. It’s irrational to blame a man for the unintended consequences of his well-meaning actions. That said, he also hasn’t heard from Damian since the day his mother was arrested. He feels his own sort of bitterness towards the man: Damian left, and he left Shane all alone to deal with the mess he left behind. With distance, it has become easier to see Ilya’s interpretation of the situation. 

Ilya is a good man, and generally right about people. Shane trusts Ilya with everything. Everything. Everything. Ilya is a good man. Ilya has promised, again and again, to be at his side in everything. So far, he’s made good on that promise.

When Shane stays up until two in the morning staring at spreadsheets and trying to figure out how he can dismantle a criminal enterprise without anyone noticing, Ilya is there. Sometimes on a facetime call, sometimes in person. When Shane takes calls from angry middle-management-type men in Seattle or Chicago or Edmonton, Ilya listens too, and he provides advice. It’s usually good advice.

Ilya helps him to be the best man he can be, given the situation. Together, they estimate that it will take three years. Maybe four. Then, everything will be over, and they can finally relax. They can be happy. 

“Ilya,” Shane says one day, late at night. They’re on the phone, Ilya in Ottawa and Shane in Detroit. He has a private room, for once, and they’ve used the opportunity to have not-quite phone sex, riling each other up but never quite getting to the moment of release, too busy trying to catch up on every detail of each other’s lives. “Do you remember the fight we had back in the summer? About Damian?”

Ilya breathes out against the phone. “Yes, I remember. Why?”

Shane plays with the edge of the bedsheet. “I just… I’ve been thinking, and,” he sighs, “you were right.” A beat. “Well, I still think you were wrong about some of it,” he amends, “but you were right about me not being out, and you were right about it being his fault, at least a little bit.”

Instead of gloating, Ilya asks gently, “why are you thinking about this now? It’s been months.”

“I think,” Shane replies, voice barely more than a whisper, “I might hate him a little bit too. Not for forcing me into the life, because I understand that he was trying to do the opposite, but…” he lowers his voice even more, admitting, “I’m mad he left me though. I’m sure he’s just in WITSEC or something, but still. He could have given me a heads up.”

“He did not say anything to you?”

“Nothing. Not since mom’s arrest.”

Ilya gets quiet after that, and Shane doesn’t read too much into it.

They fall asleep without ending the call.

*

February, 2019

They’ve just finished practice, and everything for the next two days is optional, and then it’s the All-Star break. It’s a good a time as any. 

“Hey, guys,” Shane gets the attention of everyone in his locker room. It is his. He is the captain, and the prodigy, and the face of the franchise and “I have something I need to tell you all.”

When Shane talks, people listen. The only thing Shane is listening to is the rapid thudding of his heart in his chest. Across the room, Hayden gives him a thumbs up.

Hayden had been very encouraging of this plan. Hayden is a bit of an idiot. Shane thinks it’s probably going to be a complete disaster. Oh well.

The secret to living a life of lies is to tell as few as possible.

If the guys could get over his mother being a Yakuza boss in a matter of weeks, surely-

“What is it, capitaine?” JJ asks.

Shane puts on a brave face and pretends he feels confident about this. “I’m gay,” he says. The room is silent. Concerningly silent. “It’s never affected my game, and it never will, but I didn’t want to keep this secret from you guys any longer. If anyone has any problems with it, deal with it yourselves.”

He nods once to himself, mentally running over the script he half-memorized for this, double checking he hit all the points. He did. 

He grabs his bag and walks out to leave them to gossip amongst themselves. Ilya is waiting at home, having driven down for the occasion. 

They’re going to Hayden’s tonight for dinner, and it will be the first time Ilya and Hayden meet in a non-hockey context. Shane thinks, belatedly, that they should have scheduled these two extremely stressful events on different days. 

Too late now.

Shane’s in a bit of a fugue state for the drive home, greeting Ilya with a distracted kiss that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Did it go okay?”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits, “I left before anyone could say anything.”

Ilya places a hand on the back of Shane’s head, guiding him to rest on Ilya’s collarbone. “Pike will tell you tonight, then?”

“I think so, yeah.” Shane bites his lip, flicking his eyes up to meet Ilya’s. “You’ll be nice at this dinner, right? You won’t antagonize him for no reason?”

“I will be good,” Ilya promises, pressing a kiss to Shane’s temple, “don’t worry.”

According to Hayden, it could have been worse. JJ had stood up from him against some of the guys. Only two people had made jokes about him fucking Scott Hunter. Nobody had thrown up. Small victories. 

Ilya really is good, the whole night. When Amber, all of eight months old, starts wailing uncontrollably, Ilya is there, bounding the baby in his arms until she calms down. Jackie gives him a grateful look. Shane can’t take his eyes off the scene. He imagines Ilya, at the cottage, maybe. Holding a baby boy with blond curls and green eyes and a smattering of freckles across his face.

Hayden, next to him on the couch, snorts.

“What?” Shane asks, offended for no reason.

“I can’t believe nobody’s noticed you two,” he says, lowering his voice, “you’re looking at him like you want to eat him or something.”

Shane feels his face flush, and he buries it in his hands. “Shut up,” he groans.

“Nah, man, I get it,” Hayden doesn’t shut up, “I feel the same way about Jackie sometimes. Love is crazy like that sometimes.

Shane rolls his eyes at looks back at his fiance.

Ilya looks good tonight. A slightly oversized t-shirt and jeans. He’s wearing his ring on his finger, instead of on his chain. His hair is styled, but subtly - if Shane didn’t know better, he would assume it was naturally like that.

Ilya turns, slightly, still holding Amber in his arms while making small talk with Jackie, and Shane’s eyes land on his wrist. 

Ilya’s wrist bears a watch. A watch that Shane is sure he’s seen before. He doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed Ilya wearing it earlier. Maybe the stress of the day, maybe-

It doesn’t matter.

Shane remembers looking at that watch every day for years. He remembers what it looks like against a steering wheel. He remembers what it looks like flecked with blood. He remembers what it meant, too. The story behind it. The body behind it. The sacrifice. 

He remembers the way Ilya had gone quiet, the last time they talked about Damian. The way he had acted just a little bit off, for a few weeks afterwards. The way he had been shooting looks at Shane all night, looks that Shane had just brushed off as concern. That he hadn’t recognized as anything deeper.

Shane watches Ilya talking with one of his best friends, arms around a child that he considers a de facto niece. Shane looks at Ilya and imagines a future where this is their life, all the time. Shane watches Ilya wear Damian’s watch like the trophy that he is suddenly, inexplicably, sure it is. 

He isn't angry. He thinks he probably should be. Instead, he just understands. 

Shane watches Ilya, and for the first time in his life, he understands to the fullest extent what it means to be loved.

Chapter End Notes

their love language :)

Chapter 19: A Life of Lies (The Secret to Living)

Chapter Notes

ONLY ONE CHAPTER LEFT!!!!!
The pacing of this is kinda choppy but I wanted to cover a lot of time in not a lot of chapters so... what can you do.
The last chapter will be something of an epilogue, with a sizable time jump, so this is the end of the main plot, as it were.
Enjoy!!

May, 2019

Shane stares at his phone. 

“Is this a terrible idea?” he asks, desperate. Beside him, Ilya rubs a thumb across Shane’s brow.

“We do not have to do this, if you aren’t ready,” he says, voice measured. Soothing. “But if we are getting married, people will find out eventually. And If your team is going to be bad about it…” he sighs, “it is best to know before you sign the seven year extension they’re offering you.”

Ilya is right, of course. Shane is out of the playoffs, and the Ottawa Centaurs hadn’t even made it that far. An endless expanse of free time extends, in front of them, and they have months before the season starts up again. Shane has time to jump ship, if this is the thing that pushes his team from uncomfortable around him to actively hating him.

He hopes it isn’t.

He thinks it might be.

“No, I know,” he replies. “It’s better we say it like this than someone finds out.”

The secret to living a life of lies is to tell as few as possible.

Shane swipes through the pictures one last time.

Ilya, at the cottage, cooking. Shane’s legs are visible in the foreground.

The two of them, together at the Irina Foundation announcement. Suits and ties and press-ready smiles.

A picture Ilya took just a few weeks ago in his house, Shane asleep on his bare chest. Ring visible on a hand that rests on Shane’s head.

“They are good pictures,” Ilya breathes, “we look happy.”

Shane bites his lip. “Yeah, we do.”

He hits post. Ilya does the same. The photos are the same, but the captions are different, because they hadn’t been able to agree.

Shane turns off his phone, settling into Ilya’s side. He’ll check it again in a day or two. For now, he doesn’t worry about the outside world. He doesn’t need to. He has everything he needs right here, on his couch, with his favourite person, in his favourite place.

*

@ShaneHollander24:

To everyone who already knew, thank you for your support. 

To everyone who didn’t, I am so excited to finally be able to share this incredibly important part of my life with you all. 

We understand that our relationship will come as a surprise to many, but in the years we have been together, it has become clear to me that there is no one in the world I would rather spend the rest of my life with.

Looking forward to seeing you all next season, and looking forward to you all seeing me a little bit more.

@IlyaRozanov🏒🐐:

If you are jealous: too bad

If you are homophobic: too bad

If you want a threesome: too bad

I love Shane Hollander, I do not share, and I will not be taking questions.

🩷💜💙

*

The team group chat is suspiciously silent in a way that means everyone is gossiping in chats that don’t include Shane. It’s not a good sign. When, a day after posting, Shane finally drums up the courage to check, the only people who have sent him messages are Hayden and JJ, and out of those two, only Hayden had been kind.

He has three missed calls from his coach, two missed calls from the Metros’ GM, and a text from his agent: Call me when you see this.

None of this information is promising.

Shane wants to tell himself that he loves his team, but since his mother’s arrest, things have been weird. They’ve been worse since he came out too. The whole reason Shane had to go to Montreal in the first place was to keep an eye on the business situation, but things there are much better now.

There are cities that need his calming presence more, and there are teams that, supposedly, would like him more.

Ottawa, for one.

The fact that Ilya is there is just a bonus, really. A really massive bonus. Especially once they get married, Shane doesn’t want to have to live apart any longer. Rationally, he knows that it is smart to live together full time for a while before the wedding, which is about a year away now.

Shane takes all of this into consideration as he calls his agent, and when she confirms that the Metros are now much more hesitant to offer the seven year deal he’d been anticipating, it doesn’t hurt as much as he would have expected. 

He accepts his fate, and agrees at the right times, and tells his agent plainly that if he has to take a pay cut to play in Ottawa, he will. Money isn’t an issue, and while Shane would prefer to be paid what he’s worth, he would much rather be in a place where he’s actually wanted.

Nothing official will happen until the summer, of course, but it’s good to have his options out in the open. 

Shane looks forward to finally doing something for himself, and not his mother, or the organization, or the league.

It feels really, really good.

*

November 2019

Before they even get in the door, they’re kissing. Ilya presses Shane up against the siding of their house, mouthing from his lips, down his neck. Shane tilts his head to give his fiance better access. Shane had scored the winning goal tonight in double overtime against Toronto, and Ilya’s been looking at him hungrily ever since they stepped off the ice. When they had declined the team’s offer to get post-game drinks, it had been to a cacophony of laughter and wolf whistles.

Even now, months after joining the Centaurs, Shane finds himself surprised by how supportive they are. It’s thrilling to be in a locker room that is excited to have him.

They finally get inside, and Ilya reaches straight for Shane’s belt. 

“Not yet,” Shane says apologetically, grabbing the hand and stopping its movements, “I have a few calls I need to make.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, “you cannot make calls while I suck your dick?”

“These are important calls.”

Ilya drops his hand then, asking, “is everything okay? I know you said the Italians are mad at you for staying out of the problems in New York.”

Shane groans, “fucking everyone is mad at me for not getting our people involved in New York. I get it, I mean, they don’t know that I’m winding things down, slowing the expansion plans, minimizing the violence.”

“You’re doing a very good job,” Ilya assures him, “let them be mad. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Shane leans into Ilya’s chest, humming softly, “maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that I do have to talk these guys off a ledge so they don’t force us into it.”

“So,” Ilya confirms with exaggerated sadness, “no blowjob?”

“Not until I’m done,” Shane replies, “but sit in on the calls with me anyway?”

“I’ll make you one of your post-game smoothies and meet you in the office.”

Shane nods, smiling as they pull away.

It’s looking like it will take longer than he expected to dismantle his mother’s criminal enterprise. That thought isn’t as upsetting as it once was. Shane understands, now, that he is a good man for ensuring this gentle collapse. He is giving people time to find other lines of work, other suppliers. He is giving everyone time to adjust to the changing territory. He is being kind, really, by telling his people to reduce their killing as much as possible, going against the Yakuza tradition. Shane is being kind by taking all of the organization’s profits and turning it all right back into the community through large, anonymous donations.

Shane is not angry, not any more. Why would he be, when he has everything he’s ever wanted? Ilya, a team that cares about him, and good hockey. Shane is not desperate, because he has no reason to be. Shane works very hard. At hockey, at his relationship with Ilya, and, yes, at his leadership within the organisation. It may be temporary, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let himself do a subpar job. He’s a good man. Shane thinks his grandfather would be proud.

That night, Shane falls asleep on Ilya’s chest. He usually does, now that they never spend a night apart. He dreams of more Stanley Cups and fewer guns and a life of peace. The cottage, maybe. He falls asleep and he dreams of the forever that he has finally come to believe he deserves.

*

June 2020

“And there you have it, folks,” the announcer’s voice booms, “your 2020 Stanley Cup Champions, the Ottawa Centaurs!”

Shane feels his face hurt from smiling. On his right, Ilya is holding the cup aloft. Everyone is screaming. They’re right to, of course. Five years ago, nobody would have believed that the Centaurs would be winning a cup. Even three years ago, the idea would have raised eyebrows. Yer, here they are.

Here Shane is, on the ice, a champion for the third time in his life. Standing next to the man who, in just a few months, will be his husband. He’s kissed Ilya already, but he does it again for good measure. The crowd might cheer a little louder at that, but the volume is already so great that it’s impossible to tell.

Someone claps Shane on the back, and Shane does the same thing back.

He shakes hands with Roger Crowell, and it’s hard to tell which one of them is less comfortable. He wonders how easy it would be to get a hit taken out on the man. Shane files that idea away for when he has access to his phone and a list of reliable contacts. The hockey world would, Shane is sure, thank him.

When Shane won his first cup, he had made a joke with his mother. It also, in hindsight, hadn’t been a joke at all.

“You’ve done it all now, haven’t you?” she had said.

“I’m planning to get at least two more,” Shane had replied, “maybe three.”

Well. He’s gotten two more, now. 

One to go.

One more cup, and then, maybe…

He and Ilya aren’t old, by hockey standards, but they certainly aren’t young anymore. Shane would be an idiot for not thinking about retirement, at least in the abstract sense. They have the Irina Foundation, so it’s not like they’ll be bored, even once Shane is done with the organisation. 

Shane still fully plans to be playing in three years, but in Five? Eight? Ten? 

Probably not.

That just means they have to make the time count.

“I am going to make sure,” Ilya says in his ear, “that when they put our names on the Cup, yours is next to mine.”

Shane grins in the wild, slightly manic way he rarely allows himself. “Next time,” he responds, “they’ll have no choice, since we’ll have the same last name.”

Ilya’s eyes darken at that. 

They’ll keep their own names on their jerseys, but legally, it’s true. They will. 

“I love you Shane Hollander. The perfect man. My god.”

Shane just laughs, and holds him, and cheers when everyone cheers.

This is his reward, he thinks, for being a good man.

*

July 2020

Two years after promising himself he never would, Shane parks his car in the visitor’s lot of the Grand Valley Institution for Women. All things considered, it’s nicer than he would have expected.

Ilya, asleep in the passenger seat, jolts awake. It had been a five hour drive, and they had left early in the morning. “We’re here?” he asks.

Shane nods.

He doesn’t fully know why they’re here, only that last night he had been hit with the incredible conviction that this had to happen. Ilya had agreed to go immediately. 

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” 

Shane stares at the tall wire fencing. “No,” he says softly, “maybe, if I come back another time, one day. But I think I need to do this alone.”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees easily, “but call me if you need anything. I will wait here.”

Shane swallows, and Ilya tilts his chin up for a kiss. Grounding. 

“Okay,” Shane whispers, mostly to himself.

He opens the door and walks across the pavement. The sun is shining. 

Shane sees his mother before she sees him, and the first thing he notices is the grey jumpsuit she’s wearing. At least it’s not the bright orange he’s seen some prisons use.. He can tell, because she’s angled away, facing the wrong door. She looks confused. That’s fair, probably. Aside from his father, Shane doubts Yuna gets very many visitors, and he knows that his father was here only two days ago.

Shane had asked the woman who let him in not to say who he was. Maybe he wants to watch his mother be a bit uncomfortable, for a moment. Sue him.

He opens the door, and her head whips towards him. Her eyes go wide, mouth parting just slightly.

“Shane,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes. She looks happy.

Shane says nothing, taking a seat across from her. He clasps his hands in front of him, elbows resting on the metal table. He bites his lip. 

“You’ve grown out your hair,” Yuna breathes, and it’s true, but absolutely not what Shane had been expecting her to say. From her reaction, he doesn’t think it’s what she had been expecting to say either. “Sorry,” she wipes at her eyes, “I just… wow. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t ever…”

“I didn’t think I would either,” Shane admits. He thinks she can understand. With how high profile he is, this is a risk, and it’s not like their relationship had been perfect, in the years leading up to her arrest.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Yuna mercifully changes the subject, “for the Cup, of course, but also your father tells me you and Ilya are getting married?”

“Yeah,” Shane can’t help but smile at that, “in a few weeks. It’s just going to be a small ceremony. Friends, teammates, a few family members. You know.”

The guest list had been difficult, because most of Ilya’s family is either dead or hates him, and most of Shane’s family is either criminally involved, or simply too unimportant to worry about.

They’d figured it out in the end.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” Yuna says, “I really do like Ilya for you.”

Maybe it’s because she’s in prison, maybe it’s because he’s about to get married. Shane asks the question that’s been weighing on him ever since Ilya met his parents.

“Why?”

Yuna does something complicated with her face that Shane can’t quite decipher. “I always thought,” she answers slowly, “that it would be my greatest accomplishment, finally convincing you to fill my shoes.” She locks eyes with Shane, lowering her voice. “And then you went and found a man who loves you so much that he doesn’t even need convincing.”

Shane takes half a moment to process the words. He takes another moment to process his emotions in response. He knows, immediately, that she’s right. Of course she’s right. He’s known, ever since Ilya started wearing Damian’s watch, that it's true. That doesn’t stop the wave of anger that builds up in his chest.

He stands, shaking his head. This was a mistake. There was no way he could do this and not come out of it upset.

“This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?” he hisses, “All you ever wanted was for me to be your heir. Nothing else has ever mattered to you.”

“Shane-”

“No,” he interrupts, “no, because this is bullshit. You’re only happy I’m getting married because you think Ilya is a reliable business partner. Because you think it’ll be good for the organization,” Shane feels himself losing control, and for once, he doesn’t try and stop it, “jokes on you, though, because all he’s done is help me dismantle your legacy, piece by-”

Shane freezes. His mother’s face lights up in delight. He said too much.

“So you have taken over,” she says, “I wondered who it would be. Your father really doesn’t think it’s you. Don't worry, I won't tell him.”

Shane wants to throw up. He wants to die. He turns to leave. This is it. As he nears the door, his mother calls out, loudly enough that he can’t pretend not to hear it, “Shane.”

He stops, hesitating for just half a second. His mother uses that time to twist the knife in his back.

“I want you to know that I am so proud of the man you’ve become.”

Legs shaking, Shane all but runs from the room. He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t look at anything that isn’t what is directly in front of him, though doors and metal detectors and sign-out sheets, all the way into the summer air. Ilya, leaning against the car. Smoking a cigarette. 

Shane doesn’t reach his fiance before he’s doubled over, throwing up in the parking lot. Ilya is at his side in an instant, arms on his shoulders as he crouches on hot pavement, whispering comforting nothings into his ear.

He’s sobbing, and he doesn’t know when that started, but now he can’t seem to stop.

“What if I’m just like her?” Shane chokes out. He isn’t anything like his mother, and he knows it, but he has to make sure Ilya agrees. He has to, because if Ilya thinks he is-

Ilya shakes his head. “You aren’t, my love. You are nothing like her. You are so good, Shane.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, leaning into Ilya’s touch like it’s his salvation.

“There you go,” Ilya says, “I’ve got you. Just breathe. Just breathe.”

Slowly, he does, ragged breaths turning smooth. Ilya offers him water, and he swishes the acidic taste from his mouth. He breathes in and out. 

You found a man who loves you so much that he doesn’t even need convincing.

So what? So what, if Ilya is happy in this life? So what if, deep down, Shane is happy too? Being involved with the organization, even running it, doesn't mean Shane can’t be a good man. Ilya loves him, and Ilya think’s he’s good, and Ilya is a great judge of character. He is a good man. Shane donates to charities and he helps people and he’s a good son and a good friend and soon, he will be a good husband. He’s good. He isn’t angry and he isn’t desperate and he works really, really hard, and so he must be good.

As long as he continues like this, he can continue to be good.

Chapter 20: The End...

Chapter Notes

THE END!!!!!
This chapter takes place 12 years later, and I was really going to wait until tomorrow to post it but then I thought this would be more fun. It's super short, but I think it says all I wanted it to say, and leaves just enough open to interpretation for me to write a handful of oneshots sometime later.
I have more thoughts in the end note, but if you don't care for those, thanks for reading!
Enjoy!

July, 2032

Shane leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. Paperwork done for the day, Shane sends his recommendations for the draft to the GM, and prays desperately that they listen to him. It’s only his second year as the Centaurs head coach, and he’s young for the job, so it’s hard to know where the clout that comes with being Shane Hollander starts and ends. 

As much as it had sucked, being away from his family so much last season, staying still was starting to drive him a little bit crazy. Plus, he’s still well known enough that people recognize him when he travels, and having the team as his reason for flying across the continent all the time is nice.

Ilya still seems to be content running the Irina Foundation, and Shane is happy to give him most of the responsibilities. Retirement looks good on Ilya. He’s happy, Shane thinks. At peace. They both are. 

Shane’s eyes move across his desk, settling on the picture that sits next to his monitor. He took it last year, at the cottage. Ilya, face lit up with joy, their daughter on his shoulders. Yuliya is five now, and with her straight black hair and piercing eyes, she often reminds Shane of his mother. He supposes they have his genes to thank for that. In the picture, her hands are tangled in Ilya’s hoodie, her mouth covered in something blue that Shane thinks had been a popsicle.

Yuliya mirrors Yuna in appearance only: she is sweet, and kind, and does not have a manipulative bone in her body. Shane wants to keep it that way. The two have never met, and Shane would like to keep it that way. He’s only spoken to his mother three times since her arrest, and the last visit, when Yuliya was a newborn, had solidified the conviction.

The issue had arisen last year, when Yuna had been considered for an early release. That simply couldn’t happen. Shane had sent in an anonymous tip to the police, a location of a dead drop, packed with enough evidence to get his mother convicted of enough crimes to ensure she wouldn’t be a concern for at least another decade.

Shane pushes the thoughts aside, focusing on the present. He’s excited to bring Yuliya back to the cottage this summer. They have two weeks blocked off next month for just that purpose. They’ll spend their wedding anniversary out in the wilderness. Comfortable. Peaceful. Quiet.

His phone rings. Shane answers.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“Look,” says the man on the other end, and he sounds nervous, “I know you’re trying to relax a bit for the summer. Spend time with your husband and the kid, but…”

Shane sighs, “spit it out.”

“Danny Lavoie wants out.” 

“Fuck,” Shane curses. Lavoie is easily their most useful inside man in Montreal.

“I thought, if you were to come by and talk to him, you know, he might be persuaded to change his mind.”

He probably would be, Shane reasons. And if he can’t be… Shane can fix that situation too. 

“I can be there tonight,” he says, before hanging up.

Ilya walks into the room, barefoot in shorts and a muscle tank. He notices the phone in Shane’s head. “Everything alright?” he asks.

“I’m going to have to make a business trip this weekend,” Shane responds regretfully, "leaving as soon as possible." 

Ilya sits down on the edge of the desk. He picks up Shane’s phone, flipping it around in his hands a few times before opening the call log. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the most recent caller.

“Montreal?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we make it a family trip?” Ilya suggests, “stay for a few days, see Pike, get a nice hotel?”

Shane smiles softly. Ilya is so good at taking these inconveniences and turning them into memories for their daughter. “That’s a great idea,” he says.

He grabs a key from his desk drawer, and uses it to unlock the cabinet at his feet. Shane pulls his revolver out of the cabinet. The handle is cherry wood, the metal is polished. Ilya bought it for him for their tenth wedding anniversary.

Shane straightens up, and checks to make sure it’s loaded. It isn’t. Missing three bullets, from last time.

Before he can even ask, Ilya is moving across the room, opening a box they keep on the top shelf of the bookcase, far out of Yuliya’s reach. Ilya grabs four bullets and drops them into Shane’s hand.

Shane loads the chamber, clicking it back into place. He pockets the last bullet, just in case. Shane frowns when he sees a speck of copper on the metal, and wipes the dried blood off with his sleeve. He gives it a spin.

In his mind’s eye, Shane remembers sitting at a kitchen table and watching his mother do the same thing. He blinks, centering himself. He is different. This is different. He is good. Ilya says he’s good, so he’s good. They’re doing this for the right reasons. They’re helping people. 

Shane tosses the weapon in his bag and stands up. Ilya grabs him by the beltloops, tugging him in for a kiss. Ilya tastes like lunch. Sandwiches. It’s not unpleasant. Nothing about Ilya is unpleasant, and it never could be. 

When they break apart, Shane laces their hands together. He feels Ilya’s watch press into his wrist. He feels his own wedding band press into Ilya’s skin. They are connected, metal to flesh. 

“I’ll get Yulishka packed,” Ilya says, his free hand grazing Shane’s back, “you book us a hotel?”

Shane nods, releasing him. “Don’t forget her new stuffed dinosaur, or we’ll have a mutiny on the road.”

“I would never,” Ilya replies, exaggerating his facial expression, “who do you think I am, Hollander?”

Ilya disappears upstairs to pack, and Shane heads down to the kitchen. He throws some snacks in his bag and opens his phone to book the hotel room. In front of him, Yuliya is enamoured by a craft at the table. Something with a lot of stickers he’ll surely be peeling off the floor later. He finds that he doesn’t mind all that much.

A part of Shane has always known it would end like this. His perfect family, the job he loves, impromptu trips to see his best friend, and long stretches of time at his cottage.

This is Shane’s reward. This is his paradise, his peaceful forever. This is everything he’d once been too afraid to think he could have. 

All it requires, at the end of the day, is to keep the legacy of his grandfather from falling to pieces. He owes him that much. 

It doesn’t bother him anymore, and he doesn’t wish it did either.

Ilya loves him. Ilya thinks he’s good.  One day, the two of them will pass on their empire, and they will disappear into the cottage full time. Nobody will bother them. It’s a beautiful future. 

It’s a beautiful future that Shane has earned, through hard work, and long hours, and love.

Chapter End Notes

This ending is supposed to feel a little unsettling. Throughout the story, Shane has gone from mostly self aware, to completely in denial about who he is as a person. From the beginning, I've always known that there was no way he would be able to escape entirely. I don't think it would have felt right.
Let me know if you liked the ending! Or hated it! Or were surprised!
The next thing I'll be working on is part three of my other series, This is Love, which is a very different vibe, but also very exciting to me personally.
Until next time!